Lense recalled the chair upon which the away team had found the pilot sitting. When the pilot sat in an erect position with her hands on the arms, these holes lined up perfectly. It was almost as if she was plugged directly into the ship….
Sweat broke out beneath her arms, and she started to tremble as the realization struck her. It all fell into place now, and made terrible sense. Even the atrophied digestive system now seemed logical.
“Oh, my God, Emmett,” Lense said softly, lifting her blue eyes to meet Em’s puzzled gaze. “I think we’ve found a Borg.”
Beneath closed lids, 110 saw. Dreamed. Downloaded information.
111010000100100100100000111101101110 …
“Coffee?” asked La Forge, standing next to the replicator in engineering.
“Thanks. Cream and sugar,” replied Faulwell. La Forge returned, carrying two mugs. Bart reached up to accept the one Geordi extended to him. “We’re not supposed to have these here, you know.”
Geordi smiled. “Last person I let have a beverage in engineering was Sonya. Picard, as you may have heard—”
“—ended up wearing it,” Bart finished, sipping the hot beverage. “Wish I could have been a fly on the wall that day.”
Geordi winced. “No, you don’t. I’d rather have faced a phaser blast than Captain Picard’s glare. Poor Sonya just about died.”
“But look how far she’s come. She’s soared through the ranks.”
“Hmm,” said Geordi with mock seriousness. “Perhaps the secret to advancing in rank is to spill hot chocolate on one’s commanding officer.”
“If that’s the case, I’ll stay where I am,” said Bart, trying to envision Captain Gold’s reaction to such an incident.
“You know,” said Geordi, “you are starting to have quite the reputation yourself.”
Bart was startled. “Me? Oh, no.”
“Yes, you. I’ve an ear for languages myself, so I pay attention to developments in the field. And I’ve heard your name come up more than a few times. There’s nothing that says you can’t go through the Academy. Starfleet could use you.”
“Oh, no. That’s not for me.” Bart concentrated on his drink. “I’m quite happy here.”
Geordi regarded him for a long moment with those odd, artificial eyes. “If you ever change your mind, let me know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Download complete,” came the computer’s voice.
“Damn. And just when my coffee was exactly the right temperature,” said Geordi in a mock-mournful tone. “Come on, Bart. Time to see what’s on this thing.”
At that moment, Geordi’s combadge chirped. “Commander La Forge, Faulwell, get to the briefing room at once.”
They exchanged glances. “Captain Gold,” said La Forge, “we’ve just finished downloading the information from the tricorder. We’re about to try to decipher it.”
“And I want you to, but not right now. It’ll have to wait. On the double, gentlemen.”
Faulwell had always thought that the expression of one’s heart leaping into one’s mouth was a bit over the top. But when he looked at what a tight-lipped, pale Dr. Lense had to show them, he realized that the old cliché was actually quite true.
Borg.
Hard to believe that one word, comprised of four letters, could produce such violent emotions. But then, Bart had always respected the power of words. Now, as he gazed at the replicated body on the viewscreen, with its lengths of cables and artificial implants, all he could think of was a giant cube sweeping down to assimilate them all.
“What do you think, Geordi?” Gold asked, his calm voice breaking the horrified silence that filled the briefing room. “You’ve had some experience with Borg technology.”
Geordi licked his lips. “I don’t know, Captain. This technology is different from any Borg technology I’ve encountered before. Take a look at the delicacy of that cable, the seamless way the artificial has been integrated with the organic in the brain. Borg technology was …” He searched for the right word. “Crude, but efficient. It got the job done, but not much more. This is almost elegant. Then again, if there’s one thing you can count on with the Borg, it’s that they’re always improving. Upgrading.”
“Assimilating,” said Duffy, managing the complicated trick of putting a sneer of disgust and respect into the single word.
“Exactly,” said La Forge.
“But it was my understanding that the Borg travel in groups—in a collective, or subdivisions, in a unimatrix. Never just alone like this,” put in Gomez.
“Again,” said Abromowitz, “that’s always been true … so far. But don’t forget the Borg queen. She is quite definitely an individual.”
La Forge nodded agreement. “And there was an adolescent male Borg who came aboard the Enterprise several years ago, who was able to understand the concept of the individual. We even named him. Called him Hugh. Got kinda fond of the guy, actually.”
“I remember reading about that,” said Abromowitz. “Because of his interaction with the Enterprise crew, he was unable to fully reintegrate into Borg society. He joined with others who split off from the Collective, right? What became of him?”
“We don’t know,” said Geordi. “I like to think that he and his group are all right, but who knows with the Borg? They could have reassimilated him and studied this thing called individuality. They could have found the group and reassimilated them. When you think about it, the Borg are already a blending of organic being and machine. It’s not that big a step to link an individual with a vessel to form a new collective of one unified mind—instead of a humanoid simply being implanted with cybernetics and linked together, link that mind directly with a personal, mobile machine. With a ship.”
Carol sank back in her chair. “It does sound exactly like something the Borg would do.”
“The ship’s ability to withstand the crash also points to Borg technology,” said P8 Blue. “It powered up well enough when it wanted to. Self-repair, just like a Borg cube.”
“Let’s think like the Borg for a moment,” said Gold. “Not that it’s a pleasant task. What would be the advantage to the Borg of forming such a collective? Tying only one mind to one machine? What’s the point in that?”
“Easier maintenance,” said Gomez at once. “One person, one ship. Elizabeth, it looked as though that pilot was able to disengage from the ship. Is that right?”
Lense nodded. “They could join, and I’d imagine they could separate. There was no indication that the pilot required any sustenance while joined. The entire digestive system had shrunk. I suspect the pilot didn’t even eat as we understand the term, but got her nourishment somehow through her connection to the ship.”
“Again, exactly like the Borg,” said Gold, frowning. His bushy black eyebrows stuck out over his eyes like alarmed caterpillars. “She would regenerate. As long as the ship had power, she could live.”
Lense nodded confirmation. “And yet, she died and the ship continued on. There was no trace of injury or illness, so there must have been some kind of malfunction that was localized and didn’t spread to the ship.”
“So,” continued Gold. “Easier maintenance might be a reason. What else?”
“A single-person vessel could travel places that a more standard Borg ship couldn’t,” said Abromowitz, clearly warming to the subject. “It could scout out races for assimilation, then alert the more aggressive cube.”
Bart felt cold. All this made terrible sense.
“There’s your explanation as to why someone would attack Intar,” said Corsi. “The Borg are hardly tourists. You know their mantra. ‘We are the Borg. Resistance is futile. Prepare to be—’”
“Stop it,” said Bart. He hadn’t intended to speak, but the words came out of his mouth. Everyone turned to stare at him. He felt his face grow hot.
“Faulwell is right, Corsi,” said Gold gently to his chief of security. “This isn’t a laughing matter. Very well. I’d say that, while we can’t be
absolutely certain that this is the latest version of the new, improved Borg, it’s a possibility. I’ll alert Starfleet Command, see what they want us to do about it. Gomez, I remember right before we beamed you out, you said something like, ‘There’s nothing there.’ What did you mean by that?”
“There were no control panels,” said Gomez.
“That’s right,” said Bart. “No buttons, no lights, nothing to indicate how the pilot controlled the ship. I guess we know now. There’s no need for control panels when you can maneuver a vessel with your thoughts.”
Gomez frowned and her brow furrowed as she tried to recall exactly what there had been. “At least,” she amended, “no control panels as we understand them. Now that I think of it, there might have been some other ports where the pilot could have linked, other than the chair.” She looked a little embarrassed. “We were so distracted by the pilot, and then we were transported out. We didn’t have time to conduct a more thorough investigation. I’m sorry, sir.”
Gold waved off her apology.
“That’s why I couldn’t locate where the tactical and propulsion systems were,” said Corsi. “With most ships, there are separate sections where the various pieces of equipment are installed. Here, it’s all spread throughout the ship, controlled by the pilot’s mind.”
“Heavens above,” said Gold, with feeling. He rubbed at his eyes with his hand. “No chance of learning anything without a whole Starfleet team of Borg experts swarming over that ship, then. La Forge and Faulwell, you two are now the indispensable crewmen. So far the information on that tricorder is the only information we’ve got. Translate whatever is on there. I want concrete data, not theories, when some admiral starts trying to pull rank and questions our actions and conclusions. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said both Bart and Geordi at once.
“You’re pretty quiet,” La Forge observed as he and Bart stood in the turbolift.
Bart shrugged. For some strange reason, all he could think about was the unfinished letter to Anthony Mark sitting in his quarters. If this thing was indeed a Borg ship, as was looking more and more likely, who knew what would happen? He wondered if he’d even have a chance to finish the note, let alone see Anthony Mark again.
“Finding a completely new type of Borg threat isn’t something that happens every day. Not even in this job,” Bart added, in a weak stab at humor.
“Listen, I’ve survived a lot of up-close-and-personal encounters with the Borg,” La Forge said, “and while they’re definitely to be taken seriously, they’re not totally indestructible. Besides, the captain must think there’s at least a chance that it’s not a Borg ship, or else he wouldn’t assign you to this.”
Bart brightened at that. “True,” he said. If Gold had expected the tricorder information to be recorded in standard Borg, the computer would already know how to translate it. The particular skills of a linguist wouldn’t be required.
When they began their work in earnest, Bart was heartened by the fact that the language recorded was not Borg. After working with the computer, he narrowed it down to a branch of the Taklathi language, with some of the grammatical structure of the Nemar and Olisu thrown into the mix. By cross-referencing with languages as varied as Xlatitigu and Pe, he was able to establish a root structure from which the universal translator could extrapolate. He loved these moments. They were positively exhilarating, and it was a refreshing change to work with someone who, like him, respected and enjoyed language.
Finally, the tricorder was adjusted and linked with their system. After a burst of static and snow—which gave Bart a bad moment, thinking they’d shorted the whole thing out—it began to transmit information onto the screen. Their eyes widened in shock at the first image, and the shock did not diminish as they watched. Engrossed, they listened to the entire recording with a growing sense of horror.
At last, it was done. Geordi turned to regard Bart, who felt exhausted and emotionally drained after viewing the information.
“The captain needs to see this. Heck, I think everyone needs to see this.” Geordi’s voice was heavy and somber.
Bart blinked rapidly and swallowed hard. “It’s pretty awful. How much of it do you want to show them?”
“All of it.”
Lense regarded the still form of the solitary Bynar. She didn’t want to do this, but Gold had insisted. 110 had had the most direct contact with the computer system of that ship. He had information that had been downloaded into that buffer of his. He knew things the rest of them didn’t, things that Gold needed to know.
She sighed. “Em, bring him around.”
Emmett pressed a hypospray to the Bynar’s neck. It hissed gently, and 110 opened his eyes. Lense squeezed his newly healed hand gently and smiled down at him.
“Welcome back, 110,” she said softly. “How do you feel?”
He blinked slowly. “As well as can be expected.”
With the tenderness Lense had come to expect from the surprisingly sensitive hologram, Em leaned forward and eased the Bynar up into a sitting position. 110 blinked, seeming a little dizzy, but, otherwise, he appeared to be fully recovered.
“We—I must speak to Captain Gold,” he told Gomez.
“And he wants to speak to you. Let me run a few tests first, to make sure that—”
“You do not understand,” insisted 110. He turned his dark eyes to her. “The vessel is alive. It is in pain. And it is very, very angry.”
110’s shocking announcement stunned everyone except Bart and Geordi, who exchanged glances.
“Before we act on the information 110 has given us,” said La Forge, “I highly recommend we watch this.”
“Time is speeding by, Lieutenant,” said Gold. “I’ve got the Enterprise and the Lexington on their way here even as I’m having this pleasant conversation with you.”
“I understand the situation, sir,” Geordi continued, speaking urgently, “but trust me, you all need to see this first. And I mean see it, not just have me brief you on it.”
Gold’s brown eyes narrowed, and he regarded La Forge intently. Geordi didn’t flinch from that scrutiny. Duffy wondered what the hell was on that recording that would make La Forge buck Gold so openly.
Finally Gold nodded, cursorily. “You waste my time, La Forge, and I’ll let Picard know about it.”
“Understood, sir, but I’m certain you won’t consider your time wasted.”
“Well, then, start the thing going. I feel my hair turning gray.”
Geordi pressed the control button and took a seat.
With such a dramatic lead-in, everyone assembled leaned forward, expecting to see something staggering. The static and snow stabilized, formed itself into the face of a young woman. While Duffy knew intellectually that it was the face of the greatly decayed corpse now being held in stasis in sickbay—their possible Borg—this lively, animated visage bore little resemblance to the still death mask of the decaying body they had found in the chair.
By human standards, he guessed her to be between sixteen and nineteen, if she was even that old. She was grinning. The recording device, which she held in her hands, was not steady, and she occasionally moved out of the center, but this inefficiency, which Duffy would have thought intolerable to a Borg, seemed not to trouble her one bit.
“I’m recording these on a portable device because I don’t want Friend to know about them,” she said. Her eyes were a beautiful shade of leafy green, her teeth white and straight. But what broke Duffy’s heart more than anything was the smattering of greenish freckles on her small nose. Judging by Abromowitz’s expression, Carol, too, was mourning the loss of such a vibrant young woman.
“Don’t get me wrong—I love sharing things with Friend,” the girl hastened to add. “I love it when we link up, and I’ve got the whole ship’s sensors at my hands.”
She looked a little smug. “I don’t need a primitive viewing screen to see, or a console to program, not when I’m joined with the computer. To be able to
experience so many things that, as an organic being, I’d never otherwise know is indescribable. And he—yeah, I know it’s not alive and it’s got no gender, but I think of the ship as a he—is so close to me when we’re joined. I’ve never known anything like it, not even in a relationship with another Omearan. But there are things I want to say, so I can look back at them later, and I can’t be entirely honest when Friend is so completely joined with me. So, I guess these are secret journals.”
She giggled. To his surprise, Duffy felt tears sting his eyes. He had thought they’d be looking at boring but informative impersonal logs, stuff that would reveal the horrors and atrocities committed by this ship and this pilot, not the most intimate confessions of a young girl’s private thoughts. He felt like a peeping Tom. But there was nothing for it. This was, so far, the only information they had on the ship and its pilot, and they needed to keep watching, hard as it was.
One thing was becoming rapidly apparent. Their assumption about the pilot had been all wrong. Whatever she was, this giggling, endearing child on the viewscreen was no Borg.
The girl rambled on about how hard it had been for her to say good-bye to her family. “I didn’t want to tell Friend about it, because it’d upset him. He’s really sensitive to my happiness. It’s nice to have things like that matter to someone else so much.” She smiled, her green eyes soft with affection, and continued.
“We wouldn’t normally get tapped for so deep a mission, but after the war, we’re really short of pilots,” she explained. “So here Friend and I are, alone together in space, searching for an uninhabited but fertile planet so we can get off that toxic rock. Start new lives. I tried to explain to Friend about how great it feels to walk on soft grass in your bare feet, but he didn’t quite get it, I think.”
Another journal entry described a severe bout of home-sickness. A third had the girl, who finally identified herself as Jaldark, describing how she and Friend had navigated a treacherous asteroid belt unscathed.
Star Trek: Hard Crash (Star Trek: Starfleet Corps of Engineers Book 3) Page 4