Summary: This short story would, if placed into the whole of the story of Ulysses, probably be the prologue – it tells the story of the Icheb who allowed himself to be assimilated. It is the first of several short stories taking place in the future-that-will-now-never-be that have been bothering me ever since I finished Ulysses. I may write others – I have one in mind that would introduce a completely new character who would play a significant role in another, longer story I have in mind.

Oh, and for those who are interested, I've updated my Author's Notes, including notes on a potential second sequel to Ulysses.

The Needs of the Many

Icheb was dying.

This was unsurprising, and it did not deter the young man. He had known, from the moment he had voiced the possibility of this mission that his life was forfeit. The instant that he had departed Voyager's shuttlebay in the Tereshkova he had died. One way or the other, he was not going to get out of this alive.

The Borg might have detected the Tereshkova and decided to destroy it before he got to the hub. Or a cube guarding the hub might have assimilated him – either way, his mission to infect the hub would have failed. If not then, then he would be assimilated when he arrived aboard the hub - that was, after all, his mission. Assimilation would not have killed him, per se, but once his virus infected the hub and the Queen realized he was responsible, he would undoubtedly have been executed. At the very least, he would be killed when Voyager arrived to destroy the hub after his assimilation.

In the end, the mission had gone according to plan. He'd arrived on the hub and been assimilated, and now the hub was dying. He still had hope that he would be incinerated when Voyager struck, instead of dying by any other method. That would mean the mission had succeeded. Regardless, Icheb was going to die, and it was by a method he had not anticipated – one he had not even suspected was possible.

He was dying of the very virus built into his genetic code – the very virus he had allowed himself to be assimilated in order to infect the hub with.

He recognized the symptoms from the last time he'd been a drone. Loss of motor function was the first sign, but it would quickly be followed by a complete shutdown of his higher brain functions. The Doctor's tampering with the virus in order to make it more virulent had been almost too effective – the virus had not infected him the last time he'd been assimilated – but as he watched, the drones which ambled around the hub, the drones which had just finished implanting new Borg implants to remove the ones the Doctor had so painstakingly removed – were starting to die.

It was poetic justice, he supposed, that he would die along with them this time.

In his mind he reflected on his existence. His parents would be proud, he assumed, that their creation had been used to achieve their mission for him – and that their mission had been more successful than either of them could ever have imagined possible. His crewmen would mourn his passing – assuming any of them survived – as one of their own, a fellow son of Voyager.

The Alpha Quadrant, for which he had given his life, would never know what he had done, the price he had paid – Voyager would pay – for their futures. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one.

Icheb rested, lying on the floor with his back propped up against a Borg alcove. The whole place was glowing a sickly green, pierced by the red of Borg eye implants. Through his connection to the collective, he could hear the mind wailing as the voices blinked out of existence, one after another. The many were becoming fewer – but they still were many, and he heard their urgency as uninfected drones on the Borg cubes raced to render aid to the transwarp hub, rendered quite defenseless by his sacrifice.

They failed.

Their urgency redoubled, and suddenly he felt a prodding in his mind that signified an order to go to tactical awareness and prepare for combat. The hub around him whirred to life and he watched as the inactive drones opened their eyes and emerged from their alcoves. Each of them struggled to take steps forward. Some fell, sliding down until their sides hit against the floor. Others didn't move at all, their minds having been eradicated by the virus. If it hadn't been so horrifying it would have been almost comical, watching the tainted drones try to follow orders they were mentally and physically incapable of completing.

The hub began to shake and burn. Voyager had slipped through the cubes into weapons range before she was detected and was now blasting away with every weapon she had. One drone that had managed to stay on his feet was knocked to the floor by a blast as something in one of the walls exploded.

Transwarp Hub 005 has been compromised. Prepare to alter…

All cubes in vicinity of Transwarp Hub 005 abort current task…

Target is confirmed. Engage in conventional transit to Sector 001…

Sector 001 will be neutralized. All technological distinctiveness…

Icheb's crippled body struggled to move in response to the information given him by his yet undamaged mind. It wasn't over – Captain Janeway and Seven had assumed that the Queen would abort the invasion of the Federation entirely once the hub was lost. The Queen, it seemed, was dedicated to her mission to annihilate the Federation.

Once Voyager was gone, there would be no way to tell Starfleet. No way to warn them that the Borg were coming. I have to tell Captain Janeway. She needs to know!

Icheb wrestled himself to his feet. A computer. I need an access terminal. Borg vessels were replete with such things and, across the hall attached to an alcove, there was a terminal like the one he needed.

He struggled to take steps. He slipped down to his knees after one as his crippled body refused to follow his instructions. Crawling, he used his arms to pull himself across the darkened floor. On either side of him, drones were going through severe muscle spasms and contortions. He had to hurry – that would shortly be his own state.

His arm extended, he felt his hand rest against something solid. Straining, he looked up to see the wall. Above was the panel. Digging his nails into the paneling, he reached upwards towards the console, but he was too weak. One of his fingernails broke off, lodged in the wall, and Icheb slid back down to the floor.

Determined, he started again, straining inch by inch to reach the panel, but he could not. He was too weak, lying here, and he knew that all his efforts had been in vain. Without preparation, the Federation would die anyway, and all his death had done was buy another few years. We have failed. I have failed.

One last, valiant effort, Icheb hurled the last of his strength upwards towards the console. To his astonishment, his body began to rise from the floor. First to one knee, then upright. He reached out his hands to the panel. His fingers were shaking horribly, vibrating back and forth, but as he rested them on the console they settled. He began to work quickly, composing a message to Captain Janeway. He hoped Voyager would survive this assault, receive the message, and relay it back to the Alpha Quadrant so that some good would come out of all of this – so that no other parents would feel to need to create children for the sole purpose of their suicide.

His eyes shuttered closed as his fingers worked. Finally, he opened them to find the button that would send the final warning.

As they fluttered open, he gazed upon his own implant-covered hands. Resting on his hand was that of another person – guiding his fingers to the buttons, hoisting him to his feet. The hand led to an arm, clad in black, and upwards towards red shoulders and four pips that Icheb knew this man had never earned.

"Q…" he breathed out raggedly. "What…?"

The young man in the captain's uniform gazed at him mournfully. "I thought I told you I didn't want you assimilated, Itchy," he said.

"No… no choice," Icheb wheezed. He looked at his friend. There was no guarantee that Captain Janeway would receive this desperate message, and even less of a guarantee that Voyager would survive their own insane assault on the hub to relay it back to Starfleet Command. "Q… you and your father… you can tell Starfleet… save Voyager… the Federation…"

Q smiled sadly. Hefting both arms under Icheb's prone body, he helped him back down to the floor, propping him back up. He watched for a second as the virus finally overwhelmed Icheb's body. Icheb's mind would follow in a matter of minutes. Q turned away, closing his eyes. Much too quietly for Icheb to hear he whispered, "We already have. You already have."