9 BBY
10 Years Later:
A few scattered rays of dusty light struggled through the cracks in the ancient blinds, illuminating a small portion of the tattered, hole in the wall shop. The hum of artificial light and various soft beeps from the salvaged equipment that lay scattered (in a very particular order) about the room were the only sounds to break the stillness in the quiet backstreet of Mos Espa.
A quick flurry of movement, an opening and closing door, and a shuffling of a more organic kind suddenly added itself to the mix.
"Five hundred credits! Can you believe he only offered me five hundred credits?!"
The Rodian shopkeeper's angry exclamation was met only with the unconcerned whirring of machinery. This didn't seem to deter him as he continued to rant to his imaginary audience.
"Five hundred credits, he says. Five hundred . . . And that's generous! Good people . . . my friends," he gesticulated wildly at the handful of deactivated droids watching the show with unseeing eyes, "Can you imagine? For an item of this quality, this caliber," he held up the laser pistol he carried (a remnant of some forgotten clone division of the Old Republic) with a smirk at his own pun. "Does he even realize what I had to do to get it?"
Tossing the weapon aside with a sigh of long suffering, he strolled towards the counter. Reaching over, he unceremoniously punched a hidden button, causing a 'hiss' of air and a whir as a panel on the wall slid back. He smiled coldly, twiddling his thumbs as the secret room revealed itself.
"You understand though, don't you, my friend? You know quality merchandise when you see it. Why, all you have to do is . . . look in a mirror."
Sticking his hands in his pockets, he paused in front of the form of what seemed to be a sleeping woman bound by metal restraints to an upright panel. Her head appeared to have been shaved, the pallid skin of her scalp almost corpselike. Most of her body was encased in sleek black armor, and numerous cybernetic implants could be discerned on her still figure, most noticeably the solitary, red lensed eyepiece that covered her left orbital. The Rodian reached up and gingerly tapped the ocular lens in question, a brief moment of hesitation undermining his apparently nonchalant attitude towards the unconscious cyborg.
"This isn't standard issue . . . is it . . . Quite a sight less ghastly than most drones are sporting. A new model perhaps? Hmm, I wonder . . . What makes you so special, my dear? . . . And how can I market it to increase my profit?" The woman, of course, gave no answer.
'A Borg drone . . . What genius plan will I come up with next?' he mused, studying his new acquisition thoughtfully. It had been a stroke of luck to come across her. An old scavenger had picked her off of an Imperial scout ship destroyed by Rebels. A few choice words, a bit of friendly bartering . . . A knife in between two upper left ribs . . . and the Rodian gained what he had always wanted, his very own Borg drone. The possibilities were literally limitless . . . if he could manage to keep from being assimilated long enough to exploit them.
"Greeba, my charming fellow, you really have outdone yourself this time," he chuckled.
"I find myself inclined to agree," a cool voice drawled lazily from the shadows behind him.
Greeba jerked, hand going to a laser pistol tucked into his belt as he spun around.
"How did you get in here?" he demanded, panic shooting through him as he leveled the weapon on his 'guest'.
A human woman in a meticulously kept gray uniform(who appeared to be in her fifties, with gray streaked, close cropped black hair) and two men, one Nautolan and one Nikto materialized out of the shadows. The woman appeared to be in charge, if the two men's body language was anything to go by. It was she who had first spoken.
"Do you point a blaster at all of your customers?" she inquired dryly.
"Shop's closed, human," he barked, his fingers tightening on his pistol even as he saw the two men reach discretely for their weapons. Oh gods, that uniform looked Imperial, he thought frantically. Had they come to reclaim their property?
"Oh, I think you'll make an exception for me, Greeba. After all, we have an appointment," she drawled, taking a few steps towards him, with an apparent disregard for her own safety. Her steel gray eyes came to rest on Greeba's newest acquisition for a fraction of a second before shifting to regard the shopkeep.
Greeba licked his lips nervously, muttering, "Care to refresh my memory?" His eyes flicked to the two men, both of whom now had laser rifles (formerly hidden beneath their jackets) trained on him.
The woman smiled, a brief, sharp expression that did not quite reach her eyes as she leaned over and murmured a preset password in his ear.
"Ah, of course," he hastily backed away from her, a bit of relief (though not much) flooding through him. He made a show of setting the pistol down. "Captain, it's an honor to finally meet you. Come, make yourself comfortable. We have important business to discuss. Can I get you a drink? Perhaps you would like to see some Assassin droids I have recently acquired?"
The woman slowly shook her head. Greeba felt a knot forming in his stomach as he realized she would not be dissuaded from her original purpose. He cursed internally. He hadn't expected her so soon, not before he could round up a few more competing offers. He wondered if she would still be open to negotiating price. Now that he had survived long enough to collect on his venture, he wasn't willing to let the damn thing go for less than double his original pay.
"You know why I'm here, Greeba." Her eyes wandered once more to the unconscious Borg, and, tilting her head curiously, she moved to examine the drone.
"I would keep my distance if I were you," the Rodian sputtered, waving a hand as he took a step towards her, only to draw up short with a flinch, a rifle butting against his chest. The Nikto was quick.
Jadelore didn't seem to have heard him. She was studying the drone thoughtfully. Raising a hand, she gently ran her finger down the ridges that lined the woman's nose.
"What species is she?" she asked, turning to look at the nervous Rodian. Seeing his predicament, she rolled her eyes and waved the Nikto away. The man reluctantly took a step back, keeping a sharp eye on Greeba as the latter huffed indignantly.
"You should keep your watchdogs on a tighter leash," he grumbled, earning a dark look from the other man that caused him to flinch slightly.
Jadelore raised an eyebrow, waiting for an answer to her question.
"I don't know," he admitted finally, shoulders slumping in defeat. "I wasn't able to get her records."
The Captain sighed, shaking her head. "Greeba, Greeba, you said you were the best. I find myself . . . Unimpressed."
"Hey! You have no idea how difficult it was to get her!"
Jadelore snorted in amusement. "Yes, I imagine stabbing an old scavenger in his sleep was incredibly difficult."
Greeba's mouth dropped as he stuttered, "You . . . How . . ."
She smiled tightly. "Surely you didn't think we weren't keeping tabs on you? Let me guess, you suddenly have more people interested in buying and you want to cheat me out of our deal?"
"Borg don't come cheap," he muttered, shifting his eyes away from her piercing gaze.
Jadelore threw back her head and laughed, a slightly manic sound that made Greeba increasingly nervous.
Wiping at her eye, she commented, "Oh dear, that would be a singularly bad move on your part, my little green friend." Still chuckling under her breath, she casually waved a hand in his direction, "Kill him."
"Wait, wait, wait!" he gasped, holding up his hands in a panic as the now wickedly grinning Nikto raised his rifle to point at his chest once more.
"Captain," this time it was the Nautolan who spoke. He had remained quiet throughout the entire exchange, but now he wore a strange expression on his face. He looked meaningfully at Jadelore.
She studied him intently for a moment before asking, "Could you cover it up?"
He nodded. "I think so."
She ground her teeth. "'Think so'' is not good enough."
"What? What is he talking about?" Greeba clamored, looking back and forth between the two of them. "What is he going to do to me?"
"I am confident that I could do it, Captain," the man insisted.
His Captain frowned faintly. "And if they send someone who shares your . . . talents?"
"Who? The only one I could think of is . . . you don't think they'd send him?"
"It might be warranted."
Greeba lost it, pulling a spare, hidden pistol from his belt and pointing it at the Nautolan.
The man and the woman turned to look at him, the woman's eyebrow raised.
"He doesn't come anywhere near me," he ground out. "Or I swear I'll," his words were cut off as the Nikto shot him in the head. He crumpled to the ground, a smoking wound on his skull.
"Hmm, pity," Jadelore hummed. "Act without my express order again, and I'll throw you in the brig," she added coldly, turning a steely eye on the Nikto.
The man bowed his head.
"Apologies, Captain," he replied in a gravelly voice. "I believed that he posed a threat to yourself and the Commander."
"I'll leave the disposal of his body to you then," she replied, turning her back on him and moving once more to stand in front of the drone with a thoughtful look.
As the Nikto shouldered the smaller man's body and disappeared, the Captain motioned to the Nautolan.
"Come here, Loc. I require your assistance."
Looking faintly uncomfortable, the man, Loc, obeyed, coming to a stop next to his Captain. Jadelore pointedly ignored the look of distaste on his face as she folded her hands behind her back, tilting her head slightly while examining the unconscious Borg in front of her.
"The secrets of the Borg, my friend," she murmured, a triumphant gleam in her eye. "All wrapped up in one neat package. Just . . . waiting for us to unlock it. Can you imagine? Can you even begin to fathom how this will turn the tide of history, never mind the Rebellion?"
"If I may be so bold, Captain," Loc spoke carefully, "that package is still a person."
He glanced at the Captain from the corner of his eye, meeting her sharp gaze, honed on a decade of betrayal and a desperate struggle to survive in the new Empire. He understood that expression well. It was one he himself often wore, though it still startled him to see it in the mirror. The whisperings of rage and anguish, kindled by the death of so many of his brothers and sisters in the Jedi Order, tugged at him in his darker moments, hissing promises of vengeance and power. It was with great effort and meditation that he managed to quiet these murmurings from the Dark Side of the Force.
Surprisingly, and in contradiction to everything he'd ever been taught, his growing friendship with and mutual dependence on his Captain had managed to sway him away from some of the metaphorical cliffs in his mind and soul. It worried him that lately, she had been growing increasingly erratic and ruthless in her behavior. Survival was necessary, and she had the fate of the remainder of her crew, whittled down to a few hundred in the wake of the clones' attack (and ten subsequent years of running from a hostile Empire) to see to. He often wondered what the long term cost would turn out to be.
"Are you so certain?" she asked quietly. "After all, no one that we know of has ever come back from the Borg. What makes you so certain that this," she lightly tapped the drone's forehead, "is still a person?"
He shifted his posture, looking to the side for a moment before turning back to her and answering, with simple conviction, "Just a feeling."
"Ah, a feeling," she shook her head, a faint note of wearied amusement and perhaps fondness coloring her voice. "Well, I can't say your feelings haven't proven useful in the past. Alright, Ki. We'll do things your way for now."
He nodded, feeling relieved.
"Mechanically prying into her brain is probably too risky anyway. Wouldn't want to lose anything important," she added as an afterthought, causing the former Jedi to grimace.
. . . . . .
The first thing she became aware of was the soft beeping of machinery. The second was a crushing, empty silence, and the third was a fear more profound than she had felt in over twenty years.
Nine's eyes flicked open as she jerked unconsciously against her restraints. A human woman stood in front of her, hands clasped behind her back and a carefully blank expression on her face.
"Sleep well?"
Nine didn't answer, staring at the woman in silence. If the latter was affected by the slightly feral glint in the drone's dark, emotionless eyes, she didn't show it.
"I asked you a question," the woman continued without shifting her posture or the tone of her voice. "Did. You. Sleep. Well?"
A flash of imagery, a ship like this one, but different. A battle in space between the Borg and a petulant human male proclaiming himself an Emperor, a would be god. A man in black, not so far removed from his enemies as he might like to think. Interrogation, torture, then . . . Betrayal. Sabotage, another skirmish. Two ships appearing from the void of space. Suddenly . . . Darkness.
"Where . . .?" she began.
"Are you?" the woman finished.
Nine didn't reply, watching the woman calculatingly.
The older woman sighed, moving to a corner of the room where a few chairs stood. Nine's eyes tracked her every movement.
Pulling one of the chairs over, the woman sat down, casually crossing one leg over the other as she leaned back and studied her prisoner.
"Let's start at the beginning, shall we? What is your name?"
The drone's reply was prompt and, unsurprisingly, completely expected.
"We are Nine of Nine, Primary Proxy of Unimatrix Zero."
Jadelore pursed her lips, resisting the urge to grimace.
"I did not ask for your designation. I asked for your name. What is your name?"
She was not prepared for the silence that met her question. The drone's eyes were uncharacteristically unfocused as she appeared to be lost in thought. After a moment, she answered tensely, "Our name is irrelevant."
Jadelore sat up straight, leaning forward slightly.
"You don't remember, do you?" Her voice was incredulous, but, deep down, she wasn't really surprised. Pitying, maybe, but not surprised.
"We are Borg. We discard all irrelevant data," the drone snapped, eyes darkening.
"Convenient answer," Jadelore hummed. "But the Borg are meticulous record keepers, no? Do names really serve no purpose? Not even keeping track of where information is coming from?"
The drone's voice was as cold as ice when she replied, "We assimilate knowledge and technology on a species wide basis. Individuals are irrelevant. We are one mind. One purpose. Any other need for names is served by our designation numbers."
"Still seems odd though, that you wouldn't at least store the information somewhere, even if you didn't have access to it. Unless, of course, there's a flaw in the Borg system? Do you even know what species you are?"
She was baiting, and the look on the drone's face showed that her prisoner saw the comment for what it was in reality. Strangely, she still decided to humor the Captain. Jadelore was caught off guard when the woman answered quietly, "Our memory data were . . . damaged."
"Oh? Do go on."
The drone turned her gaze away as she answered, "This unit's systems were further compromised by agents of the Galactic Empire in their primitive search for information."
"So the dear old Empire doesn't know how to crack the Borg code yet? Good to know."
"Do not rest upon such assurances. Several drones were taken when our cube was destroyed. They may yet have found a way to interpret the information."
Jadelore leaned back again, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling as she folded her hands together on her lap. After a few moments she asked, "So, do you remember?"
The drone tilted her head in a questioning gesture.
"Your name," the older woman pressed.
The drone was quiet for a moment before shaking her head. "No."
"Well that won't do. We have to have something to call you."
The Borg raised an eyebrow. "We were under the impression that we were a prisoner on this ship."
"Oh, you are, for the moment anyway," the Captain smirked.
"Then . . . why must we have a . . . name?"
"Makes everybody feel a little more at ease," the Captain replied simply.
"We . . . see. In that case . . . you may call us by our designation."
"Hmm," the Captain rested her chin in her hand, looking far too amused for her own good. "Nine of Nine Primary Proxy of Unimatrix Zero. A bit of a mouthful, isn't it? How about Nine?"
"We object to being called . . ."
"Nine it is then," Jadelore proclaimed with an air of finality, rising to her feet. "Glad we had this chat, Nine. Hope to see you again soon. The doctor will be in momentarily to take a look at you."
She walked towards the door, pausing a moment before she left. "Oh, and Nine, welcome to our own little collective. I'm sure you'll fit right in."
...
AN: Why do the Borg keep biographies on their drones? Hmmm. And, like all Captains, Jadelore does what she wants, when she wants.