VENDETTA: THE GIANT NOVEL

by Peter David

  “This was what you wanted! To be with me!” she said. “That’s what you told me!”

  “Not to be here! Imprisoned on this engine of destruction!”

  “I can’t leave them! And you mustn’t stop me! The battle is joined, and I’m your ship’s only hope of salvation!”

  He knew she was right. Even with the emergency procedures and strategies they’d developed, the odds were still long against the Enterprise remaining intact through a battle with even one Borg ship, much less three.

  “Return me to my ship, then,” he said again. “That is my place.”

  “Your place is with me. You said so!”

  “Delcara! Concentrate on the here and now!” shouted the Many.

  “Shut up!” howled Delcara, “Shut up!”

  The ship trembled around them even more forcefully than before, and the scream of the Many was truly frightening, for they howled with something they had never expressed before. That no one thought they could express.

  Pain.

  “My God,” said Riker. “Look at that. It’s . . . bleeding.”

  And so it was, or so it appeared. On the surface of the planet-killer, bubbling out of a crack in its hull, was some sort of clear, thick ooze, a mile in length.

  “Some sort of energy conversion plasma,” said Data, quickly scanning the sensors. “Utilized for conducting energy throughout the body of the planet-killer.”

  “All weapons, on the Borg. Fire!”

  “Sir!” said Worf. “The Chekov has opened fire on us!”

  The phasers of the Chekov sped across the distance separating them from the Enterprise in the blink of an eye.

  Davenport looked up from his station. And his voice was, once again, utterly neutral, as he said, “Missed.”

  Korsmo turned and faced him. “Missed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fire again!”

  The phasers lanced out.

  “Oops. Missed again,” said Davenport. There was dead silence on the bridge. Korsmo saw the way that Davenport was looking at him, and turned to see Shelby regarding him in the exact same way.

  And for a moment—just the briefest of moments—he saw himself the way they were seeing him. He saw all the rationalizations he’d been using, and all the reasons he’d followed that seemed like good reasons at the time. And he saw what might be behind those reasons. All of that, reflected in the eyes of Shelby and the rest of his bridge crew.

  He knew he wasn’t a bad man, or a bad officer. He knew that, in his heart. But he didn’t see any of that in the way his people were looking at him. And after a long, soul-searching stare, he wasn’t seeing it in himself either.

  When he spoke again, it was with quiet irony. “Having trouble with targeting today, Mr. Davenport?”

  “So it would seem, sir.”

  “Think you could target a Borg ship any better?” A slow smile spread across Davenport’s face, a smile matched by Shelby and the others. “It’s a bigger target, sir.”

  “All right. The ship at”—and he glanced down briefly—“seventy Mark eighteen. As I recall, Commander Shelby, phaser beams at the higher end of the band are more effective.”

  “Yes sir,” said Shelby proudly.

  “I may forget myself on occasion, but I never forget facts,” said Korsmo stiffly. “Mr. Davenport—blast them to hell when ready.”

  “Commander Riker,” announced Worf, “the Chekov has begun firing on a Borg vessel.”

  Sure enough, there was the Chekov, darting towards another of the three Borg cubes, letting fly with everything it had.

  At that moment the Enterprise shuddered.

  “The Borg ship we were attacking has locked onto us with tractor beams,” announced Worf. “Shields are failing.”

  Geordi had come up from engineering to the engineering station on the bridge, enabling him to react faster to what was happening. “Modulating nutations,” he said.

  “Shield failure continuing,” said Worf. “Ninety . . . eighty . . .” It was a countdown toward death.

  “They have ceased firing on the planet-killer. Full concentration on us. “Shields at sixty . . . fifty . . .”

  “Fire phasers, varying the harmonics. They’ve adjusted for the upper end. Try the lower.”

  “Phasers firing,” announced Worf.

  “Minor power disruption on the Borg,” said Geordi. “They’re still smarting from the planet-killer. Their power systems are down sixty-seven percent.”

  “Fire antimatter spread.”

  The Enterprise was giving it everything they had. “Shields holding at fifty . . . dropping to forty,” announced Worf.

  “Nutonic variation failing,” said Geordi, like a death knell. “Seconds at best.”

  And the Borg ship trembled as the anti-proton beam of the planet-killer struck to the core. Sparks and power surges leaped throughout the ship.

  “Tractor beam gone!” said Geordi.

  “Full reverse!” shouted Riker. “Work on restoring shields! Give us some distance!”

  The Enterprise hurtled away, and seconds later one more stab from the planet-killer blasted the Borg ship to pieces. It created a massive cloud of dust and rubble, and through it sailed the doomsday machine, triumphant, wounded, bleeding, and with the other two ships pursuing it.

  “Sometimes,” Riker said, “seconds are all we need.”

  They struck again and again at the gaping wound that had been carved in the hull of the destroyer. The Chekov concentrated fire on one of the remaining Borg ships, and seconds later, shields restored, the Enterprise dove towards the other unoccupied Borg ship.

  The plan was unspoken and simple: attack the Borg ships and give the planet-killer enough leeway to destroy them with its superior firepower.

  Riker prayed it would work. And he kept on praying right up until the moment when the planet-killer ceased firing.

  “We hurt!” cried the Many. “We hurt!”

  “I’m sorry!” Delcara screamed. “I’m sorry, my children. I should never have listened to him! He distracted me! I let myself think of things other than our purpose!”

  “No, Delcara, listen—” said Picard, forgetting himself and reaching out. His hand passed right through her and rested against the crystal. “Listen to me—”

  And then he heard it. The sound that was like an explosive, controlled popping. The sound he would never forget.

  A Borg had appeared within the heart of Delcara’s vessel.

  Then he heard more. And more. God, how many? At least half a dozen.

  They were coming towards him from just around the corner, and Picard’s phaser was in his hand. A chill struck to his spine. They wanted to destroy Delcara. They might even want to recapture him. The thought of returning to that living nightmare called Locutus was almost more than he could stand, and when the first of the Borg appeared, he opened fire using the maximum stun setting.

  The Borg staggered and fell over, and immediately a second was behind him. Picard squeezed off another shot and then quickly altered the frequency on the E-M band and fired again. A second Borg went down, and moments later, a third.

  The holographic image of Delcara had vanished, as if afraid to oppose her greatest nightmare face to face. Picard charged forward, rolling forward and firing. A fourth Borg went down, but suddenly a fifth stepped into view. It targeted Picard with its gleaming mechanical eye and raised its huge metal arm. Electricity leaped out from the end, and Picard lunged to one side, barely out of the way.

  The Borg stalked forward, the image of Picard now locked firmly into its mind. It stalked forward, firing again when it saw Picard dodge between two of the crystal slabs. From hiding, Picard fired again, and this time the protective shield of the Borg adapted to his phaser fire. The soldier was now ready for any phaser attack.

  Picard flattened his back against one of the crystal slabs, his heart pounding so furiously he was certain the Borg could hear it.

  The Borg stalked slowly forward, the uni-mind o
f the Borg exercising caution. Its tracking eye swept across the array of crystal slabs in front of it, trying to find the one called Picard. The image of the human was firmly in place . . .

  And suddenly Picard was everywhere.

  Every single slab had an image of Picard poised in it, ready to attack. Each one was distorted, furious, howling a challenge.

  The Borg turned left and right, its arm moving to one side and then the other. Nothing but Picards.

  It fired a burst of electricity to the right, electricity harmlessly ricocheting off a crystal slab, and Picard charged in from the left. But at the last second the Borg saw him coming and swung its mechanical arm. Picard caught a jolt of electricity that numbed his right arm, and he dropped the phaser. He fell to one knee and rolled to the side as the Borg came towards him, and then he lunged forward, slamming into the soldier in the midsection. The Borg had prepared for phaser attack but, insanely, not a physical attack. The Borg did not anticipate, only adapted. It was the single advantage the captain had. Picard and the Borg went down in a tangle of arms and legs and prosthetics.

  The strength of the Borg was overwhelming as it tried to bring the end of its mechanical arm up towards Picard’s face. It drew closer and closer, Picard shoving with his one functioning hand as hard as he could against the arm. It was a losing battle, one in which Picard had only seconds left.

  And suddenly he released his grip on the mechanical arm altogether and slid forward the length of the Borg soldier. Picard’s hand lashed out and gripped the Borg’s shoulder. The Borg brought his artificial arm directly into Picard’s face and was about to blast enough electricity into the captain to render him unconscious and, possibly, dead.

  Picard ripped away the circuitry on the Borg’s shoulder, the circuitry that kept the soldier in communication with the Borg uni-mind. Like a marionette severed from its strings, the Borg’s head lolled back instantly. Picard rolled to one side as the soldier immediately turned into a thin line of ash and vanished.

  He felt a flash of triumph for perhaps a second. And that was when he heard the hideous whine of a phaser at a high setting—his phaser.

  He scrambled to his feet and almost screamed.

  It was a Ferengi, one that had been transformed into a Borg. And he was firing on the crystal chamber that held Delcara, using the phaser that Picard had dropped.

  From the sound and intensity of the beam, Picard could tell that it was on setting 16. It was a setting so powerful that it could destroy a volume of metamorphic rock some 100 meters across. It was drilling full-bore into the crystal encasement, and whatever that casing was made out of, it wasn’t going to be strong enough. That it was resisting as much as it was was nothing short of miraculous.

  And Picard’s voice and the voice of the Many were raised together, and they howled, “Stop!”

  In front of the crystal, the holograph of Delcara sprang into existence, the phaser beam naturally passing right through her. She was holding up her hands, as if trying to ward off the pounding of the blast.

  The Ferengi/Borg did not stop. In seconds the crystal blackened and cracked, and the body of Delcara began to fry, the pure skin shrivelling, the beautiful hair burning like straw. The holograph screamed, a scream that would follow Picard to the end of his days, and vanished.

  Picard was already in motion, charging towards the Ferengi, and the alien suddenly ceased fire, spun, and aimed the phaser straight at Picard. Whereas the crystal had momentarily resisted a setting-16 phaser blast, albeit it not especially well, Picard wouldn’t survive for a second.

  There was no way he could dodge it.

  “No deals,” said Vastator of Borg, and pushed the firing buttons.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “THE PLANET-KILLER has ceased firing,” announced Worf. “However, it is still moving. The Borg are now concentrating fire on it. Their power levels are beginning to increase.”

  “Mr. La Forge, get ready with that warp bubble. Mr. Chafin, bring us right down their throats at full impulse. Mr. Data, monitor engineering and computer release. The timing on this one is going to have to be computer-perfect, and I want you handling it.”

  “Yes sir,” said Data.

  “Emergency antimatter generator standing by, sir,” said Geordi.

  “Approaching Borg vessel, sir,” said Chafin. The monstrous vessel loomed larger and larger. In the distance there were flares of the Chekov firing upon the other one.

  “We will be in range in fifteen seconds,” said Data. “Fourteen . . . thirteen . . .”

  “Channeling emergency antimatter generator through main warp nacelles,” said Geordi. “Preparing for release.”

  We’re going to be looking right down their throats, thought Riker grimly.

  Data was counting down. Riker could practically feel the surging of the engines, holding the explosive force of the warp field in place.

  With the Enterprise not firing, the Borg ship was paying them no mind at all. Instead it was continuing to pound the planet-killer.

  “Three . . . two . . . one . . .” Data said.

  “Engaging warp engines!” La Forge called out. And at that precise moment Reannon Bonaventure burst onto the bridge.

  The warp engines of the Enterprise released the altered warp field and blasted forward. The warp bubble immediately integrated itself into the field surrounding the Borg vessel and contracted. Space twisted and snarled around it.

  On the bridge everything happened with incredible speed. Worf saw Reannon and his eyes widened. Without hesitation he started towards her, and as smoothly as if this sort of thing happened every day, another officer leaped in to man tactical.

  Geordi turned and spotted Reannon, and he froze, in shock.

  Reannon swung her phaser up and Worf dropped to the ground to avoid the blast.

  All of that happened in one second.

  In the next, Reannon leaped forward toward Ops, where Data was preparing to blast the ship forward on impulse power, away from the rapidly spreading warp bubble. She screamed one word, the only word anyone would ever hear her say: “Borg!”, and swung her prosthetic arm with all its strength.

  She smashed in the side of Data’s head.

  The force of the blow was so powerful that it hurled Data from his chair and sent him flying into Chafin at conn. The crewman went down beneath the insensate form of the android officer.

  Now there was no one at helm or navigation; the Enterprise had exactly one second to cut itself loose.

  On the bridge of the Chekov, Hobson shouted an alarm as the ship abruptly shook. “Captain, some sort of tractor beam! We’re losing shields!”

  “Shift the nutonals,” ordered Shelby.

  Technically, he should have given the order, but Korsmo knew that Shelby was the expert and, furthermore, that she was right. “Do it!” he snapped.

  “Ineffective!” said Davenport at tactical, unaware that the Borg ship they were facing had already learned to adapt because of the Enterprise pulling the same trick seconds ago on another Borg vessel. “Shields at eighty . . . sixty . . .”

  “Fire phasers!”

  “Shields gone.”

  The Chekov struck back at the Borg ship, which had momentarily diverted its attention from the moving planet-killer to dispense with the annoying gnat of a starship.

  “Their power levels are at fifty percent but climbing,” called out Davenport.

  “Torpedoes and antimatter spread. Fire.”

  The Chekov attacked with everything, and the Borg ship absorbed it.

  “Tractor beam gone,” said Davenport.

  The Borg laser beam lashed out, ripping across the unprotected hull of the Chekov. Bulkheads blew inward and crewmen by the dozens were immediately sucked out into the cold depths of space.

  “Hull breach!” shouted Hobson. “Warp drive out! Structural damage on deck 36, sections 19 through 24.”

  The Borg struck again. This time the beam gutted engineering, moved up and sliced across the left nace
lle. There was a massive explosion as the nacelle blew clean off. Hulls ruptured throughout the Chekov, and bulkheads on the lower decks collapsed.

  Power went out all over the ship, the vessel barely limping forward. It was moving at a mere fraction of impulse power, and even that would be used up in minutes.

  On the bridge everything was in smoking ruins. Everything had happened so quickly that they had barely had any time to react. It was as if the Borg had been humoring them all that time, making them think that they made a difference.

  Davenport lay slumped over the tactical station, a huge gash in his forehead. Shelby was coughing, trying to pull herself up, her faced covered with grime. She spit out a tooth and licked the blood away from her mouth. “Captain,” she whispered.

  Korsmo was in his command chair, shaking his head. Blood was covering the right side of his face, and yet, in the semi-darkness of the battered and nearly dead bridge, there actually seemed to be grim amusement in his eyes. Slowly he turned towards Shelby and, through cracked and bleeding lips, said, “Picard beat these bastards?”

  She nodded.

  He shook his head. “Son of a gun.” He didn’t ask for a damage report. He knew what the damage was. And he saw only one response to it. “Shelby—you think a starship exploding against their hull would help stop them?”

  She shrugged fatalistically. In a way, she still couldn’t believe she’d survived her first encounter with the Borg. She inwardly believed she’d been living on borrowed time since then. Well . . . this was payback. “It couldn’t hurt to try, Captain.”

  “Mr. Hobson appears unconscious. Take helm.”

  She did so, pushing Hobson’s unmoving body aside. She wasn’t especially gentle about it, but then, in a minute or so it wouldn’t really matter.

  The screen didn’t have full power to it. The image was flickering, but they could still make out the cube of the Borg ship.

  “The Borg ship is still functioning at less than full power,” said Shelby, hoping she could trust the instrument readings. “It expended some energy firing at us. It’s recharging.”