VENDETTA: THE GIANT NOVEL

by Peter David

  “You will have to give them my regrets,” said Picard.

  Chapter Nineteen

  KORSMO STRODE ONTO the bridge of the Chekov and dropped into the command chair. Shelby followed a few steps behind him, looking far more composed and controlled.

  “Against every common sense move,” Korsmo said, more to himself than anything. But everyone on the bridge heard, and turned towards him with curiosity.

  “Sir?” asked the man at ops.

  Korsmo didn’t look at anyone as he just shook his head and said, “There are certain people in the galaxy who go by the book, who always do the correct thing, and they lead satisfactory, but uninspiring, careers. And then there are the ones who do whatever the hell they feel like, and they get the attention and acclaim. Now, you want to tell me what you call that?”

  There was silence on the bridge for a moment, and then Shelby said, simply and clearly, “I call that justice.”

  Korsmo fired her a look that wasn’t filled with a great deal of affection. “Thank you for sharing that with us, Commander.”

  Shelby said nothing, just inclined her head slightly as if giving a tongue-in-cheek “You’re welcome.”

  Korsmo looked at the screen, at the planet-killer that was now stationary in space. The Enterprise had drawn closer, and Korsmo said, “Hold our position here.”

  “Sir,” said Hobson in surprise. “The planet-killer had been generating a field scrambler that had made transport aboard impossible. But sensors are detecting that a hole has just been created in the field. Should were—?”

  “No,” said Korsmo quietly. “Take no action. Hold us steady. You see, we weren’t invited.”

  Guinan, Picard, Data, and Troi stepped up onto the transporter platform. Wolf and Riker stood at the base, while O’Brien checked his readouts. “Transportation is now possible, sir,” said O’Brien, not without some surprise. “And I’m reading a transporter beacon signal from within the planet-killer. Someone has someplace very specific they want me to send you.”

  “Then we shan’t disappoint them,” Picard said.

  “Sir, I still recommend against this,” said Riker firmly, though he did not think, at this point, that Picard was going to listen to him. In that he was correct.

  “Recommendation noted, Number One.”

  Now Worf stepped forward and proffered a phaser. “Sir, you should have this with you.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, Mr. Worf.”

  In a firm, even fierce voice, Worf said, “I do.”

  Picard was slightly surprised by the vehemence of his security head. He also understood it. It was a very difficult thing to ask a Klingon to stand by and permit a commanding officer to do something that he, Worf, felt was inappropriate. Klingons were driven by an immense sense of duty, and Worf was in tremendous conflict. On the one hand, he was obligated to obey the wishes of his captain. On the other hand, he felt duty-bound to protect his commanding officer from harm.

  As much out of consideration for Worf’s feelings as anything else, Picard took the phaser. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said.

  Worf gave a curt nod and stepped back, his arms folded across his broad chest.

  Picard stepped back up onto the transporter platform and glanced at Guinan. “Your first time through a transporter?”

  She shrugged. “First time for everything.”

  Picard nodded and then turned to O’Brien. “Energize,” he said.

  They shimmered and vanished off the transporter pads.

  “Vaya con dios,” murmured Riker.

  Picard was staring at himself.

  He took a step back and reflexively his hand went towards his phaser. Then he realized that the individual he was facing, who looked just like him, was doing the exact same thing. In less than a second upon first seeing his reflection he realized what it was, and he felt a bit sheepish. He retreated a step farther so that he could get a look around.

  “Just as Geordi surmised,” said Picard. “Crystal.”

  Picard, Troi, and Guinan stood in the middle of their surroundings, taking it all in. Troi and Picard were clearly amazed at what they saw. Guinan, for her part, merely stood impassively and looked around as if she had seen it all before.

  All around them, for as far and as high as they could see, they were surrounded by intricately designed structures from a material that looked for all the world like crystal.

  The walls, vast sheets and pillars of crystal, reflected endlessly the images of the four Enterprise visitors. Picard reached out tentatively, after consulting with Data’s tricorder readings, and placed his hand flat against one of the pillars. His reflection seemed to reach back at him. The pillar was warm to the touch, as if it were throbbing with life of its own.

  “Incredible,” he whispered.

  From all around her, Troi sensed life. It was like nothing she had ever felt. The walls, the floors, the ceilings, wherever they might be—they were completely encompassed by emotions. She told this to Picard, and then added, “They seem—harnessed somehow.”

  “Imprisoned?” asked Picard.

  “No. No, utilized, and willingly. As if . . . as if the ship is being driven by pure will power.”

  “It is being driven by more than that,” said Data, consulting his tricorder once again. “These crystalline structures are actually power cells that harness all matter of energy: physical, kinetic, electromagnetic.” He paused, checking further. The neutronium hull had made sensor readings extremely difficult, but now that they were within, he was absorbing the information as quickly as possible—which, for Data, was quite fast indeed. “My interior readings are confirming what Geordi was hypothesizing. The warp drive technology would seem to generate different fields from that of the Enterprise. There is a variant level in harmonic resonance that enables this vessel to warp the fabric of space with greater energy efficiency and speed.” He turned towards Picard. “It is not dissimilar from Borg technology—indeed, it may even be more efficient.”

  “The Borg are always speaking of absorbing technology,” murmured Picard. “The implication is that they develop precious little of their own.”

  “Of course they don’t,” said Guinan, staring at her reflection. She adjusted her hat. “Creation of new technology comes from imagination. You have to dream before you can do. Since the Borg have no imagination, they are limited in their capacity to invent.”

  “And it is possible that the Borg have realized that,” Picard said slowly. “We wondered why their priorities appeared to have changed. Why they seemed interested not only in human technology, but also in interacting with humanity. Is it possible that they have come to realize the limits to their development, and want to tap into the human capacity for invention in order to expand themselves?”

  “It could be a very intriguing hypothesis,” said Data. “The centralized Borg mind may easily be capable of analyzing its own shortcomings. They may wish to harness the creative ability of the human mind. Intriguing. When you represented the Borg as Locutus, you referred to me as a primitive artificial organism, despite my own ability for invention.”

  “Obviously they have come to value the human ability to think, as it pertains to their attempts to improve themselves, while realizing the limits of mechanical life.” He glanced at Data. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” said Data calmly. “None is possible.”

  That was when Deanna Troi screamed.

  Immediately the others were next to her, as Deanna was staring at a crystal wall. She was pointing in confusion and said, “My face . . . I saw my face and then it was . . . someone else’s. Not just someone. A hundred someones, or a thousand . . .”

  She seemed genuinely rattled, but calmed down when Guinan rested a hand on her shoulder. She shook her head to clear it and then said, “I’m sorry. I was startled.”

  “Very human of you,” said Data consolingly.

  “That was the Many.”

  They turned to see Delcara standing in
front of them. Picard was taken aback, for he had not seen Delcara earlier in the holodeck, and she had deteriorated even further than when Guinan had last seen her. Troi gasped as well. Data merely aimed a tricorder at her.

  Her hair was now a filthy white, and every visible inch of her skin was wrinkled. She was smiling, but it was with a death’s-head rictus of a grin. Her eyebrows had actually converged, creating a single dark and foul line of hair across her face, casting her once-lovely eyes into permanent shadow. She was hag-like, stooped shouldered, the very structure of her face changing. Her brow hung forward, Neanderthal-like, and when she tilted her head slightly, contemplating them, she looked like a gargoyle.

  And insanely, she appeared oblivious of her appearance. It was as if somewhere, somehow, deep within her, there was still the purity of spirit. An innocence, a naïveté that was simply unaware of what was happening to her. As if the heinous intentions pervading her had simply been layered onto her without touching the inner spark that once had been a simple, loving woman named Delcara. A woman who knew nothing of hatred and vengeance, but only love.

  The woman whose inner beauty had once been revealed, for only a moment, to a cadet named Jean-Luc.

  Picard stepped forward and his hand passed through her. “Still a hologram, I see.”

  “Still a captain, I see,” replied Delcara. “You were a leader of men even when I first saw you. How little things change.”

  “Delcara—” began Guinan.

  But Delcara waved her off with a brief, angry gesture. “I brought you here because you refused to understand,” and her voice was laced with barely controlled frenzy. “I brought you here to make you understand. I cannot go back to the way I was. There is nothing left for me. Come.”

  She turned away before they could say anything and strode down the corridor that seemed to stretch endlessly before them. Picard immediately fell into step behind her, as did the others. They were amazed at the silence around them. Within the Enterprise, there was always some sort of background noise. The steady humming of the powerful engines, the noise of servicing being performed on thousands of standard automatic computer systems—always something.

  Not here, though. Within the heart of the planet-killer, all was silence. Even their boots made no noise, for the crystalline walls and floors seemed to absorb all the sounds.

  They turned a labyrinthine corner and stopped.

  Thus far they had been surrounded by towering pillars and, far above them, tubings and crossways that seemed to be channels for the pure power that coursed through the entire structure of the planet-killer. Now, however, they were faced with a single long, stretching corridor, lined with row upon row of odd slabs, each one freestanding, about seven feet high and positioned at roughly 45-degree angles to the wall. And at the end of the corridor was a single column that stretched upward, the top of it out of sight.

  The hologram of Delcara walked toward it with measured steps, and then stopped. It turned and faced Picard and the others.

  “Now do you understand?” she said.

  Inside the crystalline column, held upright like a fly in amber, untouched by the corruption and beauty-destroying brush of vengeance-obsession, was the pure and unscathed body of Delcara.

  On the bridge of the Enterprise Worf suddenly looked up. “Sir, long-range sensors are detecting three vessels approaching at warp seven, heading three-two-two Mark nine. At present speed, they will be here in seventeen minutes.”

  “Borg?” said Riker tonelessly.

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “Alert the captain. Tell the landing party to be prepared to beam aboard.”

  “I am not able to raise them on the planet-killer, sir,” said Worf after a moment, and anticipating Riker’s next statement, he said, “and the field of the ship makes it impossible to lock onto their readings.”

  “So we can’t beam them back if Delcara doesn’t want us to,” said Riker. “Terrific. Engineering,” snapped Riker, “how long before you have that warp bubble formulation into the emergency generator?”

  “About another fifteen minutes, Commander,” came Geordi’s voice.

  “Sensors say that you’re officially cutting it close, Mr. La Forge. The Borg will be here in seventeen minutes.”

  “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s spare time,” said La Forge.

  “There won’t be much to hate here. Step on it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sir,” said Worf with undisguised surprise, “we are receiving an incoming message from the Borg ships.”

  “Announcing the joy of their arrival, no doubt,” said Riker. “Is the Chekov getting the same thing?”

  “They indicate that they are, sir.”

  “Seems the Borg are having no trouble cutting through the subspace interference that thing out there generates,” observed Riker. “On screen, Lieutenant.”

  The planet-killer vanished, and the last thing they expected to see appeared on their screen.

  At first glance it was a Borg, but only at first glance. His head was shaped differently, the visible portion of his flesh and bone in the distinctive shape and size of—

  “A Ferengi?” said Riker in surprise. “Is that a—?”

  “It appears so,” said Worf, no less astonished.

  The Ferengi Borg paused a moment, as if allowing the humans to digest the full impact of his presence. Then he said, “I am . . . Vastator. Vastator of the Borg.”

  Riker started to identify himself but then he heard another voice over the channel. “This is Captain Morgan Korsmo of the starship Chekov.” Riker promptly kept silent—technically, Korsmo was the ranking officer present and was the proper one to be in communication with the Borg. Not that Riker was especially thrilled about that idea.

  “Vastator of the Borg,” continued Korsmo, “you are in Federation space. I am ordering you, under my authority as a Starfleet captain, to return immediately to your own quadrant.”

  “Your orders are of no interest,” said Vastator, and then, incredibly, his voiced acquired the silky subtlety of a Ferengi. “We are prepared, however, to deal.”

  Riker looked at Worf and mouthed the word, Deal?

  “What sort of deal?” came Korsmo’s voice.

  “We have learned of the power of the weapon that you are presently near. It poses a threat not only to the Borg, but to yourselves. We will destroy the weapon, and you will not interfere. In exchange, we will not destroy you.” It was bizarre to see the Ferengi speaking without the usual sneer.

  “No deals,” said Riker sharply.

  He was astonished when he heard Korsmo’s sharp rebuke of, “Commander, I am in charge here.”

  “The Federation does not deal with terrorists,” said Riker. “You said so yourself, sir.”

  “This is not terrorism. This is negotiations with a threatened race.”

  “The Borg are not threatened, Captain,” said Riker tightly. “By and large, they do the threatening.”

  “You need not decide now,” said Vastator calmly. “You have sixteen minutes to choose. Ultimately, your choice will be of no relevance to us. Only to yourselves.” With that, the Borg cut the communication.

  The image of the Borg was immediately replaced by that of Korsmo, who looked angrily at Riker. “I don’t appreciate your interference in those discussions, Commander.”

  “The Enterprise is not going to stand aside and let the Borg destroy Delcara’s vessel.”

  “Oh no?” snapped Korsmo.

  “No. That ship hurled itself into a sun rather than destroy us. I hardly think the Borg would be that considerate.”

  “And have you given thought, Commander,” said Korsmo icily, “as to what happens if Delcara does manage to destroy those Borg ships and continue unmolested. Within a week’s time she will be intercepted by the fleet I warned you of. You yourself predicted major casualties for such a battle. The word ‘massacre’ was voiced, as I recall. If we have a chance of stopping her here, either by standing asid
e or even attacking her ourselves, we save the lives of countless members of Starfleet in a future battle. Are you willing to be responsible for their lives, Commander?”

  “And what do you think the Borg will do if they destroy her,” shot back Riker, trying his damnedest to keep his tone on the positive side of insubordination. “Turn around, head back home and leave us?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps they will continue into the heart of Federation space. And ships will assemble to meet them, and at least our two will be around to be part of that assemblage. We can’t guarantee the same thing if we attack them here and now. And perhaps they can be negotiated with. This incorporation of a Ferengi would indicate a willingness to bargain on the part of the Borg.”

  “You can bargain with the devil, Captain Korsmo,” shot back Riker, “but you always wind up on the wrong end of the deal.”

  “That, Commander, is your opinion. It is mine that when the Borg show up, we will not fire unless fired upon, and we will do nothing to defend the planet-killer. Furthermore, if the planet-killer is in dire straits, we will do what we can to aid in her destruction. Her existence poses too much of a threat. Furthermore, Commander,” he went on before Riker could get a word out, “since I am the ranking officer present, you will follow my wishes as per Starfleet regulations. Is that clear, Commander?”

  “Your wishes are very clear, Captain. But you’re forgetting one thing. Captain Picard and the away team are aboard the planet-killer.”

  There was a chilling pause. “I’ve forgotten nothing, Commander Riker. And Captain Picard was aboard the Borg ship, as Commander Shelby has told us on so many occasions, when you gave the order to fire on it. Picard’s continued presence among us has more to do with Borg technology than with your concern about the ultimate safety of your captain. So don’t get on your high horse with me, Mr. Riker. You’ve established that you know how to make the tough decisions. Now be so kind as to allow me the same courtesy. The bottom line is this: Starfleet’s orders are clear. They want the planet-killer stopped. The Borg are going to stop them. Therefore, we will permit the Borg to do that. For all we know, it may be the first step to making peace with the Borg.”