Reborn into a Nightmare
Posted on Fri Nov 5th, 2021 @ 12:21pm by Lieutenant Commander Rin
Mission:
MISSION 0 - History Speaks
Location: Planet of Tavara
Timeline: 17 years ago
926 words - 1.9 OF Standard Post Measure
The Collective was screaming.
The scout ship tore apart as it crashed into the planet, an isolated, insignificant world. Everywhere, there was metal, fire, and blood.
And screaming.
The entire cube had gone mad. The order of existence had broken into infinite shards of uniqueness. Suddenly, there was no purpose, no direction, and no reason for exist. That moment of individuality, brought on by an encounter with some great, unknown, psychic entity, lasted a fraction of a second before unity was reasserted, which only meant a million drones now felt each other’s terror.
So much screaming.
A final order had been given just before the cube was disengaged from the rest of the Collective, lest the madness spread. Self-destruction. That order was the last shred of purpose given to these drones. Most, however, no longer had the capacity to carry it out, overloaded by the chaos in their shared consciousness.
On the planet, drones were dragging themselves from the wreckage and picking themselves out of the sand where they had been ejected upon impact.
One of Six chose to disconnect itself from the local Collective. Chose? Surely, choice was not an option. The action, it reasoned, had simply been an act of survival. Connection to the madness would only drag the drone into the chaos, rendering it inoperative, and that was unacceptable.
Analyzing the situation, One identified several who had also disconnected. Some looked around in panic, others stared at themselves in horror, still others were heading toward a scout ship which had just returned to the cube. If survival was an option, that ship certainly provided the best chance of success.
Another choice: One grabbed a bewildered drone, dragging it toward the ship. It yelled at another one to follow. And then another.
“Self-destruction is required. You will not resist,” a drone replied dispassionately.
One of Six just as dispassionately shot them in reply.
The cube’s explosion rocked the ship as it pulled away. The drones aboard, hundreds of them, quarreled over a course of action. A few tried instilling order, instilling purpose. They needed to survive. They…wanted to survive.
So many emotions, all happening at once.
So much screaming.
Drones barricaded the bridge, lest the chaos overtake the pilots. But they could only hold it back for so long.
The scout ship impacted, and everything went silent.
One of Six winced as it pulled itself out of the sand on which it landed. Diagnostics indicated its body, while damaged, still had functional capacity. It sat up, surveying the sea of sand under a sky of red and burnt umber, even as it pulled a piece of shrapnel from its chest plate.
It looked at its hand. Was it supposed to look the way it did, covered in metal? Of course, it was. This was the perfection of the Borg. It remembered bringing that gift to countless others, people screaming, crying, begging.
It was…revolted, and it didn’t understand why. Something was fundamentally wrong with its existence. The Borg had taken the drone, just as it took every other drone, and made it into something new, something… terrible and grotesque.
One realized it was the one screaming now, a wholly bizarre action to take.
It needed to focus. It needed a purpose.
If they were to survive, they would need resources. The surrounding land was scrub brush and sand, and its sensors indicated the closest advanced technology hundreds of miles to the east.
“Their technology is inferior, but they can provide necessary resources after they have been assimilated,” a nearby drone concluded.
One of Six looked the drone up and down. “No. No more assimilation.”
“Assimilation is necessary for our survival.”
There was a pregnant pause between the two of them. “Then we do not survive.”
That made no sense. If their purpose was not to survive, why had they fled the cube in the first place?
But One remembered those who it had assimilated, the screaming and panic and terror, even as they were being granted perfection. That was…that was unacceptable.
“Your cognitive processes appear to be damaged…” the other drone replied as it raised its weapon to terminate One. But the remainder of that thought was cut short by a burst of gunfire behind it. Another drone. Together, the One and its rescuer soullessly scavenged the newly deceased individual for repair parts and battery power.
Similar conflicts had erupted across the crash site. The ultimatum was simple. “We do not take this world. Do you comply?” Those who did not comply, died. Those who had mentally broken down, died. Those who could not be repaired, died.
It made no sense, protecting this world. But, somehow, One knew assimilation was wrong. So had the others, those who survived the conflict, anyway. They would no longer inflict that horror they had so many times before.
There was something to be gained from that choice. Some scrap of…something had returned to them.
Independent thought.
That was terrifying.
No drone had the power supply to make the journey to civilization. So, a team struck out, and as power supplies became low, a subsection recharged from the batteries of others. Eventually, it was One’s turn. It willingly gave up all but emergency power. This was their only chance of survival. It dropped into the sand, ignored, as the others marched on. And there it lay.
Perhaps that was for the best. Perhaps self-destruction have been the correct command after all. Because all One of Six could think of was the screaming.
