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The Return of the Borg
by Steve Anderson
SGAcreative.com
One
of the silliest things I've ever written.
Which is saying a lot.
Published in Star-Crossed
#1 under the pseudonym Timothy Gerard
(c) 1995-2005, Steve Anderson, Writer@SGAcreative.com
This
is a work of fan fiction, posted solely for entertainment
value, and is in no way intended to infringe
upon the intellectual
property rights of the creators of Star Trek: The Next Generation.
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Far out in the limitless reaches of space, five perfect cubes moved at unimaginable speeds,
rapidly approaching what the United Federation of Planets recognized as known space. Years ago, a ship
like theirs had been sent to assimilate the Federation, and somehow, it was unclear how, it had been
lost. Anomalies had been known to occur, of course, but when the ship sent to investigate also disappeared,
the problem began to be taken more seriously.
Now the deadliest of the Borg were here, fully
prepared to rip the entire quadrant apart planet by planet, leaving nothing but rocks and the subspace
signatures of antimatter explosions in their wake. Already, they had intercepted transmissions ordering
the Enterprise to this area. It would be a pleasure to reduce the flagship to its component atoms, and
for once, the pleasure was not irrelevant.
More immediately, however, another, much smaller,
ship was in the area, surely within sensor range and yet making no effort to flee. In fact, it was sending
a hailing message that sounded positively friendly.
Curious, the Borg opened a channel.
"WE HAVE ANALYZED YOUR DEFENSIVE CAPABILITIES AS UNABLE TO WITHSTAND US," they announced.
"Uh,
huh," came the reply.
The Borg tried again. "IF YOU DEFEND YOURSELVES, YOU WILL BE PUNISHED."
"We are strong."
Finally, something intelligible. "STRENGTH IS IRRELEVANT."
"We
look for things."
"YOU WILL BE ASSIMILATED."
"Things to make us strong."
"YOUR
CULTURE WILL ADAPT TO SERVICE US."
"We are far from home."
Somewhere, deep within the
Borg collective consciousness, frustration was born. "HOME IS IRRELEVANT. YOU ARE IRRELEVANT."
"We want to be irrelevant."
"YOU WILL BE ASSIMILATED."
"Uh, huh."
"YOU WILL
BECOME ONE WITH THE BORG." Deep within the collective mind, the question buzzed back and forth: what
possible benefit could there be in assimilating such dolts?
"We are Pakleds."
"YOUR CULTURE
IS INFERIOR."
"Our ship is the Mondor."
"YOUR SHIP WILL BE OBSOLETE IN THE NEW ORDER."
"We look for things. Things to make us strong."
Perhaps for the first time in their long
history, the Borg found themselves scrambling to make themselves understood. "WE LOOK FOR THINGS. THINGS
TO ASSIMILATE."
"Uh, huh."
"IF YOU RESIST US, YOU WILL BE PUNISHED."
"We are
strong."
Abuzz with confusion, the Borg scanned the Pakled ship again, and once again concluded
that there was no cause whatsoever for concern. "WE ARE INVINCIBLE. YOUR RESISTANCE IS HOPELESS."
"We are Pakleds."
"YOU WILL BE ASSIMILATED." Except that now, even more than before, the Borg
knew they wanted to have nothing to do with these people.
"We look for things."
"RESISTANCE
IS USELESS." A small voice, buried deep within the collective, mumbled something about Vogons, and was
silenced. Throughout the collective, the consensus seemed to be that assimilation would be a bad idea
and that even death would be too good for the Pakleds.
"Things to make us go."
The best
thing for the Borg, the collective decided, would be to go as far away from these annoying, aggravating
little twerps as possible. And the best possible revenge would be to leave them, and their quadrant,
exactly as it had been before: to force them to live out long lives as the dunces of the universe. Without
a word, the Borg broke contact and headed back out of the quadrant at the same astonishing speed with
which they had entered.
On board the Mondor, the Pakleds watched them go, then pondered their
continued survival. At last, they turned to each other.
"We are smart."
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