Forever is a long time, but when the universe ends, Star Trek will still be owned by Paramount. A. Decker's brush with immortality lies in Star Traks. I'll be happy with a historic footnote mentioning BorgSpace.
Brotherly Love
Brown soil smelling of damp loam; a game (song? lesson?) full of chanting voices and clapping hands; a fight lost. Micah was dreaming once more, but then again, he was always dreaming. The outside world was distant, somehow unimportant...except for a few poignant moments quickly lost. Fleeting memories (of youth? of another?) wound in the not-darkness (without light there could be no dark, and thus neither existed in the unknowable place), crashing like waves upon a shore, only to be drawn away with the forever ebbing tide.
Micah knew there were other memories, many other memories, but his access to them were blocked. An insubstantial wall of nothingness locked away the bright gems of life; the same barrier regulated contact with the beyond. Still, the beyond was known, as if seen from far away through the wavering lines of desert heat (another disjointed memory), but it was not important...not important at this moment, something whispered.
Another part of Micah wrapped around a trigger, a cue, a knowing. The outside did filter through the not-darkness, passing into/out of Micah-essence, weighed and processed before slipping beyond the wall. Micah could take down that wall, could smash the barrier!, could....
The time was not right; the switch had not been toggled; Micah could only wait. He (a floating query leading to the ghostlike image of a young woman? sister? mate? Sister was the feeling, an emotion of protective instinct for a sibling. It did not matter...his thoughts were self-identified as masculine) remembered everything, yet did not remember, short-term memories never remaining long enough to make the impression necessary for long-term storage. Only the distant past remained.
Micah dreamed.
Brown soil smelling of damp loam; a game (song? lesson?) full of chanting voices and clapping hands; a fight lost.
*****
Weapons had perhaps taken advantage of the grudging permission given by the Greater Consciousness to build a vast holoprojection system throughout the cube. "Efficiency" had been the key descriptive term, "a building of Oneness," and "an experiment not possible for other sub-collectives." Captain's submission for the very unorthodox project had also been worded with unspoken undertones of "unless it is specifically forbidden, it will probably be done anyway" and "boredom rules this sub-collective as we are not allowed to participate in the One...that same boredom may tear this cube apart long before we return to BorgSpace." Thus the project had been allowed.
Wiring Cube #347's corridors and nodal intersections for the holoprojector array was now complete. Delta had forbidden the weapon hierarchy access to the holding tank bays, transwarp cores, and propulsion areas; and Captain had flatly refused installation of projectors in his nodal intersection. Vast spaces, such as cargo holds, were similarly devoid of holographic life. Weapons was about to fix that, at least for one hold.
Bulk Cargo Hold #5 was now a make-shift hologrid...all of it. Borg do not think small, and the transition of an area able to hold small Federation starships into the ultimate battle simulator was appealing. Material previously occupying the hold had been redistributed to other areas of the cube or shoved against one wall into precarious stacks. In addition to delegating off-limit areas, Delta had refused to compromise redundant power systems by allowing an auxiliary core to be utilized in energizing the grid. In response, a small fusion generator, very primitive, had been cobbled together with spare parts and hooked directly into the infant hologrid.
It was now time to test the new creation. Weapons examined the program he and his hierarchy had built: a simple rendering of the inside of a generic space station constructed by an emergent warp-capable civilization. No sentients, no activity, just scenery. A final scrutiny of the code, and Weapons commanded the computer to begin the program.
Predictably, anticlimactically, a fuse was blown. Subsection 7, and two neighboring subsections, lost power, gravity control, transporters, regeneration systems, deflectors, air circulation, and so on...except in Bulk Cargo Hold #5. Delta screamed bloody murder into the intranets. Weapons simply grinned in the unreal glow of holographically projected fluorescent lighting.
A simple, repeating broadcast was intercepted by the sensor hierarchy, the message twisting in all common faster-than-light subspace bands. Swiftly it was flagged, bits and bytes torn apart as subsets of the sensor hierarchy translated the communication, rebuilding degraded video, and splicing the entirety together. Captain's presence waited in the background, impatient as the process took several seconds, figuratively (and literally) tapping his foot. Finally the broadcast was posted to the dataspaces for common access.
An Ijexian (recently designated species #8523) male stood before a pale blue background. Conclusion? The cube was still in the Ijexian Empire; a subhierarchy of command and control began to calculate the probable volume of the stellar government. The Ijexian was classic humanoid in appearance, mostly. An unusual arrangement of three arms spoiled generic bisymmetrical balance, but otherwise nothing was odd. Long brown hair curled behind small ears, wavering slightly in an unseen draft as the Ijexian opened his mouth to speak.
"Attention traveler, this warning beacon has been placed by the Ijexian Empire to inform you that the Nion system and its primary planet, Relex, are off-limits. The Brotherhood of Galactic Love controls this system; and while we will not stop you from entering Nion space, we maintain heavily fortified automatic defenses beyond the orbit of the fifth planet.
"These forts will fire upon anything which approaches within .25 AU and has a trajectory to be leaving the system. Mines have been placed in subspace, as well as several other layers of metareality, to dissuade warp capable vessels. Ships entering system Nion will not be allowed to leave. Period.
"Proceed at your own risk."
Captain was about to dismiss the threat, to order sensor hierarchy to note the system on stellar navigational charts for future reference. The cube could investigate, the system was less than ten light years distant, but the potential risk outweighed possible gain. Or at least that was the emerging consensus. Weapons spoke up in disagreement:
{The technology of subspace mines would be useful, especially if the species #8523 truly has managed to extrapolate placement into the deeper layers. While we will certainly smash all empires in this region of space when the Collective assimilates these grids, a preview of technological distinctiveness would be efficient.}
Captain pondered the new spin in the cycle of consensus, finally sending a query to the Greater Consciousness. Agreement was the return. << Acquire several mine samples, then continue on course towards Shipyard Zeta 3d, grid 10713, >> the exact words. Heading adjusted, a new transwarp conduit formed, as transmission source was pinpointed. Weapon and engineering hierarchies began preparations to capture, disarm, and secure live munitions.
*****
Micah sank back into not-darkness and dreaming. The moment of lucidity was already fading, already evaporating. He had for the briefest of times allowed himself to reach through the barrier, stretch to the outside, become almost whole. However, while the primary trigger was still untouched, a small piece had slid, fitting neatly into the entirety like a jigsaw puzzle. Micah took a dreamless eternity to turn the trigger over, examining it from all sides at once, inward retrospection along more than three dimensions. Only a few more sub-cues to go, then the barrier would come down for good.
Why? Why was this action desired? Micah did not know...would not know until the wall was breached, and the longing for a purpose in the not-darkness was reason enough. The visions slowly returned - brown soil smelling of damp loam; a game (song? lesson?) full of chanting voices and clapping hands; a fight lost.
*****
Six mines ("A Deuterium Company Product" stenciled on the side in large letters) were disarmed though a series of tricks developed by the assimilated species #3149, an entire race which specialized in entering (or leaving) systems/planets and smuggling packages/people/armadas. For the right price. Their unique knowledge was now servicing the Borg...and in this case, the sub-collective of Cube #347.
The mines were carefully tractored and secured in Bulk Cargo Hold #7, Delta complaining as she found many of the supplies from Bulk Cargo Hold #5 scattered in disarray throughout the space. Part of the weapon hierarchy was ordered to pick up their mess, working until Delta was satisfied. Meanwhile, explosives were removed from the mines, separating any remaining danger posed by the munitions. The destructive potential of the mines was quite impressive - any three would reduce the cube to a shattered hull - although the Borg would improve upon it given time.
The Collective had lots of time.
Weapons liked the mines; they were nice tools to get a job done. He would have to add them to the next BorgCraft simulation as a new obstacle. But still...if weapon technology associated with the Ijexian system was this efficient on simple mines, then an examination of a fort might be instructive. At the very least, it would be another facet for simulations.
{Captain, the weapon hierarchy requests permission to examine a fort. Additional technologies may be gained.}
Captain mulled over the options for a few seconds. The internal response was much on the order of "We're in this deep and nothing bad has happened yet, so why not?"; even subunit #522 was quiet.
{We will approach a fort.} A fortress transceiver was isolated, course plotted, and an in-system warp jump engaged.
The Nion system was populated by a generic yellow dwarf, six planets of various sizes and types, several dozen miscellaneous moons, and an assortment of asteroids, comets, and other minor bodies. Weapons did not care; the fortress was fascinating from a defense/offense point-of-view.
Cube #347 had not been challenged upon approach. The reason had been discovered later, buried in the simple-minded, if brutal, codes of the central computer: ships approaching in-system were to be ignored. A simple transponder algorithm was also discovered, one keyed to recognize Ijexian battleships and Deuterium Company vessels. The identifier allowed the ship in question free access in and out of the Nion system without worry of the warning beacon's promised penalties. The sub-collective swiftly incorporated the protocols.
The fort itself was not very large, perhaps the volume of an Assimilation-class cube, but it was constructed such that the asteroid base spread to cover a wide area. On the platform were a variety of torpedoes and energy weapons, the fort itself vulnerable when taken as a solo object, but a quite efficient bugger when combined with the overlapping coverage of neighboring platforms. It would require a minimum of ten Battle-class cubes to punch a hole from the inside out if the platforms were active; casualties were projected at three cubes destroyed beyond salvage, with five more heavily damaged.
A technology which also interested the sub-collective, and thus the Greater Consciousness as it accepted reports from the scene via Captain, was the evidence of primitive nanomachines used to build the platforms. Van Neumann machines maintained the forts currently, catering to the platform computer's every need, but the initial phase of construction had utilized nanites.
The Greater Consciousness was becoming curious...what was this mysterious "Brotherhood of Galactic Love?" And how did they pose such a threat that the Nion system was interdicted to keep occupants in, yet made no serious effort, beyond the initial warning beacon, to keep vessels out. << Examine planet designated Relex and report. If feasible, subunit #522 will assimilate a specimen for further study. >>
{We will comply,} returned Captain in unison with the mentalities of subunit #522.
*****
Micah dreamed. Brown soil smelling of damp loam; a game (song? lesson?) full of chanting voices and clapping hands; a fight lost. A soundless 'click' and 'click' chased the visions away, banishing them to the not-darkness. Micah abruptly came to wakefulness.
The trigger...it was poised to activate; and at this point in time, Micah began to regain his wholeness. The first thing he heard was himself - himself beyond the barrier! - counseling patience. A memory of self slipped back from the beyond, followed by another, and yet another. Micah slowly started to fill, to become a three-dimensional being. The wall, the forever ephemeral blockage, was melting.
And Micah was the final snowflake on a trembling avalanche-to-be, yearning for an echo to unleash his potential.
*****
Relex was a stereotypical M-class planet: a patchwork of ocean and land, white clouds swirling in weather patterns, boring. A few old starships circled in a low orbit, abandoned hulks on terminal vectors to a fiery reentry in the near future. A web of communication satellites held stationary in geosynchronous orbit, and two telescopes pointed towards the cosmos. On the small moon, the glitter of solar panels could be seen girding the equator, and Sensors reported the presence of microwave energy being sent towards the planet via a relay of secondary satellites sharing orbit with their larger conspecifics.
{My, doesn't this look like an exciting place? A virtual horde bent on the conquest of the galaxy.} Second's opinion spread into the intranet with typical dry satire. {I wonder what the Ijexian Empire considers /real/ danger?} A string of irrelevant responses followed from various other drones.
A hail received from the surface. Weapons felt Captain accept the feed, listened as "negotiations" were opened.
"Greetings! We are the Brotherhood of Galactic Love. We apologize that you are now stuck in the Nion system with us, but if you transport to the surface, we will make you right at home. My name is Corandy, and I'll be your orientation monk for the next several weeks, until your ship's crew finds suitable homes and is properly converted." Weapon's attention became riveted on the image which accompanied the audio feed, the humanoid with the pleasant, almost hypnotic voice. He recognized the species, even though the Collective only had one specimen among its myriad of drones...it was the features of Weapons!
Humanoid to the point of blah, ridges crinkling the bridge of the nose and spreading out on the forehead until finally resolving into a series of small horns. Deep purple eyes with a vertically slit pupil. Nearly non-existent ears. Bald (well, shaved) head with a tonsure of neatly groomed yellow hair. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing a non-assimilated self...a non-assimilated species #8319....
Awareness suddenly began to fragment, to be pushed back, as if the Greater Consciousness were attempting to fill his body, to displace his mental patterns. But it wasn't so...the force behind the thrust came from within, responding to the voice, the sight of the species displayed within the dataspaces. Weapons frantically fought the lessening of self, but did not know how to counter; his bailiwick was weapons, not the mind!
The last conscious sense he had was of the transporter beam activating, coordinates somewhere on the surface. A triumphant shout, his own voice yet not his own, echoed along the catwalks, "I am whole! I am free! I am Micah!"
*****
Micah focused to his innerself, that place were he had slumbered for so long, waiting. In the empty undark the shard which called itself Weapons fumed, sending unanswered demands into the emptiness; already it was beginning to weaken, to falter as it was refused its desired connection with the minds known as "sub-collective." Surprisingly, another presence also shared the vacant place, a construct which had once been named Ghydin, Pilgrim Ghydin to be exact. Pilgrim Ghydin was curled in a metaphysical ball, whimpering from its fetal position.
Thirty-four years ago, a young, but ambitious, priest by the name of Micah, Brotherhood of Galactic Love, had volunteered for a dangerous mission. He would slip beyond the Ijexian defenses, travel to a freeport, and attempt to find a way to release his sect from unholy oppression. The key to the plan was the first stage, breaching fortresses and mines. The forts would fire upon any metal concentration of ship mass attempting to leave the inner system; thus a comet was shadowed and a short-range scout buried deep in the ice in hopes of foiling fort sensors. The pilot, Micah, slumbered in cryogenic suspension, suppressing excess power leakage. The gamble was successful.
Outside the danger zone, Micah was awakened by the ship's computer. It was time to activate the second part of the grand plan...the birth of Pilgrim Ghydin. Pilgrim Ghydin, a disciple of an inoffensive and rare religion dedicated to a patron of wanderlust, had been created on Relex, a purposeful shattering of the psyche to create a controlled schizophrenic condition. The trick was Pilgrim Ghydin had to be ultimately believable; Micah could not be allowed to exist.
Pilgrim Ghydin had a full set of plausible memories, stretching into childhood, but he, his personality, would not live until he stood firmly on the deck of the target freeport. Pilgrim Ghydin would be alive, would firmly believe he was single and sane, never suspecting his true background. Meanwhile, Micah would wait in the background, a sleeping mentality in stasis, unconsciously examining all that flowed through Ghydin, waiting patiently for the cue which would erase the construct and allow Micah to live again. Or at least that was the plan.
After years of hitchhiking a multitude of ships traveling at the edge of explored space, the freighter Pilgrim Ghydin was berthed on was captured by an odd ship, one never before seen, in the shape of a giant cube. The beings on board called themselves "Borg"; Micah's carefully laid plans were tossed to the winds when Ghydin, peaceful Ghydin who would not life a hand in his own defense, was assimilated.
The process, from Micah's point-of-view behind a smoky window of molasses, was fascinating. Pilgrim Ghydin's constructed psyche was shattered by assimilation, the pieces given over to the Borg to be rebuilt into a new drone. Hidden in a forgotten corner of the subject's mind, Micah arose enough from his self-imposed exile to sense a threat to his holy mission. Something had to be done, and quickly. As the mentality was reconstructed, Micah encouraged the suppressed anger and violence of the Pilgrim Ghydin construct to consolidate; then, when that did not appear to be sufficient, sacrificed a part of himself, drive and ambition, to add to the emergent personality. The drone to be known as 45 of 300, Weapons, was born, rage pushing the shard into a partial insanity, and consequently into assimilation imperfection.
Micah dropped back to his repose. What could be done was accomplished; and only time would tell if the mission had been salvaged. That was the past...and a new life had begun.
"Priest Micah, do you require anything? The High Council has accepted your genetic identity and is gathering. All will be convened shortly...say, six hours." A young lad in the blue trimmed cream robe of an acolyte spoke, eyes penitently downcast. To retain such an important task as page between Micah and the local Council representatives spoke of favoritism and trustworthiness of the boy.
"This body...ugh...I mean...I do not require anything. What is the status of the Borg vessel?"
"We believe confused, Priest Micah. An hour ago it retreated to far orbit and has remained quiescent since."
"Good. Tell the appropriate officials to keep an eye on it; potential danger is high. However, it is the key to our bringing the word of Galactic Love to the galaxy." The acolyte bowed, then backed out of the room. Perhaps there was a trace of fear in the boy's eyes when he had briefly looked up? Well, Micah had become a monster, it was true.
Micah despised this mechanical hybrid body, the unnatural voice. The mind betrayed, thought patterns no longer familiar, etched into odd paths first by construct Pilgrim Ghydin, then later by the Weapons shard. With the stolen memories and artificial instincts of the Borg personality, it had been possible to escape to the planet to a designated coordinate, then constrict the bandwidth of the neural transceiver such that the cube's sub-collective could not find him. More importantly, hardwired commands could not be tripped, those that would force obedience, compliance, by the receiving drone. Micah would like to completely sever the connection, but something within him, a base nugget of Borg programming code, obstructed the desire.
The most painful realization Micah had come to know in the last twelve hours was many of his memories, the parts of his life that defined his soul, were missing. The precious memories were a hereto unknown casualty of the shattering of the Pilgrim Ghydin persona during assimilation and subsequent purge. Bits and pieces remained, which Micah gathered to his metaphorical bosom, savoring. The High Council must only be allowed to know Micah was back from his holy mission, and never realize the shadow their priest savior had become.
Closing his remaining eye and slashing input from the mechanical contraption squatting in the other socket, Micah locked his body's joints. A sliver of awareness was left focused on the door, waiting for the acolyte's eventual return. The rest turned inward. Brown soil smelling of damp loam; a game (song? lesson?) full of chanting voices and clapping hands; a fight lost.
*****
Weapons was locked in a box of nothingness. The outside world was still present, he could hear the sub-collective, his hierarchy, Captain, attempting to link with him. The voices were distant, muffled. The box was stifling.
Shouts were made to the entity which had done this horrible thing, demands of compliance and threats of terrible retribution. No reply, although at one brief point Weapons had felt like a fish in a bowl, owner just beyond range of blurry perception. Another empty ultimatum was delivered with similar indifferent response. Angry, Weapons began to explore his cage.
The feeling was much akin to the times he had been corralled by captains and seconds over the years, forced into a regenerative stasis when his actions to complete a task had crossed beyond some unperceived line. However, unlike regeneration, there was no access to the dataspaces, no access to his own mental resources, only the pure essence of self. It was not a comfortable feeling.
A noise? A sobbing sound? Another creature also occupied this maddening exile. Weapons zeroed in on the unseen presence; it was close, and it would comply with his questions.
{Who are you?} demanded Weapons to the whimpering he could feel nearby in the not-darkness. {I will know who you are!}
The crying ceased to a few sniffles, {I am Pilgrim Ghydin.}
{Impossible,} stated Weapons angrily, {that designation is known. Pilgrim Ghydin was assimilated by the Collective twenty-eight years prior, and the resulting drone spent nearly a year in stasis. The personality of Pilgrim Ghydin was purged, and only relevant knowledge and memories retained.}
{I know.} The voice conveyed the perception of a slumped, dejected figure, one who stared at the ground, afraid to look up.
{Then state who you are.}
{I am Pilgrim Ghydin. The memories remain; the memories are me. It was only after my assimilation I learned I was nothing more than memories, nothing more than a construct of the psyche. I am Pilgrim Ghydin. I am 45 of 300. I am Weapons. I am you.}
Silence. Weapons had to think. The not-darkness soothed, salved the hurt of hearing the distant sub-collective, even if he could not respond, could not be. Weapons excelled at doing, but was not the best at thinking. Perhaps in the isolation he would become better at it...had to become better at it.
*****
"We accept your story, and the genetic prints confirm your identity," stated the Council Primary in a graveled voice. His robes of rank were silver trimmed pale green, accented with gold thread. Micah had been provided with a similarly toned garment sporting the supplicant's trim of black; he knew it looked ridiculous draped over the hideous thing his body had become, contrasting starkly with unnaturally gray skin. Many of the Council had overtly winced when Micah had first come in the room, and even now, several were reluctant to look directly at him when asking questions.
"The High Council now wishes to contact this Cube #347," the Primary was speaking again. Micah gave his full attention to the elder. "You spoke of compulsions by the minds in the ship...will you be able to resist them?"
"The Brotherhood of Galactic Love is my proper sub-collective." Micah was aghast as the inappropriate word slipped out. He continued rapidly onward, "I will not comply with Cube #347's demands."
"So be it. Tyleen, open communications with the alien vessel." Tyleen, a middle-aged priest who had been brought into the council room for the occasion, nodded. He left his chair against the corner and moved to a small panel near a large wallscreen, quickly typing in several lines of command. The screen's neutral dark red lightened, then abruptly flashed up a scene of walkway mazes.
"We are the Borg. You will return the drone known as 45 of 300 to us, then you will prepare your populace for assimilation. Your technological and bio...."
Micah interrupted, "Quiet! Be still! I know you're not allowed to assimilate entire populations, so don't make idle threats. And I, Micah, in the name of the High Council of the Brotherhood of Galactic Love, demand to be shown the drone in charge. We will not be cowed by such theatrics!"
Silence from the screen. Micah could hear an odd, shocked silence within his mind as well, the part that would not give up the thread which connected his mind to the sub-collective. The wallscreen flickered, a Borg visage replacing infinite metalwork; single blue eye glared. "Priority command invocation of regenerative stasis pathway, target drone 45 of 300; initiate immediately. Comply."
Micah steeled himself against the compulsion, swaying slightly as it hit. He managed to resist...barely. The Weapons shard angrily clamored for attention, then was swept back behind the barrier. None could be allowed to know how close the order had come to shattering all the Brotherhood's plans. "I will not comply. I am not a part of your sub-collective; and without the internal access to my mind which I deny you, you have no power over me. I am Micah, high priest of the Brotherhood of Galactic Love."
"You are designated 45 of 300; you are a member of the Collective."
"Yes...I /was/ 45 of 300, but /I/ am Micah, and this body which has been horribly disfigured is nonetheless the one I was born in."
"Negative." Pause. "Records indicate original body designation was Pilgrim Ghydin. There is no indication of a Micah."
Tyleen signaled from his place out of view of the wallscreen camera: technicians elsewhere were indicating the Borg cube was drifting into a lower orbit, zeroing in on the communication signal. Power signatures were spiking, possibly weapon systems coming on-line. Micah glanced once back at the Council Primary, then returned his attention to the wallscreen after the nod of encouragement.
"Let me tell you a story, Cube #347, the story of a sect hated by those on the 'outside'.
"There was once a prophet by the name of Relex who heard the words of a supreme deity, God, Goddess, or some non-gendered force, it does not matter; the words are the important thing. Our God spoke to Relex, telling him of the terrible consequences to come if we, all sentients, did not put aside our differences and become one in love. A dark force was coming, an army of evil out of the darkest pits of Hell, and only through the power of love and unity could we resist it. This was three centuries ago.
"So, Relex the Prophet went out to the stars, preaching the true teachings of God. He joined the masses of other priests and religions at the freeports. In order to distinguish himself from the rest of the rabble, he put on the holy robe of pale green and shaved his head of hair. It was not enough. Relex was only a man, a mortal man, with limited years, and he needed a way to gain followers to his cause.
"'The end justifies the means'...it is said that holiest of sayings was whispered to Relex as he left the grasp of the Dreaming Mushroom smoke he had attempted in an effort to enlighten his mind. Our God also gave the Prophet the coordinates of what was to be later known as planet Relex. Clutching that thoughts to his bosom, Relex boldly went forth, armed with nothing more than the first book of the Order of Galactic Love, plunging the remainder of his money into a decaying scout-explorer.
"The tales of Relex's trials are too many to relate here, but suffice to say, this planet was found. And on this planet, Relex found the holiest of planets: the Flower of Love. The Flower wafts divinity on its perfume; to smell the Flower is to become one of the Order of Galactic Love, physical proof of the message God first gave to Relex.
"Relex returned to the freeports with his Flowers, gifting them freely to all as he gave his sermons. One smell of the delightful scent of the Flower bonded listeners to Relex and his divine cause. Slowly, then with increasing swiftness, the Brotherhood of Galactic Love grew, followers relocating to planet Relex to cultivate the Flower.
"Now, there were some who continued to claim the Prophet's words were false, and by the hand of those unbelievers, Relex was martyred. In retribution, the Brotherhood, now tens of million strong with vast resources, descended upon the Heretics, armed with a holy armada and Flowers. The Jihad swept over all who opposed the word of God. 'The end justifies the means;' the Brotherhood forced Love and unity upon everyone, for in the end, it would be necessary to resist the spawn of evil.
"The Ijexian Empire did not see the Jihad for what it was, claiming the Brotherhood was an upstart sect with a mind-warping flower, and a threat to the integrity to the Empire. We were pushed back to Relex and the system interdicted; and here we have been ever since."
Micah paused in his recitation, arm held in classic story-telling poise. The drone on the screen blinked once, then simply commented, "'The end justifies the means'...well, that explains much. The mentality of 45 of 300 was obviously warped long before assimilation." The comment seemed to be a self-revelation rather than words directed at Micah. The tone became more direct, "It does not matter. Your tale is irrelevant and your culture will be assimilated eventually. This sub-collective will take 45 of 300 and leave you to stew in your delusional flower-spawned dreams of grandeur."
Micah shook his head. Tyleen made a sign to indicate the vessel was maneuvering into a low orbit. The Council Primary cleared his throat, urging Micah to finish quickly. Micah waved his hand in compliance.
"You don't understand, do you? The Borg are obviously the Evil Army Relex was warned of, and only unity under the Brotherhood of Galactic Love can stop it. Yet, ironically, I have come to believe my holy mission was meant for my body to be assimilated, for only through my defilement did I come to realize the Borg hold the key to their own destruction. 'The end justifies the means,' the words have never been clearer in meaning.
"Your Borg vessel will convey the faithful of the Brotherhood beyond the mines and forts, carrying Flowers and their seeds to spread throughout the quadrant. And the Borg themselves...their, your, machines and the process of assimilation will convert all to the Brotherhood who do not partake of the Flowers."
Captain's eye had developed a sheen of revulsion. "The Borg search for perfection; there is no need for religion in the quest for Oneness. We do not mask our pursuit under false pretense. Religion detracts from perfection."
Micah shook his head, "Do you not see? Your so-called Oneness is only a facet, a misguided facet mind you, of the Brotherhood. God is One, after all...one civilization united in love and unity. After you have been converted and have spread the word of Relex the Prophet in the Ijexian Empire, the Army of Evil, the Borg, will be converted...then the galaxy. Beyond that...beyond that, there will always be other, greater, Armies of Evil, for the anti-deity, Chaos, is always seeking destruction of goodness."
"You have a slight fault in your reasoning, 45 of 300, Micah, or whatever your damaged mind has decided for your designation. We are Borg; we can not be converted."
Micah smiled, stretching his face into an expression not used in several decades, "There you are wrong." Reaching into a pocket in his robe, Micah held up a simple flower, five petals of pale green surrounding a center of cream. "Behold the Flower. The Brotherhood has performed a detailed chemical analysis of my body and how it would react to the Divine Perfume. Funny thing, actually, and proof of the Flower's holy nature: it will affect the brain underneath all that cybernetic hardware, make it susceptible to the commands of the Brotherhood. One sniff, and you will be in thrall to the path of the Brotherhood.
"Know that even now, should you make threatening moves or depart low orbit, we are prepared to transport enough Flowers and Flower extract into your vessel to covert a large space station. The Brotherhood prefers conversion to be an orderly process, but 'The end justifies the means', and we will do what is necessary. If you try to beam down to Relex, be aware the Flower is the most common botanical specimen to be found; the perfume wafts to all corners of the globe. Finally, I will be carrying several vials of Flower Essence on my person at all times; if you transport me to your ship, well, I'm sure you can calculate the result."
Before Captain could respond, Micah's voice turned hard, "The Brotherhood of Galactic Love will prevail. This conversation is at an end." A finger flick at Tyleen terminated the signal. Micah turned to the Holy Council, awaiting their appraisal.
*****
Weapons grumbled in frustration. For the briefest of moments the barrier had dissolved, allowing him access to the rest of his systems. However, before he could take advantage of fortuitous circumstances, the wall had descended once more, blocking freedom.
{Pilgrim Ghydin, I wish to converse with you. You will elaborate the nature of this barrier in detail so that I might determine a method to destroy it.} Weapons cast about in the undarkness, but could not find the other presence. It seemed to have evaporated. A small note of panic touched Weapons' call as the concept of true singleness set in, {Pilgrim Ghydin?}
A muffled answer, {I hear you.}
{Where are you?} Weapons moved closer to the insubstantial barrier, bumping against its immobile, infinite stature.
{Just a few moments. I would like to try something.} The words continued to be distant. A scraping sounded along one section of the wall; Weapons moved closer. Watching in the not-dark without eyes, hearing without ears, feeling without touch, a small "hole" was observed to breech the barrier. It was no larger than a pinprick, and certainly too small for the personality represented by Weapons to escape. {Can you hear better?}
{Yes. Remove the rest of the barrier.}
{I cannot. I've existed here for twenty-eight years and in that time I've learned about this barrier Micah hid behind, even if I didn't know his exact designs. It is occasionally susceptible to memories, of which I am; I am a wrath even compared to my original construction. I escaped.}
{Why can you not remove the barrier?} Weapons came directly to the question of interest.
{I am nothing compared to Micah. He knows this barrier is here, and if he felt me try to remove it - and without the key it can only be removed from the outside - he would squash me like a bug and absorb the remains into his psyche. He is occupied with other concerns at the moment, and I felt I would be able to safely make a small hole.} Ghydin's voice whispered like a student afraid to be caught by the headmaster.
Weapons pondered for a few moments, {Does this Micah realize you are not detained?}
{No, not yet. He will know, however, the next time he decides to gloat. That capacity neither went into my construction nor your shard.} Pause. {I wish to live. I have had an existance, of sorts, for thirty-four years now; Micah will not allow me to continue to live, and you neither. He will eventually want all his personality back. You should know, Micah is not as whole as he wishes he were: many of his memories, much of his "self", is missing. To heal at least some of those wounds, he will tear us apart until we no longer exist in any format. I believe that was the original plan, anyway, at least for me.}
Weapons waited quietly, listening in a distracted way. He was busy poking at the wall around the hole, not quite believing there was absolutely no way to remove the barrier from the inside.
{I am more akin to you. Over the years your shard has developed a basic, if crude, personality, but it is adequate for the role you play. I've always been at the edges, lurking and watching, for there was use of the memories which I was. I don't want to die, I don't want what remains of my constructed persona to be wadded up like an old paper and tossed in the trash. I did learn in all those years I observed from the sidelines and I think I may be able to help you escape...if you let me to live afterwards.}
Attention returned to Ghydin as Weapons heard the offer. {You still offer useful memories, relevant experiences; the Greater Consciousness will not demand you be purged.}
A sigh of relief. {Then I will assist; however, you will have to tell me what files to access, what virtual buttons to push. I only watched, I never "did".}
{What is my current regenerative time index?} Ghydin's presence disappeared for several long minutes, then returned. {Good. This is what you will do....}
*****
Micah threw up into the sink of his room's lavatory. A deceptively quiet spasm began at gut level, turning into another retching disgorgement. No nausea was associated with the regurgitation; the action was a simple body reflex to remove foreign substances. Micah was glad no one was present to observe the embarrassing spectacle.
Micah had known the Borg body would eventually need nourishment; on the vessel, individual drones plugged themselves into alcoves for regeneration. An hour after the Council meeting had concluded, the first in a series of background, automatic self-diagnostics had sounded a warning: the early stages of body-weariness was setting in. Micah dismissed the alert even as he began to think how he might work around the potential problem, one which would eventually come to crisis point in the not-so-distant future.
Deep inside the body, the quickly reproducing cells of stomachs' lining and intestines had been co-opted twenty-eight years ago, forced to manufacture replacement nanites. Thus reprogrammed, absorbing food through the gut was no longer a relevant option. Micah had examined the data files Weapons had sequestered before his "retirement"; nothing helpful could be found. Theoretically it would be possible to adapt local technology into something vaguely resembling an alcove, given enough time, IF the proper schematics had been available. That was not the case. Vast tetrabytes of storage room was available, all of it devoted to battle scenarios, detailed specs on hundreds of weapons, and known vessel weak spots. Very little resembling an engineering file - besides the steps necessary to alter the equivalent of bubble gum, string, rubber bands, toothpicks, and duct tape into a lethal explosive - was available without making oneself susceptible to the minds on Cube #347.
In a growing desperation, Micah had reasoned a high-protein puree drink, much like that provided to trance-priests, might be seen by the Borg body as similar to the goop of the regenerative system. An order to the page attentively waiting outside the room's main door returned the appropriate drink. Micah had dismissed the boy, quaffed the thick fluid, then found himself five minutes later bowed over the sink.
Micah wiped away the remains of the protein drink from his mouth with a towel, then turned on the water in the sink to flush the mess away. He carefully avoided looking at his image in a nearby mirror. Thoughts were already whirling in his mind as to how to rectify the problem. The solution came quickly...the High Council would have to move the conversion timetable forward. Yes, conversion would pacify the sub-collective minds, which would then allow him to return to the cube and satisfy this body's demands. Afterwards he could research the possibility of removing the hideous hardware and returning his body to its proper, Prophet-given form.
*****
{I have encrypted that file you requested. What will be the outcome?} Pilgrim Ghydin had returned to the wall, whispering his most recent status report on the sabotaging of Weapons' body.
{Micah will be denied access to 60% of local data files. Next you will block the following optical implant frequencies by....}
*****
Micah's Borg body was falling apart, or at least it seemed that way. Motor control remained absolute, but internally, in the mind, thoughts were sluggish, calculations which were automatic several hours ago during the drink fiasco required seconds to complete. Micah had not realized how much he had relied on autonomous programs, files, and implants to keep the disfigured body functional. And, while he could still see, recent occurrences of odd shapes and shadows, visual hallucinations, could be observed out of the mechanical eye.
The acolyte boy was leading Micah down the hallways towards the Council room. The High Council had reconvened at the request to accelerate the timetable, agreeing the Borg ship must be given one last chance to peacefully relent before "any means necessary" became reality in conversion. Of all beings, the Borg must realize resistance was futile!
Another vague shadow, this one in the shape of a five-petal flower, flitted at the edges of vision.
*****
Weapons was pleased; enough vital systems had been disengaged or set into perpetual warning loops that an explosion of five megatons less than ten meters distant would probably not be noticed, much less the disintegration of the barrier. Or at least from the status reports from Pilgrim Ghydin that appeared to be the case. It was time for phase two.
Ghydin slowly enlarged the hole, scrape by careful scrape, nervously watching over the shoulder he didn't have for Micah to descend with wrathful anger. Weapons waited impatiently. As the hole grew to larger dimensions, he could feel access to his systems come closer to reality. Weapons knew his self, knew all the idiosyncrasies which Micah was not bothering to master...Weapons, "shard" or no, would take his rightful place again. By any manner necessary.
Finally Ghydin stopped, {The hole won't open any larger. I do not think you can squeeze through as you are...your personality is too large, too solid.}
It was true. Weapons remained stuck. He fumed and uttered a few choice phrases. Freedom was so near!
{There may be another way. You are an amalgam of personality parts; some from my construct, some from Micah himself. You are my suppressed anger; you are Micah's determination and drive. Just as my original construct was shattered and rebuilt by the Borg to become you, so did Micah assist. You should be able to break bits of yourself apart, and those parts will be able to fit through the breech.}
{And then what?}
{I will capture the parts, holding them within what remains of my personality construct. When you are all gathered, you should consolidate once more. I think.}
{And if not?}
{Well, we could become one...Weapons, or Pilgrim Ghydin, or some personality construct completely different. There are too many unknowns.}
Weapons turned inwards to closely examine himself, to dissect his psyche. It was true: he, his mind, was sutured together. It would be possible to break the joints one at a time. Another being, one with the quality called "caution" or "self-preservation" may have waffled, refusing to perform what was literally a self-amputation (without anesthesia) of the mind. Weapons did not have those qualities.
The end justifies the means. Weapons shattered himself, and knew no more.
An odd double feeling, completely different from the sharing of minds and mental resources common in the dataspaces of Cube #347. Weapons? Pilgrim Ghydin? was together again, one in purpose, although each/both felt qualities unlike those experienced before. Ghydin was /angry/ at what Micah had done; and Weapons felt caution at rushing forward into battle. The qualities of construct and shard complimented each other.
{I/We will prevail. Micah forfeited our/this body many years ago and became a parasite. We/I must gain this/our body back. Are we/I ready? Yes, we/I are/am. Let me/us do what must be done. The end justifies the means.}
*****
Micah stood before the Holy Council once more. They had agreed to speed the conversion timetable, without learning the real reason behind the rush. System failures continued to plague his body. A simple appealing to the rightness of the time, the knowledge that delay may see the Borg cube devise a method of escape, had brought forth the unanimous vote. It was time for Micah, as spokespriest for the Brotherhood, to tell the beings aboard the ship to relax and prepare.
Tyleen was once more operating the controls of the wallscreen. A few deft button pushes connected the Council room with the orbiting vessel. The single Borg was centered in the scene, deception of Collective facelessness abandoned.
"I, Micah, speak for the Brotherhood," began Micah before Captain could dominate the conversation. "Multitudes of small robots, each about the size of a fist, have been sent into orbit and are now passively drifting towards your ship. Each contains a payload of Flower Essence, as well as boring equipment necessary to burn through your outer hull. You may attempt to remove as many robots as you can, but the Brotherhood will simply send more, until your ship is properly converted. Do yourself a favor and do not fight."
"You bluff. You Essence will have no effect on this sub-collective." The statement was pointed, direct.
"Have you not wondered how I have been able to subvert the drone known as 45 of 300? Yes, the personality does still exist, although it has been caged until such time I can render it down and reintegrate it into my psyche. Have you not questioned how I am able to continue to ignore your attempts at triggering automatic instincts of this body? The Essence permeates the air, buoys me in its divinity; it is the reason."
"We still refuse to believe it will be possible...." Micah no longer listened, could no longer listen, although the monologue continued in a transparent effort to gain time. Something else was capturing his attention, a duel personality which should not have existed. Micah frowned...another timetable to advance. Despite the bad timing, he was now forced to rip the shard and construct to pieces.
{Micah!} roared Weapons/Pilgrim Ghydin. {Come here you coward!} With a surety of a lifetime of practice, the Weapons part of the new personality construct sent impulses along the appropriate artificial nerve analogue fibers, paralyzing the body and locking it into place. {Come here and face me!}
Micah turned inwards, a bird contemplating the gnat, gathering his true memories around him in an effort to appear stronger than he was. He should have integrated the two partials immediately upon his reemergence. No matter.
At the same time, Weapons/Ghydin reached forth tentacles of nothingness, drawing on their memories of self. Although many of Pilgrim Ghydin's experiences, at least those prior to his "birth", were forgeries, very few of the false remembrances remained from the initial purging by the Borg Collective to confuse the issue. The remaining thirty-four years of actual memories were ripped away from Micah's loose hold, reverting to the personalities which had first formed them.
Two combatants in the mind of the body of a priest, of a Borg drone, squared off, ignoring exterior queries from the Council demanding to know what was wrong. One, Micah, was the original owner, the one who had been born to the flesh, grew to adulthood in it. The other, Weapons/Ghydin, figments of Micah's devising, knew what the body had become, were the recipients of thirty-four years of experience. It was not an equal match.
Micah, despite his bluff and desperate desire, had to face the fact that his memory of self was spotty at best. Much of his psyche, his soul, had been used in the plausible construction of Ghydin, followed by the sacrifice of vital qualities such as ambition and drive so that the Brotherhood's gamble would continue to exist. Micah, at best, was a shadow of his former formidable self, appearing large in the slanting glare of the afternoon sun, but fading to nothingness as the daystar set. Micah's moment of in the limelight was quickly disappearing.
Weapons/Ghydin began to usurp functions from Micah, retaking what had been stolen. The process was slow, drawn out, as the priest fought every step of the way, slashing out in an effort to do damage. The cries of concern from the Council intruded as a distant whisper intrudes - not at all - as the body of Weapons/Ghydin/Micah toppled to the ground. Finally, reduced to only a small kernel of self, forced to admit his personality was less than construct, less than shard, nothing more than wisps of thought which refused to leave, Micah fled down the only avenue left open in an attempt to save what little remained. Weapons/Ghydin slammed the barrier of palatable nothingness down, locking Micah into the undark.
Weapons blinked to awareness, noting he was lying on the ground. Shouts of anxiety from nearby sentients intruded upon his senses, although none had yet approached. Pilgrim Ghydin had separated himself from Weapons, slipping off to lurk at the edges, to keep a wary eye on the sulking Micah personality. Weapons pushed himself to a standing position, swiftly reactivating and balancing sabotaged systems. Silence.
"Captain," said Weapons, looking directly at the screen. He suddenly noticed he was wearing an irrelevant robe of pale green and black. It was removed with a minimum of effort, resultant rags discarded. The neural transceiver was reset to normal bandwidth, allowing senses to flood with sensations associated with the sub-collective. A swift insurance that the problem was well in hand, Weapons turned away from the wallscreen to address the Holy Council of the Brotherhood of Galactic Love.
Ten frightened men and women sat in their chairs behind a long, curved table while assorted acolytes and lesser priests tried to fade into the paint of the wall. Weapons found one of the small vials of Flower Essence which Micah had attached to his body, holding up the simple glass tube for all to see. He crushed it in a fist, sharp shards deeply penetrating unfeeling flesh.
"Micah is no more. The Flower Essence you prize is irrelevant; the Borg will not be assimilated by your plot. This drone is leaving now, by any means necessary. If you try to demain this sub-collective, you will be destroyed. Mythology will not stop the conversion of these grids to the Collective." The other hidden vials were similarly held up for inspection, each crushed amid misplaced empathic winces of the present Brotherhood.
Weapons reached through the link to Cube #347, activated a transporter beam, and left.
*****
Micah had been forced into the undark place of slumbering, but was not tired, would not sleep! The setback was temporary...he wanted control of the body, had to have control! However, every time he tried to reassert himself, attempted to become whole, Ghydin was blocking the path, reinforcing the barrier, denying Micah, and the key he retained, time to remove the obstruction. Whining, wimpy Pilgrim Ghydin was stronger than any steel wall; and with the force of Weapons, primal anger and ambition, as backup, as immobile as brick.
Micah was trapped.
Memories were gone...the fleeting thoughts of soil and song and a sister's face were evaporating ghosts. Even purpose was now exhausted, stolen away by two constructs which were more concrete than the original personality. Micah had no thread to the past, no line to the present, no sight of the future; Micah was Micah in name only.
That final sacred bastion, name, was now being stolen away, siphoned to a greater outside, jewels of self absorbed and subsequently discarded like so much stinking offal. No more remained to be Micah....and a stretched eternity later in a place with where darkness and time were meaningless, there was no Micah.
Weapons purged the last of the irrelevant memories associated with the Micah personality from his mental processes. Micah was now only a distant concept, a "designation drone 45 of 300 of Exploratory-class Cube #347 was known as before assimilation." Pilgrim Ghydin remained, more or less intact, his experiences of travel still useful even though species #8319 home world was now known. Weapons deeply examined himself one last time, satisfied no relevant trace of Micah remained.
Weapons called his hierarchy to order. An endless supply of battle scenarios remained to be examined: virtual vessel combat, holographic boardings, faux planetary and station assaults. Failure and loss was never acceptable; the end justified the means.
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