Chapter Text
The Borg had invaded her ship. This time, she swore, would be different.
The last time had been on the other side of the galaxy, half a lifetime ago. The Borg had only just begun sending advance scouting missions into the outskirts of Federation space, and the USS Tombaugh had been among the first Starfleet vessels overrun by the invaders. Tirava was a junior officer, left in command by a quirk of fate, and had no idea what she was up against. But then, neither did the Borg; she was the first Andorian ever encountered by their collective consciousness. And so when she attempted to negotiate terms of surrender, they incorporated her distinctiveness to their own. She was mutilated and transformed into a cybernetic automaton, obedient to Borg culture and philosophy; her ship was raided and similarly plundered for anything relevant to their interests.
For the next twenty-three years, Tirava and any other "survivors" of the Tombaugh lived as soulless drones in the Delta Quadrant, where the heart of the Borg Collective was centered. She wasted her days performing menial tasks as a cog in the great machine that had enslaved her. And then one day her government finally came for her, and everyone else in the Alpha Quadrant who had ever been threatened by the Borg. Over the decades the Federation and its allies had developed new technologies to resist and overpower the Borg, and so they dispatched a vast armada to meet the enemy at its door. Tirava and thousands of other drones were captured, disconnected from the hive mind, and liberated from their living hell.
But it was revenge, not liberty, that Tirava needed. Starfleet's war plans did not include her--putting de-assimilated officers back on active duty was too great a security risk. And so she continued to waste her days, treated more like an enemy sleeper agent than an ex-prisoner of war, until she met a man who finally got her back into space. Back into combat. Back into trouble.
Tirava shut these thoughts out of her mind as she skulked through the dim corridors of the Albatross. Andorians were not known for their discipline or focus, but even they understood that their legendary fury could be a liability. Her hate was like a flame that was best kept hot enough to destroy her enemies, but not so hot as to consume herself. So she focused on the Borg, and what they had done to her. Better to linger on those old wounds than her history with Jake Kreighen.
As she reached a junction the glow around the corner began to flicker, and she stepped back. The enemy had evidently begun to restore power to this deck, in spite of the best efforts of the Albatross's skeleton crew to besiege them for three days. They had transported aboard during a Borg ambush, and had been stranded ever since their mothership was destroyed in the battle. Any other party of raiders would have had the sense to surrender, but the Borg didn't care; the survivors simply continued their mission for as long as it took Tirava and her shipmates to flush them out. This nest of drones, deep in the bowels of the ship, was the last to meet their fate with indifference.
Tirava looked back to her strike team and whispered her assessment of the situation. "They must have tapped into their own power reserves to activate the distribution nodes. There's no more time to plan this--we have to move in now, and hard."
In a sense she was talking to empty space. There were only four people--that is, purely organic people--aboard the Albatross, a captured Borg vessel designed to carry a crew of thousands. As such, the task of ferreting out the Borg stowaways would have been virtually impossible if not for their complement of holographic soldiers. Composed of little more than light and force fields animated by artificial intelligence, the "hollow men" were specifically designed to kill the Borg without offering them living flesh to injure or assimilate.
The very purpose of Sergeant Ajax's existence was to lead a squad of these holograms into battle so that people like Tirava would not have to. As such, he strongly disapproved of her role in this mission. "Lieutenant," he muttered, "I must strongly advise you to fall back. This will be easier for us without you."
"But not easier for me," Tirava snapped back. "End of discussion."
Ajax lowered his head, hardwired not to test the limits of his superiors. "At least go back and get a polaron rifle," he pleaded. Holding up his Orion cutlass, he added, "My men and I use melee weapons because they're easier to generate in a portable holomatrix, but you don't need to--"
Tirava considered the broad-bladed fist knife that she held clenched in her hand. "Yes I do, Ajax. Hologram or not, I don't go into a fight more heavily armed than my comrades." This was at best a half-truth. The traditional Andorian ushaan-tor had a symbolic purpose in her people's rite of vengeance. It was implausible to engage the entire Borg Collective, or even a single drone, in a ceremonial duel to the death, but she was resolved to come as close as possible.
Her blood simmered as she prepared herself to turn the corner and lead the attack. With her free hand she counted down the seconds for her troops, who could not experience the shortness of breath she now felt. Tirava pitied the hollow men--they were created to fight, but could never savor the glory. As she finished her countdown and stepped out into the corridor, she vowed to savor it tenfold on their behalf.