Worlds Without End, Part VII

Taar opened his eyes slowly. There was a white blur in front of him, slowly solidifying as the seconds ticked by until shapes emerged. Finally, his vision seemed to clear up and he checked at his arm. Yes, it was still there. Good. As advanced as cybernetics was, he'd heard about more than one pilot who just couldn't handle a craft the same again. There's something about the feel of a ship that can't be duplicated by a piece of technology.

Taar gave the room the once over. The medlab didn't look like the one on the Stalker; was he on the Executor? Before he could think more about it the door opened; it was an aide rather than a medical droid. This likely meant things were about to get worse. "Good morning," the aide said as amicably as possible. "Glad to see that you've returned to consciousness; we've got some matters to clear up. It won't take but a moment." He pulled out datapad. "First, your suit was completely overloaded, so we don't even have a name for you."

Taar winced slightly as he started to sit up. "Lt. Delric Taar, ES-13-1 stationed on board the star destroyer Stalker."

The aide nodded slightly, "A squadron commander... good for you."

Whatever, Taar thought. Save your condescension for someone else. "What's the status of Ebony Squadron? How many survivors?"

"I'm asking the questions," the aide said sharply. "You can check their status later, lieutenant." He paused briefly and then continued. "I assume you were forced to abandon your craft?"

"Yes, there was-" Taar paused. So much had happened so fast. "The cube exploded, the debris hit my craft. I was lucky to get out alive."

"Mm," the aid responded with the expected degree of sympathy. "Yes, well, everything seems to be in order," the aide concluded. It was, after all, just a TIE; the Empire lost a few every day. If Taar had lost a shuttle it would have involved an accident investigation, but this drew little more than a glance. "The med-droid says you'll be fit for duty the day after tomorrow. You'll have your orders then." Then he turned and strode out.

With effort, Taar pulled himself up, silently cursing all bureaucrats everywhere. "I'm asking the questions," he thought, and it comes down to name and why his ship went kabloowie. Tiny men in the grand scheme who push around bits in a datapad; just let me fly my ship and lead my men and I'll do whatever you want. He searched around until he found his code cylinder and plugged into the network. With a slight note of surprise, he saw that he was on Base One, not the Executor. They must have evacuated some of the wounded to save space. He went on to check what information there was about the latest battle with the Borg. It didn't paint a pretty picture. It had been a victory, of course, but they'd lost the Devastator. This was a big setback, even though it wasn't readily apparent. Not only had that left the Imperial forces weaker, it also meant the Borg could win battles due to sheer attrition. The Emperor's plan wasn't working; the Borg weren't backing off, they were testing the Empire's limits. They were planning something... he just hoped the admiral was capable enough to see that and call in some reinforcements.

Taar's stomach tightened into a knot as he looked at the fighter results. Only three of the pilots from Ebony squadron survived, himself included. Starrunner and his boys had been completely wiped out as well. At least they hadn't died for nothing; the stats showed that weapons fire from the cubes Ebony and Grey squadrons had attacked dropped by 38%. It was good from a tactical standpoint, but losing so many of his men made it a bitter pill to swallow.

Taar disconnected from the network and tried to sleep. He was exhausted, but sleep didn't come easy. His mind was filled with images of Borg drones being cut down by his laser cannons and of that cube exploding from the inside out. He wanted to do that again... he wanted to fly in there and blow the living crap out of them, like pouring gasoline down an anthill and lighting a match. He forced himself to put his thoughts aside and rest. Only if he properly recovered would he get the chance to relive that vision.

The Emperor opened his eyes and watched Mara Jade continuing her exercises. At the moment she was trying to move multiple objects with her mind. Her frustration with her failure was obvious. "Good," he said, causing her to jerk slightly at his sudden comment. "Anger is a source of power. Reach in and harness it, feel the hate flowing through you, empowering you!" Mara nodded and went at it again with renewed vigor. Soon objects were swirling around the throne room like a whirlwind. They dropped when the Emperor's haunting chuckle reached her ears. "Good, very good. You're learning well, my young apprentice." He paused as the door opened and Darth Vader appeared. Vader's walk slowed as he approached the throne, noting Mara's presence. There was an undercurrent of mutual hate. "Leave us," the Emperor told the girl, and she nodded and walked out. Vader stepped before the Emperor and kneeled, rising only when he was told to.

"I sense something is troubling you, my friend," the Emperor said.

"Yes, master." Vader paused. "'And there shall forever be no more than two, one the master, and one his student, lest the way of the Sith be lost forever,'" Vader said, quoting the words of Darth Bane that had ensured the survival of the Sith for millennia. "Have we given up on old ways?"

"Yes, we have," the Emperor said matter-of-factly. "No longer do we lurk in the shadows, fearing the Jedi. I felt the disturbance when that little green imp died; and with him dies the ways of the Jedi. We are the only ones now who have the power of the Force, and it is time we used it to the fullest."

"And so you train this one?" Vader asked. "She is nothing more than a convenient spy-"

"I will decide who I will train," the Emperor said sharply. "I train her as I will the young Skywalker. That was, after all, your suggestion, Lord Vader." The Emperor gave a moment to reflect on that fact. "I have foreseen her, Vader, leading our forces against our enemies, with your son at her side."

"So he will join us."

"Oh yes. The details are difficult to see, but he will embrace the power of the dark side."

"Forgive my doubt, my master," Vader said with a nod of respect.

The Emperor nodded in return. "What is the status of the Death Star?"

"It will be finished within the next ninety days, my master."

"I see it's not on schedule."

"No, the men have been suitably disciplined."

The Emperor's throne rotated slightly. "It is of no consequence. It will serve its purpose when needed. I have summoned you for an entirely different reason." Vader waited patiently, his mechanical breathing the only sound filling the chamber. "I have nearly completed negotiations with diplomats from the Federation, a puny civilization in the galaxy beyond the wormhole. You will travel with the diplomatic corps that returns to their homeworld."

"Why should we be concerned with this insignificant group?" Vader asked.

"Because, the Federation is our foothold, Lord Vader. Through them, we will seize control of their entire galaxy."

The Lambda-class shuttle slipped into hyperspace as Lt. Taar moved into the cockpit of the small craft. He was the only passenger on board the tiny shuttle, just him and a hold full of technical equipment sent out to rendezvous with the fleet on the front line. Taar wondered what was happening out there. The last engagement had been the one he'd been in, just under a week ago. The Borg had actually bloodied the Empire's nose that time, it should have only strengthened their resolve... if Borg could have resolve, that is. Instead they'd pulled back, left their worlds undefended. No, they were up to something, and he didn't think he was going to like it when he found it.

"So, why are you being sent off to Borg central?" the pilot asked in an off the cuff way.

Taar looked him over for a moment before replying. "I'm rendezvousing with my star destroyer. I was sent back to Base One to get stitched up after the last engagement."

"Ah, let me guess, TIE pilot, right?"

"That's right," Taar said with disinterest.

The man gave a low whistle. "You know, they got two categories for TIE fighter pilots: rookies, and frozen meat."

"Right," was Taar's only reply as he tried to ignore the pilot. He didn't seem to take the hint.

"Happiest day of my life was when I was assigned to transports," the pilot said with a grin. "The Imperial meat grinder is not the place for me, no thank you! I'll take a ship with shields and a hyperdrive instead of a speeder with wings!"

"Panels."

"What?" the pilot asked, stopping in mid-gloat.

"They're solar panels, they're not wings," Taar stated, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

The pilot gave a snort. "Whatever. You ask me, you've got to either be crazy or stupid to fly one of those things."

"Well I don't recall asking," Taar said. "Just shut up and fly."

"Hey, don't tell me..." The words descended into a squeak as Taar grabbed his throat with one hand. Years of fighting a control stick had given him a grip like a Wookiee.

"If you don't watch your tongue," Taar said slowly, "I'll rip it out so you can get a better look." He'd lost too many people, too many friends, in the past week to tolerate this kind of attitude, and the guy had made the mistake of making himself a convenient target. Finally Taar let go, and the pilot sunk back in his chair, panting.

"Sure," he gasped, "no...."

Taar held up a finger, "Not - one - word."

The pilot settled back into his chair as Taar turned to look out at the milky white sky of hyperspace. This was his luck all right, to be stuck on the last shuttle with this idiot. So much transporting was being done that there weren't enough pilots for full crews - there should be another three officers to run the shuttle. This guy was probably flying solo because the only one who could stand him was himself. But still, maybe the Empire would get lucky and he'd be assimilated. Probably set the Borg back a hundred years.

Delric Taar had been right about Admiral Piett, he had noticed the lack of Borg resistance and thought a great deal about what it meant. At the next engagement, however, when the Borg sent a group of half a dozen cubes against them, he'd felt a bit better. Perhaps it was simply attrition; they'd decimated forces in this part of space, and since the locals hadn't discovered hyperspace, getting enough reinforcements together in time was proving impossible. "Close to point blank range," he ordered. "Let's not give them a chance to gang up this time." The fleet closed in on the Borg. The Borg had adapted long ago, but adaptation had limits, and the bombardments far exceeded them. Within twenty minutes, the last cube had exploded, and this time the Imperial fleet was still intact.

"Inform the fleet to take up position for Base Delta Zero," Piett ordered. The fleet broke up and began moving into orbit of the world. It seemed so silent... no comm chatter, no ships rising or falling, not even a satellite network. All they had to know that the world was inhabited was their sensor readings. Population: 12 billion, all Borg. No one would miss them. "Open fire," Piett ordered. At once each star destroyer repeated the brutal assault, bombarding the planet until the crust was reduced to slag. It was a brutal mission, one the Imperial Navy did not perform very often, but now routine in this new galaxy. From space the planet appeared to be blistering and peeling like an untreated wound, unable to withstand the sheer power being brought to bear.

"Admiral," said the Executor's captain, "come take a look at this."

Admiral Piett turned away from the view of devastation and came over to the comscann station, his captain turning to him as he approached. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure, sir, some strange emissions coming from a nearby nebula."

Piett looked slightly irritated. "Well what is it?"

"We can't scan it sir, it's just..."

"Sir," a lieutenant called from a nearby station, "Borg cubes coming out of warp!"

"What?" Piett looked over with some surprise. How did they avoid their detection systems? "How many?" The lieutenant just stared at his console. "I said how many," Piett demanded.

His lips dry, the lieutenant looked up. "One hundred twelve, sir."

Piett stepped back to the center of the bridge and looked out. The sky was blotted out by the sight of Borg cubes, descending like locusts over a field of grain.

"We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile."

The "tunnel" of hyperspace slowly shifted into starlines and finally turned to the beautiful expanse of real space. The view, however, was hardly what Taar would describe as "beautiful."

A hundred thousand kilometers away was a planet, slowly cooling as the energy dissipated from its fractured surface. But that wasn't what was wrong, that had been expected. No, what was so terrible was the legion of Borg cubes that swarmed around. Between them and the world was the Imperial fleet, trapped. Weapons fire filled space, but it was a hopeless battle. One of the star destroyers was already being carved up by Borg cubes... like ants scissoring apart a leaf and carrying the pieces back home. The ship, the crew... they were going to be assimilated.

Taar flinched slightly at the sight of a massive flare. It was the Executor; the debris took out at least a dozen cubes. Why had it gone up? The Borg were all over it, but it hadn't suffered that much damage. The only explanation was that she'd self-destructed, and Taar couldn't argue with that choice. Better dead than one of those things. "Come on, we've got to go," Taar ordered the pilot. He didn't like running, but at this point no ship short of a Death Star was going to make a difference. He looked over, but the man was staring at the battle, slack jawed. Taar's controls were locked out, so he couldn't pilot it himself. He reached over and grabbed the pilots uniform in one hand and screamed at him. "Get this thing moving now!"

Terrified, the pilot grabbed the controls and started turning the ship. Suddenly a cube loomed in front of the ship. The pilot screamed and started panicking as the cube locked onto the shuttle with a tractor beam. "Idon'twannadie, Idon'twannadie, Idon'twanna..." he whimpered. Taar didn't need this; he reached over, grabbed the pilot by the head and slammed it into the wall. Grateful for the silence, he pushed the limp form out of the chair and checked the instruments. No good, he thought, the beam was too strong for him to take out with these weapons. As the shuttle was drawn closer, Taar started to think desperately. What were his options? Finally, realizing that he had none, he flipped on the navcomputer, hit the controls, and braced himself.

Taar gritted his teeth as he heard the whining of the engines. Tractor beams play havoc with a ship's hyperdrive, but the Borg are different. Maybe he could juice it enough to get them away. He tried diverting power into the engine, he tried shaking things up. No good, the ship just couldn't do it. Finally, desperate as the cube filled the window, he strapped himself in, and flipped a switch.

The ramp to the shuttle began to open, and air burst out into space, along with tons of cargo. The extra force knocked the shuttle around just enough for the tractor beam to loosen its grip, and Taar pulled back on the hyperdrive lever. And suddenly was gone.

Taar felt his chest burning as he hit the controls to close the hatch. The room was almost total vacuum now. He grabbed at the controls, trying to save himself as slowly, agonizingly, blackness overtook him.

Two Borg drones dragged Captain Lennox through the Borg cube, trying to push out the ever-present sound of his men's screams. He was soon deposited on some walkway. He looked up and could see thousands of Borg. They spoke to him with that terrible voice.

"You have the highest position in your primitive hierarchy. You are known to the Empire. You will be our voice to them."

Lennox wet his lips and looked back in defiance. "I will do nothing to assist you while my men are being butchered below decks!"

"They are being equipped to service the Borg," the collective declared, completely devoid of emotion. No anger, no resentment, no justification, no pleasure, just a simple, declarative statement. "You too will service the Borg."

"Let my men go free," he called to them, "and I'll assist you voluntarily."

"Voluntary is irrelevant. You will comply."

"Never!" he snarled. "Release my men, or I will not help you!"

"Your threats are irrelevant. You will serve the Borg."

His voice dropped to a low pitch. "Never!" he almost whispered. Suddenly, he threw his upper body weight into the Borg on his immediate left, then struck out with his leg to kick the one to his right. It was only temporary, a moment that they were off balance. But it was all he needed. He reached out, grabbed the railing, and jumped, swinging his legs over the side, and plummeting. He tried not to scream during his twelve second fall; he needed to do this. He'd read the reports, he knew what they'd do. They would use him to aid in their attempts to conquer the Empire. Death was the only way to stop them. Still, he was only human, and a few screams did leave his mouth as the ragged bottom of the room rushed at him, and his body hit with a sickening thud.

Suddenly his eyes opened. He was on a table, and Borg surrounded him. They had replaced his left arm already with some cybernetic device. He couldn't move, and watched with horror as they continued to alter his body. No, he thought, I couldn't have survived that. I was dead!

Suddenly, a voice chilled him to the bone, that haunting voice, only he wasn't hearing it, it was being sent directly into his head. "Death is irrelevant. Resistance is futile."

Go To Part VIII
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