Worlds Without End, Part VIII

The door opened for Picard, revealing the darkness of Thrawn's office. He wondered if there'd been a mistake, but then he saw a single source of light within. Slowly he stepped through the door and heard the hiss as it closed behind him. As he approached he noticed the light was coming from a hologram, a rather familiar hologram. "Pardon my rudeness, captain," Thrawn said eventually, his eyes still on the hologram. "I was just pondering this strange painting."

Picard walked up to Thrawn's side and looked as well. The grand admiral was seated only a few meters away from the hologram of- "The Mona Lisa," Picard said, "perhaps the most famous work of art in Earth's history."

"Yes," Thrawn said as he leaned forward in his chair, "a painting so simple and yet so - indefinable in its beauty. I have been studying this great mystery for the past hour."

Picard smiled. "Scholars have spent their entire careers studying this painting, trying to glean some insight. What does it represent? How does it move us? What..."

"Yes, fascinating," Thrawn interrupted, "I was wondering why she has no eyebrows."

Picard looked at Thrawn quizzically, and then back at the painting. "Er, eyebrows, admiral?"

"She has no eyebrows," Thrawn said with a gesture of slight confusion. "Why would the painting of Earth's most famous woman have no eyebrows?" Picard was stricken rather dumb by the question. Thrawn swiveled in his chair to face him. "My apologies, I do sometimes get engrossed in these things." He looked Picard over for a moment. "Capt. Jean-luc Picard, of the USS Enterprise, representative of the United Federation of Planets, good to finally meet you face-to-face." Picard responded in kind. Thrawn paused for a moment. "What does it mean to 'strike the colors'?"

Picard was starting to wonder if Thrawn was some kind of eccentric. The Incaciad had contacted them, requesting Picard to come over in person right away, and it seemed all he wanted to talk about were colors and eyebrows. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, admiral."

Thrawn smiled slightly, a somewhat chilling effect. "I was reading about the USS Enterprise actually. No, not your ship, but its namesake. Apparently in one of the wars on your homeworld, a ship called the USS Enterprise battled an enemy vessel, the HMS Boxer during what was called the War of 1812."

Picard nodded as realization set in; he was naturally familiar with the many namesakes of his ship. "Yes, in 1813 the two ships engaged in battle off the eastern coast of what was then called the United States. Two wooden vessels, their weapons limited to primitive projectile launchers and their power provided by the wind."

"Yes," Thrawn nodded. "And during that battle, the commander of the vessel, what was his name, oh yes, William Burrows, was killed. And his last instruction to the crew was 'The colors must never be struck.'" He looked at Picard. "So, again I ask, what does it mean to 'strike the colors'?"

"In those days," Picard said, "a ship would fly flags on its mast to show its allegiance. These flags were called 'colors.' To strike the colors meant to raise the flag. That, at the time, was the international sign for surrender."

"I see," Thrawn said. "So his final order was to never surrender?"

"Yes," Picard answered, "the battle was too important. Burrows knew that a defeat there would be a stepping stone for a total invasion of the United States, and his country would be no more. For him, that would have been the end of the world."

Thrawn nodded. "Yes, or course, sometimes sacrifices must be made, to keep our worlds from ending." He seemed to ponder this. "I've just received word from Coruscant," he said, shifting the topical winds in a way that would no doubt impress William Burrows. "The negotiations are nearing completion. One of the conditions is an exchange of technology schematics." He reached over and pulled a datapad out of a small case by his chair. "These will provide you with information about the basics of many of our technologies."

Picard reached out and took it, wondering just what was waiting for them in the electronic archive of the device. The hyperdrive alone ensured that the galaxy would never be the same again, how else would it change once these secrets were revealed? "I'll have a similar collection of information prepared immediately," Picard told Thrawn.

Thrawn leaned forward towards Picard. "I'd like something in particular, if you would be willing," he remarked. He looked at Picard's face and smiled slightly, "Nothing remarkable. It is my understanding that you and those who live in your part of the galaxy use a different communications technology from ours. I'd be very interested in seeing how it works."

Picard considered. "Subspace communication technology; that won't be a problem. I'll make sure it's included in the report."

Thrawn nodded his head slightly. "Thank you captain."

With that, Picard turned to leave, just as the door opened, he heard Thrawn call to him, "Captain." Picard turned back to the admiral. "I look forward to working with you and the Federation. I predict great things will come from this."

"As do I, admiral," Picard replied, and turned and left. Moments later he was transported back to the Enterprise, his excitement almost palpable. "Commander," he called as he entered the bridge, "prepare a report for Admiral Thrawn on general Federation technology. Have Mr. LaForge assist you. Make sure to include detailed information on subspace communication technology."

"Sir?" Riker asked with some concern.

"There's been a breakthrough in the negotiations. We're sharing basic information with our new ally. They have already given us their technological report as a show of good faith."

Riker seemed momentarily hesitant, but he'd made his concerns known repeatedly; doing so now, on the bridge, wouldn't be appropriate. He nodded and set to work. "Data, Seven," Picard said, "I want you two to go over this information. Memorize it, try to understand as much as you can. I want daily reports on what you've learned. This is your top priority."

"Understood, captain," Data said taking the datapad. He nodded to Seven and the two walked off the bridge. Picard turned and looked at the star destroyer on the viewscreen. "What strange new world that has such people in it," he quoted.

Taar slowly opened his eyes and saw hyperspace swirling in front of him. Quickly he leaned forward and hit the controls to bring him back into real space. He glanced at the display; five hundred light-years, in the wrong direction no less. It'd take the better part of a day to make it back to Base One. But he was alive, and for the moment, safe from the Borg. That's what counted. He punched in the coordinates and returned to hyperspace, this time going the right way. He wished he could send out a warning to them, but it was too dangerous to give away his position. Besides, Base One had to have heard about what had happened, and even that idiot aide would be smart enough to call in some reinforcements.

With the ship on autopilot, Taar got up and tried to assess the damage. Anything that wasn't nailed down had been sucked out during the decompression, including the pilot. Taar really didn't feel sorry for him, and it was certainly no great loss to the Empire. Thankfully the equipment lockers had remained sealed, and he managed to find some emergency rations. The low quality of field rations is a universal constant, but Taar gorged himself on them as if it were roast nerf with drippings. Finally, his physical needs tended to, he began looking at the condition of the ship itself. Some damage had been done to the ramp obviously, but it was still holding itself together. If worse came to worse, he could always use a plasma torch to cut through the viewplate in order to get out. The engines, however, had been put under an even heavier strain during his escape. The stress had caused some damage to the hyperdrive motivator, a pretty serious problem considering he was flying through Borg space. If he should be forced back into real space and run into even a single cube, he'd have no hope. The weapons of this shuttle just aren't strong enough to do any real damage, he thought. If they show up.... If they showed up, he'd follow Admiral Piett's example. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that. In the meantime, he had a pretty long journey ahead, so he settled back for some rest. It would be nice to be unconscious voluntarily for a change, he thought as he stretched out on the bunk and closed his eyes. Again, visions of dying Borg filled his mind, and the twinges of a smile could be seen on his face.

The planet of Cordis hung against the backdrop of space, its green surface flecked with streaks of brown, tapering to a pale blue at its poles. Its reflected brightness, in contrast to the dotted blackness of space, revealed a beauty that was both subtle and simple. An ancient Caamasi poet once said that worlds are the jewels of space, that even the most foul planet gained an elegance and sense of peace that, for better or worse, it was a sanctuary. Unfortunately, peace, beauty and sanctuary have no meaning to those who now approached the calm world of Cordis. "Approaching planet in Grid 1092 of Unimatrix 02 prime, settlement of species 11035. Estimated population: approximately 97,000,000. Scanning..." The four cubes hung over the world. "Current population: 218,641. Commencing assimilation."

Grand Admiral Thrawn, having observed the effectiveness of the Borg first hand, had recommended the Cordisi evacuate the world before Piett had even arrived. Of course, there were always the brave, foolish, stubborn, or just unlucky. They were there to hear the message that broadcast on every frequency across the planet. "We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Your culture will adapt to service us. Resistance is futile."

The Cordisi were a short species with a hardened exoskeleton covered with thick hairs, and a long history of combat. Many of those that stayed behind were members of combat orders that had passed down their knowledge for ten thousand generations, and considered it an unacceptable sin not to fight to defend their world to the bitter end. They prepared traps and set up choke points, made contingency plans for breaches. It was unfortunate, then, that the Borg didn't fight that way, because perhaps then they might have had even a small chance.

A beam lanced out from the cube in orbit over the city of Ch'suvic and began ripping it apart. The Cordisi weren't sure how to react when the pieces were scooped up and pulled into space. Someone had found the controls to an old planetary ion cannon and blasted at the cube. After a few shots, a green torpedo descended and struck the facility, wiping out the complex while causing minimal damage to the surrounding area. That was the most efficient.

The Cordisi drawn into the cubes were quickly disoriented and captured. Some still attempted to resist even on board the cube, but the approaching Borg overwhelmed them by sheer force of numbers. Just hours after their arrival, the planet of Cordis had been stripped of all technology and its entire sentient population. They were now one with the Borg. The cubes departed, moving on towards the next target for assimilation.

"Captain, the Incaciad is hailing us," said Lt. Travis.

"Onscreen," Picard ordered. Immediately the image of Admiral Thrawn appeared, a thin smile on his face.

"Captain Picard," Thrawn said in a formal tone, "it is my great pleasure to inform you that the negotiations have been a success. As of thirty minutes ago, the Galactic Empire and the Federation officially became military allies."

"That's good news admiral," Picard replied, trying to contain his own excitement. The moment was finally here, he thought. Military alliance, sure, but that was just getting the foot in the door. A grand future for the Federation was beginning at this very moment, and he and his crew had been an instrumental part of it. "How will we be proceeding?"

"Some of the diplomatic party you brought will remain behind on Imperial Center as the Federation ambassadors," Thrawn explained. "The rest will be rendezvousing with us in five days. Also, the ambassadors to the Federation from the Empire will be arriving with them. Once they've all arrived, my ships will escort you to the wormhole, and from there you can take them back to Earth."

"Very good," Picard replied, "Then, if there's nothing else, admiral?"

"We'll contact you, should it be necessary," was Thrawn's only reply. The screen then went blank.

Riker turned to his captain, "Well, it seems our mission has been a success." Riker's tone was completely devoid of any irony; either he'd come around or decided to keep his opinions on the Empire to himself from now on.

"Indeed, Number One," Picard responded in good humor. "Commander, I think this particular mission I have in mind will require your expert talents."

"What do you mean sir?"

"I think that this is a cause for a celebration, don't you?"

Riker grinned, "Of course, sir. I'll use all my Starfleet training, sir."

"Oh I hope not," Picard replied, "I was hoping for something interesting for a change."

A small alarm went off on the control panel for the shuttle, signaling that Taar was finally almost there, and safe. As the countdown completed the ship slipped from hyperspace into real space just twenty thousand kilometers from the station...or rather, where the station was.

Taar's mouth fell open in disbelief. It was the Borg; they must have learned where Base One was from the assimilated soldiers, and now the station was next. He pounded the console; I should have warned them, he chided himself. One man wasn't worth the risk!

Finally, reason overcame guilt. Okay, he hadn't warned Base One in time, but this was obviously just a Borg stepping stone. He had to get through the wormhole and warn the Empire before the Borg swarmed over their galaxy. He pushed the battered engines to the limit; it didn't matter if his ship died on the other side of the wormhole, so long as he could get a message through.

Taar's stomach sank as he saw three of the cubes alter course to intercept him. They were too fast; he'd never make it to the wormhole... at least, not using the sublight engines. A microjump for a ship like this, especially after all they'd been put through, was stupid, but the sight of those Borg cubes enter tractor range made up his mind. His hands flew over the controls and he yanked back on the lever; just as the Borg cube's beam reached for his ship it shot forward and disappeared.

Unfortunately, the damaged motivator wasn't up to the task, and the ship flew at lightspeed right into the wormhole. The swirling tunnel of hyperspace turned from a milky white to a smear of purple, and then a violent red. It was the most unpleasant sensation of Taar's sad little life, his body feeling forces acting on it evolution had never had in mind. The "sky" outside churned and heaved like a living organ trying to expel the tiny shuttle back to where it belongs. There was the squeal of machinery going beyond design limits, and the hyperdrive collapsed in on itself, dropping ship and pilot back into real space. The ordeal made him want to curl up into a fetal position and throw up for a while, but regardless of how he felt he still had to give that warning, so he looked at the read-outs. The sublight engines weren't functioning, the stabilizers weren't operational and, oh, the remnants of the hyperdrive were actually on fire, Taar thought in a detached sort of way. As the sound of the sprays coming on filled the ship, Taar tried to figure out where he was. No sign of Borg, he thought with some relief, which probably meant he'd made it through the wormhole. He added this maneuver to the list of things to never, ever, do again, and started checking over the rest of the ship.

Most of the panels were off-line, including, he noted with frustration, the communications array. Fortunately, he still had the shuttle's emergency homing beacon, assuming he was even in the right galaxy for the Empire to pick him up. But, like so many other things on this trip, it was his only option. He didn't have the kind of training to fix this, and even if he did, he doubted he even had the right tools, what with everything being sucked out of the shuttle. He activated the homing beacon, sat back, and waited. Just to be safe, he gripped the small holdout blaster he'd found in an equipment locker. "Hopefully it wouldn't come to that," he thought again, but then thought, "only if my luck changes."

Talon Karrde was shaken awake by Roolith. "What is it?" he groaned. He'd been up the previous thirty-six hours and was really hoping to grab some kind of sleep before they hit the main trade route. You had to be careful even out here on the rim; the Empire was a lot swifter with their "justice" then they tended to be in the core.

"I think you'll want to hear this, Karrde," Roolith said, flipping the comm switch. The voice was deafening.

"We are the Borg. Lower your shields and surrender your ship. You will be assimilated; resistance is futile."

"What the hell was that?" Karrde demanded. He activated the panel nearby, and two cube-shaped ships appeared; the scale made his jaw drop. "What do you say we get out of here," he said, hopping out of his cabin.

"I think the crew will back you up on that, Talon," Roolith said, following him. Karrde paused as he saw the ships through the viewscreen, and he wondered if his luck had finally run out.

Go To Part IX
Back to Worlds Without End