by Peter David
“Confirmed,” said Data. “It is progressing along the same heading as before, moving at warp three.”
“A relatively leisurely pace,” Picard observed. “Increase speed to warp six, and let us hope she doesn’t decide to make a race of it.”
The Enterprise shot forward, and within moments the last artifact of a long-gone race was looming on their screen.
There was a deathly silence in the bridge as they took in the scope of it. Then, his voice barely rising above the hush, Picard said, “Sensor readings?”
“Neutronium hull makes readings of the internal workings difficult to ascertain,” said Worf. “Emissions would indicate a form of conversion engine, somewhat unlike any known to our technology.”
“I am also detecting fluctuation rates in their warp drive field that are at variance with the standard vibrations that our own technology provides,” said Data. “In fact, it would seem closer to the vibrations given off by the propulsion of a Borg ship.”
“You’re saying that the Borg derived their propulsion technology from the race that built that . . . thing?” asked Picard, pointing at the screen.
“I’m stating only that there is a similarity,” Data said. “The Borg are known to assimilate the usable material and technology of whatever they conquer. It is possible that if they discovered Warp technology that was superior to their own, they would quite naturally incorporate it into their own structure.”
“But the Borg don’t consume planets,” pointed out Riker. “Planetary mass is what fuels our friend out there.”
“True, considering the speeds we’ve seen the Borg travel, they clearly have some sort of nearly unlimited power base.”
Troi was staring at the planet-destroyer with amazement and shaking her head. “Incredible,” she whispered.
Picard and Riker turned towards her. “Counselor—?”
“It’s . . .” She was clearly overwhelmed, trying to find the words. “What I’m picking up from that vessel, Captain, it’s . . .”
“Is it alive?”
“Captain,” and she looked at him with eyes that had a hopeless look to them, “it’s powered by emotion.”
“I must disagree,” said Data. “It is clear that the consumption of planets . . .”
“I’m not talking about the physical fuel,” she said. “The device has . . . has an emotional drive to it. I’ve never encountered anything like it.”
“Is it like the Tin Man?”
“No. No, Tin Man was alive. Tin Man was a biological entity that needed a heart. That thing out there, that is a mechanical construct. But it’s constructed with a technology that gives it some sort of an empathic link with . . .”
“With what?” Picard was starting to feel frustrated. It was like pulling teeth.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. There’s so much, so many voices. I can’t begin to describe it. But I definitely had a sense of it. It called out to me, Captain, in my sleep. I remember the vague outlines, if not the details. And that is most definitely what presented itself.”
“Enough speculation,” said Picard. “Frequencies.”
“Open,” said Worf.
“Attention alien vessel,” he said. “This is Jean-Luc Picard of the Federation starship Enterprise. Identify yourself.”
There was no immediate response, and then Data said, “The vessel is slowing, Captain. Warp two . . . warp one . . . dropping out of warp space.”
“Bring us alongside,” said Picard, slowly rising from his chair. He couldn’t remove his eyes from the image on the screen. It was a floating engine of destruction, bristling with more power and speed than anything he’d ever seen or even contemplated. The intellect and technology that had been able to build such a thing was truly remarkable.
Suddenly the lights began to flicker, and all over, the bridge panels started activating. The crew looked around in confusion as Worf said, “Captain, we are being scanned.”
“Shields up,” said Picard.
“Our shields are not stopping the probe, Captain,” Data reported after a moment. “It appears to be doing no harm to our systems.”
“Don’t do anything,” said Picard. “Let them probe us,” as if we have a choice, his mind added darkly. “Let them know that we have nothing to hide.”
And then Troi cried out.
In the Ten-Forward lounge, Guinan was staring out the viewing port at the massive vessel that hung stopped in space before them.
“Incredible,” she whispered. “Oh, sister . . . what have you done?”
And then she felt it, felt the minds reaching out. She staggered back, banging into a table and using it to steady herself. She ignored the sharp pain in her leg that had been created by the impact, turned, and ran for the door of Ten-Forward.
Riker was immediately at Troi’s side as she started to slide out of her chair, her eyes rolling up into the back of her head. “Deanna!” shouted Riker.
Picard immediately called out, “Bridge to sickbay! Doctor Crusher, Counselor Troi is having some sort of seizure!”
“No.”
It was Deanna who had spoken. Just like that, the convulsions, the screaming, all of the consternation was gone. Instead, she was smiling with infinite calm, her dark eyes glittering. She looked at Picard with an emotion bordering on joy. “So . . . it is you.”
“What?” Picard looked at Riker in confusion, and the first officer didn’t seem to understand the situation any more than Picard did. “Yes, it’s me, Counselor. Deanna, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong.”
From sickbay, Beverly Crusher’s worried voice called out over the still-open channel, “What’s happening up there? Should I come up there—”
“Oh, no,” said Deanna, pulling herself to her feet. “Everything will be just fine.”
“Stand by, Doctor,” said Picard.
“You’re just keeping the poor woman on alert for no reason,” said Deanna.
And that’s when Riker noticed it. “Your voice. Your accent is different. Deanna, what’s happened?”
“That voice,” said Picard in disbelief. “Yes, I know that voice, that’s . . .”
She turned towards Picard. “Do you understand now, Picard? It was important to me that you be the first to know.”
Picard staggered back, holding onto the arm of his command chair as if deriving strength from it. For just a moment his mouth moved and he looked utterly helpless, confronted by someone before whom he felt vulnerable. But it was for the briefest of moments, so brief that his crew didn’t even notice, for all their attention was on Troi. Or whatever Troi had become.
She was standing with her shoulders squared back, her chin upturned. There was a faint expression of bemusement on her face.
“Oh, don’t worry, Picard,” she said. “I shan’t stay long. But after all you have done for me, after the simple clarity of your thought served to point the way, I merely wished to thank you.”
And she drew Picard’s face to hers and kissed him.
For just a second he almost responded, and then he took her firmly by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “You are doing this without the permission of my counselor. You cannot usurp her body. Whoever you are . . .”
“You know who I am,” she said with raised eyebrows. “But as you wish, Picard. It is probably better this way. The mind of this one is not especially powerful. If I were a part of her overlong, I could destroy it. That will serve no purpose. So I release her to you.”
As if a string had been cut, Deanna suddenly started to slump forward. Picard caught her with one arm and looked around, as if searching the air for the whereabouts of the being that had come and gone so quickly. Troi looked around in confusion.
The turbolift slid open, and Guinan stepped out onto the bridge. Somehow, considering the events of the past few minutes, the unusualness of her appearance on the bridge seemed to fit right in.
She stood by the turbolift, her hands resting lightly on the curved railing that separat
ed the aft stations from the command area. She spoke one word, in a voice far more severe than any they had ever heard. And the word was a name: “Delcara.”
The air in front of the viewscreen seemed to shimmer for just a moment, and then she appeared.
Not immediately—slowly, like a Cheshire cat in reverse. First her face was hanging there, only the faintest of outlines visible. Then her body began to waver into existence. At first she seemed nude, but then undulating folds of cloth materialized around her. Her hair billowed in all directions, looking for all the world like a vast starfield.
She was just as Picard had remembered her.
Within seconds she stood before them, a flickering vision. Everyone on the bridge was affected, held breathless and motionless by the wonder of the female before them.
Almost everyone.
“Security alert,” called Worf. “Intruder on the bridge!”
“No, it’s all right,” said Picard.
“Captain, there’s a—”
“No,” said Picard slowly. Despite all the emotions running through him, despite the fact that deep within him was a confused Starfleet cadet who had been confronted years ago by a woman beyond imagining, there was no room here for indulgences. He could not allow himself to be distracted by his own turmoil or the stark beauty of the woman from his past. He forced his mind to act in its familiar patterns. Taking a deep breath, he said, “No, there’s not. There’s no shadow.”
They looked and saw that he was correct. The being in front of them cast no shadow at all.
“She’s a hologram,” said Riker, understanding.
Slowly Guinan approached her, her eyes never wavering. Delcara smiled ethereally. “Guinan,” she said. “You look well.”
“And you too,” said Guinan carefully. “What are you doing here?”
“Conversing with your captain. He wished to speak with me, and I have obliged him. I owe him that much.”
“I wish to talk with you privately,” said Picard. “You, myself, and Guinan.”
“Captain, I would not advise that,” Worf spoke up, and Riker added, “Nor I.”
But Picard fired a look at them that spoke volumes and said, “That is my decision, Number One.”
In truth, he wasn’t sure why he was making it. Perhaps because she represented an incarnation of something that was, quite simply, too personal for him to expose to his officers. Or perhaps it was something else. Perhaps . . .
Perhaps he didn’t want to share her.
He glanced at Troi, who had managed to regain her equilibrium and who—in very broad strokes—had been filled in by Riker as to what had happened to her. Troi looked at him with eyes that were filled with understanding. Somehow he considered that very important to him.
“Yes, sir,” was all Riker said. Worf said nothing, but merely glowered, the way he did habitually when someone did other than what Worf suggested.
He gestured. “My ready room is this way.”
She nodded and walked towards it in a manner that seemed more gliding than anything else. Picard was momentarily startled when the door did not slide open for her, and it looked as if she would bump right into it. Then, of course, he understood, as Delcara passed through it like a ghost.
He turned to Guinan and said, “This should prove to be very, very . . . interesting.”
“Not the word I would have chosen, but it’ll do,” she said.
Chapter Fourteen
THE DOORS OF the ready room slid shut behind them and Picard turned to face the woman from his past. “All right,” he said, “How? How did you do it? And why?”
“To what are you referring?” asked Delcara.
“All of it. The Academy. This ship. All of it.”
She looked from Picard to Guinan and back, and then walked through Picard’s desk to stand on the other side.
“All right,” she said softly. “Guinan has told you much, I’m sure. Here is the rest of the telling, then.
“I was drawn to you,” she said, “in a way that I cannot describe to you. I felt . . . a sense of you. A sense that you were out there, in the galaxy for me.” She smiled that wonderful smile. “Humans believe that throughout the galaxy, there is always someone for everyone. That no one need really be alone, and it is just a matter of finding the right person. For some of us that cosmic balancing is more than just a theory. It is a palpable thing that shapes and directs our lives.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do,” said Guinan. “My people have a general—sense, if you will—of the space-time continuum. An operational instinct, more than anything else. It’s an acquired trait, a training of the mind, really. The galaxy is always whispering. We just learned to listen better than others. It’s a technique that Delcara was taught . . . that anyone can learn, really, when they’re ready. You’re over-romanticizing it somewhat, bond sister.”
She turned away from him to gaze out his window, at the ship that contained her physical body. If she had heard Guinan’s words at all, she gave no sign. “There is something about me,” she says. “Somehow, I am linked with the soulless ones.”
“The Borg,” said Picard.
She shrugged. “If that is what they are calling themselves now. I sense they have had many names in their time. And somehow I am drawn to those who are destined to suffer at the hands of the Borg. It took me much of my lifetime to realize that. Wherever I go . . . they follow.”
“Delcara, that’s ridiculous,” Guinan spoke up for the first time. She walked around the desk to face the hologram. “You act as if you yourself are to blame for what happened.”
Delcara did not even look at her. “Everything I touch, dies,” she said. It was not said in self-pity, but as if stating obvious fact. Her hand reached out and skimmed the top of the desk, passing through. “Now I am safe. Now the galaxy is safe from the Borg, and when I am through, the Borg will be no more.”
“You say you were drawn to me,” said Picard. “Even if I were to accept that . . . what happened that day? That night? Why could no one else see you? I thought I was losing my mind . . . Was that a hologram?”
“No. I possessed no holograph technology back then. No one else saw me because I wished it so. Guinan has told you of my power. Of my command of the mind. I am perfectly capable of instructing the mind to pay no attention to that which it perceives. You saw me, however, because,” and again she smiled that luminous smile, the edges of her eyes crinkling ever so slightly, “because to deceive the mind in such a way is, in a manner of speaking, to lie. I had no desire to lie to you.”
“And that night?”
“Let us say that I appealed to the aspects of your mind that held a sense of the dramatic,” she said. “A breezy night, in your dreamlike haze, became a virtual hurricane.”
“You touched me.” His fingers brushed against his forehead, as if a mark were visible. “You kissed me. It felt like ice.”
“That,” she said darkly, “was an unfortunate indulgence on my part. I have since learned what happened to you. A kiss from me brushes your forehead. And a death sentence from the Borg—a life of living as they do, or what passes for living—that living death sentence brushes against you. Had I followed my heart’s dictates . . .”
“I’d be a Borg to this day? Or dead? What utter nonsense,” he said sharply.
“Picard is right,” said Guinan. “Sister, the years of isolation, the pain, the loss—they’ve taken their toll on you. You’re not speaking as one who has thought out what she’s saying.”
Delcara passed through the desk and crossed the room. “And you, Guinan, refuse to see the obvious. That is a mistake that I have ceased making. Once I realized the truth of it—once I realized the fate that had been inflicted upon me—only then was I capable of taking steps so that my fate would be in my hands once more. And it is. Look at it,” and she gestured out the window and toward her vessel. “Look at the fruits of my labor.”
It hung
out there, carrying with it an almost obscene beauty in the amount of destruction that it was capable of causing. There was a somewhat hypnotic effect about it, and it was with effort that Picard tore his gaze from it. “You found it—?”
“Because of you,” she said. “It took me years to acquire a vessel capable of piercing the energy barrier around the galaxy. I traced the path of the doomsday machine, and took its point of entrance into our galaxy to be an indicator of its origin. I hoped, prayed, that I would find something there to use against the soulless ones. What I found exceeded all possible expectation.”
“What is it?” asked Guinan, in spite of herself.
Delcara paused a long moment, as if trying to determine the best way to phrase it. “What would you say, dear Picard,” she asked finally, “are the limits of human imagination?”
“None,” said Picard firmly. “The human imagination has brought us to the stars and will someday carry us beyond.”
“Imagine then,” she said, “a ship powered by imagination, fueled by will. A ship driven by an overwhelming, undying need for vengeance.”
“I would think,” said Guinan dryly, “that considering much of what you’ve said, such a ship and yourself would be well matched.”
“True,” said Delcara. “And so we are. Within that great vessel you see hanging there in space are the hearts, minds, and souls of the greatest of a once-great race. A race that once strode across the galaxy the way that you would step across a brook. A race that believed in peace—in the spreading of life—with every fiber of its collective being. A race that was in tune completely with itself and with the galaxy. And when they were confronted by the soulless ones—by the Borg—they tried to reason with them, to understand the Borg. To love the Borg, as they loved all life. They did not comprehend that the Borg are the incarnation of anti-life, and their compassion was the end of them. By the time they tried to fight, it was far too late, but they fought nevertheless. And as they fought, there were some who created the great war machines. As you surmised, the doomsday machine was one such device. A model, really, for the more magnificent and deadly one that was to follow.
