PART
FOURTEEN: DRONE
Voices.
Confusion
collided with awareness, creating contours of sound rippling towards his
cognitive centre. A thousand voices. One voice. Droning on and on and on until
faintly at first, then somehow becoming
more defined - sharp, metallic - it reached him.
"Wake
up, Commander Bellamy."
From
the depths of the mists that swirled in a maddening vortex, his consciousness
rose, born into millions of nanoprobes, making him everyone and no one, yet
mysteriously unique. The name was strange to him, and so the conscious mind
struggled to align memory with identity. He had no recollection of time and
place, only an awareness that registered as a deep and aching void which he
could not understand. He was perplexed by this torture, the strain of trying to
discover the source of his sorrow - for he sensed within him that it was sorrow
- too much to bear. So he sought out the old, comforting darkness and slipped
away into it, allowing it to envelop him, to seep into his senses where,
ironically, the grief failed to dim that sickening ache that wouldn't relinquish
its hold on him…
In
those shadowy depths, he saw figures, unrecognisable by face and form, yet even
there he sensed that they were inextricably linked to his mind and his body. It
was what he felt close to him, immediate and inseparable. They rushed forward
with elongated arms and long hair that flowed behind them in the gloomy mists
that swayed about them. Ghostly apparitions that haunted his being, yet
curiously, he desired to know them. He tried to touch them, not with his
lifeless, numb fingers, but his mind, his eyes which registered their images.
Impossible as they moved away suddenly, to come again tantalisingly closer, with
their mouths wide open screaming in the throes of death.
Death?
Why
did they look so tormented? Why did they appear as if shock contorted their
faces, to freeze them forever into grotesque beings - ghosts that haunted all
who sought to find them?
He
saw them wave from forests green
where
once the unicorn was seen
where
once there was a heav'nly door
which
magic passage could restore
his
kin for all the world to see
and
let him taste this life so free
- his sorrow never left -
In
murky depths did Mélisande
emerge
– her curséd spirit's hand
she
waved in gentle, kind reprieve,
the
doomed Pélleas once more grieve
and
Ethan's courage to the end
unite
and love for brave new friend,
-
his sorrow never left -
The
sharp metallic voice called him Commander Bellamy. Was that his designation?
Name
is irrelevant.
He
tried to force his thoughts, to direct them to the sorrow, which in turn might
direct him to the identity of this strange designation. He tried to understand
the intensity of his loneliness within his construct as an automaton, a machine
programmed to regenerate, to dismiss pain and all its concomitant emotions as an
irrelevant aspect of being alive. They fought him, the demons of his humanity
and of his new construct, waging battles against each other for supremacy.
Slowly the nanoprobes won, overwriting the old order and establishing a new life
as Borg, as a walking machine to do the bidding of the Queen.
I
A-M- T-H-R-E-E O-F
F-I-V-E
Yet,
somewhere, a corner so small it must have escaped the insidious invasion of
nanoprobes, he saw it, that which was the source of his torment.
Fleetingly the clouds parted, allowing the light of remembrance through,
even images which leaped at him, challenging, entreating, playfully inviting,
teasing him without mercy. Only
moments before they were grotesque in their fear. Now they skipped laughingly
past him - a woman with hair the colour of ripe, ripe corn flowing as the wind
played in it. She waved, smiling, yet her eyes captured the shadows of the
clouds in them. Two small boys were with her, their eyes green, hair brown like
his own…
His
own? Did memory align with identity after all? Was he Ethan Bellamy, the father
of the two children, the husband of the woman?
At
first, they danced about, then suddenly she caught them and they huddled in a
corner. The little boys' arms were outstretched towards him. Fear had returned
to their faces, their mouths open in their screams. She spoke, her voice filling
the empty spaces, the moment suspended in which sound and movement played
unbearably with his senses, letting him hear every syllable, see every minute
stirring, every facial expression captured and etched on the canvas that was his
memory.
He
was Ethan Bellamy. The woman was Mélisande and the boys were Rourke and Piers,
his sons.
"Kill
us, Ethan, it is the only way to save us…"
And
the battle continued, the battle of his guilt and of his sorrow, of seeing their
faces, simple, flitting images that were there one moment, looking at him with
great eyes and next moment gone - murdered - by their father's hand.
One
moment, Borg drones hovered over them to claim them forever into servitude for
the Collective, and the next moment, came the blast from his phaser that had
affixed itself into his own new exoskeleton. With what awareness, isolated from
the million nanoprobes that issued one command, could he still fire at them?
Their
bodies rocked into the horror of their death throes, their screams rending the
air until the sound died as suddenly as it had started up. Broken, bloodied he
was, the drones moving to him, impassively,
casually letting their tubules fill him with more of Them.
I
killed them to save their lives.
A
human that would murder for the cause of self-preservation. What paradox would
from this day on rule his life?
Then
the curtain closed to shut out the light, shut out hair gold like corn, eyes
green like pines, smiling, laughing faces. In its stead came the darkness where
the new Consciousness returned.
Switch
Borg Mode.
Follow
the drones, limp behind them with your own broken body, broken heart… Dissolve
and materialise on the Borg vessel. Trace your path behind them on the metallic
walkways, comply to their commands.
Hear
the Voice of the Collective.
Hear
the voice of your humanity...
Commander
Bellamy, you are the only survivor of the USS Bellerophon. We are deeply sorry
for your loss.
I
am Commander Bellamy. I know who I am. Human turned Borg, with the memory of the
human - vile memories of death and carnage.
Why
are you sorry? I killed my wife and sons. The Federation did not murder them. I
took my phaser that merged with my hand and vaporised them. Before my eyes, they
died in their screams. It is as clear as if I can see their bodies break,
mutilated, bloodied, yet they were gone within seconds. I cannot strip that
image from me. Bodies. Broken bodies. My wife. My sons.
Mélisande.
Rourke. Piers. My life.
Can't
you hear me?
They
do not hear your thoughts and so they labour the falseness of your testimony.
And
Melly's voice…
It
is our destiny, that you save us from the Borg.
But
I am left behind, alone with my guilt.
It is my gift to you, my love, that you be freed from your guilt. I asked you to be greater than yourself, greater than you can ever hope to be.
My
heart is dead with the weight of what I must take with me to the Light.
Wake
up, Three of Five.
No.
Wake
up, Commander Bellamy.
Who
am I?
The
voices penetrated into his consciousness, simultaneously into the mind of the
automaton and the mind of the human entity that was Commander Ethan Bellamy.
Daddy,
do people go mad when the moon is full?
Daddy,
I'm not a pumpkin!
Ethan,
I did try to understand you...
The
biological distinctiveness of Species 5618 shall remain your dominant feature,
Three of Five. We have added the biological distinctiveness of Species 4685 of
the Delta Quadrant to your own.
S-P-E-C-I-E-S
4-6-8-5 SEASONAL MUTATION
INTO OTHER BEINGS.
I
am the voice of thousands.
Y-O-U
A-R-E D-A-M-A-G-E-D.
What
is my purpose?
Destroy
Earth. The Borg will conquer this quadrant. You will give us the information we
need, Three of Five.
You
have Locutus of Borg.
Captain
Picard.
Locutus
of Borg.
"Commander
Bellamy!"
Startled
by the single, stringent call, he opened his eyes. The sudden movement caused
him to blink several times as the light hit his eyes.
Eyes?
One
eye human, the other injected with high visual acuity. A prosthetic appendage of
damnation. Above him hovered the face of a woman, the owner of the voice. He
gave a soft sigh, turning his face away from the battle in the woman's eyes. His
retreat didn't last long, for fingers tightened about his chin and forced him to
look at her again.
He
recognised her. Female admiral of Starfleet, hard as nails, eyes piercing like
steel rods. Small, fierce fiend... He heard Neil Brannigan's voice again, that
this woman had ordered the Bellerophon with its civilians on board to fight the
might of a Borg cube that dwarfed the Federation's finest vessels.
"Admiral
Nechayev."
"Bellamy,
why did you return to Earth?"
He
was on Earth? He closed his eyes a moment. He was not on a starship, not on the
Bellerophon and, he decided, not on the Borg vessel. The sense of displacement
persisted, Nechayev's red uniform doing nothing but allow the germ of loathing
to breed inside him. He was somewhere and his instinct told him that it wasn't a
medical facility either.
"Where
am I?"
"That
is irrelevant. We have severed you from the Collective."
He
closed his eyes and thought about the last moments before he lost connection
with the voices. There was pain, unbearable pain. He heard his own screams
although he couldn't visualise the procedure. He only knew pain, so much of it
that he lost consciousness.
Now
he remembered. The growing exoskeleton, the prosthetic eye which enhanced his
visual acuity a hundred-fold. Long, long passages and walkways on the Bog ship
with hundreds of thousands of alcoves, each containing a drone. The constant hum
of voices inside his head, the constant air of industry that made him part of
Them. The drilling, the repairs which other drones performed on him without
speaking a single word, and yet he remained aware of their collective thoughts.
This
drone is damaged beyond repair.
Of
what use can he be to our goal?
He terminated the life of his mate and offspring .
Terminate
my existence.
He
will be returned, in order to betray his own people.
He
resists repair. That is not usual for a drone.
Return
him to his vessel.
He
remembered the transport to the Oregon, the shuttle of his doomed vacation. The
cello had been lying there, a lost instrument without a master and he had stared
at it, perplexed by the familiarity of touching it, yet not understanding his
curiosity. He had tried lifting the instrument, then released it without knowing
why, only thinking that he would never touch it again. He also remembered that
his thoughts were still like vibrations of many voices sounding as one.
A
damaged drone, sent back in the damaged shuttle he had disabled himself just
before he transported to the Bellerophon and killed...
Mélisande.
Rourke. Piers.
Five
ships destroyed. He knew the moment he followed the four drones into the
corridor from his quarters where the bloodied, broken bodies of his wife and
children had lain, vaporised out of existence, that the Bellerophon would
explode only seconds later. Stiffly, robot-like, he walked behind them, and
materialised on the Borg ship in a section where he was to receive his
designation.
Why
Three of Five?
You
will be of use to us.
Is
not every drone of use?
They
perform a collective duty, yours will be to fulfil another.
You
have destroyed my vessel.
Resistance
is futile.
I
am damaged. Of what use can I be?
What
use was the questioning? He was a drone, he had to comply.
"They
told me to return to my shuttle and head for Earth, Nechayev," he finally
replied to the imperious female who kept piercing him with her hate-filled eyes.
"What
is your purpose here, Bellamy? What is your purpose?"
"I
have no recollection of my purpose, now that you have severed me from the Hive
mind."
"You
are suggesting we should not have severed you?" came her incredulous
response.
"I
have suggested nothing. I do not recollect any orders given me by the
Collective."
"Commander
Bellamy, we have so far lost fourteen vessels at Wolf 359 - "
"My
family died!"
"You
killed them, Bellamy."
He
must be bleeding. Even as he closed his eyes, he saw them, burning on his
eyelids and taunting him with their death screams. Of course he killed them.
"They
died, yes."
"Fourteen
vessels, you understand?"
"You
have sent more vessels to engage the Borg? It is futile."
"As
we have realised, Bellamy."
"Then
do not send more. They will all die!"
"How
are we to conquer them? How?" She
tried to grab hold of his head, to shake him, taking a deep breath, then held
back. For a moment he thought she would poison him. Could he read her thoughts?
Impossible.
"I
cannot tell you, Nechayev."
"Cannot,
or will not?"
"I
do not know how! Why won't you understand?"
"What
I understand is that you returned as a Borg drone in one of the Bellerophon's
shuttles, that it crashed-landed on the moon. Why would the Borg send back a
damaged drone in a Federation vessel? Why? Why?"
He
tried to raise his hand, shocked at the sight of his new skin, the metallic look
about his exoskeleton and the urge to press his hand into Nechayev's neck and
assimilate her, drive her into Borg oblivion. Why was that urge so great? Why?
He tried to lift himself up, but found to his dismay that he was heavily
restrained on the bed. Even so, Nechayev jumped back, momentarily off guard.
"See?
Did you forget that you tried to assimilate three of our Security personnel when
they captured you?"
He
had a vague recollection of his tubules sinking into a human woman, of hearing
her screams before a spray of phaser fire hit him. Why was his protective
shielding not working? Did the Borg deliberately make him that vulnerable? Did
he kill more people than he was aware of? What happened to the woman?
"You
killed Ensign Kraynauw."
How?
he wondered. He assimilated her. Why did they not sever her from the Collective
too? He recalled only a second in which he heard her call for someone...her
mother...
"You
filled her with nanoprobes that rewrote her DNA to self-destruct."
Another
person dead, by his hands...
"Please,
Nechayev, if you send more vessels, they will all be destroyed. And that is what
I know."
"You
murdered an officer of the Federation!"
"If
you send any more ships to Wolf 359, you will have murdered more officers of the
Federation, Nechayev."
**************
And
so continued his interrogation until he slipped into the oblivion of his
sickness. Somehow he knew that they patched the hole in his chest as well as
his shattered leg. Rudely awakened by Nechayev's steely voice, his
refusal to comply, their insistence that he wanted to overthrow the Order. More
orders, more accusations, more images of those whom he killed. He even saw the
young security officer in the moments before her assimilation. Did the Borg
programme him in such a way that any person he assimilated would self-destruct?
Why was that when they wanted to incorporate the humans' biological
distinctiveness to their own and create a super race that complied, fulfilling
all tasks with super efficiency?
Was
it a day later? two days? Three days? How much time had elapsed since he opened
his eyes to stare into those of Nechayev? Did they send more vessels to their
doom despite his warning? Was that why the interrogation continued?
"What
was your designation, Commander Bellamy?"
"Three
of Five."
"As
Three of Five, you were important enough to be given instructions to overthrow
the Federation."
"I
have been severed from the Collective, Nechayev. How can I possibly inform
them?"
"Your
nanoprobes in Ensign Kraynauw's body were set to self-destruct. She exploded.
Didn't you know? You are an anomaly."
"Because
I am a damaged drone? Nechayev, you should know that they considered me beyond
repair."
"No,
Bellamy. You have been sent back with one objective - to give the Borg
information."
"What
information? Earth's high security installations? They already scanned the
Enterprise and they have Locutus. They know what they must know. I tell you,
Nechayev, it is futile to engage the Borg. Only Locutus can be of help."
"Captain
Picard? Yes, we have conquered the Borg cube."
"So
Picard came to the rescue of the Federation. He was the only one who could
help."
"But
we lost thirty nine vessels and eleven thousand people - officers, crew and
civilians. The Borg may return."
So
they did send more vessels to their doom. Altogether thirty nine. The pride of
the Federation in tatters, cosmic debris of cosmic proportions.
Yes,
he knew that at some point they would return, to wreak havoc again. But his own
sensors were compromised. He couldn't hear their voices. Before he could be
effective, the cube was destroyed. There was no reason to keep him captive or
even alive.
Thousands
had died during the battle, many had been assimilated. Even though his link to
the Collective was broken, he knew the cube's sphere would have escaped through
a transwarp conduit, gone back to rendezvous with other Borg vessels in a
quadrant dark to the Federation. They knew very little of the Delta Quadrant,
but that was where the Borg originated. He had been severed. How long was he
going to survive on his own, as a drone?
He
must be in some science facility, or the highly secured Intelligence Centre. He
was in pain, but the pain of the body within his Borg state was overpowered by
the pain and stark aches that drove like nails in his heart. He lost awareness
of time, of how long he had been there or had been interrogated. There were
times he sensed, like a tingle of forewarning, that he would slip into oblivion.
He
dreamed of them often. Mel and Rourke and Piers. Sometimes he saw them in a
field of cotton blossoms, and the heads of Rourke and Piers would bob above the
snowy blooms.
"Peekaboo!"
"Caught
you!"
Mélisande
would hug them together, tenderly admonishing them not to disturb their Daddy.
Then her face would turn heavenwards, into the sun and her hair, the colour of
golden corn would lift in the gentle breeze. Then she'd turn to face him, a
smile hovering.
"You did what you had to do. This way, we remain as we are in your memory..."
On
other days, he searched for them among the ruins of old buildings, blackened by
the fires of hell, the acrid smell of flesh in his nostrils imprisoning him to
the Chaos. He saw his Captain, in
the moments before his assimilation, the urgent look on Neil's face as he
ordered him to take flight. Mostly though, he saw Mel and the boys.
"Murderer!"
"No...no..."
**************
"Open
your eyes, Commander..."
New
voice. Stern, but not unfriendly. Male.
He
opened his eyes slowly. He thought he recognised the admiral with his greying
hair and stark blue eyes. There was compassion in those eyes. Ethan sighed with
relief.
"Admiral
Paris?"
"Yes."
"Where
am I?"
"In
Starfleet Medical."
That
surprised him.
"H-How
long have I been...?"
Ethan
lifted his hand, saw to his dismay that he was still Borg, but glad he was no
longer tethered to the bed. With a sigh he dropped the arm and turned his face
away from the piercing blue eyes.
"You
have been with Intelligence a week, Commander. We rescued you from Admiral
Nechayev's clutches."
If
he hadn't felt so completely debilitated and terrible, he would have smiled in
response to Admiral Paris's statement.
"I
know nothing."
"You
knew enough to warn Nechayev about the destructive force of the Borg vessel. She
sent more ships to Wolf 359... After that, nineteen more vessels were sent by
Gordon and Hays."
"So
many died..."
"But
you got away."
"I
- "
"Tell
me?"
"I
cannot hear them now, Admiral. Why is that?"
"Because
we were at least able to disconnect you from the Collective. A mistake on their
part to send a damaged drone back to Earth..."
"Then
I gave them no information?"
He
couldn't remember much of those first days, except that the process of being
severed was painful, that he knew more people would die, that it was futile
engaging the Borg.
"No,
Commander Bellamy."
"And
Nechayev? Can you keep her away from me?"
Paris
gave a shrug.
"She's
given you a hard time, I know. But do you remember that you warned her about
sending more ships?"
"Not
much."
"Well
you did, and she didn't listen. The Federation has suffered. The Borg threat is
gone...for now."
"Thank
God..."
"Commander,
I understand you lost your family. I am deeply sorry..."
He
had heard those words before, in the haze of his delirium, a stringent female
voice. Now, able to distinguish at last, he knew how false Nechayev sounded.
Admiral Paris's voice was kind, compassionate, a solace to his embattled
being...
"Nechayev
refused to allow the Bellerophon to take the colonists to a safe planet first.
My...wife and children were to have spent a part of the vacation with family on
Eridirian."
He
couldn't tell Paris he had to kill them.
"What
happened to them?"
"They...died..."
"I'm
sorry."
"No
more sorry than I am, Admiral Paris."
Paris
was quiet for long moments.
"Commander
Bellamy, a team of doctors is ready to perform a procedure that would restore
you to your human state. I've actually come to inform you of that."
"It's
possible?"
"Yes.
Picard has been restored. But I've been told they cannot guarantee one hundred
percent success in your case. Your assimilation was deliberate, for a specific
purpose."
"I
know now. Reveal Earth's weaknesses," he replied grimly.
"You're
an unknown in terms of medical science. We have not progressed that far."
"But
you say they have restored Captain Picard - "
"Yes.
But in your case there are anomalies. Locutus - Captain Picard....there were no
such anomalies with him."
"Can
you correct mine?"
Admiral
Paris gave a sigh and shook his head.
"They
will do what they can for you - "
"Then
let me die."
"Commander
Bellamy, despite the carnage we have suffered at the hands of the Borg, the
ideals of the Federation remain what they are. If we can save one life, we
will."
"I
am of no use, like this..."
"Any
life, you should know, Commander, is worth saving."
He
studied Admiral Paris's face a long time before he lifted his mechanised arm in
salute.
"Thank
you."
"Now,
is there any other person, friend or family member we can inform?"
"Is
it necessary?"
"It
seems you are alone, Commander, if you'll forgive me saying that. Your parents
died while you were an Academy cadet. No other family is listed as next of kin.
By the way, we have recovered all your files from the shuttle Oregon and have
placed your cello in the care of Professor Von Bulow - "
He
struggled to digest Paris's words. His files... All his work that he’d
downloaded from the Bellerophon, work not on his computers in his apartment. New
work. Poetry, short stories, the first draft of Songs of a Wayfarer... Did he have a sixth sense that he would need
to do that? The Bellerophon was destroyed and with it all its records... His
work was saved, safe... His cello, handcrafted by Johann Kahlmeyer, still intact
and in the care of a good man.
"Von
Bulow?"
"You
know him?"
"He
gave master classes for the cello at Juilliard. A good man. Thank you, again,
Admiral Paris."
"You're
welcome. Now, any family we should contact?"
"I
haven't spoken with my cousin in years, but Wanda Rossini is my closest
relative. She...I don't know where she is..."
His
words trailed away, and he cursed himself for not having kept in contact with
Wanda. He had last seen her when she was still a young teenager, a gangly girl
who looked strangely enough, like his mother.
"Don't
worry, Commander. We'll find her. Right now my wife and her team of doctors are
ready to prep you for the removal of all your Borg implants."
"Your
wife?"
"Elizabeth
Paris. A doctor here at Starfleet Medical."
"Human
again," he murmured as he closed his eyes, the images of Mel and the boys
taunting him.
This
time, accusing him of murder.
*************
He
liked Doctor Elizabeth Paris immediately and though Kate Pulaski was a no
nonsense individual, starkly efficient and highly accomplished, he responded to
these two medical officers who had done what they could to restore him to his
human form. Beneath Kate Pulaski's formidable exterior lay a heart of gold, he
thought privately. She was compassionate, sympathetic without dripping with
over-sentimental tendencies and he liked that about her. He wanted no pity, but
he did respond to her understanding nature. And Doctor Paris... He could picture
her sitting on her porch in a rocking chair telling stories to her
grandchildren. Small of stature, with a heart as big as the universe.
He
counted himself lucky to have them in attendance. Anyone else asking questions
was quickly admonished in the most quiet but firm tones, that Commander Bellamy
was not to be questioned or unduly harassed and upset. Once a nurse
- a very young Ketarchan woman - burst into tears when he snapped at her
after she had asked him about his prosthetic eye.
The
nights were the worst. Some days too, when he emerged from dark, disturbing
nightmares. He never realised he was actually screaming until Doctor Paris or
Pulaski appeared with a hypospray and administered a sedative.
"I'm
sorry, Commander Bellamy, but you have just cracked a rib."
That
was after he had fallen off the bed and tried to break his fall, his elbow
digging hard into his ribcage.
It
had been gradual, his transformation from Borg to human. Each time an implant
was removed, his prosthetic eye, the slow removal of his exoskeleton.
He
now lay propped up on a hospital bed, able to move his fingers nimbly, flex his
muscles, curl his toes, even yawn or rub his chest, feeling the growth of his
chest hair again. It was good being back in his own skin. It was good running
his fingers over an imaginary keyboard playing an imaginary Chopin etude, or
fingering the strings of his beloved cello. In his head returned Boccherini, one
of the last pieces he had played before he was transformed into a drone. He
imagined he played for Mel, his head bent low over the cello, wringing from it
the most mournful melodies, elegies he conjured up from the intimacies of his
memory, then playful arpeggios, or slower adagios that escaped from his fingers
in velvety smooth sounds that sailed effortlessly with light little cloud puffs
away into the skies...
Then
there were the nights he dreamed - walkways on the Borg ship, thousands of
drones closing in on him, ready to fill him with their nanoprobes. The fear that
always filled him as the realisation dawned that he couldn't walk like a human
anymore. He saw Rourke and Piers run away from him, their terror etched on their
faces. Always, to round off his misery, their dead bodies, burned and mutilated
beyond recognition after he fired at them.
He
had felt how his individuality passed into the nothingness that was the Hive
mind. How he lost ownership of his person, impelled by the Mind to think the
same as every other drone. He felt how their Collective goal was to establish
forever, that in humans their failings, their flaws, their propensity for
irrational behaviour, thought, reactions, their inability to reach consensus
created dissent, disorganisation, disunity.
But
every man and woman conceded that what made humankind interesting were the very
things the Borg purged from them - their diversity, their individuality. For a
while, he'd had no power over Ethan Bellamy, and he had tasted the terror of not
belonging to himself.
Had
Mel sensed this?
If
she had, then he had done what he had to do in the circumstances, for he could
never picture his children growing into nothing within Borg maturation chambers.
He
closed his eyes and tried again to purge their final moments from his mind, but
regret had come to build a shack in his heart and his mind, and it accepted
accommodation for everlasting sorrow, for guilt and remorse to live with him.
His felt his fingers stiffen and clench into fists. If his nails dug into the
soft flesh of his palms and if his palms bled, he didn't feel it, nor did he
care.
"Mélisande..."
he whispered softly.
Then
his hands were covered by the softness of another, gently stroking until he
relaxed and he opened his eyes. He saw a woman, a woman who smiled kindly, whose
eyes were moist, who reminded him strangely of his mother. He grappled a few
moments, pulling back the guilt and his sorrow and remorse. The woman had sad
eyes, compassionate eyes.
"Hello,
Ethan..."
"Wanda..."
"Oh,
Ethan!"
"I'm
presentable again, I guess. Admiral Paris said he'd find you."
Wanda
with her brown hair and dark eyes, her perfect skin. As a young girl she had
been typically gangly, pimply, arms and legs flailing. Wanda, the chrysalis,
blossomed into a beautiful butterfly.
"I'm
sorry to hear about Mel and the children," she said, his hands still in
hers, her eyes filling with tears.
"And
I live," he said on a bitter note.
"Ethan..."
"Leave
me alone, Wanda."
"I
can't. I won't. You're about to be discharged. I have a large apartment..."
He
had stared at her long. Did she sense he didn't want to go home? Home contained
pictures, memories, a record of his life as a husband, a lover, a father. He had
thought of going home, and he dreaded the prospect. He still felt amazingly
displaced, too displaced, rudderless. Everyone he had known on the Bellerophon
was dead or assimilated. His circle of friends gone, his immediate family circle
broken. There was nothing in filial bonds or emotional attachments. He was
alone. He needed time, time to organise what was left of his life, to regroup,
strategise.
"It's
fine, Wanda. I'll go home. Don't worry about me - "
"Ethan!
Please, then let me at least visit you. Please?"
"Why?"
"I
too, have no immediate family. You're the closest I have, the one on whose arm
I'll walk into a chapel on my wedding day."
"You’re
getting married?"
Wanda
gave a heavy sigh. "The man I like likes another. He's already attached,
Ethan."
"Then
steal him away, for heaven's sake," he said acidly.
Wanda
retreated from him, shocked at his outburst.
"I
would never do that," she whispered softly.
But
he could see that she must love the man, whoever he was.
"What
is his name?"
"Mark
Johnson. We attended a conference on DS9. He doesn't really know me, but
well..."
"You
lost your heart."
"He's
very friendly with another woman. I've heard they are about to become
engaged."
"Mark
Johnson. Sounds like a prosaic philosopher. I'm sure he's not your type. Is this
woman his type?"
"They
look good together. He's in love with her. She's one of the youngest female
captains in Starfleet."
"I
know her?"
"Perhaps,
I don't think so. She's just been made Captain. Her name is Kathryn Janeway. But
it's okay, Ethan. Mark doesn't see me at all. We're not even friends..."
"Sorry,
then."
"Well,
right now, I have a more pressing task ahead of me that should push Mark Johnson
from my thoughts."
"What
is that?" he asked. He was tired again, and soon Doctor Paris would be
there to give him a final prognoses.
"You.
I'm going to make sure that my cousin three times removed takes care of
himself."
"Wanda..."
"Please?"
He
sighed, gripped her hand in his, noting with relief the smoothness of his skin,
the absence of those stark metallic veins. He wanted to get back to writing, to
playing his cello and he wanted to hear Doctors Paris and Pulaski declare him
fit for living again.
He
thought he could let Wanda visit him. He realised painfully that he needed her,
needed family.
With
Starfleet, he was finished.
***********
"Commander
Bellamy."
The
voice rose through the fog and penetrated his dream. Had he fallen asleep again?
Did he dwell in the dark halls of Chaos? It called him, like the bright calling
of a lark he had heard only once in Oregon when, of a morning, he had walked
through the woods of his parents' property. The voice
broke through Chaos and beckoned him into the light.
He
opened his eyes slowly, saw two faces, and his heart sank.
The
voice of a lark that would bring him doom.
"Doctor
Paris..." he croaked, for he suddenly had a raging thirst. She didn't grace
him with her usual smile and Kate Pulaski looked sterner than ever.
"Commander
Bellamy - "
"I'll
hear the good news first," he said, as he felt Elizabeth Paris's hand on
his arm.
"You're
declared fit for duty again. As to today, you're discharged..." she said
softly.
"Good
news indeed," he responded with a cynical tone. He was feeling much better.
He had been flexing his fingers, been creating in his mind new scenes for Songs
of a Wayfarer which he had started
while still on the Bellerophon. Chaos had never looked better.
Doctor
Pulaski sighed.
"Commander
Bellamy," she started, "I wonder if you remember anything of the way
your DNA was rewritten by the Borg hierarchy?"
He
looked at her, startled for a moment, then at Doctor Paris.
"I
don't remember much," he admitted, feeling the weight press against his
chest. He struggled to keep his breathing even.
"We've
isolated and studied your DNA," began Kate Pulaski, "and there are
genetic markers of a race unknown to anything we've encountered in the Alpha and
Beta Quadrants, and we are presuming it's a Delta Quadrant race. We could ask
our senior scientists to - to - "
He
realised with cold fear what they were intending, even if it were to help him,
and his mind shut down for a few seconds, letting anger reign.
"You
will clone nothing from my body," he barked at them. "I've given you
enough, haven't I? You've injected me with anything and everything. You've taken
my life and given me my body in return. No more, you hear me? No more... This
experiment is leaving."
"You
don't understand, Commander," said Elizabeth Paris who kept her cool in the
wake of his angry outburst. "It is not our intention to clone anything. But
Commander, we have been unable to neutralise it. That is what worries us."
"Will
it harm me?" he asked, a little calmer.
"We
don't think so," Kate Pulaski added. "Only time will tell. We will
have to monitor you over the next few months. Perhaps it's a physiological
distinctiveness that won't impair your own primarily human genes..."
"I
will be available for monitoring, no more. I just want to be left alone after
that..."
"Commander,
after what you have been through, I understand that you would want to be left
alone. But we need to keep track, you must understand..." said Kate
Pulaski.
The
Kholar - Species 4685 - seasonal mutation into other beings. That was all he
knew. It was a risk he was willing to take. He looked human now, didn't he? He
felt human; he was in his own skin, outwardly at least. They couldn't cure it,
could they? He was going to live with it until a cure came along, wasn't he?
Until then, he was willing to take his chances.
"So
there hasn't been a hundred percent recovery, has there?"
Doctor
Paris sighed delicately, her eyes kind in spite of the bad news, as if she, as
well as Doctor Pulaski, regretted their inability to secure a full recovery.
Whatever awaited him within the next year or so, he'd have to detach himself
when it came. It was unknown to him. He kept his gaze on Pulaski.
"Well?"
he bit out.
"We
have also been unable to remove your neural transceiver, Commander
Bellamy," Pulaski replied, nodding her head. "Even though Doctor
Crusher and her team have been successful in Captain Picard's full recovery, it
was too great a risk to remove yours."
"If
it doesn't hurt or give me headaches, I can live with it."
"Well,
we won't keep you longer. Your cousin Wanda Rossini is waiting outside."
Ethan
closed his eyes. He had forgotten about Wanda for a moment. Now the reality hit
him. What was he going to tell her? She hadn't seen him in his Borg state,
mercifully, and he was glad of that. But only yesterday when she had walked into
his room, she had exclaimed with consternation that had him running his hand
over his almost bald head.
"Oh,
Ethan! Your hair is white!"
That
was when he realised what no one had told him: the side effects of his
transformation. He realised that he had turned prematurely grey, that it was
permanent. He didn't care. He was alive, and if it were not for his music and
his writing, he'd have said that he didn't care whether he lived or died either.
When
Wanda came in a few minutes later, he had recovered his composure. She had been
to his apartment and had brought along clothing and shoes.
"I
know you won't stay as a guest in my place, Ethan," she said with a sudden
energetic air. "It doesn't stop me from keeping you company in yours, does
it?"
"Wanda..."
"And,
I've arranged that your cello and sheet music be returned to your home,
Ethan."
"Wanda..."
"And
also, Admiral Paris encrypted your files downloaded from the shuttle Oregon and
that's also waiting for you. Yes, what is it, Ethan?"
"I'll
spend a few days with you, if that's okay..."
"Oh,
Ethan! I'm so happy! Now I can tell you all about Mark Johnson."
Ethan
sighed. Women!
******************
END
PART FOURTEEN