by Peter David
That analysis hung in the air for a moment. Then Picard said, very quietly, “It would definitely appear we have a new player on the ball field. And he is wielding a considerably formidable bat.”
The landing party, composed of Riker, Geordi, Data, Crusher, Doctor Selar, and ten medtechs, each fully loaded with gear, materialized on the one section of the planet that had remained intact after the Borg attack. It was a section roughly eight hundred miles in diameter, although a good portion of that consisted of woodlands and undisturbed nature. The Penzatti, as technically advanced as they were, still had an appreciation for the beauty that only nature could provide. It only added to the tragedy of their world’s fate that the Borg had no such considerations.
All around them the rescue teams from the Curie were hard at work. Buildings had tumbled over, bodies lay strewn about, and death still hung in the air, an uninvited and unwelcome guest at the proceedings. The valiant Curie teams were doing everything they could to reduce the number of individuals forced to shake hands with that dreaded and final visitor.
Riker was a long-time, seasoned professional. He remembered the first time he had beamed down into the middle of a disaster area. Orion raiders had attacked a Federation outpost. He was fresh out of the Academy, confident in his training and certain that he could handle whatever he was confronted with. When he had materialized on the surface of the outpost, he came to the immediate realization that he was standing in something warm, with an overwhelming smell. He looked down and saw his left boot astride some sort of pink tubing. Suddenly, he realized that it was, in fact, the lower intestines of a disembowled victim of the raiders, the rest of the victim lying nearby with a bleak expression on his dead face.
It was Riker’s first direct experience with the brutality that sentient beings could inflict on each other. It was also his first direct experience with completely losing control, as he doubled over and vomited up his lunch in front of fellow crewmembers. He still remembered being bent over, his back trembling, staring in humiliation at the mute testament to his inexperience. And then he felt the reassuring and yet firm pat on the shoulders of his commanding officer. “We’ve all been there,” said his CO, and Riker felt a little better, but not much.
Since then Riker had developed a veneer of detachment. That part of him that was horrified by what he witnessed was buried far, far within him, where it could not possibly interfere with his ability to function as a Starfleet officer. In a way the thought that he could just take his emotions and put them on hold, and not be affected by what he saw, was a frightening one. How easy was it to take that one step further and detach oneself from the concerns of humanity altogether? Were the Borg an inhuman race apart, or were they the logical and inevitable destiny of humanity?
Riker promptly decided that he would make himself nuts if he allowed his thoughts to continue in that direction. “Spread out,” he said. “Lend aid where you can. All medical personnel are to stay in constant touch with Doctor Crusher and, Doctor, I want updates from you every half hour.” She nodded in quick agreement and moved off. Geordi, Riker, and Data headed off in another direction, accompanied by Selar.
As they moved through the devastation, they were surrounded by cries of “Help me,” and moans, and words of encouragement and support from the Curie teams. Every so often Riker spotted one of the Enterprise personnel as well. He nodded in approval. Crusher had displayed her customary efficiency in deploying her people.
Geordi was scanning the ground, the buildings, the very air around him with his VISOR. Data was studying his tricorder readings and then paused a moment over one patch of ground. “A Borg soldier died here,” he announced.
“Died, or whatever the hell it is they do,” said Riker. He had witnessed the phenomenon himself enough times: A downed Borg soldier lies insensate, and then another Borg comes along, removes some pieces of his circuitry, and the fallen Borg self-destructs into ash.
Geordi, sensing trace readings through his VISOR, commented, “And over there too,” and he pointed. “These people didn’t go down without a struggle.”
“I’m detecting life readings from that direction,” said Selar, studying her medical tricorder. The Vulcan medical officer pointed just off to the west. “One individual. Vital signs are low, and fluctuating.”
The away team moved off in the direction that she had indicated. Within moments they were walking down a street that was filled with the same sorts of crumbled buildings and debris as all the others they had passed.
Geordi’s VISOR and Selar’s tricorder detected him at roughly the same time, and together they pointed and said, “There.”
There was a mound of dirt that had been obscuring the body and when they got there they found out why. It seemed as if someone had been in the process of burying this particular member of the Penzatti. A very shallow grave, not more than a few inches deep, and a couple feet around, had been dug. The Penzatti was a male and was lying on his stomach, halfway in, face to the side. Jammed into the back of his belt were two Penzatti blasters. The Penzatti’s antenna was twitching ever so slightly as Selar ran her tricorder over him.
“Alive. Just barely.” She pulled a hypo from her medkit and injected it into his upper arm. “That should stabilize him. He has a broken leg, multiple contusions and abrasions.”
Riker started to reach for him to turn him over, and Selar said sharply, “Moving him in any way would be most unadvisable, Commander.”
Immediately the first officer withdrew, chagrined that he had forgotten that most elementary of first aid procedures. At that moment, however, the Penzatti moaned softly and half lifted his head himself.
The first person he saw was Data.
He gasped and tried to reach around for his blasters, but he had no strength. When he realized this, when he realized he had no defense, his head dropped back down into the dirt and he moaned softly.
“I am not here to harm you, sir,” said Data calmly. “I am with Starfleet.”
“You’re safe now,” affirmed Riker.
The Penzatti did not lift his head. Instead, he said softly, “Safe,” and then he started to laugh. It was a low and ugly sound, a sound of bitterness and derision that grew louder and louder, practically a demented cackle.
“Sir,” began Riker, “we’re from the Enterprise . . .”
He wasn’t heard. The Penzatti was laughing even more loudly, gasping out, “Safe! Safe!” as if it were the funniest thing he’d ever heard. And then his laughter began to subside, replaced by choking sobs, and he skidded from giddiness to misery and hopelessness, all within a few seconds.
Selar was monitoring his vitals, waiting for them to stabilize, and ministering to his leg as she did so. She was a cautious medical practitioner, and she disliked having to move a patient whose lifesigns were fluctuating, if she didn’t have to. The transporter had an effect on the bodily system, that much was certain. For a healthy individual, that effect was negligible. But for someone in bad shape, it could be a shock that could send a patient into critical condition. She was certain that with a couple of minute’s work, she could stabilize the patient to ensure a safe trip.
“What’s your name?” asked Riker.
“I am . . .” He seemed to pause to try and remember. “I am Dantar. I was Dantar the Eighth. Now I am Dantar the Last. All I am and will ever be, in that one, useless name.”
“It looked like someone tried to bury you,” Geordi said.
“Dantar the most useless,” said Dantar. His voice was eerily singsong. “Dantar whose family died, a few yards away, and he couldn’t help them. Couldn’t help them.”
“He did that himself,” said Selar, in response to Geordi’s comment. “His fingernails are encrusted with dirt and sludge. He tried to bury himself.”
“You tried to dig your own grave?” asked Riker, horrified and curious at the same time.
“There is no point in my continuing to live,” said Dantar. “I have nothing. It’s simply time for me to crawl
into my grave and rot there. There’s nothing. Nothing.”
“What did you see?” asked Riker. “Who attacked?”
“Commander, now may not be the best time,” began Selar.
But Riker cut her off sharply. “When it comes to the Borg, Doctor, we never have any idea just how much time we have.”
“The Borg,” said Dantar distantly. “Is that what they’re called? Those pale creatures with machines for souls. One went into my house. It killed my little girl. It killed my family. Borg.”
“Someone stopped them,” said Riker urgently. “Someone fought them and stopped them and destroyed their ship. Did they send down any ground troops? Did you see anyone besides the Borg?”
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
“Who?” asked Riker.
“I saw Death,” said Dantar, as distractedly as ever. “She was standing right over there, sweeping through my family. Holding the glowing orbs of their souls in her hand and then smothering them. Then she glided across the street . . . she seemed to walk, but you couldn’t hear her footfall. And she went from one person to the next.” Tears began to roll down his face. “I tried to persuade her to take me. Tried to put myself into a grave so that she would know. But she ignored me.”
“Dantar,” began Riker.
But Dantar wasn’t listening. “You know . . . our culture has always depicted Death as a grim, fearful figure. Dark. Hideous, with a skull face. Skeletal.”
“As has ours, frequently,” said Geordi.
“But she wasn’t. I was very surprised,” said Dantar. His voice seemed to be fading, exhaustion paralyzing his ability to think. As if from far away, he said, “She was a very young girl. With a white dress, skipping. And she was smiling. You know why that is, I think?”
“Why?” said Selar. She was preparing to order Dantar beamed up to the Enterprise. She was satisfied that his lifesigns were stable enough now that he could handle the transporter with no danger. “Why is that?”
He looked thoughtful. “I suppose she simply likes her work. In such dangerous times, that’s nice to see. Don’t you think?”
After Dantar and Selar had returned to the Enterprise, Riker said thoughtfully, “He said a Borg soldier went into his house over there. Let’s check it out. Perhaps someone even survived.” He took a step in that direction and then paused and removed his phaser. He looked significantly at the others. “Just in case there’s a Borg in there.”
“Couldn’t be,” said Geordi. “Their ship was destroyed. If their ship goes, they go. Their link is severed.”
“If there’s one thing we shouldn’t be doing, it’s underestimating the Borg,” Riker warned him. “That’s a good way to achieve early and terminal unemployment.”
“I catch your drift, sir,” said Geordi, pulling out his own phaser. Data did likewise.
Slowly they approached the house, noting that the roof had caved in, and the chances of anyone surviving were nil. There was also an unpleasant smell, that same smell that brought back to Riker memories of that awful first time he had seen death on a large scale. Now he shoved it away, determined to ignore it. He was far more than he had been that day. And in some ways, he thought, far less.
Geordi peered in through the darkened doorway, taking in the carnage. It was times like this that made him glad that—despite the dazzling abilities of his VISOR-augmented sight—he could not really “see.” He shook his head and said, “There’s a lot of dead people in here, Commander.”
Riker was checking his tricorder. “Not picking up any life.” In a way, he was relieved. He didn’t really want to have to look at them. It wasn’t going to do the deceased any good, and it sure wasn’t going to help his peace of mind. “Let’s go.”
But Geordi put up a hand. “Wait. I’m getting something. Not a life form, but . . . something.”
Double-checking his tricorder, Riker said, “Whatever you’re seeing, it’s still not picking up. Are you sure your VISOR isn’t malfunctioning?”
Without glancing back, La Forge said calmly, “Are you sure your eyes aren’t malfunctioning?”
“Just a suggestion, Mr. La Forge,” said Riker. Privately he thought it interesting that, even after all this time, Geordi La Forge could still be a bit sensitive about his eyesight.
With a sly imitation of Picard’s accent, Geordi said, “Noted and logged.” Then, all business, he said firmly, “It’s over there.”
He was pointing toward a pile of rubble in a corner of the room. The three men immediately went over to it, trying not to think about the bodies they were stepping over. Riker had to force himself to look away from the horrific sight of a small girl, her skull clearly crushed, in the arms of her mother who had died mere seconds later. They reached the pile of rubble and started to pull away, to get to whatever the devil it was that Geordi had detected.
Riker lifted off one huge chunk of debris, turned back to get another one, and jumped back with a start.
He was staring down the business end of the deadly metal appendage of a Borg soldier.
“La Forge! Data!” he shouted. “Watch it!”
He waited for something to happen—for electricity to shoot out, or the pincers to grab at him. But nothing occurred.
Now Data and La Forge were at his side. “What is it?” asked Geordi.
“It’s a Borg,” said Riker grimly. “A Borg that survived its ship being blown up.”
“Just like you said, Commander,” admitted Geordi.
While not allowing the seriousness of the situation to escape him, Riker permitted a grim smile and said, “That’s why they pay me the big money, Mr. La Forge.”
“I had presumed that a larger salary,” said Data, “was due to higher rank, seniority . . .”
“Not now, Data,” sighed Geordi.
Immediately disposing of the train of thought, Data promptly switched gears to the other. “It would explain why the tricorders don’t read the Borg soldier. The Borg do not seem to register as individuals. Apparently, that is a result of their uniformity of nature.”
“Is it going to attack?” asked Geordi.
“They have a tendency to ignore most things unless directly threatened,” said Riker. “But this one is buried. I’m not sure how it’ll react. And I’m not taking any chances.” He tapped his communicator. “Riker to security.”
“Security,” came the deep voice of Worf.
“Worf, you and two security men, down to these coordinates, fast,” ordered Riker. “We may have captured a Borg soldier.”
“Proceed with extreme caution, Commander,” Worf warned him.
“That’s why we’re calling on you, Mr. Worf.”
Data and Geordi were hard at work clearing off the debris from the rest of the Borg warrior. Data uncovered the soldier’s face and stared intently into the eyes. “The Borg does indeed appear alive, Commander,” he said after a moment’s study, “but would appear to be in some sort of ‘pause’ mode, as if awaiting new instructions.”
“I just don’t get it,” La Forge was saying. He pulled off a large piece of planking and shoved it aside, reaching for another. “How could he have survived being severed from the Borg central command?”
“Captain Picard did,” pointed out Riker. His head snapped around as he heard the familiar hum of the transporter that told him Worf and the security team had arrived. He nodded approvingly to himself. Less than thirty seconds. No one could accuse Worf of taking his time.
“Captain Picard had already been separated from the Borg at the point of the ship’s detonation,” Data explained. “As a result, he was able to survive. Since we can assume that that was not the case with this individual, there must be some other reason.”
Geordi was staring intently at the just-uncovered other arm. “I think I found it. And you’re not gonna believe it.”
Worf marched in with the back-up team, Meyer and Boyajian. He was all business. “This is the potential threat?” he demanded. There was no trace of sarcasm, despite the Borg soldier
’s immobile state. Riker had identified something that could be hostile, and Worf wanted to make sure that he knew what to shoot, should there be a problem. Indeed, some might say that the Klingon had a terminal case of itchy trigger finger—terminal for whomever the phaser was pointed at.
“That’s him,” said Riker. “Although it seems at the moment we have everything in hand.”
“Then I shall be here in case they get out of hand,” said Worf firmly, and that was clearly that.
Riker moved around to where Geordi was standing, having heard Geordi’s muttering of discovery. “What have you got, Mr. La Forge?”
“Take a look at this,” said Geordi, and he pointed to the Borg’s upper arm.
Riker leaned forward and frowned. “What is that . . . ? A kitchen knife or something?”
“That’s right,” agreed La Forge. “See here? Somebody jammed it into the components right here,” and his finger traced the area in the air just above. “It didn’t stop the Borg. Didn’t kill him. But it scrambled him real good. And I think it saved his life.”
“I’m not following,” admitted Riker.
Worf was frowning, which was not unusual, but this was deeper than the norm. “I do not understand, either. How could an attempt to kill it, in fact, save it?”
Rather than answer Worf’s question directly, Data said, “I believe that Geordi is correct. This component here, just above the trapezius, is—”
“Hold it,” said Riker, and again he tapped his communicator. Under ordinary circumstances, and even extraordinary ones, Riker felt no compunction in handling everything himself. But the Borg, and anything having to do with them, was a special case, and Riker wanted to keep his commanding officer absolutely current with every development, as it was happening. “Riker to Captain.”
“Yes, Number One,” came Picard’s voice.
“We found a Borg soldier. Alive.”
“Alive?” Picard was clearly astonished. Small wonder. No living being had as much personal experience with the Borg as Picard did, and he knew the unlikelihood of such a discovery. “How is that possible?”
