Disclaimer: Voyager, the characters and all associated elements belong to Paramount and are used without permission. This story is for entertainment purposes only, and intended to be free. Please do not distribute without permission of the author. Author can be reached at trent_roman@yahoo.ca
Historian's Note: The flashback portions of the story take place in 2376, before the Star Trek: Voyager episode "Ashes to Ashes". Other portions take place twenty years later, in 2396.
A brief note on chaptering: This story was originally intended to be read as a single block, but size concerns made me choose to stagger it using FF.N's chapter function. However, for dramatic and plotline purposes, it is still best read as one story rather than as separate chapters.
Busy Little Bee
Trent Roman
"Bremmim," Trow said with a grin, laying down his cylinders to show Polk that he had indeed completed a Bremmim.
"Bah!" Polk exclaimed, casting his own Bremmim cylinders into the carved pot at the centre of the of doughnut-like Bremmim table.
"Another hand?"
"Why bother? You'll just win again," Polk replied sullenly.
"Come on."
"No." Polk rose from the table, walked past Trow and sat despondently in the co-pilot's seat at the front of the small cockpit.
Trow shook his head with a private, amused grin. "You'll be back. There's nothing else to do out here anyway."
"Bah," Polk muttered again. Trow thought he could hear resignation in the other man's voice. Polk knew perfectly well that Bremmim was the only form of entertainment available in the small interceptor out here on the edge of the frontier, weeks from the homeworlds. This wasn't the first time Polk had walked away from the Bremmim table, and probably wouldn't be the last, but eventually Trow knew that the sheer boredom of their tour of duty would bring him back.
Trow started to slide the Bremmim cylinders back into their slots on the table in anticipation of the next game when a chime sounded from the front of the cockpit.
"What's that?" Trow asked.
"Long-range sensors have picked up a contact," Polk answered, already tapping at the controls to seek contact confirmation.
Trow quickly rose from the Bremmim table and slid into the pilot's seat.
"What's the configuration?" he asked.
"It's too far away; I can't get a good read."
Trow thumbed a switch on his control panel, opening all hailing frequencies.
"Unidentified vessel, you have entered Wysanti space. Please state your name, affiliation and purpose."
Trow released the switch as he waited for a reply, but only static came through. After a few seconds, he turned the broadcaster on again and said: "I repeat, please state your name, affiliation and purpose."
There was another burst of static, and a reply finally came through the communications systems. It wasn't a voice as much as it was many voices, speaking simultaneously and overlapping, creating an eerie, sonorous timbre. And if the voice – or voices – wasn't enough to cause Trow to shiver, what it said was ample motivation.
"We are the Borg. Lower your shields and prepare to be boarded. You will be assimilated. Your biological and technological distinctiveness will be added to our own. Resistance is futile."
Trow glanced over at Polk, certain that his own expression reflected the look of wide-eyed shock, panic and fear on his co-pilot's face.
"Confirm!"
Polk nervously tapped at his controls. "Ship configuration is confirmed as Borg! Raising shields and powering disruptors."
"I'm taking us out of here," Trow said, struggling to keep the panic out of his voice.
The small interceptors had very little in terms of offensive and defensive capabilities, but it was believed to be more than enough to patrol this part of the border, so far removed from the usual shipping lanes that it was almost always deserted. To a Borg cube, their ship would be no more than a fly to swat.
Trow quickly turned their ship around and punched the warp engines.
"They're pursuing!" Polk cried out.
"Going to warp five!" That was the fastest the interceptor could manage. And if the tactical reports he'd read on the Borg were any indication, it wasn't nearly enough.
"They're still gaining! ETA to weapons range is ninety seconds!"
"If we can't outrun them, maybe we can out-fly them," Trow said. Compared to the cube, the interceptor was small enough to be able to manoeuvre around the Borg. Trow didn't know what good could ultimately come out of it, but at least he'd buy them some time. "Dropping to impulse and coming about."
Polk gripped his console until his knuckles turned white as the Borg cube ship loomed ever larger outside the cockpit window.
"They're not firing," Polk whispered.
"Maybe they think we're surrendering."
A sudden jolt rocked the ship.
"They've locked on to us with a tractor beam!" Polk exclaimed.
"I can't shake it," Trow said. "Try to destroy their emitter array."
Polk entered the coordinates into the weapons system and a purplish lance of energy shot out from the interceptor, back up into the shifting green morass of the Borg tractor beam.
"No visible damage," Polk said. "I'm not sure they even noticed."
But the Borg must have noticed, because suddenly another green beam, this one tight and concentrated, lanced out from the cube and struck the interceptor amidships. There was an explosion off to Trow's side as a power surge caused an overload in Polk's console. The Wysanti man was propelled backwards onto the floor, hitting the Bremmim table and spilling its contents.
Trow glanced backwards and saw his co-pilot sprawled on the floor through the thickening haze of smoke inside the cockpit. There was a deep blue gash running under his neck where a piece of Polk's console had lodged itself. Polk's face was inscrutable; his eyes glazed over and staring emptily at the ceiling.
Trow turned back to his own readouts and saw that the Borg's blast had basically finished off the interceptor's shields. He thumbed the communications switch again, not bothering to check the frequencies.
"This is patrol twenty-three to fleet command. We have encountered the Borg. Ship is disabled. Repeat, we have encountered Borg! My co-pilot is–"
A humming sound from behind him caused Trow to turn. The last green wisps of a transporter faded around the pale skinned, cybernetic body of a drone. Trow rose from his seat, intent at least taking one Borg out with him, but some kind of feelers shot out of it's upraised hand and into Trow's neck. The Wysanti pilot grasped his neck and screamed as he felt something working it's way inside of him, then passed out, never to awaken as an individual again.