RAGNAROK 2
Author: Rocky

"I am not referring to crew inoculations," Tuvok responded. "I require the nanovirus for a different purpose."

"You mean-" the thought was so alarming the Doctor could not bring himself to finish, but Tuvok saved him the trouble.

"Yes. For the preparation of specially equipped warheads for use against the Borg."

"You're talking about bio-weapons!" the Doctor said, aghast. "The Treaty of Dadh'gab, of which the Federation was one of the principal signatory parties, specifically outlaws their use in warfare! Surely you're not serious."

"Our options are limited, Doctor, our arsenal of effective weapons even more so. We must use everything we have at our disposal if we wish to survive."

"Perhaps," the Doctor said grudgingly, but added, "Still, I can't help but feel it's more important to use the limited number of special nanoprobes for use as a preventive medicine and cure instead of as a weapon."

Tuvok pulled himself up to his full height. "Doctor, as Chief Tactical Officer and Head of Security, I could make this an order."

"There's no need to go to extremes, Commander," the EMH said in resignation. He reached out and picked up a case on the table nearby that Redman had forgotten. "These vials were supposed to be used for inoculations on decks 10-15, however..."

Tuvok stopped him. "Not the vaccine, Doctor. I require the earlier form of the nanovirus that Cadet Icheb developed." He didn't call it the 'lethal' variety, but they both knew that was all it was-a genocidal virus specifically designed to murder cybernetic-based lifeforms.

The Doctor's hands clenched on the side of the cabinet. "That won't be possible. We never produced any of that strain once Icheb developed the newer, more benign form of the virus."

"That statement is incorrect," Tuvok countered. He held out a PADD. "I have the specifications right here. How long will it take to produce the quantity needed to outfit between fifty and 100 medium-range warheads?"

The Doctor made no move to take it. "How did you get that? I personally destroyed all of the records and purged the files from the computer."

Tuvok said quietly, "I obtained a copy of the research some time ago, before your efforts at removal."

The Doctor strove to control himself, though he was beside himself with rage. "Do you realize what it is you're advocating? A truly horrific form of murder. This virus doesn't simply kill drones-it dissolves their implants as well as any internal organs that happen to be nearby! It turns their own nanoprobes into ravening hordes, attacking and devouring every cell within reach!" He was shouting now, not caring if anyone else in Sickbay heard him. "How can you reconcile *that* with your Vulcan philosophy, Mr. Tuvok? Is torture now part of the Starfleet standard of operations?"

Tuvok listened to the outburst with no change in his expression. When the Doctor at last spluttered to a halt, Tuvok said calmly, "We have no choice. The thought of causing such horrific deaths is not a pleasant one, but we do not have the luxury to consider any other alternatives. There *are* no other alternatives. It is kill or be killed, Doctor. The lives of Voyager's crew, her allies and the inhabitants of this sector, against the lives of the Borg Collective. What do you choose?"

"That's not fair," the Doctor whispered.

"No, it is not." Once more Tuvok repeated, "How long will it take to replicate sufficient quantities of the nanovirus?"

Defeated, the Doctor said, "Six hours, plus or minus two. And that's with all the medical replicators working at full capacity."

Tuvok's lips thinned. "By conservative estimate, the Borg armada will arrive in less than 8 hours. That barely leaves us with sufficient time. Replication is not the only issue; the medium must then be converted to a slurry of the proper density with which to equip the warheads." He seemed to come to a decision. "But that part of the operation does not directly concern you. I will dispatch a security detail to pick up the material. They will be the ones responsible for installing the payloads."

"Yet the blood will be on all of our hands." The Doctor grabbed Tuvok's shoulder. "But why the lethal strain?" he protested. "Why not at least use the 'benign' virus? That will still accomplish what you want. It will disconnect the drones from the Collective and prevent them being reassimilated or susceptible to the Queen's commands." Almost pleadingly, he added, "What difference does it make which strain you use?"

Tuvok remained unmoved. "Unfortunately, the lethal form of the virus is much hardier and works at an appreciably faster rate. We cannot take the chance that the warheads will malfunction. In all likelihood, we will not have more than one chance."

The Doctor suddenly remembered that they were not alone in Sickbay. Sam Wildman was at the far side of the room, and Icheb was in the lab next door. They had probably heard every word of the argument. He remembered what Icheb had gone through during the initial development phase of the nanovirus, and knew the burden would be even harder on him now. If all went according to plan, he was going to be responsible for the slaughter of millions. Millions of drones just like he himself had once been, and but for a twist of fate he would still be numbered among them.

Bitterly, the EMH wondered if Tuvok realized this as well, and if so, did he even care. But there was no fighting that cold and bloodless Vulcan logic. "All right, Commander, you'll have your nanovirus to make your bio-weapons," he said, his tone clipped. "But I plan on registering a formal protest with the captain, once this is all over."

Tuvok gave him a measured look. "I look forward to filing it with the captain personally, Doctor-when this is all over."

The Mess Hall was eerily quiet, despite the fact that a good three quarters of the tables were occupied.

Sarexa filled a large teapot from the urn in the cooking area, then proceeded from table to table asking if anyone wanted a cup of marok, a Talaxian herbal tea that had been a favorite of hers as a child. She had vague memories of her mother using the brew to treat a variety of ills, ranging from skinned knees to hurt feelings. She hoped it would have the same soothing effect on the Voyager crew.

Because of the unnatural silence-or the enhanced capabilities of her otic implant-Sarexa couldn't help overhearing snippets of hushed conversation as she made her rounds. The same somber themes came up time and time again. Yes, she decided, a pot of marok was definitely in order.

The Parises were having dinner at a table in the corner. Sarexa listened for a moment, then decided against approaching them just yet.

"Stop patronizing me, Tom! I don't like being treated this way."

"All I said was that you need to try to relax a little, B'Elanna," her husband said. "Here, have something to eat." He scooped up a spoonful of stew and leaned forward. "Just a little taste. Come on-"

She jerked her head away, causing the spoon to splatter onto the table top. "Now look what you've done!"

He took a napkin and calmly wiped up the spill. "Look, I know you're not happy about being dragged away from your engines, B'Elanna, but you need to eat-and get some rest-if you want to be of any use later on."

For a moment B'Elanna appeared to be wavering between further argument, or giving in to the sense of what he was saying. Her shoulders slumped. "You're right. And yes, I know that Engineering is in good hands, even if I'm not there."

"Especially with the captain spending a few hours down there now," Paris said. "Carey and the rest are good, but Janeway's no slouch as an engineer, either. There are times when I'm convinced she's the only person on this ship who actually understands you when you go off on one of your 'technobabble flights of fancy.'"

B'Elanna's lips twitched. "Don't forget it was thanks to that 'technobabble' that we were finally able to get the warp drive back on-line." She quickly sobered. "I just don't like sitting around-I need to be doing something." She picked up her fork, and then put it down again almost immediately. "It helps keep my mind off...things."

"I know what you mean," Paris said with a sigh. "When I'm going over schematics, or tactical maneuvers, I don't have time to think about the future, or dwell on how I wish-no, hope-that our daughter will have a chance to live free."

"Or even to be born at all," Torres said, biting her lip. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be so negative..."

"Shh, it's all right." Paris picked up her hand and held it against his cheek for a long moment. "Yeah, I know what you mean," he said once again.