the Borg would be able to move on.
Except ...
The Borg ship suddenly detected
something coming their way--something throbbing with power.
Something that, from its configurations, seemed to be about
as large as the Borg ship itself ... no--larger!
Something that was coming up fast!
The Borg were not concerned. There was nothing about which
they could become concerned. So confident were they, so
secure in their superiority and inevitability, that
any notion that they were in any way threatened was
irrelevant.
Dantar felt the hair on his head crispen,
the very air reaching his nostrils thick and heavy with the
stench of burning and death. He turned to get
into his house, because he realized that this was it, the
last moments of his life and his family's life.
He wanted to clutch them to his bosom when the end
came.
He started towards his home, and then the ground
churned beneath him. He felt his leg twist almost
backwards, and he fell, a shooting pain ripping
through his left knee. He tried to stand once more and
collapsed, howling with pain and fury. He started
to drag himself towards his modest home, hand over
hand, fingers digging into the dirt, his breath rasping in
his chest.
The ground trembled and rippled, like an ocean,
and he saw the roof of his home collapse with a
sigh. The house crumbled in on itself, walls
cracking and beams snapping, falling heavily and
crushing beyond hope anyone who was inside.
There was the uncomprehending scream of his
family, and of Dantar the Eighth, who had been
denied the right to die with his family, and those screams
were overwhelmed by the death screams of the world itself, and the
light--gods--the light that was shining down from above
now, surrounding them.
Dantar rolled back onto the front yard,
his arms at either side, as if he'd been
crucified. He was no longer Dantar the
Eighth, he realized. He was Dantar the Last.
A part of him told him that he should be running to the
rubble, sifting through, trying to pull it off his
family and finding if there were any survivors.
"No point," he whispered through cracked and
bleeding lips. He was staring up at the light that was
accompanied by a deafening hum. "No point."
His little piece of the world began to rise into the
air.
As part of the Borg uni-mind dealt with the final
section of the Penzatti homeworld, the rest
focussed on the new intruder. It was
definitely a ship approaching them. A ship
... and yet, something more. Something far, far more.
The Borg prepared scouts to board the ship for the
purpose of study, and then the plan quickly changed
when the Borg realized that the intruder was not slowing
down or veering off. The intruder was heading
straight for them.
The Borg uni-mind fired off a message
to the intruder. It was a simple message
SURRENDER.
The reply from the intruder was equally succinct
GO TO HELL.
The intruder cut loose with a beam composed of
pure anti-proton. It laughed at the Borg
shields and smashed into the Borg ship, ripping
apart the upper portion of the cube.
The beam vanished, and Dantar felt the world
fall away beneath him as the gravity of the planet
reclaimed a piece of itself, desperately, like a
mother reaching out for an infant snatched from her breast.
There was a dizzying moment of disorientation, and then the
ground beneath him collapsed back into the pit that had
been formed by its disappearance. It was not a precise
fit, nor a smooth landing, and buildings that had not
already crumbled now collapsed from the strain. Those
buildings had never been created to take this sort
of stress. Neither had the mind of Dantar, and it
simply shut down.
The Borg did not panic. Panic was
irrelevant. Instead, they immediately set their
restoration mechanisms into operation, under the
assumption that they would have time to complete the
repairs before they were attacked again. In their
machine-like, precise way, they were ignoring the
concept that they might be overmatched.
Instead, as the cube began to restore itself, they
sent off another message to the intruder--the
intruder, which was momentarily stationary, as if
appreciating the power of its assault
You cannot defeat us. If you attempt
to assault us again, you will be punished. There is no
power that can withstand us.
And once again the intruder responded, and the
Borg became aware that the intruder also
responded in the unified chorus of
voices. But whereas the Borg voice was a single
tone repeated endlessly, the intruder's voice was
a glorious blending of infinite tones. Had the
Borg been capable of recognizing such a thing,
they would have perceived it as beauty. Beauty, however,
was irrelevant.
You believe that because none ever has, said the
intruder. You are so accustomed to overwhelming
all life forms, that you have no concept of how it would
be for you. You've never felt the terror of
hopelessness before.
Terror is irrelevant, replied the
Borg. Hopelessness is irrelevant.
The intruder sighed with the voice of a million
million souls. You're irrelevant, you
cosmic bastards.
The beam of the intruder lashed out before the Borg
could power up their systems enough to mount a
counterattack. It smashed into the center of the
massive cube, blasting through and out the other side.
The cube trembled and shook, circuits blowing out
all over. Cracks appeared all over the
surface, and the beam struck a third time, with even
greater intensity than before andwitha force behind it that was more
than simply power. It was a force that seemed to be
fueled by a massive indignation, a pounding fury
and anger, and infinite voices crying out in
triumph.
The Borg sent out a cry of warning to the
central uni-mind, alerted the other ships that were
approaching and would be there sooner or later. A
warning that there was a new force in the galaxy that had
to be contended with. And then, with the same eerie silence
that marked their arrival, the Borg departed--in a
million directions simultaneously.
Pieces of the ship and shreds of Borg spread out,
some hurling off into the depths of space, others
plunging through the tattered atmosphere of the
Penzatti homeworld and burning up upon re-entry.
Pieces ricocheted off the intruder but did not
inflict even the slightest damage. The intruder
merely hovered there for a long moment, taking in the
triumph, basking in the first blow struc
k.
And there was that sigh, that ineffable sigh of relief.
A pride in a job well done.
The intruder moved on.
Chapter Three
It had not rained in some time, and the unrelenting
sun had baked the ground dry. There was, at
least, a steady wind this day, blowing in a northerly
direction. It rustled the manes of the two
horses who travelled slowly across the dry
plain, and carried the incessant clip-clop of
their hooves a good distance. Had anyone else
been around, they would have been warned of the oncoming of the
riders. As it was, there was no one else around
to see them or care about them.
Actually, calling the two animals
"horses" was excessively kind, even
inaccurate. One of the animals was, in fact,
an ass. The other was sagging and broken down, and
had it been carrying a burden much heavier than that
which it now bore, it quite probably would have simply
keeled over and refused to go any farther.
The man astride the horse was dressed in
black slacks and boots, a wide-sleeved
white shirt that rippled in the breeze, and, most
oddly, pieces of armor that were affixed to him
front and back in a ragtag fashion. Perched
on his head was a battered helmet which, in blocking
the sun, at least served some purpose. For if the
man had launched himself in!combat, the helmet would
Tucked under one arm was a long, rusty, and
somewhat crooked lance; it would have been difficult
to discern it as such, but for the fact that he was holding it
straight out in front of him in a vaguely
offensive manner.
From his slight height advantage, he called
out to his companion, "It's a glorious day,
isn't it, Sancho? You can smell danger in the
air, the scent of quests waiting to be
fulfilled."
His companion was dressed less
ostentatiously, in simple peasant garments.
He inhaled deeply and frowned. "I do not
detect any such fragrances in the atmosphere."
"Oh yes, it's there. You just have to know where
to look. I tell you, Sancho, our great enemy
is lurking somewhere out there, waiting for us to lower our
guard so that he can destroy us with one of his cunning
masterstrokes."
"Our ene my. That would be "The
Necromancer," I believe you called him. A
magician. An enchanter."
"That's right. The Enchanter ..." His voice
suddenly trailed off and he reined up his horse.
"Gods! Do you see them, Sancho?"
"Sancho's" eyebrows creased slightly in
mild confusion. "What "them" would that be?"
"The giants!" The horseman pointed with his
lance. "The giants! Right ahead of us!"
"I see only a grouping of windmills."
"No! It's giants! How can you not see?"
The horseman immediately spurred his horse forward,
bringing up his lance. "They mock me! They
attack! But they cannot defeat a knight errant
with the might of God on his side!"
"It is not giants!" said his companion. "It
is ..."
It was too late. The horseman charged
forward, his lance levelled, and a cry of "On,
Rozinante!" torn from his lips. The hooves
of the horse, the aforementioned Rozinante, pounded
beneath him. Although the horse did not charge
happily, it charged gamely, not able to recall
any time in recent history when it had been
called upon to exercise.
The horse and rider hurtled across the broken
terrain, toward the tall structure of the closest
windmill, which was turning serenely, oblivious to the
idea that it was under attack. The shouts of the
companion were lost under the thundering hooves.
The rider careened into the windmill, his lance
crashing through the thin material that covered the great
arms. The horse banked sharply to the right to avoid
the sweep of the steadily turning windmill arms,
and the knight errant's lance was firmly lodged in
the latticework. The blades continued to turn,
thanks to the steady wind, and the horseman was yanked
upward towards the sky, his lance wedged in, his
feet kicking in fury.
He clutched onto the skeletal framework
of the arm and shouted defiance. He rose up, higher
and higher, reaching the top and then sweeping downward
once more. He lost his grip on the lance and started
to slide. With a cry of alarm he grasped out with
desperate fingers and managed to snag onto some
of the tattered cloth. He wrapped one leg around
the framework as the arm swung downward, but before he
could dislodge himself, it began to ascend once more.
Then it stopped, with a jolt. The dehorsed
horseman's head smacked against the wooden
skeleton, disorienting him for a moment. Then he
looked down.
His companion was down there, holding the lower edge
of the blade securely in an unbreakable grip.
From within the windmill was the sound of gears grinding
against one another, and the other arms of the windmill
shook in protest.
"It is safe for you to descend if you do so
quickly," he said.
The horseman groaned in frustration and
clambered down quickly. "I was winning!" he
protested.
"You were in serious danger of injuring yourself
severely," "Sancho" informed him calmly.
of a goal which was unattainable. To perceive this
windmill," and he released the blade, allowing it
to go on its way unmolested, "as a giant
certainly indicates lunacy. Furthermore,
Geordi, I do not understand why you would choose
to re-enact a moment of such dismal and utter
failure on the part of a literary character."
Geordi shook his head, rubbing his temple.
"You're not getting this at all, are you, Data?"
He stepped to one side as the lance dislodged itself from
the blade and clattered to the ground next to him.
"Humanity seems to be fascinated by those who
deviate most from the norm--particularly such
eccentric madmen as Don Quixote. Beyond his
possibilities as a case study, I do not
comprehend his appeal."
"But it was a glorious madness, don't you
see!" said Geordi. He walked across the
ground, shaking his leg slightly to work out a slight
limp. "Quixote and I, we have a lot in
common." He walked backward now toward the
horses so that he could face Data, and tapped the
VISOR that ringed his face. "We both see things
differently than other people do."
"But your VISOR still shows you aspects of
reality," said Data reasonably. "You still perceive
things as they are."
"Yes!" said Geordi excitedly. "And
Quixote perceived things as they might have been. In
the final analysis, who's to say which is the more
accurate?"
"I can," said Data. "Yours is the more
accurate. I wish to indulge you as much as
possible, Geordi, as do we all. This
holodeck scenario, after all, is your birthday
wish. Still, it all seems rather pointless."
Geordi drew himself astride the
horse. Data followed suit. "Was it
pointless for humans to dream of going to space?
Or eliminating war? Or discovering a cure for
cancer?"
"Of course not. Because it led to results."
"Exactly!" said Geordi excitedly. He
urged the horse to move forward, which the beast did
reluctantly. "But when the dreamers started
dreaming, they had no idea where those dreams would
lead them--to the madhouse, or to the stars. And
Quixote was the entire spirit of human imagination
in one package. His perceptions led him to--"
"Compound fractures, if he continued battling
windmills," said Data.
"Data," said Geordi in exasperation,
gripping his lance tightly, "the point is that every
fight is worth fighting. Even the hopeless ones.
That instead of taking things at face value, you should
be looking below the surface. You should see what could
be, instead of what is. Anyone can fight a
battle that's easy to win. It's fighting the
battles that are impossible to win that causes
humanity to take those great leaps forward."
"If fighting hopeless battles is good for
humans, then why do humans sometimes retreat?"
"Well ..." said Geordi uncomfortably,
"there is a fine line between bravery and suicide,
between the good fight and the lost fight."
"But no fight is lost until it is over, and
if a human retreats before it is over, he will
never know which type of fight he was fighting."
Geordi sighed. "Forget it, Data."
"Quite a few people have said that to me, about a great many
things," Data said. "I have been assuming that that
is a statement of preference that the topic be
terminated, rather than an instruction to delete the
conversation from my memory."
"That's a safe assumption," Geordi
agreed.
"I must admit that I find that to be a rather
defeatist attitude on the part of most
humans." Data pulled on the reins in an
effort to urge his mount forward. "If humans, as
you say, strive so mightily against the most