The Maverick

[J3SSE]

Synopsis:
In ‘The Best of Both Worlds’ we saw the aftermath of a Borg visitation to Jouret IV ...but there were further incidents.
Set almost a year after the events in ‘First Contact’, the Borg return.
Once again, at a remote outpost an entire city is ripped from a planet’s surface, and consumed by a Borg cube. A small, bewildered group of Starfleet cadets trapped within the Borg ship must not only fight to avoid assimilation and escape, but also avert their own destruction at the unwitting hands of Starfleet itself!

Maverick

Chapter 1

“You will never be a graduate of Starfleet Academy. Understand me when I say this I mean there to be no illusions on your part. Never means; under no circumstances.”

The words still stung, even a whole year later.
Just words. But to Tyler Strafford the words had and would carry a resonance like the echo of some far off leaden door slamming shut.

Forever.

Strafford came to the top of the hill, the light breeze blowing coolly about his face as he looked out over the grassy crest and down onto the plateau at the city he had started out from half an hour earlier.

Palminterre was the primary city of the planet and had grown up around what had originally been Starbase 515 over the last hundred years or so.
At this point Starfleet presence on Palimnos was minimal, to say the least, most of their administration outposts having moved first to the nearby moon and then into an orbiting station as the civilian population on Palimnos continued to outnumber that of local Starfleet personnel.

It was this, scarcity, of Starfleet presence that Strafford had sought so many months ago when he first returned home to Earth to tell his parents the news of his expulsion from the academy, before beginning his self imposed ‘exile’. By coming to the fringes of space he could escape the turmoil and soul-destroying misery that comes with the realisation that a life’s dream had come so close only to be cruelly snatched away by circumstance.

Palimnos was a peaceful planet of green hills and fields, sparsely dotted with what stood in for trees. A centre of agriculture and trade used by a number of systems in the neighbouring sectors, the planet had many commercial and industrial regions to the south, all of which boasted probably the most environmentally sound production facilities in the Federation. But here in Palminterre where the major trading organisations in the region had their headquarters was where Strafford had spent most of the past year working for a company involved in the charting business.

He might never see the untold wonders of the galaxy from the decks of a Starfleet starship, but perhaps he could pursue his thirst for the stars, if only in some small way, from the comfort of his new home. The preparation and programming of stellar cartography was no less noble a cause than any other, even if it was mostly for commercial navigation.
To travel amongst the stars and bear witness to all the beauty and mystery of the heavens.
It was all he had ever wanted.

Lost in thought for a few minutes Strafford did not notice the dark shadow tracing its way across the landscape behind him.

As the shadow spread silently across the fields and meadows, unfurling itself like a dark blanket, the sudden chill in the air broke Strafford’s concentration. He turned around, disconcerted by the loss of the afternoon sun’s warmth on his skin and, in that moment he found himself staring at death.

All around him was engulfed by the ever growing shadow of the behemoth that, although now still high in the clouds above, was gliding slowly but surely ever closer on its menacing path. Strafford’s blood turned to ice in shear terror; it was all he could do to stop his legs from giving way beneath him.

The enormous ship was almost entirely blotting out the sun now as it advanced, reducing everything to a nightmarish twilight. Out of blind terror as much as instinct Strafford turned to run, back to the city, back to the only hope of safety.

Without realising it he had sealed his doom.

Above him the giant cube-shaped ship continued on its way, descending slowly through the clouds with such grace and serenity that belied its vastness.
Within minutes the immense ship had come clearly into view, some miles above the bustling city of Palminterre, its shadow cutting across the city’s central districts.

Down in the streets and walkways, in the apartments and offices, in the commercial districts and residential districts alike, the inhabitants of Palminterre, some 18,000 people, all looked up at the darkened sky and in a lingering moment of dread and hideous realisation one word was on all their lips.

Borg.

********

Starbase 878 looked beautiful as it slowly orbited the unnamed planet below. Crossing the terminator into night the base gleamed and shone like a bejewelled pendant of diamonds and sapphires set against the dark shadow of the planet below.

The lights from the habitation section and parts of the administration blocks twinkled softly into the night together with the more constant glow from the fusion reactors lower down the construction. The picture from space was one of serenity and calm.

Inside the base chaos reigned.

Everywhere lights were coming on, people emerging from cabins bleary eyed and startled by the chime of the alarm system. This was no ordinary Yellow Alert.

As recently awoken personnel dashed up and down the corridors, many still half-asleep the automated announcement system kicked in.

“All Taskforce personnel proceed to holding positions. All Engineering teams to commence pre-launch diagnostics and standby.” The computer voice seemed so calm and matter-of-fact in the face of all the frantic activity as the increasing number of men and women, some carrying equipment some struggling into uniforms and affixing their Starfleet badges, began to fill the corridors with commotion.

“All Bridge staff to conference room four, upper level, command section.” the announcement continued.

“That’s us!” Commander Nagoya had to raise his voice over the hubbub of the crowd milling around him and his captain as they hurried along the narrow corridors to the nearest turbolift. Captain Morrison didn’t say anything. He was lost in thought as he pushed his hand through the sleeve of his grey and black tunic and affixed his Starfleet delta to his chest, savouring the texture of the metal comm-badge as if reassuring himself of its durability. At the same time he was watching all that was going on around him, looking at the faces of the people rushing past, dashing left and right. Some full of determination, some trepidation, others speculating animatedly about what was happening and some bewilderment, still dazed by what was going on. There was a tangible atmosphere, an electricity that seemed to fill the air that Morrison could not put a name to.

“Why did they have to make the access ways to the habitat sections so damn small!” he said as an officer hurrying the other way rebounded off his left shoulder.
“ 878 has only been on line for about 12 months sir, and then they postponed the expansion program when Shelby…I mean, Commander Shelby took over and the new ships were delivered. Now that we’re Taskforce everything goes into ‘R and D’.”
Morrison and Nagoya reached the turbolift and as six engineering personnel came scrambling out they stepped into the cramped turbolift joining two other men and a woman. The doors closed and the lift began its almost silent ascent.

“Morning, Captain Kraske, Commander Connor,” Nagoya smiled at the two officers immediately behind him, “ So what do you think Janet? A drill or…” he continued enthusiastically. Commander Janet Connor gave Nagoya a sideways look.
“Konbawa Mori. I don’t know, I’m still asleep.”
Nagoya laughed, “ Very impressive, your Japanese is getting better. I guess it still is night strictly speaking. Funny time to have a drill really.”
The two commanders both in their early thirties knew each other from a brief time served together on an earlier posting some time prior to being drafted to the special taskforce.

Both Janet Connor and Mori Nagoya were hard working and experienced officers and their careers had led them through the ranks quickly. Connor’s steel grey eyes and her long, blonde, elaborately styled hair was attractive in a particularly distinguished way yet her agreeable manner seemed to contradict her strangely aloof semblance. Members of her crew had often been startled to see her smiling and laughing with the rest of them and generally relaxed, when off-duty. The respect from her crew that she managed to engender was one of the things that Captain Kraske greatly appreciated about his first officer.
Kraske, a man in his early fifties and tipped for promotion to admiral was a traditionalist in many ways and did things by the book. But having Connor on the bridge was invaluable as she could often see a way ‘between the lines’, and was not averse to telling him so. Nagoya on the other hand was known for his ebullience and go-getting attitude which had won the respect of all of his captains including Captain Morrison with whom he had served for two years prior to joining the taskforce. It was this infectious enthusiasm and boundless courage that would someday soon propel this young man to the Captain’s chair, Morrison thought to himself, but for the meantime would be a priceless asset in the dark days that surely lay ahead.

“ Middle of the night, is as good a time as any for a drill. Keep everybody on their toes.” Kraske said reassuringly.
“ Sure, but we’ve only just put in from exercises. Had about an hour’s sleep after taking the Valiant out for 16 hours of tests. Doesn’t make much sense.” Nagoya frowned to himself.
While Nagoya, Connor and Kraske debated the situation, Morrison became aware of the strangely intense figure at the back of the lift. It was Captain Invernal. Half human, half Betazoid. He was tall and impressive and much like Morrison himself he clearly looked after himself physically. It was difficult to tell his age but Morrison knew that he couldn’t be much older than himself. Indeed they both bore the countenance of men years younger than their true mid forties ages.
Morrison had seen him around the base on numerous occasions during the past months but had not had much opportunity to speak with him. It was no surprise either, the man was known to be a very strong willed and exacting character. When the other Captains had been drafted or invited to join the taskforce some had brought their First Officers with them. Invernal had insisted on his entire bridge crew. Not only that, Captain Andrioz Invernal was a veteran of Wolf 359 and a combatant in the victory at Sector 001 last year, the only time Starfleet had ever succeeded in destroying a cube. Perhaps unsurprisingly Invernal’s crew held him in the highest possible esteem.
They were a strange bunch though. On more than one occasion Morrison had seen them in the mess halls or recreation areas of the base, limited as they were. They did everything together, they were often boisterous, rowdy even. Alone they seemed like any other Starfleet personnel, young, ambitious full of hope and drive but group a few of them together or especially in the presence of Captain Invernal, they took on this same, intensity and almost feral nature. You would think they were all Klingon or something, Morrison reflected.

“ What do you think Captain Invernal? Is it another drill?” Morrison said, breaking into Invernal’s silent contemplation.
“ I think we’re about to find out Captain.” He said as the turbolift came to a halt. The doors slid open and they all disembarked and Nagoya suddenly became aware of something. “Where’s your First Officer Captain Invernal? Did we miss him on the habitation deck?” he inquired politely.
“ Don’t trouble yourself Commander I think you’ll find…”
“Captain.” A voice at the end of the corridor ahead interrupted Invernal as the group made its way toward the conference room doors a few yards in front. It was Commander Qurek, Invernal’s Vulcan First Officer. “Chief of Operations Shelby is ready to begin the briefing sir.” He said calmly, before allowing the group to enter and following them into the chamber.

The conference chamber was dominated by a large oval shaped table surrounded by high-backed comfortable chairs.
At the head of the table sat Shelby.
Since heading up Starfleet’s special Borg tactical unit she had gained increasing sway with High Command. She was widely praised for her contribution to the battle with the Borg in Earth’s own sector a year ago. Numerous improvements to ship’s systems and defences, and modifications to weaponry had undoubtedly helped to reduce the casualty rate from that battle. However, as she had told them at the time, the one thing the Borg did best was adapt. Declining the opportunity for what many felt a well deserved promotion she opted to remain where she was, determined to go on working to further improve Starfleet’s chances against the Borg threat.
New weapons, new ships, new possibilities.

“ Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, standing up brusquely. On the wall behind her the Starfleet insignia dissolved into a starchart. “As of 23.00 hours this taskforce went on Yellow alert. I expect this to become a full Red alert as soon as I receive confirmation from Starfleet HQ.” She leaned forward placing both her palms flat down on the table. “OK, now this is what I know, and what you need to know,” she continued, looking round the table directly at each of the officers before her. “At 22.37 Starbase 515 reported tracking a large fast moving object on its way into the local system. The USS Granger was despatched to investigate. At 22.50 Starbase 515 lost contact with the Granger. At 22.53 Starfleet received a general distress call from Starbase 515 which was abruptly terminated. All contact with 515 was lost by 22.55.”
On the starchart being displayed on the screen behind her several indicators lit up to signify the locations of the Starbase and the last reported position of the Granger.

Qurek was the first to speak, “What was the nature of the distress call? Was there any mention of Borg involvement?”
“Still waiting for an encoded copy of the transmission from Starfleet. Should be here any time now.”
“ No communication whatsoever? No chance this could be a comms malfunction is there? What about theta band?”
“ There’s nothing close enough to use theta band Captain Kraske. As you can see, 515 is quite remote, almost at the edge of federation space. So far, all subspace transmissions have remained unanswered but some of our listening posts have already reported heavy subspace interference across an extremely large area of the sector.” Shelby explained grimly.
“Jamming ?” Nagoya looked at Shelby with an inquisitive frown.
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” She replied. There was a series of chirps from a padd on the table in front of Shelby. She tapped some buttons and a face appeared, one of the base’s communications officers.
“ The transmission from Starbase 515 has just come in from Starfleet HQ.”
“Thank you, Mendez. Download it to conference room 4.”
“Very well sir, there’s also an encoded transmission from the C-in-C. Your eyes only.”

Shelby’s already grave expression became more intense. Hesitating for a second, she looked up from the padd. “ Ladies and gentlemen the last transmission from 515 is now available. Excuse me for a few moments.” She said picking up the padd. She then turned to a side-door at one end of the back wall of the room, to one side of the display.
Immediately as she left the room the officers began to mull over what they’d heard.
“I’ve heard of the Palimnos system. Its way out on the fringe.” Connor said, frowning trying to recall whatever she could.
“We’re a good day or more away, even if we left now we’d,” before she could finish, Invernal suddenly spoke, his face deep in concentration.
“Qurek, how far?”
“22.2 hours, at best possible speed. Assuming we are to use the new ships.”
Invernal’s expression remained unchanged as he stroked his chin and continued to stare at the table in front of him, almost burning a hole in its surface with his gaze.

“Download complete. Please specify how you would like to proceed.” The computer voice caught everybody’s attention as the starchart on the display wall changed to become the Starfleet insignia again, however with a time stamp displayed at the bottom. Invernal clasped his hands together, “ Computer,” he began but was cut off by Connor.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Sh..”
“Computer, replay the entire transmission.” Invernal continued, without acknowledging Connor.

The display screen changed to show a young man’s face. The young communications officer was harassed and his face full of concern.
“This is Starbase 515 to any and all Starfleet vessels. We’re under ----,” the sound and the picture accompanying it was suddenly broken by static and visual interference that distorted the picture, this continued intermittently but with increasing frequency as the playback continued. “---unable to defend---destroyed by cutting b---attempting to---,” The signal at this point had dropped to visual only and seconds after that even the picture failed. The insignia re-appeared.

“ I’m know lip-reader,” Morrison said quietly, “ but I think the last word he said was ‘cube’.”
Before they could even react to that chilling statement, Shelby marched back into the room clutching her padd, her face even more resolute than before.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, It’s official. We are on full Red Alert.” She said firmly. Then she looked at each of the captains in turn. “ Captain Morrison, please report immediately to the bridge of the USS Valiant and standby. Captain Kraske you have the Galahad. Captain Invernal, the results of your shakedown run with the USS Excalibur…?”
Invernal, intense as ever, gestured to Qurek to reply.
“All tests were concluded satisfactorily. Excalibur is ready.”
“Then report to the bridge, put your crew on standby.” Shelby turned to look at them all now, “Expect to be under way within the hour. You will receive further briefing individually en route. That’s all…and good luck...”
For an instant, Morrison thought, Shelby’s battle-hardened and implacable facade seemed to wither.
“...Dismissed.”

In the briefest of moments the officers exchanged glances. Glances that revealed both their conviction that whatever lay ahead of them they would be facing it with Starfleet’s latest and finest equipment and they would utilise their potential to their utmost. But these glances also revealed another, deeper certainty. That not all of those present would be returning from this assignment. It was in this instance that Captain Morrison was overcome with the sudden realisation of what the strange sensation he had felt earlier in the corridors outside was. The grim spectre of death stalking the hundreds of brave crewmen that had been assembled at the Starbase and who, even now, were preparing to face the federation’s mortal enemy. And for many of them, death.

****

Fear.

Cold, tangible fear was all that Tyler Strafford could feel at this moment and nothing, not the dank smell of death, not the hunger in his stomach, nor his raging thirst could distract him from it.

The fact that he was still alive for the time being, meant little. It would only be a matter of time before he would be captured and he would have to make the choice.

Assimilation or death.

Strafford looked at his wrist. 18 hours had passed. 18 of the most harrowing, gruelling hours he had ever had to experience in his life. How much more of that life there was left to live was anybody’s guess. That he’d survived this long was miraculous enough in itself. He edged nearer to the window to risk another glance out onto the dimly-lit courtyard below his hiding place.

Strafford had been holed up in the store room of the small street-level cafe for the best part of three hours. Watching, waiting.
The activity outside had died down. For what had seemed an interminable time the streets had been alive with Borg.

Almost from the moment that the Borg ship had come clearly into view above the city, the first of them had begun to appear. Right across the city drones appeared. As they did so, they assimilated. They assimilated everything that moved. Even as panic ensued with people fleeing in terror from the streets, their workplaces, perhaps trying to reach their homes, loved ones, even then the drones continued to materialise. As they continued their dreaded process, the newly assimilated were rounded up into large groups of forty or more by other Borg, and led away to another part of the city like some kind of diabolical harvest.

When Strafford had reached the city the nightmare had already begun. Before his very eyes he’d watched, helpless as fleeing citizens had run straight into marauding Borg assimilating units. He’d watched in utter horror as these evil creatures had grabbed their prey by the head, human and alien alike and, producing some kind of extending pair of tubule type instruments from their hands, injected something into the necks of their captives. He recalled with a shudder how quickly, mere minutes later usually, the victims dropped to their knees, their strength, their very essence as individuals, visibly being driven from their bodies. Even as the effects of their obscene handiwork were being played out, the assimilating units would already have moved on to the next target, and the next. Never far behind them, drones would be rounding up the poor souls littered in their wake.

The irony of it all was, that he had no-one else to blame for his predicament but himself. Utter panic had driven him to flee, like an unreasoning animal back to the city from the outlying plains and hills. Perhaps because there had been no cover, no where to hide. Truth was he had been too overcome with fear to think properly. To think through his actions. He had allowed fear to take control of him.

Never again.

If somehow he could survive this, he prayed silently, he would never allow fear to place him in this position again. Had he been able to analyse the situation he might have foreseen what was to have happened within an hour of his return to the city.

He recalled how, desperate to reach some form of sanctuary in the lower-east district, he had fought his way through the panic-stricken crowd. How even as the first of ‘them’ had appeared, the cutting beams had arced out from the giant ship overhead. Dazzling shafts of energy, illuminating the city with an eerie violet glow. The beams themselves had been so bright Strafford had had to shield his eyes. For what must have been some minutes but seemed longer the beams danced a mesmerising display as they passed to and fro around what Strafford later realised was the edge of the city, each beam emerging from different sources somewhere on the surface of the cube.

It was at the end of this terrifying performance that any prospects for escape had departed when, with a deafening crack of thunder, another far less focused beam of energy burst forth from the cube. The greenish hue of the beam seemed to engulf the entire city and with a tumultuous rumbling from beneath the ground, the city slowly but surely had begun to rise. The effect was like a mild earthquake as the ground shook and shifted underfoot. But the effect had not lasted long, and the ground, indeed the whole city had reached some kind of inexplicable equilibrium, as it continued its ascent to the gigantic craft waiting above. It was then that Strafford had bid his silent goodbyes to his mother, his father and his brother and sisters, taking some solace in the fact that they were light years from here, safe. Back on earth.

As the doorway had appeared in the side of the cube and the city rumbled its way into the dark recesses within, everything became shrouded in a gloomy half-light and he had watched the sunlight fade from view along with all hope as the massive doorway re-sealed itself.
The gloom within the Borg cube was oppressive. There was little light now coming from the streets of the city. The streets were in semi-darkness but there was a peculiar ambient light the source of which Strafford hadn’t been able to determine.

The interior was cavernous, high above, perhaps thousands of feet, gantry’s and shielded walkways connected innumerable structures as far as the eye could see. Structures whose purpose was utterly unfathomable and from which distant points of light occasionally seemed to flicker and wink like stars overhead. Who knew what nightmares were unfolding in those far off installations as their inhabitants shuffled about their wretched business.

Strafford recalled the story of Jonah, stuck in the belly of a whale. He wondered, listening to the chilling, mechanical echoes that seemed to reverberate around this area of the cube and the empty chasm above the city from time to time, what Jonah would have made of this. This area, however massive was still only a small part, perhaps a quarter of the entire Borg construct. Thus it was clear, Strafford decided, that the area was some sort of vast holding bay. He wondered at the power involved in maintaining the gravity fields necessary to hold the city in place whilst at the same time retaining a separate artificial gravity field for himself and the other inhabitants still on Palminterre. The dynamics were breathtaking. For an instant, Strafford was detached from the situation, able to marvel at the achievements that must lie behind this behemoth. The instant passed quickly.
Earlier it had seemed that around every corner there were columns of marching undead being lead off down through the walkways and streets. Somehow though, thus far, Strafford had managed to avoid them. Taking advantage of the confusion when, much earlier on at the height of the catastrophe some of the city’s security forces had somehow rallied and attempted to fight back, Strafford had narrowly avoided an assimilation crew, running terrified into a narrow street and then climbing through an unsecured window. The opposition from the security force was dealt with swiftly and brutally. In under sixty seconds a squad of over twenty armed men was reduced to yet more fodder for the collective, and a dozen corpses.

The time had gone by slowly, as the numbers of people herded away by the Borg through the streets had begun to drop, the number of Borg patrolling the streets, both alone or in small groups seemed to rise. Almost as if trying to ‘sniff out’ any remaining un-assimilated life forms, Strafford had watched them pass by first every couple of hours, then every hour. Having changed hiding place twice already he’d managed to keep out of sight.
By now the thirst was becoming unbearable. Initially it had seemed that Strafford had found an ideal hiding place. But the shelves and cupboards of the store-room either contained cooking ingredients or were electro-statically locked. The only exception being a single half-opened locker containing nothing more than a few stale loaves of bread, probably discards. Discards from which Strafford had been periodically removing just enough sustenance to prevent the hunger from becoming unbearable. What he needed now more than anything else, and what occupied his attention outside the window, was water.

There was a small courtyard in front of the shop with walkways leading off to the left and to the right, away from a small ornate fountain.
The fountain was no longer the symbol of artistic freedom and self-expression it had been intended to be. The subtle curtains of water that that had draped a beautiful veil around the ornamental decoration were no longer present. Since Palminterre had been wrenched from its resting place, much of its city-wide systems, particularly the municipal ones, had been disrupted. No doubt even those that hadn’t were being put to…other uses. But in the small reservoir at the foot of the sculpture, water had settled. Cool, refreshing water.

Evidently even in this age of technological wonders some people still preferred the taste of bread prepared manually in the ancient, traditional manner involving flour, water and a period of heat. Replicated bread seemed to lack something over baked bread. The remainder of the stale loaves in Strafford’s hideaway, he decided, had probably been baked, why else would there be so many leftover. There was an apron and a small cloth sack hung on the back of the door leading out of the store room. Going out to the fountain meant risking exposing his position. If he was spotted he’d be forced to make a run for it. A disaster if he was cut off from the café, his only source of food. He carefully made his way past the window and grabbed the sack. He filled it with as many of the stale loaves as he could, before slinging the handles of the sack over his shoulder and quietly edging the store-room door open.

The serving area of the café was deserted of course and as Strafford emerged from the store-room and made his way round the serving counter he found himself amid upturned chairs and tables strewn across the small interior. He tried not to think of the frenzy that must have ensued hours earlier. Picking his way through the shambles, he paused at the doorway. Remaining in shadow he carefully peered out checking the walkway to the left and to the right. The building across the way, behind the fountain was in complete darkness. Indeed Strafford had watched smoke pouring from its upper floors many hours earlier, though this had now subdued to a less substantial but constant trail of wisps. He checked around again. His heart was beginning to beat more rapidly now and he found himself reconsidering. Going out into the open, however brief, was taking a big chance, he told himself. Going without water was no chance whatsoever. He went on like this for a while, indecisive, before reproaching himself verbally. He shouldn’t be bloody alive now anyway, or at least not in any human sense. What mattered now was survival. Finally he emerged into the street.

The walkway was littered with all manner of papers, books and personal belongings all hastily discarded. A child’s toy. Strafford crouched as he made his away across to the fountain, keeping low and being careful to check the roofs of the surrounding buildings. Upon reaching the foot of the fountain, sure that he was alone, unobserved, he knelt down and plunged his hands into the water that remained there. He drank, at first from his hands, then soothed by the refreshing water he lowered his face to the surface and drank longingly. Several minutes went by, as he continued drinking until unexpectedly and utterly without warning, a hand clamped firmly onto Strafford’s shoulder. In that instant he knew all was lost. He had hoped that, before the end, there might have been a chance to take his own life. Escape the endless undead condition, the total and absolute dissolution of identity that the vile Borg must surely endure. Strafford found himself yanked back from his position at the fountain and he prepared himself for the inevitable assimilation that must follow.