It came from outer space...Star Trek by Paramount, that is. Following somewhat close like a hesitant meteorite is Decker and Star Traks. BorgSpace by Meneks orbits at a distance.
Additional disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based in a sci-fi universe, which, in turn, has had a backspin off the bumper into an alternate reality. Therefore, however the Roswell myth has been mutilated, torn, and spindled to fit the author's BorgSpace vision, remember, it is only a story.
The truth may be our there, but then again, it may only be in my head.
The Roswell Incident, Part II
"The public will believe anything, as long as it is not founded on truth"
-Edith Sitwell
*****
Recap:
A shuttle wrapped in a weather balloon has slammed into the New Mexican desert. From the wreckage the local military presence extracts four bodies - Delta (both of her), Doctor, and a nameless dead drone; and Captain, having crash-landed on his own sans shuttle, is very dazed and confused as he is picked up (after being hit) by Gary the amateur astronomer in his truck.
On Roswell Airbase, Captain Conell tries to decide what to do, concentrating mainly on keeping the find a secret as long as possible from White Sands. An ostrich named Lucy is mentioned...this is very important. Meanwhile, Dr. Ann appears to have an unhealthy interest in taking things apart.
Captain, on the other hand, has been taken to a veterinarian just outside Roswell proper, one Doc who is not nearly as human as he appears. At the clinic, Gary is sent to his trailer and Captain is put back together.
If you want a more detailed summarization, go back and reread Part I.
*****
Doc sighed, deflating, his fervor vanished. "No matter, that is how it is going to be. But first, introductions. You know who I am. We'll go into the what later when it is more convenient, but don't try any of your assimilation tricks on me because it won't work. You are 4 of 8, sub-designated Captain, assigned to Exploratory-class Cube #347."
Captain gazed unblinking at Doc, the only option open to him since he could not appreciably move. Finally he uttered the single word, "How?"
Doc grinned, beard bristling slightly. "A module in your back, left thorax, next to the spinal column. All it takes is the proper hardware, which all except me lack on this planet, to read the basics. Beyond that, I know nothing, so don't get your nanites in a bundle." The grin vanished. "I also know you are amiable to the word 'I,' as so many of your kind aren't, so go ahead and use it."
Captain grumbled, "Does everyone we meet know this? It is supposed to be a big Collective secret."
The veterinarian shrugged, nonplussed.
"Where am I?" asked Captain, diverting to a new line of conversation. Internal diagnostics were telling him he was in remarkable good shape considering the fact one of his recent memories included falling out of a disintegrating, burning vessel of some sort, followed by hitting the ground at great speed. The truth was he would not be alive, much less functional to the degree he was, without Doc and the alcove. As much as he could feel gratitude, Captain did, but it would not stop him from acting upon any needs he saw which would further his survival or that of the greater Collective.
"Roswell, New Mexico," said Doc. He paused as he realized the blank look on Captain's face was one of incomprehension. "Um, Earth? Er, Sol system? Humanity? Damn, you've not been in this sector yet, so of course you wouldn't know..."
Interrupted Captain as portions of his onboard archive were successfully accessed through the mental jumble, "Humanity. Species #5618. Unusually high resistance quotient when contrasted to lack of technological or biological distinctiveness. Earth is the capital world of both Federation and Second Federation." Considering how often the Borg (and Cube #347) came across humans and their propensity to stick their noses in where organics were not meant to go - usually creating spatial rips in the process - a permanent "humanity" file was standard issue for all drones by the time of the Second Federation.
Doc stared, open-mouthed. His dentiture was perhaps a bit sharper than the normal human, not to mention the double canines visible in the lower jaw. Shaking his head, Doc retorted, half in response to Captain and half to himself, "No...no...no.... That isn't possible. There have been /no/ Borg in this quadrant of the galaxy, and the Earth is certainly not the center of any Federation. They don't even have warp drive, except in the imaginations of some particularly visionary sci-fi authors. No...it can't be...except..." Doc paused, then fixed Captain with a shrewd glare, "Are you maybe, just maybe, from the future? Has someone been playing around with the fabric of space-time - once more! - creating a temporal rift? Was the originator the Collective, this human Federation, or both?"
There was a silence, a very long and drawn out silence as Captain tried to determine how best to reply. However, deception was not a Borg strong suit to begin with, and it appeared as if any local Collective assistance was at least 50,000 light years distant, if not more.
"An entity designated 'Director'," finally stated Captain.
"Director? As in a giant eyeball?"
"Affirmative. It calls itself Iris. My recent memories are highly fragmented, but I do recall this fact clearly."
"Iris." The name was repeated dully. "I won't claim to even come close to understanding, but perhaps I have an inkling of what happened." The vet sighed.
Doc abruptly stopped talking, stopped all movement, and cocked his head slightly. Unlike a Borg in such a posture, he was actually listening for something. Captain increased his audio gain and caught a faint scratching, a faint squeal of stressing metal. It came from overhead. Doc sighed a second time as he stepped sideways two meters.
"Just a moment. I think someone is going to drop in."
The scratching, the pitter-patter of plaster cracking, became progressively more audible, accompanied by a sifting of white dust. Warping metal screamed and screeched and popped, rivets pulling out of anchor points. Somewhere in the noise and chaos that was occurring just above the ceiling and out of immediate sight, a faint "Oh, sh**" sounded. Then the ceiling appeared to explode.
Captain stopped breathing as plaster dust billowed up and out. Meanwhile, Doc coughed and hacked, motions visible through the dust those of one waving a hand.
"Damn it, Gary! Do you know how long it is going to take me to autoclave all these instruments again? I have a good mind to make you do it. I /told/ you to go to your trailer and wait."
"Doc?" The voice, one familiar to Captain in a nightmarish way, emanated from the heap of plaster, tiles, and ductwork which was now located in the center of the room. Some of the debris had drifted up into the alcove and over Captain's toes, not that he could do anything about it considering his near total paralysis.
Doc fingered his beard, fluffing plaster out of it. He then stepped to the pile of junk and reached out one arm for the wiggling fingers belonging to the voice. Doc grasped the waving hand, then turned his head slightly to glare at Captain, "If you do anything to this lad, I swear I'll be handing you your head on a silver platter, Exile Oath or no Exile Oath."
*****
Many tumblers turning in many locks caught Doctor's attention. The warning provided more than sufficient time (five minutes - that is a lot of locks) to swivel on heel to face the near invisible door. Ears twitched forward, back, forward, finally ending with one ear cocked at the door and the other facing the opposite way. Teeth clicked together.
The door swung inward, revealing danger in the form of two bull-necked men holding automatic rifles. From beneath helmets, eyes peered suspiciously into the room. Doctor did not move, cognizant of the damage possible from projectile weapons fired at him: as his hierarchy rarely entered direct battle, he and his fellow drone maintenance compatriots sported relatively thin armoring. The guards, satisfied no threat was immediate, stepped sideways to allow those behind to enter the prison cell.
If they had any inkling of the true threat represented by an unsecured Borg drone, no matter his hierarchy, they would not have been so complacent.
Into the box came the Mr. Moustache who had spent hours observing from the other side of the transparent barrier. With him was a black skinned man wearing a white coat. They were followed by another pair of conspicuously armed guards. With seven bodies in the room, it was more than a bit crowded, but Doctor refused to move to make space, refused to do more than stare straight ahead as he waited fate to befall. While Mr. Moustache had a sidearm holstered at his hip, the white-coated man appeared to be unarmed.
Mr. Moustache marched forward, stopping within lunge range of Doctor, which only emphasized the fact he had no clue what a Borg signified. Clearing his throat, Mr. Moustache began to speak with a slow and measured voice, as one talks to someone hard of comprehension.
"Hello. Alien being. Welcome. To. Earth. My name is. Captain. Richard. Conell. Captain Richard Conell. Apologies about. Your surroundings. We want to. Be. Peeeeaceful. Understand peeeeaceful? If all is. Peeeeeaceful. You will be. Moved. To a. Better. Facility." Captain Conell smiled his widest, fakest smile, baring an amount of teeth which would be interpreted as an invitation to ritual combat to first blood/broken bone/injury by sixty-three different species known to the Borg, and to the death by another fifteen.
Doctor blinked, clicked his incisors together, then flipped both ears forward. His personality was of a serious nature, disregarding his pet fetish and propensity to speak baby talk, and so his response was serious. Too bad, as it was the perfect opportunity for a myriad of smart-aleck remarks, but without the sub-collective to suggest the more irrelevant courses of action, Doctor had to forge ahead alone.
"You are understood, Captain Richard Conell. We require access to the other units to directly assess their condition. You will comply." Doctor was actually rather proud of himself as he had not slipped into what the majority (okay, all) of the sub-collective considered nonBorg speech patterns. Unfortunately, none were present to acknowledge the accomplishment. The "How To Relate To Others When You Are The Superior Being" book available from Green Borg Enterprises Publishing House was paying off.
"It speaks!" exclaimed Conell as he took a startled step backwards.
Whispered one of the guards to the other, "Better than the captain, if you ask me."
"Yes, it does," brightly said the becoated man. "Excellent!" A notebook and pencil were taken from one pocket, a page flipped over to reveal a clean sheet of paper, and note quickly scribbled. There was something about this human Doctor instantly distrusted. It was indefinable, illogical, but the man felt to be a greater threat than the projectile weapons, than Captain Richard Conell. Perhaps it was the way the guards oh-so-slightly flinched at the man's words, but Doctor had to steel himself from retreating a step. "Your friends, they are just fine. I am Doctor Al Ann, and I've had a look at them. Why don't you tell us a little bit about yourself, and maybe I can schedule a physical?"
Captain Conell rushed into the verbal space afforded by Dr. Ann drawing breath, "And if you cooperate, we'll see about more comfortable quarters, Mister or Miss...?"
The captain was attempting to re-establish authority after losing control of the situation. However, to Doctor's perspective, authority had been forever lost by the moustached man since Dr. Ann had opened his mouth. Moving his complete attention to Dr. Ann, Doctor replied, "We are designated 27 of 27, sub-designation Doctor, of Exploratory-class Cube #347 of the Borg Collective. The other two units are not 'fine.' One unit is functional, but catatonic, and will remain in that condition. The other unit is heavily damaged and requires surgical intervention soonest. If this second unit is not repaired, the first unit will terminate with 99.6% likelihood. Both poor pups will be lost, and Big Dog Captain will be in quite a snit."
All the humans blinked, then carefully slid their eyes sideways in that soundless, nontelepathic communication possible between members of a species. Only Dr. Ann continued to stare at Doctor. Doctor required several seconds to realize his mistake. If he could have blushed, he would have. As that action was not possible, he instead stuck the equivalent of a large yellow sticky note on the forefront of his mindscape to prevent future slips. The reminder was quickly lost, like so many before.
As for the status of Delta, Delta A was repaired sufficiently that she should be able to be roused. However, due to her link to her twin, not even drone maintenance hierarchy command codes could force her to a higher state of awareness. Delta A remained in a state of nonthinking, nonreaction, and would stay there (thus, leaving Doctor to continue on his own) until such time one of two things happened. One, if Delta B was stabilized with termination not so immediate, Delta A would regain consciousness; or, two, if Delta B terminated Delta A would do so as well, following her twin into death as she had clung to her in Borgdom.
"How do you know this?" asked Dr. Ann forcefully, just as Conell opened his mouth. The latter weakly echoed the doctor's question.
"We know."
"Amazing," whispered Dr. Ann, mostly to himself. He wrote something on his tablet as he continued. "That might explain the odd oscillations from that one device. A type of technological telepathy, a radio in the head. How interesting. I'll have to take a closer look."
Doctor fostered a growing suspicion upon the fate of the other two drones in the accident. Perhaps Big Dog Captain wouldn't be having a snit after all. It was the most logical conclusion. Even with hardware transceiver only, other drones throughout the stellar system should be perceived, not just Delta. Well, the Collective was going to be miffed if Cube #347 ever Fell back to their native reality, the "workable" configuration of the imperfectly assimilated sub-collective disrupted.
Doctor continued along the tangent. Perhaps drone maintenance hierarchy might finally pass to 1 of 27? Doctor would like that, for as a standard designation his actions were less closely scrutinized, and therefore there was reduced chance of discovery for the illegal pets secreted about Cube #347.
Meanwhile, Captain Conell cleared his throat in preparation to ask a Very Important Question to Reassert His Command, "'We'? I only see one of you there."
Richard waited for an answer to his question, but as the silence stretched it became apparent the rat thing was not going to reply. Beside and behind, the airmen who usually served as gate guards fidgeted in the body armor they so rarely actually wore.
The Roswell Airbase commander captured the ragged tip of one moustache and began to chew it before realizing that it was not the image was wanted to project. He spat it out as delicately as he could, but was mortified at the spray of spit that accompanied it. Unlike the Borg, Captain Conell could blush, and he did so, a heated reddening of his face. Straightening up, Conell tugged his shirt straight in a gesture a very distant descendant would recognize, a descendant with a not much more glamorous post.
Richard loudly said in his best authoritative voice, the one he practiced in front of his mirror, "Well, then. Well, well, well. Well. This interview is at an end. I want you to think upon what we talked about, and I'll consider your request for access to your friends." There was a pause as Dr. Ann tapped on the captain's shoulder before handing over a very bulky ancestor of what later people would recognize as one half of a baby monitor. It had been drawn from one of the doctor's bottomless lab coat pockets; and Richard made a mental note, as he had dozens of times prior, to ask one day about how the coat could hold so much and not seem bulky. "This will be left with you, Mister or Miss Doctor. If you want to talk to me, just push this button and speak. I will be informed."
The rat thing's whole eye flickered to the radio transmitter/receiver. The eye then returned to Richard, but not before roving over Dr. Ann. The airmen with their guns appeared to be ignored as so much animated furniture. The thing's incisors clicked together once, twice. "Our gender is male, although irrelevant to all except small, itsy-bitsy, teeny-weenie beings such as yourself." The rat opened its mouth as if to say more, then pulled up as if rebuked, its ears wilting slightly. To the side came the scratching noise of Dr. Ann writing. "We understand the use of this device. We...strongly request access to Delta B such that both units can be salvaged."
Richard set the radio on the ground then made shooing motions with his hands for the guards to withdraw. Just as he himself was stepping backwards, Dr. Ann asked, "Mr. Doctor, as I asked before, can I perhaps schedule you for a physical? You know, doctor to doctor?"
If such was possible beneath the metals and plastics which obscured much of the rat's face, Conell could swear a transient expression of disgust had passed over it, followed by fear. Blink, there it was; and, blink, the rat face was deadpan, emphasis on dead. "We decline," replied the rat.
"Very well, for now," smiled Dr. Ann. Richard ushered the doctor out the door.
"What the hell was that?" demanded Captain Conell of Dr. Ann after the sound-proof door closed. The tension in the warehouse hallway back of the cells was high.
Al regarded the base commander, a consciously innocent demeanor on his face. "I just wish to compare anatomies to the one in the surgical bay. They obviously are of different species, and different again to the other two, yet all three kinds are wearing the same technology. It is something I'll eventually need for the report you want." Al deliberately paused, then tossed a barb guaranteed to garner the desired response, "And such a report, to be better than White Sands, will need physicals for comparative profiles. However, if you want White Sands..."
"No!" The exclamation was shouted. Conell visibly calmed himself. "No, we'll get the physical you want eventually. It's just that you were a bit pushy. After all, how many alien first contacts have you made?"
Al remained silent.
"That's what I thought. The Air Force 'Manual of Alien First Contact' specifically states the need to gain the trust of an alien visitor before the needles and scissors. You'll have to wait. Do I make myself clear?"
Al snorted softly, then stuck his free hand in a pocket to fondle the bit of thigh bone in there. "Yes, sir. As you say, sir." The reply was formulaic with not a hint a deference.
Conell did not recognize, as he never recognized, the lack of respect to his authority. "Very well," he said, mollified, "doctor. You'll get your physical. Just be patient." The guards were dismissed to do whatever it was guards did when they weren't sitting in or pacing across Dr. Ann's waiting room.
"Sir. Are you going to allow the alien doctor to fix his friend?" asked Al.
"Well, I don't know..."
"It would be a good opportunity. Well wishes and all that trust you want to build. And, if I can be allowed to observe, would give further insights as to the cadaver I have been dissecting." Pause. "Sir."
Richard capitulated very quickly. "There is that consideration. I think it is a good idea and will be so allowed. However, I'm going to let the alien wait a bit, else contact me first. I need to be seen as benevolent, you know. That is in the Manual too."
"Very good, sir."
"Um, I've stuff I need to do. Carry on, Dr. Ann."
"Yes, sir."
Captain Conell peered around with the slightly confused expression he so often wore when Al saw him. He then headed towards an exit from the warehouse hallway. Al watched him leave, then spun away and stalked in the opposite direction, winding his way eventually back to his territory of waiting room, surgical bay, and small laboratory.
If Captain Conell only knew, but the good Captain Conell wouldn't be able to find the nose on his face without looking in a mirror. The only thing the good Captain Conell was observant about concerned the oversized chicken he quaintly named Lucy.
Dr. Ann was a tad bit further from his home than his purported Los Angeles origin. Cettis III was only 150 light years distant, true, but it might as well be on the other side of the universe for all the chance he'd have to see it again in the near future. Following the embarrassing Incident for which he still sincerely believed - knew! - he was not at fault, he had been exiled to this xenophobic low-technology dirtball in the slums of the galaxy. His superiors had said to "think it over for a century or two, then we'll see" concerning the Incident.
Drawing upon skills garnered from hobbies in his prior life (authorities, during the post-Incident investigation, had not understood the stress release inherent in live vivisection of lower lifeforms), he had went to medical school, then wormed his way into the very organization which would love to take him apart if they knew he existed. The military normally only had the remains of crushed pilots, crew, and/or sightseeing passengers to examine, rarely a hale and hearty whole being.
It was a delicious irony which had Al occasionally struggling to control the giggles that so worried the humans around him.
Al glided into the building which housed the airbase medical facilities, thence into the surgical bay cum dissection lab. Dr. Ann smiled as he regarded the bits and pieces everywhere, smiled as he regarded art in creation. He would eventually add all the parts, as well as those of the other detainees, to the "canvas" hidden just outside the base proper behind the holographic blind. Until he found the chance, however, he would continue to play along, to uncover the biological and technological secrets the Borg body held.
Borg. What a wondrous creature. Back home - his real home - he had heard them mentioned, but in the off-hand manner of the brother who has heard it from the step-cousin, who heard it from the guy at work, who heard it from the neighbor next door, who overheard it secondhand from a conversation in a not-quite-soundproofed room. Cybernetic beings was the sum extent of Al's knowledge of them, and the necropsy of the dead one only wetted his appetite to compare it to the live ones.
Al carefully locked the surgical bay doors and made sure all windows were draped with cloth. He then picked up the walnut-sized oblong sphere with four dangling wires like limp spaghetti emerging from one end. A word curtly spoken which had no Terrestrial origin revealed a niche where none should be, filled with equipment which definitely had no counterpart on Earth except in the dreams of science-fiction authors and, unbeknownst to Al, in the office of a veterinarian who coincidentally lived less than fifteen miles away.
The walnut was placed on a scanner. Al exchanged his paper notebook for one electronic and continued where he had left off.
*****
"Look, I'm really sorry," protested a plaster-dusted Gary, "but is that really a man from outer space?" Captain recalled the human, a blurred memory of shadow and silhouette offset by twin bright lights. Gary as seen in better circumstances, disregarding the debris piled halfway to his waist, was a thin human male with the darker skin complexion of Hispanic background as well as a lifetime spent under desert sun. His hair would be black after a good washing. In all, he was a nondescript example of the human species, down to the jeans and long-sleeved green shirt he wore.
Gary continued speaking a non-English language of which Captain did not possess a translation module. When the Borg had encountered species #5618, humans has long since collapsed their homeworld tongues into one, others kept for historical and cultural reference. The Collective had found the nonprimaries irrelevant since only English was consistently used. Despite the inability to translate, Captain was sure Gary's addition included scatological imagery. Certain modes of speech are near universal even without Collective or sub-collective support to confirm.
"Don't you use those vulgarities around me, lad," chided Doc harshly, "else I'll take a horse brush and some flea soap to your mouth. I don't care that you are twenty-five and that you have heard me spit a cussing from time to time, I won't have it. You know what I think about that sort of language; and I don't care the situation you find yourself in. A mouth like that is fit only for sailing or the off-shore oil rigs, neither professions of which you are in."
Gary turned red under his plaster, then looked down where his feet should be if they were visible. He mumbled, "Yes, sir" before turning his head to stare at Captain. "But this is an actual space man? Not just a pilot of a plane?" A foot was shuffled forward, a hand reached out as if to touch, as if to confirm the reality eyes were reporting.
Doc grabbed Gary by the shoulder before the latter could come within arm range of Captain, even though if such had occurred, lack of ability to move would have hampered taking advantage of the opportunity.
"He's dangerous, Gary. Don't go near him. Now, how much did you hear before you came crashing down? How did you get into the ducts to begin with? And why didn't you stay in your trailer like I told you?" Doc paused, then added, "First question first, lad."
Gary continued to regard Captain, eyes only flickering briefly to Doc before returning to the object of fascination. "Pretty much everything, Doc. That is a Borg, whatever that means, and, um, the name is Captain. Also something about sending him away. It was a bit fuzzy and echoing up there after that, then when I tried to back up, well, things just sort of happened."
Eyeing first Gary, then Doc, Captain dismissed them to turn inward to contemplate his predicament. Was there the slightest give to the upper right arm clamp? If power was directed to the appropriate servos, could brute force break an arm free? For his troubles, Captain was rewarded with a tempo increase from the ever-present background beep.
Doc barked, "Stop that, or I'll put you under again! I've tapped a wire into your nervous system that I can use to input commands. The command may not be much more than 'sleep,' but it is more than sufficient."
Captain blinked, then rolled his single eye around in a futile effort to find the probe. Until he was put in a position whereupon no drones were present to piggyback onto their visual input, he did not realize how much he utilized that function of Borg collectivity. However, now so informed, a query of specific diagnostics did reveal the presence of a foreign body connected to his spinal cord at the second vertebrae juncture. Closing his eye, he began the arduous process of coaxing nanites and implants to reject the unwanted input. He almost missed the revelation from Gary.
"Wow. A real space man. That makes two aliens I know about," said Gary.
"Lad, this fellow is not from Mexico."
Gary snorted. "Well, duh, Doc. You're not from Mexico neither, but you don't see me running around, do you?"
The depth of silence prompted Captain to pay attention to external happenings once more. His reward was the sight of an utterly shocked Doc, the vet wordless.
"How?" sputtered Doc. He stopped, gathered himself, then proceeded. "How did you find out?"
Gary shrugged. "Well, the space ship partially buried in that arroyo bend behind the main house was a clue. I stumbled onto it last year when I was out looking for a good place to look at the moon. Strange, one moment it wasn't there, and the next I tripped and went face first into it instead of the prickly pear I had expected. Then there was that horse a couple months back, the certainly dead one which made the miraculous recovery after you waved some sort of device over it. Finally, well, finally you probably should lock your clinic, Doc, because you have the oddest vet equipment stashed in this place."
Doc carefully asked, "And this doesn't bother you? An alien is your landlord? You don't want to turn me into the authorities or the newspaper?"
Gary shrugged once more, dislodging a bit more plaster from his shoulders. "Why should it? You've not tried to eat me or lay eggs in my brain or anything. Besides, your rent is cheap and you don't nag me too much about getting a steady job."
Doc nodded slowly. "Okaaaay. I don't have time for a deeper conversation on the matter right now, lad, but later I'm going to introduce you to a little device. A 'gyratich' it is called in my language."
"What is it? What does it do?" Gary was the epitome of eagerness.
"It is the size of a scalpel and emits a very bright flash of light. Then all will be made clear."
Captain did not know the translation of "gyratich," but the device described was a variation upon a memory reorganizer. It was standard gear for xenoanthropologists studying pre-warp cultures for the inevitable native who stumbled onto a cloaked or holo-obscured observation blind.
Doc forged ahead, changing the topic. "What you were doing in the ductwork is self-evident - eavesdropping. How did you get there?"
"Ladder to a grille under the eaves, when I found the clinic door locked. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I know you told me to go to my trailer, but that's some sort of alien mind control thing, right? Well, a beer takes care of that. No more mind control influence."
Doc sighed. "I'll keep that in mind." He turned away from Gary, and under his breath muttered, "Beer? All this time and beer? Well, I'll be a..." What Doc was calling himself was not clear for he had slipped into his native language, one unknown to the relatively few translation algorithms Captain had loaded into memory. Composing himself, the vet turned to Captain.
"Release this drone," demanded Captain. "I will remedy this situation."
"What did I say concerning the lad?"
"It is a logical option."
"In your twisted world, maybe. Not mine."
Gary looked bewildered with the exchange. "What are you two talking about? I think I missed it when the roof fan kicked in over my head while in the duct."
"Not important," quickly reassured Doc before Captain could say 'Assimilation.' A glare which threatened silver platters was directed to him from the vet. "The important thing is...what do I do with you?"
Silence, then, "You are going to go to the base, aren't you." It was a statement, not a question. "If this alien came from a spaceship, then the other bodies I saw at the crash site would be Borg too, yes? There were at least four of them. Well, I can get you on base without anyone else knowing."
"Four bodies. Well, damn. Borg, how many were with you on that ship?"
Captain considered. His memories were slowly realigning themselves. "We were five units, including myself. Unknown if any survive due to faulty neural transceiver."
"Four Borg. Even if they are all dead, I still need to get the bodies out of there. Humans aren't ready for that sort of technology. And if there is a live one...double damn. Just when I was becoming resigned to this dirtball, there goes the neighborhood." The last sentence was said quietly.
Captain strained against the clamps again, eliciting the warning beeps. He stopped as attention was directed at him. "My presence is required as well."
Doc shook his head, then trundled to a corner of the room for the very low-tech broom found there. Returning, he thrust it into Gary's hands and directed him to make himself useful and clean up the mess. Only then was an answer provided. "I can't see any way around it, but, yes, I'll have to take you, Borg. You'll be on a short leash, so don't try anything. I'll need you too, Gary. I've some things to do before, however. We'll leave a couple of hours before sunset."
Gary hoorayed, then bent to his labors. Captain watched the human sweep for several minutes, then disengaged visual input to better contemplate possible actions.
Gary leaned on his broom and yawned. He had been awake for far too long, and the feeling of lethargy was not helped by the pleasant one-can-of-beer buzz. The adrenaline surge of falling from the ceiling had since worn off, leaving him drained. Sweat derived from work and fear was slowly transforming the plaster dust on his skin into a rudimentary body cast.
Doc was gone, beyond the bounds of the clinic if the ring of front door opening and closing was any indication, off to "ready a few things." Before leaving Gary to his monotonous cleanup task, the vet had made his boarder promise not to go closer to the mechanical man than reach of broom. The reasons were vague as to reason for the prohibition, which only made Gary more curious.
"Hey, Captain, I gotta sweep your feet. That okay?" called Gary. There was no answer, as there had been no answer twice before. "Also, I'm going to paint you purple and tie you to the front of my truck bumper like a hood ornament." Nope, not a flicker of acknowledgement.
The mechanical man, the Borg, as seen in the light of the clinic was different from the blackened, injured person who had lurched out of the scrub. For one thing, he looked like something on the verge of death, all pale skin with gray undertones. The image was enhanced by the machine Doc called an alcove, for it strongly resembled an upright coffin, notwithstanding the blinking lights and long extension cord which snaked to a wall outlet. Then there were all the apparatuses and metals and /things/ which covered the Borg's body. Why, the man was more than half artificial! Doc had locked the Borg in the alcove, so Gary had yet to see the man move. From all the bits of metal, Gary bet it was a rather stiff gait, like Old Man Smith and his fused spine.
It was the eye, when Captain had been interacting with Doc, which was the most intriguing aspect. The eye had been a singular blue, contrasting with the pallor of skin, an eye which was both alive and dead, as the skin was alive and dead. Humans (and Doc) are never perfectly still, always there is automatic adjustment of balance, always there is a blink or a shift of eyes. However, the Borg, when he spoke, gave one his direct, unwavering attention, as if the one addressed was the center of the universe, or a bug underfoot which is being considered as to effort involved in squishing it.
The force of the mind behind the eye at the moment was a lone "one." If Gary had felt the force of thousands (millions, billions, trillions) on him, he might have been more respectful of the possible danger.
"I'm gonna sweep your foot now," repeated Gary. He inched forward and gently swept plaster out of the alcove, broom at full extension. The Borg remained quiescent. "Then I really need a shower and some nap time," Gary added quietly to himself
*****
It was mid-day. In the detainee warehouse, Captain Conell struggled to not be sick as he watched through the transparent window to cell #4. He was trying to convince himself that the surgery had more akin to fixing a car than a body, but the sickly red-yellow blood suggested otherwise to the hindbrain. Richard swallowed heavily and told his stomach to settle. It would not be good for the men to see their commander puking his guts out over a little blood...and gore...and *urk*....
In cell #4 was a make-shift operating room with a gurney at the center. On the gurney was the alien called Delta B. The legs and abdomen of Delta B had been opened with no provision made for either anesthesia or antiseptic conditions. Next to the cell's egress were two armed guards, both of which appeared to be made of sterner stuff than Captain Conell.
Nose practically pressed to window, Dr. Ann avidly scribbled observations in his ever-present notebook. Taking a step sideways for a closer view of a particular cut, Richard's sight of the action was blocked. The momentary reprieve ended as Dr. Ann turned and ambled back to Richard. The look of excitement on the doctor's face would have worried the captain had nausea control not been demanding his full attention.
"Such an excellent opportunity! I am learning much. Not as much as a physical, but still a wealth of information! Just think, surgery as easy as swapping a carburetor in a truck. Sir." The 'sir' was added as an afterthought.
In the cell, the rat thing - Doctor - had one hand inside the patient's belly. That arm was motionless as the other hand was held flat and passed over the chest area like a magician waving a wand. After requesting via radio the absolute need for surgery, Richard had, as planned, benevolently allowed it to be so, directing Dr. Ann and several airmen to gather any supplies required by the rat. Now, Richard wasn't so sure this had been the best course of action, at least so regarding his stomach.
"If you say so," whispered Richard. He winced as the hand inside the patient was removed. Although no sound was possible through the window, he had more than enough imagination to insert the appropriate *squish*.
Doctor turned and spoke something to one guard inside the cell. The guard in turn hefted a handheld radio and keyed it. On a table near Richard, the radio's mate spat to life. "Sir. The alien requests a five-gallon bucket or thereabout, some surgical tubing, a syringe, an IV with bags of, um, electrolytic solution, and something called a laser."
Richard slid his eyes sideways to Dr. Ann. "We have that stuff?"
Dr. Ann absently nodded, pencil dancing across paper. "Yes. No laser, through. The type the alien wants hasn't been invented yet."
"Um, what is a laser?"
"Think ray gun, sir, like in comic books. Right now it is all theory, but I expect in a couple of years someone will make an actual one. Sir."
"But they are a real thing?"
"Yes."
"And you can do the rest, minus the laser?"
"Yes."
"Then do so."
"Yes, sir," said Dr. Ann properly. He pocketed his notebook, then called for an airman loitering nearby to assist. Captain Conell felt at least a little pleasure, an order actually carried out at his command.
Picking up the radio, Richard spoke into it, "Tell Doctor that all requests, except the laser, are forthcoming. Coordinate with Dr. Ann on specifics."
The guard in the cell nodded. At the relay, the rat cocked head slightly, ground his teeth together, then returned to his patient. Richard concentrated upon his protesting stomach as surgery began anew.
Doctor bent to his work, head cocked and whole eye half lidded as he compared diagnostic readings. One set originated from Delta B's subsystems, and the other from scanners embedded in Doctor's right arm and under the palm of his hand. Although Delta B still lay open, thigh and abdomen armorless and exposed to the air, the worst of the damage was repaired.
The surgical conditions were primitive. While the cell window indicated a manufactory technology of decently high standards, requests for surgical lasers or ultrasonic suture projectors were met with blank faces. One had to be satisfied with tools of sharpened metal and threaded needles augmented by Doctor's limited supply of built-in equipment. He normally relied upon the supplies available on Cube #347, either existent or replicated upon demand. A note was added to those already cluttering his mindspace to fit himself with a new limb compartment and fill it with a selection of basic surgical implements.
The diagnosis of Delta B was much better, although not all was perfect. The build up of metabolic poisons in blood and tissue was hampering repair efforts by 5' nanites, as was the lack of easily available sugars, minerals, and metals. Most accessible elements had been used at an accelerated rate by the internal self-repair effort. Cellular machinery was slowly metabolizing muscle fiber into usable components, as well as nanites dismantling extraneous implants to fix those more vital, but the process was slower than such could be accomplished with alcove support. Drastic action, dangerous action, was required: Delta B had to be bled.
Doctor removed his hands from Delta, the body lying upon a table which had been wheeled into the cell for the purpose. Near the door was a guard, one of two, and it was to him Doctor spoke.
"It is required a bucket, so big; surgical tubing; a larger bore syringe than those present; an intravenous bag with several liters of electrolytic solution, heavy in short chain sugars and metallic salts; and a scalpel laser. Be a good boy and tell Captain Richard Conell. I do not have a biscuit, but I can make a chew toy out of used bandages," said Doctor. The laser was inserted in a low probability hope that one might be found despite earlier failure and indication such did not exist.
At the mention of the chew toy, the guard blanched slightly, then keyed the radio which slung around neck and under arm. His reply swiftly came. "Your requests are coming. No laser."
"Phooey," muttered Doctor.
Several minutes passed as Doctor began to stitch shut surgical incisions. The work was not especially neat, but such was not required because nanites would eventually repair the epidermis without leaving scar evidence. One ear caught the sound of the door unlocking, and doctor turned his head without moving body to see who was entering.
Doctor went as still as only a Borg can, no ears twitching, no blinking, no breathing. It was Dr. Ann, followed by a guard. The latter carried the desired equipment in a bucket, but it was the former who had Doctor's complete attention.
"Here are the items you requested," brightly exclaimed Dr. Ann, motioning for the guard to set down his burden and leave. The airman swiftly complied. "Do you need any help? What are you going to do? Will your friend live?"
Doctor's ears flipped backwards, his species' equivalent of a frown, but unlikely to be recognized as such by immobile-eared humans. "Assistance is not required. The unit will survive, although a serum volume replacement of at least 50% is necessary. Go home."
Dr. Ann blinked. "I only want to help. If you reconsider, just request me via the radio." The doctor left, leaving behind Doctor, Delta, and the two armed guards.
After watching the door for a long minute to confirm Dr. Ann would not immediately return, Doctor turned focus back to Delta. First the IV needle was shoved into an artery on Delta's neck, then syringe, minus plunger, was inserted into the drone's unmangled leg. The tubing was wedged into the syringe body, and, as blood began to flow, the loose end dangled into the bucket. After several minutes of bleeding with liquid volume replaced by the electrolytic solution, Doctor put one hand on Delta's arm, concentrated for a moment, then triggered his nanotubules, supplementing fresh nanoprobes for those being lost. It was not a perfect solution, but it would do.
Unfortunately, if they were stuck in this reality for too long, either an alcove would have to be constructed or both he and Delta A would also have to undergo the risky operation to remove metabolic poisons. However, there was still time to wait.
Needle was picked up and remaining sutures stitched. First things first.
Al was fascinated with the surgical process, especially the bleeding. Observations written in his native language filled page after page of the notebook. He greatly wished for advanced recording devices, but so much as a digital camera would arouse suspicions.
The bleeding.
The blood.
The surgery was all but done, and to his back Captain Conell's dry heaves had subsided. Note taking paused as an idea glimmered in Al's mind. High powered microscopes in the lab had revealed the presence of nanomachines in the cadaver's blood and tissues, hybrids of DNA, protein scaffolding, and metal lattice carapace with grasping legs. They were obviously present for a reason, and perhaps it was time to find out why.
Ostriches do not have an overwhelming amount of brain power, and Lucy was no exception. Her universe consisted of "me," a succession of "not-me"s, and "mate." "Me" was self evident; and "not-me" could be further subdivided into categories such as "things to eat," "things not really edible, but are to be swallowed anyway," and "things to rip apart." The last sub-category included the noisy two-legged things like stunted, featherless ostriches with pitifully short necks which usually threw in food, but never came close enough to be kicked. "Mate" was a similar creature to the noisy not-mes, an ostrich not quite an ostrich, but nonetheless "mate."
It was all quite simple, provided you were an ostrich.
Lucy bobbed her head. The bright not-me which flew high in the sky was coming in for a landing. Soon it would be time to eat. Earlier she had seen mate and several noisy not-mes leave one of the numerous giant box cages which were near her run, but that was some time ago, as reckoned by an animal who's notion of time was fuzzy at best. Keen eyesight picked out the approach of three strange not-mes on a ridge beyond the box cages. The unknown not-mes were ignored as irrelevant, forgotten moments after being spotted as noisy not-mes emerged from around the corner of a box cage bearing the bag from which food would magically appear.
Lucy hissed and clacked her beak in anticipation.
*****
Doc squatted in the scant dusking shade provided by a single shoulder-tall juniper, an oddity amid the sage scrub. In one hand he held a pair of binoculars, much more high-tech than their mundane outward appearance suggested. The other hand fingered a leash that was tied to his belt, a leash which trailed a short distance away into the shadowed shelter of an arroyo hollow. When Doc said he would keep Captain on a short leash, he had meant it literally, much to the Borg's protests when the collar had been snapped around neck.
A flash of movement caught Doc's attention. He raised binoculars to his eyes, but saw it was only the ostrich in her pen, the tall bird resuming her punishment of the scarecrow figure Conell had flung in her cage a half-hour earlier. Another motion redirected Doc's focus, and he resolved Gary, his true target, as the lad skulked along the perimeter of Building 14, pausing before a door to jiggle its handle unsuccessfully.
Doc pointed the binoculars at Building 14 itself, spoke a soft work of command, then read numbers scrolling at the lower edge of his field of view. The numbers told a story well known by now. The binoculars were lowered.
"You are coming up behind me, so don't bother trying to be sneaky. You probably weigh twice as much as your species base weight, and all that hardware makes you a bit stiff, anyway. Face it, unless you are in some noisy factory or foundry, Borg are just not meant to sneak. Besides, how many times do I have to remind you that I cannot be assimilated?" asked Doc. He stood and turned to regard the drone, who had an expression on his face which could only be described as sheepish. That expression quickly vanished.
"I...we feel something. Drone units survive intact, alive, but no further information is possible at this time," said Captain. The Borg's single eye was focusing on nothing in particular as he spoke, and the revision to pluralities greatly bothered Doc.
The vet probed, "That neural transceiver coming back on-line?"
Captain's attention suddenly, sharply crystallized "here" as the question was asked. Doc was immune to assimilation, true, but the change was still more than a little unnerving. "Negative. My organic transceiver, however, is receiving positive information as to drone presence in the compound. The bandwidth is insufficient for more detailed exchange of data." There was a definite note of frustration in the Borg's synthetic voice.
Doc grumbled as he saw his troubles potentially multiplied. "Can you pinpoint your comrades?"
Captain blinked and was silent. Finally, "No. Insufficient resolution. They are down there." A hand waved in the general direction of the compound.
"Gee, that's a lot of help," sarcastically replied Doc. "Unfortunately, while those buildings may look like they are manufactured of standard steel, that is not the case. The military probably reverse-engineered it from some poor shmuck who crashed his shuttle during a student driver certification exam. Earth used to be on the course, you know, until someone finally realized the planet had long progressed past the ox and plow stage. Anyway, that 'steel' is a hybrid alloy which blocks lifeform signatures. I can't tell which buildings are empty and which ones might be housing small armies; and Gary doesn't seem to be having much luck finding an unlocked door."
Captain approached Doc until the drone was next to the vet. The pair were quite obvious on the side of the hill, or would have been if anyone had bothered to look beyond the immediate military compound. However, Gary had been as good as his word as to knowing multitudes of back ways onto the base; and the airbase guards weren't exactly the cream of the crop.
The drone abruptly grabbed Doc's binoculars, pulling them out of unresisting hands. Before Doc could complain, the Borg had them up to his own face, nanotubles from the knuckles of the whole hand plugged into the device. Perhaps Doc had underestimated how fast a Borg could move.
"Hey!" exclaimed Doc. "Those are Mark III Titok binoculars! They cost me a pretty penny, not to mention the bribe I had to spend to get a postal mech to deliver to this Director-forsaken rock! If you break them..."
Captain unlinked himself from the binoculars and returned them. "The device is not damaged. Simplistic tools are not assimilated. The alloy is a tritanium-bismouth-molybdenum composite. It can be rendered transparent to life signatures with application of an active theta-radiation beam."
Doc gingerly held his binoculars, turning them over in his hands to inspect for injury and any obvious Borgification despite reassurance to the contrary from Captain. "Well, we don't have an active theta-radiation beam hereabouts. There are no artificial theta-radiation sources for at least thirty light years. What we do have is Gary."
"An inefficient system. I could..."
"You will do nothing, Borg. Gary will remain Gary, inefficiencies and all."
Captain was silent.
Captain was silent. His options were limited. The most attractive choice was the most direct: incapacitating Doc, breaking the leash, and heading to the base proper to search for the drones he could feel down there. Besides the problems inherent with bullets when base guards employed the age-old mantra to shoot first and ask questions later, Doc was quite stronger than his human frame would suggest. Captain was not sure how much force would be required to knock the veterinarian out, or if such was even possible.
Staring at the boxy buildings one at a time, Captain unsuccessfully attempted to boost gain to the organic transceiver. Its limited range and bandwidth was worse than a hindrance, it was also a goad to act upon the instinctual impulse to reunite with the members of his sub-collective, no matter the cost. Memories were clear in many respects now, and among them was the list of those who had bee in the infalling shuttle with him - Doctor, Delta, 119 of 212.
The signatures from the base included Doctor and the twin Deltas. 119 of 212 was missing.
Dusk sank into night. Crickets sang. The stars glittered.
"Here comes Gary," informed Doc.
Captain slowly panned the hillside which sloped to the outer base buildings, switching to an infrared overlay. A heat blob was making its way through the sage towards Captain and Doc. Minutes later it resolved under light-augmented visual to be Gary.
The human huffed from his climb, panting. "No go. I checked as many doors as I could, but they are all locked. With new locks. The windows are all blacked out too, painted from the inside. Usually when you sneak onto base, the buildings are wide open. After all, there's nothing much to steal down there. Building 18 seems to have more than the usual number of lights on in it, though, from the leakage under the doors."
Captain tried to inch towards Gary, but, as Doc had noted earlier, Borg are not made from stealth. A warning jerk from the leash prompted half-formed plans to assimilate the human to be shelved.
Doc sighed. "Building 18. Maybe. Not good enough. I had hoped to take care of the problem tonight, but I think it is too risky." The vet paused, considering. "We'll head back to the clinic and I'll put my guest back in his alcove. You /will/ go to your trailer and not bother me for a bit, Gary. This is a serious request, not a demand, so you needn't guzzle that beer you have in your pocket. As for me...I need to make a few long distance phone calls. Very long distance collect phone calls."
Motioning for Gary to lead, Doc followed in the human's footsteps. Captain remained motionless as long as possible, facing the base, but incessant tugs to his collar eventually forced him to trail behind the duo.
*****
Night covered Roswell Airbase, but it was not dark to Al's eyes. For humans, building flood lights and the leakage from windows only served to emphasize the desert shadows. Al, on the other hand, found the night to be a comforting cloak; and natural vision which extended into the near infrared meant warm-blooded night animals (coyotes, mice, base guards, Captain Conell) never surprised him.
The target Al crept up on was Lucy. The ostrich dozed on her feet, alternately tucking her beak into her back feathers and gazing semi-alert into the night. Each time the ostrich moved, Al froze. His normal white lab coat had been exchanged for one of black; and that, combined with his dark skin, was enough to render him near impossible to see when he was motionless.
With achingly slow persistence, not to mention much patience, Al approached the cage. A short hollow stick he had been carrying was raised, one end slid through a wire opening. In the other end Al gently slid a tufted dart. The payload was a syringe-worth of blood drawn a short time prior from the comatose, but otherwise whole, Borg. Taking aim, Al puffed his cheeks and blew into the dart gun's bole.
Lucy had better night sight than is generally attributed to ostriches. After all, those ostrich ancestors on the African plains who were blind to the night stalk of hyena or lion tended to not pass along their genes. Since first seeing the not-me closing in on her cage, Lucy had found it difficult to sleep.
The approaching not-me had its own special category: "bad." The bad had the same form as mate or the noisy not-mes, but it usually ignored Lucy. That disregard was just fine according to the bubbling froth which was an ostrich's thoughts. The bad created a heightened anxiety which was worse than barking dogs, roaring lions, and thunderstorms put together.
The bad moved closer and closer during the times Lucy feigned sleep. Eventually it reached the edge of her cage, a territorial boundary which normally had Lucy charging transgressors with flared wings and warning hiss. However, the bad was beyond such bluffs, and Lucy could do nothing except stand in place and shiver, hoping the predator would mistake her for a quaking tree.
No such luck.
The bad raised a stick it was holding and pointed it at Lucy. The far end it placed on its lips. A faint pffft sounded, barely audible over the nightly cricket serenade. From the stick flew an object, a thing which struck Lucy at the base of her neck and just above the sternum. At first nothing occurred, the sting slight, like that of an annoying insect.
Then things really became weird.
***********
Here ends Part II of "The Roswell Incident." Will Doctor and Delta be freed...or vivisected? Why are there two aliens exiled on Earth, unknowing of the other and living only 15 miles from each other? And what do you do with a seven-foot tall Borgified ostrich? Can I ask any more pointless question!? Return for Part III of the Roswell Incident to find out!
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