Into the Distance: A Flight of Fancy

by jtm1848

A novella version of the Borg episode.

- A FLIGHT OF FANCY -

The world was white.

On a clear day, a person could see for kilometers across the top of the Greenland ice. The view was punishing in its beauty

On top the massive ice cap spanning the archipelago of Greenland, the undulating sheet formed an unbroken expanse of ridges and ravines, cast into shadow and darkness by the low-slung star, its dull glow peeking bare degrees above the far-distant southern horizon. The solitary rays of light and warmth were no match for the frozen wasteland; they dwindled and died as they tried to cut a horizontal path across the surface of the ice pack, fading into a twilight glow that blurred the farthest reaches, merging the ice sheet below into the striated skies above.

The icescape extended, unbidden, in every direction, riven by crevasses cut deep by meltwater rivers and hydraulic upheaval, with crests of dirty ice uplifted in between, casting lengthy penumbras of darkness over the broken surface. From high above, the network of furrows smoothed out into one unbroken, unending, sheet of whiteness; but from the surface of the vast plain of ice, the dangers became manifest. The dark shadowlands hid myriad miniature cracks that lay ready to prey on an incautious foot or ankle.

Beneath the jungle of ice and sculpture, the massive ice sheet sank down two—and sometimes three—kilometers, to the bedrock, depressed by the considerable weight to a mean level below the surrounding water levels, creating a rocky chain of islands sitting on the peak of a single, submerged land mass. Formed rapidly at the onset of the first Ice Age, some 110,000 years previously, the great sheet had reached its zenith during the recurring waves of the Pleistocene epoch and its perigee during the climate crisis of the mid-21st century. It had taken a century of global-scale climatic engineering to return the icecap to its present state, covering roughly 80% of the area known as Greenland.

The apocryphal history of the region was, amazingly, true: according to multiple, contemporary sources, Erik the Red really had chosen the misleading name in the hope of attracting settlers. It was true that the coastal regions of Greenland were relatively temperate, free of ice, and boasted scenic greenery; but here, in the middle of the icecap, it more closely resembled a lunar landscape of green and blue ice, cloaked under the dark shadows of eternal winter. Far from the warming currents of the southern seas, the dome of Greenland rarely approached the bottom side of the freezing mark, even when the midnight sun rose high above—and thankfully it was summer.

Unlike its southern cousin—the Antarctic icecap was notorious for being, of all things, the largest desert on Earth—the Greenland hinterlands were dry, but not arid. When weather conditions combined appropriately, localized snowfall would occur. Not much; just enough to cover the ice with a thin layer of dry, flaky snow, but when the winds roared down through the interior, it was enough to create instant whiteouts.

Just like now, groused Bonita Rooney.

She and her fellow climatologists were stationed at the Tasiilaq Research Base, spending nine months deep in the frozen heartland studying ice core samples. It wasn't a bad assignment, by any stretch; Rooney had to compete for the plum placement with dozens of other researchers, and the data she was collecting would earn her doctorate. But sometimes the weather refused to cooperate, and an otherwise-pleasant trek across the ice surface could become a battle against the elements.

Rooney pulled her heavy, fur-lined coat around her more tightly, and leaned into the wind. Underneath, her thermal suit served to keep her body warm, and her face was protected by a transparent mask; she knew her shivering was psychosomatic, but knowing so sure didn't stop it. The temperatures around her had plummeted well below a negative thirty degrees Celsius, and the wind chill, well, don't even think about it, she told herself.

Rooney and two of her fellow researchers had left the main base hours ago, tracking across the icescape with modified four-wheelers—the only all-weather transportation in the vicinity—towards their destination. The day before, the base's communications array had detected an anomalous reading in their relative vicinity; curiosity got the better of the scientists, and they planned this trip to investigate the signal.

And now, bare meters away from their destination, the gusting winds had kicked up the snow, swirling it around Rooney in a maelstrom of white flakes, and it was with great satisfaction that she spotted a human-sized crevasse. Sliding herself down the icy wall, she breathed a sigh of relief, and raised her scanner to check the readings.

It was close—a dozen meters or so, she guessed.

In the blackness of the ravine, Rooney turned on her palm beacon, flashing it between the walls of ice surrounding her. The ravine extended forward on a roughly northwest heading—right in the direction of the signal, she thought excitedly. Away from the gale above her, Rooney's natural enthusiasm was resurfacing.

Checking the path ahead with her light, Rooney followed the path of the crevasse for several meters, keeping with it when it suddenly cut to the right. This is a fracture, she realized, not a meltwater ravine. Did something impact the ice ahead? The readings on her scanner were getting hot: whatever it was, she was nearly on top of it.

A couple more steps, and Rooney excited the ravine into a narrow crater. The snow gusted overhead, capping the depression with a white ceiling, but the small size of the hole—it was no more than three or four meters wide—kept the interior clear. Rooney flashed her beacon around, whistling in amazement.

It was wreckage, all right—something had crashed here, presumably from overhead. Alloy beams lay scattered about, along with chunks of bulkhead, conduits, monitors…Rooney didn't recognize much of the icebound debris, but it was definitely beyond anything she had ever seen. The only people who have this kind of stuff are Starfleet, she thought in bewilderment. Wouldn't they have notified us if something had crashed up here?

"This is definitely the place." The voice on the intercom jerked Rooney out of her reverie, and she noticed that her two fellow explorers—an older scientist named John Drake, and another doctoral student named Chris Moninger—had also found the crater. Moninger appeared spellbound, but Drake had his scanner out, checking the readings. "The signal's definitely coming from this wreckage," he reported. "Take a look around—see if you can recognize anything."

Rooney nodded, the movement masked by her heavy coat, and flashed her beacon along the dark ice. She followed her light carefully, mindful of the sleek, rippled surface beneath her, and took in the debris with a dropped jaw. She went to school in Berkeley, so she was no stranger to Starfleet design and technology, but this was something completely different. Must be an experimental ship, she decided.

A flashing red light, muted by a layer of ice and snow, caught Rooney's eye, and she kneeled beside it, brushing the snow off with her mittened hand. It looked like a human head, perhaps a face, she guessed. Either way, it was an important find. "Over here, Doctor!" she called out, and picking their paths carefully, Drake and Moninger came over to join her.

"It's humanoid," Drake observed, kneeling down beside Rooney. "Looks human, too, although—" he leaned down to take a closer look. "It looks like it's wearing some kind of…mechanical suit, or something."

"Getting it out of here's going to be a delicate operation," Moninger commented, looking up at the swirling squall overhead. "I'm not sure we have the equipment."

"We should leave most of the debris in situ anyway, Chris," the older man gently corrected his student. "We remove it, and we'll destroy a lot of evidence. But I would like to get this body out, take it back to Tasiilaq for analysis."

"What do you want to do, then?" Rooney asked, looking up at her mentor.

Drake glanced overhead. "Why don't the two of you hike back to the four-wheelers? There's an atmospheric tarp packed on mine—we can stretch it over the crater, protect the debris from the storm. We'll have to set up a satellite camp here, at least until someone can come to salvage the wreck."

"Doctor!" Rooney had started scanning the remainder of the crater. "I'm picking up EM traces, a couple dozen meters into the ice! There's more down there—I think it's a lot more!"

Drake tapped the comm buttons on his belt, opening the relayed connection to the Tasiilaq base camp. "Drake to Harrington!" he called out, waiting a moment for the signal to transverse the distance.

"Base camp here!" The voice was hard to hear, muffled with distortion, but the relay had gotten through.

"Contact Wlliams!" Drake said loudly, referring to their contact in the Greenland Regional Government. "Tell him that he'll want to pass this on to Starfleet Command! It looks like wreckage from one of theirs!"

"Anything else?" Harrington's voice began to falter.

"Yeah!" Drake shouted. "Tell Williams that he owes me a bottle of scotch!" With an abrupt click, the connection shut down.

"Doctor, over this way!" Hearing the eargernes in Rooney's voice, Drake pulled himself back to his feet, feeling his joints crack underneath his thermal suit. If it wasn't for the kids, I wouldn't be doing this at all, he told himself. "What did you find?" he asked aloud.

"It's another body!" Rooney answered, brushing the snow off a pair of black-clad feet.

…

The Tasiilaq Research Base never looked so…mundane, Harrington thought as he piloted the massive ice tractor into the pressurized shed serving as the base's motor pool. The base, while not cutting edge, was a fine example of Unification-era technology; the plastoid sheets creating the utilitarian buildings were able to withstand the elements, keeping the interior at a toasty twelve degrees Celsius, and shielded the sensitive equipment from the electromagnetic surges that lit up the skies in spectacular borealis. The base camp contained eleven of these sheds, ranging in size from a few cubic meters to the massive garage, but most of the room was dedicated to supplies—the research was conducted entirely in only two of the structures.

One shed, no larger than twenty-five or so square meters, served the Tasiilaq base as its engineering bay, used for diagnosing and repairing the myriad equipment used to sustain the researchers. It was here that the bodies were taken for analysis, and it was here that Moninger dropped a robotic arm onto the table in front of Drake. Behind Drake, the two corpses lay out, thawing slowly.

Drake eyed his student. "I give up," he said slowly, not wanting to steer Moninger into any conclusions. "What is it?"

"An arm," Moninger replied wryly. "It's his." He pointed at one of the corpses. Drake looked back in surprise; sure enough, the corpse's arm had been severed at mid-bicep.

"You're joking," Drake breathed in response. He gazed at the arm with new respect. "Is the entire being artificial?"

"No, Doctor," Moninger answered. "I haven't finished the analysis yet, but it appears that only a portion is—it looks like a human body, with considerable cybernetic revisions. The arm here is a completely integrated merger of the artificial system with his organic body—it's integrated all the way down to his circulatory and nervous systems. He could probably operate it with a thought, like it was his own flesh and blood."

Drake whistled in slow amazement. "I've never seen—hell, I've never heard of—cybernetic technology that advanced." Cybernetic technology on Earth had, in fact, languished since the end of the Final World War, when the first rudimentary forms of cyborg soldiers were being used. "I met a Vulcan scientist once who wore a prothesis for his forearm. It was pretty sophisticated, but nothing compared to this."

"Take a closer look at the eyepiece," Moninger suggested, leading Drake to the head of one of the corpses. The cranium was bare, with a sort of skullcap embedded into the skin, and various pieces of equipment jutting out. Several tubes entered and exited. The right eye was uncovered, but the left eye was completely covered by a mysterious device. "It enhances his vision," Moninger explained. "Judging by the optics, I'd say he could see most of the EM spectrum."

"Did you run a genetic analysis?" Drake asked. "They may look human, but this technology…"

"That's even more interesting, Doctor," Moninger answered. "This one—" he nodded downward—"is definitely human, but the other is some kind of alien. There's no match in the databanks for it. The genes aren't even remotely close."

"We'll transmit the genetic profile to the Interspecies Medical Exchange," Drake decided. "Maybe they'll find a match in their database."

"I'll get on it right away," Moninger promised.

"Doctor, can you come over here?" Rooney called over from a rear corner. She was analyzing a section of the debris.

"Sure, Bonita…what do you have?" Drake asked, trotting across the room.

"That's the problem," she answered, a puzzled expression her face. "I can't identify the alloy. I've ran every test in the book, but…" she shrugged helplessly.

Drake resisted the urge to double check her readings—Rooney was more than a competent scientist. "What about this?" he asked instead, pointing to a scorch mark.

"I thought it was simple thermal damage," Rooney replied, "until I scanned it closely. I picked up signs of antimatter residue, of all things."

"If it is a Starfleet ship—" And the possibility of that is shrinking, Drake recognized, unless Starfleet is working on some covert cyborg program—"maybe their warp drive overloaded."

"That could explain why there's not much debris," Rooney speculated. "The antimatter flash would have consumed most of it. The scorch marks over here, although," she said, pointing to another section of debris, "These are carbon traces."

"Could you date them?" Drake asked excitedly.

"Yes." Rooney hesitated. "Doctor, the debris is about a hundred years old."

"A hundred years…" Drake's face paled. That would date the debris to the end of the Final World War. Just about right for cybernetic research. Although the level of sophistication—they could have been experimental. There were apocryphal stories from the time claiming that an unknown faction had made rapid advances in creating cyborg soldiers in the closing days, and conspiracy theorists believed that the research had continued for at least a decade; some of the more ludicrous theories even claimed that these advanced cyborgs had been used at least once, to try to thwart Zefram Cochrane's first warp flight. No one ever took those claims seriously, Drake thought, except for the lunatic fringe. But it would explain this wreckage—the second body could simply be the result of radical genetic therapy.

The sudden emergence of a whirling, mechanical sound broke Drake's train of thought, yanking his attention back across the room. He noticed Moninger staring, openmouthed, at the biomechanical arm he had detached from the corpse. Concerned, Drake trotted over to investigate.

At the tip of the arm, where the hand would normally be, a drill was twirling. "What the hell?" Drake breathed in astonishment.

…

The storm was intensifying outside, howling winds cutting across the icescape. The blowing snow was exacerbated by slivers of ice, dislodged by the gusts and whipped into frenzy.

"Take a look at this!" Moninger exclaimed, waving Drake over to the microscope. Looking into the viewer, Drake fiddled momentarily with the controls; his eyesight was not as good as his younger colleague.

What he saw broke all expectations.

The microscope was examining individual cells taken from the 'human' corpse. The cell itself looked familiar, just like what Drake remembered from his early biology courses; there was the cell wall, the membrane, and the nucleus, containing faint strands that sheltered the secrets of life. The cell wall was broken; no surprise, given the cold and the amount of time that had passed. What was a surprise, however, was a tiny machine.

No larger than the cell's nucleus, it must have been scarce atoms large. It was clearly mechanical; its edges were too sharp, too precise, too ordered for a natural entity of its size. Drake had never seen anything remotely like it before, but here, in front of his eyes, this—this machine—was stitching the wall of the cell, repairing the cellular damage.

"Do you see those devices?" Moninger asked impatiently.

"What are they?" Drake asked, amazed by the sight.

"I've seen some similar designs in technical journals," Moninger commented, standing aside while the older scientist continued to peer closely. "I think it's a form of nanotechnology. I found thousands of these in both bodies. And they're not just repairing the damaged tissues, either! They're repairing the mechanical components as well!"

"How fast are they working?" Drake asked, suddenly alarmed by the prospect.

"As far as I can tell, the arm's already as good as new," Moninger answered. "It looks like they started working as soon as the corpses began to thaw."

Drake stood back up, folding his arms across his chest. "The Denobulans have experimented with nanotechnology," he commented, "but they have nothing like this."

"Doctor, ah…" Moninger started hesitantly. "I know it sounds crazy, but…I'm a little uncomfortable with this. Maybe we should move the bodies into cold storage. It should freeze the nanites, halt the regeneration until they can be examined under controlled conditions."

"These beings are dead, Chris," Drake answered. "It's not like they're going to come back to life. And I'm concerned that re-freezing the bodies could further damage them."

"I guess it's possible," Moninger allowed.

"Then we should leave them here," Drake decided. "Let the organic components thaw, and let the regeneration process continue."

"But what if it revives more of their systems?" Moninger ventured. "It might not come back to life, but if the mechanical components alone are restored—we don't know what will happen. We don't know anything about these beings, Doctor, or what they were doing here a hundred years ago!" Moninger hit a fevered pitch.

"There's no reason to assume they're hostile," Drake countered. "After all, they're human, right?"

"Well, one is," Moninger answered. "We don't know about the other one. And they don't exactly look friendly."

"Chris," Drake replied, setting a hand on Moninger's shoulder, "These aren't zombies. They aren't going to wake up and decide to attack us. We're scientists. You shouldn't let irrational fears cloud your judgment."

"Of course, Doctor," Moninger bit his lower lip.

"Remember what Starfleet's response was?" Drake continued. "They asked us to find out everything we can. If there was a danger, they would have told us. We'll keep them here for now, and monitor the regeneration process. Who knows, Chris," he added with a smile. "Your name could go down in the history books for this find."

…

"I have lived on Earth for over thirty years," Ambassador Soval noted dryly. The silver-haired Vulcan was covered with voluminous robes. "I have never understood the logic in locating your seat of government in such an intemperate place." The cold winds battered his face with ocean spray.

"San Francisco was one of the few major cities to survive the War," Admiral Williams, a junior member of Starfleet's ranking board, reminded him. "I suppose there is a certain—sentimentality to it." Williams himself wore a heavy, all-weather overcoat, but his exposed, weather-worn face showed little discomfort.

It was summer, in the city by the bay, Williams reflected, unbidden. The only thing worse than summer in San Francisco is the winter. The two men were walking along the rocky coastline of historic Fort Point, underneath the southern terminus of the Golden Gate Bridge. Meters below them, the breakers pounded against the rocks, causing a constant thrum of noise that sheltered their conversation, and the historic site itself was closed for minor maintenance to the massive bridge high above them. The admiral had chosen the site intentionally, looking for the opportunity to hold a quiet, off-the-record meeting with Soval.

"So what did you wish to discuss?" Soval asked abruptly. Small talk was another concept that he had yet to grasp the logic of.

Williams sighed. "You've seen the reports about the cyborgs found up in Greenland, right?" he asked. Soval nodded in the affirmative; as the Vulcan liaison on Earth, Soval was indeed aware of nearly everything that the United Earth Parliament and Starfleet were doing.

"We've sent some requests to Vulcan, asking them to search their archives," Williams continued. "The response has been—more tight-lipped than usual."

"Indeed," Soval said, arching an eyebrow in the universal Vulcan sign of interest. The old Vulcan High Command was notorious for not sharing information with Earth, but the new government on Vulcan had demonstrated a greater willingness to answer such requests. "And you're hoping that I can gain access to something?"

"Actually, no," Williams answered, puzzling the ambassador. "Soval, you're—I mean, you've been—you've had a—"

"Yes, I'm over a hundred fifty Earth-years old," Soval replied, recognizing the stammered question for what it was. Questions regarding age were not nearly such a sensitive topic of the long-lived Vulcans, but Soval was no stranger to the human discomfort of asking about it. "What does that have to do with the cyborgs?" he asked, intrigued.

"It's their age," Williams said, gazing out over the surf. "We've confirmed the readings—the organic tissues died approximately ninety years ago, give or take a couple years. The date is disturbing."

"Ah, yes," Soval answered. "Ninety-one years ago would be 2063—the year of your first warp flight and first contact. But this appears to be coincidence—there's no record of cyborgs from that era."

"Towards the end of the Final World War, several factions had been experimenting with cybernetic-human hybrids," Williams said, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. "But nothing remotely close to what they found in Greenland. The beings they found are generations ahead of the human technology of the time."

"And yet, one of the bodies is human," Soval countered. "How do you account for that discrepancy?"

"I don't," Williams answered roughly. "And I don't like things that I can't account for. But it's pretty clear; the corpse may have a human body, but the technology is from somewhere else."

"And you're hoping, since I was alive at the time, that I may remember something," Soval noted, piecing together the preliminary puzzle.

"Yes, Ambassador." Williams didn't flinch as he was hit with a particularly strong wall of spray. "In the last century, there's exactly one record of suspected cyborgs on Earth. It's been rejected, time and again, by scientists and investigators, but some conspiracy theorists just won't let it go."

"The conspiracies surrounding your first contact," Soval said, recognizing the allusion.

"Yes," Williams answered. "A fringe group—the fringe of the fringe—believe that there was a cyborg attack on Zefram Cochrane's compound, a couple days before his warp flight. There's never been any evidence to support it, and all of the eyewitnesses unequivocally said no, but—" The admiral shrugged. "Earth's fringe has a long history of keeping conspiracies alive."

"Why don't we walk in that direction," Soval suggested, pointing away from the water. "Yes, I remember when that first contact occurred—I was at the Vulcan Diplomatic Institute, receiving my training. Humans were a particularly fascinating case study: so much promise, but so much tragedy."

Long experience had taught Williams how to let the comment slide off his back. "Do you remember any reports—no matter how bizarre?" the admiral asked.

"There were several anomalous reports," Soval replied. "In itself, not unusual; the first contact with humans had not been planned, so the background research wasn't thorough. But the reports were later brushed off as being apocryphal. I would not attribute much credibility to them."

"What were those reports?" Williams asked, impatiently waiting for the Vulcan to get to the core of the matter.

"There were initial claims that Cochrane's compound had been attacked, two nights prior to his warp flight," Soval admitted, uncomfortable talking about such rank speculation. "There was damage to the area, plus a severe, recent loss of life. Allegedly, in the days immediately following, some of Cochrane's workers told the locals that they had been attacked by some sort of cyborgs. But afterwards, the workers consistently denied it. They attributed the damage and deaths to the explosion of a faulty power cell."

"Were there any rumors as to where the cyborgs came from?" Williams asked, mystified. He was familiar with the 'story' of the attacks, but the inclusion of cyborgs—that was new.

"At the time, they were attributed to a dissident Earth faction," Soval answered. "If you actually believe that the Greenland corpses are the same beings—a conclusion unsupported by fact or logic—it would indicate there was another party at work. Tell me, Admiral: aren't there any Earth records of this?"

"Very little," Williams admitted. They had reached the base of the fort, and turned left to jog along its foundation. "The Prime Minister has sent a sealed executive order to Earth's regional governments, ordering them to comb their records, but he doesn't expect much response. The 'attack' story has been relegated to the realm of conspiracists. The Earth Parliament did conduct an investigation, about twenty-five years later, but they couldn't find a single credible piece of evidence."

"And yet, some of your people continue to believe it," Soval noted.

Williams quelled his umbrage. "Some of my people believe that it was Vulcans who attacked Cochrane's compound. Part of a scheme to take control of Earth's solar and stellar policies." It was a hidden jab; many humans believed that the Vulcan ambassador had exerted too much control over Starfleet.

Soval overlooked it with grace. "Weren't any investigations conducted at the time?" he asked. His voice echoed faintly off the tall brick wall.

"That was only a decade after the cease-fire," Williams answered. "The governments that still functioned were preoccupied trying to feed their people. A self-supporting group like Cochrane's—the authorities would have let them run their own affairs."

"It would appear as though the age of the debris is simply a coincidence," Soval noted, content with the most logical explanation. "Unless you want to believe these 'fringe theories' that you seem unable to completely dismiss."

Williams chuckled. "Ambassador, a human logician once noted that even the most ludicrous of theories is still based on some elemental fact."

"And what elemental fact survives from this alternative story of first contact?" Soval asked, mystified by the suggestion.

"In this case, none," Williams answered. "And that's the problem: in any human event, there are some stray facts, stray occurrences, and whatnot." He waved his hands in a perplexing model. "The exploding power cell—the story is too pat, too perfect."

"That is supremely illogical," Soval remarked immediately, furrowing his brow. "You are not happy when there are stray facts, and you are not happy when there are not stray facts. Tell me, Admiral, what would satisfy you?"

"Answers," Williams grunted. "Like, where did those cyborgs come from?" He turned to look pointedly at Soval. "And is the Vulcan government withholding information?"

"It is illogical to ask me that," Soval countered. "To my knowledge, they are not, but I cannot tell you if they are withholding information from me."

"Doesn't that bother you, Ambassador?" Williams asked.

The Vulcan shrugged—it was a human affectation that he had picked up. "Unlike you, Admiral, I am not looking for conspiracies to explain simple, everyday occurrences. If my superiors feel it necessary to classify records, then I am certain that they have a logical reason for doing so."

"Nonetheless, Ambassador—" Williams felt uncomfortable asking the Vulcan, but he forged on. "If you become aware of anything—"

"If it is appropriate, I will let you know," Soval answered. "I believe we are concluded, then?" Williams nodded, and Soval raised his hand with the familiar two-finger part. "Live long and prosper, Admiral." The Vulcan turned and left.

Williams seethed. Who the hell is Soval to decide what is 'appropriate' for us to know?

…

The wind storm scoured the surface of Greenland's ice cap, whipping flakes of snow into tumultuous whirlwinds of activity that whited out the visible spectrum; grating over the unprotected ice, it broke off thousands of tiny slivers that could score human skin a hundred times in a second. It even, in the epochal routine of the planet, wore down the occasional boulders that sat on the cap's surface like bergs. The temperatures had dropped furiously under the polar onslaught, and ice floes cracked with a vengeance, sending new slivers of deadly traps across the ice.

Rooney was huddled in the crater, protected overhead by a plasticine all-weather dome. Secured to the surrounding ice by dozens of reinforced pitons, the shell still shook and shuddered under the force of the howling wind, and it was only the advanced materials of the plasticine that kept it from fracturing in the temperature differentials. It took hours for Rooney to adjust to the noise and learn to screen it out.

Along with the cover, Rooney and Moninger had loaded high-powered lights onto the ice tractor, and they were spread out in the bed of the crater, bringing near-daylight luminosity and relative warmth to the work area. Under the multiple lights, the darkness and shadows disappeared, allowing them to see, for the first time, the uncovered debris all at once. Surveying the wreckage, Rooney couldn't shake the notion of an 'elephants' graveyard' from her mind.

The recovery work was slow and meticulous, but the orders had come all the way from the top of Starfleet Command, so Rooney was kneeling above an ice-bound chunk, trying to free it with the decidedly-simple technology of a hot-air blower and chisel, when something touched her shoulder.

"Sorry, Bonita!" Drake said hastily, as his student jumped under the light touch. "It's just me! Find anything?"

Trying to catch her breath, Rooney gulped in air. "Plenty, doctor," she said, not quite trusting her voice.

"You seem a little jumpy," Drake observed.

Rooney snorted. "Cybernetic corpses, a graveyard of debris, digging up frozen remains, in the middle of a storm in the middle of the night; why would I be jumpy?"

"I'd be more worried about the polar bears," Drake replied lightly. "The Inuits say that some of the bears can bite a person in half!"

"Nice try, but there's no polar bears this far from open water," Rooney answered, but it did bring a smile to her face. She pointed down at the metallic sheet by her feet. "I've identified twenty-two other fragments like this one," she reported. "Given the alloy composition, I'm guessing that they were part of the outer hull. But every piece has a uniform curvature. It's almost like the ship was a perfect sphere!" she said excitedly.

Drake frowned. "That can't be right," he replied. "I've heard of using cylinders for spaceships, but a sphere? I thought the engineers rejected the concept decades ago."

"Whatever they did, it sure wasn't small," Rooney added. "If you extrapolate from these pieces, it would've been six hundred meters in diameter."

"That's…bigger than an arena," Drake said, running calculations in his mind. "The engineering must've been phenomenal! If even part of it survived the atmosphere, then the debris field must be huge—a lot more extensive than we thought. We're going to have to bring another excavation team out here, just to check."

"Wait a second," Rooney said quietly. Her scanner had begun to beep. "I'm picking up a new signal—it looks like a warp signature!"

"How is that possible?" Drake said in astonishment.

"It's coming from over here," Rooney observed, following the trail. "We didn't miss the signal before—it's definitely new. Can you lift that cover?" she said, pointing.

Drake leaned over to remove a metallic sheet. "The mechanical components of the cyborgs powered back up as they warmed up," he thought aloud, thinking back to the corpses at the Tasiilaq Base. "Could the mechanical components of the ship be doing the same thing?" He frowned suddenly, as the dangers sunk in, and cleared the debris with a renewed vigor.

…

The clanking of the hatchway snapped Moninger out of his stupor. Hunched over the microscope, he had been watching the nanites for hours, fascinated by their industrious work as they stitched the organic cells back together. He wasn't an expert in nanotechnology, but this—he knew this was amazing.

Moninger sat up straight and arched backwards, hearing the cracks down the length of his back, and glanced over towards the hatch. The new arrival was covered, head to toe, in all-weather gear, but Moninger knew it was Harrington; no one else was foolish enough to go outside in the storm. Extending his hand, Moninger gratefully took the thermos offered by his colleague. "Thanks," he said. "Just what the doctor ordered." He unscrewed the cap and inhaled the harsh aroma.

Harrington shook himself, trying to knock the wind-plastered snow from his overcoat. He pushed up his faceplate, revealing the youthful face. "How are your friends?" he asked, looking at the twin cyborg corpses lying on the diagnostic tables.

Moninger glanced over at them. In fact, he had been so absorbed watching the nanites that he had nearly forgotten about their hosts. "A little on the quiet side," he answered. "They've given room service a slow day."

Harrington nodded, unwilling to take his eyes off the strange beings. "There's a broken heating unit over in Module Three; I have to go over and take care of it. If you like, although, I can try to find someone to join you here."

Moninger picked up the photonic rifle that sat next to him, showing it to Harrington. "I think I'll be fine," he said assuredly. "And it's not like these things are going to come back to life. The mechanics may be reinitializing, but they're still organic beings, and their organic tissue is quite dead."

"All right," Harrington answered, stamping his boots. "If you need anything, give a holler." He refastened his faceplate, and with a gust of cold wind, disappeared out into the darkness.

Moninger poured himself a cup of coffee, noticing with satisfaction that it was still steaming, and turned his focus back to the microscope. The little buggers were moving rapidly, and he swore they had picked up their pace while he had been talking to Harrington.

Focused inward, Moninger jumped suddenly at the sound of a mechanical click behind him. It came from one of the corpses.

Jumping off his stool, Moninger ran over to the tables, checking the diagnostic monitors first. Each one showed four lines, corresponding with the primary health monitors for humans. But all of the lines were flat.

He sighed. Must've been a surge in one of the mechanical components. Nothing to get excited about.

…

Rooney watched her readings carefully. The scanner was jumping around, giving scattered results, as if it couldn't quite recognize what was before it, but slowly, the readings began to coalesce.

"I think I'm picking up deuterium residue," she commented, trying to isolate the reading. Deuterium was used as the 'matter' in the 'matter/anti-matter' reaction that powered most warp engines; its presence indicated that the debris before her was, at least peripherally, part of the ship's power or engine core. "It could be some kind of warp coil," she speculated.

Drake frowned doubtfully. "It's way too small," he said, "particularly if the ship is as big as we're hypothesizing."

"For a human ship, sure," Rooney replied. "But if it's alien technology—who knows? Their propulsion systems could be far more advanced than our own."

"If they're that advanced, way did they crash?" Drake countered. "And why didn't more of the ship survive?"

Rooney pursed her brow. "Remember the carbon scoring we found?" she asked. "I figured it was from the trip through the atmosphere. But don't energy weapons cause that same type of scorch marks?"

"Are you suggesting this ship was in a battle—over Earth?" Drake asked, unconvinced. "We're scientists: let's approach this scientifically."

"Then the next step," Rooney answered, "is to get this back to the lab for a closer look."

…

The stillness inside the shed was broken by the sharp alert of the diagnostic monitors. Seven of the eight lines remained flat—but on the second cyborg, the computer had started to detect a faint pulse. It was weak; the beeps came over a second apart, but they were spaced regularly.

Moninger leapt off his stool and ran over to the diagnostic table, taking the readings in with a glance. Something was happening here. He had no idea what, but it had to be big; is it possible that the organic cells are actually coming back to life? I thought that was impossible!

The pulse monitor sped up, and was joined a second later by a second beeping. Moninger's eyes were glued to the computer screen, until a gasping sound sent the scientist stumbling backwards. The corpse just breathed. Mother of God, it just breathed. What the hell's going on here?

His hands fumbling, Moninger scrambled for a medical scanner, and held it aloft, directed at the resuscitating corpse. He glanced frantically at the diagnostic monitor; the pulse was repeating more strongly, more rapidly, and the respiratory system was starting to register.

And it's not just the body. The EEG readings—brainwaves—erupted into activity. It's coming alive. It's coming alive. All things holy, it's coming alive.

Suddenly terrified, Moninger looked down at the face of the corpse. The mouth shot open, sucking in another breath of air, and the uncovered eye opened, staring mercilessly at the human hovering above.

…

"Doctor!" Harrington's harsh scream cut across the comm units, snapping Drake's attention away from the machinery at his feet. He and Rooney had just lifted the cover off, and as they did so, the dead equipment came back to life, blinking with dozens of lights, a steady thrumming sound indicating that it was running smoothly. "Doctor!" Harrington screamed again.

Drake flipped open his comm unit. "What is it, Harrington?" he asked, watching the glowing equipment with alarm.

"We need you back at base camp immediately!" Harrington shouted, and the signal shut off with a screech.

…

The ice tractor roared across the frozen wasteland, as Drake forced it recklessly through the miasma of white and black. His heart pounded with every moment of the journey, counting down the minutes until they arrived back at the Tasiilaq compound.

When they arrived, Drake and Rooney ran immediately to the primary control shed, where Harrington would be stationed next to the communications equipment. Not only was Harrington gone, but the comm units were shattered; it looked like something had taken a blunt instrument to the apparatus. Gulping back his panic, Drake led Rooney back into the storm. He knew what their next destination was: the diagnostics shed that held the cyborg corpses.

Drake's fear deepened as they approached the plasticine walls. Next to the hatchway, a hole had been blasted out; the edges were rough and blackened. He flung the hatch open, not bothering to shut it behind him; the elements were already gusting in though the shattered wall.

One corpse. Not two corpses. One of the corpses was moved, missing somewhere. Drake looked around, building into a frantic panic. He was a scientist; he wasn't trained for this sort of thing! Where's Moninger? He thought wildly. Moninger should be here somewhere.

Oh, no. Dear God, no. Drake saw Moninger, laying on the floor. "Over here!" he shouted, waving Rooney along behind him. "Grab a medical kit!"

The older man knelt down beside his protégé, relying on his long-forgotten biology courses and sharpened common sense. Moninger was still alive, although his desperate gasps indicated severe respiratory damage. His skin was pale, almost white, and there was a noticeable gray mottling underneath, almost like something was moving under the surface of his skin.

"Rooney! Hurry up! We can still save him!" Drake shouted, not knowing if his words were truthful or not. "Rooney! Where are you?"

Rooney rummaged through a storage bin, tossing random equipment out until she found the medical kit towards the bottom. Standing back up, she twirled, and stopped cold.

It's alive.

…

"Admiral!" Williams's aide-de-camp leaned over his shoulder, hissing loudly. His barging entrance had disturbed the meeting, and now a dozen other officers tried to hide the fact that they were listening closely.

"What is it?" Williams asked quietly, masking his words with a raised hand. "This better be important!"

"It's Tasiilaq, sir!" his aide said excitedly.

This can't be good. "If you'll excuse me for a moment," Williams said politely, pushing his chair back. Without waiting for a response, he pushed his aide out the door. "What is it?" he said immediately, ducking into a sheltered alcove.

"I just talked to Franks, in the Greenland Regional Government," his aide whispered. "They lost contact with the Tasiilaq Research Base—even the emergency channels!"

"Get a shuttle ready," Williams ordered instantly, thoughts of the meeting long gone from his mind. "No, get two, and outfit a security squad."

Admiral Williams trudged across the drift-covered ice with a growing sense of dismay. His team had waited, circling far to the east, for a window in the arctic gales, and when it came, they wasted no time in flying to the Tasiilaq Base. But as the Starfleet shuttles set down on the heat-prepared landing pad, the eerie stillness of the research center leapt out to seize him, striking him with the sheer lack of activity around them.

In highly-trained moves, the security team disembarked first, fanning out to secure the research compound and conduct shed-to-shed searches. Photonic rifles pointed ahead, they were prepared for resistance, prepared for a firefight, prepared for…anything. But they encountered nothing. Nothing at all.

There were a dozen people assigned to this base, Williams thought grimly. Where are they? Most of the sheds were still intact, well-nigh untouched; there was no apparent for the staff to have left. The only sign of discord thus far had been the communications equipment: it lay shattered, broken into pieces, jagged edges alternating with sharp, cut borders. The combination of brute force and precise slicing was jarring.

The security squad reported back, shed-by-shed, as they conducted their search. There was no one there; tools and equipment lay out, as though the researchers had been disturbed in the middle of their work. In the kitchen, a vat of stew still sat over the long-extinguished stove, by now frozen solid.

One building was left to check. By Williams' direct orders, the security team was banned from entering it; he and his aide would conduct the search personally, and as he trod across the ice, Williams checked the safety release on his rifle. The target shed bore the only signs of combat: a jagged hole was ripped out of the plasticine sheeting, the remnants of a likely energy-weapon blast.

Covering each other, Williams and his aide entered through the hole.

There was no movement inside.

It only took seconds to inspect the shed for signs of life. There was none; no indication of the human researchers remained, but that was not the problem. The cyborg corpses were stored in here, Williams thought. And they're gone, too. Why would the entire research staff smash their own comm equipment, steal the corpses, and abscond? That doesn't make sense. Unless—their last report mentioned something about the mechanical components reviving; but the organic tissues were clearly dead. No, he decided, the corpses were definitely dead.

"Juarez to Williams."

The admiral flipped open his hand communicator. "Williams here. What do you have?"

"We finished the preliminary inventory of the motor pool, sir. They're missing an ice tractor—and a short-range shuttle."

Damnit, Williams thought sourly. We have to stop them—but how?

…

The sequence of still photos rotated through a second time, as the senior staff of the Enterprise watched with astonishment. The pale skin, the biomechanical alterations, the sheer lack of expression—okay, two out of three can describe a Vulcan, 'Trip' Tucker thought wryly, but put all three together, and you have one helluva horror film. "Do we have any idea what they are?" the engineer asked, his curiosity spiking.

"Nothing firm," Jonathan Archer, the captain of the starship Enterprise, answered. "Admiral Williams thinks they're humanoids, heavily enhanced with mechanics and biotechnology."

"Anything you recognize, Commander?" Malcolm Reed, the ship's tactical chief, spoke up next, addressing the Vulcan science officer.

"This is unlike anything I have encountered before," T'Pol replied, with precise, emotionless words. "The level of technology is centuries ahead of any species known to the Vulcan Science Directorate."

"Wait, I thought they were dead," Trip added in puzzlement. "I mean, Williams described them as 'corpses.' Does he think that the biomechanical components are working on their own?"

"The admiral believes that the unique nanotechnology utilized by these beings was able to revive the deceased organic tissue," the ship's physician, a Denobulan named Phlox, replied. "It's quite a fascinating suggestion. I'd love to look at those nanites. To bring a dead cell back to life—"

"But I thought that was impossible," Trip interrupted.

"Not impossible, Commander, just highly improbable," Phlox answered with a cheery ring. "In a case like this, where the cells were frozen before they could necrotize, it is theoretically possible to rejuvenate them."

"Something tells me that these beings are a whole lot more dangerous than Doctor Frankenstein's monster," Malcolm observed, drawing a smile from the captain.

"All the same, Captain, we're a long way from Greenland," Travis Mayweather commented, obliquely cutting off the speculation. As the ship's navigator, the youthful lieutenant was well aware of just how far away the Enterprise was. "What does the admiral expect us to do?"

"The research base was missing a sub-orbital shuttle," Archer responded. "Admiral Williams believes the cyborgs abducted the research team and absconded. About a half hour later, Earth tracking stations lost communication with a transport vessel in low-Earth orbit." Archer cued up an image of a garden-variety long-haul transport vessel on the monitor. "Shortly after, the transport left Earth at a warp speed of three-point-nine. It's circumstantial, but the admiral believes the cyborgs hijacked the transport."

"Three-point-nine?" Trip whistled in astonishment. "Pardon me, Captain, but that's impossible. Those transports can't exceed one-point-four."

"Unless the aliens reconfigured the engines using their own technology," T'Pol corrected him. "Given what we've seen of them, retrofitting the transport's warp core would be—" T'Pol hesitated, searching for the correct human metaphor. "A walk in the park," she finished.

"I think it's safe to assume that the cyborgs did so," Archer added. "They seem to have a way with technology."

"Sir?" Archer looked up at the ironically soft-spoken communications officer, Hoshi Sato. "Does Starfleet know where the vessel is now?"

"That's where we come in," Archer answered. "The transport's heading puts them within a half-dozen light years of our current position, and we're the only ship in the fleet fast enough to overtake them." He looked at his senior staff, one by one. "We've been ordered to find the transport, secure it by whatever means necessary, and hold it until a specialized detachment arrives from Command." The words hit hard: Starfleet did not invoke the 'whatever means necessary' command very lightly. Or ever, come to think of it.

"It shouldn't be difficult to isolate their warp signature," T'Pol commented in the silence. "It will no doubt be very unique."

Archer flipped through the monitor screens until a tactical display came up. "We'll start our search at these coordinates," he said, highlighting the target location. "Malcolm, take the ship to tactical alert—I want everyone on their toes. Travis, lay in a course."

"Captain," Hoshi asked cautiously, "what about comm hails?" It was standard protocol, but given the severity of the situation…

"Hold off for now," Archer answered decisively. "In fact, keep the comm shut down completely: I don't want to give any stray indication of our presence. If there's nothing else?" In turn, the senior crew nodded their acknowledgment and returned to their posts, leaving just Archer and Trip behind.

Trip leaned forward on the table, taking a close look at the still photos. Their biomechanical technology impressed him in a professional sense; but there was something else about the cyborgs, something about the flatness of their faces, that sent shivers up his spine. No, he decided, I'm perfectly happy the way I am.

"Buried in the ice for a century," Trip said softly. "Thaw out, and come back to life. I wonder if they'll be able to tell us who they are and where they come from."

"It's hard to believe they survived at all," Archer added. "I've read about the cryogenics fad on Earth, but that simply put the cells into a deep sleep—the medical reports on these beings indicated that the organic parts were completely dead."

"'The Lord God formed the man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life,'" Trip quoted reverently, "'and the man became a living being.' Sorry, Captain," he said, catching the questioning gaze, "but there's something unnatural about this. I don't think the breath of life was intended to be nanites."

"Probably not," Archer agreed, "but those cyborgs are out there, and it's our duty to deal with them."

"Handsome devils, aren't they?" Trip added wryly.

…

Doctor Phlox glanced around the armory as the hatches slid open, granting him access to the nest of weaponry and other defensive equipment, and stepped inside. Phlox knew of other physicians—a great many, in fact—who would be supremely uncomfortable around so many tools of violence, and truth be told, it was not Phlox's favorite area to be; but the Denobulan had long since learned how to maintain his equanimity, and lengthy experience in space had taught him to view his surroundings with hues of gray; what may seem simple at first invariably bore many levels of complexity.

"Doctor!" Malcolm said, turning his head as Phlox entered. The tactical chief was across the room, studying schematics of the cyborgs on a wall monitor. "Can you come over?"

"Of course, Commander," Phlox answered, pleased at the opportunity to help a crewmate. "What seems to be the problem?"

"The Tasiilaq researchers gathered a great deal of biometric data on the cyborgs before they—well, before they disappeared," Malcolm answered. "I've been reviewing it for any sign of defensive capabilities, but I'm having trouble making heads or tails of it."

"Oh, that's not surprising," Phlox replied with a broad, friendly smile. "It's stumped the best cyberneticists at Starfleet Command, after all." He looked at the screen with curiosity. "What are we looking at here?"

"This is a biomechanical arm," Malcolm said, sketching the outline with a finger. "The researchers discovered that it's a completely separate piece of equipment, grafted onto the amputated stump of the host's upper arm. Now, this—" he pointed to a piece of complex equipment, sitting on the surface of the arm. "It looks like some sort of ray device, possibly some sort of weapon. If I can determine its yield, we'll have a better idea of what we're facing."

"Do we have any technical schematics for it?"

"Here." Malcolm pulled up a set of half-finished blueprints. The two worked in silence for a minute, before Malcolm spoke up again. "What sort of people would replace perfectly good body parts with cybernetic implants?" he asked absently.

"You, of all people, should be open-minded about technology," Phlox replied, manipulating the computer controls.

"Me?" Malcolm answered in surprise. "I don't have a problem with it—as long as it stays outside of my skin."

Phlox chuckled lightly. "If your heart was damaged, would you want me to replace it with a synthetic organ, or would you rather die?"

Malcolm snorted. "That's different."

"How so?" Phlox replied, smiling. "You humans have a long and complicated history with technology—there's a certain art in determining just where the line should be drawn. Most species manage to find it, but humanity—you just seem to jump all over the place."

Malcolm shuddered involuntarily, remembering a grade-school report on the biomechanical engineering conducted towards the end of the Final World War. As a third-grader, it had absolutely terrified him; as a grown man, it still made him uncomfortable.

"I once encountered a species in the Beta Magellan system called the 'Bynars,'" Phlox observed. "They've attained almost complete fusion with their computers. When a Bynar is born, a surgeon removes the child's parietal lobe and replaces it with a synaptic processor. The neurological connections fuse into place, and the child can communicate directly with a computer core. I saw the procedure performed once—it was very impressive."

"Just what I want—a computer chip in my brain, watching everything I do," Malcolm answered.

"You are aware, of course, that several of your own Starfleet scientists have suggested that the Universal Translator can be fit onto a computer chip, which can be embedded in your auditory canal?"

"That's—" Malcolm tripped over several word choices.

"Different?" Phlox smiled. "It always is, Commander. No, I'm not seeing any evidence of a weapon. This looks like a scanning device, nothing more."

"The research team was heavily armed," Malcolm said thoughtfully. "If these aliens didn't come with weapons, how did they overpower them?"

…

"Bridge to Captain Archer." T'Pol's disembodied voice intruded into the captain's ready room, grabbing his attention from the efficiency report on his computer monitor.

"Go ahead," he replied, unsure if he was glad for the interruption; the efficiency report lacked a certain pizzazz, but his feelings towards finding these cyborgs were decidedly mixed. He wanted to catch them, but on his own terms, not theirs.

"We're receiving an automated distress call," T'Pol reported, her tones flat and expressionless. "It's from a Tarkalean freighter."

"Set an intercept course," Archer ordered immediately, as he stood up from his chair. His back cracked, reminding him yet again that he wasn't as young as he once was, and he stepped onto the bridge.

"Captain," Lieutenant Sato acknowledged. She had her communications earpiece pressed firmly in her left ear. "There's a lot of interference, sir, but it's definitely a distress call. 'To any ship within range,'" she said, repeating the words for everyone's benefit. "'We're under attack by an unknown species. Request immediate assistance.'"

"That's all?" Archer asked for clarification.

"That's it, sir."

"How long, Travis?" Archer turned his attention to the helmsman.

"About an hour, sir."

"Very well." Archer reviewed his options as he took a seat in the central command chair. "Hoshi, keep trying to hail them. T'Pol, keep on active scan—we need as much information as possible. Archer to Lt. Commander Reed." The last was accompanied by a push of the intercom button, and an acknowledgement from the tactical officer. "We're en route to a freighter that's under attack by an unknown species. ETA is one hour—I want you on the bridge in forty-five."

And now comes the bad part, Archer reflected as he prepared the Enterprise for the potential battle that loomed ahead. I have to sit here and wait.

…

The Tarkalean freighter was dead in space.

The smaller Earth transport hung above the freighter, clearly the victor of the engagement. It was barely recognizable; the aliens had substantially retrofitted the ship, pasting all sorts of bizarre-looking equipment onto the exterior hull in a seemingly-haphazard pattern. Beneath the additions, the familiar lines of human starship design could barely even be seen.

The transport was emitting a steady, green beam at the freighter, focusing tightly on a nearly-ruptured cargo container attached to the side of the main vessel. Archer squinted his eyes, peering forlornly at the viewscreen; was the beam a weapon? "Can you identify that, Malcolm?" he asked finally.

"It's definitely a high-yield energy beam," Reed reported instantly, zeroing in on the terminus. "But it looks like—like some sort of cutting beam, sir. It's slicing through the freighter's hull, almost like a laser torch."

"Any power readings from the freighter?"

"No, sir, nothing at all," Malcolm answered.

Archer stood up from his chair, the symbol of action. "Open a channel," he ordered, and the comm system opened with a beep. "This is Captain Archer of the Starfleet vessel Enterprise," he announced firmly. "Stand down your attack, or we'll open fire."

"They're powering up systems!" Malcolm shouted in alarm, a second before the Enterprise shook. "They have weapons! Some kind of proton burst—those transports aren't supposed to be armed!"

"Looks like they've upgraded their defensive systems as well," Archer replied dryly. "Any human bio-signs, T'Pol?"

"Nine on the Earth transport," T'Pol reported. Her furrowed brow was the only hint of confusion. "The readings are erratic, Captain."

The Enterprise shook again. "Damage report?" Archer called out.

"Minor damage only," Hoshi answered, reading the damage reports flowing in through the intercom.

"Their weapons don't seem to be that powerful, Captain," Malcolm added from his rear post.

"Just the same, let's take them out," Archer decided, gripping the back of his chair for support as the vessel shuddered again. "Can you disable their weapons, Malcolm?"

"I believe so." Two quick, precise shots from the Enterprise's phase cannons resulted in small explosions along the transport's modified hull. "Their weapons are down. That was easer than I expected," he added.

"They're going to warp!" Travis announced.

"Lay in a pursuit course, Travis! T'Pol—any biosigns on the Tarkalean ship?"

"Two biosigns on their upper deck," T'Pol reported, freezing Archer momentarily. "I'm reading minimal life support."

Archer's mind was made up. "Stand down weapons, helm," he said with a chagrined sigh. "Keep an eye on their heading—we'll have to track them later. Hoshi, notify the launch bay to prep a shuttlepod. Malcolm, you're with me; T'Pol, you have the bridge." A chorus of 'ayes' followed the barrage of commands, and as the crew moved into action, Archer and Reed entered the lift to attend to a rescue mission.

…

Archer had never seen a Tarkalean before, at least not firsthand. He might have seen pictures, flipping through the combined databases on various interstellar species in preparation for the Enterprise's mission, but that was nearly two years previous; and in the meantime, the sheer number of new races they had encountered crowded those earlier, static images from his active memory. Come to think of it, Archer realized, there's only one thing I really know about them: they make a really popular flavor of tea.

The two Tarkaleans lay side-by-side in sickbay. Archer looked at them closely, trying to discern for himself how much physical damage they had suffered. Both aliens had an extensive network of raised ridges across their faces, but the patterns looked natural; he surmised that the ridges were natural, the effect of cartilage under the surface of the skin.

The skin of both aliens was pale—in itself, not unusual; but it was the blue-gray mottling that disturbed the captain. It didn't look natural, even to his untrained eye. As he delicately rolled the head one Tarkalean to the side, the mottling seemed to get worse; and Archer noticed a raised dome, with a starburst pattern radiating outwards with cold, precise geometry.

"The Tarkaleans should live," Phlox reported, stepping over to join the captain and T'Pol. "Although I'm not sure if 'alive' is really the best word to describe it. Their bodies have been infected with some sort of nanoprobes; their autonomic systems are being controlled artificially. Entire organs—you can see the renal glands here—" Phlox pointed to the interior imaging on the overhead monitors—"have been replaced with biomechanical devices. The bioengineering is incredible; I've never seen anything remotely like it before—except for the corpses found on Earth."

Archer peered at the monitor, trying to understand the transformations taking place. "Any idea what the ultimate goal is?" he asked finally.

"Yes, Captain." Phlox paused in a moment of discomfort. "Essentially, these individuals are being transformed into some sort of cybernetic hybrid. The nanoprobes have redesigned the Tarkaleans' biology to achieve a natural symbiosis with the outer, mechanical equipment we saw on the first corpses. I surmise that these two have been 'prepped' for the biomechanical grafts, but we interrupted the process."

"T'Pol, you said the human biosigns on the transport were erratic," Archer recalled, turning to his science officer.

"Yes, Captain," the Vulcan answered instantly. "It is probable that the researchers are going through a similar transformation. It would account for the erratic biosigns."

Think it through, Archer reminded himself, his natural enthusiasm warring with a sense of frustration. Be a Vulcan: what are the logical options? "Doctor, can you remove the nanoprobes? Restore the Tarkaleans back to—to their natural…being?"

Phlox frowned. "Not surgically. The only equipment that could clean out the nanoprobes would be other nanoprobes, and given how effective these bugs have been at transforming biological cells…" he shrugged. "I'm afraid that they would hijack anything sent after them. Besides, they're multiplying at an extraordinary rate—I doubt I could extract them all."

"Is there a biological solution for this?" Archer asked, running through the options mentally.

Phlox shrugged again. "I'm looking for one, but I haven't been very successful. Whoever engineered these nanoprobes, they knew what they were doing. I've been able to use a modified retrovirus to slow their progress, but it's almost as if the nanoprobes are adapting to it."

"Perhaps you should isolate them in the decon chamber," T'Pol proposed abruptly, alarmed by the report.

"If you do that, I won't be able to treat them as effectively," Phlox countered. "Besides, they're unconscious, and the nanoprobes don't seem to be spreading. I don't believe they're a danger to the crew."

"That's what the Tasiilaq researchers thought," Archer replied. "It didn't turn out so well for them. I'll leave them in sickbay, but I'll have Malcolm post a security detail. Keep me updated, Doctor."

…

Archer's eyes began to blur over as he stared at his computer monitor. It had started as a faint recollection; a tickle in the back of his mind, a stray word somewhere that made him think of something he had once read. Unable to let it go, he had grabbed on to it, tracing the solitary thought back to its source; and now, as he read the report, the tickle had exploded into a deadly suspicion.

"Come in," he said, startled by the doorbell. T'Pol stepped through, into the captain's ready room.

"I've contacted Tarkalea," T'Pol reported, forgoing any pleasantries. "I told them we're doing everything we can for their crewmen."

"Any sign of the transport?" Archer asked. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his vision.

"Nothing," T'Pol answered. "Lieutenant Mayweather is still following the warp trail, but we have no sign of the vessel itself. The ion decay indicates that it is still a considerable distance ahead of us."

"What, no estimate, accurate to the hundredth of a light-year?" Archer smiled, indicating that it was friendly teasing.

"It's been my experience that humans are incapable of appreciating such precise estimates," T'Pol replied blandly. After four years of serving together, Archer was able to recognize the barb as a joking retort.

"Come take a look at this." Archer waved T'Pol over to his desk. "There was something familiar about all of this, but I couldn't put my finger on it until I found this speech Zefram Cochrane made. It was the date that gave it away—he was talking about what 'really' happened during first contact."

"Should I assume that he gave an account that contradicts the official record?" T'Pol interposed.

"You could say so. Listen to this, T'Pol—he mentioned a group of cybernetic creatures from the future who tried to stop his first warp flight. He claimed they were defeated by a group of humans who were also from the future."

It didn't even earn a raised eyebrow. "As I recall, Cochrane was famous for his imaginative stories," T'Pol replied. "He was also known to be frequently intoxicated."

"Yeah, no one took his speech seriously," Archer admitted. "He recanted the whole thing a few years later. But you have to admit, there are similarities."

"The similarities are minuscule at best," T'Pol observed. "All you have is a single, nonspecific reference to cybernetic creatures."

"But that's not all of it." Archer was growing excited. "When I was a kid, I read everything I could about Cochrane—my dad kept a number of library files on him, including all of Cochrane's old speeches." Cochrane, famously a recluse, hadn't given many. "This one was a commencement address given at Princeton, the year after first contact. But when I tried to find it, I couldn't—Princeton didn't have a record of it, the Cochrane Historical Institute didn't have it, the Starfleet databanks didn't have it. I had to dig it out of my father's old records. It's almost like someone tried to cover it up, delete the speech from the historical record."

"Given the fanciful nature of its claims, that would not be surprising," T'Pol commented. "There would be no reason to distract valuable research time with such idle speculation."

Archer gave his science officer a hard look. "That logic may work on Vulcan, but not on Earth," he replied. "There's something about this that seems damned weird."

T'Pol nodded, accepting the captain's understanding of humanity over her own. "According to his speech," she said, reading it rapidly, "their ultimate goal was to enslave the human race."

"If he was right, they might be heading back to their homeworld for reinforcements—so they can try again."

…

Phlox was running a series of tests when he heard the unmistakable sound of one of his patients waking up. That shouldn't be happening, he thought crossly, and leaving his research behind, the physician went to attend to his patient.

The Tarkalean gasped for air, glancing around in panic. "Who are you?! Where am I?"

At least his cognitive functions seem to be operating. "My name is Phlox," he said soothingly, reaching the side of the biobed. "I'm a physician—you're safe here. You are aboard a starship. We responded to your distress call."

The Tarkalean's eye was caught by the sight of his hand. The blue-gray mottling had worsened, and now, metallic components had pushed through the epidermis. "What did you do to me?" the alien gasped, holding his hand away as if he could escape it. "Get this thing off of me—get it off!"

"You need to calm down!" Phlox stressed. "Your vessel was attacked. I'm doing my very best to treat you." The alien wasn't listening; panic had overwhelmed the Tarkalean. I need to sedate him, Phlox realized, resorting to one of the last tricks in his book. "Guard! I need you to hold him down!" the doctor shouted, summoning Malcolm's security officer.

The guard approached cautiously, and all hell broke loose.

The Tarkalean male shot both arms upward, knocking Phlox's hypospray aside and sending it, skittering, across the floor. As the guard ran forward, the other Tarkalean—biding her time, faking sleep—jumped from her bed. The guard alertly turned, just in time for the female Tarkalean to grab the front of his uniform and hurl across sickbay with superhuman strength. The guard crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

The male Tarkalean engaged in a momentary fistfight with Phlox, but the battle was not close; as one alien fist came upwards, reaching an apogee scant inches away from Phlox's exposed neck, hypodermic tubules shot out, puncturing the Denobulan's skin. The Tarkalean rolled Phlox's body across him, tossing the doctor to the deck plating, where he lay, insensate. His face began to grow pale, mottled with the flowing movements of nanites under his skin.

Without a word, the two aliens crossed sickbay to a vertical access tube, and climbed upwards, gaining access to the core of the Enterprise.

…

Voices.

A thousand, thousand voices.

Whispering.

The time has passed for choices.

I can't seem to see them.

Although my eyes are open wide.

But I know I'll see them.

I'll see them on the other side.

Never thought I'd feel like this.

So hollow to be alone.

But now we're all together.

As I make my way home.

I know we won't be parted.

Hold me.

Hold me tight, I'm falling.

Far away.

Distant voices calling.

Straight across the great divide.

And I'll see you.

I'll see you on the other side.

"Doctor," Archer said gently, shaking the physician back to conscious. "Are you alright? What happened?"

Phlox gazed around at his surroundings. They seemed—different, somehow, as if he was seeing them from a distance. He felt unsteady, as though the world around him was merely a two-dimensional painting, and hesitantly, he reached out with a hand, trying to reestablish a sense of depth, a sense of physical order to the universe.

"I had the weirdest dream," Phlox murmured as his mind gradually came back to life, and the memories hit with a jolt. "We were attacked! The Tarkaleans woke up." Scrambling to his feet, Phlox grabbed a scanner and held it to his neck. "I was afraid of that." His voice dropped back down to a whisper as he read the results. "I've been infected with the nanoprobes."

"How is that possible?" Archer asked. "I thought you said the nanites weren't spreading."

"Not through the air, no," Phlox answered. "But I remember—one of the aliens injected me, in the neck." He mirrored the movements. "He had some sort of needles that shot out of his skin. I blacked out after that. How long have I been unconscious?"

"Just a few minutes, Doctor," Archer replied. "When the aliens left their beds, the medical alerts sounded. When no one in sickbay shut them off, the computer alerted the bridge."

"I need to—I need to—" Phlox's hands wavered frantically as he tried to steady himself.

"You need to sit down, Doctor," Archer said. "That's an order, Phlox. Even I know that you just suffered something traumatic."

"Yes—yes, of course." Phlox's lack of mental clarity alarmed him. Nothing like that dream…it felt so…calm, so peaceful, so…Shaking his head, he cut off the train of thought.

"Captain!" Malcolm's voice carried across the room, pulling Archer's attention over to the access shaft. "They left through here!"

"Seal off the maintenance shafts!" Archer ordered immediately. "Post teams at every access point—if those things emerge, I want them on the ground! Pull personal from other departments to do a room-by-room sweep."

"Aye, sir," Malcolm replied, his tones more clipped than usual. "And if we find them?"

"Put them in decon. Maximum security. Keep the decon chamber venting." The decon chamber vented directly into the plasma exhaust chutes, where the superheated emissions destroyed any foreign substances.

"Use extreme caution, Commander," Phlox said, staggering over. "Their physical strength has been enhanced—you're not going to win physical combat with them. It's critical—listen to me, it's critical—that you don't let them touch you; that's how they infect you. If I were you, I'd keep your weapons on kill."

Malcolm gulped and adjusted the setting on his photonic rifle, wondering how the situation had deteriorated so quickly from being a rescue mission to being shoot-to-kill. With trained precision, he led the security detail up and into the access tube.

Phlox staggered back into sickbay. It was down to himself, the captain, and the original security guard, who sat on the edge of a biobed. Phlox forced the welling panic down, trying to impose a sense of order on his scattered mind.

"What's his condition?" Archer asked, following behind the doctor.

Focusing hard, Phlox scanned the security guard. "He hasn't been infected."

"And what's your condition, Doctor?"

"I—" Phlox felt his mind reel and nearly stumbled to the floor with induced vertigo. "It's like my brain—the synaptic pathways must be misfiring," he stuttered through the diagnosis. "The nanoprobes must be rewriting the pathways."

"Phlox, I'd order you to sickbay, but—" Archer shrugged helplessly. "You're still the best person on the ship to take care of you."

"Don't worry about me, Captain," Phlox said, concentrating hard to form the words. "I'll make it through, somehow."

"Alright, Doctor. Call if you need anything." Archer turned his look to the guard. "Stay here, keep on an eye on Phlox. If there are any more problems—call immediately."

…

The Tarkalean cyborgs moved through the inner guts of the Enterprise, unhesitating in their path. Their destination, their goal, their immediate mission, was clear to them, and they pursued it with single-minded determination; nothing would get in their way.

They followed the access chute up one deck, and into a branching, horizontal shaft, opening the intervening hatchway without a thought. It gave way to another narrow, vertical tube, and up the ladder they went, deck after deck. Underneath the surface of the Tarkaleans, the nanites continued their industrious work, rewriting RNA strands and reordering organic molecules on a sub-atomic level, laying the groundwork that the heavy biomechanical applications would later be grafted on to.

They reached the top of the vertical shaft, and again, the locked hatchway posed no dilemma; moving out into a corridor, the two beings continued on towards their destination.

…

"Malcolm," Captain Archer noted, looking at the schematics displayed the wall monitor in engineering, "this doesn't even look like the Earth transport anymore." On the panel in front of them, the original design of the transport was overlaid by the enhanced sensor readings from their last encounter; it was barely recognizable.

"They've modified most of the primary systems," Trip Tucker noted, standing alongside his colleagues. "Engines, hull plating, these things here—" he pointed to a portion of the schematic—"these look like weapons nodes. And I don't even want to guess what that thing's for."

"It's remarkable, really," Reed added. "Their technological advantages must be off the chart—they managed to redesign the warp coils, while the ship was traveling at warp speeds. And in less than a day."

"Odds are they're not done yet," Trip commented, eyeing the schematics and the tactical chief at the same time. "The longer it takes us to catch them, the more time they have to continue these modifications. God knows what the upper limit is."

"Trip, give me some good news," Archer commanded wearily. "There has to be a way to stop them."

"I did spot one hole in their systems," Trip replied, unusually cautious. "They haven't overhauled the aft plating yet. If we can punch through here—we should be able to knock out this EPS manifold. It'll take out their main power."

"It's a little like threading a needle," Malcolm answered, looking at the screen carefully. "But I should be able to get a torpedo in there."

"One or two torpedoes is all it needs," Trip confirmed. "If you don't mind me saying, we'll jam it right up their ass."

"Captain," Malcolm ventured slowly, "what happens if we do catch them?"

Archer sighed. "If Phlox doesn't find a way to reverse those nanoprobes…we might have to store them in cold stasis, and take them back to the medical minds on Earth. But our priority, gentlemen, is catching those bastards. I'll let Admiral Williams worry about what happens after."

"Well, Captain…at what point are they beyond saving?" Trip asked. "I mean, I know I wouldn't want to live as some cyborg freak."

"The very idea of it…" Malcolm shuddered. "It just seems so wrong."

Archer glared at his officers. "The crew of that transport are still human beings," he declared firmly. "And our duty is to save them—in whatever condition they are."

"T'Pol to Archer." The Vulcan's voice intruded upon their conversation.

Archer tapped the intercom control. "Archer here," he replied. "Go ahead, T'Pol."

"I've located the transport on long-range sensors." T'Pol's voice echoed faintly as it traveled across the comm system. "They're traveling at warp four-point-eight, on our approximate heading."

Good news and bad news, Archer told himself. "How far are they?"

"Less than two light years," T'Pol reported a scant second later.

Archer looked at his chief engineer. "I need ou to coax a little more power out of the engines, Trip."

"I'll give it a shot, Captain," Tucker replied. "I should be able to give you spurts at warp five—enough to overtake them." A nod from the captain excused Trip to attend to his duties.

"Travis," Archer called out over the intercom, "lay in a precise intercept course, at maximum speed."

"Aye, sir," Mayweather's fainter voice returned. Satisfied, Archer flipped off the connection.

"You know, Captain," Malcolm began, following Archer towards the main hatchway, "they doubled their top speed in less than twelve hours."

"Don't jinx us, Malcolm—if they increase it any more, we're out of luck."

Malcolm gave a curt nod to the security guard stationed at the entrance of engineering. "It's not that, Captain. Last time, their weapons were no match for us. But if they've had time to upgrade those systems as well—it won't even matter if we can catch them."

…

The Tarkalean cyborgs were hard at work.

The bulkhead panels in front of them were removed and lay, discarded, on the deck plating. The exposed circuitry within was transformed into a miasma of black and luminescent green, reordered in a bewildering array of connections.

His task not yet complete, the first Tarkalean stepped to the next bulkhead, and pulled off the panel. The technology within was visibly recognizable as Starfleet, but only for a moment; the Tarkalean injected the wall of circuitry with his tubules, and the molecules reordered themselves in seconds, seemingly swimming in the air as they reformed into the cyborg's native technology.

The first Tarkalean had his head buried deep in the circuitry when Malcolm, alerted by the search teams, arrived with a security squad. "Stop what you're doing!" Reed ordered firmly, himself and two guards leveling their weapons at the cyborg. "Step away now, or I will fire!"

The Tarkalean deigned to give the humans a momentary glance, but seemed to find them irrelevant; it refocused its attention on the exposed circuitry before it.

"I said, step away!" Malcolm commanded again, but his words got no response. The cyborg seemed completely indifferent to their presence. Without hesitating, Malcolm fired a blast from his photonic pistol.

The cyborg staggered backwards momentarily, then regained its balance and resumed its work. Malcolm gestured to the guards, and all three opened fire.

This time, the cyborg didn't even flinch. Some sort of protective forcefield protected it, absorbing the entire blast from the phased energy weapons. Where the hell did that come from? Malcolm thought to himself. "Maximum setting!" he ordered.

The firepower unleashed could have incinerated the average humanoid, but the alien's forcefield handled it all.

This time, however, they got the cyborg's attention, and it finally looked away from the circuitry, as if sizing up the human security team as a potential threat. It started walking towards them, calmly and steadily, making no effort to seek protection. The security team fired again, but the forcefield granted the cyborg complete protection.

"Fall back!" Malcolm ordered, remembering Phlox's directive about avoiding physical contact. Lowering their weapons, the three humans turned back into the corridors and ran low, seeking the protection of a sheltered alcove. Behind them, the cyborg did not alter its pace, but kept walking forward with a steady tenacity.

As they reached a T-intersection, the second Tarkalean cyborg emerged, grabbing the first guard by the shoulders and throwing him roughly to the deck. The second guard, relapsing into his training, rushed the cyborg, which moved with surprising quickness; the alien used the guard's momentum to lift the human off the ground, over its body, and back down with a thundering noise. As the human lay there, unmoving, twin tubules shot out from the cyborg's knuckles, scarce centimeters away from the guard's exposed neck.

Seizing the moment of distraction, Malcolm crept in from behind, bringing a photonic rifle down firmly on the base of the Tarkalean's neck. Whether it connected with an organic or cybernetic system, it did the trick; the cyborg was stunned, and with a strong grip, Commander Reed flung it backwards, where he plastered the alien with a heavy bath of phased energy fire.

Malcolm helped his guards back to their feet, and as Reed flipped open his communicator, the three humans took to flight down the corridors. "Reed to bridge!" he called out.

"Go ahead!" Archer responded.

"They're in maintenance shaft C!" Reed reported. "Junction twelve. They appear to be modifying our systems!"

…

"T'Pol!" Archer said. "What's in that junction?"

"Warp plasma regulators," she reported, her voice showing no sign of the trepidation exhibited by her human crewmates. "It's most probable that they're trying to knock our engines offline."

"Can you stop them, Malcolm?"

"No, sir!" Malcolm's voice was rushed. "Our weapons are useless—they're equipped with some kind of energy shielding! And we can't even try physical force!"

"Sir!" Travis shouted in alarm, jacking up the tension on the bridge. "Our warp field's destabilizing!"

"It's them," T'Pol confirmed, watching her readings. "We have to stop them now, Captain."

Option one is out, option two is out…that leaves us with… "T'Pol, isn't there an outer hatch in that junction?"

"Yes, maintenance shaft C connects with—"

"Malcolm! Get out of that section and seal off atmospheric containment!"

"Aye, sir!"

"Take us out of warp, Travis." Archer could hear the great starship drop to sublight speeds.

"We're clear, Captain!" Malcolm reported a moment later.

"Now, Sub-Commander!"

…

The cyborgs looked up with alarm fractions of a second before they were sucked out of the access shaft and through the exterior hatch. Shooting out into the vacuum of space, they drifted away.

…

"The junction's empty," T'Pol reported.

Archer nodded, his voice catching in his throat. "Close the hatch and re-pressurize," he ordered. His gaze rose to the ceiling, seeking the microscopic sensors of the intercom system. "Malcolm, report to main engineering. Work with Trip to find out what they were doing in there."

"Aye, sir," Reed answered, and the channel beeped shut.

"Resume course and speed, Travis," the captain ordered, and now his gaze fell to the deck.

Watching Archer's body language, T'Pol recognized the signs of remorse. Humans were not good at cloaking their inner emotional state; at least, not compared to Vulcans, and nearly two years in space had given T'Pol ample opportunity to understand her captain.

Now, she grew concerned; she knew that his insistence on preserving life, while ordinarily an asset, could prove dangerous as their mission wore on; logically, she saw no probable conclusion that did not end with the death of either the cyborgs or the Enterprise crew, and Archer's own reluctance could cause him to hesitate at a crucial moment.

"You had no choice," she said, softly, and Archer tilted his head, indicating that he heard her. "There are times when you must kill, or be killed."

…

"Room service!" Hoshi Sato announced pleasantly as she entered sickbay, carrying a tray holding several covered containers.

Phlox, scanning what looked like an orchid, looked up with mild surprise. "What's this?" he asked, noticing the tray.

"Root leaf lettuce for your Edosian slugs, Vulcan sandworms for the bat, and angel hair pasta for the ship's physician." Smiling at the doctor, she held each container up as she listed them off.

Phlox smiled appreciatively, but he tried to wave her off with a shaky hand. "It's best if I avoid food for the time being, Lieutenant."

"Doctor, you need to keep up your strength. Isn't that what you always tell me?" Hoshi smiled, trying to avoid showing her alarm at Phlox's pallid complexion and jerky twitching.

"If I eat, my cellular metabolism will accelerate," the doctor answered. "The nanoprobes could spread further. In a way, I've actually been incredibly fortunate: they appear to work faster in the presence of other cyborgs, almost like there's some sort of telepathic connection between them. If I were aboard that transport—" his voice jumped as his body spasmed. "The conversion process may already be complete."

"Well, who am I to argue with a doctor?" Hoshi replied, and set the container of pasta down on Phlox's desk. "It's right here if you change your mind."

"Why are you wearing a photonic pistol?" Phlox asked, noticing it for the first time.

Hoshi tried her best aw, shucks look. "It's Commander Reed's idea," she said, somewhat bashfully. "If you come near me, I'm supposed to shoot you."

"I hope you'll use the stun setting," Phlox murmured.

"You know, Doctor, it's going to be a few hours before we catch up with that transport," Hoshi said. "I'm sure Captain Archer wouldn't mind if I stayed for a little while, kept you company."

"I appreciate the offer, Ensign, but it may not be safe to be near me right now," the Denobulan answered. "Besides, I have my animals for company."

"I'm armed, remember?" Hoshi remarked wryly. "Plus you have two security guards watching you. I don't think they'll let you get close enough to do anything."

"The technology could assert itself at any moment," Phlox replied firmly. "I don't know what will happen if it does."

"And wouldn't you rather have someone around to look after you? Besides, Doctor, you've looked after me more times than I can count—all the way down to bringing me chicken soup in my quarters when I had the Denebian flu. I think I owe you a few."

"This is a little more severe than the flu," Phlox answered, but it brought a smile to his face. "I do appreciate the thought, but it just isn't safe for you. I made that mistake, and I don't intend to let you."

Hoshi nodded, understanding. "Do you mind if I feed your animals before I go?"

"Of course not."

…

Malcolm frowned mightily as he waved his hand scanner in front of the modified circuitry. All he knew was that it was a mess; what it was all for…he couldn't begin to make sense of the maze of alien technology in front of him.

"They did a real number on these circuits," Trip murmured alongside him. The engineer had his head buried, down to his chest, in the machinery. "It could take days to get all of this junk out."

"What do you think they were doing here, anyway?" Malcolm replied, wondering if it was safe to sever a connection in front of him. What the hell, he thought, there's only one way to know.

"I don't know," Trip answered, his voice muffled by the dense forest of filamentation. "But they almost overloaded the plasma regulators. Doesn't make a whole lot of sense—why blow up the ship if you're still on it?"

"They could have been trying to help the transport get away," Malcolm suggested. He yanked his hand back with a mild shock. "Or—you don't suppose they planned on renovating the plasma regulators? If they could safely increase the flow…"

"You might be on to something, Malcolm. That would explain how they got the transport moving so fast. Can you hand me that isodyne coupler?"

"Why would they make the Enterprise faster? Unless…were they trying to hijack us?" Yielding to the labyrinth, Malcolm knelt down beside Tucker. "Did they really think that they could take over the Enterprise with only two of them?"

"It's not just hijacking the ship," Trip replied absently. "They can also hijack the people, remember? We got lucky that they were in an exterior shaft."

"That shielding of theirs was impressive," Malcolm said with a low whistle. "We might as well have been firing holograms at them."

"Can you hand me that hypospanner? ...It's too bad we didn't get a closer look at their shields. It would be nice to steal some of their technology, instead of the other way around."

"Just imagine what we could do with energy shields," Malcolm agreed. "If we could find some way to integrate them into the ship itself…we'd be damn near impervious."

"I don't know if I'd go that far," Trip answered. His leg shot up with a jolt.

"Are you alright, Commander?" Malcolm asked, alarmed.

"Yeah, just got a shock…is there a pair of rubber-handled needle-nosed pliers out there?"

"Here you are, Commander."

"Sometimes the right tool for the job is an oldie…but I'm sure there's a way to get through those energy shields."

Malcolm paused, thoughtfully. "You're right—there has to be a way to get through with photonic pistols. It's just a matter of overloading the energy matrix—or maybe we can disrupt it somehow!" He rose to his feet excitedly. "If I cross-polarize the power cells, it could increase the particle yield, and randomize the ion dispersal! I'll be in the armory, Commander!"

"Sure thing, Malcolm," Trip replied.

…

T'Pol, as a rule, did not appreciate large social gatherings. It wasn't a dislike, per se; she neither liked nor disliked the accompaniment of others. However, Vulcan culture was solitary, promoting seclusion and solitude and eschewing large gatherings. Thus, even after decades spent among other, more sociable, races, T'Pol still felt a sense of discomfort among large groups.

At the same time, part of her individual mission on board the Enterprise was to better understand humanity by immersing herself in it, and the notion of decorous distance appropriate for a Vulcan crew on a Vulcan ship would have been unsatisfactory at best and fatal to her studies.

So T'Pol was forced to seek a compromise; she pushed herself beyond her natural comfort zone, to spend a portion of her time in the communal activities that were so important to her human crewmates. At the same time, she recognized that too much would overwhelm her, and so she sought the ideal middle ground: for instance, while she would forgo eating during mealtime in the mess hall, she made a habit of stopping by later in the evening for a cup of tea.

Thus T'Pol was in the mess hall that evening when the captain arrived. "Coffee with cream," Archer ordered, putting a cup into the beverage dispenser, and while the computer filled it, Archer checked the cupboard for leftover desserts.

"I believe Crewman Cunningham is in the galley, if you'd like something else," T'Pol mentioned, setting down her cup of tea.

"This'll be fine," Archer said, taking his coffee. "Phlox has been after me to drop a kilogram or two anyway. Is this seat taken?" He gestured to the chair next to T'Pol.

T'Pol knew the question was illogical; the mess hall was largely empty, and there were no crewmembers not in a seat. Nonetheless, experience helped her recognize that it was a form of human courtesy, and replied accordingly. "Please sit down." The captain sat down with a tired sigh.

"Commander Reed informed me that you plan to disable the transport when we find it," T'Pol remarked as Archer settled in.

"Yep." Archer sipped the coffee. "He thinks we can knock out the power systems without causing too much damage."

"So you still intend to rescue the humans?" T'Pol asked.

"That's the general idea," Archer replied warily. "I take it you disagree?"

"If they've already been transformed, rescuing them could prove difficult," T'Pol answered. "Doctor Phlox has been unable to find a way of removing the nanoprobes, and his transformation is relatively incomplete. The transformation of the humans on the transport is bound to be much further advanced."

"I want to take these people home, T'Pol," Archer said. "No matter what state they're in."

"And what if they don't feel the same way, Captain?" T'Pol posed. "There are twenty-nine people unaccounted for, and presumably on that transport. It is logical to assume they've all been infected. You saw the danger that two of them presented, Captain. We could endanger the Enterprise if any more are brought aboard."

"Then what are you suggesting, T'Pol?" Archer leaned in. "Those are still human beings, and I have a duty to rescue them. I can't just let them go."

"I'm not sure they are still human beings," T'Pol replied. "At least, not in the sense you mean. The medical data that the doctor has put together—" she held her padd up in front of the captain. "The nanotechnology seems to terminate the synaptic functions associated with the sense of self-identity, and replaces them with a low-grade subspace transceiver assembly. It's almost as if they wipe the individual mind, and then pipe in external commands. The subject is reduced to an automaton."

"But Phlox still seems…well, he's not himself, but he's not an automaton either."

"The doctor's own medical readings suggest that the process has slowed down in him. Theoretically, I would surmise the presence—or absence—of other automaton cyborgs affects the pace of the transformation. If even a significant fraction of the twenty-nine missing people are still alive on the transport, their transformation process should be proceeding much more quickly."

"That may be, T'Pol, but what's the point?" Archer asked. "I mean, are you suggesting that we don't go after that ship? That we don't try to rescue the people on board?"

"Yes and no, Captain," T'Pol answered. "I am suggesting that the people on board are past saving—and that we are obligated to destroy the ship, before it can attack again."

"Forget it, T'Pol," Archer growled. "We already had to kill two of them. I don't want any more blood on my hands."

"Phlox to Captain Archer." The doctor's voice interrupted their conversation.

Archer rose from his chair and hit the comm panel. "Go ahead."

"Could you please come to sickbay?"

"On my way, Doctor." He shut the channel, and glanced back at T'Pol. "I'm not ready to declare them a lost cause, T'Pol."

…

"As near as I can tell, I'm a lost cause, Captain," Phlox said grimly as Archer entered sickbay. The Denobulan's normally-robust skin tone had paled until it was almost white, and the gray mottling had spread further; his body shook while he walked, like a patient with advanced neurological illness.

"I'd appreciate some good news, Doctor," Archer replied tiredly. "Can you make something up?"

Phlox thought for a moment. "The transformation has slowed down," he suggested. "It's almost as if—as if the nanoprobes are waiting for a signal before they continue. But I doubt they'll hold off long. They are persistent little fellows."

"T'Pol also mentioned something about a subspace signal," Archer reflected. "Do you have any ideas about it?"

Phlox gave a pseudo-shrug as his shoulders quaked. "I—I can hear voices, Captain," he said softly. "More subconsciously than anything. It's like they're out there, but I can't quite reach them—I can't quite understand them. They've gradually been getting louder and clearer. It's good to know that T'Pol noticed it; at least I'm not imagining things."

"Do you have any idea what will happen to you as they get louder?"

"Nothing good, Captain, nothing good." Phlox shuddered. "It's like…a siren, enticing me in. I can't resist it, but the louder it gets…the more submerged I get, like I'm diving into some sort of collective consciousness. It's getting to be a struggle to even remember who I am."

Archer nodded, weighing the doctor's words. "Any progress in finding a treatment?"

"Possibly," Phlox acknowledged. "I've been attempting to treat the infection as if it were, well…" his hand gestures caused his entire body to waver. "As if it were an infection. Then it suddenly occurred to me, this isn't a biological problem. I need to approach it like an engineer, not a physician."

Phlox's rapid movements got the better of him, and the physician fell forward, where Archer caught him. "Thank you, Captain," Phlox said, regaining his balance. "The problem with these nanites is that they're self-replicating—they can reproduce quicker than I can remove them, at least using any regular methods. So I extracted several and subjected them to different forms of radiation."

Archer waited for Phlox to continue. "Any luck?" he asked, finally, prodding the doctor.

Phlox shook his head clear. "What? Oh, yes, the radiation…yes, their intra-molecular processors appear to be vulnerable to omicron particles. But if even one of the nanoprobes survives, it will start to multiply again…and again…and again…" Phlox's voice trailed off as he got lost in the thought.

Archer cleared his throat. "Doctor?"

"Ehm? Captain? What can I do for you?"

"You were telling me about the radiation treatment, Doctor. The nanoprobes are vulnerable to omicron radiation."

"Oh, yes, I remember now…I'm sorry, Captain, my mind has been fading out," Phlox answered unsteadily.

"It's okay, Doctor. How much radiation does it take to kill all of the nanoprobes?"

"It takes a rather excessive dose, I'm afraid. I think I'll survive, but the side effects will be quite unpleasant, to say the least."

"How far along can a person be, and still be able to come back?" Archer asked, thinking of the missing humans on the transport ship.

"I don't know for certain, Captain, but I doubt very far. I'm sure that if I was around other, transformed cyborgs, I would be past saving. In fact, you may want to keep this, in the event I'm unsuccessful." Phlox handed the captain a hypospray.

"What is it?" Archer asked, handling the instrument delicately.

"A cure. Of sorts." Phlox smiled, but it was only a shadow of his normal, face-splitting grin. "It contains a neural toxin that will terminate my synaptic functions within a matter of seconds. I would recommend ejecting my body into a stellar core—I wouldn't want these little demons bringing me back to life."

"Aren't you jumping the gun a little?" Archer asked, perturbed.

"I have no intention of turning into one of those cybernetic creatures, Captain," Phlox answered. "A life like that—I'd rather be dead."

…

Malcolm frowned. "No, that won't be good enough," he muttered, studying the test readouts on the armory display screen. "Last time, their shields adapted after just one shot, so we need to make certain the first one does the job."

"Try again, sir?" Crewman Foster asked, unruffled. They had two photonic rifles mounted on a stationary firing tripod. The exterior shells of both weapons were removed; the space between the two was a bewildering maze of control circuits and power conduits, and the emitters of the two weapons were angled in, so the beams intersected precisely at the target point: a square of superstrengthed carbon sheeting, two meters away.

"Increase power another five megajoules," Malcolm directed. Foster made the adjustments on his control padd, and fired the rifles, to no effect. "Keep it going," Malcolm ordered. "Increase to seven megajoules." The rifles kept a constant spray of energy fire, but the carbon sheet remained stubbornly intact.

"Take it eight," Malcolm directed, watching the power curves on his monitor. "Nine. I'm starting to see some buckling—bring it up to ten." At last, in a shower of sparks, the molecular cohesion of the carbon sheet broke, and a hole punched through. "Power down." Foster released the firing control on the rifles.

Malcolm trotted over to visually inspect the hole. "Looks like that should do it," he observed. "We'll reach that transport in less than an hour—let's modify as many of the hand weapons as we can."

…

The Earth transport no longer looked like an Earth transport. Its exterior hull had been completely retrofitted, the once-smooth lines disappearing in a jutting array of angular plates and equipment, the dull brown coloring replaced with a harsh, near-black matte finish. A greenish glow emanated from the stern.

"The vessel's mass has increased by three percent," T'Pol noted, checking her sensor readings.

"They've improved their defenses since we last saw them," Reed added. "I'm detecting multiple energy banks…what looks like some sort of torpedo system…their hull has been triply reinforced. Captain, I don't know if our firing plan will work any more."

"There's nothing like trying," Archer observed dryly. His leg was bouncing up and down in anticipation.

"They're accelerating!" Travis announced from his post at the helm. "Warp four-point-nine-six, point-nine-eight!"

"Increase speed, Travis," Archer ordered. "We need to overtake them."

"Aye, sir," Travis answered, inputting the appropriate commands. Archer felt the Enterprise start to shake as the structural integrity field strained to keep up with the velocity.

"We're closing," Travis reported, exchanging a concerned look with Hoshi. "We'll have firing range in five…four…three…"

Giving in to his charged energy, Archer jumped up from his command chair. "Fire when ready, Malcolm!" he ordered. "Keep your target on that EPS manifold!"

"Weapons range!"

"Firing!"

"They're dropping to impulse!"

"Direct hit, but no apparent damage!"

"Drop to impulse, Travis, and keep with them!"

"They're coming about!"

"Ready torpedoes!"

"I'm reading multiple biosigns, but they're fluctuating!"

"Fire torpedoes!"

"Torpedoes away!"

"Impact—no damage, sir!"

"They hit some sort of energy shielding!"

"They're sending a transmission, Captain! Some kind of activation sequence!"

Shit! Archer thought, as seemingly-incoherent strands fell into place. He ran over to Hoshi's console. "Block it!"

"I can't, sir!"

Holy mother of God, Trip thought to himself. The cyborg technology in the access chute powered up, snapping out of its dormant state. The Starfleet displays on his monitors disappeared, replaced with alien cryptograms in black and green, and as the lights began flashing, he could hear the power thrumming through the alien systems.

"Tucker to the bridge!" he shouted, hitting a comm panel. "Whatever they're doing, you have to stop it! These cybernetic circuits just lit up like a freaking Christmas tree!"

…

The main lighting on the bridge started to stutter, plunging into alternating patterns of black and bright with the rapidity of a strobe light. Around the senior staff, the array of monitors and consoles blinked in and out furiously, and a cacophony of alarms went off as power systems tripped and failed across the ship.

"They're disrupting our plasma network!" T'Pol announced sharply. "Main power is destabilizing!"

"We lost weapons!" Malcolm reported a second later.

Archer looked around in shocked alarm as the bridge shut down around them. "They set us up!" he growled angrily. The feeling of powerlessness only aggravated him.

"They're hailing us!" Hoshi called out from the comm. "Audio only!"

Well, let's see what they want, Archer thought as the rear of the bridge shut down completely. At least we can buy ourselves some time. "Open a channel, Hoshi."

Before Archer could speak, a thunderous, echoing roar of thousands of voices rumbled onto his darkened bridge. "We are the Borg. We will add your biological and technological distinctiveness to our own. Your culture will adapt to service us. Resistance is futile. We are the Borg."

…

What the hell?

The renovated Borg vessel circled the Enterprise in broad, leisurely arcs, spitting out globs of green hellfire at the stricken Starfleet vessel.

"Trip, we could use weapons!" Archer shouted over the intercom, hoping the channel was still functional.

"It's—ssss—few minutes!" the engineer's voice returned, nearly swallowed in the static.

"Hull plating's down eighty-one percent!" Malcolm shouted, ducking as a power conduit exploded overhead. "We don't have a few minutes!" The bridge shook again, the emergency lights blinking out momentarily, plunging them into a second of complete darkness.

"What is working?" Archer demanded, standing strong in the center of the bedlam.

"Life support, secondary sensors…" T'Pol started listing the functioning systems as she ran emergency diagnostics. "The transporter system is still online, Captain!"

That'll have to do, Archer told himself. "Malcolm, you're with me!" he ordered as he ran to the lift. "T'Pol, you have the bridge—I'm counting on you to pull us out of there!"

…

Reroute primary access junction c-twelve to secondary power shunt j-nine.

Dispatch Three of Seven, alpha, to shipboard coordinates two-four-seven-mark-nine-zero. Repair malfunctioning graviton plating.

Reroute anti-deuterium slush through plasma conduit, designation alpha-two-four. Close access junction. Flush with an ionized lithium-hydroxide solution.

Contact sent to new drone, designation One of Eighty-Three. No reply. Continue sending.

That's me, Phlox realized. His skin was now completely mottled-white, with mechanical ridges running the length of his body. When the Enterprise approached the transport, the nanoprobes had resumed their ravenous work, transforming his body into a cybernetic host. His focus was almost gone, his mind almost blank, and he moved with seizure-like quakes, as the nanoprobes asserted control over his neuromuscular functions.

I don't have much time, he thought worriedly, before his mind blanked again. Much time for what?

"Doctor?" The security guard's question snapped Phlox back into the present. "Are you okay, sir?"

"Most assuredly not," Phlox rejoined hastily. "I've programmed the irradiation sequence." Even to his own ears, his voice sounded alien; his strong tenor had subsided, and a multi-phonic collection of chords and cadences was surging to the forefront. I have to explain this before I lose focus again. "I'll need you to activate the—the equipment, once the chamber's sealed," Phlox continued, forcing the remnants of his mind to focus through the mental haze. "All you have to do is press—this." His hand danced unsteadily as he tried to point to the control.

"This one, Doctor?" The guard pointed at the console. On the second try, Phlox nodded affirmatively.

"Y-yes, Ensign." Phlox tried to turn his body, but it no longer listened to his commands. I have to get over to the chamber, he thought wildly. I can't—I can't—I can't what? His feet were rooted in place, the rest of his body twitching angrily.

"Ensign, I might need—I might need a hand," Phlox croaked out, trying to ignore the alien timbre of his own voice. The two had worked out the procedure earlier; now, moving cautiously, the security guard approached Phlox from the side, his rifle held steady with one hand and the other leveled with a hypospray containing a cortical stimulant.

A meter never seemed so far. With the temporary boost from the drugs, and the guard pushing and pulling him, Phlox staggered to the primary biobed, and gratefully collapsed onto it. He laid back in relief, gripping the handrails firmly with his quaking hands. The guard quickly fastened the security straps over Phlox.

This is it, Phlox told himself. I can do this. The pain shot to unimaginable levels as the first bursts of radiation hit.

"I've doubled the particle yield of the photonic pistols," Malcolm reported as he jogged down the corridor, alongside the captain. "It may take a few seconds to recharge after each shot."

"As long at it'll stop them," Archer replied as he turned the corner into the transporter alcove.

"It'll stop a rampaging wildebeest," Malcolm answered. He handed the captain the weapon. "But you'll only have one shot."

"We'll have to make it count," Archer answered gruffly. He and Reed stepped up to the transporter dais, taking their positions in the chamber. "Put us as close as you can to their EPS manifold," he ordered.

"Aye, sir." The Enterprise shook again as it absorbed another blast of weapons fire from the Borg vessel, causing the backup lights in the transporter alcove to flicker and die momentarily.

"Just try to get us there in one piece," Malcolm muttered wryly. The two officers drew their photonic pistols and assumed ready stances as the transporter circuitry was activated.

…

It's like a mechanical beehive, Archer first thought as the materialization sequence finished. We're DEFINITELY not in Kansas anymore.

The once-familiar Earth transport vessel had been almost completely retrofitted during their long chase, and the technology surrounding them was unlike anything Archer had ever seen before; far from being human, it didn't even look humanoid. The design aesthetics reflected an utter devotion to function over form, and the mysterious array of jutting plates and harsh angles suggested—these 'Borg' must have compound vision.

The metallic corridors were lit with pale green lighting, recessed into cracks and crevasses, creating a pallid glow not unlike the fires of Erebus. Electricity arced freely through the humid, oppressively-warm air, and tubing dropped from the ceiling, twitching around as if alive. Hidden along the sides of this technological jungle was alcove after alcove. Some held machinery, but some held the unmistakable bodies of cybernetically-transformed humans.

The Borg vessel continued to unleash fusillade after fusillade of green globules at the Enterprise, pounding the larger ship mercilessly with its weapons fire. The hull plating was failing; now, small explosions could be seen, as the Enterprise drifted helpless in space.

…

They're not reacting oddly to our presence—they're not reacting at ALL, Archer realized as he scanned one of the cybernetic beings. It was frozen motionless in one of the alcoves lining the walls of the corridor. The captain's scanner told him that the being was human, although the similarities seemed to be virtually invisible. This being had undergone the next stage in the transformation process, and had a full array of biomechanical implements grafted onto its body. It looks like the 'Borg' found in Greenland.

It was weird, it was eerie, it was downright spooky; there was no sign of movement on board the enemy ship, no sign that anyone was controlling the battle outside, and no sign that the cyborgs were even aware of the boarding party's presence. Archer stepped silently as he struggled to make sense of it. Whatever these things are, they're definitely no longer human, he realized.

"Captain!" Malcolm called out, pulling Archer's attention to the end of the corridor. With loud, clanking sounds, two of the cyborgs emerged, and without hesitation, the two Starfleet officers pointed their photonic pistols and fired. The energy beams hit the black carapaces with miniature explosions, and the two cyborgs fell to the deck.

Archer and Reed trotted over, pulling out their hand scanners. "They're both humans," Archer noted as he knelt down beside the bodies. "At least, they were. I think this one was Bonita Rooney."

"Was?" Reed looked at the captain with a degree of alarm; had they killed fellow humans in their haste?

"Look at the biosigns, Commander," Archer replied. "It's not fair to call them human."

"Sir!" Malcolm shouted in alarm, his head turned back to the end of the corridor. "There's more coming!"

Three more of the cyborgs emerged, their black suits highlighted by the pallid lighting. They did not move rapidly, nor did they make any effort to vary their path; instead, they came forward, step by inexorable step, each one flashing a red light before them.

We kill two of them, and the others don't even pause. They don't stop, they don't wait, they don't change their approach…A primitive sense of fear rose up in Reed and Archer, and jumping back to their feet, they backed away from the cyborg corpses in front of them and ran the other way.

…

"We've been boarded!" Hoshi shouted, her petite voice nearly swallowed by the noise of the one-sided battle. "Six biosigns! C-deck!"

"Alert security!" T'Pol ordered, and hit her comm panel. "Bridge to Commander Tucker!"

"Go ahead!" Trip shouted back.

"How much longer?" The Enterprise shook furiously with another salvo of weapons blasts.

"I need a few more minutes!" Even T'Pol's sensitive ears could scarcely hear the engineer's voice. "I think I've isolated one of the damaged power relays!"

"I can't guarantee a few more minutes, Commander!" T'Pol bellowed, trying to ignore the gases and smoke wafting into her lungs. "Please try to complete your repairs more quickly!"

…

Captain Archer and Commander Reed ran down the corridor. They periodically glanced backwards to check on their pursuers, but the cyborgs appeared little interested in speed; these guys could beat the tortoise at its own race, Archer reflected wryly, as the beings gradually vanished into the darkness, invisible but for the flashing red laser each one seemed to have.

"Two Borg, three o'clock!" Malcolm barked, snapping Archer's view to their right side. With scarcely a thought, both officers leveled their photonic pistols and fired, knocking the cyborgs to the deck. Within moments, the humans ran past, and Archer slowed for a moment to take bioreadings.

"Another human?" Reed asked, afraid that he knew the answer.

"Same as the others," Archer confirmed. He flipped his scanner shut. "I doubt we'll find a single unaltered person."

"Almost seems like we're doing them a favor," Malcolm muttered between heavy breaths. "Killing them, you know?"

"Anything that made them human is probably dead already," Archer agreed. "These things are cybernetic zombies."

…

Staggering for balance, a three-man security team advanced down corridor C-4, and found their target within moments: three of the cyborgs were advancing down a darkened, perpendicular corridor, moving steadily, showing no signs of imbalance or vertigo from the rocking starship.

"Take them out!" the lead ensign ordered, and the three guards fired down the corridor. Two of the cyborgs collapsed to the deck in a spray of explosions.

An energy shield emerged in front of the third, absorbing the blow of the phased energy. Behind it, the cyborg kept coming, showing no interest in the fate of its colleagues.

"Again!" the ensign ordered, and three energy beams combined in front of the oncoming cyborg. The energy shield held strong, protecting the being behind it, and the security detail fell back in terror.

…

Archer heard a noise behind him, and turned just in time to see a Borg toss Malcolm against a bulkhead, his hands wrapped tightly around the Commander's neck. Reed choked for breath as the alien started lifting him, his feet leaving the deck, his air coming only in tiny spurts.

His photonic pistol ready, Archer couldn't get a clear shot, and I'm not waiting for one, he decided. Holstering the weapon, he charged the cyborg, his only hope being that he could catch it unaware.

He was successful.

The three fell to the ground in a pile. The captain contorted his body, trying to land any blow he could, and finding his hand wrapped around a tube, Archer gave it a yank. As it came loose, he could feel the cyborg twitch and spasm momentarily, the heat of electrical overloads singeing his body, before it lay still.

Archer rolled off the body. That was easier than I expected, he thought to himself, and regaining his feet, he helped Malcolm up. Reed rubbed his neck gingerly; purple bruises were already starting to emerge, but he nodded to indicate he was ready to proceed.

It was as if the cyborgs had come alive.

More of the cybernetic entities approached from every direction as the officers made a beeline towards the control room. "That's it!" Archer shouted, pointing in front of them to an electromagnetic orb. It sparked dangerously, shooting green lightning bolts out at receptors strategically placed around it. "Hurry up, Malcolm!"

Next to him, Malcolm drilled another cyborg with a well-placed shot, and Archer took out another, but more were coming behind them. "Captain!" Malcolm shouted, noticing a tell-tale red dot on Archer's back; the captain spun in place, taking out another cyborg with his own targeting precision.

"Get moving, Malcolm!" Archer shouted, sweeping the room with his photonic pistol. Malcolm disconnected his explosives belt and began lining the power core.

…

The Enterprise was knocked across space with a powerful blast, the inertial dampeners unsuccessfully straining to cushion the blow. On the bridge, the crew fell from their seats and catapulted across the room; T'Pol's catlike reflexes allowed her to catch the armrest of the command chair, but a harsh scream told her that someone else had impacted a bulkhead in a rather painful manner.

"That took out hull plating!" Travis shouted as he scrambled back to his feet and dashed across the well of the bridge. He slid back into the helm chair. "Helm's completely out!"

"They're slicing into the hull with some sort of cutting beam!" Hoshi added. Flung to the lift door, she only made it back to the science station. "E-deck, starboard forequarter!"

"Evacuate that section!" T'Pol ordered.

…

Some things can't be rushed, Malcolm thought grimly as he carefully attached the explosives to the transport's power core. The captain was covering him with sporadic energy fire; as Archer had more time to process the situation, he came to recognize that the cyborgs moved at one speed only. Thus, he had the luxury of a few seconds before he needed to shoot them; and when he only had a few shots, being able to pick his targets was a valuable asset.

He drilled another cyborg as it stepped within a meter, but the phased beam disappeared. Their energy shields, Archer noted. Any sense of panic was, by now, subsumed under the sheer force of his combat training. They've managed to adapt their shields. He dropped back a step and flipped open his communicator. "Archer to Enterprise!" he called out. "Stand by transporter!"

More of the cyborgs approached. The closest one was nearly within arm's-reach.

"Done!" Malcolm shouted, as Archer screamed "Now!"

The two officers disappeared into the transporter beam as the Borg arrived.

…

As they rematerialized in the transporter alcove, Malcolm pulled out the remote detonator and triggered it.

…

A ripple of explosions ran down the length of the Borg vessel.

…

"Tucker to the bridge!" Trip shouted as he watched the alien circuitry die around him. He wasn't sure what had happened, but Trip was not going to complain.

"Go ahead!" T'Pol answered.

"The alien circuits are losing power!" he reported. "You should have the phase cannons back in a few seconds!"

…

Midway down C-deck, the remaining four Borg came to a standstill and dematerialized back to their vessel.

…

"Report!" Archer ordered as he shot out of the lift. The sounds of the battle had died off, and while smoke still hung heavy in the air, he was glad to see that his ship was still fundamentally intact.

"Our weapons are back online," T'Pol reported, vacating the command chair. "The transport has been disabled. So has the alien circuitry. Were you able to find the research team?"

"They're dead," Archer replied. "There isn't anyone on that ship we can save."

T'Pol nodded; later, she would have to ask him for details, but for now she would trust the captain's judgment.

"Sir, something's happening on the transport," Hoshi spoke up. "It looks like they're restoring systems."

Archer glanced back at tactical, where Reed was sliding into his chair. "Target their warp core," he ordered. "Hit them with everything we've got."

The Borg vessel was pounded with weapons fire, setting off explosions that grew down the length of the ship. Reaching the warp core, the deuterium and anti-deuterium slush ignited, and the transport was instantly vaporized.

Archer watched it on the viewscreen, uncertain of how he should feel.

…

Captain's log, September 27, 2154. Repairs to the ship are underway, and we've resumed our previous heading at low warp. Doctor Phlox is confident that he'll make a full recovery.

Trip swore that his body could not contort any further as he reached deeper inside the mess of circuitry and conduits behind the access panel. With the bulkhead sheeting removed, he was able to crawl in beneath the primary transfer coil and access the split nodes behind it; but the dry dock designers had never imagined the need to access the nodes from this particular direction, resulting in Trip's body being twisted around several different struts.

"Seven of the transfer conduits are reading green," Smitty announced. Unlike the commander, Smitty stood out in the cramped open area of the deuterium injector room. "The eighth is still reading red."

Trip groaned; it felt like he had been in there for hours. "Did you run a phase diagnostic?" he shouted out.

"It came back negative," Smitty responded. "Do you want me to work up a bypass?"

"You better," Trip answered. They had done everything they could with the split node; it would require a stay-over at McKinley Station to properly rip out the broken equipment and replace it. The deuterium injector assembly ran within specs with only seven of the nodes working; but for the engineer, it was a matter of pride.

Smitty's head dropped down to the make-shift crawl space. "Do you need a hand there?" he asked, cracking a smile.

Trip glared at his chief assistant with mock anger. "I'm not that old," he rejoined.

"Of course not, sir," the assistant replied. "By the way, Commander T'Pol is looking for you."

"Damnit!" Trip's head rose and banged against a conduit. "All right, pull me out!"

Several minutes later, Trip was finally on his feet and in the open. He reached his arms upward and bent backwards, feeling his spine pop straight.

"Am I bothering you?" T'Pol's voice intruded into Trip's momentary light-headedness.

The engineer absently ran a dirty hand through his once-blond hair, gently massaging a growing lump. "Not at all," he answered. A slight edge carried in his voice.

"I was on my way back to the bridge," T'Pol stated, slightly hesitant. "What is the status of our engines?"

"They're running smoothly," Trip answered. "Although we could stand to do a good overhaul." Recent battles had taken a toll on the Enterprise.

"Understood," T'Pol replied. She turned to leave the room, but halted by the door. "Commander," she said slowly, "have you been experiencing any unusual daydreams?"

"Daydreams?" Trip asked, confused.

"Unusual daydreams," T'Pol clarified. "Accompanied by intense auditory and visual sensations…that involve me."

Trip grinned crookedly. "Wait a sec. You're wondering if I've been having any daydreams about you?"

"Essentially," T'Pol acknowledged.

"Well, let me think," Trip said musingly, as he made a show of contemplating it. "Nope. Nothing comes to mind."

"Forget I mentioned it," T'Pol replied crossly.

Trip couldn't resist. "Have you been having daydreams about me?"

"It's not important," T'Pol answered. She spun on her heel to walk away.

"You going to tell me what this is about?" Trip called out to the Vulcan's receding back.

T'Pol shot back a reply. "No."

…

"Aren't you supposed to be in bed?" Archer asked with a friendly smile as he and T'Pol entered sickbay. Phlox sat at a computer console, looking fresh and clean, like he had just emerged from a vigorous shower.

"I'm merely trying to catch up on some paperwork," the physician answered slowly. "Nothing to strenuous, I assure you. It's vital to keep the mind occupied during the healing process, after all."

"Your mind itself is trying to heal," T'Pol countered.

"I'm not pushing it too hard, Commander," Phlox answered. "But it's like any muscle: a full recovery eventually requires exercise. Besides, I'd rather not think about the experience. If you'll pardon the pun…" he smiled weakly. "It was the most dehumanizing experience of my life."

"I'm just glad to have you back, Doctor," Archer replied.

"Captain, there is something you should know." Phlox cleared his throat as the captain looked at him curiously. "I believe the nanoprobes connected me with the aliens, possibly through some sort of biomechanical telepathy."

"Do you think they were trying to communicate with you?" Archer asked.

"No," Phlox answered. "Definitely not. It was more like—being wired into a group mind. I could overhear the collective thoughts of the others."

"You were under extraordinary physical stress," T'Pol noted. "You may have been imagining it."

"That's kind of you to say," Phlox replied, recognizing that the comment was meant benignly. "But it was quite real. The problem is, Captain…I couldn't understand most of what I was hearing, but I got the distinct impression they were trying to send a subspace message."

"Could you determine what the message was?" T'Pol asked. "Or where it was directed to?"

"Or if they transmitted it successfully?" Archer added.

C:\\Unauthorized access detected

C:\\Access terminated

C:\\File is sealed

C:\\Clearance code Tango-Alpha-Two required for access

C:\\Order of the Department of Temporal Investigations