(cont. from above)
*****
USS Tesseract, Sickbay
John sat quietly watching the readout on the biobed, not because he understood any of it very well, but because he could only look at Maren for so long before his mind started wandering back to the night before. What the hell was I thinking? He hadn’t been, that was the problem, he knew. That was always the problem. His tendency to leap before looking had gotten him into trouble in more ways than one over the years. Last night had been no exception.
Earlier that morning, he had been glad that Maren hadn’t seemed to remember anything that had happened after she had thrown up last night. She remembered the kiss, but not the sobbing breakdown she’d had on the floor of her lavatory after throwing up all that glowing Tyndoran liquor. He hadn’t even understood half of what she had been going on about, she was crying too hard and the fire water had rendered her less than coherent, to say the least. She was obviously overwhelmed by everything that had happened since she’d arrived on board, from seeing Icheb again, to all the engineering crap she’d been dealing with, to their ill-timed kiss, and so he’d just held her until she calmed down enough to help her into bed, and then he’d stayed with her because, in the words of a Ferengi he’d served with on the Titan, ‘you break it, you buy it.’ Since it had been his idea for them to go drink a bunch of alien liquor, he felt like her total loss of control had been his fault. Some friend I am, he chided himself. To both of them, he added, thinking of Icheb.
He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told the captain he thought she’d freak out over Icheb’s abduction. For the five years she had been with Icheb, she had worried about him constantly -- whether people were treating him nicely enough, whether he was spending enough time in his alcove, whether he was adjusting well to Earth and Starfleet. She had been a woman on a mission, determined to make life as comfortable as possible for the ex-drone she’d fallen in love with. She was a control freak under normal circumstances, but when it came to Icheb, she was ridiculous. Not that she tried to control him -- more like she tried to control everything around him.
John looked at Maren and squeezed her hand briefly before letting go. He was about to stand up and stretch when he saw her eyes flutter, so instead he leaned forward and whispered her name. “Maren?”
She slowly opened her eyes, blinking against the bright light and looking extremely disoriented. “John?”
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he teased her, trying to keep his tone light.
“Hey,” she replied drowsily, looking around in confusion.
John tapped his combadge. “Quigley to the captain.”
“Captain Oyugo here, go ahead.”
“She’s waking up.”
“Acknowledged, I’ll be there shortly. Oyugo out.”
Maren looked at him questioningly. “What’s going on?”
“You’re in sickbay, remember? You took on a few drones and got a pretty nasty bump on the head in the process.”
She closed her eyes for a long moment as if trying to remember. “I won, right?” she finally asked.
John grinned. “With a little help from Telek, yeah, you did. How do you feel?” he asked her.
“Tired,” she replied, and she looked it.
“Are you hurting?”
Maren closed her eyes briefly before answering, “I don’t feel anything at all. They gave me some serious drugs as soon as I got here. I barely remember my name.”
“It’s Maren,” John pointed out helpfully.
“Thanks,” she said, with a weak half-smile.
A moment passed between them in silence, then Maren spoke up again. “Have you seen Icheb, yet? He’s okay, right?”
John sighed. He was somehow unsurprised that as she lay on a biobed thousands of lightyears from home, seriously injured by a Borg drone and heavily sedated, her first thought was of Icheb and his well-being. He both loved her and hated her for it. He took a deep breath.
“M., I have something to tell you, and I need you to stay calm. I can’t tell you unless you promise to stay calm.”
Maren looked distressed and narrowed her eyes. “What? What happened?”
“Icheb has been abducted. It happened a little while ago, while you were still in engineering. I don’t know much more than that, other than that he’s apparently being held hostage.”
“By the Borg?” Maren asked, looking utterly bewildered. The Borg don’t take hostages, what is he talking about? She struggled to comprehend what he was saying.
John shook his head. “No. Someone else we can’t find. They were on a cloaked ship or something; they drained our shields and disabled the Borg cube, too.”
“The data chip,” Maren said, closing her eyes. She was finding it hard to stay awake even given the news she’d just received. Her mind was reeling, trying to make sense of what she had just been told and figure out what to do, but her body was fighting her, already pulling her back toward unconsciousness.
“What?” John asked, perplexed.
“Icheb and I were translating the Borg alphanumerics ... there were schematics. I think the ships had cloaking devices. We didn’t get to finish. I need to go to the engineering lab.” She forced her eyes back open and struggled as if trying to get up, but the medical staff had wisely activated a restraining field to keep her safely on the biobed. She couldn’t move more than a few centimeters in any direction. “Deactivate this stupid force field,” she ordered John.
John looked at her incredulously. “Maren, you’re not going anywhere. I’ll get whatever it is you need and bring it here.”
“I need that data chip. We have to find him, John,” she said, her voice starting to rise. “Get the captain.”
John started to protest, but seeing the look of panic on her face, he nodded. “And Doctor Bashir,” she added, as he stood up to follow her instructions.
“The captain’s already on her way and I’ll go get Doctor Bashir right now. Just calm down,” he pleaded, knowing it was probably futile.
*****
Resistance Vessel 1473 -- Holding Cell 1
Icheb had barely begun to analyze his surroundings when the first two drones he had encountered in the medical bay appeared in front of the force field on his holding cell. The medical drone stepped easily through the force field and Icheb stood up. “My name is Lakwa, and this is Malik,” she offered, giving a quick and wary glance toward her leader. “You require medical treatment and regeneration. We want to assist you, but you’ll need to answer some questions first.”
“If you want to assist me, then return me to my ship,” Icheb replied flatly.
“Unacceptable,” Malik said firmly from the other side of the force field. “We will provide the necessary medical treatment.”
“I require medical attention that only my people can provide,” Icheb retorted. “I’m irrelevant to you if I die, but if you return me to my ship, I can attempt to persuade my Captain to hear your request. If you keep me here, you will be destroyed.”
Malik snorted derisively and stepped through the force field, approaching Icheb until the two stood face-to-face, only centimeters apart. Icheb recognized his species as 4227, a Delta Quadrant race that had been assimilated for their weapons technology and relatively strong physiology. They were nearly identical in height, but it was obvious who was the stronger of the two of them, between Icheb -- mostly flesh and bone and completely unprotected in his pristine Starfleet uniform -- and Malik with his standard issue cybernetic augmentation and exoplating from the Borg Collective.
“You’re very confident about that,” Malik said, staring him down threateningly. “You were likely unconscious when we disabled your vessel’s shields with no difficulty and disabled the cube that was attempting to assimilate you. We could easily do the same to your vessel. I recommend you reconsider your unwillingness to answer our questions.”
Icheb had not forgotten the force with which the cyborg had hit him only minutes before. Over nearly ten years surrounded by physically weaker humans and other Federation races, Icheb had gotten used to being highly resistant to physical harm caused by others, but Malik’s assault had hurt badly, and he was reminded how much added strength a full complement of Borg enhancements could give a humanoid. He could still taste the metallic taste of his own nanoprobe-infested blood inside his mouth.
He fixed Malik with a defiant glare, but the effect was tempered slightly by a wariness that he could not entirely control. “Starfleet regulations prevent me from answering any questions as long as I am a prisoner,” he answered, feeling thankful for the vocal subprocessor that assisted him in keeping his voice completely even and steady.
“I told you, you’re not a prisoner,” the drone retorted.
“The force field would indicate otherwise,” Icheb pointed out icily.
“Surely you realize we could simply probe your neural pathways and get all the information we need that way,” Malik threatened him.
“I don’t believe you will. If you were going to do that, you would have done it already,” Icheb reasoned.
“We’d prefer your willing cooperation.”
Icheb glared at the drone. “You say you want my willing cooperation, but you abducted me from my ship, physically assaulted me, continue to hold me against my will behind a force field, and have threatened me and my crew almost unceasingly since you brought me aboard. Despite your statements to the contrary, it would seem my willingness is irrelevant,” he suggested angrily.
“He’s sorry,” Lakwa spoke up, stepping in between Malik and Icheb. Apologize, Malik, she added, using their neural link.
Malik held Icheb’s gaze, then nodded and took a slightly less threatening stance. “I apologize for striking you,” he said levelly. “My anger is directed at the Federation. You are their representative, and as such, it is difficult not to feel anger toward you, too.” Lakwa shot him a glance and he took a step backward, away from Icheb. Lakwa scanned Icheb with a device on her arm, then activated another device and treated the cuts and bruises he had received when Malik had struck him in the repair chamber.
“Why are you angry with the Federation?” Icheb asked as Lakwa treated him, wondering if Malik would be as reluctant to answer his questions as he was to answer theirs.
“That discussion will require a significant amount of time,” Malik replied dryly. “Perhaps it would be better to wait until you have had a chance to regenerate. We’re willing to adapt an alcove for your use if you will tell us how.”
Icheb slowly nodded. He could do that without telling them anything terribly important, and he would have to regenerate if he was to have any hope of surviving and returning to the Tesseract. “What is this vessel?” he asked, eyeing Malik warily. “It doesn’t look like any Borg vessel I’m familiar with.”
“It’s not,” Malik said. “This is a vessel of the Resistance.” He smirked and added almost wryly, “Welcome to the war you started.”
) But the situation is a lot more complex than it was when Janeway was cruising the DQ. You'll see in the coming chapters why they've got issues with the Federation, while also needing their help. As for Icheb's warnings ... remember what he was bred for?
(KIDDING! I'm glad you want more!) I enjoyed your comments on Adele and I'm happy she impressed you during this chapter. I think she is sympathetic to our troubled couple (well, ex-couple), but sympathy only goes so far when their relationship might acutally have caused Maren to endanger the crew and be careless with her own life (as chief engineer, she is sort of needed around there after all, at least more than a few Borg drones are needed!). As for Icheb's captors -- you'll see what their issues are. Malik's had a lot of time to think this stuff over, he'll probably have quite a bit to say when his time comes. Thanks for the great comments! (Oh, and you know I think you're at least twice the writer I am, so stop with that "I'm not worthy" stuff. 
)
That completely makes my day!) I'm eagerly awaiting more of your story, too!
