Aysul took a deep breath, his twin hearts beating a breakneck rhythm against his ribs as he watched the bar graph begin to plummet, sinking faster than a rock in the river Thelwall. His opponent, and all around sleezeball, Sy’mbal Tor had been leading by a large margin in the polls, in large part thanks to an extensive smear campaign paid for by several right wing aligned funders from the religious sector. The major faiths of his small home world held a tight grip on politics, their long divine tentacles jangling loudly with golden rings and bangles as they reached into local elections, national senates and even into the recently formed international federation. They spoke of divine mandates, of a unity that will lift each being to perfection. ‘The gods wish only the best for us’ they preached at the nightly sermons, ‘why question their instructions?’ Tor was the favourite to win, he screeched from his alabaster podium, rattling a crusader rhetoric against the rebel states to the south, who decried the gods and whispered the heresy of choice. He had quickly captured the minds of many people along the arable farming belt who suffered greatly following a series of devastating cyclones, they were turning out in droves for this man who said the gods were waiting to help us. 

This morning a recording of Tor had reached several major news networks simultaneously, anonymously dropped into post boxes by a small army of well-paid interns. It had been a small county radio show that had make the first shock headline. Sy’mbal Tor, blessed candidate of the gods had been recorded claiming that the deities that had patronised his campaign so thoroughly, did not exist and furthermore his now assured victory was thanks to the illiterate ground shovelers of the farming territories. Opinions of Tor plummeted, almost as quickly as his political capital. Aysul’s heart still beating rapidly in his chest, he wet his thin lips with a pass from both his tongues, now was his opportunity. Regardless of the truth of the recording it had the desired effect, Aysul was now the uncontested leader of the race, his investors in the south would be exceptionally happy. 

As he reached his tentacle to his artificially dyed hair, sweeping it back into it’s carefully curated quaff, the viewscreens fell silent as the footage of Tor transitioned to a breaking news banner. The young woman on screen looked pale, her skin turning a blotchy mosaic of spots, a common and particularly embarrassing stress response amongst her people. Leaning forward into the screen attempting to hear the nervous news anchor better Aysul felt his ears bleed as a chorus of voices emanated from the squakbox, “WE ARE THE BORG, RESISTANCE IN FUTILE.”

Samhara stumbled slightly as she picked her way through the precarious river path, the slick rocks providing little friction against her bare, soft skinned feet. The rushing river cascaded through the small stones that formed the crossing, creating swirling rapids that flash upped against the glorified pebbles. Each miniature tsunami coating the rocks in chilly, saltwater waves. Taking a deep breath the anthropologist took the next step across the miniature valley and onto the large stone at the centre of the crossing; her balance returning in the safety of the wide sanctuary, she looked ahead to see the rest of her team waiting on the far bank. 

“Everything okay Samhara?” shouted the neophyte research assistant, his short translucent arms reaching pointlessly to shade his eyes as he assessed the aging professor. Barely old enough to register for his state ID, he was the nephew of the university’s dean and as such had been graced with a place on her research team. The boy was not entirely hopeless as a scientist, he possessed a keen eye and an intuitive understanding of his subjects psychological state but he was over-eager and too sure of himself. He continued to call the doctor by her chosen name, having seen his uncle do the same in several meetings. His uncle, a respected doctor & scientist himself, had earned the privilege after decades of collaboration and academic rivalry, the young man had not. Unfortunately, that fact was entirely lost on the amateur explorer. “Do you need assistance Professor?”

With a short sigh Samhara adjusted the strap holding the satchel at her waist. “No thankyou Neryn, just taking a breath before the next jump.” A tilt of the head signalled his acknowledgement and a short grace period before he would ask once again. He was well intentioned but seemed perpetually blessed by the unfocused energy of youth.

“He’s only asking because you’re old.” She whispered admonishingly as she lent down to re-roll the hem of her light shorts. At her feet a pool of green liquid had formed, edging out in a bright river from beneath her feet as it snaked towards the edge of the rock. It moved nimbly across the smooth dark surface as it slipped silently across the gulley of the eroded rock face, seeking the simplest route to join the rushing river at the base of the stone. Like the veins of a leaf it branched and accelerated, the pigmented blood thinning as it blurred into the minute salty reservoirs left behind by the perpetual waves. Kneeling down to wipe it away she found a deep cut along the side of her foot, turned slowly opaque with age and clotted blood she couldn’t see how deep the was. “Foolish woman” she hissed as she pressed against the skin, gauging its severity.

“Neryn!” she called, her focus still on the long, thin penetration. “Ready the med-kit please. Nothing urgent just a small cut.” For a long moment she waited, expecting the young academic to rush to her aid or at the very least respond to her. A full minute passed whilst she probed the bleeding wound before she looked back up to the crew on the far shore, their mouth aghast as they stared past her to the horizon. 

As a chill spread through her bent spine she watched the shadow creep across the river surface, swallowing the miniature waterfalls in sequence as it edged inexorably towards the far bank. Swallowing the lump in her throat and settling the strap of her satchel back across her chest she turned to face the looming, sinister globe, a dark moon rolling in to eclipse the distant, shining twin suns. 

Sheltered in the heart of Daedalus, protected by layers of armour and duratanium bulkheads lay Rana Sisrex, her body prone on a biobed, as Oyvo slowly stroked the Betazoid’s curled raven hair. Around her an array of consoles and diagnostic screens slowly pulsed in contrapuntal rhythm, silent sentinels of the senior scientist’s bodily functions. The young Xindi Lieutenant watched the screens hawk-like.

“Do you understand any of it?” a voice asked across the dim sickbay. 

“I’m more familiar with the heart beats of warp engines and the neural activity of computer cores.” Oyvo’s focus did not waver from the pulsing screens overhead.

“Between you and me, it’s not entirely dissimilar.” The figure of Doctor Malax came into view, clad in his colourful civilian robes, he stood at the bedside akin to a grandfatherly uncle, his hands resting on his ample belly. “Though don’t tell Nurse Allerton, she likes to maintain her witchy mystique.” Daedalus’ chief nurse and Malax’s right hand woman was a master of herbal remedies and traditional medicines from across the galaxy, rumour had it she had even spent time with a mysterious Breen shaman. 

Gesturing to the screen he began to explain the displays of sinus rhythm in the woman’s heart, the regular respiratory rate and excellent blood oxygenation. “Here is the unusual part Lieutenant.” He motioned to the waves on the top most screen, they undulated wildly across the screen, darting back and forth in irregular patterns. “Her telepathic centres are fluctuating wildly, we’d normally only see this level of activity in particularly experienced Betazoid matriarchs.” 

“But she wasn’t doing anything telepathic, she was just on the bridge scanning the Borg ship that came out of nowhere and then next thing we knew she was on the deck.” Oyvo’s voice shook as she relived the moment her friend had fallen with a crash to the floor, amidst an already fraught situation her sudden loss of consciousness had almost pushed the crew into panic. 

“The Borg hive mind is a complicated thing, perhaps the two are connected?” Seeing Oyvo’s eyes widen in worry he quickly added a hurried addendum. “Or they may not be connected at all, we still know very little about the hivemind.” A tense silence hovered between the two as the barely audible breathing of Rana floated across the empty sickbay. 

A sharp chirp interrupted the awkward hovering. “Thank Kahless.” Malax whispered as he nodded to the lieutenant and backed away to his office. 

“Dil to Oyvo.” 

Clearing her throat, she tapped the delta on her shirt. “Go ahead Commander.”

“The Captain has approved the mission over to the sphere. We’re departing from the shuttle bay in 30 minutes.”

“Yes sir. I’m en-route.”

In a shadowed corner of the Borg sphere, two more regeneration chambers dimmed, murky green lights fading to black as their occupant’s final vital signs sedately ceased. Slowly, the small crowd of witnesses diminished, each mourner stepping away to continue their own duties and dreams until two figures were left, holding a final vigil for the departed compatriots. Wiping away a tear from his eye, gathered at the base of his ocular implant the tall man turned to his fellow witness, “Greetings Rana Sisrex, I’m glad you are able to join us. It is fitting that we have a witness for the last days of Unimatrix Zero.”