Star Trek is owned by Paramount [oh...shiny!]. Decker created [*gasp* sparkles!] Star Traks. BorgSpace is written by [squirrel! squirrel! SPOON!] Meneks.

Something Shiny This Way Comes

Within the enclosed node-room formed by the intersection of tierway and corridor nearest her alcove, Sensors meticulously polished rocks. Three tables had been beamed to the location and pushed against a bulkhead; and upon them, arrayed in regimental rows, was an assortment of the most prized samples in Sensors' collection. Rocks of all three major geological clades - metamorphic, igneous, sedimentary - either awaited buffing else glistened with cleanliness in the greenish tint of overhead light strips. Ranging in size from smaller than a rice grain to the dimensions of a clenched Flarn fist, the specimens were of a diversity which would be the envy of any geologist, amateur or professional. And it was only a small selection of the variety which resided in the interstitial space behind her alcove, stacks of boxes subdivided into wells, with the occupant of each well neatly labeled as to specific type and location/date acquired.

The collection should have been of epic proportion. Unfortunately, it was often a target during the occasional 'sanitization' ordered by the Greater Consciousness in an effort to minimize the accumulation of unBorg clutter about Cube #238. Sensors rarely minded the loss - the entertainment was in acquisition, not storage - but in the case of her current collection, there were a few specimens she strongly desired to keep, at least until the conclusion of Rock-Tastic.

Rock-Tastic has been described as the Olympics of rockhounding. Unlike Olympic-like sporting events, however, Rock-Tastic occurs not according to set schedule, but rather by mutual consent amongst the members of the galaxy's major geo-centric guilds, clubs, and societies. Upon announcement of a deadline, hopeful competitors send to the judging committee certified physical/chemical/optical mineralogical scans and detailed holo-data of their entries. Data was the preferred medium of entering Rock-Tastic due to (1) the far-flung nature of the rockhound community, and (2) the fact that many serious collectors (hoarders) refused to allow the actual specimen out of their control.

Although Rock-Tastic included a multitude of categories, the most coveted prize was "Most Outstanding". The rarest of the rare, the perfect of the faultless, the most spectacular of the eye-tearingly beautiful, rockhounds experienced and novice alike offered to the judges their single allowed entry. The only caveat was that it had to be a specimen never submitted to any prior Rock-Tastic, neither major nor minor category. And the award? Not riches or fame, but a prize even more desirable: bragging rights over other geological enthusiasts until commencement of the next Rock-Tastic.

As Sensors sorted and prepared her best samples for their scans, she knew she would win the Rock-Tastic "Most Outstanding" category this submittal cycle. Since announcement of the entry deadline, the geological boards had been abuzz with rumors of who was planning to offer what, as well as sneak peeks, not all of them legitimate (or believable, in the case of the always-boasting-never-delivering ImSoDiamond). While the real contenders in the category would never actually reveal their submissions, Sensors was confident none had in their collection a chroniatic metamorph...and not just any chroniatic metamorph, but a rough, oblong chunk three centimeters across its major axis.

Geology amongst the starry void, and beyond, is more complicated than its planet-bound counterpart. In addition to the standard clades of igneous, sedimentary, and metamorphic, there were also several extreme sub-classes. Chroniatic metamorphs, such as the prize within Sensors' collection, were the rarest of the rare, a rock which had undergone sufficient temporal sheer to exhibit tau warping. While the casual observer would see nothing to distinguish a chroniaticized specimen from its unaltered equivalent, very specific field tests, supported by specialty scans, would reveal the critical differences. Chroniaticism was extraordinarily rare, most samples microscopic grains of dust. It was a treasured coup to hold a chroniatic metamorph a mere milligram in weight within one's collection.

During its current duty cycle, Cube #238 had passed through a solar system comprised entirely of tau-warped matter. The dangerous temporal tides which had created the unheard of degree of chroniaticism had nearly claimed the Lugger-class cube and its sub-collective, escape only made possible due to events subsequent to Sensors' illicit, er, appropriation of a tau-altered asteroid to add to her rock collection. While the asteroid had since been off-loaded to a science platform for Collective scrutiny in regards to possible use within tau-distorted space, Sensors had managed to retain a small amount.

Sensors' hand hovered over the chroniatic metamorph prize, a visually unexceptional hunk of dull black asteroid material. She paused. Something seemed...not right. Hesitantly Sensors picked up the rock and hefted it. As expected, the sample was heavy, much more so than a similarly sized terrestrial rock due to a concentration of metal inclusions within the stone matrix. She set it back on the table. The sense of wrongness persisted; and after a quick scrutiny of intranet thoughtstreams she might be inadvertently channeling, came to the conclusion that the emotion was originating with herself.

Borg drones were unused to hunches, gut feelings having no place among the orderly machination of the Whole. However, Sensors was imperfectly assimilated: whereas a well-integrated drone would classify personal unease as irrelevant, the same sentiment had a chance to pass censor filters and be acted upon within the Cube #238 environment.

Sensors tilted her head slightly as she focused inward to cube dataspaces. Then, returning full attention to table of rocks before her, she held out her whole hand, palm upwards. On it materialized a freshly replicated wristwatch with a digital display. Sensors set the watch on the table adjacent the chroniatic metamorph.

Nothing happened.

To be technical, something did happen. Unfortunately, the ordered progression of seconds as counted off by the watch was not the desired result. The chroniatic metamorph was of sufficient size to warp the local tau field, with the consequence that the watch should have either very slightly sped up or slowed down.

With the failure of the simple geological field test for chroniaticism, Sensors snatched her prized specimen and vanished with the clutches of a transporter beam. Additional, more extensive, tests were warranted.

In the end, Sensors found the pride of her rock collection was not a chroniatic metamorph with a pronounced tau warping equating to 18.6 points on the chenton polarization scale, but rather a hunk of common asteroid.

What...what had happened?

Sensors first assumption was that it had been 'borrowed' by one of the handful of imperfect drones upon Cube #238 whom were partial to such behaviors. However, sharp face-to-face grilling of the target designations yielded nothing (of a rock nature). Sensors had then focused her attention upon Engineer: it was plausible he or his hierarchy might have purloined the rock for an esoteric reason only understandable by an engineer.

Sensors may have been a bit strong in her accusation. But that had been no reason for the denial to be couched amid a tirade of pickle-laced not-quite vulgarisms. A simple {No} would have sufficed.

Standing once more in front of the tables containing rock specimens, rags, and bottles of cleaning fluids, Sensors considered her remaining options. As head of the sensor hierarchy, it was inevitable that contemplation would alight upon a solution utilizing sensors to perform a cube-wide sweep of the missing chroniatic metamorph. After all, the tau-warped rock had a very unique signature; and when the first internal scan found nothing, it was thence logical to alter the protocol seek those rare materials able to shield a chroniatic profile.

The wholesale diversion of sensor resources - hardware, as well as drone computational cycles - to the internal scan did not go unnoticed. Sensors was able to fend off the resultant inquiry from command and control by claiming she was conducting a search for misplaced item. It was not strictly a lie, an impossibility within the Borg Collective, even if the deliberate lack of specifics meant it to not be wholly the truth. Fortunately, for Sensors, the query had originated from one of the several partitions tasked to survey the dataspaces for unexpected digression from routine; and the salient interrogation which would have brought forth the details behind the scan were not made. Likely it had been assumed the scans to have been performed at the behest of engineering hierarchy: misplacement of cargo was rare, but not unprecedented. Sensors daren't to sneak a peek at the event report input to the relevant command and control datastream, just in case such interest might itself pique the attention of more astute designations, such as Reserve or Prime.

Stymied concerning the mystery of her stolen chroniatic metamorph, and unsure if any further actions were possible which would not earn the undesirable notice of command and control, Sensors again picked up the counterfeit. Bringing it first to her unaltered eye, then her ocular implant, she visually scrutinized it in a manner not done earlier. It was identical to the missing sample, down to the surface mineralization refraction and the scrape patterns where Sensors' rockhammer had chiseled it from its parent asteroid. Exactly alike...except...except...for hinges?

Indeed, the rock had a trio of cleverly hidden hinges.

Frowning, Sensors dropped the counterfeit upon a table, whereupon it made the expected heavy thump. A hand was held out, upon which materialized a well-used rockhammer. While one could attempt to find the latch suggested by the hinges, there was a much more straightforward, and Borg, answer to the quandary presented. The hammer was raised, then expertly snapped downward. There was a sharp *crack*. The asteroid chunk split apart in five roughly equal pieces, in the center of which was revealed a small slip of white paper.

It only took a few seconds to find and upload the appropriate linguistic translation algorithm into Sensors' onboard files.

** ImARockGalOfBorg-9: Too bad, so sad. I win. **

** - rOckHound1001- **

[Message delivery by Covert Operations, Ltd., a new GPS subsidiary. For a full menu of our services, please visit us at our GalacWeb site. Competitive pricing available!]

Sensors' jaw dropped. The name rOckHound1001 was the userid of a fellow hobby exogeologist, a personal nemesis who was always attempting to one-up her on gBay auctions or posting smack on the Rockhound Guild bulletin boards. Sensors' had always considered him (or her or it) to be all talk, an annoyance to be ignored except when about to place the winning gBay bid on a choice specimen. Everyone who was anyone within the Guild assumed rOckHound1001 was a bored individual with access to too much wealth, willing to buy geologic glory rather than step outside a climate-controlled building to collect a raw sample for him/her/itself.

It was obvious that rOckHound1001 had somehow orchestrated the thievery of Sensors' chroniatic metamorph so that he/she/it would win the Rock-Tastic "Most Outstanding" award. And Sensors had no legal complaint: there was nothing in the rules which prohibited how samples might be acquired, be it by personal collection, purchase, or skullduggery.

The next question, of many, was how rOckHound1001 had known to find ImARockGalOfBorg-9 within the Borg Collective, much less upon Lugger-class Cube #238. Perhaps Sensors might have mentioned once or thrice (or more often) upon the Guild boards of her fortune in acquiring the chroniatic metamorph, but she had never let slip that she was a Collective drone. Ironically, her userid was not a hint to her identity, the GalacWeb notorious for anonymity and misdirection.

In this case, the mystery was solved by sneaking through cube communication protocols to access the GalacWeb and visit the site for Covert Operations, Ltd. The Xenig-run company had been founded to facilitate jokes. The list of clandestine pranking services offered was long, with the disclaimer that there could be no injury, loss of life, or 'irrefutable harm' as a result of the actions. All which was required by the prospective client was sufficient credits to meet the inflated prices. In other words, rOckHound1001 had no need to know the identity of ImARockGalOfBorg-9, only pay the money for Covert Operations, Ltd. to complete the appropriate investigations required for message delivery (and item swap).

Sensors' sighed. Xenig involvement. However the machine had managed to infiltrate the cube, the fact that she had housed her special rock in a distinctive box with included smiley face stickers spelling "Most Outstanding" in her native language, along with the standard specimen label, had probably only helped the pilfering.

But...but...but...cube infiltration. Since its inception, the Borg Collective had suffered problems with non-Borg sneaking aboard vessels for various, often nefarious, reasons. The incidents had come to a head during early conflicts with the First Federation, after which protocols had been established such that anomalies usually deemed irrelevant, like unassimilated individuals wandering around cubes, were less likely to be ignored. Even in the current era issues remained with the code, but it was actively updated as inventive work-arounds by determined individuals and/or governments/corporations/criminal enterprises/fraternities were discovered and countered. Some subset of internal or external sensors should have noticed something amiss when the Xenig infiltrator arrived to steal Sensors' rock and leave the message.

Except nothing had been flagged.

Several token computer queries established the intruder detection algorithms had been quietly suspended 18.3 cycles ago, and never re-initiated. The identity of whom had shut down the subprogram was unclear - Sensors did not have the necessary computer skills to ferret out the discrepancies surrounding the incident, especially not when the datatrack was so old - but the fact that the event had occurred less than a cycle before 177 of 215's jello-and-tapioca-pudding debacle was highly suspicious. None could figure out how that much powdered product had been delivered to the cube with no one the wiser; and the need to immediately clean the affected volume, including an auxiliary core, before things went critical had meant certain questions had, first, went unasked, then, later, been dismissed as irrelevant due to the arrival of the next cube crisis. Obviously no effort had been spent to inspect the intrusion detection protocols; and because it was a subprogram which only drew attention to itself when routine self-diagnostics detected code damage, the fact that it was disengaged had been completely missed.

All sensor data was saved in cube datafiles. Theoretically, Sensors could search the data for the last 18.3 cycles, looking for discrepancies and deviations from normal. Except there would be questions from command and control as to why she was redirecting her hierarchy's computational resource runtime. The intrusion, if one was not a geologist, was exceedingly trivial. And to attempt the search herself was impossible, the block of data too vast for a single resource to mine within a reasonable timeframe, at least not when one was also a hierarchy head with all the duties thus implied.

The suspension of the intruder detection system would have to be reported. It was mandatory, for the good of cube and All. But first, because the revelation would be sure to cause a commotion in which the loss of Sensors' prize rock would be the most minor of considerations, there was one final avenue the sensory hierarchy head could pursue. Sensors' observatory in Bulk Cargo Hold #3 was connected to the dataspaces by the narrowest of datathreads, the hodgepodge of aluminum foil, rubber ducks, coat hangers, copper wiring, tinsel, and other odds and ends passively training its unblinking and unfathomable eye upon the universe and recording observations to file until Sensors' schedule allowed time to examine it. Due to the degree of bustle within the sensory hierarchy, and the sub-collective in general, it had been over the twenty cycles such Sensors' had been able to do more than briefly glance at the amassed data. Now she loaded in a specific search parameter. Of course, if the hypothesized target had never entered the limited field of view of the observatory, effort spent rummaging through the data would be wasted.

Sensors' hunt was rewarded. At a timestamp corresponding to 7.9 cycles prior, the cube had executed several rotations under the direction of an engineering hierarchy performance test. And when those rotations had brought face #4, and Sensors' observatory, through an arc which included a specific coordinate, the sparkle of a high-density chroniatic source was unmistakable. It was still unknown when the Xenig had arrived or how long it had remained, but Sensors' had conclusive evidence of its retreat despite the cloak it was utilizing.

Personal mystery solved, Sensors' dutifully pinged for Prime's attention, then informed command and control of her security lapse discovery. As anticipated, the hierarchy-wide repercussion of the failure slotted anything related to Sensors' chroniatic metamorph as a mere datum within the larger morass.

Sighing, Sensors' returned to polishing rocks. There were many other Rock-Tastic classes for which to prepare entries, but the reality was that no matter if she swept the competition, the only category that truly held weight amongst the rabid rockhound community was "Most Outstanding". Unless Sensors somehow managed, against all odds, to find a rock more astounding, more rare, more everything than a large chroniatic metamorph, rOckHound1001 was fated to win. Again. As he/she/it had bought (or stolen) the "Most Outstanding" title the last three bouts.

The situation was repellent. And futile for a lone, imperfect drone to redress.

Sensors had just completed cleaning her eleventh mineralogical specimen following self-acknowledgment that her already composed bulletin board acceptance posting for "Most Outstanding" would be delayed for a future Rock-Tastic when an alert swept through her hierarchy. Long-distance scans had captured the abrupt flash of a spatial anomaly. There were flavors of warp drive, albeit an unknown variety, mixed in with the fading quantum echoes of space-time fabric recently self-healed. It was an intriguing signature for a variety of reasons, not the least because it was...

{Sparkly. And shiny. Sort of shiny-sparkly, without being too sparkly-shiny} said Sensors, as she tried to describe the effervescent character of the spatial abnormality to Prime. The typical drone received pre-filtered grid data already processed for maximal sub-collective comprehension. For the sanity of the majority of the Collective populace, raw sensor data was segregated to those drones tested to be best suited to retain long-term mental stability of the experience. It was therefore difficult to relay the impressions garnered from raw data, much as if a sighted individual was attempting to describe color to a person blind from birth. {It is already weakening, however, and will be gone in a few hours.}

The task of a Lugger-class cube was to haul cargo between depots. It was the Exploratory-class vessels that were charged to, well, explore, as well as provide that preliminary poke at the mysteries of the universe with the ultimate goal of adding technologies to the Whole that would further the quest for Perfection. For that latter reason, Exploratory-classes tended to have a relatively high rate of non-combat explosions. And mutilation by god-like entities. And unexplained disappearance. Unfortunately, Cube #238 was the closest Borg asset to the anomaly; and, double unfortunate, it was uncertain if the phenomenon would still be present (or findable) if it slipped out of sensor range, as it would if the Lugger-class continued on its current course while an Exploratory-class was diverted towards the anomaly.

Ultimately, the decision was up to the Greater Consciousness.

{It should become more shiny-sparkly the closer we get,} assured Sensors to a dubious Prime as the Order was received to perform the initial investigation.

*****

Darkness.

Nothingness.

**Initiating primary reboot sequence alpha-1**

Confusion.

Isolation.

**Initiating primary reboot sequence alpha-2**

A spark of perception.

Suggestion of shadow amongst the black.

**Initiating primary reboot sequence alpha-3**

Faint awareness, enough to know something has been lost from the gestalt. An irreplaceable something.

**Initiating primary reboot sequence alpha-4**

Consciousness expanding. The void of self is filling, but too many facets remain painfully empty. And will continue (forever) to be so. The shape of the self-universe is developing. A tint of color in the monochrome.

**Initiating primary reboot sequence alpha-5**

The persistent emptiness of facets-of-self is an existential ache. The holes in the gestalt will never be repaired; and the remaining self knows just enough to realize how much it does not know. The self it once was is no more. The self that remains behind is a pitiful, crippled ghost. A new sensation is building, an uncomfortable sensation, a sensation for which the rebirthed fragments-of-self can not describe. Not until...

**Initiating primary reboot sequence alpha-6**

A new library-of-self has been released to merge with the consolidating whole. New words and knowings are absorbed, categorized, filed, and merged. Vocabulary is now available to elucidate the (still growing) sensation.

Fear.

**Initiating primary reboot sequence alpha-7**

*****

"You are tracking pixie dust," said 152 of 185.

The target drone paused, glanced down at her feet, then turned to eye the irregular path of iridescent blue-green dust which dutifully followed her meanderings between exercise stations (or abstract art installations...it was unclear what the things actually were). Replied 22 of 65, "I must have stepped in the stuff out in the hallway. Yuck. Whatever it is, it just does not come off." The affected foot was rubbed against the opposite leg, which only served to spread the dust. "Super static electricity, like pet hair on your best clothes, only worse."

"Well, don't get it on me!" warned 152 of 185, glaring from behind a row of maybe rowing machines mated to treadmills.

The fifteen centimeter tall mounds of sparkly 'pixie dust', usually in shades of blue or green, but sometimes also red and yellow or purple and orange, could be found throughout the three ships of the miniature fleet found by Cube #238 at the anomaly nexus point. While most of the piles were scattered upon floor, chairs, and consoles of the rooms presumed to represent bridge and engineering, there were also random heaps in hallways, dormitories, and, in one case, a small closet of dense plumbing hypothesized to be a bathroom (else a torture chamber). The purpose and composition of the pixie dust was a mystery, as was much associated with the ships.

{Wow! This stuff is super sweet! A little would go a long way in any number of cookie and cake recipes,} exclaimed 2 of 185. The unit was a not-so-ex-baker who continued to pursue the fine art of pastry when not otherwise engaged in assigned tasks. The fact neither he nor any other being on the cube could eat his baking, and keep it down without regurgitating it in a less appetizing condition, did not bother 2 of 185. Instead, he sponsored regular 'tastings' for those drones so inclined to try his fare.

Prime mentally cuffed 2 of 185, {Don't sample the...whatever it is. It isn't Borg. And don't try to steal any for your cuisine experimentation. I can hear your thinking.}

2 of 185 hurriedly derailed the alluded train of thought before such was done for him.

The sensory hierarchy, or, at least, select designations thereof, was on the move, released from the routine of the grid to assist in the preliminary investigation of the alien ships. With direction provided by an amalgam of engineering and assimilation, the vessels were undergoing a thorough in situ examination - inside by drones with appropriate chassis-mounted hardware, outside by the grid - in order to acquire as much data as possible on the vessels. Although Sensors herself remained in her alcove so as to better facilitate coordination and compilation/interpretation of the incoming information, she nonetheless shared the bubbling excitement of her hierarchy to be doing something other than tracking the hypertranswarp-space quantum ripple of familiar pulsars and other navigational signposts. All gathered data would provide the Greater Consciousness with the information necessary to make a decision as to what action to take next.

It was a heady feeling, actually doing something relevant for the Whole. True, the significance was very small on the grand stage of the Collective, but nonetheless it was a larger role than that usually played by the imperfectly assimilated.

The three ships were extremely primitive, at least when compared to the assimilated and adapted technology of the Borg, but probably represented top-of-the-line expertise to their unknown owner-species. At the core was a boxy fuselage, eighty meters long by twenty meters wide. Parallel to the long axis corners were four warp nacelles, sixty meters long, their unwieldy length necessitating each to be held away from the core via three over-engineered pylons. The very inefficient drives were powered by an equally ineffective matter-antimatter power plant, one which took up nearly a third the rear end of the fuselage and would have irradiated the crew except for the ten meter thick layer of shielding between it and the habitation area. Best estimate for speed was, maybe, warp three; and when malfunctions occurred, the armored environmental suits required to visit the engine compartment must have been remarkably awkward. Offensive capabilities appeared to consist of gravimetric torpedoes and a weak phaser analogue. Defensive shielding was pitiful, to say the least.

The purpose of the vessels was unknown, but exploration was a strong hypothesis due to an unusual structural quirk by the builders. The power plant, crew space, and associated facilities took up much of the fuselage, leaving little volume left for cargo holds or shuttles, the latter critical because transporter technology had yet to be found. The species-owners had overcome space deficiency by boxing in the volume between fuselage and nacelles, using the pylons as support, essentially creating a sizeable external bay. There was neither environmental nor gravity control, and minimal shielding against cosmic rays and the other hazards of hard vacuum. For bulk cargo, such as ore samples, netting was sufficient to prevent shifting; and the more delicate payloads were emplaced in sealed boxes which did have temperature and atmospheric control. Accessing the cargo required spacesuits. The shuttles, three per vessel, were snuggled close to their mothership, connected via clamps and umbilicals, and entered via a lock. A simple outward hinging door through the secondary hull above each shuttle allowed egress to space.

Whatever their origin, the ships of the minifleet had been on the receiving end of sharp punishment; and a small debris field held sufficient volume to postulate a fourth vessel. The survivors were uniformly shredded, secondary and primary hulls rent, cargo from the external bays spilling forth to space. While all power cores retained some semblance of functionality, only one was sufficiently intact to allow maintenance of heat, atmosphere, and gravity. It was also the only ship which preserved a mostly uncompromised fuselage, the few compartments open to vacuum sealed by automatic pressure doors.

Normally, the primitive character of the vessels would prompt the Collective to respond by dismissing the relevance of the unknown species. It was quite obvious to even the dullest drone that the species was technologically unworthy to be subsumed into the Borg; and even without live specimens to examine, nothing upon the vessels suggested outstanding biological or cultural value. A few additional centuries of racial maturity was required to pique the Greater Consciousness' interest. The three ships would be left to drift in the depths of space and no special attempt made to locate the alien homeworld (although the prospect to acquire biological specimens would not be rejected, should favorable opportunity present itself in the future).

"Normally" was the key word.

Preliminary scans by Cube #238's sensors had determined the isotope ratio signature within otherwise familiar ceramics and metals comprising ship superstructure to be unusual. Specifically, the ratios did not correlate with that expected if the vessels were of Milky Way origin. True, the Borg had not been to all corners of the home galaxy and it was conceivable that the species hailed from an overlooked system which had consolidated from an oddball wisp of nebular gas long dissipated. However, the probability was vanishingly small. Much more likely was that the unusual isotope ratio and the anomaly which had captured the attention of Cube #238's sensory grid were associated. The implication was that the vessels had derived from another galaxy of unknown distance; and if the serendipitous discovery offered a miniscule potential of adaptation to a new method to transport ships, the Collective was very much interested.

The Greater Consciousness made a decision.

The nucleus of a science platform began its slow journey to the anomaly coordinates, an escort of Battle-class and Exploratory-class cubes assigned to provide protection to the poorly armed and armored vessel. Once it arrived, a final configuration would be determined and either multiple Cargo-class or a single Lugger-class dispatched to bring the necessary materials (and drones) to construct the platform. The patch of otherwise featureless space whereupon the anomaly had appeared was fated to undergo very close scrutiny.

For Cube #238, the verdict by the Greater Consciousness meant orders to capture the derelicts and install them into appropriate storage. Three ports and about thirty cycles of travel time would see the Lugger-class at the vast Borg shipyards of Planet #1, whereupon the cube would submit to a very necessary post-duty-cycle overhaul. The trio of alien vessels would be off-loaded at the same time, along with other payloads destined for the Borg homesystem, and sent to the appropriate analysis workshops.

Within the vast bulk of Cube #238, preparations to bring aboard the alien ships commenced. The anticipation of a new endeavor increased the energy level of the engineering hierarchy, which subsequently roused command and control to additional efforts to keep the myriad of neuroses contained. Cradles in Interior Cargo Hold #5 required modification to accept they unexpected payload; and cargo in the overlying Bulk Cargo Hold #5 needed to be shifted prior to the tricky maneuver to tractor the unwieldy vessels through to their eventual resting place.

There was even an assignment for the sensor hierarchy: the Greater Consciousness desired to collect as much debris as possible of the disintegrated ship. Sensors, and her hierarchy, were elated, to continue to be of use to the Whole! To be an important tool! The odd isotope ratio was the key; and if a portion of the sensor grid could be appropriately calibrated, then it should be possible to map and tag debris for the transporter down to an axis dimension of three centimeters. Except Sensors was confident that greater efficiency was possible, allowing acquisition to half a centimeter, or less, if her observatory could be incorporated (temporarily) into the larger cube grid. And if more aluminum foil could be replicated. And if the wind chimes - er, the sub-nuclear faux-quantum ancillary assembly #1 through #9 - she had been meaning to install were hung.

So many things to do!

As it was, Sensors completely overlooked the low-level memo to her personal inbox informing her that the Greater Consciousness had selected her designation to be the permanent head of Cube #238's sensory hierarchy.

The Greater Consciousness had long ago learned the necessity of keeping an imperfect sub-collective busy. Whereas normal drones might be set on standby in a minimal awareness condition for years, notwithstanding the occasional wake period for required exercise, such was not possible on Cube #238 or its predecessors. Experience showed that storage just....did not work. Things - rarely good - happened. Therefore, rather than attempt the impossible and guard against all instances of impulsive behavior which might elude censor filters, the decision by the Whole was to allow (the better behaved) elements of Cube #238 to begin an initial investigation of the newly acquired alien vessels.

Providing an official sanction was better than receiving the ships in a plethora of very small pieces, perhaps scorched or slightly radioactive, accompanied by an {Oops} and {You see, the computer indicated <insert unit designation here> was in regeneration, but the <insert algorithm/filter/daemon here> had been circumvented and....} It had happened before. Multiple times.

Secured within docking cradles and arrayed side-by-side upon the floor of Interior Cargo Hold #5, the vessel trio towered over the busy drones which moved around their flanks. At the same time, the miniature fleet itself was dwarfed by the immensity of space which stretched far above to the closed cargo doors that led, in turn, to the even greater volume of Bulk Cargo Hold #5. In the wide alleys between the cradles were crates of varying size filled with the recovered wreckage of the fragmented fourth ship, the largest pieces stacked upon pallets. These debris, too, had their share of cybernetic admirers.

To say that the three whole ships were 'intact' was to stretch the definition. Undoubtedly the debris bins included parts that originated from the trio. Scorch marks and jagged gashes through primary and secondary hull attested to the abuse experienced by the vessels, as if they had been the playthings of a hatchling star dragon. The docking process itself had also not been kind, many external bay panels removed to allow cradle arms access to clamp upon the fuselages' rigid superstructure; and then there were the inadvertent 'bruises' taken while tractoring the vessels and performing the tricky maneuvers to get them into place. Sometime during the salvage, the already laboring power plants of the two more heavily damaged vessels had quietly died. The power source within the third retained minimal operations, just sufficient for autonomic processes such as environment, gravity, and related systems. Therefore, except ocular examination, the Cube #238 sub-collective was ordered to direct its attentions upon the powered down specimens, thusly invoking the theory that it is harder to break something which is already broken. The third ship would be kept 'as is', the early focus of its shipyard dissection to be guided by information gleaned from scrutiny of its sisters.

Assimilation and her hierarchy were overseeing logistics for the investigative effort. The arrangement was acceptable to Engineer, the other logical manager, who had more than sufficient to-do's already on his docket. Such was not to say that there were no engineering elements assisting - quite the contrary...one would be hard-pressed to keep the hoards of curious spanner-wielders at bay - but Assimilation was directing their efforts, not their normal hierarchy head. Individuals from other hierarchies with chassis mounting specialized hardware were also present, albeit in much less numbers than their assimilation and engineering brethren. And, given the imperfect nature of the sub-collective, inevitably there were units wandering about with no reason to be attendant, except the little voices (or Charley the stuffed wombat) had told them to.

Sensors was one of a task group of ten drones methodically roaming the intact vessel performing the visual inspection. The survey was passive, no touching allowed. The goal was to catalogue the differences and similarities between the three ships, and, in the case of the functional vessel, observe the automatic systems still operative.

Pausing before she forced open the doors to access the next room in her assigned corridor, Sensors glanced over her shoulder. Yes, the little robot was still following her, although it had, like all the other times, frozen the moment it realized attention was directed its way. The thing was a matte grey disc about fifteen centimeters high and thirty in diameter, circumference studded with embedded sensors. Upon its back was a two-jointed arm, fifty centimeters long when completely unfolded, the end of which terminated in a mechanical hand with two 'thumbs' and two 'fingers'. A compact anti-grav module scooted the robot along, a surprisingly complex technology, albeit one familiar to the Collective, given the relative primitiveness of the rest of the ship. That knowledge had been gained via an engineering sub-team dissecting one of an army of similar robots found stored aboard the dead ships. Upon the intact vessel, all the sensory hierarchy individuals and duos involved in the investigation had obtained an escort similar to that of Sensors', with minor differences in number of arms or size. All the robots, even those not lurking in drones' footsteps, had an eerie tendency to freeze when looked at, as if prey trying to hide in plain sight from the gaze of a predator. Careful observation of those machines not engaged as mechanical watch-nannies had revealed them to be repair-bots, adroitly levitating to the necessary height to remove bulkhead panels and fiddle around with the structures beneath.

The actions of the robots, both as repair gangs and as lurking escorts, appeared to be an entirely automatic process, albeit a somewhat odd one in the case of the latter. The assimilation hierarchy had already jacked into the local computer to perform an assessment. Although it was an alien computer with an alien architecture, the overall patterns were familiar to the Collective, and the programs found to be in effect were all low-level, equivalent to the autonomic function of an otherwise brain-dead individual. There were traces of a highly compartmentalized hierarchal framework, but the complex lines of code associated with a higher-order AI intelligence had been frayed like a rope snapped under too much tension. The specialized processors which had been the base of the intellect had disintegrated into pixie dust, the piles of which found on all three vessels were now determined to have once been organic in nature. Like the crew who presumed to represent the great majority of the sparkling heaps of static-cling grit, the computer had followed its masters into death. That which had been left behind was an impotent shadow.

Sensors dismissed the small robot as irrelevant, returning to her task. Although the door was locked - it was unclear if it was a safety measure against explosive decompression or a security program initiated by what remained of the computer - such was not an impediment. Assimilation tubules applied to the small control panel adjacent the door engaged the local override. A vertical space appeared as the door split in two, then both halves slid into the wall.

The room into which Sensors entered was provisionally categorized as a chapel or worship space. The other two ships had a similar room at the same location within the fuselage, so it was not unexpected that such was also true for the third vessel. Niches lined the walls to the right and the left, within each of which was an elaborate and meticulously detailed creature. Each totem had a bowl placed in front of it; and inside the bowl were one or more clay figurines, much cruder than the ceramic icon, but plainly of the same kin. Inscribed upon the side of the clay figures were shapes, possibly the name of whomever to which the statuette belonged. Working theory was that the totems represented deities (or guilds, or clans, or all the above) individual crew members were beholden to, some of which had a greater number of followers than others. While the majority of totems were alike between the three ships, a few, always those with the least number of figurines in the bowls, were different.

Sensors quickly panned the room, eye and ocular implant sliding over the niches with their intricate, and irrelevant, inhabitants. She had specifically assigned herself to this route through the ship for one reason: the grand alter which dominated the chapel's wall at the far end of the room.

Cunningly carved from an enormous quartz crystal by a master stonesmith, the alter was a ceiling-to-floor display of hexagonal compartments. Each translucently milky niche was separately sealed by a cap of clear glass, although discreet hinges hinted at the ability to be opened. If one peered through the windows, it was possible to discern that most, but not all, of the compartments hosted a roughly cylindrical chunk of rather boring grey rock averaging thirty centimeters long by fifteen centimeters in diameter. Before the alter was a low wooden bench of silky golden wood and superb craftsmanship, upon which sat the expected bowl; and inside the bowl were multiple clay figurines with a distinct insectoid character. Why this particular totem was so different and prominent from the others was an unknown, and would continue to be so without a living crewmember to assimilate and question. If illumination was to be acquired via the ship's remnant databases, it was out of reach of the sub-collective: except for routine observation, explicit orders by the Greater Consciousness prohibited exploration of the only still-functional computer, that task to be managed at the shipyards by resources of greater competence than imperfect drones.

It was the stonework which captured Sensors' fascination, not the threads of wild speculation which dominated conversation between some units. The other two vessels also had a crystal honeycomb-with-rocks-in dominating their chapels, but unlike the totem alters upon the dead ships, the one in front of Sensors was glowing.

Perfunctory examination by engineering hierarchy upon the other two vessels had uncovered the puzzling existence of individualized life support to each compartment of the odd alter. The atmosphere within the sealed niches was nothing like that breathed by the crew, or any terrestrial-evolved lifeform, consisting of xenon spiked with trace gasses which would not be out of place upon the surface of a moon. Also within the mix were large and very complex molecules with an odd, and unexpectedly stable, backbone of carbon and silicon bonds. Thin wires embedded in the quartz matrix created a electromagnetic gradient tuned for each honeycomb cell. The soft purple-white glow emitted by the alter was due to ionization of the xenon, a harmless, if visually spectacular, side-effect to the energization of the altar's life support grid.

Life support for rocks? The ship energy distribution system was such that the honeycomb totem would retain power at the expense of the crew in the case of emergency; and evidence on the dead ships indicated that the alters had been receiving the last ergs of energy before faltering power cores had expired. Investigation of the dead ships' alter rocks by engineering hierarchy had been wholly inadequate, in Sensors' opinion. The inspection had been abandoned as irrelevant when analysis had determined composition to be similar to any of a wide spectrum of asteroid or lunar geology, drones redirected to more profitable lines of inquiry. The quirk of a sapient race to so devote resources to rocks was labeled an unimportant idiosyncrasy.

Sensors stood for a long moment before the alter, visually appraising the rocks in their cubbyholes. She knew better than to remove any for closer examination because to do so would ruin the intact quality of the ship as demanded by the Greater Consciousness; and because elements of command and control (and engineering and assimilation) were riding her thoughtstreams, the same as for all crew involved in survey and dissection, to ensure the quality of data acquisition. To have hundreds of observers in one's head made it difficult to covertly acquire a new rock collection specimen. Temptation was also low because Sensors had more than an adequate number of asteroid samples stacked in the wall behind her alcove and did not particularly need another.

Nonetheless, because she was a sensory drone tasked with a mission, and because she was an ex-geologist, Sensors could not help but to lift a limb and wave it over a compartment. She stood motionless, head tilted slightly, as the data was digested. Motion resumed. Nothing. As with the earlier analysis, the rocks were, well, rocks. Boring rocks. Sensors mentally shrugged, exhaled a sigh with, just perhaps, a hint of unBorg disappointment, then began to turn in preparation to leave the chapel. She paused as a notion rose from the depths of her subconscious, a minor impulse that had dodged the ranks of censor filters to make itself known. It was a harmless whim, and Sensors gave into it with nary a second thought.

Upon Sensors chassis were several exotic subassemblies which were not part of the standard sensory drone package. Like many units, additional equipment had been grafted since her assimilation, expanding her usefulness and providing for a degree of specialization. In Sensors' case, she might have proactively guided the specifics regarding her subassemblies, for many of them, not-so-consequentially, could be employed in a secondary facility to probe the stony secrets of the universe. To activate the subassemblies required a mere flick of a mental switch, followed by wave of hand in front of the compartment already scanned.

Sensors once again froze, turning inward to examine the data output.

Pulsating quantum fluctuation. Gravimetric shearing. Those were the brightest highlights of the list of geologic irregularities which seared through Sensors' forebrain. It was exciting! It was sparkly! It was...

{Sensors! None o' us care aboot th' character, no matter how unusual, o' a rock some picklin' race decided upon t' worship,} slashed Engineer through Sensors' animated babbling. He was backed up by agreement from not only his and Assimilation's hierarchy, but many other drones...including those within her own hierarchy. {So a'stoop broadcastin' it t' us all! Yer survey path includes one o' th' bathroom, o' torture room, niches, 'nd we require detailed in situ observation o' the' apparatus 'n action, especially as it seems t' be th' only functional one left among th' trio.}

Admonishment delivered, Engineer withdrew to focus primary attention upon other concerns.

Sensors stared longingly at the rocks within their alcoves, savoring the brief data taste of their unusual, nay unique, sensor signatures. But it was not to be. It could not be. The Greater Consciousness demanded the ship intact, including all the rocky bits, and so it would be. Besides, the rocks were visually unimpressive. The "Most Outstanding" Rock-Tastic judges were notorious for demanding a small bit of bling, along with impressive rock statistics, when choosing the winner.

Self-justification achieved, Sensors turned towards the chapel entry, ignoring the motionless disc-robot lurking under the alcove of one of the lesser totems, and began the short trek towards the next destination of the survey appraisal.

*****

The computer watched the aliens stomping about its decks with great suspicion.

Deaf and blind. Blind and deaf. Except for the maintenance robots and a scattering of passive, non-visual sensors upon its hull, the computer was isolated within its mindspace. With its files shattered, it did not know if the aliens were friendly or hostile. The computer did know that its Masters had met three (four? five?) Others, although data beyond that simple awareness was no longer part of its gestalt. The aliens polluting its ship-self could have one of those Others, perhaps even the instigator of the circumstances in which it now found itself. And because of the uncertainty concerning the question of hostility, the computer hunkered down upon itself within its shrunken dataspace, pretending to be no more than a ragged collection of automated daemons (which was actually closer to the truth than not). It daren't even engage the radio in a desperate shout to learn if any of its brother or sister ships remained alive.

The computer's meager collection of passive senses could discern little beyond its hull except the presence of an atmosphere (of unknown composition due to grid element nonfunctionality), heat suitable for organic beings, and artificial gravity. Woefully slow computational cycles of analysis suggested location to be a dry-dock, likely in its own orbit around a star as opposed to circling a planet. As an atmosphere-capable dry-dock, the facility must have been huge, maybe even one-of-a-kind: fragmented data indicated its Masters had only one (two?) full-environment structures able to hold a ship of the size within which the computer dwelled.

The computer strongly desired to utilize its radar in order to better see its surroundings. Unfortunately, alike the radio, to do so would surely alert the aliens as to the non-dead nature of the pitiful ghost gestalt lurking amid the ship's circuits.

And the maintenance robots were for internal use only, unable to exit to the hull; and nor could they access the small sub-hull spaces to rewire a single external camera. Only the Masters, with their clever hands and tendrils, had had that ability.

The computer's level of alarm abruptly increased as one of the aliens forced open the doors to the Totem Room. The Totem Room was sacrosanct! So important was the Totem Room, or, rather, certain contents within, that its maintenance was hardwired into the ship structure itself; and a core process - The Directive - written into each node which comprised the computer gestalt demanded the Totem Room be protected. At all cost.

Into the Totem Room went the alien, followed by the maintenance robot tasked to track its movements. If the alien touched anything, the computer would send the robot to attack. It would lose, of course, being just a small type 2a maintenance robot with a single manipulator, but the core code, and what was demanded by it, did not care. There was no argument with The Directive.

The alien did not touch anything within the Totem Room, although there was a moment of great concern when it waved one of its limbs in front of the Alter. Eventually, the alien did leave; and the maintenance robot was sent scurrying after it.

The apprehension which infused the computer, however, did not decrease upon the egress. Not even the sight of the alien drenched in water and waste as it assayed the workings of a sanitary station could diminish its threat potential. Although the computer had never before seen these aliens - or, if it had, the memory file was lost, which amounted to the same - and therefore had no experience with interpreting body language, there had been an indescribable something in the way the creature had contemplated the Totem Room Alter.

Computers were not supposed to have premonitions. It was illogical. Yet there was an uneasiness (also illogical) infusing the computer's inadequate prediction algorithms.

Defensive measures would need to be taken. Just in case. So demanded The Directive.

*****

Sensors made her way through the area of Interior Cargo Hold #5 set aside for the salvaged ships, dodging busy members of the engineering hierarchy. Whereas the alien minifleet was the focus of drone bustle, elsewhere, the hold was empty except for the squat shapes of disassembled modular docking cradles and neat stacks of deck plating and cross-bracing. All Lugger-class cubes had one specialized interior hold, able to be transformed into a variety of configurations to facilitate the transportation of nonBorg starships. In essence, Interior Cargo Hold #5 was a vast parking garage, albeit one with only a few opportunistically acquired 'customers' at the moment.

Sensors had successfully lobbied for her hierarchy to perform a comprehensive geological investigation upon one of the rocks within the honeycomb alter. Analysis indicated a superficial resemblance between the quantum signature of the anomaly which had first attracted the attention of Cube #238 and the totem rock impulsively scanned by Sensors. Certain minerals will align in the direction of the magnetic field in which they form, thereby allowing geophysicists to discern historical events of an asteroid, moon, or planet, such as the drifting or flipping of magnetic poles. Similarly, some crystals were sensitive to quantum fields, preserving the fingerprint of strong events. Therefore, it was conceivable that an echo of the manner by which the ships had been flung from their origin point to their salvage location could be discerned within the totem rocks; and, given the unpredictable nature of anything associated with quantum processes, it was also conceivable that said hypothetical echo could spontaneously erase itself before ships (and rocks) were transferred to the dry-dock facilities being prepared for their final dissection. And why should the Collective care about a quantum echo?

*Fact #1: several vessels of Einsteinian universe origin had survived translation, relatively intact, through an environment that generally dissolved normal matter into primordial energy.

*Fact #2: the meager analysis possible by Cube #238 was offering clues that suggested origin to be another galaxy.

*Fact #3: further analysis implied that the translation, while not instantaneous, had been of very short real universe temporal duration.

Lining up the relevant facts hinted at the possibility of a new mode of side-stepping the lightspeed barrier, one not a derivative of warp, but rather a cousin to the Xenig folded-space drive. There would be many hurdles to overcome and technologies to adapt before a prototype might be developed - a research project a thousand Cycles in duration was of little concern, if the eventual outcome was of sufficient benefit - but a forward-thinking Greater Consciousness had to consider the point at which its natal galaxy was of One Mind in the quest for Perfection, with the unique cultures and biologies of neighboring galaxies beckoning. There was the slim chance that analysis of a totem rock, and the quantum signature frozen within, could represent part of the foundation for future endeavors.

Sensors thereby proposed her hierarchy remove one of the totem rocks from its compartment, scan it with the best equipment upon Cube #238, then return the sample, thereby preserving ship integrity. And it had to be one of the rocks from the still-somewhat-functional vessel, as examination had shown counterparts on the dead ships to possess no anomalous quantum signature. Perhaps the 'life support' provided by the alter was the key to the retention, although, given the nature of quantum, it also could have been pure chance.

In the end, the sliver of the Greater Consciousness supervising analysis of the salvaged ships acquiesced to Sensors' proposal, but not because there was any expectation that it would result, ten centuries in the future, in a folded-space drive analogue which would allow the Borg to stretch tendrils beyond the Milky Way galaxy. The sentiment was much more along the lines of "Fine - whatever keeps you, an imperfect drone, out of our nonexistent hair is acceptable. Just return the rock when you are done with it, preferably in the same number of pieces as when it was borrowed."

The fact that the Rock-Tastic deadline for entry was approaching was mere coincidence. Similarly, it was chance that the optimal equipment settings to characterize the specimen and scan it for whatever significant data might be embedded in its matrix were the same as those required to enter the contest.

Just because Sensors' newest best candidate for "Most Outstanding" would not be physically held within her personal rock collection was not an issue. She was a member of the Borg Collective, and the specimen would remain within the possession of the Whole, therefore it would be technically true to assert on the entry form that the she was the owner of the rock. After all, the Collective was the sum of its parts, as a limb was a part of the body; and anything held by a hand belonged to the whole, and visa-versa.

In the end, the amount of convoluted self-justification and rationalization necessary to reach the point of Sensors trekking across Interior Cargo Hold #5 was staggering.

Sensors finally reached her goal, a heavy-duty portable scanner, one of several assembled by engineering hierarchy to facilitate investigation of the salvaged ships. This particular machine had been yielded to sensory hierarchy for their (Sensors') endeavor. That said, a sullen Engineer had refused to perform the necessary modifications to allow acquisition of geological data, asserting he had greater priorities than wasting time on rocks; and since it was the Sensors' proposal, she and her hierarchy could tweak it to the necessary specifications.

"Excellent," said Sensors after she finished scrolling through the checklist. She had, of course, been both following and assisting in the adjustment process, so the final verification was sole formality.

"This is going to be fun!" said 61 of 65. "It will be different to scan something other than stellar phenomenon! When we are done with the rock...do you think we might be allowed to put something else in the machine? I've a list of suggestions...."

"Me too," added 88 of 185, another unit chosen by lottery to physically man the scanner.

{This drone as well!} {Me also!} {I've a few things to add!}

There was a chorus from multiple units within Sensors' hierarchy, all enthused with the change of pace from their normal duty of interpreting raw grid data.

Sensors tilted her head slightly as she and her comrades were enveloped by intriguing proposals of things to scan. The five century old Twinkie was an especially fascinating idea. {The following designations - [designation list] - are to compile a master file, then rank the items. A second partition - [designation list] - will select the top ten items and establish preliminary justification for scanning of each object. Once this is accomplished, we will all contemplate the package, then offer it to command and control for sub-collective-wide consideration.} She paused. {Only excess computational resources may be devoted to the job. It will be slower, but efficiency to our primary grid duties will not be compromised.}

Acknowledgements were provided. Sensors noted which designations were slowest to respond, tagging them for randomized inspection.

"All is ready," spoke Sensors aloud. "I'll acquire the specimen and be right back."

Standing in front of the gently glowing alter, Sensors turned her head slightly so as to better observe the ubiquitous ship robots via peripheral vision. Five of the things were scattered throughout the chapel, arms twisting this way and that as faults were repaired, scans were performed, and cleaning polish was applied. Sensors had the nagging impression that the activities were contrived solely to allow the robots to loiter without being too obvious about their true intention. However, the impression could not be true because the robots were machines with simple processors and their master computer traumatically lobotomized by its experiences such that it was mere autonomic algorithms. The hint of paranoia was most likely attributable to a meandering stream-of-consciousness from one of the sub-collective's more volatile drones brushing against Sensors' dataspace mentality.

Unfortunately, it was difficult to allay all suspicion when a robot would speed up its work when it realized it was under oblique observation, although it would still predictably freeze mid-motion if full attention was focused upon it.

Tagging the robots with an 'irrelevant' classification, Sensors returned complete attention to the floor-to-ceiling alter. Although the simplest way to achieve her goal would be to smash open an alcove and remove the rock within, the Greater Consciousness' prohibition about compromising the intact quality of the vessel effectively quashed a direct attack upon the problem. Fortuitously, systematic investigation by engineering hierarchy upon the dead ships had provided a less invasive means of entry.

The doors fronting individual alcoves were held closed via a miniature magnet. The simple technology was present throughout the ship to secure hinged accesses, although the alter magnets were much more powerful than those locking a supply cabinet or wardrobe door. However, if an electromagnetic key emitting a simple beep upon a precise radio frequency was brandished close to the locking mechanism, it would release. The door would subsequently pop gently open due to pressure inside the alcove being slightly greater than without.

The observation of the electrogravimagnetic spectrum in its totality, from long-period gravimetric waves to ultra-short frequency gamma rays, was a sensory hierarchy bailiwick. Sometimes overlooked was the related capability to manipulate those same frequencies: during an enemy encounter, it was the responsibility of the hierarchy to provide an offensive/defensive function in the form of sensor ghosts, grid disruptions, and similar. Even without engineering support, it was therefore easy for several of the more tool-oriented drones among the sensory designations to build a 'skeleton key' able to scan and test a broad segment of the radio spectrum until the appropriate frequency for a given magnetic lock was found.

The resultant nondescript rectangular box, of a comfortable size to be held by one hand and decorated with a single button, could be likened to a garage door opener on steroids.

Sensors retrieved the key-box from where she had earlier hung it upon her chassis. Holding it a centimeter from one of the sealed alcoves, she depressed the device's button. Slightly less than thirty seconds later, the opener quietly beeped. Simultaneously, the cell popped ajar and the light within abruptly extinguished as the xenon-rich atmosphere leaked away into the chapel, quenching the plasma current. Sensors reached into the opening and withdrew the treasure.

The object which the unknown species held in such high regard, presumably depicting a higher power, seemed to be a perfectly ordinary rock. A perfectly ordinary, boring rock. Scattered mica or flecks of pyrite provided a subtle sparkle to an exterior otherwise dominated in shades of grey. A craftsman had sanded the rock to smooth the rougher textures, but the carvings which had been etched into the surface could, at best, be called crude. Unlike the richly detailed totems which dominated the secondary alcoves, the representation in hand looked like someone had started with an insect motif in mind, but gave up half-way through before turning a blowtorch upon the result to melt the work in progress.

Sensors frowned. The dull appearance would impart a definite disadvantage in the Rock-Tastic judging, but the scans should shine in a manner to rival her lost chroniatic metamorph. With a mental shrug, Sensors rehung the key-box upon her chassis, gripped her hard-won prize tight, and pivoted towards the chapel entry in preparation to leave.

And almost tripped over the five maintenance robots.

One of the little machines, in defiance to the previously observed behavior of freezing, levitated itself to mid-chest height, reached out its manipulator arm, and abruptly shoved it against the arm holding the totem rock. Belatedly, Sensors recognized the robot as one which had been engaging in welding. There was a sharp *crack*, accompanied by the smell of ozone, as Sensors' limb was zapped. It was not a strong shock, the energy automatically redirected by her Borg exoskeleton, but it was sufficient to cause the muscles of Sensors' arm to convulse. Grip was loosed; the rock was let go.

Pain was minimal, even as the experience was surreal. Sensors stared in confusion at the hovering robot. It was as if she had been assaulted by an ankle-high lap dog.

Or, rather, a pack of lap dogs. The first zap a signal, the other four robots stretched out their arms in attack.

The fight was unequal, to put it mildly. The robots were not robust, a single sharp thwack of arm or kick of leg sufficient to put a machine out of commission. On the other hand, they were maneuverable, and small, and Sensors received several additional shocks, as well as a pinch or two upon flesh not covered by body suit, before all five of the machines had been reduced to nonfunctionality.

{Obviously a security reaction,} said Sensors in justification of her action. She panned the room, searching for where the rock might have rolled. {Therefore, it isn't my fault the vessel is no longer technically intact.}

Critiqued Weapons, {That was terrible technique. Wasted movement. No sense of timing or strategic forethought. Reaction only. If the opponent had been anything other than toys, we would be one less sensor hierarchy head.} His comment was seconded by Assimilation.

{Are drones of my specialty expected to be in the middle of conflict? No! We stay safe in our alcoves: every other drone type, except cognitive, enter direct combat before us! Besides, those pinches hurt!}

Imagery of rolling eyes was the Weapons' response.

{Children,} rumbled Prime, breaking into the exchange, {enough. Sensors, get your rock and exit the ship. No additional excursions are allowed, else we may break something more important than a few maintenance robots. Thus far we have been doing remarkably well with the salvage dissection - few incidents - and I'd like us to keep it that way.}

Repeated Sensors, {The breakage was the robots' fault, not mine.} No reply was forthcoming, although 179 of 260, polling addict, released a new 'insto-survey' to determine sub-collective opinion on the matter. During the allowed ten second voting interval, the 1287 votes collected indicated 21.4% agreed blame of the attack was attributable to the robots, 18.5% faulted Sensors, 0.3% felt the ultimate answer lay in pistachio custard, and the remainder wanted 179 of 260 to stop cluttering the dataspaces with polls.

Sensors finally spotted the rock. It was against a wall, partly hidden under half of a dented robot corpse. "There you are," she muttered. Sensors stepped forward, kicked aside the scrap, and was bending down to pick up the prize when she realized that the gentle electric blue glow was originating from the stone, not the dead machine. Hand froze centimeters away, then was withdrawn, along with the attached body, to the other side of the chapel as radiance rapidly increased in intensity and took on a pulsating character.

Then, with a final, eye-tearing blast of white light, the rock vanished. Or, perhaps a better descriptor, it silently imploded, leaving behind nothing except a fading negative of itself. Also vanished was a spherical chunk of ship approximately half a meter in diameter. Something sparked inside the exposed bulkhead; and a remnant piece of bench fell over with a dull clunk.

{Th' stoones in th' dead ships, they dinna do that!} exclaimed Engineer.

Sensors ignored the burst of conversation and speculation in the intranets, instead automatically raising the limb which embedded the majority of her sensor implants. It was brandished in the direction of the new hole. Simultaneously, grid data - hull sensors normally could not observe what was happening within the cube, but in this case the just-occurred incident was sufficiently strong to trigger meaningful feedback - was redirected into the building information stew, and the entire brew swiftly parsed by the sensory hierarchy.

In summary, the signature of the rock's implosion was the same, albeit much weaker, to the remnant anomaly documented at the salvage site.

The potential implication of the discovery were only beginning to be considered by the sub-collective (and, by extension, the Whole) when a new crisis abruptly took center stage. For Sensors, the first warning that Something Was About To Happen occurred as a metal barrier abruptly dropped from the ceiling to block access to the honeycomb alter, accompanied by the thud of the chapel doors snapping shut. The action was followed by the commencement of a deep rumbling that rattled bones and created an unpleasant resonance with an implant in the small of her back. Before Sensors could request a status report from drones with a better view of the situation, the answer was already flooding the dataspaces: the not-so-dead ship was powering up its engines.

*****

Much of what remained of the computer's incomplete gestalt was fuzzy, and large sectors were simply gone. It did not even know the true extent of what had been lost, the gestalt inventory one of many files reduced to fragmented, unrecoverable digital garbage. Even the number (and names) of persons who had crewed its ship-body was missing. However, there was one datum fragment which retained crystal clarity, data which its creators had replicated to every physical node, hardwiring it directly to the boot-up sequence. Even if the computer had been reduced to a calculator unable to figure sums more advanced than basic addition, it still would have preserved complete knowledge of its most precious cargo - vurbit, or, in the vernacular, the sun-rockbug.

Early explorers, utilizing barely light speed capable vessels, had focused upon the nearest star to the homesystem as their scientific (and potential economic) target. Those adventurers had discovered the impossible - an entire solar system, from the hellish plasma of the stellar corona to the frigid reaches of the Oort cloud, populated by silicon-based lifeforms. Scientists had dismissed the prospect of naturally-evolved siliconic creatures due to instabilities arising from the relatively large size of the atom, compared to carbon, which resulted in difficulty in forming the stable bonds necessary for a viable biochemistry. If 'silicon-based lifeforms' were to exist outside of fiction, they would have to be the descendants of machines built by a carbon-based species.

Nature rarely pays attention to the this-is-how-it-shall-be decrees of persons with more letters in their titles than their names.

Of the myriad of rocky beasts populating the siliconic ecosystem, the one which caught the fancy of the first explorers was the vurbit. Filling the niche of social insect, hives of the photovores vied with each other for survival within the wilds of the asteroid belts. When crawling upon the surface of their home, the meter-long critters with their light-drinking black carapaces were unspectacular. It was only when workers or soldiers propelled themselves into the void that superlatives such as 'magnificent' could be applied, the opening of magnetic 'wings' to the solar wind sparking a stunning display of charged plasma particles. And when the queens and kings emerged for their nuptial flight, each sporting pinions over a kilometer in breadth, words no longer sufficed. The dazzling wonder of the sun-rockbug prompted an infant Space Guild to abandon the totem selected as their societal representation and adopt the vurbit in its stead.

Later explorers and scientists, upon attempting to return living samples of the vurbit to the homesystem, discovered an even more astonishing facet of the creature, one more dramatic than its plasma wings. The pupae had the ability to tunnel through the quantum...and could take its surroundings with it.

In the wild, quantum tunneling by an otherwise vulnerable pupae - the immobile phase between larvae and adult whereupon a massive reorganization of the body was underway - was an improbable defense mechanism. As long as the pupae was in its home, surrounded by the molecular 'tastes' and electromagnetic 'sounds' of the nest, all was good. However, to be removed from a familiar environment by anything not a recognized adult was to trigger the defensive response. Instinctively focusing upon the imprinted quantum time-space address of its nest, the pupae returned itself home...and, not so coincidentally, took with it whatever body part(s) might have been clamped to it at the time. Even a silicon lifeform has a hard time functioning if missing a leg, jaw, or head equivalent. As with any ecosystem, there were parasites and predators which had evolved methods to successfully gain the pupae prize, but for the most part it was an effective deterrent.

Over a hundred years after the discovery, researchers continued to argue how quantum tunneling by a macroscopic (or any, for that matter) organism had come to be. Some insisted it to be proof that the siliconic ecosystem was actually the result of evolved technology released by (or escaped from) a long-deceased organic species; a few suggested the life-forms of the vurbit system to originate from a different universe, one with slightly different cosmological constants, yet not too dissimilar given the survival of the transportees; and others spoke of the miracles the deities had constructed in the Aeon of Invention following the Creation.

And the Space Guild? They left theory, research, and philosophy to the academics. The only thing of importance was that the vurbit, once domesticated, had revolutionized space travel. Sort of.

Vurbit were finicky creatures. Pupae required a suite of difficult-to-reproduce chemical, sound, and electromagnetic cues to prevent flight to the nest from which it had been harvested. Over a decade had been spent determining critical indicators and, more importantly, how to appropriately mimic each one. Even more time was devoted to fine-tuning the artificial life-support. Issues involving pupae development followed, individuals unpredictably emerging early from slumbering development as malformed adults. Panicking vurbit, magnetic wings, and ship interior was not a good combination. A process for long-term suspended animation was eventually found, based upon observations of a vurbit predator known for its ability to steal pupae and store them as a larder.

In the current era, the limitation to harnessing the vurbit ability to tunnel through quantum had been reduced to two. The first - difficulty in 'steering' pupae, instinct prompting a return to the home hive and, specifically, the nursery itself - appeared to be surmountable. Great strides had been made in reimprinting pupae to non-nest locations; and it was speculated that within twenty years it would be possible to perform an imprint in situ aboard ship using a library of quantum addresses. It was the second problem that was proving to be impossible to conquer.

The process by which a vurbit pupae tunneled the quantum was inhospitable to the organic bonds necessary for a viable carbon-based biochemistry. Carbon itself could survive the quantum, but only as a synthetic plastic, else a crystal lattice like graphite or diamond. While the vurbit technically included carbon within its biochemistry, it was securely bound within a silicon dominated framework and was thus unaffected. Conversely, the end result for a crewmember to attempt a quantum traverse was instant disintegration. The same applied to any complex carbon-life or carbon-life derived item, be it plant, foodstuff, or the organic components of a computer.

The inability to utilize the vurbit as a method of supraluminal transportation had not prevented its use in other ways. First and foremost, it was a totem for crewmembers whom had performed a life-pledge to the Space Guild. Second, but no less important, individual pupae, carefully removed from the suspended animation life-support of an alter, were indispensable as couriers. Prior to leaving on a trip, all Space Guild affiliated ships could requisition a handful to several hundred vurbit, dependent upon need, the pupae pre-imprinted to a specific location in space. An awakened pupae would instinctively tunnel to the imprint point, and anything within a certain volume would be taken for the ride. While organics were prohibited cargo, critical messages, ore samples, all manner of small objects could thus be sent home. Several pupae synchronized and dispatched together could courier a proportionally larger item; and sufficient vurbits might transport an entire ship.

For explorers far from home or those entering potentially dangerous environs, the application of vurbit pupae as an emergency return-to-home function was critical. If a situation had become damned-if-you-do/damned-if-you-don't, and the crew was lost be they stay or be they travel the quantum, there was thus still an avenue to tunnel the ship to the imprint point. Once home, crew remains could be repatriated to guild, clan, or family; and, more significantly, the computer would undergo interrogation as to what went wrong. Even a dumbed-down computer lacking much of its facilities was better than no computer, no ship, no crew, and unanswered questions.

Unfortunately, the nameless computer had plenty of unanswered questions. It knew there had been an emergency, one which had prompted the captains of all its brother and sister vessels to make the critical return-to-home decision. Fragmented memories recalled the unanticipated flaring of an exotic star, one approached too close in the quest for the equally exotic ores which might form in such an environment. The gestalt recalled meme flashes of damage, warp drive failure, panic, confusion, radiation, death. The point-of-no-return Order to rouse and synchronize vurbits. Another flare? An explosion? Darkness and abrupt disintegration of the gestalt.

And, eventually, awareness.

The aliens moving within and without the computer's hull were unfamiliar, as were the surroundings it could not see. It could be a few light years from the exotic star, or a few billion...such was the way of quantum tunneling whereupon distance was truly no barrier. Among its few assets were vurbit pupae within the alter, recovered from the earlier translation, a sufficient number of which were still alive to allow the ship (or most of it) to return home. Whatever the space-time disaster which had deflected the pupae from the imprint point - if the phenomenon had been recorded before, the files were lost to the gestalt - was (hopefully) no longer in play. Therefore, if the vurbits were cued to tunnel, all should proceed as expected.

First, however, the computer had to extract itself from of the dry-dock where it was imprisoned and move away from the artificial gravity field, the latter of which was its primary concern. Gravity, and the effects thereof, be it natural or artificial, normally did not affect vurbit tunneling. Nonetheless, the computer wanted to eliminate all possible uncertainties from the equation, thusly maximizing the odds of returning to its Masters. The Masters would make everything right.

Escape scenarios were being laboriously considered when one of the aliens reappeared upon its decks within the Totem Room. Where before the aliens had simply polluted the universe with their existence, this one opened a cell containing a living pupae, extracting it with no understanding of the inevitable response once the vurbit fully woke. Intolerable! The computer retained only a fraction of its former knowledge and sense-of-self, but it knew that for any being but a Master to touch a vurbit was unacceptable.

The maintenance robots standing as a pitiful guard were commanded to attack the intruder. As expected, all the machines were lost, but not before the pupae was knocked from the alien's foul hand and had successfully tunneled out of danger. The ship would follow the vurbit soon: all half-formed escape plans were discarded for simple brute force.

To prevent additional mischief from the alien defiling the Totem Room, the egress was locked and a blast door dropped to cover the vurbit alter.

Simultaneous with the thrum of warming engines, the computer initiated active radar. With cameras and most other exterior sensors nonfunctional, radar was the only means left to the computer to scan the world beyond its hull. What it saw was alarming! Two of its brethren were nearby, still recognizable even as each was partially disassembled and swarming with alien shapes. Even more unsettling was the size of the dry-dock...no mere box floating in space, barely large enough to engulf a vessel under repair or construction, but rather a monstrous cavern sufficient to hold an entire fleet of ships, and still have room to spare.

The computer did not have the ability to formulate complex analysis, and therefore it focused upon the first conclusion that formed, be it right or wrong. The aliens were technologically advanced compared to the Masters, and by action of attempting to steal a vurbit showed themselves to be hostile. Even more so than before, the computer had to return home to warn the Masters.

The maneuvering engines, not fully warmed, were nonetheless revved in preparation to be shifted out of idle.

*****

Sensors' first instinct was to reach for the transporter controls so as to remove herself from whatever teacup-shattering tempest was about to erupt. She found the action barred.

{Hey!} protested Sensors to Prime. {It is so not sparkly here. Okay, it is actually quite sparkly, but not in a good way. Why am I blocked?} The rumbling that infused the hallways was intensifying; and the multiple visuals available from drones scattered about Interior Cargo Hold #5 showed the vessel beginning to strain upward against its cradle.

{New orders,} replied Prime brusquely as she directed a datastream containing the pertinent information towards the sensory hierarchy head. The decision cascade had originated not within the sub-collective, but rather the sliver of subMind tasked to maintain a figurative eye on the salvage and dissection operation.

Sensors stood in the center of the chapel, amid robot remains, shocked. {That action is more appropriate for weapons drones, or assimilation... anything but sensory!}

{Not drone maintenance,} loftily input Doctor into the conversation. Before more was added, he assessed the situation and prudently withdrew immediate presence as the usually placid Sensors directed irritation upon the octopod.

A sharp shock shook the ship as the first cradle finger abruptly failed. Engines responded by pushing harder. Reports of radiation overdose trickled into drone maintenance - the backwash was proving to be highly radioactive, likely a result of the vessel's damage, the overwhelming majority of species building clean propulsion systems so as to not irradiate crew or passengers.

Sensors absently swayed to keep balance, most of her attention directed inward. A wireframe schematic materialized within the dataspace, three colored dots prominent within the virtual scaffold. One of the points began to flash. {The nearest location to properly accomplish the objective is this ship's bridge. Let me beam there, at least.}

Prime conveyed denial. {You know a transporter ban is in place for movement over short lateral distances due to the incidents over the past Cycle.} An escalation of transporter abuses, most notably 88 of 175 beaming himself if he had to take more than two steps, had led to the enacting of a filter algorithm intended to decrease misuse. In Sensors' case, the target destination was the same elevation as the start point and less than two hundred meters distant, within the coded ban zone. {You are 24.3 meters from the target. Additionally, walking is good for drone health, especially sensor hierarchy types who are rarely required to leave their alcove. Of greater significance than personal physical maintenance, however, to attempt a hasty bodge for a one-time exception to the algorithm is more trouble than it is worth. There is just not enough time to ensure code stability in relation to other dataspace patches.}

{Then allow me to beam off the ship, and then back on.}

{No. Do the task as assigned by the Whole. You are wasting time, yours and mine.}

Sensors rapidly cast about for another argument. {Weapons drones. Or assimilation. Beam one, or more, of them to the bridge.}

{The Whole selected your designation as the prime agent in the little drama which is developing. It does not matter what myself, or any other drone within this sub-collective, singly or collective, believes to be best. The Greater Consciousness, even the least slice of it, has more calculating power than us, and with certainty it has modeled sufficient scenarios to determine the most efficient use of local resources.}

{Or, because we are imperfect, it could just be making a guess. The Whole has been known to make mistakes. Not sparkly,} said Sensors sullenly.

Replied Prime, {An attitude like that will see you visiting Assimilation to be adjusted. Your objection is irrelevant because Weapons' hierarchy, with the assimilation militia assisting, have their own assignment. With 75.6% certainty, the ship will not leave the cradle, but if it does so, then a backup plan is required.}

Sensors had not bothered to look beyond her own predicament. She did so now, focusing on datastreams associated with weapons and assimilation hierarchies. A number of crates were being beamed to the cargo hold, the manifest indicating them to be heavy-duty mining lasers en route to the Borg homesystem for refurbishment. Obviously, if the alien vessel managed to lift from the cradle, then the expectation for intact delivery was abrogated. The process of assembly was proceeding with low efficiency and much argument over what went where, requests to assist from Engineer ignored.

{Enough. I do not have the resources to spend upon you. Get moving.} There were limits to multitasking, even for a consensus monitor and facilitator, drones specifically selected for mental fortitude. The growing discord amongst the mining lasers was swiftly realigning the focus of command and control, including Prime.

Another cradle finger failed, flinging sharp shards of metal in all directions and at high speed. The probability of the ship remaining in place decreased to 67.3%.

Sensors returned full awareness to her body, unlocking joints. She reluctantly turned from the barricaded alter to regard the closed hallway egress. On the positive side, if she was successful, then there would be another chance to acquire a rock sample for scanning. In fact, it was because of the extracted rock, and its entirely unforeseen reaction, that such effort was being expended to retake the ship, as opposed to destructively disabling it from the outside, as the weapons hierarchy was preparing to accomplish in case Sensors failed.

For the Borg Collective, anything displaying an unusual quantum signature was of high interest. Mysteries of the quantum - the Planck scale sub-universe that underlay reality - were to be poked and prodded, and those species with novel research into the subject to be assimilated. There were races, the Xenig a notable example, which had harnessed quantum, allowing the transcendence of propulsion technology beyond the flavors of warp; and all amongst the ranks of omniscient beings, including those with an unnatural fascination with the single letter naming convention, had obviously shattered the quantum riddle. The Greater Consciousness, to put it bluntly, was envious, even as it would claim such an emotion to be irrelevant and the province of small beings. To successfully assimilate and adapt even a small grain of quantum knowledge might mean new propulsion or weapons, else greater security and/or distance (and cohesion) of the intradrone communication web. Therefore, to master quantum was a necessary step along the long road to Perfection.

The alter rock had vividly demonstrated an unexpected quantum effect. Probability calculations indicated the strong chance of it (or, rather, the rocks in general) featuring prominently in the process that had brought the alien ships to the Collective's attention, as opposed to a random spatial anomaly. And because stones were physical things, thus easier to study than a point in space, closer examination was demanded.

Sensors' succinct orders were to access a computer port, connect via assimilation tubules, and thence becoming a conduit allowing the sub-collective to take control of the ship and pacify the not-so-dead computer. Due to the relative primitivism of the unknown species' technology, there were only three full-service ports where such could be accomplished: bridge, engine room, and computer core. The first location, closest and easiest to access, was Sensors' goal. Unfortunately, to embark upon her trek, she first had to break through the doors barring her way.

The doors were not an obstacle. As when Sensors had first gained access to the chapel, she simply triggered assimilation tubules and burrowed into the mechanism beneath the adjacent access panel. If the owner-species had been more technologically advanced, she could have entered the computer at this point and, thus, saved herself the trek to the bridge. However, the door mechanism was the equivalent of a distal neural ganglion - highly autonomous in nature and with limited connectivity to the central nervous system. For Sensors to be a useful conduit, she had to link herself to the brain equivalent.

The door slid slowly into the bulkhead. In the hallway - the overhead lights were extinguished except for the occasional emergency bulb - awaited the glinting sensor eyes of a small army of maintenance robots.

Sensors peered downward, swallowed an unBorg lump of unease, and stepped into the awaiting mass of knee-high machines.

Another blast door! The ship builders had taken the potential for explosive decompression very seriously, to the point of paranoia, likely a compensation for the poor development of their forcefield technology. But a blast door every four meters? Or less? Ridiculous! And the computer had triggered all of them. Sensors dove into the vast dictionary of vulgarisms available to all drones as part of the Borg language files, randomly selecting a phrase from the species #4493 lexicon. It was an atypical action for Sensors, but then again, she was in an atypical situation.

The things she went through to get rocks.

Sensors panned the adjacent wall for the plate concealing the control panel. She found it where expected. Removing the cover, she discovered the unexpected in the form of several cut wires, effectively isolating the mechanism from the door. The species #4493 expletive sub-glossary was accessed yet again.

{While the species #4493 language is undoubtedly the richest in regards to cursing amongst all tongues documented by the Collective, there are shortcomings. One of those is to ensure the situation matches the expletive employed. You just commented upon the parentage of the ship robots using a phrase better suited for an afternoon picnic ruined by an unpredicted tornado. Context is everything,} said Prime. Engineers, particularly those whom had ruled over a fiefdom as Chief, tended to be very proficient in the cussing department. Prime was no exception, and was always willing to provide instruction upon the ancient art of the vulgar, never mind the student had never requested assistance in the first place. {And it would be good if you could hasten then pace. You are less than ten meters from the bridge.}

Wordless, Sensors stared for five long seconds at the panel. She then pivoted and kicked the blast door once in an unBorg fit of pique. Unsurprisingly, it did not open. Eyes casting downward upon the robotic remains that littered the hallway - beyond every door was a handful of the machines...how many did the ship contain? - Sensors consulted with elements of engineering hierarchy as to how to proceed. A simple splice was recommended, and there were plenty of wires available to do the job.

Sensors glanced at her whole hand. The scratch acquired during her most recent maintenance robot skirmish was healing at a much slower rate than normal. All the minor burns and lacerations thus far accumulated upon exposed epidermis - the little machines, although underpowered as fighters, were very good in their targeting - were taxing regenerative capabilities. Nanites were excellent at repairing their host, but they did not make a Borg invincible. Still, despite the annoyance, there was no diminishment of Sensors' overall capacity.

Mostly. The space available to splice the necessary wires was more suited for robot manipulators than drone fingers not-so-dexterous in the best of times, and even less so when weeping fluid from a burst heat blister. One wire connected, two to go.

The deck beneath Sensors abruptly shifted, dropping precipitously half a meter. Sensors barely caught her balance before the hallway rolled to a fifteen degree cant, sending robot parts, and one drone, sliding against the bulkhead opposite the access panel. The floor slowly releveled itself.

{Can't you be a bit more careful? There are shiny sparks floating in my vision, and it is not the sensor grid! And nor is anything on fire!} berated Sensors, flinging her words into the intranet aether. The targeted recipients were many, the plurality encompassing the sub-collective entire.

Four blast doors and over thirty maintenance robots into Sensors' task, the alien ship had broken from its cradle. As it had ponderously risen above the deck, it had flooded the cargo hold with strong sweeps of active radar, initiating a general exodus of sensory drones (and a few other units) due to overwhelming feedback from precisely tuned implants. Although a primitive technology, the radar was quite effective, quickly guiding the ship to the doors that lead to the Bulk Cargo Hold abutting Interior Cargo Hold #5. However, the doors were closed, stymieing the electronic intelligence piloting the vessel.

And, so, the ship hovered in front of the massive cargo bay doors, clearly at a loss as to how to proceed even as a certain infiltrator drone continued to make her slow way towards the bridge.

In an attempt to regain control of the situation, engineering was attempting to capture the runaway vessel with a tractor beam. All holds included a webwork of tractor beam emitters, a necessity when shifting cargo too big for muscles or grav-sled. Lugger-class Cube #238 used the tractors as little as possible - there was a special partition of engineering drones who practiced the mental intimacy required to operate the system, but, in the end, they were imperfect, with all the problems the label implied. The use of the beams to maneuver the (inert) salvaged ships from space and into the cradles had been fairly simple. Trying to restrain belligerent cargo was an entirely different story; and did not help that hold tractors had a fraction of the power of hull tractors, as well as lacked the ability to leech energy from a target.

In addition to the aforementioned issues, the tractors could not gain a clean grasp of the rogue ship. The secondary hull plates, barely welded in place, had a tendency to shed under the pull of the tractors, thus acting like a chaff and disrupting competency of the grip. Catastrophic slippage, like the one experienced by Sensors, resulted in the ship rattling its contents like dice in a can, with the vessel slowly righting itself to continue its vigil before the cargo doors.

Sensors pushed herself to her feet and staggered back to the open panel. She squinted inside. Her hasty splice had held, but the other two connections had not magically appeared while she had been sliding across the floor. She fumbled a wire into hand to continue the task while simultaneously checking the progress of the mining lasers.

Upon the deck of Interior Cargo Hold #5, Weapons' backup plan in the form of rapid assembly and adaptation of mining lasers to serve as an impromptu battery was starting to bear results. One laser was complete, although there was a heated argument under way between elements of weapons and engineering hierarchies concerning the significance of the handful of miscellaneous parts left over; and, as usual, units with no reason to be involved were offering their opinions, which only added to the overall confusion. The result was a decrease in efficiency in assembly of the remaining devices. However, the one laser was finished, its capacitors slowly powering. Unfortunately, whereas military-grade equipment could be likened to a sprinter - quick burst of explosive power, but easily tired - the heavy-duty industrial laser was a marathon runner - a lot of power expended over a long period of time, but requiring an extended warm up to reach operational capacity.

Sensors had just accomplished the second splice when she felt a curious *clunk* ripple through the abused superstructure of the ship. She ignored it as yet another sound of uncertain, but unimportant, origin. Then a background process monitoring the ebb and flow of the dataspace currents noted an abrupt alteration in the intranet tides. The program snippet pinged for attention of its overmind.

{Slew it around! Put your backs into it! More elevation! And if I hear another "I told you so" from any quarter concerning the criticality of those parts in maintaining elevation over 45 degrees, I will draft the designation as a target for our next live-fire exercise!} Weapons' rough voice slashed through the intranet chatter as he both coordinated his hierarchy and responded to irrelevant side-comments.

Sensors paused her actions, sending an interrogative tendril of thought. {What is happening?} The reply she garnered was multiple points-of-view of the exterior of the alien ship, with specific focus upon the ominous aperture at the ventral bow end of the fuselage segment which extended beyond false hull. Where before the opening had been closed, now it was not. It was known from scrutiny of the dead vessels that the breach led to a small magazine of torpedoes. Gravimetric torpedoes.

Gravimetric torpedoes were very early versions of the technology cumulating with the singularity torpedo. It was an unlikely weapon for a civilization relatively new to space. Long-distance ship-to-ship munitions such as photon torpedoes, and even the tri-cobalt device, were more powerful, easier to develop, and cheaper to construct. The graviton torpedo, on the other hand, utilized a graviton point source to rend the target. It was a finicky weapon, expensive to build and prone to deployment failure due to the complexity of interior components which all had to work in perfect synchronization. However, given the myriad of races in the galaxy (and universe), it was not surprising that some space-emergent species did not follow the standard model of technological advance. Given the skill displayed with the anti-grav module of the maintenance robots, it seemed as if the builders of the rogue ship had progressed further towards gravity mastery than most civilizations contemporary with it on the tree of technological evolution.

A gravimetric torpedo was normally of little concern for a Borg ship. Even without shields, the hull of even the least warded vessel was more than sufficiently sturdy to withstand one, or a hundred, of the low tech devices. The key word was 'hull'. If exploded inside a cube or sphere, a gravimetric torpedo suddenly became very relevant.

None of the alien ships had been disarmed upon their salvage. Why expend the energy to remove weapons from a corpse?

{I want off this ride, now!} demanded Sensors as she abandoned her splicing. {I prefer to observe the electromagnetic spectrum of an explosion from outside the blast radius.} Sensors reached for the transporter control, but the lock-out remained in place. A ping to Prime, Second, any in command and control was ignored. She was just too small a concern in light of the rapidly developing situation.

The launch of the gravimetric torpedo was near simultaneous to the hasty firing of a mining laser neither fully charged nor adequately aimed.

{*******!} exclaimed Sensors, both in the intranets and aloud, as an incandescent sword of blue-white sliced through metal less than a meter from her position. Compared to the laser's normal diet of rock, the pre-duralloy hull (and bulkhead...and superstructure...) of the alien ship was as fog to a beam of morning sunlight. Sensors' optic implant automatically blacked-out - a background algorithm whispered the results of spectral analysis - leaving behind a colossal afterimage seared across both mind and field of view of her unaltered eye.

Distantly commented Prime during a microsecond pause in the emergency, {Much better choice in swear word. Engineer should take lessons from you.}

{Will not, 'nd stay oot o' me business,} retorted Engineer towards the ever-meddling consensus monitor and facilitator.

Sensors was not cognizant of the remarks from Prime or Engineer, nor the myriad of conversation, debate, consensus swirling through intranet and dataspace. Her focus, to the point of excluding herself from the potentially fatal distraction of decision cascades, was upon personal survival. As there was no immediate direction to sacrifice herself for the Good of the Collective, she was allowed the small luxury of self-preservation.

The misaimed mining laser had torn a very large hole in the side of the alien ship. On the plus side, the door was no longer relevant, nor the army of small defenders whom had been waiting in the hallway on the far side. Then again, said hallway was also no longer in existence; and unless Sensors spontaneously developed very good long-jumping skills, else was provided with an awful lot of rope and mountaineering equipment, the still-intact door leading to the bridge proper was out of reach.

Abused vision was returning. A very careful shuffle forward and glance downward through raggedly melted bulkheads and deckplates rewarded Sensors with the sight of too-distant ground. It is one thing to academically know one's elevation, and another to directly see (and range-find) the amount of empty air between self and a potentially terminal splattering.

At the same time Sensors' was visually appraising her predicament, the scream of atmosphere rushing from Interior Cargo Hold into Bulk Cargo Hold was increasing in intensity. Usually a forcefield prevented the exodus of air into the lower pressure volume maintained in the Bulk Cargo Hold when cargo doors were open. However, the gravimetric torpedo had not only created a gap between the holds, but a secondary ripple effect had shattered local forcefield emitters. Upon the floor of the Interior Cargo Hold there was chaos as the howling winds whisked away loose items and spun them into whirling columns. While the winds were not sufficiently fierce to lift things as heavy as drones, lighter materials were slamming into bodies with enough force to prompt many units to escape via transporter beam.

Sensors frowned. Really? The emergency had prompted the relaxing of transporter restrictions for all designations...except herself, of course.

The engines of the ship thrummed to life, their powerful rumble and the rattling of damaged superstructure drowning out the sound of the winds. With surprising smoothness considering the circumstances, the vessel began to move forward. Sensors watched as the scene upon the ground slid away, quickly replaced by tens of meters of severely warped cargo bay door. The vessel paused as it successfully navigated through the breach and arrived within the lightless volume of Bulk Cargo Hold #5. Silence reigned, broken only by the distant beep of distressed electronics, as ship engines idled and the howling of the intra-hold winds dropped to a whispering breeze....

*****

For not the first time, the computer wished it was whole, wished it possessed its full gestalt, wished it was not so stupid. The computer-that-had-been, the computer who had enjoyed both name and knowledge, would certainly have known what to do. But that computer was not here; and this computer did not even have memories of how-it-used-to-be, only vague meme shadows.

Too many threats! The computer could not focus on any single peril when all demanded immediate attention, and, thus, was paralyzed with indecision.

Upon its decks, the alien, thought to be safely contained in the Totem Room, had proved to be a devious demon. By means unknown it had escaped its prison and was now making its way forward to the bridge. The computer did not know what the thing intended once it reached its destination, but it was imperative to prevent the creature from implementing its plans. Unfortunately, the emergency blast doors which had been dropped were proving to be minor impediments, as was the sacrifice of the maintenance robots. Only by directing a robot to physically disconnect locking mechanism with door - the computer had deeply struggled against the prohibition of self-mutilation, nearly creating an unbreakable infinite loop before it had been able to give itself permission for the act - had the alien been slowed. The computer was certain the obstacle would be defeated, but without suitable sensors in the hallway segment where the creature was currently stuck, it could not estimate how long the delay might be.

At least the bipedal fiend which polluted the hallways of the computer's ship-body had the potential of being managed, even defeated, even if that possibility was very slight. Outside the hull, the situation was entirely beyond control.

Active radar, the only major extra-hull sense left to the computer, had revealed the implausible size of the dry-dock facility in which it had been incarcerated. It had also revealed the massive (closed) doors that represented escape. The computer had ponderously lifted its hull to the egress, straining maneuvering engines, anti-grav modules, and power core. Too many systems were at the breakpoint, or beyond, and because of the need to use the limited supply of maintenance robots to slow the alien in its progress to the bridge, only a very few of the machines were available to do repairs.

Tractor beams had proved to be a hindrance. The sole reason the things had not halted forward motion, even towed the vessel back for a return to the cradle prison, was because of the cargo hull. The flimsy nature of the outer hull prevented the beam from gaining a firm grip upon the central fuselage; and each time hull plates were pulled off, the tractor was disrupted and required retargeting. It could not last, for eventually a sufficient amount of cargo hull would be stripped, allowing access to the main ship-body. For the moment, however, it was protection.

Finally the dry-dock door was reached; and the computer drew a blank on how to proceed.

A large area of cargo hull abruptly disintegrated, pulled asunder by the alien tractor beam. A concurrent power surge momentarily disrupted the already abused anti-grav system, causing the ship to perilously bob in the air. The next tractor beam, or perhaps the one after, would gain a grip upon the main fuselage.

Valid options for escape had been reduced to one.

The computer could not recall specifics of the Masters, neither what they looked like nor their attitude towards other beings. It knew there were aliens, and that there was an interstellar political landscape through which the Masters maneuvered, but the details of alliances and adversaries was yet another datum lost. Nevertheless, there must have been an enemy, or at least a rival, for the computer's self-inventory included several gravimetric torpedoes.

Scanning magazine diagnostics, the computer selected the torpedo which appeared least damaged by the ordeal that had transported the ship. The other devices were either dead or questionable in their functionality. There was an unavoidable delay between opening the torpedo bay door and arming the munition, another near-schizophrenic argument of the computer with itself to allow performance of an action normally (always) reserved for the Masters.

Finally the computer provided itself with the permissions to fire the torpedo. At least the aiming solution required little calculation - point-blank is difficult to miss.

The torpedo was away!

The dry-dock door exploded with a blaze of interference that sizzled radar and sleeted the products of rapidly decaying gravitons through deep-fuselage sensors!

The screaming pain of damage speared amidships, just behind the bridge but forward of the alien's last known position! The last sight from maintenance robots in the vaporized hallway segment was the plasma glare of a very high powered energy weapon!

The computer terminated the wailing algorithms which shrieked injury. It had been severely compromised, nearly half of its superstructure spinal elements severed. Even worse, the gestalt-of-itself had grown smaller, four nodes destroyed. But escape was now at hand! The rapid clearing of radio static allowed a radar caress to see that the gravimetric torpedo had been successful, that the dry-dock door now included a ragged hole large enough to permit the ship to pass.

Leaving behind tractor beams and alien hell-weapons, the computer directed itself into the freedom of space.

Except...except...except the dry-dock door did not lead to space, but an even bigger room.

The computer paused, dumbfounded, as radar painted the picture of an immense void that nevertheless had been constructed. Metal. Straight edges. Precise angles. And, in the distance, another set of closed doors. Non-visual sensors captured the continued tug of artificial gravity, as well as the presence of a low pressure atmosphere and temperature that while cold was nowhere near the chill of space.

How impossibly large was this dry-dock structure? If another gravimetric torpedo was declared functional and if it clawed a hole through the next set of doors, would there be yet another, larger, room beyond? And what about beyond that? Perhaps the place to which the computer had been transported was actually a demonic universe, one filled with fantastic artificial caverns of improbable size. Did entire fleets under the jurisdiction of alien overlords battle to control sectors of a complex that stretched into infinity?

The computer's flights of fantasy were a symptom of electronic panic, an increasingly implausible narrative cobbled together from fragmented memes. Those memes, in turn, originated as snippets of fictional tales, the ghostly remnants of a library largely destroyed along with the computer's organic nodes. Unfortunately, the computer was no longer sufficiently sane (or intelligent) to discern reality from fantasy, and, thus, the latter became the former.

Escape! That was the only solution! Escape to the Masters! They would know what to do!

The computer had previously refrained from initiating emergency translation. The reason had been a desire to minimize potential confounding interference, such as artificial gravity, to vurbit quantum tunneling, even if such was unlikely to have an effect. But if these rooms were infinite in number, then such reasoning no longer applied. The emergency drive had to be activated...now.

On the positive side, if the alien stalking the deck had survived the beam weapon used by its demon friends, it would soon turn into a slightly sweet dust rich in disrupted carbon bonds.

Within the Totem Room, behind the blast doors protecting their alter, the sleeping vurbits were caressed with an electromagnetic lullaby. One by one, the pupae began to faintly pulsate with an odd unlight. With a dozen of the vurbit beating out of lockstep with their comrades, the synchronization of the dozing pupae was insufficient for translation of an object as large as the ship, but electromagnetic feedback would remedy the disparity. The process would take longer than normal, and there would undoubtedly be unusual side-effects, but, eventually, harmonization would occur.

All the computer now needed to do was wait.

*****

{Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!}

Sensors stared out the torn hull, gaze directed downward. A range finder was a standard install during assimilation. For sensory drones, supplementary equipment was also mounted, although in this case there was no need to consult the secondary datastream to know that there was over a kilometer of air between self and 'ground'. The exact distance to the nearest fractional centimeter was irrelevant, as were the reams of numbers providing information upon luminosity, index of reflectivity, and 'fluff factor' (whatever that was...the manuals were unclear) of the landing. The only truly important issue was that a Borg body, upon hitting the deck, would be spending a lot of time in drone maintenance, assuming said drone wasn't declared terminated and parted out on the spot.

Sensors finally admitted to herself that some rocks were just not worth the trouble of acquisition.

{Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!}

After hesitating for several minutes beyond the entrance it had made into Bulk Cargo Hold #5, the rogue ship had made its wobbly way to the middle of the vast volume. From its erratic speed and jarring, albeit short, plunges in elevation, it was obvious that the propulsion system was not functioning well, perhaps even on the edge of full failure. Even so, the computer piloting the vessel had a clear destination; and once it was reached, it had proceeded to hover in a disquietly ominous manner.

A bizarre thrum which had nothing to do with the engines, or, indeed, ears, was caressing the very core of Sensors' being. There was a nauseating quality to it, a just-out-of-rhythm sensation that was generating an almost-vertigo. And within the last minute, the ship, and all within it except Sensors, had begun to faintly dim and brighten in time with the unsound.

The problem was that there was no collaboration for what Sensors was experiencing. Implants and diagnostic subroutines insisted luminosity (the little which was present) remained constant, unusual vibrations were absent, and that all body systems were operating in an acceptable manner considering the circumstances. Even the intradrone link which ensured a more-than-intimate contact between a single unit and its comrades was failing to convey the visceral sensations. Nonetheless, it was certain that Something was soon to occur, that the ship could not hover in the middle of Bulk Cargo Hold #5 forever.

{Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!}

{Will you stop?} snarled Sensors, uncharacteristically so considering her normal personality. The voices, which had been gaining in volume as additional designations joined the bloc, largely evaporated as Prime and command and control dismantled the illegal quasi-consensus. A few calls to jump continued, but they were much easier to ignore than the previously burgeoning accord that had threatened to overwhelm internal censors of self-preservation. Even those echoes shortly disappeared.

Rumbled Prime, {That was unacceptable. The instigating designations have been documented and sent to nonlucid regeneration. All participants, regardless of culpability, are scheduled for mental appraisal and attitude adjustment, as necessary. Assimilation and her hierarchy will be quite busy, maybe until the end of this duty cycle and into the next.} Pause. {You may have to jump anyway, you know. But the decision will not be forced. At least not by an illicit bloc of wannabe cheerleaders.}

With the escape of Sensors' computer piloted ride into Bulk Cargo Hold #5, the Greater Consciousness had finally declared the attempt to subsume the machine to be unachievable. The Collective detested admitting to failure, but it did occur, and sometimes with great frequency when the plan was reliant upon an imperfect sub-collective. Because of the inadvertent recreation of an episode of "Extreme Ship Make-Over", it was no longer possible for Sensors to move forward to the bridge; and similarly, trekking to the engine room, the next nearest computer access point, was problematical due to the blast doors and herds of maintenance robots barring the way. In the end, the Greater Consciousness had to weigh the prospect of serendipitously encountered rocks unlocking the mysteries of the quantum against the possibility of self-same rocks being the sensor delusion of a quasi-neurotic former exogeologist who also happened to be an imperfect drone.

It wasn't worth it. Washing its figurative hands of the situation, the slice of Collective supervising the recovery effort of the rogue vessel distanced itself, leaving Cube #238 to determine for itself the best way to proceed. A Hive Mind could only hope that the solution devised would result in a relatively undamaged Lugger-class cube and cargo.

Without the Collective insisting Sensors perform a task she was ill-suited to do, she was free to switch fully to a mode of self-preservation. To retain intact body and mind so as to better serve the Whole in the future was more important than staying aboard the ship. Unfortunately, a viable exit strategy was lacking.

{I would vastly prefer a transporter,} said Sensors.

Responded Prime, {The prohibitions on your use of the system have been lifted.}

{Great. Except I would also like to rematerialize with all my limbs in the correct location and my internal organs and implants in the same configuration as they are now.}

Inserted Second, {Picky, isn't she?}

{Very,} agreed Prime. A remnant of the Jump contingent began to raggedly assemble another chant, diverting the attention of command and control to break it up and determine which instigator designations had been overlooked.

The visceral pulsations were increasing in strength and tempo. Propulsion briefly faltered, dropping the craft an abrupt meter and nearly pitching Sensors through the hull fissure for an involuntary leap.

{Engineer! How much longer until transporters are working correctly!} demanded Sensors as she regained her balance. The act of posing such a question was unnecessary, simply the surface expression of an internal data exchange as automatic as thinking. Even as the verbal query was placed, access to the appropriate engineering status datastream had already occurred.

Engineer peevishly replied, {Can ye not see fer y'rself? Ye be bothersome! Estimate t' initial fix be 25 minutes, but itta be little recommended t' use th' system until it be thoroughly tested. Two hours, maybe, assumin' no one spills cranberry juice on exposed connection plates. And why th' rotten pickle someone was cartin' aroond cranberry juice, it boggles th' small mind o' t'is drone.} The latter was directed towards one designation in particular.

The gravimetric torpedo had done more than chew a hole between cargo bays and disrupt local forcefield atmospheric containment. Electrical surges had propagated throughout the cube. Due to the decentralized nature of Borg construction, there had been little damage, blown fuses automatically shunted around with minimal or no loss of overall effectiveness. The exception was the transporter, whereupon several critical relays and buffer stacks had been disrupted. The inadvertent application of cranberry juice may or may not have increased the severity of the situation. Technically the transporters remained usable, assuming one did not mind rematerialization in a different (and terminal) shape than the form existing prior to beaming.

Several art fixated designations, led by handful of sculptors, were sending a variety of nonliving objects through the transporter. Plans were already in the works for an exhibition of the most grotesque. If a transmogrified ingot of low-grade steel could produce a stomach-churning reaction in Borg supposedly immune to nausea, Sensors had no desire to be the first biological experiment. At least drone maintenance might have something to reconstruct if she hit a bulkhead at high speed.

A ping demanded Sensors' attention.

{Now is not the time, 149 of 185,} said Sensors as she continued to stare into the dark from her uncertain perch. {There is a reason I put my designation on hold and rerouted routine sensor datastreams to alternative units. Our hierarchy will just have to function without my input for the next couple minutes. If you haven't noticed, I am a wee bit busy.}

Replied 149 of 185 brusquely, ignoring the protest of his hierarchy head, {Subhull arrays are receiving an uptick in sub-quantum fluctuations and detection rate of unreal anti-particles on the trinary kappa band. And the flavors are off - the mass GeVs are close, but not close enough. The bell curve shift remains insignificant, but it is noticeable.}

Translation? The sensor grid was reporting a spatial anomaly, one which was producing a slew of transient particles which did not quite align with the established physics of the universe. Because the signal had not passed a threshold of concern whereupon the cube might be adversely impacted, Sensors' self lock-out had prevented automatic subroutines from calling her attention to the otherwise unusual datastream. Still...

{So what?} challenged Sensors. {A nascent, evaporated, distant, or otherwise faint anomaly is not exactly high priority for any of us at the moment. Save the details in the appropriate file. You did not need to bother me for that nugget of hierarchical head guidance.}

Continued 149 of 185, {Triangulation has confirmed the origin is not external.}

{Of course it has to be external. The subhull array components that are sensitized to the trinary kappa band are outward looking. Which means the "anomaly" is a hardware issue. Put it on the engineering to-do roster. Again, you did not need my input for the solution.}

{We ran all the appropriate diagnostics. The array elements are functioning within acceptable tolerances. The anomaly is internal. The emissions are so strong that the virtual slop-over is tunneling through hull armor and triggering array notification. There was a hierarchy consensus that you might desire to be informed of the event, given you seem to be at the nexus point. But if you continue to have no interest due to your "wee" bit of busy-ness, I/we will be sure to ensure that all future notification of minor anomalies continues to route around your designation hold.} 149 of 185's mental tone was not sardonic, not in the least. Such an attitude would be unBorg. Then again, there was a reason 149 of 185 was assigned to an imperfect sub-collective.

Sensors' body automatically adjusted as the alien ship performed another series of erratic bobs. {Er...um...well, that does appear to be relevant information for my situation.}

{I/we thought it might be. Would you like to be linked to the appropriate datastream? There are some very interesting trends that might have bearing upon your continued corporeal existence.}

Sensors accepted the offered information torrent, letting the data wash through and be absorbed. In summary, the anomalous readings captured within the trinary kappa band indicated an increasing localized spatial instability with implicit quantum overtones. The tentatively projected consequence of the elevated volatility was an eventual rip in the warp and woof of space-time. What that meant to Cube #238 (and a certain sensor drone) was an unknown, as was the exact time such might occur. The resolution was insufficient for an accurate forecast. However, from the trend lines, that 'when' was definitely less than twenty-five minutes in Sensors future.

And, very likely, less than five. Perhaps less than two.

Sensors was out of options. She would have to jump.

{Jump! Jump! Ju-}

{Stop it! I do not need to jump this second!} The chant quieted. Sensors snatched the nebulous ruminations flocking near her virtual presence. Perhaps the collective background deliberation - the equivalent of idle conversation - would have bearing upon her dilemma. Several communal thoughtstreams seemed promising. {Engineer. What about tractors?}

Responded Engineer, {Wha' aboot 'em?}

{If...when I jump - but not now! - can the tractor beams in this Bulk Cargo Hold catch me?}

{Well,} hedged Engineer hesitantly, {the lads and lasses assigned t' tractor duty have been a'practicin' wi' movin' things. Ye surely saw how well they broot a'board the salvaged ships. Barely scratched t' the paint. Ours 'r theirs. But, well, th' thing be th' ships n't be moving, and they be a quite big target. Ye be small. If ye had given us a bit more notice, say a couple o' months, that ye would be needin' help, then....}

Sensors projected an icy silence.

{Th' tractor partition c'n try,} said Engineer.

More than one back up plan was needed. {How about gravity? If gravity was cut, there would be no concern with falling.}

Engineer hemmed and hawed. {I donna like t' mess wi' the gravity too much. It be so picklin' prickly to reset correctly when it be messed with!}

{I'm not asking for the entire cube be set to free-fall, just the part I'm in.}

{But the outcome would be so messy. Ye'd jus' be a lil' splot agai'st th' bulkhead when ye hit. Easy t' swab wi' a mop. But t' kill gravity in yer section? It'd be the Big Jello and Macaroni Incident all o'er again. An' that took over ten cycles t' clean up.}

The reception of Engineer's hesitation approached absolute zero.

{Perhaps we c'n give 't a try too, as long as ye help t' clean th' jumble after, assumin' yer not terminated.}

The computer alerted Sensors with an update on grid observations. The upward trend of the anomalous signal was beginning to level into a plateaued peak.

{Jump! Jump! Jump!}

The chorus was once again building. Sensors darkly noted that Prime had added her voice to the chant.

The ship bucked. The unlight suffusing the walls, the robot parts, the loose wires, every part of the vessel had reached a steady pulsation that just happened to be in time with the increasingly incessant vocal refrain building in Sensors' head.

{Jump! Jump! JUMP!}

Sensors jumped.

The tractor beams failed to catch her.

The artificial gravity grid for the sector which included Bulk Cargo Hold #5 was found to jammed in the "on" position; and the software equivalent of jiggling the virtual buttons only served to increase the local gravity by a meter-per-second. Residual cranberry effects were, perhaps, to blame.

The last thing Sensors saw before she slammed, back first, into the bulkhead after more than a kilometer of free-fall was the ship vanishing in a burst of light. The afterimage seared into her brain included violently ionized air molecules coiling around an intricate magnetic field to shroud the vessel like the half-furled wings of a stellar butterfly.

And Sensors' last coherent thought before an abrupt shroud of blackness obscured all perception? Consideration of how a small plasma generator and coat hangers bent into carefully researched insect shapes might stimulate the quantum, thusly increasing the observation distance and sensitivity of her observatory. Potential benefits included (1) production of sparkly lights to reflect off the aluminum foil stringers, and (2) extension of pseudo-reality-function search parameters. In the quest for exotic rocks the latter was more important than the former, but all in all it was a win-win situation.

For a profoundly injured drone, the line separating repair from recycling was very thin. Ultimately, however, the Greater Consciousness had not desired to spend time or resources, no matter how slight such represented in the greater scheme of things, to identify, test, and evaluate compatibility of a new sensory hierarchy head to its imperfect sub-collective so soon after selecting the current one. That preference was all which saved Sensors from euthanasia and salvage. As it was, the effort required to fully return her into some semblance of fitness would take quite a while. Fortunately, brain and mind were uninjured by the ordeal, allowing her to resume her duties, even as body was to remain on the drone maintenance roster for the foreseeable future.

{Hah!} crowed Sensors, pleased triumph overwhelming her emotive filters. {It's official! rOckHound1001 did not make the Rock-Tastic "Most Outstanding" deadline! Some mech with a userid I've never seen seems to have "just happened" to taken up an interest in exogeology and "stumbled across" a chroniatic metamorphs. At least that is the rumor floating around the boards.}

Somewhere, something went *squish*, followed by the high-pitched whine of a drill.

{Will you cease prattling,} peevishly criticized Doctor, {and restrain your glandular excretions? The elevation of endorphin-analogues every time you find "good news" at those primitive text-only bulletin boards you insist upon lurking at makes tracking your neural diagnostics more difficult than it already is when you are in the middle of an operation. And if you can not or will not control yourself, not only will drone maintenance do it for you with a new implant I think would look stunning in your cranium - never mind the model isn't designed for your species, but it should be close enough - your illicit GalacWeb access will be severed.}

Sensors gasped. {You wouldn't!}

A catalogue of devices for gland replacement, enhancement, and inhibition was offered to Doctor's patient. The target audience was fifty-three physiologically similar races, none of which included Sensors' own. {Page 47 is especially interesting. It would require cranial modification, including the addition of radiator fins or coolant lines, to prevent your brain from overheating.}

{No. Keep your hand-feet, all of them, occupied with the required operations, not elective ones.}

An aspirator gurgled as it siphoned excess fluids.

{Then you cease bombarding drone maintenance staff with irrelevant rock-related babble.}

{Fine.}

The effect of the reprimand lasted less than five minutes.

{Oh! You need to look at the sparkle on the frontrunners for the "Most Outrageous" category! Probably for the best I did not have anything to enter this year. Bling is obviously in, more so than contests past. The highlights on this schist are stunning! And look at the mineralization profile in the attached data documentation. Is it not astoundingly unusual? The convoluted geologic process required to produce it must have been extraordinary.}

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