Daimon, you know. Daimon Turane of the
Ferengi. In addition to my own rank and station, I
have a brother who is on the council itself. That, I
tend to think, gives you an idea of my
importance."
He stood there with arms folded, waiting for a
response. He got nothing. One of the Borg
soldiers simply turned and walked away. The
other remained in its place, relays still
clicking, as if receiving a transmission
from somewhere.
"I said," repeated Turane a bit more
impatiently, "that I have a great deal to offer you."
There was a long, awkward silence, and Turane
wasn't sure what he was going to do if the Borg
just left the way the previous one had. Would he
simply wander the ship for the rest of his life,
ignored, frustrated? Relegated to some sort of
non-person status? Unable to get a response
other than to be destroyed when interfering with some
sort of ship function? What sort of destiny was
this? He, Daimon Turane, was intended for
greater things.
"Answer me, damn you!" shouted Turane.
"I am a Daimon of the Ferengi, and live or
die, I will not be ignored! Do you hear me? I
will not!"
And for the first time, the Borg soldier actually
fixed him with a glassy stare. There was no sound of
acknowledgment, no verbal greeting, but it was clear
that, for the first time, the Borg was actually aware of his
presence as an individual. All of a sudden he
wasn't sure that that awareness was necessarily a
good thing.
The Borg turned and started to walk away.
Turane remained where he was, uncertain of how
best to proceed. Then the Borg stopped in its
tracks, turned, and faced Turane once more.
This time the message was unmistakable. The
Ferengi was to follow.
"All right," said Turane, with some measure of
satisfaction. "This is the sort of cooperation that
can only be profitable for all of us."
He followed the Borg soldier, who preceded
him with a stiff-limbed walk. Turane looked
around him as they went farther and farther into the heart
of the Borg ship. The place was a complete
maze. If he needed to find his way back, he
never would be able to. And he sensed that every square
inch of the ship was being used for some specific
purpose. Absolutely nothing was being left
to waste. There was no need for pictures or
sculptures to break up the decor, or for
differently colored walls, or for anything other
than total machine-precision. There was a certain
... inevitability about it all. As if anything
caught up in the great gears of the Borg mentality
would be unceasingly, irrevocably ground up and
pulped into its essence.
There was a steady humming in front of
him that was getting louder and louder as he approached
it. A power source, perhaps? Or something more? He
wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything,
really, except that matters were spiralling out beyond
his ability to control them.
First officer Martok drummed his fingers
impatiently on the arms of the command chair. The
rest of the bridge crew waited for some sort of
move on his part, some indication of his intentions.
"Raise them," he said finally. "They've been
silent for too long."
"No response, sir," said the tactical
officer after a moment. "Not from Daimon
Turane, nor Darr, nor any of the guards."
Martok nodded slowly.
"I was afraid of that," he said. "It may be
that Daimon Turane has met with a ...
mishap."
It seemed to stretch out forever.
Turane stood on a ledge that overlooked
what appeared to be some sort of massive power
core. The angles were confusing, the depth
difficult to register, but he was certain that he was
perceiving something that was miles wide and miles
deep. There were Ferengi legends of a great pit that
led to a netherworld, down to which all Ferengi would be
hurled at the end of their lives. Waiting in that
pit was a great entity which would study the amount of
business conducted in the recently deceased's
lifetime, and whether that life had ended on the
profit or debit side. The fate for all
eternity would then be determined. Turane had the
hideous feeling that he was facing that judgment
prematurely ... or perhaps it wasn't
premature. Maybe he was dead and just hadn't
acknowledged it yet.
Borg soldiers now stood on either side of
him, facing the great presence. Yes,
definitely, there was some sort of presence there.
And when it spoke to him, it seemed to echo not
only in his ears, but in his mind.
"We are the Borg," it announced. It
wasn't one voice. It was the voice of thousands
combined. And it seemed to speak, not just from within the
ship, but from somewhere beyond that, as if the ship were
channeling only some sort of greater intelligence.
Turane nodded slowly. In this, the most
incredible situation he'd ever been in,
he found his thoughts spinning back to the most
elementary lessons he'd ever had in business
dealings. Never let them see you're uncertain.
Never act as if you've been caught unawares.
Always act as if you're two steps ahead of the
proceedings, even if you're three steps behind.
Confidence is everything. Arrogance is everything.
Any deal can be consummated if you act as if
any deal can be walked away from.
"And "we"," said Turane, drawing himself
up, "are Daimon Turane of the Ferengi. If
you want expertise on the science of the deal, and
are interested in chatting with one of the most
accomplished negotiators in the Ferengi
empire, then I can be of use to you. If you are
interested in discussing some sort of deal--"
"Deal is irrelevant," boomed the voice
of the Borg.
Turane tilted his head slightly. "I
hardly think that the science of the deal--"
"Deal is irrelevant," came the
implacable voice. "Science is irrelevant.
What you think is irrelevant. We will use
you."
"Use me?" said Turane.
"We had a voice," said the Borg. "A
link to humans. That link was severed. We will use
another link. A voice to speak for the Borg. The
previous link was too strong-willed. We will
use someone more easily controlled."
"Who was your link?" asked Turane. Somehow
he wasn't really expecting an answer.
To his surprise, he got one. "The link was
Locutus. Before he was Locutus, he was
Picard."
"Picard?" gasped Turane. "Jean-Luc
Picard ... of the Enterprise? And he was your
spokesman?"
"He malfunctioned. He will now be
replaced."
"Spokesman," said Turane thoughtfully.
"Yes, I rather like the sound of that. To return to the
Ferengi, with your might behind me ... yes. Yes,
I think we can do business together." A slow
smile spread across his face as he contemplated
the reaction of his accursed brother when he, the
despised Turane returned, backed up by the
power of the all-powerful Borg. "Of course, we
have to discuss terms ..."
"Terms are irrelevant."
"Now wait a--"
"Discussion is irrelevant. You will be our
voice. You will "sell," as you phrased it. You
will tell humanoids that they must bow to the Borg.
That they must surrender to the Borg. That the way of the
Borg is the only way."
"That's all fine," sa id Daimon Turane.
"But there has to be something in it for me. As long as
we come to an understanding about--"
"Understanding is irrelevant."
"But I have needs--"
"Needs are irrelevant."
With mounting fury driven by rapidly spiralling
fear, Turane said, "All you've discussed is
what you want. What about me?"
The response was not altogether unexpected; however,
that made it no less chilling.
"You are irrelevant."
Chapter Six
"My God," whispered Deanna. "Look
at it."
They had seen examples of the Borg's handiwork
before, but it never failed to be an impressive and
totally horrifying sight. There, in front of
them, was a planet that once had been home to a
sprawling civilization. Now it sat there, looking
lifeless, gutted and pitted as if a giant ice
cream scoop had come down and served out huge
dollops of the planet.
"The rescue ship Curie is in orbit
around Penzatti, sir," Worf said. "Receiving
an incoming transmission from Dr. Terman."
"On screen."
Picard was familiar with Terman's work, and with
Terman himself. Although Terman carried the flag
rank of Commodore, he rarely used the rank
(except when forced to pull it) himself and always
preferred to be addressed as "Doctor."
"The rank was given me," Picard had heard
him quoted as saying once, "but I had to work for the
damned doctoring degree."
Whenever there was immediate need for rescue services,
Terman and his people seem to appear with almost
preternatural timing. Some said Terman had a
low-grade telepathic ability that
unconsciously tipped him to trouble spots. He
simply called it dumb luck.
The screen flickered a moment, wiping
away the hideous spectacle of the Penzatti and
replacing it with the lined, graying face of Doctor
Terman. Picard knew immediately what was going through
the man's mind. Terman was too much the veteran
to allow any outward display of emotion, but the
haunted expression in his eyes upon coming face
to face with the horrific power of the Borg ...
Picard knew that haunted look. It was in the
eyes of the image that stared at him every morning from the
mirror when he shaved.
He forced himself into his full business mode.
"Doctor, what is your review of the situation?"
Terman nodded his head in the general direction
of the planet below. "Have you ever seen anything like this
before?"
"Twice," said Picard. "Two more times than
I would have liked."
"This planet has had it," said Terman.
"I've had my people run a projection." He
rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if to physically
shove his brain into operational mode. Picard
suspected the man hadn't slept in days. "The
amount of mass removed from the planet has
irrevocably altered the orbit, not to mention the
fact that chunks of its atmosphere were ripped
away. This place is going to go from vacation spot
to frozen snowball."
"Shall we commence emergency evacuation
procedures?" asked Picard. Numerically it
would not be a problem. The Enterprise, in a
pinch, could handle as many as nine thousand evacuees.
"If you recommend it."
Picard gave it a moment's thought. "How long
before the orbital changes impact on the
climate?"
"Oh," Terman gave a dismissive wave,
"months yet. Their years are 579 solar days
long. I'd give it at least six solar months
before this place really begins to freeze over."
"Then I would be inclined to wait awhile," said
Picard. He saw from the corner of his eye
Riker giving him a surprised look, but he
continued calmly, "If the Borg are in the area,
or return shortly, we will doubtlessly be
engaging them."
"Yes, I've heard they're most engaging
fellows," said Terman dryly. It was the sort
of gallows humor tossed around when people were faced with
situations too hideous to contemplate. An
understandable defensive device, if
somewhat inappropriate, and Picard let the comment
pass unremarked.
"If that occurs, then being on the Enterprise
may well be the equivalent of stepping from the
frying pan into the fire," continued Picard.
"However, if your medical facilities are--"
"Crammed," said Dr. Terman. "We're
small and wiry on the Curie, but we've got
our limits, and this is exceeding them. I'll
tell you, Captain, before this we helped patch
things together on Tri Epsilon Delta, after a
Tholian raid. That was a cakewalk, compared
"We'll be more than happy to pitch in. In the
meantime, the Chekov is on her way as well.
Within a few days you'll have more help than you can
handle."
"Ain't no such animal," said Terman. "I
can use all the help I can get. Look,
Captain, I can't tell you how much I'd rather be
chatting here with you than overseeing this sweep-up
operation, but--"
"Understood, Doctor. We'll be down
presently to assist. Enterprise out."
The frowning image of Terman vanished to be
replaced by, once again, the cratered surface
of Penzatti. Picard stared at it a moment more and
then said, "Number One, prepare an away
team. Full medical personnel complement, all
shifts. We don't have a moment to lose."
"You want to accomplish as much as possible in the
event the Borg return?" said Riker.
Picard gave him a significant glance.
"That is in the back of my mind."
"And moving up fast."
"Warp speed," affirmed Picard. "Mr.
Chafin," he addressed the lieutenant at
conn. "Standard orbit."
"Aye, sir," said Chafin, and within moments the
Enterprise was in a graceful synchronous
orbit, 35,000 kilometers above the scarred
surface of the planet. "Standard orbit, sir."
From the tactical displ
ay, Worf was scanning
the area. "Sir," he said, "sensors are
detecting high traces of the types of weapons that
were discharged."
"Borg weaponry?" asked Picard. It
seemed self-evident somehow. The Romulans
didn't exactly go around gutting planets.
Who the hell else could it be?
"Some trace of Borg, sir ... but something
else. I am also detecting some debris that is
definitely from the Borg ship."
"Debris," said Riker. "Then, it's
true."
"The Borg have apparently met their match,"
agreed Picard. "Spectral analysis of the
debris, Mr. Worf. Cause of
destruction?"
Worf looked up with a look of disbelief on
his face, his eyes wide. If there was one thing
Worf understood, even worshipped, it was power.
Yet here was something that gave even the Klingon
pause. "A beam composed of pure
anti-proton."
"Pure?" said Riker in astonishment. "A
weapon of that magnitude could destroy--"
"Anything," said Data. There was something even more
chilling about the way he said it--with that detached,
calm, faintly mechanical air.
"Absolutely anything. It would sever
castrodinium at the molecular level. An
anti-proton beam, at full strength, would not be
slowed by our shields at all."
That analysis hung in the air for a moment.
Then Picard said, very quietly, "It would
definitely appear we have a new player on the
ball field. And he is wielding a
considerably formidable bat."
The landing party, composed of Riker, Geordi,
Data, Crusher, Doctor Selar, and ten
medtechs, each fully loaded with gear,
materialized on the one section of the planet that
had remained intact after the Borg attack. It
was a section roughly eight hundred miles in
diameter, although a good portion of that consisted of
woodlands and undisturbed nature. The
Penzatti, as technically advanced as they were,
still had an appreciation for the beauty that only
nature could provide. It only added to the
tragedy of their world's fate that the Borg had no
such considerations.
All around them the rescue teams from the
Curie were hard at work. Buildings had tumbled
over, bodies lay strewn about, and death still hung
in the air, an uninvited and unwelcome guest
at the proceedings. The valiant Curie teams
were doing everything they could to reduce the number of
individuals forced to shake hands with that