LT Noel's Log from the Borg Moon (Fall '98 Paintball)

MEDICAL OFFICER'S LOG

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We are the Borg.

We will add your technological and biological distinctiveness to our
own.

Prepare to be assimilated.

Resistance is futile.

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BEGIN LOG:

LT(jg) Noel, USS Tempest reporting,

There were five of them. They inched forward through the underbrush, their eyes furtively darting left and right, scanning for enemy 'troops'. There was a possibility that the group had already been seen, but no sign of acknowledgement was given regarding their presence. Yet.

Each person, Federation or Klingon, lingered in their scan upon the party of borg that stood just 50 or 60 feet away. Each attempting to discern the purpose of the borg teams' presence. It was not completely clear, but it seemed that this might be a repair site for borg that had become damaged in battle. The medic accompanying the soldiers moved closer, cautiously curious. It seemed he felt safe at almost any proximity, even standing behind the next to last tree before the clearing the borg were working in.

The medic was looking at the borg, trying to discern details of their repairment, when a phaser went off behind him. He glanced behind, worried they had been boxed in; but realized that it was a misfire.

It irked him that this strange, sparse atmosphere had elements in it that interfered with phasers. The problem had been occurring since they had arrived here; never mind the way it attacked the faceplates of the masks they had to wear to breathe. The atmosphere was causing condensation on the inside at an incredible rate, and seemed to be slowly eating its way through from the outside. He was grateful that it was only corrosive to the faceplates and not organis skin, or everyone would have had to don complete environment suits. He was also grateful that the atmosphere also had an effect of leeching energy out of phaser blasts, thus increasing the possibility of surviving one.

He turned back to the borg group to resume his spying, when phaser fire flew past his vision. He followed it with his vision, mostly out of reflex, partly out of duty to the wounded, and saw the rest of his team drop in place to return fire. More fire flew past his vision as he turned his head toward the borg again. What he saw nearly unnerved him.

Roughly seven or eight borg had responded to the misfire, advancing directly toward the the previously hidden soldiers position at an almost run. A thought ran through the medic's head, "They can't move that quickly! They can only walk like their legs are tied together with two feet of rope!" Immediately followed by another thought, "Don't be stupid! When we re-captured our assimilated marines there were more implants in the movement sections than before!"

At this point the realization that he was being shot at again got the better of his curiousity and he started firing back. The resultant eruption of phaser energy at him could have put a Klingon on the ground, at least. A quick glance behind him assured him that:

1. Yes, he was definitely the closest person to the borg, by fifteen or twenty feet at this point.
2. That distance was increasing as the rest of his group was falling back under the onslaught of phaser bolts scorching the ground.
3. There was a definite lack of any partially serviceable cover... for quite a distance.

So, he turned and ran.

Unlike his groupmates, he didn't slow to lay down any suppression fire behind him. He couldn't. As he was running the fire was passing so close to him as to singe his field fatiques and heat the air around him. The latter caused the faceplate of the mask to condense up again, so he didn't see the bush in his way until he ran straight into it at full speed.

The force and angle of the impact tore his mask and field helmet from his face, but the straps had held to him, assuring he could not lose either of them. He continued to run full tilt, holding his mask tightly to his face while using a finger of his rifle hand to find and press the anti-contamination controls. As he pressed those buttons his rifle got caught in another bush to his right, tearing it from his hand and ejecting the power cartridge from the top of it. Both hands now free, he used them to affix his mask while using his legs to turn and dive onto the pieces of his rifle.

As he looked out the slanted mask, he got it servicably on but not perfect, he snatched up the pieces of his rifle and tried to push them together. Not being predisposed toward the engineering or scientific areas, it was difficult for him to pick up the the tiny amount he that had from observation and short remarks. Luckily, what he had did not desert him in his desperate time of need. He began standing up to continue running as he remembered the marines talking about reloading and the technique to reattach the power cell quickly, Jam and Twist - Hard.

Ducking behind the almost laughable small cover, he looked for his teammates and found two of them retreating far to his left while a third lay on the ground further away from the borg. At a dead run, he somehow crossed the space before theborg could get a good aim on him. He dropped down next to the Klingon General, examining the stunned body, looking for the blast marks.

"Amazing!" He thought. "How this race achieved space travel while evolution was forced to give them this much endurance just to survive is staggering sometimes." He knew the Klingon's were an extremely intense race; they did everything full force. Their general attitude was never let up, never stop short, never go down. He figured that a race that was that intense would eventually build up a pressure in a closed space, like a single planet, until it exploded out into the stars like a warp core pushed so far the fields fail. Having thrown the woundcleaner on and slapped the auto-bandages in place he pulled out a hypospray to revive the General.

"Oh, Good! They didn't get me. Good work medic. Where are they?" he asked. "Right over thataway, and closing. Be careful, you need a doctor..."

At that moment, while the General was standing up, they both came into view of the advancing borg. It only took a moment, but the General was shot several more times and dropped like a de-feathered phrotho. The medic tried to pick him up to carry him, but a medic carrying a Klingon is not a usual sight. Under fire, and with a General that is quite a bit larger that a run-of-the-mill Klingon, there was no hope. However, the crucial escape seconds had already been spent and the medic's lungs stopped straining against the mask filter when he dropped to the ground, stunned in the back. As he left consciousness, he was puzzled. He could have been sure that he heard, from somewhere, the words,

"Heeeeeere human human human... Heeeeeere human human human..."

LOG ENDS

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The Collective would like to extend it's gratitude for the efficient
and orderly manner in which you surrendered your Quadrant.

Prepare to be assimilated, and have a nice day.

Hugs 'n Kisses,

100101011001101 of 1000000000000000.

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