Standard (lazy) disclaimer here: Star Trek belongs to Paramount; Decker created Star Traks; and Meneks still writes BorgSpace every once in a while.
Bobble, Bobble, Toil and Trouble
Lugger-class Cube #238 was bustling with activity in preparation for arrival to the Borg homesystem. In subsection 14, submatrix 6, corridors 14, 19, 27 and 34, an extensive assemblage of exquisitely detailed chalk murals of questionable taste were being unceremoniously scrubbed out of existence. Meanwhile at the top of Bulk Cargo Hold #3, Sensors, along with a handful of her hierarchy, was disassembling and crating those parts of her observatory which she had determined to be overly troublesome to recalibrate if replicated anew each time the structure was rebuilt. Engineering drones materialized throughout the cargo hold volumes, performing random checks of inventory to ensure manifest items were still on board, at the expected location, and in acceptable condition.
More effort than usual was being expended in the otherwise normal last-minute furor which always enveloped Cube #238 in the week leading up to the end of a duty cycle. Once the ship had off-loading of all cargo and reported to dry-dock, the sub-collective would be going into extended deep regeneration. Extensive repairs were scheduled, the Brianiac incident and the recent internal detonation of a gravimetric torpedo only the most egregious examples of the admittedly excessive amount of damage taken by the cube in the pursuit of its usually boring cargo hauling responsibility. There were just some things that could not be fixed outside of dry-dock, no matter the efforts of Engineer. Therefore, it was not unexpected that the Greater Consciousness would want the imperfect drones resident to Cube #238 asleep, so as not to have Events Happen (inadvertent or otherwise) which might impede completing the necessary repairs as quickly and efficiently as possible. The faster the Lugger-class was released from dry-dock, the faster its imperfect crew could be returned to the regularly scheduled boredom of transporting cargo. The excitement of the last duty cycle had to be a fluke, no other sub-collective exhibiting so much trouble since, or before, the infamous Exploratory-class Cube #347.
Had to be.
It was also fully expected that the subMind overseeing dry-dock repairs would 'decontaminate' Cube #238 of as many collectables and other unBorg fixations as possible. Sending items to replicator reclamation was most easily accomplished while the potential obstructionist protests of the neuroses being violated were unconscious. Only the most well hidden stashes would survive the scouring. Which would explain why 35 of 400 was clambering through the subhull near nacelle 4a.
{That's the first place which will be checked when hunting for 35 of 400's used gum collection,} observed Reserve with a knowing air. {She always sticks the wads on that particular spar.}
{Which makes confiscation easy: cut out the spar and replace it with a new one. No need for chisel or caustic chemicals. And could you explain, again, the why behind gum in the first place? Species #6251 did not develop it, so it obviously cannot be of great importance.}
{Explain the why of yo-yos,} countered Reserve.
In the Primary Core, the rhythmic clanking of a jogging Flarn was in sharp contrast to said Flarn's suspiciously silent mindspace. Finally a rebuttal was offered. {There is no why for a yo-yo. Yo-yos just are. And even though humans are the race that actually invented them, it was only a matter of time before my species developed the concept.}
{There you go. Gum just is, as well. And the invention of gum is clearly related to dentation.} A compilation of tooth patterns was offered, cross-correlated with incidence of gum-related technology. {My species is highly piscivorous, hence the triangular teeth and lack of well-developed molars, hence the lack of gum. A similar lack-of-gum is seen in all the insectoid species, as well in races without strong masticating surfaces such as species #6214, species #7502, and species #7582. When the Flarn file is examined, it is clear species #6251, er, does have molar analogues and, um, therefore really should have developed a gum-like substance....}
Prime snorted. {As I said, gum is obviously of little importance, else it would have been created long ago by my species. On the other hand, there is evidence of proto-yo-yos, even if the idea never came to full fruition prior to assimilation. And once the colonies surviving the Scattering began interacting with humans and learned of their already developed yo-yos, why bother continuing innovation when it was easier to adopt technology someone else has spent the vast resources required to create. It is only logical.}
{We are talking about the same thing, aren't we? The spool-toy at the end of a string?}
{Not a toy,} responded Prime sulkily and in such a manner as to indicate the conversation was now a closed topic. *Clank*clunk*clank* An already heavy body made even heftier with the addition of armor, implants, and prosthetics dutifully followed a yellow line circling the primary core. Flarn muscles ideally needed daily exercise, else risk loss of condition and, at in the worst case scenario, atrophy. The scheduled extended downtime, even taking into account the muscle stabilizers to be automatically injected upon deep regeneration, meant Prime had to exercise as much as possible prior to implementation of the sleep command; and even then, the return to consciousness would include many hours jogging to return muscles to an acceptable level of fitness.
{Do you think...} began Prime.
{Don't verbalize it! Don't pick things from my subconscious thoughtstream!}
{...we may have dodged the permanent hierarchy head confirmation?}
Huffed Reserve, {Now you jinxed it.}
{Jinxes are irrelevant. If anything, your stream-of-consciousness was already contaminating mine.}
There was no response.
{You might as well answer the question,} said Prime. {Do you-}
Reserve interrupted, {It isn't rhetorical?}
Prime snorted in amusement at the feeble attempt to divert the discussion. {Do not attempt to sidetrack me. The situation is clear: all hierarchies but command and control now have designations permanently assigned.}
{Then, just perhaps, the Greater Consciousness desires to continue experimenting with different combinations of drones to our position with each duty cycle. Which is just fine with me, as long as I am not Reserve following the overhaul. There is hope.}
{Hope is irrelevant; and self-delusion is a symptom of a drone requiring the attentions of assimilation hierarchy.} Prime paused briefly to reflect upon the very probable need for a tune-up of her own with said hierarchy. With a mental shake of the head, irrelevant background processes were erased, resources reassigned to absorb the latest manifest update and oversee several abbreviated consensus cascades concerning which cargo to subsample next. Conversation resumed. {And the chances of 5 of 5 not finding himself to be Reserve next duty cycle? And this drone not Prime? And-} there was no such thing as a private exchange within the virtual hallways of any sub-collective {-for two of our remaining Hierarchy of Five comrades-in-arms to find themselves "elevated" in responsibility?} A hint of malicious push was appended to the inquiry.
Responded Reserve, without providing a substantial answer, {At this moment, I do not care, for the longer we sit here, the longer I have to put up with wrangling certain designations, not to mention oversight of too many engineering compilations. While our delay does provide more time to spot-check the manifest, as well as allow items "borrowed" from cargo to "magically" reappear, it also affords that much more opportunity for the Greater Consciousness to recognize the lack of our permanent status, stop procrastinating, and assign it. why is it taking so long for the final probes to return to the platform?}
The last utterance was not only personal irritation, but the channeled impatience of the sub-collective.
Lugger-class Cube #238 was sitting on its collective thumbs, 13.4 light years and less than one hour hypertranswarp travel time from the Borg homesystem. The off-loading of cargo, the end of a too-exciting duty cycle, was maddening, frustratingly close, and at the same time so very far. And the situation was not foreseen to improve for the next several hours.
At the last port, the cube had picked up an automated sensor platform. The installation was huge, nearly half the size of an Exploratory-class cube and too large to be hauled except by a Lugger-class. Jagged with antennae, probe ports and landing facilities, and sensor clusters, the purpose of the machine, and the others like it which peppered the galactic volume controlled by the Borg Collective, was many. Mostly, however, the platform gathered data concerning the ambient space and subspace environment, most of it via esoteric protocols only a sensor drone could appreciate. The zettabytes of data accumulated each cycle were regularly uploaded to the Collective, where it was presumably dissected, compiled, and analyzed for the advancement of All. What such actually meant in concrete terms, a mere drone from an imperfect collective could not hope to understand, other than to know that the platforms required semi-regular replacement, the new installations incorporating upgraded equipment so as to better accomplish their task.
It implied much that even the Greater Consciousness, never one to shirk at using drones for repetitive, boring tasks that other civilizations regulated to machinery and robots, constructed the self-contained platforms. There were redundancies for redundancies, automated regenerative capability, and a replicator system as a back-up for the on-board warehouse of spare parts. In fact, the bulk of the machine was back-up systems and the power plant required to energize the entire package. Whereas a few dozen drones, kept in long-term regeneration, might have allowed the platform to be slimmed to a size able to fit in the hold of a Cargo-class, the Whole had long-ago calculated that the assignment of units to such a detail to be of greater inefficiency than building the monstrosity. Each platform was designed to survive, and perform, on its own until such time it was declared obsolete.
Even when platforms were scheduled for replacement, with upgraded equipment constructed and ready to exchange for old, the actual act of substitution was of very low priority amid the greater scheme of Collective doings. Such was true even when the site was near the center of Borg territory and adjacent to heavily used transportation routes. More often than naught, the current era saw Cube #238 utilized to perform the deed, the Lugger-class sometimes opportunistically rerouted to accomplish a task otherwise so unimportant that a given platform might have been listed on the replacement to-do roster for over a decade.
The sub-collective was very familiar with the chore of swapping platforms, averaging one substitution per duty cycle. It was one of the few tasks for which the imperfect sub-collective was as efficient in performing as its normal-status counterparts, less than an hour required to disgorge the new platform to space, followed by in-tractoring and securing the old. In fact, Engineer had been looking forward to the job, eager to shave a few more seconds off the sub-collective's record time.
Except the platform was not cooperating; and, for once, the delay in the schedule was not the fault of Cube #238.
Specifically, the old platform was not finished retrieving all its probes. The small torpedo-to-runabout sized devices were crucial in extending the platform's sensor net to encompass the volume under observation. The platform would not complete its shut-down sequence until all its mobile parts were gathered. There were commands that could be sent to force the machine to abandon its effort and secure itself for transport, but because the final pair of probes were due in 2.4 hours - a gravitational eddy, or similar disturbance, was to blame - the Whole had decided the wait to be trivial.
In consequence, Cube #238 now twaddled its non-existent thumbs while continuing end-of-duty-cycle preparatory actions in anticipation of arrival to the Borg homesystem. A Flarn jogging in an endless ellipse around the Primary Core; idle banter between primary consensus monitor and backup; command and control hierarchy, of which Prime and Reserve were the most visible components, overseeing the imperfect One which was Lugger-class Cube #238, all were merely facets of the sub-collective Whole marking time until the platform could be captured.
{You have been in your alcove too long,} said Prime to Reserve. She ignored the mental barb from a too-busy Engineer as she idly added 'repaint track line' to the maintenance roster, tagging it with an 'urgent, but non-critical' flag. {Come and join me for a couple of laps.}
Reserve responded with a negative. {One, my species requires very little exercise to maintain suitable muscle fitness. Two, there are active cameras in your location and, courtesy of the KingCola episode, you know perfectly well why I prefer to remain on this tier and in my alcove. If something inadvertent happens, the company will know I'm not as dead as I'm supposed to be.}
{The release of your picture to the GalacNet wilds was a fluke,} replied Prime. {It-}
The Voice of the Collective abruptly inserted itself into the thoughtstreams of all drones aboard Cube #238. <<Announcement! Primary target - all vessels and associated units within a twenty light year radius of Planet #1, with an in-vector routing. Secondary target - all tactical vessels and associated units within a fifty light year radius of Planet #1. Tertiary target - all units within the Borg Collective. Synopsis: unknown spatial anomaly observed in quadrant 1.1b.sub-16c, at distance 14.95 AU from stellar primary. Alert level raised to delta-blue-five. Possible non-natural origination. In-system tactical resources adjusting. In-vectored non-tactical resources reroute to avoid area of disturbance.>>
The notification was both more and less complex than the verbalized translation, and not easily understood by one who wasn't of the Whole. It was a slice of the All alerting the Entirety of a developing situation. Additional datastreams provided an in-depth understanding of the situation-as-it-was, as well as multiple links to possible responses, as determined by real-time consensus as circumstances changed. For Cube #238, the sole consequence was a minor alteration of its travel path, once the platform was on-loaded, so as to avoid what was soon to become a heavily militarized zone. If the anomaly was artificial in origin, and if something emerged from it, a considerable amount of Borg firepower would greet it in the time-honored response of shoot first and query the debris later. It was not a place for a Lugger-class cube.
{Interesting,} said an unconcerned Prime as she (and the sub-collective) quickly absorbed the data which accompanied the pronouncement, {but it does not concern us.} Attention refocused upon Reserve. {Now, where were we?}
{We were-}
{What the buggering, citrus hell?} exclaimed Prime before Reserve could craft a response. During the announcement, her body had automatically slowed to a standstill, allowing an inward direction of consciousness. With restoration to the status quo of awaiting for the platform to collect its toys, Prime had returned to jogging, an activity which required only sufficient awareness to lock eyes onto the yellow track painted upon the deck. However, within a few steps, she encountered something, a yielding something that slicked body and deck with slime.
A foot slipped, sending heavy Flarn body crashing to the floor.
Momentum of which sent said body sliding across the floor.
And smashing into a bulkhead, barely missing a data pillar.
As Prime lay on her back, staring at the ceiling high above, accessing perspectives - her own, the points-of-view of engineering drones present in the Primary Core, local cameras - to try to determine what had just occurred, the bagpipe-croak of a warning alarm blared through her mindscape.
{Warning! The sensor grid has detected, and we have confirmed, outriders of a bobble swarm!} called Sensors into the communal intranet. A link to the appropriate datafile accompanied the declaration.
Bobbles? What were bobbles? Unless the cube had just encountered a pack of small dolls with oversized heads sporting spring-loaded bobbing action - as of late, Prime had been amusing herself by delving into Terran popular culture in search of useless trivia - the primary consensus monitor and facilitator was not the only drone asking herself that particular question. The sub-collective's subsequent action was less consensus and more instinct, a need for mutual education so as to better prepare for whatever might come next. Throughout the ship, units in motion stilled and all heads tilted one way or another as awareness turned inward.
Unexpectedly, the link provided by the sensor hierarchy led to information pertaining to non-sentient xenobiota.
{Gah. It be a critter. Nothin' good e'er comes from critters,} grumbled Engineer.
Known to species #1, bobbles were a local phenomenon, and therefore a part of Borg gestalt for as long as the Collective had been in existence. Unfortunately, that knowledge, both then and now, was only so-so. On average once a century in a fuzzily defined region of space, but rarely in the same volume twice, the creatures would appear, seemingly out of nowhere, populating the void with their gelatinous bodies, only to vanish a few cycles later. Origination was an unknown, as was the trigger for the baffling blooms. Where the bobbles went, and what form they took, between outbreaks was yet another mystery. Observation and experimentation conducted in the first four centuries of the Collective's existence had determined bobbles to be a minor, short-lived, and localized navigational nuisance easily avoided when they made their infrequent appearance upon the galactic stage. Officially designated as minimal threat, the Collective, unlike the small beings of the universe forever wasting resources trying to answer irrelevant questions, was therefore not inclined to further enrich its bobble dataset.
Bobbles resembled soap bubbles, else rotund jellyfish with no tentacles. The typical specimen was approximately three meters in diameter. Of particular interest, bobbles only weakly interacted with regular matter. An individual was perfectly capable of floating serenely through the densest material, emerging out the other side oblivious to its flaunting of the generally accepted rules of physics in regards to biological entities. Left behind from the passage would be a slightly corrosive and very adhesive slime, the denser the matter the more the goo. Each time a bobble traversed something, it would marginally decrease in size; and if it passed through enough matter, and thus lost a sufficient amount of itself equal to half to two-thirds its original volume, it would become instable and explode. It was a very wet explosion as such things went, lacking either concussive power or heat, but all surfaces of all materials within a ten meter (spherical) distance of the epicenter would become thoroughly slimed.
Each bobble swarm tended to appear hubward and anti-spin of the one previous; and individuals within the cloud of space-jellyfish were always observed to be drifting in that general direction. As with many aspects of the creatures, the ultimate destination, if any, was unclear. As also was true when considering the uncertainty which was the natural and untamed universe, the swarm could occur in a volume which wasn't quite the predicted locale. Jellyfish analogues inhabiting aquatic and aerial oceans of terrestrial and gas giant plants, respectively, were known to bloom unexpectedly for reasons of food/nutrient abundance or reproductive imperative. Perhaps a similar phenomenon controlled the bobble manifestation? Not that the Borg Collective would waste time and resources to determine the answer, but if such an effort had been expended, perhaps the fact that the creatures were eight light years from where they should have been would not have been unanticipated.
Then again, sometimes nature, and the universe in general, likes to remind too-clever sophants who is really in charge.
To the casual observer, it looked like bobbles were passive drifters of the aether of space, lazily trekking from unknown point A to equally unfathomable point B, mechanism of motion not readily apparent. Oddly, the individuals near the back of the pack tended to not-drift faster than the ones at the forefront; and, in turn, those to the front would increase speed to retain their place. Not that 'speed' meant too much in a creature with a top velocity of a meter per second. Very little could divert a bobble from its enigmatic course, but a sufficiently powerful energy and/or magnetic source was one of those things.
Like, for instance, an active power core or an idling hypertranswarp drive.
Bobbles had a long list of peculiarities, more so than any space-adapted biological deserved, but having a subspace presence was not one of them. The creatures were confined to the Einsteinian plain of reality, which in turn was the primary foundation for the Borg designation of minimal threat status. Within the region of space where bobbles normally, if infrequently, appeared, there was no reason for a Borg ship to stop. And because there was no reason to stop, said Borg ship would be traveling in one of several faster-than-light propulsion modes and, thus, inaccessible to bobbles.
If, for whatever reason, a cube or sphere found itself within a bobble swarm, the standard operating procedure was to power down to minimal energy use, return all drones to alcoves, and simply wait. It was inevitable that a few dozen bobbles would self-destruct in goo-sposions, circling an attractant like moths entranced by a flame, losing snot with each transit through obstructing mass until the critical lower threshold was reached. However, within a few cycles the swarm was expected to vanish as mysteriously and swiftly as it first appeared; and all which would be left behind would be the need for mops and squeegees. A few subsystems might fail due to adverse reaction to corrosive bobble-goo, but the highly redundant nature of a Borg ship meant the consequence would be little more than inconvenience.
Only once had the Borg, early in its bobble experimentation, ever lost a ship. The vessel had been a runabout-sized remote controlled probe, purposefully sacrificed to the altar of science.
Bobbles were inconvenient, inconsequential, unimportant.
{Another delay,} bemoaned Reserve.
The sensor grid was picking up increasing amount of bobble sign as the creatures seemingly, and against all known laws of bio-physics, spontaneously generated in the aether of space. The Collective had never had a resource on site in the midst of a consolidating swarm and normally would have been mildly interested in absorbing new data. However, the developing situation in the Borg homesystem had a large portion of the attention of the Greater Consciousness, regulating Cube #238 to an insignificant datum caught in an minor phenomenon. The bobble bloom may have been overdue and more than eight light years from the next expected appearance point, but it did not matter.
Querying the homesystem's extended sensor net indicated the volume of the developing swarm - Cube #248 was in its outskirts, and likely to remain so given its drift vector - and unusual density. An earth-bound air traffic controller might liken it to a flock of birds or insects rising from fields into the unblinking eye of sweeping radar.
From Cube #248's point of view, multiple blips were already diverting from their track, attracted by the radiating energy signatures of both cube and platform.
Prime pushed herself to her feet. {Initiate the bobble minimization procedure outlined in the appendix of the species' dossier,} said the consensus monitor into the intranets. {In summary, shut down all nonessential energy sources, set to stand-by or shield all energy sources which cannot power down, and curtail all nonessential drone actions.} Pause. {This mean no units are allowed outside their alcoves - NO EXCEPTIONS - without the expressed authorization of a designation's hierarchy head AND two of the Hierarchy of Five, of which one must be myself or Reserve. Compliance required.}
Prime patiently waited as the chorus of {Compliance}, or variations thereof, deluged her mindspace, watching with a virtual eye as each replying designation was checked against a master roster. As usual, there was a multiple handful of drones which were either slow to acknowledge the order, else had to be specifically prodded to acquire compliance, but in the end all had been accounted for.
As Prime locked to her own signature and prepared to beam herself to her alcove, she glanced down at herself. Oh, right...the goo. The stuff slicked carapace and bodysuit like a thin layer of Vaseline. If left on too long, it would begin to pit her exoskeleton; and the resultant sand-and-buff session would require hours to complete.
After a swift scan of the shut-down roster, Prime moved the shuttle-wash to the bottom. Yet another facility, like the laundromat, with no real use on a Borg ship (and an example of assimilate-to-blueprint without the necessary subsequent purge), for once it was to have use. The "Quik-Wash" cycle would be prefect to rinse the goo from body; and if Prime might replicate two additional tokens to put in the machine, she could even add on the wax option for that final, shiny look.
<<Update! As of 80.5 hours since initial observation of unknown spatial anomaly at quadrant 1.1b.sub-1bc, the following resources have been assigned...>> A list of 76 ship designations followed, comprised primarily of Battle-class cubes and Assault-class spheres. Each entry was linked to a more in-depth datastream detailing specifics of individual vessels. The data was pushed by the Greater Consciousness to all subMinds, all sub-collectives, all individual drones, keeping the Whole appraised of the developing Situation. It was the All talking to Itself, keeping Itself of One Mind, even as the majority of its cogs toiled at tasks which were not affected by the Happening in the Borg homesystem.
The cogs inhabiting Lugger-class Cube #238 allowed the update to wash through the local dataspace, then dumped the news to the Not Important pile. The sub-collective had a Situation of its own, and it was of much greater priority than an incident-in-the-making over thirteen light years away which did not require (nor desire) the attendance of a cargo hauler crewed by imperfect drones.
In the three cycles since being caught in the bobble swarm, it had become apparent that the phenomenon was not proceeding according to previously observed behaviors. First, the bobbles were exhibiting an unprecidented sensitivity to energy sources, diverting towards the cube from substantial distances, inevitably sprinting to a snot-splosive death. Given the density, size, and persistence of the swarm, Cube #238 was experiencing an average of fifty bobble-bursts an hour, or one every 1.2 minutes. Second, and more importantly, the corrosiveness of the goo was greater than that recorded in prior analysis.
There was a high likelihood that the apparent anomalous nature of the bloom was actually within natural variation for the enigmatic species. After all, the Collective, early in its existence, had dedicated resources for only four swarm cycles. Once the determination of minimal threat/navigational nuisance had been made, no further effort had been expended to gather the data necessary to fully characterize the nonsentient species. Without a long-term dataset to draw upon, Cube #238 was stuck, unable to adapt.
The sensor platform was lost within a cycle of contact with the swarm. Although the sub-collective could have sent the emergency shut-down command, thus completely powering it off, consensus cascade had instead forfeited its existence as a sacrifice, a Judas goat to lure bobbles. The platform was to be salvaged, after all, so loss of functionality was of lesser concern when set against the utility of a Lugger-class. Unfortunately, once the platform's last energetic source fell victim to corrosive bobble snot, the only target left was Cube #238.
Engineer was fretting. Automated cube repair systems could not be engaged due to the power draw, which would only serve to attract more bobbles. Even with Borg redundancy, reroute options in several places were becoming limited; and because missions normally kept a Lugger-class far from active warzones, redundancies in critical systems were not built to the same standard as front-line ship classes.
{Gah! We hates 'em critters,} stated Engineer, pluralities invading his words as many of his hierarchy lent weight to the opinion. {Nothin' good e'er came o' mixin' animals 'nd space ships. We canna e'en transport units t' the injury site, else risk bein' mobbed by snot-balls.}
The first drones dispatched to repair, reroute, or shore up compromised systems had been slimed with goo of every bobble in a three hundred meter radius. The slime was not kind to exposed epidermis; and even exoskeleton-encased units pitted quickly unless sprayed with an equally caustic neutralizing solution. Therefore, drones dispatched for manual fixes were forced to embark on what were often long cross-cube treks.
The cube was caught in a losing, slow-motion battle with brainless bobbles.
Offered Prime, after a short search thorough the lexicon of ancient Terran proverbs, {We are being nibbled to death by ducks.}
{What is a duck?} asked Reserve, breaking the silence that the pronouncement had evoked.
{Er...} Borg files were notoriously lacking where it came to nonsentient lifeforms which offered neither benefit nor detriment to the Collective {Duck tape? Some sort of tapeworm? Perhaps a parasite? Yes, definitely a parasite. That would make sense, because to be consumed by a parasite would certainly be a long, drawn-out, and possibly painful matter.}
{No more critters!} exclaimed Engineer adamantly. {A parasite that c'n go a'chompin' on duralloy, tritanium, and ceramics be not wanted 'ere! No ducks!} A dull thump shook the ship. Anything able to affect a monstrosity the size of an eight-kilometer-an-edge Lugger-class was a force to be reckoned with. Engineering swiftly jumped datastreams. {Warnin' - nacelle segment 2a be fatally compromised if'n't receives any more bobbles t' structural segment 8.a through 10.g. Controlled ventin' o' plasma commencin' t' prevent explosion.} Pause. {T'is be the third vented nacelle, 'nd four more projected t' be lost 'n the next 2.5 hours. Warp drive will be severely impacted once twelve - half - o' our nacelles be gone.}
The skematic displaying cube damage faded as the datastream was released from primary prominence.
Due to its size, a Lugger-class did not sport the usual cubeship arrangement of three to six nacelle segments buried under each edge. Instead, three nacelles, each 500 meters long, met at the point of each corner, for a total of 24 segments. Given that warp in the current era was a backup-to-a-backup FTL propulsion, the paucity of nacelles compared to other vessel types was rarely an issue. However, like all warp nacelles, and especially when built to a Borg scale, they could cause extensive damage to the superstructure should something untoward happen.
A space-faring jellyfish with corrosive guts definitely qualified as 'untoward'.
Warp nacelles could not just be 'shut off'. To do so meant a loss of the magnetic fields which kept the plasma beast imprisoned; and if plasma was vented to allow a full shut down, hours of recharge was required to reset the system. Standard operating procedure was to keep warp on low power standby, ready to initiate at a moment's notice. If bobble behavior and corrosiveness had been as expected, then the nacelles would have drawn a few bobbles, but not enough to cause more than minor complications, maybe one emergency venting, but not three, never seven, and most certainly not an unimaginable twelve or more.
If the warp system was taking a beating, it was nothing compared to the hypertranswarp drive. Superficially similar to warp, the nacelles which formed the foundation of hypertranswarp were buried deep in the bulk of a Borg vessel, locked in an intricate arrangement with the power cores. Instead of plasma, however, the substance that ultimately parted the warp and woof of reality, allowing the bearer to sink into the deep, slippery depths of subspace, was a condensate of exotic matter. Extreme cold, not heat, was the key. Like the warp nacelles, the hypertranswarp rings always had to remain energized, refrigeration by means of light and sound maintaining the condensate. While the impact from catastrophic collapse of the condensate containment was benign compared to a plasma explosion, the time required to refreeze the matrix for each ring from stored precursor was measured in multiple cycles.
After warp nacelles and associated subsystems, the hypertranswarp was the system most alluring to the bobble swarm. Several dozen were ever in an inward spiraling death seek; and not only were they impacting the hypertranswarp itself, the mere action of passing through the cube's overburden bulk meant an extensive volume around the condensate rings was also being affected by bobble ectoplasm and snot-splosions. At least in the case of the warp drive, the additional damage was confined to the cube edges and corners.
Of Cube #238's three supraluminal propulsion systems, the only one not impacted was transwarp. Despite superficial similarities, it was a fundamentally different beast regarding its operation. All power to initiate transwarp was held in readiness within a compactor. It was akin to a lake passively and placidly located behind a dam: potential, but no active work. It was only when the floodgates were opened that the huge spike of power poured into the transwarp coil, which in turn operated in concert with deflectors on the hull to rip open a hole into the fractal realm of subspace where the Borg had once built their massive conduits. Only then was continuous energy output needed to sustain the rending of a tunnel through subspace. Once upon a time the Borg had maintained permanent tunnels, engineered passages where the power requirement for the traversing vessel was minimal. However, following full-scale adoption of hypertranswarp, the energy-expensive conduit system had been allowed to decay, unimatrices converted from transit hubs to fortified bases.
A rippling trumpet fanfare saluted the intranet, cutting through conversations and discussions of all flavor. A strong bloc of protest was raised by Assimilation over the disruption of a strategy game between herself and several members of the weapons hierarchy. All were ignored: Sensors had a critical message to broadcast.
{We interrupt your catastrophe-in-progress to bring you an important announcement.} Pause. {119 of 185, tell me again why this particular format should be used? Usually we just drop the scrubbed sensor data into the appropriate datastream,}
Replied 119 of 185, {There was that decision for our hierarchy be more user-friendly. Shiny was the term employed, as was glittery, by you, anyway. Since my former employment included frequent public relations via a job that most resembled the distribution of sensor-derived information, we decided to use my triV meteorological format. "Slightly witty mode" to be exact.}
Sensors hummed thoughtfully, filling minds with an off-tune melody and snatches of recalled intra-hierarchy consensus sessions. {Accepted. I shall begin again.} A crude image was inserted in the command mindspace, one which appeared to be hand-drawn instead of standard high-resolution graphics. At the center of the black field was a lop-sided cube. Lots of red bubbles surrounded the icon. Several "L"s and an "H" appeared to be randomly placed nearby, along with a sad-looking grey cloud.
{We interrupt your catastrophe-in-progress to bring you an important announcement. Sensors indicate an incoming squall line of bobbles heading our way.} An aura comprised of squiggly blue lines appeared on the graphic, sweeping towards the cube. {Within an hour bobble density will rise five-fold, with a ten-fold increase by the second hour. Bobbles will be accompanied by a 100% chance of biological ectoplasm residue, as well as a 15% chance of rain in Interior Cargo Hold #3. Someone left the fog machine on again! Long range forecasts are unclear, but elevated bobble densities may continue for the next cycle. Unless, of course, the bobbles spontaneously disappear, which may also occur.
{Meanwhile, in subsection 14, submatrix 14, corridors 89 and 108, flooded conduits are expected to continue due to damage to the local humidity control system. Do you have your arm floaties handy? Conversely, there is a 75% chance of dust storm at subsection 14, submatrix 17, artery hallway 6 within the next thirty minutes - a repair team (with appropriate tools this time) has arrived on scene, but it will take time to remove paneling to reach the source of the problem. Over in Maintenance Bay #2, Doctor, drone maintenance staff, and any patients will continue to need wooly underwear in the foreseeable future, with temperatures expected to drop down to...}
Exclaimed Engineer once Sensors had completed her rambling 'weather report' and released the command override, {More o' the picklin' goo-bags? Cube structural integrity canna take much more o' this!}
A very brief feeling of communal deja-vu, or somethig similar, wafted through the sub-collective, a reverent pause for a particular utterance.
{Now is not the time for cliche,} muttered Prime, breaking the spell. To whom she directed the words was unclear, maybe to the universe itself - but given her engineering background, perhaps she had an insight upon certain matters too esoteric for those not of the spanner-wielding brotherhood. {Engineer, refrain from using that phrase, or other like it, in the near future. In your case it is even worse because of that, um, persistent accent of yours. Secret stuff. We'll converse later.} Pause. {Also, Sensors, do not initiate that particular command pathway again.}
{But the user manual clearly states-}
{Just...do not,} reiterated Prime with the dual force of both Flarn and consensus monitor.
Said Sensors, {Compliance.}
{46 of 53, 109 of 242 - within the cycle confer with Sensors, determine where she found that pathway, and redirect her to more appropriate commands for her hierarchy tier level. Then-}
{What aboot the ship 'nd the fact it be fallin' apart around our wee ears?} demanded Engineer.
Prime shifted mental gears, dropping one of the multiple ribbons of thought winding through her mindscape so as to make room to pick up another to her primary awareness. {Oh, yes. I suppose a consensus cascade is warranted.}
In summary, it was decided that it was necessary to leave the area, preferably before the incoming bobble-storm arrived. The decision to take action was the easy part...next the cube had to determine how to do it.
Weapons led construction of the escape plan. While the bobbles were not traditional enemies, their instinct-driven actions were sufficiently alike the tactics of long assimilated species #402 and species #5067 to allow valid comparisons. Borg were nothing if not adaptable, where data was available; and imperfect sub-collectives, if they wanted to survive the indifference of the Whole, had to be more so than most. Additionally, possessing a tactical genius in the form of Weapons was a major benefit.
A tactical hierarchy on a Lugger-class cube was generally unnecessary, a 'what if' rarely utilized because a cargo hauler was seldom involved in combat. Therefore, Weapons and his comrades had much time on their hands in which to build scenarios, no matter how unlikely, and play them in their infinitely mutable variations, before putting successful strategies aside against the unlikely, improbable day of their need.
{We will start with scenario 402-26b, but splice in elements from scenario 5067-13g and 5067-52a. The lattermost are ground scenarios, not space, but the general concept remains applicable,} said Weapons his presence gaining animation as he and his hierarchy were given leave to do their actual job. The appropriate sub-modules were taken from their virtual toy boxes and assembled in a dataspace sandbox. "X"s and "O"s and sweeping vector lines, familiar to any sports coach discussing team strategy, appeared. {Bobble density is projected to be greatest in this quadrant. Therefore, given known stimulus-response behavior of the enemy, the following actions by this sub-collective are proposed...}
Multiple plans were offered, each with its pros, cons, and attendant probability of success, the latter tempered by a healthy dose of the unknown. The dataspace equivalent of bullet statements and sticky notes were everywhere. Bobbles were nonsentients, after all, not a well scrutinized race slated for either assimilation or eradication. Consensus cascades blossomed, withered, and died, only to bloom once again, with wordless discussion and counter-discussion (and outright argument) underlying all. Finally, one plan emerged victorious.
The process required 47 minutes. The sub-collective returned to more than autonomic awareness of its surroundings to find the outriders of the bobble-front already sweeping over (and through) the cube.
The plan was simple, as all good (and likely to succeed) ones are. Cube #238 would fire a volley of highly energetic photon torpedoes - think 'flare'. The strong electromagnetic signature of the torpedoes would lure away the nearest bobbles, as well as divert the incoming front. With space cleared, the Lugger-class would then rip its way into one of the decaying transwarp conduits that crisscrossed the local subspace topology. Once safely traversing the faster-than-light nonwaters where bobbles could not go, Cube #238 would be able to make the final dash to the homesystem.
Replacing the sensor platform would have to wait another duty cycle. With all likelihood, the sub-collective would wake from its extended regeneration, the same replacement platform secured within a refurbished Bulk Cargo Hold and the abandoned task listed first upon the new schedule.
Cube #238 engaged idle subsystems, increasing power output of the Primary Core. Nearby bobbles immediately responded by altering their drift towards the new flames arising in their perception. Two subsequently dissolved in goo explosions, although no additional damage was accrued (except to 335 of 550's cunningly hidden flip-flop collection). The cube rotated slightly on its x-axis to bring torpedo tubes into optimal position.
Photon flares fired! The torpedoes spun away into space, arcing to loop into a curving track to nowhere. They glowed incandescent throughout the electromagnetic spectrum, the visual manifestation of which was a brilliant white glare with undertones of green and yellow. Bobbles everywhere turned unseeing eyes towards the spectacle, altering vectors, even, in some cases, increasing their glacial speeds.
Pause for a moment to consider the faster-than-light method conversationally known as 'transwarp'. The subspace strata accessible via transwarp technologies was fractured, the psuedoregion comprised of lower density channels embedded in a higher density matrix. While it was possible to tunnel through the layer regardless of density, less power was utilized when traveling the conduits.
For those species knowledgeable of the transwarp strata, there were many theories as to how the conduits came to be. Unknown in other subspace layers, the channels had been postulated to be fault lines created by the 'weight' of the overlying universe; primordial fractures frozen into subspace at the moment of the Big Bang, a series of cosmic stretch marks; the artistic work of a supreme deity low on sleep and high on stimulants; and/or remnant archeological works - like ancient Roman roads - of a civilization long vanished from the universe's stage. What was known was that the conduits did not necessarily correspond to the topology of reality: although faults sometimes did converge on star systems or other logical crossroads, it was more likely they did not.
The Borg lent the greatest weight to the transportation system hypothesis (albeit one never officially documented via thesis, eager graduate students tring to prove their theory never returning from field work). The use of transwarp by the Collective had reached its apex during the pre-Dark era. Utilizing assimilated data on propulsion systems, the Greater Consciousness had realized early in its existence that permanent tunnels could be etched in the subspace matrix via the continual passage of ships. Envision the process as a path eroded by the passage of many feet, else the action of water transforming a small stream into a canyon of epic proportions. The only resource required (other than transwarp equipped vessels) to construct tunnels though subspace was time, several centuries worth, a resource the Borg definitely had.
Unimatrices were built where conduits converged, the largest structures squatting at the hub of dozens of tunnels. The primary purpose of the unimatrix was to preserve the channels, periodically dispatching automated transwarp capable probes through conduits, much like terrestrial oil companies once shot 'pigs' through pipes to clear nascent obstacles. The maintenance of a low density environment was critical because it resulted in least energy expenditure for traversing vessels.
With the advent of hypertranswarp, and its full adoption by the Borg as the fastest and most efficient FTL transport method, the transwarp system was abandoned. Most unimatrices were retained, but the mission shifted to emphasizing strategic military base from which to introduce Perfection to the uneducated masses. Meanwhile, transwarp conduits did not vanish from subspace topology, but instead decayed, silted in as an old riverbed might, low density pathway requiring increasingly more energy to traverse as the eons progressed, but nonetheless always less than the surrounding, unaltered matrix.
A remnant of the Borg transwarp superhighway was accessible from Cube #238's location. One end was anchored in the Borg homesystem, the other a distant unimatrix. The fact that there was a conduit so near was not unexpected: subspace topology out to thirty light years of the homesystem was severely fractured due to thousands of years of both deliberate tunnel construction and natural reaction of the strata to the stress placed upon it. With bobbles suitably distracted, the Lugger-class tripped the capacitors that initiated transwarp, ripping a jagged tear in the cosmos itself.
The transwarp conduit was entered. A course was set towards Cube #238's final destination. The bobble annoyance was left behind.
Except, in the case of the latter, it was not. Why would moths follow a bonfire when a supernovae was much more attractive?
{We...may have a problem,} said Sensors upon translation into the conduit. The cube abruptly shuddered, as if an asteroid had glanced an edge. Aural and dataspace alarms began to blare as diagnostic subroutines infiltrated the foremind of all drones, a demand for immediate attention. {Too sparkly. Way too sparkly. We definitely have a problem, with a cherry and shiny sparkles on top.
Bobbles were trailing behind Cube #238 like the tail of a very unorthodox comet. Refusing to heal - perhaps due to a continued influx of bobbles, first those captured in the wake of the translating cube, then those attracted to the energetic outburst - the subspace tear was propagating back along the fracture. In the real universe, the meant the warp and woof of the universe was collapsing in the middle of the bobble swarm, inhaling a hefty, and dense, proportion of the bloom into the subspace environment. Unexpectedly, the bobbles were surviving the translation without benefit of high tech alloy armor and deflectors; and once in the conduit were instinctively focusing on the most energetic target available - Cube #238 as it actively propelled itself through the tunnel.
And the cube could not stop, could not power down to minimal energy output. Not while sunk in subspace, at any rate. To do so would collapse the shield which protected the vessel, and all within, ensuring the Lugger-class to become one with the surrounding inhospitable environment.
In the dataspace-eye of a scrubbed sensor feed, a bobble appeared to lazily brush against the rear-facing face. Instead of phasing through the intervening matter, as was normal behavior, it - there was no other term - splattered...violently. The cube shuddered once more, suggesting the origin of the first cube-quake; and a chunk of hull collapsed into a shallow crater with approximate dimensions of fifty meters across and ten meters deep.
Commented Engineer dryly, amid renewed shrills from diagnostic programs, {The bobbles seem t' be a wee bit more destructive in t'is environment. Have I e'er said nothin' good comes o' mixin' critters 'nd starships? I believe I jus' may have mentioned such once o' thrice.}
{Really?} replied Prime sarcastically. {We are all glad you noticed the increase in damage potentiality. Now, we would be highly appreciative if the cube could be made to go faster. In case you are blind, it should be pointed out the bobbles appear to be catching up with us.} Attention widened slightly to specifically include Reserve. {You know I'm locked out of driving. So push the throttle already and make us go.}
Due to its huge mass, a Lugger-class cube could not be called nimble in the best of circumstances, and the current situation was far from optimal. However, power was found to push the ship faster through the abandoned transwarp conduit, incrementally widening the gap between hull and bobble horde.
The achievement was not to last.
Inscrutable instinct drove bobbles, focusing whatever passed for a neural net within its gelatinous body to lock upon the strongest source of electromageticism within its ken. The fact that a significant number of the swarm was now enmeshed in a hellish and ultimately lethal environment, or that all records for bobble speeds were being smashed, was of no consequence. The only thing that mattered was the oh-so-bright goal which remained stubbornly out of reach. The solution? Go faster.
Thus began a vicious cycle. Whatever unknown and unknowable mechanism propelled the bobbles appeared to work much more efficiently in subspace, at least when employed in a recently cleared transwarp tunnel. As the leading elements of the swarm would come within smear range of the hull, Cube #238 would manage to boost speed just enough to open a slight space in the lead...only to see it close again as its pursuers responded.
What should have been a two hour trip to the Borg homesystem was reduced to a an hour that was paradoxically both too short and too long in duration. Egregiously ignoring all transwarp speed limit restrictions - a never-lifted legacy from when the conduits near the homesystem had been congested with traffic - Cube #238 slammed into the subspace ripple field which englobed the Collective's home system, dragging bobbles.
Situated two light hours from the primary, the subspace ripple field was a massive defensive measure. As the same technology when deployed on the small scale temporarily 'froze' reality and prevented use of FTL, the persistent ripple field forced all ships within its influence to solely utilize subspace propulsion. A minor nuisance for incoming and outgoing vessels, or those transiting the homesystem, the Greater Consciousness had decided the defensive benefits of stopping an invader or a spy in its tracks to outweigh the costs.
The extremely rough and very abrupt translation back to normal space was dreadfully hard on systems already stressed to the breaking point by several cycles of bobble goo baptism. Yet more things failed, among them being subsystems such as the cube equivalent of brakes and fine propulsion control. In other words, the juggernaut which emerged from the transwarp conduit at screaming high speeds was completely out of control.
Well, not quite...gyroscopes were fully functional, as were sensors, communications, and the videography studio. Whatever was to come, the result would be fully and beautifully documented.
In normal affairs of the Borg Collective, the fact that a ship crewed by imperfectly assimilated drones was barreling through space with minimal control would merit little, if any, attention of the part of the Whole. After cataloguing the follies, antics, and shortcomings of over eight millennia of less-than-perfect sub-collectives, a brakeless and near rudderless cube didn't even register on the Top 1000 List of Blunders. Unfortunately, this particular example of ineptitude required special notice: the pre-existing subspace fracture line along which the just-exited conduit had been constructed coincidentally matched with the spatial anomaly that was giving the Greater Consciousness heartburn.
In other words, the gigantic mass of a Lugger-class cube was aimed straight at a Situation, and several of the frontline vessels watching it.
And it probably bore mentioning that the bobbles chasing Cube #238 had not been abandoned in subspace. The front of the chasing swarm transited back to normal space at the terminus created by their prey; and instead of healing, the rip continued to belch forth a seemingly never-ending stream of spheres.
Into the already surreal and chaotic situation entered a sense of deja-vu, at least on the part of Cube #238. Tens, hundreds, thousands of minds reached into the permanent memory files of the sub-collective, following overgrown data trails to a minor spur logging one of the not-so-shortcuts recently taken by the cube in an attempt to catch up to its schedule. In this particular instance, time-tides, the ebb and flow of temporal currents, had spun narratives of what-if, maybe, and could-be throughout the communal mind. All the visions had been dutifully filed, with the most disturbing time hallucinations erased from the mind of the originating drone so as to preserve individual productivity. What one unit remembered, or not, was of no consequence, not when a record was centrally preserved. However, it had been assumed that the memory logs, like many so harvested before, would never again be accessed, abandoned to metaphorical dusty archive shelves.
A vision consolidated, overlain upon the reality too-swiftly approaching. As to be expected, there was deviation between the dual versions of Now, but the overall congruence was unnerving.
*****
A fleet of enormous spheres and cubes englobed a relatively small volume of space, a volume of space which registered a spatial phenomenon with artificial characteristics. No captains impatiently paced bridges nor adrenaline pumped helmsmen accidentally bumped thruster control buttons, for the Borg Collective did not allow such inefficiencies. Instead, singularity torpedoes and neutron-plasma beams silently waited to greet whomever, whatever, emerged from the phenomenon. While the Borg home system was unimportant in the greater scheme of Perfection, just one population and industrial node of many for an entity incapable of nostalgic feelings, it would still be quite embarrassing if the center of Collective-controlled space was successfully invaded.
The spatial phenomenon flared into the visible spectrum, disgorging an enormous amount of tachyons, in addition to other, less exotic particles. In the center of the storm formed a single shape, as wavering and unresolvable as a mirage seen hovering over desert sands. Weapons, already primed, prepared to fire.
Abruptly the anomaly snapped closed, disappearing from sensors as if it had never existed. In its place was a very small geometric form, a cube 1.3 kilometers on an edge, looking quite ragged and abused. Stunned, the Collective automatically identified the vessel as a pre-Dark Exploratory-class cube; and more specifically, from the automatic beacon signature it emitted, Cube #347, destroyed over five centuries earlier. What trickery was this???? However, it was no skullduggery, for with the appearance of the supposedly long deceased ship, a particular flavor of mentality, not quite sane from the point of view of the Greater Consciousness, was requesting reintegration on old fractal subspace channels no longer utilized.
The small cube powered up pitiful weapon systems, most of which were nonfunctional, powered down, powered up, and finally powered down once more. With no integration response forthcoming from the Greater Consciousness, and finding itself not immediately destroyed by the hesitant fleet of Very Large Cubes and Spheres, an audio hail was sent by Cube #347.
*****
Reality abruptly reasserted itself, logged time hallucination dissolving into streamers of tattered data. The universe was no longer holding its breath. Time marched on.
::Hello?:: called a desynchronized multivoice into the aether. ::We've been told we would meet the Collective here? I think we've found the right spot. So, could we have a tow to the nearest unimatrix complex? We seem to have lost propulsion, armaments, navigational control, and there is a very overgrown weed we'd like to have removed as well.::
There was a pregnant pause. The temporal phantasm, both then and now, had been limited in scope, a tunnel-vision view excluding events surrounding the prime players in the cosmic drama. However, there were other actors in the play, and one of them was about to enter in a quite dramatic manner from off-stage.
{Incoming! Large mass incoming!} projected Prime with all the force of her sub-collective backing her. The same message was appended to subspace comm frequencies, archaic radio bands, flashed in semaphore with hull lights, and otherwise broadcast by any means possible. The uncertainty of the situation demanded redundant measures.
Added the small voice of Sensors unnecessarily: {And lots of little masses. Many, many gooey, sparkly little masses.}
Ahead - the distance was rapidly closing, Cube #238 moving at high impulse so as to stay ahead of the leaders of the pursuing bobble swarm - the englobing formation of front-line vessels was buckling. Those directly in the path of the Lugger-class cube were rapidly moving out of the way; and those further away were shutting down all systems so as to provide a less attractive target for the bobbles. Unfortunately, the battered hull of the obsolete Exploratory-class cube which lay directly in the way continued to sit, exuding a very bewildered air as it plaintively broadcast a subspace plea concerning the twin desires to reintegrate and don't-destroy-us-as-we-are-really-who-and-what-we-say-we-are.
Simulations of Exploratory-class versus Lugger-class were not making pretty pictures within the dataspace. Or, rather, the pictures were too pretty, assuming one liked a palette heavy on the reds and oranges. Even with its current damage, a head-on collision between the two vessels was likely to result in the larger Lugger-class mangled, but salvageable, and complete disintegration of the other. Most probable. Maybe. Certainly greater than 50% likelihood, anyway. Unfortunately, much cargo would be ruined, and hence the complete failure of the sub-collective for the duty cycle.
The imperfect sub-collective of Lugger-class Cube #238 possessed a dismal reputation and had acquired many unflattering titles, but it had never received a complete failure on its record. Late - yes. Damage - yes. No delivery - no.
Backseat driver Prime emphatically shouted in Reserve's virtual ear, {Positive x-axis! Positive x-axis! Thrusters! More! More!}
Grumbled Reserve, {The steering wheel only turns so far, you know. And we can all see the direction we need to go.}
Attention flashed to Engineer, who pre-emptively responded, {Donna make me come up there 'nd thump ye on yer picklin' head wit' me spanner. One, I canna reach yer head, 'nd two, t'is ship, she moves like a pregnant hoolister a' the best o' times. An' now ain't one o' those times. Me hierarchy be doin' their best, but inertia and physics, they be royal bitches, ye know.}
Prime grunted, {You still need more practice in telling off your superiors, but the pregnant whatever was a good touch. More exaggeration and profanity. But there has been a definite improvement this duty cycle.}
The imaged response was...untranslatable, and definitely profane.
{Anatomically impossible, but otherwise of excellent quality. I've copied that one to my personal datafiles for permanent retention. Now where were we? Yes.... Possible termination.... More positive x-axis!}
Slowly (too slowly) and ponderously (too ponderously), Cube #238 moved itself off its original vector. But was it enough?
Cube #238 screamed past a pair of Assault-class spheres, each radiating residual power surges resulting from emergency power down. Several dozen bobbles spiraled away from their comrades to slam into the spheres, but most stayed locked to the fault line and the brilliant energy source that remained just out of reach.
{More positive x-axis! More!}
The scarred Exploratory-class cube began to slowly pirouette in a defensive spin.
Less than half a kilometer distance separated the hulls of Lugger-class and Exploratory-class when the former passed the latter. Such might seem a large distance, but on the scale of cosmos and Borg ships, such was the equivalent to a near sideswipe of two ground-bound cars, one feeling the wind of the other's passage. Cube #238's Interior Cargo Holds were larger across than the space between the cubes; and the Bulk Cargo Holds could have encompassed that same distance five times.
::Hey! You almost hit us!:: cried the open frequency subspace protest originating from the Exploratory-class cube.
Cube #238 ignored the complaint. With the most immediate obstacle surmounted, there were a thousand-plus other considerations on the sub-collective's communal mind. Internal urgings of {More positive x-axis!} had shifted to {Faster! Faster!}; and the Exploratory-class cube was left behind.
With a tremendous crash of full-spectrum electromagnetic lightning and rumble of rolling gravimetric waves, the overloaded rip into the unholy hells underlying Einsteinian reality finally collapsed. Somewhere (or nowhere, perhaps everywhere), a transwarp conduit imploded on itself, altering local space-time topography and causing more than a few alarms to sound at the Borg unimatrices still squatting at the old terminal points. Bobbles by the tens of millions, those still inside the conduit, ceased to exist, but countless billions more, those of the swarm whom had been too far from the drama of their conspecifics to alter their course, continued their unknown and unknowable journey. Unfortunately, that still left twenty thousand or so globes of caustic goo following Lugger-class Cube #238.
Until, that was, Cube #238 successfully levered itself onto a new course, one which did not include the fracture line along which the bobbles were mired, and one which did include a stationary target blazing in the non-eyes of the goo-filled spheres.
Several hundred bobbles managed to follow in the Lugger-class' wake, but the great majority took the path of least resistance, altering aim to pursue the smaller cube.
The first snot-splosions smeared themselves across and within the hull of the already damaged Exploratory-class cube, quickly transforming into blossoms of plasma and fire as the outer layers of hull were compromised, particularly near the warp nacelles. The sub-collective of Lugger-class Cube #238 could spare not a thought and nary more than an automatic glance at the destruction happening in the figurative rear-view mirror, itself still trying to stay ahead of the remaining bobbles while at the same time avoiding the Assault-class sphere which was now in-line with the current trajectory.
{Negative Z-axis! Negative...no...positive Y-axis! Positive Y-axis!}
{Will you stop being such a back-alcove driver, Prime? We know what we are doing! And-}
An update from engineering hierarchy flashed through the dataspaces. {Eh! I believe we be havin' emergency brakes back!} trumpeted Engineer gleefully. {But I donna advise tryin'...'em like that. Bugger.}
{Prime! Don't hack the driving algorithms!} Reserve's admonishment went largely unheard as the giant cube abruptly slowed from insane speeds to a velocity merely unadvised, causing all manner of new damage to already stressed systems.
The first of the bobbles still tailing Cube #238 phased through metal, leaving behind trails of corrosive slime, burrowing through to the heart of the vessel.
And, then, as is the mysterious wont of the universe, all the bobbles suddenly faded away like the dwindling afterimage of a recently shut-off cathode ray television, vanishing as mysteriously as they had first appeared. The migration, the swarm, the bloom was over...until the next advent in a hundred, or a thousand, Cycles.
The snot, unfortunately, remained, as did all damage caused either directly or indirectly.
Said Engineer to command and control hierarchy, {I recommend ye forward the latest list o' needs for dry-dock, as it be a wee longer than the previous one. 'Nd I also recommend certain designation not be touchin' anything related t' the brakes, o' driving in general, once we get ourselves fixed. Again. Else a certain picklin' designation be havin' an unfortunate transporter accident 'nd she'll be needin' t' float her own way t' the dry-dock.}
There was anticipatory silence in the dataspaces and intranets as mentalities not otherwise engaged in the chore of obtaining control of the cube and keeping it from spontaneously disintegration turned attention to see what the retort might be.
{On a scale of one to ten, I give it a five. A plausible threat with an okay delivery, but it could be made better in many ways.} Prime sighed the sigh of the long suffering, then split her awareness - with the immediate danger of anomalies and bobbles passed, a significant splinter of the Whole was turning its baleful gaze upon Cube #238, and a certain consensus monitor would be bearing the brunt of the attention - into the multiple threads. One, however, was kept firmly in the current train of thought. {For instance, you might want to try the following...}
"This injury could have been avoided-"
"I know," muttered Prime as she lay face-down on the workbench in Maintenance Bay #2. A disturbing 'twang'ing noise floated through the air, followed by the even more distressing whine of a high-powered mini-saw. "At least you finally installed the chiropractor add-ons to the workbenches. This is much more comfortable on the face."
"Comfort is irrelevant, except mine, and I was becoming tired of listening to the complaints about squished noses or other facial protrusions. How do other Doctors put up with it? How did I put up with it? Bipeds as a class are incredibly badly designed. Even a few generations of scientifically directed breeding and culling would take care of so many flaws," grumbled Doctor. Additional sounds, more fitting to the garage, not the operating theater, wafted overhead.
Prime could have rode Doctor's visual stream, or any other maintenance drone in attendance, else plugged into a room camera, and acquired a good view of the proceedings happening within her back. But she did not - some things were better left alone.
Said Doctor, "I just replaced these tendons not too long ago! And now they look like something Cycles out of warranty! You-"
"I know!" retorted Prime once more, adding a rather juvenile emotional tag that she was not in the mood to review the actions that had led to the accident. There had been that structural weakness in Storage Closet #74 to a bulkhead support caused by one-too-many bobbles, followed by the avalanche of bowling balls. One thing had led to another in quick succession. Now not only did the bowling alley require major repairs - much to the dismay of the various leagues, who knew it to be one structure which would not be fixed during dry-dock - but the ensuing need for brute force to shift tritanium ingot crates in Interior Cargo Hold #8 had resulted in Prime volunteering her body for the mission. It had been an emergency: behind the ingots had resided a pallet of rather nasty chemicals, canisters compromised by aforesaid bowling balls, poised to leak into the local regeneration system. The injury had occurred when Prime had kicked a ball out of her way while lifting a heavy box...and the remainder of the memory was consciously blanked. Mental shifting of gears. "With being confined to my alcove during the bobble disaster, I've not had my recommended daily dose of exercise; and this body needs a workout before they shut us down, at least four hours jogging on the track in the Primay Core. How long until I am repaired?"
One twang was followed by another, then a third, all in a different tone. Then the three sounds were strummed in a melodic chord. "I have to tear out this entire tendon assembly and regraft. The only reason you were able to stand up at all, much less walk yourself to the table, was because of the auxiliary support provided by your exoskeleton to your internal skeletal system. Estimate time to completion is at least 2.5 hours, possibly longer." There was a pause. "However, I might be able to shorten the time by thirty minutes if I install this other assembly option. It isn't specified for your species, but-"
"What do I always say when you ask about 'upgrades'? No. I'll take the 2.5 hour estimate and the standard Flarn tendon package: looking at the latest traffic monitor, I'll have more than enough time for exercise."
To maintain control over the two vessels, and their sub-collectives, which had of late given the Borg Collective a serious case of virtual heartburn, Lugger-class Cube #238 and the newly arrived Exploratory-class were being towed to dry-dock. Originally, Cube #238 was to have stopped at a load-out facility to divest itself of cargo prior to maintenance, but the situation of obviously changed. The Exploratory-class cube was confirmed and authenticated to be the infamous imperfect sub-collective belonging to Cube #347, lost pre-Dark, centuries prior, and had been readmitted to the Whole. How it came to this here and now was an unknown, at least to Cube #238 - the Greater Consciousness was already beginning the inevitable interrogation of the sub-collective, but had built a firewall against data, or ancient viruses, leaking into the general Collective datasphere and potentially carrying digital contaminants.
Prime wished she could talk to the primary consensus monitor of the other sub-collective, perhaps compare notes on how to deal with those certain subsets of pseudo-personalities which were ever trying to set things on fire or paint graffiti with exotic substances near impossible to remove. Unfortunately, it seemed likely that the consensus monitor, if not the entirety of the command hierarchy, was probably a bit on the busy side, if the sensor grid and overheard demands being made by traffic control were any indication.
Exploratory-class Cube #347 had been captured for towing well before Cube #238: it had required several hours to re-establish propulsion control adequately to bring the vessel to a full halt. With a six hour difference in estimated time-to-arrival to the dry-dock complex, the smaller ship should have been long in its maintenance cradle well before the gigantic Lugger-class was arrived to the facility. Cube #238 was presently only two hours out from the dry-dock, but as had been the case for the last four hours, Exploratory-class Cube #347 was stalled in front of the primary entrance, and the only one sufficiently large for a Lugger-class. The small ship was erratically spinning; and as Prime watched the sensor feed, one edge buried itself against the side of the aperture entrance, bringing the whole debacle to an abrupt, wrenching halt. There were sparks, plasma explosions from several overloaded tractors, and the puff of debris clouding the immediate vicinity.
Yes, there would definitely be more than enough time to finish the tendon replacement surgery, followed by a few hours around the jogging track. The Greater Consciousness could decide to reroute the Lugger-class to a different dry-dock facility - the homesystem had several appropriately sized to handle the humongous cargo-hauler - but given the determination of the Whole to keep all its imperfect drones, those older and newly acquired, in one easier-to-monitor basket, the odds were high that the current course would be held by the three Battle-classes towing Cube #238 towards its destination.
Thinking of odds, Prime checked one of the several datastreams maintained by ex-bookies (and rabid statisticians) keeping track of a multitude of wagers, such as the likelihood that the Terran Cubs would ever win their jhad-ball division (highly improbable, at least not without Q intervention). She briefly imaged a slideshow, each frame a snapshot of a bet-in-progress, focusing on the sub-flow centered about Cube #347. Bah...27 of 32 had, once again, won the side bet, this one foretelling the manner in which the cube's spin would be halted; and he had even picked the correct edge to be lodged in the dry-dock facility's outer hull. Either the unit was hiding and running some very good models somewhere in Cube #238's contorted dataspace, else he was cheating. The latter seemed more likely than the former, but Prime could not spare the mental resources at the moment to figure out how he was doing it.
{Are you even paying attention to me?} intruded Doctor into Prime's awareness.
Replied Prime aloud, "No. Just do your work."
"Fine, don't listen to your physician. See if I care when you are visiting me next Cycle because you overstretched your back tendons again."
"You don't care, Doctor. You never have, and I doubt you'll start now. Your mental profile places you squarely in the categories of 'highly qualified' and 'egotistical sociopath'."
There was a moment of silence, punctuated by the scrape of metal against chitin. "You are correct: I don't care. However, I may be made to care, at least a little bit, in the academic sense, anyway, if I were to graft in that experimental-"
"No."
A huff of air and grinding of mouthparts was the succinct answer. Prime set a minor subprogram to monitoring Doctor, just in case he tried to substitute the non-Flarn tendon set against the patient's direct orders.
{If you stayed in your alcove, you would be at less risk of becoming damaged, and, thus, less likely to be under Doctor's laser scalpel,} commented Reserve into the situation.
{There are still required maintenance check-ups, you know,} said Prime.
Commented Reserve, {Not if one modifies one's personal dossier, on occasion.} The subject was abruptly changed. {Well, this will eventually be done with. Our cube-shaped roadblock will be dragged out of the way and we'll be tractored to our place. We don't even have to unload, for once. There will be a command for deep regeneration, and we'll wake up in a month or so, everything repaired and holds empty but for outbound cargo. And I will no longer be Reserve.}
{And what happened to your whole jinx superstition of speaking about the next duty cycle? Last time I brought it up, you did not want to dwell on the matter at all.}
{All the other hierarchy heads have been made permanent,} replied Reserve, {but not consensus monitor nor backup. If we have not been notified by this point in the duty cycle, it isn't going to happen.} Conviction was strong. {Obviously the Greater Consciousness needs additional data; and I am wagering it will be with a different Reserve. You may be Prime again, but I'll just be one of the Hierarchy of Five.}
{You have mail!} brightly chirruped the computer, interrupting the conversation. The notification was tinged a violent neon teal. The mail algorithms were a common target of bored drones playing with the preferences, and some designation had obviously been messing with the settings again. At least no one had yet managed to hack around the lockout Prime had placed on the airhorn fanfare checkbox.
The 'Subject' and 'From' lines said it all. She did not even need to open the body of the message, although she did so anyway; and even as she absorbed the brief memo informing that she, 2 of 5, was now permanent (at the whim of the Collective, of course) primary consensus monitor and facilitator of the imperfect sub-collective of Lugger-class Cube #238, she felt the subtle modifications occur to the personal code which defined her Borg self.
{Nooooooooo!} screamed a sobbing shout to echo through the cube intranets - Reserve had obviously received his own notification. {No! No! No! It's not fair!}
Prime grunted: since when had the Borg Collective ever been fair, and especially in regards to its imperfect drones? A ping from the subprogram watching over Doctor's figurative shoulder alerted Prime to a potential departure from protocol on the part of the other. She would consider the ramifications of her now permanent consensus monitor status later. For now, there were more important things with which to deal.
"You just beamed in a tendon replacement meant for species #8670, not species #6251." Prime tried to move the arm nearest Doctor, but found it, as expected, to be paralyzed. Instead, she battered at the Dromelan with the unsubtle cudgel of her mental presence. "I said, no departures from the standard option. And do not try to suggest you are just preparing the replacement for use on a different patient because I'm the only one with tendon surgery on the schedule..."
Return to the Cube #238 MiniSeries page