Disclaimer: All Star Trek references are copyright Paramount. This fanfiction is being produced at no profit. Any reproduction of this fanfiction for profit is forbidden. Any reproduction of this fanfiction without the author's permission is forbidden. If you are given authorisation to reproduce this fanfiction at no profit then it must not be altered in any way. Additionally, any party reproducing the fic by doing so agrees to indemnify it against any legal or other action. All original aspects of this fanfiction, including but not limited to plot are property of the author, under the net name of Darth David.
Special thanks: Ambassador Heron, Captain Turner, Ensign Stewart, Redshirt Bennet, Commodore Shatner and The Great Bird Of The Galaxy.
A Darth David production…
STAR TREK: JOURNEYS
Chapter 1: Legends
The bridge began to buckle and sway and twist and slide.
The man lost his footing quickly.
But it didn't matter, he'd fallen before, it didn't matter.
He always got one last chance.
The air shuffled his body until he turned his back on the ground.
Rushing up and up.
Higher and higher.
Just one more chance!
Darkness.
…
…
A jarring guttural noise and a vibration and all of his security and dreams…
His hand (my hand?) reached out to his brother.
Captain. Of the Enterprise.
"Enterprise…"
He'd fallen. He felt himself die, almost as if he'd died before.
No 'one more chance'.
He wanted to warn Picard.
Warn him of what?
…
…
Picard was in front of him now in his unfamiliar uniform, in his assured Starfleet…
What happened? It didn't matter.
Why had he fallen? Illogical to ask.
Where would he go now? Irrelevant.
"Did we make a difference?"
Important.
"Oh yes,"
Made a difference. Maybe that was it then. No more last chances, no place for him here, no need for two Captains…only one Enterprise. The Universe had another pawn it could manoeuvre thoughtlessly and finally sacrifice…that pained him.
No closure, he wanted…yearned…his soul cried out for one more chance.
He studied Picard carefully; the sweat on his brow, built for worrying about a starship's crew.
The face of a man who cared more for someone he'd never met before than himself.
The picture in his eyes…reflection of a dying man.
"Oh my…"
…
Just one more wish.
The mountains, the ruined bridge…Picard faded last of all, as Kirk became enclosed in a white astral light.
…
One more journey…
Sounds all around him, weaving in and out, closing in, drawing back…like the chattering of insects
…
One more chance.
He tried to touch something, taste something…nothing. Everything ran numb, as if nothing were physical, everything were spiritual…Some journeys were never meant to end. Others hadn't even begun.
…
Nothing was final.
~ What does he want? ~
Nothing ended, only existed in constant change.
Kirk felt a presence in his mind rushing through the years, the journeys, the emotions, the lessons…cataloguing each one.
~ Why does he do these things, what does he want? ~
Kirk's hands ventured out, his mind analysed the impossibilities of this place. He was dead. And here he was, living. These creatures were studying him…
~ He has many more lessons to teach ~
"Who are you? Who are you to violate my mind?"
~ James Tiberius Kirk, name your prize ~
He ran through the white haze, charging for anything he imagined was there. He froze mid stride, feeling all his memories forced together in a cold but caring grip. In the weary soldiers mind they took the shape of a Starship.
"I…want…to feel it all again"
Legends never die.
***
"Your journeys end…"
The air was harsh and acrid, weaved through the smell of dirt. Between the flames…
You're pathetic
Then why are you the one on your knees?
"…lies not before you…"
Ben, promise you'll come back alive
He watched, heard, smelt but couldn't feel. Deep love and empty words.
He moved his lips in time with the Benjamin Sisko that knelt before him.
I promise
"…but behind you"
In the past. For all these prophets had taught him about what was and what will be, in this timeless sea, he visualised swimming to a light, the light he'd known, his past. His life was out there, outside this place, far away…why was he still here?
His journeys end.
The prophets meant his death. That if he stayed here, he could live forever, in the celestial temple, their reward for his help against the pah'wraiths. But if he left, he would be mortal again.
"I want to go back" he stated blankly (instinctively), his words rolling around the infinite light that surrounded him, and the spirit inside him
"It's time I went back home" And this time he was certain
He felt his eyelids fall like heavy weights, his chin touch his shoulders. A pure ecstasy filled him, a revelation of power…he felt his body go limp and his soul take flight, revelling in a higher existence, free of the limits of a body that could only feel and touch and see in three dimensions, he was separated.
The prophets were asking him to stay.
But despite the infinite gift these impersonal deities had given him since their victory over Gul Dukat, despite the immeasurable wealth of each new experience, the multitude of galaxies he'd seen…Ben Sisko's heart, it beat for only one…
His eyes opened and he knew that even more when he saw before him…
…the prophets wore avatars, images of loved ones to communicate to him, even now. He knew it wasn't really her, but longed just to taste her name gliding from his tongue.
"Cassidy"
No reply. No words, no smile, no invisible exchange others missed when they were next to each other. Not Cassidy.
"I want to go back home, back to DS9, back to Cassidy and Jake and…"
And?
The Captain shook the guilty thought from his mind.
"You are home Benjamin"
When he heard the word 'home' from another's lips, he thought immediately of Starfleet, and resented himself for it. Home wasn't Starfleet, home was family, friends.
And the Dominion War, the hated casualty reports…
"You're finally home"
Cassidy…not Cassidy…did it matter? He could have everything he'd had before here, and so much more…
…
…yet so much less, because he could spend an eternity here and it would never be real.
This was his freedom and his choice: Paradise or…life. And the distinction between the two sealed his decision, streamlined his possibilities. What was Cassidy thinking right now? That he was dead? And in his place, what would he want her to do?
"Take me back"
He grew more and more certain, even in this void of illusion. The prophet took on the appearance of Admiral Ross, a man he'd had the honour to work closely with during the latter stages of the Dominion War. And the scene changed too: They were suspended over a tableau that both set his heart pounding and filled him with terrible sorrow at the great -unnecessary- loss of life. This was the final push…the battle over Cardassia. He imagined himself in the Captains chair, remembered what had gone through his head at that moment. Knowledge that these brutal electronic displays could steal last hours brought up memories of his beginnings as a Starfleet Officer. The determination he had then to forever do no harm, to right wrongs and expand the comfortable grasp of peace.
Ben Sisko couldn't give peace if he didn't know peace. That peace could not be found in paradise, only in his sons eyes. Jake…his unborn child…and Cassidy.
"You are Emissary! You're place is here with us!"
Did he detect an element of spoilt rage within that statement? Even as he battled within himself, between career and family, between family and spiritual and liberty, he was battling in a way against entities that had finally found something that they desired and could not control.
"No! I'm Captain…" his voice fell silent as he caught it in his throat. He was going to finish the sentence with 'my place is with my crew and station'.
"I'm Benjamin Sisko, and my place is with my family, back home!"
He would argue even with these Bajoran gods. But they couldn't argue with him.
Almost as if they knew the strength of his resolve, the brilliant white light of the celestial temple disappeared…
***
Dressed in a not-deceptively bold garment of Romulan architecture, it swallows whoever enters it with propaganda, pride, imperialism. And though it may excuse its subjects for the frequent impossible mission, it never ever lets them go, not until long after it has penetrated and stolen their soul, hidden their dreams and mercilessly untapped their full potential.
There are people that walk its arteries mistaking them for corridors. Others that understand that not only do the walls confine but also they live and breath quickly become seduced into giving their all including silence for this eternally youthful thing that promises greatness. And those people that give everything they have become institutions, legends, known only in the circles of Intelligence, none other matter; all other faucets of life have been jealously cut off.
But it likes to use as much as it enjoys being used, this building; these people fade away but their legends quickly become aspirations and incite ambition, creating more and more for it to seduce, a never ending queue of lovers.
Tal'shiar headquarters is a building. But the building itself is also a person. And in that person, there are people.
"You will not engage the quarry"
That was a given, Sk'let remarked to himself.
"You will not in any way risk contact with the enemy"
Absolutely not, he had no intention of dying. Sk'let smiled across to D'cay'tok.
Professional. Deadly. Beautiful.
His, one day, soon.
After this mission, this last mission. They would retire young and live richly, the Romulan Star Empire would surely grant its heroes that.
"You will succeed, you are Romulans! You carry within you the hopes and fears of the grandest houses in Remus. The sprit that led our ancestors from their oppression, into the stars, and onward to greatness, their destinies far eclipsing that of our oppressors. You will lead the way under the cover of espionage. You will lead the way on the battlefield. You will lead the way across the galaxy. You will lead the way…"
Sk'let rolled his eyes. For a second he wondered how their 'oppressors' could stifle a laugh at his commanding officer.
"…into the enemies stronghold and return home in a blaze of glory! You, children of Romulus, you shall lead the way!"
Keehan looked behind him, and saw the same expressions behind his comrades neutral faces that he suppressed himself.
Sk'let watched his hands raise above him, and join together slowly. A clap. Again, laggard.
Before long the entire room was washed in a slow sarcastic clapping noise.
Centurion Storon stared at his men as if in outrage but a grin broke across his face. Sk'let liked that about this unit. The informality. Other units in the Empire would be repulsed by such a thing, rejecting it for their dressed up discipline. Other units didn't have the missions they did. They were the best of the best. And they knew it, each one of them.
After this mission they could retire. Sk'let knew if he didn't feel such a longing for D'cay'tok he wouldn't even consider it. This would be his last mission, hers to. The hardest mission of all.
Against the enemy.
"You vill lead vi vay, you children of Vomulus!" Keehan repeated in a pompous mocking tone. His four comrades laughed, as they boarded the Grim Determination. A custom scout ship, though everything the Tal'shiar had was custom. This particular model was infinitely more cramped - another eccentricity of Romulan Intelligence - than the official Scout, to which it bore only its exterior bore resemblance. It carried no floodlights and its hull was as black as the space it hid behind. Even the limited weaponry of the standard Scout was absent, as were any systems deemed unnecessary. Such as life support systems, Roark jested. But sensors, the cloak, the team, these were The Very Best In The Galaxy.
Grim Determination cut through the vacuum of space, leaving nothing in its wake save a practised solemn hush. And even that was cloaked.
The enemy wouldn't see them coming. It never did.
"There it is" Keehan announced. "The Nexus, The Ribbon" he added, his finger mapping their viewer
Sk'let tore his eyes away from the simple colours that captivated the rest of his unit.
Strange.
The sensors showed life signs across the Nexus perimeter. Odd that these had not been picked up before. But then these sensors, like this unit, were the best of the best. It didn't matter anyway, cataloguing spatial anomalies was a job for a contemptibly weak science vessel.
Keehans finger dipped steadily as an alarm rang on the ship. Three beeps and a chime. Their target was in sight. Keehans finger continued on. It wasn't in the naïve white lights or distant stars or darkened mist. His finger stopped. There, a sliver of grey etched along his nail. The closer they came, the more it began to take form. A sphere. And not just grey, ebony and navy intertwined.
A Borg sphere.
"They're still at it" Roark mused "Trying to assimilate the ribbon. They may be stupid, but they're persistent. How long have they been there?"
"Six hours, twenty eight minutes" Sk'let replied. His team-mates stared at him. "And thirty five seconds"
He smiled, realising the joke.
"And the first Targ to call me a Vulcan can limp back"
No laughter now, the mission was at hand. "Beginning scan"
His two team mates and one love grabbed their disrupters, positioning themselves around the cramped cockpit should the Borg discover their surveillance and attempt to beam themselves aboard. Just in case.
Sk'let didn't dare lift his eyes from his console until he was confident no loss of efficiency would result. Then and only then, he looked up toward his D'cay'tok, pretending she couldn't see him. But the Borg, the mission didn't really matter. This was all about them. Always had been. Every mission.
"I love you" she mouthed, delicately rolling the unspoken words, savouring the last one. Daring to speak to him before he had proved himself worthy of her house. Of her beauty.
"And I you" he said. Aloud. But it sounded far different to D'cay'tok than to the others.
The console grabbed him again. Something was wrong. An anomalous energy change in the Borg Sphere. Familiar, but alien here. His eyes widened with shock realisation, the second before the voice that would haunt him as long as he lived. A transporter.
~ We are the Borg. Resistance is futile. ~
Roark trained a line of disrupter fire across the first drones power pack, as it was instantly replaced with another.
"Change frequency!"
The second drone split in two, biological fluid spinning over mechanical torso, hiding the lower half of its replacement.
"Change frequency!"
The third one was his, Keehan decided, forcing his gaze to resist the blinding blood red light from the Borgs eyepiece.
"Change frequency!"
The fourth appeared at the other side of the ship, directly in front of Sk'let. It fired, burying its white lines inside…
"D'cay'tok!"
Keehan flexed his trigger again, rolling across the ground to cover his fallen comrades territory.
"Change frequency!"
Roark fired first, deep into the Borgs shields. Keehan followed. The Borg had adapted to their weapons, the same weapons that now clanged lifelessly from the blood-green deck, as all that remained of the Romulans fell to the ground; flesh and burned flesh.
Sk'let was on his feet, at D'cay'tok's side. He didn't care for his life anymore.
She was gone.
"Just one more chance" he prayed
***
With android dexterity and human luck Data drove the Enterprise-E a dive the length of its nemesis, exposing its under belly and main torpedo launcher.
And firing.
Just as this Borg sphere spun and released its own deadly venom, a crescendo of explosions and retaliation, the Enterprise's shields constantly changing frequency…
And failing.
"Captain, the sphere's structural integrity around the co-ordinates you specified is failing, one more blast and we are going to punch through!"
"Make it so!" he roared, like the hunted vanquishing the hunter. He felt like the Borg's prey ever since…Locutus…a part of him knew that he would never really defeat them, as if they were watching, waiting, and he knew it was just a matter of time until…
"Torpedo's away!" Sloane gasped, for the first time in fifteen minutes of thrust and parry daring to draw more than measured breaths.
It had been as hard on his crew as it had been on his ship, though less visible than a gash across the hull and spent shield generators.
A hard battle.
But a battle they couldn't have won.
No matter how hard they'd fought, they shouldn't be able to stop a Borg sphere, Picard repeated in his mind. Which meant…
"Data, get us out of here, Warp Six!"
"Aye Captain"
Despite his emotion chip, Picard hadn't noticed any sign of fear from Data during the entire battle. He took heart in that, and envied him. Because he was in fear now.
"Sir!" Riker announced.
His crew had followed his orders so far without question, or explanation. Why run from a defeated enemy?
I've been running for a long time Will. The Borg are never really defeated.
"That…that thing is not a Borg sphere!" Picard answered his first officer, before he'd even been questioned
"I believe the correct term" Data said, switching the main viewer to a kaleidoscope of imploding green and blue, as gracefully, the weapon of destruction disappeared. "Is that was not a Borg sphere"
Picard couldn't hear Data.
"Lieutenant, keep the shields up and begin a code 1 alert!"
The screen remained black, the strange sphere-that-was-not-a-sphere according to one captain, gone. Replaced by a fury in Jean Luc Picard.
It wasn't the fact that there was no apparent threat that made Sloane hesitate. It wasn't that only once had the Federation ever broadcast a code 1 alert, back at the start of the war with the Klingons. It wasn't even that doing so would cause wide spread panic, over what he didn't know, on any world that had a communicator. It was that the voice of his captain was not the voice of Jean Luc Picard, not the calm rational man he was honoured to work beside. But a scared, frightened, hostile voice, biting the air around it with its sharp tongue.
"Sir, I-"
"Do it!" Picard bellowed. Sloane looked to his side, and Deanna nodded.
"Yes sir"
"This is Captain Jean Luc Picard of the Federation Starship Enterprise, it is my belief the Borg have-"
"Sir, communications are dead!"
Too late Jean Luc realised.
"Scan the area with long range sensors" he sighed
"Captain…" Data started in wonder. Shock for an android meant grave things for the galaxy "I'm picking up multiple tears in subspace…quantum filaments…flash points in…"
"Time and space" Picard finished "Yes Data. As I said that was no Borg sphere, that was simply a bomb"
"A bomb?" Riker repeated, rushing to the science console
"That analogy, while rudimentary, is consistent with these readings"
Picard stalked a clockwise trail of his bridge. Just the mention of the word 'Borg' cleared everything from his mind and dragged images of his assimilation from the darkest shadows of his brain into the light. Now he was in the middle of a crisis of the Borgs doing, and that light was a very dark place indeed.
"Data, set a course for the nearest Starfleet facility in danger from any of these new anomalies. Will, call a meeting with all the senior officers scheduled for…10…minutes from now. I fear we can't imagine the effects of that…explosion. I'll be in my ready room."
***
Scotty glare at the open bulkheads tearing him apart. He had come to Deep Space Nine, uncomfortable in the crass grip of civilian transport, to meet Spock - this was the first time in close to a century his friend had become even remotely available, no guessing how or why he had extracted himself from the underworld of Romulus, and while that obviously didn't mean very much to Spock, it meant enough to Scott that he rampaged half the passenger liners in the quadrant to arrive here, now. For a central location it wasn't very central.
He caught himself offering a sympathetic glance toward the unattended, exposed circuits naked without their bulkhead.
He knew DS9 didn't have a chief engineer…but that wasn't why he came here. Wasn't it?
"Computer, whirr can ah find Ambassador Spock?"
"Internal sensors off-line
That sealed it.
"Dinna worry lass, Ah'm comin'"
"Please rephrase your request"
The artificial voice caught him for a second, but not for the reasons intended. This wasn't a simple decision, it never was when he became the engineer. It was so much easier to be a traveller or a friend, there was so little commitment to it. Who to be?
"Computer, Ah'm standing ootside Airlock 12. From here how do Ah find main engineering?"
His decision formed as soon as the words lifted from his mouth. He enjoyed that about the engineer.
***
The sand crawled beneath his skin as he shifted in the deserts palm.
A vast expanse of blue on gold, all around, simply sky and repeating granular terrain, hot to his touch, punctuated by grand mountains. One of them caught his eye, he wasn't sure why.
He traced shadows dancing its perimeter, wondering why.
Three shadows, a bridge, a sacrifice. Why?
He closed his eyes shut tight, trying to push past the shadows in his own mind and relive the recent memory. A journey that had set him free. A retirement. An appearance on the new Enterprise to pass the torch to a new generation or a man driven to be near his ship, that chair. An excuse. A familiar bulkhead, painted colours that might have stalked him most of his life. Space. The memories came faster now. From space to chopping wood. From chopping wood to making breakfast. From his bedroom to the stable. Just the nexus, not real. To that mountain over there, to a shadow on the sand. But why?
You're supposed to be dead
Soran's words, as fresh now as they had been…how long ago? He'd fallen from a cliff, he'd fallen into space and he'd fallen from a bridge. As he trudged through the windy desert, he wondered why he hadn't died.
The thirst was more prominent now than it had been before, he tried to suppress its clawing grip with more questions. He looked around, foolishly for landmarks. All he could see was footprints, trails in the sand from…ahead of him, only sand. Surely he shouldn't be looking forward, but looking back, surely if he traced his steps far enough, he'd be back at his home, with wood to chop.
He was growing more hungry now, and each step was more mechanical and heavier than the last.
So he followed the path he'd made. Giving a thirst for answers to the drought in his mouth, giving images of Earth to his hunger and pressing on despite his exhaustion. His feet traced the trail until he walked on his knees. The wind whined in earnest, as if punishing him for daring to survive, impeding his eyesight and hearing. He was aware of his forward motion and roughly mindful of his route…until its apex. His body fell limp to the ground, whatever cosmic intervention brought him this far, it was losing interest. The sand bit at his eyes, even when they were closed, he'd never imagined before such a force could kill a man, until he dared to look into its eyes…all around him, the place he'd struggled to, were the familiar markers of the place he'd struggled from. Just desert. Where had the footprints led? Nowhere. As if at the start of his journey, he had simply appeared here. As if for the last hour or so he'd been travelling in a circle. James Tiberius Kirk felt his world slip away for the third time, wondering why.
***
Moments ago, Deep Space Nine fell as silent as the stars.
The theatre of peace was imposing and strong, busy and important yet suddenly silenced.
Now Major Kira Nerys wondered if she was doing something wrong, as Starfleet, the station, space itself seemed to take arms against her.
She was a strong woman -and she knew it- Kira didn't feel overwhelmed for a second, she just felt lonely. Miles was gone, Academy bound. Ironic an engineer who had never graduated would now teach.
Ben was with the prophets now, she knew.
Odo had left, to heal his people of a disease for which his body held the cure. Kira…wished he would stay but knew this would always have been between them; she would always have felt as though she was holding him back from himself.
Starfleet Recruitment was stretched thin after the war, even for such a high profile installation as Deep Space Nine. Orbiting paradise, a breath away from the celestial temple. Or wormhole depending on your religious or scientific perspective.
She had approximately one hundred and twenty posts to fill, and fifty offers from the main Academies, Earth, Andor. Of those, none would even have been considered for senior posts at any other time, even during the war. Unfortunately, in the Federation's core worlds support for Starfleet's military policies following what some had contemptuously called a 'dictated peace' was fast diminishing. All of Starfleet was screaming for replacement officers while all the frontier worlds (like her own) begged uncharacteristically for more ships, better protection. All the core worlds like Benjamin's Earth wailed for downsizing.
Somewhere, in all of that noise, was Kira, alone. A sliver ran down her cheek like a solar flare.
"Dax…" she wiped it away in a swift undetectable movement, but felt like it was still there "What's going on out there?"
Ezri's innocent gaze reminded her of Jadzia's death.
"It's impossible to tell. As far as I can see, there's nothing wrong with our equipment, even internal communications are functioning perfectly. It's as if all of subspace just fell…'numb'. Communications are down.."
Spatial anomalies…
Kira knew what she would say next.
"…That's as much as I can tell you, at least without a Chief Engineer"
Now what Ensign would find himself promoted to that lofty position? If she could even spare an ensign, that is.
"I know Dax. Just see what you can do…" she turned away from that problem, on to the next.
"Pax, report!" Kira snapped as she hit her comm. badge.
She bit her lip, hoping the words weren't as sharp as they'd sounded.
"No change Commander. Major."
An image of her Katarian security officer on DS9's promenade formed upon Kira's mind.
She filled in the surroundings: a crowd no bigger than the usual traffic at this time, and a small group of Ferengi, not an unusual sight on DS9, sharing a most controversial 'religious' message.
Most religions Kira knew of tended to vary very little in their fundamental shape; they had the same general message to follow this or follow that, they had their one god figure or group of god figures and their own way of life. But The Collectors message meant death. Logically and in her heart Kira knew that only one religion could be and had to be true, she assured herself of that when finding similarities between others, confident the only reason for that was that the false religions required some semblance of truth to exist, twisted and evil though it may become.
They preached that if the Federation was doomed to fade away completely within a century, a statement based loosely around loud sociology reports and best guess military forecasts. Should the Federation continue to blindly scatter its ambitious exploration programs then inevitably it would meet with a more advanced civilisation that found its galactic laws offensive, and decided to move their disagreements from the meeting room to the cold, harsh, arena of space.
But their solution to this problem was even more terrifying than the unchecked outcome.
The Federation must join the Borg.
Only then could its collective consciousness be guaranteed, its various cultures preserved at least in memory.
"Sir, permission to speak freely"
For the second time in as many conversations today. Kira didn't have the…she granted the request, as much to compensate for her earlier abrupt nature as to try and pace herself. A good commanding officer had to listen to her senior officers. Or something like that.
"Make it quick Pax"
"I am the first to admit that as much as I understand of the late Captain Sisko, there is at least as much I don't know. But from what is clear of his family, his history and his life…"
Kira winced.
"…I'm led to believe he would literally turn in his grave if…"
"ALLRIGHT Lieutenant, that is ENOUGH!"
A few of the newer officers in Ops turned round facing Kira, the rest knew better.
Nerys took the conversation to her - Ben's - office.
"If you can find a legitimate reason to detain those Ferengi, then do it! But I have orders from the Council not to, in any way, shape or form take action that may lead to growing sympathy for The Collectors cause. We do not want another Risa"
A silence.
"Yes sir. Major."
"Well do you have anything at all?"
"Suspicion Of Inciting A Riot, Breach Of The Peace…"
"I'll take that as a 'no but I'll keep working on it'. Kira out"
Their posture is exciting, their movements are quick and animated: Without uttering a word, they could still steal the audience's attention. Blocking out their words, I can see their message's only strength is its weakness, the very controversially that has others cast it away without a thought also captures onlookers. And they're Ferengi. They must be trying to sell something.
The crowd are hundreds of intricate specks, gleaming little lives, tiny for their simplicity. None of them deserve my attention if they give theirs so freely.
But within that: A Vulcan. A living lie. He doesn't gesture grandly nor jump around nor speak of cosmic battles but answers every rallying comment from The Collectors with over-simplifying logic. Why? Because he'd like a religious following of his own? Does he feel moved to prove himself better than these Ferengi? After all, he is a Vulcan, a living lie, his very race basks in a stoic assured superiority, denying emotion which is deception in itself. What are his motives? Is he searching for any truth in their message?
For all your keen senses and dapper learning I'ana Pax, in the presence of someone who can perfectly control their emotion, you can't help but feel this Vulcan Ambassador has something that nobody else has and should be hated for that by the jealous and…no, it's not justified, but it's how you feel. No complicated arguments can explain that and no words can advocate it, it's simple, but it's you. It's me.
The Ferengi swoops in a wide arc with his right arm and body weight
"You, sir, have missed the point! To be a Borg is not to give yourself up to death. It is to become even closer to life! And to live that life with no threat to friends or family, with no possibility of losing contact with the ones you love. Surely the Borg's pursuit of perfection is logical? Surely giving yourself willingly, over to that perfection is logical, when the collective is bound to take us away anyway!"
The Vulcan parries with a single eyebrow
"Are you a Borg?"
"No! Surely not! But it would be much better for me if I were! I keep myself from this wonderful reward for the benefit of those to whom I preach so that they too will discover the true path"
Sounds rehearsed…no…just familiar
"Then who are you to speak for them?"
"I speak about them, stranger"
"You make promises on their behalf. You have a doctrine of experience that has never been experienced. Your argument is not logical"
I still hate him, his calm coldness chills me, runs a blind hatred down my spine. Why would he repress emotion except to unsettle those around him? And why should I care?
Something in the Ferengi's eye seems to weaken the Ambassador for a moment. As if he were a demon and the Ferengi truly a saint. It's invisible but I'm aware of it, just as I'm aware of and have catalogued every subtle gesture below me. His lips open as if in shock, but only a millimetre and his tongue moves as if practising a single, important word. 'Sin', 'Him' or a name: 'Jim'. And the Ambassador's chest didn't rise with that word as it should. The Ferengi doesn't seem to notice, but if he did, his reactions would be most interesting.
"I don't preach to you of logic, my friends, nor do I promote impersonal logics that may better be applied to inanimate machines" and he tries to turn from the stranger, to the crowd, how interesting "I preach to you of life" His confidence seems to return, as he looks the Vulcan in the face. Perhaps he did notice his weakness after all. "Where is the logic in arguing with me friend? What is your purpose?"
Again, that word. That name? Important, but evasive in the grasp of his lips.
With that the Vulcan ploughs through the crowd as resolved and determined as a force of nature. One word broke a face of stone. One name destroyed the cloak of deception disguising an ordinary individual as a Vulcan. I barely know its sound, but I do feel whatever that one word is, just became more important than a single sentence here. Important enough that I find myself following his bold charge sure that he knows something I don't. About the collectors. Or something else.
***
"Don…Don't…"
D'cay'tok whispered.
Sk'let cried.
The Borg fired, but fired into the floor, miraculously missing, nearly a metre off target, the after effect of steam enclosing and humidifying Romulan tears.
Why did the Borg miss?
"Shh…everything is okay…you will…survive this…hold on, hold on"
Sk'let knew she was dead now: Almost as if those words were hers to him, taken in a final kiss, her lips to his
"One! One more chance!" he screamed, the words like a return salvo in a battle between android and emotion.
"We are the Borg"
Dead!
"Resistance is futile"
My love!
"You will be assimilated"
Hate!
"Surrender yourself to the will of the collective"
One more chance!
Sk'let felt his emotions fly, far beyond control, above possibility of restraint and beyond anything mortal. Anything the entire collective itself could hope to destroy. His mind raced as he found himself pulling at the compartment he was neither aware of or directed to.
Sk'let knew he would have revenge.
Nothing could stop that.
The Borg's eyepiece settled on him like a target sight, harmlessly washing him in…that colour…its weapon raised.
"I will surrender" Sk'let spewed.
Its weapon returned.
In one continued, single movement Sk'let threw himself toward the Borg, jamming the device he had claimed from the alcove to the organic segment of this Borg skull.
Sk'let craved, knew he would have revenge.
Nothing could stop that.
This device was a catalyst of sorts, a medium that allows two separate elements that wouldn't normally react to react and hope to cancel each other out. In this case, circuits and hate, life and death: a war. Its contours deftly mimicked those on the Borg faceplate. Inside, it was essentially the same, but its purpose violated. Tal'shiar's technology department had offered it to the Grim Determination's -now dead- crew as a weapon designed to paralyse a single Borg unit. Close range, but unaffected by adapting personal force-fields.
Sk'let vowed, craved, knew he would have revenge.
Nothing could stop that.
Paralysis wasn't what he sought. His right fingers instinctively flexed…flew and fused to the Borg's face, fingers wedged in an impossible position; a discipline and movement that surely couldn't affect a Borg drone. Mind meld.
And then Sk'let's life ended.
But his journey had just begun.
His vengeance would never be satisfied.
He would have justice, again and again. Nothing could stop that.
Sk'lets mind tangled itself furiously through that submissive, quiet biological -and quite alien- remains of a person, invading what it could of logic gates and circuits. And then came the arresting, tidal wave of the collective. His body would have spasmed, screamed, but his body was dead. His mind however, his very heart and soul could scream no louder and could not be silenced.
Persistent chittering suddenly turned to countless voices in dizzying contrast. Sk'let wasn't ready for that, but he hadn't been ready for what happened to D'cay'tok either. He adapted.
His concentration slipped, trying to focus on a thousand voices fading and returning. Instead he focused on his own voice, brought everything he had to it and forced it upon the collective.
"WHY?!"
And with that, all the structure to the Borg's mental defence fled like something supernatural had chased it away.
Sk'let could see a path.
This mind was a part of the Borg. It would know his vengeance. This Borg was a part of a group, this too would feel his pain. This group extended from a branch which would be his. The branch extended from the collective and the collective, if it was anything worth existing at all, should know loss as he had. Sk'let fashioned his raw emotion to a sharp edge, and systematically severed every link this mind-branch held with the larger whole. Separated it, stripping the society of drones from streamlined programming, leaving each with the most fundamental of biological questions.
"Who am I?"
Sk'let savoured both their million helpless cries and the futile demands for armistice from the collective that endured at the sack of his mind.
~ You are mine ~ he replied
It didn't make any sense to the Borg, that this irresistible force of will which had brought about their confusion would now reflect upon them as property.
To a Borg, Sk'let was a god.
To a Borg, it was as if a cosmic battle had waged between the two most powerful voices, the collective and Sk'let, perceived good and comparative evil. Now the collective was lost to them, distant and though they knew it to be wrong they adopted Sk'let as their lord and master.
He was all they had.
Save for a few, who hastily tried to re-establish communication. However because of their dis-array it only took a moment for Sk'let to shut those units down, strangling their crusade.
Sk'let would have revenge.
Nothing could stop that.
Even if his control was only temporary still everything in the universe that drew breath would inevitably cry out to him for mercy.
And if the collective wanted its people back, then it would cost it/them all its/their blood, all its/their tears…
The collective clawed at him, grabbing more and more of his attention within each defeated swipe. It seemed impossible for him to escape their chilling shadow.
No matter; they may tear his mind apart, drive him to madness and doubt but essentially they were harmless if that was all they could do. D'cay'tok…couldn't die twice.
In his minds eye he caught a vessel of his new power, a sphere. In his fury, he threw it across the galaxy destroying everything in its path before bringing it to a sudden sickening halt. He became more sensitive to the thoughts of the branch and was aware of a gnat, filled with a similar style of drone to his Borg, attempting to provoke him. Sk'let would kill two birds with one sphere. The gnat or little ship targeted a 'weak spot' and spat. In a second the flaw had been efficiently corrected but playfully Sk'let allowed his enemy to think he was weakening.
And then destroyed the sphere.
Intoxicating to feel an extension of himself disappear.
Satisfying, the pain of the Borg that died tasting first fruits of revenge.
And efficient: The blast tore the fabric of space that conducted the collectives persistent cries to its people. His people. Now, Sk'let thought, I will have revenge. Nothing can stop that.
***
A very faint musical note hung in Kirks ears whenever the wind lifted the sand. He dug his fingers deep within the deserts shallow flesh, plunging each digit carefully hoping sensation of heat would overwrite inevitability of…death. Kirk's legs and arms rang with pain from exertion. Jim supposed he might attempt to push himself to his feet and walk on again through the endless sand and rock and sand and rock and…
But he had tried that, there was nowhere to walk to. Instead he clung to the planet side as a man in danger of falling off but determined to outlast the sand and the rock and the wind and the pain until an opportunity or possibility presented himself; a battle he could win, a chance he could grasp, odds he could change. Even if it meant he would have to live forever until someone (or something) found him, then the force of his will was strong enough to do that.
"Is that why you brought me here?!" dehydrated lungs "Did you let me live so you might watch me die?!" failing sight "Answer me! Or so help me…I will find a way…"
A way to what?
"Do you hear me?! I will find a way!"
Almost in reply, Kirk fell under the shadow of his old friend, Doctor Leonard 'Bones' McCoy. Haggard, but youthful, exactly as he was at the penal colony of Rura Penthe, that time they had been framed for the assassination of the Klingon Chancellor Gorkon.
"Bones! Help me!"
The figure frowned.
"I'm a mirage Jim, not a doctor"
Kirk sighed.
"If you ask me -and somebody should once in a while- you ought to have been careful what you wished for…"
He crawled through the image of his friend, over the fierce unyielding ground, focusing on a cairn of stones, a slab…his eyes were fully open, he convinced them they wouldn't have to face the desert wind much longer as he read the inscription.
'James Tiberius Kirk'
This was a grave. His.
He refused to read the epitaph.
"…I mean, you have absolutely no idea what lies ahead of you now Jim. Next time you rub a lamp, be specific"
He refused to converse with an illusion or avatar and aggravate his dehydration further
"Jim" James felt a very real pressure upon his shoulder "Stop messing around. Life is too precious for that" Bones intimated in a serious tone "You've got to be certain what you want from it, be that a journey…"
The Enterprise rushing through the stars.
The stars, reaching out to him like glistering fingers.
"…or a destination"
The nexus.
The sand.
Both, he had found to be futile. Maybe destinations were irrelevant, maybe it was the journey or how he lived the journey that was important. Kirk dismissed that, the thought was too self serving. If a destination never existed there was no reason to life and if there was no reason it followed that there was no purpose or responsibility or right or wrong…and man may as well do as it collectively wished.
Even if his thoughts weren't making any sense, destination was important to Kirk. But he just didn't know where he could go that would satisfy, content him or compare to the life that had brought him so far. So was his journey at fault…?
"Jim" Kirk wished the voice didn't seem so real "Life is canvas. Everyone is just a picture" the words didn't sound like McCoy's "We play the universe, searching for colours and styles that will make the picture complete. And in the end…"
"In the end…" Kirk repeated, staring at the stone
"Do you understand?"
The stone. His consciousness fading.
"no"
His anger building, the only single quantifiable force that could survive in this opulent graveyard, this perception of hell. Jim Kirk rose.
"Where are you going?"
"Off this planet"
"How do you-"
Kirk strangled all other words from his mind, all words save one that reached into the dark despair of space from the golden despair of here like a climbers hand seeking purchase. One word.
"Spock!"
***
Powerful and strong, a voice, a familiar but impersonal voice, told Spock that what he was doing wasn't logical. Spock couldn't argue with that. Spock wasn't sure why he suddenly felt a call from his friend, or where it came from. But Spock knew the voice was wrong.
Leaving the promenade, into the corridoor...
In the rush to the airlock the Ambassador deliberatley pulled his hood so it enveloped his ears. In the same movement he was aware of someone following him. Why? It only made him more certain that something extraordinary was afoot. Made it easier to believe Jim was alive.
...closing in on the docking ring...
It wasn't until a month after the event Spock had been told of Kirk's brief stopover in this timezone. Picard himself had brought him the news. For him, it was as if a dagger had been twisted in his heart. Of course, not an emotional dagger. But there was a deep -and very logical- sense of regret that filled him, totally consumed his human half and bit aggressivley into his dominant Vulcan mind.
He wasn't there.
He hadn't been there when his friend needed him.
Jim told him he'd die alone, and Spock wasn't there.
And so he was compelled. Not by emotion. By responsibility.
Not duty to his captain, but to his friend.
...the airlock.
And the decision.
In this situation his friend might say 'I'm going to regret this in the morning'. It was...insubordination. Illegal. Illogical. But that didn't matter.
If he didn't act immediately with all the means he could gather then whatever fleeting perception of his friend he had might disappear, if it was ever there, leaving only doubt and responsibility.
Maybe this was wrong.
But he had the choice, it wasn't to do what was right or wrong, it wasn't between logic and emotion, it was just a choice to be there for his friend or not.
And nothing else mattered.
Not even the two armed guards that bore their weapons upon him.
***
Major Kira Nerys liked busy days.
"Lieutennant Pax to Major Kira!"
"What is it Pax? Do you have something on those Fer-, the collectors?"
But today it looked like that business would continue well into the night.
"No Major. I briefly left the Ferengi to deal with a more urgent situation that has just developed. A Vulcan...A Vulcan who has the appearance of Ambassador Spock..."
Nothing would suprise Kira anymore.
"...just dispatched two armed guards with his bare hands..."
Kira knew very well how stretched her security forces were, and could account for every single member of personnel to three decimal places. There were six on the Promenade, five now if Pax had left her post, but otherwise more than one in a single area was almost an event. So she knew exactly where I'ana Pax was.
"Ambassador Spock is hijacking the Defiant?!"
Kira knew the Vulcan was on board Deep Space Nine, that fact made her less quick to believe this could be an imposter. She was ordered to insure his every need was attended to, as if she didn't have enough problems. If Ambassador Spock wanted to hijack a Starship, he should have asked first.
"It would appear that way. I am aware of his standing in Starfleet, so I'm reluctant to…"
"The Defiant's not on standby, and it's clamped to the station. Without codes, there's no way in this universe or any other he can even turn on the main computer"
"Major!" Ezri called from behind her "It's the Defiant! She's powering up!"
"Pax! Are you on board?"
"Yes M-"
"Talk to him! I want to know why top brass is picking off my officers and hijacking my ship! If you even suspect he's a fraud, fracture the d-"
"Major, the Defiant is pulling on the docking clamps…it's powering up torpedo launchers…targeting the docking ring!"
Kira had to think fast. Within the shields, a torpedo would not only cause great loss of life and serious damage to her station, damage she did not have the manpower to repair, but at this proximity it would also have a knock on effect upon the Defiant. She didn't know if the stranger had optimized the structural integrity field that protected the ship's hull.
Ambassador Spock, however illogical his actions may seem, might well have a very good reason for it. And if he did have reason enough for taking such extreme measures behind her back, maybe she should let him go…the reason itself would…
She couldn't let a warship escape.
But knowing how many times that man had saved the universe, knowing how important his reasons might be, she couldn't lift a hand against him.
"Release the docking clamps"
"But-"
"Release them!"
Her stomach tensed and she knew it was done.
A second later she realised Pax would now be outside the range of internal communications.
"Ezri…the very second we get outside communications back online, contact Starfleet, hail the nearest ship, tell them…tell them…"
What?
***
~ The needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many ~
Words and phrases rushed to Spock (from where?!), Jim's words, as his hands leaned down upon an Engineering console that now controlled the entire ship. He pushed them away, knowing that now he had chosen a course of action, only logic could help him, not stray thought.
He pullled up a list of all the ships in the sector, searched for the closest one.
USS Enterprise NC-1701-E.
"Fascinating"
That ship. Kirk. Himself. Whatever was happening, whatever he'd done seemed to be linked to the past.
If he were human he might imagine events were being manipulated.
If he were Vulcan he might imagine these things to be coincidence.
But Spock was neither, and yet, he was both.
A blast of heat hit him suddenly, throwing him from his chair, the feeling itself growing as all his perceptions focused upon it and he found himself spinning in an open desert under an alien sun separated by deep blue sky, staring at a man lying in that desert standing as Spock stood, feeling as Spock felt, staring as Spock stared. For the second time in his life Spock's mouth burst open with the only word that could ever convey Vulcan logic, Human emotion and all that fell between. The vision ended, but the word still stood sentinel upon his tongue, gazing upon unlimited possibilities and infinite diversity in infinite combinations.
"Jim!"
END CHAPTER 1
References
(Yeah, okay, an excuse to link to the sites that brought me here…)
Bring Back Kirk Home Page -
Bring Back Kirk Trailer - http://www.bringbackkirk.com/trailer.html
DarthDavid@knighthammer.fsnet.co.uk