Worlds Without End, Part XXXIV

Main Unity Worlds Without End

"Come in, child," the elderly woman said to Captain Price as she stepped into the dimly lit house. "You'll catch your death in that rain!"

"I'm here for-"

"For Master K'run, yes." The woman was incredibly cheerful for a Klingon housekeeper, Price thought. She was escorted into the house and through a large pair of double doors. Beyond them was a huge collection of artifacts, arranged in a half-hazard sort of way on shelves and tables. An old man shuffled about amongst them, picking up an item here or there, only to set it down in what appeared to be no different an arrangement than there had been originally, but definitely pleased with the change. Price remained silent until he spoke. "So, you decided to come back after all."

"It looks as if nothing has changed," Price commented.

The elderly Klingon peered at her, and then returned to arranging items on the table. "Still wearing your uniform?" he asked.

Price knew where this was going. "You have a better suggestion as to what I should be wearing?"

"Not really," he said, slowly turning around, his eyes more sunken than she remembered them being. "Usually when I see a traitor they're covered in their own blood."

The words stung despite her. "For leaving the Federation I'm a traitor," she remarked, "but if I had killed my commanding officer instead I'd be a hero. And people wonder why the words 'Klingon' and 'logic' aren't mentioned together more often."

The old man held her gaze for several heartbeats, then moved towards a distant shelf. "Your mother's been worried about you, you know," he commented over his shoulder. "You've sided yourselves with the Romulans." He held up a small object from the shelf, admiring it. "I fear that will be the losing side in this war."

"The losing side, perhaps," Price conceded, "but not the wrong side."

He turned quickly for such an aged person. "Good," he said with a nod of his head. "I'm glad to see you've at least learned the importance of battling to the bitter end."

"Once again," she replied with a sigh, "you've missed the entire point."

"Really," he shuffled to a different shelf, placing the object among others with a vague similarity. "And you, of course, will set me straight, eh?"

"I'm sick of war!" she almost screamed. She hadn't meant to, but this, this place, it tapped into something almost primeval. "I'm sick of death and destruction and lives paid in the name of space and resources, and especially those who stand on the sidelines and try to make the whole damn thing seem like some glorious song instead of the pointless devastation that it truly is!"

Slowly the old man shuffled up to Price, holding an ancient and twisted knife. "You abandoned your position," he chastised her, his voice low and even. "You fight for your enemy. It's a wonder you've not brought dishonor on this house."

"If fighting for the enemy is dishonorable," Price replied, her voice matching his, "our entire race would be cursed for five generations."

"The Empire is not our enemy," he replied, his attention now drawn to the knife blade.

"They murder the innocent!" Price roared. "What is the honor in killing unarmed women and children? This is the Klingon code you cling to?!"

His eyes darted away from the blade and back to her. "You know nothing of the Klingon code."

"I'm only too familiar with it," she said through her teeth.

K'run shook his head. "There is too much human in you," he replied, "it has drowned out the warrior in your blood."

There was an audible snap as the palm of her hand connected with his face, twisting it sideways. "Never speak to me like that again," she said with an icy tone.

The old man's face turned back towards her slowly, a small grin growing. "Perhaps there's more Klingon in your blood than I thought."

"My blood is filled with oxygenated plasma. It keeps me alive. It does not dictate my actions."

"Still you can feel it, can't you," his voice oozing with a barely audible chuckle. "I knew it. No matter what you are still a Klingon."

"Yes," she said. "I am Klingon. But I will not let what I am dictate who I am."

"You would deny your nature?"

"No," she said. "I deny that anything other than my mind decides my actions."

K'run looked into her eyes, then shuffled back to the shelf. "That's your human side talking," he said.

"NO!" she screamed. "It's me! I'm talking!! Victoria Price, daughter of William Price and member of the house of K'run! And my thoughts are my own!" It was too much; she stood up and almost ran for the door.

"Wait!" K'run commanded, and for some reason she couldn't fathom she actually did. K'run walked up slowly, as if sizing her up. He put his hands on her shoulders - a stretch for him, since she was considerably taller than him. His eyes seemed to bore into hers. "I'm sorry." The silence seemed to last for hours. "What did you come here for? I assume it was not to be taunted by an old man."

Price hesitated. "We need help, grandfather. Times are desperate, and we may need to join together if we're to prevail."

K'run shook his head. "You want the Klingon Empire to break its word? To actually join sides with the Romulans?" He closed his eyes, and again shook his head. "Even if I approved, I could not accomplish such a thing."

"Believe me when I say that if it does not happen," she said with desperation in her tone, "it will be the end of us all. You know I hate war... but I'm up to my elbows in it. Doesn't that tell you something? Doesn't that tell you just how evil the Empire truly is?" She slipped a datarod into his pocket. "Just hear me out; that's all I ask."

The old man pulled out the datarod and looked at it. "If it were anyone else, Victoria, I'd kill them."

She smiled and blinked back the tear. "Big words for such a small man." He laughed with her, and for a while, she could truly believe she was home, and safe. She would've given anything to keep that feeling with her... but this wasn't really home. It was just a building where old ideas were put on display as much as the trinkets, but serving no good. But she watched him take the datarod, and decided for a moment to indulge in the lie.

"Coming up on Starbase 375," Paris remarked as Voyager left hyperspace and approached the spacestation.

"Looks like we're just in time," Chakotay commented as the station appeared on the viewer. Dozens of ships were either docked or in orbit around the base. The task force was nearly complete, and ready to sweep up the remaining resistance in Cardassian space. He rose to his feet. "I'll inform the captain," he said, walking towards the ready room. He stepped inside and saw Captain Janeway sitting behind her desk, her eyes fixed on her small computer display.

"We're making our final approach to Starbase 375," he said. She didn't even so much as blink in response. "Captain?"

"Three tenths of a second," she replied.

Chakotay was taken aback by the strange remark. "What?"

Janeway finally looked over at him. "That's the answer. You don't want to hear the question."

Chakotay stepped up to her desk. "Try me."

"Okay. How long does it take the world to end?" She turned the display and he saw the destruction of the Cardassian planet, with technical details being added in the infuriatingly emotionless way machines had of dealing with the horrific.

"Captain-" he began.

"Just what generates that much power?" she wondered aloud. "What kind of hell do you go to to find the energy to destroy the world in three tenths of a second?"

"It's not like it's the first time we've seen a planet destroyed," Chakotay said, unsure of how to phrase his remark. "Remember Species 8472."

"Yes, but that was somehow understandable," Janeway commented. "As brutal as it was, it was partial self-defense. And even that wasn't so... cavalier." She stared at the screen. "Three tenths.... What did I do, Chakotay? What did I bring back from the other side of that wormhole?"

Chakotay looked down, unsure of what to say. "I fought the Cardassians for a long time," he said finally. "Even I pity them this punishment. But this is a war captain, and when you are a participant in a war, there are only two sides to choose from. Which are we on?"

Janeway opened her mouth and closed it. "Honestly?" she asked. "I don't know any more." The commbadge sounded; it was Tuvok. "Go ahead."

"We've been informed that the mission is being delayed," he said. "It seems Captain Picard is missing."

"Missing?" she said.

"Yes." Tuvok paused. "Along with Seven of Nine."

Janeway's expression switched to shock and she looked up at Chakotay. He nodded, and they both marched onto the bridge. "Tuvok," she said, "get us everything you can, every possible bit of information. Seven was a part of our family; we're not losing her without a fight."

Han almost fell out of his seat as another blast shook the Millennium Falcon. "I told you this cloaking device was a bad idea!" he said to Price as he grabbed the controls and spun the ship away from the approaching Bird of Prey.

"It's your ship," she replied, "you should've known something like this could happen."

Han was about to reply when Chewie growled from the back. "You're kidding me!" he replied as he tried twisting the ship around to avoid another onslaught.

"What'd he say," Price asked. For some reason, the Wookiee's remarks were immune to the universal translator.

"The cloaking device overloaded the hyperdrive," Han replied in disgust. "That means we're in some serious trouble. Strap in." Before she even had a chance to try the belt Price was pushed back into her seat as the freighter launched ahead at high speed, the Bird of Prey right behind it. As it pursued, three more joined in the chase. The Falcon twisted as the blasts tried to connect with the tiny ship. One finally did, and Han and Price were both thrown about by the impact. Chewie growled in the pit as he tried to fix the damaged hyperdrive.

"'But Han'," he said in a weak attempt at a female voice, "'we need to get her there right away. Don't worry, the Romulans know what they're doing.'" The ship shook again from another impact. "Why do I always have to be such a sucker for a pretty face?"

"Evasion doesn't seem to be working," Price commented. "We may have to fight."

"I don't think so," Han replied. "This is a freighter, not a warship. I could take one, maybe two of those guys on a good day, but not all four." The ship bounced again from another near impact. Han muttered a curse. "Deflector shield's almost gone," he said through gritted teeth. "Chewie, now would be a good time." The growl didn't sound very optimistic.

An alert sounded on the controls, and Price looked at it. "Another ship," she said, looking over the instruments. "It's... it's a Negh'var."

"A what?" Han asked, and then looked. A huge ship, even bigger than the Overlord, began closing on their position. "I think we're in trouble," Han muttered, his eyes fixed on the ship. He put the ship into another twist and tried to escape, but another jolt made them realize it was only postponing the inevitable. "Shield's gone," Han said without enthusiasm.

Then the Negh'var fired. The tiny Birds of Prey scattered before it, and suddenly their attention was directed far away from the Millennium Falcon. "What in the-" Han began. An alarm began sounding, and Han hit it.

"Price," the voice hissed, "K'run commands you to leave the system immediately. We will provide you cover, but we will not destroy those who fight to defend Q'onos. Hurry!"

"No need to tell me twice," Han replied to no one in particular, and he pulled back on the lever. The ship continued its acceleration away from the Klingon homeworld, the battle disappearing far behind them. A few minutes later, Chewie patched the hyperdrive together well enough for a quick jump out of the system. "Well, captain," he said, "I hope this little trip was worth it."

Price nodded. "I hope so too," she said.

Picard heard the echoing footsteps as he sat in his cell on board the star destroyer. The door slid open and two guards stepped in, a third standing in the doorway with his weapon drawn. They quickly grabbed his wrists and locked a pair of binders on them, then shoved him out the door. As he entered the corridor he saw Seven of Nine, also bound, being pushed out of the cell. Unfortunately, she was still wearing her impractical footwear (he never had figured that one out) and stumbled and fell. The guard picked her up by her elbow, wrenching the limb and causing a small grunt of pain to escape her lips. At the end of the corridor were four stormtroopers, their weapons held across their chest in parade like fashion. "Follow me," one rumbled, and together they marched to the docking bay. That was when he heard it, that terrible sound. Years later he'd still awaken in a cold sweat at that sound echoing in his head. It was the hiss of the artificial respirator of Darth Vader.

Picard did his best to try and appear confident. "Lord Vader," Picard said, a forced smile on his face. "I assume you're here to deliver us to Starfleet Command."

"The Emperor wishes to see you," Vader said, ignoring the remark.

"I'm very busy, I'm afraid," Picard said. "Perhaps another time?" His smile vanished as he felt his throat constricting; whatever had happened to the Klingon ambassador was obviously happening to him. After several heartbeats, he dropped to one knee, gasping soundlessly for air.

"I dislike your tone," Vader commented to the struggling Picard. With his attention elsewhere, Seven took action, putting her Tsunkatse training to work with a quick snap-kick, intending to drive that impractical heel into the Dark Lord's throat. However, without even turning his head, Vader reached out and snatched her foot out of the air by her ankle, holding it there. The pressure eased on Picard's throat as Vader stared at the now helpless Borg. Suddenly she was struck hard in the face by something that wasn't there, and she dropped solidly on her back. As she tried to get up it happened again, and again, until she was visibly bruised and bleeding. Eventually, Vader reached down and picked Seven up by her throat; Picard tried to intervene but two stormtroopers grabbed him. Vader looked at Seven with obvious contempt. "And you actually think you could be worthy of my son?"

Seven's face slipped into one of absolute horror. "H-H-H-How could you p-possibly know that?" she asked, voice quaking with fear. Vader responded only with the stare of his blank mask. "Deanna's dead..." she said, voice cracking. Vader still said nothing. Seven shook her head, tears running down her cheeks. "No," she said weakly. "No, he's my friend... he wouldn't..." A sob escaped. "He wouldn't!"

Data walked onto the bridge; Riker got up to meet him. "Any word," he asked.

"The shuttle is gone sir, and I am afraid I have been unable to trace it." Data gestured for Riker to follow him into the turbolift. The doors closed, and he continued. "I believe Seven of Nine must have found and deactivated my beacon; that is the only possible explanation."

Riker looked around the lift, visibly conflicted. "She's a pain in the neck," he said. "But I can't imagine she'd do this."

"I am afraid there is more, sir," Data said as the turbolift opened in Engineering. Laforge was at work while the two walked up; he looked grim.

"The Counselor's death was no accident," Laforge said, unhappy to admit it. "She was murdered, sir... by Seven of Nine."

The news came hard. Riker couldn't even look at anyone, he was visibly fighting both disbelief and rage. "Are you sure?" he demanded.

"Absolutely," Laforge said. "She covered her tracks very well, but Data and I found her access code hidden in there. There's no doubt."

Riker nodded a little, still obviously struggling to keep his temper under control. "Let's go inform Starfleet Command," he said to Data, heading towards the turbolift. Data fell in step behind him. "I can't believe she would stab us in the back like that!"

"Yes," Data said, and a faint smile was on his face. "It seems these days that anyone could be a traitor."

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