Strange New Worlds 2016

by Various

  “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

  UPON THE BRINK OF REMEMBRANCE

  Kristen McQuinn

  THE BORG 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.”

  Seven stared hard at the first officer, trying hard to find a scientific reason to refuse his offer. The Doctor had run a full exam on her and found no abnormalities, and a comprehensive scan of her Borg implants revealed no malfunctions. She was at an infuriating impasse and she knew it. She sighed.

  “Very well. But I do not see how it can possibly help, Commander. The Doctor has already given me a complete physical and pronounced me in excellent health.”

  “All the more reason to look to a more spiritual explanation, Seven,” Chakotay said calmly. “When science fails to give us an explanation, there is no harm in seeking answers from our spirit guides, as my father taught me. I used to think it was ridiculous, too, but I’ve come to understand and appreciate the connection to the spirit. You might be surprised at what you learn.”

  Seven looked away from Chakotay’s earnest expression. She was surprised to find herself trembling slightly in apprehension. She cleared her throat and looked him firmly in the eye.

  “What do I need to do?”

  Screams split the air, and the heavy, metallic stench of blood hung in the chamber. Echoes and whispers, only partially audible, reverberated through her mind. Sickly green lighting and suffocating heat completed the nightmare scene.

  We are Borg. Your biological and technological distinctiveness is being added to our own. You wanted to come back. Welcome home, Seven of Nine . . .

  “No!”

  “It’s all right, Seven,” came Chakotay’s voice, soothing her. “Tell me what is happening. Where are we?”

  “I’m . . . it is . . . an assimilation chamber,” she said tremulously. “Why do they not see us?”

  “It’s part of your vision quest. Your body is safe on Voyager. Keep talking to me.”

  “The drones are assimilating her. It is the same as in my dreams. She is conscious and resisting assimilation, and the second drone, that one”—she indicated the smaller of the two, which had its back to them—“is me. I am assimilating her. Only the person on the table is me as well. I am being assimilated.”

  “How is that possible? Think. What is your dream telling you?” Chakotay asked. He gently touched her shoulder. “Go look. What do you see? I am beside you.”

  Seven drew a shuddering breath and haltingly stepped toward the woman thrashing in terror and pain on the table. The woman looked directly at Seven as she approached. At a glance, she bore an uncanny resemblance to Seven herself, and Chakotay could understand why his crewmate was so unsettled. It was only on close inspection that the minute differences were apparent. The woman had green eyes with horizontal pupils, her hair a shade lighter. Beyond that, Seven felt as though she were looking into a mirror. Involuntarily, she stiffened and resisted going closer. Chakotay’s steady presence calmed her and she drew a deep breath, looking closer at the other woman.

  “Tell me about them,” Chakotay urged. “What do you know about them?”

  “Everything. We are Borg. They were assimilated,” Seven replied impatiently.

  “Seven, please.”

  “Species 3836. Lynnrali.” She sighed. “They inhabited a Class-M planet they called Lynnra, near a stellar nursery nebula in sector zero-six-zero. Humanoid, similar in appearance to Earth humans. They have a slightly longer typical life span than humans, fewer offspring. They have extensive theoretical knowledge of warp mechanics, but the radiation from the nebula prevented them from being able to create a stable warp field. They were isolated from having contact with other civilizations because of the nebular activity, but they did have intermittent communication with the planet nearest the nebula in sector zero-five-zero.”

  On the table, another harrowing scream erupted from the woman as she fought against the horrors the drones were inflicting on her. Seven flinched.

  “Keep remembering, Seven. What else?”

  “They . . . they were extremely advanced in medical sciences, more advanced than the Federation. They have a rich literary culture and . . . and . . .”

  “What is it, Seven? What was this woman’s name?” Chakotay whispered.

  “Her name is Eilara. She was a widow. Her daughter is Eryet. She would sing duets with her little girl at home. She loved reading and was so proud that her daughter ha
d also learned to read so young. How can I know these things?”

  The assimilation chamber pulsed with a ghoulish light, the heat closing in around Seven and Chakotay. The woman, Eilara, screamed again, seeming to look directly at them.

  “Please don’t do this! My name is Eilara, I have a little girl, her name is Eryet. She needs me . . .”

  “Seven, open your eyes. It’s okay, you’re safe. The vision quest is over for now.”

  Gasping for breath, a strangled cry escaped Seven’s throat. Disoriented, she looked wildly about her and jumped when a hand touched her shoulder. She blinked in confusion and stared into Chakotay’s warm eyes. The slight crow’s lines were accentuated by his striking tattoo on his temple and she focused on that until her head stopped spinning. Now that she saw him, she remembered agreeing to participate in a vision quest. They were seated on the deck of his quarters, the items of their medicine bundles before them, their hands gently touching the akoonah, the device that initiated the spiritual visionary journey of Chakotay’s people.

  “Did you know you were speaking along with the woman on the table?”

  “No,” Seven replied shakily. “I was unaware that I was . . . I’m sorry, Commander.”

  “It’s all right, Seven.” Chakotay sat back on his heels and considered her thoughtfully. “That was a very unique experience, even for a vision quest. How do you feel about it?”

  Seven started to answer immediately, then paused. A slight frown creased her brow, and she shook her head. “I am uncertain. I was sure that this vision quest would yield nothing, that I would see nothing. But then I was in the assimilation chamber, seeing that woman, me, the drones, and I felt . . . I thought . . .” Chakotay waited patiently, knowing she needed a moment to gather her thoughts. “For many months after Captain Janeway severed me from the Collective, I wanted nothing more than to return to them. To restore order to the chaos of my emotions and thoughts, to hear the thoughts of the other Borg in my mind. But I have come to value my individuality, and now, seeing the assimilation chamber, I am frightened. I do not wish to have these dreams any more. I do not wish to see these visions, or know that this woman’s name was Eilara, who sang to her daughter named Eryet.”