Star Trek: Voyager: Endgame

need drones to assimilate you,” the Queen warned.
    She moved toward the admiral, raising a threatening hand, but the admiral didn't flinch. The Queen ejected an assimiliation tubule from her wrist, an ugly and invasive device that represented orderly chaos for millions of former-people.
    The tubule seemed to pierce Admiral Janeway's throat, but the admiral enjoyed just standing there, unaffected. “I'm not actually here, ‘Your Majesty.’ ”
    Angry, the Queen retracted the tubule.
    “I'm in your mind,” the admiral clarified.
    “How?” the Queen asked.
    “I'm using a synaptic interface. If I were you, I wouldn't waste my time trying to trace the signal.”
    Ah, the joy of advantage. Wasn't this pleasant? The freedom to give away all her secrets and still win?
    “For the moment,” the admiral went out, “it's beyond your abilities.”
    The Queen's expression hardened. “What do you want?”
    “To make a deal. ‘Captain’ Janeway thinks I'm here to help her destroy your transwarp network.”
    “That's beyond
your
abilities.”
    “I know that. And I tried to explain to my naive younger self, but she wouldn't listen. She's determined to bring down that hub.”
    “She will fail.”
    “Yes. But she has weapons that I brought from the future. I believe you're familiar with them.”
    “Transphasic torpedoes. We will adapt.”
    “Eventually,” the admiral agreed, “but not before
Voyager
does a great deal of damage.” She paused, letting all this sink in, using her skill at dramatic timing to draw the Queen into her plan. “I'm willing to tell you how to adapt to those weapons
now.”
    Intrigued, the Queen began to enjoy the game. “In exchange for what?”
    “I want you to send a cube to tractor
Voyager
. . . to drag them back to the Alpha Quadrant.”
    The Queen's metallic eyes narrowed. A creature who could not be manipulated? Says who?
    After ten years of conniving and plotting and bargaining, the reaction gave Admiral Janeway monumental satisfaction. “They're going home whether they like it or not.”
    “You're asking me to believe that the incorruptible Kathryn Janeway,” the Borg Queen plumbed, “would betray her own crew.”
    “Not betray them,” the admiral countered. “Save them from themselves. I brought technology to help
Voyager
get home, but the captain's arrogant, self-righteous . . . and her officers are so blinded by loyalty that they're prepared to sacrifice their lives just to deal a crippling blow to the Borg.”
    The Queen raised her chin and said, “But
you'd
never try to harm us.”
    “I've become a pragmatist in my old age. All I want is to get that crew back to their families.”
    “You wish,” the Queen added, “to insure the well-being of your ‘collective.’ I can appreciate that. I'll help you, Admiral . . . but it'll cost more than you're offering.”
    “What else do you want?”
    “Your vessel and its database.”
    “I told you . . . I'll show you how to adapt their torpedoes—”
    “Insufficient.”
    Admiral Janeway felt her plan begin to unravel. If the future were compromised—she was already tampering with repercussions out of sight, out of control. “If I let you assimilate technology from the future, there's no telling how events would be altered.”
    “You're willing to alter the future,” the Queen pointed out, “by getting
Voyager
home now.”
    “Yes, but there's a difference.”
    Couldn't the Queen understand the difference? The admiral wanted to alter the future
her
way. She knew best. She knew what was going to happen if nothing changed. Why didn't everyone just take her word for what was the better course?
    “Do what all good ‘pragmatists’ do, Admiral,” the Queen challenged. “Compromise.”
    “All right, I'll give you the shuttle.
After
the ship arrives safely in the Alpha Quadrant.”
    The Queen smiled. “You've already lied to your younger self. How do I know you're not lying to me?”
    “I guess you'll just have to trust me.”
    “That won't be necessary.”
    Was the Queen communicating with the Collective? She seemed suddenly more smug.
    Admiral Janeway controlled her own expression. She had already given too much away.
    “You've underestimated me, Admiral,” the Queen said. “While we've been talking, my drones have triangulated on your signal—”
    “Computer, deactivate interface! Deploy armor!”
    Instantly she was back in her shuttle. The mental image of the Queen dissolved in less than a