Star Trek - TNG - Vendetta

by Peter David

  The sight of them filling the screen, hour after

  hour, was starting to prey heavily on Martok's

  nerves. He prayed for some relief from it. Any

  sort of relief.

  "We are receiving an incoming transmission!"

  There was great surprise in his officer's voice,

  as if he, too, thought that they were going to be stuck

  there ad infinitum.

  "From the Borg?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "On screen."

  The screen wavered for a moment, and then an

  image appeared that stunned Martok into silence before

  he could even begin a swaggering, "This is Martok

  in command of the Ferengi marauder ship."

  It was Daimon Turane.

  Or, at least, what was left of Daimon

  Turane.

  His head had been encompassed in some sort of

  gear composed of metal and black leather. One

  eye was gone, replaced by a glowing red lens. His

  face was deathly white. The perpetual,

  calculating sneer that was practically ingrained

  into all Ferengi was gone, replaced by a cold,

  passionless, thin-lipped look of arrogant

  confidence.

  When Martok managed to get out anything, it was

  a harsh and stunned whisper. "Daimon

  Turane?" he said.

  "We are no longer the one you call Daimon

  Turane," said the individual on the

  screen. There was an edge to his voice that hadn't

  been there before, an ominous darkness. "We are

  Vastator. Vastator of Borg."

  "I don't understand," said Martok.

  "Vastator? What is ... what have they done

  to you, Daimon?"

  "I speak for the Borg."

  "Daimon, this is incomprehensible. What are

  you--"

  "I speak," he said again, slowly, as if

  addressing a child, "for the Borg."

  Martok's mouth moved for a few seconds, and

  then his face was set. "Very well," he said

  icily. "You speak for the Borg. And what do the

  Borg have to say? Are the Borg interested in

  negotiating a basis for striking a business

  arrangement with the Ferengi?"

  "Negotiating is irrelevant. Business

  is irrelevant."

  "What?" The words that the Daimon were uttering

  were literally blasphemy, and were far more convincing than

  any mere physical change that something was

  definitely wrong with his former commanding officer.

  "Daimon Turane, this is unacceptable. I

  don't know what they've done to you, but--"

  "I have been ... enlightened," said the one who

  called himself Vastator. "I have been educated.

  I have been made one with the Borg. Profit does

  not matter. Profit is irrelevant. The

  Ferengi are irrelevant. Only the Borg

  matter."

  "Are you saying you're staying with the Borg?" The

  concept was so difficult for Martok to grasp. For

  ages now, all he had ever seen was the Daimon

  obsessed with returning to the heart of the Ferengi

  empire--after establishing himself within as someone to be

  reckoned with. The concept that he might not

  return. ...

  And then he began to realize. He began

  to understand that Turane's staying with the Borg did not

  mean that he would not be returning. He might indeed

  be planning to return ... backed up by the full

  strength and power of the Borg. That, indeed, would be a

  threat to contend with.

  "These Borg ships remain here," said

  Turane, a.k.a. Vastator. "A Borg

  ship has been destroyed by an unknown force.

  Another has been dispatched to investigate. We

  await word and further information. Once we know more,

  we will proceed."

  "And what do you expect us to do?" demanded

  Martok.

  Vastator stared at him with--if it could be said

  of a Borg--satisfaction. "We expect you

  to die."

  Martok laughed harshly. "You're bluffing."

  "Bluffing," said Vastator, "is

  irrelevant."

  That simple pronouncement, made with such calm

  and confidence, chilled Martok to the bone. There was

  suddenly no doubt in his mind whatsoever that the

  Borg could do exactly what they said. He also

  had the distinct impression--though he couldn't have said

  why--that Daimon Turane, or whatever was left

  of him, would enjoy their destruction.

  "Sever communication," Martok said suddenly and

  rapidly, the edge becoming evident in his voice.

  "Helm, hard about. Get us the hell out of here.

  Shields up."

  "But Martok ..."

  "Do it!"

  The helmsman immediately tried to respond, but

  suddenly the ship shook. The Ferengi were hurled

  about like poker chips, and Martok cracked his head

  on the arm of the chair. "What the hell ...?!"

  "A tractor beam!" shouted his tactical

  officer. "They have us! They're pulling us toward

  them!"

  "Full power to engines. Break us free!"

  The marauder channeled every bit of energy, every

  reserve, into their engines. The ship shuddered and

  strained against the force of the Borg tractor beam.

  Dampeners were overridden, systems began

  to overload, and the howling of the engines became louder

  and louder, a continual revving that was not getting them

  anywhere.

  "Systems malfunction!" came the shout from

  ops. "We're losing forward drive!"

  "All power to weapons!" snarled Martok.

  "Fire!"

  The Ferengi ship fired upon the Borg ship which

  shook slightly when it hit. Suddenly the

  tractor beam vanished.

  "Now!" shouted Martok. "Get us out!

  Now!"

  The marauder leaped forward, desperately trying

  to compensate for its ravaged control systems.

  Another few seconds, and they might actually have

  gotten away.

  A force beam lanced out from the middle

  Borg ship--the one which was the new home of the

  Borg known as Vastator. The beam was directed

  by him. It was requested by him. Although revenge was

  now irrelevant, there was something deep within him that

  took immense pleasure. Just as there was something

  even deeper within him that cringed and cried out and

  screamed. Screamed, though there was no one to hear.

  The beam slashed through the marauder, dissecting it,

  cutting the nacelles off it the way one would

  pluck the wings off a fly. The ship hurtled end

  over end for a moment, and then ruptured. It blew

  completely apart, the vacuum of space swallowing

  the sound and impact of the explosion, and the abortive

  screams of the entire crew. Within moments the

  fir eball that had been the marauder was snuffed, and

  except for some free-floating rubble and shreds of

  bodies, there was no evidence that there had ever been

  a Ferengi ship there at all.

  Vastator observed the explosion from the safety

  of the Borg ship. There had been nothing to gain from

  taking the ship apart and assimilating it
. Any knowledge

  of the Ferengi that the Borg deemed necessary had already

  been garnered from what he carried in his mind. So the

  concept of keeping the shipful of Ferengi around was a

  useless one. Nor did the Borg have any

  desire to let the Ferengi depart and warn their

  fellows about the three Borg ships that were awaiting

  word on the fate of their brother ship.

  Once upon a time the Borg would have considered

  warnings irrelevant. The Ferengi could have gone

  on ahead and let their entire race know that the

  Borg were coming, and it would have been irrelevant.

  The Borg were superior. The Borg were

  inevitable. Whether you knew they were coming or not

  made no difference. You could make preparations for

  it, you could try and stave it off or keep one step

  ahead of it. But the Borg did not care, because the

  Borg would always win.

  Recent developments, however, had prompted

  the Borg to proceed with more caution. They had

  suffered more losses in recent days than they could

  recall suffering in their entire history the loss

  at the homeworld of the Federation in sector 001, the

  loss of Locutus, the loss of a Borg ship in

  that battle, and the loss of another Borg ship at

  the world called Penzatti. Like the annoying buzzing

  of flies, the losses were starting to pile up and

  become something to consider.

  So the Borg were considering the losses. And the

  Borg were changing their strategy, altering

  their approach. They were doing whatever needed to be

  done to accommodate the inevitable assimilation of

  all life forms by the Borg. If that meant taking

  a wait-and-see attitude, then the Borg would

  wait and see.

  Vastator indulged himself a moment or two

  longer, watching airless space extinguish the last

  trace of the fireball that marked the marauder's

  passing.

  They were now permanently irrelevant.

  Vastator turned on his heel, Borg

  soldiers at either shoulder, and headed back into the

  heart of the Borg ship. All he had to do now was

  wait and see what would happen next. The Borg

  uni-mind would tell him what to do. The uni-mind

  knew everything, and would be triumphant over all.

  That was the way of the Borg. That was the destiny of the

  Borg.

  But with all that had occurred to them ... and with the

  savvy and experience of Vastator to aid them ...

  they would proceed with caution. They learned from

  experience, and learned quickly. That was the strength of the

  Borg.

  That was why they would never fail.

  Never.

  ACT TWO

  Chapter Nine

  "Her name is Reannon Bonaventure, and

  she was officially declared missing, presumed dead,

  thirteen years ago."

  The senior officers were grouped around the conference

  room table, listening to the pronouncement from Data,

  who had just finished his computer studies. They were also

  staring at the computer screen and the image that had been

  called up on it. Outside the viewing port

  hung the now-familiar image of the Penzatti

  homeworld. The concept of playing guard for a

  planet in the event that the Borg should show up was a

  strenuous one, for it meant having to be constantly

  on alert, never knowing when battle was going

  to suddenly present itself. It was an extremely

  unpleasant situation to be in.

  Troi shuddered, for the young woman whose face

  appeared on the screen bore a striking

  resemblance to Troi herself large, luminous

  eyes, classic features. Her hair was a

  few shades lighter than Troi's, and there was

  something else unusual about her. The officers had

  seen many pictures that had been taken, as in the

  case of this one, for the purpose of obtaining a

  freighter pilot's license. But it was the only

  one in which the subject was impishly sticking her

  tongue out at the camera.

  "Quite an ... interesting young woman," Picard

  said. "And certainly a unique picture."

  "I think I remember hearing about her,"

  Riker said after a moment's thought. "Yeah, I do.

  Oh, I remember her now!" and he snapped his

  fingers. "How could I have forgotten? She was quite a

  character."

  "This picture would seem to indicate that,"

  observed Crusher.

  "That picture doesn't begin to tell the half

  of it. They called her the "Brass Lass,""

  said Riker. "She would transport any

  freight, anywhere. She would deal in anything,

  legal or illegal. No matter how deadly

  or hazardous the area, she would cross it, if

  that's what it took to get her cargo through."

  "I remember as well." said Picard. "The

  "Brass Lass." My God. There was quite an

  uproar about her. Starfleet wanted to shut down

  her operation because of all the treaties she was

  ignoring, but there were too many members of the

  Federation who were using her for their own various

  purposes. Raised quite a ruckus."

  "She had a cloaking device, a ship that she

  called the Phantom Cruiser, and as much

  guts as anyone ever had," said Riker

  admiringly. "Once, to get medical supplies

  to a plague-ravaged colony, she determined that

  the shortest distance was straight through Romulan

  space. She went right in. We had no direct

  line into the Romulans at the time, but word was that there

  were all sorts of skirmishes and that that entire

  sector of Romulan space was on full

  alert. And she dodged them all and came out the

  other side. Saved the colony."

  "And this woman," said Bev Crusher in

  wonder, "this woman is now sitting in one of my

  examining rooms."

  "She disappeared one day," said Riker.

  "Reportedly she had royally infuriated the

  Tholians over something ... you know how touchy they

  are, especially when it comes to intrusion in their

  space. They put a price on her head and were

  hunting her pretty hard. Rumor had it that she

  took off for deep space to lie low for a while

  until things blew over."

  "Is it possible she went far enough to have wound up

  within Borg space? It would have taken her years

  to get there."

  "Anything is possible where the "Brass

  Lass" is concerned," said Riker, with a touch of

  admiration. "If she felt the only way to keep

  her head on her shoulders was to explore entirely

  new territories, she would have done it in a

  second. She was utterly fearless."

  "She may well have been the first human being that

  the Borg encountered," said Picard slowly. "And

  they found her intriguing enough to assimilate her

  into themselves. Dr. Crusher ... what is her

  present condition?"

  "I've removed all of the prosthetics and

  appliances," Crusher said, "and reopened herr />
  neural pathways in order to re-establish

  normal brain functions. Skin grafts should

  take a day or so to completely heal; and will

  probably itch like hell for a while."

  "Brain activity?"

  She shrugged. "As near as I can tell, she's

  functioning normally. But Captain, she's still not

  right."

  "Not right?"

  "What the doctor is saying, Captain,"

  Troi now spoke up for the first time, still not taking

  her eyes off the image on the screen, "is that

  her sense of self--all that she is, and was--

  has atrophied, probably beyond recovery. For a

  decade or more she has had Borg implants

  telling her what to do, when to do it, how to do it. She

  hasn't thought. She hasn't assimilated

  experiences or done anything for herself. She

  hasn't expressed her personality, or even

  had it. It's as if she had been locked in a

  sensory deprivation sphere for ten years. I

  examined her barely an hour ago, and I sensed

  nothing of Reannon Bonaventure within her.

  Nothing of anything, really. Her heart beats, her

  body functions, she has all basic motor

  commands. But there's nothing in her. She's a shell

  of a human. Nothing more."

  "Or, in the vernacular, "her lights are

  on, but there's nobody home,"" said Riker.

  "I don't accept that," said Geordi

  firmly.

  They looked at him with curiosity. "Are you

  saying Counselor Troi's empathic

  abilities are in error?" asked Picard.

  "I'm saying, sir, that if there was once a

  vital, living person in there," and he tapped the

  image on the screen, "then there can be again. We

  can't just write her off."

  "No one is suggesting writing her off,

  Geordi," said Riker.

  "That's what it sounds like to me," said Geordi.

  "What this woman has is a handicap. Her mind

  is damaged. But there's probably something

  trapped deep within her, crying to be let out."

  "I think that unlikely," said Troi

  quietly.

  "Well, I don't."

  "Geordi--"

  "Look at me, Counselor," he said with

  unexpected vehemence. "I'm handicapped,

  remember? Without this VISOR, I can't see.

  But I live with it, and I'm satisfied with the way

  I am, because I've received aid and support every

  step of the way. And every night, when I lie there in

  my bed with my VISOR on the nightstand next

  to me, and there's nothing but blackness, I always

  wonder what my life would have been like if I