Destiny: The Complete Saga: Gods of Night, Mere Mortals, and Lost Souls

by David Mack

  “Who cares about Rura Penthe?” Martok said. “Is Klag gathering his fleet?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Goluk said, following Martok up a steep crew ladder to the command deck. “Our forces will assemble in three hours and engage the Borg in four.”

  Martok bounded up from the ladder and strode down the passageway toward the bridge. Despite the absence of his left eye and his limited depth perception, Martok knew the steps and corners of his ship so well that he could navigate its corridors blind. “Has there been any word from our forces at the nebula?”

  “Not yet,” Goluk said. He remained close behind Martok’s shoulder as they walked.

  The two grizzled warriors arrived on the bridge. The command center of the Sword of Kahless was packed with warriors, all of them intently busy preparing for rapid deployment. Deep, muted voices mixed with the comm chatter and the ambient hum of the ship’s power-distribution systems. On the viewer, dozens of Vor’cha-class and K’vort-class cruisers moved in tight formations, turning in unison like flocks of birds.

  Captain G’mtor, a seasoned officer who proudly bore a deep facial scar from his right temple to his chin, approached the chancellor and the general. “New reports from Federation and Romulan space, Chancellor,” G’mtor said. “Battles have begun at Nequencia Alpha, Xarantine, and Jouret. The Borg armada is destroying all stray vessels it encounters.”

  “We’ll find strength in numbers, then,” Martok said. He took his place in the command chair. “How many ships are ready to follow us into battle, Captain?”

  “One hundred seventeen are gathered here at Qo’noS,” G’mtor said. “Another three hundred sixty-one will meet us at the rendezvous coordinates.”

  General Goluk asked, “And how many Borg vessels have we detected inbound?”

  “Four hundred ninety-two,” G’mtor said. “So already we enjoy an advantage.”

  Immediately, Martok could tell that Goluk was performing the arithmetic in his head. Then the general inquired of G’mtor, “How did you arrive at that conclusion, Captain?”

  Martok loosed a short roar of laughter and answered for G’mtor, “Because we are Klingons!” Encouraging roars came from every warrior on the bridge. These men were sharp and ready for battle, and it filled Martok with pride to be among them. He stood and said to G’mtor, “Open a channel, all ships.”

  G’mtor nodded to another officer, who carried out the order with haste and nodded in reply. “Channel open,” G’mtor said.

  In a breath, Martok gathered himself and declared, “Warriors of the Empire! A great hour is upon us, a foe to test our mettle. The Borg have come not to plunder us but to destroy us—to leave our empire in flames, our bodies broken, our spirits disgraced at the gates of Gre’thor.

  “This is a mistake they will not live to regret. We will meet their armada with our own and show them what it means to fight with honor. We shall whip the Borg from our space and crush them. Our empire has risen by the sword, and one day it might be felled by it. But if such a fate awaits us, let us fall to warriors—not to these petaQpu’.

  “Today is a good day to die, for a warrior—but not for a way of life. The Klingon Empire will not fall today.” He slammed his fist and forearm to his chest. “Fight well, and die with honor, sons and daughters of Qo’noS! Qapla’!”

  A roaring “Qapla’!” came back to Martok from his bridge crew, who broke without preamble into a throaty and spirited rendition of “Soldiers of the Empire.” Their proud voices echoed off the bulkheads and rang through the corridors, where new choruses of singers picked up the tune and carried it on.

  General Goluk nodded to the communications officer, who closed the channel as the singing continued. Martok settled into the command chair, which sat on a dais above the rest of the bridge. The general placed himself at Martok’s right side. Over the hearty song, he said, “All ships ready to deploy, my lord.”

  “Break orbit,” Martok said. “As soon as the fleet is in formation behind us, coordinate our jump to maximum warp.”

  Goluk let Captain G’mtor handle the details of marshaling the fleet into warp speed. Martok, meanwhile, savored all the sensations of shipboard life: the gruff singing voices, the warm aromas from the galley several decks below, the rumbling of the impulse engines pushing the ship out of orbit, the chimelike echo of boots stamping across duranium gratings.

  This was not the war he would have chosen, but it felt good to be leading his people into battle, all of them united under one banner. The Kinshaya and the Elabrej had not been enough to give the far-flung worlds of the Empire common cause. But the Borg were a menace without equal in known space. The Collective’s attack had galvanized the noble families and the common people, and it had quelled the resurgent internecine struggles of the High Council.

  Barked commands across the bridge were followed by the flash of warp-distorted starlight across the main viewscreen.

  When this war is over, Martok ruminated, the Empire will be stronger than it’s ever been … or it will lie in ashes.

  5

  Starfleet’s reports to the Palais de la Concorde grew worse with each passing hour, and President Nanietta Bacco had tired of reading them. She winced as her intercom buzzed, and her elderly Vulcan executive assistant, Sivak, announced, “Admiral Akaar is here to deliver your midday briefing, Madam President.” Bacco was about to concoct an excuse to send the admiral away when Sivak added, “Ms. Piñiero and Seven of Nine are with him.”

  She sighed. “Send them in.”

  Bacco got up from her chair and turned around to look out the panoramic floor-to-ceiling window. Outside, the Tour Eiffel gleamed in the afternoon sunlight above the sprawl of Paris. Wispy clouds raced low along the horizon in the distance.

  She pressed a padd on her desk to tint the window against the glare. As the electrochemical shade descended between her and the City of Light, the moment felt to Bacco as if it might be a tragically prophetic omen of the hours to come.

  One of the doors behind her opened. It took all of her resolve to turn back and face her visitors, who she knew came bearing bad tidings. Leading them in was Bacco’s chief of staff, Esperanza Piñiero, whose black hair and olive complexion contrasted with those of the two people who were following her.

  Starfleet’s liaison to the Federation president, Fleet Admiral Leonard James Akaar, was a tall, barrel-chested, and broad-shouldered man of Capellan birth. His pale gray hair fell in long natural waves on either side of his weathered face.

  Beside him was Seven of Nine. She was fair-skinned and blond. Her striking good looks were marred by the presence of residual grafts of silvery gray metallic Borg technology on her left hand and eyebrow.

  Seven, whose name had been Annika Hansen before her early childhood assimilation by the Borg, had been liberated from the Collective by the crew of the Starship Voyager during their long journey home from the Delta Quadrant. Now she was Bacco’s top security adviser on all matters concerning the Borg.

  “Good afternoon, Madam President,” Akaar said, resembling a talking bronze statue in the honeyed light of her shaded window.

  “Admiral,” Bacco said with a polite nod. She offered one as well to her security adviser. “Seven.”

  Piñiero feigned offense. “No greeting for me?”

  “I see you all day, every day,” Bacco grumped.

  Before Piñiero could continue their verbal volley, Admiral Akaar interrupted, “Madam President, we have important news.”

  “None of it good, I’m sure,” Bacco said, easing herself back into her chair. She made a rolling motion with her hand. “Continue, Admiral.”

  A despairing frown darkened his expression. “The Borg are moving even faster than we could have imagined,” he said.

  Seven added, “They likely assimilated new propulsion technologies while replenishing their strength.”

  Bacco asked, “How fast are they moving, Admiral?”

  “We have confirmed attacks on Yridia, Hyralan, and Celes,” he said.
“We project the Borg will siege Regulus in two hours, Deneva in three, Qo’noS in five. At this rate, they are only nine hours from Vulcan and Andor and twelve hours from Earth. By tomorrow, they will be able to hit Trill, Betazed, Bajor, and dozens of other worlds. Most of our simulations suggest the collapse of the Federation in ten days, and the fall of most of our neighbors in local space within a month.”

  Bacco let her head fall forward into her hands. “Dear God.”

  Piñiero pushed her fingers through her hair, back over her scalp. “We have to evacuate those worlds,” she said. “Now.”

  “Actually, Madam President,” Akaar interjected, “that will not be feasible. It would entail trying to move tens of billions of people in a matter of hours.”

  Seven added, “It would be a futile effort. Any ships that fled those worlds would be hunted down by the Borg.”

  The ex-drone’s calm certainty only inflamed Piñiero’s anger. “So? Should we just tell our people to sit quietly and wait for the end to come? What kind of plan is that?”

  Akaar’s shoulders slumped. “I agree in principle, Ms. Piñiero. But we no longer have enough ships at our disposal for an evacuation effort. All civilian ships that are able to flee have already done so, and all armed vessels and their crews have been pressed into service for core-systems defense.”

  Bacco lifted her head and said to Akaar, “How many lives have we lost so far, Admiral?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “How many civilian lives, Admiral?” She hardened her anger to hold her despair at bay. “Do we even know?”

  The admiral looked ashamed. “We have estimates.”

  “How many?”

  He asked, “Since the first Borg attack?”

  “Yes,” Bacco said. “Since the beginning.”

  “Including non-Federation worlds … approximately thirty billion.”

  It was too vast a number for Bacco to grasp. Thirty billion was too large even to be a statistic; it was an abstraction of death writ on a cosmic scale. “Can Starfleet muster enough ships to intercept the Borg armada?”

  “It is not that simple, Madam President,” Akaar said. “There are no isolated thrusts of enemy forces to intercept. The Borg have dispersed on thousands of vectors across known space. We had organized Starfleet’s defenses to shield the core systems. Unfortunately, the Borg have committed enough ships to attack all our worlds at once.” He cast his eyes downward. “I regret to say we have no defensive plan for that scenario.”

  Fixing her weary glare on Seven, Bacco said, “Care to offer any strategic or tactical advice?”

  “Our options are limited,” Seven said. “I have been unable to help Starfleet pinpoint which cube is carrying the Borg Queen, which hinders our ability to launch a surgical counterstrike. Fortunately, none of the ships in the Borg armada has displayed any of the absorptive properties of the giant cube we faced last year. That suggests the Enterprise’s mission to stop the assimilated vessel Einstein was a success.”

  Piñiero threw a sour look at Seven. “Good thing,” she said. “Otherwise, the Borg might have presented a threat.” The snide remark drew a stare of cold fire from Seven.

  Bacco frowned at Akaar. “Admiral, do you have any news to report besides the end of the Federation as we know it?”

  “Yes, Madam President,” he replied. “We have reestablished contact with the Enterprise and the Aventine. They were in the Delta Quadrant on a recon mission when the Borg armada attacked. They’ve returned and report that all subspace passages have been collapsed. Admiral Jellico is cutting them new orders now.”

  At that news, Bacco leaned forward. “Can you pass along a message for me to Captain Picard?”

  “Of course, Madam President.”

  “Tell him that if he has any idea how to stop the Borg, no matter what he has to do, he has my unqualified authority to do it. If he has to toss Starfleet regulations and Federation law out an airlock, so be it. If we’re still here when the dust settles, he can count on full pardons for himself and his crew, no questions asked. The same goes for anyone working with him. Is that clear, Admiral?”

  Akaar nodded once. “Exceptionally clear, Madam President.”

  “Then let’s all hope Picard has one more miracle up his sleeve. Because God knows we need it.”

  6

  “The truth, Captains, is that Starfleet no longer has a plan.”

  Picard didn’t remember Edward Jellico looking so old. In the scant months since Jellico had ascended to Starfleet’s top flag office, he seemed to have aged a decade. His already white hair had thinned, and the lines in his face had deepened into gorges carved by the never-ending anxieties of command. More alarming to Picard was that he sympathized with how he imagined Jellico must feel. Standing in the ready room of a captain less than half his years, Picard felt like a relic of a bygone age.

  Captain Dax replied, “Admiral, are you saying that Starfleet has no new orders for us?”

  “Not unless one of you has a bright idea,” Jellico said.

  The two captains traded apprehensive looks across Dax’s desk. Picard looked back at Jellico’s visage on the monitor and said, “We’re still weighing our options.”

  Dax interjected, “Should we set a course for Earth, sir?”

  Jellico shook his head. “You won’t make it in time. You’re four days away. The Borg’ll be here in twelve hours.”

  “Actually, sir,” Dax said, “my chief engineer tells me she can bring our prototype slipstream drive online within a few hours. There’s a chance we could beat the Borg to Earth.”

  Holding up one hand, Jellico replied, “One more ship won’t turn the tide, Captain. We’re past that now.”

  Picard tried to mask his profound frustration, but hints of it slipped into his tone all the same. “Admiral, certainly Starfleet hasn’t conceded the war already?”

  “Of course not, Jean-Luc. We’ve distributed the schematics for the transphasic torpedo to all ships and starbases, and we’ve given it to the Klingon Defense Force.” Dax glanced nervously at Picard as Jellico continued, “It might be too little too late, but we’re not going down without a fight.”

  “Admiral,” Dax said, “isn’t it dangerous to send those schematics via subspace with so many Borg ships in the region? What if they’ve intercepted and decoded them?”

  A frown thinned Jellico’s lips almost to the point of making them vanish.

  “It was a calculated risk,” he confessed. “It’s not what I wanted to do or the way I wanted to do it … but at this point, not doing it is tantamount to surrender. I gave the order to override Admiral Nechayev’s security directive. If it turns out to be the wrong call, there’s no one to blame but me.”

  Hearing such humility from Jellico surprised Picard. He didn’t know whether it was because Jellico, having reached the top of the Starfleet career ladder, had finally relaxed or because crisis brought out the most human facets of his persona.

  “Admiral,” he said, “with your permission, I’d like to take the Enterprise and the Aventine back into the nebula to search for survivors from the expeditionary group. We’ve confirmed that half of Voyager’s crew is still alive; there may be others.”

  Jellico nodded. “By all means, Captain. Proceed at your discretion. But make certain you have an exit strategy.”

  Again, the admiral’s pessimistic turn of phrase captured Picard’s attention. “An exit strategy?”

  “Jean-Luc, if Earth falls …” Jellico choked on his words for a moment, and then he continued, “If Earth falls, the war’s pretty much over. The fighting might go on for a few more weeks, but the Federation as we know it will be gone. If it comes to that, take your ship and anyone you can carry, and try to get to safety. Don’t launch some quixotic mission to liberate the Federation, because there’ll be nothing left. Just save your ship and your crew.” A melancholy gloom settled in his eyes. “Don’t die for a lost cause, Jean-Luc.”

  Then he blinked away the sentiment and added, “W
ish us luck, Captains. Godspeed to you both. Starfleet Command out.”

  The Federation emblem replaced Jellico’s face on the desktop monitor. Dax deactivated the screen and sighed. “Nothing like a pep talk from headquarters to boost morale.” She stood and turned to her replicator. “I’m having a raktajino. Can I get you something?”

  “Tea, Earl Grey, hot,” Picard said.

  She turned to the replicator and said, “Raktajino, hot and sweet, and an Earl Grey tea, hot.” The drinks formed in a whorl of golden light and white noise. When the machine had finished, she took the drinks from the nook and handed the tea to Picard.

  He took a sip and savored it. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, easing back into her chair and taking a sip of her caffeinated Klingon beverage. “Sorry to hear about your ready room.”

  “Not as sorry as I am,” Picard said. He enjoyed another sip of his tea, then added, “We should set course back to the nebula as soon as possible.”

  Dax said, “All right, but I don’t think we’re going to find many survivors beyond the Voyager crew.”

  “Perhaps not,” Picard murmured, even as he was distracted by an awareness of something new—something different—shining in his thoughts like a beacon in the darkness of mere being. “But we need to get under way, soon. There’s something there, and I need to know what it is.”

  Slowly shaking her head, Dax replied, “If you say so. I just hate feeling like we’re running for cover when everyone else is fighting for their lives.”

  “Running for cover?” Picard said.

  She called up a short-range starmap overlaid with tactical data about the Borg armada’s deployment into the surrounding sectors. Pointing at the Azure Nebula, Dax said, “It’s the eye of the storm, Jean-Luc. All Borg ships are moving away from it. It’s the safest spot in known space.”

  He studied the star chart and nodded. “Indeed. Which makes it the ideal location from which to plan our next move.”

  “I wasn’t aware that we had a next move,” Dax said.