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******************************************************************************* Star Trek: Play by E-Mail The Forbidden Years Campaign Write-up =============================================================================== Adventure #1 Flight of the Phobos ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Turn #4 Investigations =============================================================================== Copyright 1993 Jim Vassilakos / All Rights Reserved ******************************************************************************* Cast & Crew ST-PBeM GameMaster Jim Vassilakos Dr. O'Neil Mark Hammel Lt. Bellasario Alan Ward Lt. T'lar Ronnie Simonds 2nd Lt. Morchainte Brian Chrisman Administrivia: ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Some of the players (Brian and Ron in particular) were in contact with me on an almost hourly basis, particularly during the long weekend, filling in the details on what their characters were doing. It helped add a lot of flavor to what otherwise might have been some rather lifeless investigative work. Crew of the Phobos (as of the beginning of this turn) ----------------------------------------------------- Command - Commander Nienna Elineva Helm & Navigation + Lt. T'lar + Ensign Yoshio Higashi + Crewman Arnold Northup + Crewman Glen Curtis + Crewman Reva Balkom Weapons & Communications -w Lt. Theodore (Gunner) Bellasario - Ensign Sam Gibbs - Ensign Susanne Brown -d Ensign Don Janson + Ensign Vince Trozena - Crewman Tom Parker - Crewman Liz Wilder - Crewman Martin Bains - Crewman Keith Byron +w Crewman Turak + Crewman Lila Weers + Crewman Marc Linanes + Crewman Joseph Ekstrom + Crewman Suji Fujinara + Crewman Clyde Osborne + Crewman Jake Sorrows + Crewman William Doss Medical -w Dr./Lt. Cmdr. Jacob O'Neil - Nurse/Lt. Darla Reeko - Lt. Joan Lindstrome - Ensign John Sanders -d Ensign Charlene Rehorn + Ensign Sarah Kreis + Ensign Wynell Vines - Crewman Terry Barclay + Crewman Ponciano Perez + Crewman Donald Archer + Crewman Iris Conner + Crewman Luis Garcia Engineering -w Chief Watson - Crewman George Jacobs - Crewman Chris Cullinac - Crewman Penny Sullivan -d Crewman Cheryl Kruger -w Crewman Bill Tolavar Sciences + Lt. Tsandzia arul Morchainte Astrophysics + Ensign Sirith Computer Maintenance/Design +w Ensign Tyran Arloch Artificial Sentience + Cheif Malek Gavuzzi AI & Cybernetics + Crewman Rodolfo Juarez Geology + Crewman Angelo Ahumada Linguistics + Crewman Katsuko Shiomi Robotics + Crewman Peggy Mitchell XenoBiology & XenoEcology + Crewman Johanes Behncke XenoArcheology Non-departmental - Crewman Joe Harris Cargo + Crewman Hazel Reiner Historian + Crewman John Hackman Domestic Services + Crewman Tim Brown Medical Reception + Crewman Jennifer Talgath Administrative + Crewman Henry Manson Cargo Status: w = wounded d = dead - = originally from the Excalibur + = originally from the Phobos Stardate 6003.16 at 1825 hours: USS Phobos, Auxiliary Control (Deck 6) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Nien presses a button on her command chair, returning the ship's alert status to condition yellow. "Okay folks, I'm open to suggestions." T'lar and Tsandzia trade a pair of weary glances, much like the ones they'd exchanged with each other when Captain Doran asked them to investigate the problem with the forward sensor array just prior to the Borg attack. At the time, they weren't too concerned about it. Just another glitch in an increasingly glitchy starship. Now they know that their lives may depend on the options they propose. Not only their lives, but the lives of the rest of the crew. "Better to just run like hell," T'lar thinks to herself, but says nothing. Too much duty to consider, duty that gets in the way of everything, including the axiom of self-preservation. "If the aliens had some reason to initiate suicide procedures," Tsandzia begins, "like releasing nasty gasses into their environment, it'd be our duty to investigate the incident, and send back to Star Fleet any information we can about the menace." Elineva leans back, "You think this is a suicide procedure on their part? Those scans you were browsing are several minutes old. Prior to the combat. They had no reason to commit suicide then, and I see no reason why they do now." "Sir," T'lar interjects, "I did sense a feeling of 'helplessness' from the aliens." "How is this?" "Vulcan mind-meld. It was only for a moment, sir." "You took it upon yourself to..." "Yes sir." Nien takes a deep breath, "What else did you learn?" "They call themselves the Borg. They are a manufactured race, technologically based, and their purpose is to assimilate civilizations, appropriate technologies, and destroy those who they cannot conquer. Those who are assimilated lose their individuality and become tools of a central Borg consciousness... a collective consciousness to be more precise." "All that in one moment of mind-reading? Very impressive, Lieutenant." "A certain amount is well-educated conjecture, sir. I believe I am justified in my prognosis." "You make them sound like a disease." "Whatever they are, sir... they attacked this ship, and less than half her crew are alive today." "Thirty-six percent." "Uhh... yes sir." "Let's keep one thing straight, Lieutenant. I'm the Deltan and you're the Vulcan. I am well aware of what they did. My anger is more volatile than any commander's should be, but what I need now are the facts and rational, level- headed advice. Just think, if it wasn't for Lt. Bellasario's stern sense of caution, we'd be without a ship right now." Nien looks toward Tsandzia, then shrugs, "Plan A was a ramming maneuver. Certain members of the seniors staff didn't take well to it." "I should think not." "Bellasario and O'Neil teamed-up and talked me into reconsidering. Now they're in sickbay." "A small price to pay for saving the ship." "At the time, I didn't think it would make much of a difference either way. It never occurred to me that these 'Borgs' wouldn't give chase. You were on board their ship, Tsandzia." Looking toward T'lar, "And you were in their collective head. Why aren't they chasing us? Give me a theory. Something. Anything." Tsandzia leans with her back against the science console, "I think it is safe to assume that they don't because they can't. Perhaps they can't even fire their weapons. Otherwise, they would have just pummeled us when our shields were down, and then taken the ship by boarding parties as they had done before. Or, alternatively, perhaps they have limitations to their power we do not yet understand. I still can't figure out why they took us to the planet surface to be 'indoctrinated' into their society. Certainly, it must be more convenient for them to conduct this activity inside their ship. I would think that a race so technologically advanced could do pretty much whatever they want wherever they want." Nien nods, "I've been wondering about this also. I was hoping we'd find the answers to these questions on the planet surface. Now I'm afraid that the only solution may be on their vessel." "Then we must investigate. There's too much to gain to do otherwise." "More so than you know. I doubt that Lt. T'lar had time to fully inform you of our status." Tsandzia shoots a confused look toward T'lar as Nien continues. "You see, Lieutenant... the aliens... the Borg, I mean... they must somehow have the ability to cut dimensional rifts in space. We were sucked through one when we were investigating the Phobos. That's how we lost contact with the Excalibur. We found T'lar on board. But we didn't know where in hades we were. When examining the starscape, we determined that this universe that we are in is... well, it's a mirror reflection, in essence, of our original universe. I don't know what that means. All I know is that even when we'd reversed the polarity on our subspace equipment and managed to get sensors functioning properly, we still couldn't find any navigation beacons. In short... we're not on Delta anymore, if that means anything to you... and I'm afraid that our only means of finding our way back home might be locked in that Borg starship." Tsandzia takes a deep breath, "All the more reason to investigate." "T'lar?" "If you're looking for concurrence, Captain... then I suppose such a route is logical. Tsandzia, you said that HPT-11 is acidic. What sort of protective equipment will we need?" "We don't have it on this ship. The stuff corrodes metal in minutes and eats through flesh in seconds. My guess is that it would render our vacc suits inhospitable in a matter of a minute or two." "How about neutralizing its acidity?" "It's possible, but we'd have to start a very hot fire in order to do it. It would probably slag most of the vessel's interior." "Then we'll have to flush it into space," Nien proposes. "Yes, but we'll have to be careful. HPT-11 is fairly reactive at high temperatures. Large-scale phaser hits will certainly start a fire. Hand phasers also can, though it's much less probable. With T'lar's help, I could fabricate low-power welders which should be able to do the job without that risk. They'd have to be used directly on the outer hull, however." "How long will fabrication take?" "Oh, about three hours." Nien nods, "You'll have to be careful. The pressure release from a vessel that size will be substantial." "Agreed. I wouldn't want to be caught in the release flow, particularly considering what it does to vacc suits. There's also the matter of disabling the structural integrity field. So far we don't know how their's is organized... what sort of redundancies we'll have to overcome. But with enough time and on-site scans, we should be able to do it." Nien nods, "Okay, then it's decided. Ensign Higashi, take us to the system's first gas giant. We'll assume a hidden posture until the welders are fabricated. Lt. T'lar, you'll be selecting and commanding the boarding party. Dismissed. Ensign Higashi... you have the conn." "I... uh... the conn?" Yoshio manages to stammer, amazed at the changes a few minutes can bring. Not many heart-beats ago, he was certain he'd be "Borged" like the others. Now he was assuming the conn of the Phobos. "You have a problem with that Ensign?" "No sir. No problem." "Very well... I'll be in sickbay." Stardate 6003.16 at 1900 hours: USS Phobos, Fabrication Services (Deck 9) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The design for the zero-gee welders is far from standard. Normally, such devices rely on plasma ejection, the pure brawn approach. These must be constructed without anything that could set off an HPT-11 reaction. Following Tsandzia's instructions, T'lar has the computer give them charged carbon lattice tips with inertial-friction correction units. They'll generate heat, to be sure. Enough to glow midnight blue. But they won't set off that reaction. "You know... maybe they didn't fire on us because they didn't want us firing back," T'lar muses. "Just think of the problems they'd have if an HPT-11 reaction started on their ship." Tsandzia shrugs, "I'm still not sure that it is HPT-11. We won't know for sure until we crack open the hull and start taking particle emission scans. So far all we have to go on are neutrino readings... and that's not a lot." T'Lar considers some of these comments quietly for a few moments, "I've been meaning to ask you... what happened to you on that ship?" "They were just holding us captive. It's kinda hazy... I was barely conscious. Turak was keeping me alive with the battery in his bionic arm." "I thought you'd been avoiding him." Tsandzia shakes her head, "Not anymore." "Anything else?" "Well, I remember noticing that occasionally one of the guards would fall over. I wasn't really sure what was going on. At the time, I didn't really think too much about it. Others would come to replace the ones that went down. Unfortunately the protonic shield, being basically ionized particles at high velocities, really screwed up my senses. We were in some sort of holding cell." T'Lar blinks rapidly. "That is exceedingly odd. You didn't think to mention this to the Captain?" "To tell you the truth, I'd forgotten all about it until just now." Stardate 6003.16 at 1900 hours: USS Phobos, Sickbay (Deck 7) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- O'Neil stares at the ceiling of sickbay, trying to push his eyes far enough into his forehead to read the display in back of him. Somewhere close-by, he can hear his medical staff working furiously as the faint beeping noise of someone's heartbeat turns into a high-pitched whine. "We're losing him again. Clear!" *Phtzzzztak* "Clear!" *Phtzzzztak* "No response. EEG flatlining." "Clear!" *Phtzzzztak* It goes on like that for another minute or so, and in the end, there's nothing they can do. For a moment there, Jacob finds himself glad that he's just one of the patents. Then he curses himself. He could have saved that life. Maybe. "How long have you been awake?" It's Elineva. The Captain. A look of weary pain on her face. "Sir... requesting permission to return to duty." The pain dissolves, a faint smile replacing it, "Permission denied." Lindstrome emerges in back of her. She's tired. Gloves soaked in blood up to the elbow. "Well... if it isn't our star patient. How are you feeling, Doctor?" "I was dreaming... something about a burning house. What's my condition, Lieutenant?" "You took burns and microscopic lacerations to your middle and lower back. We used a foreign matter ejector to locate and transport the shrapnel and you're currently on regen-5." "Organ damage?" "None detected." "Nervous system?" "We still have to conduct a few tests. If you don't mind, I'd like you to wiggle your toes." She lifts the bed sheet just a bit, a lump forming in her throat. "Right foot, Doctor." "I am." Nien looks away as Lindstrome drops the sheet, "We'll boost the regen." "Nothing?" "It may just be a matter of time. You know how spinal nerves are." Somebody calls out, "Lieutenant, we need you over here." "I'm sorry, Doctor. I have to go." She turns and strides away, the epitome of efficiency. As O'Neil looks back to the Commander, he sees that the pained look has returned to her face, the rudiments of tears welling in her brown eyes as she takes the Doctor's hand. "You're going to be okay, O'Neil." Then she gulps down, as though she doesn't believe a word of it. "I'm sorry... I..." "I know. How's Darla?" "She's fine. She's working on Bellasario right now. He's in pretty bad shape." "I see. Who just died?" "Chief Watson. They'd been in there over a half-hour with him. I really thought he'd make it." She forces a smile, "It's different somehow..." "Being in charge? Being responsible? Captain... I wanted to be in that landing party. I practically had to twist Gunner's arm just to get my wish." He shakes his head, "I don't hold you responsible for this." "What are the chances?" "It's hard to say," he lies to himself. "They'll boost me to regen-10. Then, if I still can't wiggle my toes..." One of the rescued crewmen approaches into view, "Umm... Commander. Lt. T'lar on channel 712." Nien reaches over and turns a dial on the wall's comm panel. "Elineva here." "Sir, I've been talking with Tsandzia. She just remembered something that happened while she was on the Borg ship." "Put her on." "Sir, Lt. Morchainte here. Umm... I'm not sure how this fits in, but the aliens were acting like they were under some strange form of attack... like they were sick or something." "Explain." "The ones who were guarding our holding cell... they just fell over. Others would replace them, and then they'd do the same thing." "You didn't think to tell me this before?" "I'm sorry, sir." Nien looks toward a corner of the room, "Lieutenant, were they exhibiting any symptoms of an illness?" "Symptoms, sir?" "Did they sneeze or anything?" "Well, I really didn't notice that, sir. I was barely awake as it was." Nien nods, "Thank you for reporting this, Lieutenant. Let me know when the welders are ready." "Aye sir." Nien hits the comm panel again, closing the channel. She casts O'Neil a long glance, then looks back over her shoulder. "Crewman. A moment of your time." "Sir?" "What's your name?" "Crewman, Second Class, Timothie Brown, Sir." "At ease, Crewman. Tell me something. You were on board the alien vessel. Is that correct?" "Yessir." "Did anything unusual happen while you were on board?" "Uh... the whole thing was unusual, sir." "With respect to your guards." "Uh... well, the guards appeared to have some sort of difficulty." "Explain." "Well... they just sort of fell over, sir. It happened a couple of times." "They just suddenly fell over." "Yessir." "Anything beyond that?" "Uh... I'm not sure what you're getting at, sir." "I need you to be specific, Crewman. What exactly did you see." "Well, they were just standing there one second, all stoic, as though they were more like machines that people. Then one of them would suddenly blink a couple times, look around, and then he'd fall on the floor. Then they'd come and carry him off, and the same thing would happen to another one. We were behind some sort of energy field the entire time. Nobody said a word." Nien pinches the bridge of her nose, "Why am I always the last to hear about these things?" "Sir?" "Thank you, Crewman. That will be all." "Uh, yessir." He walks back into the office area. "Captain," O'Neil begins, "this... `illness'. Presumably, the aliens caught it from being in a foreign environment. The planet, for instance. Or the Phobos. When they boarded this ship, it's possible they `caught a bug', so to speak. I would suggest a complete scan of the ship. You might want to start with sickbay, since they did attack here and sustained wounds." She nods, "Uh... what's his name... Brown!" The crewman pokes his head back in the door. "Sir?" "One more thing. I need you make a full tricorder scan of sickbay, looking for anything unusual. Also, compile a list of the inventory. Every piece of medical equipment and apparatus that's here, excluding nothing. You'll make your report to Dr. O'Neil." "Uh... yessir." "Well, get to work." "Yessir." He closes the door this time, possibly hoping to escape the deluge of assignments Nien is handing out. "I hope it turns up something, Captain," O'Neil offers. "You don't sound too hopeful." "No... I just wish we had some of the aliens to test. I have no idea what would constitute a virus for them. It could be something we naturally find in our environments. Hell, it could be the common cold for all we know. We could analyze the blood we found in sickbay for anomalies, but again, we don't know what's out of the ordinary for them." "Well, if it's the Borg you want, then you may not have to wait very long." "The Borg?" "That's what Lt. T'lar calls them. She'll be leading a boarding party within a few hours if all goes as planned." "To their ship? You think that's wise?" Nien shrugs, "What choice have we? We're not getting out of here until we get some more answers. Do you think this illness could have something to do with the phasing effect you noticed earlier?" "On the alien blood? I don't know. I postulated that it might be the result of their briefly entering our dimension. Or perhaps it was we who were doing the phasing. Like I said... I don't know what caused it. All I know is that the effect soon wore off. It's possible this is what's causing the illness. If kept in a living body, the phasing may last longer than the seventy-two or so hours it persisted in the alien blood samples. Then again, this might just be a normal reaction of the conversion process they apply to normal beings to make them into one of their own. God. We just don't have enough information. If only we had one of them to study. All I can suggest is that we start scanning the ship and re-checking the blood. Maybe we'll find something we missed earlier." Nien nods, "Let me know if you find something. In the meantime, while you're waiting for that report, you might as well get some rest." "Is that an order?" "Well, you're the doctor, Doctor. You know what's best for you better than I do." "So, in other words, I have permission to return to duty." Nien lets a faint smile show through. "You never give up, do you." "No." She takes in a moment of silence, then nods. It's all the authorization that O'Neil needs. Stardate 6003.16 at 2115 hours: Borg cubeship, exterior ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- After the Phobos moves out of hiding and returns to an orbital position around the system's one Class-M planet, a group of seven people in spacesuits materialize only a few dozen meters from the Borg ship's gigantic hull. From up close, the cubic vessel, measuring roughly 500 meters on a side, is more imposing than ever. Boarding party: + Lt. T'lar + Lt. Tsandzia arul Morchainte - Nurse/Lt. Darla Reeko - Ensign Sam Gibbs (weps/comm) + Chief Malek Gavuzzi (sciences) + Crewman Turak (weapons/comm) - Crewman Penny Sullivan (engr) Never in Tsandzia's memory has she seen a stranger away team than this, each person from a different government, females in the majority, a good spread of the races, and most important, each of the major disciplines represented. T'lar had chosen her people carefully, Tsandzia thinks silently. That much is certain. "Activate tactical thrusters. Report status to viscomp." T'lar gives the orders mechanically, as though it's a routine she's been over a thousand times before. "All systems functioning. Lt. Morchainte and Chief Gavuzzi, attach density sensors to hull. Phobos, any notice taken by the Borg ship?" "None that we are detecting," returns Ensign Trozena's voice. Tsandzia and Malek approach the vessel cautiously, moving past the tightly spaced deflector emitters, and placing magnetically-held density sensors to the silver metallic hull of the ship. "Activating sensors." On the inner surface of every party member's face plate, a diagram of the hull's density pattern is displayed in soft blue light. "Running analysis," Gavuzzi announces in a thick colonial accent. "Interesting. Iron molecules are arranged into a crystal lattice." "Their atomic structure appears to have undergone a partial collapse," Tsandzia comments. "Reading an electrical current through the inner layers. Appears to enhance the molecular bonding. Should make things difficult for us, but not impossible." "What about the SIF?" Gavuzzi points about thirty degrees to the right. "There's a power pylon over there." Tsandzia floats toward it, finally pressing a sensor against it's surface, "It appears to be active. My guess is that we can disable this section of the structural integrity field by drilling here and breaking the electrical flow." "Do it," T'lar intones. Tsandzia presses the welder into place and starts taking care of business. It chips away at the hull for a few minutes, the head glowing intensely from the frictional heat, before breaking off it's holding pin and spinning into space. "No doubt a faulty design," T'lar observes. "Hey, you were helping. Remember?" "Try again." On the second attempt, the new welder makes contact with something fairly important, and sparks fly into space, throwing Tsandzia backward into an impromptu reverse somersault. Luckily, there's no break in the polymer-mesh fabric of her vacc suit, and she slowly stabilizes herself with the tactical thrusters. "Pylon disabled," Gavuzzi announces. "Positronic and gamma radiation detected. Analysis seems to confirm the HPT-11 theory." A short cheer ensues, as the boarding party can hear people clapping from the Phobos bridge. Either it's clapping or just a sustained burst of static due to the radiation release. "Uh... localized SIF is obviously down," Gavuzzi continues. "Okay, things should be easier from here on out. Sullivan and Morchainte. You know what to do." Everybody spreads out against the hull as Tsandzia and Penny get to work, wedging themselves beneath a pair of deflector emitters as they take their welders to the hull. Without its electrical support field, even crystaliron doesn't stand much of a chance against the welders, and soon, they find themselves taking special care to avoid the steady stream of HPT-11 shooting from the incisions they are cutting. With one final touch, a chunk of hull roughly a meter in diameter blasts into space, pushed by a powerful jet of the acidic vapor. "Let's get out here!" "Agreed." The team drops back a few hundred meters and waits several minutes as the gas continues to pour into the great vacuum of space. Finally, the flow tapers off, and then finally stops entirely. "That couldn't have been all there was," Sullivan mutters. "Phobos, what neutrino trace are you reading?" "Reduced from factor-60 to factor-52," Brown's voice returns. "Okay, Gibbs and Turak. Go in and see what's there," T'lar orders. They look at each other, a little bit uncertain, then float over to the hole in the side of the ship, disappearing within. "Uhh... no trace of the Borg, sir. But their equipment is all over the place. Plasma throwers. Some sort of helmets. Various cables and metal boxes. Everything is severely acid scarred." T'lar looks toward Tsandzia, opening a private channel. "You said the acid would dissolve flesh in seconds. How long would it take for bones?" "I dunno. A few minutes, perhaps." T'lar nods, moving back the public channel, "Gibbs... is the equipment neatly stacked or sorted?" "No sir. It's all over the place, floating around everywhere you look." Gibbs and Turak bring some out, and T'lar has it beamed aboard the Phobos for a closer inspection. "You think they'll learn anything from it?" "Who knows. Gibbs, were there any pressure doors?" T'lar inquires. "Yeah, but the acid fused them all to their frames. Most seem to have HPT-11 on the other side, however, tricorder readings show one compartment which appears to have a standard nitrogen-oxygen atmosphere." "We can beam into it without breaking the pressure seal," Sullivan suggests. "Life signs?" "None that we could detect, sir." T'lar seems to chew the situation over in her mind for several seconds, leaving a conspicuous silence in the absence of any direction. She finally opens a line to the Phobos. "Get me Crewman Shiomi." "...Ay, Shiomi here," comes a high-pitched female voice, behind a steady wave of static. "Katsuko, this is T'lar. I need to borrow the RG-32 robot if it's still functional." "Reggie? Reggie is fine. Why you want him for?" Tsandzia cringes, remembering how her, T'lar, and Katsuko had hooked a radio communicator on the trashbot's video scanner, routing the input to a console in the robotic maintenance lab so they could spy on various crew members and record their less than discreet activities. T'lar always maintained that it was a purely intellectual hobby for her, but Tsandzia caught her grinning at the console more than once. If it ever got out, they'd be lynched by the crew for sure. "Uh... the away team needs Reggie to do some reconnaissance. I'd like you to hook a communicator on his video scanner and then route the signal to... uh... to wherever is most convenient. How long do you think that should take?" "Ah... no time, I should think." "Good. Once you're finished, deliver the robot to transporter room one. T'lar out. Phobos, beam us back aboard for now." Stardate 6003.16 at 2130 hours: USS Phobos, Sickbay (Deck 7) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Here you go, Doctor." O'Neil plugs the data-card into his patient-console, adjusting the inclination of his bed with the push of a button. "Nice and thorough. I had no idea we had so much junk." "Thank you, sir. Will you be needing anything else?" "No. This should suffice for the time being." O'Neil looks over the list. Junk is an accurate word. Most of the provisions date back two decades. Nothing like the Excalibur. The Phobos is just a pawn, played by Star Fleet with the possibility for sacrifice firmly in mind. Most border patrol craft qualify under the same general category: expendable. The only things that stick out are the few items of a conspicuously recent technology, equipment probably bartered from Orion pirates in seedy bars along the less travelled outposts. The former chief surgeon must have been a professional drunkard, O'Neil thinks to himself, remembering the rows of liquor bottles in special storage he'd spied when he'd first gotten on board. The man's record so much as confirmed the theory. Dr. Joseph Kirby had been a real wiz-kid at the Academy, Class of Excellence, top marks all the way. He'd even been decorated with the Silver Starburst for frontline duty at the battle of Gamma Capricorn. Somehow, he'd managed to steal specialized medical equipment from the Zarkoans and used it to save the lives of scores of Federation personnel. The details were classified, of course. When he'd returned to Sol, he found himself aboard a small transport in the Jupiter system. Something went wrong, and an Admiral was hurt. Whatever Kirby's treatment was, it killed him. A medic testified that the Doctor was fairly intoxicated, and the tribunal believed it, though it was too late to verify the story with a blood scan. If not for his prior decorations, Kirby would have been court-martialed. As it was, he got stuck out on border patrol, the closest thing to hazardous duty Star Fleet could dig-up on such short notice. Kirby's special collection consists mainly of his booze and a once-functional computer which staffers say was loaded to the hilt with bio-chemical design software. There are also a number of miniature stasis trays, probably for retaining rare blood types without damaging the cells. The only problem is that the trays aren't big enough to store much in the way of blood. Maybe a few ounces can be contained. Certainly not enough to save a person's life. Further, the trays are rather high-end for that sort of use. Special care seems to have been taken to isolate specific substances. O'Neil simply has no idea what those substances were. Finally, the foreign matter ejector, the same one used to transport microscopic shrapnel out of O'Neil's back, is an item of particular interest. It has the ability to manipulate and modify sub-cellular particles under a scanning muon microscope. Of course, nothing so complex as a living cell can be replicated. However, it's possible that a simple cell could be modified. The genetics could be tampered with. O'Neil wonders, hitting a button on his arm rest. "Sir?" "Tim, was Dr. Kirby conducting some sort of research?" "Uh... I'm really not the person you should be asking, sir. I do the office work: fill out forms, transport equipment, answer calls. You want to know about the doctor's private work... I'd say Lt. Brogley would be the one you should be asking... and he's dead." "I see. Of those who were rescued, who worked with Kirby the closest?" "Uh... nobody, really. I can get Sarah. She's probably the best person to ask about that." "Please." A few seconds later, O'Neil finds a young ensign occupying the room's only guest chair, her light brown curls balled in a hair net, deep blue eyes searching the corner of the room as though recalling memories from a past life. "No, Dr. Kirby didn't like anybody poking around his computer," she intones with a substantial Texan drawl, "and to listen to him, you'd think that touching those stasis trays was an offense worthy of gettin' yer hand severed at the wrist." "What was he so jumpy about?" "I have no idea. To tell you the truth, I didn't really care. He had his business and I had mine, and that's that, if you gather my drift." O'Neil grits his teeth. Dr. Kirby obviously didn't do much in the way of keeping discipline. So it was among the border-crawlers. They had the hazardous duty day in and day out. It gave people the wrong attitude after awhile, particularly when their commanding officer was a drunk. "Do any of the medical personal who are left know anything about what he was doing?" She shakes her head, "If you'd met him, you'd understand him a bit better. He was wound real tight. Except when he was drinking, of course, which was much of the time. I remember walking in one evening, and he was having one of those long toasts with Lt. Brogley. They were all giggles, and I asked what was going on, of course, 'cause I thought they were making fun of me or something. So Kirby boasts that he's some sort of certifiable genius, and I says no, you're just a certifiable weirdo. Y'know what he did?" "No, but I'm afraid you're going to tell me." "He starts to holler at me. Tells me I'm a butt-headed bimbo. Those were his exact words, too. So I tell him, and I say it nicely, that I'm every bit as smart as he is, and that I'll play him at tridimensional chess to prove it. Him and Boogerly both." "Boogerly?" "Uh... I mean, Brogley." O'Neil suppresses a grin, "So did he take you up on the challenge?" "Of course not. He knows I'd beat him. So, instead, he turns on his dumb ol' computer and shows me this schematic of something, I dunno what. It's like some sort of machine." "You mean a complex cell?" "No, I mean a machine. Non-organic molecules. Okay?" "Okay." "And then he points to one of them stasis trays, and he says that there's a thousand of those things in there, and that they're making more of themselves 'cause they're lonely. Like I said before, he was a certifiable weirdo. I don't even know why I'm telling you this. They were just putting me on. Right?" Jacob's jaw involuntarily drops an inch and a half. "Sir? You okay?" "Sarah... I need you to conduct a full scan on the sample in those stasis trays." "What samples... they're empty." "Assuming they aren't... I'd like you to look for those microscopic machines Kirby had alleged to create. See if you can get one of the engineers to help you. Okay?" "Uh... sure, Doctor. I'll just make sure it's okay with Lt. Lindstrome." "Nurse Reeko would be a more appropriate choice, don't you think?" "Oh, she's not here. She was requested to attend a boarding party aboard the alien vessel." A lump forms in the Doctor's throat. Stardate 6003.16 at 2140 hours: USS Phobos, Auxiliary Control (Deck 6) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- T'lar watches the fuzzy picture on the view screen as Katsuko pivots Reggie's lens from right to left. Working with next to total darkness is difficult enough without all the radioactive interference from the HPT-11. "I don't like having the ship this close to that thing," Nien states for the fifth or sixth time. "How much longer is this going to take?" "Just another minute," T'lar states, with practiced patience, "Look at those shapes. What are those? Have Reggie intensify the contrast." "You could simply turn up his light." Katsuko shakes her head, "No, that would be too obvious." "Obvious?" Tsandzia gulps down, "Yeah, we don't want the aliens to notice him... if there are any in there, that is." "Why do you three keep referring to it as a he?" Tsandzia, T'lar, and Katsuko look back and forth between each other. "Uh well..." "That's an excellent question, Commander." "Oh, I think I saw something move." "No... that was me pivoting the lens cylinder." "You know," Nien continues, "I'm impressed that you were able to rig up that communicator so quickly. The differences between one of the old RG-series video ports and your standard comm-link are rather considerable, I'm sure." "Ha... you're telling me... that link took two whole da..." "Katsuko, could you pivot that lens just a little bit more to the right?" As she moves the lens around, stepping Reggie forward by remote, and intensifying the light to the fullest of his abilities (a feature which T'lar spent several months perfecting), the image of a large chamber with what appears to be transporter pads comes into view. A number of computer consoles are laid out in the form of a hub which encircles a small pit. Unfortunately, Reggie can't see inside the pit due to the intervening consoles. There are also what look like small air tanks laying on the floor complete with gas masks. "I've seen enough," T'lar begins. "We'll beam over, and then you can move the ship out to a safer distance." When they get to the transporter room, T'lar steps up to the pads ahead of the rest of the party. "We'll keep the space suits on as protection against the radiation. Head lamps on. I'll go in first and radio if everything's okay?" "Wait a sec, I'll go with you." "No, the radiation is too fierce to transport more than one person at a time." Tsandzia turns toward Jacobs, the transporter operator she was bawling out earlier for refusing to beam her back to the planet surface, "Is that true, crewman?" "Uh... yessir, unless we can get closer in or elongate the cycle time." "Elongate the cycle to 20 seconds." "That's approaching maximum, sir." "Just do it. If there's a problem, you separate our signals, drop my half, and boost her's to maximum and get her back here. Understand?" "Yessir." Tsandzia steps up to the transporter pad with T'lar, and in less than half a minute, they are safely aboard the Borg vessel. "What was that all about?" T'lar questions. "I think we should use the 'buddy' system here. All our butts are on the line, so let's not send anybody anywhere alone, just in case our crap detectors go off when we least expect it." "Crap detectors?" T'lar muses, "I think I understand. I just didn't want the others thinking I was asking them to take risks I wasn't willing to face myself. After the way Gibbs and Turak looked at each other..." "I know. They didn't seem particularly pleased. But that is their job." Reggie scoots toward the great gabbing duo, almost bumping into them before they realize he's there. Tsandzia smiles and waves at his camera, "I guess we'd better start looking around." The bright lamps situated over their helmets scatter light throughout the chamber. It is as Reggie relayed it, except for the details. Several smaller pieces of equipment are scattered about, their function unknown, and peeking over the computer consoles and into the pit, Tsandzia can see what appears to be holographic projection equipment. "This one seems to be a transporter console. Phobos, beam in crewman Sullivan next." Tsandzia checks the doors with a tricorder. "HPT-11 behind this one. Standard breathable atmosphere behind the other." "These air tanks contain compressed oxygen," T'lar observes. Sullivan finishes materializing. "Check that transporter console, Crewman. See if you can make anything out of it." "Uh... the switches and indicators are all unmarked. I'll need to experiment with it to see how it works." "Go ahead." Penny hits a few switches, and suddenly the holographic equipment begins projecting a bowl-shaped landscape, probably from the planetary surface. "This must be where we were." Tsandzia's jaw drops half way, "They can see what a place looks like before they beam there?" "Apparently so," T'lar states. "It must allow them to target their boarding parties with unparalleled precision. I'd like to get this back aboard the Phobos." "Won't do you much good without their phase transition matrix and primary energizing coils," Sullivan states. "If their technology is anything like ours, they'd be located in bays along the ship's area perimeter. Maybe these computer consoles can be of some use. We might be able to determine their exact..." "I'd prefer you not touch those as yet," T'lar interrupts. "Sir?" "We don't know anything about how they work." "I agree," Tsandzia nods, "See what you can find out from those consoles without actually manipulating them." "Well, that's not going to be easy, is it." Tsandzia shrugs, "We should be confident there's no danger in the vicinity before we start perturbing things. Computer consoles that is." Tsandzia walks by one of the alien consoles and sighs, "As though our own computers weren't trouble enough." Tsandzia's reputation as a hater of computers is well- established aboard the Phobos. Letting frustration get the better of her, she's occasionally "taught the computer a lesson" by overloading the semi-conductor junctions on her science station. The main computer's response in one of it's rare bursts of intelligence: "Warning: additional surge-protection recommended." T'lar gathers various articles of portable alien equipment and puts them in a pile. "I want this equipment safely packed away with the rest of the party in case they're forced to leave us suddenly." "You mean you're not beaming them over here?" "We're a little shaky on getting just two people out of here. We're certainly not going to strain our luck with more than three." "Well, if you're reconsidering that, you might also want to reconsider that order to move the Phobos to a greater distance for safety," Tsandzia points out. "On the plus side, if something goes screwy, the Phobos will be able to get away before this thing goes supernova. On the minus side, we'll be stuck here. If we're just going to focus on opening this door, I don't see any imminent danger to the ship." "Any life readings behind the door?" "Uh... well, the tricorder is picking something. I don't think it's human. It doesn't register as one of the aliens either. More of a... I'm not sure what to make of it." Tsandzia glances toward T'lar, "Maybe we should get a security team in here." The Vulcan's eyes narrow, "What does it mass?" "Difficult to get clear readings due to the radiation... I had it for only a second or two. It seemed to be fairly small, about four kilograms, but considering the level of interference, the readings could be inaccurate." T'Lar patches a line to the Phobos, "Get the ship closer, and get two security guards in here as soon as possible." She readies her weapon and looks at Tsandzia. "I don't suppose you can get that door open." The door has no buttons or handles, nor is there even a detection mechanism built into the floor, walls, or ceiling. "We can weld a hole or phaser our way through." "We have time; go ahead and weld it," T'lar decides, as Turak and Gibbs beam over, their phasers drawn. "You two, stand by and watch that door. Tsandzia, help me with this welder while Gibbs keeps scanning for that organism." "What do you want me to do," Sullivan asks, from the relative safety of the transporter console. "Nothing," both women answer in unison. Stardate 6003.16 at 2150 hours: USS Phobos, Sickbay (Deck 7) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Sorry Commander, it's no good." O'Neil looks up from his patient-console. Crewman Tolavar had been a real life- saver, in a manner of speaking. Since Cullinac was the only engineer left in engineering, he refused to come down and work on the computer without a direct order from Elineva. Bill had overheard the heated conversation and offered his services, going so far as to crawl out of his bed while Lt. Lindstrome was busy in another room. "What are you doing on the floor?!" "Ah... many apologies, Lieutenant. Just trying to help the good Doctor. After all, I might need his help someday." "Sooner than you think if you don't get back into bed this instant." "Bill," O'Neil interrupts. "What's the matter with it?" "Memory storage has been burnt to a crisp. Somebody must have missed their target and hit the computer instead. There's no way you'll ever get any information off that crystal. Believe me... it's a waste of time." O'Neil nods, "Thanks," then sighs. The inspection of Kirby's and Brogley's logs was also fruitless. Both of them reported their standard business, but they were both curiously silent about this private project which Sarah Kreis had mentioned. O'Neil bites his lip as Sarah enters the room. "You know, it's possible that they made back-ups on the ship's computer." "Get back to work." She grins, "Yessir." O'Neil punches up a priority-chat command with Ensign Sirith, the main computer's system administrator. As the window pops up, he can see the young Vulcan, hair messed-up and eyes bloodshot with bags hanging underneath. "Did I wake you, Ensign?" "I was meditating." "Of course... on your back with your eyes closed. I understand. My apologies for disturbing you, Ensign, but this is important. I need to know if Dr. Kirby or Lt. Brogley own any files on the main computer." He taps a few keys, "Affirmative." "Excellent, I need you to transfer ownership to me and make me an account. Okay?" He taps a few more keys, "Is that all, Commander?" "Yeah, thanks Ensign." It seems that Kirby kept his work backed-up, however, he also encrypted it. Whenever the file is to be accessed, it asks for a password. Lt. Brogley was less paranoid, but his files don't go into the sort of detail O'Neil was hoping for. Most of them are notes on brain wave patterns and chemicals released in the cerebral cortex. Others concern the morphology of specific cranial tissues. It makes a certain amount of sense. Brogley was one of the science staffers, doubling as a medical technician. His specialty was cerebral biology, the inner workings of the humanoid brain. He had specifically requested assignment aboard the Phobos, probably to work with Dr. Kirby. O'Neil couldn't think of any other reason. Brogley had a clean record. His academic standing was excellent. He could possibly have gotten a place on the Excalibur if he'd bothered to try. Asking for assignment to a ship like this didn't make sense. O'Neil hits a button, opening a channel to the biology lab where Crewman Kreis is working. "Sarah, you there?" "Uh huh." "Tell me something. When Brogley first got on board, did he already know Dr. Kirby?" "Oh yeah. Kirby had been braggin' for over a month about this new assistant he was going to mysteriously acquire from Star Fleet." "But Brogley was assigned to Sciences." "Yeah, but he was here more than anywhere else. He was a med-tech. If you ask me, he was mis-assigned in the first place." "Well, where else did he work?" "How should I know? What am I, his keeper?" She switches the channel shut. O'Neil re-opens the channel, "Hey, I rescued you. Show some courtesy for that if you can't for rank." "Look, Doc. I'm not being rude. I'm being me. If you want to know about Brogley, ask Tsandzia or Sirith. They ought to know something." She cuts the channel again. O'Neil calls up a crew roster. "Computer, locate Lt. Morchainte." "Lt. Morchainte is not aboard the Phobos." O'Neil grits his teeth, punching up another priority-chat command with Ensign Sirith. As the window pops up, he can again see the young Vulcan, hair even more messed-up than before, and eyes incomparably bloodshot with droopy bags dangling precariously like sagging sheets hanging out to dry. 'This must be what a very sleepy Vulcan looks like when he's pissed-off', O'Neil thinks to himself. "Did I wake you again, Ensign?" "As you are no doubt aware, Doctor, in order to be woken, one must first be asleep. Vulcan's do not sleep. We meditate. I have not meditated for days, Doctor. I find it impossible to do so except under certain conditions." "You're referring to the relative temperature of your cabin." "No, Doctor. I am referring to the relative seclusion of my cabin. The privacy. The quiet solitude." "I see... I'll make this brief." "Considering the circumstances, that would be most logical." "What were Lt. Brogley's duty stations, both formal and informal? Where did he work other than sickbay?" "You might try the robotics lab. Crewman Shiomi may be of assistance." "The robotics lab. Makes a certain amount of sense. I'll look into it... thank you, Ensign." O'Neil cringes as the window pops closed with a "channel terminated" message. "Way to go, Jake... just what you need, a Vulcan scientist who'd like to strangle you." "Who you talking to?" Sarah Kreis stares about the room from the doorway, bending down to see if anybody is hiding under the bed. "I was just talking to myself, Sarah." "Oh really... that's a sign of mental collapse, you know." "Yeah, thanks. You find anything out?" She approaches the bed with a data-board (also called proto-PADDs in some circles), "Take a look for yourself." The computer's summary analysis seems to indicate the existence of a robotic- bacterial fusion organism capable of self-replication given an ambient electrical field and purified mineral resources such as iron, tungsten, and titanium. While the scans show complex machines in a fair amount of detail, determining their function is somewhat more difficult. "Is that what you were looking for, Doctor?" "More or less. Do you happen to know Crewman Shiomi?" "Kats? Sure, I do. She's one of the few people brave enough to face me in three-dee chess." "She doesn't mind losing, eh?" "She beats me, sometimes. What do you want to know about her for?" "I need to talk with her. Think you can get her down here?" "Well, last I heard, she was on the bridge piloting Reggie." "Who?" "Don't worry, Doc. I'll get her." As Kreis is leaving, O'Neil can hear a familiar sounding groan from one of the other rooms. "Oh, Sarah?" "Yeah?" "Can you fetch me a grav-chair, too?" Within a minute or two, O'Neil is floating beside Gunner's bedside. "How are you feeling, Lieutenant?" "Alive. What'd I miss?" O'Neil relates most of what he knows in as few words as possible, most of it sinking in as Bellasario closes his eyes and squints at the on-rush of information. "We need to keep an eye on that cube, Doctor. We have no way of guaranteeing that they couldn't live through the radiation. At this, point nothing they do surprises me." "But what about Kirby's machines? They fit into this somehow." "Maybe. But now we need to turn our attention to the original problem, finding out where we are in the galaxy and how we can get back to the Excalibur. If you recall, that's what we were trying to do when we got into this mess!!" Gunner takes a deep breath, lowering his voice as a medic walks by, "I, for one, want to know where the heck we are and how we got here." "Yes... of course, but..." "We know that we have encountered a race that, as far as we can tell, the Federation has never met before and one against which the Federation would be woefully outmatched if these Borg decided to try and uh... assimilate... is that the word we're using? If I weren't living this whole thing, I'd say it were too outlandish even for a work of fiction, and yet, here we are... and we must find a way to figure out where here is." "But that's exactly what I'm saying," O'Neil fights for air-time. "This is the Borg's universe. They must have intended to bring the Phobos to it, and decided to run when they saw the Excalibur coming. We beam aboard and the ship falls though." "Why didn't they just attack us, then? They disabled the Phobos with ease." "Maybe the answer to that has something to do with these machines." Gunner considers the comment for several moments. "I don't know anything about microscopic machines, and I admit that I'm fresh out of inspiration right now, and it is pretty damn frustrating." He grits his teeth and sighs deeply. Stardate 6003.16 at 2200 hours: Borg cubeship, interior ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Only a smoking hole remains where the heavily armored iris valve used to stand so proudly. The door was a wicked bitch to cut, as the sheets of fused polymer were separated by small layers of vacuum, suctioning one welder head off its mounting pin. Now, Turak pokes a flashlight inside, waving it from side to side. "You know," Tsandzia leans next to the Tellarite who'd saved her life during their capture, "considering the way the Borg shields soaked up our energy weapons, it might make sense to fabricate some old-fashioned slug-throwers." Turak grimaces, "That is a stupid idea." "Oh really? Well, I'm just trying to save your life, Turak. You might want to reconsider before you go in there." The Tellarite smiles. An argument. Anywhere, anytime, Tellarites love arguments. "It stands to reason, Sir, that a shield that can absorb a proton stream can just as easily deflect a bullet." "Not necessarily. Phasers are essentially proton throwers. If their shields withstand the bombardment of protons, they're probably operating on some sort of magnetic field, because a stream of protons has a very high charge-mass ratio when compared with non-ionized particles. That's why magnetic fields used to be common in containing high-speed protons in super-colliders. However, the magnetic field needed to stop a lead slug would just draw a hideous amount of power, being that electrically neutral atoms are just a 'bitch' to move, in a manner of speaking. It's not impossible though, due to forces you might have heard of in chemistry... Van der Waals and such." Turak blinks, feeling rather stupefied, "I refuse to argue with a female." Tsandzia grinds her teeth, electricity zapping beneath her vacc suit, wishing she could give the Tellarite a lesson in charged-particle theory, a lesson that he'd never forget. "Lieutenant," comes T'lar's sharp voice. "Back off." "Aye sir..." "Turak... as you were." He enters the room, flashlight in one hand and a phaser in the other, looking at the latter with a rather uncertain expression on his pudgy snouted face. Gibbs follows and moves to the other side. "Well, what do you see?" "Uh... some sort of beds," Gibbs manages to stammer. "Cryogenic suspension chambers," Turak growls. "If there's one thing I know, it's what freezerinos look like." "Is that all?" "No," Gibbs continues, "The passage goes on about thirty meters. There are shelves full of various gear." T'lar looks toward Tsandzia, "Do you sense any electrical or magnetic excitation?" "The radiation from the HPT-11 is coming in through the walls. It's making it difficult for me to sense much of anything having to do with electricity." T'lar nods, stepping into the room. "Okay, you guys are going to need cover. Move ahead, and stay out in the open as much as you can manage. If anything else moves, I'll fry it." Tsandzia steps in behind T'lar, staying near the doorway. "Wait, tricorder is showing it. It's close... it's..." "Tsandzia!" T'lar screams in a not-so-rare display of emotion. Suddenly, a glob of green goop plops on top of Tsandzia's helmet, oozing downward on all sides until it forms a makeshift bag over her head. Turak aims his phaser out of reflex, but Gibbs knocks it out of his hand. "Jesus... don't fire, man! You want to kill her?!" _ /| Jim Vassilakos \`o_O' jimv@cs.ucr.edu ( ) jimv@wizards.com U Riverside, California ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- This Star Trek PBeM is archived on ftp.cs.pdx.edu in pub/frp/stories/startrek -----------------------------------------------------------------------------