The anniversary of the Battle of Wolf 359, fifty years to the day...
It was gamma shift on Outpost 3312; graveyard shift, in old Earth slang. Lights throughout the outpost were dimmed, and the only people moving around were those assigned to gamma shift and those who couldn't sleep (Sickbay had three reported insomniacs on board). Oh, and last week there'd been a sleepwalker.
And that, thought Lieutenant C'tor (Andorian by birth, though he'd never seen his homeworld), was the most exciting thing to happen on this godsforsaken little tritanium tub in the two Standard years I've been here. He stood up and walked around the outpost's Operations center, affectionately known as 'the Closet' due to its small size and the fact that, like most closets, it was crammed with stuff. Consoles and display monitors, in this case, but still stuff.
The walk around the Closet took less than two minutes, and Lt. C'tor took exactly sixty-seven steps to accomplish his little tour. He'd counted. Several dozen times. The displays showed the space surrounding the outpost: the asteroid belt (97 rocks of various sizes, mostly iron and silicates), the Miller Nebula (which was pretty the first few times, but now, to C'tor anyway, resembled a certain stain on the mess hall rug), and the two ships attached to the outpost. The Defiant-class USS Nighthawk and Akira-class USS Augustus were on station, having recently returned from their patrol route.
Lt. C'tor thought about calling down to the mess hall to see if he could get a sandwich, but it was still early in his shift, so he decided to hold off on that for a while. Another tour around the Closet to examine the various monitors and readouts revealed nothing more than what they'd reported three minutes ago, so C'tor plopped down in front of one of the LCARS terminals and called up his post-Academy correspondence course program. C'tor had graduated with honors from Starfleet Academy, but there was always something more to learn, and the Academy offered post-graduate classes. These classes could be used as credit toward the next promotion, but more often than not were just taken to expand one's personal knowledge.
C'tor was boning up on ancient Earth history, in particular the Chinese. He found it interesting to compare and contrast the Chinese, specifically the dynastic period, to a similar time on Andoria. As the latest assigned reading scrolled across the screen, C'tor found his eyelids getting very heavy. Maybe a five-minute break, he thought, but just as he closed his eyes and took a deep, relaxing breath, every single alarm in the Closet went off. Loudly.
C'tor spun the chair to face the master display, where he saw the Nighthawk and the Augustus moving into defensive positions. He briefly wondered what for, but then the screen flickered at the energies of transwarp conduits -- lots of transwarp conduits -- opening near the asteroids. Space near the outpost was blackened by the arrival of, if the sensors read true, nearly two hundred Borg craft, mostly cubes but with several spheres and a few types never before encountered mixed in. C'tor's throat was suddenly very dry, and the only thing he could think of was a Chinese proverb he'd learned in last month's lesson: May you live in interesting times.
He suddenly remembered his earlier thought about how last week's sleepwalker was the most exciting thing since he'd been here, and his next thought was be careful what you wish for. C'tor also remembered that, interestingly enough, every culture he'd encountered had an expression that translated to exactly that, warning about wishing. Any further thoughts were driven out of his head by the chirp-chirp of an incoming hail. Instead of the metallic chorus that C’tor had heard in vids of previous encounters, the voice of the Borg was something other than harmonious. This time, it was odd, almost.. fractured. Something was obviously different, but how different, C’tor couldn’t begin to imagine. Hesitantly, he pressed the control to engage the comm-channel.
We are the Borg. Lower your shields and power down your weapons. We require.. your assistance. We have come to negotiate.. peace...
It was gamma shift on Outpost 3312; graveyard shift, in old Earth slang. Lights throughout the outpost were dimmed, and the only people moving around were those assigned to gamma shift and those who couldn't sleep (Sickbay had three reported insomniacs on board). Oh, and last week there'd been a sleepwalker.
And that, thought Lieutenant C'tor (Andorian by birth, though he'd never seen his homeworld), was the most exciting thing to happen on this godsforsaken little tritanium tub in the two Standard years I've been here. He stood up and walked around the outpost's Operations center, affectionately known as 'the Closet' due to its small size and the fact that, like most closets, it was crammed with stuff. Consoles and display monitors, in this case, but still stuff.
The walk around the Closet took less than two minutes, and Lt. C'tor took exactly sixty-seven steps to accomplish his little tour. He'd counted. Several dozen times. The displays showed the space surrounding the outpost: the asteroid belt (97 rocks of various sizes, mostly iron and silicates), the Miller Nebula (which was pretty the first few times, but now, to C'tor anyway, resembled a certain stain on the mess hall rug), and the two ships attached to the outpost. The Defiant-class USS Nighthawk and Akira-class USS Augustus were on station, having recently returned from their patrol route.
Lt. C'tor thought about calling down to the mess hall to see if he could get a sandwich, but it was still early in his shift, so he decided to hold off on that for a while. Another tour around the Closet to examine the various monitors and readouts revealed nothing more than what they'd reported three minutes ago, so C'tor plopped down in front of one of the LCARS terminals and called up his post-Academy correspondence course program. C'tor had graduated with honors from Starfleet Academy, but there was always something more to learn, and the Academy offered post-graduate classes. These classes could be used as credit toward the next promotion, but more often than not were just taken to expand one's personal knowledge.
C'tor was boning up on ancient Earth history, in particular the Chinese. He found it interesting to compare and contrast the Chinese, specifically the dynastic period, to a similar time on Andoria. As the latest assigned reading scrolled across the screen, C'tor found his eyelids getting very heavy. Maybe a five-minute break, he thought, but just as he closed his eyes and took a deep, relaxing breath, every single alarm in the Closet went off. Loudly.
C'tor spun the chair to face the master display, where he saw the Nighthawk and the Augustus moving into defensive positions. He briefly wondered what for, but then the screen flickered at the energies of transwarp conduits -- lots of transwarp conduits -- opening near the asteroids. Space near the outpost was blackened by the arrival of, if the sensors read true, nearly two hundred Borg craft, mostly cubes but with several spheres and a few types never before encountered mixed in. C'tor's throat was suddenly very dry, and the only thing he could think of was a Chinese proverb he'd learned in last month's lesson: May you live in interesting times.
He suddenly remembered his earlier thought about how last week's sleepwalker was the most exciting thing since he'd been here, and his next thought was be careful what you wish for. C'tor also remembered that, interestingly enough, every culture he'd encountered had an expression that translated to exactly that, warning about wishing. Any further thoughts were driven out of his head by the chirp-chirp of an incoming hail. Instead of the metallic chorus that C’tor had heard in vids of previous encounters, the voice of the Borg was something other than harmonious. This time, it was odd, almost.. fractured. Something was obviously different, but how different, C’tor couldn’t begin to imagine. Hesitantly, he pressed the control to engage the comm-channel.
We are the Borg. Lower your shields and power down your weapons. We require.. your assistance. We have come to negotiate.. peace...
Very well written, and I appreciate the small details like the number of steps taken to circumnavigate the operations center and the nebula resembling a stain on the mess hall carpet.
). The Challenger will be either Pellucidar-, Godphoenix-, or Ryan-class, depending on a) which design I decide to go with, and b) my actually finishing the designs.
