by Peter David
"Since when do the Borg deal?" demanded
Picard. He didn't trust the Ferengi when they
were normal Ferengi. He sure as hell
didn't trust them when they'd been converted
to walking cybernetic nightmares. "I would have
assumed deals are irrelevant."
"You are a special case ..." and then he
paused and added with chilling familiarity,
"Locutus."
Picard held his breath, waiting for the chill
to pass through him. "Locutus is dead!" he
called.
"Locutus is inoperative. Locutus can be
restored."
"You'll have to kill me first!"
Vastator fired again at the slab behind which
Picard had been hiding moments before. It blew
apart especially violently and Picard thanked
whatever gods were orchestrating this insanity that he was
crouching behind a crystal slab for protection. A
number of shards hurtled past him, looking
unpleasantly sharp.
"I do not understand you," said Vastator. His
voice sounded farther away, but Picard did not
dare to stick his head out and check. Curiosity could
kill the captain. "Your resistance is futile.
We simply wish to make you a part of the New
Order."
"The New Order!" Picard called back,
wishing that he could shoot back with a phaser instead of
with words. "The most disdained words in the English
language. In the twentieth century they spoke
of a New Order, and they were still mouthing such
inanities when World War III began. So
don't speak to me of the New Order of the
Borg."
"Come now, Picard," said Vastator. His
voice seemed to be moving once again, and Picard
couldn't tell whether it was closer or further.
"Do not forsake the Borg. Do not turn your back
on us."
"Why? Because I'll end up with a
knife in it?"
Another howl of the phaser, another crystal
slab blown to bits.
And Picard suddenly gasped and looked down.
A shard was sticking out of his right leg, blood
trickling from the wound. Pain was creeping through the
leg and he felt it starting to go numb.
He heard another phaser blast and it was
striking the slab he was behind. As he lunged for
another slab to his left, it suddenly clicked
into his mind just what it was that the entire crystal
set up was reminding him of a cemetery. An
array of closely set headstones, row upon row
of the dead buried deep beneath the soil. It was not a
pleasant realization.
He crawled on his belly, sucking in dust and
coughing. He bit down on his lower lip,
determined not to cry out, and gripped the shard that was
sticking out of his right thigh. He pulled it out and
internalized the agony that threatened to paralyze his
entire body.
The vessel around him suddenly started to shake.
Something was happening, something else. Something that
seemed to suddenly provoke Vastator further.
He fired three times, all around Picard, and the
captain refused to give in, refused to sit still,
refused to surrender, although every nerve ending was
screaming for rest. His brain just wanted to shut
down, tried to convince him that nothing mattered more
than just resting for a few minutes, that's all, just a
few minutes.
"We simply want to improve the quality of
life for all species!" announced Vastator,
saying words that had a haunting ring of familiarity
to Picard.
"How do you intend to do that?" shouted back
Picard.
"By improving the quality of the Borg, of
course," said Vastator. "Then the improved
Borg will assimilate all species, and there will
be an end to war. An end to struggle."
"An end to imagination!"
"The Borg will assimilate that as well.
Imagination assimilation has already begun,
utilizing that which was taken from Locutus, and now from
Vastator. The Borg continue to adapt and
improve. That is why the Borg will triumph.
Picard ... I have endeavored to give you the
opportunity to show yourself willingly. Such has not
been your choice. So I shall force you."
There was a brief pause and then the Borg said,
"Show yourself or I will completely destroy the
female."
"Leave her alone! You've killed her already!"
"There is a spark of life. But I will take
it now, unless you show yourself."
Vastator stood still for a long moment,
contemplating the foolishness of it all. "As you
wish, Picard."
"Wait!"
And Picard stepped out into the middle of the
pathway that led down to the crystal column in which
Delcara was contained. Blood was pouring down his
leg, and he had to lean with one hand against one of the
remaining crystal slabs in order to remain standing.
"Picard," said Vastator. "You see? The
Borg would not have acted thus before Locutus and,
later, I were created. The Borg would not have conceived
of such self-sacrifice. You value the life of
one individual over another. Locutus and I
have given the Borg new understanding. Locutus can
again."
"Locutus," Picard repeated firmly,
"is dead." His face was pale and he felt
numbness spreading to his foot. He could barely
move his toes. Walking seemed to involve commanding
an inert slab of meat that was his right leg in name
only.
"I mean you no harm, Picard," said
Vastator. "If I had, you would be dead."
"Vastator," said Picard slowly, "who were you
before?" He took another step forward.
Vastator was not concerned. Picard posed no
threat. His leg was crippled and, besides,
Vastator was holding a phaser. "Before is
irrelevant."
"It's relevant to me," said Picard.
"I was called Daimon Turane of
Ferengi. Daimon Turane is irrelevant.
Ferengi are irrelevant. Only the Borg
matter."
"Turane," said Picard slowly, with effort.
He was now barely ten feet from the Borg. "I
remember ... what it was like when I was
Locutus. I remember that there was a part of me,
hidden away, that they couldn't touch. And that part was
screaming for release, screaming even for death, rather
than a continuation of that unnatural existence."
"You romanticize, Picard. Romance is
irrelevant."
"It's not irrelevant, damn it!" Picard
said, trying not to fall. Now he was eight feet
away, and then seven. "This shell called
Vastator is not you! It's some representation, a
re-creation. It's not really and truly you. Fight
to be let out. Fight for release. On the
Enterprise, we can help you, as I was
helped."
"Depriving you of Locutus was not help," said
Vast
ator. "It deprived you of your place in the
New Order."
"There will be no New Order! Daimon
Turane would understand that. Vastator can not.
Vastator can't understand that humanity will fight and
keep on fighting. Will never stop resisting, and will
always find a way. Throughout our history there have
been a series of conquerors, one after the other, and
we have survived them all."
Vastator cocked his head slightly. "You
require a better class of conqueror." He
leveled the phaser at Picard's chest. "No
further. Choose. Subject yourself to my wishes
and the rule of the Borg, or die. There is no
other choice."
"Fight them, Turane! Fight them--to was
"There is no Turane. There is only
Vastator. Choose now."
"You won't kill me with that," said Picard with
confidence.
"Is that your last, futile hope, Picard?"
said Vastator. "Depending upon an appeal to a
being who no longer exists, telling that phantom that
it cannot bring itself to put an end to you? You believe that
Vastator is inhibited by your petty morals from
destroying you with this phaser?"
"Not at all," said Picard.
"What, then, do you mean, t hat I won't kill
you?"
"I mean that a phaser at setting 16 has a
capacity of only ten shots before being utterly
depleted. You're out of power."
Vastator aimed and fired.
A phaser blast hit Picard dead center of the
chest. The captain staggered back, arms
pinwheeling, and then he caught himself on the edge of
one of the slabs. He felt a stiffness in his chest,
and the wind had been knocked out of him. Vastator
strode towards him and squeezed the button again.
And this time, there was nothing.
"Maybe eleven shots," admitted
Picard, "although the last one would be substantially
depleted. A direct hit at setting sixteen
and I'd be free-floating atoms by now. All you
had left was one minor burst that would have rendered a
hummingbird unconscious. Maybe."
Vastator tossed aside the phaser and came
straight at Picard, leading with his mechanical
appendage. A blue-tinged charge of
electricity danced around the end of it.
Picard dropped to one knee as the deadly
metal arm passed just over his head. At the same
time, he yanked from hiding within his environmental
jacket a shard of crystal, dark with blood and
recently pulled from his own thigh. Vastator was
carried forward by the weight of the arm and he overshot
his mark. For a split second he was off-balance
and vulnerable, and Picard took that moment. The
captain swung his arm upward and drove the point
of the crystal shard deep into Vastator's chest.
No blood came out. He might just as
likely have hit some sort of circuitry. It
didn't matter. It had the same effect.
Vastator stumbled back, making strange, choking
sounds, and he tried to bring his mechanical arm up
to grab Picard once more. He didn't even come
close. With a groan like a falling tree,
Vastator tumbled forward and fell heavily to the
floor.
Picard sagged, his energy depleted, and started
to pull himself away from the collapsed form of the
Borg. And then, to his horror, Vastator
started to raise himself, as if doing a push-up.
Then he flipped over onto his back, staring up
at the ceiling, and his mouth moved, trying to form
words. He gasped out in a low, hoarse voice,
"Pi--card."
The captain did not answer at first, and then,
trying to overcome the pain, he said, "Yes."
Vastator's mouth moved once more and no words
emerged. But Picard believed--although he would never
be positive--that the words formed on the lips of the
Ferengi Borg were Thank you. Then the head of
Vastator slumped to one side and didn't
move.
Picard turned and saw, what seemed a mile
away, the encasement of Delcara. Biting his
bottom lip so hard that he was certain he would
chew right through it, Picard hauled himself to his
feet, clutching his right thigh with both hands as if
he were trying to hold the leg on. He
staggered down the aisle, feeling like some sort of
crazy groom at a surreal wedding. His bride
waited for him, near death, 'Til death did
them part.
The ground began to shake around him once more, and the
last few steps were desperately hurried. He
practically threw himself the rest of the way and landed
against the crystal column. It was thicker than
any of the slabs, which was why it had survived as much
of the phaser pounding as it did. Not enough, though. Not
nearly enough.
She was looking at him.
Not her holographic image--she herself. Her
luminous eyes were open, staring down at him from a
face that was a charred memory of what it had been.
There was not an inch of her that hadn't been damaged.
Her skin was broiled black, covered with cracks
and rips, lifeblood oozing out. Once the
crystal had been a symbol of purity, but now it
was smoked and becoming smeared with the thick coagulation
of vital fluids. Her long, lovely hair
had been burned away, as had her eyebrows.
Here and there her flesh and muscle had been so
violently scorched that the bone beneath was visible, and
that, too, was blackened and splintered. The lips that
had once brushed against his forehead had been burned
away, cracked and mutilated teeth visible in
blackened gums.
She was a ghastly, flame-withered shell of her
beautiful self. A single tear moved down her
cheek, a crystalline tear, leaving a trail of
glimmering hard wetness down her face.
Her ruined jaw moved, but the voice sounded in
his head.
Oh my sweet Picard, she said.
Look what they've done to me.
"The Enterprise," said Picard urgently.
His hands pressed against the crystal. There were
cracks through it, but he still couldn't pry it away.
He wanted to touch her. He wanted to cradle
her burned and broken body in his arms and brush
away her tears. "We can get you back to the
Enterprise. We can save you there. We have
to."
And if they can't, dear Picard? If they
can't? Then I die, and none of it matters.
"They can! But we have to get back to them! My
ship needs me! With you or without you, I--"
Your ship is safe, my love. In fact,
it has helped me. It has given us the
strength we need to do what must be done.
"What are you talking about--?"
And the planet-killer began to move.
Chapter Twenty-three
Boyajian, the security guard on the
Enterprise who was standing outside the brig of
Dantar of Penzatti, looked surprised when
he saw Lieutenant Worf striding towards
him, dragging the woman who had once been a part
of the Borg. She was pulling at his grip, but
only half-heartedly. With no patience at
all, the Klingon stopped at the brig directly
across the corridor and shoved her in. Then he
activated the force field and turned to the guard.
"Make sure she doesn't go anywhere."
"Yes sir," said Boyajian, not fully
understanding what had happened. But he knew that look
on the Klingon's face well enough to know that further
questions would not be particularly welcome, much less
answered. So he kept his peace as Worf
turned and hurried back down the hallway.
The woman stood there for a moment, looking
confused, and then she went to the bunk at the
opposite side of the brig and lay down, her
back to the corridor.
But Dantar had seen her brought in, and he
began to taunt her loudly. "Hey, Borg!"
he shouted. "Remember me? The one whose family
you destroyed!"
"Hey! Knock it off," snapped
Boyajian.
Dantar ignored him. "Oh, but you probably
wouldn't. I'm just one of many, and it's all the
same to you, isn't it. Come in, massacre a
few million living, breathing, loving beings, and
then move on. All in a day's work for you."
Across the way, he could see her shoulders starting
to shake, and the sounds of choked sobs. "Oh, am
I upsetting you now?"
"Look, I'm warning you," Boyajian said,
even angrier.
"Warn her!" shouted Dantar. "Warn her that
I'll never forget. Nor will the rest of my people!
Warn her that if she thinks she's ever going to go
back to some sort of normal life, she can forget
it. She has the blood of millions on her
hands. Because she was one of them. One of the damned
Borg. And no matter what she does,
and no matter what she pretends she is doing,
she'll never be able to erase that. It's too much.
It cuts through everything! Do you hear me, Borg?
Do you? Never forget! Never forget what you did!
There's your warning! There's your life! Borg!
Monster! Monster beyond imagination, doomed and
damned forever and ever--"
The racking sobs grew louder and louder, and
Boyajian pulled out his phaser and aimed it at
Dantar. "I have never fired on an unarmed
prisoner," he said angrily, "but so help me,
I will this time. I'll put you to sleep until the
beginning of the next century if you don't shut