Three of Ten – One

My designation is Three of Ten.

I no longer know who I am anymore.

I am Borg. At least, I was Borg. I was recovered by the U.S.S. Mariposa in the Errikang system 16 years ago, around the same time as the destruction of Starfleet’s flagship – the U.S.S. Enterprise-E, I believe. I spent several months aboard the Mariposa, slowly cutting my link with the Borg Collective and returning me to my original state, or helping me ‘rediscover my humanity’ as the crew were insistent on calling the process. I became more and more human with each passing day, but I never reached full ‘recovery’: sensory output modules are still a part of me, implants remain under my skin and nanobots remain coursing through my bloodstream. I may no longer be Borg, but I will also never be completely human.

The most inconvenient aspect about this whole episode is my failing memory. I remember nothing of my life before I was assimilated – no family, no home, nothing.  As a drone, I was one of many, with millions of voices flowing through my head: when they were suddenly stopped, the silence in my head was deafening, the quiet piercing, the noiselessness screaming through my skull.  But after a while, the absence of sound quietened and I forgot all my experiences of being part of the Borg collective as well. I have no past, no present and most certainly no future. I have no home to return to, no family to surprise my arrival with, no duty to continue to upkeep. I conversed with a former drone once who had had a similar experience to me – her original name was Annika, I believe-  but even I do not have the luxury of a former human designation to investigate. I used to be one of many. Now I am one.

I am alone.

After the officers aboard the Mariposa were satisfied with my ‘recovery’, they dumped me at Earth Space Dock, where I was left to become somebody else’s problem. I ventured around the Alpha Quadrant, looking for anything to input meaning into my existence. I gained passage on shuttles to Vulcan to attempt to concentrate and repair my damaged psyche; to Khronos to hone my skills as a warrior; to Quark’s on Deep Space 9 to gamble my problems away. Nothing succeeded in giving my life meaning.

The thought that permeated my mind the most was to search for meaning in the vast void of the galaxy far beyond that of the Alpha Quadrant. I needed something, anything, that would give my remaining lifespan purpose. I returned to Starbase 1 and applied for entrance to the Academy, where I was begrudgingly accepted under review by a jury of Admirals. They had a right to be wary: I was Borg, after all – I had the propensity to assimilate them all at any time, or so they believed.

I was a model pupil at the Academy, excelling in every class I undertook: the assimilation of billions of individuals helped when it came to remembering facts and procedures, and my neural implants made sure I did not forget any new knowledge that  I gained. Despite my academic success, however, I was treated with scorn by the vast majority of my fellow classmates due to my forgotten history. I was regularly subjected to torment, to accusations that I was a Borg spy sent to infiltrate and destroy Starfleet and to other childish behavioural rituals. I struck fear into the hearts of my room mates, to the point where I was assigned accommodation of my own. Their feelings toward me were irrelevant, however: I was there for my own ends and none of these people were necessary for my plans to find a place for myself among the stars.

In their defence, there were a few students and professors that treated me with the same respect as they gave their peers, but I could still see them being wary of my former nature. Time can pass and attitudes can change, but the fear, hate and prejudice people can feel never really leaves.

Which was the thought that lingered on my mind as I stared at myself in the mirror, in my quarters aboard the U.S.S. Kicking Horse, my first assignment as a Starfleet Ensign.

I gazed at the infrared beam emitted by my ocular implant as it refracted into my silver, lifeless eyes, the light being consumed by a cloud of reflective greyness, analogous to the fact that I perceive most of the world in the red colour spectrum. I focused on the areas where the wiring to my implants entered my grey skin, bypassing the elevated veins, which occasionally throb with pain, to enter straight into my brain. I did not mind my appearance: I had come to terms with how I looked to others many years ago. It was the others that would have to become accustomed to me.

I continued to contemplate my condition when suddenly the ship jolted, the red alert siren blared throughout the ship and all senior officers were called to the bridge immediately. I turned to look at the red light flashing in my room, grabbed my combadge, left my quarters and proceeded to the turbolift…