Star Trek: The Next Generation: Vendetta

  “If Captain Picard says that attacking the planet-killer would be inadvisable, I would wager that it’s inadvisable,” she said, her voice flat.

  Slowly, like a snake uncoiling from a basket, Korsmo stood behind his desk. “And if I order an attack,” he said, “are you going to support my authority on that bridge out there? Or are you going to undercut me?”

  Her jaw muscles moved for a moment. “You are my commanding officer, sir. Not Captain Picard. I would never act insubordinately with a commanding officer,” and she paused before she added, “no matter what the provocation.”

  He nodded, but there was no trace of pleasantness in his face. “It would do well for both of us to remember that,” he said. “Dismissed.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “I said,” he repeated, his voice hard as nails, “dismissed.”

  She took a deep breath, stalling for a moment to come up with something more to say, some other way of prolonging the discussion so that she could get across the points she wanted to make. But nothing came to mind, and Korsmo was already ignoring her, staring back intently at whatever was on his computer screen.

  She managed to crane her neck just slightly, and saw that Korsmo was studying the service record of one Jean-Luc Picard. And, very slightly, he was shaking his head in disbelief.

  Shelby backed slowly out of the ready room and stepped out onto the bridge of the Chekov. The doors hissed shut behind her and she stood there for a moment, composing her thoughts, mulling over the significance of what she had just seen.

  “Damn,” she said softly.

  In the engine room of the Enterprise, La Forge turned in surprise when he heard the crisp voice of Picard say, “Mr. La Forge, a moment of your time, please.”

  “Yes sir, Captain,” said Geordi. He walked into his office, stepping aside to allow the captain to precede him inside. He then stood and waited for Picard to address him.

  “The Borg woman,” he said. “What is your progress with her?”

  Geordi shrugged slightly. “Not much,” he admitted. “I don’t know if I’m getting through to her at all. Although, she did show some interest in my VISOR. And she was happy,” he added distastefully, “when the prosthetic arm was attached.”

  “Of course she would be happy,” said Picard. “It’s a mechanical attachment. Anything with a mechanical basis might get a reaction out of her.” He paused. “Doctor Crusher is not having a great deal of success with the re-education program. I’d like you to endeavor to reach her once again. Spend some more time with her. Your VISOR clearly makes it easier for her to identify with you. For similar reasons, Mr. Data will assist you whenever possible.”

  “Because we’re the two crew members who are more reminiscent of the Borg?” Geordi asked, not especially sure if he liked the comparison.

  Neither did Picard. “I did not intend to imply that, Lieutenant.”

  “I know, sir, I’m sorry,” sighed Geordi. He pinged a finger off the edge of his VISOR. “You’d think, after all this time, I’d be used to it by now. May I ask why the sudden intense interest in Reannon?”

  Picard leaned forward. “If we can establish communications with her, get at some of the knowledge buried in her head, we can learn more about the Borg. I remember much of my time with them, but she spent even longer with them and may have learned a great deal more. Also, she might be of some value in trying to establish better relations with the pilot of the planet-killer.”

  “Value? How?”

  “I want to show her the face of the enemy,” said Picard. “Delcara views the Borg as this inhuman, soulless thing. If we can salvage a Borg soldier, make Delcara think of them as individuals, trapped as part of some massive central mind over which they have no control—it might have some impact on her. If we can give her food for thought, maybe we can encourage her then to sit down for an entire meal.”

  “It’s a long shot, sir.”

  “It’s better than no shot, Lieutenant. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, standing and heading for the door, “I have a summit to arrange.”

  The planet-killer hurtled forward on its course at warp six, and deep within, Delcara heard the impatient song of the Many.

  We do not wish to meet with them, they cried out. They are a distraction. There is no need for distractions, or for talking. If we are to talk with them, it would mean slowing or stopping our progress. We have waited so long....

  “That being the case,” said Delcara patiently, as if addressing a child, “it will not hurt anyone to wait a little longer.”

  You want to do this because of the Picard. You do not wish to disappoint him.

  “He has asked me to do this,” said Delcara, “and out of respect to him, I wish to do it.”

  We hate him.

  “You owe him,” and for the first time that she could recall, her voice and thoughts raised in anger, “you owe him your existence. It was he who gave me the way and whose great thoughts led me to you. It was the power of his personality, and the strength of his destiny, that called me to him. The waves of fate ebb and flow around him, and I rode those waves to him and, ultimately, to you. And if he wishes to speak with us, then I will speak with him. It will cost you nothing. You, whose souls cry out for justice, must understand when I do something that is just.”

  The Many were silent for a moment, and then they said sullenly, We understand. You do as you wish. But their voice held no enthusiasm.

  Geordi walked down the corridor, one arm hooked around Reannon’s flesh-and-blood elbow. She stared straight ahead as always, unaware and uncaring of the looks that she received from Enterprise crewmembers as they walked past. Geordi was very much aware, however, of each sidelong glance, each additional step that was taken by a crewman to distance him from the specter of a Borg soldier. Their reactions angered the normally easygoing engineer all the more.

  “This is some ship, isn’t it, Reannon?” he said to her conversationally. “Only commissioned four years ago. It’s the best ship in the fleet, and that’s not just my being boastful. I can back it up with facts. Would you care to see them, Reannon?”

  “She doesn’t care to see anything.”

  The voice came from nearby, low and hostile and familiar, and Geordi kicked himself inwardly for being so overly attentive to Reannon that he hadn’t paid attention to the fact that his little walking tour of the Enterprise had taken them right past the brig.

  Dantar stood within, kept there not only by a formidable force field, but by the additional presence of a glowering security guard. He did not, however, seem in any particular hurry to go anywhere. Instead, he leaned against the edge of the doorway, just beyond the point where he would activate the field, and said, “She’s not even a living being. She’s just a thing, and a murderer.”

  For a moment Geordi almost ignored him, but then his anger boiled over. Stabbing a finger at Dantar, he said, “She’s a victim, just the same as you. She didn’t want or ask for this. If she fully understood what she did to your family, she’d be as grief-stricken as you are.”

  “Oh, really,” said Dantar, his antennae twitching in what appeared to be amusement. “You think that.”

  “I know that.”

  “You know what, Federation man? I don’t care about that. All I care about is what she and her stinking kind did. All I care about is the idea of my fingers around her throat. That’s all that matters to me.”

  Geordi shook his head and pulled on her arm. “Come on, Reannon.”

  They went off down the hallway, with Dantar crying out behind them, “I’ll get you! You hear me, you Borg bitch? I’ll get you! I got your arm, and if I have to take you apart one piece at a time, I will get you!”

  Geordi practically threw her into a turbolift and snapped, “Engineering.” He turned to Reannon and said, “You’ll like engineering.”

  Nothing.

  “Lots of machines. And the engines throb with this sort of deep thrum thrum sound. It’s really fantastic.”

&nbs
p; Nothing.

  He took her by the shoulders. “Reannon, are you in there? Are you hearing me at all? Come on, I know you’re there. Some part of you is hearing me. Some part of you wants to come back. I know it. I asked Counselor Troi earlier, and she said she still didn’t feel anything from you, but I do. I know you’re there. I know it. Come on out. Please.” He took her hand and placed it against his VISOR. “See? See? Mechanical parts, just like you. It doesn’t make me a soulless thing. It doesn’t mean you have to be that way, either. Come on back, Reannon.”

  Nothing.

  His fist thudded softly on the wall of the turbolift even as it slowed and then opened onto the corridor leading to engineering.

  Deanna Troi was standing there, arms folded, waiting for them. “Geordi,” she said. She seemed more formal than usual.

  “Counselor,” he replied. He tilted his head slightly. “Can I help you?”

  “The question is, can you help her?” and she nodded her head towards Reannon.

  Geordi looked from the Borg woman to Troi. “Counselor, is everything okay with this? I mean…you seem…I don’t know…”

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” She waved it off, and then her face fell slightly. “No, it’s something.”

  “Care to come into my office?” said Geordi. “It’s been seeing a lot of action today.”

  Moments later Geordi, Troi, and Reannon were in the engineer’s office. Reannon stood with her back to them, staring blankly out at the view of the engine room that was presented to her.

  “I suppose I’m just frustrated,” said Troi. “I hate to admit it. Commander Riker would say,” and she drew herself up archly, “that I’m too aristocratic to be troubled by such things.”

  “No!” said Geordi in mock horror.

  She smiled. “I’m afraid so.” Then her smile faded. “I feel as you do—that Reannon needs help. I find it terribly, terribly frustrating that my empathic powers don’t substantiate that belief. When my powers aren’t functioning, I feel as if my effectiveness is halved, even quartered.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Geordi ruefully. “I recall you did have some problems with that when you lost your empathic abilities. But I would think, Counselor, that that would have been a learning experience.”

  “Oh, definitely,” Troi said with a trace of self-mockery. “I learned I’m a complete witch when my empathy is useless.”

  “Counselor!” said Geordi, amused. “Such language.”

  “One can’t be honest with others unless one is honest with oneself,” said Troi. “In a way I envy you, Geordi. In this instance you are just as qualified, if not more so, to try and get through to Reannon. I’ve had some sessions with her. I have to say that my frustration level is much higher when I can’t get through to someone on the most basic mental level. Since you’re not accustomed to dealing with people that way, your patience is greater.”

  “Yeah, well, even my patience is getting a little strained,” admitted Geordi. “I—”

  And he suddenly looked up. “Hey. Where’d she go?”

  Troi turned and saw, as had Geordi, that Reannon had vanished from where she’d been standing.

  Geordi stood quickly and exited his office, Troi right behind him. He glanced around quickly and then pointed, “There! She’s up there.”

  High above the deck stood Reannon, climbing the catwalk that led up to the area of the matter injector. She was moving with grim-faced determination. Ensign Barclay tried to block her way, and she shoved him aside with her mechanical arm without so much as a thought and kept moving.

  Then Geordi saw a familiar figure with gleaming skin coming up behind her. “Data,” he breathed.

  Data, for his part, was pursuing Reannon. She had stopped where she was and was staring out across the vastness of the engineering room. She seemed hypnotized by the catwalks, by the power of the engines, and by the gleaming metal that surrounded her on all sides.

  And Deanna Troi staggered slightly. Geordi noticed it and, despite his concern over Reannon, immediately switched gears and went to the Betazoid counselor. He supported her, making sure she didn’t fall over as she locked into…something. “Counselor!” he said.

  “My God,” she whispered. “She’s remembering.”

  Reannon stood high on the catwalk, transfixed. Her entire body seemed to be quivering. Data was getting closer, within twenty feet of her. She didn’t even seem to notice him.

  “Fear,” said Troi, as if her mind were elsewhere. Her eyes were wide and keyed in on Reannon. “She confronted something vast, something throbbing with power and life…It was gargantuan…She was surrounded, hemmed in, trapped, trapped, oh God, Geordi, trapped…”

  Data was within ten feet now, and in a calm, precise voice, he said, “Miss Bonaventure. I am Commander Data. We met previously.”

  Her head snapped around, and she focussed on him for only the second time since she’d come aboard. There was something in her eyes akin to stark terror, and she looked like a trap doe.

  “Captain Picard asked me to work with Lieutenant La Forge on progressing with your reclamation,” Data said politely. “It would seem my arrival here is most timely. It is not completely safe for you to be up here, and if you would accompany me, perhaps we could interact on a more meaningful level. Would you be interested in learning to tap dance?”

  She stepped back, flattening against the wall. Her mouth moved, but no words came out.

  He was within five feet of her, three, and then he reached out toward her. “Miss Bonaventure, it would be best if—”

  She lashed out with her mechanical arm, moving at incredible speed, and she snagged Data by the wrist. She twisted and yanked with all her strength and Data’s arm came out.

  He stepped back in surprise, the empty sleeve of his uniform flapping almost comically. “Now, Miss Bonaventure, that was—”

  She screamed.

  It was primal, incomprehensible. There were no words, just hysterical and terrified howls, and then she came in fast, swinging the arm like a club. Data brought his remaining arm up, blocking the first blow, but Reannon reversed and swung upward, catching Data across the face and sending him tumbling back onto the platform.

  He skidded, automatically trying to grab the railing with the arm that was no longer there. He grabbed out with his good arm, trying to haul himself up, and Reannon stood over him, shrieking and yowling, smashing him around the shoulders and back with his own arm. Her strength was manic, augmented by the power of her mechanical arm and the sheer energy of her hysteria. Data started to get up and was knocked flat again, and she started kicking furiously, endeavoring to knock him off the catwalk to the floor of the engine room far below.

  And then the whine of a phaser blast sliced through the air. Reannon staggered back, slamming against the wall. She was still standing, but her consciousness had already fled her and slowly she sank down. Within moments she was lying on the catwalk, out cold.

  Data looked down and saw, far below, Worf. The Klingon security officer, having arrived in response to an emergency call from La Forge, was standing with his phaser angled upward. Now, though, he was lowering the weapon and calling out, “Are you all right, Commander?”

  “Other than the fact that I appear to have been disarmed, I am functioning quite well,” Data called down. “Excellent shot, Lieutenant. It would appear that my attempts to communicate with her were not proceeding well.”

  “Phasers are the universal communicators,” rumbled Worf, holstering his.

  Moments later Data was on the main floor of engineering, and Reannon’s unconscious form was being carried into Geordi’s office, under close guard from Worf. Geordi, for his part, was busy reattaching Data’s arm. “It would seem, Geordi, that we are making progress.”

  “Progress?” said Geordi. “She tried to kill you.”

  “I would surmise,” Data said after a moment’s thought, “that in her confused state, she thought I was a Borg, and reacted accordingly.”

  “Data
’s right,” agreed Troi. “Emotional response as dramatic as that can only be considered progress.”

  “Yeah, well,” Geordi observed ruefully, “a little more progress like that, and we’ll be able to sell Data for scrap parts.”

  The three vessels had come together, proceeding along the course that the planet-killer had determined for itself, but only at one-quarter impulse power—a comparative crawl.

  Picard and Riker stood in the transporter room, as O’Brien’s confident hands moved over the transporter controls. “The Chekov is signalling that they’re ready for transport, Captain,” he said.

  “Energize,” Picard said, drawing himself up and, as was his habit, smoothing his jacket.

  The transporter shimmered, and moments later Captain Korsmo and Commander Shelby appeared on the platform.

  “Captain. Commander,” said Picard, nodding his head slightly to each. “Welcome aboard the Enterprise. Commander, I might add, welcome back.”

  “In many ways she never left, Picard,” said Korsmo, stepping down and extending a hand. As Picard shook it firmly, Korsmo continued, “She speaks of you almost constantly.”

  “The captain exaggerates,” said Shelby, smiling. “It’s good to see you looking so well, Captain. And you’re looking fit, Commander.”

  Riker smiled. Once he would have sworn that, given the opportunity, he’d just as soon pop Shelby one in the jaw as look at her. Now he found himself surprisingly pleased to see her again. Funny, how coming through a crisis together, and in one piece, could forever alter the way one viewed someone. “The position of first officer obviously agrees with you, Commander.”

  Very loudly and very deliberately, Korsmo cracked his knuckles. “Now that we’ve gotten all the niceties aside, not to mention displaying our thorough knowledge of each other’s rank, why don’t we get down to business. Where’s this Delcara person, Picard?”

  “She will come,” said Picard. “I communicated our desire to meet with her.”

  “Did she respond?”

  “Not directly, but—”