Some believe Star Trek is real, and that Paramount is the code name of a plot that doles out hints to the masses. They may be right. In response, Decker created a conspiracy of his own, calling it Star Traks. Actually believing it all fictional, Meneks built BorgSpace as an appendum to Star Traks. She knows better now...and she wears aluminum foil headgear.
P.S. The more astute reader will realize title and some of the premises are eerily similar to a production seen on the SciFi Channel short film showcase "Exposure." This is consequence. The idea for this story was residing on the author's harddrive two years before she actually got around to writing it.
Area 52
It is very disquieting to wake up to a scream. It does not bode good things.
To a high-pitched shriek of "It's alive!", accompanied by the fleeting sight of what appeared to be a blue octopus and followed by the slam of a lid on a wooden crate, Doctor regained consciousness. He found himself in near darkness, on his back, packed in an uncomfortable box the size of a coffin. A curious substance tickled against flesh, resolving into a sea of Styrofoam peanuts when Doctor upped the light gain to his optical implant. The white things mounded over body, leaving only his face clear.
Doctor clicked his teeth together once, then stifled a groan as he tried to move. Unfortunately, many of his body systems were registering the equivalent of death warmed over. Nanites had been scavenging necessary proteins and metals stored in muscles, bones, and unneeded organs to repair critical systems, which in turn left him extremely weak. In addition, the microscopic machines had been doing so without benefit of alcove support, so not only was he physically degraded, his metabolic waste poisons were building to a dangerous level.
Sluggishly surveying himself, Doctor realized that he should not have awakened at all. His last memories were blurred, but he distinctly remembered an emergency transporter retrieval order from Cube #347, then an explosion, followed by the roar of falling rock and twisting metal. The realization of massive body injury, including neurological damage to that portion of his brain which housed his neural transceiver, had prompted him to send himself into stasis. Doctor knew how dangerous the procedure was sans alcove - he was a competent drone maintenance hierarchy head, after all, discounting his nonsentient fixation - but also realized that solely by such a course would he have any hope of salvage (alive). Only if he had been plugged into an alcove and achieved a much higher survivability index than the number currently flashing red in his mind should he have awakened; and only if prompted by the appropriate command codes should the original stasis command been over-ridden.
Doctor rested his eyes on the lid 3.5 centimeters beyond his nose. It was unpainted wood that had been soaked in a rot preventative. Under the light of a standard G-class yellow dwarf star, it would register light peach in color. And what was on the other side, Doctor had no idea. He could barely shift his head side to side or click his incisors in consternation, much less find the strength to raise his arms and move the obstruction.
The lid wiggled slightly, then was removed by unseen hands. A sharp fluorescent light flooded Doctor's senses, causing him to blink once as he reset his optical imaging system. The next sight he saw was the double barrel of a very deadly looking hand weapon. The open lower aperture appeared as if it could shoot either loads of flechettes or bullets; and the upper lens indicated energy beam capabilities. The owner obviously operated under the maxim that if it couldn't be fried, then filling it full of holes would suffice. For a drone faced with precisely zero chances to adapt phaser defensive systems, it was a Borg-killer.
"Termination," hissed Doctor as he closed his eyes. "Terminate me, er...us. Put us to sleep." He remembered to pluralize at last moment.
"Did it just ask for us to kill it?" whispered a voice, presumably to a companion.
Answered a second voice, slightly deeper than the first, "You have the gun. You have the responsibility of killing it."
Voice One: "Me?! The weapon just happened to be on my workbench. I'm not even sure if it works. It might blow up in my hand if I try it."
"Is it still there?" asked a third voice. The timbre suggested that it had been the original screamer.
Voice Two scoffed, "Like it can go anywhere, Darleen. Paco, just try shooting it anyway."
Paco coughed, then said, "I told you, I want to keep my hand."
A fourth voice interjected, "Wait! Don't kill it..."
'No,' thought Doctor, 'don't kill it. Maybe I don't wish to be terminated just yet.' Second and third thoughts were passing through his head. On the one hand was pragmatism, which told him he was too heavily damaged to survive without cube support. The other hand, however, was that tiny voice in the back of his head which really wanted to (1) see who had captured him, and, more importantly, (2) learn what type of interesting pets they might have.
"...at least not yet. How many times have we ever had a real, live alien? Hmm? How many times have those sh**-for-brains in the main compound ever let us have a single specimen in one piece? Never! This is our chance to do our /own/ vivisection! We can't let those 'special' bastards down the road have all the fun! Come on, Jules."
Doctor radically changed his thoughts back to 'Terminate me. Now!'
Voice Two, Jules, wavered, "I don't know, Kreena. Paco, shoot it."
The screamer, Darleen, shrieked again, "It moved! I know it! I swear it just moved! It is going to jump up and lay eggs in us that will burst out our chest or something!" Darleen had a voice that could wake the dead.
"Shoot it!" prompted Jules.
There was a click, then a moment of silence. Doctor, who had never moved a muscle, not that he had the ability to do so, risked opening an eye. The weapon had a wisp of smoke curling up from it.
"Oops," said Paco, "guess I didn't quite fix it. Of course, I did fish it out of the Area 51 dumpster, so what can you expect?"
Kreena ventured an opinion, "Well, I say we vivisect it, then."
Doctor shook his head back and forth as well as he was able. His ears laid flat against his armored skull.
"I don't think it wants that," noted Paco's voice. "Look how it is shaking its head."
"That could be its way of telling us 'Dissect me,' you know. It did distinctly say 'Terminate me' earlier." Kreena sounded very bloodthirsty. Doctor idly wondered if Weapons would get along well with the voice's owner.
Paco snorted, "Jules, what say you? I think we should ask it what it wants."
There was a moment of silence, then Jules answered hesitantly, "Well, it couldn't hurt."
Kreena gave a low growl of frustration, then stomping steps were heard leaving the area. "If you all get killed, just remember I told you so! We should have vivisected it." The comment was made from a distance, echoing as if through a warehouse or a similar building with high ceilings and far walls.
A head leaned into the window that Doctor had of the ceiling, blocking fluorescent light. The visage was that of an octopus with mottled purple skin. Two large charcoal black eyes peered down at Doctor and a fringe of eight tentacles waved. Doctor couldn't help but notice a scar at the top of the cranium, a long ridge of thickened tissue which indicated past surgery. The octopus head, however startling, was the only really unusual article about the being. Below the neck, from what Doctor could espy, the body was humanoid standard.
"Do you want us to vivisect you? Terminate you?" asked Paco seriously.
Paco, and presumably his (for it was male, Doctor realized) three unseen friends were Ootoli, no species designation as of yet. The outpost, Doctor recalled, had been the first time the species had been encountered. The station had housed a skeleton crew of six individuals, of which all had been assimilated as per standard protocol (not by Cube #347). Further details were elusive to Doctor at the moment, but the species name Ootoli shined brightly. He also remembered a quantity of heavy rock and metal.
Doctor knew that if he could see the entire Ootoli leaning over the box, from the neck down there would be no oddity, nothing out of the ordinary when compared with thousands of other races - only the head resembled a mollusk. Think of Terran Egyptian deities, supernatural beings with the bodies of humans and animal heads. The Egyptians, however, had never given their gods the visage of a many-limbed sea beast. Among Ootoli, the males were purple in color, and the females a light blue. The tinting only extended to the heads, with skin of body a dark, swarthy tan.
Answering Paco's question, Doctor managed to hiss a drawn out "No...no vivisection. No termination."
Paco's tentacles waggled. "Well, then, that answers that. You hear, Kreena? It doesn't want us to dissect it!" The words were shouted. If there was a response, Doctor did not hear it. "Jules, what do you think we should do with it, er her, er him, um...what are you, anyway?" Paco's eyes were traveling up and down the length of Doctor's body, not that much could be seen due to the obscuring mound of Styrofoam.
Another male Ootoli cautiously poked his head into Doctor's view. There were subtle differences between the pair, but once again he noticed a cranial scar on the newcomer. "Male," whispered Doctor. He clicked his teeth together twice, reflecting briefly upon the imperative of gender, so much so that it was inevitably the first question wondered upon one alien species meeting another for the first time. The second usually revolved around sex; and the third focused upon what foods and/or drugs were mutually palatable. "Must stand."
Doctor desired strongly to be upright, if only to better survey his situation. His current world view consisting of ceiling, fluorescent light, and two Ootoli heads was insufficient. Any thoughts that momentarily passed through his brain concerning assimilation were quashed as he reviewed self functionality: the tubule delivery system was considered a noncritical system, available for scavenging by nanites in the event of catastrophic need. Several very important metabolic control implants deep in his brain had required specific rare earth elements, substances readily available as key components of the assimilation tubules. Therefore, they had been sacrificed so that the larger body might live.
Jules waffled, "I guess maybe we should help him sit up. I don't know about standing. Perhaps we need gloves? That is the procedure, if I remember my Manual correctly."
"The manifest says it was supposed to be an alien body. An /alien body/," complained the voice of Darleen. Her utterance carried a shrill twang, causing Doctor to flinch. The two Ootoli looming overhead either did not notice the annoyance, else were long used to it. "Do you think the shippers screwed up?"
"Gotta be," answered Jules. "After all, the Area 51 people threw out that perfectly good power crystal last year. Took a bit of scrounging to fish it out of the dumpster. Somebody thought that the bit of dirt on it was a fatal crack. Cleaned up really good."
Paco finally answered Jules. He had momentarily disappeared, returning a minute later with a well thumbed manual. Both verbal and written Ootoli language were loaded into Doctor, so he was able to read the words "Alien Contact Rules, Volume III" on the cover of the thick tome. "Nah. The Manual only mentions gloves in the case of vivisection - which we won't be doing, Kreena! - and aliens with snotty skins. He seems to be safe." The manual was dropped out of sight, landing on the floor with a loud thump.
"Let's help the fellow sit up then, okay Jules?" prompted Paco.
Jules swallowed. "Well, er, okay."
Hands reached to help Doctor to sit. Styrofoam peanuts cascaded away, although a fair number did stick to bare skin and armor due to the power of static electricity. Doctor moved his head slightly, scanning his surroundings.
He was in what appeared to be a moderate-sized warehouse. He was sitting in a crate, itself on a table, located in an open area in one corner of the building. Most of the warehouse was filled by narrow aisles of shelves which reached nearly to the ceiling six meters overhead. What was on the shelves, Doctor could not tell, but in some places they seemed to be overflowing, while others were essentially bare.
The open area around Doctor was subdivided by a maze of partition walls which had seen better days. Desks of paper and low benches of half disassembled objects were in evidence. Here and there squatted a boxy computer, case showing signs of age and hard use, lending weight to thoughts that the machines were not exactly the newest ones on the market. One partitioned area was half surrounded by shelves of wire, tools, and vaguely recognizable diagnostic equipment, protecting several newer looking computers from the rabble. The notion of isolation was furthered by a sign displayed nearby, warning "Keep Out! Everyone! My Stuff! Do Not Use For Computer Games!" Doctor blinked.
"Ew," screeched Darleen, "it looks like a big slur!" Doctor automatically turned towards the voice, seeing a female Ootoli. As the other two, signs of surgery were on her head.
"I used to feed slurs to my pet reptile," calmly commented Kreena. "They were the little pink baby ones. My reptile loved baby slurs, especially when they screamed." Kreena was a second female Ootoli. She stood in a large cubicle, surrounded by medical equipment. While the implements did not have a very used quality, Doctor noticed sharp scalpels were near to Kreena's hand...just in case. The look of...hunger...Kreena cast upon Doctor was very, very unsettling.
"Eeeewwwwwww!" squealed Darleen again. Her head tentacles curled in upon themselves.
Paco said, "Ignore Kreena. She gets like that sometimes, especially when she's forgotten to take her medicine. She was supposed to go in for head surgery to reseat her foil blocker, but she keeps putting it off. We're pretty sure that the mind rays from space are affecting her brain a bit. She's mostly harmless."
Doctor gazed at Kreena, noticing that, yes, a scar wound over her head. What "mind rays from space" meant, he had not a clue. No matter, there were more important considerations, considerations which suddenly did not include termination as his searching eyes fell upon a Borg alcove.
A recent memory pushed itself into awareness, once in which Doctor was deep in the Ootoli outpost, examining an alcove. The alcove was obviously old, perhaps stolen from cube wreckage by scavengers intent upon acquiring a bit of Borg tech for the black market. How it had ended on the outpost was unknown and unknowable, but there it was. Whether it still functioned, Doctor did not know, but in light of the mess nearby, someone had been trying to determine what it did, and, more importantly, if it could be duplicated using nonBorg materials. The memory faded.
"Alcove," grated Doctor. The effort required to speak was beginning to wear upon him. "Fix alcove. Fix me, er, this drone."
Satisfied his charge wasn't going to fall over if he removed his hands, Paco asked, "Alcove? You mean the alien coffin over there? That, like, belong to you?"
"Fix alcove. Fix me." Doctor gave up trying to remember his plurals. It wasn't worth it.
Kreena stalked over from her surgical ward. She had donned a lab coat with several faded brown and green stains. "Use your brain, Paco. He's saying that if you fix that coffin thing, it will fix him. Am I right?"
"Yes," hissed Doctor.
Paco shrugged. "Well, then, you don't look so good, my alien friend. How much longer until you kick the bucket if you can't be fixed?"
Doctor consulted his diagnostics again, wincing as he read his vital signs. Awakening from stasis had not been good for his biological systems, causing an ill-needed flood of adrenaline analogues. With his drone maintenance background, he was more than cognizant as to his status. "One hour, twenty minutes...your time. Then termination."
Kreena hopped up and down in excitement. "I'll get my alien autopsy after all!"
Paco squared his shoulders. "Not if I can help it. Jules, sir, do I have permission to help our guest? Think of the coup against the Area 51 bastards!"
Jules sighed, then nodded his head, "Sure, why not?"
Doctor stood in the jury-rigged alcove, held in place by straps and rope. The clamps which would normally stabilize a drone did not work, and, as they were low priority to be repaired, the result was mildly uncomfortable. He was currently in the equivalent of a light doze. Doctor was unwilling to risk deeper regeneration because (1) to do so would exacerbate his feelings of smallness due to lack of Collective contact and (2) due to the Kreena situation. He did not wish to awake to a laser scalpel, half of his insides located on a dissection tray.
The alcove was a model that had been produced and installed in cubes for a period of fifty years beginning four centuries ago. In a standard Borg ship, a distribution system delivered a refined brew of precursors and nanites in slurry form to each alcove. The alcove, in turn, modified the precursors into nutrients or additives specific to the drone undergoing regeneration. Beginning approximately 550 years ago, alcoves of a duel nature had been introduced, able to convert energy to basic slurry components. It was not the most efficient method, for the recipes used were generic in nature and unable to adapt to special needs or provide nanite supplements. However, the system was adequate for transporting large numbers of drones in stasis when retrofitting and expanding a cube's standard regeneration system was counterproductive, or during emergencies when the precursor slurry had been compromised.
Currently the alcove limped in conversion mode. It undoubtedly utilized immense amounts of electricity through the extension cord plugged in the wall as the miniature replicator periodically formed a brew of carbon compounds, injecting the thin liquid through a connection located adjacent to Doctor's spine at the juncture of neck and upper torso. Simultaneously, metabolic poisons were filtered and stored.
While Paco and Jules (mostly Paco) had been able restore basic alcove functionality, the diminutive transporter unit associated with it remained broken. Unfortunately, while able to supply the major proteins and amino acids Doctor required to strengthen his biological body, certain trace elements such as ytterbium and germanium requisite for proper maintenance of his nonbiological parts was lacking. The transporter subassembly allowed the alcove to scavenge from the surroundings, stealing trace elements for incorporation in the basic replicator recipe; and it also could transform stored metabolic wastes to necessary substances.
Therefore, while Doctor knew he was slowly recovering physically from his ordeal, many diagnostics continued to report nonfunctional implants. Chief among the worries was his artificial neural transceiver, without which he could not regain a Collective link unless a functional drone was located within the ten kilometer range of his organic analogue. In addition, a laundry list from assimilation nanotubules to co-processors required attention.
"Sick puppy," muttered Doctor to himself. If he had been confronted with a drone as degraded as he himself, well, termination and salvage of useful parts was a valid option. Good thing there was no other Borg near for a second opinion as Doctor cautiously gave himself a "critical, but worth saving" label.
Doctor had learned much in the last eight hours, both when he had been obviously conscious and now as the Ootoli staff of the locale they called Area 52 considered him deep asleep. The explanation of Area 52 necessitated an initial scrutiny at Ootoli psychology.
The Ootoli were a culture largely bound in paranoia, a race which imaged government conspiracies. Most pre-space species went through such a stage, until it became readily apparent that governments were incapable of the secrecy required of conspiracies beyond the most recent political scandal. The Ootoli were the exception. What was often considered bad science fiction on other planets was true on the Ootoli homeworld.
Most of the Ootoli public was convinced that they were in the first stages of exploring near-space around their planet, an age of satellites and costly ground-to-orbit craft. A constellation of secret military satellites fostered that belief, washing the planet in a sea of mind altering rays. For the most part the rays pacified those "not in the know," allowing them to move on with their lives without adding the fears of the big, bad universe to the normal magnitude of Joe-public distrust.
To work, a conspiracy needs plotters, as well as the equivalent of grunt labor. For those employed by the military, a surgery was performed, embedding a thin sheet of aluminum between skull and scalp. Thus, the orbital mind rays were reflected away. A few citizens of lesser susceptibility to the satellites, perhaps due to chance genetics, ran around with aluminum foil hats and made weird phone calls to midnight hour radio talk shows hosts, but they were on the whole considered kooks.
The kooks were closer to the truth than even they knew, and in many cases, reality well outstripped their imaginations. Not only did elements of the Ootoli military have easy access to space, but they had a powerful, if primitive, warp drive. Small, highly automated outposts were being established both in-system and on rocks at the nearer stars. The purpose of the outposts ranged from medical experimentation (on "abducted" Ootoli subjects artfully allowed to remember just enough of their experiences to require expensive therapists) to exotic materials manufacture. For those in the know, the idea of aliens was not surprising.
And the reason behind the conspiracy? None professed to know, the involved military elements quite content to allow elected leaders legislate rules. It was a tradition. In itself, that led to certain people to wrap copper around their temples and declare an alien overlord to be performing an unfathomable social experiment. Those people, however, were uniformly regarded as loonies.
On the Ootoli homeworld, Area 51 was the code name of the compound dedicated to investigating bits of alien machinery (and aliens) the military found interesting. New technologies were reverse engineered at Area 51, then incorporated into the next generation of spy planes and spaceships. Occasionally a taste of tech, such as the microwave oven, was released to the general public, but not often. It was a top-notch military scientist who was assigned to Area 51, a coveted position.
Area 52 was, well, a cousin to Area 51. A necessary cousin, but one who was usually kept in the basement and away from sharp objects. Whereas Area 51 received live aliens to interrogate, Area 52 acquired the left over bits in formalin a year later. Area 51 dismantled warp-capable scoutships; Area 52 scavenged the garbage of Area 51, looking for "distressed" equipment otherwise bound for the dumps. Area 51 had prominent military scientists; Area 52 had a staff of six with questionable credentials. However disliked Area 52 was by Area 51, the former was essential, if only to follow up on the tales told by "abductees" taken by the military as subjects for equipment originating at Area 51.
Needless to say, Area 52 did not have the top of the line apparatus. What they lacked in resources, they made up in capable personnel who carried a grudge against Area 51.
Jules was a less than impressive Ootoli specimen, the equivalent of a 98-pound weakling, or, to Doctor's view of the world, the runt of the litter. He was a career administrator with paperwork his enemy of choice, able to slice through layers of military bureaucracy like a hot knife through butter. Fill it out in triplicate? No problem. Jules tended to be hesitant in situations not involving an in/out box, unless it was Area 51. Mention the compound's name, and he seemed to grow in bulk and stature, an infuriated twinkle entering his dark eyes. Doctor idly wondered the background which prompted such ire. Jules was the poolmaster of Area 52, an Army rank equivalent to captain. Amazingly, the other Ootoli present, independent and strong-minded all, seemed to generally defer to his orders, once instruction was dragged out of him. Doctor was unsure why, but the fire which lit Jules' eyes at the mention of Area 51 might have been the reason.
Paco was a mechanical whiz, a wide-shouldered and whip-thin Einstein with tools. It was to him the mechanism mess belonged to, his countless projects spread across multiple work benches. Paco appeared to have that uncanny ability to study an unfamiliar piece of equipment for several minutes, then come away with a mental blueprint of its parts and operation. Diagnosing the problem required mere moments, followed by masterful use of the welder and soldering iron. Like Jules, Area 51 was high on his short list of things he disliked, but he did not become nearly as fanatical as his superior.
Kreena was an unstable personality, to put it mildly, but supposedly a very good medical practitioner. Doctor had to take Jules' word upon it. Kreena was also a very frustrated xenobiologist, forced to live off crumbs from Area 51. Doctor was unsure why Kreena was at Area 52, but he had received hints that included a little hasty laser work on an alien who had been revealed to be a diplomat /not/ scheduled to experience Ootoli medical expertise. The distressing green and brown stains on Kreena's lab coat were the remains of lunches, splatters and spills that had not come out in the laundry; and in the past year she had dissected nothing more nefarious than practice "Alien Autopsy" kits from the toy store.
Although lacking hair, the bubblehead known as Darleen epitomized the stereotype "blonde." She chewed gum, blew bubbles, and overreacted to most situations. She also had an annoying timbre to her voice that the others on the Area 52 payroll had long learned to ignore. There was a brain in her skull, however, and Darleen specialized in linguistics. She could translate on the fly most of the languages of the aliens Ootoli had collected over the years, as well as talk fluently in all dozen dialects of the Ootoli homeworld. Her pig latin was excellent, too. Darleen was also the only person allowed to enter the warded computer niche besides Elroy.
The sectioned area of shelves and new(er) computers belonged to Elroy, who was currently on vacation. Elroy, Doctor gathered, was a computer genius. Beyond that, little information was forthcoming beyond a warning not to touch his machines. He was very territorial about his computers and seemed to employ an almost psychic knowledge regarding unauthorized personnel in his area. Doctor had noticed several strategically placed miniature cameras, some with attendant transmitters and others linked to recording devices, but he did not deem to point out the real reason behind Elroy's clairvoyance.
Area 52 also had a sixth member by the name of Emeri. Emeri was at home, sick She did a little bit of everything, from transcribing abductee tales to organizing the collection of Area 51 discarded trash that Area 52 housed on its warehouse shelves. Emeri was apparently well liked by all. Jules occasionally bemoaned the fact that she had the heaving flu, usually in conjunction with a project involving inventory of the "Alien Thingamajig" aisle.
Doctor's arrival to Area 52 had been pure coincidence. Paco had heard rumors that Area 51 was due a special shipment from outsystem. An emergency phone call to Elroy at his tropical paradise vacation spot had elicited some remote hacking, bringing forth a manifest (and three extra days of leave). The cargo lot had noted "four alien bodies (status - dead)" and twenty crates of varied objects including "alien medical device?" With a bit of creative tinkering, one alien body had become alien body parts, and the dimensions of the medical device crate were altered.
For the Area 52 staff, the next part of their plan to gain alien technology before it became dumpster material was the most difficult. A complex scene of angst occurred outside the Area 51 loading dock, whereupon Jules confronted the compound commander, fire in his words of demand for a portion of the new toys. As stated prior, while Jules was a rather timid individual in other respects, he had serious issues with all things Area 51, especially their mighter-than-thou attitude. As the argument raised in volume, directing attention away from the covered beds of the transport trucks, Paco, Kreena, and Darleen had switched carefully prepared boxes filled with old alien body parts and broken devices for their targets.
The operation had been a success. Poor communication between Area 51 and the military space arm which packed and shipped items for examination was legendary. The apparent mis-shipment of two crates would not be considered unusual; and by the time the red tape had been straightened out and all forms filed, many years would have passed at best...and decades at worst. The involvement of Area 52 would be remembered, if at all, as yet another loud confrontation after which the losers had been sent defeated back to their drafty warehouse.
No one knew Doctor's point of origin, the spaceforce rarely recording such information on their manifests. Paco had heard rumors of "ambush action against a giant cube," but nothing definite. Following several cautious questions before being placed in the alcove, Doctor had learned that the concept "Borg" was unfamiliar to them, although they had seen the term used occasionally. To them, Doctor was a funny looking alien which resembled an overlarge slur, implanted with a bewildering array of technological contraptions. The Ootoli had not yet learned to fear the Collective. In his current condition, Doctor would not be changing that ignorance.
A loud *pop* sounded with gunshot ferocity. Doctor reflexively opened his eyes as the warehouse was plunged into darkness. The alcove stopped working; and an automated subroutine buried in Doctor's brain noted cessation of regeneration activities.
A flashlight clicked on at the table where Paco had been working. "Ah, man! The fuse blew again!"
"It's that Borg coffin thing!" shouted Kreena. "I was right in the middle of important work."
"Were not," countered Darleen as she stumbled towards the wall outlet where the alcove extension cord was plugged in, ground in front of her illuminated by a dim pen light, "I saw it. You were doodling."
Kreena hrummphed, but did not argue.
"I've unplugged it!" yelled Darleen, her voice grating against Doctor's nerves.
Paco called, "Okay! I'm flipping the breaker switch now." Lights returned to the warehouse. The alcove, now unplugged, did not restart. Doctor blinked his eye and peered around, ears raised attentively.
"Jules, should I plug it back in?" asked Darleen.
Jules, who had not moved from his desk neat with piles of paperwork (did these people never go home? wondered Doctor), shook his head. His tentacles curled up. "No. Our visitor seems to be, um, awake, anyway. If we blow the fuse too many times, Area 51 is likely to insist to know our activities. I've had to make excuses enough for our drain on the base electrical grid as it is. Geesh, as if /they/ up the road don't have enough juice. I've told 'em, those bastards, that Paco is working on a project. They seem to be buying it for now, but I don't want to push it." Jules' tone in regards to Area 51 had turned hard. It moderated as he looked at Doctor. "Well, er...what do you want? Maybe you can tell us what you were doing before the military found you? Maybe tell us about you Borg people?" Pause. "You feeling any better?"
Doctor cocked his head as he regarded he bureaucrat. "Pretend I speak in plurals."
"What?" This was obviously not the conversation Jules had imagined.
"Pretend I speak in plurals. Pretend I am using 'we' and 'our,' as well as referring to myself as 'this drone.' I should be doing this, but I have had a very difficult," Doctor checked his internal chronometer, "113 hours since I lost the Collective, so this vet is not in the best of humor."
Kreena, who had abandoned her lab area to wander closer, pointed out, "You just did it."
Doctor clicked his teeth together in confusion, "Did what?"
"Referred to yourself in third person as 'this vet'."
Doctor blinked, then looked long and hard at Kreena before deciding to ignore her comment. Instead he pointedly began to examine the straps holding him in the alcove, trying to determine the best method to undo them. While he could use several more hours of regeneration, even of the poor type provided by the inadequate alcove, he was sufficiently refreshed biologically that he would not outright fall on his nose. Doctor didn't have all the details worked out, but the root commands embedded in his processors made it an imperative to repair himself as best as possible and somehow signal the Collective to retrieve him. Additionally, he needed to learn all about this species, especially the pets. He had mentally ordered priorities in the Borg-standard way, but the final entry kept attempting to gain in importance. After all, he rationalized, the disposition a species had towards lower lifeforms provided key indicators about psychology which would otherwise be lost upon assimilation.
Most importantly, the Ootoli did not know the danger the Borg represented either to themselves personally or their species. Doctor allowed his ears to droop and batted with false ineffectivity at the strings caging him in. He was the picture of pity. "Allow me to exit this alcove, then I will relate those relevant bits you want from me." Doctor made a conscious effort not to slip into the vet-talk he so often used and about which sub-collective members complained. It would not promote his image, at least not at this juncture.
Still wielding flashlight, Paco neared. "Oops," he said, then began to untie the knots holding Doctor in place. As the ropes fell away, Doctor was able to take a shaky step out of the alcove. He steadied himself, then locked his joints to prevent an embarrassing episode of him falling on his face.
"I am Borg," intoned Doctor. Any impressive theatrical quality was lost due to the fact that the one making the pronouncement was essentially an overlarge, hairless dormouse. "My designation is 27 of 27, with current subdesignation Doctor. My function is drone maintenance. When a drone gets a boo-boo, I put the unit back together. My memory leading up to and including my abduction is unclear due to internal damage and malfunction. I will require assistance to repair myself and to contact the Collective. You will assist me."
"Hold on, hold on, hold on," said Kreena, "you are a doctor? An alien doctor? Does that mean you work on species not like yourself? Vivisect them?" The Ootoli face was avid with interest.
Paco snorted, "Enough with the vivisection, Kreena. Jules, tell her to take her medicine, will you?"
"Take your medicine, Kreena," obediently repeated Jules.
Kreena looked at Jules, frowned, muttered something unintelligible under her breath, then stomped back to her mini-medical bay. A bottle of pills stood in an out-of-the-way corner, and it was to this goal she headed.
Doctor responded to the question, "Borg are comprised of many species. At this time, 12,431 different races are included in the Collective. I bandage the boo-boos of the drones who break themselves. Vivisection is not a function of drone maintenance." No, initial examination of a species was the province of assimilation hierarchy, but Doctor realized it was not strategically wise to include that nugget of unasked for data, especially as it might spawn a road he did not want to travel down.
"Assist me in fixing myself and contacting the Collective." Doctor clicked his teeth together once more, then allowed his shoulders to sag in a further bid to invoke the pity factor.
Darleen abruptly began to yawn. As the Ootoli mouth was hidden behind tentacles, it was not visible. However, the fact that she was yawning was quite clear. The production ended in a little squeak.
Jules' eyes shifted sideways to Darleen. "Um, well, could I maybe take a rain check on that proposition, Mr. Doctor? At least for tonight?"
"Just Doctor," said Doctor.
"Okay, Doctor. Anyway, er, a rain check, yes? It has been a very long day, well day and a half, and I think we all need a little sleep. It's not that we don't trust you, you strange alien creature, understand, but at least one of us will stay here all night. There's a cot over there, you see. The rest of us will be back in eleven hours or so. The person that stays can reset the breaker switches when that alcove thing blows the fuse. That okay with you?"
Doctor shrugged, a gesture lost in the bulk of his exoskeleton armor. "Finey-winey with me." He stepped back and up into the alcove, waiting for it to be plugged back into the wall.
Doctor critically surveyed the instruments and diagnostic tools arrayed before him on Kreena's main examination table. There were scalpels both laser and sonic, and even three primitive blades of steel. A hand-held MRI scanner. A sonic imager. A dynamic image x-ray machine. An infrared cauterizer. Surgical suture string. Needles. A computer assisted robotic arm for microscopic work. Bone glue. Organic scaffolding designed to support soft tissue as organs regenerated. Cloning cultures.
"What primitive medical tools! My vet ship had better equipment! This is unacceptable, but it is what I must work with," exclaimed Doctor.
The blue epidermis of Kreena's head was taking on a purple tinge. The color became more pronounced as Doctor openly criticized the tools before him. "This is top of the line equipment! Much better than anything found in a hospital, even if it can't match Area 51!"
Doctor shook his head and twitched his nose. "There is no digital analyzer capable of diagnosing the electrolytic balance of individual cells. No micrometer forceps for physical manipulation of individual neuron axons. While I have most of the diagnostic equipment I need as part of my drone maintenance suite, there are items lacking which just do not fit upon a drone. The cauterizer I will modify into an infrared signaler, able to interact with certain key elements of my artificial immune system and optimize them. It will be difficult to operate on myself."
Kreena blinked. "Operate on yourself?" she asked suspiciously. "What do you mean? I am /perfectly/ competent."
Incisors clicked together and ears laid flat to the skull. "One, I do not wish to be vivisected. I do not trust you. Two, you do not know my systems. I am not a toaster. I am a member of drone maintenance and have all the relevant information I need stored in my memory. For most of my maintenance, I can make do."
"What about anesthetics? Pain blockers?" Kreena did not seem to know to be horrified, disgusted, or morbidly intrigued.
"Irrelevant. This vet does not feel pain."
Doctor abruptly turned away from the surgical implements, marching out of the medical cubicle partition and towards Darleen. The latter gave a short squeal as she saw the Borg approach her, but she refused to abandon the communication device laying on the table she stood next to. Darleen's tentacles squirmed.
"Status report," ordered Doctor. Very quickly Doctor had realized, surgical tools aside, that he did not have the proper equipment to repair himself. The list of malfunctioning and subfunctioning parts was long, with many requiring replacement. He was not a machine to jury-rig, to shove an approximation of a working part into. As he had told Kreena, he was not a toaster. He was a Borg drone, which meant many of his organic systems needed artificial support to remain functioning: if Doctor did not reinstall certain vital components, he would eventually terminate, alcove or no alcove. The necessary bits were exactingly manufactured for use in drone bodies, many of them species specific.
Doctor, cognizant of his dilemma, had made his case to retrieve the other three Borg bodies which had arrived in the shipment with him. They would be the best source of replacement parts. Doctor was not quite sure why his pronouncement to utilize the cadavers - Borg did not attach significance to the terminated, except for their potential use - to repair himself had been met with silence, disgust, and, in Jules' case, a sprint to the bathroom followed by the sound of retching. Anything else of Borg origin would also be potentially useful.
Protesting extreme difficulty, Jules (after his return from the bathroom) had at first refused to steal the bodies. However, he had recanted following a phone call from someone at Area 51. It seemed that a new assignment had been handed to Area 52 staff, specifically, cataloguing and warehousing the alien mucus collection. Very soon after the phone call, Jules and Paco were on their way to steal as much Borg tech, including bodies, as possible.
Jules had left with the words "That's the last embarrassing assignment those bastards give me, by Shenor. The last one. We'll see who's got the brass POed at them now" being muttered under his breath.
"Like, don't be so pushy," replied Darleen. The Ootoli oral orifice was not visible, but by the way her tentacles were swaying, it suspiciously looked like she was chewing gum. "I can't break radio silence, especially if they are trying to be sneaky." The "radio" in question was nothing more sophisticated than long-distance walkie-talkies.
The walkie-talkie on the table next to Darleen spat static, then, "This is Dynamic Duo calling Home Base. Are you there, Home Base?"
Darleen picked up the walkie-talkie, then answered brightly, "Hey, Jules! How're things going? Our doctor friend wants to know, and I don't mean Kreena. She could care less."
Jules shushed Darleen. "Shhhhh. I said don't use real names over the radio. I am the Masked One and Paco is Cape Boy. Together we are the Dynamic Duo."
"Whatever you say, Jules. So, how's it coming?"
A sigh produced white noise as Jules gave up trying to maintain a secret code. "The sneaking part didn't work. We had to resort to Plan B."
Darleen shook her head ruefully. "Not again, Jules. So, how hard did Paco whack them on the head with the pipe?"
"The three guards should wake up in a couple of hours. They were laughing so hard when I threatened them with the stun phaser that they never noticed Paco, er, I mean Cape Boy. We'll load what we need into the truck and come back." Pause. "It looks like the Borg stuff the military picked up wasn't top priority to examine. The bodies were in the freezer with several other crates full of aliens; and the bonus stuff our mutual friend wanted was pushed over to the side of the warehouse."
Kreena must have had good hearing, for she shouted from the other side of the warehouse, "Get /me/ some bodies while you are at it! Some /whole/ ones!"
"Tell Kreena I said no," responded Jules, obviously catching the suggestion. "As soon as we substitute the crates for bogus ones, we'll start back. Area 51 shouldn't notice anything for at least a couple of weeks, then spend an equal amount of time making sure they weren't transferred somewhere sans orders by accident."
"And...?" prompted Darleen. Her voice squeaked at the end of the interrogative.
Jules answered, "And Paco and I have made sure disarrange some other boxes and obviously take several random pieces of low-value tech. That way when the bastards come marching to us and demand what we took, well, we'll have something to give them. Satisfied?"
"Good job, Jules," chattered Darleen. "See you later."
"Later," replied Jules before breaking contact.
Darleen blew a bubble, popped it without gumming her tentacles, then asked Doctor, "That do you, hon?"
"It will have to do," sighed Doctor as he returned to the medical bay to examine his inadequate set of surgical tools.
Doctor concentrated on his torso, running the modified cauterizer along a long incision line. The cauterizer, no longer intense enough to heat even a sheet of paper, emitted a specific infrared frequency oscillation. In turn, the nanomachines in his body were stimulated to repair the wound, knitting not only epidermis, but deeper tissue layers, finalizing the bond between flesh and implant. Earlier, Doctor had used the cauterizer to disengage the nanite organic repair function — having a cut heal as fast as it could be formed made for difficult surgery — but now the microscopic machines were required to resume their normal functioning.
Within Doctor’s body, and that of all Borg, was an implant called a respirocyte recharge assembly. Respirocytes were microscopic bubbles which could be packed with oxygen molecules, pores in the surface allowing the oxygen to be distributed around the body. Essentially, the bubbles were artificial blood cells, much more efficient than the real thing. They were the oxygen carrying component when a drone was exposed to vacuum or otherwise expected to function without breathing. The respirocyte recharge assembly, usually located in the upper abdomen, was about the size of a clenched fist and served as the "lung" to repack depleted respirocytes. Oxygen was stored via solid-state chemical bond in the assembly, released as necessary by catalytic action. When the period of non-breathing was past, a percentage of normal blood cells would be forced to yield their oxygen payload to the assembly, and storage would recover by a reverse catalytic process. Depending on species physiology and drone specialization requirements, a respirocyte recharge assembly might store from one to twenty hours of oxygen.
By the very nature of the catalytic agents and the oxygen storage substrate, the assembly was a treasure trove of rare elements. Since Doctor’s body had not been exposed to vacuum, internal prioritizing systems had decreed the implant semi-expendable, mobilizing elements to support more vital components such as cortical node. Scavenging had stopped once the assemble reached thirty minutes of stored oxygen, a very suboptimal situation. With the arrival of the Borg cadavers, however, new opportunities had presented.
The three drones had been part of the Exploratory-class Cube #1280 sub-collective, two of an assimilation specialty and one a tactical unit. Doctor remembered that cube to be the primary investigator of the Ootoli outpost, with Cube #347 functioning as pack mule to the nearest unimatrix in the case of interesting technologies. Massive torso injuries due to fallen rock had made the respirocyte recharge assemblies of the assimilation drones nonsalvageable, but the tactical drone had been terminated by a metal spar through her head. Since the implant in question was interchangeable between Borg with hemoglobin based blood regardless of species, Doctor had quickly removed it from the cadaver for his own purpose, along with a laundry list of other implants.
Upon request, Area 52 people had managed to procure half a dozen video cameras. Under Doctor’s directives, Paco had positioned the cameras around the surgical bay, pointing them at the work table. He had then wired them to platforms able to turn, rotate, and yaw. Controllers for the platform motors and cameras had been routed to a computer, and then computer access delivered to Doctor via a cable he could plug into himself. In a normal operation, one in which he was a third person party, Doctor relied as much upon the view from maintenance bay cameras and assisting members of his hierarchy as he did upon his own senses. The cameras would substitute for those extra eyes, in a primitive way, providing him with a stereo visual of his self-operation.
He could also use one or more cameras to watch Kreena, to make sure she was not too tempted to "help" while Doctor had his torso open or brain exposed.
Kreena, that particular noteworthy, was standing nearby as the surgery, one of many self-performed over the last three days, concluded. She radiated desire to help and a morbid curiosity, much the same emotions since the first laser incision, as well as disapproval, as in "this is not the way things should be done." At the beginning, she had been somewhat disappointed to learn Doctor’s blood did not have the properties of acid and that, implant intrusions aside, his insides looked very similar to other biologicals. Kreena had very quickly forgotten her disappointment, however, and was rarely without a question concerning the function of a Borg device.
Satisfied the operation was complete, Doctor sat up from his prone position on the medical work bench. He then swung his legs off the table and allowed himself to stand. Exchanging modified cauterizer for a plate of torso armor removed prior to surgery, he queried internal diagnostics. Good. The respirocyte recharge assembly was active, registering at 15 minutes supply with potential for 6 hours, and catalytic recharge commencing. In about half an hour, the assembly would be replete with oxygen. Doctor proceeded to reattach the armor to his abdomen.
Kreena asked, "Well, did it work? What’s next? Can I assist this time beyond fetching surgical instruments?"
Doctor was about to answer when the main warehouse door opened. Continuing with his rearmoring, he automatically directed one surgical camera to swivel and focus on the entryway. Neither Darleen nor Paco were currently in the warehouse, but both were expected soon to return from their respective errands. It was Darleen… with a pet?
Turning on his heel, Doctor’s excitement level rose as he confronted with his own eyes the animal following on Darleen’s heels. Take an ant and scale it to the size of a beagle, then substitute insect head with that of a floppy-eared Labrador retriever. Cover it with a short pelt of blue fur, and that will describe Darleen’s bright-eyed friend. Doctor would not have cared if it had been the Creature from the Black Lagoon and sweated hydrochloric acid: it was a pet, and that was all that mattered.
Doctor forgot all vows of consciously moderating his speech patterns, all sense of Borg image, as he charged Darleen and her animal.
"Floof!" shrieked Darleen, eyes wide. She tried to back up, tripping over her pet and landing on her rear.
Floof, on the other hand, was not one to judge by appearances, sensing instantly that it was in the presence of a pet-o-phile. Either that, or it did not have the brains to be scared. Whatever the true explanation, Floof’s tongue rolled out of its mouth as it bounced on its six legs.
Doctor dropped to his knees, arms outspread. "Now, who’s a good boy? Or a good girl? It doesn’t matter, does if Floof? No, it doesn’t matter, Floofy-boy, Floofy-girl." He began to roll the animal around on the floor, much to Floof’s delight, and oblivious to the odd looks that the Ootoli were giving each other.
"Is it working?" asked Paco as he stepped away from the work bench, using a rag to wipe non-existent grease from his hands.
Doctor cocked his head sideways and absently clicked his teeth together. He was listening, but not with his biological ears. At subspace fractual frequencies utilized by the Collective he could hear a whistling modulation. It was a Borg distress call, a wordless shout for help from a stranded drone. The signal was highly annoying since he was so close to its origin - it was a constant mosquito whine at the back of his mind - but Doctor was willing to accept the discomfort. Any Borg sub-collective in a 100 light year radius would intercept it.
"Yes," replied Doctor.
Paco sighed. "I still don’t understand why you couldn’t have done this yourself. You are quite handy with the microsurgery you perform on yourself; and you worked a treat removing that wart from Floof’s neck."
The contraption Paco had so recently set to functionality was an emergency beacon. It was an overlarge caltrap in form, 20 centimeters from center to leg apex. The base housed power source, subspace booster, and the other components necessary for a lost drone to phone home. Doctor had found it in one of the crates of Borg material scavenged by the Ootoli; and when he had seen it, he had felt instant relief.
Doctor’s memory was full of data relating to the maintenance of Borg drones. He had much species specific information stored, as well as obscure surgical techniques, troubleshooting manuals, and implant specification for several hundred common devices. For instance, if given a species #4252 drone in the first stages of metabolic failure, he could accurately diagnose it, install the necessary replacement parts, and perform a tune-up besides. Unfortunately, when it came to engineering-related matters, including the construction of an emergency beacon, he was woefully inadequate. Every drone was supposed to have a portion of local memory dedicated to "what to do if stranded" files, but Doctor had long ago erased them in favor of something more immediately relevant, such as the complete archive of Vet Digest Monthly.
"My memory regarding engineering was damaged," lied Doctor. Well, not /exactly/ lied, since Borg could not lie, but it was not the entire truth. The portions of his data storage previously associated with emergency engineering had been damaged, even if it did not actually hold such data anymore. "My specialty is drone maintenance - fixing boo-boos - so my files on the matter were not extensive to begin with." Doctor held up one limb and tapped the knuckles on it with the other hand. "And the… tubules I told you about previously are necessary to extract data from the two cadavers which remain whole in head. I could try to physically install a data crystal from the cadavers into myself, but, one, to do so on a formatted crystal has a high likelihood of corrupting the data, and, two, I am not certain to select the correct crystal the first time, which would necessitate several self-operations to achieve success."
Doctor felt a nose nudge him on the back of his knee. Ever since Darleen had brought Floof, the tnagod had been reluctant to leave the drone’s side. The original purpose had been to have a wart removed from the pet’s neck for free, Darleen remembering Doctor mentioning once (or ten times) he was a vet of sorts. Now Darleen was in danger of loosing the allegiance of her pet. It was probably for the best Doctor’s assimilation tubules were nonfunctional, because otherwise by now Darleen would likely have an assimilated tnagod.
"Oh, who’s a good tnagod?" Floof panted happily, prancing in place in a similar manner to Sensors when the insectoid was excited. "No, you wouldn’t want your vetty-wetty friend to have an unnecessary operation, now would you, Floof-ums?
Floof danced more, hyperactivity epitomized. Nature had decided not to endow the tnagod species with a tail, which otherwise might have turned the animal into a one creature threat to all ceramic mugs and important paperwork located at knee height.
Paco cleared his throat to regain Doctor’s notice.
Doctor ripped his attention away from Floof. "The beacon is functional. You have excellent skills. You would make a very good Borg drone."
"Well, I already have a job here," said Paco, oblivious that if he was offered employment by the Collective that there would be no refusing. "I think I do quite good on alien machinery. It lets me expand my mind, try something new. How long until your people come pick you up?"
Doctor flipped his ears. "Unknown. It may be in the next day, or it may be in five weeks. It depends. There are factors which influence drone retrieval." For instance, if the subject was imperfectly assimilated or not.
"Ah," replied Paco. He had no clue what Doctor meant. It was a polite sound to further conversation.
"Fix my alcove some more? If the scavenger-transporter unit could be repaired, I would be able to assimilate the elements currently depleted in my system, and, thus, be able to regenerate more efficiently and be a better vet. I am attempting to build an implant which might allow me to absorb the supplements orally or intravenously, but success is not assured."
Paco countered, "We don’t have that transporter technology stuff, you know. Area 51 is only beginning to reverse engineer it."
Doctor responded, "Perhaps Area 52 might gain the technology first, then? A big bone for the underdog? As long as the alcove remains functional for regeneration, you may do as you wish with the rest of the unit."
"Hot dog!" exclaimed Paco, suddenly excited as he contemplated the coup to have transporter technology in hand first over Area 51. "We could take a whole lot of stuff from under their noses, and I wouldn’t even have to hit anyone over the head for it!"
Doctor had already turned away, squatting awkwardly to bring himself down to Floof’s level. "Yes’ums, you are a hot dog, aren’t you? Let’s follow uncle Doctor to see momma Darleen. It is time for eat’ums! Then we can go for walkies through the big, dark warehouse aisles!"
The main entrance to the Area 52 warehouse rattled. Sometimes the door stuck, so the fact that it didn’t open immediately wasn’t surprising. It took a certain wiggle to unstick it, especially when the humidity was high. Paco claimed he couldn’t fix it: the doorway had not been built quite plumb originally, and it would require tearing out the entire warehouse wall to effect repairs. Too much effort. Besides, it somehow fit the Area 52 image.
Doctor stood in the medical area. The corpse of the tactical drone, fresh from the chiller, lay upon the table, head an absolute mess. The torso, however, was relatively untouched, except for those signs of Doctor’s scavenging. Currently, the abdomen was open, armor removed and skin peeled back. As Doctor carefully cut away the microfibers holding an immune system-related implant, he absently pointed one surgical camera at the door and set a second to slowly pan the warehouse.
Kreena was, predictably, nearby, her facial tentacles gently swaying back and forth as she wrote notes on a pad of paper. She was intent upon the dissection, occasionally picking up a camera from a countertop in order to take a documentary photo. She did not react to the rattling door.
Behind the alcove, Paco was similarly deeply engaged in his work. The original task to restore the alcove to basic functionality had been simple, merely devising a working power source able to convert electricity from a wall socket into a form the Borg device could utilize. Fixing the scavenger unit was much more difficult, and the Ootoli had been at it for the past two days, working with an obsessive intensity. At the moment, Paco was staring through a magnifying glass attached to a band around his forehead, using a soldering iron to weld delicate connections.
Jules looked up from his paperwork in mild irritation. He was at his throne, his desk of power situated in the middle of the common work area. Doing never-ending battle with his inbox, he had slowly begun to make headway through the bureaucratic hell that was standard issue for any military. While Elroy remained on vacation, and would not return for another four days, there was the possibility that Emeri would drop into work. The latter likelihood was not a given. Unfortunately, Jules did not particularly enjoy surprises, at least not of the personnel variety which might wreck havoc on his biweekly payroll reports, and had fully been expecting a phone call from Emeri prior to her actually showing at work.
Darleen was not visible. The last Doctor had noticed her was a request from Jules to go search for room in the warehouse shelves to hold the alien mucus collection expected to be transferred from Area 51 next week. The aisles, Doctor had learned through personal experience, seemed to defy reality: he was convinced there was a spatial anomaly involved, making the warehouse seem bigger than its actual dimensions would suggest.
Floof had not followed his mistress on her quest, instead opting to take a nap in a location convenient to trip anyone attempting to exit the warehouse. The tnagod was now on his feet, ears cocked as he stared with suspicion at the door which had so rudely awoken him.
"Gr-arf! Gr-arf!" barked the tnagod in a way Doctor had not heard previously. It was a menacing sound out of proportion to the animal’s size.
"Floof!" echoed Darleen, her voice distorted by distance. "Kreena, are you teasing Floof again?" The long vowels of "tease" were drawn out into a bleating complaint.
The warehouse door suddenly gave way, allowing the person outside entrance. It was neither Emeri nor Elroy.
In strode a wide-shouldered, solid Ootoli male, the exact opposite body form of Jules. Whereas the Area 52 personnel wore the local equivalent of casual jeans and T-shirt, with the occasional lab coat to protect from stains, the intruder sported a very official military uniform of dark green and black. On one hip was a holstered side arm; and a black fez was pulled low over his brow. One his right shoulder was a simple design consisting of three horizontal dark red lines bisected perpendicular by one of aquamarine.
Following directly behind the leader came two more Ootoli, also male. Their uniforms were perhaps a bit less crisp, a bit more drab, but they were by no means sloppy. Shoulders were decorated by a pictograph similar to that of the other male, but with only one red line. The pair were stocky and had that silent bulldog demeanor of military police the universe over. Both carried highly efficient looking semi-automatic rifles in their arms, in addition to a hip-holstered pistol.
A fourth Ootoli entered, trailing the other three. His physique was the same as Jules; and his ill-fitting uniform hung on his frame. With eyes downcast, he pulled a red wagon behind him. The wagon had fence edging the bed, allowing an increased load; and it was currently filled to the brim with papers, a rock on top of the stacks to prevent the errant page from blowing away.
"Jules!" bellowed the leader as he cleared the doorway. He ignored Floof’s barks.
Jules stood up from his desk. "Poolmaster Banes? What are you doing here? Why didn’t you call me if you were going to stop by? You know Area 52 is my command, not yours!" Jules’ voice was full of astonishment.
Doctor froze, perfectly aware that he was on full display. None of the four intruders had noticed him yet, nor the Borg equipment scattered all over the place, but it would only be a matter of time. He carefully edged his hands out of the cadaver and looked for a place to hide.
Banes roared in the manner of a man without a volume control, "Why did I not call? Because I didn’t want to give you time to hide your ill-gotten gains, Jules! Not like you did to the previous Area 51 poolmaster those so many times! As far as what I’m doing here, I know you took a genetic sequencer unit and that alien blender thing from my warehouse a couple nights back. I’ve had the paperwork ready for /months/ in case you tried to pull any of your shenanigan plots behind my back. I am here to retrieve them now, and I have all the paperwork already...filled...out. What the hells is that slur thing in your poor excuse for a medical bay, and why is it operating on one of the Borg alien corpses I got in awhile ago?" Banes had just noticed that things were not as kosher as they should have been.
Floof was gr-arfing continuously now, and beginning to make threatening mock charges at one of the guards. The guard in question was watching the animal, annoyance in his eyes. The rifle twitched.
"Let me explain," cooed Jules calmly as he moved to the front of his desk, advancing on the Area 51 commanding officer. His hands were raised in a gesture of pacification.
"Explain?" exclaimed Banes. "Explain? You don’t only have a slur thing on your staff and one of my alien cadavers, but you have a bunch of /my/ Borg bric-a-brac, too! Say, that slur thing is a Borg, isn’t it? /Isn’t it/? We’ve been looking to get a live specimen for two years now, and one has been less than a klok from my warehouse!" The poolmaster's tentacles were thrashing in agitation.
Doctor was at a loss as far as what to do. Split second decisions were not a Borg forte when the usual support structure of a few hundred, thousand, or million minds was lacking. He could hide in the aisles, but that action would not solve anything, only delay. Part of his programmed instincts insisted on attack and assimilation, but even without reckoning what the semi-automatic rifles would do to his body, such was impossible due to his lack of assimilation tubules. Therefore, perhaps predictably, Doctor stood motionless, unable to decide.
Jules hemmed and hawed, "Well, maybe he is a Borg. He just wants to fix himself and go back to his people. Can’t fault a fellow for wanting to go home, can you?"
Meanwhile, Paco had finally noticed the situation was amiss and had stopped his tinkering; Kreena was taking advantage of Doctor’s inattentiveness to stealthily pick up a scalpel and advance on the cadaver; and Darleen had yet to emerge from the aisles.
"It is an /alien/, Jules! It embodies the whole purpose of Area 51: take ‘em apart to see what makes ‘em tick!"
With Banes’ bellow, Floof had finally worked up sufficient tnagod courage to attack. He rushed his chosen MP target, snarling. The soldier rolled his eyes contemptuously, then kicked the animal squarely in the thorax. Floof flew through the air, landing on the hard cement floor of the warehouse. He whimpered loudly.
Doctor gave a wordless shout and charged. "Flooooooooooof!"
"Wakey-wakey," said Doctor as he applied a hypospray of stimulant to the necks of each of the four Ootoli trussed up in chairs before him. "Time for /bad/ boys to wake up. And you’ve been very bad boys."
Clearly not expecting Doctor's actions, poolmaster Banes, his escort, and his secretarial attache had been utterly surprised. As the four had fallen amid a jumble of limbs and guns, one MP had accidentally been knocked unconscious, effectively removing him from the equation. The second soldier stumbled into the wagon and was smothered by paperwork long enough to allow his gun to be taken away; and while Jules had gleefully knocked the poolmaster over the head with a convenient (and dented) pipe, Paco had finished subduing the opponent drowning in triplicate forms. The secretary had fainted.
Floof turned out to be quite fine and only a little bit dazed. The exoskeleton portion of his ant body had more than adequately protected him from the kick. In fact, the soldier who had precipitated the event would have quite a bruise on his foot from the ill-advised punting.
All the Area 52 personnel were gathered as poolmaster Banes and his compatriots awoke. The secretary promptly fainted again. Jules shifted uncomfortably. "What are we going to do with them? They are Area 51 bastards and they have seen you, Doctor, but we can't kill them. The brass frowns on that. We also most certainly can't let them go. And if we keep them here, well, eventually someone will come looking for them."
Kreena, Paco, and Darleen nodded in sage agreement. Floof panted happily.
Doctor clicked his incisors once, twice as he watched the Ootoli prisoners groggily wake. He then picked up the first of a carefully prepared set of hyposprays, holding it where all could see it.
Doctor was a Borg, and Borg feel an inherent need to create more of themselves, thereby adding to the Collective and to perfection. In Doctor's case, not only did he have inhibitions placed on him due to his imperfectly assimilated status, but he tended to gravitate towards beings of a nonsentient nature. The former restraint had been disengaged through the stimulus of being alone, raising "propagation" to a primary need. The latter was problematic due to lack of opportunity.
Without assimilation tubules, the assimilation process was very difficult. Artificial glands associated with the tubules held the mix of 1', 2', and 3' nanomachines necessary for proper assimilation, and the seed 5' nanites to maintain the body until cell manufactories were spitting out a supply for the new drone. Theoretically, a drone's blood, if injected directly into a target, had the ability to start the assimilation process since all nanoprobe types were present in the serum. The reality, however, was the low numbers of 1'-3' nanites, the specialized assimilation suite, meant low probability of successful assimilation.
Knowing this, Doctor had used a syringe to extract the appropriate nanites from his tubule glands, then transferred them to eight hyposprays. Four of them were for the prisoners. The remainder were a "just in case" the Area 52 people had an adverse reaction to what was about to transpire. Doctor was fairly confident the day would end with eight new drones.
Some might think it ghastly that Doctor would thank his hosts in such a way after saving his life. From the Borg perspective, it was perfectly logical.
Doctor reached forward with the first hypospray, focusing on Banes. "Don't be so worried! Your doctor knows best. I will give them a little something that will make them feel better and not want to report us. No, no! In fact, they will want to help us!"
Kreena narrowed her eyes, "I saw you take that medicine from yourself. What is it, exactly?"
Doctor paused, staring at Kreena for a moment, weighing options. "It will not hurt them, just shift their minds a tiny, teeny bit. Trust me." He reached forward again and had actually laid the head of the hypospray against Banes' neck when an unexpected, but welcome, voice entered his head.
{There you are, Doctor,} said Captain. {We are in orbit. Prepare to be beamed aboard and have the Collective root through your brain. We can't hang around here too long. For one thing, there's a small swarm of warships up here. You and the drones from Cube #1280 were believed vaporized following the ambush at the outpost; and when we returned for a counter-attack, key portions of the station had already been looted. We were very astonished to hear the emergency beacon. The Collective dispatched us to retrieve survivors. Weapons is enjoying himself, but we've more important things to accomplish, such as hauling a cargo hold of items scavenged from the outpost to unimatrix 006 for analysis. The Greater Consciousness has decided to allow this species another century of technological evolution before testing again for assimilation potential.} Captain was no-nonsense and conveyed a sense of impatient urgency.
Doctor cocked his head, holding still. His organic transceiver was now receiving signals from Cube #347, but the experience was akin to someone being forced to surf the internet on a 2400 baud modem when they were used to a direct connection to a T2 line. The bandwidth was small, adequate for basic "vocal" conversation and some dataflow, but not allowing full multi-media experience.
{There is Borg equipment here. This race are packrats, although not as cute. I have tagged it for retrieval,} replied Doctor.
{Fine. Prepare for transport. And NO pets, Doctor. NONE! If the transporter registers any biosigns not your own, the hitchhiker will not be materialized. Understand?}
{Yes.}
"What is going on?" asked Paco as Doctor's remained immobile.
Doctor retracted his arm. "I have been found." The distinctive sound of transporters in use could be discerned as all Borg technology was locked onto and beamed to Cube #347. "Good-bye, especially little Floofy. I am..." The rest of Doctor's words were lost as he dematerialized.
The loaded hypospray clattered to the ground. Banes rolled his head drunkenly to watch it fall. Kreena picked it up and looked it over.
"Well," the Ootoli medic said, "we still have to do something about the good poolmaster here. Let's see what this Borg medicine does."
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