Star Trek - TNG - Vendetta

by Peter David

  change my mind ..."

  "I will have them prepared," said Worf, and with each

  word dripping menace, he added, "just ... in ...

  case."

  The medtechs were hauling the unconscious

  Dantar back up onto a bed and securing him.

  Beverly Crusher stood over the unmoving form of

  Reannon. She was still blank-faced, staring up

  at the ceiling now. She gave no indication that she

  was remotely aware of what had happened to her,

  or where she was, or who she was. Then Beverly

  looked back at the unconscious form of

  Geordi La Forge.

  "Not one of the more auspicious starts to a

  project," she said to no one in particular.

  "Vendetta." Guinan nodded slowly,

  stroking her chin.

  Picard, Troi, and Guinan had gone

  into Guinan's small, functional office just off

  to the side of Ten-Forward. Guinan was standing,

  looking thoughtful and circling the room.

  "Vendetta. Yes. Yes, that could have been what

  I was saying."

  "And the significance of it?"

  She shook her head. "I don't know."

  Picard looked at her with raised eyebrow.

  "No idea?"

  She spread her hands wide. "Guesses.

  About a dozen, any of which might be accurate, or

  might be even more confusing. I wish I knew."

  "And what I told you just now, about the experience

  I had when I was in the Academy?"

  "I'm as mystified as you, Captain," said

  Guinan. She looked from Troi to Picard and then

  back again. "It may very well be that whoever, or

  whatever, was in your vision back in the Academy

  is somehow connected to my collapse, but

  I can't say for certain."

  "Can you say anything for certain?"

  "Yes." She frowned. "Whatever is behind all

  this, sooner or later, is going to show itself. And then

  we can all stop guessing."

  Picard nodded slowly and then stood. "All

  right. Thank you for your time, Guinan. If ..."

  "Captain." Guinan's voice, her whole

  demeanor, had suddenly changed. "Captain,

  wait, there's something I'm not telling you."

  He was stunned, as if slapped in the face.

  "Guinan," and the shock in his voice was evident.

  "In all the time I've known you, our relationship

  has been based on honesty. I can't believe

  there's anything you wouldn't share with me. Especially

  if it's important. And most especially if

  lives are at stake."

  "It's not something I discuss lightly,

  Captain," she said. For the first time that he could

  recall, she turned her back to him as if she

  couldn't bear to look at him. Her arms were

  folded, and she was staring down at her feet, as if

  trying to determine the best way to proceed. "I

  don't know for sure," she said. "That's the

  absolute truth. And I didn't want to bring

  it up unless I did know. It's a rather ...

  painful topic, and personal--one that I didn't

  really want to share if it could be avoided." She

  turned to face Picard. "But I owe it to you, out

  of respect for our relationship and our friendship,

  to tell you anything that could be of help."

  She sat down behind her desk, interlacing her

  fingers. She paused a long moment, appearing

  to gaze long and hard into herself. She almost seemed

  to be casting her mind back. Picard and Troi

  stood respectfully silent.

  "I think," she said slowly, "that the woman who

  is causing all this, the woman whom you faced that

  night in your dorm room, Captain, is named

  Delcara."

  "Delcara." The name meant nothing to Picard.

  Odd. He'd always thought, in the back of his mind,

  that if he'd ever met her, ever learned her name,

  there would be a dazzling flash of understanding, or

  something. But there was nothing. It was just a name, three

  syllables. "Delcara. And she has reason

  to hate the Borg?"

  "Ooooohh yes," said Guinan. "Some very good

  reasons."

  "And you know her," said Troi.

  "You could say that," Guinan said dryly. "You

  see, Delcara is my sister."

  Chapter Ten

  Captain Morgan Korsmo was awakened by the

  alarm of the red-alert siren that came in tandem with the

  urgent call on his communicator. Korsmo was

  one of those people who took no time at all to awaken,

  and fully alert, he tapped his communicator and

  said, "Korsmo here."

  "Captain, you'd better get up here," came

  Shelby's voice, very controlled, almost

  passionless, and yet projecting a clear

  undercurrent of alarm. "Long-range sensors have

  detected--"

  "The Borg?"

  "Yes, sir."

  For one moment unwanted thoughts flashed through his

  head. Thoughts of, At last! I'll get to show

  what I can do against those monstrosities! I'll

  show that Picard isn't the only one who can hold

  his own against those mechanized bastards. But these

  musings were immediately replaced by concern over his ship

  and his crew. They had to come first, no matter what.

  "Alert Starfleet Command immediately. I'll be right

  up."

  In record time Korsmo was striding out onto

  the bridge, his practiced gaze taking in all

  tactical readouts. Shelby rose from the command

  chair and took her usual station as Korsmo

  dropped into place. "Sensors on maximum.

  Status report."

  "Shields on full," reported Peel from

  tactical. "Weapons batteries fully

  charged. All stations report ready."

  "What've we got?" asked Korsmo,

  studying the screen. The stars shimmered ahead,

  racing past, whatever their sensors had detected not

  yet in visual range.

  "One ship," said Peel, "matching exactly

  the configurations of the Borg ship that attacked

  several months ago. Moving at warp seven.

  Present course and heading will take it--"

  "Toward Penzatti," said Shelby. Korsmo

  shot her a curious look.

  "No, ma'am," said Peel, after a moment.

  "It seems bound in the direction of the Kalish

  system."

  "That's in the general direction of

  Penzatti, but still ..." Korsmo's voice

  trailed off. "Helm, bring us around in an

  intercept course at warp seven."

  "Course plotted and laid in," said the

  helmsman.

  "Lay on," said Korsmo, and the ship immediately

  angled directly into the path of the oncoming Borg

  ship. "Give me a direct line to the Borg

  ship. I'm going to warn them off."

  "We're going to warn them?"

  He glanced at Shelby. "Problem with that,

  Number One?"

  "Captain," said Shelby firmly, "with all

  due respect, we don't have the firepower

  to back up that warning. Our weapons won't even

  slow them down."

  "If you don't mind, Number One, I'd like

  to test that for myself."


  "Here they come," said Peel.

  Sure enough, sailing toward them on the screen

  at warp seven was the familiar cube of the Borg

  ship. It seemed like nothing so much as an

  unstoppable Juggernaut, ready to run over

  anything in its path.

  "No response on any hailing

  frequency," reported Peel.

  "We will intercept in thirty-five seconds,

  sir," came the report from Hobson at conn.

  "Repeat warning," said Korsmo firmly, "that

  they have already established themselves as a hostile force

  ... that if they do not break off from their present

  course and return our communications, we will have no

  choice but to regard this as an act of aggression and

  take appropriate measures."

  Shelby forced herself not to shake her head in

  disbelief. Korsmo talked a good game, she'd

  give him that. But he was still acting as if this were a

  normal foe that he was up against. He had no

  real comprehension, despite everything, of just how

  powerful the Borg were. Perhaps no one could, unless

  they'd experienced it firsthand. She just hoped they'd

  live to remember the experience.

  "Still no response."

  "Mr. Peel," said Korsmo after a moment,

  "fire a warning shot directly in their path.

  Let them know we mean business."

  "Firing phasers," said Peel.

  The phasers' beams lanced out across space,

  cutting right in the way of the Borg ship. To all

  intents and purposes, a line had been

  drawn, warning the Borg to proceed no further.

  The Borg crossed it with no hesitation, and

  shot straight towards the Chekov.

  "Collision course!" shouted Hobson.

  And on top of Hobson's warning came

  Korsmo's order of "Hard about, maximum

  warp!"

  The Chekov responded immediately, angling down

  and away, and the Borg ship hurtled past without

  slowing down.

  "Bring us around," ordered Korsmo, his hands

  gripping the arms of his chair so hard that his

  knuckles were white. His voice was laced with

  fury. To be beaten, or outwitted, or

  outmuscled, those he could handle. But no one, not

  Borg nor Romulan nor anybody, simply

  ignored him. "Catch up with her, Mr.

  Hobson."

  The mighty engines of the Chekov shot the ship

  forward as if from a slingshot. On their screen the

  Borg ship was still barreling forward, unaware or

  uncaring of their presence.

  "Wherever they're going, they're in one hell of a

  hurry," observed Shelby.

  "They're at warp eight," confirmed Peel.

  "They're pulling away from us."

  "Take us to warp eight," ordered Korsmo.

  "Peel, target their primary energy emission--

  fire!"

  The Chekov fired, phasers fully armed, and

  struck the Borg ship, playing across the surface

  and scoring it severely.

  "Any effect?" asked Korsmo.

  "Nothing appreciable," said Peel. "And the

  damage that they did sustain is being repaired--

  almost instantaneously."

  Korsmo turned towards Shelby. "You're the

  expert on these things, Shelby. Do they have a weak

  point?"

  For a fleeting moment Shelby was reminded of the

  old story about the baseball player--the one who

  came up to bat three times and hit a double, a

  triple, and a home run. When he came up

  to bat for the fourth time the pitcher was pulled in

  favor of a new, fresh pitcher. As they passed

  each other, the new pitcher asked the departing one,

  "This guy got any weaknesses?" And the losing

  pitcher said dourly, "Yeah, he can't hit

  singles."

  "The only weaknesses," she said, "are

  within their own mental structure. In terms of

  outside attack, they are virtually

  impervious."

  "How do we get inside that structure?"

  She did not smile. "Willing to have yourself

  "borged," Captain?"

  "They're at warp eight-point-five," said

  Peel. "They've fully repaired damage."

  "Match their speed."

  The Chekov roared into warp

  eight-point-five, and that brought an immediate call from

  the engine room. "Captain," warned Engineering

  Chief Polly Parke, "any speculation as

  to how much speed you'll need?"

  "Stoke the furnace, Mister Parke,"

  Korsmo warned her, "because we may need everything

  you have. Bridge out. Peel, arm full torpedo

  and phaser array. We're going to get their

  attention if ..."

  "It kills us?" offered Shelby. "Captain,

  respectfully state that this is not the proper

  course."

  "Suggestion noted. Mr. Peel, fire."

  Once again the phasers played across the

  surface of the Borg ship, accompanied by an

  array of photon torpedoes. The attack lit

  up the darkness of space, a dazzling display of

  firepower.

  The Borg slowed long enough to fire back one

  shot, just one.

  It struck the Chekov with furious power, and the

  ship was rocked by the force of it.

  "Damage reports coming in from all over the

  ship!" shouted Hobson. "Shields at fifty

  percent!"

  "The Borg ship is pulling away,"

  reported Peel.

  "Pursue it."

  "Captain ..." began Shelby.

  But he cut her off with a curt, "Not now!

  Hobson, divert all power to engines. Don't

  lose that ship!"

  "They're back at warp eight and increasing."

  "Pace them."

  "Engineering to bridge. Captain, we're

  leaking--"

  "Plug it!" he told her fiercely.

  "Whatever it is, Parke, fix it, and keep warp

  speed coming. We're not going to lose those

  bastards!"

  Shelby looked at Korsmo as if seeing him

  for the first time. The fury radiating from him was filling

  the bridge, poisoning the atmosphere.

  "Captain," she said with as much calm as she could

  muster, "the upward limits of Borg speed have not

  been measured."

  "We'll measure them now. Helm, overtake

  them. Warp nine."

  Moving at speed that could take the ship across the

  Terran solar system in twenty-six seconds,

  the Chekov started to close the gap.

  "The Borg have effected repairs," Peel

  said once again. "They are increasing speed to warp

  nine-point-two."

  "Warp nine-point-two, helm. Bridge

  to engineering."

  "Engineering," came Parke's voice. She was

  clearly annoyed, but that wasn't going to deter her

  from following business. "Captain, we're

  presently at nine-point-two. That's maximum

  speed."

  "That's normally maximum speed, Mister

  Parke," replied Korsmo, putting on an

  air of coolness that he did not feel. "We may

  need more. Depends on our friends out there."

  "I haven't got much more to give, Captain,"

  she warned. "Systems are o
n overload now.

  Under normal circumstances--"

  "These are far from normal. Transporter

  room, get ready to receive a landing party."

  "Landing party?" said Shelby.

  He turned towards her. "I've read all

  your reports, Commander," he said. "Once we

  get aboard that ship, the Borg will tend to ignore

  anyone there."

  "Have ignored in the past, Captain, yes,"

  affirmed Shelby, "but that doesn't mean they'll

  continue to do so."

  "We're going to overtake. Get in

  transporter range and board them," said

  Korsmo firmly.

  "I would not advise that."

  "Did I ask for your advice, Commander?"

  There was dead silence on the bridge, the stinging

  question hanging in the air. "No, sir, you did not,"

  Shelby said after a moment, "but I thought it best

  ..."

  "I'll remember that."

  "Sir, they're at warp nine-point-six,"

  reported Peel. "We're still not within

  transporter range."

  "And we've got all available energy

  siphoned to the warp engines," added Hobson.

  "Captain ..."

  "Go to warp nine-point-six."

  Shelby closed her eyes, imagining she could

  feel the shuddering protest of the starship as the ship

  upped her speed to 1,909 times the speed of

  light. The maximum rated speed, the ship could

  handle warp nine-point-six, theoretically, for

  twelve hours. In terms of practicality, the

  Chekov would probably tear herself to shreds long

  before that happened.

  "Structural stress increasing by a factor of

  two," said Hobson, as if reading a death

  sentence.

  "What effect is this speed having on the

  Borg ship?" demanded Korsmo.

  "No visible or detectable effect on the

  Borg," Peel informed him after a moment. And

  then, knowing the effect it would have on Korsmo, he

  said quietly, "Borg have gone to warp

  nine-point-nine."

  Again there was a deathly silence on the bridge.

  When Korsmo spoke, it was a whisper. "Warp

  nine-point-nine."

  This is insane! Shelby thought, but she said

  nothing.

  "Warp nine-point-nine," Hobson said

  slowly, every syllable hanging in the air.

  "Engineering to bridge."

  "I was expecting your call, Mister Parke,"

  said Korsmo mirthlessly.

  "Sir, this is beyond my control," she said.

  "At warp nine-point-nine, the engines will shut

  down automatically after ten minutes. Whatever

  you're going to do, do it now, or do it in the

  afterlife."

  "Captain, they're pulling away from us," said