Destiny: The Complete Saga: Gods of Night, Mere Mortals, and Lost Souls

by David Mack

  “And risk running into our friends with the fangs and claws again? No, thank you.” Pembleton leaned sideways and looked past Graylock, surveying the rolling, snow-covered landscape that ringed the mountain’s base. “Besides, I think the mountain’s coming to us.” He pointed, and Graylock turned his head.

  A single Caeliar moved quickly toward them, its wide, three-toed feet bounding over the fresh-fallen snow without leaving so much as a mark. The alien’s pale, mottled skin seemed made to catch the weak starlight. Its bulbous cranium and long, stretched-frown visage became distinct as it drew within a dozen meters of the sentries’ peak.

  Pembleton asked Graylock with politic courtesy, “Are you planning on challenging it, sir?”

  Chastened, Graylock lifted the phase rifle, aimed it at the Caeliar, and shouted, “Halt! Identify yourself!”

  The Caeliar stopped moving a few meters away. Its ridged air sacs puffed and deflated with the deep motions of respiration. “Karl, it is Lerxst.”

  Graylock demanded, “What do you want?”

  “To talk with your people, Karl—all of them. I am not exaggerating when I say that our lives may depend on it.”

  2381

  9

  Dr. Shenti Yisec Eres Ree paced back and forth on the terrace outside the away team’s shared residential suite. It wasn’t easy for him to negotiate such narrow turns with his therapodian build—semirigid tail extended behind him for balance, head thrust forward, torso almost level to the ground.

  All around him, the Caeliar city of Axion was lit from within and reflecting itself in its polished, vertical surfaces. Overhead, the sky was perfectly black, unblemished by stars; only a few low-running clouds bounced back the bluish-white glow of the metropolis. Natural scents from the planet below traveled on the breeze, but Ree couldn’t dispel the sensation of being caught up in a half-formed illusion of a real world.

  Footsteps drew closer. Ceasing his perambulations, Ree turned to find Commander Tuvok stepping through the open portal to the terrace. “Good evening, Doctor,” said the Vulcan.

  “Commander,” Ree said, watching Tuvok with a wary eye.

  Tuvok continued past him to the low barrier, stopped, and rested his hands on the wall’s shallow ledge. To Ree’s surprise, the tactical officer said nothing else; he seemed content to stare out at the cityscape in stoic silence.

  Ree didn’t buy it. “You’re here to berate me, aren’t you?”

  “Quite the contrary,” Tuvok said. “I feel that I owe you an apology. However, I was not certain whether this would be an appropriate time to express it.”

  With exaggerated swoops of his long head and sinewy neck, Ree scoped the entirety of their immediate vicinity. “No one here but us and the invisible Caeliar who spy on us,” he said. “So speak freely, Mister Tuvok.”

  Turning about to face Ree, Tuvok said, “Very well. I should have arrived sooner to help you explain yourself to the others. I had been meditating and monitoring Commander Troi’s mental state. Though I sensed her distress, I understood that you were trying to help her. Unfortunately, I did not realize that you were in danger because of the security team’s misreading of your actions. By the time I extricated myself from my telepathic link with Counselor Troi, I was too late to corroborate your account of events before the matter got out of hand. So I ask your forgiveness.”

  Ree bowed his head. “Thank you, Tuvok. I don’t think you owe me any such apology, but if you think it was called for, I accept it in the spirit in which it was given.”

  Tuvok nodded once, and then he pivoted again to face the needle-thin towers and the gossamerlike metal filaments that linked them. With the conversation apparently ended for the time being, Ree resumed pacing. He took care not to swat the Vulcan man with his tail while making his turn at the end of each lap. In the silence of the night, Ree’s claws clicked with a sound like a low spark on the rough stone of the terrace.

  He paused again when he heard more footsteps approaching. Commander Vale emerged from the main corridor, trailed by the loping figure of Inyx. Lieutenant Commander Keru followed them.

  When the three were meters shy of the terrace, Ree flicked his tongue twice in quick succession to taste the pheromones in the air. Vale’s biochemical emissions matched her demeanor: aggressive. Keru’s scent suggested he was calmer than she was. As usual, the Caeliar scientist made no mark in the air, though Ree thought an odor of sulfur might have been appropriate.

  Behind Ree, Tuvok faced the oncoming trio.

  “Doctor,” Vale said, “Inyx needs a sample of your venom.”

  Openly suspicious, Ree asked, “Why?”

  Inyx stepped around Vale and walked a few steps forward. “I’ve had centuries to study human anatomy and biology in detail, but Deanna’s heritage is of mixed ancestry. That made it more difficult for me to make a diagnosis and select a course of treatment. However, I am also unfamiliar with your species and its unusually complex venom. If I am to save your friend’s life, I cannot afford to spend time separating your biotoxin from Deanna’s bloodstream. A pure sample will enable me to sequence its properties more quickly and develop an antivenom.”

  “If you’re treating her medically, I demand to monitor the process,” Ree said.

  Inyx straightened and took on an imperious mien. “Given the crudity of your methods, that is quite out of the question.”

  “She’s my patient,” Ree said.

  Vale replied, “I’m pretty sure she fired you when she told you to keep your hands off her.”

  “That was hardly an enforceable dictate, Commander,” Ree retorted. “The good counselor was clearly non compos mentis.”

  “Doctor, just give Inyx the venom,” Vale said. Beside her, Inyx proffered a small sample jar with a cover of taut fabric.

  Stalking forward, Ree said, “If you want a sample from me, you can draw it in whatever facility you’re holding my patient.”

  “Deanna is not being held,” Inyx said. “We are trying to help her, but her condition has become critical. Though your venom may have preserved her fragile status for a few minutes, it has complicated her treatment. Your patient’s best interest is now best served by your cooperation, Doctor.”

  Ree paused and reflected that Inyx’s position was actually reasonable. His reluctance to comply with the Caeliar’s request was rooted in the simple fact that he didn’t trust them.

  His ruminations were interrupted by the firm squeeze of a hand near the nerve cluster above his shoulder. He swung his head back along his flank to see Commander Tuvok. The Vulcan was clamping his hand and scrunching a fistful of the Pahkwathanh’s leathery hide in his grip. Ree flashed a toothy grin at the swarthy humanoid. “If you’re trying to render me unconscious with a nerve pinch, Commander, don’t bother.” Tuvok released his grip on Ree and backed off, his expression neutral. Ree added, “I presume all that business about making an apology was a ruse to put you in position in case I refused Commander Vale’s request?”

  “No,” Tuvok said. “My apology was sincere.”

  “And I’m not making a request, Doctor,” Vale said. “I’m giving you an order: the venom sample, now.”

  Taking a more conciliatory tack, Inyx said, “Had it not been for your comrades’ recent attempt at escape, I might have been persuaded to permit you to observe Deanna’s treatment. Under the circumstances, however, I am under orders from the Quorum to restrict your access to all information about our technology and methods. So I will ask you again, as one healer to another, help me save Deanna’s life. I beg of you.”

  “Give me the cup,” Ree said, holding out one clawed hand.

  Vale transferred the container from Inyx to Ree, who impaled its fabric cover with one incisor fang and released roughly fifty milliliters of colorless, odorless venom into the cup. Inyx stepped forward, and Ree handed him the sample. “Keep me apprised of Counselor Troi’s progress, please.”

  “Of course,” Inyx said. “And thank you.”

  As the Caeliar turned t
o depart, Ree asked, “Why didn’t you send your errand girl Hernandez to collect the sample?”

  “Because she is the one who enabled your ship to escape,” Inyx said. He walked out onto the terrace and levitated away into the night.

  Keru shambled away, back toward his quarters, followed closely by Tuvok. Vale lingered a moment and glared at Ree.

  “Do you realize that every second you stood there arguing, Troi could be dying?” she asked once the others had gone. “Is that really a chance you wanted to take?”

  “Not at all, Commander,” said Ree. “But you know the details of her condition almost as well as I do, and you know what has to be done. But what will the Caeliar do after they assess the situation? What if their imponderable brand of moral calculus compels them to sacrifice Deanna to save her fetus?”

  Vale rubbed her eyes, signaling that she was not only tired but also tired of their conversation. “Do you really think that if you were there, you’d be able to sway their judgment in the slightest?”

  “Of course not,” Ree admitted. “But at least I’d be in a position to bite one of them.”

  Rolling her eyes, Vale replied, “Now you tell me. If I’d known that was your plan, I would’ve taken your side.”

  10

  Erika Hernandez felt queasy as she stumbled in a panic through her quarters on Titan. Screams echoed from the corridor, and she heard the sounds of energy weapons being discharged in the corridor outside her locked door.

  Thunderclaps of impact shook Titan, knocking her to the deck. She scrambled to her feet and staggered across the heaving floor. Something had set upon the ship with such speed that there had seemed to be no time to react.

  Through the windows, she glimpsed a fearsome black cube moving through the indigo fog of the nebula. It battered its way through the storm of starship debris, firing brilliant green beams at Titan, which pitched and lurched after every shot.

  A direct hit rocked the ship. The lights stuttered out. Outside her quarters, the clamor of battle grew more intense. On a gamble, she dashed to the door, which opened ahead of her. One of the guards who had locked her in, an Andorian shen, lay dead on the deck, her nubile form butchered and bloodied. Hernandez grabbed the shen’s rifle and prowled away, through the dark, smoke-filled corridors, following the din of combat.

  Everywhere she looked, biomechanoid components seemed to have sprouted from the bulkheads, as if the ship were diseased.

  She turned a corner and stepped into a cross fire.

  Emerald streaks screamed over her shoulder and seared crackling wounds into the chests of two of Titan’s security personnel. Hernandez hit the deck as two other security officers, of a species Hernandez had never seen before, returned fire at their opponents. Shimmering beams of phaser energy crisscrossed in the hazy darkness.

  I should get to cover, Hernandez told herself, but she didn’t dare stand to run, and her curiosity demanded to see who or what had boarded Titan.

  She turned her head and saw the enemy. They were humanoid, clad in formfitting black bodysuits and festooned with cybernetic enhancements. Their optical grafts swept the corridor with red laser beams, and several of the boarders had one hand replaced with complex machinery, ranging from cutting implements to industrial tools.

  They advanced into the phaser barrage at a quick march, moving with the kind of precision she had only ever seen from jackbooted thugs in old historical films. To her shock, the phaser beams had no effect on them—they simply deflected them with personal energy shields.

  Mustering her strength, she coiled to spring to her feet and sprint toward the security team. Turning back, she saw that it was too late for that. They had been ambushed from behind by more of the cyborgs, who slashed and impaled with abandon. Cries of pain were swallowed by the cruel whirring of machinery.

  She rolled and tried to turn back the way she had come. There was another squad of the malevolent invaders closing in from behind her. Pivoting in a panic, she realized she had nowhere to run. Not without a fight, she vowed, and she opened fire. None of her shots did any good.

  The black throng surrounded her and pressed inward.

  Then came the oppressive roar of a voice inside her mind. We are the Borg. Resistance is futile. You will be exterminated. It was as intimate to her thoughts as the gestalt once had been, but it was hostile, savage, and soulless.

  A spinning saw blade cut away the front half of her rifle, and the weapon spat sparks as it tumbled from her grasp.

  Hands closed around her arms and pulled her backward, off-balance. She flailed and kicked, lashing out with wild fury.

  More hands seized her ankles, her calves. The sheer weight of bodies smothered her, and a sting like a needle jabbed her throat. Twisting, she saw that one of the Borg drones had extended from between its knuckles two slender tubules that had penetrated her carotid.

  An icy sensation flooded into her like a poison and engulfed her consciousness in a sinking despair.

  Pushed facedown as the Borg’s infusion took root, she smelled the ferric tang of blood spreading across the deck under her face. Then a hand cupped her chin and lifted her head.

  She looked into the eyes of a humanoid woman whose skin was the mottled gray of a cadaver. Hairless and glistening in the spectral light, the female Borg flashed a mirthless smile at Hernandez. “You are the one we have waited for,” she said. “Surrender to the Collective … and become Logos of Borg.”

  The human part of Hernandez unleashed a defiant scream, a torrent of pure rage. But her body lay still and silent, submerging into the merciless grip of the Collective. Trapped inside herself, Hernandez was tortured by her memory’s endless refrain of mute protest: No!

  She awoke screaming. She covered her mouth with one hand.

  The door signal was loud in the silence of her quarters. Lieutenant sh’Aqabaa asked via the comm, “Captain Hernandez? Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Hernandez said. “Just a bad dream.” A dream, she repeated to herself, unable to believe it. The padd by her side still displayed the file she had been reading—a declassified report about the Borg that Captain Riker had suggested she take a look at. I must have drifted off while I was reading.

  It had been nearly eight hundred years since she had slept. After bonding with the Caeliar gestalt, her body had no longer required sleep, either for physical or mental rejuvenation. The catoms that infused her cells regulated her neurochemistry and biological processes. Axion’s quantum field had been the only solace or sustenance she had needed since undergoing the Change.

  Until now, apparently.

  She recalled a threat the Caeliar had once made to Inyx, in order to coerce him into thwarting her attempts at communication with Earth. They had warned him that if he could not control her, they would exile her to a distant galaxy, where, without Axion’s quantum field, she would age normally and die alone.

  I guess escaping from Axion has other consequences, she reasoned, rubbing the itch of slumber from her eyes. I wonder what other surprises I have to look forward to.

  As if on cue, her belly gurgled loudly, its acid-fueled yodel resonating inside her long-dormant stomach.

  Naturally.

  Hernandez got up and walked to a device that her Andorian guard had called a replicator. “You can get your meals from here, and it’ll even do the dishes,” sh’Aqabaa had said. It was time, Hernandez decided, to put that claim to the test.

  Standing in front of the machine, which resembled little more than a polished-polymer nook in the wall, she muttered aloud, “How am I supposed to use this thing?”

  A feminine computer voice replied, “State your food or beverage request with as much specificity as you desire or are able to provide.”

  “A quesadilla with Jack cheese and black beans, with sides of hot salsa, guacamole, and sour cream. And a mojito.”

  The machine responded with a flurry of glowing particles and a thrumming swell of white noise. When both had faded, a tray sat in the nook. On i
t was a plate covered by a piping-hot quesadilla, some small bowls with her condiments, and a glass with her minty-sweet rum beverage. She removed the tray from the replicator and carried it to a small table.

  The aroma of food awakened memories she had thought long faded—of her childhood home and family dinners; the delicate texture of a flour tortilla fresh from a skillet; the sublime flavor of stone-ground guacamole made from ripe avocados, fresh cilantro, salsa, salt, garlic, and a touch of lime juice; the cool, refreshing decadence of a perfect mojito.

  With great expectation, she sampled her replicator repast.

  The quesadilla was rubbery, the salsa was bland, the guacamole was greasy, the sour cream tasted like paste, and there was something subtly but undeniably wrong with her mojito.

  She pushed the tray away. Food that’s not food, booze that’s not booze, she fumed. This is why I had a chef.

  * * *

  Sleep eluded Will Riker.

  All he’d wanted was a short nap. He turned from his right side to his left, flipped and punch-fluffed his pillow in search of a cool spot, and slowed his breathing in an effort to cajole his mind and body into letting go of consciousness. Closing his eyes, he focused on the white noise he had requested on a loop from the computer, of a low wind rustling the leaves of a tree.

  It was all in vain. Rolling over, he let his arm splay across the empty half of the bed. Deanna’s half.

  Her absence had pierced him like a needle; his every thought was stitched with its doleful color. Worse still was the guilt. He kept picturing her expression when she learned that he and Titan had escaped from New Erigol, leaving her and the rest of the away team behind.

  I deserted them, he accused himself.

  In the hours since Titan’s return to Federation space, he had begun to second-guess himself. What difference will one more ship make now? Especially one as beat-up as ours?

  Lying alone in the darkness, he examined his decision with an increasingly critical eye. On the face of it, it had seemed at first to be the one that served the greatest good: It had freed his ship and the hundreds of personnel still onboard. That was as far as his justifications could take him, however. He couldn’t persuade himself that he had really done any good for Starfleet or the Federation. In the end, all he could say was that he had saved the many by sacrificing the few.