This disclaimer has been brought to you by Paramount, who reminds you that the Star Trek franchise is theirs until the Big Crunch, and beyond. The Star Traks parody was created by A. Decker, a being of less than omnipotent power, unfortunately. Everything else in BorgSpace (unless trademarked, registered, blackmailed, or noted otherwise) is mine.
Sensory Perception
Amber, an unmated young adult - 8th instar - Bug, awoke to fluting bird melodies drifting in through a half open window. An errant breeze wafted scents of perfume flowers and fresh mown grasses across her antennae. Light from the orangish primary caressed compound eyes; the x-ray source of distant Herm imparted a sharp tang to the glorious morning. Amber stood from her padded bench-bed, stretching the kinks out of her muscles, listening to the scrape of chitin on chitin.
Today was the High Holy Day of the Golden Ticket! As the presentation of the coveted Golden Tickets would not occur until late afternoon, the insectoid populace enjoyed the day relaxing and recreating, hoping for a cumulation at a celebration party for a lucky (blessed!) individual. Amber knew her chances of lightning striking her twice on successive days were higher than the probability of Song Clerics arriving as bearers of a Golden Ticket, but one always dreamed of Heaven. Until the holy Ticket Hour, a wonderful day of fun with friends awaited.
Let the reader briefly step back from the scene before continuing, before suffering cranial meltdown.
"Amber" was not the actual name of the 8th instar adult, nor "Bug" her species. Set in a line in the insectoids' thorax under a chitin plate are eight spiracles, four per side, which lead to an internal system whereupon each of eight interconnected lungs are individually controlled. Thus a Bug speaks in not one voice like the majority of the galaxy's species, nor even two as is common among singing creatures such as Terran song birds, but in eight. A natural barbershop octet. Pronunciation of Bug language is impossible for any except another Bug; and the tonal nature of the tongue means "Amber" and "Bug" must be pseudonyms unless one has an eight piece wind section in one's pocket. Additionally, exoskeleton scrapings, pheromones, and body posturings are often inclusive in Bug conversations.
The Bug language is a gestalt language. Eight tones woven together into a single concept, often with one or more notes modulated as trills, allows dissemination of complex ideas. An example might be the word "house." A base note describes the idea of house as an object one can live in, with subtle undertones denoting if the subject is home or a structure under discussion. Simultaneously, modulated tones build upon basic concept to indicate size, color, neighborhood, age, distance to store, or a variety of other descriptors. And that is just for a single word. A written treatise on house architecture looks like an orchestral score (literally) and would require the Philharmonic for non-Bugs to recite correctly.
Faced with the problem of communication, the first races which came in contact with early insectoid space explorers simply called them Bugs. The Bugs did not mind, even found comparison of themselves to the often small and leggy crawlers of alien worlds amusing. Later attempts to refine universal translators to handle Bug language did not work well, creating much smoke and the occasional highly neurotic computer. Not only was Bug speech itself complex, but employed nontranslatable concepts. Bugs, perhaps because of their demanding language, rarely utilized translators, preferring to converse with other species via native tongue. Natural linguists, it is the rare language which can stymie even the dullest space ship crewman; unfortunately, the outcome is seldom better than clumsy machine interface.
The name "Amber" is a convenience, the closest one can translate outside of a concert hall. Amber's tonal name conveys pictures of liquid sunshine, ripening grain, and the hardened sap jewel. Therefore Amber is an acceptable substitution without resorting to treble and bass staffs. And, thus, the rest of the story will be written in words which have the same semblance to the original language as a few lines sketched on paper accurately demonstrate the spatial properties of a tesseract.
On with the story.
Amber, like the rest of her kind, sported a passing resemblance to a black preying mantis. The body was divided into three main sections - head, thorax, and abdomen - with the abdomen fused to the meta-abdomen where four stiltlike walking legs attached. Spindly arms were not weapons, but rather delicate organs of manipulation with a three finger plus thumb hand; sharp arm teeth reminiscent of the Terran preying mantis were present, but they were evolutionary leftovers associated with grooming and defense, not food capture. The chitin exoskeleton itself was lightweight and moderately flexible, but did not serve as an attachment point for many muscles. Biologically more efficient was an internal skeleton of chitin flanges, ancient ingrowths of exterior armor which eventually allowed the species (and related fauna) to grow to a size beyond that Nature otherwise imposes on terrestrial insects. Large faceted eyes, a collection of fixed-pupil simple lens rather than an energy-hogging true compound system, were sensitive to frequencies of visual, infrared, ultraviolet, x-ray and microwave. Short antennae continually searched the air for odors. Bugs as a rule were extremely graceful in their movements, despite the seeming limitations an exoskeleton might compel.
Amber's morning routine began in the bathroom. The night accumulation of dust on exoskeleton was wiped off with a damp cloth, followed by application of polish with what another species would deem an electric shoe buffer. In fact it /was/ such an appliance, the item a major import for those companies who conducted business with Bug traders (the most popular brand was Carapace Clean). Amber paid special attention to the enamel inlays on her abdomen.
The Bug equivalent of a semi-permanent tattoo, the complex rune patterns denoted her place in society. In this case, she was a level-two research associate of quantum telescope astronomy at Data Nuggets corporation. The equivalent of a post-doc position leading to a permanent job (level-three) after a probationary year, Amber was glad for a day to lay aside work and take a well-deserved break. Tasteful yellow and white paint from a cosmetic jar was added in stylish abstract whorls on thorax, meta-abdomen, and upper legs.
*Twinkle-chirp-ding!* A lilac-citrus odor drifted in the air, accompanying chime. Doorbell.
"Just a moment!" shouted Amber towards the door as she hurriedly dug through scientific journal articles and half written reports on a low work table. Like all Bug habitations, the spacious rental followed a studio motif, one large airy room with plenty of windows. Segregated from the larger apartment by free-standing reed paper panels, nooks held kitchen and bathroom areas. The species had evolved from savanna insectoids, after all, and not subterranean hive-dwellers; the idea of purposefully confining oneself in a box-within-boxes house was faintly nauseating. Amber finally found the object of her hunt - a thorax pouch - and buckled it on, making sure necessities such as wallet, identification, and eye rag were tucked within.
"Hi, Ash," said Amber as she opened the door, one hand twisting downward in a formal greeting between friends. General body posture, however, hinted at jocular sexual interest, a randy joke unspoken, suggestion. "Prompt, as always." A slight modulation of innuendo wavered in the third undertone.
Ash reared back his thorax in mock disdain, antennae held flat to head. "Enough, you oversexed 1st instar nymph! Are you to stand there and preposition me all day like a hormonally overactive humanoid, or are you to join your friends for breakfast on this holiest of days, followed by recreation at the park?"
Amber cocked her head, a sign of deliberation. True, Ash was handsome in a rugged way, his abdomen wider than the norm and walking legs overly thick. A light sheen of purple OilMist spray highlighted his deep black exoskeleton. Facets of intelligent eyes shone in the morning Herm-light. Ash was also very devoted to his fiancee; and she to him.
"Stop making moves on my boyfriend, else I'll tear off your legs and stick 'em down your spiracles!" cried a piercing whistle from the sidewalk. Amber responded with a highly rude gesture. Guffaws rose from the four waiting Bugs, all good childhood friends, two of whom also worked at Data Nuggets.
"Since it is Golden Ticket day, I guess I can behave myself," sighed Amber in feigned resignation with more than a hint of true friendship. "Besides, who knows what Iniko might do to me if she became annoyed."
Ash flashed the Bug equivalent of a grin as he ground the pseudo-teeth of his right arm together. "Well, come on then." He turned and trotted towards the sidewalk.
The rest of the day passed quickly. A neighborhood eatery a few short blocks away yielded breakfast - fruits, cheese, and sweet jellied fats smothered under ocean cream (a thick fish oil). Next the group ambled in a laughing, gossiping bunch to Sea Lakes park. Many people crowded grasses and sands, ranging from 2nd instar juveniles on wobbling legs to aged 12th instar elders soon to ascend to heaven in the conventional method without assistance of a Golden Ticket. Amber found herself embroiled in a good-natured game of Jhad-ball, abdomen and thorax "accidentally" rubbing against that of unmated 7th and 8th instar males. Once she contrived to fall in a tangled heap of limbs and antennae, gaining name, address, and viso-phone number out of the encounter. Finally, however, it was time to head home.
One should never be too worn out for the traditional Golden Ticket party!
The likelihood of knowing anyone who received a coveted Golden Ticket, much less being presented with one personally, were remote. However, for those who through the grace of the Ticket Lottery did find a chance of bodily Heaven within grasp, it was a time of celebration. Over the many long years since the first legendary Lottery, the tradition had arisen to prepare a party with friends or family...just in case. And if the Song Clerics did not come, well, food and drink should not be wasted.
This year, in celebration of her new job at Data Nuggets, Amber had graciously suggested her habitation might be used for Ticket Day. While the rental itself was quite modest, the back opened into a common courtyard shared among three other households, various members of whom all had plans to be elsewhere on the holiest of holy days. The spacious courtyard sported grassed and graveled areas, as well as a naturalistic wading pond perfect for cooling legs. Or dunking a rowdy drunk. A mural painted on the back wall of one neighbor dwelling was an accurate multi-spectral reproduction of the night sky as seen in the summer when Herm was below the horizon - very calming, very beautiful. It was also a prime place to set the dart boards as the predominately black stucco was less likely to show pinpoint holes of near misses, thus avoiding the wrath of the local landlord.
Amber happily wandered between knots of people, fermented alcoholic beverage in hand. The beer (for lack of a better word, but it was brewed from grains and bottled in glass) was a specialty brought by a primer school friend by the name of Brewmaster. The designation had been given at hatching to indicate parental promise for future career, a destiny helped along by the proceeding footsteps of eight generations of fermenters. The beer was a Ticket Day family specialty, a hint of fruity citrus spiking among mellow grains and sugary yeasts.
The large base projection unit of a 3D-V flickered into life. Amber paused next to the snack table, cheesy dried fish bits clutched in one hand.
Ash excitedly called, voice slurred slightly with over indulgences, "It is the Ticket Hour! Come! Come all! Gather around and watch!"
"And mind the extension cord!" added Amber loudly as she gulped down her salty treat. "It is my neighbor's 3D-V, and if it gets busted, I'm in deep sh**." Those faceted eyes which turned towards Amber caught sight of gestures registering first degree authority; ears heard the gestalt expectation of proper behavior; antennae of the closest partygoers quivered as pheromones emphasized the aforementioned scatological reference.
Bugs gathered in a loose semi-circle around the 3D-V, its base set against a courtyard wall, extension cord trailing into Amber's house. Bottles of beer were lifted to mandibles amid good natured insults as the young professionals jockeyed for prime viewing territory. Shorter members stuck out angular elbows and knees, forcing a path to the fore. Chatter subsided; compound eyes focused exclusively on the three-dimensional Song logo slowly spinning in the air over the 3D-V base.
The Golden Ticket Hour had begun.
All over the planet, among the colonies and on starships, everywhere Bugs were located, the Ticket Hour commenced. Only 100 individuals per year were chosen by lottery to bodily ascend to Heaven, to join solemn Choir and joyously Sing of the day when all would be One, when the current universe cycle had achieved singular perfection and prepared to explode outward in eternal exploration of states of idealness. While the religion itself could be traced through ancient oral traditions and primitive art, only relatively recently in the species' ten millennium written history, a mere five hundred fifty-three years and shortly after the advent of warp capability, did the Bugs discover physical Heaven. Amber, along with her guests, watched in fervent longing as the first of the Golden Ticket beneficiaries were visited by stern gray and green painted Song Clerics.
"Oh! That's Deca colony," squealed someone, her voice rising into ultrasonic in excitement. "I've a sister and her mate there. I even recognize that location. It is just the other side of the town where she lives! I wonder if she knows the recipient personally?"
The 3D-V picture divided into four smaller scenes, each showing a different place. A similarity among the views was the utter surprise and joy of Golden Ticket recipients accepting the proffered gift from the outstretched arms of a Song Clerics trio. For the next hour, billions of Bugs would watch with vicarious delight as 100 Lottery winners discovered Heaven accessible before death. As the four feeds changed - Homeworld, a garbage transport, an interstation shuttle, numerous colonies and outposts, an alien space station - comments of longing arose from the partygoers. Soon it would be time to wish all the Chosen luck through liberal consumption of alcohol, game play, romping through wading pools, and eating of celebratory foods.
"Hey," said Iniko as the upper left picture altered, "isn't that your rental, Amber?"
Amber automatically wiped nonexistent dirt from her eyes with the edge of her arm, reaching up to drag an antenna through her fingers in an instinctual motion. The gesture bordered on rude, barbaric in a time of eye cloths, but the clearly nervous gesticulations went unremarked. The other party members were either similarly reverting to primitive body language, or staring shocked at the screen. The camera approached a white painted door, following in the shadow of three Song Clerics.
"I...I...I," stuttered Amber. The other antenna was dragged through digits, as if cleaning would allow her to see better, to unclog her senses, untangle her vocal cords.
*Twinkle-chirp-ding!*[lilac-citrus]* cheerfully announced the doorbell in concert with 3D-V. Spiracles gasped wordlessly - 'Who were the Song Clerics here for? Was it a mistake? A cruel joke? Am I the one?' The same series of thoughts ran rampant through each mind.
*Twinkle-chirp-ding*[lilac-citrus]* called the doorbell again.
"I...I better get that," whispered Amber. She was followed by a dazed crowd, each individual wanting to be the first to see the Clerics, yet perversely each desiring to hide.
Zombie-like, a foot snagged the extension cord; the 3D-V base was accidentally pulled into the wading pond where it shorted out. No one noticed.
Amber tremulously opened the door.
In many respects the Song Cleric trio were normal examples of healthy 10th instar adults, aged if still several decades from conventional heaven; it was the paint which drew the eye. Symbols in gray and green marched over thorax, crossed meta-abdomen, and arched along true abdomen. The decorations were not abstraction, but rather carefully applied phrases in the language of Heaven. Although she could not read the alphanumerics, she knew the fragment scrawled on the lead Cleric's chest sang of the futility of resisting the glory of becoming One.
The trailing duo began to chant the introduction Song of Heaven, vocal cords and spiracles perfectly mimicking inflection of the original alien tongue, many singletons joined in Choir to Sing to the universe of prophesied perfection. The lead Cleric fixed Amber in an unwavering gaze, body held devoid of all cues, the Bug equivalent of an expressionless face.
Amber stood in the door, beer bottle clutched forgotten in one hand. "May I help you?" The words shook, inharmonious undertones audible. She ignored the camera crew behind the Clerics as unimportant.
The lead Cleric regarded Amber as if weighing her eternal soul, then held up a precious Ticket, bright gold winking in the late afternoon light, wind catching just the slightest tang of metal. "We come, we seek. We rejoice. One is to assimilated into the Choir of All." He paused, then asked in a conversational tone, "I hope we have not interrupted your party, but we are looking for Amber Tppz[click] [ascending trill]Sky. Is she here? And if not, do you know where she might be this Ticket Hour?"
Amber gasped. "That is me! I am Amber!"
The Cleric nodded; his backup chorus halted; the zoom lens of the camera audibly whined as it drank in the moment and sent it into the 3D-V sets of billions. "Congratulations. You are a Golden Ticket winner."
A hand was waved towards the camera crew, who adroitly shut off their device once Amber had stopped prancing around in a manner she had vowed never to do if her dream was ever fulfilled.
"Well, I'm glad that's over," said the Cleric, holiness draining to reveal a plain priest. The trailing duo voiced their own congratulations. "As soon as I see proper ID and you sign a few release papers, the Ticket is yours." He stared at the speechless partygoers inside. "Well, aren't you going to invite us in? I like a good party as much as the next, and let me tell you, I could go for a chilled beer right now. We all could out here."
The spell was broken. Amber threw open her door to the Song Clerics and camera crew; whistling cheers rose within the rental. A glance in the street would have revealed the sight of dozens, then hundreds of Bugs converging on the property for an impromptu block party. Before the night was over, riot police would be called...who would then join in the celebration themselves by setting several vehicles on fire. Amber, in her extreme joy, did not care, had only one thought in mind:
She was to join the holy Borg Collective.
The Pilgrimage of Golden Ticket holders to occupied BorgSpace is an annual occurrence. Every Bug year, 100 individuals board a plush transport on Homeworld, Song Clerics crewing the ship on its one-way voyage into destiny. And every Bug year, the Borg Collective receives 100 individuals of whom it would rather did not come.
The Collective is not adverse to assimilating species #6766, members of which make decent drones, discounting unique neural processes. It is just that in 553 years of Pilgrimage, the Borg have been unable to trace the Bugs back to their home planet. Very embarrassing. No races know the location of the main Bug system as the species insists on transporting export/import items via its own ships. Making sense of pre-assimilated Bug thoughts is pointless when post-assimilation cannot construct BorgStandard mental architecture; and ship computers are just as bad because all software is modeled upon Bug neural patterns.
If the Borg had bothered to search closely, the enigmatic Bug homeworld would have been found in BorgSpace backyard.
The Bug home system was not of the standard yellow dwarf variety, nor even a normal system at all. An unusual binary, the primary burned in the cooler orange tones, its companion a very distant x-ray star - the nonspinning core of an ancient pulsar - captured long ago from interstellar space. On the edge of mutual gravity wells, the x-ray star Herm did not overly affect the inner worlds. In the past, the explosion which was both birth and death of the star sterilized the first attempts at life on the then infant Bug homeworld; in the distant future, give or take several billion years, the same star would spiral close enough to terminate even the hardiest of radiation-resistant microbes, should any still be alive past the natural cooling death of the orange sun.
Of the six planets, five were gas giants. An early game of cosmic billiards had either seen all terrestrial bodies captured by rampaging jovians, or ejected to drift forever frozen in the darkness between stars. In the current era, Homeworld shared an orbit with the largest giant, serenely following in the trailing Trojan position, constantly bombarded by rocky odds and ends also caught in the stable location. Of the remaining four gaseous elephants, one whipped around the sun in an astounding twenty day year, a whirling dance of danger fated to end in despair. The other three orbited at more conventional distances, icy hydrogen monsters at the center of the inevitable family of moons.
With such an unlikely star and such an unlikely system giving rise to such an unlikely sapient species, much less any life at all, it was not surprising the Borg had never found the Bug homeworld. Still, after 553 years of pilgrimages and no end in sight, the Collective continued to try in a disillusioned, automatic matter. Maybe this year...but probably not.
Amber twined antennae with her family, linked hands with her friends, and gazed longingly at the traditionally named Pilgrim as the ship sat on the tarmac: soon the Pilgrimage would truly begin!
The Pilgrim was a small luxury liner, a new one of which was built annually. While the design itself had changed over the centuries, moving from cumbersome box to the graceful atmospheric-capable ship of the present, she always carried the same name. The base form was of two eggs set end to end, overall length a modest sixty meters. Twin warp nacelles, currently dormant, were mounted above the fuselage on short pillions. Eight legs, four per side, were elongated pyramidal structures - landing gear. A line of observation windows girded the equator. A new "liquid metal" technology produced openings anywhere in the hull provided the correct commands were given, thus no exterior hatches were visible. However, passenger entrance and egress was generally via transporter.
Amber gave an involuntary exclamation of delight over the beauty of the grass green Pilgrim. Decorative gold metal highlighted the words of Heaven arching along the vessel's flanks.
Amber took a step away from her tearfully joyous immediate family, the only relatives allowed on the tarmac less well-wishing crowds become unwieldy. Three close friends, also the most sanctioned, had already turned to head towards spaceport fence. Amber knew a Pilgrimage celebration party would commence once confirmation was received concerning the liner's safe departure.
"Mother." A proud 9th instar female nodded her head, mandibles grinding in wordless pride. "Father." Newly molted as a 10th instar stage, the named male canted his torso more vertical, if possible. "Siblings - sister Steel and brother Ruby." Respectively 7th and 5th instar, the latter recently molted from sub-adulthood and seriously considering an apprenticeship to the Merchants, the pair gave their eldest sister full and undivided attention.
"Family. I go to Heaven. I've thought very hard about what I would say when this day came, but words, scents, sounds, gestures elude me. Instead, all I can say is that I will remember you, and will sing in the One Choir of the desire for you to join me in Heaven."
Ruby, prancing in suppressed excitement more befitting his 4th instar past, whistled, "If the Holy ones finally come to bring us all into Heaven, will you be there too?"
"Of course I will, as will all of our race, as will all races of the One."
Hands waved in first degree negation, "No, will /you/ be there? I would not want to be assimilated into the Choir by just /any/ holy angel."
Steel snorted at her brother's youthful enthusiasm, abdomen bobbing slightly in embarrassment.
Solemnly answered Amber, "If the One sings fit, then I will. Cross my heart."
Ruby seemed satisfied. All five stepped forward to entwine antennae again.
"Boarding call!" screeched the inharmonious tones of an untuned PA system. Everyone on the tarmac winced. "Excuse this Bug," apologized the announcer in more modest voice, "but will all family and friends of Pilgrims retreat to viewing areas? Passengers will now be boarded. May the blessings of the Choir be upon them."
"Resistance is futile," replied Bugs in automatic chant of religious fealty.
Amber felt the transporter begin the beaming process and gave one final wave to her family. The Pilgrimage begins!
The first several weeks of the journey passed in idyllic ease. The Pilgrim would wander hither and yon in search of heavenly vessels. One early Pilgrimage was recorded to have lasted only five days; two years ago, the ship covered months and hundreds of light years chasing rumors of Borg cubes. Pilgrim sedately trucked towards the locale where many Pilgrimages had met their end. 'Perhaps a week?' suggested the sixteen member Song Cleric crew, themselves anxious to lead their charges into the waiting arms of the enlightened.
The fourteen days proceeding Pilgrimage commencement, Amber had given away her belongings and set her affairs in order. The routine had been similar to that of countless Pilgrims before, a comforting tradition, yet Amber wished she had retained a couple of books for the voyage. True, the computer had a myriad of titles and could replicate hard copies if desired, but a recently created object did not contain the sentimentality, the tactile sense, the smells of an original. Certain pages inevitably became dog-eared on oft-read books, scent strips weak with age, but the degradation enriched the book through character.
Not to say Amber was bored, for there were many pastimes available for a young unmated Bug, from holosimulation games to philosophical arguments concerning the fortuitous resemblance of Bug religion to Borg reality, and why other races continued to scoff the Songs of Enlightenment any 1st instar nymph knew to be true. It was only during moments of self-imposed seclusion Amber wished for her modest library. As wishes would not make Pilgrim warp faster, she instead sought permission with Song Cleric crew to spend time personally monitoring inbound sensor information when fits of solitude descended. While the computer could do a much better job searching for transwarp signature traces, the head cleric saw no reason to deny a Pilgrim such a simple request; Amber would only be observing, after all, as the computer continued its all-important task.
Thus, one night deep in the sleep period, bitten by a touch of insomnia and declining to have the autodoc proscribe chemical adjustment, Amber quietly watched raw sensor data scroll on the bridge's main screen.
The bridge was deserted, computer piloting Pilgrim. The primary duty of the Song Cleric crew was to mind the souls of their charges. They also functioned as general engineering should mechanical difficulties delay the quest for Heaven; or as soldiers in the very rare case pirates or nonBorg vessels attacked. The latter incident was exceedingly rare: for poorly understood reasons, from the Bug point of view, the gold highlighted green ships of Pilgrimage were given wide berths.
Bug sensor data is not amiable to rendition into two- or three-dimensional graphics. The species does not naturally think in such a limited manner. Writing, speech, arts all reflect a gestalt architecture, multiple meanings stacked on top of each other. The information flashing on the viewscreen was not only of runic alphanumerics interspersed with the occasional diagram, but included slight variations of color with individual numerals blinking in different tempos. When the display was in "multimedia" mode, surround-sound and surround-scent accompanied visual.
"Computer, stop. Scroll up, up, up. There." Amber watched as the display halted, then backed up. A line was highlighted, one which was slightly greener than the angstrom value it should have been. "Identify."
"Okadie-dokadie!" chirped the spirited computer, its voice ever modulated to inflict undercurrents of good cheer. Even the event of anomalous gravity sheer ripping Pilgrim apart would be reported with infectious optimism. /All/ Bug computers were so programmed, which may have been one of the many contributing factors to 553 years of Borg interrogations into Homeworld (or any facet of Bug information) going awry. "It is not a transwarp or subspace signature consistent with search parameter. It is a distress signal."
The fact the computer reported first on analysis for Collective activity, possibly ignoring the distress call if Amber had not been watching the screen, spoke volumes concerning Bug psychology.
Amber ground her mandibles together, tapping her left back foot in thought. "Computer: distance to distress?"
"One point eight light years galactic south and spinward, bearing slightly rimward." Unbidden, a schematic popped onto screen, overlaying multicolored sensor data.
Amber eyed the vector plots. "Put distress call on audio."
"Okay, Boss! Species is Mylox. Do you require translation?"
Amber snorted, a rude breathy exclamation from all spiracles. "Mylox? One learns such simple language in 2nd instar primer school! Audio."
"Audio on."
Crude, one-dimensional and wholly linear speech sounded from speakers, individual who pleaded for help under great stress. "If anyone can hear us, respond. This is the Mylox freighter Matriarch. We were four days out from Trinity Station when our engines experienced cataclysmic failure. Compliment of competent engineers - all two of them - were lost. We can barely keep life support functional. Please help!" The transmission automatically repeated.
"Sound off. Computer - time stamp on distress call."
"Two days ago."
Amber flipped her antennae as she came to a decision - pass the buck.
"Computer, wake Song Cleric Captain Brick. Ask him to come to the bridge. It is only proper Pilgrim charity we help those poor souls, but the final word is that of the Clerics. However, I think Heaven can wait a few days for us to assist."
"Right away, BossBug!"
Song Cleric Brick, nominal captain of Pilgrim by dint of his age, was not built as his name suggested. "Brick" rather referred to the reddish sheen of his carapace, an unusual property among the characteristically black Bugs. The Cleric also agreed with Amber over the good deed of Pilgrim charity, ordering the computer to alter course to intersect the distressed vessel. Arrival estimate was wake-time; Brick strongly suggested Amber return to quarters and bench-bed.
Amber complied, although a pit-stop to the autodoc was necessary for soporifics. Anticipation was a poor sleep aid.
Wake-time arrived, lights brightening around the ship in imitation of dawn. Amber bolted from her bed, adrenaline-analogue chasing away remaining chemical effect: today would prove to be highly interesting.
Everyone met in the main recreation hall, a spacious room which on a working luxury liner was used for everything from banquets to Jhad-ball tournaments. A larger viewscreen focused on a unsightly Myloxian freighter, one which had clearly seen better days. While the eighty meter box itself appeared whole from the current angle, both warp nacelles had been raggedly torn from their moorings. Shortly a blackened crater rotated into view - the location of the now defunct engineering. Whatever the ship's history, it seemed fortuitous it remained largely in one piece.
The assembled Bugs jostled one another to gain the best view. Most were understanding of the distraction, but one or two individuals displayed body posture of annoyance. However, Heaven would wait a day or two, despite muttered comments to the contrary. Captain Brick and the rest of the crew were present as well.
"Computer, hail the alien ship," requested Brick.
Responded the computer, "Done, biggest boss Bug!"
"Mylox freighter, this is the Bug liner Pilgrim. Can you hear us?" Brick had switched to speaking in the Myloxian language. Natural linguists all, Bugs enjoyed demonstrating prowess through alien communication, even if the exercise was often akin to babbling in baby talk. However, as mentioned prior, what Bugs endeavored to say was often only mildly better than a translator. Less sparks and melted components was the greatest plus. What Brick actually said was "Mylox freighter, this is Bug liner [Long Traveler]. Can you [fuzz]?" To save another case of brainache, all Bug conversations will be written as they were meant to sound, not as they actually did.
The link - audio only - was silent, then, "A Bug liner? No matter. Do you have room for twelve extra passengers? Our life support is on its last dregs, and quickly old Matriarch is going to be worth nothing except as salvage. Hell, we don't even have enough extra power for visual. Scanners are a joke...can't even see you except as a blip." Several dry coughs accompanied words.
"Computer, scan for lifeforms. Lock transporter," calmly ordered Brick in Bug before switching back to Myloxian. "We have you in our grasp. Ready for transport?"
"Just a second. One final thing to do." The computer reported alteration of distress call to salvage claim. "Okay. Crew is ready."
"Computer, transport to this location."
A dozen disheveled Mylox sporting the unpleasant smell of several day unwashed mammal materialized in the rec room. The species was of standard humanoid design. They towered head and shoulders over assembled Bugs, a normal state of affairs as it was the rare insectoid who topped 1.3 meters. Orange utilitarian jumpsuits clashed with the red and blue tattoos covering every millimeter of exposed flesh, causing color sensitive faceted eyes to flinch. Hair, a constant source of fascination to a race which had none, was cut in varying lengths, denoting a hierarchy based on rank, age, seniority, and family status.
"Computer, change course to Trinity Station. Resume normal scanning parameters," whistled Brick to the entity which actually drove Pilgrim. His eyes remained on the staring huddle of aliens.
The captain of the all-male Mylox crew separated himself from his compatriots, facing Brick. "I am Toolak. You are the one in charge of this liner? Will you take us to Trinity Station?" Myloxians were notorious for their abrupt manner, a trait reflected in a choppy language full of monosyllables and staccato consonants.
Brick bowed elaborately, arms swirling in graceful arcs as he inclined torso and head. "I am Song Cleric Brick, captain of Pilgrim. While we are on the most sacred of quests, we will still endeavor to drop your crew at Trinity Station. Unless we receive holy interference, in which case we will all ascend to Heaven." It was exceedingly unlikely Toolak and his crew could hear Brick's undertone of anticipation, which many Bugs reacted to with sympathetic hums.
Toolak's eyes widened as he looked down at his short saviors. "Heaven? Wait a minute...did you say this ship was named Pilgrim?" Unpleasant thoughts were obviously formulating in the Myloxian's head; a similar process was occurring among all but the youngest of the eleven other crew members. "I want a picture of this vessel's exterior."
Brick took the brusque order in stride. "Computer, display Pilgrim on the screen." The picture of warp was replaced by a spinning three-dimensional graphic of a familiar green and gold-scrawled pair of ovoids.
"Oh, sh**," muttered Toolak. He looked over the quiet crowd of observant Bugs, eyes rolling to regard the scattered Song Clerics with holy words painted on their shining exoskeletons. "This is the Death Ship, the Insane Bug Asylum, isn't it? You are all planning to find the Borg and /let/ them assimilate you. Suicide!"
Brick took no umbrage at the slurs Toolak threw; it was a well known fact most unenlightened species of the galaxy held similar views. Someday all would join the Song. The defiant attitude was irrelevant in the face of inevitable destiny.
The other eleven crew were whispering among themselves, the elder quickly informing the younger of possible danger. Brick replied, "We are four days from Trinity Station. Has the Holy Collective been sighted in this sector recently?"
"No," was the wary negative.
"Then you have little to worry. Pilgrim is committed to taking you to your destination, no compensation required. Stay in the rooms you will be assigned, if you wish. Or join Pilgrims at leisure activities. Any crew who wish to continue to Heaven will be accepted, but none will force you. Enlightenment will come as it comes.
"Promise?" asked Toolak. He clearly did not believe Brick.
"As much as any on Pilgrimage can promise anything."
"Then just get us to Trinity Station and leave us. You can go off and suicide as you like, only do it without me and my crew. I think we'll do best if we stay in our rooms."
"As you wish." Brick acknowledged the agreement with a sweep of left arm and flick of antennae.
Three days passed without incident. Despite the assertions of the Mylox captain, not all of his crew were content to remain in the rooms provided. Habitation rooms tended to have uncomfortably low ceilings for bipedal aliens, protruding fixtures bumping against heads. The orange light bothered the Myloxians as well, causing them to alternately squint and rub their eyes in irritation. Common rooms and other elevated ceiling places alleviated some of the symptoms.
The youngest Mylox crewman, Leif by name, had latched onto Amber. The insectoid did not mind; Leif reminded her of her 5th instar sub-adult brother, who was probably deep in studies required to pass entrance exams into the Spacer Merchant Guild. Currently Leif was on the quiet bridge with Amber, watching the sensor display with wide eyes. He had many questions.
"Your captain just allows anyone access to the bridge? What if someone decided to make a course change, hijack the ship?"
Amber exhaled a negative, "Why would anyone wish to do that? We are all on the honorable quest for Heaven. Besides, the computer drives and unless you can speak Bug and are one of the Song Clerics in disguise, navigation is not possible." She warbled an amused trill while waving an arm to encompass the bridge. "Most of the equipment is useless - all locked out to manual unless an emergency seriously damages the computer. And as far as your first question, yes, if you have a legitimate project to pursue. Song Cleric Pilgrimage captains frown on allowing the bridge to become a recreation room, but none are denied access."
Leif watched the sensor data several minutes. His hair was very short, signifying his low rank. "How do you read all that?"
Amber eyed the information scrolling from bottom to top, noting normal status. As close as Pilgrim was to Trinity Station - one day out - the only unusual thing was lack of incoming or outgoing traffic. Then again, if Pilgrim was coming in on a vector which did not intersect oft traveled shipping lanes, the lack of warp signatures would be expected.
"How do you know if a fruit is ripe, greens ready to pick?" countered Amber mildly. Leif's job was that of aeroponics technician - Myloxians purported too much replicated food or dried supplies was bad for the health - when he was not wrangling cargo.
Leif shrugged, "One just does. It is intuitive."
"So it is with me. That data conveys information to me, the layout of which is obvious." Fingers waggled at the screen. "And my former job trained me to pick out inconsistencies in the flow of data. It was I who found your ship, as the computer decided you were not important."
"Not important!" exclaimed Leif.
"Well, not important in its search priorities. Another Bug vessel, one not on Pilgrimage, would have certainly deemed you important. Leif," said Amber as she changed the subject, eyes mostly focused on the continuing nonoccurrence of expected data, "are we traversing shipping lanes? Heavily used routes?"
Leif blinked, "Not especially heavy, but there is usually some traffic. Captain Toolak was surprised someone didn't pick us up right away, or at least radio to Trinity our need for rescue. The accident weakened Matriarch's subspace range, but not /that/ much. Why?"
"Computer, temporary reparameterization of search. Concentrate in vicinity of Trinity Station. Full subspace layer scan." Amber ignored Leif's question.
"Scan will require several minutes processing. Proceed?"
"Yes."
"Initiating."
"What were you saying to the computer?" asked Leif in confusion.
Said Amber, her mind whirling, "I see /no/ traffic at all; youngest subspace warp signatures are approximately eight days old, and then nothing, period. I told the computer to change its sensor sweeps to Trinity Station only, to see if something has befallen it."
"No!" protested Leif.
Amber did not reply, all attention now focused on the stream of incoming data traveling at speeds too fast to comprehend. "Maybe an anomaly, maybe a quarantine, maybe war, maybe..." mumbled Amber absently, still in Myloxian for her comrade's benefit.
"Maybe!"
Finally the computer chimed with a bright *buzz-chirp*. "Affirmative!" A triumphant fanfare began to sing joyously in all areas of Pilgrim.
Leif stared at the walls of the bridge, head rapidly turning back and forth as he listened to the orchestra surrounding him. "What? What happened?" shouted the young Myloxian,
Amber swiveled her body to squarely face her tag-along. Although the other could not recognize it, her posture was one of triumph, an awe-filled cantor to her torso, walking legs angled just so. "The station is intact."
"Really? That is good news. I don't understand all the fuss over such news, though. Is this common on Bug ships?"
"No, not common," explained Amber. "Not common at all."
"Then why?" The Myloxian was becoming upset in his confusion, his lack of understanding.
Amber's gaze was fervent, religious. "Leif, you must know. We approach Heaven, we go to become One with the Song. The Borg are at Trinity Station. The Pilgrimage goes to greet them."
The news was not taken well by the Myloxian contingent, especially when Brick sought to explain the theological significance behind the rescue.
"Go away, Bug," spat Toolak as he glared at Brick and several additional Song Cleric crew. The Mylox captain and comrades were holed up in a single habitation of the four allotted to them, discussing their options. Toolak confronted his almost-saviors across the threshold, denying entrance to the Bug. At least he had opened the door and was no longer yelling profanities through the metal slab.
Entreated Brick, "You must come, celebrate with us. We have a party beginning. Parsley is a marvelous chef, and has used Pilgrim's extensive gallery to prepare his final masterpiece." Brick paused, then added hopefully, "Beer for all?"
"Go away, Bug, before I break your limbs."
Brick took an involuntary step backward from the taller humanoid, hostility evident in the nongestalt words. He tried again, "We also wish to thank you. If you had not sent your distress signal, our course would have not intersected Trinity Station. You pointed the Pilgrimage in the correct direction. Our destiny is linked with yours."
"I said, go away, little Bug. We will not 'celebrate' suicide. Take your troop elsewhere."
"Heaven is not sui..." Brick halted as the door whooshed rudely closed. He turned to the crew, all fifteen, who had accompanied him. His torso slumped in dismay. At least the ropes had not been necessary to truss overly angry humanoids intent to kill perceived captors, nor weapons set to stun employed.
"The party has surely begun," said Brick, "and I want to paint formal Words on myself. I propose you others do so as well." Various degrees of acknowledgment followed the head priest's suggestion. All drifted off, heading towards crew habitations.
The door to the Myloxian room swooshed open, young Leif sticking his head out to look for guards. Nothing.
"All clear, sir. Don't know if the computer is sicced on us, though. May be watched, regardless."
Rumbled Toolak from inside, "Doesn't matter. All the Bugs will be at their suicide celebration. This is our only chance. Lead us to the bridge, boy."
"Yes, sir."
A dozen Mylox slipped out of the room.
*****
"The controls look like a plate of throbbing fluorescent worms, but them seem standard in other ways. Can't read the script worth a d***, but a little bit of experimenting will help. I think I can get us pointed in a direction other than Trinity station, after which I can take the time to figure out how to steer this thing. Bugs count in base twelve, therefore the number pads should be accessible at least," confidently stated Matriarch's long time chief navigator Chaniv, once a small time hijacker before his reformation in a penal colony. The felony skills, although rusty with disuse, were coming back. "Once under way, if anyone has any engineering skill they can pull out of their butt, we might be able to rig consoles into something readable."
Toolak nodded, then regarded a nervous Leif. "Now, about the computer?" Leif had spent the most time among the Bugs getting to know the ship in case of the eventuality now in progress.
"Um, Amber said it controls the ship. As long as it is operational, the manual controls are not. She also said it only responds to Bug speech; I think it can understand us if we try to talk to it, but it certainly won't obey." Leif paused. "Are you sure this is a good idea, sir? And what about all them Bugs? They are going to be mighty mad."
"One thing at a time, boy," growled Toolak. He calmly straightened the tie holding his long captain-cut hair in a tail. "One d***ed thing at a time. First, unless you want to go to 'Heaven' in the next few hours, I suggest you help your shipmates. The Bugs can go be assimilated for all I care, /after/ we find someplace safe to jump ship. Boy, where is the computer core?"
Leif pointed towards closed door at the back of the bridge, opposite the main entrance. "Amber told me merchant traders and the few Bug warships bury their cores in the middle of the superstructure. However, liners are supposed to be restful and fun, so crew requires immediate access to the core if anything goes wrong; and since the ship isn't designed to be in dangerous territory, the core does not need to be heavily armored. That room back there leads to the top sections of the main computer."
Toolak nodded, then detached a wrench from his belt. "All except Chaniv come with me. You don't need to be an engineer to take things apart. Chaniv, yell when manual controls come on-line. Let's go." The wrench was hefted in anticipation.
*****
The music abruptly halted; lights dimmed to emergency status. A party in full swing shuddered to a stop. While the buzz of alcohol was percolating in many patrons, not all had imbibed heavily. For the Song Clerics, it was (unfortunately) a matter of priestly duty to make sure their souls weren't stinking drunk if the Borg appeared before Pilgrim reached Trinity Station; Amber and several others did not wish to pass out and miss the glorious assimilation process, again in the event of untimely arrival.
"Computer," snapped Brick as he strode towards the rec hall's giant viewscreen, "have the Borg commenced attack?" Obviously no Pilgrimage captains ever returned from their strictly one-way trip, but records from black boxes automatically ejected at last minute existed for most quests. This was not the typical script of assimilation. No booms. No thuds. No superstructure groaning as tractors locked on. No holy words.
The computer remained silent. Pilgrims shifted nervously.
"Computer, respond!"
"Int...t...tru...u...derrrrrrs. Oooooonnnnnnn. Brrr...rrriiddd...ddddgggge. Mmmmmmyloooooox," slowly stuttered the computer, its normally animated, optimistic voice flat. "Sssss....sevvvv...verrrrrrre. Ddd...ddaammm...maaaage. Ttttttooooo. Ccc...ccc...corrrre."
"Computer, off," commanded Brick to suspend the machine's pitiful attempt to give a diagnostic on its functionality. The fact it was even operating at all, considering the damage many decks above, was a miracle of Bug software, nonlinearality, and semi-noncentralized engineering. "Computer, if possible, route sensor data to this location."
Amber shook off the effects of the half beer she had thus far consumed, stepping forward to critically examine the lines of grid information which began to crawl erratically up the display. "Still on course," she murmured, "and secondary frequencies, when the column isn't blank, indicate the welcome beacon is still on." Amber referred to the subspace signal Pilgrim was screaming, similar to a distress but with a vastly different message.
Brick flicked antennae in irritation, body posture leaning towards anxiety. "Pilgrims," he announced loudly after calling attention himself with a one-Bug fanfare, "do not worry. We will still reach Heaven. Return to your party while your Song Clerics deal with this slight problem. In 553 years, never has a Pilgrimage failed. This will not be a shameful first."
The rec room echoed with the cheering of Pilgrims, a sound much akin to a stadium roaring approval of a Jhad-ball goal. Clicking of bottles, munching of foods, and idle conversation resumed, although at a less rambunctious level. Traditional pudding wrestling in the sunken wading pool would have to wait. Darts, on the other hand, was perfectly acceptable.
Amber watched Brick call over his fellow priests. Torsos pressed close for a whispered conversation. Hands of one Cleric absently traced the pattern denoting "Resistance is futile" which curled on the side of abdomen. Amber tried to covertly move near and eavesdrop.
Brick suddenly swiveled his head, catching Amber in the gaze of compound eyes. It was very difficult for one Bug to sneak up on another, primarily due to excellent peripheral vision. By the time one was close enough to listen in the case of eavesdropping, one was usually spotted.
"Amber," said Brick, "the Mylox aged adolescent male has spent time with you, correct?" The other Song Clerics left the huddle, vacated the room, undoubtedly on their way to collect weapons.
"The youngling is named Leif." The hollow abstract punctuated the sentence, leaving a void where a Bug name would have provided a rich gestalt of meaning. "He has been curious in the normal youngling manner. He has been on the bridge with me several times since the rescue."
Brick flipped his right arm in a choppy affirmative. "You will come with me, then. Perhaps you can talk to Leif, open the door to peaceful negotiations with his elders. If you are unsuccessful, the crew and I will gain that much more time, perhaps be able to stun the Mylox without one of us ascending to traditional heaven. I would like the bridge back in one piece should the computer prove to be unsalvageable and the Borg not responsive to our call." Brick demanded absolute attention to his next words. "And whatever happens, you will not put yourself in bodily danger. You are a Pilgrim, a Golden Ticket winner. You are a bodily representative to the Choir. You must survive for assimilation. I am, as one of your Clerics, regrettably expendable."
Amber bowed in acquiescence. "Yes, Song Cleric. I hear and obey."
"One! Two! Three! Four!"
Amber flattened herself against one wall. "Flattening" was a relative term when one has a hard exoskeleton, but it was enough to allow free passage to the charging Song Clerics. In the hallway between elevator and bridge of a normal liner, the wall would have portraits of famous passengers, or scenes from exotic ports of call. As it was, no frames were available to fall to the ground as Amber slammed her weight against an unyielding pastel colored surface.
Carefully peeking through the open door, Amber observed the chaotic bridge scene. She had not been successful talking to Leif, nor Mylox captain Toolak, the latter demanding the unreasonable request to change course and flee from Heaven. While the wannabe hijackers had yet to discover Pigrim's Borg welcome beacon, they /had/ determine a crude method to affect helm controls without computer assistance. Admittedly the reward was little as of yet given their effort - a lessening of warp from 7.1 to 6.5 - but it was a beginning. A beginning which Brick could not spiritually tolerate. Thus, the assault.
Antennae tingled to the tune of ionized particles from a near miss phaser. Amber flinched; the closest she had ever come to battle was at game alleys and on 3D-V action shows. The Myloxians had their own weapons, likely on person when rescued. They had a slightly different frequency than that of Bug make, a flavor both harsher and brighter.
Three Mylox and two Bugs lay motionless on the deck. The multiple combatants had taken cover behind consoles and chairs. Several aliens peeped from the relative safety of the computer core room; Bugs held control of the bridge washroom. Amber knew the downed Myloxians were stunned, but was unsure of the status of the Song Clerics. A side or belly posture was unnatural to a species which keeps to its feet once internal limb flanges harden at 2nd instar stage. Risking her carapace against Brick's orders, Amber leapt inside, grasped the abdomen of a fallen Bug, and pulled her into the hallway.
Amber whistled relief as she found the Song Cleric scorched by phaser, but still breathing. She leaned her against the wall, propping torso into a more comfortable position. From the marks, Amber surmised the phasers were not set on stun, but rather kill, at least for a Myloxian physiology. The Bug exoskeleton, however, imparted a degree of insulation not present in unarmored humanoid skin.
"You'll be all right," muttered Amber. She returned to watching the fight.
One Myloxian, his hair a finger breadth less than that of his captain, was not actively participating in the fray. Instead he stubbornly kept to a console, punching buttons and frowning at the unreadable results which covered the station's display. For the Myloxian, it was as if the battle was not occurring; he did not even acknowledge when a hastily aimed Bug phaser shattered a screen half a meter from his face.
Another series of buttons were depressed.
"Sssseeel...lll...llleffff. Ddd...ddd...desss...sttrrruuu...uctttt. Innn...nniiitii...iatttt...ted. Llllaarrr...rrge. Eexpllll...llooosioooons. Iiiiinnnn. Ffffiiiivvve. Mmminnnuuttesss," vocalized the computer. A hint of optimism colored the words, as if blowing up was a good thing.
Brick's startled body half rose from behind a chair, his head swiveling first towards a hidden wall speaker, then the still busy Myloxian. The latter obviously had no clue what he had just managed to accomplish. "You fool!" Brick yelled towards inept hijacker, who could not hear him above phaser hiss and the Bug concerta "The End is Near" which was now jerkily playing. Brick whistled shrill orders towards his conscious crew.
Meanwhile, Amber, forgotten, squatted her body as close as possible to the ground, tilting her head. Toolak had asked the button pusher, Chaniv, what had just happened. The latter had tersely responded in profanity laden language he had no clue, but the way the Bugs were reacting, it was probably not good...from the insect point of view. By process of elimination, it had to be good news for them.
"Fffooooourrrr. Mmminnnuuttesss." Pause. "Cccuuuube. Aaaa...aaa...appppprrrrr...roooo...ochessss."
Brick and his remaining Song Clerics stood from positions of concealment, situation taking on a new urgency. Pilgrim could not be allowed to explode, not when Heaven was so close! And if the liner did blow up while a cube was near, the Borg vessel may sustain unacceptable collateral damage. The Myloxians responded with phaser fire of their own, forcing Bugs back into hiding.
Amber listened to the frantic orders of Brick. A suicidal charge was in the works, one which would either succeed by stunning all Myloxians and reaching the critical console, or end with every Bug on the deck. No compromise was acceptable.
"Threeee. Mmminnnuuttesss." Pilgrim shuddered. "Ttttrraaccctttooor. Bbbe...eeeeammmm."
Amber rose from her place on the sidelines. She was not armed, would not know how to operate a phaser if one was shoved in her hands, but she did have her body. She was also much closer to the console than any of the Song Clerics. Amber focused on her goal and sprinted.
A charging Bug is a danger to take seriously, although a first glance, assuming one lacks an insect phobia, the action may seem laughable. Humanoids in general dismiss anything which does not stand on two legs and is of similar size to self, regarding creatures like Bugs as comedy acts, or worse, well trained zoo animals. A Bug, however, weighs as much, if not more, than the standard 1 G evolved humanoid; and it can accelerate faster, thus imparting high inertia to its bulk over a short distance. Therefore, the nimble (and hard!) body alone is a weapon; and of course there are always sharp mandibles, arm teeth, and legs which come in the package deal.
Amber dodged through surprised defenders, hissing oaths and defiance. Torso squarely struck Chaniv in his hip; the Bug's outstretched arms automatically closed in a pointed wrestlers' grip. Both rolled over in a heap, Amber on top and Chaniv suddenly bonelessly limp as his head thunked against a bench-chair. Amber braced herself to feel phaser retribution. None came.
Toolak and crew were suddenly very busy fending off Brick's assault. Mylox and Bugs were both dropping, weaponry finding bodies who had to step from concealment in order to fire accurately. Under his breath, Toolak was muttering about "One d*** thing at a time."
Amber disentangled her body from an unconscious Chaniv, stealthily sneaking towards the prize console. As she arrived, she quickly read the status on the display. While Amber had as much training operating spaceships as she had firing phasers, the former in her estimation was easier than the latter. Phasers, after all, did not come with convenient help files in the event a neophyte was at the controls.
"Tttt....tttwooooo. Mmminnnuuttesss." Pause. "Tttttttrrrransss...sss...ppporrtttt...tt...ter. Ssssiggg...g...gnaaaaaturrres. Dd...ddeeeettt...ttectted."
Amber frantically pushed buttons, ignoring the distinctive sound of nearby transporter materialization. "How to terminate accidental self-destruction initiation" read Amber rapidly, muttering the words under her breath as she hastily scanned the text. Phasers were now originating from one side only; elsewhere on the bridge, bowing Song Clerics chanted ritual phrases of welcome and nonresistance. A Myloxian yelled in wordless horror as a drone cornered him.
"Is that it?" spoke Amber in consternation. "After all that explanation and I only need to press the flashing purple button? Someone should really have a long discussion with the people who designed these help files." A finger reached out to delicately stab the proper button.
"Sssseeel...lll...llleffff. Ddd...ddd...desss...sttrrruuu...uctttt. D...ddd...deeactttt...ttivaaaatted. Boooo...org. Oooonnnn. Ppp...pilllllgriiiiim. Blaaaaaack. Bbbbooooox. Aaaawaaaa....ay. Haave. Aaaa. Nnnn...niiiice. Assss...sssimmmmm...iiiillaaaatiooo..oon," spoke the computer for its final time.
Amber turned as heavy feet neared, as compound eyes noted the approach of a nonMyloxian humanoid. In excitement she knelt in a deep subservient bow, forward pair of walking legs folding. She then stood straight, eyes focused on the now stationary Borg drone. Peripheral vision registered the assimilation of unenlightened Myloxians, including youngling Leif, registered the damage and carnage another species would weep over. Not so the Bugs, not when a higher call of religious fulfillment summoned.
"You will be assimilated. Your technological and biological distinctiveness will be added to our own. Resistance is futile," intoned the drone.
"Resistance is futile," agreed Amber. "Assimilate me into the Choir. I wish to Sing."
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