VENDETTA: THE GIANT NOVEL

by Peter David

  “When I was a kid,” she said, “there was this stupid joke that the other kids would tell endlessly at my expense. They’d always make sure I was in earshot, and then they’d say loudly, ‘Knock Knock.’ And another would reply, ‘Who’s there?’ And they go back and forth with ‘Shelby.’ ‘Shelby Who?’ ‘Shelby—’ ”

  “Coming ’round the mountain when she comes?” said Hobson. There was curt laughter from another officer who quickly cut it off.

  “Yes,” said Shelby, slightly irked. “So there I was, and all that went through my head was, ‘Shelby coming ’round the mountain for the last time.’ Stupid. You think about stupid jokes from childhood, or a date you won’t be able to keep, or paperwork that still needs to be done—everything except the idea that you’re about to die. Riker even started to order the collision. He got half of the word engage out, and then the call came up from sickbay. And within seconds after that call—had to be seconds, because that’s all we had—they had ordered the Borg to shut down via a link they’d established through Picard. Picard masterminded it, told them what to do, even though he was still in the power of the Borg. He put them to sleep . . .”

  “Undoubtedly he got to read them his third-year paper on Reversal of Hyperspace Overdrive,” said the captain. “That put the entire Academy graduating class into a coma.”

  Shelby looked at him with open surprise. “Captain! Really! How you could insult Captain Picard—”

  The captain slowly circled his bridge (which was feeling smaller by the minute, truth be known), chewing on his lower lip and fighting down the traces of envy that he so hated. He managed to force out a short—almost avuncular—and almost convincing laugh. “Captain Picard and I go way back, Number One. Back to when he was Cadet Jean-Luc Picard, and I was Cadet Morgan Korsmo. So, I’m entitled. Believe me, I have nothing but admiration for the man. I mean, let’s face it, the man was almost nothing but Borg implants, am I right?”

  “That’s a fairly accurate assessment,” admitted Shelby.

  “Well, Commander, put your mind at ease. I will be the first to admit that Jean-Luc Picard is more of a man when he’s only half a man than most men are when they’re intact. Satisfied?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Shelby.

  Captain Korsmo shook his head in silent wonderment. That was the kind of man Picard was. He inspired fierce loyalty even in those individuals who had been with him only a short time. Korsmo wondered whether he would ever be capable of commanding that sort of devotion from his people.

  There was a sharp beep from behind him and his tactical officer looked up in response. “Captain,” said the tactical officer, Peel, “I have contact with the Enterprise, as you requested.”

  “Excellent,” said Korsmo. To the surprise of the other bridge crew, who were usually privy to just about any discussion that took place—the Chekov had, by design, a very relaxed and congenial atmosphere—Korsmo headed for the ready room. “I’ll take it in the ready room. Number One, with me, please.”

  Shelby nodded quickly, falling into step behind him. She knew what the story was—Korsmo had brought her up to speed as soon as he had gotten word from Starfleet over the incident on the homeworld of the Penzatti. But it had been Korsmo’s express wish that it not be discussed with the rest of the crew.

  As Korsmo had himself, many others on the Chekov had lost friends and loved ones in the massacre at Wolf 359. The last thing they needed to hear, he felt, was that the triumph which had been achieved at such terrible cost was so temporary a measure. The last thing they needed to hear was that the Borg were coming back—indeed, had already returned, it seemed.

  And he wasn’t going to tell them until he absolutely had to. He just hoped that it wouldn’t be too soon.

  Or too late.

  All of Picard’s officers had assembled in the briefing room, and Picard gave a quick nod of appreciation that they had pulled themselves together so quickly. It was, in fact, exactly what he would have anticipated. He expected the world of them and had yet to be disappointed in their ability to deliver it.

  Riker sat opposite him, once again employing his customary trait of having turned the chair around and straddled it. Data was to the left, Geordi on the right, both back in Starfleet uniforms and giving no sign that, mere minutes before, they had been gallivanting about the Spanish countryside. Deanna Troi was just now entering, smoothing out her hair. Picard took some measure of enjoyment in that there were certain universal constants, one of them seemingly that it always took women longer to make themselves presentable than it did men.

  Worf sat at the edge of the conference table—a slight distance away. It was a subtle separation, but one that Picard had noticed with consistency. As close as he felt to this particular group of humans, Worf still possessed an unshakable standoffishness.

  Or perhaps it was good, old-fashioned Klingon caution: Never discount the possibility that an apparent friend might be an enemy in disguise. Considering that the Enterprise had dealt, on a number of occasions in her long history, with impostors, that might not be an inappropriate attitude for the head of security to have.

  Closest to Picard sat Beverly Crusher. Normally a very outgoing woman, she had been somewhat quiet lately. Picard wasn’t entirely surprised. She had known the departure of her son, Wesley, for Starfleet Academy, was inevitable. Inevitability, however, did not necessarily mean one would be prepared. Picard knew that she was missing Wesley something fierce, for when he had gone, he had taken with him the last physical reminder of her late husband, Jack. All she had for the rest of her life now was memories, and oftentimes memories were just not enough.

  Now, though, was not the time to dwell on it.

  “On screen,” said Picard sharply to the air.

  In response to his command, an image appeared on the conference room communications screen. Picard’s lips twitched in amusement as he saw the now-rather-jowly face of Morgan Korsmo appear on the screen. He remembered the Academy days, when Korsmo could eat anything and never gain weight. Clearly those days were past. Also, his formerly jet-black hair was now shot through with gray. Time, the great leveller.

  “Korsmo,” said Picard.

  “Picard,” replied Korsmo, with that same slightly insouciant tone that Picard remembered all too well. “Still bald, I see.”

  Riker and the others looked at Picard with open amusement. Picard, utterly nonplussed, replied, “The years and pounds have obviously caught up with you.”

  “True. I’m fat and you’re bald. Of course, I can always lose weight,” pointed out Korsmo.

  There was a slight chuckle from Beverly. Picard resisted glancing at her, for a look from him might have stilled her. Frankly, it was worth a laugh or two at his own expense just to get a smile out of her.

  “Captain,” said Picard, softly but firmly. “You always were one to try to put as much of a gloss on bad news as possible. It is painfully clear to me that you are now trying to delay the inevitable—that being the purpose of this communiqué. What’s happened?”

  Korsmo gave a brief nod in acknowledgment. “And you, Picard, always liked to cut through the bluster and get straight to the point. How comforting to know that neither of us changed. Unfortunately, neither have the Borg.”

  “The Borg?” Picard said the words a bit too sharply, a bit too quickly. Mentally he chided himself for it. Had any of his people noticed that edge in his voice? His quick glance caught Deanna studying him with those luminous and sympathetic eyes. He had a feeling he’d probably be hearing from her before too long. He straightened his uniform top, rather unnecessarily, and leaned forward, fingers interlaced. “When and where? How soon can we expect their attack?”

  “To the former, the target was the Penzatti homeworld. A rescue operation is already in progress, but Starfleet wants you there as well, and as soon as possible, in case the Borg return. We will be rendezvousing with you there, but it’s going to take us the better part of a week. Starfleet wants the closest ship there immediately.�
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  Wants us there as what? Cannon fodder? flitted through Picard’s mind. As quickly as that thought came to him, he dismissed it. Now was not the time. The time would never be, actually. “Mr. Data, how long—?”

  “At warp six, eighteen hours.”

  “Warp six-point-five, then. Make it so.”

  Riker leaned forward and said, “Captain Korsmo, with all due respect—and sounding somewhat brutal—why are we being dispatched to the Penzatti world? If the Borg have been and gone, then Penzatti is a lost cause. We should be moving to intercept the latest Borg incursion.”

  “Commander Riker is correct,” agreed Picard. “We’ve seen the Borg’s handiwork before. Frankly, I’m amazed at the mention of a rescue operation. I wouldn’t assume there would be anyone or anything left to rescue. What is the Borg’s present heading?”

  “To hell,” said Korsmo. He seemed quite pleased about it.

  “We can but hope, Captain,” said Picard. “The question still remains—”

  “No, you’re not following me, Jean-Luc,” Korsmo said. “The Borg who were attacking the Penzatti were destroyed before they could finish the job. Oh, ninety-five percent of the planet is gone. But that leaves five percent more than has ever survived before.”

  Picard was still digesting the earlier sentence. “The Borg were destroyed?”

  “By a starship?” asked Geordi.

  “Klingons,’ said Worf firmly. “Klingon warships must have come in response to—”

  “Not a starship,” said Korsmo. “Not Klingons, either. We don’t know what or who, gentlemen. That is one of the things I’m hoping your people can determine once you arrive. Early reports are that the Borg were attacked by someone or . . . to be overly melodramatic—something, and were utterly destroyed.”

  “A power of that magnitude,” said Data thoughtfully, “would be a devastating weapon against the Borg.” “Or,” said Worf darkly, “against us.”

  “Exactly,” Korsmo affirmed, “what Starfleet is concerned about.”

  “Concerned?” said Crusher, her eyebrows almost meeting the top of her head. “This seems like a godsend! The Borg massacred forty ships and almost made the Enterprise number forty-one, before we defeated them by the skin of our teeth. And someone, somewhere, comes along with the power to stop them, and all you’re concerned about is making sure they don’t turn that power against you. Lives were saved! Who knows how many more might be?”

  “No one is disputing that, Doctor,” Picard said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “The question that must be asked, though, is whether the power—whoever or whatever it was—that destroyed the Borg attackers of Penzatti did so because they’re on our side . . . or because the Borg were simply the first available target.”

  “In other words, we might be next,” said Worf.

  “Precisely,” said Korsmo. “We need to find out as much about this new player as we can. With the investigation time you’ll be getting, you’ll doubtlessly become the experts on them before long. We of the Chekov, of course, have the resident expert on the Borg on our staff. When we rendezvous with you at the Penzatti, she will be surveying the site to get as much of a line on the Borg as she can.”

  On cue, Shelby stepped into the range of the communications screen and nodded with familiar ease in the direction of the Enterprise crew. Smiles were reflected on the latter’s faces, the widest of which was Riker’s.

  “We heard about your new post. Good to see you in the first officer’s position you so coveted, Commander,” said Riker.

  “I can’t think of another officer in the fleet who’s more deserving,” affirmed Picard.

  Shelby inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment and said gravely, “Neither can I.” Then she smiled in open acknowledgment of her tongue-in-cheek self-importance. “Actually, Starfleet tells me this is, in all likelihood, a temporary assignment. With the Borg threat far from over, I never know where I’ll wind up next.”

  “Which is not to be construed,” Captain Korsmo put in, “as her doing anything other than a totally exemplary job for us.”

  “We certainly would have expected nothing less,” Picard said. “Captain—what is Starfleet’s position if we are to encounter the individuals who are responsible for the destruction of the Borg ship?”

  “The position is that you do your damnedest to keep yourselves in one piece. That’s the top priority. Establish communications if at all possible, but whatever you do, don’t engage them in combat in any way. Anyone who could mow down the Borg is going to make short work of you. Do you think,” Korsmo said with exaggerated stiffness, “you’ll be able to keep all that straight, Picard? There’s a lot to remember, after all.”

  Picard shook his head in amusement. “Same old Korsmo.”

  “Same old Picard. Pity. And there was so much room for improvement. See you at Penzatti. Chekov out.”

  After the screen blinked out, Picard slowly surveyed the faces of his people. Despite all the difficulties the Borg had given them, despite the way that the power balance seemed to have shifted yet again and put the Enterprise on less firm footing, his crew seemed no less determined, no less confident. He would have expected nothing less of them, nor anything less of himself. Hopefully, he would be able to keep up under the weight of those expectations.

  “You all know your assignments,” he said crisply. “I know that you’ll carry them out with the efficiency to which I’ve become accustomed. That’s all.” He stood, as did the others, and walked out of the conference room before anyone could say another word.

  Picard, in his ready room, looked up at the sound of the chime. “Come,” he said, knowing already who it would be before the door even opened. Sure enough, in strode Counselor Troi, who stood in front of him expectantly, with folded arms. “You look as if you’re waiting for the show to start, counselor.” he observed, with a hint of amusement.

  She got down to it immediately. “I sensed great ambivalence on your part concerning the Borg. More so than towards the unknown entities who are potentially more of a threat.”

  “Ambivalence? In regard to beings who carved me up like a slice of beef?” said Picard, again more sharply than he would have liked. He closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself. When he opened them, he was actually able to smile wanly. “I’ve already worked out a good deal of my—difficulties—during my shore leave on Earth, counselor, as you well know. Still, I wouldn’t be human if the prospect of facing them again wasn’t a bit . . . daunting. I do not expect, however, that it will interfere with my ability to do my job.”

  “I would never presume to believe as much,” Troi said. “I find it curious, though, that I sense no concern from you regarding this new force we’ve learned of. A force much more powerful than the Borg,”

  Picard drummed his fingers momentarily on his desk. “This is a big universe, Counselor. I always assumed that somewhere out there, there would be a more powerful entity than the Borg. And whomever we encounter next, there will be someone stronger than them. If I were daunted by the concept of encountering powerful beings, Counselor, I doubt I ever would have left the comforting environs of earth. New encounters? I thrive on them. It’s what I live for. What we are looking at, Counselor, to use the old saying, is the devil we know versus the devil we don’t. The Borg are simply devils that I know all too well.”

  “You feel that whatever we encounter, even if more powerful than the Borg, won’t be as great of a threat.”

  For a brief moment he relived the hideous feeling of the Borg implants that had become a part of him; the unyielding and inhuman invasion of his mind, his soul, and the raping of his knowledge and personality; how they had managed to destroy, with no problem at all, his will to resist; how they had put him through a very personal and very singular hell that bore the name “Locutus.”

  “No one could be,” he said gravely.

  “Captain—”

  He stood, the very decisiveness of the motion silencing Troi. He walked around to
the observation bay and stared out at the stars that telescoped away from them as the ship proceeded, at warp 6.5, to the devastated home of the Penzatti. “I won’t let them do it to me, Counselor. I had never been the type to view every new race, no matter how powerful, in terms of how much of a threat they pose. We’re not out here to explore new threats and new civilizations, and I will be damned if the Borg now force me to consider every new encounter, first and foremost, in regard to their ability to hurt us. That’s not what we’re about. That’s not what I’m about. And I will not let the Borg do that to me. I won’t,” he finished fiercely.

  Troi nodded slowly and smiled. “I have no doubt. And for the Borg’s sake, let us hope that the next individual they encounter is somewhat more weak-willed than you. Otherwise, I don’t think they stand a chance.”

  He smiled thinly. “That, Counselor, is definitely the least of my concerns.”

  Chapter Five

  DAIMON TURANE of the Ferengi was bored out of his mind.

  Even for one of the Ferengi, Turane wasn’t much to look at, with his eyes unfashionably set close together, and a piece of his left ear missing, thanks to a business disagreement some years back. When he spoke, it was with the heavy rasp that signalled the beginning stages of an incurable disease that attacked the lungs. Within five years he would doubtlessly be on some sort of artificial support, or need new lungs entirely.

  All that he could have taken, though. It was his current assignment that threatened to drive him mad.

  Turane had landed this unprofitable, dead-end assignment—an assignment that had sent him and a crew of ten Ferengi misfits to the farthest reaches of Federation space and beyond. Ostensibly, the reason given was that the Ferengi were looking to expand their trade horizons. The Ferengi were annoyed with constantly butting heads with the Federation, and expansion was mandatory if they were to survive as a merchant race. His superiors even had the temerity to tell Turane that this was a plum assignment and that if he were successful in finding new markets, he would be covering himself in glory and profit in the name of the Ferengi.