Star Trek - TNG - Vendetta

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