He threw back his gla.s.s of amaretto and emptied it in a single swallow, then slammed it down on the table. "What are the Borg like?" he asked rhetorically, gazing out one of the ports. "They're soulless. Mindless. Bent on taking from you everything that makes you a unique individual. If you're lucky, they'll simply kill you. If you're not, they'll a.s.similate you."

"How did you fight them?" Nave asked softly.

"We used phaser rifles, which killed a few, slowed down the rest-then they adapted. We had to keep changing the frequency...and each time, they adapted and took more of our people. You've seen the pictures, how their bodies, their limbs are fitted with prosthetic weapons. Razor-sharp hooks, vibrating saws, rotating blades..." He looked down at the empty gla.s.s, his expression bleak. "I had a friend. Another ensign, a buddy of mine in engineering. We were a.s.signed to the Enterprise the same year. Joel Azaria from Delios VII, a great guy. He was..." Lio paused, ran a hand over his face.

"It's all right," Nave said. "You don't have to talk about it."

Lio recovered and continued. "We were with Commander Worf in one of the corridors, and the Borg just swarmed us. We kept firing the rifles; they kept adapting. I was standing next to Joel-he was on the outside flank. One of the Borg had a retracted blade built into his wrist. Joel was firing at him one second, the next he was down. The Borg advanced one step, and before any of us realized it, the blade had gone straight through Joel's midsection." He lowered his head and shook it slowly. "I wanted to take him with us, even though he was already gone...but we couldn't. They had us cornered. The only thing we could do was retreat. We had to leave Joel lying where he was..."

"I'm so sorry," Nave whispered.

"I wish that had been the end of it," Lio said. "Because we had to fight them again later, in another corridor. And Joel...Joel was there. But it wasn't really Joel. They'd taken him, changed him, defiled his body with these...these weapons and cybernetic attachments to his head, his eyes, his arms. He was no longer human." He drew in a long breath. "And the worst part was...I fired my rifle at him, again and again, but I couldn't take him down. I couldn't destroy the monster they'd made of him. I know he went on to kill his own crewmates...He would have wanted me to stop him from doing that."

Nave leaned forward and rested a hand on his forearm. He looked up at her, a hint of grat.i.tude showing in his grim expression.

"That's what it's like to fight the Borg," he said tonelessly. "They're relentless. The only way we could stop them from taking our souls was to take theirs-to kill their queen. Captain Picard did it once; we'll do it again." He sighed. The darkness eased, and he gave her one of his wry Lio grins. "Look, I don't mean to scare you, Sara. I'm going to be fine this time. My team will be fine, because now we have the advantage. This time we'll get there before they have a new queen. Without her, the captain believes they're incapable of moving against us. We'll go in, get out...it'll all be over and we'll be on our way to Repok again."

Nave took two large swallows of the gin and tonic, and waited for the synthehol to produce the familiar tingling in her feet. "Promise me," she said. "Promise me that's exactly how it's going to happen."

"I promise." Lio took her hand and clasped it firmly in his own. "Look, I was a jerk even to mention all that other stuff. That's all over now. I just...this stuff brings up a lot of unpleasant memories. But nothing like that is ever going to happen again." His tone turned mildly sarcastic. "Just my Italian sense of drama acting up."

"I'm sorry for what you went through, Lio."

For a long moment, they simply looked at each other. His eyes were so green, so clear, she thought again about the Mediterranean, about being pulled beneath the water by strong currents.

"Do you want another drink?" Lio asked suddenly. It was a simple question on the face of it, but Sara knew he was asking something more. She felt herself sliding, pleasantly, over the edge of a precipice. Things were different tonight: in the morning, he would be leaving to go to the Borg vessel.

She shook her head and rose. Without a word, he rose as well, and they walked arm in arm from the room.

In his quarters, Worf sat cross-legged on his bed, with the orange tabby, Spot, curled contentedly on his lap.

He still could not think of the cat as his own. Spot would always be Data's pet, a living reminder of the friend who had sacrificed himself to save the Enterprise crew. Yet Worf and the animal had come to understand each other, even though the concept of a pet-at least, the way humans interpreted it-was foreign to the Klingon. To his surprise, Spot had required more than just food and shelter; in fact, Spot had demanded more. It had taken Worf a good week to understand why Spot persisted in rubbing herself against his ankles, his hands, and called out plaintively in her strange little voice.

He had consulted Geordi about the phenomenon. The engineer had laughingly explained it to him. "She wants to be petted, Worf. That's all."

"Petted?"

"You know, stroked, with your hands. She just wants a little affection. She'll let you know where."

"Affection?" Worf was aghast. This was something to be shared with a lover, a child; he could not imagine showing it to an animal.

But Spot was insistent. Worf was clumsy at first and received small scratches and bites as a result, but he remembered how Jadzia had taught him to be gentle. He applied the same principle to Spot, who showed her approval by purring loudly.

Now she sat with her eyes closed, her expression one of pure bliss as she purred, featherweight and warm, on his lap. He stroked her with a practiced hand, but he did not look down at her. His gaze was on the holograph of Jadzia beside his bed. It was his favorite image of her, captured shortly after she had challenged him with the bat'leth-and won. There was victory and a hint of fierceness in her smile; her eyes were shining, exhilarated, her face flushed.

She looked like a warrior.

"I cannot be what the captain wants me to be," Worf told her softly. "I am not worthy to command a starship. You remember what Captain Sisko told me, after Lasaran was killed."

She would have remembered, of course. He had gone to her afterward, bitter, full of regret, and confessed everything that Sisko had said. Their bond was far too strong for him to have hidden such a thing from her.

She had agreed that Sisko had been right-in a way. But she had also asked, Knowing what you know now-that Lasaran would be killed, that many people would die-would you have acted the same? Would you have come back for me?

No, Worf had answered firmly, then paused. I don't think so. He sighed. I don't know...

None of us knows for certain how our actions will affect others. She had looked on him with infinite kindness; she knew how deep and bitter his guilt was. We can only do what we judge to be right at the time. You acted from your heart. You couldn't have done anything else and remained true to yourself.

"I had to be Klingon," Worf said aloud, then fell silent again, remembering what Doctor Crusher had told him. And he knew that, so long as he had been bound to Jadzia, he would have acted in the same manner. He would have gone back to her. "And I am still Klingon, so I cannot be trusted with a command."

That's ridiculous, Jadzia retorted in his imagination. Are you saying, then, that no Klingon is ever fit for command?

Worf considered the question, then heard himself echo what he had told his wife long ago: "No. I don't think so...I don't know..." Had he never bonded with a woman, the choice between love and duty would never have arisen. Perhaps now that he was again alone...

He thought of the startlingly attractive Vulcan counselor and flushed, unable suddenly to look into his wife's holographic eyes.

In the end, the answer again escaped him, as haunting and elusive as Jadzia's ghost.

In her quarters, T'Lana sat cross-legged on the cool deck, meditating.

Memories often surfaced during such times. She had learned not to suppress them, merely to observe, then let them go, without reaction or a.n.a.lysis.

The ones that emerged now in her consciousness were no doubt triggered by the meeting today with Picard. They came in singular, vivid images: Aboard the Federation Starship Indefatigable, the face of Captain Karina Wozniak-intensely determined, framed by short silver curls. T'Lana had greatly admired and respected her. Wozniak had been deliberate, cautious, receptive to her counselor's advice.

But the first time they had met, Wozniak had been anything but receptive; she had, in fact, been challenging.

Less than an hour after T'Lana's arrival on the Indefatigable, she had been summoned to the captain's ready room, where Wozniak sat, waiting. Her skin was dark bronze, contrasting sharply with her ice-colored eyes, her pale hair.

The captain was keenly blunt. It was a trait T'Lana admired, one that most humans failed to appreciate. Wozniak's tone was good-natured but forceful. "I had requested a Betazoid counselor. I got you instead. Your people are not renowned for their interpersonal skills, yet Command sends me a Vulcan counselor."

"True. However a Vulcan counselor gives you a distinct advantage," T'Lana had replied.

Her answer had the intended effect: Wozniak did a slight double take, then lifted a brow and opened her mouth to pose a question.

T'Lana did not give her time to ask it. "I am a talented touch-telepath, of course," she said. "My ability is so strong that I can sometimes sense the presence of minds even without direct physical contact-though I cannot decipher any thoughts. But it is not to that skill I refer. I know that in most cases, your 'enemy' will be standing on the bridge of another vessel, separated from you by s.p.a.ce. They will see what you see: a Vulcan, giving you the 'upper hand.'

"I have years of diplomatic experience. I have worked with beings from many cultures...and as a result, I have developed a skill that most Vulcans despise but that you humans seem to prize."

"Which is?" Wozniak interjected, her gaze intense but also amused, curious.

"Intuition."

Wozniak broke into a broad grin. "Finally...a truly honest Vulcan. I like you, T'Lana. I think we'll do well together."

Back on the Enterprise, the image in T'Lana's mind shifted: The Indefatigable's bridge viewscreen, filled with Jem'Hadar warships-three tiered, evoking bugs with head, body, wings.

Wozniak had asked her: What does your intuition tell you about the Jem'Hadar?

That in their case diplomacy fails, T'Lana had answered. That they are single-minded creatures whose sole focus is killing. That they cannot be reasoned with.

Yet she would have made an effort, if there had only been time.

Next, she saw a series of images, starting with the face of a Jem'Hadar commander reptilian with skin that seemed carved from stone, his temples and jaw covered by rows of osseous projections. His voice, harsh and gloating: You are surrounded by a dozen of our warships. Prepare to be destroyed.

The screen had gone black. A bolt of light bright as Vulcan's sun blinded T'Lana for seconds, even with her inner eyelids squeezed shut.

Acrid smoke, the stench of burned circuitry and flesh. The thick haze blanketed the bridge, forcing T'Lana to grope for the captain's chair, only to find it empty.

On the deck, partially obscured by smoke and the afterimage from the blast, Wozniak, wide-eyed and unseeing, slack jawed, half her face incinerated, revealing ivory bone beneath papery remnants of blackened skin.

Instinctively, T'Lana had moved to lift her, but logic halted the action, with the painful realization that Wozniak, if she were not already dead, would not survive long enough to flee the ship. Others might, and her duty lay with the living. That reasoning propelled T'Lana swiftly past the corpses of her crewmates, past the smoldering consoles and nonfunctional lift, down the nearest auxiliary shaft.

She crawled, gasping for air, down to the next level, then the next, and the next, then ran coughing down the corridors toward the shuttlebay. Along the way, she encountered three crew members still living. She carried and dragged them with her into one of only two shuttles still operational.

The final image: from s.p.a.ce, the sight of the Indefatigable, scorched and lifeless, as the ma.s.sive warships moved off.

T'Lana took a deep, controlled breath, then slowly let it go.

Such was the price of a decision rooted in emotion, such was the cost of heeding intuition.

T'Lana opened her eyes and rose slowly. As always, the image of Wozniak's charred face remained and rose with her.

After hours, Beverly sat in the captain's quarters-in their quarters-barely touching the gla.s.s of synthehol cabernet in her hand. She longed for a gla.s.s of real wine, fine wine from Picard's private stock, but tonight was not the night for indulgence. The lights had been dimmed, in honor of Enterprise's night; a single lamp burned nearby on Jean-Luc's desk, casting sharp shadows.

They were five hours out from their dreaded destination. Sleep was out of the question, and she would need all her energy and wits to face what was coming. This was the hardest part of any mission where lives were at stake-the wait before the storm. It was hard, too, not to stare obsessively at Jean-Luc, to worry when he might next become overwhelmed and collapse.

Seated beside her, Jean-Luc no doubt sensed her worry. It had become their custom, at day's end, to sit in his quarters, talking and looking out at the stars. Tonight, they were both doing their best to be casual and talk about anything but what was on their minds: the Borg.

"So," Beverly said, "what do you make of your new counselor?" She knew that Jean-Luc would understand her question. He, too, had noticed the Vulcan's odd reaction to Worf.

Jean-Luc had chosen to forgo even the synthehol. Without a gla.s.s in his hands, he seemed not to know what to do with them tonight. He let go a small sigh. "I'm not at all sure what to make of T'Lana. At first, she had seemed almost genial. And it wasn't like she had outright snubbed Worf on the bridge, but her reaction was definitely..."

"Cold." Beverly shook her head and set down the unfinished wine. "She seemed so relaxed, so gracious with everyone else-"

"A perfect diplomat," Picard interjected.

"Exactly." She paused, then stated carefully, "She hasn't exactly been supportive of you or your decision."

He quirked his lip at that. "Far from it. She's told me straight out-once she was convinced that you had examined me and that I wasn't floridly psychotic-that she believes my conviction about the Borg is nothing more than an emotional delusion."

Beverly frowned. "Frankly, that's hardly helpful advice from a ship's counselor. Do you think she's going to fit in with the crew?"

"Give her time," Jean-Luc said. He began to speak again, then fell silent. She saw the shift in his expression, as if he were listening to something far away. Though his face was half obscured by shadow, she caught his eye, and he managed a faint and unhappy sheepish smile.

Determined to show no alarm, she kept her tone even, neutral. At the same time, she needed to reach out to him. She placed a rea.s.suring hand on his arm. "You're hearing them now, aren't you?"

Jean-Luc shrugged. "Nothing new. Just more faint chatter. Boring stuff, actually. And certainly not as bad as it could be. The majority of them are sleeping, waiting for a directive to wake. A skeleton crew is tending the queen and readying the ship."

And when they finally wake...Beverly did not permit herself to finish the thought.

He sighed. "I just don't like them...being in my head again."

"I understand," she answered softly. She had been worried not just about the physical threat from the Borg, but about the psychic damage to Jean-Luc as well. "It's a violation...another violation..."

Before she could think of something comforting, therapeutic, to say, Picard spoke first, his tone and expression consummately resolute. He pointed to his brow. "But I'm glad they're here. Glad to be able to sense them. The alternative..."

He left the alternative unspoken, but Beverly shuddered mentally. The memories she had of the Borg still entered her dreams from time to time: the Borg breaking down the walls of sickbay, forcing her to flee, panicked, with her patients and the utterly terrified Lily; witnessing the carnage left in their wake, seeing crew members she knew a.s.similated or killed.

Worst of all was the memory of the day she had stood on the Borg cube. She had been the first to see Jean-Luc as Locutus. She had worked for years to rid herself of the image, of all the other memories, but now they were all resurfacing.

He laughed abruptly, bitterly. "You know, I keep hoping I'm mad, that this is all some sort of psychotic delusion. It'd be easier to deal with."

"I know," she answered gently. "But all your scans checked out, Jean-Luc. I'm afraid you're sane...unless this is some new, rare disease, or some strange form of metas.p.a.ce we've entered...in which case, we'd all be affected."

"I keep wishing it was something else, anything other than what it appears to be," he confessed. "I'd hoped never to have to do this again. It's like cutting the head off the Hydra; another two take its place." He rubbed his face, and she caught the glimmer of frustration in his eyes. "It seems like it will never end."

"But this time is different."

He looked up at her, his faint surprise mixed with even fainter hope. "How so?"

"This time," Beverly said firmly, "we're stopping the Borg before they can start. This time, thanks to your connection to them, no one will have to die. No one-except the Borg."

His expression grew grim. "I pray you're right, Beverly. Too many have died under my watch, far too many. Now I've not only put my crew's lives at risk, I'm asking them to risk court-martial as well."

She faced him, her gaze and words pointed. "Do you have any choice, Jean-Luc?"

He looked away at the stars and in a low voice uttered, "I don't."

"And we don't," she insisted. "We know you, Jean...Captain. We trust you. You wouldn't do this unless it was absolutely necessary. Can you think of a single one of your officers who wouldn't make the very same decision you have?"

His lip quirked wryly again. "Counselor T'Lana."

"She doesn't know you. Yet. But she'll come around."

"When she sees the Borg ship," Jean-Luc said heavily.

The words made them both lapse into silence. Beverly settled back into the couch beside him and waited for the encounter that would come before the Enterprise's dawn.

5.

PICARD SAT THROUGH THE NIGHT, OCCASIONALLY rising to stare out at the stars streaking by. He felt no fear for himself, only for what his crew might have to endure, only for what he had asked of Beverly, now curled, dozing, beside him.

Instead, he felt anger: anger that he was again called upon to fight a nemesis he had thought conquered, an even greater anger that he again had to subject his crew to a horror no one should be called upon to face. Worse, he felt a mounting fury-one he believed he had overcome but that had apparently lain long buried. It was the rage of a man embittered by an intolerable violation, and with it came infinite grief. He had never forgotten that the Borg had used his knowledge to kill: the crews of forty starships, half as many Klingon warships, a.s.sembled near the star called Wolf 359...all dead, because of the contribution Locutus had brought to the Collective. He had known many of the perished; at night, he saw their faces more distinctly, saw their graveyard: ships blackened and battered, helplessly afloat, their hulls rent, leaving twisted bridges open to s.p.a.ce...