- CHAPTER 3 -
- ISS Hopolite, Bridge, 10:00 AM ships time, entering standard orbit of Borg research facility A875 34B9-001 -
The turbolift doors opened to admit the Hopolite's master. His crimson cloak edged in silver and held in place by brilliantly polished silver clasps said as much. No one else on the ship was allowed such ornamentation. Captain McBride strode with his usual swagger and arrogant smirk, his command cloak billowing behind him. He settled into a comfortable slouch in his overstuffed command chair with a sigh of contentment. The next watch came seconds later, not daring to presume to ride in the same turbolift as their captain. He tended to frown on such things.
Ulysses stood to follow the rest of the graveyard shift, wanting to get out of McBride's presence as soon as possible. He almost made it. McBride's dammed smooth, resonant voice called to him just as he was about to enter the lift.
"Just a minute Lt. Cmdr. I want you to beam over to the Borg station immediately. That was the reason you were assigned to my ship. Your knowledge of Borg systems is the only reason I tolerated your addition to her."
Although his pillow was calling powerfully to him, there was nothing he could do. Sighing to himself, Ulysses turned back to the center of the bridge.
"Of course sir. Do you have any suggestions as to which of the crew I should take along with me?" That had the dual plusses of allowing McBride to feel like he was in control and to deflect any anger over being selected for the away mission off of him and onto the despised captain.
"I thought I made myself clear! Very well then, I'll spell it out for your feeble mind. You are to go alone. I expect the station to be active before the 45th Fleet gets here." McBride snarled. Ulysses just stood there with a dumbfounded expression on his face. No way, not even McBride was that sadistic. But he was. "Tic Toc Lt. Cmdr.! Time is wasting!" And the smile that accompanied those words would have scared even an Aldeberan serpent. Ulysses braced to attention.
"Sir, yes SIR!! Anything the Captain wants SIR!!" The sad part was that he really was the best member of the crew to do the job, having been specifically attached to the Hopolite when it shipped out from Starbase 709 just for his expertise in Borg power and data systems. As such, he had no reason that would allow him to complain without sending him back to the Agonizer. And as tempting as that alternative was right now, just to spite the Captain's whishes, Ulysses just couldn't bring himself to do it. The memories of his last visit were still far to fresh to allow for a repeat visit. So he turned and stormed into the turbolift. His sulfurous visage was enough to make the rest of the shift wait for an empty car. Despite being on the Captain's personal shit list, he was still a pissed off senior officer. And pissed off senior officers had a tendency to do very bad things to subordinates who pissed them off even more. The doors closed and Ulysses was alone in the lift car. "Three bags full SIR!"
- Borg research station A875 34B9-001, 10:15 AM -
The transporter whined as a single humanoid beamed into the middle of the thrashed hallway. Or would have wined but didn't because all atmosphere had left the station long ago. The polished obsidian of Ulysses Vanguard's environmental suit reflected the stars showing through the ragged whole at one end of the hall where the station abruptly ceased. Every surface in the hall was covered in a fine frost where the water vapor in the air had frozen when exposed to the eternal chill of space. But the stars were not the only things that reflected off of the polished surface of Ulysses enviro suit. A true testament to the durability of Borg structures, both internal lighting and displays were still mostly online though often flickering fitfully, casting their sickly greenish yellow glow into the hallway. The shadows their light formed looked like medieval demons, come to snatch up the souls of any whom dared trespass on their damned ground. The shadows cast by the lights on either side of Ulysses helmet were little better.
Just being on this station was bringing back very bad memories. Ulysses knew that his fear was irrational. The Borg on this station had been dead for at least five years according to the Borg database. The scans done by the Hopolite proved that conclusively. Come on man, Ulysses thought to himself, there is nothing to fear here anymore. Yet the hair on the back of his neck refused to drop. His brown eyes dilated and his pulse began to race as the surfacing memories triggered his instinctive fight or flight response. Almost of its own volition, Ulysses gauntleted right hand went across and started rubbing the back of the left. Even through the suit's layers of insulation, he could feel the raised mechanical exoskeleton lying beneath. It was similar in style to the metallic docking mechanism for an ocular implant that remained above his regenerated right eye and the fan shape implant that remained near his left earlobe. He had been a drone for to long to successfully remove all of the Borg implants from his body, and so they remained, permanent reminders of his time ruled by the Collective. The biological and machine parts were to integrated and interdependent by the time he was rescued from the Collective for total removal of them. Like so many others, despite the fact that he was an individual again, he would forever carry the signs of his time as a Drone. They would be a constant reminder of the terror and violations he had been forced to endure before he was finally freed.
Despite his desperate attempts to keep them suppressed, Ulysses memories of his assimilation and subsequent time as a Drone flooded his mind. The battle that went horribly wrong, the running firefight down the Galaxy's halls in a desperate bid to escape the inevitable. Drone after drone fell, cut down by the energy of his and others phaser rifles. And then the phasers didn't work anymore, their bolts hitting shields erected to keep them from killing the targeted Drones. He could still feel the assimilation tubules pierce his neck. Still feel the microscopic mechanical parasites they delivered coursing into his body. Then he was Borg.
The unity of purpose, the billions upon billions of voices in his head all saying the same thing in lock step came first in a small trickle, then as a raging torrent pushing everything Ulysses Vanguard had been before it, washing it away and filling the void with itself instead. Then came the gross violations of his person as mechanical 'enhancements' were added to his body. And the whole time he could do absolutely nothing about it. He was a spectator, watching something else control his actions and thoughts like the ultimate puppeteer. Oh he fought the inexorable force, screamed and raged against it, even cried and begged it to stop. It paid not one iota of attention to him, using the husk of his body for its own purposes and locking his personality and individuality away where it sat caged and powerless.
And then, after what seemed like a long, long time, the voices, the unity, the puppet controlling strings all stopped abruptly. He was an individual again. The sheer joy of that caused him to break down and cry like a newborn babe. That was the state the Imperial Marine boarding party found him in, sobbing uncontrollably on the catwalk like deck of the Cube with his arms wrapped around his knees. If Starfleet hadn't been so desperate for trained crew, they probably would have never allowed him to put the uniform back on for a good few years. And even then they would have gone over him with every scanner, biological and mechanical both, numerous times to ensure he wouldn't break down again. But fortunately for Ulysses, the Empire literally begged him to come back to the service. With the massive casualties brought by the later stages of the war, Starfleet needed every able bodied person it could get. Even ones who were ex Drones.
The dark abyss was clawing at his ankles, threatening to pull him under. Just as Captain McBride had hoped it would. MC BRIDE!! That thought brought him back from the brink. His rage, an ever-present knot of fire in his soul, welled up like it constantly tried to do. A snarl started deep in his throat. Popping the lid to his kit, he reached in and pulled out an interphasic coil spanner. He would do his job despite his fear. He would do any task in the entire universe in fact. Just as long as completing it gave him just ONE chance to even the score with that bastard Garret McBride!
- ISS Hopolite, Bridge, 10:00 AM ships time, entering standard orbit of Borg research facility A875 34B9-001 -
The turbolift doors opened to admit the Hopolite's master. His crimson cloak edged in silver and held in place by brilliantly polished silver clasps said as much. No one else on the ship was allowed such ornamentation. Captain McBride strode with his usual swagger and arrogant smirk, his command cloak billowing behind him. He settled into a comfortable slouch in his overstuffed command chair with a sigh of contentment. The next watch came seconds later, not daring to presume to ride in the same turbolift as their captain. He tended to frown on such things.
Ulysses stood to follow the rest of the graveyard shift, wanting to get out of McBride's presence as soon as possible. He almost made it. McBride's dammed smooth, resonant voice called to him just as he was about to enter the lift.
"Just a minute Lt. Cmdr. I want you to beam over to the Borg station immediately. That was the reason you were assigned to my ship. Your knowledge of Borg systems is the only reason I tolerated your addition to her."
Although his pillow was calling powerfully to him, there was nothing he could do. Sighing to himself, Ulysses turned back to the center of the bridge.
"Of course sir. Do you have any suggestions as to which of the crew I should take along with me?" That had the dual plusses of allowing McBride to feel like he was in control and to deflect any anger over being selected for the away mission off of him and onto the despised captain.
"I thought I made myself clear! Very well then, I'll spell it out for your feeble mind. You are to go alone. I expect the station to be active before the 45th Fleet gets here." McBride snarled. Ulysses just stood there with a dumbfounded expression on his face. No way, not even McBride was that sadistic. But he was. "Tic Toc Lt. Cmdr.! Time is wasting!" And the smile that accompanied those words would have scared even an Aldeberan serpent. Ulysses braced to attention.
"Sir, yes SIR!! Anything the Captain wants SIR!!" The sad part was that he really was the best member of the crew to do the job, having been specifically attached to the Hopolite when it shipped out from Starbase 709 just for his expertise in Borg power and data systems. As such, he had no reason that would allow him to complain without sending him back to the Agonizer. And as tempting as that alternative was right now, just to spite the Captain's whishes, Ulysses just couldn't bring himself to do it. The memories of his last visit were still far to fresh to allow for a repeat visit. So he turned and stormed into the turbolift. His sulfurous visage was enough to make the rest of the shift wait for an empty car. Despite being on the Captain's personal shit list, he was still a pissed off senior officer. And pissed off senior officers had a tendency to do very bad things to subordinates who pissed them off even more. The doors closed and Ulysses was alone in the lift car. "Three bags full SIR!"
- Borg research station A875 34B9-001, 10:15 AM -
The transporter whined as a single humanoid beamed into the middle of the thrashed hallway. Or would have wined but didn't because all atmosphere had left the station long ago. The polished obsidian of Ulysses Vanguard's environmental suit reflected the stars showing through the ragged whole at one end of the hall where the station abruptly ceased. Every surface in the hall was covered in a fine frost where the water vapor in the air had frozen when exposed to the eternal chill of space. But the stars were not the only things that reflected off of the polished surface of Ulysses enviro suit. A true testament to the durability of Borg structures, both internal lighting and displays were still mostly online though often flickering fitfully, casting their sickly greenish yellow glow into the hallway. The shadows their light formed looked like medieval demons, come to snatch up the souls of any whom dared trespass on their damned ground. The shadows cast by the lights on either side of Ulysses helmet were little better.
Just being on this station was bringing back very bad memories. Ulysses knew that his fear was irrational. The Borg on this station had been dead for at least five years according to the Borg database. The scans done by the Hopolite proved that conclusively. Come on man, Ulysses thought to himself, there is nothing to fear here anymore. Yet the hair on the back of his neck refused to drop. His brown eyes dilated and his pulse began to race as the surfacing memories triggered his instinctive fight or flight response. Almost of its own volition, Ulysses gauntleted right hand went across and started rubbing the back of the left. Even through the suit's layers of insulation, he could feel the raised mechanical exoskeleton lying beneath. It was similar in style to the metallic docking mechanism for an ocular implant that remained above his regenerated right eye and the fan shape implant that remained near his left earlobe. He had been a drone for to long to successfully remove all of the Borg implants from his body, and so they remained, permanent reminders of his time ruled by the Collective. The biological and machine parts were to integrated and interdependent by the time he was rescued from the Collective for total removal of them. Like so many others, despite the fact that he was an individual again, he would forever carry the signs of his time as a Drone. They would be a constant reminder of the terror and violations he had been forced to endure before he was finally freed.
Despite his desperate attempts to keep them suppressed, Ulysses memories of his assimilation and subsequent time as a Drone flooded his mind. The battle that went horribly wrong, the running firefight down the Galaxy's halls in a desperate bid to escape the inevitable. Drone after drone fell, cut down by the energy of his and others phaser rifles. And then the phasers didn't work anymore, their bolts hitting shields erected to keep them from killing the targeted Drones. He could still feel the assimilation tubules pierce his neck. Still feel the microscopic mechanical parasites they delivered coursing into his body. Then he was Borg.
The unity of purpose, the billions upon billions of voices in his head all saying the same thing in lock step came first in a small trickle, then as a raging torrent pushing everything Ulysses Vanguard had been before it, washing it away and filling the void with itself instead. Then came the gross violations of his person as mechanical 'enhancements' were added to his body. And the whole time he could do absolutely nothing about it. He was a spectator, watching something else control his actions and thoughts like the ultimate puppeteer. Oh he fought the inexorable force, screamed and raged against it, even cried and begged it to stop. It paid not one iota of attention to him, using the husk of his body for its own purposes and locking his personality and individuality away where it sat caged and powerless.
And then, after what seemed like a long, long time, the voices, the unity, the puppet controlling strings all stopped abruptly. He was an individual again. The sheer joy of that caused him to break down and cry like a newborn babe. That was the state the Imperial Marine boarding party found him in, sobbing uncontrollably on the catwalk like deck of the Cube with his arms wrapped around his knees. If Starfleet hadn't been so desperate for trained crew, they probably would have never allowed him to put the uniform back on for a good few years. And even then they would have gone over him with every scanner, biological and mechanical both, numerous times to ensure he wouldn't break down again. But fortunately for Ulysses, the Empire literally begged him to come back to the service. With the massive casualties brought by the later stages of the war, Starfleet needed every able bodied person it could get. Even ones who were ex Drones.
The dark abyss was clawing at his ankles, threatening to pull him under. Just as Captain McBride had hoped it would. MC BRIDE!! That thought brought him back from the brink. His rage, an ever-present knot of fire in his soul, welled up like it constantly tried to do. A snarl started deep in his throat. Popping the lid to his kit, he reached in and pulled out an interphasic coil spanner. He would do his job despite his fear. He would do any task in the entire universe in fact. Just as long as completing it gave him just ONE chance to even the score with that bastard Garret McBride!