Chapter 20

ADMIRAL KATHRYN JANEWAY HAD HAD ENOUGH.

She’d spent enough time hounding poor Red Grady and others. He was trying, but he couldn’t do anything. And Montgomery was a lost cause by now. It was time to look elsewhere. Seated in her small living room was everyone from her old senior staff she’d been able to get in touch with: Chakotay, Tuvok, Kim, and Paris. Torres was away on Boreth, Tom had told her, and of course Seven and the Doctor still languished in a Starfleet prison cell. She looked around at the dear, familiar faces and hope filled her once again.

“We all know what’s happening,” she said. “We know about the virus, and we know they’re covering it up. We know that Starfleet, indeed the Federation, somehow think that this outbreak is being directed or [254] caused by either Seven and Icheb or perhaps Voyager’s own technology. They’re blaming us instead of coming to us for help. We know that there’s a holographic uprising that has resulted in several deaths, intentional or not, and that the Federation is now being forced to respond. Dr. Kaz dropped an oblique warning about the Doctor, and the thought that they might make some sort of example of him had occurred to me as well.”

Her voice grew hard. “We know these things, but we’re not allowed to do a damn thing about them. We can’t discuss the virus with the innocent, unaware population of the Federation for fear of causing widespread panic. We can’t help our own Doctor, who ought to be assisting Starfleet instead of being their prisoner. Seven and Icheb look worse each time I see them, and our pleas to allow them a regeneration chamber are being ignored. I for one am not about to sit here and watch my friends suffer, or remain still while my homeworld is about to be overrun with Borg.”

“Admiral,” Tuvok interjected. “You spent seven years abiding by Starfleet rules and regulations when you might easily have ignored them. Now that we have returned to the place where they can be enforced—”

“If they’re denying Seven and Icheb access to something that is necessary to their health, then they’ve crossed the line into torture. And the Doctor hasn’t even been officially charged with anything. They need him. If anyone can come up with a vaccine or a cure for this Borg virus, it’s he. I’m not advocating breaking the law. At least,” she amended, her blue eyes bright, “not yet.”

She looked at them, each in turn. “Starfleet and the [255] Federation should be embracing us and our knowledge, not pushing us away. The people who could help the most in halting this dreadful virus are locked up, not in labs where they could assist. Seven of Nine has proved that she doesn’t want to return to the collective. She’s had the chance and refused it repeatedly. She could give Starfleet more information about the Borg in a minute than they could cobble together in years. But they’re afraid of her.”

She gave full rein to the anger, the sense of insult and injustice that raged through her. “I’m not going to let their fear, their ignorance, doom us. Here’s what I propose.”

They remained silent, attentive, while she outlined every aspect of her plan. When she had finished, no one spoke for a while.

“Anyone who wishes to may leave now, and I won’t think the less of you. I know what I’m asking you to do. It could cost us our lives or at the very least, our careers, and I understand this.”

No one moved.

“So it’s agreed.” She let herself smile. “I had hoped you’d all share my goals. I shouldn’t have even doubted any of you.”

She turned to her console and said, “Computer, open a channel to Captain Jean-Luc Picard on the Enterprise.”

When Picard’s distinguished mien appeared, Jane-way saw at once that he was troubled. She wondered if he had been informed about the Borg outbreak, but since she wasn’t sure, she said nothing. His somber face lightened only a little when he saw her.

[256] “Admiral Janeway,” he said. “An unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you?”

“I need to ask a favor, Captain,” said Janeway. “I’m in an awkward situation. I have a friend who’s in trouble. You have a crew member whose help would be invaluable. Would you be willing to lend him to us for a while?”

“Of whom are we speaking?”

Janeway told him.

It was a long few days for Jarem Kaz, with over a hundred and fifty patients to see. His exasperation with the situation grew with each patient that he examined and declared fit to be released. Why were they wasting his time? There was no evidence that any of Voyager’s crew had been even partially assimilated. No dormant nanoprobes, no unusual temperature changes, no erratic behavior, nothing.

Even Seven of Nine and Icheb, the most logical suspects, showed no signs of suddenly speaking in the plural or threatening people by declaring resistance was futile. He was troubled by the buzzing both former Borg reported experiencing in their implants, but it was obvious to anyone with first-year medical training that neither of them was in danger of losing her or his identity.

He had agreed wholeheartedly with bringing Seven and Icheb in for examination when the virus first reared its ugly head, but he saw no reason to keep them imprisoned any longer, except perhaps for their own safety. His’ heart broke for young Icheb, who was clearly devastated by the attack. As well he ought to be.

[257] Kaz knew he was wasting his time here. He should be working with the other teams, helping to develop some kind of cure for this virus. He had access to the knowledge of nine different people, thanks to the Kaz symbiont, and the medical knowledge of the unjoined man he had once been.

And the Doctor! Why they didn’t bring him in for consultation was beyond Kaz. Certainly he was a suspect in the HoloStrike and more serious recent set of attacks, but Kaz felt in his heart that the Doctor was involved only in the most peripheral sense, if indeed he was involved at all. He’d viewed many of the Doctor’s logs and witnessed the evolution from an arrogant yet complex computer program into a compassionate ... well ... person. There was nothing in the Doctor’s past history to make anyone believe he’d condone violence. And even if he was wrapped up in the issue of holographic rights, a planet full of Borg wouldn’t serve the movement any at all. The Doctor had personal experience with the Borg. He could have helped. Hell, he could have helped a lot.

When Seven of Nine came in for her daily examination, he couldn’t even summon up a reassuring smile for her, so deeply was he buried in his own black thoughts.

She looked awful, even worse than Icheb. She was pale and losing weight. She trembled slightly, and accepted his assistance when he reached to steady her as she climbed atop the diagnostic bed.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I wish they’d let you two regenerate. I’ll keep asking them, I assure you.”

She gave him a fleeting smile. “Persistence is futile,” she said, and despite the grim situation he chuckled. [258] More seriously, she said, “If I were indeed linked to the collective, my contact with them would only be strengthened during my regeneration period. Starfleet has documentation that it is during such times that the queen has been able to enter my thoughts. They would be foolish indeed not to take precautions.”

“Don’t get me started on this,” he said. “You’re not involved and I can prove it to them. These ridiculous ‘precautions’ are starting to hurt you. I can minimize the effects, but I can’t stave them off forever.” He looked at her with worried blue eyes. “Continued lack of regeneration could kill you both.”

“I am aware of that.”

“I wish I could get them to be.” He pressed a hypo to her neck. It hissed gently, and her trembling stopped. But she was still unnaturally pale.

“Thank you, Doctor.” Steadier than she was when she entered, this time she declined assistance. She strode out of sickbay with her fair head held high.

Kaz watched her go, troubled by her suffering, then glanced at the chronometer. There were over forty more people to be examined, but they would have to wait. It was time for the daily briefing, something Kaz dreaded more and more with each passing day.

The memories of the poet that belonged to the symbiont inside him stirred with beautiful, aching words as he regarded the haggard faces of his colleagues as they filed into the briefing room, taking chairs in silence. The air crackled with tension, but no one spoke, no one grabbed a cup of coffee, nothing. Montgomery stood at the head of the room, his weathered face looking even [259] grimmer than usual, the lines on his face deeper than Kaz had seen them before.

“Everyone knows about the attacks of last week,” he said without preamble. “Baines claims full responsibility for them, which makes our job a bit easier. We’re going to have to take some steps. He complained that we didn’t react sufficiently to his little HoloStrike. Well, by God, we’re going to react now. I’ve put forth a request to have the program of every hologram on the level of the EMH Mark One altered. If we remove any knowledge of its situation, anything at all that prevents it from doing the menial jobs we want it to do, then we remove any interest in, desire for, or even comprehension of freedom. There’s no need for the Mark Ones to know about microsurgery, or opera, or anything other than how to scrub conduits and mine dilithium. It’s my understanding that this type of modification would be a simple task.”

While everyone else around him was nodding approval, Kaz stared in horror. When the words exploded, it took him a second to realize that he was the one who was uttering them.

“You’re talking the equivalent of a lobotomy for these programs!” he cried.

Montgomery fixed him with his fierce gaze. “You bet,” he said. “That’s exactly right. Keep them stupid and docile. Should have done that in the first place. I don’t know why their programmers kept that kind of programming intact at all once they reassigned them.”

“Will—will this affect Voyager’s Doctor?”

[260] “He’ll be the first one we do,” Montgomery said. “We’ll make an example of him.”

“You can’t do that! He has knowledge of the Borg that could help us cure this virus!”

Montgomery heaved an exaggerated sigh and folded his arms across his broad chest.

“You know, Dr. Kaz, I’m getting mighty tired of you telling me what I can and cannot do. Your position is a coveted one. You do your job well, but one more outburst like this one and you will be reassigned. Do we understand one another?”

Kaz swallowed. “Yes, sir,” he said, the words almost choking him.

“Good. Knowing how slowly the wheels turn, it will take some time before I get approval to proceed, more’s the pity. But at least we can start letting the public, and more importantly that bastard Baines, know what we’re planning.” He squared his shoulders. “And now to something a bit less pleasant.”

He turned and touched some controls on the wall. A large holographic image of a globe appeared, hovering in the air above the twenty or so people assembled. Everyone craned their necks to look up at it.

“We’ve finally been able to get some estimates on what we’re up against. We had an original outbreak of seven. Four children, two adults past the age of ninety, and one man suffering from Iverson’s disease.”

Seven small red dots appeared on various places around the globe—four in the northern hemisphere, three in the southern. There was no discernable geographic link.

[261] “Within two weeks, it had risen to twenty-three.”

The dots spread across the holographic representation of the Earth, some manifesting hundreds of kilometers away from the original outbreak sites, others clearly occurring because of direct contact. A few of the adult Borg that were appearing were capable of assimilation.

“It’s now up to forty-six cases. Some have occurred within families, others are fresh, new outbreaks. We’ve got no knowledge of how it’s spread, other than the usual manner of assimilation through forced insertion of nanoprobes, and that only accounts for about ten percent of the cases. The rest just seem to appear out of nowhere. Let me reemphasize this—only ten percent are Borg created through traditional means. The other ninety percent seem to be spontaneously becoming Borg for no reason we can yet understand.”

“Is it still affecting only those with weak immune systems?” someone asked.

Montgomery glanced over at Kaz. “Care to field that one, Doctor?”

Kaz cleared his throat. “Thus far, yes. However, I’ve cross-referenced the virulence of the spread with that of other infectious diseases. By my calculation, it’s only a matter of time, perhaps just a few days, until healthy adults start manifesting symptoms.”

“And when that happens,” said Montgomery, “we’re looking at this.”

As if the representation of the Earth were a living creature that had suddenly been pricked with thousands of holes, red began to bleed across its landmasses. Even [262] though he’d been the one to help design this simulation, Kaz felt his stomach clench.

Mercilessly the red tide spread, blossoming like a deadly flower, until all but a few infinitesimal, isolated patches of land remained unconquered.

The Earth was covered with red.

Was covered with Borg.