VENDETTA: THE GIANT NOVEL

by Peter David

  What’s happening! Deanna screamed soundlessly. I don’t understand! This is madness! I have to stop this! Stop this now!

  And the woman slowly turned and looked at her—looked right at her.

  “You can’t stop it,” she said. “It’s already happened. This will be the culmination of something that was started centuries before your birth. I am a link in the chain. The final link. I will be the pilot. The instrument. And you will bear witness.”

  Deanna shook her nonexistent head. Witness to what? she demanded.

  “To the destruction of the soulless ones.” She pointed at the great machine that hung before them. “It begins here. It ends when the last of the soulless ones are as dead as the last of my kind.”

  But why am I here? How am I here?

  “You heard the songs of the minds,” she said. “We have engaged the soulless ones for the first time and destroyed them. We have engaged those who would stop us from destroying the soulless ones, and they were helpless against us. The minds and souls of the lost are rejoicing, and their song was,” she paused, “quite loud. It is difficult for me to quiet them sometimes. Do not worry, though. You will have the sense of us, but not the knowing. Not yet. Not until he knows. He deserves to be the first to know. I shall endeavor to quiet them in the future, so they will not disturb you further.”

  Wait! Deanna cried out . . .

  And then they were gone.

  And she was gone.

  And she sat up.

  She stumbled out of bed, her mind awhirl with images, and grabbed a robe around herself. Names and concepts were smashing against each other in her head, coalescing, and she cried out into the darkness, “Personal log!”

  “Working,” came the serenely calm voice of the computer. “Personal log of Counselor Deanna Troi now operating. Awaiting entry.”

  “A dream,” she said urgently, “and it was . . .”

  Lights. And energy.

  Flashes.

  “There was a woman, and she was . . .”

  A shouting in her head, a feeling of rejoicing.

  “Ven . . .” She put her hands over her ears, trying to narrow her thoughts, to call it up. An image of huge towers, like spikes, and no stars, and, “Ven . . .”

  “Awaiting a complete sentence,” the computer prompted. It was programmed with grammar from every known language and would occasionally help out when a speaker was apparently having difficulty.

  Troi rubbed her temples as if she could somehow physically push her brain into working. “I had a dream,” she said slowly, “and . . . and . . .”

  Ven . . .

  “I can’t remember,” she said softly.

  INTERMISSION

  “TRY TO RAISE THEM AGAIN,” said Martok impatiently.

  They had lost contact with the Daimon, and with the two guards, and with Darr, and it had been hours since any of them had checked in. Martok knew what the guards intended and dismissed the notion that Darr could have posed any impediment to the plan. But enough was definitely enough, and as much as he disliked the notion that he might have to send another landing party in after them, that’s what he would do if absolutely necessary.

  The other Ferengi on the bridge were looking to him for guidance and leadership, and he would be damned if he would let them down. If for no other reason than that he knew, firsthand, what could happen to a leader when the crew had lost confidence in his ability to lead.

  The three Borg ships hung there, unmoving. The sight of them filling the screen, hour after hour, was starting to prey heavily on Martok’s nerves. He prayed for some relief from it. Any sort of relief.

  “We are receiving an incoming transmission!” There was great surprise in his officer’s voice, as if he, too, thought that they were going to be stuck there ad infinitum.

  “From the Borg?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “On screen.”

  The screen wavered for a moment, and then an image appeared that stunned Martok into silence before he could even begin a swaggering, “This is Martok in command of the Ferengi marauder ship.”

  It was Daimon Turane.

  Or, at least, what was left of Daimon Turane.

  His head had been encompassed in some sort of gear composed of metal and black leather. One eye was gone, replaced by a glowing red lens. His face was deathly white. The perpetual, calculating sneer that was practically ingrained into all Ferengi was gone, replaced by a cold, passionless, thin-lipped look of arrogant confidence.

  When Martok managed to get out anything, it was a harsh and stunned whisper. “Daimon Turane?” he said.

  “We are no longer the one you call Daimon Turane,” said the individual on the screen. There was an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before, an ominous darkness. “We are Vastator. Vastator of Borg.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Martok. “Vastator? What is . . . what have they done to you, Daimon?”

  “I speak for the Borg.”

  “Daimon, this is incomprehensible. What are you—”

  “I speak,” he said again, slowly, as if addressing a child, “for the Borg.”

  Martok’s mouth moved for a few seconds, and then his face was set. “Very well,” he said icily. “You speak for the Borg. And what do the Borg have to say? Are the Borg interested in negotiating a basis for striking a business arrangement with the Ferengi?”

  “Negotiating is irrelevant. Business is irrelevant.”

  “What?” The words that the Daimon were uttering were literally blasphemy, and were far more convincing than any mere physical change that something was definitely wrong with his former commanding officer. “Daimon Turane, this is unacceptable. I don’t know what they’ve done to you, but—”

  “I have been . . . enlightened,” said the one who called himself Vastator. “I have been educated. I have been made one with the Borg. Profit does not matter. Profit is irrelevant. The Ferengi are irrelevant. Only the Borg matter.”

  “Are you saying you’re staying with the Borg?” The concept was so difficult for Martok to gasp. For ages now, all he had ever seen was the Daimon obsessed with returning to the heart of the Ferengi empire—after establishing himself within as someone to be reckoned with. The concept that he might not return. . . .

  And then he began to realize. He began to understand that Turane’s staying with the Borg did not mean that he would not be returning. He might indeed be planning to return . . . backed up by the full strength and power of the Borg. That, indeed, would be a threat to contend with.

  “These Borg ships remain here,” said Turane, a.k.a. Vastator. “A Borg ship has been destroyed by an unknown force. Another has been dispatched to investigate. We await word and further information. Once we know more, we will proceed.”

  “And what do you expect us to do?” demanded Martok.

  Vastator stared at him with—if it could be said of a Borg—satisfaction. “We expect you to die.”

  Martok laughed harshly. “You’re bluffing.”

  “Bluffing,” said Vastator, “is irrelevant.”

  That simple pronouncement, made with such calm and confidence, chilled Martok to the bone. There was suddenly no doubt in his mind whatsoever that the Borg could do exactly what they said. He also had the distinct impression—though he couldn’t have said why—that Daimon Turane, or whatever was left of him, would enjoy their destruction.

  “Sever communication,” Martok said suddenly and rapidly, the edge becoming evident in his voice. “Helm, hard about. Get us the hell out of here. Shields up.”

  “But Martok . . .”

  “Do it!”

  The helmsman immediately tried to respond, but suddenly the ship shook. The Ferengi were hurled about like poker chips, and Martok cracked his head on the arm of the chair. “What the hell . . . ?!”

  “A tractor beam!” shouted his tactical officer. “They have us! They’re pulling us toward them!”

  “Full power to engines. Break us free!”

 
The marauder channeled every bit of energy, every reserve, into their engines. The ship shuddered and strained against the force of the Borg tractor beam. Dampeners were overridden, systems began to overload, and the howling of the engines became louder and louder, a continual revving that was not getting them anywhere.

  “Systems malfunction!” came the shout from ops. “We’re losing forward drive!”

  “All power to weapons!” snarled Martok. “Fire!”

  The Ferengi ship fired upon the Borg ship which shook slightly when it hit. Suddenly the tractor beam vanished.

  “Now!” shouted Martok. “Get us out! Now!”

  The marauder leaped forward, desperately trying to compensate for its ravaged control systems. Another few seconds, and they might actually have gotten away.

  A force beam lanced out from the middle Borg ship—the one which was the new home of the Borg known as Vastator. The beam was directed by him. It was requested by him. Although revenge was now irrelevant, there was something deep within him that took immense pleasure. Just as there was something even deeper within him that cringed and cried out and screamed. Screamed, though there was no one to hear.

  The beam slashed through the marauder, dissecting it, cutting the nacelles off it the way one would pluck the wings off a fly. The ship hurtled end over end for a moment, and then ruptured. It blew completely apart, the vacuum of space swallowing the sound and impact of the explosion, and the abortive screams of the entire crew. Within moments the fireball that had been the marauder was snuffed, and except for some free-floating rubble and shreds of bodies, there was no evidence that there had ever been a Ferengi ship there at all.

  Vastator observed the explosion from the safety of the Borg ship. There had been nothing to gain from taking the ship apart and assimilating it. Any knowledge of the Ferengi that the Borg deemed necessary had already been garnered from what he carried in his mind. So the concept of keeping the shipful of Ferengi around was a useless one. Nor did the Borg have any desire to let the Ferengi depart and warn their fellows about the three Borg ships that were awaiting word on the fate of their brother ship.

  Once upon a time the Borg would have considered warnings irrelevant. The Ferengi could have gone on ahead and let their entire race know that the Borg were coming, and it would have been irrelevant. The Borg were superior. The Borg were inevitable. Whether you knew they were coming or not made no difference. You could make preparations for it, you could try and stave it off or keep one step ahead of it. But the Borg did not care, because the Borg would always win.

  Recent developments, however, had prompted the Borg to proceed with more caution. They had suffered more losses in recent days than they could recall suffering in their entire history: the loss at the homeworld of the Federation in sector 001, the loss of Locutus, the loss of a Borg ship in that battle, and the loss of another Borg ship at the world called Penzatti. Like the annoying buzzing of flies, the losses were starting to pile up and become something to consider.

  So the Borg were considering the losses. And the Borg were changing their strategy, altering their approach. They were doing whatever needed to be done to accommodate the inevitable assimilation of all life forms by the Borg. If that meant taking a wait-and-see attitude, then the Borg would wait and see.

  Vastator indulged himself a moment or two longer, watching airless space extinguish the last trace of the fireball that marked the marauder’s passing.

  They were now permanently irrelevant.

  Vastator turned on his heel, Borg soldiers at either shoulder, and headed back into the heart of the Borg ship. All he had to do now was wait and see what would happen next. The Borg uni-mind would tell him what to do. The uni-mind knew everything, and would be triumphant over all. That was the way of the Borg. That was the destiny of the Borg.

  But with all that had occurred to them . . . and with the savvy and experience of Vastator to aid them . . . they would proceed with caution. They learned from experience, and learned quickly. That was the strength of the Borg.

  That was why they would never fail.

  Never.

  ACT TWO

  Chapter Nine

  “HER NAME IS Reannon Bonaventure, and she was officially declared missing, presumed dead, thirteen years ago.”

  The senior officers were grouped around the conference room table, listening to the pronouncement from Data, who had just finished his computer studies. They were also staring at the computer screen and the image that had been called up on it. Outside the viewing port hung the now-familiar image of the Penzatti homeworld. The concept of playing guard for a planet in the event that the Borg should show up was a strenuous one, for it meant having to be constantly on alert, never knowing when battle was going to suddenly present itself. It was an extremely unpleasant situation to be in.

  Troi shuddered, for the young woman whose face appeared on the screen bore a striking resemblance to Troi herself: large, luminous eyes, classic features. Her hair was a few shades lighter than Troi’s, and there was something else unusual about her. The officers had seen many pictures that had been taken, as in the case of this one, for the purpose of obtaining a freighter pilot’s license. But it was the only one in which the subject was impishly sticking her tongue out at the camera.

  “Quite an . . . interesting young woman,” Picard said. “And certainly a unique picture.”

  “I think I remember hearing about her,” Riker said after a moment’s thought. “Yeah, I do. Oh, I remember her now!” and he snapped his fingers. “How could I have forgotten? She was quite a character.”

  “This picture would seem to indicate that,” observed Crusher.

  “That picture doesn’t begin to tell the half of it. They called her the ‘Brass Lass,’” said Riker. “She would transport any freight, anywhere. She would deal in anything, legal or illegal. No matter how deadly or hazardous the area, she would cross it, if that’s what it took to get her cargo through.”

  “I remember as well.” said Picard. “The ‘Brass Lass.’ My God. There was quite an uproar about her. Starfleet wanted to shut down her operation because of all the treaties she was ignoring, but there were too many members of the Federation who were using her for their own various purposes. Raised quite a ruckus.”

  “She had a cloaking device, a ship that she called the Phantom Cruiser, and as much guts as anyone ever had,” said Riker admiringly. “Once, to get medical supplies to a plague-ravaged colony, she determined that the shortest distance was straight through Romulan space. She went right in. We had no direct line into the Romulans at the time, but word was that there were all sorts of skirmishes and that that entire sector of Romulan space was on full alert. And she dodged them all and came out the other side. Saved the colony.”

  “And this woman,” said Bev Crusher in wonder, “this woman is now sitting in one of my examining rooms.”

  “She disappeared one day,” said Riker. “Reportedly she had royally infuriated the Tholians over something . . . you know how touchy they are, especially when it comes to intrusion in their space. They put a price on her head and were hunting her pretty hard. Rumor had it that she took off for deep space to lie low for a while until things blew over.”

  “Is it possible she went far enough to have wound up within Borg space? It would have taken her years to get there.”

  “Anything is possible where the ‘Brass Lass’ is concerned,” said Riker, with a touch of admiration. “If she felt the only way to keep her head on her shoulders was to explore entirely new territories, she would have done it in a second. She was utterly fearless.”

  “She may well have been the first human being that the Borg encountered,” said Picard slowly. “And they found her intriguing enough to assimilate her into themselves. Dr. Crusher . . . what is her present condition?”

  “I’ve removed all of the prosthetics and appliances,” Crusher said, “and reopened her neural pathways in order to re-establish normal brain functions. Skin grafts should tak
e a day or so to completely heal, and will probably itch like hell for a while.”

  “Brain activity?”

  She shrugged. “As near as I can tell, she’s functioning normally. But Captain, she’s still not right.”

  “Not right?”

  “What the doctor is saying, Captain,” Troi now spoke up for the first time, still not taking her eyes off the image on the screen, “is that her sense of self—all that she is, and was—has atrophied, probably beyond recovery. For a decade or more she has had Borg implants telling her what to do, when to do it, how to do it. She hasn’t thought. She hasn’t assimilated experiences or done anything for herself. She hasn’t expressed her personality, or even had it. It’s as if she had been locked in a sensory deprivation sphere for ten years. I examined her barely an hour ago, and I sensed nothing of Reannon Bonaventure within her. Nothing of anything, really. Her heart beats, her body functions, she has all basic motor commands. But there’s nothing in her. She’s a shell of a human. Nothing more.”

  “Or, in the vernacular, ‘her lights are on, but there’s nobody home,’” said Riker.

  “I don’t accept that,” said Geordi firmly.

  They looked at him with curiosity. “Are you saying Counselor Troi’s empathic abilities are in error?” asked Picard.

  “I’m saying, sir, that if there was once a vital, living person in there,” and he tapped the image on the screen, “then there can be again. We can’t just write her off.”

  “No one is suggesting writing her off, Geordi,” said Riker.

  “That’s what it sounds like to me,” said Geordi. “What this woman has is a handicap. Her mind is damaged. But there’s probably something trapped deep within her, crying to be let out.”

  “I think that unlikely,” said Troi quietly.

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “Geordi—”

  “Look at me, Counselor,” he said with unexpected vehemence. “I’m handicapped, remember? Without this VISOR, I can’t see. But I live with it, and I’m satisfied with the way I am, because I’ve received aid and support every step of the way. And every night, when I lie there in my bed with my VISOR on the nightstand next to me, and there’s nothing but blackness, I always wonder what my life would have been like if I hadn’t had the opportunities that I did. Same mind. Same abilities. But no VISOR-enhanced vision. I think of a world that’s defined by counting the number of steps it would take me to get to the bathroom or kitchen or wherever, and I give thanks every night that next morning I’ll be able to cheat what nature did to my eyes and rejoin the real world. And that woman down there—that handicapped woman—deserves the same chances that I had. The exact same ones.”