by David Mack
Lieutenant Choudhury’s voice pulled him back into the moment. “Klingon and allied forces have engaged the Borg at Qo’noS and Beta Rigel,” she said. “Allied battle groups moving into attack formations at Andor, Vulcan, and Coridan.”
Worf stepped forward to stand on Picard’s right side. Out of the corner of his eye, Picard saw that his first officer was emulating his stance, in a show of solidarity and dignity. It was to Worf’s credit, Picard thought, that he saw no need to sully the moment with words, and Picard showed Worf the same stoic courtesy in return.
The images of battles far removed blazed with the cold fire of transphasic torpedoes.
Picard wanted to believe that Starfleet was ready for this fight. He wanted to believe that the Federation would endure this crisis, as it had so many others before it.
Then the torpedoes found their marks … and he knew that the only truth left to believe was the one promised by the Borg.
Resistance is futile.
* * *
“Torpedoes are away,” announced the tactical officer of the U.S.S. Atlas, and Captain Morgan Bateson clenched the armrests of his chair as he watched the missiles on the main viewer spiral toward their targets.
“Reload and keep firing, Reese,” Bateson said. “Don’t give them time to regroup.” He stole a quick look at his fleet’s deployment pattern on his command monitor. “Kedam, tell the ships on our port flank to spread out. They’re too close.”
The Antican operations officer replied, “Yes, sir,” as he relayed the order to the other ship’s commanding officers.
“Five seconds to impact,” said Lieutenant Reese.
Bateson’s hands were coated in cold sweat. He’d fought at the Battle of Sector 001, which had taught him a costly lesson about how devastating a single Borg cube could be in battle. Now he was leading an attack against ten cubes.
We outnumber them four to one, he reminded himself as the transphasic torpedoes detonated against the Borg ships with a blinding flash. Please, God, let it be enough.
He didn’t expect more than a handful of the cubes to emerge intact from the blistering blue firestorm that engulfed them. Then a black corner pierced the dissipating fog, followed by another … and then by six more.
“Two cubes destroyed,” reported Lieutenant Kedam. “The remaining eight cubes are still on course for Vulcan.”
Commander Sophie Fawkes, the Atlas’s first officer, said, “Helm, attack pattern Foxtrot Blue!”
“Second salvo’s away,” Reese declared from tactical.
Fearing the worst, Bateson said, “Ready another.”
On the main viewer, he saw the fleet’s second barrage of transphasic warheads flare like a blue sun …
… and all eight cubes burst from its flames unscathed.
Dear God. “All ships, break off!” Bateson ordered. “Fall back to Vulcan orbit and regroup!”
“Sir,” Kedam said. “The Billings is leading the reserve wing on a collision course with the Borg ships.”
Bateson looked to his XO. “Fawkes, hail them! Tell them to break off!” She tried to do as he asked, but Bateson knew it was too late. He watched in horror as the U.S.S. Billings and more than a dozen Federation starships were blasted into scrap and vapor by the Borg cubes, which rammed their way through the spreading cloud of smoldering debris.
Reese cried out, “The Borg are locking weapons!”
“Helm, evasive!” Fawkes shouted.
The young Andorian chan at the conn struggled to guide the Sovereign-class vessel through a series of rapid and seemingly random changes in speed and direction, but the hull rang under a succession of crushing blows from the passing Borg cubes. A brutal impact sent the Atlas spinning and rolling and plunged its bridge into darkness for several seconds.
When the overhead lights and bridge systems came back on, Bateson was crestfallen as he confronted the grim scene on the main viewer. Only a handful of ships from his attack fleet were intact, and even fewer appeared to be operational.
“Kedam, open a channel,” Bateson said, fuming mad at his failure to halt the Borg’s genocidal march. “Warn the Vulcans: The Borg will reach orbit in one minute.”
* * *
President Bacco, her cabinet, and her advisers stood and traded nervous whispers around the conference table in the Monet Room, sequestered below the Palais de la Concorde. Esperanza Piñiero positioned herself to monopolize access to the president.
“We still have time to get you to safety, ma’am,” she said, her tone more insistent than it had been the last three times she had made this suggestion. “There’s a high-warp transport standing by. We can have you halfway to Rhaandar by the time the Borg reach Earth.”
“Enough,” Bacco said. “One more word about this, and I’ll have Agent Wexler put you on that transport by yourself.”
Piñiero scowled. “You say that like you think it’d be a punishment, ma’am.”
“Hush,” Bacco said. “There’s nowhere to retreat to, anyway. We’re making our stand here, Esperanza. Besides, if the Federation falls, I don’t want to live to see it. Now, step aside. You’re blocking my view.”
She didn’t really want to see any more of the developing calamity, but it was as good an excuse as any to end their conversation. The room’s multiple display screens all showed similar images, telling the same story. Starfleet vessels were broken and burning or scattering in confused retreat. A Klingon fleet was making one valiant sacrifice after another to defend Qo’noS. Borg cubes advanced all but unopposed on the strongholds of the Federation and its allies. And volley after volley of transphasic torpedoes made not one blessed bit of difference.
The Borg were winning the war.
Off to one side, Admirals Akaar and Batanides conferred with Seven of Nine, who had joined them to review the latest dispatches from Starfleet Command. The admirals’ faces were easy to read: naked fear. Seven, as usual, maintained an inscrutable mien as she whispered to the two flag officers. The statuesque former Borg drone turned, took a few steps toward the table, and faced Bacco. “Madam President,” she said, snaring everyone’s attention. “The Borg have adapted to the transphasic torpedo.”
The admirals joined Seven, and Akaar said, “We’ve confirmed it, Madam President. As of this moment, the Federation no longer has a defense against the Borg.”
* * *
Energy and signals from the Borg Collective coursed through the catoms that infused Erika Hernandez’s body and mind. A surge of raw power flooded her senses, giving flavor to colors and sounds to the cold touch of wires against her flesh. It was narcotic and addictive, and the ocean of tiny voices that was swept up in the psychic wave of the Collective’s imperial will was both suffocating and awe-inspiring.
She had expected it to be more like the gestalt, but its similarity was only superficial. Many voices had been fused into a single consciousness, but not willingly. Unlike the Caeliar, who had united their minds for the elevation of their society as a whole, the Borg Collective subjugated sentient minds and then yoked their hijacked bodies to serve its own aims.
The deeper she delved into the Collective, the more she realized that it was nothing like the gestalt. It was darker, almost primordial in its aggression, brutally authoritarian, and utterly domineering. She hadn’t realized how much she had taken for granted the benign nature of the Caeliar gestalt; where it had linked individuals with a warm bond of common purpose that respected its individuals’ right to free will, the Collective hammered disparate entities together with cold force, like a blacksmith crafting a sword in a forge of ice.
Hernandez wanted to flee from its casual cruelty, free herself from its oppressive embrace, but there was too much at stake. I have to keep going, she told herself. Pushing her mind into deeper levels of connection with the Collective, she felt her thoughts taking on its primal hues. I have to surrender myself to the Collective and experience it the way the drones do. I need to hear the Queen and know what she sounds like.
S
urrendering to the gestalt had been like returning to the womb and becoming a fluid in an endless stream of consciousness. Submitting to the Collective felt more like being swallowed in a tar pit, enclosed in oily darkness, smothered, and silenced.
Then, alone in the dark, Hernandez heard it.
The voice of the Borg Queen.
Harsh and autocratic, it was a psychic whip of fire on the backs of the drones. Even the cube-shaped ships answered to its unswerving command. Hernandez let herself see what the Queen wanted her to see: fleets of Starfleet and Klingon starships being crushed without mercy or regret, orbital defense platforms above five worlds being obliterated with ease, and the cubes’ preparations for surface bombardments that would turn those worlds into lifeless slag.
Vulcan. Andor. Coridan. Beta Rigel. Qo’noS.
In moments, they would all be gone.
Erika Hernandez directed her catoms to vibrate in harmony with the essential frequency of the Borg Queen and steeled herself to speak to the Collective.
Only then did she realize she had no idea what to say.
* * *
Charivretha zh’Thane watched green bolts fall from the sky above Therin Park on Andor. As the matron of her clan, she had refused to abandon her home. It would have served no purpose, she’d decided. There was nowhere safe to go, and her chei, Thirishar, and his bondmates and their offspring all were long gone from Andor. There was nothing left here for her to protect.
She’d still hoped it wouldn’t end like this, that Starfleet would devise some brilliant tactic to repel or thwart the Borg’s latest incursion. During her years as Andor’s representative on the Federation Council, she had often been amazed by Starfleet’s seemingly endless resourcefulness.
Not endless after all, she admitted, as a viridescent fireball descended toward the park. Strikes beyond the city’s perimeter trembled the ground under her feet.
Too jaded to mourn the loss of her own life, zh’Thane felt a profound sorrow for the doomed beauty that surrounded her and the several thousand other Andorians who had chosen to await their end in Therin Park. Cloistered in the heart of the capital city, it was a place of great natural beauty. Its aquatecture filled the air with the gentle burbling of flowing water, and its sprawling gardens and terraced waterfalls were designed to create secluded enclosures. Exotic, colorful fish in its ponds nipped and leaped at floating transparent spheres that housed dancing flames. Though portions of the park had been damaged by terrorist bombings years earlier, it had been rebuilt into something even more beautiful than what had been lost.
Vretha doubted that would be the case this time.
She drew her last breath of cool, floral-scented night air.
Then she and the park, along with the fish and the flowers and the soft music of flowing water, were gone.
All that remained was fire.
* * *
The skies of Vulcan wore many colors. At daybreak, brilliant shades of pink and vermillion ruled the lower degrees of the heavens. At midday, faded hues of amber and cinnamon set the tone. Come sunset, gold and crimson owned the horizon.
At every longitude of Vulcan, the red and bronze dome of the sky was split by jade-colored thunderbolts from orbit.
T’Lana had ventured alone into the vast wasteland of the Forge in search of solitude and healing. Her judgment as a counselor and as a Starfleet officer had been compromised by her ego and by her own surety that she’d known better than everyone around her, about everything. It had taken a failed—and, in retrospect, disastrously misguided—mutiny against her commanding officer to make clear to her just how skewed her reasoning had become. Faced with the inexcusable nature of her actions, she had done the only logical thing: She had transferred off the Enterprise, requested an indefinite leave of absence, and returned to Vulcan to place herself in the care of experts who could guide her back to the path of selfless reason and logic.
She saw the death stroke falling and wondered, Did I play some part in this tragedy? Were my actions part of a series of errors that led the Federation to this moment?
Logic suggested that she was succumbing to egotism again. In any reasonable evaluation of the matter, her own role would likely prove to be so small as to be inconsequential. Only a rank egotist would seek to accept solitary blame for an event of such epic proportions, she assured herself.
Her inner eyelids blinked shut as the blast of burning emerald plasma slammed down into the heart of ShiKahr and turned the city to slag, vapor, and rubble. The shockfront from the detonation raced from the vanished metropolis as a kilometers-tall mushroom cloud reached into the soot-blackened sky.
T’Lana watched the tsunami of pyroclastic ash, displaced sand, and toxic fallout surge across the flatlands, toward the rocky peaks and canyons of the Forge. At its current rate of speed, the blast wave will reach me in six-point-two seconds, she deduced. I will not reach sufficient cover in time.
She had come home to complete the Kolinahr and purge herself of emotions and prejudice. It therefore struck her as ironic that her final musings were so deeply emotional. She was filled with regrets for her life’s unrealized possibilities.
I can never make amends for betraying Captain Picard.
I can never apologize for insulting Ambassador Spock.
A blast of heat kicked up the sand and seared her skin, a stinging harbinger of the lethal onslaught to come.
I will never be able to tell Worf how I desired him.
The roar of the explosion struck with stunning force. T’Lana shut her eyes … and accepted what she could not change.
* * *
Erika Hernandez gave orders without speaking, in a voice that wasn’t hers, to an army that had no choice but to obey.
Cease-fire.
It was like opening the clamshell skylight in Inyx’s lab. She pictured an event, an outcome that she desired, and the Collective turned itself to fashioning her wishes into reality.
The barrages against the planets stopped. She was anguished to see how much damage had already been wrought. Great glowing scars on the surfaces of five worlds spread horrid, ash-packed clouds through their atmospheres.
The symptom addressed, Hernandez looked to the cause.
The cubes. The hostile drones. The Queen.
Destroy them, she commanded, and throughout the Collective, her legions of followers complied without question, oblivious of the fact that they were the targets in their own crosshairs.
Firefights erupted inside Borg ships throughout known space. Drones cut one another down, pummeled one another with ruthless efficiency, slashed and shattered and impaled one another with mindless abandon. The cubes turned their awesome batteries against one another and blasted themselves to pieces.
Borg attack fleets in deep space dropped from warp as they hammered one another with weapons fire. The Collective stood divided, every cube a battlefield in an instant civil war.
Aftershocks rocked the Collective. So many drones being extinguished at once was an excruciating jolt, and Hernandez felt her mind recoil and shrink from the horror of it. Without the feedback buffer, she was forced to experience every Borg drone’s death, every violent end, every lonely submersion into darkness. With each passing second, a thousand more voices cried out in the night, and her guilt felt like knives in her heart.
Then one voice rose above the carnage, that of a presence unlike any other Hernandez had encountered.
It was indomitable. Amoral.
Seductive and insidious.
The Queen answered Hernandez’s challenge.
In a blinding flash of agony, Hernandez understood the true nature of the Borg … and for the first time in more than eight centuries, she was afraid.
* * *
A second queen. In all its millennia of expansion, assimilation, and steady progress toward perfection, the Collective had never before found itself torn between two monarchs.
Even when the Borg Queen had been forced in times past to manifest in multiple bodies at once
, all her avatars had represented the same will, the same mind, the same purpose. The guiding voice had always been unique and inimitable.
Now, on the cusp of the Collective’s latest triumph, an impostor had risen. Harmony became discord; unity turned to conflict. Perfection had been tainted.
The Borg Queen quelled the millions of confused plaints and imposed order.
Sleep, she decreed. Regenerate.
These were the most basic directives the drones knew. They were among the first to be written, the building blocks for all that had come afterward. Willed by the Queen, they were irresistible fiats that overrode all other directives.
Throughout the enemy’s territory, her drones halted their self-destructive struggles and sought out alcoves in which to replenish themselves and aid the restoration of their vessels. As the drones dropped out of the Collective, the Queen searched the still-waking minds for her rival.
Cube after cube went dark, slowed, and stopped in space, as the drones hibernated. The Queen pushed the blank spots in the Collective from her mind and raced among the swiftly dwindling points of consciousness. Then there was but one besides herself.
Not human, not Borg. Something familiar but still alien.
Designation is irrelevant, the Queen decided. The intruder must be removed. She searched the isolated scout vessel for any remaining drones to serve her, but she found none. There were many humanoid interlopers on the ship, however. She decided they would suffice as replacements.
The ship awakened slowly to the Queen’s will. It had not been engineered to play such a singular role, but it had been designed to support and create new drones—and to destroy all that opposed it, within and without.
More important, as with all creations of the Borg, it had been made to do one thing above all else: adapt.
* * *
Everyone in the combat operations center was talking at once, and Admiral Jellico could barely hear what Admiral Nechayev was saying from across the room. “Speak up, dammit!” he shouted.
