by Peter David
She sat down behind her desk, interlacing her fingers. She paused a long moment, appearing to gaze long and hard into herself. She almost seemed to be casting her mind back. Picard and Troi stood respectfully silent.
“I think,” she said slowly, “that the woman who is causing all this, the woman whom you faced that night in your dorm room, Captain, is named Delcara.”
“Delcara.” The name meant nothing to Picard. Odd. He’d always thought, in the back of his mind, that if he’d ever met her, ever learned her name, there would be a dazzling flash of understanding, or something. But there was nothing. It was just a name, three syllables. “Delcara. And she has reason to hate the Borg?”
“Ooooohh yes,” said Guinan. “Some very good reasons.”
“And you know her,” said Troi.
“You could say that,” Guinan said dryly. “You see, Delcara is my sister.”
Chapter Ten
CAPTAIN MORGAN KORSMO was awakened by the alarm of the red-alert siren that came in tandem with the urgent call on his communicator. Korsmo was one of those people who took no time at all to awaken, and fully alert, he tapped his communicator and said, “Korsmo here.”
“Captain, you’d better get up here,” came Shelby’s voice, very controlled, almost passionless, and yet projecting a clear undercurrent of alarm. “Long-range sensors have detected—”
“The Borg?”
“Yes, sir.”
For one moment unwanted thoughts flashed through his head. Thoughts of, At last! I’ll get to show what I can do against those monstrosities! I’ll show that Picard isn’t the only one who can hold his own against those mechanized bastards. But these musings were immediately replaced by concern over his ship and his crew. They had to come first, no matter what. “Alert Starfleet Command immediately. I’ll be right up.”
In record time Korsmo was striding out onto the bridge, his practiced gaze taking in all tactical readouts. Shelby rose from the command chair and took her usual station as Korsmo dropped into place. “Sensors on maximum. Status report.”
“Shields on full,” reported Peel from tactical. “Weapons batteries fully charged. All stations report ready.”
“What’ve we got?” asked Korsmo, studying the screen. The stars shimmered ahead, racing past, whatever their sensors had detected not yet in visual range.
“One ship,” said Peel, “matching exactly the configurations of the Borg ship that attacked several months ago. Moving at warp seven. Present course and heading will take it—”
“Toward Penzatti,” said Shelby. Korsmo shot her a curious look.
“No, ma’am,” said Peel, after a moment. “It seems bound in the direction of the Kalish system.”
“That’s in the general direction of Penzatti, but still. . .” Korsmo’s voice trailed off. “Helm, bring us around in an intercept course at warp seven.”
“Course plotted and laid in,” said the helmsman.
“Lay on,” said Korsmo, and the ship immediately angled directly into the path of the oncoming Borg ship. “Give me a direct line to the Borg ship. I’m going to warn them off.”
“We’re going to warn them?”
He glanced at Shelby. “Problem with that, Number One?”
“Captain,” said Shelby firmly, “with all due respect, we don’t have the firepower to back up that warning. Our weapons won’t even slow them down.”
“If you don’t mind, Number One, I’d like to test that for myself.”
“Here they come,” said Peel.
Sure enough, sailing toward them on the screen at warp seven was the familiar cube of the Borg ship. It seemed like nothing so much as an unstoppable juggernaut, ready to run over anything in its path.
“No response on any hailing frequency,” reported Peel.
“We will intercept in thirty-five seconds, sir,” came the report from Hobson at conn.
“Repeat warning,” said Korsmo firmly, “that they have already established themselves as a hostile force . . . that if they do not break off from their present course and return our communications, we will have no choice but to regard this as an act of aggression and take appropriate measures.”
Shelby forced herself not to shake her head in disbelief. Korsmo talked a good game, she’d give him that. But he was still acting as if this were a normal foe that he was up against. He had no real comprehension, despite everything, of just how powerful the Borg were. Perhaps no one could, unless they’d experienced it firsthand. She just hoped they’d live to remember the experience.
“Still no response.”
“Mr. Peel,” said Korsmo after a moment, “fire a warning shot directly in their path. Let them know we mean business.”
“Firing phasers,” said Peel.
The phasers’ beams lanced out across space, cutting right in the way of the Borg ship. To all intents and purposes, a line had been drawn, warning the Borg to proceed no further.
The Borg crossed it with no hesitation, and shot straight towards the Chekov.
“Collision course!” shouted Hobson.
And on top of Hobson’s warning came Korsmo’s order of “Hard about, maximum warp!”
The Chekov responded immediately, angling down and away, and the Borg ship hurtled past without slowing down.
“Bring us around,” ordered Korsmo, his hands gripping the arms of his chair so hard that his knuckles were white. His voice was laced with fury. To be beaten, or outwitted, or outmuscled, those he could handle. But no one, not Borg nor Romulan nor anybody, simply ignored him. “Catch up with her, Mr. Hobson.”
The mighty engines of the Chekov shot the ship forward as if from a slingshot. On their screen the Borg ship was still barreling forward, unaware or uncaring of their presence.
“Wherever they’re going, they’re in one hell of a hurry,” observed Shelby.
“They’re at warp eight,” confirmed Peel. “They’re pulling away from us.”
“Take us to warp eight,” ordered Korsmo. “Peel, target their primary energy emission—fire!”
The Chekov fired, phasers fully armed, and struck the Borg ship, playing across the surface and scoring it severely.
“Any effect?” asked Korsmo.
“Nothing appreciable,” said Peel. “And the damage that they did sustain is being repaired—almost instantaneously.”
Korsmo turned towards Shelby. “You’re the expert on these things, Shelby. Do they have a weak point?”
For a fleeting moment Shelby was reminded of the old story about the baseball player—the one who came up to bat three times and hit a double, a triple, and a home run. When he came up to bat for the fourth time the pitcher was pulled in favor of a new, fresh pitcher. As they passed each other, the new pitcher asked the departing one, “This guy got any weaknesses?” And the losing pitcher said dourly, “Yeah, he can’t hit singles.”
“The only weaknesses,” she said, “are within their own mental structure. In terms of outside attack, they are virtually impervious.”
“How do we get inside that structure?”
She did not smile. “Willing to have yourself ‘borged,’ Captain?”
“They’re at warp eight-point-five,” said Peel. “They’ve fully repaired damage.”
“Match their speed.”
The Chekov roared into warp eight-point-five, and that brought an immediate call from the engine room. “Captain,” warned Engineering Chief Polly Parke, “any speculation as to how much speed you’ll need?”
“Stoke the furnace, Mister Parke,” Korsmo warned her, “because we may need everything you have. Bridge out. Peel, arm full torpedo and phaser array. We’re going to get their attention if . . .”
“It kills us?” offered Shelby. “Captain, respectfully state that this is not the proper course.”
“Suggestion noted. Mr. Peel, fire.”
Once again the phasers played across the surface of the Borg ship, accompanied by an array of photon torpedoes. The attack lit up the darkness of space,
a dazzling display of firepower.
The Borg slowed long enough to fire back one shot, just one.
It struck the Chekov with furious power, and the ship was rocked by the force of it.
“Damage reports coming in from all over the ship!” shouted Hobson. “Shields at fifty percent!”
“The Borg ship is pulling away,” reported Peel.
“Pursue it.”
“Captain . . .” began Shelby.
But he cut her off with a curt, “Not now! Hobson, divert all power to engines. Don’t lose that ship!”
“They’re back at warp eight and increasing.”
“Pace them.”
“Engineering to bridge. Captain, we’re leaking—”
“Plug it!” he told her fiercely. “Whatever it is, Parke, fix it, and keep warp speed coming. We’re not going to lose those bastards!”
Shelby looked at Korsmo as if seeing him for the first time. The fury radiating from him was filling the bridge, poisoning the atmosphere. “Captain,” she said with as much calm as she could muster, “the upward limits of Borg speed have not been measured.”
“We’ll measure them now. Helm, overtake them. Warp nine.”
Moving at speed that could take the ship across the Terran solar system in twenty-six seconds, the Chekov started to close the gap.
“The Borg have effected repairs,” Peel said once again. “They are increasing speed to warp nine-point-two.”
“Warp nine-point-two, helm. Bridge to engineering.”
“Engineering,” came Parke’s voice. She was clearly annoyed, but that wasn’t going to deter her from following business. “Captain, we’re presently at nine-point-two. That’s maximum speed.”
“That’s normally maximum speed, Mister Parke,” replied Korsmo, putting on an air of coolness that he did not feel. We may need more. Depends on our friends out there.”
“I haven’t got much more to give, Captain,” she warned. “Systems are on overload now. Under normal circumstances—”
“These are far from normal. Transporter room, get ready to receive a landing party.”
“Landing party?” said Shelby.
He turned towards her. “I’ve read all your reports, Commander,” he said. “Once we get aboard that ship, the Borg will tend to ignore anyone there.”
“Have ignored in the past, Captain, yes,” affirmed Shelby, “but that doesn’t mean they’ll continue to do so.”
“We’re going to overtake. Get in transporter range and board them,” said Korsmo firmly.
“I would not advise that.”
“Did I ask for your advice, Commander?”
There was dead silence on the bridge, the stinging question hanging in the air. “No, sir, you did not,” Shelby said after a moment, “but I thought it best . . .”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Sir, they’re at warp nine-point-six,” reported Peel. “We’re still not within transporter range.”
“And we’ve got all available energy siphoned to the warp engines,” added Hobson. “Captain . . .”
“Go to warp nine-point-six.”
Shelby closed her eyes, imagining she could feel the shuddering protest of the starship as the ship upped her speed to 1,909 times the speed of light. The maximum rated speed, the ship could handle warp nine-point-six, theoretically, for twelve hours. In terms of practicality, the Chekov would probably tear herself to shreds long before that happened.
“Structural stress increasing by a factor of two,” said Hobson, as if reading a death sentence.
“What effect is this speed having on the Borg ship?” demanded Korsmo.
“No visible or detectable effect on the Borg,” Peel informed him after a moment. And then, knowing the effect it would have on Korsmo, he said quietly, “Borg have gone to warp nine-point-nine.”
Again there was a deathly silence on the bridge. When Korsmo spoke, it was a whisper. “Warp nine-point-nine.”
This is insane! Shelby thought, but she said nothing.
“Warp nine-point-nine,” Hobson said slowly, every syllable hanging in the air.
“Engineering to bridge.”
“I was expecting your call, Mister Parke,” said Korsmo mirthlessly.
“Sir, this is beyond my control,” she said. “At warp nine-point-nine, the engines will shut down automatically after ten minutes. Whatever you’re going to do, do it now, or do it in the afterlife.”
“Captain, they’re pulling away from us,” said Hobson, his voice filled with utter disbelief.
“What?!” Korsmo was completely incredulous. “How the hell fast can they go, anyway?”
“I believe I said that Borg upward speed has not been determined,” said Shelby. Although she knew it was her imagination, she felt as if tremendous forces were pressing against her body. Warp speed increased exponentially. They were now moving at 3,053 times the speed of light. It was incredible. Mankind couldn’t go faster than this, she, thought, and perhaps wasn’t meant to.
“Borg at warp nine-point-nine-nine,” said Hobson, and, indeed, the Borg ship was now pulling away, its speed virtually double that of the Chekov.
“I don’t believe it,” exclaimed Peel. “That requires nearly infinite power.”
“The Borg have a knack for acquiring what they need,” Shelby said. “If they never have such power themselves, then they acquire it from some race they conquered. They’re very efficient that way.”
With every passing second the Borg ship became smaller and smaller. “Full magnification,” ordered Korsmo, and for a brief moment the departing Borg ship loomed larger, but then it began to recede once more.
“We’re losing speed,” said Hobson hollowly.
“Bridge to engineering—!”
Anticipating what the captain was about to say, Parke cut him off. “The Borg attack damaged us, Captain. I can’t give you the full ten minutes.”
“What can you give me?”
There was a pause, and then, with true understanding of her commanding officer’s frustration, she said simply, “My apologies.”
He looked at the screen and watched the Borg ship grow smaller and smaller, hurtling on its way. And he considered his actions of the past few minutes. “Mine to you, also, Chief,” he said after a moment. “Power us down to safe cruising speed, helm.”
“Reducing to warp six,” said Hobson, unable to totally hide the relief in his voice.
Korsmo stood, hands behind his back, and watched the Borg ship become as small as any of the stars that hung in space before them. He sighed. “They ignored us.”
“To all intents and purposes, yes, sir,” agreed Shelby.
“Send word to the Enterprise at Penzatti,” he said. “Tell him the Borg have been sighted, and feed them the coordinates.” He paused and then added, with a trace of satisfaction, “Maybe those bastards can move at warp nine-point-nine-nine, but subspace radio moves at thirty times that. Let’s see them move faster than that.”
“Do you think,” said Hobson after a moment, “that they can do warp ten?”
They all looked at him. “Basic physics, Mr. Hobson,” said Korsmo, with a touch of the dry humor that usually accompanied him. Shelby couldn’t help but notice that he was sounding more like himself, and was grateful for it. He continued, “Warp ten can’t be reached. It’s infinite speed.”
“But if anyone could, the Borg could,” Shelby said.
Korsmo stared at her. “No one could.”
“Captain,” she said, “I hope you’re right. The Borg have already put enough uncertainty into the universe. I’d hate to think that the absolute speed limit of the universe is just another rule for the Borg to destroy.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Commander,” said Korsmo. “I’ve generally found that the pre-eminent rule of the universe is that Jean-Luc Picard can handle anything. As long as that’s intact, I imagine the laws of physics have very little to be concerned about.”
Chapter Eleven
“YOUR S
ISTER?” Picard sat back in his chair, amazed.
“Your sister?” he repeated.
She shrugged slightly. “Well, not sister of blood, which is the main way that humans accept sibling relationships. But we were bonded as sisters until—”
Guinan put up a hand. “I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me try and explain . . .”
“Yes, I think you’d better,” said Picard firmly.
Troi, for her part, was amazed. She had never seen Guinan appear any way other than at peace with herself and utterly in control of a situation. Everything from the appearance of Q to the disappearance of the captain when the Borg attacked had been taken in stride by the unflappable Ten-Forward hostess. Now, though, for the first time, Guinan actually seemed discomfited.
“I told you once,” she began, “that my people were attacked by the Borg, that many of us died, and we were scattered by them. What I did not mention to you was our first awareness of the Borg. It came when we found Delcara.”
“How old is Delcara?” asked Troi.
“About as old as I am,” replied Guinan. Then she smiled, although there was little humor to it. “You’re not going to ask a lady her age now, are you?”
Picard leaned forward intensely. “When did you find her? Tell me about her.”
There was something in Picard’s voice that indicated far more than normal interest in the response. Troi could not help but notice the anxiety from her captain, his curiosity about this Delcara far beyond the normal interest that this situation would elicit.
“She was beautiful,” she began. “A luminous presence. I’ve never met anyone like her since; only those who were, at best, faint copies. She radiated peace and harmony, at least at first, and that was reflected in her outer beauty: hair as black as the depths of space, skin that seemed to shimmer. And she was a powerful telepath. Hers was a mind attuned to the wonders of the galaxy, and the ebb and flow of destiny. All that was reflected in her eyes. Eyes that . . .”
“Eyes that gazed directly into the back of your head,” said Picard. “Eyes that spoke volumes, even when they were silent.”
“Yes,” agreed Guinan. “Hers was an ancient soul, with an ancient sadness that followed her always. She was part of a race called the Shgin,” she said. “The Shgin lived in deep at the far rim of what you call the Delta Quadrant of the galaxy.”