Reboot, part 1

Posted on Sat Dec 22nd, 2012 @ 11:17am by Lieutenant Three of Seven
Edited on on Sat Dec 22nd, 2012 @ 12:16pm

Mission: Funzone
Location: USS Arizona
Timeline: 1 week before mission start...

There had been a time when Three hadn't had a care in the world. No distracting thoughts, no concerns, no fears...

"Deuterium tank rupture has flooded compartments twenty through twenty-two," the drone reported succinctly, elevating its - his - synthesized voice in order to be heard over the resonating bell of the ship's red alert. As a logical mind, Three had already calculated the probabilities regarding the safety and well-being of the damage control teams that had already been working in those sections for other reasons. Dungeon Master was down there, leading the primary repair party. That fact gave the drone as much peace of mind as it did heightened anxiety. He trusted Dungeon Master to organize his team appropriate to the operational risk environment; however, on a more personal note, the fact that it was Dungeon Master in danger made Three pause for a nanosecond to contemplate the fact that he was concerned of this one beings safety over others. It was not a Borg trait.

The notional perspective of its - his - developing humanity was summarily filed away for processing and analysis during the drone's next regeneration cycle. Resuming attention on the reactor in front of him, the diminutive automaton reassessed the critical systems in order to determine the logical starting point on the growing list of damage control items. "Matter stream pressure has fallen by thirty percent. Please adjust output on port deuterium injectors to compensa..."

An explosion of whitish smoke to the right of the warp core, and the introduction of an acrid taint in the air, was notice of a more pressing emergency. "This environment is no longer safe for organic beings," Three announced, even before the evacuation alarms began to blare around the engineering bay. "Please evacuate main engineering immediately," the drone added, putting verbal command to the loud, auditory warning, even as the Borg did not move from its post at the 'pool table.'

With mechanical precision, the drone worked in an expedited fashion at the task of re-routing the remote systems that were off-line, necessitating manual labors in an increasingly inhumane environment throughout the ship. Emergency medical services were buzzing over the comm, those personnel stretched as thin as were Three's engineering teams.

The manual operation of the warp core was not one that Three would step away from however. And could only be performed from this room, now filling with plasma coolant from the ruptured tank that Three could not spare time to repair.

In the peripheral of his artificial vision, the drone was aware of an approaching humanoid in a environmental hazard suit. "Was my verbal communication in some way unclear?" the ageless Borg inquired simply.

"You're welcome," Ranger replied glibly, demonstrating all the traits that Three had come to associate with the petty officer's father. The younger Frost took up the post on the other side of the pool table from where the drone was laboring, the petty officer bringing up an increasingly red master systems display. "We've got a main line rupture of the EPS grid. Plasma fires are burning straight through the decks."

Minimizing the reactor controls for a moment, Three called up a highlighted display of the failing power backbone throughout the ship. "Primary source of the fire appears to be the primary plasma manifold on Deck Nineteen," the drone remarked, as the computer simulation focused in on that part of the display.

"Remote systems are non-functional in that section," Three added, now calculating possible variables for a damage control team to respond. Even with hazard suits, the heat stress would overwhelm a humanoid team in less than one minute. Venting the section to space would not extinguish the fire so long as the manifold value was open, and would, in fact, exacerbate the ship's power systems failure. "I will manually close the system," the drone stated finally, shifting reactor control over to Ranger's side of the table.

"Are you NUTS!?" the petty officer barked. "That fire's hot enough to melt solid duranium. You'll melt down before you get there!"

"You are incorrect," Three stated in a conversational tone. "I will be capable of continuing to operate for three-point-seven minutes before my physical integrity fails. In that time, I should be able to secure the EPS manifold valve, after which you should blow the seal on the airlocks on Decks Nineteen and Twenty-One to extinguish the remaining threat to the vessel."

"That's not a lot of time to get in and get out."

Inclining it's - his - bald head, the drone regarded the statement for a moment as being related to the concern it - he'd - felt earlier. "You assume that such is my plan," Three remarked candidly, pulling open the front of his uniform in order to access the memory port toward the center of it's chest area. Drawing out an isolinear rod, the Borg handed the item out toward the engineer. "Should Starfleet decide to convene a court of inquiry concerning the captain's actions, this will be a relevant matter before the tribunal in the absence of my personal testimony."

Ranger reached out, hesitating before finally taking it from the Borg's hands.

"Please deliver it directly to Admiral Cowell, with my regrets," Three stated finally, letting go of the isolinear piece and stepping away from the table, making for the access ladder that would take him into the Jeffries Tubes.

And a slow crawl into hell.

Deck Eighteen, synthetic flesh began to melt like wax over the hard exoskeleton.

Deck Nineteen, the drone's flame retardant uniform ignited.

By the time he'd reached the glowing red pressure door that would open the way to Deck Twenty, the Starfleet communicator badge had melted down against his shining metal frame. Rivets of gold and silver now accenting the unpolished alloy that was his body.

T-0:03:45

The clock started as the drone pried open the portal down into the swirling hot pool of ignited plasma, Three's body already taking a glow as the drone dropped onto the warping corridors of the burning ship. Waves of highly charged particles slammed into the Borg as he staggered forward, seconds counting down, one step at a time, toward the valve he would have to shut in order to save the ship before the fire could burn straight down into the anti-matter storage.

Now seemed an appropriate time to reflect and analyze the human quirk that it - he'd - demonstrated before. Why was he here? Was this the most logical course to have taken?

In any other circumstance, Three would have answered that he was here for the Collective. That logic dictated the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few, or the one.

Dungeon Master, Damage Control Specialist First Class Damon Jarick, would not be returning to duty. None of the engineering teams that Three had sent below Deck Seventeen would. The environmental conditions exceeded the capability of hazard suits and damage control lockers to contain adequately in order to safeguard organic lifeforms.

Three had known that when he'd ordered them down here, even if he'd wanted to dispute the statistics and probabilities with himself.

It was the nature of drones to sacrifice themselves for the Collective.

But Petty Officer Jarick had not been a drone, he had been a person.

And Three of Seven, primary processor for Probe Twelve-J, was not a drone. Nathan Cowell had convinced him of that much.

Nor was the Arizona a Collective. It was home. It was family.

T-0:01:05

The android hand pushed with all its mechanical might against the force of heat and energy radiating from out of the breached manifold, the metal fingers beginning to twist into glowing hot slag even as Three pressed his arm into the stream of live plasma to feel for the internal valve.

He would cease to exist in less than sixty seconds.

He twisted the valve, the pressure releasing as the stream of fire was cut off at its source.

Thirty seconds.

Collapsing on the deck, its motor servos surrendering to the heat fatigue now dissolving the internal circuits, the drone collapsed onto the deck. Accessing it's internal memory, the drone searched for its earliest memories.

At the end, Three wanted to try and recall what it was to have been alive. If only for a moment...

The sudden decompression of the ship lifted the drone up from the deck, the pull of vacuum sucking the Borg out into space even as its consciousness faded.

Three could remember a Kazon ship. Of running. Of playing.

Three could remember laughter.

And the sound of silence.