Operation Assimilation: Sole Survivor

Bajoran

Sole Survivor

The year 2371.

Running. Scared, out of breath, barely able to think, as she fled through the underbrush. Major Nel Lorenn of the Bajoran Militia ran witless through the jungle foliage of the unnamed planet on which she had found herself. The young Bajoran woman focused all her attention on trying not to trip on the vines, debris, and other unseen obstructions that littered the jungle floor. How had she ended up in this predicament? It had started out like any other off-world assignment, one of many transport runs she’d been assigned to help oversee in the two years since the end of the occupation and her joining up with the militia. Two weeks out of the Volnar colony, their unarmed transport ship, the Baykara had been attacked. The Borg sphere ship had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, its first volley devastating the unarmed transports minimal shielding. The crews attempt to evade the sphere had led them into the Kuiper belt of a nearby unmapped star system. A direct hit to the Baykara’s already strained engines had then sent the hapless ship spinning out of control, eventually causing it to crash land on the fifth planet. Most of the crew and passengers had died upon impact, the few survivors had been assimilated by their Borg pursuers. She tried to purge those memories from her mind, the bodies littering the decks, the screaming of the survivors as they were assimilated by the Borg. Quick thinking, sharp reflexes, and adrenaline had saved her, as she had managed to escape the broken wreck and flee into the jungle covering much of this part of the planet. Hearing footsteps and the rustling of foliage behind her she looked around quickly, hoping to not see a Borg drone in her peripheral vision. She wiped the sweat bead from her brow and scratched at her nose ridges. She had been running nonstop for nearly two hours, she knew she would have to stop eventually, if for no other reason than to find water. In her haste to extricate herself and flee the wreck she had only managed to grab a precious few items on her way out, namely a tricorder and a single pouch of emergency rations. Unfortunately she had not had time to find any water, the only emergency water she had been able to locate had been destroyed in the crash. Water sounded really good right now. Noting that the footsteps and rustling had disappeared she slowed her pace a bit in a feeble attempt to catch her breath. Peering up at the jungle canopy she could tell that the sun was fast going over, it would be night soon. Then she would have no choice but to rest and hopefully find water, lest she pass out from exhaustion and dehydration.

Two hours later. As the night shade deepened in the jungle Nel Lorenn sat huddled under a thick layer of undergrowth at the base of a stand of large trees. Looking down she saw that her slate grey militia uniform and boots were now caked with mud. Pulling out the tricorder she attempted to scan the immediate area both for shelter and for signs of her pursuers. She made sure to keep the scanning beam power low, lest the emissions give away her position to them. This resulted in a woefully incomplete picture of the area. What it did show was that this jungle went on for as far as the scanners range could discern. There were also what looked like caves to the southeast, but going in there she knew would be a mistake. They may provide shelter, but could also lead to her becoming trapped should the Borg decide to follow her in. Returning the tricorder to her belt she pulled out the ration pack and removed one nutrient cube. As she began nibbling on the cube she contemplated her next move. She knew she would have to stay awake, sleep would leave her unable to defend herself should the Borg pick up her trail. She weighed her options-such as they were: she could continue running through this jungle, for who knew how long, running towards who knew where. The planet as far as she could tell was uninhabited. She could go against her better judgement and make for the caves, but she suspected that would likely be folly as she would have no way of escape should the Borg track her there. Whatever she chose, she knew she would have to wait until light, as the darkness of night time in this jungle made seeing more than a few meters ahead unaided nearly impossible. Until then she needed to rest, to conserve her strength for the morrow. She began to meditate, reciting in her mind the names of the prophets in a little rhyme that she had been taught as a child by family friend, namely the former Kai of Bajor Opaka Sulan. During her days in the resistance she had actually taught the rhyme to her cell leader Adem Marasca. She remembered how much Adem had liked the rhyme, and how he had with her permission taught it to the rest of their cell as both a meditation technique and a means of proving their identities, should a spy potentially enter their midst. She wondered what Adem would think of her now, in her current predicament. “What would you do Marasca, do if you were here now, instead of me?”

She woke with a start. How long had she been asleep? Prophets! She had let herself fall asleep. She quickly looked around in the darkness, getting her bearings. Hearing footsteps and cybernetic sounds she quickly realized her worst fears: the Borg had caught up with her. She peered through the gaps in the leaves, looking for signs of movement. Seeing red lights from the Borg eyepieces she grimaced. They were closer that she had realized. She knew she had to move, and quickly. Borrowing a trick from her years fighting in the underground she looked around for the nearest object, a fallen piece of wood, something small enough to hold in her hand but large enough the make some noise when it landed. A half-rotted piece of what looked like driftwood-perfect. Studying the position of the lights for a moment she took aim with the piece of wood, and steadied herself. Then she flung it. As the chunk of wood landed she sprang from her cover and ran as fast as she could-though not as fast as she'd have liked-through the darkness. A poor distraction but it was better than nothing. In the darkness she struggled to not trip on the vines and debris littering the jungle floor. What next? She had always told herself during the occupation, during her days in the resistance that she would not be taken alive. It was like a mantra "Not taken alive. Better dead than captured." But this was different. These were Borg chasing her now, not Cardassians. Then she got an idea. As she ran she grabbed her battered phaser pistol from its holster on her hip and began playing with the settings knob. Hearing the footsteps behind her closing in she turned the knob all the way around to the highest setting. The footsteps now mere meters behind her and with her attention on the phaser she didn't see the tree root jutting out directly into her path until it was too late. Catching her foot under the root she tumbled face first into the vines and muck on the ground. Seeing the Borg approaching she realized what she had to do. Panting and breathing heavily she grabbed the phaser, which mercifully hadn't fallen too far away, jammed the knob in with her palm and squeezed the trigger. "May the Prophets forgive me." Gripping the weapon for all it was worth she didn't even have the energy left to resist when the cold hands of two Borg drones hauled her to her feet. Hearing the whine of the weapon she smiled inwardly. She felt the heat of the weapon in her hand, then cold metal on her neck, heard the sickening crunch of the assimilation tubules ripping thr-

The explosion was beyond deafening. The vine covered trees shook violently with the force of the explosion as a wave of searing white plasma engulfed Nel Lorenn, the four Borg drones, and everything within a four meter radius. She had kept her vow, not to be taken alive. In this case “Better dead that assimilated.” Adem Marasca would have probably been proud. Sadly he would never know. All that remained now on this nameless planet was a burnt crater deep in the jungle, and the shattered hulk of an old Bajoran cargo ship, the only signs to possibly tell future visitors what happened here.