ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/startrek/adv1/turn05

Text File | 1994-09-10 | 37KB | 885 lines

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                           Star Trek: Play by E-Mail
                              The Forbidden Years
                               Campaign Write-up
===============================================================================
                                 Adventure #1
                             Flight of the Phobos
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
                                    Turn #5
                                 Borg & Blobby
===============================================================================
              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
                         Ensign Arloch   Steve Hyatt


Advertisements:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(1) Shameless plug for a fellow gamer

I went ahead an bought Mike Metlay's CD "Bandwidth". Mike's a Traveller player
who also happens to be a damn good musician. He and some friends from off the
net met together and produced this compilation of several synthesizer pieces,
and he's selling it for $10 a copy (+ $2 for shipping outside the USA). Orders
to Michael Metlay, Atomic City, P.O. Box 81175, Pittsburgh, PA 15217-0675, USA.
Mike can be contacted via email at [e-mail]. Like I said, I've heard
the CD, and considering that it was put together by a bunch of amateurs over a
Christmas break, it really knocked my socks off. There are rough edges, but if
you're into synth-sounds and like supporting the dreams of fellow gamers, it's
a decent buy. Nuff said.


(2) Threat to the Internet

I also received some globe-hopping take-one-and-pass-it-along email about some
goings-on in the U.S. Government, particularly as concerns the internet. Seems
that our politicians are getting ready to pounce, and pretty soon, free email
may go the way of the Dodo (the bird... not Quayle). According to what I've
heard, private telecommunications interests are pressuring the National Science
Foundation. If their plan is realized, it will mean that the majority of the
approximately 15 million users of the internet will be cut off. As for Canada,
I'm not sure what the deal is, but for those of you who are semi-politically
active, here are a few email addresses gleaned off the net that you might want
to put to good use.

Bill Clinton = [e-mail]
Al Gore = [e-mail]
Internet Committee = [e-mail]

And remember, even Reps and Senators occasionally read their mail. A little
bitching and whining can go a long way in government. Never underestimate the
power of an obnoxious voter. :-)

Now enough of this stuff and on with the game...


Stardate 6003.16 at 2205 hours: Borg cubeship, interior
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tsandzia freezes as the blob engulfs her vacc suit's helmet. Voice cracking
slightly, she manages to stammer, "Cautious guys. Hold everything. Damn lucky
he picked me to jump at... if this thing tries attacking me, I'm going to
unleash on it, and we can serve it in mess hall tonight for dinner."

"I'll pass," Gibbs mumbles, making ample use of a tricorder. "I don't scan any
acid secretions. Why don't you try shaking it off your head."

"Someone scan, check for more of them. We don't want to be caught by surprise
again."

Turak complies with the directive, stepping along the thin path which runs down
the center of the dark, rectangular chamber. About 18 meters long and 6 meters
wide with a 5 meter ceiling, the room's only lighting originates from the
party's head lamps. Tall rows of shelves lie to either side, creating an aisle
down the center, and within the shelves are stacked a variety of
electro-mechanical equipment, while the cryogenic berths occupy the front of
the chamber. Satisfied that the creature isn't doing Tsandzia any harm, Gibbs
peers into each of the berths, leaving T'lar to examine her tricorder scans of
the blob.

"I detect a minor flux in your electrical field. It seems to be draining it,
albeit minutely."

Tsandzia reaches up and touches the creature which is still draped over her
helmet. "Requesting permission to remove my helmet and transport back to the
Phobos to acquire a new one."

"Denied. We have to get this thing off you first."

The creature oozes on to Tsandzia's right arm, moving entirely off her head and
marching a slow circuit around to her shoulder.

"I think it's looking for a way past the vacc suit," Tsandzia observes. "I'm
not an expert on Vulcan mind melds, but do you think you could get something
from this little guy here?"

"I'm not getting anything... and I don't feel safe about bare-handing it."

"Uh, guys..." Gibbs begins.

T'lar patches a line to the Phobos, "Transporter room, can you get a life form
reading and beam something into a (glances over) roughly helmet-sized,
air-tight container? It is NOT to be exposed to the air, or any item or person
on the Phobos at this time."

Tsandzia yanks the organism off her shoulder, throwing it to the deck. The part
still attached to her gloves becomes strongly adhesive, refusing to part
company.

"I think it likes me."

"Uh, guys..." Gibbs repeats.

"Phobos to boarding p..t., the r.d....on .. g.vi.. us trouble up here. We c..
get a lock. .v..."

"Guys?!"

"What is it, Gibbs?"

"Uh... it's a Borg, sir."

T'lar turns around, "A Borg?"

"Come see for yourself, sir."

Sure enough, in one of the cryogenic berths, there rests a Borg, skin curiously
mottled and sunken.

"Tricorder shows no life signs," T'lar observes. "I wonder how long it's been
dead."

"No energy readings from the berth. It must have failed for some reason. Hey
Sullivan, check this thing out, will ya?"

Sullivan enters the chamber, stepping around Tsandzia who is still trying to
shake her hand free from the slime creature. Penny ignites one of the welders.

"You need help with that thing?"

"No... let me negotiate with it first."

"Good luck."

Carefully opening a small compartment on the side of the device, Penny consults
her tricorder readings. "Uncharged duranium. This was a small capacitor cell,
I'll wager."

"A battery?" Gibbs inquires.

"So it would seem. Strange. I'm getting traces of something on the duranium's
surface."

T'lar looks at the engineer's readings. "Organic molecules. Good job, Crewman.
Considering the radiation, you're extremely lucky to have picked them up."

"Lucky, sir?"

T'lar nods, "Would you like me to calculate the odds?"

"That won't be necessary, sir."

Intrigued by the new data, T'lar fingers her tricorder as though it were a
hand-held video game. "Perhaps this slime being and others like it are
responsible for the strange Borg 'illness'. It could have been steadily
draining them one by one, as it is trying to drain energy from Tsandzia now."

Tsandzia nods, "Well, at least it isn't covering my face plate any more. What
do you make of it T'lar? It's trying to draw energy from me, and I'm not
particularly comfortable with that. If it has an affinity for electricity, I
would assume that was its reason for jumping me. Good thing it doesn't appear
to be imminently hostile."

"Regardless of its intentions, this thing is definitely not getting on board
the Phobos until we know more about it."

"Agreed, but what should we do with the dead Borg?"

T'lar shrugs, not sure what to answer. Her Star Fleet training has taught her
to err on the side of caution, and protecting the ship from any possible
contamination seems to be the top priority. However, she realizes that they
need access to the bio-lab and sickbay if they are to glean more information
off their two "finds".

As she is puzzling over a course of action, her communicator comes to life,
"Phobos to boarding party." It's Nien's voice. "We've maneuvered closer in
order to re-establish clear communications. However, the transporter room
reports that they are confused over your use of the term 'lifeform reading'.
Please clarify? Did you find something down there, Lieutenant?"

"Affirmative, sir. We have a small unidentified lifeform, and what appears to
be a dead Borg."

For a brief moment, the only sound coming over the communicator is static. Then
Nien responds, "You killed one of the Borg?"

"No sir; we found it here, already dead."

"I see... one of those that just fell over for no apparent reason?"

"No sir, we're not sure that's the case with this one. We found him in a
suspended animation berth, one of many. Each of them seem to be on an
independent duranium power source. For some reason, the power source of his
particular berth failed, and he must have died when it couldn't continue
functioning. We think that the unidentified creature we found in the vicinity
may be responsible. We found traces of organic molecules on the duranium's
surface. The creature seems to have an affinity for electricity, but doesn't
seem otherwise hostile."

"So you don't think it's connected in any way with..."

"Unknown, sir. If you don't mind, I'd like to have the dead borg beamed up to
the Phobos, directly to one of the ten quarantine chambers on deck 7. Maybe the
medical staff can learn something from it."

"Agreed. Check in when you have something new. Phobos out."

"Sir," Turak calls from the back of the room, "looks like we have another door
here."

This one is on the ceiling, however, and the ceiling is about five meters up,
certainly too far to jump.

"What's it doing up there?"

Sullivan shakes her head, consulting her tricorder. "There are plasma conduits
behind this wall. It's possible that the Borg modulate the gravitic field
underneath the decking and use it as a sort of elevator."

"Strange design," T'lar observes.

"Ad hoc, possibly. If they're continually building outward from the core, it
would explain why they'd have to compromise functionality and even common sense
at certain points just to make things work."

T'lar nods, turning around as the Borg body disappears into a blue transporter
beam.

"Hey Sullivan, check these out," Gibbs calls from one row of shelves. "Ya ever
seen one of these?"

She steps forward, "Interesting... a trifaceted boronite crystal manifold."

"Part of a phaser assembly?" T'lar inquires, a look of disbelief crossing her
face, "Here?"

Gibbs nods, "Check out the serial code."

"This is from one of the old Federation Class starships," Penny blinks. "We're
definitely not the first people to encounter this race. We should probably beam
this back to the Phobos. Federation property, after all." She hands it to T'lar
who looks it over, not really sure how Sullivan could pinpoint the ship type
from the serial code. Then she notices something odd. Normally, it would have
the federation symbol and "UFP" etched underneath, the initials standing for
the "United Federation of Planets." This one has the same symbol, but the
letters "UEP" are etched underneath instead. A misprint? She wonders about the
oddity before her attention is distracted by Turak's voice and the clanking of
miscellaneous pieces of hardware.

"There's other stuff here too."

"Yeah... transporter maintenance equipment, replacement parts, fire
extinguishers, hot patches, cryogenic hardware," Sullivan observes. "This looks
like part of a plasma containment chamber. Some radiation drapes. Quite a
closet, don't you think?"

"I count a total of thirteen cryogenic berths." Turak offers. "All the others
except that one have their electrical compartments welded shut."

"I'm surprised they let the little creature run around loose," Gibbs notes.

Sullivan shakes her head, "They might not have known about him. All they know
is a battery went dead."

"Not likely," Turak responds. "They welded those compartments shut for a
reason."

"Well, whatever the case, we still have to figure out what we're going to do
with him," Tsandzia hisses, finally shaking it loose from her hand, only to see
it wrap around her foot.

"We're going to have to vaporize it," T'lar states, rather blandly.

"No! No vaping the blobby."

"We can't beam it off you. It's too close, and the interference is too great,
and I'm not willing to let that thing on-board the Phobos where it could
potentially wreck havoc without going through quarantine first."

"I agree," Tsandzia stammers, "but it hasn't attacked us, and killing what
could possibly be a sentient unknown species..."

"I'm sorry, Tsandzia, but we're not wandering around with it clinging to your
suit."

Tsandzia bites her lip, electricity cracking along the inside of her space
suit. The blob creature just hugs her foot all the more snugly, as though
enjoying the extra output.

"Wait... I've got an idea. It likes electricity. We could try to bait it."

"What?"

"Have engineering beam over some heavy duty container meant for radioactive
materials or something. Then we could put a set of welder power cells in there
and see if it goes for it."

T'lar tries hard not to smile.

"C'mon, T'lar, it could work."

"Your proposition has a certain element of logic. Go ahead. We have nothing to
lose except time."

Tsandzia soon discovers that if there's one thing the creature likes even more
than her, it's energy cells. It rushes toward them like they were candy, and in
a matter of two minutes, they have the "blobby" trapped in a tough, air-tight
container.

"Okay," T'lar nods, "Now we beam it up."

As the creature disappears in a blue, transporter-generated haze, T'lar motions
Sullivan toward the decking. "Can you take out the floor field?"

"Shouldn't be a problem."

About a minute later, T'lar feels her feet drifting off the floor. She jumps
upward, reaching out and grabbing the pressure portal on the ceiling. Scans
show no atmosphere on the other side.

"Okay, people, you know the drill."

The door turns out to be a tough one, as tough as the last one if not worse.
T'lar manages to poke a small hole in it, causing a short pressure
release, not enough to entirely depressurize the room, however. "What's AP down
to?"

"Point nine-eight," Sullivan replies. "That next room must be real small.
Y'know, it doesn't make much sense wasting our welders on these doors if we can
find some sort of opening mechanism along the side... there must be something
here." She pokes around with a tricorder. "Radiation is getting in the way, but
I've got something. It's some sort of pipe... probably for holding the
electrical wires which activate the open/close mechanism. With your permission,
sir."

"Go ahead."

She drills a small hole next to the door but hits some sort of air tank, only
it isn't an air tank, it's a hose of some sort carrying HPT-11. Suddenly, a
powerful stream of the acidic vapor begins pouring into the room. Gibbs
immediately dives toward the back of the chamber, trying to contact the Phobos
over his comm-set. "Transporter room, come in!"

"It's no use!" Turak yells, "They can't get a lock on us with that shit in
here!"

Penny, meanwhile, is trying to block the flow with her vacc suit.

"Get out of the way!" The voice is Tsandzia's.

"No, it's my fault! Blow a hole out the back way while you still can!"

"Arrrrrrggg! Get out of the way now, Crewman!"

Penny concedes the space, jumping backward, as Tsandzia tears a hot patch free
of its seal and throws it on the hole. The leak is instantly halted, however,
there's still a good amount of the gas in the immediate area.

"I'm gonna blast this door," Gibbs yells from the back room. "Everybody grab
something solid."

A moment later T'lar can hear the sound of a phaser burst. Then, for a few
seconds, the place is like a hurricane, loose pieces of equipment being thrown
toward the transporter room. After the air is evacuated, everyone picks
themselves off the floor.

"Let me see your vacc suit," T'lar demands, pulling Penny around. Although
there are signs of acid scarring, there is no breach in the suit's fabric.
"You're damn lucky, you know that Crewman?"

"Lucky, sir?" Sullivan pants, out of breath.

"Would you like me to calculate the odds?"

Penny smiles weakly, "I don't think that'll be necessary, sir."

As Gibbs and Turak regroup in the cryogenic/storage room with the rest of the
boarding party, everyone looks a little sweaty and raw.

"That could have been devastating," Gibbs remarks.

"We were lucky," Turak returns. "If you didn't have that hot patch and we
didn't have a vacuum behind that door..."

"Then we'd all have been done for," T'lar competes his thought. "Okay, people.
We just slipped up. From now on, we're being careful. Very careful. Agreed?"

"Aye sir," comes the resounding response.

"Okay, Tsandzia, you can continue cutting a hole in that door. Gibbs and
Sullivan, watch the back room... just in case."

Welding a hole in the door reveals an airlock. There's a small window set into
the next door, but it doesn't look out into space. Instead, it looks upon a
large hexagonal conduit some five meters in width and some fifty meters in
length. Tricorders show the conduit to be unpressurized and without gravity.
Further, the walls are singed and corroded, traces of an HPT-11 bath, no doubt.
There are also liquid nitrogen coolant lines running the length of the conduit
as well as a plasma channel controlled by an array of magnetic gates and flow
regulators. About forty meters up, there's a doorway. Sporadic bursts of a
flickering purple light emanate from it. Ten meters further, there are two
portals, one of which is open to the vacuum of space. Part of the Phobos can be
seen, its saucer section hanging in plain view as the planet rotates behind it.
The other portal is closed and faces the left side of the passage.

T'Lar frowns as she studies the strange conduit, "Some part of the propulsion
system perhaps? Or a weapons tube?"

"Hard to say," Sullivan responds. "This ship's design is pretty haphazard. This
might be this way 'cause they had to tow something big up or down, or it might
just be a big maintenance shaft. That purple light coming from near the top may
mean something, though. It's irregular, at least."

"I'm not sure I want to find out what it means," T'lar shakes her head.
"Perhaps we should try an alternate route."

"We can't stop now, sir."

"What would we back-track to? More HPT-11? That's all that's in back of us
except for the chambers we've already evacuated," Gibbs notes.

T'lar sighs inwardly. Their recent confrontation with the acidic substance
seems to have everybody pretty spooked, including her, but if there's one thing
she knows for damn sure, it's that she doesn't want to go into this mystery
tube. An emotional response to fear, no doubt, but no amount of rationalization
can disperse her feeling of dread.

"This conduit must have contained HPT-11 at one time," Sullivan states. "Look
at the corrosion along the walls."

"Which means that somebody already cleared it out," Gibbs warns.

"Borgs from those cryogenic sleepers?"

Gibbs winces, "Prancing around other people's bedrooms... now I know how
goldielocks must have felt."

"Let's hope we don't run into any bears."

The rest of the party (a Tellarite, a Calainian, and a Vulcan) are left rather
confused by this latest exchange between the two humans. T'lar knows that
humans have an unparalleled capacity for talking in metaphors. Perhaps it's a
way they alleviate fears of the unknown, she muses, wishing for a scarce moment
that she had similar training.

Tsandzia ponders the situation. "The cryogenic tubes are empty, which means
that the Borg that were in them are either alive and not on this ship as far as
we can tell or they're dead and eaten away by the HPT-11. Either scenario,
we're not going to get much information."

"Thirteen" Turak states, somewhat suddenly.

"What?"

"There were thirteen of those berths. I counted them."

"So?" Gibbs mumbles.

"When we were on that planet, there were only nine of the Borg. Didn't it
strike you funny that only nine beamed down to handle all of us?"

"That's all they needed."

"Yes, but they never beamed down reinforcements when they were being attacked.
What if the HPT-11 wiped out all but thirteen of them?"

"All but twelve," Sullivan corrects. "That one we found was already dead."

"Fine... thirteen minus one minus nine."

Gibbs cracks a grin, "You're crazy. You know that?"

Turak smiles back, "It's a safety crew. A reserve for the worst of times. We
Tellarites used to do the same thing before the discovery of warp drive. We'd
have to allow for a cold watch to fill in for crew casualties during the long
voyages in deep space. Maybe those thirteen berths were a... an ace in the
hole."

T'lar raises an eyebrow. "If you're right, then three are left. What about
them?"

Sullivan looks toward the flicking purple light. "We found a phaser manifold.
This could be a weapon maintenance and support conduit. Rather big for that
purpose... but the liquid nitrogen and the plasma channels would fit right in."

"Then again," Gibbs argues, "it might just support a very power transporter
beam of some type. Maybe this is where they bring their miscellaneous junk
after pillaging other starships."

T'lar considers the alternate perspectives, remaining expressionless for a long
minute. "Gibbs... you and Sullivan will stay here after we cut ourselves a nice
little hole. If the tricorders are right about there being vacuum on the other
side of this, then the operation should be relatively silent. Tsandzia, you and
Turak will follow me. We might as well investigate. Well, let's get going,
people. Tsandzia, keep those scans going. I'd like to know something about
those lights before we get down there."

Tsandzia nods toward T'lar while Sullivan works on the door, "If you're
thinking what I'm thinking, perhaps we can catch them in the act of repairs. If
so, let's be quiet about it, in case we can watch and learn."

T'lar fingers her phaser trigger ever so gently, "If they are repairing their
weapon systems, then I don't intend to just sit around and watch."

Sullivan finishes welding a hole through the door, and T'lar, Tsandzia, and
Turak squeeze through, phasers drawn, and begin floating up the conduit.
Peering inside the open portal, T'lar can see what appears to be a modified
phaser emitter of some sort. Two borgs are working on it, standing at separate
ends of the chamber, slowly cleaning away pockets of corrosion with long rods,
the ends of which are tipped in a bright purple plasma.


Stardate 6003.16 at 2210 hours: Phobos, Sickbay (deck 7)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I'll be damned if I will lie here when there are members of our crew out on
that ship!!" Bellasario shouts, at the top of his lungs, while several medics
are pulling restraints around his limbs and Lt. Lindstrome is loading a hypo.
"It's my responsibility to see to it that they get back safely! I've lost quite
enough crew members for one lifetime, thank you very much, uhh," he pauses to
notice the hypo sticking out of his arm, "Thank you... very very... very much."
Then he promptly falls unconscious, the epitome of bliss etched across his
face.

"That was rather cruel, don't you think?" O'Neil intones.

"Sometimes, Commander, one must be cruel in order to be kind. Would you like to
be next or will you go to sleep peacefully?"

"Well... since you put it that way..."

"Doctor!" Sarah comes running in, "You won't believe this, but we've got a
Borg!"

O'Neil "wheels" himself over to the decontamination center as news of the new
"visitor" spreads like wildfire throughout the ship, and this time, even Lt.
Lindstrome doesn't bother trying to stop him.

"My god, they weren't kidding when they said it was dead."

The Borg's eyes are sunken, its skin mottled and patchy. This one is dehydrated
and not in the best state of preservation. Nevertheless, it's the only specimen
they have to work with.

"Okay people, stop gawking and let's get to work. We've got to figure out what
makes these things tick."

While supervising the "dissection" from a remote console, O'Neil continues to
try and crack Kirby's encryption codeword. He first generates a list of names
by taking an intersection of Kirby's personal log and the dictionary of proper
nouns. Then he writes a simple program to repeatedly decrypt the file using
entries from the list as keywords, having his program check the output file to
see if it is comprehensible on each iteration. He has no luck, however, and so
he slowly begins expanding his base list to include medical terms, regular
nouns, verbs, and finally adjectives. Soon, however, the search begins to feel
rather fruitless.

"Decryption..."

O'Neil looks over his shoulder to see a young man dressed in white patient's
garb. "Who are you?"

"Ensign Arloch, sir. I noticed that your CPU usage was getting... uh..."

"Out of hand?"

"Well, yes sir. I was wondering what you were doing."

"What are you in here for, Ensign?"

"Liver and lung regeneration."

O'Neil winces, "Sounds painful."

Tyran smiles, "Not any more, sir. They did a real good job on me. Right now,
I'm just waiting for somebody to tell me I can leave."

O'Neil brings Tyran's record on screen, "A computer expert, eh?"

"Expert might be too strong a word."

"Tell me, Ensign. Do you know anything about decryption?"

Tyran stiffens, not realizing there was going to be a quiz. "Throughout Star
Fleet, there is a standard crypt algorithm via which files can be encrypted or
decrypted. However, crypt needs a keyword in order to decide precisely how it
is going to encrypt or decrypt the file. If you use the wrong keyword to
decrypt an encrypted file, it'll still do it, but the resulting file will be
nonsense. Hence, you need to repeatedly examine your decrypted file to see if
it makes any sense."

"So far so good. Now tell me something I don't know."

"Well, uh... if the original file was compressed before it was encrypted, most
decryption programs would iterate right past it, and you'd never know the
difference. Also, if the file was encrypted with one keyword and then encrypted
again with another keyword, then your program would never figure it out.
Further, if the original file was an archive file containing many other files,
your program would probably interpret the archive format as non-text and
iterate past it. Again, you'd never know."

O'Neil ponders the problem, realizing that he has to assume that Kirby knew at
least as much about computers as he does. The general rule is that code
cracking is hairy work, not an exercise for dabblers or medical doctors.

"Don't put double-crypt past him, Doc. He was a certifiable paranoid weirdo if
there ever was one." The voice belongs to Sarah. She has two glasses perched on
a data-board turned serving tray like she thinks she's some cocktail waitress
working a low class bar.

"When I want your help, Sarah, I'll ask for it."

"Now now, Doctor, I just figured that you might enjoy a small spot of gargle-
blaster in yer gullet, to help retain what little measure of sanity you aspire
to." She offers a glass of the purple-tinted beverage.

"Gargle-blaster?"

"That's what Kirby used to call it. I figured you wouldn't mind my raiding his
personal stores. It is for medicinal purposes, after all. And don't worry. I
already watered it down quite a bit. Alot, actually. You wouldn't want to drink
one of those straight."

"Try again, Sarah. I don't drink on duty, period."

"Oh, me neither, sir." She turns toward Tyran, "You want some?"

"Uh, no thanks."

"Sarah, instead of serving beverages to the crew, why don't you try to find out
if there's any relationship between those robotic organisms and the HPT-11. I
also want those Borg blood samples we have from the attack re-examined to see
if there are traces of the organism or HPT-11."

"Aye sir." She trots away, drinks in hand.

"I swear, if I ever catch that girl drinking on duty, I'll have her strung up
from the nearest yardpole," O'Neil growls, turning toward Tyran. "Well, I have
to admit, Ensign, this problem has me rather stymied."

"You might try talking to Sirith to see if he has any ideas."

O'Neil punches up another priority-chat, however, there's no answer.

"That's strange," Tyran observes. "He's usually very good about responding to
chat requests."

"Well, he's probably deep in meditation right now."

"Meditation, sir?"

"Vulcans don't sleep, Ensign. Or haven't you heard?"

It's more likely Sirith has just yanked the buzzer out of his console, but if
that possibility occurs to him, O'Neil makes no mention of it.

"You wouldn't have root powers by chance?" O'Neil inquires.

"They must have changed the password after the attack." Tyran looks up, "Chief
Gavuzzi is over there. He might be able to help."

Gavuzzi steps over, an astonished look on his face as he sees Tyran. "Sir...
you're alive."

Tyran smiles, "So it seems."

"That's good. Very good."

"Yes... I agree whole-heartedly."

Gavuzzi had seen Tyran get wounded. He'd seen him teeter on the brink of death
for days. Tyran doesn't need to wonder at the colonial's astonishment. Tyran
himself is a bit amazed by the whole thing, amazed and very grateful.

"Ah... I was just coming in to look at the Borg," Gavuzzi states. "He's quite a
marvel, isn't he?"

"If you say so. The doctor here is working on decrypting a file. Think you can
lend a hand?"

Gavuzzi pulls up a chair and looks at the program. Then he goes into root and
consults Kirby's command-history, a log of all the commands Kirby ever entered
into the main computer. Obviously, it doesn't include passwords, however, he
does see that whenever Kirby used the encrypt or decrypt function, he always
used it twice.

"Sarah was right after all," O'Neil states. "It's a case of double-encryption.
Sure as anything can be."

"Yah," Gavuzzi agrees.

"Any guesses, Ensign?"

Tyran shakes his head, "About the codewords? It's not gonna be easy. In my
personal experience, people are usually a bit lazy and use two words that go
with each other. 'Star Trek' for example."

"Star what?"

"Uh... nevermind."

Sarah emerges from the biolab, a data-board in hand full of quick and dirty
reports just gleaned from the "dissection team" headed by Lt. Lindstrome.

"So what have you got for me, Sarah?"

"Well, we put some of the robot-organisms in a tray of HPT-11. It dissolved
them but quick. We also ran a quick scan of the blood samples. No acidic or
radiation exposure detected. No robot-organisms detected either. That blood is
as clean as a whistle, sir... uh... assuming that we're talking about a clean
whistle in the first place, that is."

O'Neil shakes his head, "What about the Borg body we have? Did you examine him
for the presence of these organisms?"

"Fluids sample shows no evidence of any robotic-organisms. The Borg is clean
also."

"Damn. This is getting us nowhere."

"Uh, sir," Sarah continues, "With your permission, I'd like to go into Dr.
Kirby's personal quarters to see if there's any more booze that he was hiding
in there."

"What?!"

"Well, I just don't think it's a good idea to have security go in first. Some
of those guys drink like little fishies, and... uh... well sir, gargle blaster
is a dangerous thing in the wrong hands."

"Ensign Kreis, in case you hadn't noticed, we're in a serious situation here. I
really don't think you should be concerning yourself with acquiring
intoxicants. However, searching Dr. Kirby's quarters is probably what we need
right now, and you've just volunteered. Take some help. I want it turned upside
down for any information that will help us find out what's the deal with these
organisms. Dismissed. Oh, and Ensign, I don't want to see those `garble
blasters' anywhere near sickbay, understand?"

"Uh... gargle blasters, sir. Not garble blasters. Dr. Kirby would have killed
me if I'd ever referred to one as a garble blaster. He was very particular
about naming all his intoxicants, and the 'GARGLE blaster' was his absolute
favorite."

"You know," Gavuzzi mumbles, "that gives me an idea." He taps "mouth wash" into
the double decryption routine.

Sarah takes a deep breath and continues, "Sometimes I think he just liked the
name. The sound of it. The way it rolls off the tongue. gargle BLASTER."

"Try 'blast off' next," Tyran advises.

"Well, uh... I'll turn over his cabin like you said, sir, and see if something
doesn't turn up. Good luck on that codeword you're working on. And if you
change your mind about having some 'GARGLE BLASTER' let me know."

O'Neil's jaw drops half a centimeter. Gavuzzi and Tyran look at him, "What is
it?"

"Oh... nothing. I just thought I was going to yawn." He looks toward the corner
of the room, then finally cracks under the pressure. "Oh... okay damnit. Try
'gargle blaster' for crying out loud."

Suddenly, a steady stream of text comes pouring across the screen.


                     The Clinical use of Nanite Technology
            for the Repair of Ruptured Midbrain Reticular Formation

                By Dr. Joseph H. Kirby & Dr. William F. Brogley

Abstract:

Despite the differences in cerebral anatomy between humanoids, the reticular
formation has been noted as a constant among many of the humanoid species known
to medicine. It is a large group of cells located deep within the brain stem,
the thalamic nuclei of which project ascending fibers to association areas in
the cerebral cortex and primary cortical areas. As such, the reticular
formation regulates stages of alertness, and when damaged at the midbrain
level, has been known to result in irreversible coma. This paper will show from
case histories that the use of Nanites is a viable means of assisting such
patients in recovery.

Progress report:
   Alpha Zephron VI, eight patients (four Orions, two Humans, one Tiburon, and
a Coridan), all of whom were victims of Reticular Formation hemorrhage, were
injected with Nanite cultures. All eight patients died due to temporal lobe
engram seizure despite signs of repair in their reticular formation. If we can
figure out what is causing these seizures, I am certain that our work will be a
success. -JHK

Progress report:
  Interesting development. The Nanites, while fighting off white-blood cells in
the dead patients, have managed to evolve a strain which is capable of
traversing via the electroshock cables into the life support equipment.
Although hopelessly lost in the mechanical environment, they have managed to
sustain themselves on the ambient electricity generated by the equipment. We
will be forced to decontaminate the equipment, however I am isolating a sample
for further study. If nothing else, we'll have another case of spontaneous
nanite evolution to put in the record books. -JHK


Reading through the progress reports, O'Neil seems half-horrified, half-
fascinated.

"Those idiots. No wonder they wanted to keep this a secret."

Tyran frowns, "What's it all mean, doc?"

"No identification. No selection criteria. No sanctioning committee. And look
at these RF scans. The damage is practically identical in each case. I'm almost
willing to bet these so-called patients of theirs were disobedients purchased
from Orion slavers. Kirby could have been sentenced to jail for this study."

"So why'd he do it?"

"It's ground work. He wanted to debug his methods before doing it under
supervision. Christ Almighty. This was a decorated Star Fleet Surgeon. Is Sarah
still around here?" O'Neil looks around, but Ensign Kreis is nowhere to be
seen. "Chief, will you get Lt. Lindstrome for me?"

"Certainly, Doctor."

A few moments later, Lindstrome is there, a tired scowl etched on her face.
"I'm in the middle of a dissection, Doctor."

"What have you found?"

"It's a very unusual organism."

"I'm asking for a factual report, Lieutenant. Not opinion. What have you
found?"

"Right now, we're concentrating our scans on a micro-electronic device in it's
skull cavity."

"Let me guess... reticular formation?"

A look of confusion crosses her eyes, "How did you know?"

"Just continue."

"There's a small radio antenna affixed to the Borg's chest with wires entering
through the right side of his neck and proceeding to the device."

"Composition?"

"Complex metallic alloy. Tungsten. Copper. Titanium. Iron. Micro-wires proceed
from the device and run alongside the thalamic tissues, connecting to regions
of his cerebral cortex. We're about to attempt removal of the device with the
foreign matter ejector."

O'Neil nods, floating his grav-chair over to the comm-unit on the wall and
routing a channel to auxiliary control. "Captain... this is O'Neil. There are a
few things we need to discuss."


                      _   /|        Jim Vassilakos
                      \`o_O'        [e-mail]
                        ( )         [e-mail]
                         U          Riverside, California

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