PART THIRTEEN: WOLF
359
The year: 2367
He couldn't have taken leave at a worse time. The shuttle had hardly been one light-year away when Mel hailed him on a subspace band. She had looked pinched, harassed. It was hard to believe that she had been an exobiologist before they married. She had given up her work to raise their two sons, insisting that at least one parent be with them round the clock.
He loved Mel, had been attracted to her beauty, her feyness, which at times left him slightly perplexed and astonished. But he had noticed a subtle change about her, especially after Rourke’s birth, when she had become more dependant, more hanging on for dear life to her husband. She had ambition. Not for herself, but for him. It had been a bone of contention even before they married, but then it had been tempered by his love for her and the way she bowled him over so completely, the subtlety of her manipulation incongruent with the air of helplessness about her. Afterwards, she pushed him gently, if insidiously, to aim for Lieutenant-Commander, then later for full commander.
"I'd like to see you as a captain of a Starfleet vessel, Ethan. You are fully capable of commanding a Constitution class vessel. Any vessel for that matter."
Of course he was capable.
To her, it had seemed the more prestigious the vessel the better. The Enterprise had been mentioned at times but he had blithely ignored those hints. He had been pushed through Starfleet by over-zealous parents, although their aspirations had been moderated by his grandfather who taught him to love music, to play the cello, to give vent to his creative energies. Attending Julliard had been a concession his parents made, the condition being that he do the four year stint at Starfleet Academy. His mother: "We have to have another Captain Bellamy in the family."
And Mel had continued his parents' misplaced ambitions for him, though from her he had tolerated it mainly because he had been too blindly in love.
Now he looked at Mel on the vid-com, wondering if love could disintegrate gradually after consuming him so completely. He had thought the sun and the moon shone from her. She exuded charm, energy, the drive to push him and he had complied, until his natural graces began to reassert themselves. Now he no longer listened to Mel who was still driving him to advance in Starfleet. He had endured her silences, her teary recriminations of his lack of ambition to shine as a Starfleet officer. He had employed his energies in creating stories, tales of heroes who searched for more than just a place in history, but who struggled to find intangibles - the essence of their beings, the search for the self, desires, an elusive entity that could see deep into their souls.. He could derive pleasure in such quests, engaging in the holy war of needing to be understood.
And for once, as if his brain had been listening to his heart, as if heart and soul had finally merged as one, he had found the outpouring of creation with total, breathless euphoria. It freed him, gave Ethan Bellamy back to him. His muses - Euterpe, Melpomene and Calliope - were in synch, gloriously spending hours in his company, inspiring, cajoling, ordering him to work even as his children were in his way or Mel intruded too often. He had been fired; the more he created, flinging off the shackles of intrusion and envy and resentment, the more driven he had become. He began writing again, poetry mainly, then later short stories, and all the while, he had kept up practicing and playing his beloved cello. Marriage, Starfleet, commitment as a father had all put paid to a career in music, of becoming a concert cellist. Now he could let himself go, infuse himself with the works of Elgar, Fauré, Haydn…
Before he left the Bellerophon, Mel had wanted reassurance that he wouldn't leave them. He sighed as he thought about that civil exchange of words. Had his attitude been so transparent? He lived for his sons, despite the fact that she claimed he didn't spend enough time with them. But children sought out children and the boys were quite happy running off to the schoolroom on the ship to interact with the other children. Rourke had holodeck privileges to run the Flotter and Treevis programmes, and many times he and Mel had to rescue the boys from the holodeck when they flooded it or got into scrapes with a lanky tree shoot that snapped back at them. No, he couldn't dream of ever leaving them. They were his, part of what he and Mel had created together, blood of his blood.
"I'll never leave you, Mel. You and the boys are all I have..."
"That is not true, and you know it. You have your music and you write. What good is that for us?"
What good, indeed? It was his life. He breathed through music, breathed through the written word. Mel was unable to grasp that, to understand that he could be driven in ways other than just being a Starfleet officer, a husband and father. At first she was intrigued, but later, the strains of Elgar and Debussy and Haydn and Fauré grated on her. He couldn't discuss his poetry and prose with her. Many times he burned, yearning to talk about characters, story lines, a theme that bothered him, premises. Using another as soundboard would have been useful, leaving him enervated at the end. Mel... She just wasn't interested. He had been naïve to think that she would share his enthusiasm, understand his drive, would even offer useful and constructive criticism.
He was drying up, with little hope of receiving nourishment through discussion with others. And so he began talking with Neil, his captain, who at least understood his drive. Many evenings when going off duty, he'd seek out the captain and they'd talk. Anything from the great classics to the great composers and modern twenty fourth century art and literature.
Yes, he was driven.
Now, Mel looked harried as she gazed at him.
"Mel...why - ?
"Piers is ill, Ethan. I've taken him to the medical bay and the doctor wants to run more extensive scans."
She sounded peevish, so incongruous with her former luscious energy and forthrightness.
"What is wrong with Piers?" he asked, concerned.
"Well, he must have eaten something that didn't agree with him. He was nauseous. The doctor thinks it’s the mushrooms of Almor Province on Pordaria... We picked some there, remember?"
That had been days ago when the Bellerophon dropped off two hundred colonists there. The children had eaten of the strangely sweet tasting mushrooms during the short stay on Pordaria. But they had been deemed safe to eat by the ship's dietician.
"Is he alright now?"
He pictured three year old Piers, a green-eyed little terror who outran every other three year old on the ship.
"Yes, he's better now, but you should have been here..." Mel said, her voice sounding thin and weak and subtly conniving.
He sighed. "I'll be back a day early. Tell Piers I have a new story for him, okay?"
A stricken look crossed her features. Then she closed communication abruptly, leaving him wondering whether Piers was really ill and whether it was as bad as Mel made it out to be. They had two well-adjusted boys who had inherited his green eyes. Rourke took after him. Rourke who was so sensitive, who had a great sense of empathy even for a child of only six. The children were his life. They kept him alive, kept him on his toes, and strangely, when he was busy writing, always sensed that they shouldn't bother him, although he never minded that they did. It was Mel who overwhelmed them with her tendency to the dramatic whenever they were sick or when they came near him while he was busy preparing notes.
"You are not to bother Daddy, Rourke..."
"Piers, no, come here, let Mommy tell you a story..."
He had taken the few days to start on his novel. His head burst with plot points, characters, themes, short bursts of dialogue for his Songs of a Wayfarer. Too many distractions made working with any kind of fluidity almost impossible. Getting up in the middle of the night always resulted in Mel waking too, and calling him to return to bed.
He had loved her when he married her. She wanted a Starfleet captain. He just wanted to write and play his cello and raise his sons. Why, with Mel around, wasn't there enough time to do all of those? Mel had never liked his music, though in fairness, she tolerated it good-naturedly in the few months they courted. But she switched off when he played. He couldn't blame her. Not many were interested in Earth's composers and their works. Playing the cello, coaxing the mellowed sounds from its strings calmed him, gave him some centring and alas, excluded Mel. The boys took it in their stride, and Rourke had shown early ability when he started teaching his elder son.
Ethan sighed. The work was progressing. Being alone afforded him the time, the climate in which to let his mind flourish with the scope of the novel. Now he could exclude everyone and concentrate, focus, construct sentences, turn over in his mind all manner of expressions he needed to flow from his brain to the written word. Somehow, he liked the physical typing of his text because it gave him order, prevented him from running too far ahead of himself and losing the thread of his ideas. Other times he simply vocalised, using the PADD, and later converted it into the formatting of his text. He thrived, as he was doing now, on the thrill of developing his plot, as full of energy as anything he had tried before. Then, looking back at the text, reading the drafts, which left him surprised and somehow perplexed at the result. Mostly, he was surprised, looking at what he had written with a sense of disbelief.
All he needed was time. Captain Brannigan had given him the time. He had been due for a six day leave and because they were so far away from Earth, he had elected to spend it on the shuttle. Only a real emergency or a direct order from his commanding officer to return to the Bellerophon would bring him back before he had spent the precious days of leave.
His vid-com beeped, timeously with the thought of Captain Brannigan hailing him back to the ship. A face stared wide-eyed at him. One front tooth was missing.
"Rourke?"
"Hi, Daddy!"
"Rourke, didn't I tell you not to - "
"I know, Daddy, but Daddy, Mama said I could hail you. I played the cello for Captain Brannigan in the holodeck! Pablo Casals was there, Daddy. You play just like Pablo Casals, Daddy. Captain Brannigan said I will be just like you one day. I love the cello, Daddy!"
His heart wanted to burst with pride.
"That's very sweet of Captain Brannigan to say so. Now what else did Captain Brannigan say?"
"He said - he said - he said - "
Rourke looked flustered. He wanted to tell the boy to take a deep breath before he spoke again.
The next moment, another head popped on the screen, pushing Rourke out of the way. Ethan laughed, the relief of it coursing through his body. He had completed most of his schedule. He only had his cello for company now. Why not chat with his boys?
"He said I'm a pumpkin, Daddy!"
"Pablo Casals?"
"No, Captain Brannigan said so, silly!"
Piers. Open-faced, free of the ills of the world and looking healthier than he had ever seen his little boy. Why did Mel have to exaggerate so?
"He said," Rourke followed placidly this time, having managed to control his breathing, "that I will go very far."
"But Mama said Rourke must go to - to Starfleet and become a captain, Daddy!"
"Piers, it's too soon for Rourke to go anywhere except to school right now. Besides, he may not want to go to Starfleet or be a captain one day, okay?"
"And me, Daddy? Me? Me?"
"Whatever you want to do one day, pumpkin."
"Pumpkin! I'm Piers, Daddy!"
"Of course. How could I forget?"
After a few minutes in which the boys chatted animatedly with him, Mel appeared, shooing them off somewhere.
"Mel, what - ?"
"I love you, Ethan. I'm sorry if I don't understand your work. I tried, you know..."
"Mel, honey, I'm coming back to the ship tomorrow. I just have to wrap up a few things. The boys are looking well, thanks to you. Don't worry so, okay?"
Mel smiled, a tragic smile.
"I've made a decision, Ethan."
Something stabbed at him, cutting deep into his flesh. Why did he feel as if Doom was coming, riding on a black horse towards him to rob him of something precious? Why did the angels and muses and all good things suddenly move to the edge of a precipice to hover tantalisingly there? All thought, all fear, all future reckonings came together into a knot and settled in his heart where it thudded painfully against his ribcage.
"Mel?"
He could feel the blood draining from his face.
"I'm taking the boys with me. We'll disembark with colonists on Eridirian. You know I have family there. We'll be fine."
"Mel, I need my children. You're not taking them from me!"
"Just for a few months - "
"Rourke is in school, for heaven's sake," he muttered angrily, surprised at his outburst.
He didn't want to lose his boys. He didn't want to lose his wife. In his own way, he still loved her; he needed her. Whatever feelings he had left for her, he wanted to give in full measure.
"I'll see you tomorrow..."
"Mel!"
The next moment, he was staring at the Federation insignia. He fumed about in the shuttle. On an impulse, he set the co-ordinates for the current position of the Bellerophon and engaged autopilot. Then he headed for the cello in the aft section, glad that he had brought it with him. He sat down and plucked into Boccherini like a man possessed. He saw his children playing in their bedroom with their toys. Rourke reading a book, Piers hugging his precious blanket to him while he sat staring at the Montaigne Blocks, his favourite toy outside the holodeck. He saw himself as he read stories to them, sometimes old Earth fairy tales, or tales of great Klingon battles, or stories he had written himself. He saw the boys as he admonished them for flooding the holodeck, both staring at him with their innocent eyes. Innocent green eyes. He saw them as they slept, the troubles of the world so far away, blissful in their sleep, Piers with his thumb firmly in his mouth.
For an hour, he played until he felt all his anger had dissipated. Mel had him over a barrel. He couldn't blame her. She sensed how he must have disengaged during their lovemaking at times. Did she sense too that he didn't love her anymore, even though he assured her of his constancy? Lately, she had become suspicious, accusing him of spending time in a female officer's company, always asking, always wanting to be reassured of his love for her. He'd spend the evening comforting her and then they'd make love, their passion flaring like it had in the first heady year of their marriage.
As soon as he got back to the ship, he was going to woo her all over again, he decided. Make her feel extra special, loved, wanted; spend as much time with her as he could. He was going to assure her of his love, his constancy, be there for her and the boys always. He was going to spend all his off duty hours just paying her compliments. His heart yearned suddenly for them, for home, for just seeing the joy on their faces when he returned. He yearned to touch Mélisande - he always thought she had been beautifully named – touch her hair, her cheeks, see the dark clouds shift away and out of her eyes. He yearned to play chess with her, to sit in her company again and just talk.
That they were travelling with him to the Codarion Sector had been a concession made by Captain Brannigan so that they could spend their vacation with family on Eridirian. It was nearing the end of the school semester and Mel had wanted a break, provided he could be with them for a few days at least with her family. He had no family to speak of, only a few distant cousins with whom he never really communicated. Wanda sent him birthday messages sometimes, but more than that? Mel's family was his.
The moment he had resolved to be more constant to Mel than he had ever been, he felt renewed. He felt awed that she was the mother of their children. He had cried twice in his adult life, and that had been when his sons were born. His own parents had died on Almor IV years ago, when he had still been at the Academy, and he had been told then to be strong. He was strong, and even though he had felt like quitting Starfleet Academy right away, he stayed on, to honour their memory as Starfleet officers and to honour their dream for him. And while he had been fifth generation Starfleet, music and literature had flowed like a silver thread through ten generations of Bellamys. His cello was handed down six generations, crafted by the brilliant Johann Kahlmeyer in a time when mass production was the preferred mode. Even today, there were hand crafters around, but his Kahlmeyer had already been ensured of an owner in Rourke, who displayed unusually strong tendencies to play this instrument.
The music changed as he shifted effortlessly from the charged Boccherini to the Debussy reverie. His mind was clearer now. His family needed him and he needed his family. That was the bottom line. All other personal desires had to take a back seat.
When his comm panel flashed, he realised that someone had been trying to hail him. He placed the bow carefully down, and moved to the conn.
"Neil?" he asked as he saw the face of Captain Brannigan on the viewscreen.
"Commander Bellamy, I must ask you to break your leave and return to the Bellerophon immediately."
"Is anything wrong, Captain? My children? Mel?"
"No, they are fine. But we have received a communiqué from Headquarters to rendezvous with the USS Melbourne. The Melbourne is preparing to engage in hostilities with an alien vessel."
"Attack? Neil, what is happening?"
"It's a Borg vessel, Commander. I suggest you hurry back. The Bellerophon is already on its way to Wolf 359."
"Captain, the Bellerophon is not a combat vessel. We're carrying civilians…"
"I'm aware of that. But it's an order from Admiral Nechayev."
"Is there any way of transferring those civilians to nearby worlds or other vessels?"
Captain Brannigan's lips pursed.
"I tried to tell Nechayev that, but she's adamant we leave on the instant. Anyway, there is no time. We're too far away from any homeworld to make it there and back in time to join the Melbourne. They've captured Picard. We have to go, Ethan. I expect you back on duty at 0400."
"Aye, Captain."
************************
Federation hubris.
Embedded within its lofty ideals and rules of preservation of life before all else, the undertaking of assistance to troubled worlds, the enormous power within its ranks and the rate of growth of its power base, it also invited intense criticism. Criticism often levelled at the immense hubris and arrogance that it would forever be invincible to outside forces and infiltration of the Enemy. With what arrogance could it assume at times that it needed to be the saviour of nations, and with what self-importance could it assume that engagement in war would lead to the instant annihilation of the enemy?
The Borg was a formidable and feared adversary. They assimilated their helpless victims to be forever without identity except as a number in a hierarchy or simply a drone with only one mind – that of the Hive. He had read enough of the Borg to know that five ships were not going to be enough to contain one cube.
Ethan Bellamy had thought about this when he had routinely checked the shuttle's computers for information on the Borg. While reading the damning evidence, which to Starfleet had been seen as mildly annoying that they had to deal with another alien force, this time from the Delta Quadrant, his disquiet was increasing by the minute as he made his way to the coordinates of the Bellerophon. Neil had been quick, succinct in his order that he return, and that was more than enough evidence that they were a facing a formidable foe. A Borg vessel in the area of Wolf 359 with Captain Picard assimilated made the Borg invincible and laid bare every single strategy Starfleet had for combating the foe. Would they recapture Picard? Turn him into a human again? Was that possible?
While the other vessels were war ships, the Bellerophon was a transport vessel, carrying hundreds of colonists to other worlds. His heart already in his throat, he thought of Mel and the children, of all the other families on his vessel. He was Starfleet, trained to be absolutely disciplined even in the face of extreme personal trauma. In the midst of battle, there was no time to think except to outwit the enemy and pursue the safest course of action for the civilians on board. Whatever they suffered through pain of loss or injuries or severe psychological trauma, counselling could be given afterwards.
He was trained to combat although every nerve in his body was screaming that it was wrong to engage the Bellerophon, which brought him to the conclusion, however unpalatable it was to digest, that this was bigger than the Federation had anticipated.
His comm panel lit, and when he keyed in the commands for visual, it was to see Neil Brannigan's worried face.
"Commander, we are so close to the action that it's impossible to resettle our passengers first. Every effort will be made to ensure their safety, but the Exeter has been destroyed."
"What?!"
"Before that, the ship was boarded by hundreds of Borg drones, now there's only debris."
"Are you saying…?!"
"We're at war, Commander. Hurry here."
Then the screen went blank and Ethan stared dumbfounded at it before heading in the direction of Wolf 359.
**************
Eternal
Father, strong to save,
Whose
arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who
bidd'st the mighty ocean deep
Its
own appointed limits keep,
O hear us when we cry to Thee
For
those in peril on the sea.
*
What debris could fill the heavens so? What ravaged crafts drift aimlessly past the portals to the stars? What strange music accompanied intrepid vessels to their doom? What fantastical ship, by its very dimensions overshadowing and overpowering the pride of the Federation, could inflict such devastation in the skies? Indeed, what utter destruction, what cosmic waste of drifting debris, proud vessels bearing the badge of courage upon their bows, could appear darkly, starkly, etched in their very misery, so hauntingly beautiful in their dying moments?
Ethan Bellamy, first officer of the Bellerophon, brought his shuttle around, like a spectre intruding on the carnage before it in silent awe, in grave admiration of the ugly beauty before him. He stared at his viewscreen, saw the bridge of his ship, the debris, the face of his captain in the seconds before a Borg drone dragged him away from his command centre.
"Bellamy! Leave now!" came Captain Brannigan's order, the words choking into the familiar buzz as if ten men spoke at once.
"I must disobey your order. Disobey your order! Captain!"
"Leave. Leave!"
But his brain, master creation of a higher power, refused to comply as he looked at the battle scene before him. Four ships lay destroyed, a fifth in the process of disintegrating into debris. Faces scarred, faces filled with horror, faces that took on the images of Mélisande, of Rourke, of Piers. He saw his Captain's form, one that had melted into shocking metal, enclosed into a new skin, of assimilation into a new being, one that adapted, complied, controlled by a single head, vocalising the thoughts of millions. He was Captain Brannigan and he was a mindless number co-opted into the Collective.
Slowly, in motion arrested and played back in unbearable rhythm, the sounds of phaser banks and photon torpedoes exploded in the eerie accompaniment to the dance of the derelicts with the cube hovering over them all - Yamaguchi, Saratoga, Exeter, Melbourne.
Bellerophon.
"Mélisande!"
**************
Once looking back, he saw his cello in the aft section of the shuttle, a fleeting moment in which the image of the lonely instrument remained etched in his memory as he began entering commands at the conn.
A heavy strafing caused the shuttle to veer dangerously to its starboard side. Ethan's brain became a command centre with only a few instructions necessary to act. All else around him was confusion, a growing darkness in which light bore through the thick misty tunnels.
Mélisande. Rourke. Piers. Brannigan, turned Borg.
One more look. Cello. The sheet music scattered on the floor.
Fauré.
Élegié. Song of the dead. For the dead.
Heart of my remembrance.
Did he hear himself calling her name again? Did he hear himself call out the names of his sons?
Mélisande!
Ready. Transport. Leave your cello. Let the shuttle limp like a lame duck, injured innocent in the war zone, civilians, innocent bystanders, collateral damage.
In the way! In the Way! Die, innocents of this unequal battle.
His chest burned, a fire that had grown inside him, ignited by the exploding photon torpedoes and phaser banks of the Yamaguchi, the Melbourne, the Saratoga, the Exeter… The fire raged through him, consumed him whole, swallowed his senses and left only one thing, one thought, one instinct.
Protect.
All around him movement. Did he enter the coordinates incorrectly? Why was he running like flames that rushed over dry landscape and destroyed everything in its path? Had he entered the corridor from the turbolifts?
He saw them and he didn't see them. They registered only as a feared foe on the periphery of the conscious mind, a mind dimmed by fire, by horror, by the unbearable need to reach those most beloved, most tender issue, green eyed boys too young to understand the world around them, too young to comprehend why men go to war, too young to recognize evil in its most monstrous form. He passed officers no longer officers of the Federation, but staccato-like walking drones, the final vestiges of red, of teal, of gold melting forever into obscurity and assimilated into nothingness.
They were his friends. They were his colleagues.
He tried to ignore the screams.
That was what pierced his senses like sharp daggers dipped in fire.
The screaming.
Hundreds of voices that cried for help.
Why did the offensive drones ignore him? Didn't he pose a direct threat to them? Why did they walk past as if they didn’t see him? Why could he pass men and women in various stages of assimilation, their exoskeletons slowly transforming them from officers to offal and not be attacked by a drone? Why? Did the gods save him to save something? Did they?
Daddy! Daddy!
Daddy!!!
Voices! Out of the hundreds dying, crying, assimilated, consumed, he heard them.
He clawed at his chest, tried to break open and let the fire burst from him, to free him from the pain he knew even then, he would bear with him forever. The Bellerophon was on fire. Everywhere were flames licking at the bulkheads, licking at dying crewmen and passengers, licking at those slowly turning into metal. Now the sinister figures of drones began marshalling their bounty - changed robots who followed without challenge - and one by one they disappeared, dematerialised only to appear on the Borg ship.
W-E- A-R-E T-H-E- B-O-R-G
Daddy! Ethan! Help!
How did he get to deck 4 cabin 3C? How? How had turbolift doors opened and closed and given him opportunity to run without stopping, without being stopped?
"Mélisande! Rourke! Piers!"
They were still inside!
The doors couldn't open.
"No!" came his anguished cry as he forced them open, bore with his whole weight against them. But the doors were glowing hot. He ignored the acrid smell of his flesh as his palms scorched.
Then finally, the doors opened.
He saw them instantly. They sat huddled in a corner, their faces stark with fear. His eyes glazed. He saw a form running towards him.
Mélisande, her face contorted with fear.
"Ethan!"
"Melly, we must get away - "
"Behind you, Ethan!"
The phaser fire tore a hole through his thigh, ripped into his lungs. He swayed on his feet, his flesh torn hands already holding his own phaser which appeared to have merged with his skin. The drones were behind him. He was not aware of any pain, but he knew there must be as Piers lunged and clamped his small arms round his bloodied leg. Rourke screamed as he tried to hold on to Piers.
Mel's fear receded from her face, replaced by resolve, a decision made.
"Now, Ethan!"
He swung round, the split seconds in which the next few events occurred billowing into minutes, a vacuum in which time was slowed down and in which he saw his own actions and the movements of those around him analysed frame by frame... .
A drone walked purposefully to Mel, the hand extended in readiness to assimilate her. Mel screamed. Her screams filled the cabin. The boys ran back to her and clamped their small hands onto her legs. Ethan sagged to his knees. Then he heard no more sounds, although in his dazed mind he knew Mel's screams continued. She was telling him, instructing, ordering him…
"Do it now,
Ethan!"
I can't, Melly. Don't ask it of me…
I will be Borg
and you will be Borg and our children will become Borg. We will lose our memory
of them and we will no longer know them.
It is not our
destiny, my beloved Ethan. It is not our destiny.
Not our destiny...
He felt the first stirring of metal rush through his body, yet he still had control of his mind, however dull and dazed it was. Mel held her sons to her. The drone hovered over them, ready to strike, ready to take them away. Another drone stood ready to pull the boys from her grasp. In the stricken void of extreme noise, her voice cried to him and he heard his own in answer.
"I can't...!"
Yet in the screaming silence, it was only their mouths that moved, the fear etched on the faces of their sons, their movements slowed down in time suspended, in which he could separate each frame of fear and commit it to his memory.
Fear the darkness, Ethan Bellamy. Fear your next act, Ethan Bellamy, for you know what is asked of you. Your ship has died and all who dwelled in her have been killed or taken away.
You ask the impossible, Melly!
I ask that you save our lives, by doing what you must do.
He saw the tubes puncture Mel's neck, saw the boys pulled away from her. Their mouths were gaping holes, their tears spilling over his conscience.
His captain's face on the bridge, the order to escape, his refusal, the way, before his very eyes, Captain Brannigan turned into a drone.
Three drones
were born in Ethan's Cave
they were his
kin he couldn't save
forever dwelling
far from home
they left him
standing in his dome
protected from
the world outside
created tales
for nations wide
- his sorrow
never left -
His hand appeared to melt into his phaser, but with feeble fingers he pointed the weapon at them. His ribcage wept blood, his leg shattered, the slow, inexorable change into drone, yet a part of his consciousness forced him to carry out Mel's wish. Already he heard the voices of the multitude, the thousands sounding as one. Somewhere in his brain, a part of him clung tenaciously to the present, to knowing that Mélisande and Rourke and Piers could never be made to suffer a different death.
Phaser set on kill. Wide. They looked at him – his wife, his sons - and on their faces fear no longer reigned, but victory. He saw them for the last time, alive, victorious as they approached their end. They would die, he would die.
Pin on them the badge of courage.
Fire!
O let my heart
forever burn in hell!
Where time is
written down as Death's great Knell -
when bleak my
lonely days shall be on Earth
I must lament
with stirring strings the birth
of Grief so
great that none shall comfort me -
Ethan!
Forgive me, Mélisande. Forgive me, my sons. Forgive me…forgive me…
And even as they dissolved in the phaser's fire, hearing their anguished cries, confounding the drones who had held them hostage, he knew that were he to live to tell anyone his tale of woe, he would hear their anguished cries as they died, picture them with broken, bloodied, mutilated bodies even as they were vaporised by his phaser's fire.
He began to hear the Voice of the Collective, the One voice that stood above all.
Y-O-U A-R-E T-H-R-E-E O-F F-I-V-E.
Instruct me.
I A-M B-O-R-G
Slowly, the drone Three of Five, designated so by the central Voice of the Hive, rose to his feet.
I A-M E-T-H-A-N B-E-L-L-A-M-Y
You are Borg.
R-E-S-I-S-T-A-N-C-E I-S F-U-T-I-L-E.
The Queen's voice pierced his mind. Unable to counter the penetration of instructions into his brain, he submitted. He was Ethan Bellamy no more, but another being, a thing, the biological distinctiveness of thousands of races now a part of him. He could no more remember his wife or his children. Yet, everywhere around him he was aware, like a tingling sensation that snaked as a constant impulse through his body, of children of all ages in their maturation chambers.
Some were babies just born…
*****************
END PART THIRTEEN