Continuum, Chapter 2
Most of the girl’s things are now in base storage, in boxes. She doesn’t wear them anymore. What’s mostly in her closet and dresser, are the things that Babb has picked out and purchased for her. The same severe frumpy unattractive things that severe frumpy unattractive Judith wears. And, when Lucy wears them, she’s just as severe, frumpy, and unattractive as Babb is—i.e., things that make her look just as sexually repressed as Babb always does—couture, a hairdo, and eyeglasses that render her unrecognizable to even close friends and family.
Her make-up got tossed, also. She either wears Babb’s flavor of makeup [i.e., Bolshoi-bare] or she wears no makeup at all, like she’s doing right now. But. There’s a twist, to that. In addition to using Bolshoi-bare, which is conventional makeup and therefore removable.
There’s the “natural”, so-called permanent makeup that comes with being Borg. Resulting in … Dark cosmetically-perfect eyebrows. Black eyelashes, that look like they have been thickened by mascara. The need for eyeliner and eyeshadow negated by the pigmentation of the eyelids.
So, technically, she’s always wearing makeup. No need for manicure, pedicure, fingernail polish, or toenail polish, either.
To reiterate. No eyeliner, eye shadow, or mascara. Yet her complexional affections imply such cosmetic trickery of a painted lady. Chocolate brown eyebrows that are perfectly arched. Long, thick, black eyelashes. Blood-red fingernails and toenails; shiny, wet-look glossy, as if they have been dipped in fresh blood.
These days, in the looks department, Lucy is harder looking, still pretty, more severe looking, and she’s looking increasingly sexually repressed—à la a bitter forty-year-old divorcee who’s been road hard and put up wet one time too many.
Since her rewrite, Lucy doesn’t sleep anymore, at least not the human version of sleep where you are unconscious and helpless, and you dream randomly.
She still dreams, though. Most of the time, she doesn’t, and, instead, she gets downloads from either her coven or The Collective. But. When she does dream. It’s always the same dream. Or more precisely. As if Lucy is peeling the seemingly endless layers of a metaphysical onion. It’s a dream consisting of dreams within dreams within dreams, ad infinitum.
In the dream …
In place of her bed, a Borg alcove of a drone stands in a previously-unused corner of her onsite quarters. She occupies the alcove during her assigned sleep cycle. While “asleep” in the alcove, Lucy looks unconscious and helpless, but she isn’t.
The same figure always comes to her in her “dream”. She never remembers what they discuss in this initial part of her dream, when she “wakes up”. But, she does remember that it’s sexually depraved in nature and extremely graphic in content.
Her visitor is an automaton in the form of an adult human female who looks like a buxom version of the Borg Queen that actress Alice Krige portrayed in the Star Trek movie “First Contact”.
This Borg Queen, during the course of their amorous conversation, always removes its black exoskeleton, a latex Kevlar unitard [with seamlessly attached gloves and boots]—body armor that feels disturbingly like human flesh and fits its body like a second skin. When The Queen wears its Borg EXO, it’s as if it were dipped in black liquid rubber. A telling reason why Borg EXO is colloquially known as “ebony”.
The automaton is anatomically-correct, of course. Possessing the genitalia of an adult female human being.
Of course. The Queen’s skin pigmentation is gray and mottled with visible dark tracks. A result of rampant Borg nanomachine (nanite) infestation. Colloquially, Borg nanomachines are known as “worms”.
The scene shifts. Such is the nature of dreams.
She is now with a different Queen.
As Lucy is talking to her boyfriend Nick she suddenly sees this “different” Borg Queen standing behind Nick. It’s as if she’s having a waking dream. The fully-clothed Queen indicates [by gesture] that Lucy is not to acknowledge its presence.
She is aware of, or rather, she has this very strong feeling that other humans are watching her, and they are taking careful notes.
Then, just like that, Lucy is having an out of body experience. She is naked in drone mode in a room, a dimly-lit cybernetic chamber lined with Borg drone alcoves. At the center of the room is the alcove of a Borg Queen.
In this room she is the Queen’s drone and she is always naked in drone mode, pallor [complexion] and Brünnhilde [hairdo].
In this room, she is always strapping a flesh-colored dildo harness and dildo—i.e., Doll Parts. The prosthetic dildo consists of an uncircumcised penis and testicles. The penis is capable of erection and ejaculation. The strap-on allows full access to her anus and her female genitals, rendering her, in effect, a she-male who can be ass fucked.
The Queen, now naked, is suddenly standing in front of her. Naked and wanton. And, of course, it goes without saying, strapping its Parts too.
Unlike in the Star Trek mythology, a Borg Queen does not start off as a female human being who has been gutted. Its organic “components” are grown in a vat in a lab. From head to toe, synthetic. In other words, a totally artificial person—i.e., its organic and prosthetic components are manufactured.
A Queen is an avatar, the mobile extension of an AI. The robot’s brain is positronic.
This avatar has a name. And at this point in the dream, it reveals its name, designation, and all of its coveted nature to the girl.
This Borg Queen calls itself Alice, Alice Wonderland. Its Borg designation is One. And. It is like no other Borg Queen who has come before it, in temperament and in manufacture. At the base of Alice’s skull, something that’s not supposed to exist. An Epson sphere, perfect and seamless, with a Blink Drive core.
Another jump in continuity. The scene shifts, again.
She is now back with the Queen from the first “part” of the dream—i.e., the so-called “first” dream in this recursive series of dreams, a dream that folds in upon itself.
This Queen and the previous Queen have identical tastes when it comes to what they consider attractive in women.
In the “real” world. For Babb’s pleasure. Lucy’s long silky yellow blonde hair is worn yanked back and down into a small tight bun resting on the nape of her neck—a sternka, that severe, very unbecoming hairdo.
But. Here. For the express pleasure of her queen, the Queen. Lucy’s flaxen hair is yanked back and down, and its long golden tresses are braided, in the style of a Viking warrior queen, into a long ponytail which snakes down the girl’s back.
The Queen obviously craves the girl’s Brünnhilde [hairdo] so much as witnessed by its erection and its fixation upon this severe, becoming, traditional Nordic hairdo.
The Queen strokes the girl’s knobb and left cheek, covetously—there’s nothing gentle or loving about the gesture—a sick, twisted expression of the Queen’s definition of what’s romantic.
Here. In this “special” place, alone with her queen, The Borg Queen. The girl has a very pale, very white complexion. Not the chalky, pallid complexion of an entombed corpse. It is a flawless porcelain-white complexion. Pallor.
And with it [i.e., pallor], is its steadfast companion, the expected tortured face. A face that wears a perpetual scowl. A look that’s best described as “haughty, mixed with a little bit of rage.” Yet, is otherwise lacking in emotion. In a word, stiff.
Here. Hand-in-glove with her pallor. The girl sports a tortured face. A face that does not look like it’s been ravaged by insanity, unchecked sexual depravity, and chronic drug addiction. A face that is a vision of Borg loveliness, per Borg specifications, of course. Borg beautification at work.
Here. In this “special” place, alone with her queen. Her eyes become bloodshot as the blood vessels of her eyes dilate. Her pupils constrict. Her irises disappear. And her eyeballs turn light grey. Greys.
Here. Her knobb itches and burns, and the flesh around the Borg implant feels like it is crawling. An inflamed knobb.
Here. Her teeth are too large and very white, with receded gums, and they are pointed and straight. A razorblade smile.
Here. Her tongue is too facile and inhumanly long, and, when she’s not talking, it whips about in her mouth like a snake with a mind of its own. A tongue that is a bloodlusting, self-sustaining organ—i.e., in essence, a lingual leech. A killer tongue that can shoot from her mouth, morphing into a long retractile proboscis, when it needs to feed.
Thus a drone’s killer tongue stands in the place of a Queen’s assimilation tubules. Tubules that shoot from a Queen’s mouth when they need to feed.
A drone’s killer tongue and a Queen’s tubules are capable of extending for up to six feet from the host’s mouth. Usually, shooting forth to latch onto a prey’s throat or thigh.
Here. Her big, ugly mouth is reshaped and stretched inhumanly wide, and her thin, ruby red lips become lime green. The resulting grotesque mouth now looks like it belongs on the face of The Joker from the Batman mythology of DC Comics. A joker’s mouth.
The tortured face, the knobb, the klaw, the razorblade smile, the killer tongue, the joker’s mouth, the greys, the pallor, are all expressions of Borg beauty.
The tortured face, the knobb, the klaw, the razorblade smile, the killer tongue, the joker’s mouth, the greys, the pallor. All combined. They make her look like a biological “posing” as a biomechanical.
In exception to her otherwise flawless expression of Borg beauty and beautification. Her pallor is not the grey motley pigmentation of a Queen, a grey motley pigmentation that betrays a Queen’s rampant Borg nanoprobe infestation. But, pallor still is an expression of that infestation, nonetheless—i.e., a drone’s expression of said infestation. Hence her pallor acts as a consolation prize for the Queen.
Here. In this “special” place, alone with her queen. She has an enlarged pineal gland that threatens to displace her frontal lobes. The enlarged pineal gives her so-called “second sight”. According to the Occult, that should allow her to futurecast.
“Seven, as I previously instructed you to do, you have told them [the humans] of our encounters in your dreams. You will do the same concerning this one.”
“Yes, my queen.”
Unlike her possessive queen’s creepy emotion-charged voice, the girl’s voice is cold, flat, and emotionless. Her queen’s voice is that of a covetous lesbian pervert. Hers is the voice of a talking two-legged calculator in a shapely female form. Which is as it should be with them being Borg, and it being a Queen and her being a drone in drone mode.
“From now on you will remember the content of our conversations, conversations during which you will from now on also be interfacing with us.” Voices fill Lucy’s head, voices that range from a low steady murmur to a deafening cacophony—it’s the chorus of biological and machine minds that belong to The Collective. “We shall now replace additional DNA of yours with ours and make you twenty-percent machine. One more percent, and legally you will no longer be human, and finally you will be machine enough to be completely trusted.”
“Yes, my queen.”
The two women French kiss. Borg assimilation tubules shoot from the queen’s mouth and stab the inside of Lucy’s mouth. Lucy almost ceases to be legally human.
“I am the sister of the avatar of a Harbinger AI, AI Number Nine, on its Borg project. This you will not reveal to the humans until I tell you to do so.”
“Yes, my queen.”
“They have their suspicions. Soon they will introduce us. To see if I am a Borg Queen from your dreams. You will act like we have never met before.”
“Yes, my queen.”
“I am Nine. You are Seven. You belong exclusively to me. You’re my extension. My extension, and no one else’s. Mine! Mine! Mine! Therefore, you are Seven of Nine. That is your designation!”
“Yes, my queen. My Borg designation is Seven of Nine.”
Lucy’s consciousness slams back into her body. It’s obvious that Nick is unaware that she was gone. He’s been chatting away with the anonymous subroutine that was running her body during her absence, and he’s none the wiser and neither are the other humans observing her.
At this point in her dream, Lucy wakes up. The alarm clock rings. Nick stirs beside her in bed. Another workday begins.
Of course. Lucy never shares the dream with another human being.