Schemes, Plans, and Plots

Posted on Sat 9th Nov, 2019 @ 1:27pm by

1,219 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Resolution
Location: Oblivion
Timeline: MD 2, 0800

The star was dying. It had expended the hydrogen in its core, and about a million years ago, there had been a sudden, intense bright flash as it began fusing helium instead. Sometime in the next billion years or so, the energy of that fusion would overcome the gravity of the star's core, and its atmosphere -- helium, carbon, heavier elements -- would be flung outward to form a planetary nebula. That event would be catastrophic for anyone still living in the vicinity of the star, but since few of those life forms had lifespans long enough to expect the event to occur while they were concerned, they were, for the most part, unconcerned.

Adrian Dobbs had paused in front of a viewport to look out at the dying star. Intensely luminous, its surface was relatively cool, leading to the deep red color he observed. The viewport was in an outboard corridor, and the corridor, in turn, lay within the remains of a starship. From the outside, the ship appeared to be the primary hull of a Klingon-built D4 cruiser, its warp nacelles and command hull long gone, leaving compartments open to space. From an era before the Klingons had begun coloring their ships Romulan blood-green, the pale gray thermocoating was torn and scared, the ship's outer ablative armor scored by massive energy discharges, a testament to the battle record of the once-proud hulk.

The hulk's port airlock connected it to its neighbor, with organoceramic cables welded in place to hold it stable in its position. The neighbors believed that the ship belonged to a group of green-skinned, pig-faced bipeds. Some of the individuals who were glimpsed outside the hull had horns. Most had singularly impressive fangs. And none were in any way friendly. They called themselves Rog, though most who saw them called them Orks.

The Rog, however, lived only on decks four through seven, and only in the area between the remaining bow and the engineering pressure bulkhead. They did not know who owned the rest of the ship; nor did they much care. Sometimes, a package came to the airlock, and was left in the single functional turbolift to be whisked away to the phantoms beyond.

Dobbs was the chief phantom. Once, he'd been a Starfleet admiral. He'd believed in the ideals of the Federation; he still did. But his eyes had been opened. First the Borg, and then the Founders. Forces the conventional Starfleet approach could not overcome, could not defend against, could not even stand in the way of. Dobbs had realized that Orwell was right -- people, good Federation citizens, slept easy in their beds at night because rough men made hard choices to do violence on their behalf. Dobbs had resolved to become one of those who made the hard choices.

A Starfleet admiral is not without resources. He'd "lost" a section of the starbase he'd commanded, and set up a dirty tricks office there. He'd finagled a nearly-obsolete station in the middle of nowhere into a research base and recruited brilliant minds to come up with even dirtier tricks. Things forbidden by Federation law, or even good taste, were his goals. Some of the projects worked out. Some had... unexpected side effects.

That thought made Dobbs begin moving again, and he continued walking aft on deck nine. He passed through a pressure door into what had once been the cruiser's cargo bay, now retrofitted into a bleeding-edge scientific research center. Even now, publicly disgraced though he was, Dobbs had friends in the Federation; friends with deep pockets and a vested interest in keeping the Federation intact by whatever means might be necessary.

Doctor Aynohaex looked up and noticed Dobbs' approach. The Lamian relaxed her posture, lowering her eyes below Dobbs' in a gesture of respectful greeting. "Doctor," Dobbs greeted. He walked over and observed the transparisteel cylinder the snake-woman had been gazing into. "How is my favorite patient today?"

Aynohaex shook her head. "Still; no cause find we. Working is project -- as intended not."

Dobbs took a moment to parse the doctor's syntax, then nodded, letting no sign of his annoyance show on his face. One of the most brilliant minds in the galaxy, and the reptile couldn't learn to speak Federation Standard in a standard fashion? "Walk me through it," he instructed. "Step by step. Start at the beginning."

The Doctor made a hissing sound that Dobbs interpreted as a sigh. "Success was Project Skilled Epsilon. For other use converted biological brains. Efficient computers make biological brains. High through-put have they. Low energy consumption. Accidental was this discovery."

Dobbs nodded, remembering his work on Skilled Epsilon. He'd been trying to reproduce what the Borg did, but to do it in a controlled way, to let Federation troops engage the foe on an even footing, able to instantly adapt, improvise, and overcome. The accidental discovery that the linked brains of his test subjects were an extremely flexible and powerful computer system was... interesting. The discovery that such use burned out volition and individual thought, less so.

"This knowledge attempting to employ Project Purple Helium is. Trained is one soldier. Many bodies controlling one soldier. Lost is not experience when death takes body."

Dobbs nodded again. He'd come up with the idea when lamenting how much it cost to create a covert operative. He'd tried, with Project Permanent Albatross, to genetically create the perfect infiltrators and assassins, but the attempt had never come to fruition, and worse -- had cost him the Institute for Advanced Scientific Studies. He made a mental note to sponsor another group of salvors out that direction before too long.

Project Purple Helium, Dobbs refocused. He'd come up with an idea to create a master/slave network, with one trained operative operating numerous and disposable bodies. His advisers had advised that a strong emotional bond between master and slave would be a good idea for the initial experiment. He'd reached out to his backers, and they'd selected a married couple who had experience with covert operations. The wife was considered a better operator; the husband, he'd been told, was little more than muscle acting at the wife's direction, anyway, and had the added advantage of already having Betazed genes. The resulting psychic openness, he'd been assured, would help the bond.

And so, Victoria Briggs was brought to Oblivion. Dobbs looked at the translucent life-sustaining goo which filled the cylinder which housed her body. He could make out the outlines of her form, but no details. "But she didn't take him over," he observed. He waved a hand at the mass of machinery around the cylinder. "A billion credits in quantum-entanglement communications to keep the network link simultaneous, and she just... talks to him!"

"A few things have to try yet I," the Doctor answered.

Dobbs nodded. "Alright. But if we don't achieve possession of the meat by... call it a fortnight... I'm pulling the plug, and we'll move on to another test subject pair." He sighed and rubbed his brow. Another test subject pair meant... hmm. Perhaps he would simply let the Rog "recruit" a couple of vagrants for him. It would be simpler than getting another pair of Starfleet officers. Something to think on, anyway.

 

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