Strange New Worlds 2016 (39 page)

The details of what happened next were slow to resolve in my mind. I did toss the
computer tower through the window and shots were fired. Who fired first? Who got shot?
Who tried to escape? Those answers became a bit blurry.

One fact became readily apparent, though. I thought Braxton had me destroy the tower
to erase any twenty-ninth-century code left behind, and he did. But the true purpose
was to bring down the wall of interference that blocked the
Relativity
’s
temporal transporters from getting a lock.

Not a lock on me, but on the two criminals. Braxton was more concerned with doling
out justice than saving himself. The Vorgons attempted an escape. The pair tapped
the sides of their heads, adjusting and readjusting the controls on their black-market
time-recall devices to no avail. (They probably bought a cheap knock-off from a particular
Ferengi stolen-goods dealer who owns his own moon.) Ducane or another of Braxton’s
subordinates kept one step ahead in the modulation.

This could only end one way.

The Vorgons managed to prolong the inevitable for as long as they could, but in the
end they were pulled up the line. Ghostly screams warbled through the matter stream
to mark their passing from this reality. The sound of their disembodied voices chilled
my bones and left me covered in goose bumps. I was glad to see them go.

I had one problem left. How was I going to stop the bleeding? I didn’t even know that
I’d been shot by a hunk of lead propelled by a chemical reaction. Like I said earlier,
it was all kind of blurry. I slumped against the far wall. A good lie down was in
order.

“Hang in there, mister,” the guard said. “I have to go down the hall and call a bus.”

He wanted to put me on a public transportation vehicle in my condition and at this
hour? And they called me the crazy one. I was in no shape to give my assent or disagree.
So I sat and bled and listened to his footsteps as he ran down the hallway to find
a phone that worked.

A single chirp issued from my vest. They couldn’t even leave me in peace to die. I
wonder if the service bothered Lynter in his final moments?

“Prepare for emergency beam out.”

It was a simple directive that required a simple answer that I was unable to give.
My life was slipping away faster and faster. But in truth, I didn’t need to respond.
They could tell how severe my injuries were. Just like they knew the medics of these
dark ages had about as much chance at saving my life as a vole sprouting wings and
flying.

I blacked out. Can’t say for certain how long I was out. When I came to, I immediately
knew when I was, not so much where. I was back in the future in a sterile timeship’s
dispensary. The past has such vibrant sights, sounds, and smells, not like the antiseptic
insides of a timeship fully under way.

My safety was guaranteed by the timelock as long as I stayed aboard ship. Temporal
shielding protected me from the vagaries of time. Beam down to anywhere but late-twentieth-century
Earth, and I could be erased.

The surgery was a success, naturally. I would recover in record time under the careful
attentions of Doctor Selsi. Ducane and Selsi were probably adolescents when I first
took command of the
Aeon
. Either that or the service had begun recruiting child soldiers. Doctor Selsi had
an annoying habit of telling and retelling me how lucky I was. I didn’t feel very
lucky. And recounting the same sad facts that if the entry wound had been a few scant
centimeters to the left, I would have died right there in Starling’s office.

Wouldn’t have mattered. Braxton would have just recruited me again and again until
the mission was a success. I liked to think I knew him pretty well.

I paid myself a visit. My prior conversations were concerning one subject, my health,
with one person, my doctor. I actually looked forward to speaking with myself.

“Well done Captain Braxton,” he said. “We have the two Vorgon criminals, Ajur and
Boratus, in custody. We are in the process of dismantling their time-travel capabilities
and wiping their memories before turning them over to the temporal authorities of
their own time.”

“I want to go home,” I said.

“You are home,” he said.

“You don’t understand,” I said. “I want my pushcart back. I want to sleep under the
stars and heaven help me, I want those savages back too. It’s not the life I want.
It’s the only life left for me. Don’t integrate me. Don’t erase the man I’ve become.
Please.”

He just smiled and left me.

It has been over a week since I first held a two-person monologue with myself. I wondered
why I didn’t just get beamed out of existence without a word of explanation instead
of being put back down on twentieth-century Earth. And what’s to stop my future self
or some other captain equipped with a timeship from returning to carry out my fate-worse-than-death
sentence?

Nothing, but my plea for life and a promise I kept to myself.

The notion that my future self turned to me for an escape clause consoles me. Seems
Braxton bought into Ducane’s theory too. I didn’t have to do that. I completed the
mission and spared a life, my own.

I must admit that I don’t care for my cover name, Lynter. And yes, I’m fully aware
of the irony of the situation. It becomes less and less funny over time, let me assure
you of that.

Strangely enough, I awake and face each day with renewed enthusiasm. I was even glad
to see Officer Sims and his partner. I’ve become a model citizen. And my daily outbursts
have declined in intensity and frequency. I’ve even thrown away all my old doomsday
signs, to the delight of this seaside town’s population and security personnel.

I still keep busy, though.

My current mission entails working up new signs to hang on every available lamppost,
palm tree, and business establishment. I’m still in the business of saving lives.
How does this sound?

THE BIG ONE HITS IN 2047

U
PON THE
B
RINK OF
R
EMEMBRANCE

Kristen McQuinn

T
HE
B
ORG CUBE
hovered in space, silent, its blunt lines inelegant and brutal in their sheer force.
The planet below the cube had finally, irrevocably, fallen to the might of the Borg.
Millions of new drones were awaiting assimilation in the chambers. The cube’s hot,
humid interior hummed with activity, with the pulsating commands of the Queen to her
drones, her silent voice echoing in every corner, every circuit of the dreadful ship.
Species 3836 would add its biological and technological distinctiveness to the Collective.

In one corridor, past hundreds of terrified beings longing to escape, unable to force
their bodies to fight the nanoprobes coursing through them, a drone led a young woman
into the chamber. Sheer terror giving her strength, she broke free from the drone
for a fleeting second. A second drone entered the chamber, overpowering the woman
and forcing her onto the assimilation table. Restraints slid into place, holding her
down, already wet with the blood and gore of its previous occupants.

Frantically, her eyes searched for escape, fighting the restraints that held her like
iron, knowing resistance was, in fact, futile. Her heart hammered in her ears so hard
she hoped it would burst before she had to endure the horror about to befall her.
She sought the eyes of her captors, hoping to find a shred of compassion, some small
spark of the individuals they must have once been, but they were dead, soulless. Drones.
An electronic whirring began behind her. They were preparing her arm implants.

“No. No, please,” she pleaded, her voice trembling. “Please don’t do this. My name
is Eilara, I have a baby named Eryet, she needs me, don’t do this,
DON
’
T
DO THIS CAN
’
T YOU HEAR ME
?” Her voice rose to a panicked scream as the two drones approached, their saws buzzing
to life before them. Her screams turned agonized as saw rent flesh and bone, her arm
dropping to the floor of the assimilation chamber. As the first drone bent over the
raw stump and roughly fitted her arm implants into place, ignoring her agonized shrieks,
the second drone leaned closer. Even through her pain, the young woman gasped to see
a beautiful young woman looking down on her, a mirror of herself. Long blond hair
and large blue eyes gazed back at her.

“Why do you resist? This is what you have longed for, isn’t it? Never forget who you
are. Resistance is futile . . . Seven of Nine.”

With a muffled shriek, Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One, former
Borg drone, opened her eyes, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. Lifting a trembling
hand, she swept her blond hair out of her eyes, which had somehow come loose during
her regeneration phase. She distractedly noted that she was sweating.

“Seven! Are you all right?”
The Doctor’s voice reached Seven of Nine through the comm system.
“The computer reported a scream from your alcove.”

Seven experienced another moment of disorientation as she took in her surroundings.
Realizing she was safe on
Voyager
, she took a breath and tapped her combadge.

“Seven here. I am fine, Doctor. Thank you for your concern.”

“But
 . . .”

“Seven of Nine out,” she said brusquely and disconnected the link.

Seven looked down at her feet, then abruptly sat on the steps of her alcove. Silently,
she began to cry.

“Come in.”

The door to Captain Kathryn Janeway’s ready room slid open, admitting Seven of Nine.
The tall, beautiful woman entered with an air of hesitancy that was not lost on the
captain.

“Hello, Seven. What can I do for you?” Janeway asked with a small smile.

Seven halted halfway across the ready room and looked at the small woman seated behind
the desk. In the months since her separation from the Collective, Janeway had helped
the former Borg regain her humanity. She had unfailingly supported and encouraged
Seven, chastised her, mentored her. The captain had already become more than a friend;
Janeway had come to fill a maternal role that had been missing since Seven had been
assimilated by the Borg.

“You are busy. I do not wish to disturb you,” Seven said, turning to leave. Janeway
quickly strode toward the younger woman.

“Seven, wait. I know something’s been troubling you. Please tell me. Maybe I can help,”
Janeway said, leading Seven to the couch. After a moment of resistance, Seven acquiesced
and followed the captain. “Now, what’s bothering you?” Janeway asked gently.

“I have merely been having trouble regenerating. I have . . . been dreaming frequently,
and it interrupts my regeneration cycle.”

Janeway sat silently, waiting. Seven fidgeted briefly, avoiding Janeway’s calm gaze.
At last she looked up.

“Captain, do you ever have . . . nightmares?”

Janeway sat back, considering the question. “Yes, of course. They can be terribly
disturbing. But don’t let them worry you. Everyone has nightmares from time to time.”

“Why?” Seven demanded.

“There can be lots of reasons. Personally, I think most nightmares are the mind’s
way to sort things out that are upsetting, or that the conscious mind is stuck on.”

“Do you think they are a way of . . . of seeing into a person’s past life? Or making
atonement for something bad a person did?” Seven asked intently. Janeway looked at
the young woman across from her in surprise. Seven was so strong, so logical, in some
ways, yet surprisingly innocent in others. She could unflinchingly face unknown dangers,
yet her own humanity had the power to leave her a terrified, trembling child trapped
in an adult’s body.

Just like the rest of us
, Janeway thought to herself with some amusement. She looked steadily into Seven’s
eyes, hoping the strength of her own personality would help to restore some balance
to the young woman before her.

“I know that people used to believe that dreams are an insight into past lives, or
some variation on that theme. But honestly, I don’t think that is the case. Besides,”
she added, “the science doesn’t support the hypothesis.”

“So, you do not believe it?”

“No, I don’t. Seven, what was your dream? Maybe you’ll feel better if you talk about
it.”

The other woman frowned, seeming to look inside herself for a moment. Her hand flexed
involuntarily in remembered fear.

“I was in an assimilation chamber. I was a member of Species 3836. A woman named Eilara.
I was being assimilated and, somehow, the nanoprobes had not worked, and I was fully
conscious and aware of what was happening.” Seven’s voice became rough with remembered
terror, her breath coming in short gasps. “I was begging the drones to release me,
to return me to my child, a little girl, but they would not. They amputated my arm
to fit my distal arm implant and I could see everything and then . . . I—” She stopped
abruptly and looked up. Seven’s expression of fear and confusion made Janeway feel
a surge of maternal protectiveness toward her.

“What is it? What’s frightening you, Seven?”

“It was me,” she said, unshed tears glistening in her eyes. “I was being assimilated,
but I was the drone as well.”

Commander Chakotay strode down the corridor, intent on the purpose of his current
“mission.” The darkly handsome first officer carried a unique bundle in his arms that
appeared to be made from the hide of a small animal. Chakotay entered cargo bay two
and glanced around the semidarkness. He smiled when he caught sight of the person
he sought and headed toward her.

“Commander Chakotay, how may I assist you?” Seven asked, granting a brief glance to
the first officer as he approached.

“Actually, I was hoping I could assist
you
,” he said, leaning against the console. “The captain said you’ve been troubled with
dreams lately. I know how disturbing dreams can be, and I’d like to help if you’ll
let me.”

Seven wasn’t certain she was comfortable knowing the captain had been discussing her
troubles with others, even the ship’s first officer. But if she was honest with herself,
the dreams were disturbing her enough to start affecting her work. Her concentration
was slipping; she had even asked the captain if she believed in past lives! Scientific
nonsense. She was willing to try almost anything if it helped stop the frightening
visions.

“Explain,” she demanded, her abrupt response a cover for the uncertainty she felt.

“I think it might help if you go on a vision quest,” Chakotay said. “If you look for
a spiritual, rather than a scientific explanation, you may solve the problem of your
dreams.”

Seven thought about Chakotay’s comment, her fingers still on her console. Slowly she
turned to face him. Chakotay smiled gently, trying to make her at ease.

“I’ll be your guide, if you’ll let me. I’ll show you my medicine bundle so you’ll
have an idea of what you should put in your own,” he said, motioning to the package
he brought with him. “Part of the journey is finding what items are meaningful to
you, what holds a piece of your spirit. They will help guide you on your vision quest,
ground you to yourself while your spirit wanders. I can help you if you need it, though
I think you will be surprised to find assembling the medicine bundle is the easier
part.”

“I . . . appreciate your offer, Commander. But I do not see how inducing hallucinations
will help me eliminate disturbing dreams,” Seven said bluntly.

Chakotay smiled. He wasn’t offended. The first officer knew that Seven’s brusque attitude
was an attempt to conceal confusing and frightening emotions. Besides, Chakotay wasn’t
the type to be offended by a lack of understanding.

“Not hallucinations, Seven. Visions. Waking dreams,” he clarified. Seeing her eyebrow
rise in skepticism, he pressed on. “Think of it as a semiconscious REM state. It is
like being able to manipulate and analyze your dreams. And that is what you need to
do. Figure out what it is within you that’s causing your dreams and work through it.”