Borg vessel, near Vega Colony, United Federation of Planets. January 8th, 2407.

Pain. My entire head is pain, brutal and thoughtless as it crawls through my mind. The Borg. Nanites. They're in me. I got nabbed. I'm being assimilated.

I try to scream, to struggle, anything, as my body wants to convulse and vomit as the violation pours through me, activating my memories as the nanites trace along my nerves. But the Borg is there, and it is all-powerful, and it squashes my feeble attempts to fight. My body continues its smooth walk down the corridor. I'm worse than dead now. My parents are going to be worried sick, SFC classifies assimilated personnel as MIA…

The nanites hit a memory, and unbidden, it consumes me.

Vienna, Deutsches Kaiserreich (European Union, United Earth). June 6th, 2396 AD.

The Germans really went all-out for the opening ceremony for this round of summer Olympics. I'm damn lucky that Dad's a vet, otherwise we'd never have gotten front-row seats. Mahmud, my kid brother, is for once slack-jawed at the spectacle—damn teenagers. Alright, so I'm only eighteen, I can't talk, but Amy's sixteen and somehow she hasn't gotten a Mohawk or shitty goth clothes yet.

I'm about a meter and three-quarters tall, brown hair cut in a bob, with a Team America T-shirt sagging limply over my still-puny chest. I'm wearing a push-up bra and everything in the half-baked hope of attracting some handsome German, maybe one of those pretty Swedish chicks down the row, just for one of those crazy holiday flings they talk about in Amy's romance novels, but I seem to have thrown craps in the boob department. But hopefully soldiers won't care about that in boot camp…

As Heil Dir im Siegerkranz draws to a close, the highlights of Germany's incredible comeback in World War Three finishing up on the holoscreens, I'm drawn back to serious matters by the thought of my plan and the fact that I haven't yet told my family. The Kaiser—a mid-sized man with a squashed-looking face and a magnificent brown, curling moustache, lights the ceremonial torch and salutes the crowd with a smile. The holoscreens switch from red, white, and black striped flags to the Olympic symbol and the emblems of United Earth and the Federation, and the announcer starts introducing the teams. Afghanistan's contingent is big this year—I've bet money on one of their distance runners with a few friends back home.

Amy and Mahmud have perked up a bit; the various teams' official costumes are garish as usual, and my siblings are already arguing about which is the worst.

Jordan comes up after a few more minutes. Damn. That sprinter says he trains in the Hejaz to maximize his heat tolerance. In four years, I'm gonna be out there in full kit. That's gonna be rough.

"Enjoying it so far?" Dad asks. I nod listlessly, distracted by the ceremony and my thoughts. Dad picks up on it. "Hey, Rachel, I know you're having trouble deciding which school to go to. But trust me, Somaliland or Uruguay, even Starfleet Academy, your mother and I don't care as long as you're happy. They're all good schools."

"I know, Dad. I…ah, I'll tell you later."

"Finally figured out what you want to study?" he jokes.

"Sort of. Tell you later."

He nods. "I'll respect that. But try to just sit back and have fun, alright? This part's still pretty boring, but they're going to be done soon."

Time does fly, especially when you're worried about telling your parents that you're going to volunteer to die. Or when a Borg nanite spike is reaving through your head, the bioelectrical imbalance forcing you to relive all of your memories at random… and it's later at night, we're back in the hotel with some dinner, and I work up the courage.

"Mom, Dad?"

"Yes, honey?" Mom replies.

"I, uh. I'm going to Starfleet Academy. And I'm going to go Security, try to get into MACO."

"Rachel…" Mom begins, "this isn't about Wei, now, is it?"

"No, mom," and damn but if my first real girlfriend isn't a painful memory. Bitch took my virginity and then told the whole school about what I was like in bed, while fucking Mindy Winthrop behind my back the whole time. "I'm over her. Really I am. I'm over Chuck and Lisa, too."

"Starfleet Security's dangerous, especially the ground-pounders," Dad notes. "I respect your decision, but can I ask you why?"

I shrug. "The Klingons are getting aggressive. The political trouble's bad, and the mess with the Romulans that's still going on has made it worse. FNN analysts—the good ones, not the idiots—are predicting another war within eight to ten years. I just want to do my part."

"Hmm. Well, I'd say try your best, but that might mean you get into special forces, and that…that's a hard life, Rachel."

"I know. I want to go into MACO. There's a whole galaxy out there, and while there's a lot that's friendly, there's a lot that wants to kill us. Bacco may have been popular here but she got a lot of anger from abroad, and Okeg isn't immune to external heat either, and that's before we get to apolitical threats like the Borg. I want to protect people from that stuff, so we can have things like Earth and Risa and Aldebaran and Tellar Prime, worlds where everybody's free and equal and everything's peaceful. I want to help keep this world safe."

"Sweetie.." Mom begins, looking from Dad to me and back. "Maybe you need to put a little more thought into this…"

"I did, Mom. Spent a month talking about it with Lisa before we broke up. I'm gonna do it."

"Well, I say go for it, then," Dad says. "But try to stay safe, alright? See if you can't get a Home Fleet posting, for your mother's sake."

"Sure Dad. I'll try."

I know it's a lie, but it seems to keep Mom happy.

Painthepainthepainthepain

Submit.

No, no, I won't! I'm Rachel, Rachel Connor, Lieutenant JG, Starfleet Military Assault Command Operations, SU2403…

Submit.

No! I'm not a drone. I'm Human. I'm Human…

The pain hits again…

Starfleet Academy. September 3rd, 2398.

"Rachel, can I have the room?"

My roommate, a pretty Bolian majoring in subspace dynamics, opens the door as I'm in the middle of studying for a course on Romulan space tactics. I look up—no surprise she's got a dude, more surprising she's got two, though I suppose with her tits and an ass like that anything's possible.

"Uh, I'm kind of studying, Mara, and it's a Friday night, we're halfway across campus from the library…"

"I know, I know, but I really need the room…the lounge is too open and they live over in April Hall."

Shit. "Alright. I'll…go see if I can find a quiet bench. Or something." Lucky bitch. How do science majors somehow have more free time than soldiers in officer training?

"Thanks, you're a doll! I'll make it up to you, I swear!"

"Help me pass Warp Theory and we're even." It's the same deal I make every time. I can't hold her luck against her, not really; it's not like I'm trying in the romance department, anyway. Though I've been on a couple of dates, which never panned out.

I'm now twenty years old and I've put on fifteen pounds of muscle. High-protein diet plus lots of working out, just as Campbell-Johnsonism's Good Book teaches. I still can't believe that Amy converted to a parody religion gone serious. But I guess stranger things have happened.

It takes me about fifteen minutes to find a good bench, after weaving through a bunch of drunk idiots partying like there's no tomorrow. I hate living in a party dorm, especially in the first couple weeks of the year. I need to get into Ambassador Archer Hall next year, the one they named after the man who ended the Xindi crisis, who they're rebooting a shitty '60s holoprogram about. Mara was super pissed last week that they apparently turned him into a white guy in the holoshow, and made him Captain of Enterprise NX-01 rather than Chen Hwai.

The bench, at least, is nice, with a good view of the bay. Not that I can stop to see the sites, I still have two hundred and fifty more pages of Captain Hwai's records on the Romulan Wars to get through.

"Mind if I sit?"

I look up. The speaker's a muscular Kreetassian woman about my age, about ten centimeters taller than me. "Uh, sure. What's up?"

"Romulan wars. That's what we have for Murkon."

I groan. "Me, too! And I'm going MACO, so this is basically useless for me on top of the misery!"

"Hey, same here! I'm Bev. Bev-tak vo-Loskata to-Var kree-Sanat. I'm from Kreetassia."

"Rachel, Rachel Connor. I'm from Flint, Michigan. It's up in the Great Lakes region of the US here on Earth."

"Neat. You have Murkon too?"

"Of course. She assigns us so much shit that isn't even relevant!"

"I know! It's absurd. I don't think I've been so frustrated since I read that leaked Enterprise: Dawn of the Federation script where they portrayed my whole species as stuffy dicks!"

"Ah, come on, that one has to be a joke or a hoax, no writing's that bad. They make Archer look like a dim-witted immature sex-obsessed asshole with a creepy dog fetish in that script. One of Earth's most famous diplomats!"

She shakes her head ruefully. "You're probably right. Here, want to split the work? I'll take notes on the second half, you get the first?"

"Sure, I'll take the first five chapters."

That deal lasted us all semester. Murkon never did catch on. Bev and I ended up getting into the same training platoon and even deploying together. It was stupid on my part, to get a friend in the service. But to be fair, it is kind of human nature.

Getoutgetout GET OUT OF MY HEAD!

You are a drone. Submit.

My suit must be working. These new MACO bodysuits are supposed to have anti-Borg adrenals that will help counter the nanites. Unfortunately, that means more pain…and the Borg will catch on.

Something whirs at the damaged plating on my chest, and the plastic is lifted away. My body stands helpless as my mind screams and the Borg begin to strip me.

Hejaz desert, Jordan. June 2403.

Bev, Turner, and T'Len wheeze alongside me as haul ourselves out of the canal, covered in mud, grit, sand, sweat, and filthy water. Five days of survival after being dropped in the desert with only each other, uniforms, and knives. We made it all the way to the canal, across it, and to the finish line.

Medics come rushing up, hauling us onto stretchers as my legs give out. I'm the shortest on the team, which just meant I had to push that much harder. Fortunately, I've bulked up in the last couple of years, and my endurance isn't bad, either. Bev's exhausted face bears a weary grin, undoubtedly matched by me, as she looks across at me. "Hey. Rachel. We did it."

I can't help but grin in return. We made it. Four years in the Academy, two on tour, then 1 in Special Forces training and SERE. And we just finished goddamn SERE.

"Fuck yeah," I manage. My college buddy snickers, then gasps again for breath. "We're fuckin' MACOs now."

"Not quite yet," a medic says. "You still have to be formally commissioned into the service. But still, good work, you're in the upper third of passing times. I thought the water collection pit was inspired, myself."

"That was Bev and Connor," Turner manages in between pants. "I still can't believe that shit worked."

"Neither can I," I wheeze. "Hey. I owe you guys. Drinks are on me next time at the bar."

"To hell with that, they're on me," Turner retorts.

"They're on me, and that's final," Bev says. T'Len raises an eyebrow and stays out of it.

I'm covered in grime, I have a busted toe and lacerations on my arm, and there's an infected cut on my cheek. And I've never felt better.

Stop stop stop please stop…

Assimilation proceeding normally. You will be Borg.

We're getting close to my most recent memories. If the memories being accessed are somehow proportional to the rate of assimilation…I don't have long to think.

I'm in an alcove in full Borg body plating now. And I've never felt so naked.

Oricon IV, Romulan border. March 2nd, 2405.

"Shit. Shit! Bev, cover my flank!"

"Copy, L-T!"

"Keep your fucking head down, Winslow!" The FDC man we've been deployed to rescue cowers obediently. At least he's not as stupid as Sugihara. "Reaper, this is Element Rapier, we have the package, under fire from multiple forces! Requesting emergency beamout!"

"Negative, Rapier. There's a deposit of radioactive material nearby and a Tal'Shiar transporter scrambler up, we can't risk it."

"Fuck! Alright, change of plans. McKinnon! Dingiswayo! We're taking that old apartment house! It's Romulan War-era, reinforced afterwards to keep it up to code, that thing can weather artillery fire. We hold it as long as we can!"

There's a nice flashy battle going on in space above us. This border world tried to jump ship to the Federation now that the Neutral Zone is meaningless, but apparently it had a Tal'Shiar base on it, so the psychotic new Praetor, Sela, and Chairman Ruul (the Tal'Shiar's leader) sent a full battle fleet. And with the losses we've been taking against the Klingons combined with the power struggle in High Command between Quinn and Riker, mixed with Admiral T'Nae's fanatical anti-Romulan racism problem, my squad just isn't getting the support we need.

"What's the plan?" Bev asks as the Scott and the Zulu move ahead. Morak, from Benzar, covers our rear as I haul Winslow's cringing ass along with us. "We're going to be completely surrounded in there, in less than five minutes."

"Remember Pavlov's House, from small-unit tactics? I'm gonna seal the doors, then we bleed those bastards as they try to take us. Hold out long enough for a shuttle. Reaper, this is Element Rapier! We need shuttle pick-up as soon as you can manage, we're going to try to hold a building until then for shelter! Pickup from the roof!"

"Copy that, Rapier. We'll send pickup your way as soon as possible, hold out for as long as you can!"

"The sooner the better!" Ahead, McKinnon and Dingiswayo have breached the doors and are waving us forwards. I hustle forwards, hauling the diplomat, as a mortar sounds somewhere close-ish. "Bev, Morak, c'mon!"

I hear a shout in High Rihan from behind us. Morak squeezes off a shot, and the shout turns into a scream. "Moving," the Benzite growls.

We make it to the building, the sounds of battle growing ever closer. A plasma bolt whizzes past my head as we dive inside and McKinnon closes the door. I turn and unload my phaser into the panel, melting it into useless goop.

"Dingiswayo, Morak, start barricading that thing with anything you've got! Winslow, come with me. McKinnon, Bev, set up sniper posts, you guys know the drill?"

"Yeah, I remember Pavlov's House. Same setup?"

"Third floor, we need roof access and good angles. Morak, Dingiswayo, come up once you're done, one of you keep an eye on the door."

"Roger that," Dingiswayo grunts, hauling a couple of big tables for the door. I head for the stairs.

"This is one of those times I'd kill for an LMG," I mutter as Bev and I secure Winslow and head for the windows.

"We'll make do," my friend replies. "We made do in the Arm, we'll make do here."

"Fucking Arm was a fucking shitshow," I retort. "I'm never doing that shit again, not even if someone gets me a date with that chick from Vulcan Love Slave 18."

Bev snorts. "It wasn't that bad."

"I got shot in the ass, by a ricochet off of a fucking reflective wall, it absolutely was that bad."

"Hey, we lived, didn't we?"

"I got half my ass burned off!" Bev snorts and shakes her head at that.

I motion with my hand. "Either way, helmets sealed, coms on. Don't want the Rommies hearing us."

"Copy that." Bev's visor slides into place, as does mine. I head for one of the third-floor windows; already Romulan ground troops, looks like Tal'Shiar internal security division, are moving in to surround the building.

"Coms check."

"McKinnon here."

"Morak, I copy."

"Dingiswayo, I copy."

"Bev here, I hear you."

"Good. Pick a spot, make it good. Pavlov's house, you know the drill."

I take a look at the street again. They're bringing in a portable mortar, and have ten soldiers on this side alone armed with disruptor rifles—looks like Rator K-pattern 2385s, heavy-blast siege rifles designed to tear through a body. Nasty stuff, but the range on those isn't as good as a phaser DMR like the TR-18s they issued us. But they outnumber us, big-time, and they have two snipers with what I think are high-density rifles…

"Bev, can you take out the mortar?"

"On it. Just say the word."

"Alright. I'm gonna launch a grenade in there and see how they react." My secondary weapon's a TR-20 phaser pulsewave gun with an underslung antimatter grenade launcher. Useful for dealing with clustered foes, though it was designed for Borg. I target a group of three Romulans standing together, pop out into the window, smash it open with an elbow, and shoot off the grenade, rolling back behind the wall as disruptors score my shields.

Bev's had time to use her own high-density phaser beam, and the blast melts straight through the mortar, rendering it a useless smoking pile of junk. From below, I hear phaser shots as the rest of the squad opens fire.

The Rommies are scattering into buildings by the side of the road when I look back. Four dead, two injured by the looks of it. Not bad. We can't hold for a month like Pavlov did, that lucky bastard had a trench dug back to Soviet lines and had enough barbed wire and mines to form a good perimeter, not to mention machine guns and an antimateriel piece, but we have thousands of credits' worth of state-of-the-art weaponry. We can hold a couple hours.

"Reaper, this is Element Rapier! I need an ETA on that evac!"

"Thirty minutes, but don't quote me on that! Sixth Fleet's here and we're pushing them out of orbit! As soon as it's clear I'll send the shuttle!"

"Hurry up! We have the package but we're pinned in a building and surrounded, limited ammo and weapons! I'm gonna try to go Pavlov's House on them but without antimateriel we're in deep shit!"

"Copy that! I wish I could offer more but for now you're on your own!"

"Roger that. Rapier out." Of course. Of fucking course.

"Well, campers, it looks like we're in for an interesting day."

Bev snickers. "Interesting like the Arm?"

"Fuck you, Private."

"I thought so."

I settle in, resting myself on an overturned chair with my DMR pointed in the general direction of the enemy, ready to pop off a couple of shots at anyone stupid enough to move. Hopefully they won't roll up a tank.

No no oh god please naaaaahhHHHH!

The Borg AI doesn't care about pain. It also doesn't care what its drones think on the subject. My mind is forced back into the present as the neural cascade temporarily halts, just long enough for me to see through my one remaining eye as a Borg drone removes my hand and begins attaching what looks like a Swiss army knife with a buzzsaw. I want to black out, my body is screaming to just black out and collapse, but the Borg's presence in my brain keeps me standing placidly as my hand is sliced off like so much meat and the nightmarish appendage is stitched in. And I feel every second of it.

Then the Borg returns to infiltrating my brain.

Oricon IV. March 2nd, 2405.

"Dingiswayo, how's McKinnon?"

"Bad, L-T. Mortar sent part of his rib into his lung, and his armor's systems are fried."

"Shit." McKinnon has maybe twenty minutes. Captain Bronstead swears that the skies are clear and he's sent a shuttle, but I can still hear Romulan batteries sounding and see the fires. Plus, there's now a tank in the road that's starting to edge around the too-tight corner. "Do what you can. Bev, Morak, you got anything left for the tank?"

"I'm out of grenades, L-T. Down to one power cell for the phaser, too—full power really eats it up."

"I've got no grenades either," Bev reports. "I have one and a half power cells, and my secondary's dry."

Shit. And that's a fucking tank that's now halfway around the corner, with a plasma cannon that will knife through our little barricade on the door in about two shots. "Right, give me the two full cells, I've got a crazy idea. Get Winslow and McKinnon to the roof with Dingiswayo, they say evac's coming."

"You want to overclock a TR-18? Are you nuts?" Bev's incredulous. I shrug.

"You got any better ideas?"

She glowers, but hands over the cell, followed by Morak. "Good luck, L-T. You need it," the Benzite says.

"Thanks. Get your asses moving, and be careful with that idiot." Poor McKinnon got his ass toasted by a mortar shot from the Rommies. Lucky that it hit the wall rather than coming in through the window, or he'd be meat.

The tank's mostly around the corner now, the raptor insignia on the front slightly burned. Tal'Shiar didn't used to have their own tanks and fleets.

I strip my TR-18, something I've done a thousand times. I pull out the regulator—I only need one shot, though of course if I miss shit hits the fan—and use the wires to jury-rig two more power cells to the weapon's body. One shot—the blast from this should liquefy the emitter tube and partially melt the plastic. But it should also function as a makeshift antimateriel weapon.

Below, the tank's cannon fires, and the building shakes as superheated plasma rams into the doors. It seems they've caught fire—smoke begins to waft up. Hellfire, that thing's powerful. I snap most of the rifle back together and carefully rest the nozzle on the windowsill. One shot.

The tank's getting closer. They're going to fire a breacher next, if they break the doors we're screwed. I pop up, draw a quick bead on the tank's center of mass, take a disruptor bolt to my shields, and pull the trigger.

A pillar of superheated air ignites around the laser blast, the pulse of expanding, igniting air blasting me back like a giant recoil. The tank ignites in a sheet of flame, then explodes, the treads slumping as the core blows bits of metal sky-high. I think I underestimated the yield.

No time to think about that now, though. I roll to my feet and run for the stairs up. Any Rommie with half a brain will know that that was a last-ditch plan and we're out of options. Please, please, don't let the shuttle be late…

As I sprint onto the roof, a sleek white shape descends from the sky. "Element Rapier, this is Welcome Wagon, we're coming in for extraction."

"Thanks. Thank fuck you came now. Be warned, LZ is a bit warm."

"Copy that, Lieutenant." I stumble to my squad's sides as the door rumbles open below. The Rommies are through. But the shuttle's here, and the rear hatch is open. I grab Winslow, and the others cart McKinnon in. "We're in! Go, go, go!"

The pilot guns the engines, and the rear hatch closes before the first Romulan reaches the roof.

I turn to Bev, who's grinning like a madwoman. "You're right. Not as bad as the Arm."

"I told you so! Ha! I'll get the drinks tonight, just for that stunt."

Dingiswayo and Morak cheer. Winslow coughs at my side. I turn. "Yeah?"

"Thank you, Lieutenant. For everything. You and your squad just saved my life back there."

"Hey, saving diplomats who've gotten caught up in Romulan politics is the least crazy thing we've done this year. Don't mention it."

"Still. I have three kids back home, and if it weren't for you they'd never see their father again. If you ever need a favor…I'm on your side."

I shake his hand. "Thanks. Drop by the bar on deck 3 later, if you're sticking around on the Bonn. I'll buy you a synthale."

Vega Colony, United Federation of Planets. January 5th, 2407.

"What the fuck are the fucking boltheads doing here, anyway?" I scream.

"Don't ask me!" Bev protests, gunning down a drone on my right as we hustle for the Borg signal beacon, the evil green machine that's summoning more of the cyborgs to this former garden world. We just terraformed this place, and now the Borg are going to take it away from us?

"We're in the middle of Federation space! Why the hell—it makes no sense!"

"I know! On your—good shot."

"Thanks. How much further?"

"I make it a hundred yards," the Kreetassian says, still about ten centimeters taller than me. We both look the part of stereotypical MACOs now, sleek, muscular forms in smooth powered armor. "We should've brought more people."

"No, we'd have been more of a target. Better to leave the rest of the away team as a distraction. Shit!" I hit another drone in the leg with my projectile gun, a standard-issue Yoyodyne Systems TR-21 assault rifle. Drones may be enemy combatants, but if we can take down the beacon there's a chance that we can save them, I can't risk headshots. Thankfully, the drone goes down, one of the leg cybernetics sparking. "Of course, the minute they know what we're going for…"

"Yeah, that was my thought," Bev says. "Cover me?"

"On it." She moves up to unlock a gate that's between us and the beacon—one thing the Borg haven't suborned yet. "In!"

"Go, go, go!"

We open the gate with a pair of grunts and two shoulders, and run for the beacon. It's a straight show from here, they set it up by this town's main power generator, at the end of an avenue. A dozen drones turn and move for us…

"Hang back and cover me!" I order, pulling out a grenade. "I'm going in!"

"Good luck!"

I charge forwards, panting heavily as my armor strains to the limits of its joint servos. A Borg falls on my left, Bev's work. Good shot, right to the knee. One gets too close to me, and is headshot. Pity, but we can't risk it tripping me. Shit. Six more, arm-guns raised…

Plasma bolts wear my shields down to nothing and score my armor. I scream with rage and pain and throw the grenade. It's got enough yield to level a building at that setting, it should…

The grenade hits the beacon, bounces off…and explodes so quickly that I can barely register that it technically bounced. The blast of heat and light sets off more warnings in my suit and blasts me backwards off my feet, but the beacon's malevolent transmitter spine shatters, the device itself sparking and coughing smoke as the feedback burns out its insides. I roll, pulling myself to my feet and beginning to trot back…

A downed but still active Borg grabs my leg. I swear, pulling out the TR-21, and pull the trigger.

There's a pop and the gun jumps in my hands. Oh shit. I slap it, pull the trigger again…nothing. Jammed.

I kick desperately at the drone, bend down—Bev's screaming in my coms, god damn it, god damn Yoyodyne Systems and its shitty engineering…

Something hits me in the back of the head and everything goes dark."

Assimilation successful. We are the Borg.

"…you fucking asshole, Drake said volunteers only!"

"The adaptation suite was supposed to dissolve the Borg nanoprobes, where are we going to get a volunteer to get injected with those?"

"Don't pull that shit on me, Tennyson, you can find plenty of people ready to die for the Federation if you know where to look. Fuck. Well, we have a unit, we might as well use her. She's loyal?"

"Yes. We used a cranial implant, embedded in the brain stem. It does whatever we tell it to, or should. We were waiting for it to wake up properly."

"She. That's a soldier for the Federation there, gladly giving her life for our glorious nation."

Voices. Two male. I open my eyes, slowly. There's a reflective ceiling above me, I can see a Human and an Andorian arguing off to my side.

"The experiment isn't Human, Agent th'Vathandras. It's a living weapon, and it's legally an Augment. It has no rights, and must be registered with the government at all times according to Federation law. Though, of course, we're not going to be registering it."

"Listen, asshole, I know she's just a weapon, but we have a reputation to uphold."

"Reputation? Your employer is only tangentially related to the Federation government and this organization, Section 31? It's nothing but a well-funded terrorist group!"

"Of course. But we're fighting for the Federation, and the Federation has a reputation to uphold. We will cloak our less-popular actions in propaganda, and we will do so at all times. Now, her abilities?"

"The unit is considerably stronger than even a proportional Vulcanoid," the Human says, moving over towards me. I close my eyes most of the way. "It has last-resort weaponry grown into the arms, modified dentition just in case, and its body fluids dissolve anything foreign that enters its body and re-use or pass it. Hell, it even digested the Borg implants…"

"Wait. She digests implants?"

"Yes. It's a Borg-proofing feature, we're quite proud of…"

"And how were you controlling her, again?"

"An implant in the…oh, shit."

"How the fuck did this never occur to you? And you never checked the implant to make sure it was—you fucking moron! Fuck! I'm telling Drake to stop funding you, this plus the self-immolating eppohs? You're a fucking hack, Tennyson! Sixteen million credit hack!"

"I'm not—what are you doing?"

I hear a phaser pistol buzzing up to max, incredibly acute. My senses are sharp, too sharp. I can smell the panic in the Andorian, like cinnamon and synthale. "Terminating her. We can't risk a disloyal supersol…"

My instincts, honed over years of MACO work, kick into action. I lash out, grabbing the Andorian's arm by the wrist and hauling myself up to grab his shoulder as I twist.

The wrist snaps like spaghetti, and the Andorian screams in pain, dropping the phaser. I head-butt him, and my head vibrates with the sheer power of it. He goes limp in my hands; I snap his neck with one hand. I'm too strong, what the hell is going on? The last thing I remember…

I was a Borg. What the fuck? What's going on?

"You!" I rasp, pointing at the human, Tennyson. "What the fuck is going on? Who are you? Where am I?"

"Unit!" he whimpers, creeping backwards. "Stand down! I order you to stand down!"

"Fucking…answer the goddamn question or I tear your head off!" Too late, I see what he's going for. I leap forwards, crushing him against the plastiglass wall of this room and cracking his skull, but he's already hit the alarm. Fuck.

OK. I'm in a standard-issue Starfleet Medical hospital gown, covering my upper body but leaving my knees and below exposed. Nothing on underneath—of course, they said I was a weapon, I'm probably not supposed to have free will. Assholes. I need to get out of here—I grab the phaser from the floor, shoot through the opaque plasteel door, and hurry into the hallway beyond. There's a door a little ways down—looks like an office. I duck in, hearing boots rapidly coming closer. The computer's still on, so I don't need to hack it—a quick search brings up the map of this place, looks like a small facility, minimal security, escape pods are there, good. I need to get out.

I duck back out the door…and straight into the guns of four Human men in black jumpsuits. I recover first.

"SHOOT HER!" one man screams as I shoot through one's gut—the phaser's still set to kill—and duck backwards. Phaser beams crisscross the air, and I yell in pain as one burns through my gown and lances into my gut. Shit. I feel like my insides are dissolving, but I force myself to stay on my feet, kicking over the desk and getting behind it, then squeezing off a potshot that gets the guy who pokes his head in.

"The fuck do we do?" one of the survivors asks from behind the wall.

"Easy. Tennyson's dead, we tell the techs to get out, then blow this joint." I hear a radio squawk. "Doc Mulvaney, this is Sergeant Rollins, your boss is dead and your little weapon is loose. I don't want to have to say 'I told you so' about augs being dangerous…but I do. Get out now, I'm remote-setting the self-destruct for one minute. If you're not off by then, you die. We'll terminate the aug rat and evac in the last pod. Use the thrusters to get to the shuttle, if you fuck it up you get left in space."

Shit. I calculate the time I need to get to that escape pod, and likely to minimum safe distance. I literally need to move now.

"C'mon, Corporal, let's move!"

I have to wait, they'll keep their weapons hot and pointed this way if they have any sense. I'll just have to…

My hand brushes over the hole in my robe—and I freeze. I look down.

Skin is crawling over the hole in my gut. It still burns, but I can see muscle, fat, and skin coming together, plus something dark and hard-looking in the fat layer. What the hell? My skin is burning, starting to do so all over now. My body temperature must be jumping, too, because suddenly I feel feverish and the air is cold.

But I'm healing, somehow, from what should be a mortal wound.

I can do this.

I roll over the desk and sprint out the door, gun ready. I shoot the younger-looking soldier in the face immediately, but his shot catches me in the shoulder, and I yell in pain, dropping the gun. Can't stop now, have to close. Rollins fires from the hip as he hustles for the escape pods down by the end of the hall—I can see people in coats already climbing in. Unsurprisingly, Rollins misses by a mile, but he's still too…

I'm closing in, and fast. Holy shit, I don't think anyone's ever been in this good shape.

I catch Rollins just as the next-to-last escape pod launches, throwing myself at him and dislocating his shoulder with a body-weight twist-slam. He screams. I pull his knife from his hip and slit his throat, then snap his neck for good measure.

"Warning. Selfdestruct will detonate in thirty seconds." Shit. I try to stand…

White-hot pain flares to life across my body as something shifts beneath my skin. I scream, then howl in pain. Something tears, and I'm covered in blood and shreds of…oh god. That's my skin. It's splitting, tearing, and coming apart as chitinous plates emerge and align into a sort of matrix across my body.

I can't help but turn to the side and vomit, dry heaves wracking my body.

"Warning. Selfdestruct will detonate in twenty seconds."

I'm hungry. So hungry. I look down at Rollins…and my hunger surges, he looks so delicious...

No. I can't. Not now…

But escape pod rations are miniscule, and I'm so very hungry…

"Warning. Selfdestruct will detonate in fifteen seconds."

I force myself to leave Rollins, run for the escape pod, and launch myself with three seconds to spare.

The rations are gone in under a minute. Then I turn to my skin, still hungry. It's disgusting, but I need to eat like I never have before.

Something flares and goes to warp after a few minutes—the shuttle Rollins mentioned? He said something about people in escape pods being left in space—must be an old surplus model shuttle, without good sensors. Section 31 uses secondhand crap, I know that much.

My hunger finally mostly sated, I watch the cooling remains of the asteroid base that until recently housed me and some Section 31-affiliated scientists.

Shit. What the fuck do I do now? And what was that Tennyson said? I'm…

I look down at my new scales, covered in my own blood. Oh shit. I'm an augment.

I'm a monster.

The Breen scavengers find me six hours later, whimpering in the escape pod. They are quite surprised as the chitin is reabsorbed into my skin and my human appearance returns over the next few days. But at least they agree to keep it quiet in exchange for me pitching in on a job they're doing, then agree to drop me off on Pela Teram with a ticket to Cardassian space on a passenger liner. Nice folks, Breen are. Quite the work ethic.

Even when I get back to Cardassian and then Federation space, though…I have a problem. Section 31 is on my trail, I have agents trying to kidnap me at irregular intervals, four times over six months. I have to do something…

Then I remember Oricon IV, that nasty mission in a Romulan city during a space battle, and I know what I can do.

August 9th, 2408. Office of Federation Councilman Arthur Percival Winslow (PSoc-United Earth), Paris, France.

Arthur Winslow, formerly a decorated Federation ambassador, now a war-hero-lite and member of the Federation Council, settled back in his chair with a sigh and swiveled for a view of the Eiffel Tower. Freedom Day, he noted. They were hanging Marshal Moliere, the fascist dictator who had taken power in France for two bloody years of World War Three, in effigy from the tower. A bit of a bloodthirsty celebration in this day and age, he thought, but then again, anyone who'd spent a few years in Paris had been to the Third World War memorial and had at least casually looked over the exhibit on the French Third Empire's atrocities. There were advantages to remembering the horrors that Humanity had endured before it had reached its present state of enlightenment, Winslow admitted to himself.

His desk comm buzzed. "Yes, Sven?"

"A woman is here for you, Councilman Winslow. A Rachel Connor? She says she saved your life?"

Ah! One of the MACOs from that dreadful mess on Oricon IV. Winslow stood and checked his formal attire in a mirror—impeccable, good. "Send her in."

The woman who entered was wearing a deep hood and a set of nondescript, cheap civilian clothing with Tellarite styling. "Councilman Winslow, thank you so much for letting me in." The door closed behind her, and she took off the hood—the hair was shorter, but it was the same face.

"No, please, thank you! Your team did save me from certain death, after all. May I offer you a drink?"

"No, thank you. Um, this is sort of about…"

"The favor?"

"Yeah. I'm…technically MIA. There was an incident. Through no fault of my own I was separated from my unit and…held for some time."

Winslow hadn't gotten as far as he had by not knowing how to read emotions. The woman was hiding something, but not lying. "Would I be correct in assuming that you would like to be reactivated, but do not wish to explain more about the reason you wish to do so?"

"Well, I figure it's easier than how I've been living this past couple of months. Besides, I didn't quite finish my tour. I joined the Marines to serve my nation, and I want to keep doing it."

No lies. "I suppose that I can pull a few strings. How would you like an interview on the news about your undoubtedly harrowing escape from…I presume Rura Penthe?"

"NO! Sorry, no, please, sir. I need it quiet. Really quiet. There's some people, a terrorist group, they're hunting me. On a Starfleet ship I'm safe, it's too small of a world on those for them to make me disappear. Plus I can do some real good out there."

No lies. Though again, hiding something. Winslow decided to test the waters.

"May I ask what happened to you, Lieutenant?"

"I'd…rather not say…"

Winslow didn't push. "I see. Well, you are a terrible liar, Lieutenant, I know you're hiding something but I'm reasonably confident that it is not treason. I will make a few calls. I assume you're using an assumed alias?"

"Yes. Denise Richards. 315 Simo Häyhä Avenue, Rautjarvi, Finland. Here on Earth."

"Excellent." Winslow held out his hand. The woman shook—even for a well-muscled body like hers, it was an impressively strong grip. "Welcome back to Starfleet, Lieutenant Connor."

"Thank you so much, sir." She was almost crying. "I won't fuck this up, I swear!"

Winslow smiled benevolently, a gesture that he'd refined to perfection these last few years. "My pleasure, Lieutenant. I do owe you my life, after all." And he wasn't even lying. Arthur Winslow was a refined British gentleman of a great pedigree, with ancestors stretching back two hundred years in the FDC. He took a great deal of pride in being a man of his word.

The woman left, pulling up her hood and still thanking him. Winslow saluted her as she left, waited until the door closed, and grabbed his PDA to make a call.

Two days later, Rachel Connor boarded a shuttle from Helsinki Regional Spaceport. In a week, she was out in the black again.

September 1st, 2410. Alvira City, Kreetassia, United Federation of Planets.

Lieutenant-Commander Bev-tak vo-Loskata to-Var kree-Sanat (honorably discharged for medical reasons) somewhat unsteadily opened the door. Two black-jumpsuited people, a female Human and a male Kreetassian. Bev gripped her personal defense phaser's handle carefully, hiding it with a fold of her pants down by her prosthetic legs. "Can I help you?"

"Lieutenant-Commander Bev kree-Sanat?" the Human asked.

"That's me."

"We need you to come with us, ma'am. You're wanted for questioning about your former squadmate, Rachel Connor."

"Rachel? She's gone. Assimilated. You people are about three and a half years behind the times."

The black jumpsuits looked at each other. "Do you watch much holovision, Lieutenant-Commander?" asked the Kreetassian.

"Nope," Bev lied. "I know we beat the Iconians thanks to some Bajoran and a Romulan weapon, and that's all I care to know. I'm retired. Medical discharge, you know, two legs missing. One at the hip. I write now. Alternate-history novels. I have one coming out next month, Archer's Rise: The Romulan Plot. It's about a different Xindi attack leaving Ambassador Archer as President of United Earth and him forming the Federation early."

"I'm sure it's very entertaining. But you need to come with us now, ma'am," the Human replied.

"I'm going nowhere. You don't have a warrant, I know my rights."

"I'm sorry, ma'am…" began the Human, pulling out a phaser…

Bev stunned them both before they knew what hit them. "Spooks. Fucking amateurs." More Section 31 goons. Rachel was still a fucking dumbass, pulling a stunt like that with the Iconian command ship. But she'd at least had the decency to drop Bev a quick letter, though it had taken the Kreetassian until just a week ago to put together the dots and realize that Rachel was on the run from Section 31 for reasons a lot more serious than being ex-Borg.

Well, Rachel might still be a ground-pounding grunt, but Bev had gotten into Intelligence before her legs had been taken in a battle with Tal'Shiar remnants. It was about time she arranged a meeting…