The captain is intimidating enough, though. The echo of her shoes marching back and forth across his sickbay is making him edgy.
He sympathizes with Janeway. While Ensign Wildman is absent, Naomi is her responsibility. She’s worried and so is he, except he isn’t allowed to show it.
“I believe I can bring her out of the coma.” He hasn’t told the captain that he’s tried every conventional treatment he knows to this point, without success. He’s convinced she’s afraid to wake. Naomi’s protecting herself. Her body’s whole. He’s healed the wounds, but the mind is a tricky thing.
“I’ll be on the bridge if you need me. And, Doctor…”
“Yes, Captain?”
“I want to see that little girl up and around when I get back. Understood?”
“Yes, Captain.”
Janeway’s shoulder-length auburn hair bounces off the shoulders of her red uniform jumper as she disappears through the doors to the corridor. With a whoosh they close behind her, leaving him again in silence.
He’s been experimenting with an olfactory sensor in the sickbay; it detects the faint odor of coffee that always surrounds Kathryn Janeway.
He turns his attention back to the little girl lying atop the medical bed. He sits behind the desk in his office, where he studies all of the available research on soft-tissue damage in the human brain. Naomi isn’t entirely human but the physiology is essentially the same.
What do I do now?
His thoughts are interrupted as the doors to sickbay slide open to admit Commander Tuvok.
“Doctor. I am here at the request of the captain to apprise you of the results of my investigation into the accident that incapacitated Miss Wildman.”
“The captain ordered you, Commander?”
One eyebrow creeps up Tuvok’s ebony forehead. “Yes. It seems the captain thinks you may find the details of my investigation…helpful.” The Doctor feels the unease in Tuvok. Vulcans are very precise, and sharing incomplete results of anything with anyone is as repugnant to them as ballet is to elephants.
Tuvok holds up a data padd and begins to read his notes. He might as well have been a computer; he sounds bland enough. Vulcans would make wonderful insomnia cures.
The Doctor makes a mental note of that thought. It might come in handy somewhere down the road. History has shown that in the past unconventional cures often had surprising results.
“…and Miss Wildman bypassed the security protocols in the holodeck—”
Hold on. “What was that? How is that possible? You need a command code to be able to do that.”
Tuvok stops reading and looks up. “True. As yet I have been unable to determine how Miss Wildman accomplished this. However once I do, I will tighten the security procedures.”
“She fell, didn’t she?” the Doctor asks thoughtfully.
Tuvok glances at his notes. “Correct. From a tree. I believe it is called a pine.”
“Hmmm…was she alone?”
“No. Two other of the children were with her.” Tuvok’s expression remains unfazed, but behind those dark, stern eyes the Doctor detects signs of revelation.
“One of them is lying.”
He nods. “Yes—I believe so.”
Tuvok says nothing more as he exits the sickbay. One of those children is in serious trouble.
A thought hits him like a thunderbolt in a clear blue sky. Unconventional cures! That might be the answer. Excitement mingled with urgency grips him.
“Computer, show me the unconventional cures used for victims of comas over the past two hundred years.” He knows his medical database doesn’t contain such information so he needs to seek it out.
Salves, heated water bottles, pills made from every weird concoction known to man. Every quack in the galaxy claimed their method worked best. Unfortunately, none were well documented, and others were downright dangerous.
Tiber cats from Delai IV sitting on your chest and screaming at you for two days somehow didn’t seem practical. The big cats were all teeth and often ate the victims before they recovered.
There was one treatment, though, that looked promising, and was well documented. It had worked in several instances about a hundred years ago.
The Daystrom Institute had experimented using various species of animals to wake coma victims. Green turtles, dogs, cats, and rabbits; none seemed very effective until they tried something called a tribble.
Tribbles were small, furry mammals that trilled softly, ate voraciously, and apparently bred at an astonishing rate. Humans were attracted to the animals due to their pleasant nature.
The documentation did point out that the animals were pests, and included several case studies as evidence that they had overwhelmed several colony worlds.
There was even a case where a space station was flooded with the creatures and an entire supply of grain destroyed by them.
He reads the next section aloud. “—treatment of coma patients with tribbles is successful one hundred percent of the time…” As he continues to read to the bottom, the Doctor is dismayed to discover that tribbles are extinct.
“Do you think this will work, Doctor?” Janeway asks. Even through the comm system, he detects traces of doubt in the captain’s voice.
He nods his head. “Yes, Captain. According to the Daystrom Institute’s records, this procedure should work.”
“You sound like you have your doubts.”
“Nothing is certain in these cases.”
“Proceed and keep me informed. Janeway out.”
A sigh escapes his lips as he stands and gazes at the little blond-haired girl lying so still on the diagnostic bed. Time to start. No more delays. He believes this would work.
“Computer, create a holo-sim of the tribble.”
There is a slight shimmer of light next to Naomi, and a brown ball of fur appears next to the right side of her head. It immediately begins to trill softly. After listening for several seconds, he knows why people are attracted to these creatures. The trill is very pleasant to the ear. Almost musical.
He isn’t sure if a holotribble will work as well as a live one, but he has to try. If this doesn’t work, Naomi will soon drop into a permanent vegetative state. Time is running out.
Nothing. Nothing is happening. The Daystrom studies reported patient recovery was within a few minutes of exposure to the tribble’s trill. It needs more time, that’s all.
Fifteen minutes pass and still nothing. He goes back and rereads the sections about the tribble treatment. Yes, he’s followed the correct procedure. Something more is needed. But what?
“Computer, create another tribble on the opposite side of her.”
Another shimmer and another holotribble appears. A white one appears on the left side of Naomi’s head. It begins to trill like its counterpart.
For the first time since her accident, Naomi stirs. She rolls over on her side and puts her thumb in her mouth.
He feels a surge of joy run through his programming.
He places one hand on her shoulder and shakes her lightly.
“Leave me alone,” she says in her tiny voice.
He rushes to the comm station on the wall of sickbay. “Captain!”
“Yes, Doctor, what is it? Good news, I hope?”
“Naomi Wildman is awake.”
While Samantha Wildman visits with her daughter in sickbay, he sits in his office across from Janeway.
She wears a sly grin on her face. “Tuvok found the child who turned off the safety protocols on the holodeck. Fortunately, this will never happen again. At least while Tuvok is chief of security. Children are often too smart for their own good. Naomi says she swore them to secrecy. Didn’t want her mother to find out. Typical, or so I’m told.” She raises her cup of steaming coffee to her lips and takes a sip. “Tell me more about this procedure of yours.”
“Take two tribbles—”
“—and call me in the morning.” Janeway grins. “Really, Doctor.”
Matu
ration
Catherine E. Pike
We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile.
A chorus of voices chanted in monotone. They did not shout; yet the words reverberated throughout the Raven in an echoing omnipotence in the way Annika Hansen imagined God would talk—should He choose to—if He even existed. Papa said there was no such thing as God. Mama said there was.
The words drifted away; almost lost completely as sleep started to reclaim her. The shouts woke her fully and she opened her eyes to the darkness of her room; her ears to the nightmare beyond her closed door.
Her father was shouting, sounding scared but trying to hide it. She’d never heard Papa sound afraid before and panic of her own seized her heart. She sat up in bed, clutching both covers and Rosie to her, mouth opening to scream for her father, but before she could his shout was silenced mid-yell.
Running footsteps down the hall. The door to Annika’s room was thrown open. Her mother stood in the doorway. Her hair flew from its bun into her face. Her eyes were large—frightened. Her breath came in great gasps, her mouth open, gulping every bit of oxygen it could find. The light from the corridor made her face even whiter than it already was, and for a moment she didn’t look like Mama at all, but rather like the Wicked Witch of the West from the twentieth-century Oz books that they so loved to share.
“Annika, you must hide!” her mother cried. “Under your bed!” She glanced wildly over her shoulder as metallic footsteps—lots of them—came toward her. When Annika remained frozen in place, her mother hissed “Quickly!” in a tone that forbade argument.
Annika hastened to obey, squirming into the crawlspace beneath the metal bunk. From here she could no longer see the doorway, only her mother’s shadow thrown onto the floor. Then it, too, disappeared. Mama must have stepped into the room, looking for a place to hide. Annika could hear her gasping.
“Be quiet now!” Mama ordered. “Don’t say a word, no matter what!”
Annika rolled into a ball, hands clasping her knees to her chest. The floor was cold. Her fear made it colder. She shivered in her nightgown and wished she’d brought Rosie with her. The doll was still on her pillow. Surely she could grab her without being seen!
Just as she began to unfold herself, to creep out from beneath the bunk, the footsteps stopped outside her door. Instead of going on down the corridor they turned into the room. A red light pierced the darkness—sweeping around the room like a searchlight—joined by a second light, then a third—pinpoints of red that darted this way and that. Then whoever belonged to those heavy footsteps—to those voices—to the lights—pulled her mother from her hiding place.
“Please, no!” Mama pled.
Resistance is futile, the voices answered.
Her mother screamed.
Beneath the bed, Annika squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears with her hands.
“Mama!” She couldn’t help it. Her scream joined her mother’s.
“No! Annika!”
They were the last words she would ever hear her mother say.
There was a hissing sound, then a noise similar to the sound of a mudhole reluctantly letting go of your bare foot on a summer’s day—sort of a hungry, sucking sound. Her mother moaned in pain and went still.
Maybe they didn’t hear me! she thought frantically. Perhaps her cry had been lost in her mother’s! Annika was shaking uncontrollably now, and not just from the cold. Her teeth chattered, but she was helpless to stop them, even when she covered her mouth with a hand. Wishing desperately for Rosie, Annika pressed her back against the bulkhead. It was as far under the bed as she could get, but she feared it wasn’t far enough.
She listened to the metal footsteps step farther into the room.
She watched three red lights join together into a much larger circle of red on the floor beside her bed.
They yanked the bunk effortlessly upward, despite its being fastened to the floor and wall. The bed fell with a deafening clatter as they tossed it into a corner with no more effort than she took to throw a ball. They ignored the noise, and the sound that followed after.
She watched helplessly as pieces of china skittered and danced across the floor.
Rosie! They broke Rosie!
Annika glanced up. It was hard to see past the red lights. They were as bright as lasers, and all three were focused on her. They seemed to come from the left eyes of the men who stared down at her; they had replaced their eyes somehow. They seemed more machines than men, clothed as they were in armor that seemed actually a part of their bodies.
How had they found me? she wondered. It was so dark beneath the bed, and so shadowy.
We are the Borg.
Voices, many of them, roared in her head. She winced at the volume. So many voices, yet only three of these…machines…were in the room with her. She peered up at them, sure she hadn’t seen their mouths move. How then…?
Do not concern yourself with such questions now. It will be explained in time. After you have joined the hive.
“The hive!” Annika answered aloud. “I don’t wanna join any hive!”
You have no choice. We are the Borg.
As if that would explain everything.
They paused, and it seemed almost as if they were listening to something.
She is…unique, the voices announced, all in one monotone. She is fearful, yet curious. She will be a good aide to the Queen one day.
Before she could wonder who the Queen was, the machine closest to her grabbed her in a vise-like grip, lifting her completely off of the floor. While his hand (a human hand) held her chin, and thus her head, motionless, his metal hand paused beside her neck. Two long tubes shot out from his knuckles, piercing her neck.
She tried to scream, but her voice caught in her throat. Tried to struggle, but was held fast against a chest more cold metal than warm skin.
It hurt! Worse than cutting her foot on that sharp rock in the garden last summer! Worse than the strep throat she’d had during the winter!
“Mama!” she screamed, the terror ricocheting around her mind. “Mama! Make it stop hurting!”
She realized she was crying, and that the room was fading around her. Her neck had gone numb, a feeling that began to spread to her shoulders, down her arms, and throughout her whole body.
The last thing she saw—would ever see with completely human eyes—was Rosie’s shattered body lying in a corner of the room.
She did not wake up so much as she regained awareness. She tried to call out for her parents, but she couldn’t talk. Her neck hurt where the Borg’s tubules had pierced her skin, and she tried to raise a hand to touch the spot, but she couldn’t move. She realized she was weightless. This was not because the artificial gravity had gone offline, but because she floated in some sort of liquid. She could neither see nor hear, but the liquid completely supported her. Despite being completely submerged, she could breathe without effort.
Annika tried again to call out for her parents, but no sound came from her mouth. Where are they? They’d never leave me!
You have been assimilated.
Her awareness had caught the attention of her captors. She realized she’d been hearing a soft buzzing noise, not from outside her body, but inside her head. The buzzing became voices, lots of them, talking about technical things she couldn’t understand.
Do not try to understand. You will know everything we know, in time.
I don’t want to know. I want to go home, Annika answered their thoughts with hers.
Impossible.
I want my parents! she demanded
Impossible! The voices were growing impatient. You are now Borg. What you want is irrelevant.
A humming vibration darted through her body, starting at the puncture point on her neck. What are they giving me? Nutrients? Poison? Whatever it was made her drowsy, and no matter how hard she fought, she began to lose consciousness once again.
Were she Captain Rachel Garrett of the Enterprise, she
would find some way to fight—to break the container holding her so the liquid would tumble her out onto the floor. She would take out the phaser pistol hidden in her boot and keep the enemy at bay until her crew could arrive to rescue her.
But Captain Garrett was old, almost twenty-five, and she had both a ship and a crew.
Annika was only six, and while she had a ship, her only crew was Rosie, who, as far as she knew, still lay shattered on the deck in her bedroom. She didn’t have a hidden phaser pistol, only her papa, who had always kept her safe from harm before. But he was gone now, and Annika was all alone.
A tear tried to choke her, but she swallowed it. Rachel Garrett wouldn’t cry, and neither would Annika Hansen.
“I may be your prisoner,” she thought stubbornly, “but you can’t stop me from remembering!”
It is a glorious June afternoon. The breathless, oppressive summer heat is still two months away, and for now the nights are cool, the days are warm, and the daydreams are never-ending.
Annika is clothed in faded overalls; the legs rolled up midcalf. She is helping her aunt Helen pick strawberries for the evening’s dessert. The soil beneath her bare feet is cool and damp, squishing deliciously between her toes. She plucks a strawberry from its plant and takes a bite. The fruit is warm and sweet; its juice dribbles down her chin, making her giggle.
That night there are more strawberries atop rich vanilla ice cream and camping out in the wilderness that is Aunt Helen’s backyard, in a tent that Annika discovered in the shed. There is reading by flashlight: exciting tales of the Knights of the Round Table; of Rachel Garrett, captain of the ill-fated Enterprise-C, and of Sarah Rowe, the Jupiter colonist. The stories fuel her dreams as she curls up; pillowing her head against Bruce, Aunt Helen’s basset hound and Annika’s best friend. When Aunt Helen comes out to cover her with a light blanket and kiss her good night, Annika is already sound asleep, worn out by the carefree day and dreaming of swashbuckling her way through space; Bruce, faithful companion, by her side.
Strange New Worlds IX Page 21