Warning! Before you are permitted to continue, you must acknowledge Paramount owns Star Trek, Star Traks was created by Decker, and that BorgSpace is written by Meneks. If you so accept this disclaimer, you may read on. Else, return whence you came.
Put Up Your Weapons
It is time.
Time for what?
It is time.
Time to move on? Time to pray? Time to volunteer?
It is time.
The indistinct silhouette of a person, race unknown and unimportant, beckoned urgently, figure backlit by soft white light. Somewhere a clock thundered the seconds, or a heart beat a measured, unchanging tempo. He was walking, running, gliding towards the sketch of a being, yet never gaining a meter; and, if anything, was losing ground. He forced himself to move quicker, to no avail.
It is time.
Time for what?
It is time.
I don’t understand! he wailed. Time for what? What should I do? What can I do? I want to understand.
It is time.
He sprinted towards the fading figure, frantic to approach the unattainable. The background beat never wavered its cadence, yet took on a greater seeming of urgency. For one startled moment he caught sight of the supraliminal being, looking past shadows and into a face which was eerily alike his own. The fleeting second, millisecond, nanosecond passed, however, and he was left with doubts upon what he had actually witnessed.
It is time.
I am coming! I am coming! Wait! Time for what? Please tell me!
And then all was plunged into darkness.
*****
Pilgrim Ghydin Koh awoke with a start, immediately regretting it as his head hit the roof of his rented sleeping coffin. He fell back to a prone position, hand rubbing the forming bruise. A groan escaped his lips, but no curse. Cursing was not becoming his religious status, nor would the action remove the bump.
A rhythmic thumping began in the lower coffin, a pounding Ghydin had unfortunately lived with for the last two nights. Despite the establishment’s advertised sound-proofing designed to deaden the snoring of even the most raucous neighbor, the reality was little could be done to dampen the, ahem, amorous activities of Hygin. Rough-natured beings which resembled bipedal rhinos and massed nearly 250 kilos each tended to be a little hard on the premises, especially when confined to sleeping coffins, even when said sleeping coffin was an extra-large deluxe.
Ghydin emitted another groan as he examined the watch around his left wrist. Although his first scheduled appointment would not begin for another two hours, there was no way he would be drifting back to sleep. By knowledge gained through biology text and hearsay, he knew Hygin could continue certain activities for at least half an hour, if not longer. He also recognized the pair below as extremely randy, with sufficient stamina to shake his cubicle for another hour. Swear words flitted briefly through his mind (one can not travel widely without picking up more than a few colorful colloquialisms), but remained unvoiced. Rolling around in the confined space which was his rented sleeping quarters, Ghydin exchanged pajamas for well-used purple robes, stuffed the former into a stained duffel bag which contained all his worldly possessions, and finally kicked open the door of his coffin.
Harsh fluorescence streamed into the dim cubicle, causing Ghydin to squint. From the sounds in the hallway, it seemed several other neighbors had come to similar conclusions concerning the Hygins’ early morning exercises and were hurriedly escaping to the main station. Ghydin pushed his feet into the air, blindly felt sideways until one booted toe found the access ladder, then carefully descended to the deck with bag slung over one shoulder.
The Restful Hotel was a cheap, fleabag of a hostel, catering to transients, those who were down on their luck, the nearly destitute, and frequently people who fell into all three of the aforementioned categories. Kakata Station was a working shipping hub capable of moving millions of tons of goods a 28-hour I-day, and space of any kind was at a premium. In order to make a profit, yet still offer cheap "room" prices, the Restful Hotel owner had divided his lease into eight "hallways," then stacked lockable compartments on each other to a height of three meters, with each coffin averaging 0.5 meter high by 0.75 meter wide by 2 meters long; several "luxury" suites on the lower row approached a broom closet in volume. Essentially, it was a storage locker for sentient beings.
Ghydin paused at the base of the ladder, mentally counting the credits left to his account. He had sufficient money for a vending machine breakfast, but unless he had a patron today willing to tip him beyond the fee for his scheduled services, he would be needing to find himself a warm heating vent this evening. As it was next to impossible to heat a space station to a temperature acceptable by a majority of sentients, the pragmatic Ijexian station masters tended to keep the thermostat on the cool side. Ijexians themselves enjoyed crisp air; and since the Empire owned the station, well, "possession is nine-tenth the law" went the adage, only in this case the actual fraction was an even one hundred percent. The temperature was invigorating as long as one was busy, but felt chilly if one was still for a period of time.
The Restful Hotel was exited for the station proper, Ghydin not bothering to reserve his coffin with the computer attendant for another night. Either he would have the money for a cubicle, or he would not. To be truthful, he had plenty of credits, more than enough for a week of luxury living in a real hotel, an establishment with rooms that included a bed, sanitary facilities, entertainment console, all the bells and whistles. However, that money was untouchable, representing transportation to the next stop on his wanderings. One more day and he would have his ticket; one more day and he would be able to purchase common-class freighter passage to Pikata Station, roughly 126 light years distant.
Pilgrim Ghydin belonged to the Order of Koh, an inoffensive semi-religious sect. The stated mission of the sect was to wander the galaxy in search of Places of Divinity, defined as those paths their patron founder Koh had traveled. Poking one's nose (or snout or muzzle) into unusual places or situations was a bonus. Very few outside the sect knew the Order of Koh maintained vast files of the strange, the peculiar, and the black-mailable.
Due to low membership, Ghydin rarely encountered others of his order. The sect leaders encouraged their remote followers to travel ever further in the quest for Divine Places and Interesting Things. Offering services of various sorts (blessings, curses, exorcisms, non-denomination life-bondings, divinations, magical acts for children’s parties, inspirational speeches, and so on), members of the Order of Koh were always on the move, their trademark purple robes sought by those with a religious need and whom wanted to pay prices below that offered by mainstream sects.
At this time, early in the I-day morning before Prime Shift, Kakata Station was relatively quiet. Most establishments were closed; and those which were open catered to the few customers via a computer or robot proxy. The docking and shipping areas would be different, Ghydin knew, as cargo knew no schedule but that of expedient transport. Debarking and sentient transfer concourses were also likely busy, passengers on a multitude of wake patterns waiting for their passage. However, the residential and associated commercial portions of Kakata Station were on local diurnal time, and thus nearly devoid of the bustling crowds which would fill the hallways in several short hours.
Ghydin slipped into a multispecial lavatory, a confusing visual abstract of devices which fit no race in particular and were uncomfortable to all. The predominant color scheme was an aggressive pea-green and gray motif, undoubtedly pleasing to the designers who had constructed the station, but mildly nauseating to a certain pilgrim. After using the convenience located in a stall, Ghydin, eyes downcast to avoid the too bright green spirals and diamonds which seemed to leap off the walls, approached the mirror and line of washbasins, dropping his duffel bag on the tiled counter. He was one of three other early risers of dubious sleeping quarter arrangements attending to a morning toiletry ritual.
Water splashed into the basin, and from there was used to wash face. Ghydin wished he had enough credits to afford a quick sonic shower, knew he probably smelled less than satisfactory to those species of a more discriminating nose, but those he would be directly interacting with today were relatively olfactory-challenged. More than likely, /their/ natural (or artificially applied) fragrance would cause him to wish for an odor mask. Face dripping, Ghydin vigorously dried himself with a patched and threadworn floral towel pulled from his bag. Blinking water out of his eyes, he peered at himself in the mirror.
Ghydin was Kreen, a rather standard biped which did not overly stand out among others of the generic physiology. Two legs, two arms, a head, five fingers per hand, the normal arrangement of internal organs and external senses, the Directors had obviously been in a creative rut when his race had first been sketched on the drawing board of life. Small nubs of horn ran along the bridge of his nose, splitting into the wide arms of a "Y" as the decoration curled over brow ridge. The irises of his eyes were purple, a rare hue among the space-faring beings of the Empire, but common amid his own kind. His pale skin had a faint tinge of iridescent purple, as did his sparse black hair, a color which complimented the bold, if faded, dye of his Order of Koh robes.
Although the Kreen physiology was not outstanding, not by a long stretch of the xenophysician imagination, the species itself was rare in the Ijexian Empire, especially following events approximately thirty years prior. Three decades previous, a cult - the Brotherhood of Galactic Love - had arisen, converts gained by application of a hallucinogenic and addicting flower. The founder, deeply under the influence of the plant’s essence, had envisioned a great confederation, united in bringing the blessings of the gods (and the flower, by odd coincidence) to the galaxy, forcefully, if necessary. Money, one of the driving forces of such an endeavor, was not a problem, converts more than willing to donate all their belongings to the Cause; and manpower was similarly not an obstacle, with the Kreen race displaying extreme genetic susceptibility to the flower. However, the Ijexian Empire, normally quite tolerant of the many cults which blossomed within its borders, took a dim view of the proceedings which were gaining power, primarily because in order for the Brotherhood’s vision to occur, the Empire would be forced to disband. Unacceptable.
In the end, the Brotherhood had been regulated to a single fringe system, Nion, and more specifically, the planet Relex. Powerful weapon platforms were built, programmed to fire upon anything leaving the inner system which was of sentient origin or included complex biologicals. Anyone could go in; none were allowed to exit. Most of the Kreen race, along with a smattering of a dozen other species as well as the mind-altering flower which had spawned the cult, were trapped on Relex. Hence, Ghydin and others of his kind were rare outside of the few colonies and enclaves which had escaped floral conversion.
Finishing his toiletry with a good dousing of a body odor neutralizing spray, Ghydin felt ready to face the day. It was time to spend what remained in his personal coffer for a meager breakfast.
Two hours later found Ghydin long finished with his nondescript meal, a bland something which the vending machine had advertised as being the "Next Best Thing To Real Shabala Eggs Wrapped In Fronch Bread!" Ghydin was aware shabala eggs were not a worrisome orange and fronch bread was not supposed to sport a gray crust, but his digestive system, long used to foods of questionable origin and age from vending machines, declared the breakfast non-toxic. Aimless wandering of the waking commercial sections of the station had neither garnered donations nor offers for additional work, and so the first job of the day, an exorcism, became Ghydin’s destination. It was a standard routine.
"Boogaty-boo! I light this candle to drive out the spirits which have inhabited this machine! Hocus pocus, and away, foul demons, foul bugs, foul code," intoned Ghydin. He fished a thin purple candle, partially melted, from his pocket, placing it next to the primary monitor of the offending system, in this case, a misoperating auto-chef. The customer, a nervous looking Dromela, loudly snapped his hidden beak twice while waving a pair of boneless arms, delicate hands concealed by protective sheaths of horn. Dromela always reminded Ghydin of the betentacled sea creatures seen on the Empire Nature Channel, which, truth be told, Dromela had evolved from.
"How much longer vil it be?" asked the restaurant owner as he tied and untied a second pair of his manupulatory arms into knots. "Thee theng vent on thee fritz yezterday, and I can not avord to have it down zuthrew thee lunch period." He glanced through a window into the preparation area, a shiny white room which included six robotic arms with various implements of culinary destruction. "Thee gratu livers, all over thee place! A fortune in gratu turned into bloody bits! And one of my sous chefs, sent in to clean up thee mess, turned into a souffle tartar! Admittedly, she did sell well to thee dinner crowd as a discounted special, but still! Souffle tartar should not be on a proper menu until thee holidays! It iz scandalous!"
Ghydin ignored the prattling of the restaurant owner, making a mental note to avoid anything in the future entitled "souffle tartar" and which was sold by an eatery specializing in Dromelan ethnic foods. He had already known the amphibious squids often enjoyed raw meats in their dishes, but including one of their own kind on the menu after an accident was going a bit too far. The rumormill even whispered that on backwater stations only nominally under Empire control, very affluent Dromela could literally order anything. Anything.
"The nature of the demon is coming to me," said Ghydin. He glanced down at the screen of his PDA, reading the output of the virus scan which had been performed as he had set up the candles and other trappings of an exorcism. As he initially thought, it was a PrettyInPinkAndRed worm, which the restauranteer could have easily avoided if he had employed half-way decent security software in his system. Ghydin punched three buttons, calling forth the proper counter program, then released it. "Out, out foul creature! Out!" A pinch of flash powder was tossed into the air, where it ignited with a bright light and puff of smoke.
The customer was impressed.
Ghydin specialized in exorcisms of the computer sort, having been a computer technician (and a darn good one) prior to his calling to the Order of Koh. He could still remember that point, so many years ago, when he had realized his existence was drudgery, had no meaning. Most of his life before was an out of focus blur, a paragon of averageness, with that singular epiphany literally opening a whole new chapter to his life. Joining the Order of Koh had been simple, merely a matter of stopping by the local minor cult recruiting office and registering his preference, followed by signing a few wavers and release forms, and finally by replacing his family name for that of Koh.
Ghydin completed two more cybernetic exorcisms following the first, the final appointment stretching through the lunch hour (no money meant no food anyway, or so he told his unhappily rumbling stomach). He wondered how people could so abuse computer systems, not notice when literal bugs were making a nest among circuit crystals or obliviously upload the newest porn and/or game without bothering to check for viruses. After finally putting away his adequate, if meager, supply of diagnostic tools, Ghydin was surprised to find himself the recipient of a modest tip in addition to his fee, a tip sufficient to guarantee another night at the (un)Restful Hotel as well as supper AND breakfast.
He was not surprised, however, to find he had approximately a quarter I-hour to make it to his next appointment - a blessing. The location was, of course, on the other side of the station.
Murphy and his laws are universal in scope; and at the moment, Murphy was in a foul mood, with a certain pilgrim in his sights.
"Yer money," squeaked a voice at knee level. "Yer money, or else."
The maintenance way was dark, a short cut not often traveled by any except automated cleaning machines or those who were seriously late for an appointment. The lack of decent illumination did not quite disguise the short shape standing in Ghydin's path, a shape Ghydin knew in better light would bear a strong resemblance to a plush baby toy. Long hair, stubby digits, wide bat-wing ears, large and soulful eyes, a button nose, one underestimated a Moploi and its intrinsic cuteness at one's peril. The large phaser rifle, as big as the miniature mugger, was pointed roughly at Ghydin's groin.
"Yer money, bugger, o' I shoot. I canna lift me gun any higher, but this usually be good enough. Money!" the Moploi chittered in its high-pitched voice.
Something deep in Ghydin wanted to punt the furball, but the urge was blocked by the pacific teachings of Koh ("Cowards survive while heroes die" was one of Koh's more famous sayings). Tried to explain Ghydin, "I don't have much money on me. I'm just a poor pilgrim. My credit chip is nearly empty."
"That's what they all say! Gimme, and gimme now!" The distinctive sound of a phaser rifle whined just at the edge of hearing. A short finger hovered over the fire button, a short finger shaking with the tell-tale signs of caffeine - Moploi drug of choice - withdrawal. "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!" The demanding voice squealed into the ultrasonic.
Ghydin sighed, "Yes, my son." Inside, an almost voice snorted disdain, then quieted. "You really should check into a rehab facility. I can recommend a place that will have you on de-caf in less than two weeks."
"Gimme! Now! No more stalling!"
Ghydin pulled his credit chip out of his pocket and dropped it. It immediately disappeared, followed by the Moploi as he scurried back into the hole originally egressed, rifle dragging behind. It was only money; it was only food and shelter. The travel credits were in another account, direct deposit by those who contracted Ghydin's services and inaccessible except to buy transport tickets. The pilgrim's stomach rumbled.
Oh well. It would not be the first time Ghydin was to be hungry, and likely not the last neither; and now he had less than five minutes to hie to his next appointment. Dignity was tossed to the stellar winds as Ghydin hiked up his robes with one hand, clutched his duffel bag awkwardly with the other, and jogged into the more well-traveled corridors which would lead to his destination.
The Psugan male stood proud, the tips of his colorful feathered headcrest nearly sweeping the ceiling. With swollen belly pouch full of maturing spawn, the male looked like a cross between a pregnant seahorse and a multicolored bipedal gryphon with a cockatoo crest. A spouse stood to either side of the posturing male, the females smaller and drabber versions of their husband and lacking a feather ruff, but no less able to easily pull apart offensive Kreen with their semi-retractable talons.
Ghydin flicked drops of blood onto his clients, fluids which had been drawn by ritually lancing his thumbs and that of the Psugan's, then mingling all together before sanctification. Words scrolling up a discretely held PDA were read, "With this blood, Koh watches over you. With this blood, Koh becomes a part of you. May your travel be swift and safe. May you find good foster families for all your spawn. May your spawn grow to be beautiful, intelligent, and virile."
The male lowered his head to Ghydin's level and gaped open his hooked beak. The pilgrim upended what was left of the vial holding the blood, allowing the remaining trickle of red liquid to flow into waiting maw. The beak snapped shut, narrowly missing fingers.
"From the Directors and Koh flow the blessings of life."
The blessing was standard for those mostly carnivorous races whom retained the more primitive cultural aspects of their history, even as their technology moved well beyond the need for hunting, hand-to-hand combat, and deliberately spilt blood. All which was necessary was a little research to eliminate taboos and a slight rearranging of words or censoring of objectionable phrases. Plug and play, for the most part.
In this case, the pregnant male and his two wives were on a pilgrimage to their homeworld in preparation to give birth. The typical birth delivered between fifteen to thirty pouchlings, none of which would be raised by the genetic parents: caring for the young of one's own body was considered a perversion. However, unless the parents had exquisite genetic profiles, were politically powerful, extremely wealthy, or had many favors owed, usually only one to five of the young would be fostered, the rest ritually eaten to recycle any blessings gathered during homecoming. The Psugan were equal-opportunity worshipers, accepting of any religious creed. Hopeful parents, such as the trio bowing their heads in silence, grasped any opportunity which might foster another pouchling, even as they knew reality would likely dictate otherwise. Still, it never hurt to ask for another benediction.
Ghydin coughed politely as he put away PDA, thumb lance, and vial into an interior pocket of his duffel bag. The female to the right opened her eyes and blinked her inner eyelids. The male and the other female remained motionless.
"Ah, payment, yes?" squawked the female, followed by a click of her serrated beak. "You were late, you know."
"I do apologize, Senior Wife, once more. I was unavoidably detained by a mugger. By the will of Koh only my credit chip was stolen, leaving me unharmed. Koh's patronage smiled upon me to make sure I made it to bless your family and your forthcoming spawn." Psugans adored stilted grammar and semi-archaic words.
The beak clacked again. "Very well. You speak prettily, and the blessing was good. I felt it in my veins." Click clack. One burnt-orange scaled hand reached into a pouch slung on a decorative belt girding brown shorts, bringing forth a slim PDA. Several buttons were quickly depressed. "There. Money has been transferred to the contract account. Does your order allow you to accept tips?"
Although Ghydin's heart beat a bit faster, he carefully controlled his expression. "Yes, my lady, although as I mentioned, my credit chip was stolen; and I have not had a chance to replace it."
The female Psugan snorted. "Silly things, these credit chips. Annoying." The words were rhetorical commentary, response not required. She dug into her belt pouch again, hand emerging with a wad of plastic rectangles. One eagle eye peered at the roll, stripping several sheets from the stack. "Here is your tip, then. You will accept hard currency, yes?"
Ghydin held out his hand. Unorthodox, primitive, but what sane mugger would bother with a trio of Psugan? "Yes, my lady." He quickly stuffed the bills into his shirt, only glancing at the denominations. It would be more than enough to cover personal expenses, even after the expected customs tax required to transfer regional scrip into proper electronic credit. "Thank you very much, my lady."
*****
It is time.
Time for what?
It is time. Soon it will be time. Very soon.
Time for what? How soon?
The sense of urgency was back, stronger than ever, as was the shadow of a person who whispered the words. He vaguely recognized the situation for the dream it was, but could not wake, did not want to wake. It was comfortable here, comfortable here in the smooth undark, unlight.
It is time. Soon you will sleep.
I am sleeping. Time for what?
Sleeping. Soon it will be time for sleeping. Soon it will be time for waking.
The answer was cryptic, a stream of logic spewed by the unaware mind in response to nonsensical questions posed by itself. The shadow form stepped closer, stood for a short eternity, then retreated again, urgency now tinged with anticipation.
It is time.
Time for what?
Almost it is time....
*****
The freighter "StarRat" was a moderately large ship - a kilometer plus in length with a three hundred meter beam - outfitted with modular pressurized holds. Supplying heat and atmosphere to such a huge volume was expensive, but then again, the cargo StarRat specialized in was often pricey and delicate. Seven regular crew wrangled the vessel, six of the rabbit-like Cadarite and one Po, a multi-bodied being whose individual members resembled hyper caterpillars. Five non-crew cabins were available to rent on StarRat, although this particular trip only saw Ghydin and one other as passengers.
Ghydin enjoyed his sinfully spacious single-bed room (anything which was large enough to stand up in and included its own sanitation facilities was spacious in his estimation) and the more than adequate food. No vending machines selling decade old rations here. The mess area, a combination kitchen, dining facility, and recreation hall, was the social nexus of the ship, and Ghydin spent many hours conversing with crew and the other passenger; card games and electronic pastimes were available as well. This was the reason he had first been attracted to the Order of Koh, the chance to see new places, meet new people. The stations were merely stopping points in his wanderings, with the trek among the stars the real pilgrimage.
The leg from Kakata to Pikata took eighteen days, of which five days had passed. Ghydin had been through Pikata several times, the station a well traveled hub serving as a transfer point for many commercial and private vessels. The station was not unique except for its proximity to Nion, indicted system of the Brotherhood of Galactic Love. Too bad so many of the Brotherhood were of his species, for it had been a long time since he had looked at a familiar face outside of a mirror. One part of him was suitably ashamed of the trouble many of his race had precipitated, a genetic quirk which had left his species unusually susceptible to the mind-altering flower; another part of himself, however, wondered if, perhaps, just maybe, the Ijexian Empire may have propagandized the Brotherhood incident, and it was distant relatives who were trapped in the Nion system, not rabid fanatics.
Ghydin was in the rec area, staring at familiar warp star streaks through an observation window and dwelling upon the question of the Brotherhood, when the ship moaned. The pilgrim aborted his line of thought, senses of a veteran traveler conversant with the noises a vessel makes in flight screaming an internal red alert. Vessels the size of StarRat did not produce such sounds, not unless something unusual was occurring. The superstructure groaned again, followed by a shudder which shook the furniture and loose dishes in the kitchen.
"Attention crew and passengers," announced a bodiless voice through the loudspeakers, "this is Captain Toorak. The ship is experiencing a little spatial turbulence. While the condition is not dangerous, I insist passengers return to their cabins and stay out of my crew's fur. Duration of this minor problem shouldn't be long." The PA system chirped as it disengaged.
Spatial turbulence, by Koh! There was no such thing, at least not on the well traveled and well mapped route a freighter such as StarRat plied. Minor problem! Ghydin raised his eyes to the star field, noticing a blue haze permeating space. His eyes next flicked to the crew entering the common lounge, noticing worried expressions and twitching ears. Ghydin quietly rose from his seat and headed to his cabin.
*****
An ancient culture spanning 50,000 years of recorded history was gone, assimilated. During the seven millennia the Borg had observed them as they approached the cusp of transcendence, the Kulupese had become increasingly introverted, withdrawing their population to first the home system, then the home world, abandoning outposts and colonies to younger races. Whereas most civilizations continually expanded their sphere of influence, the Kulup turned inward to explore the boundaries of the mind and soul, to probe at the envelope between reality and a perceived higher plane of existence.
Species #1086 continued to exist in the present universe, albeit now assigned to tasks which took advantage of cerebral excellence and a high manual dexterity. The genetic legacy of the Kulup would live on, even as the ancient culture became another datum of the Collective, another example of the infinite paths civilization evolves, another stepping stone to Perfection.
A scant half orbit earlier of the Kulup homeworld, the once green and blue planet had been girded by a hedgehog forest of space elevators connecting to an equatorial spanning habitat. Now mountains were razed to extract minerals, and the seas frothed brown with organic pollutants. Glittering solar fields cast shadows over dying forests as genetically engineered microbes scrubbed an increasingly noxious atmosphere such that drones could continue laboring at peak efficiency. In near space orbit, one of the two small moons of Kulup had already been rendered to small chunks for planetoid-sized constructors, giant machines which extruded parts to add to the growing collection of struts and nodes which was swiftly becoming a major research station.
Technology roughly translated as Astral Ring from the rich Kulup language had been the trigger leading to species #1086's downfall.
The Kulup had envisioned the Ring to be the crowning jewel of their racial transcendence, a way to leave mortal bodies behind and move into the next plane of existence as living energy. The Collective ran a series of complicated models, reckoning the Ring to best serve Perfection by incorporation into transwarp to create a powerful mode of transport which made the current conduit system look like the creeping of a slow snail. The equation was simple: assimilate Kulup.
On this day, in this hour, as the extractor spat forth the components for another strut module and as the sacred Kulup mountain Fortan spew lava in a fit of volcanism as geothermal probes pushed through the mantle to harvest energy from the planet's outer core, a modified version of the Astral Ring was switched on. The first of a series of adaptations had been made, and sensors placed around and inside the remotely operated vehicle which housed the prototype Ring Drive Mark I.
The Collective settled back to watch the expected fireworks. They were not disappointed.
*****
StarRat shuddered. The sparse furniture in Ghydin's room would have bounced had the objects not been bolted to floor or wall. Ghydin was not so secured, and waited patiently for the moment to pass. Once the quake ended, he returned to his self-appointed task.
The security system of the freighter was a joke. As a competent cybernetic exorcist with many years experience, Ghydin had quickly slipped past guard software to access exterior cameras. The Order of Koh, although a religious sect, did not bother with a complicated series of "Thou shalt and shalt not" rules, figuring governments and major theological denominations had covered just about all there was to cover, and a few more besides once lawyers entered the picture. The nebulous goal of wandering the universe to find Places of Divinity was sufficient; and if pilgrims took less-than-legal actions to stay alive, well, as long as the Sect Elders didn't hear about it on the news, the ultimate consequences would be between the pilgrim in question and Koh.
Ghydin squinted at his wall monitor. The most absorbing view was to the rear of the ship. Interior cameras showed a variety of other fascinating doings, most of which were along the lines of crew trying to be in five places at once (impossible, except for the Po), but the mad scrambling was instructive. The crew was terrified and trying to hide that terror in the guise of work. As fascinating as the interior views were, the thing visible in the rear cameras was more interesting.
A ring of blue plasma chased the freighter. The edge of the vast circle boiled like storm clouds, thunderheads of violet and turquoise rolling in a cycle of build and collapse. The occasional jagged flash of soundless lightening flickered, illuminating the phenomenon. Ominously, the inside of the ring was nothing. Not blackness, not an absence of stars, not even infinity, just... nothing.
It was beautiful. It was horrible.
It was gaining.
StarRat shuddered once more in the embrace a shipquake; and Ghydin imagined if he could listen carefully enough he might hear the curses of a chief engineer long retired from the excitement of the Ijexian navy. The freighter, a civilian vessel designed for leisurely flights between ports of call, was built along the metaphorical lines of a streamlined hippopotamus. The ship simply could not go faster, no matter how many tweaks were applied to the core with a large hammer, no matter how many scatological oaths burned the air.
Ghydin watched as the ring silently caught the ship, leading edge of nothingness poised just beyond the stern. Another quake signaled disillusioned attempts by helm to perform evasive maneuvers, but a vessel traveling at warp speed was not a nimble object, especially when too many jiggers might misalign vital deflector hardware, which in turn prevented stray atoms from sundering StarRat into a cloud of debris.
Threat of nothingness abruptly became somethingness. An empty somethingness as the stars were extinguished, as reality itself was put on hold. Ghydin could not think (except for a small voice deep within which was bemoaning screwed up schedules), could not move, could not be. Many religions seek a perfect moment, either through mental or technological discipline, hoping to find a Deity, or perhaps just a really great tourist opportunity which will help pay the temple's rent. This was that perfect moment inverted, turned inside-out, a static hell.
Ghydin blinked. His mind contemplated screaming, but dismissed the option as irrelevant, the situation beyond the panic stage. The rear camera was still working, hardware functioning perfectly even as the minds inside the hull were not. StarRat was no longer at warp, the strange stars which populated the heavens stationary points. Other objects much nearer than distant celestial fires demanded attention.
A planet, clouds brown-tinged with pollutants, filled part of the viewscreen. Orbiting the equator was a vast ring, dull metal glinting in the sunlight, on one side of which grew an enormous tumor of technology. The two obviously did not belong together, had not been constructed by the same race, the former a solidly functional engineering triumph designed to withstand millennia, and the latter a collection of geometrical nodes connected by struts and giving the overall appearance of a spider web spun horribly wrong. Matte black and glowing green were the primary hues; and ships in the shape of cubes drifted among the latticework. From the distance, the cubes appeared small, until one considered the relative immensity of a scene which included planet, orbital habitat, and web.
Even without the benefit of computer, using his own eyes, Ghydin could see several of the alien vessels altering trajectory to intercept the intruder which had appeared. Unfortunately, Ghydin did not think it was the extension of a friendly hand. A species which deliberately built using black and glowing green was not someone Ghydin wanted to meet. Even the fabled Koh would have decided other paths to Divinity were easier to tread.
The freighter captain must have arrived at a similar conclusion regarding the approaching cubes, for the ship's impulse engines coughed to life, pushing the vessel in a direction which was away from the sinister planet.
*****
Less than a minute after initiating the trial of the Ring Drive Mark I, the Collective hastily terminated it. The test had not gone according to plan. In fact, it had not followed expectations at all, but the setback was minor. As several thousand drones, many of them species #1086, were directed to mull over the reasons for failure, the research platform sensor suite scanned a myriad of frequencies, from basic visual bands to esoteric quantum foam fluctuations, collecting data.
Astral Ring technology and transwarp drive did not appear to be as compatible as initially calculated, at least not without additional modifications. Upon initiation of the experiment, the test vehicle had imploded, ship curling in upon itself without warning to wrap around the volume where the ring drive had been mounted. It its place had been a ring of unusual particles, visually appearing as a blue plasma, but in reality constituting an impossible stew of quarks, muons, and neutrinos with lives normally measured on the scale of a few cesium resonance cycles and never seen outside immensely powerful particle accelerators. However, as impossible as the situation should have been, there it was, bold and bright, defying laws of physics known via the assimilation of nearly ten thousand species.
Twenty seconds following implosion, the ring began to pulse, blinking in and out of visual existence and playing hob with sensors watching other frequencies. Simultaneously, yet other sensors reported an odd resonance in the layers of subspace which transwarp conduits tunneled, a threat of local collapse which would either scramble local space to an extent to invalidate transwarp, else spawn a massive black hole to rival the one at the center of the galaxy. Neither outcome was appealing.
While the Borg had not foreseen the accident in progress, the Collective did have a large subset of new data to draw upon concerning past Astral Ring mishaps. Early into transcendence investigations, the Kulup had discovered blasting an area with immense quantities of gamma radiation disrupted Astral Ring functions. Kulup scientists had also quickly realized that unless they wanted to have large sectors of their planet to literally glow in the dark following Ring boo-boos, the technology was best examined in orbit via teleoperation, preferably the orbit in question around a planet other than the homeworld. While the current technology had been more than slightly altered, as well as wed to a transwarp engine, the underlying principles remained the same, and so the region of space with the pulsing blue ring was deluged with gamma radiation emanating from deflectors mounted on observing cubes.
The phenomenon winked out of existence; and subspace returned to normalcy. Odd resonance continued to echo, but no black holes or rips in space-time would occur today, or at least that was Collective belief for the next ten minutes before the alien ship appeared, covered in the blue flames of a particle plasma.
The flames dissipated, revealing a vessel of unrecognized design. It was a little over a kilometer from stem to stern, the bow end a foreshortened saucer which attached to a long cylinder with a dorsal-ventrally flattened profile, beam of three hundred meters. In many respects, the main body resembled a tadpole tipped to its side. Three warp nacelles were supported well away from the primary hull of the tailing cylinder by thick pillions, one on the dorsal surface and the other two located opposite each other along the sides. The hull itself was a patchwork of plates, some recently replaced. The outward condition, as well as other factors catalogued over thousands of years, identified the vessel to be a cargo hauler. No weapons, except those sufficient to deter opportunistic brigands, were in evidence.
The Collective came to a decision, an almost instantaneous stimulus-response resolution triggered by the sight of potential technological, biological, and cultural uniqueness. Several Battle-class cubes attached to Research Nexus #438 were dispatched to retrieve the intruder.
Proceeding the cubes was a request for communications, the standard Borg welcome ready: "We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Your technological and biological distinctiveness will be added to our own. Resistance is futile."
*****
"This is the captain of the free-trader StarRat," echoed from a ceiling speaker, as well as in the hallway and throughout the ship. "We have taken damage and can respond audio only. What are your intentions?" A very short pause, then, "Damn it, this is being broadcast all over the ship, isn't it?"
"Um, the mike isn't cutting off, Toorak," informed a second voice.
The beginnings of an oath was drowned with a multitude of voices combining into one reverberant Voice, "We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Your technological and biological distinctiveness will be added to our own. Resistance is futile."
"Can't we maybe talk about this... ah, fitzblt, the transmission cut." A shaky breath thundered. "Okay, except for vital positions - Gar, stay at the wheel, and Kil-eh-ri-oh-al, keep watching the core and engines - crew and passengers report to the mess for a situation report. We seem to have, um, gone a bit off the regular shipline. There are ships chasing us, and at the current speeds we have maybe twenty minutes before we are caught. Possibly less. Gar, reach over and yank the mike cord out of the socket." The speaker spat static, then was quiet.
Ghydin removed his software agents from StarRat's computer system before shutting off the display. After sucking in a deep breath and taking a moment to reflect upon one of the most important sayings of Koh ("When you gotta go, you gotta go," as scribed shortly before the Prophet supposedly left this plane of existence for the next, the circumstances of which were shrouded in mystery, a fireball, accusations from a notorious criminal organization, and a large sum of money), Pilgrim Ghydin stood up, settled his robes, then strode into the hall.
Captain Toorak was not a large bipedal rabbit, no matter his outward appearances. No amount of soft black fur, half-lop ears, and quivering nose could disguise protruding canine teeth and an eye which maliciously glinted in the presence of a profitable deal. The Cadarite species, especially those individuals in their prime such as Toorak, were imposing. Certainly the captain had subtle signs of aging with muscle softening to fat and the beginnings of a small paunch, but he continued to pursue credits with the vigor of someone much younger. Currently his eye glinted not with ill-disguised greed, but rather a burgeoning fear which was not well hidden. A safe (and highly profitable) trading route had turned into the complete opposite.
"What, by the fourteen rings of Hell, works on this tub of bolts, then, Captain?" asked Hy'lyku, a Dromela, as she waved two of her manipulatory limbs, the other two remaining curled close to her main body. She was StarRat's other paying passenger. The amphibious octopoid was displaying all the signs of extreme agitation; several dirty plates in the food preparation area of the kitchen ominously rattled.
Ghydin sighed. Why the Empire continued to claim the race's telekinetic powers were minor was beyond him, as well as the rest of the knowledgeable universe. Bureaucracy and politics were the only answers. A few minutes in a room with an angry Dromela was enough to make any skeptic, except a stubborn Jhad-ball council, into a believer.
Captain Toorak settled heavily into a padded chair in the rec section of the mess. Almost immediately he rose again. "We do not have warp: the nacelles are toast, and without stopping to drop a few 'bots to look at the damage, our engineer can do little. We do, however, have impulse and maneuvering thrusters. Communications is limited to audio subspace, although I could jury-rig an old lightspeed radio fast enough, if necessary. Most of our computer files are completely fried, including navigation. The only thing the computer can say with certainty is that we are still in our home galaxy. We do, happily, still have my grandma's replicator fruit soup recipe." Toorak bared his teeth in a grin which dismally failed to lighten the mood.
Groaned Hy'lyku, "Oh, great. So I could order fruit soup, if I wanted a bowl, but the computer couldn't find my as... "
One of the four crewmembers at the impromptu meeting coughed loudly, covering the octopoid's profanity. All of the crew on board, except for the being tending engineering, were Cadarite. "Cap," asked the crewman, his ears dropping more than usual, "what about those Borg people who are chasing us? What do they want?"
Captain Toorak shook his head. "Nothing good. Gar, you listening in? What do sensors say? Are they gaining?"
The helm's voice answered over the speakers, "I'm listening. The cubes aren't gaining, but they ain't falling back neither. I'd say the captains of the vessels are so utterly confident at capturing us that they aren't bothering to push their ships and crew. As far as sensors, well, it ain't good. You remember that Ijexian dreadnought we spotted last year, the one the Empire navy swears doesn't exist? Well, take the weapon and engine profiles of fifteen of those, and you might approach the data I'm getting on /one/ of those things out there. And, if you ask me, I think the cubes aren't even showing their full potential. Perhaps this would be a bad time to note that there are seven of the suckers closing on us, with one about ten minutes to interception?"
All the Cadarite winced as they heard the estimation of the firepower tracking StarRat. Hy'lyku looked from bleak black-furred rabbit face to bleak black-furred rabbit face, eyes wide. "What? What are you talking about?"
Ghydin shifted in the chair he had been sitting, causing the cheap vinyl to squeak. "It means that unless Koh, the Directors, or another deity grants us a miracle, we are going to meet these Borg fellows very shortly."
A grinding noise emanated from Hy'lyku as she ground the edges of her hidden beak together. She stalked to StarRat's captain, the top of her body sac well below the level of Toorak's shoulders. Her four green eyes, each the size of small plates, bore into the Cadarite. The scene was not comical. The captain's eyes flickered momentarily to several pieces of sharp cutlery which were hovering just above the dishrack. "Well, you are the captain, responsible for his passengers. /Do/ something besides stand around like a taxidermy display! I paid good credits to travel to Pikata station!"
In the end, it was decided to give StarRat to the approaching Borg cubes, using the freighter as bait to cover the escape of SR Junior. Junior was a small runabout, used by the ship in situations when transportering a delicate item was not advisable or available. Junior had been (barely) warp capable before the current displacement to the hostile system, and engineer Kil-eh-ri-oh-al had solemnly pronounced the ship to have survived the trip unscathed. Hopefully the Borg would be content by the large catch StarRat represented, and ignore Junior's departure. The only problem was, as noted before, the runabout was small, very small. Not all the bodies aboard would fit in the impromptu escape pod.
A voice was in Ghydin's head, one which was exceedingly unhappy. The pilgrim had graciously volunteered to remain behind, allowing the others to run. Hy'lyku certainly wasn't amiable to saving anything but her own skin; and Toorak had long ditched any captainly ideals such as going down with the ship as unwise and, more importantly, unprofitable. The other crew members were similarly attached to their bodies and the fervent desire to remain alive.
Idiot! Moron! Stupid! Imbecile! Fool!
The voice droned on, flinging increasingly rude names. Ghydin shook his head to clear it, wondering where this voice had come from and why it sounded so familiar. Something about time, and how time was near.... Eventually the voice lapsed into sullen silence, Ghydin dismissing it as an excessively impolite figment of his imagination.
Ghydin sat in the leftmost of two chairs located on the bridge. The room itself was compact, filled with consoles of buttons and switches all within easy reach of the two seats. Several large monitors hung on the forward bulkhead; and an anachronistic wheel, more fitting an ocean ship or landbound vehicle than spacefaring vessel, before the right chair proclaimed the position of helm. StarRat was a working ship, each crewmember able to do many of the jobs of another. Not even the captain was exempt from this policy and allowed to sit in a cushy chair at the center of activity; instead, he was, with the pilot, a vital component to navigation on the bridge.
Although unfamiliar with the mechanics required to navigate even the most modest of starships such as the freighter StarRat, Ghydin could still ascertain monitor control. Swiftly he filled the three forward monitors with pictures from various exterior cameras, all focused on the approaching behemoth.
The cube more than filled the screens, all sharp angles and shadows. The hull of the monster was not smooth plate, rather a confusing maze of embedded dishes, protuberances, antennas, lenses, and apertures. No communications beyond the initial hail had been forthcoming. Without ado, the cube matched course to the fleeing freighter, locking a pair of tractor beams to bow and stern. StarRat was dragged to a stop, first her thin shields disengaging, followed by stalling of her impulse engines. A small monitor on the console next to Ghydin recorded an energy drain from the compromised systems, point of origination according to the injured computer to be the tractors.
"We are caught," relayed Ghydin into a mike which was connected to the helm station by a wire. He heard his words echoed throughout StarRat. Shipwide originating from the bridge had only been one of many systems damaged during the hijacking, and it had not been particularly high on the fix list. The runabout was listening, waiting for the chance to escape.
Toorak's voice, made tinny by the unsure link to the runabout, asked, "What is the cube captain doing now?"
"A weapon of some sort is cutting into the hull, amidships," answered Ghydin. "One of the cargo spaces, I think." A thump shook the freighter as decompression occurred. The hold, however, was isolated from the rest of the ship by bulkheads, therefore only atmosphere in that area was lost. StarRat, like most civilian vessels, did not have forcefields to bolster ship integrity, instead relying upon much cheaper metal composites and compartmentalized design. "A piece of the hull has been cut and the cube seems to be tractoring the section to itself. Now might be the best time to leave. The next nearest vessel is still seven minutes away."
"Get me out of here, Toorak," yelled Hy'lyku in the background.
Toorak grunted his acknowledgement, then ended the conversation, cutting off the sound of the Dromela in mid-tirade. Escape in the runabout, be it successful or not, was not going to be a pleasant experience for the crew stuck with the octopoid.
Switching to the hanger camera feed, Ghydin watched SR Junior launch.
*****
The subspace resonance left behind after the termination of the Ring trial was not dampening as quickly as predicted. While the immense sensor grid of Research Nexus #438 continued to observe the phenomenon, portions of the cerebral drone population ran model after model, sifting through data at the extraordinary speeds only the Collective could achieve. Suddenly, the resonance pattern slightly changed, peaks enhancing peaks and troughs deepening troughs. A critical loci was building, focused near the unknown intruder which battle-class cubes chased.
While the Collective was in the habit of talking to itself, a necessary action, it did not editorialize situations. What happened, happened, and the Whole simply responded to the stimulus. Emotions such as pleasure, worry, fear were for small beings. However, even as the Collective refused to acknowledge such, the same feelings did permeate the All, albeit on a scale and in such a manner as to be foreign to an individual. The transient impression which swept through the Collective, concentrated among the drones of Research Nexus #438, was best described as disgust, an anticipation that control of the current situation was shortly to be lost, and that there was nothing to prevent the aforementioned eventuality; and if the Collective had been in the habit of commenting to itself, the words <<Oh, crud,>> would have rung clear.
*****
Ghydin was watching the departing runabout when the screen centered on the attacking cube suddenly blossomed with light. Like a flower unfolding, petals of blue plasma ripped through the hull of the Borg ship, sundering it. Larger and larger the bud grew, until only a blue wreathed ring remained, edges percolating. Pieces of debris pinged against StarRat's hull or were consumed by the nothingness at the center of the phenomenon. The ring floated scant kilometers distant.
There is still time! Still time! Go!
"What?" said Ghydin, surprised. The familiar voice was back, a dark presence pushing against his mind. "I can't fly this thing!"
Go! Go! There is still time! Go!
Knowledge of how to work the freighter, what buttons to push, what commands to provide the computer leaked into Ghydin's mind. Still he sat in the chair, too confused to move. "I can't. Who are you? What is going on?"
I am I. You are I. Micah is I. I am Micah. That body is mine! I was born to it. I will return to it. I will get to Pikata Station. A time ago the Brotherhood managed, with great cost, to smuggle me through the Nion blockade. This farce began at Pikata station, and at Pikata station the chapter will begin to close when I make the necessary arrangements to free the Brotherhood. Go away, pilgrim.
Ghydin shook his head. Brotherhood? The subliminal thoughts threatening to overwhelm his mind were dark, utterly at odds with his pacifist leanings. To Ghydin's horror, his body suddenly stood. The movements were jerky, like a marionette on strings controlled by a puppeteer who had not plied his trade in a long time. He found himself sitting in the helm chair, one hand gripping the wheel while another hovered over controls to restart the engine.
"What happened?" spat Toorak's voice over the speaker. "Pilgrim, are you there?" And in the background, Hy'lyku: "Isn't that the same thing that brought us here? Well, go into it, you idiot!" A yelp followed as a crewmember was hit in the head by a heavy object, or at least that was the image the fleshy thump noise evoked.
Ghydin tried to answer, but his throat was locked. His eyes glanced at a small monitor showing positions of StarRat, runabout, ring, and incoming cubes. Three minutes until the next Borg ship arrived. He also noticed that the runabout was maneuvering towards the ring, even now moving between it and the freighter.
His fingers continued to hover over the sequence to reinitiate impulse.
"No," he managed to mutter, "no. I can't do this. I'll run them over. Koh is peaceful. This is not a path Koh would take. As Koh once said: 'If you drive over someone and you fail in your endeavor or if there are witnesses, beware the wrath of lawyers.'"
Damn Koh. Koh is not strong. The Brotherhood is strong. Even lawyers will succumb to the Brotherhood. You are just a figment, Pilgrim. I am real. I made you. Give up.
Ghydin managed to peel his hand off the wheel and struck the other away. Shortly he was in a slapping fight with himself, right hand against left. His mind, his psyche, was in a similar state of flux, two parts battling for control; and Ghydin found himself slowly losing ground, slowly slipping.
Finally, a new voice emerged from Ghydin's throat, similar to the pilgrim's, but slightly deeper. "My body. I'll deal with you later. Now, where was I? Oh yes... " Eyes swept over displays, noting several things simultaneously:
(1) several minutes had passed,
(2) the runabout was gone, likely into the portal which presumably led home, or at the very least away from this system, and
(3) the forward monitor not focused on the ring was once more filled with the silhouette of a cube.
Tractor beams lanced out to grab StarRat, recapturing the freighter. Communications clicked, hail accepted by the computer. "We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile." Simultaneously, a console chirped a warning, indicating the immediate region of space was being inundated by gamma radiation. The plasma ring curled in upon itself, a flower withering, disappearing.
Registering that the portal was gone, the Micah entity dove, pulling mental doors shut. Ghydin found himself in charge once more. Unfortunately. Closing his eyes to pray to Koh and the Directors for a miracle, Ghydin tried to ignore the sound of transporters beaming in behind him. A heavy hand came down upon his shoulder.
Eyes still closed, Ghydin said, "I'm just a pilgrim of Koh. Totally harmless. Maybe you'd like to hear a little bit about my Order's founder?"
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