Star Trek - TNG - Vendetta

by Peter David

the Borg would be able to move on.

  Except ...

  The Borg ship suddenly detected

  something coming their way--something throbbing with power.

  Something that, from its configurations, seemed to be about

  as large as the Borg ship itself ... no--larger!

  Something that was coming up fast!

  The Borg were not concerned. There was nothing about which

  they could become concerned. So confident were they, so

  secure in their superiority and inevitability, that

  any notion that they were in any way threatened was

  irrelevant.

  Dantar felt the hair on his head crispen,

  the very air reaching his nostrils thick and heavy with the

  stench of burning and death. He turned to get

  into his house, because he realized that this was it, the

  last moments of his life and his family's life.

  He wanted to clutch them to his bosom when the end

  came.

  He started towards his home, and then the ground

  churned beneath him. He felt his leg twist almost

  backwards, and he fell, a shooting pain ripping

  through his left knee. He tried to stand once more and

  collapsed, howling with pain and fury. He started

  to drag himself towards his modest home, hand over

  hand, fingers digging into the dirt, his breath rasping in

  his chest.

  The ground trembled and rippled, like an ocean,

  and he saw the roof of his home collapse with a

  sigh. The house crumbled in on itself, walls

  cracking and beams snapping, falling heavily and

  crushing beyond hope anyone who was inside.

  There was the uncomprehending scream of his

  family, and of Dantar the Eighth, who had been

  denied the right to die with his family, and those screams

  were overwhelmed by the death screams of the world itself, and the

  light--gods--the light that was shining down from above

  now, surrounding them.

  Dantar rolled back onto the front yard,

  his arms at either side, as if he'd been

  crucified. He was no longer Dantar the

  Eighth, he realized. He was Dantar the Last.

  A part of him told him that he should be running to the

  rubble, sifting through, trying to pull it off his

  family and finding if there were any survivors.

  "No point," he whispered through cracked and

  bleeding lips. He was staring up at the light that was

  accompanied by a deafening hum. "No point."

  His little piece of the world began to rise into the

  air.

  As part of the Borg uni-mind dealt with the final

  section of the Penzatti homeworld, the rest

  focussed on the new intruder. It was

  definitely a ship approaching them. A ship

  ... and yet, something more. Something far, far more.

  The Borg prepared scouts to board the ship for the

  purpose of study, and then the plan quickly changed

  when the Borg realized that the intruder was not slowing

  down or veering off. The intruder was heading

  straight for them.

  The Borg uni-mind fired off a message

  to the intruder. It was a simple message

  SURRENDER.

  The reply from the intruder was equally succinct

  GO TO HELL.

  The intruder cut loose with a beam composed of

  pure anti-proton. It laughed at the Borg

  shields and smashed into the Borg ship, ripping

  apart the upper portion of the cube.

  The beam vanished, and Dantar felt the world

  fall away beneath him as the gravity of the planet

  reclaimed a piece of itself, desperately, like a

  mother reaching out for an infant snatched from her breast.

  There was a dizzying moment of disorientation, and then the

  ground beneath him collapsed back into the pit that had

  been formed by its disappearance. It was not a precise

  fit, nor a smooth landing, and buildings that had not

  already crumbled now collapsed from the strain. Those

  buildings had never been created to take this sort

  of stress. Neither had the mind of Dantar, and it

  simply shut down.

  The Borg did not panic. Panic was

  irrelevant. Instead, they immediately set their

  restoration mechanisms into operation, under the

  assumption that they would have time to complete the

  repairs before they were attacked again. In their

  machine-like, precise way, they were ignoring the

  concept that they might be overmatched.

  Instead, as the cube began to restore itself, they

  sent off another message to the intruder--the

  intruder, which was momentarily stationary, as if

  appreciating the power of its assault

  You cannot defeat us. If you attempt

  to assault us again, you will be punished. There is no

  power that can withstand us.

  And once again the intruder responded, and the

  Borg became aware that the intruder also

  responded in the unified chorus of

  voices. But whereas the Borg voice was a single

  tone repeated endlessly, the intruder's voice was

  a glorious blending of infinite tones. Had the

  Borg been capable of recognizing such a thing,

  they would have perceived it as beauty. Beauty, however,

  was irrelevant.

  You believe that because none ever has, said the

  intruder. You are so accustomed to overwhelming

  all life forms, that you have no concept of how it would

  be for you. You've never felt the terror of

  hopelessness before.

  Terror is irrelevant, replied the

  Borg. Hopelessness is irrelevant.

  The intruder sighed with the voice of a million

  million souls. You're irrelevant, you

  cosmic bastards.

  The beam of the intruder lashed out before the Borg

  could power up their systems enough to mount a

  counterattack. It smashed into the center of the

  massive cube, blasting through and out the other side.

  The cube trembled and shook, circuits blowing out

  all over. Cracks appeared all over the

  surface, and the beam struck a third time, with even

  greater intensity than before andwitha force behind it that was more

  than simply power. It was a force that seemed to be

  fueled by a massive indignation, a pounding fury

  and anger, and infinite voices crying out in

  triumph.

  The Borg sent out a cry of warning to the

  central uni-mind, alerted the other ships that were

  approaching and would be there sooner or later. A

  warning that there was a new force in the galaxy that had

  to be contended with. And then, with the same eerie silence

  that marked their arrival, the Borg departed--in a

  million directions simultaneously.

  Pieces of the ship and shreds of Borg spread out,

  some hurling off into the depths of space, others

  plunging through the tattered atmosphere of the

  Penzatti homeworld and burning up upon re-entry.

  Pieces ricocheted off the intruder but did not

  inflict even the slightest damage. The intruder

  merely hovered there for a long moment, taking in the

  triumph, basking in the first blow struc
k.

  And there was that sigh, that ineffable sigh of relief.

  A pride in a job well done.

  The intruder moved on.

  Chapter Three

  It had not rained in some time, and the unrelenting

  sun had baked the ground dry. There was, at

  least, a steady wind this day, blowing in a northerly

  direction. It rustled the manes of the two

  horses who travelled slowly across the dry

  plain, and carried the incessant clip-clop of

  their hooves a good distance. Had anyone else

  been around, they would have been warned of the oncoming of the

  riders. As it was, there was no one else around

  to see them or care about them.

  Actually, calling the two animals

  "horses" was excessively kind, even

  inaccurate. One of the animals was, in fact,

  an ass. The other was sagging and broken down, and

  had it been carrying a burden much heavier than that

  which it now bore, it quite probably would have simply

  keeled over and refused to go any farther.

  The man astride the horse was dressed in

  black slacks and boots, a wide-sleeved

  white shirt that rippled in the breeze, and, most

  oddly, pieces of armor that were affixed to him

  front and back in a ragtag fashion. Perched

  on his head was a battered helmet which, in blocking

  the sun, at least served some purpose. For if the

  man had launched himself in!combat, the helmet would

  have been of extremely questionable value.

  Tucked under one arm was a long, rusty, and

  somewhat crooked lance; it would have been difficult

  to discern it as such, but for the fact that he was holding it

  straight out in front of him in a vaguely

  offensive manner.

  From his slight height advantage, he called

  out to his companion, "It's a glorious day,

  isn't it, Sancho? You can smell danger in the

  air, the scent of quests waiting to be

  fulfilled."

  His companion was dressed less

  ostentatiously, in simple peasant garments.

  He inhaled deeply and frowned. "I do not

  detect any such fragrances in the atmosphere."

  "Oh yes, it's there. You just have to know where

  to look. I tell you, Sancho, our great enemy

  is lurking somewhere out there, waiting for us to lower our

  guard so that he can destroy us with one of his cunning

  masterstrokes."

  "Our ene my. That would be "The

  Necromancer," I believe you called him. A

  magician. An enchanter."

  "That's right. The Enchanter ..." His voice

  suddenly trailed off and he reined up his horse.

  "Gods! Do you see them, Sancho?"

  "Sancho's" eyebrows creased slightly in

  mild confusion. "What "them" would that be?"

  "The giants!" The horseman pointed with his

  lance. "The giants! Right ahead of us!"

  "I see only a grouping of windmills."

  "No! It's giants! How can you not see?"

  The horseman immediately spurred his horse forward,

  bringing up his lance. "They mock me! They

  attack! But they cannot defeat a knight errant

  with the might of God on his side!"

  "It is not giants!" said his companion. "It

  is ..."

  It was too late. The horseman charged

  forward, his lance levelled, and a cry of "On,

  Rozinante!" torn from his lips. The hooves

  of the horse, the aforementioned Rozinante, pounded

  beneath him. Although the horse did not charge

  happily, it charged gamely, not able to recall

  any time in recent history when it had been

  called upon to exercise.

  The horse and rider hurtled across the broken

  terrain, toward the tall structure of the closest

  windmill, which was turning serenely, oblivious to the

  idea that it was under attack. The shouts of the

  companion were lost under the thundering hooves.

  The rider careened into the windmill, his lance

  crashing through the thin material that covered the great

  arms. The horse banked sharply to the right to avoid

  the sweep of the steadily turning windmill arms,

  and the knight errant's lance was firmly lodged in

  the latticework. The blades continued to turn,

  thanks to the steady wind, and the horseman was yanked

  upward towards the sky, his lance wedged in, his

  feet kicking in fury.

  He clutched onto the skeletal framework

  of the arm and shouted defiance. He rose up, higher

  and higher, reaching the top and then sweeping downward

  once more. He lost his grip on the lance and started

  to slide. With a cry of alarm he grasped out with

  desperate fingers and managed to snag onto some

  of the tattered cloth. He wrapped one leg around

  the framework as the arm swung downward, but before he

  could dislodge himself, it began to ascend once more.

  Then it stopped, with a jolt. The dehorsed

  horseman's head smacked against the wooden

  skeleton, disorienting him for a moment. Then he

  looked down.

  His companion was down there, holding the lower edge

  of the blade securely in an unbreakable grip.

  From within the windmill was the sound of gears grinding

  against one another, and the other arms of the windmill

  shook in protest.

  "It is safe for you to descend if you do so

  quickly," he said.

  The horseman groaned in frustration and

  clambered down quickly. "I was winning!" he

  protested.

  "You were in serious danger of injuring yourself

  severely," "Sancho" informed him calmly.

  "Furthermore, you risked doing so in pursuit

  of a goal which was unattainable. To perceive this

  windmill," and he released the blade, allowing it

  to go on its way unmolested, "as a giant

  certainly indicates lunacy. Furthermore,

  Geordi, I do not understand why you would choose

  to re-enact a moment of such dismal and utter

  failure on the part of a literary character."

  Geordi shook his head, rubbing his temple.

  "You're not getting this at all, are you, Data?"

  He stepped to one side as the lance dislodged itself from

  the blade and clattered to the ground next to him.

  "Humanity seems to be fascinated by those who

  deviate most from the norm--particularly such

  eccentric madmen as Don Quixote. Beyond his

  possibilities as a case study, I do not

  comprehend his appeal."

  "But it was a glorious madness, don't you

  see!" said Geordi. He walked across the

  ground, shaking his leg slightly to work out a slight

  limp. "Quixote and I, we have a lot in

  common." He walked backward now toward the

  horses so that he could face Data, and tapped the

  VISOR that ringed his face. "We both see things

  differently than other people do."

  "But your VISOR still shows you aspects of

  reality," said Data reasonably. "You still perceive

  things as they are."

  "Yes!" said Geordi excitedly. "And

  Quixote perceived things as they might have been. In />
  the final analysis, who's to say which is the more

  accurate?"

  "I can," said Data. "Yours is the more

  accurate. I wish to indulge you as much as

  possible, Geordi, as do we all. This

  holodeck scenario, after all, is your birthday

  wish. Still, it all seems rather pointless."

  Geordi drew himself astride the

  horse. Data followed suit. "Was it

  pointless for humans to dream of going to space?

  Or eliminating war? Or discovering a cure for

  cancer?"

  "Of course not. Because it led to results."

  "Exactly!" said Geordi excitedly. He

  urged the horse to move forward, which the beast did

  reluctantly. "But when the dreamers started

  dreaming, they had no idea where those dreams would

  lead them--to the madhouse, or to the stars. And

  Quixote was the entire spirit of human imagination

  in one package. His perceptions led him to--"

  "Compound fractures, if he continued battling

  windmills," said Data.

  "Data," said Geordi in exasperation,

  gripping his lance tightly, "the point is that every

  fight is worth fighting. Even the hopeless ones.

  That instead of taking things at face value, you should

  be looking below the surface. You should see what could

  be, instead of what is. Anyone can fight a

  battle that's easy to win. It's fighting the

  battles that are impossible to win that causes

  humanity to take those great leaps forward."

  "If fighting hopeless battles is good for

  humans, then why do humans sometimes retreat?"

  "Well ..." said Geordi uncomfortably,

  "there is a fine line between bravery and suicide,

  between the good fight and the lost fight."

  "But no fight is lost until it is over, and

  if a human retreats before it is over, he will

  never know which type of fight he was fighting."

  Geordi sighed. "Forget it, Data."

  "Quite a few people have said that to me, about a great many

  things," Data said. "I have been assuming that that

  is a statement of preference that the topic be

  terminated, rather than an instruction to delete the

  conversation from my memory."

  "That's a safe assumption," Geordi

  agreed.

  "I must admit that I find that to be a rather

  defeatist attitude on the part of most

  humans." Data pulled on the reins in an

  effort to urge his mount forward. "If humans, as

  you say, strive so mightily against the most