VENDETTA: THE GIANT NOVEL

by Peter David

  “You speak to me of unrelenting? Me? Let them come!” shot back Delcara, her voice even more harsh. The spaces where her eyes were darkened even more than before. “They cannot stop me. You cannot stop me.”

  “But years of devastation—” Guinan said.

  “What are years to me? I have all the time in the universe.”

  “Delcara, you have made clear you intend to use your vessel for destructive purposes,” said Korsmo. She turned away from him and he circled around the table so he could face her. “Starfleet cannot permit that. You are hereby ordered—”

  “Captain,” warned Picard.

  Korsmo ignored him, saying even more firmly and loudly, and pointing a finger at Delcara so forcefully that it shook with rage, “You are hereby ordered to surrender your vessel to myself or Captain Picard, as authorized representatives of Starfleet. Failure to do so will result in direct action against you.”

  Delcara turned on him, ebony with fury. “You pitiful, insignificant fools!”

  “Delcara,” said Guinan, trying to calm her. Troi was flinching from the raw emotions that were pounding against her like an angry surf.

  “Have you no idea what you’re saying? No concept of whom you’re challenging?” said Delcara angrily. “I am your savior! You should be on your knees, thanking your gods that I have been sent to aid you. Your hopeless little race would have no chance for survival if it weren’t for me! Do you think the Borg are simply going to forget about you? That their defeat is going to prevent them from trying again? No!” She stalked through the conference room, passing through whatever was in front of her like an angry ghost. “No! They’ll just keep coming, and coming, and coming. They won’t stop. They won’t tire. They won’t give up. They’ll just batter you down until you’re dead or absorbed, and they don’t care which it is, because they have no heart and no soul and no humanity. They just kill and kill and kill. Is that what you’re fighting for? Is that why you wish to stop me? So you have the privilege of being wiped from existence by the soulless creatures called the Borg? I won’t permit it!” She slammed a fist down that passed right through the table, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I will save you, whether you want me to or not. Whether you understand or not.”

  “You’re crazy!” snapped Korsmo. “You half-witted woman—”

  Guinan threw up her hands. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Way to smooth-talk her, Captain.”

  Korsmo spun and faced Picard. “Are you going to allow this ‘hostess’ to talk to me that way?”

  “Morgan, be quiet!” thundered Picard with such force that Korsmo actually took a step back.

  And Delcara laughed, a deep, unpleasant and slightly demented laugh.

  “He’s right, you know,” she said softly. “Perhaps I am a half-wit. But half of my mind, Korsmo, is worth more than the nothing that you have. My obsession has brought me to the brink of madness and beyond, but your ignorance has blinded you to the reality of the situation. I,” she said, spreading her hands wide as if acclaiming her victory, and her voice rising in triumph, “am the One-Eyed Man! Look at me! Fear me! Yes, the One-Eyed Man am I, and I walk the Kingdom of the Blind. And in the Kingdom of the Blind, the One-Eyed Man is king.”

  She turned, placed her hands above her head as if she were about to execute a perfect swan dive, and leaped straight through the bulkhead. Korsmo moved as if to pursue her and quickly stopped, realizing the futility of the notion.

  “Charming woman,” said Korsmo.

  “Captain,” said Picard icily, “May we have a moment alone, please.”

  Immediately the others cleared out, the last of them being Guinan, who tossed a final, disdainful glance at Korsmo before the doors closed.

  “Do you wish to tell me what the hell you thought you were doing?” demanded Picard.

  “Acting in accordance with the wishes of Starfleet,” shot back Korsmo.

  “Nonsense! In a situation that required patient, gentle negotiation, you came into it with phasers blasting. You did everything I told you not to do!”

  “And since when do you give me orders, Picard?”

  “Since you started acting like a damned fool!” snapped Picard. “Calling people names is no way to negotiate with them. And trying to bully someone is a distasteful tactic under any circumstance. To bully someone when you’re not dealing from strength is sheer lunacy!”

  “I had to show her who was in charge,” said Korsmo forcefully. “Your problem, Picard, is that you bend over backwards not to offend anyone. How many times have you swallowed your pride? How many races have you left laughing at us because when they stared you down, you blinked first?”

  Picard stepped back and eyed Korsmo as if he had discovered some new strain of bacteria. “I perform my duties with an acute awareness of my ship’s safety, and with the concept that this is a galaxy that is endeavoring to attain harmony. That goal will never be reached through anger, threats, and intimidation.”

  “And it won’t be reached through cowardice!” snapped Korsmo.

  Immediately the air chilled even more than it had already, and mentally Korsmo cursed at himself. What the hell was he talking about, implying that Picard was some sort of coward? Certainly the man was insufferably self-confident, and a goddamn hero from one end of the galaxy to the other, but that didn’t mean . . .

  Picard said nothing, although rage was seething through every pore. He was too disciplined to say all the things that were racing through his mind and instead said simply, “I will not even dignify that comment with an answer.”

  Korsmo opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, the doors slid open and Riker was standing there. With no preamble he said, “The planet-killer is on the move. It has resumed course, and just lit out of here at warp seven.”

  Picard and Korsmo exchanged glances, and Korsmo bolted out of the briefing room. Not even taking time to get down to the transporter room, he tapped his communicator and said, “Korsmo to Chekov.”

  “Chekov here,” came the reply.

  Shelby stepped to his side as Korsmo said, “Two to beam over, immediately,” and he glanced at Picard as he said, “You know what we have to do.”

  “Yes,” Picard said simply, and as Korsmo and Shelby transported off the bridge, he could not help but wonder how in hell they were going to do it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  SHE COULD HEAR the anger of the Many in her head.

  We are hungry, they said. We have spent time talking about the Picard and thinking about the Picard. We need food. You don’t care about the mission of vengeance or of us, the last comment extremely accusatory.

  Suddenly Delcara felt inexplicably tired. “Of course I care about you,” she said. “We are all. We are together. We are great. You know that.”

  Prove it. Find us food.

  “We will be there very shortly,” she said. “There is a starsystem just ahead. But you cannot truly be hungry. The conversion engines have more than enough power for now from the planets we have already consumed. How can you be hungry already?”

  We think you don’t want us to feed anymore. We think you are concerned that the Picard will be angry with you if you do.

  “This is some sort of test, is that it?” Now she knew she was tired. There seemed to be a great fog hanging over her mind, and she came to the sudden realization that she could not remember the last time she had slept. “Testing my feeling for Picard against my feeling for you.”

  Yes, said the Many.

  “All right, then. I will show you that my resolve has not wavered. I will show you all.”

  The planet-killer cut straight towards the heart of Tholian space.

  “Twenty-two minutes until Tholian space, sir,” said Data.

  Picard sat motionless in his chair, watching the stars hurtle past. Forty thousand kilometers to starboard, matching their warp speed, was the Chekov.

  “Sir,” said Worf suddenly, “sensors have detected a Tholian ship dead ahead. Energy emissions are extremely low.�
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  “Used up their shipboard weapons in combat, no doubt,” said Riker.

  “Take us out of warp, Mr. Chafin,” said Picard, standing. “Open a hailing frequency to—”

  “Chekov to Enterprise,” came Korsmo’s voice, and without waiting for Picard to reply, he said, “Picard, why are you slowing down?”

  “To offer assistance to the crippled Tholian ship,” Picard said. “We aren’t going to be able to do anything against the planet-killer. Nothing short of the entire remaining fleet could do that, and perhaps not even then. We’ve got to help where we can and wait for our communications to get through to Starfleet.”

  “The Tholian ship,” said Korsmo acidly, “would not slow to help you. We’re going after the planet-killer. You do whatever the hell you want. Korsmo out.”

  The Chekov leaped forward and, moments later, was gone from the screen. The Tholian ship now hung visibly in front of them.

  Thinking no more on the bitter exchange that had just occurred, Picard ordered, “Give me a channel to the Tholian ship.”

  “Open,” said Worf.

  “Tholian ship, this is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Enterprise.”

  The triangular ship seemed to be twisting and turning, as if on a string. Then the ship vanished, to be replaced by the blinding blue-and-red glare of a Tholian. Picard winced automatically, as he always did on the rare occasions when he was confronted by one of these bizarre and notoriously short-tempered beings. Nothing was worse to have to deal with than an angry Tholian, and yet Picard felt constrained to do something.

  The voice was shrill and fractured over the speaker. “Enterprise again?” said the Tholian.

  “Again?” said Picard. The last time he’d seen a Tholian was in his Stargazer days. He had not encountered one since taking command of the Enterprise. “I don’t understand.”

  “I am Commander Loskene,” warbled the voice. “Ninety of your years ago the Enterprise trespassed into our territory. We dealt with a lying Vulcan named Spock. Is he among you now?”

  Picard looked at Riker, who shrugged. The Tholians were renowned for their punctuality, but obviously had very little concept of the length of time that had passed by human—or Vulcan—standards. “Not at present,” he said, declining to make the obvious rebuttal that Vulcans did not lie. “We are in pursuit of a ship, large enough to swallow planets . . .”

  “You have released it upon the Tholians in order to destroy us,” said Loskene angrily.

  “That is not true,” snapped Picard. He was getting damned tired of being accused of things this day. “It is helmed by an individual who is acting of her own accord, and against the wishes of the Federation and Starfleet. Am I correct in assuming that you have engaged it unsuccessfully?”

  “Federation officers lie, especially those in command of ships named Enterprise,” Loskene informed them.

  “Sir, respectfully submit that this is getting us nowhere,” Riker offered in exasperation.

  “The Tholian fleet will stop the destroyer ship,” Loskene said. “And once they have defeated it, we will seek revenge on Starfleet for this unprovoked attack.”

  “Starfleet is your only prayer for survival,” said Picard, his anger barely in check. “Enterprise out.” He turned and stalked back to his chair as he said, “Mr. Data, take us in pursuit, warp eight. Engage.”

  The Enterprise hurtled into high warp in a desperate bid to overtake the planet-killer.

  They needn’t have hurried.

  When the Chekov caught up with the planet-killer, it was calmly devouring the outermost planet of the Tholian starsystem.

  “Warn her off, Mr. Hobson,” snapped Korsmo.

  Hobson did as he was told, but the planet-killer calmly went on about its business. Tractor beams hungrily licked up pieces of the world and dragged them into the monstrous maw.

  “Target the section where the neutronium hull was damaged,” ordered Korsmo. “Load front torpedoes.”

  “Torpedoes loaded and armed,” said Hobson.

  “Fire.”

  The forward torpedoes darted out into space and, seconds later, impacted in the small area to the rear of the planet-killer.

  “No visible damage,” reported Hobson. “There’s a secondary coating of castrodinium beneath the neutronium hull.”

  “Perfect,” muttered Korsmo.

  “Sir, we’re picking up about seventy ships heading towards the planet-killer,” Hobson suddenly announced. “It’s the Tholian fleet, sir.”

  “The more the merrier.”

  Shelby glanced at Korsmo, who eyed her appraisingly. “What would you do, Commander? Hang back and let the Tholians fare for themselves? Or augment their attack?”

  “She has to be stopped,” said Shelby without hesitation.

  “My thoughts exactly. Bring us around, helm. Open a channel to the Tholians and let them know that they’ve got help, whether they want it or not.”

  Delcara was in ecstasy. She fondled—almost sensually—the powerful beam that sliced apart the planet, and was at one with the glorious rejoicing of the Many as they consumed their latest morsel.

  More, they cried out, we want more.

  “You can have more,” she said. “As much as you want. There is another dead planet up ahead—”

  Not dead. Not this time.

  She hesitated, not understanding. “What?”

  We have looked into the hearts and minds and souls of these beings. They are petty. They are territorial. They launch raids upon those weaker than themselves. They are no better than the Borg in many ways. We want them.

  “No,” said Delcara uncertainly. “For all their faults, they are not the soulless ones.”

  They would destroy us if they could.

  “They cannot.”

  They will try. They come even now.

  And they were coming.

  The Tholians had greatly improved the tractor field weapon that had become their trademark. Whereas once it had taken hours for their notorious web to be completed, they were now able to accomplish the intricately interwoven construct in a matter of minutes.

  Tholian Webslingers, as the main ships had been nicknamed by the crew of the Chekov, leaped forward and encompassed the planet-killer. It was hundreds, perhaps thousands of times larger, but this did not daunt the Tholians. They were nothing, if not determined, and their ships began to weave their webline around the stationary planet-killer. The mammoth machine, for its part, appeared to totally ignore them, instead consuming the last portions of what had once been the outermost planet.

  Within seconds the first strands had been strung, and inside of five minutes the planet-killer was completely enmeshed in the elaborate, glowing blue force strings of the Tholian web. The tractor field was designed to leach off the energy output of whatever it had surrounded and use that energy to feed the web itself. It was an elegant and brilliant design. The more energy the entrapped vessel expended, the faster the web absorbed it and the stronger the web became. So, the stronger the victim, the tighter the bonds that it created around itself.

  The Chekov hung back, reluctant to start firing for fear that they might accidentally hit a Tholian ship. The Tholians were testy enough as it was, and despite Korsmo’s original intentions to the contrary, the Tholians had informed him in no uncertain terms that the starship was to stay the hell out of it. For added emphasis, one of the ships had taken a few pot shots at the Chekov, shots which had bounced harmlessly off the shields. It served merely as a warning, but one that the Chekov took quite seriously.

  The web closed around the planet-killer, and the Tholians congratulated themselves on their victory. The planet-eating vessel was obviously so petrified by the Tholian might that it was too afraid to fire so much as a single shot.

  Their rejoicing lasted exactly nineteen seconds, at which point the planet-killer opened fire with its massive anti-proton beam. The web flashed, energy running up and down its entire length, charging and crackling. Two of the Webslingers had not
yet disconnected and were fried instantly, and moments later the entire web began to shrivel and spark. The web was designed to absorb energy output, but it couldn’t even begin to cope with what the planet-killer was dealing it, and a few blazing seconds later the Tholian web fell and burned away.

  The Tholians, desperate now, opened fire, and the Chekov joined them, launching photon torpedoes, phasers, and a full antimatter spread. The planet-killer fired back intermittently, picking off ships here and there as if it were more of an exercise in marksmanship than a serious offense. It didn’t need to mount one. The ships arrayed against it didn’t stand a chance.

  The planet-killer then turned in leisurely fashion, ignoring the attempts to slow it down, and started on a direct course towards the Tholian homeworld.

  It was at this point that the Enterprise showed up.

  Yes, sang the Many. You see they wanted to hurt us. They are evil. They care for no one and nothing except themselves. They deserve to die.

  Delcara felt her defenses weakening. It made so much sense, really. She could intuit so much of the discordance that was part and parcel of the galaxy. There was so much chaos, so much evil. Not just the Borg, but everywhere. Yes. Yes, the Tholians had committed great harm. She sensed the truth of the telling. There had been raids. There had been attacks on neighboring starsystems. There had been extremely variable borders so that passing ships could be savaged on the flimsy excuse that Tholian space had been violated. Yes, there was the truth, clear now as light, guiding as a beacon, sending her toward the homeworld.

  The planet-killer howled through space, closing. Not too far away, the great sun of the Tholian system crackled in space, uncaring of the fates of those planetary bodies that orbited it. Whether the second planet away—the Tholian homeworld—survived or was extinguished was of no interest. The star would go on for a million years, and that was all that mattered.

  Tholian ships rose up to meet the threat and were smashed without hesitation. The planet-killer paused, ignoring the scraps of ships that floated past it, the crushed bodies of the Tholians whose life flames had been snuffed out. It ignored as well the frustrated attacks of the Chekov, which meant well. Delcara sensed that, and for that reason she would destroy the Chekov only as an absolute necessity.