Paramount (Global) struck gold when it dug up the universe of Star Trek; and continues to mine it to the present day. The silver lode of Star Traks was prospected by Decker. Finally, Meneks uncovered the sometimes tarnished tin of BorgSpace.

Digging Up Trouble

Captain stood in his nodal intersection, allowing the summarized updates of current cube status to sweep through his mindspace. Eye was glazed, staring at nothing in particular, as the data surged, communal hind-mind informing the top-level consciousness. Power systems nominal, with the intermittent fault causing an occasional 3% efficiently loss for Auxiliary Core #3 finally located and repaired. Retrofit of subhull shock components beneath face #3 from Alliance composite to a more robust Borg-enhanced material continued, with estimated time to completion seventy-three hours. A notification concerning the Factory Project caught Captain’s attention, and he tagged it to expand, thereby better informing the collective Self upon recent progress. On the unwatched viewscreen, a starry sky was substituted for the revolving wireframe of a squat device.

The Factory Mark IV was the fourth iteration of the Alliance factory which had been provided to the cube. Although basic form was similar to the original Mark I, in size it was a third larger, had considerably more blinking lights, and, more importantly, incorporated disparate Borg and Alliance technologies to create something new. Not “new” as in novel, but “new” as in the forte of Borg assimilation and adaptation. Although the Alliance giftees had thought the factory unable to be reproduced due to inability for key components to be built locally, such was not the case; and, thus, the device had been adapted to best service the sub-collective.

The Mark I had been able to produce widgets moderately more complex than the standard replicator system. In contrast, the Mark IV could, and now was, able to fabricate devices such as basic drone body prostheses and implants. It was also more efficient in power usage and less wasteful of feed stock. Further upgrades were planned. For instance, incorporation of the surprisingly sophisticated optical and magnetic tweezer technologies from a “My First Scanning Tunneling Microscope” science kit would allow for finer control and resolution for picometer crystal and wire plotting onto integrated circuits. The Mark V was anticipated to permit replication of advanced prostheses, including drone-mounted tactical armaments, as well as body armor. Successful implementation of Mark V would lead to the Mark VI, to be larger than the factories prior and able to replicate complex molecular formulations usually reserved for foundries, including thin sheets of neutronium suitable for composition into an ablative armor to shield critical hull components. Critically, each factory could produce the modules required to construct its successor, allowing the bootstrap process to continue.

Needless to say, the engineering hierarchy was quite pleased with itself.

The Alliancers had never inquired about the fate of the Mark I factory once it had been relocated to Bulk Cargo Hold #1; and the sub-collective wasn’t inclined to volunteer the information. If asked directly, Captain (or any other drone) would freely admit to the excessive tinkering and provide all associated specs. But Mission personnel had not asked, and nor had they tasked Daisy to inquire. As was, the factory technology would be a fine addition to a new Borg Collective, when/if such was re-established, although that future Greater Consciousness would also surely scoff at the sub-collective’s crude attempt at adaption and incorporation.

Captain collapsed the datathread. Consideration of the Factory Project had prompted the Whole towards inspection of other special endeavors and, in response, the primary consensus monitor and facilitator turned attention to their review. The Fractal Scanner Project floated to the top of the list.

Borg, except for the temporally resurrected and imperfect drones aboard an Alliance replica of Exploratory-class Cube #347, were extinct. All evidence thus far gathered collaborated the conclusion: the Collective (and any existent Color offshoots) vanished during the Troubles else a short time (on the galactic timescale) afterwards. Yet, there remained a small slice of the sub-collective Self which refused to accept cold and indisputable logic, a denial of reality which was best viewed as a symptom of the mental instability of assimilation imperfection. That same mental instability had fixated on the infinitesimal chance that the Collective might, maybe, perhaps still survive...somewhere.

The support for the inane notion of a functional Borg Collective was tenuous. Eight anomalies of a very specific nature were logged, eight times something nearly understandable had been intercepted by the neural transceivers of multiple drones. The greater part of the Whole knew the anomalies to be the product of quantum weather affecting deep subspace where the fractal frequencies of Borg intra-drone linkage originated, producing a variation of the phenomenon of audio pareidolia whereupon not-quite-intelligible voices are heard in the babble of running water or other background white noise. Yet...yet...yet....

The sensory hierarchy, with engineering support, had initiated the Transceiver Extension Project. The cube had no vinculum, no subspace booster to link the sub-collective to a Collective which was not present. In that physical locality within the cube squatted the hardware housing the Alliance AI Daisy. While the AI reproduced the binding component of a vinculum, coordinating the purging of undesirable thoughts and personality traits to maintain an acceptable psychological baseline, it had no communicative function. Therefore, drones were bound together as almost-One solely by hardware neural transceivers; and as such, intra-drone communication was limited to about thirty-four light hours. Beyond that point was to risk disconnection and the potentially crippling anxiety of one-ness and small-ness. While “thirty-four light hours” might sound like a lot, it merely encompassed the heliopause diameter of the average yellow dwarf star, a miniscule distance when considered on the galactic scale.

After a time, what had started as a project to reconstruct the subspace transceiver component of the vinculum, and thus boost the distance to link drones, had morphed via a complicated series of reasons into the Fractal Scanner Project. The Transceiver Extension Project continued - it was a critical element in the models for medium- and long-range plans - but the Fractal Scanner Project fed into the aforementioned fixation that, perchance, the Collective did persist and the transceiver anomalies were not quantum thunderstorms causing neural hallucinations.

The network which connects drones is an inherent property in the definition of “Borg”; and when that number reaches a critical threshold, it consolidates around a nexus to form the Greater Consciousness. That linkage is mediated via the fractal frequencies of deep subspace; and is an ability bequeathed by nanites upon assimilation and construction of the initial organic neural transceiver, then further refined when the hardware version is installed. Even without a guiding Greater Consciousness, the drones of Cube #347 automatically sought connectivity through the fractal frequencies, maintaining unity within an uncertain quantum environment via feedback between individual units. Also automatic was the collective back-mind mapping available “nearby” fractal cline-nodes appropriate for use, with the entire Whole periodically switching to one of these reserve subfrequencies.

Using special-built hardware, the Fractal Scanner Project mimicked artificial instinct. The Project searched for cline-nodes in a directed manner via brute force scanning of deep subspace. The number of cline-nodes available for Borg use was finite...but it was a finity mind-bogglingly immense when set against the near infinite ur-space of the subspace quantum. Using echoes already existent within the ambient subspace environment, minute pressure differentials were mapped, identifying fractal frequencies of suitable transparency and bandwidth for Collective use. These cline-nodes were not added to the stable of backups, but instead tagged and tracked. Whereas some nodes had the hallmarks of long-term stability, others were much more fickle, collapsing into the chaos of the quantum foam between check sweeps. The goal was to identify vibrations indicating active use, else recent use with fossil reverberations still fading. As of yet, nothing had been found.

Truthfully, the sub-collective was unsure of the next step to take if cline-node activity appropriate to Borg use was detected. For now it was sufficient to make the effort, even if that effort thus far continued to corroborate extinction of the Collective beyond the meager representatives of Alliance-built Exploratory-class Cube #347.

The Fractal Scanner Project datathread summarized the current status of tagged cline-nodes, updated the report of a false-positive traced to a fault within an esoteric piece of sensor hierarchy equipment repurposed for the project, and generally logged that nothing of significance had been found. As usual.

Captain moved to the next Special Project queued for perusal. He was unclear why drone maintenance had advocated for the Cocktail Project or what it was supposed to accomplish, but his personal understanding, or lack thereof, was irrelevant. He was merely consensus monitor and facilitator; and the Whole was in the process of updating itSelf. He selected the datathread and allowed it to expand.

Alliance-built Exploratory-class Cube #347 was trekking along at warp 7.8. While hypertranswarp, or even higher warp factors, were possible, the sub-collective had no specific goal. Instead, the latest Mission directive was to scan, to map, to, well, explore, as per the Borg vessel type the faux cube was based upon. Admittedly, the Borg concept of “explore” was quite a bit different from the Alliance one, but the general idea was familiar to the sub-collective and its drones. Therefore, the speed chosen was one calculated optimal, given the sensor capability of the cube, to capture a basic overview of the surrounding light years in an expedient manner, yet not be going so fast as to miss potentially important details.

Low-level automatic sensor grid processing sorted stars and other astronomical phenomena into broad categories. The more interesting profiles were marked for closer examination by a sensory hierarchy partition dedicated to reviewing the computer’s tags. Usually the sensor data was thence further refined as to subcategory and the appropriate label affixed for inclusion in astrometric files. However, sometimes the object of potential note did merit more than the dataspace equivalent of a cursory glance; and the item would be routed to another partition to mull over, perhaps to seed a decision tree for consensus on subsequent action to pursue.

Long-range sensors noted a solitary yellow dwarf star, its age and chemical composition of a type suitable to host life-bearing planets or moons. The star thence swiftly rose in prominence within the sensory hierarchy, the Mission having espoused desire to assess systems with potential for life. In the end, consensus was to divert to the solar system for closer examination. The Mission was dutifully informed of the course change with time to arrival estimated to be six hours.

From the outskirts of the system, initial scans had been promising. In the middle of the star’s conservative habitable zone was a planet, the second of a family of seven. Catalogued by the Alliance as Th1-class, it was an oversized terrestrial with a substantial atmosphere. From far away the signs of abundant water had been encouraging, as had the signature of the healthy magnetic field necessary to keep the solar wind from stripping atmosphere.

Reality as viewed from orbit around the target had proven to be disappointing. Water was present, as was oxygen, nitrogen, and a host of other compounds. Also present were carbon dioxide, methane, plus additional greenhouse gasses. The planet was an oceanic hot house. Scattered island arpeggios were the tops of mountain ranges long drowned. These small specks of barren land were regularly battered by megastorms of near-boiling precipitation. There was no such thing as clear sky; and even when it wasn’t raining scalding water, the wind incessantly howled. If there was any life on the planet - a very big if - it belonged to the ocean depths.

Cube #347, with its Alliance parasites, were not the first to be lured by the false promise of a habitable environment. The larger of the planet’s two moons, a beast nearly a tenth the size of its primary, sported the wreck of an ancient spaceship. Initial scans matched the metallurgical profile of Troubles-era vessels. Additional evidence supporting its multi-millennial age included solar weathering of regolith disturbed upon the long-ago landing.

Forensic modeling of possible trajectories aligning with the ship’s final moments strongly suggested purposeful landing and abandonment, not accidental or forced deorbiting.

The planet was dismissed from relevance. Focus of the assimilated and nonassimilated population of Cube #347 shifted to the moon and its unexpected treasure.

The meeting was taking place in Rani’s office. In addition to Security Liaison Rani, the participants included the Big Beaks (and top Little Beak) from Experimental/Tactical Engineering (nee E-Tac) and Xenoarchaeology. Captain, as representative of the sub-collective, was also present, albeit in holographic form. His actual location was Maintenance Bay #2, body secured upon a table with voluntary muscles below the neck paralyzed as he underwent a routine physical. The meeting gave him something to focus upon which wasn’t the partial strip-down and, more specifically, the nagging feeling that something would not be reinstalled correctly or there would be a handful of important bits somehow left over.

“Let me see if I have all the squawks and whines in order,” said Rani as she leaned back in the chair behind her desk, talons of left hand held so as to better inspect her latest manicure and paint application. She paused, shifting her posture forward; the chair minutely squeaked. An orange-tipped finger was lifted. “First is Xenoarchaeology. Julv has eloquently argued he and his team want to stay awhile to poke and prod, then prod and poke some more. That ‘awhile’ seems to change, mostly grow a bit longer, with each asking. The current ‘awhile’ stands at a near month.” Rani’s vocal tone remained pleasant throughout, yet somehow an element of sarcasm had crept into it.

The E-Tac Big Beak Tu-li-uk, a Caltrak male with a large scar slashing across right cheek and down the side of his neck, smirked. Rani shifted her attention to him, lifting a second finger, this one painted a cheerful yellow. “Next is E-Tac. If the local universe ever turns inside out, one can bet all the overstuffed aerie attics of every aunt and uncle that someone from experimental engineering pushed the button. Like Xenoarch, Tu-li-uk also wants to stay for a time that borders on ridiculous. Only instead of observing everything as it currently lies in its tomb, E-Tac also wants to plunder. For the best of the Alliance, of course, and not to just get another shiny toy to play with.” The amphibian’s smirk was gone, replaced by an expression of puzzlement.

Rani swiveled her chair to peer up at Captain’s hologram. He had an animation loop running to maintain the semblance of breathing, slight shifting in body posture, and the occasional eye blink. It was not strictly necessary, but it assuaged a psychological need by the Alliancers, whom did not like to talk to a statue. And to not perform the minor gesture risked demand on the part of Rani to attend irrelevant meetings in person, as Vaerz had done. Captain altered his primary sensor viewpoint to one synonymous with his holographic semblance.

“Final is our Borg friends.” Rani added a final, third talon, this one colored a dark red, to the two already raised. “Captain says he and his buddies want salvage. Mostly the hull, but are willing to take most anything left behind by E-Tac. They also say that such can be completed in less than a day.”

Captain spun off a subprocess to confirm the latest estimates by engineering and weapons hierarchies in regard to the salvage plan. Ten hours. If drones were on the wreck concurrently with the Alliance personnel, allowing prep work to occur, then the time to task completion was six hours. More or less. Likely more.

Neither Rani, nor the Mission in general, need be informed that the sub-collective intended to acquire the entire derelict. Unless the plan was explicitly inquired upon, it would become clear what was intended once salvage began. The ancient ship would be sectioned with explosives, then the resultant bits tractored to Bulk Cargo Hold #2 for sorting, processing, and storage. Overall, such would definitely take less than an Alliance day period. Should.

Captain collapsed the subprocess before he could sink too deeply into the what-if scenario models being built. It was standard practice to pre-model hypothetical issues, then devise a suite of potential solutions so that a ready counter was available if a problem did occur. However, some partitions were delving into very minute possibilities, such as visitation by an omnipotent being looking for its lost pet else the spontaneous formation of a black hole. Captain sent a note to the Hierarchy of Eight members directly overseeing scenario development to apply a reasonable lower limit for probability of occurrence.

“If you all got your way,” continued Rani, talons once more positioned for best self-consideration, “we would be here for...well...too long. Although this is supposed to be a mostly civilian-driven operation, there is still a degree of governmental and military oversight. In other words, there is a schedule to keep, at least in regard to certain items. E-Tac will be getting additional information on that regard in the near future, from what I understand.” Hand was dropped to desk as Rani rose to her feet. “Therefore, Julv and Tu-li-uk, both of your proposed schedules are denied. The Borg request, on the other hand, is reasonable.”

Both Big Beaks jumped to their feet, voices raised in protest. Their respective Little Beaks looked towards each other, but otherwise remained in their chairs.

“Stop it, both of you! You are adults - supposedly smart ones at that - not fledges fresh from the nursery nest! Sit down!” Rani raised her voice, putting more than a hint of commanding bite into it. It was a side of the usually affable Security Liaison that the four Alliancers in the room had not witnessed before; and the two standing hastily retook their seats.

Captain cocked his holographic head, an unconscious reflection of his state of mind. The sub-collective already knew “cordial Rani” was a facade, and this newest facet of the liaison was also, probably, a well-crafted fiction. The psychological profile linked to Rani was updated.

Continued Rani, apparently not noticing the shift in holographic body posture, “Did I say your proposals were denied? No. I said your schedule was denied.” Beak shifted to point towards the Xenoarch Big Beak. “Julv - you and Kreenik and the rest of your group may poke and prod all you want. You have two days, starting at this zero-hour Flight to go do whatever you wish to do.” Attention shifted to E-Tac. “Tu-li-uk - you, Liev, and the other technology dissectors will also have two days. It will start at zero-hour Flight after Xenoarch’s days. I strongly suggest your take the time while Xenoarch is engaged to identify those things you wish to sample and remove.” Pause. “And Julv, although E-Tac will undoubtedly be rudely tearing things apart when it is their turn at the carcass, it would probably behoove you to continue collecting whatever data you wish to collect through that time period.” Focus turned to Captain. “And when four Flights and four Ascents have come and gone, then it will be the sub-collective’s turn to rend flesh and crack old bones. For some reason, I doubt anyone who isn’t Borg will want to be on the wreck at that time.”

Captain answered, “It would not be advised. Will we be allowed to prepare for salvage during the time Xenoarchaeology and E-Tac are active?”

“Sure. Go ahead. Just don’t do anything to upset their respective priorities.” A hand was waved dismissively, arm feathers fluttering.

In his chair, Julv showed befuddlement in the set of his feathers as he looked at an eltab retrieved from a vest pocket. “Rani...did I misunderstand when you said this zero-hour Flight. As in today? As in less than an hour from now?”

“No, Julv, you did not. Therefore, I suggest you get off your feathered tail and get moving. Or not. It is up to you. There will be four days all together before the vessel becomes irretrievably discombobulated.” Rani dropped her beak into a Sarcoram grin. “That’s my word-of-the-day. As a going-away gift, Vaerz gave me a mostly unused word-of-the-day desk calendar he found at an aerie market...it is dated six years ago, mind you, but the months and days did come around again to fit for this year.”

Eyes widened in shock, and not at the example of Sarcoram recycling. Sputtering followed: “Then...then I’ve...we’ve...Xenoarch, that is, need to get started! We’ve barely begun research on the vessel...we’ve no idea where to start, where to focus! There is nothing like it on file within our Troubles-era ship archives.”

Captain turned his head to regard the flustered Sarcoram kal-male. “We are reasonably confident the vessel originates from species #5008.” Pause. “Klingon. Our deaths appear to have occurred several centuries prior to the Troubles; and it is not unexpected that we do not have data concerning the wreck. However, species #5008 is well-known to cling to tradition, and the vessel, as per virtual reconstruction, strongly follows Klingon themes in regard to ship design. A final consensus cannot be completed until we access the interior.”

“But...but how do you know this at all?”

“There are four species #5008 upon the sub-collective roster, all tactical drones. Between them, they retain the specs to nearly every Klingon ship design, ever, including aerial and aquatic variants existent prior to the species’ ascent to space capability. That data survived temporal reconstruction. Until now, it has been of minimal use, except in regard to tactical simulations, because species #5008 is presumed extinct outside this sub-collective.”

“I...I...” stuttered Julv.

Interrupted Rani, “Captain, you - the collective you - will work with Xenoarch to assist them in identifying focus zones. E-Tac, too...so keep the feathers you don’t actual have on, Tu-li-uk. Even if you-all don’t know this ship type, as you said, these Klingons liked their tradition. They sound like the Vor in that respect.”

Captain’s hologram maintained its neutral expression. “We comply.”

Rani sat down into her chair, leaning back. Hands were clapped once, twice, accompanied by sharp beak snaps. “Well, then! You’d better get a’moving! Morning Ascent is leveling off, with zero-hour Flight soon upon us!” It was a clear dismissal.

Captain released control to the holographic projectors, allowing his form to fade. He retained awareness of the room sensors for several minutes longer, watching the antics of the Big Beaks as they conversed between themselves, then were finally shooed from the office. Personal attention turned elsewhere as his role of primary consensus monitor and facilitator was required amid the preparations of the sub-collective for the salvage operation.

Several hours following conclusion of the meeting, Captain was finished with his physical and had been allowed full body mobility. As he maneuvered himself off the surgical table he heard a loud clatter from the floor. Looking down, he saw a gap in the armor of his left leg, revealing the machinery of the prosthetic beneath. The missing piece of metal lay upon the deck, still rocking slightly. A shift in visual venue to the workbench beside the table revealed multiple connectors, more than that required to secure the armor.

Captain heaved himself back onto the table, then addressed the drone maintenance unit radiating a faint chagrin, “Reassemble me. Correctly, this time. There will be no embarrassment of hardware falling off at an inopportune time...or ever.”

Xenoarchaeology was one of the smallest of the Mission science and exploration groups, with only Astrometrics comprising less individuals. All eight members, inclusive the Big Beak, were on the ancient alien wreck, hastily mapping the vessel and assessing as to the best places to focus limited resources and time. There was no power, no air, too much dust, low gravity - the ship was over fifty thousand years old and abandoned in the near-vacuum of a rocky moon - which meant the necessity of suits and flashlights.

Little Beak Kreenik was paired with junior technician (i.e., graduate student) Barnett. Daraath and T’sap, respectively, neither enjoyed working in spacesuits, but at least they were more comfortable than their Sarcoram colleagues. No matter the latest in “advanced ergonomic” design, tails and feathers, especially long arm feathers, did not mesh well with suits.

Barnett wedged the fingers of her armored hands into the small vertical crack in front of her helmet, then proceeded to tentative pull the door segment sideways using suit-augmented strength. Unlike the majority of doors thus far encountered, there was the sense of movement. Somehow the mechanism within the wall of this particular door had largely escaped the ravages of time, including regolith dust welding mechanisms, metal fatigue, and frame warping. She took a firmer grip upon the door and heaved.

There was no air to carry sound, but nonetheless one could easily imagine the rusty creak of old hinges.

“Not only is there no need for the plasma cutter this time, but no E-Tac or Borg have beat us to this room,” commented Kreenik over the suit comm. While the two could have used the communication implant which had been installed upon accepting the Mission appointment, neither felt especially comfortable using the device. The in-built suit system functioned well enough.

“Good,” panted Barnett as she leaned over, bracing hands against thighs. “Give me a minute to catch my breath.” After a few moments, she straightened up. “Okay. That door was a bugger.”

“A...bugger? I don’t know if that phrase rendered correctly.”

“We can talk it over later, Kreenik. Some of the words of the T’sap Gudland colony dialect don’t seem to have good translations, even into other T’sap languages.”

A bright light stabbed into the room, a sharp circle of illumination. Without atmosphere there was no refraction and only the relatively small target of the flashlight was revealed. It was adjusted to a wider angle, then panned about. A second light joined the first. As more of the room was observed, the computer-augmented visors of the suit helmets built out the scene, overlaying it in the view and adding virtual lighting.

“What do you think the Borg are doing? I think it is a bit creepy how they don’t need suits or breathers or anything.” Barnett was starting to prattle, a habit to fill the silence.

Kreenik ignored the question as he tried to deduce the likely purpose of the room. The space was relatively small, with a handful of tables jutting out from the walls to either side of the door. The dull shine of dusty panes of whatever - Plastic? Glass? Transparent ceramic? Something else? - when flashlights swung across suggested monitors or displays had once lit the end of the table where it met with the wall. The room, lacking even the hint of past decoration, felt sterile; and the original color of the decor was impossible to determine without further analysis. At the far end of the room were two doors, one closed and the other stuck half-way open, leading into another space, this one defined by multiple large (and empty) windows.

Like all the other rooms thus far visited by the Xenoarchaeology teams, there was the feeling of unhurried, deliberate abandonment. Whatever had dictated the need to leave the ship had left plenty of time to evacuate not only people, but to remove personal items, food stores, and pretty much anything essential or perceived to be so. Even chairs and furniture not bolted to the floor had been taken. A more thorough examination of the room would undoubtably uncover cabinets or other storage nooks...empty cabinets and nooks.

Kreenik squinted as she peered at the closed door at the far side of the room. “Barnett, up the contrast on your aug-view and look over there.” Flashlight indicated the target. “What do you see?”

The T’sap was silent for a few beats, then answered, “Maybe a large symbol, bisected by the door? And several additional symbols underneath, smaller, sort of like Vor script, but more angular?” Pause. “Do you think it is writing?” There was a note of excitement to the question.

::Daisy,:: called Kreenik over the internal comm link, ::we’ve maybe found an intact example of ancient language. Could you compare the symbols I am looking at with Borg files? Is there a translation?::

::Just a moment, poppet!:: answered Daisy’s always pleasant voice. The moment stretched into many moments, during which both Kreenik and Barnett fully entered the room to allow more detailed mapping by their suits. ::Got it. Sorry for that delay. With 95% likelihood, the language is “Klingon” and the word best translates to “Morgue”.::

“This is a medical bay! Or a funerary room! Or something similar!” spouted Kreenik aloud with excitement. “Barnett, go see if that door can be opened...I’ll tell Big Beak Julv our find!” It went unsaid that this particular room would be a priority for assessment.

As Kreenik contacted Julv to provide him with the news, as well as receive updates on the activities of other teams, his T’sap partner approached the closed entry. It proved to be much more obstinate than the previous door; and soon the bright light of a handheld plasma torch was casting uncertain shadows against the walls. A hole was finally cut, piece of severed metal falling in the moon’s light gravity to thump onto the deck, sending vibrations into suit foot soles. Barnett slid through the gap.

“Kreenik! Little Beak Kreenik! Come here! Come here, now!”

Kreenik apologized as he cut his conversation with Julv, then made his way to the compromised door as fast as he could given the inherent challenge to mobility imparted by the spacesuit. “What is it? By the all the lords and deities....” If the helmet hadn’t been squashing his ears in a most uncomfortable manner, they undoubtedly would have been raised to sharp attention. Within the “Morgue” room were several tables; and upon one of the tables was a corpse. A very freeze-dried corpse, but a corpse, nonetheless.

What followed involved thirty frantic minutes as the entire Xenoarchaeology group descended upon the small anteroom of the maybe-medical-bay to perform a wide range of in-situ observations. What was required was several days to assess the corpse, not to mention in-depth examination of the surrounding area to provide appropriate context, but the schedule did not afford such. Finally the floodlights were dismantled and the corpse beamed to the Xenoarchaeology nest within the Mission bloc on Cube #347 for storage until a detailed examination could be conducted. Excitement complete, the group split back into two-person teams to return to their task to search the wreck for more finds that might shed light on the Troubles era.

Several hours later, a trio of E-Tac entered the medical/funerary room. Similar to their Xenoarch colleagues, there had been much frustration in regard to the lack of objects or devices to sample. In the case of E-Tac, the final outcome wasn’t to gain obscure knowledge, thereby resulting in the publishing of papers about an ancient historic era, but rather collecting data applicable towards technological advancement. The teams were searching and tagging as best they could in preparation for retrieval once allowed. Mapping data showed that the xenoarchs had been here, but their focus had been upon the “morgue” anteroom. The incomplete nature of the map strongly suggested the maybe-office had been ignored amid the enthusiasm of the ancient corpse.

One of the team angled towards a table so as to better examine the dark display above it on the wall. The other two continued to the end of the room and entered the niche after pulling open the door. Flashlights sweept back and forth so as to gain an overview. One light, then the other, converged on the ground between wall and presumed desk.

::Big Beak Julv, you and your pod swarmed through that room with the morgue earlier? Yes? Did you go through everything?:: The guttural sibilance which was characteristic of the universal translator in regard to Caltrak language was not faithfully reproduced when the comm implant was used.

::Yes, Tu-li-uk, with as little time as we had, we were as thorough as we could be.::

::Hmmmm.:: Pause. ::So, everywhere? Including that little room next to the morgue? It is labeled “office - maybe” on the wreck schematics.::

::I’m sure someone glanced in there. Probably as empty as everywhere else. Did you and your corpse-robbers find something?::

Beneath his helmet, Tu-li-uk rolled his eyes at the weak example of Sarcoram rudeness. Caltrak were acknowledged masters of the snide insult, having elevated it to such a high art that ofttimes one not Caltrak may not even know they had been snubbed. The odd hiccup in an imperfect universal translator algorithm also helped with obscuring insults. ::Better a corpse-robber than a corpse-sniffer. And speaking of corpses, you did retrieve your corpse, did you not? Tuck it away to be digested later?::

::Of course!:: was the indignant reply.

::Then the very desiccated remains of the humanoid my team and I are currently looking at, in that room beside the morgue that you are pretty sure someone glanced in, must have been recorded. Were you caching it to come back to later? Or, perhaps, you all were just tired, thought to take a quick snooze and return?::

Silence. Tu-li-uk imagined the interpersonal comm traffic amongst the xenoarchs, with the sometimes high-strung Julv squawking the loudest. The Sarcoram E-Tac tech to his right must have had similar thoughts, given the croaking chuckle that sounded over the suit comm.

::Don’t touch! Don’t touch anything! Everything must remain in place to preserve scientific providence! We’ll be right over!::

Less than ten minutes later, eight sleep-deprived individuals of the Xenoarchaeology group converged on the office. A lighting system more comprehensive than flashlights was hastily erected and, once again, the room, with corpse in-situ, was processed as best as possible given the conditions and lack of time. Eventually corpse number two joined corpse number one.

Little Beak Kreenik’s ears drooped; and his usually neatly brushed fur was in less than pristine condition after near two days spent in a spacesuit. The two Xenoarch senior techs - post-doc students - whom assisted Kreenik were in a similar condition with rumpled feathers and no spring in their step. Big Beak Julv had insisted everyone work straight through the two Flights and two Ascents allotted to the Xenoarchaeology flock to examine the wreck. Julv could have asked for assistance from others in the Mission bloc, but the hard-headed bird asserted none but his group could possibly do the work. Theoretically more data could be gathered while E-Tac gathered up their prizes, but none felt awake enough to try.

It was time for sleep. Stimulants could only force a body to function for so long. However, before bed could be considered, a final status check of Xenoarchaeology’s specimens was necessary.

Inside the lab space allotted to Xenoarchaeology, three temporary storage cases had been assembled upon the workbenches which lined the room walls. Boxes two meters long by half meter tall and wide, their resemblance to a highly technological coffin was uncanny; and even more so because two of them housed ancient corpses, while the third held a variety of interesting, if less visually spectacular, items. The cases were simple frames, modular and easy to assemble into one of multiple pre-set configurations. Between the struts one could set different materials, such as mesh or solid acrylic panes. In this instance, simple forcefields were present, which was more than sufficient to keep an argon atmosphere inside. Special gloves or other implements could be inserted through the forcefield to allow manipulation of contents while maintaining the preservative. Once initial examination of the corpses and items was complete, all would be crated up and placed in long-term stasis storage, eventual destination the single Alliance university which maintained an academic program in the esoteric discipline of Xenoarchaeology.

“Off to your nests, my feathered pups,” said Kreenik. A yawn split his canine visage, showing off an impressive set of teeth. Mouth snapped shut as arms waved in shooing motions. “There is a group meeting at fifth-hour Flight, after which we’ll probably be-” The remainder of the words was cut off as the door to the lab slid shut.

Lights automatically dimmed.

Nothing happened.

Nothing continued to happen.

More nothing happened...which, honestly, was to be expected, especially considering the fact that Xenoarchaeology was the study of the culture and history of a (usually) dead alien civilization. In the case of xenoarchaeological interest in the Troubles era, the focus was upon a galactic culture over 50,000 years extinct.

And then, about twenty minutes after the door closed, something happened.

The artifact labeled “Possible Klingon Corpse #2” abruptly dissolved into a viscous oily liquid of shimmering golden orange. The goo began to spread, then contracted again as the forcefield was encountered. Shortly it was a thick puddle of slowly churning liquid filling the bottom of its case, an approximate three centimeter gap defining the perimeter.

A thick tendril rose from the middle of the mass. It paused and retreated slightly as the forcefield at the top of the case was met. The tentacle began to swing back and forth, methodically mapping out the space within the container. It stopped as one swipe landed upon the edge of the transfer box which transected the forcefield.

The transfer box functioned as an airlock between the outside and inside of the storage case. It allowed the movement of material, equipment, sampling containers, and similar though the case’s barrier, be it forcefield, solid panes, or mesh. Currently the interior side was open to the argon atmosphere.

The tentacle oozed into the box, feeling its dimensions. It did not withdraw once the exploration was complete, but instead thickened; and, after several long minutes, it became evident to the hypothetical watcher whom was not present that the goo was slowly streaming into the box’s interior. Finally, the entirety of the puddle had somehow relocated its bulk into the transfer box, leaving nothing behind. The transfer box rattled in its frame...and the interior-facing side closed.

The transfer box swung up and down on its hinges, as if a very heavy weight inside of it were shifting. Once the exterior door was pointed towards the floor, the faint hiss of metal being dissolved echoed in the empty lab. A very thin tendril exuded from a small hole on the side of the box, then began to blindly wave, jerking back as it swung too near the case forcefield. Finally the thing encountered a button embedded on the top of the transfer box. The button was depressed; and the exterior door opened, vomiting out a ridiculous quantity of syrup-thick liquid.

The goo gathered itself upon the floor. Like an overlarge orange amoeba, it flung out searching pseudopods. Finally it found its objective in the form of a floor-level grate which led into the Mission ductwork. Into the environmental system the liquid sluggishly flowed, leaving nothing of itself behind.

Xenoarcheologist Big Beak Julv flared his ruff as he glared at his office wall screen. He was a very agitated Sarcoram kal-male whom had too little sleep, not enough food, scant hygiene of the type necessary for a feathered being, and an inflated sense of self-importance in regard to the scientific perching order of the Mission. In other words, he was not at his best. He was also very annoyed at the cyborg image which faced him.

“I demand to talk to your captain!” ordered Julv loudly.

Blandly answered the creature, half of its four eyes covered by machinery, “Well, you may not. Deal with it. That particular unit is currently undergoing regeneration, and unless it is a true emergency - one declared by Security Liaison Rani or Sargent Major Brunc, mind you - then you do not have the authority to force compliance. As you are well aware, I am Second, the reserve consensus monitor of this sub-collective; and I listen and speak for All as well as Captain for Us, as could any drone.” For all the near monotone quality, the voice nonetheless conveyed a sense of sarcastic peevishness, as if it was annoyed that those lower in its aerie had managed to successfully pass the problem to the highest available perch.

Julv snorted, then clacked his beak sharply together. “Very well. I demand to know why you stole one of our specimens.”

The image of Second blinked. “Specimens? One of the dusty pieces of junk you took from the wreck?” Head tilted to the side as it spoke, then returned to its original cant. “None of this sub-collective have acquired any item from the Xenoarchaeology lab.”

“I am talking about ‘Possible Klingon Corpse Number Two’! An intact cadaver, one of a set of two! It was...it is priceless! Of an unknown and likely extinct Trouble-era species!”

Eyes rolled. “We did not touch your corpse. We do not have your corpse. If you wish learn about species #5008, you should consult with Borg Studies, who have access to our racial dossiers. You might even talk to one of the species #5008 within the sub-collective, although as tactical units their favorite topics involve weaponry and things that go boom.”

“You do have the specimen!”

“Why would we want a vacuum- and freeze-dried corpse? Its only use would be as organic precursor stock...not that we need such at this time. And even if we did, a single humanoid corpse would add very little to storage. We do not have your cadaver. This conversation is done. Contact Us only if you have a relevant need or query, not senseless accusations.”

The connection was abruptly severed. Julv was left staring at a blank screen. He turned to the senior tech and gave an order. Several minutes later, Crastian mob boss Red Spot filled the monitor’s space.

“Wha’ ya need, Big Beak? We’ve big doings goin’ on wit’ E-Tac. Roobie be runnin’ me teams ragged!” Mandibles rattled as the Crastian loomed, like a horror movie brought to life. Julv tried to ignore the imagery which came to mind, reminding himself that reality was only knee-high.

The Sarcoram came right to the point, “What demented religious reason drove you to steal our premier specimen ‘Possible Klingon Corpse Number Two’?”

Red Spot turned all four eyes towards his camera sensor to stare at Julv. The usual jittery Crastian agitation of legs and arms and mouthparts became unnaturally still. “Ya mean one o’ those dried-meat-kabob things tha’ ya tuk from tha’ ship?”

“It is not a ‘thing’. It is a priceless glimpse into deep-time and one of the extinct species from the Troubles!”

“Then tis a curse that ya have brought aboard! A ghost-zombie beast! Ya-MinLou - wit’ a ‘Best O’ The Ages’ endorsement from Deities This Week Digest - says one should na touch the dead without their approval. Did ya ask th’ shade fer approval t’ move its body from its celestial tomb? Unlikely! We will have nothin’ t’ do wit’ ya!” With a slash from a spindly arm, the communication was brusquely cut.

The senior tech shivered his feathers in a Sarcoram shrug as Julv glanced his direction. “Guess it seems likely that the mob didn’t take the specimen? At least not this week?”

Julv continued to watch the tech, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

The tech began to uneasily bob his head as he noticed the silent allegation. “Don’t look at me that way!” the post-doc protested. “Or any of us! You know that corpse is well past its best-by date, even for Hantai Banquet. Not that it would ever be served at such...non-sentient creatures only is the rule. And funerals are just a ritual bite or two for our kind, not aliens. You surely know how tough an old aunt or uncle can be...what do you think that thing would be like? No amount of marinade would ever make it pliable or palatable.”

Big Beak Julv snorted, marginally mollified, then turned away. “So, if not the Borg, or the Crastians, or anyone else I can think of, who would want Corpse Number Two? What happened to it? It isn’t like it can get up and walk away, you know.”

*****

The pale orange goo held tightly to the ceiling of the narrow maintenance corridor, seeming to defy local gravity. It slowly oozed along, freezing whenever a crab-creature scuttled by underneath, then reanimating once the clicking echoes of feet had faded into the background noise. The entity who was the goo was perplexed with the environment in which it found itself; and it needed answers.

The amorphous creature, the entity, the sophont crawling along the ceiling was known colloquially by much of the galaxy which knew of its existence as a Changeling. More specifically, this Changeling belonged to the sect which called itself Founders. It had come to consciousness in the increasingly chaotic century prior to the start of Ragnarok, a young mind to replace an elder whom had reached the end of natural existence.

The individual had been born into a time of upheaval. The Dominion, ruled by the Founders, had endured millennia. It had survived a disastrous incursion into the Alpha Quadrant nearly eight centuries prior, whereupon a morphogenic virus weapon had threatened the Founders with extinction. The Dark War had also seen its challenges, the Dominion refusing to align itself with either Hive or Second Federation, distrustful of both albeit quite willing to allow them to batter themselves against the space-faring Dark creatures. Later, when the Hive reverted to its more aggressive Borg mindset, the Founders had felt self-justified in not trusting the cybernetic civilization. Then everything the Founders had worked for, the control imposed by genetic engineering, subversive diplomacy, and military might, had begun to deteriorate. Karaoke, kinetic sculptures, used warp nacelles...after the Dominion (the Founders) had woken from a nightmare only dimly recalled, one of eyeballs and lips and shadowed cloaks and butterflies, nothing had been the same. The following years, decades, century became increasingly chaotic as the prior quasi-stability of galactic politics collapsed. However, it was only when first the Borg, then the AIs which had subsumed the Terran Assembly, began to forcefully strip resources - material, planets, people - from the Dominion in preparation of the inevitable war to come that the Founders had decided to flee.

The basic tenant of the Founders was to survive by any means necessary. For thousands of years that had meant a dictatorship of absolute order, of control of the galaxy within (and occasionally without) their borders. As the Dominion which the Founders had worked so hard to construct began to be consumed, there was no compunction about jettisoning everything if it meant survival. And, so, the race had moved itself wholesale to a new Homeworld, abandoning Vorta, Jem’Hadar, billions of beings to their fate. After a few thousand years of self-contemplation and scheming within the Great Link, the Founders would emerge into the post-Ragnarok galaxy and start the process to build a new, better Dominion.

Several short years into self-imposed exile, the grand Plan had fallen apart.

How the Titan Children, the advanced Personalities whom had taken over the Terran Assembly, had discovered the Founder’s relocated Homeworld was unknown. The planet was unlikely to evoke curiosity, a radiation-blasted rock circling the rapidly rotating corpse of a star. The Founders were hardy as a species, but even they had to keep the bulk of the vast sea which comprised the Great Link primarily to the night side and twilight band of the tidally locked planet. Except for passive reception from a subspace-embedded communication system, the planet was isolated.

Terran Assembly warships piloted by Personalities, lesser than the Titan Children matrices, but nonetheless formidable, had appeared in the skies above Homeworld. From the foremost representative an ultimatum had come: provide two hundred Changeling operatives for use however the Titan Children saw fit, else suffer the consequences. If the Founders did not cooperate, then the planet would be summarily shattered into a multitude of bits, each component sent in a trajectory to impact the neutron star. While the Changeling race might have “wild” cousins somewhere in the galaxy, the Founders sect would be extinct. The carrots paired with the stick included not blowing up the planet and return of operatives at some future time, if they survived.

Survival by any means. Two hundred drops were selected from the Great Link and offered as the demanded sacrifice. The Changeling currently clinging to the maintenance ways of an unknown vessel was among those drops.

The galaxy beyond the Great Link was alien to the conscripted Changelings. Except in practice and play, few had ever worn the body of a solid. Skills were quickly acquired, however, drawn from memories held communally within the Great Link. Each Changeling chose a name, a gender of convenience, a face and body to present to the universe of solids. Lodu selected its name due to the pleasing combination of syllables when verbalized aloud; and its gender became “male” because it was forced to choose something and such was as good as any.

Lodu toiled for many years as an operative for the Titan Children. Sometimes the missions were trivial, simple acquisitions of information or courier duties. Other assignments were much more complex, such as the most recent.

There was no such thing as “civilian” or “neutral government” in the reality of the Galactic War, which the AIs termed Ragnarok for obscure reasons Lodu did not understand. One was fated to be a Borg drone, an indentured resource of the puppet Terran Assembly as run by the Titan Children AIs, or simply eradicated as an obstacle. It was debatable which option was the “best”. Independent human worlds, not part of the Terran Assembly, appeared to be the first to understand the war’s trajectory, dispatching ships to purposefully lose themselves on an unmapped backwater world with the hope that at least one stealth colony would be overlooked. Other races - singular as many species had abandoned the multiracial partnership concept - had soon followed. Lodu’s task had been to infiltrate a Klingon convoy, performing small acts of sabotage and blindly dropping spatial coordinates into subspace for Titan Children relays to intercept.

To say the Klingon fleet was ill-equipped would have been an understatement. It had consisted of “historic” ships rescued from the scrap yard. Anything of greater worth was employed in the necessary, if futile, resistance to the enemy forces which threatened core Klingon space. It was inevitable that one of the near-wrecks - a once-proud tactical supply transport - finally broke something which could not be repaired; and, for once, it was not Lodu’s fault, although it was unfortunate that it had been the ship on which he was hidden.

The convoy had limped towards the promise of a welcoming world, only to find it to be a sensor mirage. By the time all had arrived to orbit above the steambath ocean planet, fleet High Council had decided a traitor to be amongst the fleet and that it was likely a shapeshifter.

Redistribution of people, material, and equipment from the stricken transport was achieved via shuttles. It was laborious, but there was no immediate emergency beyond loss of the ship itself as a FTL-capable vessel. What the process did allow was thorough scanning of all items (and individuals) as they were loaded, with additional scanning at off-loading upon reaching a destination. The paranoia extended to methodical examination of shuttle exteriors upon each transit, with com-lasers burning anything of questionable nature. The High Council and fleet engineers had suspicions of compromised transporters ignoring Changeling biosigns...rightfully so, since that bit of reprogramming had been amid the first actions performed by Lodu following infiltration into the convoy.

Lodu had become anxious to escape. Not only did he not wish to be abandoned upon the soon-to-be-discarded transport, he was unsure what failure might mean for his Changeling brethren on Homeworld. The Titan Children had ever been forthright about consequences, and if, due to lack of evidence otherwise, they thought he had purposefully absconded, he feared what needless demonstration might be enacted. There were rumors regarding the outcomes of  individuals whom had tried to defect, but no collaborating proof.

Eavesdropping upon one of the several groups of workers salvaging the last items from the transport, Lodu heard the lead physician would be spending several hours in the medical facility performing the final steps to full shut-down. More importantly, the physician would be alone, the small medical staff already dispersed to other ships. A lone solid provided a potential opportunity to generate a doppelganger. While there were ways to suss out a doppelganger, the lead physician was well-known for his aggressive brashness, an aged veteran war-doctor forced into retirement to serve on a colony convoy and unabashedly vocal at expressing his discontent. That impudent attitude might allow Lodu to evade through bluster the inevitable scans.

Upon traveling through the maintenance crawlspaces to reach the medical facility, Lodu had found his target. The physician had been in his office, the room mostly stripped of material, engrossed in a file scrolling upon the monitor. Without hesitation, Lodu had oozed out of a floor-level access point, approached the solid, and pounced.

To make a doppelganger was not a trivial prospect. A Changeling required enough time to not only fully absorb the physical and genetic structure of the target, but also mental engrams and memes. The Changeling would become the victim, able to perfectly mimic mannerisms, recall memories, and project personality. While there were methods to create a copy whilst retaining the original alive, such was neither required nor desirable in this case, even if there had been time to enact such a process.

Only when the solid’s heart stopped did Lodu realize the physician had been bait for a trap.

Six Klingon warriors, older veterans still lethal despite the handicap of missing limbs or eyes, beamed into the medical facility, each holding a disruptor rifle. The plasti-glass windows which fronted the office niche shattered under a hail of disruptor fire; and the solids followed up by thrusting rifles into the openings. Without hesitation the physician, and his Changeling rider, were fired upon, no regard given for the possibility to save their comrade. Such was very Klingon, the physician likely volunteering for the trap knowing well it would be his last, honorable act.

Lodu managed to disentangle himself from the solid, using it as a shield. While several shots hit, they were insufficient to prevent escape back into the service duct from which he had originally emerged. Lodu did not travel far once it became apparent the warriors were content to merely drive him off. Carefully extending several eyes, he watched proceedings from relative safety behind the wall.

The physician’s corpse was retrieved. With much chanting, four of the warriors took the body to the morgue adjacent the office within the medical facility. It must have been left within because the porters shortly reappeared. Perhaps the solids didn’t trust Lodu to not “infect” the corpse, as nonsensical as such a notion might be. Finally, the old warriors vanished within a transporter beam.

Shortly thereafter, the ship was purposefully crashed onto the moon above which it had orbited. Electrical systems flickered once, twice, then failed. From the high-pitched whine, multiple gashes had opened in the hull, allowing atmosphere to vent. Soon the transport would be an airless, cold wreck.

A Changeling could remain active in vacuum and the cold of space...for a time. It was an energy-hungry endeavor, however. A state of dormancy was preferred; and Lodu yielded to the instinctual demand of his mass to sink into quiescence. The hibernation would allow him to persist much longer than if he tried to remain fully mobile and aware. He could only hope that someone - Titan Children, another convoy, even Borg - would find him before he faded into oblivion.

Lodu had no sense for the passage of time. Occasionally some event would induce awakening, such as the vibration of a meteorite striking the hull or regolith near the transport’s resting spot. Each time brought nothing beyond the initial trigger; and Lodu would drift back into his deep, dreamless not-sleep. In the semi-lucid and seemingly timeless moment between awareness and quiescence floated the disquieting thought that he grew weaker with each wakening, and there would come the time that he simply would not rouse, no matter how strong the prompt.

Then the thrum of a powerful scan vibrating the quantum matrix of his soul had beaconed Lodu from the dreamless depths. The scan sweeps had eventually been followed by vibrations signifying the purposeful movement of exploration. Expending the minimum amount of energy possible from meager stores, Lodu had extruded sensorium appropriate for his airless environment, carefully spying as bipedal solids in spacesuits entered the medical facility, ultimately discovering the Klingon physician’s corpse in the morgue. Observing the irrational attention the corpse afforded, Lodu decided to expend precious energy to form himself into the semblance of another dead solid. Unfortunately, a perfunctory glance into the office completely overlooked Lodu’s handiwork.

And, so, Lodu waited. As long as he could feel the trace of solids upon the wreck, there was hope he would be discovered. At this point, “hope” was about the only thing he had left.

A second group of solids eventually entered the medical facility. Unlike the first, they were more methodical in their explorations. Lodu-as-corpse was, finally, encountered, which elicited much excitement, arrival of more solids, and more irrational and incomprehensible activity. And, then, it was all done...Lodu was transported out of his vacuum purgatory to an environment much more friendly.

Of note, the biofilters either were not configured to Changeling biosigns, else another indentured Titan Children operative had corrupted the transporter code.

Lodu was forced to delay his final escape. Retaining his corpse semblance while locked within a forcefield-warded case filled with argon, Lodu had anxiously awaited for the solids outside his latest prison to leave. Finally he had been left alone, allowing him to discard his assumed form. The puzzle on how to escape the box without disrupting the forcefield, thereby potentially alerting a computer to his presence, had afforded a degree of renewed anxiety. However, he had persisted; and in the end had successfully fled into the local environmental system, no doubt instigating a perplexing mystery for the solids concerning the disappearance of his “corpse”.

All of which led to this here, this now.

The maintenance way was located between walls, narrow corridor made even more crowded with clutter of ducts, conduits, and wires, many appearing to be non-native to the underlying bulkheads. It would have been pitch black except for the intermittent lightstrips of a dim blue affixed about a third from the bottom. One side of the corridor sported a thin film of forcefield, most visible where it crossed the dark voids of intersecting corridors and crawlspaces. Maintained by small emitter nodes, the extent of the barrier was suggestive of an environmental function, not security. Upon the ceiling, Lodu ensured his mass stayed as far as possible from the forcefield because to touch or disrupt it might bring undesirable attention.

Lodu paused once again as the tapping feet of one of the patrolling crustaceans neared. It stopped almost directly under Lodu’s form. Had he been seen? The Changeling tensed, ready to drop onto the solid, ready to buy a bit more time, but the creature never glanced upward. Instead, its eyestalks focused on a juncture about three body heights above itself. With an adroitness unsuspected for its form, it expertly climbed to its goal, legs spread to wedge into small imperfections and ledges on either side of the narrow space. It halted at the juncture, reaching into one of the panniers which sat atop its shell and extracted a device. The item was waved at the box; a series of buttons were pushed; beeps occurred. Apparently satisfied at the output upon the device’s screen, it was returned to the back-carry. The crustacean drew in its legs to fall to the deck with a muffled thump. Onward it scuttled on its task.

If Lodu had expressed lungs in his current form, he would have exhaled in relief. He instead had to be satisfied with a brief churning of his mass. Onward he crept, following the path of the departed solid.

About fifty meters and one sharp turn further along, Lodu found a curious structure. It was set upon the floor and just larger than one of the multilegged solids. A half-pipe in form,  solid frame pierced the ubiquitous forcefield which covered all the openings on the one side of the maintenance way. At this point, had the field not been present, a dark hallway T’ed at the intersection. Cautiously extending a pseudopod with ocular lens, Lodu peered into the pipe, seeing a closed aperture consisting of four panels.

Approaching footsteps. Lodu drew his mass back, then set himself to watch. The solid approached the door, stopped, then waved a hand at a presumed sensor. Nothing happened. First one leg, then two, then four began to twitch, the display transforming into an impatient prance. The hand was waved again, then a second in a more aggressive display. Finally the door must have opened because the solid disappeared from immediate view, reappearing on the other side as a blurry shape that rapidly vanished into the gloom.

Lodu contemplated his options. Perhaps the ship space on the other side of the forcefield might offer additional opportunities? The problem revolved around type of sensor triggering the door and, more important, monitoring status. The actions of the solid strongly suggested a pre-existing maintenance issue, one annoying, but too minor to fix, especially if there were higher priority needs. Lodu decided to wait and watch a bit longer. His situation had an urgency, but not so much that he had to take desperate actions. Yet.

About twenty minutes later, a crustacean came along, turning to enter the pipe. It went through similar gyrations as the previous solid, eventually gaining access to continue its route. A further twenty minutes, give or take, saw another many-legged solid and another dance. As that individual headed down the dark hall behind the barrier, Lodu came to a decision. He descended the wall to puddle before the doorway.

Lodu examined the structure from afar. Exuding a tendril, he carefully extended it, peering at the door, the frame, utilizing every sensory organ he could think to form. Visual, electrical, magnetic, aural...nothing found anything amiss. As far as he could discern, there was no camera lens or recording sensor, no computer connection, not much of anything except a single motion sensor.

The tendril altered trajectory to wave in front of the small depression towards which the solids had directed their efforts. Mass was tensed to retreat up the wall should something troublesome happen. Which it did not. Absolutely nothing happened, the same as with the crustaceans. More waving. A second pseudopod, then a third, joined the increasingly aerobic effort. Finally the door irised open, the four panels retracting into the frame.

Prepared to move on in his explorations, Lodu abruptly stopped. The pressure outside the forcefield must have been slightly greater than the inside for a puff of air rolled over Lodu’s mass. There were minor differences in proportion of oxygen, nitrogen, and other gasses, but that was not important. What caught Lodu’s attention was the humidity and temperature, both much higher than in the maintenance way.

The conditions were those of a Borg vessel.

Lodu immediately backpedaled from the door. As the aperture closed, he quickly oozed up a wall, escaping back to the ceiling. A Borg vessel was not a good thing, not at all.

Thoughts were put in order. The ship could not be Collective. The Collective would not tolerate unassimilated sentients; and these sentients were clearly not drones. The Collective had spent 150 years, give or take, prior to the initiation of overt hostilities with the Titan Children subsuming or eradicating every Color which had arisen during the long ago Hive era and since. First small Colors, such as Tan and Indigo, had been removed from the galactic stage, followed later by major ones like Orange and Purple. Green had been the last to fall. There were persistent rumors that some Colors, such as Peach and #6633CC, had successfully fled, hiding amongst the rim stars or heading into the intergalactic gulf. Perhaps this Color was one of the rumors made real? It would explain the non-Borg solids, as some Colors had, according to the histories Lodu had absorbed, collaborated with the unassimilated. Such might also explain the species he did not recognize, like the avians and crustaceans, if the Color had picked them up in a backwoods corner of the galaxy, remote from other civilizations. It had been the goal of the Klingon convoy, after all, to lose itself. Lodu had just dropped coordinates, as he could, to allow the Titan Children to track (or not), but he had never really tried to see where those headings might correspond on a star chart.

The problem with a Borg Color was there was a better than even chance that the drones would disrupt him with extreme prejudice. The Mind was surely aware that Changelings were employed by the Titan Children. If not disruption, then the Borg would next most likely want to capture him, to put him in a barrel for purpose of heinous experimentation. No thank you. Better the disruptor. However, there was always that small chance the Color might be amiable to approach, to conversation. Maybe.

Change in half-formed plans. Lodu needed to know what the host Color was and its personality type. That was preeminent. If it was approachable, great. If not, that was good information and would advise his next move, whatever that might be. There were surely computer terminals in the solids’ residental quarters. If Lodu could find a terminal, he could gain data on his increasingly complex problem of personal survival.

Lodu reversed his earlier path, heading back to an environmental duct access passed about forty meters back. The duct system should link to the residential area. Below, ignored, a crustacean danced in front of the malfunctioning motion detector, finally giving into frustration and hitting the frame with a tool. The door slowly slid open; and the solid continued its patrol.

Lodu carefully oozed out of the duct, lowering his mass to the floor as stealthily as possible. He had spent the last hour or so observing the room’s occupant in its morning routine, a prolonged affair of hygiene, tidying, and computer terminal interactions. Unlike the other species glimpsed through ductwork grilles thus far, the solid was a recognizable race: human. How humans had arrived to wherever he was within the galaxy was unimportant, the species having a near supernatural ability to show up in the damnedest places....like an itch one just can’t quite scratch, else the scout of an insect colony hiding in the walls. Upon a chiming alarm from the terminal, the human had finally left, grabbing an electronic tablet to take with it.

Once upon the ground, Lodu shifted into a multipurpose form. Lower body was a solid cylinder to which were attached four limbs for maximum quadrupedal stability. The forebody bent sharply upwards, to which connected two manipulatory limbs, as well as a head containing senses. Slits and orifices upon the head held several variants of ears, eyes, and electroreceptors; and a mouth (for speaking only) was also present. Due to his depleted energy reserves, there were no frivolous decorations such as clothing or facial features. Lodu did expend the energy to alter epidermis to create an electromagnetic “camouflage” which had served him well over his servitude with the Titan Children. It made him blurry, if not invisible, to many types of passive sensors, including cameras. An organic eye would still easily see him, his altered appearance shifting his coloration to neutral grey. Overall, he resembled something a young child might make out of clay, a creature half-formed.

Lodu was somewhat concerned following his observation of the human. Throughout its routine it had uttered many commands to the terminal and at one point had recorded a monologue several minutes in length. Lodu had comprehended none of it. The translation memes embedded in his matrix, able to recognize over two hundred common galactic languages, including several dialects of Terran Standard, had not provided cognizance. Although such was exceedingly rare, perhaps the human was of some minor sect or offshoot which had retained its historical tongue. If he could manage to work the terminal, it would surely include a known language within its settings.

An experimental tap upon the screen woke the machine, confirming it to be touch activated and not necessarily keyed to the room owner. Either the terminal was “public” and would respond to anyone, else the solid had never bothered to set elementary password or biometric protections. Either way, it was one less thing to worry about.

Lodu confidently peered at the terminal screen, an assurance which quickly fled. The display was clearly a menu, but absolutely none of the angular symbols were recognizable. It wasn’t that he could not understand the words, but the alphabet itself was foreign. Like the translation memes, Lodu had loaded literacy for a wide number of major and minor languages. The situation was...not good.

Desperation descending, Lodu imitated several of the vocal commands he had observed the human solid using. Changelings, by their very nature, were excellent mimics. With each phrase, the display altered. At one list, Lodu touched a selection, trying to figure out what he might have accessed. Immediately, music began to play...at very loud volume. Entertainment files, one part of his mind concluded while the bulk of his attention was focused at flailing at the screen, stabbing symbol after symbol until he successfully chose one that stopped the ruckus.

Mass shifted in preparation to leap to the duct opening in the ceiling. The rooms must have been very sound insulated, else adjoining rooms were empty, because no one arrived at the main door to voice complaint. Lodu relaxed.

Frustrated, Lodu withdrew manipulatory tentacles from the front of the terminal, shifting them to the sides. There were other, more invasive methods, to force compliance from electronic devices. Pseudopods were set on the casing. Mass against the point of contact flattened and grew as he felt for the imperfections which would gain him internal access. Small cracks and ports were identified; and he entered the machine, feeling/tasting for crystals, mini-neurogel packs, CPUs, chipsets, and other components which would allow him direct interface to the terminal.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. None of the architecture of the terminal was familiar! It was a computer in the broad sense that defined such devices, but, technically, so was an abacus. Such was not to say that the terminal was primitive, but it was built in a manner foreign to the Changeling. He had trained for espionage invasion of the major technologies found in the Alpha Quadrant, with a focus on the Terran Assembly, its associates, and its enemies. He could recognize Dominion, of course, as well as Breen and other Gamma Quadrant tech. Borg, naturally. None of those were this computer...it had undergone a completely different evolution, almost as if in a vacuum of the others, whom tended to feed off each other and adapt tech and techniques if more efficient than homegrown. Lodu thought some of the organic/resin-tasting components might be memory-related, but without several hours he didn’t have, he could not decipher what was under his pseudopods.

Lodu began to withdraw his mass. Unfortunately, as he did so, he must have accidentally bridged a circuit or otherwise triggered a minor electrical surge. On the screen, an unreadable line of script appeared and an obvious query was uttered in a pleasant, synthetic voice. When no response was forthcoming, the question was asked again as the screen throbbed in emphasis. Lodu impulsively brushed one of his retrieved tendrils across the words. It was obviously the wrong action because the screen abruptly went dark and a harsh alarm started to sound.

Backing away from the terminal, Lodu allowed his form to collapse back to his normal body. A waste of energy and time! He lifted a pseudopod, inserted it into the ceiling vent duct, then streamed his mass through his point of entrance. With luck, the solids would believe the intrusion to be a random happenstance, never linking it to an intruder. In the meantime, Lodu had to retreat and reconsider his approach and how to gain the information he required. And he needed to do so sooner, rather than later, else the decision on how to proceed would be taken from him by biological necessity to hibernate.

*****

{Regeneration incomplete.}

The computer’s pronouncement distantly registered as Captain opened his eye. The unexpected interruption had not been due to an emergency; and mental processes scattered during non-lucid regeneration were slow to reconsolidate within their primary node. In other words, Captain was very groggy. Body automatically leaned forward in preparation to leave the alcove, but was jerked to a halt as clamps refused to disengage. Even more confused, Captain blinked as he craned his head to peer downwards, looking to see if the reason for the problem was obvious.

“Explain yourself,” demanded a voice, duality heard via ears and within the intranets. At the same time, the avatar of AI Daisy etched itself onto Captain’s visual perception. The flower’s petals were more burgundy than red, thorns adorning stem sharper than usual, and there was a definite pointiness to dentition within mouth.

Captain swiftly pulled his scattered processes together, centering himself. He also tagged Second and other key members of command and control hierarchy to attend. He did not know what the Alliance AI wanted, but it was definitely not routine. “What do you mean?” answered Captain vocally.

“You will explain yourself.”

“For what?”

“Stop being obtuse. You will explain yourself for the clumsy hack attempt to enter Alliance systems.” A datathread was thrust at Captain, timestamp less than three minutes prior, location coordinates a private room on Level 3 of the Mission bloc.

Captain switched to an internal dialogue, {We did nothing.} The accusation had clearly been plural; and Captain responded similarly, his reply encompassing the sub-collective Whole.

{You lie,} proclaimed Daisy, fangs growing longer within Captain’s forced vision.

Captain reached for several datastreams, directing the threads towards the AI’s digitally looming presence. {Here are the locations of all drone transceivers in the last four minutes, as well as those of Mission personnel. No units have been on Level 3, much less at that particular location. We are not allowed on Level 3 unless invited.}

{A prohibition of which you, any of you, can work around.}

{But we did not. Compare your Mission sensor logs against cube internal sensors and location of drone signatures at the timestamp.}

There was a very short pause as the AI accessed and assessed pertinent records. {You altered the data.}

In the real world of alcove and tier and subshaft, Captain unconsciously shook his head back and forth, body language foreign to his race. Internally: {Possible if we had access to the Mission dataspace behind the firewall you maintain.} There was no evasion concerning the goal towards which the sub-collective strived. {But we have yet to compromise it. And if we had compromised it sufficiently to alter data, then you never would have known of the attempted hack in the first place. Follow the logic, AI. Has someone enhanced your paranoia algorithms? Been spending too much time amongst the weapons hierarchy processes?} It was Captain’s turn to provide the accusation (assisted by Second’s wordless suggestions).

The AI’s avatar froze, then vanished from Captain’s perception. {Perhaps...it was a false positive in my watchdog subroutines. I must perform self-diagnoses.} Daisy abruptly pulled back, leaving behind the virtual leash which connected to every drone.

“Yes, you do that,” muttered Captain aloud. He checked the chronometer, then sighed. Regeneration was interrupted, but most of the cycle had been complete before such had occurred. Returning to regeneration was not warranted. Captain triggered alcove release, controls now back in his command, and stepped to the tier walkway. Turning left, he headed towards his nodal intersection.

{You are such a cheery person in the subjective morning,} opinioned Second. Although his body was motionless in the alcove adjacent to that of Captain’s, the mind itself was overseeing the final modeled options for explosives placement upon the wreck. His input into that process primarily consisted of vetoing models which passed a critical explosive threshold whereupon salvage altered from tractoring a few large chunks into Bulk Cargo Hold #2 to needing a vacuum to collect way too many small chunks. {Perhaps you should try coffee? 2 of 240 has been experimenting with an intravenous-delivered blend, accompanied by selective editing of nanite code to maintain the caffeine molecule intact. He is also making progress on his plan to create a coffee-flavored mouthwash to enhance the experience.}

{One, 2 of 240’s mouthwash still triggers dry heaves more often than not in those drones who volunteer for his experiments. Two, caffeine is toxic to my species, Second. You know that. Finally, coffee as a general concept is irrelevant.} Captain continued along the walkway, his work day begun, not that such ever truly ended, not for a Borg drone, not for a consensus monitor and facilitator.

*****

From his location in the environmental duct, Lodu peered into the room below and, more specifically, at its occupant, and tried to decide what to do.

After the fiasco with the computer terminal, Lodu had retreated, putting as much space as prudent from the scene of failure. Trekking through the ductwork, he had considered plan after equally unfeasible plan, unable to find a way to escape his dilemma. Something needed to be done soon, energy reserves sinking uncomfortably close to the danger point. He would prefer to know his situation before he found a secluded place to hibernate and regain his strength. Thus, he had paused above an empty room, thoughts once more whirling with not much in the way of solutions forthcoming.

The empty room had not remained empty, door to the hallway opening to admit a solid. The creature was humanoid biped in form, with four arms, a short tail, and moist-looking smooth skin. Besides flip-flops, a pouched belt, and a frilled loincloth, little in the way of clothing was in evidence. The solid had entered the room, then proceeded to slowly scan the contents. A step had been taken to a shelf, then a table, each time bottles or other items moved aside before being returned. The creature was obviously looking for something. Given the state of the room - Lodu had seen cleaner Pakled ships - it was not surprising that the lost object was not being found. Finally the solid had paused under the vent, tail slowly swinging back and forth, doubled pair of arms akimbo as it once more panned the room.

Lodu came to an abrupt decision. Perhaps if he had thought through the possible consequences longer he might have arrived to a different conclusion, but the opportunity presented and he was becoming a bit more desperate with each passing moment.

The grille obscuring the environmental vent was pushed aside. As the solid looked upwards towards the unexpected sound, Lodu dropped. Hitting the solid squarely, he rode the creature to the ground, englobing its head to pacify it swifter, as well as ensure it could not cry for help.

The solid thrashed for several minutes, but was unsuccessful in dislodging Lodu. It finally fell unconscious due to lack of oxygen. Lodu swiftly began to ooze pseudopods of himself into every cranial orifice - mouth, nostrils, ear canals, eyes - feeling his way into the brain. Upon entering neural matter he felt a sense of relief: the unconscious brain was not in any immediate risk of dying. Apparently the solid could absorb just enough oxygen through its skin to keep the brain alive, even with the airway obscured. It wasn’t as if Lodu particularly cared about the health of his victim, but what he was about to try was easier with a live brain, compared to one dying or recently dead.

Pseudopods blindly tasted neural architecture as Lodu felt for the language center. He did not have the energy reserves (or time) to absorb the solid and build a doppelganger, but he could sift neurology for priority goals. Of greatest urgency was knowledge - verbal and written - of at least one tongue of this multiracial crew. With that critical learning he might be able to attempt another computer hack, even seek to talk to someone if he became that desperate. Without it...without it, he was back to very limited options; and so he avoided thinking of that possibility. Once he had successfully absorbed and incorporated language, he would start to ransack the creature’s memories, to try to figure out the general situation, including which Color owned the cube and its possible disposition towards Changelings.

A sudden alteration in air pressure alerted Lodu that something had changed in his environment. Cursing himself for becoming monofocused on his task, he formed a pair of ocular lenses and a tympanum, directing them in the direction of the disturbance. Standing in the open doorway to the room he saw one of the human vermin, a look of shock on its face. Shaking itself from its daze, the solid shrieked, backed out of the doorway, then turned and ran. The shouted words heard before the door shut itself were unknown - absorbed language memes still needed to be compiled and ordered - but genius-level thinking was not required to guess the gist of the panicked call.

Lodu withdrew pseudopods as fast as he could, snatching at the chemical signature of memes as he did so. He had successfully acquired language neurology, although time was required to digest. Anything else at this point was a bonus, although the likelihood of it being relevant and not, say, fuzzy memories of a childhood pet, were poor. He had just finished centering his mass back in himself when the door whooshed open again.

One didn’t need to be fluent in a language to know a scathing curse when heard.

An already bulky solid made larger with armor stood in the doorway, tactical helmet obscuring its face. Lodu did not know which race it might be, but suspected one of the avians due to the elongated nature of the headgear - a necessity to cover the beak. Behind it loomed another dark shape. Soldier, guard, police...the specific job description of the solid was unimportant. Of greater relevance was the energy rifle it held. The wielder had a rock-steady aim, but was clearly hesitant to fire, likely fearful to harm, even kill, the solid upon which Lodu squatted.

Lodu leapt for the vent, accelerating upward as fast as he could propel himself. He grabbed the edge, throwing mass forward to better anchor himself and draw up the rest of his body. The first shot from the soldier was a near miss, scoring the ceiling beside the vent with a dark mark. Unfortunately, the second shot hit the trailing edge of a pseudopod just as Lodu had nearly gathered all of himself together. The injury was insignificant, but rather than deal with the pain until body matrix healed, a pain which would negatively affect already scattered thoughts, Lodu self-amputated the damaged section. He did not want to leave behind evidence of himself, but there was no other choice.

Oozing along as fast as he could throw pseudopods, Lodu retreated. Again. His energy reserves were even lower than before his gambit, but he felt he had gained something of consequence in exchange. Now he required a place to rest and assimilate his language treasure. Perhaps he might even be able to devise a plan where he did not end up dead or, even worse, locked in a barrel as a Borg research subject.

*****

Rani appraised the hologram on her desk. As usual, she looked for the various telltales of the Borg state of mind, both the Captain individual and the sub-collective entire. While she knew the holo was a construct, not a live projection from camera sensor pickup, she did not think Captain normally manipulated the form into one to deceive: what one saw was what one was getting, including body posture and expressions, or lack thereof. Either it did not occur to him to do so or he felt such a form of lie to be too “small” to carry out, else a bit of both. Personally, Rani felt the holo was advantageous in displaying the deeper unconscious neural processes compared to the drone in person. That was the real reason she insisted on holographic contact for most of her conversations with Captain. Vaerz had his methods, and Rani had hers.

“We need a consult,” said Rani.

Captain blinked. “On what? We are busy with final preparations for salvage.” There was, perhaps, a hint of curiosity present and maybe annoyance at her interruption of sub-collective activities, but those emotions were largely hidden behind typical drone nonexpression. Rani decided that the plurality currently held ascendency (mostly) over the individual. As Vaerz had warned when she had accepted the position of Security Liaison, reading the egg-cracking bastards was tough. Before final departure, she had spent countless stimulant-infused hours watching Borg Studies videos of the hierarchy heads and other major “nodes”, all unfamiliar alien species. Only now, a month into the Mission voyage, was she starting to feel more confident in her evaluations.

“An Astrometrics tech was attacked in his quarters a short time ago. When he didn’t return to his flock after what was supposed to be a quick flight to retrieve something, another tech went to get him. He can be a bit easily distracted, I’ve been told, so the delay wasn’t that unusual.

“That second tech found an alien glued to her flock-mate’s head. Needless to say, she went screaming down the hall for security. Brunc and one of his marines responded. The Sergeant Major chased off the creature, which escaped into the environmental system. A phaser winged it as it left, causing it to shed some sort of goo. The goo appears to be part of its body, mind you.”

Rani held up a clear glass bottle, stoppered at the top. Inside was a dull orange substance, sickily shimmering as it languishly responded to the motion, like a thick syrup. “None of the labs can make heads or tails as to what it is. That it is alive, for a broad definition of ‘alive’ is the best that can be determined. So, I now come to you to find out if you know what it may be. We are still piecing together the parts of where it might have come from.”

Captain’s image cocked his head, then held up his whole hand with flat palm facing upwards. “Send the substance to this drone and provide us with copies of all data potentially pertaining to it.”

::Daisy,:: subvocalized Rani, ::do as the Borg asks, please.::

::Yes, Boss,:: was the acknowledgement.

A transporter whisked the bottle from Rani’s hand. It appeared in the holographic projection upon Captain’s hand. Captain held up the bottle and peered at it. It then vanished again, presumably to the most relevant Borg lab. Rani strongly suspected that the workspaces originally built by Alliance construction crews and robots had undergone “upgrades”. She made a metal note to order Captain to provide Daisy a detailed list of all the changes made in the month since her tenure had begun. Alterations occurring prior had already been logged by Alliance engineers during Cube #347’s downtime, retrofit, and restocking.

“We will get back to you once we learn more.” Captain cut the communication.

The Security Liaison office was decently spacious, but Rani felt it somewhat cramped at this moment in time. The area on the far side of her desk was filled with the bulky forms of Captain, Sergeant Major Brunc, and his second-in-command Wing Sergeant Tarree, the latter two in full tactical armor. Due to the importance of the meeting, Rani had declared the necessity of the sub-collective’s primary consensus monitor to be physically present.

“Report,” demanded Rani, tone casual, yet still conveying who was in charge of this little aerie gathering. The object of interest - oily orange goo in a specimen jar - lay on the middle of her desk.

“It is species #4522. Changeling,” replied Captain.

Said Brunc, “A what?”

Captain swiveled his head to look directly at the head of Mission security. “A Changeling. A morphogenic lifeform.” He paused, clearly reading confusion on the kal-male’s face and set of feathers. “A shape-shifter.”

Shape-shifter. Rani felt her ruff involuntarily hackle. She quickly smoothed it down, but probably not before it was noticed by the Borg. It was a nestling tale, the shape-shifter, a story told to children to playfully frighten them while camping when only firelight kept the dark at bay. Most cultures had similar tales, the shape-shifter often representing the evil, the villain, the “bad”.

In reality, there was no such thing as a true shape-shifter. Despite the wide-spread nature of legends and accounts and morality tales, neither individual species nor multiracial civilization had yet to conclusively find a shape-shifter as depicted in the collected stories of yore.

Still, nestling tales were hard to shake, even as a logical, knowing adult.

“A shape-shifter.” Rani deliberately put a note of skepticism in her not-question. Even if Captain, or the minds riding in the background, did not catch it, Brunc and his assistant would. “And what is your evidence?”

“Besides oral testimony provided by witnesses, body camera visuals from your marines, and internal Mission sensor logs released by your AI?” Either Captain had been working on the sarcasm, else he was being coached by a certain Borg Second.

Rani dryly answered, “Yes, besides all the above.”

The faint expression on Captain’s face abruptly vanished. “The species #4522 dossier is sparse. It is unclear if data was lost as a result of temporal resurrection or if the Collective had minimal information concerning the species at the time of our termination. The reason is not relevant. What is relevant is that the data able to be reconstructed included methodology to test the residue.” Whole hand was waved towards the desk. “Identify is confirmed. Morphogenic enzyme is present.” There was a short pause. “Changelings are unable to be assimilated. They are, however, susceptible to large amounts of concentrated energy, high doses of radiation, extreme heat, or direct application of combustion.”

Brunc snorted.

“Something funny?” asked Rani to the Sergeant Major.

“Most organic critters I’m aware of do not do well if downrange of a massed phaser volley, exposed to a dirty fission bomb, shoved in an oven, or set on fire. That isn’t exactly revolutionary, or helpful, information.”

Captain ignored the comment. “Your Mission has a problem. We have a problem. The intruder is clearly hostile. If it had been present since commission of this cube, or acquired while at a station, it would have been observed sooner. Therefore, we calculate likeliest origin is the derelict.”

Rani clacked her beak in agreement. “Discussing such earlier, Brunc and I concur with that assessment. The assault, as well as other inconsistencies found by Daisy, happened after we arrived. The question becomes ‘What now?’ At the very least, your salvage of the wreck needs to pause until it can be confirmed no more ‘problems’ are aboard. One, or however many we currently have, is enough.”

“Scanning of the species #5008 vessel is presently underway by sensory hierarchy,” said Captain. “Estimated time to completion is 2.3 hours. All E-tac teams are clear; and if the derelict is found to be clean, we will continue salvage operations. All salvaged components will undergo additional scanning once in Bulk Cargo Hold #2. As necessary, a penetrating radiation source will irradiate anything suspicious.”

Rani was taken aback. “You would risk radiation poisoning your own people?” She hesitated on the last word, cursing herself for the verbal stumble.

“Radiation poisoning is irrelevant. Any drones so afflicted will survive and continue to serve Us. We do not have enough bodies to needlessly waste them. However, we also will not suffer an intruder such as a Changeling aboard this vessel. Therefore, tactical drones will be dispatched to the Mission bloc to-“

Brunc abruptly stepped forward to close the already cramped space with Captain. “There will be no action of any sort without my expressed approval within the spaces I oversee,” he barked into the other’s face.

Captain raised his whole hand, balled it into a fist, then relaxed it to wedge between himself and the Sergeant Major’s armored chest. The arm easily pushed Brunch back, the latter displaying a flush of surprise at the force applied. “I repeat, We will suffer no intruder on this cube. None of it. Tactical drones-“

“Are not to be dispatched here unless specifically requested,” coldly interrupted Rani. ::Daisy, apply an attitude adjustment.::

Jaw audibly snapping shut, Captain thence froze. Unaltered eye glazed, then returned to the present, narrowing into a glare which was directed at Rani. Arm dropped to side upon the reanimation.

::Attitude adjusted,:: reported Daisy, including all three Sarcoram in the announcement.

“We comply. But if that creature leaves the Mission bloc, we will terminate it. If it assaults any drone resources within the Mission, we will dispatch weapons units to terminate it.”

“Fair enough,” agreed Brunc. The flush was slowly fading from his bare head. “I will need all your files on Changelings, no matter how ‘sparse’.”

Asked Captain, “Is this meeting concluded? I have tasks to manage which require my full attention.”

Rani waved one arm in dismissal. The Borg vanished in a transporter beam. An inquisitive eye was turned upon Brunc. “So, how do you propose to deal with our Changeling friend?” She avoided using the unpalatable word “shape-shifter” in the conversation.

Brunc sighed. The armor prevented feather rustling to shake away stress, but the sense was nonetheless conveyed. “I have a few ideas, but first I need to see whatever files the Borg have on the intruder. The environmental ducts are sized for a Crastian, but I doubt I can get Red Spot to agree to use of his mob in the way as I maybe have in mind. The vent bots will have to do. Not ideal, but better than nothing.”

“Keep the mob in your strategies. I’ll consult with Rooberg. He knows the mob’s contract the best; and he seems able to convince Red Spot to undertake side projects not quite in the mob’s official purview.”

Brunc shook his head. “It is an engineering-specialized mob, not military. What I may have in mind is definitely more on the soldier side of the equation, even if there is no way I would issue those crabs a weapon.”

Tarree chuckled. “Boss. Any engineer worth the pay grade can make a weapon out of the damnedest things. My brother is a fine example. That mob may be scatter-brained and deity-focused, like most Crastians, but they know their specialty. I would not want to be on their bad side!”

“True,” agreed Rani, adding a beak snap for emphasis. She thoughtfully glanced down at her talons, noting the need for a manicure. “I think I can wrangle authorization for a bonus from the egg-counters, if I whine enough...a bonus for the mob as a whole and extra for any participants. I’ve yet to meet a mob boss that’ll turn down the chance at extra pay to tithe their favorite deity, or just spend on whatever is important to crabs.” She paused, initial plan formulated. “Yes...bonus authorization, then Rooberg. Brunc, start your scheming. I want to see something in an hour. I’ll have the mob agreement for participation by then.”

Turning, Brunc signaled for the Wing Sergeant to follow. “Come along, Tarree. Things to do and inventory to check for a few special items, like, for instance, riot shields.”

*****

Lodu knew he was being herded, but there was nothing he could do about it.

He had been resting at the intersection of two ductways, considering possibilities. The Caltrak - Lodu knew the solid’s species now - language had been absorbed and compiled, but it had proven to be odd in many small ways that upon final synthesis made it less useful than anticipated. The amphibious solids exhibited an idiosyncratic universe-view that expressed itself as translations that almost, but not quite, correlated to concepts common amongst other language modalities. A universal translator would be most useful, but Lodu was unsure, one, how he might swipe one without, two, also acquiring a device which would undoubtedly include a locator function.

It was into these muddled and drifting thoughts that the noise had intruded.

Upon formation of appropriate sensory apparatii, Lodu had observed the approach of an object that almost, but not quite, filled the duct. Flat, was the initial impression, an expanse of smokey, semi-transparent material bordered by a grey metal, the latter with stress marks in locations which signified the original shape had not fit the duct prior to modification. Of greater concern was the faint blue sheen which indicated a forcefield fronting the whatever-it-was which slowly crept near.

Lodu was not concerned about the forcefield. A perfunctory wave of a tendril tipped by the appropriate sensor confirmed it, like the ones thus far encountered, was low powered and meant for an environmental function, not security. He had avoided forcefields earlier not because they were an impediment - as long as one did not mind a little discomfort, methods existed to push through - but because disruption might call attention by a computer algorithm monitoring for anomalies.

Neither forcefield nor the mobile barricade were true obstacles. Perhaps, on the other hand, they might represent opportunity? Lodu would flow his mass through the gaps around the edge of the barrier. The forcefield would be annoying, likely hurt, especially in his current degraded condition, but in the end it was a non-issue. He needed to see what was on the back side of the slowly advancing device.

Rearing up, Lodu boldly set mass against the faintly humming forcefield, feeling along the edges for locations to pass through pseudopods. The field tingled, then bit into his body; and he felt the nascent faltering which heralded its eventual collapse. Encouraged, he formed optical receptors on the ends of those tendrils which had passed the barricade. His energy reserves were dangerously drained, but had not yet reached critical values. The back side of the obstacle was surveyed.

The barricade proved to be some sort of shield, likely of security or police function, bodged to the front of a small robot. Behind the machine was one of the crustacean solids, crouched awkwardly in much the same manner larger beings would when forced to traverse Jeffries tubes or similar maintenance spaces on standard starships. Two of its four eyestalks were pointed towards Lodu, darting about as focus shifted from one tendril to the next. The other two stalks were riveted to an electronic tablet held in one of its manipulatory limbs. With an ultrasonic squeal accompanying a clash of mandibles, a finger stabbed down upon the tablet interface.

Belatedly Lodu noted the heavily shielded extension cord snaking away into the duct darkness. The robot, or, at least, the forcefielded shield which was mounted to it, was not powered by batteries alone.

The strength of the forcefield abruptly and massively increased.

Lodu involuntarily drew all mass back unto himself. A chord of unrecognized subharmonics, overlooked (or ignored) to this point, surged to the forefront of the energy field. They rattled his very matrix, threatening dissolution. Adrenaline-analogue cascading through his system, he threw himself away from the barricade, breaking contact with the forcefield.

Lodu felt drained...more than drained. Between exertion and forcefield, his energy reserves were approaching a critical low. If he could not find a place to hide and rest undisturbed, he would enter involuntary quiescence...and potentially never wake up.

The barricade lurched into slow motion advance. The forcefield vigorously crackled. Lodu moved away as fast as he could stream, aching. Thence started the pursuit.

With each duct junction, Lodu appraised his options. Always behind crept the original barricade. However, at every cross-shaft, every T-junction and Y-split, echoed the rattle-hiss of another machine. Also always, one route remained clear, beckoning Lodu onwards, leading him to the trap that inevitably waited at the end of the environmental system maze.

Lodu paused as he sensed a slight give to the floor of the duct across which he currently oozed. Feeling about, he was rewarded with an imperfection, a seam unwelded and unriveted, the slightest of gaps from which a warm and humid air seeped. It was an inconsequential mistake in manufacturing, one that even if known would warrant the lowest of low priorities to fix. It was also just enough to offer Lodu an escape from the snare in which he was currently mired.

Secreted acid wetly hissed on the metal, widening the seam and eroding the adjacent area. Closer came the incessant clanking of an approaching barricade. Lodu drew out a pseudopod and thumped it down on the friable patch. Nothing. A second thump, then a third. Upon the fourth, mass broke into open air of a room. Not knowing, and not caring, what lay beneath, Lodu squeezed through the ragged hole, the final tendril of self drawn from the duct just before the forcefielded barricade, pushed by robot, passed overhead.

Disorientated, Lodu peered about himself with all the senses he could muster. The fixtures, the ambience, and, above all, the plumbing led him to conclude multiracial communal hygiene facility. It was warm, it was humid, it was steamy, and there was an odd chemical taste he could not immediately place. Lodu was feeling increasingly tired, unable to keep going. He required rest, just a few moments. His mind was not at its best and an hour or two somnolent would surely allow mental processes to churn a bit faster.

A small receptacle of unpretentious white plastic caught his attention. It was against a wall, an odd stick decorated at one end with fabric shag adjacent. Perhaps a trash can? The incongruity of a lone trash can amid technology which did not require paper towels (or paper anything) did not register. All which was important was that the container was large enough for his volume as long as he compressed his mass. The soapy water inside the receptacle also did not register except as a substance to displace, spilling it onto the ground as he slowly oozed himself inside.

Lodu had just settled himself when an object - the shaggy stick - was thrust into his body and vigorously twirled. In response to the violation, Lodu literally and figuratively exploded. If he had possessed a vocal apparatus, screams denoting rage, frustration, and fear would have filled the air. As was, the stick was viciously ejected from his mass as pseudopods were thrust upward, blinding flailing for the perpetuator whom had dared to so assault him. Lodu briefly felt an arm brush against something - a solid? - before it spun away. The tantrum was short-lived, remnant energy reserve drained to nothing, and less than nothing if such was physically possible. Lodu collapsed back unto himself and fell into unconsciousness.

*****

The Security Liaison office was once again overfull with Rani, Brunc, Tarree, and Captain. At least the two marines were not in armor this time. The Borg, of course, could not remove his exoplating and, thus, remained an overlarge presence. Rani wished this gathering could have been conducted with a holographic avatar, but felt it important enough that she wanted direct observation of the drone (and the sub-collective), not simulated responses.

A fifth entity was technically present. A large transparent ceramic carboy, appropriated from the sub-collective’s stores, stood in front of Rani’s desk. Meant to house very acidic or caustic substances, it was presently three-quarters full of a sluggishly churning orange goo. Also inside the carboy was an eltab, affixed to the side of the container above the fluid. The top of the carboy was sealed. It seemed odd to not provide access to air or some sort of sustenance, but since the consensus was the Changeling had spent more than fifty thousand years in a vacuum, atmosphere and an edible substrate did not appear to be necessary.

“So, what shall be the fate of our uninvited visitor?” Rani asked the question while staring directly at Captain.

Captain tilted his head as he returned the implicit challenge. After a few beats, internal deliberations concluded and head returned to its normal orientation. Eye blinked. “We...are ambivalent about the Changeling’s fate. You have already made a decision, therefore our input is irrelevant.” The plurals were absolute.

Rani ground her beak. Conscious effort was made to ensure neck ruff and other feathers remained relaxed. Out of the corner of her eye she noted neither marine was quite as composed. Vaerz had discussed at length how Captain, or any of the Borg for that matter, could go from individual to absolute group mind in a moment...and he wasn’t sure that the drone at the nexus was cognizant of the transformation. He confessed it gave him the feather-frizzles; and Rani was coming to understand that assessment. Unfortunately, she, like Vaerz, was not allowed to display that apprehension, not to Captain, not to her marine security force. “Humor me? I love a good argument to counter any decision which may, or may not, have been made.”

“The reconstructed species #4522 dossier notes potential biological and technological distinctiveness desirable to the Collective. However, due to inability to assimilate Changelings, instructions at the time of this sub-collective’s termination were to ignore individuals when encountered unless actively attempting to harm Collective assets. Furthermore, if opportunity presented, a low-priority directive was for species #4522 to be collected for research.

“Unless you are to release the Changeling to Us, termination of the specimen is strongly recommended. It is proven hostile and elimination will ensure it will not impair this ship and the resources upon it. If you do keep the entity, as we assess with near one hundred percent likelihood is the case, it will be destroyed if it leaves the Mission bloc; impedes, damages, or attempts to damage drones; or affects systems outside those linked to the Mission.”

Brunc rattled arm feathers made ragged due to too much time within constraint of armor. Such was the bane of existence of any Sarcoram soldier. “So you have said previously. And yet we small, singular, lonesome individuals managed to capture the intruder.”

Captain turned a baleful gaze at Brunc, distinctly rolled his eye, and returned attention to Rani. “Only because the Changeling was in poor condition.” The individual was obviously still present even as the group dominated.

“I think there was a gross misunderstanding,” said Rani, taking control of the conversation. “Waking alone in the airless dark multiple thousands of years after the galaxy one knows has died and been reborn anew might be a little confusing, yes? Does that perhaps sound a bit familiar?”

“Sympathy is irrelevant.”

“Perhaps so, but I will not decree an order of death over a misunderstanding, even one which nearly killed one of my own aerie. Our visitor may end up dying on its own, but if it ever does wake from the coma or whatever it is in, I would like to give it a chance to explain itself.”

“And there are facets of the Alliance government which would like to interrogate it, perhaps learn something to further itself.” The implication, and accusation, behind the words was transparent.

With a Sarcoram smile and raised feathers, Rani brightly responded, “How astute of you, Captain and friends!” She turned towards Brunc. “This...person will remain in my office. If I put a nice light behind it, it might even make an extremely ugly kinetic sculpture. My poor foray into the art scene aside, please install whatever sensors you think necessary to keep watch on it. I’ll tell the appropriate research nests that if poking and prodding is desired, it must be pre-scheduled with me and accompanied by a damn good reason.”

“42 of 203 suggests turquoise or a sunny yellow,” announced Captain in a seeming non-sequitur.

Rani paused, flight of thought and words interrupted. “What?” she spouted, confused.

Replied Captain, “I think the color combination horrible, but 42 or 203 so insists for the kinetic sculpture. 354 of 510 disagrees, asserting more subtle colors are best with orange, such as silvered white.”

It still astounded Rani what these Borg would latch onto as noteworthy. The sculpture comment had been a riff upon a holo-sitcom popular several years ago and not meant to be taken seriously, as Brunc and Tarree well knew. On the other hand, Captain’s posture was more relaxed, facial muscles of his half-obscured face less rigid: the communal sub-collective was no longer riding him so hard, although, as for any drone, it always lurked in the background.

“Turquoise, sunny yellow, or silvered white. With orange goo,” stated Rani dryly.

“Yes. Not appropriate suggestions, in my opinion, given the color tastes thus far observed among Sarcoram.”

Rani allowed her feathers to hackle in devious glee, willing to go along with the unexpected opportunity presented. Whatever outcome came about would annoy Vaerz next time he dropped in; and Rani could always drape a blanket over the sculpture-to-be if it was utterly horrid. “Well, I beg to differ. 42 or 203 was the ex-interior decorator, I remember. Interesting suggestions when she consulted on my office design, I must say. 354 of 510 is not familiar, but then again, there are several thousand of you to keep tabs on. No matter.” Arm was expansively waved. “This meeting is done. You’ve given your recommendations on our visitor; and as you already astutely guessed, you know my, and the Alliance’s, decision. You are dismissed to go do the things you deem more important than being here. But send both 42 or 203 and 354 of 510 to this office at, say, half-past second-hour Flight. I look forward to their proposals for my new decoration!”

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