by Justin Lindsey Allman“Pull it together,” Kirk commanded as she tossed a tricorder toward Tien, “Give me a scan of that thing; tell me what our options are.”
“Got it.” He opened up the clamshell device and began to get close in scans of the undead juggernaut. He was scanning a subspace field, similar to the transporter’s annular confinement beam. But before he could focus his scan the device began to flicker, its settings changing without his control. Then manual input stopped responding.
“Report,” Kirk said calmly as she slowly backed the group away.
“Um… something is wrong,” stammered the young ensign.
“Tien.” She said needing more of an answer.
“My tricorder isn’t functioning.” His nerve was fading.
“Light it up.” She pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. The others did the same but again nothing came from their weapons.
“Tien?” Kirk asked, her voice now with a slight waiver. Kirk continued to back up as she checked her weapon: its internal status now displaying the strange ganglia-like glyphs that were pasted on the computer panels.
The drone had pushed them in a slow dance away from the escape pod.
“Somebody shut that noise up!” Faulkner shouted as the Borg hail was being repeated across all the commpanels and their communicators. Over and over again pounding them with its commands. The hall lights began to change and green illumination bathed the slowly retreating group. The temperature and the humidity jumped up and made the air hot and sticky. Sweat began to bead on the seven and their uniforms began to stick to their skins.
The drone walked ever closer.
Tien struggled longer with his tricorder, but then it too began to add to the coauphny of mindless bantering, “Dammit! They have assimilated my tricorder.”
The drone raised its arms as if to reach from a distance.
Kirk turned to the bulkhead and pulled open a Jefferies tube access panel, “Everyone in, now!”
She held her rifle like a club and when the drone stepped within range she swung it with all her might. Its outer casing shattered as it slammed against the Borg’s head, bits of it falling to the ground as the drone fell back a step. But the drone was not stopped and reached out for Kirk.
“They can be hurt physically,” Bova shouted as she turned to her side and launched a kick toward its midsection, “I took one out on Deck five when it came into sick bay.”
The monster fell back, and this time Kirk jabbed it with the butt of the gun. There was an explosion from somewhere inside its head and the drone fell with a sickly thud and a small burst of smoke. A foul desiccated scent issued forth, rising amidst acrid smoke and plumes of bleeding light.
“Well I guess they can’t adapt to everything.” Bova said as she slid into the maintenance hatch.
