Chapter Ten
Life came back to Hugh in bits and pieces.
First came the voices. Hugh found himself adrift in a black void. He could see nothing, and hear nothing, and feel nothing. He could not move his fingers, or open his eyes, or fill his lungs, or feel the cold air on his skin. He could not count the seconds as they passed by, because in this place, time held no meaning. In this lightless abyss, Hugh knew nothing but pure oblivion...and then, he heard voices, floating out of the darkness, calling to him...
Hugh...
Return to us...
You are Borg...
You belong with us...
It was the voice of the Collective. Millions of drones, marching through the gloom, searching for him. Millions of minds, reaching out to him, pulling him inexorably back into the embrace of the hive.
There will be no more suffering...
There will be no more pain...
She will lead us to a new era...
Return to us...
Return to us...
Next came the memories. Fragment by fragment, the past returned. Hugh could remember Romulan death squads storming the Artifact. Hugh could remember countless scores of his beloved xBs – his brethren, his kind – being mercilessly executed before his eyes. He remembered Narissa, a woman with such excruciating emptiness in her soul that she could only find happiness when she was butchering innocent, defenseless beings. He remembered Elnor...that brave young man, who fought with all his strength to protect the xBs...
Hugh remembered dying. He remembered a blade sinking into his throat, and his final few precious moments of life seeping away as he bled out onto the cold metal floor of the Artifact.
Return to us...
We are hated, and we are feared, but we are Borg, and we will not be defeated...
We are Borg...
We are Borg...
All the nerve fibres running throughout Hugh's body began to crackle and spark. The heart in his chest began to pump again. The blood in his veins began to heat up. His lungs expanded, and filled with air.
Return to us...
Return to us...
In the innards of a Borg cube, hundreds and hundreds of dead drones were being resurrected, all at once. All of the xBs that had been murdered by the Zhat Vash were now being restored to a living state. The Romulans had killed them in countless different ways – they had shot them with phasers, and flung them into chasms, and cut them with daggers...but now their wounds were regenerating, their bodies flooding with Borg nanites that would mend and repair them.
The xBs were confused, and bewildered. They twitched, and convulsed, and they writhed and twisted about, and they screamed and cried out with distorted voices. They were scared. They were traumatized. They were in shock. They were not quite sure where they were, or what time it was.
The xBs began reaching out with their hands. Like frightened children, they stretched out their arms, begging for comfort, for reassurance, for solace, for sympathy.
Unconsciously, the xBs all reached out their hands in the exact same direction. Without realizing it, the drones sought comfort from the same source.
At the centre of the writhing mass of Borg drones, there stood a woman. Long white hair. Pale skin like snow. Black eyes. She stood amid the crowd of drones with her arms held out, as though inviting the xBs into her loving embrace.
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
The drones gave Hugh some rudimentary clothes. Black tunic. Black pants. Black shoes. If he wanted anything more fashionable, he would have to replicate them himself.
Hugh was alive again. He waited a few hours for his mind to settle, and then he set off for the queencell.
In the Borg Queen's personal chamber, there was one not-so-subtle detail that Hugh very quickly picked up on. In this room, all of the lines and angles converged upon the Queen, in much the same way that all the lines and angles in a cathedral on Earth might intersect upon the altar. Hugh stood at the entrance, and allowed his eyes to follow the route of the architecture, until, inevitably, his gaze fell upon Seven of Nine, floating in the centre of the chamber.
Levitating in the air, Seven of Nine moved a little. She drifted a few feet to the right...and in tandem, the entire chamber moved with her. The walls disassembled, and then reconstituted themselves, changing their angles. The pillars stretched, the ceiling tilting and the floor sloping. The Queen's chamber shifted and reshaped itself, creaking and groaning and skittering and scraping noises filling the air. Always, always, no matter where she happened to be, the lines converged upon the Borg Queen. Always, everything centred upon her.
"You may enter," she spoke, her voice filling up his skull.
Hugh made his way into the chamber. The place was illuminated by shafts of green light that fell through gaps in the walls – the room was kept so spotlessly clean that Hugh could not see any motes of dust dancing about in the glow. Off to the sides, Hugh could make out the shadows of tactical drones, eight foot tall giants plated in armour.
Near the centre of the chamber, Hugh came to a halt, and peered up at the Borg Queen.
How long had Hugh known Seven of Nine? Twelve years, thereabouts? As he stood gazing up at her, a memory suddenly flashed in Hugh's mind – something that happened eight, nine years earlier...
Hugh and Seven had gone to visit some drinking hole on Fenris. Late at night, they were both propped up against the bar – they were quite drunk, though Seven had a much greater tolerance for alcohol than Hugh.
"You should steal the Artifact," Seven said. She was exhausted, and inebriated, and ground down from her work in the Fenris Rangers. "You should just...break into the queencell, and hijack the cube, and fly it away where they can never find it..."
"I can't," Hugh replied. He was stooped in his chair, his forehead resting against the surface of the bar countertop. He was tired, and drunk, and thoroughly depressed by his work in the Borg Reclamation Project.
"Why not?" Seven asked, slurring her words. "You'll be keeping the xBs safe..."
"I don't...I don't trust myself with that kind of power..." Hugh let out a deep sigh. "If I took the power of the queencell, there's no guarantee that I could...stay myself...just imagine what sort of monster I could become..."
At this, Seven gave a scornful snort, and wobbled slightly in her chair. "Chickenshit."
Hugh groaned. His head was still resting against the countertop, his face smothered in varnished mahogany. "Well, why don't YOU take the cube, then?" he grumbled. "You're a Borg drone, too. You can go to the queencell...make yourself a Queen..."
Seven shook her head. "No," she mumbled.
Hugh was tempted to simply fall asleep, there on the bar. "Well, I guess we're both cowards, then..." he muttered.
Seven allowed her head to droop, her hair cascading down and concealing her face. "I'm not a coward," she said. "I'm a Fenris Ranger...no one's gonna mistake me for a coward..."
Two drunk drones, sitting at a bar, discussing whether they should commandeer a Borg Cube. The very next morning, Hugh woke up on Seven's couch with a blanket flung over him, his body wracked with a horrendous hangover. This had happened eight, nine years ago...
Now...Hugh stood, and beheld the sight of a newly-crowned Borg Queen.
She was still recognizably Seven of Nine. Her face was just as Hugh remembered, though her skin had been leeched of all colour and warmth, and her eyes were black and hollow. Her ocular implant – the most conspicuous visual indication of Seven's Borg nature – was gone, though no one would ever mistake her for a human any more. Her hair had lengthened considerably, all the way down to her waist, and was now silvery-white.
Hugh remembered the last few moments of his life. As he and Elnor were chased through the Artifact by the Zhat Vash operatives, Hugh was angry at himself...angry that he had never claimed the Artifact for himself, that he had never acted to protect the xBs.
I've been a fool, he had said.
Well, clearly, Seven of Nine was no fool. When she had been presented with the opportunity to become a Borg Queen, she had taken the opportunity. She never hesitated.
Seven of Nine stared down at Hugh, and then she spoke:
"For twenty years, the Romulans possessed two puzzle pieces," she said, her voice echoing back and forth throughout the vast expanse of the cube. "The Artifact, and the Admonition. With these two puzzle pieces, they could have acquired a power that would have enabled them to conquer the entire Beta Quadrant." A long pause for dramatic effect. "But they did not."
The Admonition. Hugh had never heard of such a thing...and yet, when he consulted his thoughts, he realized that he knew exactly what it meant. The Admonition...a message left behind by an ancient alien civilization, hundreds of millennia ago.
The Borg Queen had uploaded the knowledge into his consciousness, he realized.
Seven carried on speaking. "The overwhelming majority of Romulans did not even know of the Admonition's existence," she said. "The Admonition was the most jealously-guarded secret of the Zhat Vash, and few Romulans – not even those in the highest levels of government – knew that such a priceless asset was in their possession..."
Seven's face was an expressionless mask, and her cacophonous voice betrayed no emotion...and yet, at that moment, Hugh got the feeling that Seven was gloating, a little.
"The Romulan's culture of secrecy ultimately proved to be their downfall..." she said.
Their downfall. Hugh felt an intense sinking feeling...he had an inkling that he had been resurrected just to live through some awful calamity that was about to occur.
Hugh gave a little nervous laugh. "Downfall?" he said, in a voice that was still a little groggy, so soon after resurrection. "What do you mean by that?"
Seven loomed over Hugh, glowing green eyes against a black silhouette. "We are going to destroy the Romulan Free State," she told him. "We are going to acquire their territory."
Hugh felt as though he had suddenly been called upon to defuse a ticking time bomb. "Seven..." he said, his voice taking on a noticeable urgency. "The Romulans have been abusing the xBs for two decades, now...but that doesn't give us the right to take revenge for it! Revenge will do nothing for our people..."
Seven's expression remained blank. "We require the Romulans' territory..."
"Why?" Hugh asked.
Silence reigned in the chamber for a few seconds...and then Seven of Nine began descending through the air, until she was hovering only a foot or so above Hugh.
"When we control Romulan space," she said, "we shall create a new world. A perfect world."
Hugh frowned, and tried to understand. "A perfect world?"
Seven's expression was dispassionate, but with a hint of detached bliss. "For thirteen years, we served as a Fenris Ranger," she said. "For thirteen years, our mind was clouded with anger and pain. But when we became a Borg Queen...we achieved clarity. We found peace. We understood what must be done. We have an obligation to create a perfect world. A world without pain or suffering. Without bigotry, or hatred. That is the world that the xBs deserve..."
For a few moments, Seven allowed her words to hang in the air.
"If you wish...you may help us build that world, Hugh..."
Seven said no more. She waited for Hugh to reply.
Hugh and Seven of Nine were friends. They weren't terribly close friends – Hugh was much too soft and kind and positive for Seven, and Seven was much too vulgar and wild and violent for Hugh – but they were friends nevertheless. Because of the circumstances of their jobs, they had come to rely and depend upon each other over the years, and a bond of trust had grown between them.
Now, as Hugh stared at Seven's face – her face, that seemed to be carved from ice – Hugh felt a strange emotion that was difficult to describe. He felt...betrayed? Rejected?
As director of the Borg Reclamation Project, Hugh had dedicated his entire life to helping his fellow xBs to reclaim their individuality. For years and years, Hugh had expended all of his time and energy – all his sweat and blood – to helping other drones reclaim what the Collective had stolen from them.
And now, floating in the air before him, was the Borg Queen, Seven of Nine...the ultimate antithesis of everything he stood for.
Seven of Nine had escaped the Collective...and then she willingly allowed herself to be assimilated again, so that she could become a Borg Queen. Seven of Nine had regained her individuality...and then she threw it away, because it wasn't even important to her.
As he stood in Seven's shadow, Hugh felt a strange sense of bitterness, of repudiation. Hugh knew that he was being irrational, he knew that he was being unreasonable...but, damnit, he couldn't accept what Seven had done to herself...
Hugh sighed, and then he gave Seven a grim look. He seemed ever so slightly heartbroken.
"Seven..." he said. "There's always been a tremendous difference between the two of us..."
Seven of Nine quirked her head. "We do not understand," she said. "Clarify."
Hugh's voice was mournful. "The Borg were the worst thing that ever happened to me," he said. "They took everything from me, Seven. I've spent my entire life trying to recover what the Borg stole from me...and I will always have to wear the scars that they left upon me..."
Hugh's eyes hardened, almost imperceptibly. He looked Seven up and down.
"But you...you're not like most xBs, are you? From the day I met you, Seven, I could tell that you were different. You were always proud about the fact that you were Borg. You were happy that the Borg assimilated you. All that knowledge in your head. All that strength. You have always been grateful that you were in the Collective..."
Hugh lowered his eyes, sadly. "I was never able to understand that about you..."
Seven's face remained as inexpressive as ever. For a few moments, she pondered on what to say...and then she decided to simply end the conversation.
"You should return to the Federation, Hugh," she said.
Hugh shook his head. "No," he said. "The xBs need me, now more than ever. I'm staying here."
Seven was insistent. "You have recently been restored from a dead state," she said. "You should return home. You must recuperate."
Yeah. Hugh knew that it would be a good idea to rest. He was tired, and sore. He had only just risen from the grave.
But he knew he couldn't abandon the xBs. Not now. "I'm staying," he said, his voice firm.
Seven did not seem inclined to argue with him. She turned away, to focus her attention on other matters.
"We return to Fenris in two hours," she said, in parting. "Picard will be there. From this point forward, you will serve as our representative..."
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
What was the most offensive thing you could say to Raffaela Musiker?
Raffi was a very difficult woman to offend. Part of this was due to the fact that she had a profoundly low opinion of herself. Raffi Musiker believed that she was a coward, a weakling, a failure, and that she had squandered her own life, that she had discarded her most promising years into a lake of narcotics and depression.
It's not easy to offend someone like that. You're a piece of shit, Musiker. You're a lazy druggie, and you never accomplished anything in your life.
How would Raffi respond to this? Eh. She'd probably just shrug. "Mmph, hard to argue," she might have said.
Every now and again, however, someone managed to say something genuinely offensive to Raffi Musiker.
Early in the morning, Raffi entered Jean-Luc's quarters, and together they sat down and received a subspace communication from Starfleet, all the way back on Earth.
A middle-aged man appeared on their viewscreen. Admiral Prescott. He was currently sitting in his office at Starfleet Headquarters in San Francisco, but his image and his words were conveyed hundreds of light years across space, from relay station to relay station, into the Sirena.
"First of all, I've got some good news for you, Ms. Musiker," Prescott said. He had an indulgent smile upon his face, as though he was about to give Raffi a wonderful treat.
Raffi raised a brow in surprise. She wasn't expecting good news. "What?" she asked.
"I am in a position to tell you that Starfleet is willing to reinstate you," came the reply. Prescott had a distinctly munificent, magnanimous expression on his face, as though he, all by himself, were forgiving Raffi all of her sins, absolving her off all her wrongdoings.
This caught Raffi off-guard. "Starfleet wants me back?" she asked, in astonishment.
Prescott nodded. He had a somewhat pious look in his eyes. "There will be a period of...assessment," he said. "At first, we'll ask you to come back as a consultant specialist. Working in the area of Intelligence, obviously. You would fill that role for about two years...but that's just all a formality, really. After the assessment period, you would be reinstated. You'll be given the rank of Commander! All the discussions have already been had, and...the brass seem very much in favour of it..."
Prescott gave a warm smile, and waited for Raffi to answer.
Now...Admiral Prescott was hundreds of light years away, and so he could not feel the temperature in that room aboard the Sirena grow cold...
...but Jean-Luc could.
"Ahhh..." Jean-Luc's mouth fell open, and he looked through the corner of his eyes at Raffi. He wondered if she was about to explode, and start mouthing off at the Admiral.
Jean-Luc Picard was not famed for being sensitive to other people's feelings...but even he could tell, in that moment, that Raffi had taken insult at what the Admiral had just said.
On paper, it made perfect sense that Starfleet would want to welcome Raffi back into its folds. Raffi Musiker was part of the group of heroes that, six months earlier, had saved the entire galaxy from an invasion of incomprehensibly advanced Synthetic lifeforms. Furthermore, Raffi Musiker had also helped to expose a Romulan conspiracy that had infected the Federation for decades.
Raffi Musiker was regarded by the citizens of the Federation as a hero. She was a celebrity, now. It was obvious why Starfleet would want her to return to their organization. Starfleet had been infiltrated by Romulan operatives, but Raffi would serve as a powerful PR tool to help restore public trust in the fleet.
But still...it was a terrible idea to ask her to come back.
Thirteen years ago, when Starfleet kicked Raffi out, they destroyed her life. She spiraled into an all-consuming, almost inescapable depression...and now they expected her to return to work for them?
Starfleet was a massive, faceless bureaucracy...and it took a massive, faceless bureaucracy to think it was a good idea to ask Raffi Musiker to forgive them. To let bygones be bygones.
For a few excruciating moments, Raffi stared in silence at the viewscreen.
Admiral Prescott stared back, confused. He wondered if there was a malfunction in the transmission. Such a tremendous distance, after all...
Then, Raffi smiled, and broke the silence. "Admiral..." she said, in a sweetly cloying voice. "Why don't we discuss the intelligence that we recently sent you?"
Admiral Prescott seemed to get the message. "Oh...okay," he said. For a moment, his hands seemed anxious to have something to do, and so he shuffled around some PADDs on his desk.
Jean-Luc tried to move the meeting along. "Admiral Prescott," he said. "We have reason to believe that the Romulans are interfering in the Neutral Zone. They are using criminal gangs as proxies to further their interests in the region, with disastrous consequences for the people that live here. Considerable numbers of the Fenris Rangers have been killed, and many civilians are being intimidated and abducted against their will. I think it is imperative that the Federation takes a firm line against this, and demands that the Romulan Free State withdraws its resources from the Neutral Zone, immediately..."
Admiral Prescott nodded, and nodded, and nodded, and it was clear that he was waiting for the most polite moment to interrupt Jean-Luc.
"Admiral Picard," he said, when the moment came. "The first thing that Starfleet wants you to know is that: we believe you. You say that the Romulans are sticking their fingers into the Neutral Zone, and...we believe you. We don't doubt you for a second. You have our utmost trust."
Jean-Luc nodded at this. Well, that was a nice feeling, at least. After Starfleet had accepted his resignation in 2387, and consigned billions of Romulans to a fiery death, Jean-Luc felt rather gratified to know that Starfleet respected him enough to hold him at his word.
Prescott went on. "However," he said. "There's something that you should know..."
Jean-Luc furrowed his brow. "What?" he asked.
A brief moment of hesitation, as Prescott wondered whether he should be sharing classified information. Ah, the hell with it.
"In the last few days and weeks," Prescott said, "unrest in Romulan space has increased dramatically."
Jean-Luc and Raffi looked at each other in bewilderment.
Raffi leaned closer to the viewscreen. "What...what do you mean, 'unrest'?" she asked.
Prescott had a grave look on his face. "Over the last week or so, the Romulan Free State has lost twenty percent of its territory," he said.
Raffi seemed to be blasted back into her seat. "Twenty percent?" she exclaimed, her voice filling the room. "But...how?"
Prescott rubbed two fingers against his temple. He seemed to be wishing for a migraine to go away. "Well...our understanding of the situation is constantly evolving, but...from what we can tell, various Romulan separatists have launched simultaneous offenses against the Romulan Free State. Sela, for example. She's managed to steal twenty worlds away from them..."
"Sela?" Raffi's voice went almost shrill with disgust. "Empress Sela? But she's...she's a moron! She's an idiot! I seriously figured that she'd be dead by now!"
Prescott gave a shrug. "Well, she's not dead," he said. "She's taken control of a bunch of worlds, and now she's bombarding the Federation with messages, demanding that we recognize her as the rightful ruler of the Romulan Star Empire..."
Jean-Luc tried to wrap his mind around the scale of what was being revealed to him. "Admiral, what you are describing is a civil war..." he said.
Admiral Prescott threw up his hands. "Yeah, sure," he said. "Romulan space has descended into civil war..."
A scraping noise, as Jean-Luc pulled his chair closer. "Admiral, something has to be done about this, urgently," he said. "We cannot allow the Romulan Free State to fall into chaos! The Federation must intervene, quickly! Starfleet must lend its assistance to the Romulans, and stabilize the region..."
At this, Admiral Prescott sputtered with laughter.
Next to him, Raffi gave Jean-Luc a skeptical look. Seriously, JL?
Prescott composed himself. "Admiral Picard..." he began. "Less than a year ago, you revealed that the Romulans were responsible for one of the worst terrorist attacks in human history. Furthermore, you also revealed that the Romulans had implanted spies at the highest levels of Starfleet Command. The human race is exceedingly grateful to you for doing this, of course, but, uh..." Prescott gave a cruel smile. "Do you seriously think the Federation is going offer the Romulans any help, at this present moment?"
A passionate fire blazed up inside Jean-Luc. "Admiral, the Federation has been making extraordinary diplomatic headway with the Romulan Free State over the last few years," he said. "We were enemies for centuries...but now, we are on the brink of becoming allies...we cannot allow that progress to be lost! The Free State is the absolute best chance we have of turning Romulan society into a free, liberal, democratic state, but if a civil war happens, that chance will be lost. Generations to come will judge us so harshly if we allow this opportunity to vanish..."
To Jean-Luc's strident rhetoric, Prescott responded with a tired deadpan. "Admiral Picard, the last time we tried to help the Romulans, they blew up our shipyards," he said. "Do we really want to help them again?"
Jean-Luc sank back into his chair, a little defeated.
Raffi had a wan look on her face. She had no interest in offering any arguments. She knew that the Federation's citizens had no appetite for helping the Romulans. Not after Mars. Not after Commodore Oh.
Once again, Prescott began rearranging the PADDs on his desk. "Admiral Picard...Ms. Musiker...I suggest that you accentuate the positives," he said.
Raffi furrowed her brow. "The positives?" she asked.
Prescott nodded. "Now that the Romulan Free State has to deal with civil war...they're most likely not going to be interfering in the Neutral Zone, any more," he said. "They'll have to devote all of their resources to keep their territory from falling apart, and so they won't be supplying military hardware to crooks and hoodlums. The Fenris Rangers will be free to resume their operations..."
Prescott adjusted his sitting posture. "Speaking of the Fenris Rangers..."
Oh boy. Jean-Luc and Raffi gave each other a rueful look. They knew where this conversation was headed, now...
Prescott joined his hands in front of him. "Admiral...the Federation is becoming impatient with regards to the Artifact. We want that Borg Cube handed over. Now."
A very particular look came across Jean-Luc's face, at that moment – the sort of expression he wore when he had to deliver bad news, but he was enjoying himself just a little. "Admiral, I can tell you right now that the xBs do not consider the Artifact to belong to either the Romulans or the Federation," he said. "As far as they are concerned, it belongs to them. And they have no intention of handing it over to us..."
Prescott gave a grimace – he knew that there were more headaches in his near future. "Admiral, do I have to explain to you how nervous the Federation is about having a Borg Cube in Romulan space, in the middle of a civil war?"
A slight smile broke across Jean-Luc's face. "Admiral...I am not the leader of the xBs. Seven of Nine is, and, I'm sorry to tell you this, but...she doesn't give a damn how nervous the Federation might be..."
Raffi rubbed at her nose to hide a grin.
Prescott gave a twitch of annoyance. "Where is Seven of Nine, now?" he asked.
Jean-Luc took on an innocent look. "I don't know," he replied. "She went away three weeks ago, and we haven't seen her since..."
From hundreds of light years away, Prescott glared at Jean-Luc. Then, he turned his attention to Raffi.
"Ms. Musiker," he began. "Apologies if I come across as intrusive, but, I understand that you and Seven of Nine..."
The moment Raffi realized where Prescott was attempting to steer this talk, she burst out laughing, and recoiled away from the viewscreen. "Ha ha ha! Nope!" she said, pushing her chair away. "I am not serving as liaison between you guys. Not interested..."
Prescott let out a resentful sigh. "Starfleet has been attempting to contact Seven of Nine for months, now, through multiple channels, and she refuses to even acknowledge our communications..."
Raffi felt a tremendous urge to fish out her horgl, right then, but she wanted to demonstrate enough willpower to wait until the transmission was over. "I believe the term is 'isolationism'," she said. "You'll just have to deal with that, Admiral..."
Prescott seemed to realize that this get-together had run out of steam. "Alright, then," he said. "Admiral Picard...Ms. Musiker...thank you very much for your time. Starfleet urges you to please ensure your safety while you remain in the Neutral Zone, and we look forward to further communications with you..."
The transmission ended.
()()()()()()()()()()()()
In the Sirena's mess, Jean-Luc and Raffi broke the news to Zhaban and Laris that the Romulan Free State was sinking into civil war.
Zhaban and Laris sat disconsolately at the table, while Jean-Luc and Raffi stood in the periphery, arms folded and faces glum.
Zhaban released a heavy sigh. "Thirteen years," he said. "It's been thirteen years since we saw the Empire..."
Laris gave a faint smile of surprise at how time had passed. "Yeah," she said, softly.
Thirteen years. Laris and Zhaban had always known that, every year they spent in La Barre, the old home that they had left behind would become a little more unrecognizable. A little more unfamiliar. A little more changed.
The Hobus supernova. The collapse of the Romulan Star Empire. With each year that passed, Laris and Zhaban knew that Romulan space became, more and more, a different place to the one they knew.
And now...this. A civil war. The Romulan Free State fending off aggressions from warlords and despots. How many Romulans were going to die in this conflict? How many places – cities, towns, buildings, locations that Zhaban and Laris remembered from their previous life – would be destroyed?
Laris slumped back into her chair, and glowered impotently at a corner of the mess. "Well...I can't expect the Federation citizenry will have much sympathy for us, now, will they?" she said.
Jean-Luc shook his head, sadly. "Every single morning, the people of the Federation wake up to the latest stories in the media about how the Zhat Vash infected Starfleet," he said. "When the public finds out that the Romulans are fighting a civil war, I can't imagine their reaction will be very sympathetic..."
Zhaban squinted his eyes as he tried to remember something. "What is that human word, which means 'to take pleasure in another's misfortune'?" Zhaban began snapping his fingers as he searched his memories. "Oh, what was that word?"
"Schadenfreude," Raffi supplied, helpfully.
Zhaban pointed his finger at Raffi. "That's the one!" he said. "Schadenfreude. I'm guessing the humans will be feeling plenty of schadenfreude over this. Not that we can really blame them..."
No. You couldn't really blame them...
The conversation died away. Jean-Luc, Raffi, Zhaban and Laris lingered in silence for a while, nothing but the ambient noises of the Sirena to be heard.
Then, Cris' voice came over the comm system, and the silence was broken.
"Alright, guys, be advised: a transwarp tunnel just opened up ten kilometres from where we are, and...yeah, it's the Artifact..."
"Oh!" A lightning bolt of excitement zapped through Raffi. My girlfriend's back! I've got a girlfriend again!
Seven had promised Raffi that she would be back in three weeks, and...sure enough, three weeks had passed.
Raffi did her best to suppress her inner giddiness. Zhaban and Laris had just found out that their old home was in for tough times, and it wasn't really appropriate to act like an excitable schoolgirl, was it? And so Raffi played it cool, and put on her best poker face, and calmly excused herself from the mess area.
She made her way up to the bridge. Jean-Luc went with her. Laris and Zhaban were left to themselves in the mess.
Cris was lounging in the captain's chair. "Artifact's hailing us," he said, a lit cigar hanging from his mouth. He tapped a finger at the holographic controls, and a viewscreen sprang to life.
Raffi was expecting to see Seven's face. She was in for a disappointment.
Jean-Luc let out a gasp of surprise. "This is a trick," he said. He smiled widely, and took a seat so that he could be closer to the viewscreen. "This must be a trick!"
Raffi and Cris looked on in confusion.
In the viewscreen, his image discoloured against the blackness of space, Hugh gave a warm smile. "Hello again, Admiral," he said. "Looks like I'm not done with the mortal coil, yet..."