Star Trek - TNG - Vendetta

by Peter David

  Daimon, you know. Daimon Turane of the

  Ferengi. In addition to my own rank and station, I

  have a brother who is on the council itself. That, I

  tend to think, gives you an idea of my

  importance."

  He stood there with arms folded, waiting for a

  response. He got nothing. One of the Borg

  soldiers simply turned and walked away. The

  other remained in its place, relays still

  clicking, as if receiving a transmission

  from somewhere.

  "I said," repeated Turane a bit more

  impatiently, "that I have a great deal to offer you."

  There was a long, awkward silence, and Turane

  wasn't sure what he was going to do if the Borg

  just left the way the previous one had. Would he

  simply wander the ship for the rest of his life,

  ignored, frustrated? Relegated to some sort of

  non-person status? Unable to get a response

  other than to be destroyed when interfering with some

  sort of ship function? What sort of destiny was

  this? He, Daimon Turane, was intended for

  greater things.

  "Answer me, damn you!" shouted Turane.

  "I am a Daimon of the Ferengi, and live or

  die, I will not be ignored! Do you hear me? I

  will not!"

  And for the first time, the Borg soldier actually

  fixed him with a glassy stare. There was no sound of

  acknowledgment, no verbal greeting, but it was clear

  that, for the first time, the Borg was actually aware of his

  presence as an individual. All of a sudden he

  wasn't sure that that awareness was necessarily a

  good thing.

  The Borg turned and started to walk away.

  Turane remained where he was, uncertain of how

  best to proceed. Then the Borg stopped in its

  tracks, turned, and faced Turane once more.

  This time the message was unmistakable. The

  Ferengi was to follow.

  "All right," said Turane, with some measure of

  satisfaction. "This is the sort of cooperation that

  can only be profitable for all of us."

  He followed the Borg soldier, who preceded

  him with a stiff-limbed walk. Turane looked

  around him as they went farther and farther into the heart

  of the Borg ship. The place was a complete

  maze. If he needed to find his way back, he

  never would be able to. And he sensed that every square

  inch of the ship was being used for some specific

  purpose. Absolutely nothing was being left

  to waste. There was no need for pictures or

  sculptures to break up the decor, or for

  differently colored walls, or for anything other

  than total machine-precision. There was a certain

  ... inevitability about it all. As if anything

  caught up in the great gears of the Borg mentality

  would be unceasingly, irrevocably ground up and

  pulped into its essence.

  There was a steady humming in front of

  him that was getting louder and louder as he approached

  it. A power source, perhaps? Or something more? He

  wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything,

  really, except that matters were spiralling out beyond

  his ability to control them.

  First officer Martok drummed his fingers

  impatiently on the arms of the command chair. The

  rest of the bridge crew waited for some sort of

  move on his part, some indication of his intentions.

  "Raise them," he said finally. "They've been

  silent for too long."

  "No response, sir," said the tactical

  officer after a moment. "Not from Daimon

  Turane, nor Darr, nor any of the guards."

  Martok nodded slowly.

  "I was afraid of that," he said. "It may be

  that Daimon Turane has met with a ...

  mishap."

  It seemed to stretch out forever.

  Turane stood on a ledge that overlooked

  what appeared to be some sort of massive power

  core. The angles were confusing, the depth

  difficult to register, but he was certain that he was

  perceiving something that was miles wide and miles

  deep. There were Ferengi legends of a great pit that

  led to a netherworld, down to which all Ferengi would be

  hurled at the end of their lives. Waiting in that

  pit was a great entity which would study the amount of

  business conducted in the recently deceased's

  lifetime, and whether that life had ended on the

  profit or debit side. The fate for all

  eternity would then be determined. Turane had the

  hideous feeling that he was facing that judgment

  prematurely ... or perhaps it wasn't

  premature. Maybe he was dead and just hadn't

  acknowledged it yet.

  Borg soldiers now stood on either side of

  him, facing the great presence. Yes,

  definitely, there was some sort of presence there.

  And when it spoke to him, it seemed to echo not

  only in his ears, but in his mind.

  "We are the Borg," it announced. It

  wasn't one voice. It was the voice of thousands

  combined. And it seemed to speak, not just from within the

  ship, but from somewhere beyond that, as if the ship were

  channeling only some sort of greater intelligence.

  Turane nodded slowly. In this, the most

  incredible situation he'd ever been in,

  he found his thoughts spinning back to the most

  elementary lessons he'd ever had in business

  dealings. Never let them see you're uncertain.

  Never act as if you've been caught unawares.

  Always act as if you're two steps ahead of the

  proceedings, even if you're three steps behind.

  Confidence is everything. Arrogance is everything.

  Any deal can be consummated if you act as if

  any deal can be walked away from.

  "And "we"," said Turane, drawing himself

  up, "are Daimon Turane of the Ferengi. If

  you want expertise on the science of the deal, and

  are interested in chatting with one of the most

  accomplished negotiators in the Ferengi

  empire, then I can be of use to you. If you are

  interested in discussing some sort of deal--"

  "Deal is irrelevant," boomed the voice

  of the Borg.

  Turane tilted his head slightly. "I

  hardly think that the science of the deal--"

  "Deal is irrelevant," came the

  implacable voice. "Science is irrelevant.

  What you think is irrelevant. We will use

  you."

  "Use me?" said Turane.

  "We had a voice," said the Borg. "A

  link to humans. That link was severed. We will use

  another link. A voice to speak for the Borg. The

  previous link was too strong-willed. We will

  use someone more easily controlled."

  "Who was your link?" asked Turane. Somehow

  he wasn't really expecting an answer.

  To his surprise, he got one. "The link was

  Locutus. Before he was Locutus, he was

  Picard."

  "Picard?" gasped Turane. "Jean-Luc

  Picard ... of the Enterprise? And he was your

  spokesman?"

  "He malfunctioned. He will now be


  replaced."

  "Spokesman," said Turane thoughtfully.

  "Yes, I rather like the sound of that. To return to the

  Ferengi, with your might behind me ... yes. Yes,

  I think we can do business together." A slow

  smile spread across his face as he contemplated

  the reaction of his accursed brother when he, the

  despised Turane returned, backed up by the

  power of the all-powerful Borg. "Of course, we

  have to discuss terms ..."

  "Terms are irrelevant."

  "Now wait a--"

  "Discussion is irrelevant. You will be our

  voice. You will "sell," as you phrased it. You

  will tell humanoids that they must bow to the Borg.

  That they must surrender to the Borg. That the way of the

  Borg is the only way."

  "That's all fine," sa id Daimon Turane.

  "But there has to be something in it for me. As long as

  we come to an understanding about--"

  "Understanding is irrelevant."

  "But I have needs--"

  "Needs are irrelevant."

  With mounting fury driven by rapidly spiralling

  fear, Turane said, "All you've discussed is

  what you want. What about me?"

  The response was not altogether unexpected; however,

  that made it no less chilling.

  "You are irrelevant."

  Chapter Six

  "My God," whispered Deanna. "Look

  at it."

  They had seen examples of the Borg's handiwork

  before, but it never failed to be an impressive and

  totally horrifying sight. There, in front of

  them, was a planet that once had been home to a

  sprawling civilization. Now it sat there, looking

  lifeless, gutted and pitted as if a giant ice

  cream scoop had come down and served out huge

  dollops of the planet.

  "The rescue ship Curie is in orbit

  around Penzatti, sir," Worf said. "Receiving

  an incoming transmission from Dr. Terman."

  "On screen."

  Picard was familiar with Terman's work, and with

  Terman himself. Although Terman carried the flag

  rank of Commodore, he rarely used the rank

  (except when forced to pull it) himself and always

  preferred to be addressed as "Doctor."

  "The rank was given me," Picard had heard

  him quoted as saying once, "but I had to work for the

  damned doctoring degree."

  Whenever there was immediate need for rescue services,

  Terman and his people seem to appear with almost

  preternatural timing. Some said Terman had a

  low-grade telepathic ability that

  unconsciously tipped him to trouble spots. He

  simply called it dumb luck.

  The screen flickered a moment, wiping

  away the hideous spectacle of the Penzatti and

  replacing it with the lined, graying face of Doctor

  Terman. Picard knew immediately what was going through

  the man's mind. Terman was too much the veteran

  to allow any outward display of emotion, but the

  haunted expression in his eyes upon coming face

  to face with the horrific power of the Borg ...

  Picard knew that haunted look. It was in the

  eyes of the image that stared at him every morning from the

  mirror when he shaved.

  He forced himself into his full business mode.

  "Doctor, what is your review of the situation?"

  Terman nodded his head in the general direction

  of the planet below. "Have you ever seen anything like this

  before?"

  "Twice," said Picard. "Two more times than

  I would have liked."

  "This planet has had it," said Terman.

  "I've had my people run a projection." He

  rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if to physically

  shove his brain into operational mode. Picard

  suspected the man hadn't slept in days. "The

  amount of mass removed from the planet has

  irrevocably altered the orbit, not to mention the

  fact that chunks of its atmosphere were ripped

  away. This place is going to go from vacation spot

  to frozen snowball."

  "Shall we commence emergency evacuation

  procedures?" asked Picard. Numerically it

  would not be a problem. The Enterprise, in a

  pinch, could handle as many as nine thousand evacuees.

  "If you recommend it."

  Picard gave it a moment's thought. "How long

  before the orbital changes impact on the

  climate?"

  "Oh," Terman gave a dismissive wave,

  "months yet. Their years are 579 solar days

  long. I'd give it at least six solar months

  before this place really begins to freeze over."

  "Then I would be inclined to wait awhile," said

  Picard. He saw from the corner of his eye

  Riker giving him a surprised look, but he

  continued calmly, "If the Borg are in the area,

  or return shortly, we will doubtlessly be

  engaging them."

  "Yes, I've heard they're most engaging

  fellows," said Terman dryly. It was the sort

  of gallows humor tossed around when people were faced with

  situations too hideous to contemplate. An

  understandable defensive device, if

  somewhat inappropriate, and Picard let the comment

  pass unremarked.

  "If that occurs, then being on the Enterprise

  may well be the equivalent of stepping from the

  frying pan into the fire," continued Picard.

  "However, if your medical facilities are--"

  "Crammed," said Dr. Terman. "We're

  small and wiry on the Curie, but we've got

  our limits, and this is exceeding them. I'll

  tell you, Captain, before this we helped patch

  things together on Tri Epsilon Delta, after a

  Tholian raid. That was a cakewalk, compared

  to this."

  "We'll be more than happy to pitch in. In the

  meantime, the Chekov is on her way as well.

  Within a few days you'll have more help than you can

  handle."

  "Ain't no such animal," said Terman. "I

  can use all the help I can get. Look,

  Captain, I can't tell you how much I'd rather be

  chatting here with you than overseeing this sweep-up

  operation, but--"

  "Understood, Doctor. We'll be down

  presently to assist. Enterprise out."

  The frowning image of Terman vanished to be

  replaced by, once again, the cratered surface

  of Penzatti. Picard stared at it a moment more and

  then said, "Number One, prepare an away

  team. Full medical personnel complement, all

  shifts. We don't have a moment to lose."

  "You want to accomplish as much as possible in the

  event the Borg return?" said Riker.

  Picard gave him a significant glance.

  "That is in the back of my mind."

  "And moving up fast."

  "Warp speed," affirmed Picard. "Mr.

  Chafin," he addressed the lieutenant at

  conn. "Standard orbit."

  "Aye, sir," said Chafin, and within moments the

  Enterprise was in a graceful synchronous

  orbit, 35,000 kilometers above the scarred

  surface of the planet. "Standard orbit, sir."

  From the tactical displ
ay, Worf was scanning

  the area. "Sir," he said, "sensors are

  detecting high traces of the types of weapons that

  were discharged."

  "Borg weaponry?" asked Picard. It

  seemed self-evident somehow. The Romulans

  didn't exactly go around gutting planets.

  Who the hell else could it be?

  "Some trace of Borg, sir ... but something

  else. I am also detecting some debris that is

  definitely from the Borg ship."

  "Debris," said Riker. "Then, it's

  true."

  "The Borg have apparently met their match,"

  agreed Picard. "Spectral analysis of the

  debris, Mr. Worf. Cause of

  destruction?"

  Worf looked up with a look of disbelief on

  his face, his eyes wide. If there was one thing

  Worf understood, even worshipped, it was power.

  Yet here was something that gave even the Klingon

  pause. "A beam composed of pure

  anti-proton."

  "Pure?" said Riker in astonishment. "A

  weapon of that magnitude could destroy--"

  "Anything," said Data. There was something even more

  chilling about the way he said it--with that detached,

  calm, faintly mechanical air.

  "Absolutely anything. It would sever

  castrodinium at the molecular level. An

  anti-proton beam, at full strength, would not be

  slowed by our shields at all."

  That analysis hung in the air for a moment.

  Then Picard said, very quietly, "It would

  definitely appear we have a new player on the

  ball field. And he is wielding a

  considerably formidable bat."

  The landing party, composed of Riker, Geordi,

  Data, Crusher, Doctor Selar, and ten

  medtechs, each fully loaded with gear,

  materialized on the one section of the planet that

  had remained intact after the Borg attack. It

  was a section roughly eight hundred miles in

  diameter, although a good portion of that consisted of

  woodlands and undisturbed nature. The

  Penzatti, as technically advanced as they were,

  still had an appreciation for the beauty that only

  nature could provide. It only added to the

  tragedy of their world's fate that the Borg had no

  such considerations.

  All around them the rescue teams from the

  Curie were hard at work. Buildings had tumbled

  over, bodies lay strewn about, and death still hung

  in the air, an uninvited and unwelcome guest

  at the proceedings. The valiant Curie teams

  were doing everything they could to reduce the number of

  individuals forced to shake hands with that