Star Trek: Voyager: Endgame

pointedly.
    “Admiral?
    “There's no need to be coy with me, Chakotay. I know exactly what's going on.” When Chakotay shot a glance at the captain, Admiral Janeway quickly said, “Don't worry. She doesn't know yet. So how are things going with Seven?”
    Chakotay's eyes narrowed with suspicion, but he smiled. “Great.”
    She was giving herself away in what could be the wrong way. Hinting at their personal future might ruin everything. Still, to see him so happy—to see him at all . . .
    “Helm to Captain Janeway.”
    The admiral perked up and almost answered Tom Paris's call to action, but the younger Captain Janeway beat her to it.
    “Janeway. What is it?”
    “We're coming within short-range sensors of the nebula, Captain.”
    Paris sounded cautious, maybe even nervous. Of course—he would be. He was about to become a father, and didn't know whether his baby would live one day, or a hundred years.
    The captain cast the admiral one glance, and their relationship shifted back to the hard-edged thing it had been an hour ago.
    “Batten and secure the ship. All hands to battle stations. Prepare to engage the Borg. I'll be right there, Tom.” Janeway turned to face both the admiral and Chakotay, who got to his feet quickly when she said, “Dinner's over.”
    They followed her to the bridge, where the mood was already tense. Within literally seconds, Tuvok, Kim, and Seven arrived to take their bridge posts, and there was now a full contingent of the ship's senior officers in this one small space, including a Starfleet admiral.
    Captain Janeway took her command chair, a gesture not lost on everyone around her—and she noticed their quick attentions. The admiral came to stand behind her. A power play? Not subtle enough.
    “Janeway to engineering. Are we ready with the admiral's armor modifications?”
    B'Elanna Torres's voice came up through the comm system complete with its thready strain.
“None of this has been tested, Captain. Can't we stall for a day?”
    “You know better than that, B'Elanna. Give me a green light as soon as you can have all systems on-line. We're approaching the nebula, and you know what they say . . . there's no time like a present.”
    Zing.
She avoided a glance at the admiral.
    After a few moments of clicking and waiting, B'Elanna said,
“Go ahead, Captain.”
    Janeway drew a breath and let it out slowly. If the Borg didn't know they were here yet, they would in a minute.
    “Deploy armor,” she ordered.
    The hull drummed with hammering noises as plates of armor shot around the ship to seal the hull. It was a sound none of them had ever heard, and once again Janeway got a feeling of resentment for what the admiral knew that she did not. The ship was a knight now, heading to the lists.
    Janeway gazed at the encompassing mustard-colored fume on the main screen.
    “All right, Mr. Paris,” she said. “Enter the nebula.”



CHAPTER 14

    C UBE !
    The Borg found them instantly, were waiting for them, but Janeway expected such a reception and would've been foolish not to. At the moment she first saw the approaching cube, with three of its sides fully visible and one angry point heading toward the starship, a surge of nauseous regret bolted up from her guts and almost knocked her out of her chair. She had allowed herself to trust a person who might be an illusion. Even if the admiral were what she appeared to be, she could still turn out to be a demented radical from the future. Janeway had been lulled into trusting the admiral because she wanted to believe her mind would be strong and pure at that age—but . . .
    The moment had come to live with her decision and let her doubts play out, to life or to death.
    The cube was massive and stunning—always, every time they laid eyes on a Borg cube, the sight shocked. That a straight-edged block so simple and basic could be packed with technology somehow defied style and convention. If not the nemesis to individuality it was, the Borg cube could be a work of art.
    Voyager
was attacked instantly, blows that would ordinarily have sent her spinning.
    Janeway braced for the worst and looked at Tuvok with her unspoken question.
    “Armor integrity at ninety-seven percent,” he said over the thrum of strikes and the ship's trembling.
    Chakotay caught the captain's eye and they shared a moment of awe. Then Janeway eyed the admiral, who betrayed a little smile of satisfaction.
    “Evasive, Mr. Paris,” Janeway said, keeping a grip on her