ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/startrek/adv1/turn08

Text File | 1994-09-10 | 47KB | 1,133 lines

*******************************************************************************
                           Star Trek: Play by E-Mail
                              The Forbidden Years
                               Campaign Write-up
===============================================================================
                                 Adventure #1
                             Flight of the Phobos
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
                                    Turn #8
                               The Great Escape
===============================================================================
              Copyright 1993 Jim Vassilakos / All Rights Reserved
*******************************************************************************

                                  Cast & Crew

                    ST-PBeM GameMaster   Jim Vassilakos
                        Lt. Bellasario   Alan Ward
                             Lt. T'lar   Ronnie Simonds
                    2nd Lt. Morchainte   Brian Chrisman
                         Ensign Arloch   Steve Hyatt


Administrivia:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After watching the season finale, I was wondering about the Borg and why
they're so... er... borgy. [e-mail] (from Control Systems Design
Laboratory) has a great idea on how to fix this.

> Perhaps the borgs would be less militant if we created a "Borg Studies"
> program at the Academy. Maybe they could assimilate Wesley during a lab
> course.

Well, it was just an idea...


Stardate 6003.16 at 2320 hours: Somewhere in Dreamland
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tan stucco walls and spanish style roofing, a patio garden, a hazel wood floor
and blue hand-woven drapes on all the windows, the house is just as Gunner had
left it. He's standing there, a teenager with a sleeping bag and a wallet full
of photos, yelling at the old man, the great Star Fleet Admiral with more
decorations than can possibly fit on one man's chest. The rain is pouring. His
mother is crying. Then, quite suddenly, there's nothing left to say.

Outside, the hovercabs are pressed so tight they form a giant umbrella over the
San Franciscan streets. He walks past an old monastery. The wind is blowing,
cold and clean, and a pretty girl is sitting on the steps outside, wearing only
a tank-top and cut-offs and a bright blue headband. For some reason he steps up
to the door and enters, perhaps drawn by the prospect of sipping the communion
wine. The place is deserted except for a white kitten upon the alter. The faces
in the stained-glass windows twitch from side to side.

Suddenly the place begins filling up. The parishioners are like robots, moving
from pew to pew, their words of prayer stale and soulless. The pastor makes a
speech about forgiveness, then wipes his brows with the back of his forearm and
offers Gunner a taste of the wine.

"This is what you came for, isn't it?"


Stardate 6003.16 at 2325 hours: USS Phobos, Transporter Room One
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Actually, I have to admit that I'm having second thoughts about this idea of
yours."

T'lar stares back at the Calainian, her face like a cardboard mask. "Sure
you're not jealous?"

"I see no reason why I should be. You're the one about to risk your life. I'm
telling you, considering the circumstances, we couldn't ask for a better
position to be in. Think about it. We can have this newfound friend of yours
returned straight to the mother ship."

"Infected with the nanites."

"Exactly. We might even be able to implant images in his mind... images of us
blowing away that Borg ship with some funky energy beam. Don't you get it? Our
fictitious super-weapon story has to hold water. The existence of such a weapon
makes the capture of our ship intact of prime importance. They won't dare
attack, and by waiting, they'll only be signing their own death warrant. Then
we can beam aboard their ship and plunder to our heart's content."

T'lar frowns slightly at Tsandzia's continuing barrage of combat options. "I
feel our first priority is to return home... if we do successfully manage to
destroy, against all odds, both our 'friend' and the mother ship, how,
precisely do you intend to do that?"

"We'll find a way. The technology is there. We just have to take it from them."

"No. It won't work. They're not idiots, Tsandzia. They'll be careful, and they
will suspect trickery. Our only chance of escape is in convincing the Borg to
somehow allow us to return. We can try establishing a cooperative dialogue,
which at the moment seems extraordinarily unlikely to succeed, or we can resort
to subterfuge. If we can take a borg, a fully cooperative borg, back with us as
well, the advantages to be gained in our next encounter will be incalculable.
And if we can take, despite all our actions, a still largely intact ship such
as the one our friend is currently eager to pilot back to our sector with
us..." T'Lar does not finish the obvious thought. "It seems to me your
priorities need logical re-evaluation, Lieutenant."

"It's your priorities that need re-evaluation. You haven't been 'logical' ever
since this whole thing started."

Nien and Tyran enter from the turbolift, leaving the two lieutenants with a
mild case of lockjaw.

"Are we ready?" Nien inquires.

T'lar glances toward Tsandzia, then nods.

"Ensign Arloch was just wondering if he might be of any assistance to you
aboard the Borg ship."

Tyran steps forward a pace, "I was thinking, it seems to me that we can
fabricate an electronic device which will allow us to interface with the Borg
without having to go through the Vulcan. I will most probably require
assistance from some medical personnel, and it'll take a little time to
accomplish, but such a device may prove useful if her directives come into
conflict with those of a superior psi."

"Without having to go through the Vulcan? Why do I suddenly feel like a
computer interface?"

Nien smiles, "Tyran's just trying to protect our interests, Lieutenant. Have
you detected any psychic presence on the mother ship?"

"No sir, though I really haven't tried."

"It might not be a bad idea to try now," Tyran suggests. "The Borgs seem to
have a small electronic device inserted into the reticular formation of their
brains. Apparently, it catches psi-waves of a particular frequency and converts
them to electrical impulses. In other words, they're getting their directive
from some sort of psionic, either artificial or natural, we don't know."

"Sir," T'lar cuts in, "Attempting to contact this theoretical 'master psi' may
not be wise. If it exists, it is almost certainly far more powerful, at least
in certain ways, than I am. At best, it will be aware that an attempt was made,
which would tip our hand; at worst, my own mind could be 'reprogrammed' with...
new data."

Nien chews a lip at the unpleasant thought. "Is there any way to bypass this
psi-programming?"

Tyran nods, "If we can feed in electrical impulses directly, we should be able
to."

"How long would this take?"

"Uncertain. An hour or more, I'd guess. And, of course, we'll need direct
access to the captive in order to do much of the work this will require."

Tsandzia shakes her head, "An hour may be a bit much to ask for. If we're going
to take that long, we could even attempt to plant memories into the captive
borg in order to support your bogus claim of having a secret weapon."

"Along with an explanation as to why we haven't used it yet."

Tsandzia nods, "We'll say it's out of commission... due to effects from the
wormhole."

Nien smiles, "And then they board us and we get Borged. Great idea."

"No... they may board us, but they won't get very far. Not if we make the
proper preparations."

"Such as?"

"We can flood the ship with a gaseous chemical closely related to HPT-11?"

"Are you insane? How closely related?"

"HPD-18. It'll be just as radioactive as the HPT-11, but not nearly as acidic.
Vacc suits should be able to withstand several hours in the stuff. The ship's
interior will end up looking rather well used, but most systems shouldn't be
damaged if properly protected before-hand. It will explode, however, if exposed
to plasma, proton streams, and other assorted energy weapons."

"So, in other words, they won't dare fire their weapons... assuming they
realize what it is."

"Well, I assume they would. In their minds, the destruction of our ship would
only rid them of our immediate threat, but they would realize that should we
possess such a weapon, our race will eventually meet them in battle again, and
this time, our super-weapon would not be broken."

Nien shakes her head, "All this just to get a few nanites on their ship and
give them a few hours to replicate?"

Tsandzia shrugs, "I admit, it's a horrendous ploy. But it can work. We can
fabricate crossbows with explosive bolts. They should be able to pass through
the borgs' personal shields unhindered and do damage despite their body armor."

Nien considers the options, the first conservative but risky in its own ways,
the other outlandish, and risky in innumerable other ways. "Go ahead and
prepare the HPD-18. Tyran, you see if you can't do some work on our captive. I
want him under our control. He's too valuable to risk. T'lar, we're still going
with plan A, but if things go badly, at least we'll have Tsandzia's plan to
fall back on."

Tsandzia nods, "I seriously doubt plan A will work, but in the end, there's not
much harm in trying."

"Not if we're prepared for the consequences," Nien adds. "I'll be at auxiliary
control."


Stardate 6003.16 at 2330 hours: Back in Dreamland
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"This is what you came for, isn't it?" The priest smiles patiently.

"I came for forgiveness."

"Then drink. Forgiveness is within the blood of Stavadthromos."

Gunner blinks, then picks up the kitten and begins stroking it. The white
kitten mews, green eyes watching the cup as the priest offers it again. Gunner
shakes his head and steps back. "No... I want to be at peace with myself. But I
doubt this wine will give me that peace. No amount of alcohol has ever been
able to do that." Gunner turns and walks away from the alter, still holding the
kitten gently against his chest. He finds the Phobos sickbay just beyond the
doors of the church. A young woman is sitting at the console of the
foreign-matter ejector console, and there is one of those aliens strapped to a
bed behind a containment field. A crewman is bending over it with a tricorder.
O'Neil is there also, floating in his grav-chair, watching the readings of one
apparatus and punching a few keys on another.

The cat looks toward the Borg and meows. The white-skinned alien fidgets for a
moment, then says "You will be assimilated. Error... federation species already
assimilated."

The cat blinks its eyes and purrs contentedly.

"Error corrected. Federation species not yet assimilated. Resistance is
futile."


Stardate 6003.16 at 2330 hours: USS Phobos, Sickbay
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tyran bends over the Borg with his tricorder, trying to confirm coordinates
within the Borg's skull against those given by the foreign-matter ejector
console where Kreis is stationed.

T'lar, standing at the Borg's bedside, re-checking the tightness of the straps,
suddenly hears what sounds like a "meow". She looks around, a bit perturbed,
unaware that there were pets on board. Apparently nobody else noticed the
sound.

The Borg fidgets a bit.

"You will be assimilated. Error... federation species already assimilated.
Error corrected. Federation species not yet assimilated. Resistance is futile."

T'Lar winces. "Marvelous." For a moment, she appears to sink deep into thought,
using her psi-talents to reach out for the location of this "pet". Then she
opens her eyes, first looking about the quarantine chamber. She exits it,
turning her head from side to side, searching for the creature, partly with her
eyes, partly with her psi-sense. She sees that Nurse Reeko is behaving
similarly.

"You hear it too?" Darla inquires.

"Whatever IT is."

Darla points toward the other quarantine chamber. "What has him so aroused?"

"Blobby" is pushing frantically against the clear plastic wall of his chamber.

Tyran nods toward Kreis. "We'd better hurry this up."

"You aren't getting any arguments outta me." She punches the switch, and the
space around the Borg's head becomes enveloped in blue transporter carrier
waves.

"Psi-waves gone," O'Neil announces from the back of the room.

"Good," Tyran smiles. "Now he's cut off permanently from the rest. The only
question is whether or not he'll understand our computers."

T'Lar frowns, watching the blob-creature press against the plastic wall of its
cell. She places her hands on the plastic, attempting to make contact with it
through the material psionically. It's pretty thick stuff, and receiving
psi-emanations through man-made substances, no matter how transparent, has
never been her specialty. Nevertheless, she manages to pick up something as her
stomach begins to grumble and her mouth waters. Even Vulcans get the munchies,
after all, and the hour of the proverbial midnight snack is steadily
approaching.

"It appears to be hungry."

Peering at the creature, she can see her own reflection in the plastic as well
as that of Bellasario who is laying unconscious in a gravitic suspension unit
behind her. The creature continues to press against the plastic, even when
O'Neil drops a charged battery into the chamber. Apparently, it hungers for
more than mere electricity. T'lar wonders if perhaps her psionic investigations
and those of Nurse Reeko somehow excited it. T'Lar grits her teeth, deciding
that she HATES not knowing what's going on. For a brief moment, she remembers
the words of her Tar-Minyatur. "Be still young one. Only through the mastery of
your emotions can the fruits of logic flourish." She replied with "Flourish
this!" before kicking him in the shins. Or was it higher? Ah... youth.

Tyran looks up from the captive Borg, "Assuming this worked, he should now be
programmable by voice. 743-94, can you hear me?"

"Lead grapes, Rub-a-dub-dub, where did I put those funky purple socks?"

Tyran nods, "Well, this might take a bit longer than I anticipated."

Nurse Reeko stands beside T'lar, watching as the Blob continues to press
persistently against the clear plastic. T'lar can see her own reflection and
that of the Betazoid in the plastic, as well as that of Bellasario who is
behind the both of them, unconscious in his gravitic suspension berth. The blue
and amber medical readings on the GS (sleeper) berth paint stark lines against
the clear plastic upon which they are reflecting. Suddenly, Reeko's brows
descend and flatten as she studies the inverted readings. She turns around and
steps toward Bellasario. Intrigued by what she is doing, T'lar step beside her.
Though he is quite unconscious, Gunner's eyes seem to be dancing under his
eyelids.

"The regen should be inhibiting rem-sleep."

Suddenly the foreign matter ejector topples off its table, hitting the floor.
Gunner starts choking up mucus. Despite his drug-induced state, he opens his
eyes, weary and bewildered.

T'Lar blinks, "I understand you should be unconscious, Lieutenant."

Gunner looks up, groggily. Meanwhile, the blob creature slips back to the
floor of its quarantine chamber in search of batteries. Nurse Reeko opens up
the sleeper berth. "My sense is that it was interested in him the entire time."

"How the heck did the FME tilt over?!" O'Neil shouts as Kreis lifts it back to
its place on the table. "And I want that thing screwed down in the future,
Ensign!"

"Aye sir."

Reeko looks toward him, "Telekinetic phenomena are sometimes associated with
REM sleep." She wipes Gunner's face and cleans the mucus out of his throat with
a small suction nozzle.

"Yeah, we call them poltergeists where I come from. But I've seen Bellasario's
records, and he simply doesn't have that level of psi-aptitude. It's not
possible."

"Perhaps, then, the psi-entity has something to do with this. It is a lesson
for adolescents in my culture to make contact with the unconscious mind. It is
far more open than the conscious one. Perhaps the entity which controls the
Borg was trying to communicate with us."

O'Neil scowls, "Which would make that blob... it's pet?"

"Or something."

"Until we have more facts, forming theories is pointless. Right now what we
need is more information. Ensign Arloch, how long until that Borg is
functional?"

Arloch shakes his head, "743-94, can you hear me? Do you understand?"

"Nubile fruity sunburn salivates extemporaneously with yogurt."

Tyran squints, "He's a mess, sir."

"How long?!"

"That depends."

O'Neil casts the Ensign a long stare, as though he's afraid to ask.

"Depends on what?"

"On how we decide to fix him. My best guess is that most of his logic and
memory synapses have been previously rearranged in order to maximize throughput
and storage capacity. His biological mind was screwed with, or upgraded
depending on how you look at it, when he was turned into a Borg. What that
does, however, is it makes his mind somewhat fragile. Apparently, the quality
of our transporter beam on this FME unit wasn't up to par with the Borg
technology. It jumbled things around a little. I've seen this sort of
phenomenon before with AI systems."

"So how do we fix it?"

"There's the slow method and the quick method. We could either pick his brain
apart with a high-resolution scanner and try to figure out how the thing
ticks... which could take awhile... or we can simply reboot and hope he can
fix himself."

"Reboot?"

"His brain is utilizing ambient electricity generated by this device in his
reticular formation. The extra power translates into extra connections. Higher
throughput. Higher storage capacity. We disconnect it for a few seconds, allow
the brain to go into a 'sleep' state, and then power-up again... and assuming
his brain works something like modern AI's, we'll be in business."

"What's the downside?"

"It'll erase all non-essential memory. Right now he knows all about that
wormhole drive he had to activate. We reboot, and he'll probably forget most of
what he knows about it. Of course, they should have the information on how to
use it aboard their vessel. I'm just guessing, sir. I don't know how much of
his memory is hard-wired. I'm just telling you how I would do it if he was my
baby."

O'Neil nods, "I understand."

"Oh my god!" Nurse Reeko exclaims, pulling Bellasario fully out of the sleeper
unit as he begins convulsing and spitting blood. O'Neil immediately shifts his
attention, "You and T'lar can work this out. I've got a patient to attend to.
Nurse, get the lieutenant into the Op-room! Let's move people!"

Tyran looks toward T'lar. "I suggest we go for the reboot. I know it could
screw up his memory, but I think we should try it anyway."

T'lar suddenly realizes that she's the ranking officer on the premises. "Go
ahead, Ensign."

Tyran disconnects the Borg's power source with the pull of a plug, then counts
to ten as the Borg stares mindlessly ahead. Finally he reconnects the power,
and the Borg blinks several times, as though somebody just thwacked it over the
head with a big stick.

"Initiating psi-reception. Error. Unit malfunction."

"Can you see me?" Tyran shakes its shoulder.

"Scanning organism. Species non-Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is
futile."

T'Lar intones with her best emotionless voice, "Memory loss error. These units
have been assimilated, and must be returned to their home sector to assist in
further assimilation of their species."

"Correction logged. Memory loss verified. Warning. Assimilated species do not
conform to standard cybernetic specifications. Unable to contact psi-server for
confirmation."

T'Lar nods, "Cybernetic modifications not yet emplaced. Your connection for
confirmation has been damaged, but this unit is authorized to forward
confirmation. Please keep reception channels open."

"Unable to open psi-reception. Accepting verbal input from forwarding unit.
Query. In what manner can this unit be of assistance in transport to home
sector of species to be assimilated?"

T'lar smiles inwardly. Deciding that she's not going to wait around a second
time, she begins putting on her vacc suit.

"Follow and you will be shown how to conduct this species of Borg back to its
home sector." She releases its bonds, feeling a tap on her shoulder. The tap is
from Tyran. He gives her a strange look, then whispers, "We don't know anything
about his boot-up state. You mind if I ask him a few..."

T'lar cuts the Ensign off with the severity of her gaze. Then taps a comm-port
on the wall. "Commander, plan A is a go. Two to beam directly to Borg-1. Stand-
by for vacc check."

"Wait a sec," Tyran stammers. "Three to beam."

"T'lar?" The voice is Nien's. She's obviously giving the lieutenant a free
reign.

"This unit does not answer to that designation. But the correction stands.
Three to beam."

"Standing-by."

Tyran throws on a vacc suit, and as they begin trying to suit-up the Borg, they
see it step away, pushing a button on a small metallic box hooked to its body
armor. A thin blue field envelops it, almost transparent in hue. T'lar
immediately consults her tricorder.

"It's a quasi-pressure field. Lets air out when the AP is out of balance, but
none gets in."

"Affirmative," The borg answers.

T'lar hits the wall again. "We're ready. Energize."

Slowly, the two officers and their captive borg materialize amidst a great
metallic hall, some thirty meters in length and half as wide. The deck plates
are shiny. Drained capacitor cells line the sides. Fortunately for the
visibility, Nien had bright electric lanterns beamed in as well.

The Borg begins stepping toward the door at the far end as T'lar opens a
channel to the Phobos, confident that he can't hear her.

"Where are we?"

"Baby-borg, the core," Nien's voice rattles over the speaker in T'lar's and
Tyran's helmets. "Tsandzia says scanner logs show that during the wormhole
traversal, the Borg vessel was transferring gobs of power from your current
location."

"Gobs?" T'lar gently queries.

"Gobs, Lieutenant."

"That would make sense. We've got _gobs_ of drained batteries here. Apparently
none of the plutonium-triozide got into this area."

"The core section was exposed to our scanners after your initial excursion."

T'lar nods, watching how the power conduits snake into the far wall from the
capacitor cells. That plasma breach which killed Sullivan and Gibbs must have
caused other breaches through the ship's hull as the HPT-burn ran its course.
The resulting depressurization had left this pristine area exposed to scanner
readings and transporter beams. However the Borg crew had managed to keep it
safe from the HPT. One thing was certain. It must have been very important to
them.

"Tricorder scans show a breathable atmosphere," Tyran reports.

"Vacc suits stay on. We're not taking chances."

After entering a combination, the door which the Borg is working on slides
open. Inside, T'lar and Tyran can see a huge glassy sphere some forty meters in
diameter suspended from the ceiling and walls by a network of metallic rods and
cables. Inside the sphere is an airy substance, like a fog, but with dim
glitters of multicolored light interspersed at various points, each of them
motionless.

Tyran consults his tricorder again, "I'm getting strange readings. This is
pretty weird. Before, this thing was telling me that nothing was in here."

"It's a subspace barrier-field. Acts as a sensor-suppression field for all
practical purposes." T'lar points to a small capacitor cell on the ceiling.
"Seems like they're not entirely out of power after all."

"Yeah, the power feed must be just enough to contain this... thing."

The Borg turns toward the two officers and begins talking. T'lar unfastens her
helmet in order to make out his words.

"...not have enough power to awaken the Thuleraen."

T'lar raises an eyebrow, "Query. What is the best method of restoring
sufficient power to return the federation space craft to its home sector?"

The Borg stares back. "Insufficient information."

Tyran examines his tricorder readings. "Somehow we need to flood their
capacitors with energy. Transporting it by portable energy cell could take
hours..." he looks back into the wide metallic hall, "or even days."

"Not a viable option," Nien's voice breaks over the comm-channel. "We may be in
for more trouble that we counted on."

"Trouble?"

"Another Borg vessel just entered the area. Mother-Borg is checking out her new
baby."

"Terrific."

"Is there any sign that they have a power reception dish which can route energy
to the capacitors? We might be able to tight-beam you the power."

T'lar looks toward the borg, "Query. What is the location of the nearest
operative, external, power reception device?"

The Borg steps toward a socket in the wall, connecting his arm to it. "Computer
is powered-down. Information unavailable."

"Query. Can we power the computer from here?"

"Affirmative."

T'lar fingers her hand phaser, uncertain that she really wants to hand it to
this Borg for purposes of booting-up his ship's computer. She finally decides
that if he'd wanted to kill her and Tyran, they'd both be dead already.

"Here... use this." She hands over the phaser and watches as the Borg tears it
open and rips out its sarium-krellide power cell and the discharge crystal. In
a few minutes, he has the device rigged to the terminal's power intake.


Stardate 6003.16 at 2350 hours: USS Phobos, Auxiliary Control
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nien's eyes focus on the new vessel on the sensor display. "Distance from
borg-3?"

Tsandzia looks up from her sensors, "One and a half million c-secs. ETA with
mother borg in seven and a half minutes. Correction, four minutes. Borg-3 is
moving to meet the mother."

"For something that size with no external warp nacelles, those things have one
hell of a cruising speed."

"Agreed."

"The mother-borg is just a big mobile spacedock. It'll probably have the
newcomer check us out... let it take the chance of getting 'fubared' by our
non-existant super-weapon. There has to be some way out of here. Have you
gotten a scanner sweep of this so-called energy-bubble yet?"

Tsandzia shrugs, "It's more like a pocket of space, a micro-universe."

"A micro-universe?"

"Picture it as a bubble in the cosmic ocean."

"Thrilling metaphor. What are the dimensions?"

"About seventy light-days in mean diameter. We're fairly close to the center.
There are objects with power-sources toward the fringes. Hard to get a firm
reading due to the fairly excessive subspace instability in this region."

"Not to mention the sheer distance," Nien adds.

"Well, the medium-range sensors on this vessel are generally good up to about
four light-years. Scanners show definite boundaries of some type."

Tuning into the conversation from the relative seclusion of the Baby-Borg,
T'Lar raises an eyebrow at the mention of boundaries. "And if we sail off the
edge?"

Tsandzia winks, though the Vulcan can't see her. "Better odds of surviving the
fall than an unfriendly brush with that Borg ship, for whatever that means."

Nien shrugs, "If we manage to get out of here, we'll be able to avoid that
unfriendly brush."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not."

Nien sighs, "What's on your mind, Lieutenant?"

"Just reconsidering."

"That wouldn't be a first," T'lar comments.

"I'm just thinking... is leading Momma-Borg back to the Federation the
brightest idea? I mean, we don't want to lose our ship, but _when_, not _if_,
the mother ship follows us, they will know precisely where our home planet is.
I don't think we should go home with that Mother-Borg in good condition."

*Beep* "Captain, O'Neil here."

"Go ahead, Doctor."

"Gunner wants to talk to you."

"I'm a little busy at the moment."

"He says it's important."

"How is he?"

"Weak. Very weak. But he wants to talk to you... now."

Nien bites her lip, "On my way. Lt. Morchainte, you have the conn."

"Aye sir." Tsandzia takes a gulp, but remains at her sensor station. She's
never been in command of a starship before, except in simulation, and she
prefers the comfort of her science station to the bulky command chair. After
Nien is well away she grumbles, "O'Neil _better_ have something important..."

Trozena looks up, "Sir, Crewman Mitchell reports that the HPD-18 is ready for
release as instructed."

"Good. Keep it on standby until further notice. Do Weers and Fujinara have the
grav-bows and explosive bolts distributed yet?"

"Uh... let me check. Seems to be in process, but the checklist shows that
they've gotten flame throwers to most of the security personnel."

"Good. Also, lower shields."

"Sir?"

"They'd just blast through them anyway."

"Uh... aye sir."

T'lar's voice breaks over the speaker, "What are you trying to do? Put out the
welcome mat?"

Tsandzia grits her teeth, not wanting another argument with a friend who
outranks her. "What is your status, Lieutenant?"

"We're at a critical juncture here. The Borg managed to tie into a power
reception dish. I've done the calculations and have determined that, at least
according to the power requirements which have been relayed to me, we have
enough power to create a wormhole for the Phobos. But we can't bring the Borg
ship with us. We just don't have enough juice. 743-94 says that if we transfer
our power, he'll be able to create the wormhole for us. After that, we're on
our own. We'll just have to hope we end up at the target location."

"What about the Mother-Borg snagging us back?"

"I haven't asked about that... for obvious reasons. You might want to double
check with the engineers, but I'd guess that it should take two minutes to
complete the power transfer. If the Mother-Borg is at a distance now, like you
say, they it may not have a chance to snag us."

Tsandzia shakes her head, "It's still no good. They'll come after us. I'm
certain of it. If only we could fake our self-destruction. Trozena, get me
O'Neil."

"Aye sir."

*Beep* "O'Neil here."

"Doctor, is there a way we can put a 'delay' on those Nanites... something that
will allow them to reproduce, but not actually damage the Borg's body until a
predefined time elapses or predetermined signal is sent?"

"Well, we can try to hide them in a stasis gel underneath his skin. When it
breaks down, though, they'll get loose. You can bank on it. Probably wouldn't
hold them for more than a few hours unless we make it real obvious."

"Not exactly what I had in mind," Tsandzia grumbles. "Thanks, anyway."

"Any time."

"T'lar, in case Borg-3 does follow us, we must be prepared to destroy it
immediately and completely. The mother ship's presence here proves that they
can locate and follow their ships even if they are dead in space."

"Not necessarily. 743-94 managed to activate this wormhole drive. His ship
wasn't entirely dead. What are you planning on doing with those Nanites?"

"Nothing." Tsandzia takes yet another scanner reading of the Borg ship. "T'lar,
can 743-94 transfer some data from his ship over here? And some sort of a
translation file... especially for that worm hole generator... any information
would be invaluable. Also, I'm considering beaming over a photon grenade or
two. Since we're not going to be able to take that ship with us, we're better
off not letting them get a chance to see what happened to it. Does that sound
reasonable?"

"I'm not authorizing the use of photon grenades. Please begin transfer of power
to borg-1, Phobos."

Tsandzia blinks, wondering vaguely if T'lar realizes that she was merely asking
for an opinion. With the conn in her lap, she has all the authority she needs.
"Trozena, begin transferring power. T'lar, if we leave that ship here, we might
as well just leave them a big, blinking, neon sign telling them how we defeated
their ship. Now WHY do you want to leave evidence behind?"

"Any time delay that allows us to get off the ship before the grenades explode
will *easily* allow something with the Borg's reflexes to disarm said grenades,
and, in all probability, it will alter the transfer process back to our space
so, at best, our ships will be useful as raw matter for a replicator. Let the
Borg figure out what's going on AFTER we're well on our way, please. With luck
the Mother-Borg will assume we took over the ship unassisted and blow it up
themselves."

"With luck?" Tsandzia stammers, unaware that T'lar subscribed to the notion.

"Of course, if you have a more *productive* suggestion, I'd be willing to hear
it."

"I was under the assumption that we were going to beam you and 743-94 back here
before we went through. Being that he can't communicate, I would think that
they couldn't locate him over a long range. You are right though, the timing
would be crucial, and even though he's been just wiped of his memory, we can't
assume that he won't recognize a photon grenade. Perhaps we beam one in, after
the worm hole is created, and we are pretty much well on our way?"

Back on the Borg ship, T'lar nods, "THAT sounds like a good plan. Proceed."

Tyran is standing next to the Borg, focusing his tricorder on the device the
Borg has attached to his arm which he is using to communicate with the ship's
computer.

"Are you picking anything up?" T'lar quietly inquires.

"Not enough... 743-94, we will require back-ups of the files concerning the
composition and construction of the..." he points, "of the wormhole generator."

"Specify back-up medium."

"Uhh... tricorder memory." Tyran hands his tricorder over to the borg, then
helps him rig it up to the computer port. Of course, hook-ups aside, the borg
computer doesn't understand the tricorder's operating system, but Tyran gets a
quick and dirty program working to accept a pure dump of straight binary,
knowing it'll take a while to decipher. That means he still has to clean-out
memory, implement compression routines, and hand-shake with the system
manually, enough to keep him busy and slow down the entire procedure.

Amidst this process, 743-94 steps over to the other chamber to check the
capacitor cells. "Energy transferred. Ready to initiate Thuleraen wake-up."

T'lar and Tyran look back and forth to each other, uncertain exactly what he's
talking about. "Is our presence required?" T'lar queries.

"Only one unit is required to supervise."

"When can we beam you up?"

"This unit must remain for the entire process."

"You can't come with us?"

"Negative."

"Then carry on." T'lar opens a comm-channel, "Phobos, two to beam-up."

"Wait," Tyran urges, still working on receiving information from the Borg
computer.

"No waiting. We leave now. Phobos. Lock and energize."


Stardate 6003.16 at 2355 hours: USS Phobos, Sickbay
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Having only recently returned to consciousness, Bellasario groggily tries to
sit up, succeeding only in tangling the equipment filtering his blood-supply.
Lindstrome walks in, hearing his grunts and groans. "Awake again? I see we'll
have to fix that."

"What in the Federation did you pump into me, Nurse? Whatever it was, it's as
strong as Romulan Ale." Gunner blushes as Lindstrome casts him a sharp glance.
After all, certain beverages are forbidden in Star Fleet. "Uh... at least, I've
heard that Romulan Ale is that strong." Watching her reload another hypo, he
slowly remembers how she stuck him the first time. "We'll discuss your little
back-stabbing later on, Lieutenant. Right now I have more pressing business."

"Such as?"

"A meeting with the Captain."

"Make it quick." She reluctantly puts the hypo away.

"And I'll be sure to talk to Doctor O'Neil about your bedside manner."

As she opens the door to leave, he can see Nien outside, talking with Darla
Reeko. Nien enters a moment later.

"You called, Lieutenant?"

"Yes sir."

"They tell me you're recovering well. How do you feel?"

"Fine, sir."

"And what was it you wanted to tell me that was so important?"

"Dreams, sir."

"Dreams?"

"Sir, I realize this may seem a bit far fetched, but please hear me out. Right
before I came to, I had a rather vivid dream."

"You think I have nothing better to do that listen to you tell me about your
dreams, Lieutenant?"

"No sir, and I would not expect you to hear about them except that the tin-man
was involved."

"The tin man?"

"The Borg, sir."

"Look, Lieutenant, I don't care if the Federation High Council and a pool of
whipped cream was involved."

"But it wasn't just any normal dream, sir. It was like I was there. With all
due respect, I do believe that whatever happened to me was exceptional. Somehow
I had returned to San Francisco, the old neighborhood where I grew up. I was
reliving the day I left home, fifteen years ago. Every detail was the same
right down to Kimberly Gray sitting on the steps of the old monastery down the
hill from where we lived. It was almost as if someone was reading my innermost
thoughts to recreate the images in such detail. The only difference is, this
time, when I got to the monastery, I didn't hurry past it like fifteen years
ago. Instead, I went in and that's when things start getting strange. My cat,
Snowball, was there sitting on the altar. The pastor was preaching some
hellfire and brimstone message about repentance. Then he offered me the cup,
and asked if it was what I came for."

"What... the wine?"

"Forgiveness. The blood of Stavadthromos."

"Say again?"

"Stavadthromos. I remember it clearly."

"You must have overheard that name in your sleep. According to Nurse Reeko, the
Borg captive mentioned the name while T'lar was interrogating it. We think that
this Stavadthromos may be some sort of leader of the Borg collective. So... I
take it you didn't drink the wine."

He looks up at the Captain, who no doubt is viewing this with skepticism.
"Well, Captain, they say truth can be stranger than fiction."

"So they say, although I've just heard some pretty strange fiction."

He looks at her pleadingly. "Do you really think in my wildest dreams I could
have made this up. Damnit, I know we haven't exactly known each other very
long, but do you really think I would waste my time dreaming something like
this up?!?!"

"Apparently so. Look, Lieutenant. You've been under a lot of stress, and you've
been seriously wounded. I don't exactly think that strange dreams are out of
the question."

Gunner shakes his head. "Don't you think I already considered that?! I was
going to dismiss this whole thing as effects of the medication I was receiving,
but when I came to and heard about the FME and so forth, I, well..."

"Wait... what about the FME?"

"Well, they must have told you. It fell off its stand just before I came to."

"And why do you think you have something to do with that?"

"When I left the church, I was suddenly back on board the Phobos again. The
Borg was there and so were several of the crew. I had brought my cat with me
from the monastery and the Borg seemed to take offense at its presence,
identifying it as an unassimilated species or something. That's when I had to
eject Snowball through the FME."

"You had to what?"

"I threw him at the foreign matter ejector, and then I felt myself being sucked
back into my body and I was awake again. I'm telling you... it was real."

"You threw the cat?"

"Wait, Nien, it gets even weirder. The blob-creature, whatever it is, it took
an interest in me and, right before I threw Snowball, my cat suddenly started
acting strange and got this weird mischievous grin on its face as if it had
planned this whole thing from the start. The final straw was when I started
disappearing into a gravitic suspension unit and someone who looked just like
me was already there! That's when I woke up."

Nien shakes her head, "The cat... Snowball. You have pictures of him?"

Gunner nods, "Sure." He reaches reflexively for his back pocket, only to
realize that he's no longer dressed in his uniform. "Uh... they took my
clothes, I guess."

Nien steps over to the laundry chute, only to see that it opens to a small
conveyor belt. Then she notices a familiar face walk by. "Brown?"

"Yes sir?"

"Do you know where we can find Gunner's clothes?"

"Uh... they've been dispensed with already." He turns toward Bellasario, "We
had to cut them off you before the operation, sir."

"What about my personal effects?"

"Oh, sure. One minute."

He returns with the wallet, still full of photos. Gunner never liked image
plates. Actual hard copies, anything he could feel, bend, tear, or throw darts
at seemed somehow preferable. "Umm... this picture has... well, no... I thought
he was in that one. Uh..."

"Nothing, right?"

"I don't understand it."

"Tell me... what do you specifically remember about Snowball?"

"Uh... he was white."

"You remember feeding him?"

"I'm sure I must have at one point or another."

"But you don't remember any specific times. Stavadthromos got in your head,
Lieutenant, and that cat in your dream was the key to the whole thing."

Gunner blinks, "Stavadthromos?"

"And you threw him at the friggin' FME."

"Stavadthromos??"

"Nurse Reeko mentioned to me a hypothesis she had... that the telekinetic
phenomenon could have been some sort of attempt at communication. She even told
me about the cat noises. I didn't buy a word of it then, but what you've just
told me seems to confirm at least one thing. Some alien psionic entity was on
board this ship. What I don't understand is why it didn't just have the Borg
send us a subspace signal? They've already proven their ability to speak our
language."

"But, it was... just... a.. dr. Oh, never mind!"

Nien looks Gunner over. "No, Lieutenant, you were right. It was much more than
an ordinary dream."

Gunner sighs. "I see I have a lot of catching up to do, Captain. Request
permission to return to active duty or at least have one of my officers come
down and give me a full briefing."

"When you're discharged from sickbay."

"Can I at least get a clue as to what's been going on?"

"Lt. T'lar and Ensign Arloch are aboard the Borg vessel. With luck, they'll be
able to activate the ship's wormhole generator and get the Phobos back home."

"Wormhole generator?"

*Beep* "Captain to auxiliary control." The voice is Trozena's.

Nien hits a comm-access switch on the wall, "What's going on?"

"T'lar and Arloch have just returned. Mission successful. However, Borg-3 is
approaching fast. ETA in less than two minutes."

"I'm on my way."

After Nien is gone, Gunner sees Lt. Lindstrome come back, only this time, she's
carrying more than her infamous hypo.

Gunner blinks, "What's that?"

"The difference between life and death. They called it a grav-bow. It fires
explosive bolts. I'm told that it'll cut through the Borg shields like hot
plasma through daisies. Here... just in case."

"Where's yours?"

"I'm not a warrior, Lieutenant. I've devoted my life to healing." She places
the weapon at his bedside. "You, however, have not."


Stardate 6003.17 at 0000 hours: USS Phobos, Auxiliary Control
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nien enters the bridge, Ensign Susanne Brown following her with a load of grav-
bows and explosive bolts.

"Status?"

"Borg-3 ETA in 45 seconds," T'lar reports from the helm station.

Tsandzia looks up, "Subspace ripple detected. Intensity indicates that we're
practically on top of it. Sir, I suggest that we beam our supply of HPD-18 off
the starboard bow to hide our escape."

Nien nods toward Trozena, "Relay to transporter room. Helm, get us on top of
the ripple-effect."

Tsandzia looks up again, "Sir, we have photon grenades waiting with the
transporter rooms. Suggest we beam..."

"No," T'lar turns around. "It's too soon."

"Tsandzia, what's the time delay?"

"Thirty seconds."

"Borg-3 ETA in 20 seconds."

"Do it."

"TP-1 energizing grenades," Trozena reports.

"10 seconds. Come on, damnit!" T'lar hisses.

The Phobos suddenly lurches, and the entire starscape turns grey.

"Yes!!!"

Then the grey sphere wavers and opens at one end. The 3rd borg ship is there
creating the aperture with the 1st borg vessel behind it and to the side.

"No!!!"

"Shields up. Phasers, lock and fire."

Tsandzia dives from her science station, "No! Fire at borg-1! Do it!"

T'lar, despite all her arguments with Tsandzia, interprets Nien's vague order
as Tsandzia is suggesting, firing on borg-1 instead of the stronger borg-3.
Like the mother ship had done, borg-3 stretches its shields to protect and
encompass the weaker vessel. Suddenly, however, borg-1 explodes, the force of
the photon grenades, the excess HPT-11, and the energized capacitor banks
apparently overwhelming the ship's hull integrity. Essentially shieldless from
it's sister vessel, borg-3 takes serious damage from the blast, bits of it
literally crumbling into space.

Tsandzia races back to the science station, "Subspace aperture closing. They
can't maintain it. And their shields are toast."

Several greenish bursts of energy from the Borg vessel hurtle toward the
Phobos. Viewers show two connecting with the former bridge, totally
obliterating the patch-work which had taken so long to accomplish. Another hits
life-support services, taking out the primary lighting and air circulation.
Nien is forced to grab the arms of her command chair to avoid being flung
aside.

"Shields are down! Transporter waves detected!"

Then the aperture closes, and the Phobos is alone somewhere within the
undulating grey sphere that its late Borg friend had created. Almost alone,
that is. In one of the hallways adjoining to auxiliary control, the
unmistakable whine of transporter carrier waves is heard. Tsandzia and Brown
are there within mere seconds. Two borgs are turned about, disoriented, six
others already on their bellies, mutated by their own transporters and the
distortions of wormhole-space. The grav-bows work as well as anticipated,
sending explosive bolts at their targets without any recoil whatsoever. Within
seconds the two of eight borgs who transporter successfully are splattered
against the walls.

"How many got in?!"

"Unknown!" Trozena reports, "Getting readings of plasma bursts all over the
ship!"

"Sir!" The voice is Suzy Brown's. "Request permission to seek and destroy."

"Granted." Nien grabs herself a grav-bow. "Trozena, stay and coordinate as best
you can. Everybody else, it's time to rock and roll."


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

 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------
 This Star Trek PBeM is archived on ftp.cs.pdx.edu in pub/frp/stories/startrek
 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------