Glass Empires

by Various

  “Does she now?” Picard arched his eyebrow.

  The dim lighting made it hard to tell if she was blushing. “Soong is a genius,” she explained, ignoring Picard’s teasing query. “Comparable to Daystrom or Cochrane.” She glanced around to make sure that no one was listening; Gul Madred was not above employing human informers. “The Alliance enslaved him for decades, forcing him to employ his brilliance on their behalf, but the Resistance helped him go underground a few weeks back.”

  “I see,” Picard said. He noticed that Soong did not object to Vash’s extravagant praise; perhaps he also considered himself the equal of humanity’s greatest minds. “And do you share the Resistance’s revolutionary ambitions?”

  The old man chuckled quietly. “To tell you the truth, I’ve always been more interested in science than politics.” Taking a sip from his cup, he grimaced at the taste. “I just got frustrated that my Alliance supervisors wouldn’t let me pursue my lifelong interest in artificial life-forms. They wanted me to concentrate on new automated weapons systems instead.” He shook his head in disgust. “What an appalling waste of my intellect!”

  Picard sympathized, but remained wary. “What does this have to do with me?”

  “I’m glad you asked that.” Soong leaned forward eagerly. He grinned at Picard. “Have you ever heard of the Borg?”

  “The who?” The name meant nothing to Picard.

  Soong couldn’t wait to explain. “I’ve recently uncovered evidence of a possibly cybernetic species known only as the Borg, who are mentioned in historical documents relating to the mysterious extinction of the El-Aurian civilization over a hundred years ago. Vash tells me that you have a well-deserved reputation for finding things that no one else can. I want you to help me track down these Borg and make contact with them.” His eyes gleamed at the prospect. “Think of it, Picard: a sentient life-form more artificial than organic. I’ve always dreamed of encountering such a being. It would be the ultimate vindication of my theories about the possibility of genuine positronic intelligence.”

  “And that’s not all, Jean-Luc,” Vash added. “If these Borg are as advanced as Soong believes, they could prove to be a valuable ally against the Alliance.” She searched his face, looking for a spark of interest. “If that doesn’t matter to you, consider the archeological implications. The Borg could be responsible for the collapse of any number of bygone alien civilizations, like the Tkon Empire, the Taguans, or the ancient Iconians. Remember how we used to speculate about what really happened to all those extinct cultures? The Borg might be the answer to some of history’s most tantalizing riddles.”

  Picard was tempted. The galaxy was indeed littered with the remains of lost civilizations whose demises remained obscure. The idea that these Borg creatures might have played some part in their downfall intrigued him. Ultimately, though, he knew he had to say no. He had a workable arrangement going with Madred. He couldn’t risk getting involved with the Resistance, and a fugitive scientist, just to chase after some cryptic alien myth.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t help you.”

  “Jean-Luc!” Vash blurted in dismay. “Don’t you get it? The Borg may be our best chance to overthrow the Alliance once and for all. As a human being, how can you not care about that?” She reached across the table to grip his arm. “We need you, Jean-Luc. Humanity needs you!”

  Here we go again, he thought glumly. Why couldn’t Vash see that the Resistance was just a useless pipe dream? Why did she insist on throwing her life away for the sake of a doomed crusade? The Alliance was too powerful to be brought down, not in their lifetimes. These Borg were just another false hope that was going to get plenty of naïve, well-intentioned people killed. Leave me out of it.

  “You’ve got the wrong man,” he told her. “I have my own work to see to.”

  The look of disappointment on her face seared him like a disruptor beam, but he hid his pain behind a rigid expression. Removing her hand from his arm, he rose to go. There was no point in prolonging this encounter any longer. He should never have let her bring him here.

  “Good-bye, Vash.” Clearly, he would be sleeping alone tonight. He gulped down the contents of his mug. “Good luck with—”

  A loud crash interrupted him. Spinning around, he saw a cadre of mixed Klingon and Cardassian soldiers kick open the front door of the tavern. Armed with both disruptor rifles and truncheons, they poured into the crowded watering hole. Startled customers cried out in alarm and jumped to their feet. Several bolted for the back exit, only to be met by yet more soldiers invading from the rear. A desperate Betazoid tried to dash past the intruders, but was struck to the floor by a Klingon’s heavy truncheon. The soldiers drove the frightened laborers back with the muzzles of their rifles.

  It’s a raid! Picard realized. Of all nights for us to come here…!

  “Stay where you are, scum!” a Cardie officer shouted over the chaos. “We have reason to believe that this stinking cesspool harbors known terrorists and their sympathizers. You are all assumed guilty until proven otherwise.” Whimpers of fear arose from the bar’s more timid patrons. “No one is leaving here until they have been thoroughly interrogated.”

  Picard shot a worried look at Vash and Soong. Thanks to his connection to Madred, he might be able to come out of this fiasco with nothing more than a few bruises, but his companions were another story. He didn’t want to think about what the Alliance might do to Vash if they found out about her links to the Resistance—or even if they didn’t. “We have to get you out of here!” he whispered urgently.

  But how? The hostile soldiers were already fanning out through the tavern, roughly herding the customers into the middle of the old refinery. Muscular Klingons shoved the junkyard furniture aside to create a holding area for the prisoners. Cups and pitchers clattered onto the floor. The smell of spilled alcohol filled the chamber. Picard looked in vain for an escape route.

  “The barrel!” Soong croaked. He and Vash had both lurched to their feet. The old man threw his weight against the sturdy metal drum, but the table didn’t budge. “Beneath the barrel!”

  Vash added her strength to Soong’s. The bottom of the drum scraped against the floor as they pushed the barrel to one side, exposing a sealed metal hatch. Hope surged inside Picard. Maybe there was still a chance to get away, provided they moved quickly enough.

  “You there!” A Cardassian soldier, flanked by two scowling Klingons, marched toward them. He squinted suspiciously. “What are you doing?” He waved his rifle at the three humans. “Get over here with the rest of the prisoners!”

  Picard glanced up at the ceiling fan. The spinning turbine was directly above the Cardie and his comrades. Snatching his disruptor from beneath his vest, he fired at the motor connecting the fan to the ceiling. The crimson beam lit up the gloomy tavern even as the dislodged fan plummeted down onto the advancing soldiers. Cries of pain and fury escaped the startled warriors, punctuated by a loud metallic crash. Sparks flew where the spinning blade scraped against the floor grates. The Klingons’ purple blood spread out from beneath the crushed soldiers, mixing with the dark red blood of the wounded Cardie. The remaining soldiers shouted in confusion.

  “What the—?” the Cardassian officer exclaimed. “Terran bastards!”

  Taking advantage of the distraction, frantic prisoners tried to make a break for it. Scuffles broke out as the reckless men and women clashed with their captors. Klingons growled and Cardassians cursed, suddenly finding themselves with a riot on their hands. The customers fought back with whatever was handy, from bare fists to homemade shanks. The tavern’s owner cowered behind his bar. Disruptor blasts added to the tumult. A stray shot blew up the still, sending bodies flying into the air. Shrapnel tore into the combatants, injuring both soldiers and slaves alike. Flames licked at the splattered spirits. Smoke filled the air.

  That bought us a few moments, Picard thought.

  Behind him, Vash dropped to her knees and tried to open the circular hatch. Rus
ted metal resisted her efforts. “Get back!” he told her, turning his disruptor on the stubborn steel barrier. Vash scrambled out of the way, and he used the weapon’s maximum setting to disintegrate the hatch, which dissolved in a nimbus of radiant red energy. Picard glimpsed the top of some sort of access shaft. “After you!”

  “Hurry!” she urged Soong as she helped the old man into the open shaft. As soon as his wispy white hair disappeared from view, she clambered down after him. “Come on, Jean-Luc! Stick with us!”

  A disruptor blast tore apart a hanging pipe only a few inches from his skull. Ducking his head, Picard decided that he had out-worn his welcome here. “Get that hairless Terran!” the Cardas-sian officer bellowed at her troops. Her dark hair and armor were singed from the explosion. “Don’t let him get away!”

  More blasts targeted Picard, who fired back to cover his exit. He dove headfirst through the gap in the floor, hoping that there wasn’t too big a drop in store. Stale air, redolent of toxic chemicals, rushed past his face as he plunged down the open shaft. His right hand held on tightly to the grip of his disruptor.

  This could be another rough landing….

  He splashed down into a layer of thick, black sludge. The noxious gook cushioned his fall somewhat, although the impact still knocked the wind out of him. Anxious hands grabbed onto him as Vash tugged him to his feet. “Thank God!” she gasped. “You made it!”

  So far, Picard thought. Light from above revealed what appeared to be some sort of old drainage tunnel, dating back to the refinery’s original installation. Voles scurried along the fringes of the sludge, which was nearly waist-deep in places. He wrinkled his nose at the caustic stench. Something long and sinuous swam past his leg.

  Angry voices sounded high above them. Disruptors’ blasts fired down the two-hundred-meter-high shaft, scorching the surface of the sludge. Picard spotted a ladder running up the side of the shaft and vaporized it with his phaser. He wondered how far the soldiers would go to capture a trio of anonymous Terrans. Not too far, he hoped. They were going to be busy enough trying to bring things under control upstairs.

  Maybe.

  “Keep moving,” he told the others. Wading through the viscous goo, they hurried down the tunnel. Picard guarded the rear, disruptor in hand, while Soong led the way, assisted by Vash. There was a limit, alas, to just how quickly the frail old man could travel. Picard was half tempted to throw Soong over his shoulder and carry him the rest of the way. He prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

  “This way,” Soong instructed. “There’s an outlet up ahead.”

  The farther they got from the shaft, the darker the tunnel became. Picard produced a handheld spotlight from his belt. He swept the beam over the gaping passageway before them. “How did you know about this tunnel?” he asked Soong.

  “I accessed the original blueprints before the meeting,” the scientist explained. He snickered beneath his breath. “Call me paranoid, but I always like to have an escape route available. How do you think I got away from the Alliance in the first place?”

  “Paranoia works for me,” Picard grunted, not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Especially where the Alliance is concerned.” He listened carefully, but did not hear any sounds of pursuit behind him. Apparently the soldiers had better things to do than trudge through contaminated filth in search of the fugitives. He glanced down at the black sludge coating every inch of his clothes and skin. For all he knew, the slimy refuse was taking years off his life.

  His soaked garments weighed him down as he wearily sloshed down the tunnel. He felt like Jean Valjean escaping through the sewers of Paris in Les Misérables. The Alliance had banned Hugo’s work, along with many other “decadent” examples of human art and literature, but Picard had once perused a black-market Romulan translation. He couldn’t help remembering that Jean Valjean had died in the end.

  “Ah, here we are!” Soong announced at last. The seemingly endless tunnel finally opened up onto a dry riverbed outside the colony. Dried sludge coated the rocky floor of the gully. Flecks of unprocessed dilithium glittered amid the sticky black residue. Soong dropped onto a couch-sized boulder to rest his aged bones. Vash sagged against the rock as well, breathing hard. Sludge oozed down her arms and legs. Although less drenched than Picard, she was still smeared with goo.

  “Thanks for your help, Jean-Luc,” she said, wiping her hands off on the arid slope of the gully. Her voice was less scornful than before. “We wouldn’t have gotten out of there without you.”

  Picard wasn’t interested in her thanks. Now that they were no longer in immediate peril, he was free to express his anger at being dragged into this situation to begin with. “You see!” he said acidly. Thrusting his disruptor back into his belt, he stripped off his shirt and vest and tossed the sodden bundle at her feet. “This is why I wanted nothing to do with your precious Resistance.”

  She flinched at his words, then her face settled into a look of mournful resignation. “Very well,” she said. “I won’t bother you again.” She sounded as if she were presiding over the funeral of the man she had once known. “You’ve made your feelings quite clear. About everything.”

  Merde, he thought. This was not how he wanted to end things, especially after their reunion in Stargazer’s bunk, but he had learned a long time ago that the universe couldn’t care less about what he wanted.

  He took a moment to catch his breath, then climbed up and out of the riverbed. The armories and barracks of the outpost rose before him, roughly a kilometer to the north. A barren wasteland stretched out interminably behind him. “Can you make it back to your rebel lair on your own?” he asked Vash brusquely. No doubt the Resistance had some cramped basement she and Soong could retreat to.

  “Yes, Jean-Luc.” The coldness in her voice approached absolute zero. “You needn’t trouble yourself anymore on our account.”

  “Fine.” He set off toward the spaceport. He had a long walk ahead of him.

  “Picard! Wait!” Soong called out. “It’s not too late. We can still go looking for the Borg. It’s the chance of a lifetime!”

  He kept on walking.

  3

  B y the time he got back to the spaceport, it was well past midnight. The lights of the outpost washed out the stars overhead. Tendrils of thick gray smoke rose from the slums of the human quarter, presumably from the burning tavern. Picard himself presented a pathetic sight; although he had wiped off most of the clinging sludge with a rag, his boots and trousers were still caked with filth. Dirty and half-naked, he looked more like a homeless indigent than a space-faring archeologist. “Go sleep it off !” a Cardie patrolman hissed at him as Picard staggered by. “Worthless Terran trash!”

  His feet squished with every step, and he let out a sigh of relief as he spied Stargazer parked upon the tarmac right where he’d left her. For a moment, he wondered if Vash had made it to safety yet. That’s no longer my concern, he reminded himself. All he craved right now was a quick sonic shower, a few hours of sleep, and a chance to forget that the last solar day had ever happened.

  Let the Resistance look after her and Soong.

  As he neared his ship, however, he saw that the main airlock was already open. “What the devil?” His eyes widened as he spotted a diminutive figure sprawled at the foot of the gangplank. Adrenaline shot through his veins, overcoming his exhaustion. He hurried forward to find Wesley lying in a puddle of his own blood. Picard saw at once that the young Terran had been beaten within an inch of his life. His right eye was swollen shut. A flattened nose, split lip, and torn ear added to the damage. Fractured limbs jutted at unnatural angles.

  “Wesley!”

  The boy struggled to lift his head. “I tried to stop them, Luc….” He coughed up a mouthful of blood and broken teeth. “I tried…”

  Them?

  For a few tense heartbeats, Picard feared that the Alliance’s security forces had already uncovered his role in this evening’s debacle. He flirted with the idea of fleeing back into
the night. He had contacts who might be able to arrange transport off-planet, but he was reluctant to leave all his notes and research behind. Guttural laughter escaped the interior of the ship, and Picard suddenly had a pretty good idea whom he was dealing with here. His momentary relief was dispelled by the sound of rampant breakage accompanying the harsh laughter.

  What the hell are they up to?

  Pausing only long enough to make Wesley slightly more comfortable, Picard charged up the gangplank into Stargazer. Just as he feared, he found a pair of Klingon guards ransacking the ship. He recognized them immediately as the same guards who had bullied him several hours ago. They stomped through the main cabin, carelessly rifling through Picard’s meager possessions. Precious books and mementos littered the floor. A few minor relics and artifacts, too mundane to warrant inclusion in Gul Madred’s collection, lay in pieces upon the scuffed metal tiles. Picard winced at the sight of a twenty-first-century Risan fertility idol splintering beneath the heel of one of the Klingon’s boots. A miniature Kurlan statuette had already been crushed into powder. Grimy footprints spoiled an authentic Mintakan tapestry.

  “Stop that!” he demanded, losing his temper. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Look, Gwarz!” the scarred Klingon brayed drunkenly. Picard recalled that his name was Khone. “The ‘captain’ has returned to his ship.”

  “About time!” the bald guard said. He laughed at Picard’s bedraggled appearance. “What’s the matter, Terran? Lose your shirt in a game of dom-jot?” He tore the Iconian star charts down from the wall, then tossed them aside. “Guess this isn’t your night!”

  Picard struggled to contain himself. “What is this all about?”

  “Nothing much,” Khone answered, unimpressed by Picard’s indignant tone. He lumbered toward Picard, his unsteady gait hinting at excessive consumption of bloodwine. “My partner and I figure we’re entitled to an extra ‘docking fee’ for letting this broken-down garbage scow stink up the landing field.” He barked in Picard’s face, spraying him with spittle. “Unless you have a problem with that.”