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9

THREE

Seconds earlier, aboard the Lakul, Tolian Soran sat cross-legged on the deck of the crowded passenger cabin and stared blankly up at the viewscreen, where the blazing ribbon thrashed through the night of space.

Unlike the others beside him, some silent with shock, others murmuring, weeping at the news that their sister ship had been destroyed, Soran did not fear the ribbon. Indeed, he welcomed it.

Since the first day he had been rescued by the Lakul, he had been gathering the strength to end his own life. He had been trying to do just that—steering the lifepod into the Borg’s death beams when he realized that Sadorah City, his home, Leandra’s home, was destroyed. His wife and children were dead, killed as he had watched, in safety and horror, from an off-planet observatory.

By pure chance, the fleeing Lakul had detected him, and beamed him aboard—quite against his will. He was dead inside already of grief; he wished merely for his body to join his mind and family. But he had not been permitted.

Soran gazed up at the fearsome sight on the viewscreen and smiled grimly. The ribbon looked like blazing doom, like the Borg death rays that had carved up his homeworld. They had come for him at last, to allow him to die as he was meant to, as Leanalta and Emo and Mara had. The shuddering ship reeled, stricken.

At last, Soran thought. Amid the screams, the chaotic ballet of tumbling bodies, he sat with arms folded tight about his knees, and let himself be tossed.

The bulkheads around him began to crumple; a shard of metal debris stung his forehead, sending blood trickling over his brow, into his eye. Yet Soran merely smiled.

And in the midst of the tumult, the light lashed forth, piercing the bulkhead to crackle in their very midst, lifting the hairs on Soran’s head, arms, the back of his neck. He filled his lungs, embracing death, waiting for dissolution, his mind focused on a solitary thought:

Leandra …

Darkness. Stillness. Silence.

So this is it, he thought with amazement. Death… Yet he was still aware of his own consciousness, and that awareness brought with it disappointment. He had hoped to dissolve into nothingness, thoughtlessness, the void. But here he was, listening to his own breathing, his own heartbeat… aware of the movement of cool, moist air against his skin. And the warm flesh of another against his.

He opened his eyes to darkness. Not total blackness, for beyond the open window, stars twinkled, sending down their gentle light. He stirred, and felt the soft, yielding velvet of bedclothes beneath his bare back,