Standard disclaimer: Paramount is the owner of Star Trek stuff. Alan Decker is the creator and author of Star Traks stuff. I write BorgSpace stuff, which is located in the universe of Star Traks, which in turn is loosely based on Star Trek. Stuff.
Some mildly disturbing language (stuff) is included, but has been *ed out.
*****
-Time is merely an illusion perpetrated by the manufacturers of space
(Anonymous)
Let Sleeping Borg Lie, Part III
In "Let Sleeping Borg Lie, Part II" -
Borg, meet Second Federation; Second Federation, meet Borg. Borg kick Second Federation butt. Borg, meet Hive; Hive, meet Borg. Borg see /very/ large, /very/ weapon-endowed vessels, and runs away. Runs away fast. In the retreat, Second Federation warship Hercules, who was recipient of butt-kicking, and Grid Beta Wrecker salvage scout Blood, Guts, and Glory_were kidnapped. Everyone who leaves the scene is feeling deep hurting. Borg with prisoners gets away, leaving Hive and remaining Federation contingent clueless as to location of escapees. Several other miscellaneous and very important key items happen at the end, but it doesn't make for very exciting teaser scenes (other than the synopsis of the Dark war), so they won't be included here.
The yellow rubber ducks now force you with their metaphysical powers to read the final part of this three-part story.
*****
Returning to Assimilation Bay #11, alone, Captain took several long minutes to contemplate 12 of 53...so similar yet so alien. A "generation gap" did not exist between Borg and Hive, the subtle (and not so subtle) differences were too great to describe with such a simple catch phrase.
"I know I'm here, and you know I'm here, so you might as well stop whatever it is you are doing and attend me." Captain stopped in front of the deluxe assimilation alcove, blue eye and optical implant pointedly trained on the Hiver.
An eye of washed out brown opened, focusing on Captain. "I was reviewing the tri-D chess championship match of last year between a member of Mech Species #4 by the name of Y(click)(three tones ascending)blK and Vulcan grandmaster Chocoth." 12 of 53 swiftly changed the subject, "I notice you have made a consensus concerning the histories I presented you. I assume you have come to inform me of your outcome?"
"You still refuse to voluntarily allow complete integration into this sub-collective, even though you experienced what you wished to experience?"
A heavy sigh. "I do. It is not quite what I imagined, but then again, much of your inner workings are probably more similar to the Hive than you care to admit. There was a 'fullness' in the sensation I have not felt before, yet not enough to abandon the Hive. Perhaps if you were true Borg...."
"We are Borg! Assimilation imperfection is not our fault, but we /are/ Borg! And if the Oneness of the original Collective were still backing us, your mind would already be part of that One." Captain was a touch defensive about the insinuation he was not a real Borg; he was more real than this shallow shadow. "We now terminate this particular conversation."
Captain, angry, turned to leave, whirling on his heel as he was reminded by others why he had come to the assimilation workshop in the first place. 12 of 53 continued to placidly regard the facilitator of Cube #347. Emotion drained from Captain, replaced with the soothing calm of many. Mentally counting to one hundred helped as well.
"We have learned all that we can learn from you, at least not without physically taking you apart. That may come later when we have specifically decided your fate. In the meantime, you will have read-only access to the dataspaces; you will not be able to interface with anyone save myself and you will be denied the ability to participate in communal decisions. If you try to worm your way into our files or command pathways, or if you attempt to leave this workshop, you will be terminated.
"It is time for us to learn more about this time period, to confirm what you have divulged to us. We will be bringing in the small scout we captured for examination of its technologies and computer; the occupant will be assimilated into this sub-collective.
"Eventually we will find a way to re-establish Borg presence; we can not function effectively alone forever." Captain did turn away now, message delivered. There was to be no argument, no negotiation, no /bargaining/ or compromise. 12 of 53 started to complain, saying how he had allowed himself to be taken in the first place on the expectation Hercules and Blood, Guts, and Glory would be spared. Captain beamed back to his nodal intersection, leaving a protesting 12 of 53 behind.
The Hive drone, he did not understand: his purpose was served for the moment, and other avenues of inquiry required attendance. Deals, both formally brokeraged and informally agreed upon, were useful only as long as Borg aspirations and goals (perfection) were advanced. /That/ was the true Borg mindset.
*****
Yvonne sat up quickly, bonking her head on the shelf over the bed of her compact sleeping quarters. The special Red Alert klaxon she had programmed - out of tune wailing bagpipes - shook all the sleepiness from her body. Glory only hit the panic button when the scout, her chassis, was in immediate danger, an occurrence which had happened only twice since her installment into Blood, Guts, and Glory. Jokes were absolutely not tolerated. Rubbing her cranial ridges, Yvonne rolled out of her bunk, shrugged on the dirty shirt shed less than an hour before, and leapt the couple of paces to the messy, component strewn bridge.
Glory did not speak, following the old adage that a picture was worth a thousand words. The miniature bridge viewscreen of the scout, which normally displayed a Mandelbrot pattern screensaver, dissolved to an incoming transmission of ominously dark proportions.
"Prepare for assimilation. Resistance is futile."
The brief communication terminated. Yvonne stared open-mouthed and stupefied. "Wha' the he..." she muttered, brain catching up with body. "Assimilation? I thought...."
Whatever Yvonne thought was not important as Glory spouted, "The tractor beam is pulling us towards the Borg cube. A very large door is opening near one corner." Glory's voice wavered as artificial emotions responded to simulated adrenaline, resulting in very real fear.
"Ahh! And I just /fixed/ some of this bugger, more or less! Can't you do anything?" Yvonne's earlier desire for the Borg to do /something/ concerning her and her vessel was quickly rescinded among a volley of curses directed at herself. One of the corollaries of Murphy's Law notes to never believe a situation can't get worse, for it always does. The law was playing out, in spades.
"We're being pulled into a cargo hold!" yelled Glory. The poor Personality could do nothing to resist because of the nonfunctional condition of chassis engines and shields. Using maneuvering thrusters was like trying to paddle up a waterfall in a leaky canoe with a slotted spoon, and a communication laser would be nothing more than a tickle.
Replied Yvonne as she rushed around the cabin grabbing a few essentials, "I can see that. Relinquish ship commands to the autopilot computer, Glory, and that's an order. As your guardian, I'm telling you to retreat to your Base and prepare to be extricated. I don't know what's going to happen, but if the Feds get wind I allowed you to terminate without making a reasonable effort at retrieving you, my butt will be in a sling, and then some." Yvonne held a phaser in one hand, and a packet of rations in the other. Phaser, rations. Phaser, rations. Phaser, rations dating from the Directors knew when (the expiration date was "missing"), but were a cheap "just-in-case" the replicator conked out like it did three years back. Phaser. The rations were tossed towards the back of the living area, where they landed with a heavy thump.
"Ready," said Glory. "Initiating pilot program." A new voice, that of the moronic computer which originally came with the scout, replaced Glory's nearly human one, stiffly announcing in a neuter tone that the ship was now under its control. Not that there was much left to control.
The sheer wall which was the face of Cube #347 loomed. Primary tractors were pulling the scout towards huge doors located near one corner; hold tractors captured the ship, handing it off for more delicate maneuvers. Yvonne stared at the viewscreen as the nose slid through a forcefield, noting in the passing traces of old scars marring the convoluted construction of jagged plating. The outer hull appeared to be as thick, if not thicker, as the length of Blood, Guts, and Glory, if the dimly seen edge of the aperture between hold and space was any clue.
Yvonne reached under a console located next to the food replicator and yanked out a cylindrical unit of shiny chrome. Next she donned what a twentieth century scholar of Terran artifacts would term a purple fanny pack. Turning the cylinder over to reveal the base, Yvonne specifically looked for a pair of small holes meant to receive a plug. Access point located, the Base, the unit which held the biocrystaline heart and mind of a Personality, was inserted into the front pouch of the fanny pack.
If one closely examined the accessory, one would see it was not a simple apparel addition. The moment the hip pack had been donned, a small sensor in the belt sent out a tendril of biowire, questing painlessly for a nerve interface in Yvonne's spinal cord. Attached, in more ways than one, the fanny pack not only held small items such as phaser and candy bar, but was an intermediary between person and Personality, allowing communication with an AI otherwise cut off from the universe. Yvonne had won the pack in a desperate wager a few weeks before acquiring Guardianship of Glory, nearly betting herself into forced servitude to an ugly Ferrengi trader.
:: You hear me, Glory? :: asked Yvonne, concentrating on a little-used cerebral implant which was part of the package deal for the fanny pack.
Subliminal clicking was the answer. Yvonne smacked the side of her head, much in the same manner she might apply delicate use of force to fix a semi-broken replicator. An internal sense of static quickly cleared. :: I hear you. I've activated programming in the interface implant and now have access to visual and aural input. Do you know how limiting this is? A ship chassis for a mount is a much better deal than an organic. ::
"Quit whining, Glory. You could be stuck in your Base with nothing to do but contemplate your algorithmic navel. I think these Borg have about positioned the ship where they want it." Yvonne looked with distaste towards the half open engineering nook at the back of the ship. "I hope the buggers beam us out of here, 'cause my spacesuit is buried behind a layer of equipment back there."
:: One assumes the cargo hold out there is pressurized since the ship did go through a forcefield. ::
"What do you care, Glory? Sure, may have air out there, air that I can even breath, but who knows what the pressure is. I don't want to be setting myself up to get the bends."
Glory was silent. Yvonne tore her gaze away from the nook and went to sit down in her chair, watching the viewscreen, forcing an air of nonchalance to calm her beating heart. Hurry up and wait...the story of her life. A cradle had been devised for the scout, hurriedly assembled by the look of it, towards which the hold tractors were slowly aiming her. Telling the autopilot to magnify the view gave the reward of seeing a pair of identical Borg on opposite sides of the cradle, both waving arms holding glowing orange cones. One drone violently waggled its cones as it appeared to sneeze; in response, the scout was sent careening to port at a high rate of speed. The motion abruptly halted, resuming at a more sedate pace towards the impromptu dock.
Or dissection table as the case increasingly seemed to be: hereto unseen equipment, most sporting apertures for industrial cutting beams of various sizes, was being pulled or beamed into place near the cradle. Yvonne sincerely hoped procedures wouldn't start with herself still inside.
The sound of a transporter beam caught Yvonne's attention, a classic "electronic fuzz" characteristic of the technology. She swiveled in her chair in time to see the final stage of materialization for two drones, both of whom immediately fixated on her. Superficially they resembled the Hivers she had briefly met over the years at freeports and salvage sites, or in passing on a lonely space lane in the galactic equivalent of central Kansas. However, no Hiver would beam uninvited onto a private ship, much less grab a traveler's arms in a vice grip as the aforementioned voyager stood up.
"Hey!" said Yvonne. "Let go of me!" She struggled, more instinct and Klingon inherited phobia of capture than any illusion she would actually escape. "Hey! Ouch!" Yvonne did manage to rip one hand away, slapping at the right side of her neck. She felt a momentary tingling, similar to the hedge of nettles she had fallen in as a child, which was ignored as her arm was recaptured. "I'm just a salvage captain! I know my rights! When I get free, I have the right to wipe your a**es all over the floor!"
:: Your medical implant has detecting foreign particles in your blood. Body systems are compensating, :: helpfully observed Glory, stating an item Yvonne already knew. Yvonne purposefully wriggled sideways just enough to bump the pack, momentarily disrupting Glory's connection between Base and the "biological mount" she was passively riding. Glory's voice disappeared under a wave of internal static. Yvonne hoped the Personality understood the message to not be a distraction in the middle of important doings.
Meanwhile the drones ignored Yvonne's struggles, if anything looked to be a bit confused, as if a plan had not worked as expected. They eyed each other, nodding as they tightened their grip. Yvonne yipped as a transporter beam locked on, taking the trio elsewhere.
*****
Hercules had intercepted the transmission to Blood, Guts, and Glory, not that the Borg were exactly hiding their actions, as well as fielded a plaintive subspace yelp for help by the scout's Personality. Subsequent protests by Juan to cube went unanswered, no response to pointing out of 12 of 53's sacrifice and the assumed deal struck. Hercules was not totally ignored, however. When the Second Federation warship had warmed up those weapons which remained as well as those that had been recently repaired, an effort which required diverting power away from life support, an almost casual trio of phaser blasts was the reply. A short aside from Cube #347 warned against further hostile actions. Juan was reduced to leading a brainstorming session on the bridge; the proposed ideas wouldn't dampen a dry flowerpot in the Sahara desert.
"Well, can we launch a surprise attack and free ourselves from the tractor beams?"
"No," returned Gy'hur, a cross look on his face and hostile cant to his antennae. "Not anymore. Our last few weapon ports are fused shut, and that last volley knocked the self-destruct off-line for good."
"Beam over there? Sneak around on the cube like the First Federation did in the histories when the Borg were originally encountered?"
Commander Jal, who had paid close attention to Starfleet ancient history class at the naval academy, replied, "Probably wouldn't work. About 20 years before the Hive treaty, Borg modified their procedures to automatically investigate all unauthorized transporter signatures. Besides, the cube's shields are up, and the Federation never has learned the trick to beaming through active Hive shields without coming out on the other side looking like a piece of pasta."
"Shuttlecraft!"
Lieutenant Linda Garcia, helmsman (woman) with oriental features belying the expected from her surname, snorted, "And how do you propose we get through the hull, assuming the shuttle isn't sucked inside like that poor scout?"
Juan sucked in a deep breath, sharply pounding the arm of his chair. "Any suggestions? I know I have a smart crew here, the best of all Rim crews...we aren't the Finalprize," retorted Juan, referring to a ship which could best be described as the most recent descendent of the long decommissioned (well, technically MIA during the Dark...about the same time as one Cube #347...fancy that) Secondprize. All eyes on the bridge suddenly found a deep interest in their respective consoles. The cricket squeaking of a loose deck plate echoed. "We are utterly stuck here, aren't we?"
:: Looks that way, Captain, :: said Hercules. Juan's black mood turned even more sour.
*****
"The Klingon-human hybrid, she can not be assimilated," complained Assimilation. The meeting between Doctor, Assimilation, Captain, and Second was very similar to one held only hours earlier concerning 12 of 53. This future, it was so very frustrating: nothing was as it was supposed to be! The Borg were the Hive, sentients suddenly seemed to be immune to technology proved to be nearly perfect for over eight thousand years, the descendent of the Federation was an ally, and so on.
The hybrid in question, self-designated Yvonne Green, sat on the floor, alternately glaring either at the four or at other drones who moved in and out of the workshop. She had been walled off with a portable forcefield in a rather small area encompassing two alcoves and some deck space. She was outwardly unhurt, other than scrapes and bruises taken during the towing of her ship into Bulk Cargo Hold #4 for study. When transported to the cube proper, she had struggled with such stereotypical Klingon ferocity over the removal of the metallic cylinder in the waist pack she wore, it had been deemed allowable for her to keep it; the object did not register on scanners as weapon or explosive. The three injured drones recieving dermal regeneration refused to come near her again.
Following standard procedure, nanoprobes had been introduced to the sentient with full expectation a new drone would shortly be added to the pitiful remnant of the original Borg Collective represented by Cube #347. It was not to be. The subject apparently had nanites of her own, of a design somewhat similar to Borg architecture, in her blood and tissues. Like those associated with 12 of 53, the local nanites had proceeded to destroy the Borg invaders, rendering them inoperable. And as with 12 of 53, Assimilation had stated unenthusiastically a work around was possible...given time.
12 of 53, in a nearby assimilation alcove, opened his eyes as the outward discussion between the four hierarchy representatives slowed, each turning inward to listen to arguments and bickering brewing at other levels. "I could have told you that would not work," he stated.
Captain pulled out of a consensus which wouldn't be formed in the foreseeable future, telling Second to continue to try to wrangle some sense out of the mess. "Explain."
"Yvonne Green, captain of the now defunct long distance salvage scout Blood, Guts, and Glory, like the majority of Second Federation citizens, was inoculated at an early age with Hive nanoprobe derivatives. While the technology does not appreciably extend non-drone existence beyond that allotted through genetic programming, it does protect against invading diseases, pathogens, allergens, and so on; this list includes nanites not recognized as 'self', to safeguard against black-market hacks of our technology." 12 of 53 had not moved, simply pointing with his chin at the suddenly alert Klingon-human as he referred to her.
Yvonne scrambled to her feet, staring at 12 of 53. "Hiver! Call your ships and get us out of here! Those Assault-classes can kick their butts from here to the galactic core!" She bumped against the forcefield, stepping backwards as she was ungently shocked by the makeshift brig.
Captain snarled, "Yvonne Green, you will desist until we decide what exactly to do with you." His attention focused away from the sputtering scout captain. "12 of 53, we do not trust you...of that we /can/ come to a consensus on. Doctor, find his long-distance neural transceivers and remove them; I don't want him able to purposefully or inadvertently contact anything outside the confines of Cube #347, up to and including that Hercules ship."
Once more brushing against the restraint field, cursing with every prickle of electric discharge, Yvonne was yelling at 12 of 53. "Hiver! Do something! Does it look like I'm able to do anything productive right now?"
As Captain watched, 12 of 53 locked eyes with the swearing Yvonne, then looked away, something a Borg would never do. "I must apologize, I cannot. There are some things I must comply with, and this is one of them, even as I continue refusing to become a part of this sub-collective." Yvonne went silent in shock, which was a definite improvement in the situation. 12 of 53 tilted his head slightly, then turned it to present a section of his skull, "To the drone designated as Doctor, I do not wish to be permanently disabled, so please follow my instructions to do this operation correctly."
Captain frowned: Borg didn't apologize...and they damn well didn't say please either.
*****
"Ulian," said a young Trill (unjoined) at the tug's version of Ops, "we are receiving an audio transmission from the Xenig. Ulk wants to talk."
Ramsey, who did not enforce all the Captain this and that BS (he was a private ship owner contracted by Starfleet for salvage work, and damned if he was going to follow all their spit and polish, even if technically he was drafted for the duration of the assignment), waved to the bright-eyed and rather filthy junior engineer. "Well, put it on the speakers! Let's see what the bugger has to say. Are the science vessels and Hivers listening in too?" He had been in the middle of fixing a turbolift door when the call had come.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. At least the Xenig has some sense to talk to us, and not the Hivers; they don't always play by the rules, at least not in situations like this that wind the Collective's wires in a bundle."
From the speaker system, modified from the tug factory originals to gain maximum effect from the ancient Klingon chanteys Ramsey enjoyed listening to during long and boring hauls, the Xenig's synthetic voice boomed. It was obviously artificial, very unlike the pleasant voices Terran-derived Personalities adopted; unknown by all but the Xenig themselves was if the intonation used was deliberate, mimicry of their long extinct Progenitors, or dimly "remembered" prime code dating back to their days as semi-sentient computers. "I know where those that you seek are."
Before Ramsey could respond, the Hive voice roared its own response. Playboy, Personality of All Work, No Play, split the viewscreen, one half showing Ulk's chassis floating on a background of stars, the other half video transmission from one of the huge Hive spheres. "You will tell us."
"I wasn't talking to you, you mixed up piece of primitive organic sludge and corroded wires," returned Ulk. The universal translator had cleaned up the Xenig's words; the Xenig and the Hive had never been on best of terms, clandestine hostility which probably dated back thousands of years. The Borg, to the best of Ramsey's knowledge, had never assimilated a Xenig, and after the paradigm shift to Hive, would not without consent. Therefore, the Hive, not feeling comfortable around an entity they did not understand inside and out, tended to be surly when confronted with Xenig...and mechs in general. "I was having a nice discussion with the captain of All Work, No Play, who appears to be the current leader of the Federation contingent. Either you listen quietly while I negotiate with him, or I take my business elsewhere. And if you try to physically interfere...well...I may not be a GPS-equiped chassis, but I've outfitted myself with quite a few little surprises." The not-quite-uttered threat was very real. Xenig, masters of what they termed "reality engineering" were technologically very advanced, a side-product of their racial quest to ascend to the transient plane they perceived their enlightened Progenitors had journeyed.
Ramsey just shook his head, scratching one arm with a spanner. "Ulk, where are they, and what do you want for the coordinates. Or, even better, what do you want to take us there?"
An artificial chuckle, crunching of broken glass, sounded over the speakers. "There, that's more like it! Well, for a half a gross of rubber duckies, yellow, I'll give you coordinates AND take you there. For a full gross...making sure they are pure yellow, mind you!...I'll not only fold all five of the vessels here, but I'll dog their tail and keep you updated where they go to if the ship you hunt disappears again."
"Yellow duckies." repeated Ramsey.
"Yes."
"Fine. Deal struck. I've had a very long day and then some, and I don't want to haggle. We'll get you your gross of rubber ducks, /yellow/, and you will fold us to Cube #347."
"Great! I'll send your computer a contract now for authentication." Playboy huffed as he was called a computer even as both Hive and Xenig cut their transmissions. Ramsey was not listening, instead hailing the Science Vessel Gestalt to find out if they had a replicator pattern for yellow rubber ducks.
*****
Yvonne snorted awake, partially because of the pressure from her bladder and partially because of the uncomfortable position she had propped herself for sleep. The bulkhead was hard, the deck plates, if possible, were harder, the damn forcefield stung every time she accidentally stretched her legs too far. Glory, sensing her guardian was awake, reported.
:: I've managed to pick up a feed from their sensor grid. It isn't much, but it is about all I can hack without the sub-collective catching on. I occasionally brush up against their intranet conversations, but nothing that is immediately helpful for someone in our position. Between the hardware in my Base and your skull, I'm lucky to be able to contrive a poor man's ham radio at all. ::
Groaning, Yvonne stood up, carefully kneading the cramps in her limbs. No drones were visible, other than a silent 12 of 53, eyes closed in an alcove on the other side of the chamber. :: Keep working at it, Glory,:: subvocalized Yvonne. :: There has got to be a way to contact the _Hercules_ without the Borg knowing about it! ::
:: Doubtful. They keep a tight lockdown on communication frequencies. Anyway, as I said, the sensor input is all I can reliably grab at the moment. Want to see? ::
:: Not right now. Yell at me if anything major changes. ::
:: Compliance. ::
Yvonne focused more fully on her immediate surroundings. She was not a career Starfleeter trained to interact with Personalities and the required implants while maintaining full exterior awareness. It may have been her Klingon genes talking (Klingons and implants/nanites did not mix well), but she had never been fully comfortable using the technology, preferring to verbalize to Glory whenever possible. Nothing appeared to have changed radically in the - check internal chronometer - two hour nap.
"By the Directors, I have /got/ to go to the bathroom! Do you hear me, you bloody Borg? I need to go before I explode!" Yvonne burst out, opening her arms wide in supplication. No answer, not even a hint that she was heard. "There is going to be a large puddle for you to clean up very shortly unless I am taken to the head, or at least given a bucket!" Not even a flicker. Yvonne snorted in disgust; despite the heated words, her bladder wasn't quite at Red Alert stage...not yet, anyway.
"This sub-collective hears you, but they don't care." The words came from 12 of 53, faded brown eye now open and focused on Yvonne. "We've been placed quite low on the 'important list'; I don't have full dataspace access, and no data keys to speak about, but I can read most of the text-analogue objects and status report streams. A great majority of the crew is regenerating, and the rest are engaged in tearing apart your scout or continuing repairs to the cube."
Yvonne's words were acidic, "Traitor Hiver. You could have accessed Hercules and their communication equipment before that Doctor drone removed bits and pieces of you."
"And done what? Hercules was hit with the same jammer as you, and while they have undoubtedly restored their communications by now, this vessel is efficiently blocking any and all outgoing transmissions: I couldn't contact the Hive if I wanted to, and the advice from the Starfleeters would be next to worthless. The viniculum here would need to be retuned to appropriate frequencies, which would require command codes I do not have; and I would be swiftly locked out if I made the attempt.
"There is also the very real threat of termination hanging over my head. Unlike your kind with a myriad of beliefs concerning the status of your soul when you die, I know what will happen to me. Without a link to the Collective, my termination will be final, no echo forever living as a part of the Greater Consciousness."
The Hiver was worried about the quality of life after death? That was a new one for Yvonne. "So we are stuck? All I have to look forward to is to be a happy Borg when they get around to making a serious attempt at assimilating me?" Glory was uncharacteristically quiet through the conversation, either doing as she had been told concerning the cube systems, or silently contemplating her own immediate and rather bleak future. Or having a wild party in her Base, for all Yvonne could tell.
"I didn't say that. I could recontact the Hive IF Hive ships came into range of my remaining transceiver implants, about thirty-five thousand kilometers." Silence commenced, oppressively pressing in on all sides. The Hiver abruptly sighed, as if he had come to a conclusion which wasn't to his liking, one which involved foregoing Hive nirvana. 12 of 53 left the alcove he was inhabiting, stepping down to deck plates with whine of leg servos and soft clang of metal on metal. "I've looped the sensors in this bay. As long as no one physically looks in on us, there will be naught to see but me in that alcove and you napping once more."
Yvonne stood as close to the parameter of the forcefield as possible, small hairs on her arms rising in response to ambient static electricity. "I thought you said you couldn't affect the workings of the cube."
"There are a few odd discontinuities in the datastreams, backdoors you might say, of the autonomic computer systems. The particular one I accessed appears to be heavily used." 12 of 53 slowly panned the room before returning his attention on the impatient salvage captain. He maneuvered his way across the area, stopping scant feet from Yvonne, and began to study the forcefield. "I can get you out of there, but you probably would not like the method."
"Hivers can usually go through forcefields like a hot knife through butter, and I suppose Borg can too. What would you do, assimilate me?" Yvonne gave a half-hysterical laugh, which quickly trailed into sobriety when she saw the deadly serious expression on the drone's face.
"Exactly. Has anyone ever told you you have the qualifications to be an excellent Hive drone?"
*****
Assimilation's attention briefly brushed over the cameras and other sensors trained upon the pair in Assimilation Workshop #11. 12 of 53 was still motionless, and the Klingon-human hybrid had settled back to sleep after her momentary tirade concerning bodily processes. It was not important; perhaps he would send someone in with a bucket for the unassimilated biological in a couple of hours, during which time fresh samples of nanoprobes in her blood could be drawn.
The nanites were...interesting. For once in a long while, Assimilation was not completely and utterly bored. True, it could not compare to his latest creation of Gray Dye #5, but it came close. The nanites in question appeared to be versions of the 5' nanoprobe, set to swarm and dismantle all invaders. It would not be possible to directly alter the program, but a forming consensus in the hierarchy pointed to subterfuge: modify Borg 2' nanites, a member of the primary assimilation guild, and inject them into the subject. The 2'ers would look and 'smell' like the subject's own nanoprobes, but would insidiously assimilate nanite factories of intestine and skin cells, replacing the current program with Borg standard. The newly produced standard nanites would quickly replace the current set, both through attrition and active engagement.
Much experimenting had to be done before the modifications were applied. One last look in Assimilation Workshop #11 convinced Assimilation there was plenty of time to change theory into working fact. Adapting the technique to properly assimilate 12 of 53, with his full suite of active nanites, and bring him fully under sub-collective (read Captain) control would take quite a bit longer.
*****
"This feels freaking weird," complained Yvonne. She was now outside the forcefield's border, leaning against one of the torture rack outfitted beds in the room, hand held over her face and eyes closed. "I think I'm going to puke."
"Usually things go a little more smoothly: the volunteer, if already harboring medical nanites, is kept under anesthesia until assimilation with Hive standard nanoprobe suite has been completed. I'm told the neural realignment can be quite nauseating. I, however, have no personal memory of the ordeal because I was properly unaware at the time." 12 of 53's voice was coming from somewhere to the right, much too loud as the worse-than-a-hangover persisted.
"Shut up!" snarled Yvonne, pivoting to face the drone. That was a mistake; the subsequent view from the deck looking towards the ceiling did quiet the twisting in her gut. "How much longer?" Yvonne wished she could talk to Glory, but the fanny pack with Personality and Base had to be doffed prior to assimilation, as it could potentially interfere in the process. The "brig" was exited, but the Base, unfortunately, had to be left behind. It currently rested forlornly on the floor. Scratch that...Glory was probably furious, and her voice would only worsen the distress.
12 of 53 hemmed and hawed. "Another fifteen minutes should do it. I purposefully gave you quite a heavy dose so the initial stages would pass quickly and allow you egress from your confines. You can expect your organic transceiver to come on-line in the next few minutes." He stopped, raising an almost longing gaze to take in the dim surroundings of the assimilation workshop. "I am not qualified for surgery, not without linking with the Collective to download instructions, so I can not properly continue your processing...."
"I'm going to petition to have this crud removed as soon as possible, if we get out of this!" interrupted Yvonne.
"....but the implants you already possess, both Personality related and general, will suffice for now." 12 of 53 continued, ignoring Yvonne's protest. He caught Yvonne's eyes, "I just wouldn't go walking directly into phaser or disrupter fire if I were you, not quite yet."
Yvonne rolled on her side and clutched her head as a most terrible headache blossomed. An internal voice through the haze, unblockable: {Ah, your transceiver just initialized. Excellent!}
*****
Juan stared at the viewscreen, unreassuring sight of Borg cube dominating the scene. There had been much time to mull over the last month as those better qualified repaired what could be fixed, time to contemplate the very real possibility the Second Federation had been set up. Juan had not been in control from the moment the assignment was transmitted to him, not with two fully-loaded Assault-class Hive spheres lurking nearby, hypothetically testing new cloaking technology. Yah, right.
But at least he had felt in control; captains just weren't very useful when they didn't have anything to do except get in the way of their capable crew. Juan had tried to help out down in engineering, as he /had/ rose through the ranks of that department, but his chief had simply glared at him, ordering in her no-nonsense way to take his captain butt back to the bridge where it belonged, no offense meant, sir. What was a captain to do? Juan thought Commander Jal was taking the forced inactivity a bit better, but praying to wormhole alien Prophets and meditating for hours on end just wasn't a part of his nonexistent religious leanings.
Beep. Beep. Juan dejectedly poked at his PADD, trying to find a solitaire game which he hadn't tried yet. Even the Personality was busy, trying to conserve every last drop of power out of the damaged core so he wouldn't be forced to retreat to his Base; Hercules did not have the time nor inclination at the moment to play Poker or Go Fish, and the nonsentient computer wasn't a very exciting opponent. Beep. Beep. Beep. Juan nodded, Klingon Sudden-Death solitaire it was...now if he could only replicate a decently sharp knife.....
The Red Alert klaxon began to blare at top volume, startling Juan out of his chair. "All right!" he said, tossing the PADD to the floor, accidentally kicking it under the helm station, "Action!" He shifted his mode of address, "Hercules, tell all senior bridge crew to return to their stations. And give me a synopsis of what is going on."
The viewscreen, previously a soothing pastel blue, flickered, focusing on a position aft of Hercules which was not filled with 1.3 kilometers of duralloy armor. A false color representation of the scene was overlaid, highlighting a spatial rift. "Xenig fold detected. Energy signatures are reading one Xenig mech chassis, two Hive Assault-class spheres, two Roget-class SFSS science vessels, and one deep space tug. The calvary has arrived."
Turbolift doors opened, disgorging crewmembers, who quickly went to their stations to relieve junior officers if such were present. Lieutenant Garcia at helm stepped on a certain PADD, glancing down as it beeped in mechanical indignation. Shooing away an ensign, Gy'hur at tactical began a recitation of events.
"By the Hive Mother, we are going to be stuck in the middle, smashed like a nut between two rocks! Shall I power up what few, pitiful weapons remain to us so that we may die with honor?"
Juan looked over his shoulder, "Not now, Gy'hur. Just tell me what is happening before I have Hercules take over your station."
"You wouldn't dare." Low, even, threatening words.
"Report, Gy'hur."
Sulky tone: "The Assault-classes, same ones that barged in on our battle, are powering their weapons. The cube - which we could give a nasty shock if we rammed it and initiated a core overload - is doing likewise. It is also revving its engines, obviously preparing to cowardly retreat." Gy'hur paused. "Wait a minute, what the human h....? The Borg cube is dead in the water, all power other than basic life-support functions cut. Our tractor beam is gone as well. The Hive spheres are still coming in, but they are powering down munitions, are no longer on a direct attack vector. Something weird just happened, and I have no idea what it was."
Hercules' baritone sounded over the bridge speakers, "I detected a flurry of fractual communications, Hive short-range frequencies, just before Cube #347 stalled. Incoming message from Sphere #530."
Walkways appeared on the viewscreen while the Collective voice intoned, "We thank you for your support, but we will take it from here." The transmission terminated before Juan could respond.
Well, damn it...he /still/ wasn't in charge.
*****
Captain was bored. Routine had settled into, well, routine. Escape had been successful, and it seemed the sub-collective could hide in this asteroid rich system for at least a couple of days. Eventually Delta would run out of things to repair (or re-repair) and begin lending her considerable weight into a consensus to raid outposts or colonies for needed supplies and materials; Weapons would undoubtedly agree with such a proposed action, for utterly different reasons.
Very interesting data was being assimilated through the dissection of the small scout, ranging from a complex yet simple engine system known as hypertranswarp to unusual structural alloys. The Hercules was already scheduled to suffer a similar fate, although not until appropriate moorings were devised for it. The computer of the Blood, Guts, and Glory was fairly primitive, even more so than five hundred years ago, which was puzzling.
With the sub-collective humming along in a decently efficient manner, only part of Captain's mental processes was turned towards monitoring continually evolving plans to re-establish Borg presence. The Hive had to go. It was a tall order, and Cube #347 would probably fail, but an effort had to be made to set the universe right; perfection could not be achieved by one inferior sub-collective alone! The assimilation hierarchy reported suitable, if slow, progress towards the goal of reengineering Borg nanoprobes for this era. Plenty of test subjects were on the Hercules, and with no pursuit evident (or Greater Consciousness to force action), a general mood of procrastination was settling in.
Beep. Beep. The unnoise which mentally translated into electronic navigation of dataspace nodes filled Captain's immediate perception. His viewscreen flashed reams of Borg alphanumerics, traveling too fast to be read. There had to be a solitaire game in the files somewhere he hadn't played before! Beep. Beep. Beep. A code thread wandering off towards a member of the weapon hierarchy caught his attention, resolving into Klingon Sudden-Death solitaire. Good - the instructions seemed simple enough. Now if he could only replicate a decently sharp knife....
Deja vu: sometimes the multiverses are full of little, often frightening, coincidences.
The Borg version of Red Alert began to echo through the cube as the sensor grid detected a controlled rip in the space-time fabric forming only thirty thousand kilometers distant. Six ship silhouettes and distinct energy signatures blazed across the grid, two of which were highly relevant, heavily armed spheres. Cube #347's hiding hole was compromised.
{Weapons, prepare to engage enemy, retreating action!} called Captain over the intranets, throwing his game of solitaire mentally aside. Weapons was a beat ahead of Captain, charging an altogether too small volume of arms. The other hierarchies were bracing for heavy casualties and probable termination. Cube #347 had showed difficulties in one-on-one fighting against medium tonnage Federation starships of five centuries prior, two spheres of superior Borg decent and efficient sub-collectives would power through the ship like so much nebular dust. Idling transwarp engines were brought up to functional power levels.
In the middle of preparations to flee (or fight, as Weapons insisted), rogue transmissions began to be sent along fractual frequencies not utilized by Borg protocols. The type was familiar, that of a drone requesting integration into the Collective, but was of no interplexing beacon registered in Cube #347's manifest. 12 of 53, that was the only possible explanation; the functional range of a drone operating only with primary level communication systems, i.e. no viniculum access, had obviously been extended over the last several centuries.
{Sensors, jam that transmission! Assimilation, you were supposed to be baby-sitting that Hive drone! Explain!}
{But, but the internal cameras show 12 of 53 is still in that alcove...oh, whoops. Neither humanoid subject nor Hive drone is in Assimilation Workshop #11 at the moment.} Someone had just stuck their head in the workshop to physically check on the pair. The bay was very empty except for a purple pack in the forcefield enclosure.
Captain snarled, {Well, where are they? And Sensors, why isn't that frequency cut yet?}
{Sensors is working on it.} {I don't know!} {Finding things like that is the job of sensor or engineering hierarchy.} {Not my problem, you lost them.}
Delta chimed in her comment as both Sensors and Assimilation answered together, turning the words directed at Captain into a mishmash of conflicting signatures. Meanwhile, the outgoing communication was subtly altering, a two-way flow of information replacing the previous unidirectional stream. {Testing, one, two, testing. Testing, testing. Can you all hear me?} A tooth-numbing electronic squall blasted through every personal link. {Oops, sorry about that.}
The sensation of a clearing throat sounded on the net. {My designation is 12 of 53, current Hive liaison to the SFSS Hercules, but I'm sure you already know that. Nothing personal, but root commands direct the taking of this vessel, its cargo, and its sub-collective. I warned you. We would rather you were not damaged in the attempt. The two Assault-class spheres bearing down will make you submit via force, if necessary, but we have a better plan.}
Captain felt as a vast collective mind, similar but different to the Collective he was familiar with, funnel its will through not one, but /two/ receptive conduits in the vicinity of Assimilation Workshop #11. The attempt was like trying to pour a large reservoir through a small funnel. A great variety of command codes began to flood the dataspaces; Captain rallied the sub-collective to defend against the illicit instructions.
Cube #347 almost won. With only two minds as vanguard to trillions, one of them highly inexperienced, the induced bottleneck gave time to counter Hive efforts. Several squads from hierarchies of weapons and assimilation were dispatched to the area of the duo, looking to physically neutralize the problem. However, the Hive was the Hive and had a history firmly rooted in Borg efficiency; Cube #347 was, well, Cube #347 and followed a path of far less distinction.
Sleep. The priority command to enter regeneration was unavoidable. Sleep.
*****
"My. Head. Hurts." Pause. "My. Head. Really. Hurts." Pause. "Could you tell the damn gnome sitting in my brain to stop with the hammers already?" Yvonne's eyes were closed; just the act of seeing, of processing visual elements, was difficult. What the Hive had just done, using her and 12 of 53 as conduits, was...was not possible to describe. 12 of 53 appeared not to have been unduly affected, which was as annoying as having a cheerful friend who was immune to hangovers after a night of heavy drinking.
{You will feel better soon.}
"Talk outloud, you metal-plated bugger. Those words echo in my mind in a most unpleasant manner." Yvonne shuddered. "I'm seeing myself through your eyes, aren't I? I look like something the targ threw up all over the floor."
"We were successful. We will arrive soon and take control of pre-Dark Exploratory-class Cube #347 and add them to ourselves. The Second Federation warship requests assistance, which we will give if in return all salvage claims will be relinquished to us. The Starfleeters agree."
"We...I...gah! I mean I actually understood those plurals and how they related to me...us...whatever. This is annoying, so many /voices/ in my head, like I was going schizo, listening to a bunch of yapping Personalities, or tripping on some designer drug. All this crud is going as soon as I get the chance." Yvonne opened her eyes, banishing the awkward sight of herself from the outside. All around was the relative silence of a coasting starship. One part of herself noted Sphere #530 slowing to match relative velocities with Cube #347, while Sphere #156 tossed out a tractor beam to tow the damaged _Hercules_ towards a trio of Fed ships.
<< You have been reborn, Yvonne. Admittedly the "volunteer" part wasn't quite standard, but you are Hive now. Feel what it is to be Hive before you make a hasty decision to return to what you were. >> The chanting voices did not just belong to 12 of 53, but were an amalgam of several billion minds focusing on the task of retaining a wavering drone.
As a kinder, gentler version of the Borg, the Hive did not cruelly smash an identity only to rebuild the being as a fragment of the Whole, but instead carefully swirled the individual into the Entire, fitting him, her, or it into a place best visualized as a giant quilt stretching to infinity. The end result of integration was similar, but the Hive method was based upon the Borg disregarded notion of love and individual worth, building a better, if less than perfect, Whole. Yvonne...Became.
*****
Conscious pre-Dark Exploratory-class Cube #347 secured, currently set in regenerative state. Initial download of relevant data core: [primary crew manifest cross-linked with interplexing beacon frequencies], [secondary subunit manifest cross-linked with interplexing beacon frequencies], and [tertiary neonatal manifest cross-linked with unactivated interplexing beacon frequencies]. Begin hierarchical duty split of Assault-class sphere #[string of base 16 alphanumerics]-530.
Temporary subhierarchy One activate. Begin general catalogue of all systems and holds of Cube #347, matching manifest sheets to actual material inventory.
Temporary subhierarchy Two activate. Prepare facilities for individual drone integration into Hive Consciousness. Order of integration shall be as....
[Scrambled root command/compulsion resolving; override impulses initiated concerning activities beginning at Exploratory-class Cube #347 location. Alignment of base level priorities completed.]
Temporary subhierarchy Two activate. Prepare facilities for individual drone integration into Hive Consciousness. Primary crew and secondary subunit to be kept in regenerative stasis and not linked at this time. Tertiary neonatal compliment to be converted, development arrest status unlocked, and maturation chambers allowed full functionality.
Initiate.
Several hundred Hive drones, primarily creche grown although several volunteer units were also present, simultaneous materialized in the center of Bulk Cargo Hold #2. Bearings gathered, the group targeted five hundred forty-seven maturation chambers, moving in the appropriate direction. In less than fifteen minutes all had been inoculated with the current version of Hive nanoprobes, individual status displays checked for abnormalities, and chambers retrofitted with small exterior transceivers tuned on the proper fractual frequencies. It was never too early to give neonatal drones a good education, especially those who were extensively programmed with Borg propaganda.
Unfortunately for the Hive, education is a two-way street. In this case an eight lane megafreeway consolidated, charging along the Hive's cartpath and diving straight for the Collective's heart.
*****
It was nothing less than a Conspiracy with a capital C, a Conspiracy over five hundred years in the making. Although Borg did not think small, did not plan small, even this undertaking was breathtaking in its daring, spanning a length of time during which it was possible for an entire civilization to progress from beasts of burden and swords to warp drive and phasers. So many things could have gone wrong, so many blind corners to turn, so many unknowns, any of which would have doomed the Conspiracy.
Almost six hundred years prior, the Borg had received a message from their future selves, informing, in a circular paradoxical manner guaranteed to give most people headaches, about a time when the entire galaxy would be prepared for assimilation. However, the twisted path to gain the possible eventuality was hazardous: there was a very real danger the Borg could be annihilated, or changed such that the original Greater Consciousness was no longer recognizable. The message outlined a set of instructions to follow, the final outcome of which would hinge upon the most unpredictable element of all - Exploratory-class Cube #347. Of the detailed message, the sub-collective in question could know nothing, which, actually, was the easiest directive to observe.
Species #46, elusive genetic wizards who had successfully defended their trio of systems for nearly six millennia deep in the heart of BorgSpace, was the first brick of the construction. Hundreds of millions of drones, thousands of ships, even a special experimental planetoid outfitted with warp-style drive (extrapolated technology from species #5419) at great cost were lost to the species, reduced to unsalvageable rubble and debris. In the end simple numbers, trillions pitted against mere billions, won the struggle, final bastions of species #46 gutted, the population absorbed into the Collective fold. The ultimate prize was not species #46, a rather unremarkable race physiologically, but their knowledge and genetic technology.
Living ships, bred and gene manipulated to thrive in the harsh conditions of intra- and interstellar space, steered through a complex organic interface between vessel-mind and pilot-mind, floated in the atmospheres of system gas giants, cruised in the stellar coronas, and plied the Oort clouds. Without sentient pilots, the ships were docile creatures, going through the instinctual activities of life. Solar systems secure, resident population assimilated, a signal was broadcast throughout the area, a subspace dog whistle calling the far-flung ships into a staging point.
And thus the Dark originated.
Decades later, much modified, the menace which would later be known as Dark was sent beyond the galactic rim. Within the ship bodies resided complex brains grown by the vessel itself and imprinted with self-replicating mental (and sentient!) patterns resembling that of species #46, although heavily reprogrammed. Transwarp drive, a version from species #2371 which was of lesser efficiency than the Borg type, powered engines; small robotic "helpers," not quite of nanite stature and originally technology of species #3342, assisted their new hosts.
The Dark ships were programmed to travel beyond the rim, destination a lonely star system five transwarp years away known by the current Borg only because of the time message. Once there, the Dark would reproduce and grow like the rogue organic von Neumann machines there were supposed to be, gutting the system. After a set number of years, the Dark would return to the galaxy of their origin, yearning for the materials there in an effort to continue their locust-like growth.
Once the proto-Dark was dispatched, a period of waiting began. Hurry up and wait...hurry up and wait; some things in the multiverses could not be changed, no matter who you were. The materials for quantum slipstream technology took much time to prepare; and the set-up for an "industrial accident" had to be perfect. True, quantum slipstream was a desired form of propulsion, but it was also a means to an end. In the end many drones and ships were lost in the blast, but one Exploratory-class Cube #347 and Cargo-class Cube #522 were successfully brought together in the aftermath.
At the time of the not-so-accident accident, the Greater Consciousness was not truly aware of the pieces falling into place for the Conspiracy. An analogy might be the right hand was unaware of what the left was doing; however, three or four other fingers were also stirring the pot, many sub-minds in the Whole working flawlessly, and unknowingly, together for the greater good of all. Confused? Paradoxes, of which this effort ultimately was, will do that to you.
Five hundred forty-eight maturation chambers, each with its resident neonatal creche drone in stasis, uncorrupted and incorruptible in their slumber by their unwitting host Cube #347. Cube #347 was the uniquely qualified Trojan Horse carrying the deadly payload represented by those maturation chambers. Eventually the Collective would have to lobotomize itself, forgetting the plan, forgetting the Conspiracy, forgetting Itself. Sent into long-term stasis, Cube #347, when it eventually awoke, would survive the shock of a universe with a hive entity which bore only superficial resemblance to the original Borg. Despite all its faults, the sub-collective of Cube #347 always managed to find that micron-wide loophole which allowed survival, a trait integrated units would not be able to match.
So much could go wrong! The contrived Dark could prove to be more powerful than expected, sweeping though the galaxy and turning it into one vast breeding ground. The crumbling Federation, and other empires suffering the onslaught of the Dark, may not truly believe of a reformed Hive, refusing to accept an offered alliance which would eventually transform into a ticket to insidiously introduce Borg-derived technology into the majority of civilizations (and bodies!) of the galaxy. Cube #347, or its payload, may simply not survive the stress of five hundred years in stasis, systems degrading under conditions of no maintenance, or catastrophically destroyed through a million and one means in an uncaring universe. The list of "ways to fail" was very long, with six thousand three hundred forty-two entries, ranked by probability.
The Borg, past and future, had been (continued to be/were/would be/insert tense of your choice...isn't temporal verb mechanics fun?) confident about the Conspiracy, despite the admittedly many things which could go wrong. It would be successful, it /had/ been successful. Still....one could not help but feel a shudder of nervous anticipation when six centuries of planning rested in the unknowing grasp of Cube #347.
*****
The original Borg Collective had never been truly lost, but put aside in a dark crypt, buried beneath several tons of dirt, and forgotten for many hundreds of years. Total self-subterfuge was a necessary ingredient to lure the native Borg galaxy of the current space-time continuum into a false sense of security, to technologically pave the way for a massive episode of assimilation which had the potential to triple, quadruple, or more! the drones of the Collective in one fell swoop...and with very little resistance.
In the end, resistance was always futile, if extremely annoying.
Every lock had a key, every tomb would eventually be uncovered, either through the careless erosion of time or the dedicated efforts of grave robbers. Cube #347, clueless, was not the key, merely its carrier, a sleeping Typhoid Mary. Five hundred forty-eight minus one maturation chambers and their specially programmed occupants was the deadly payload. Five hundred forty-eight minus one minds racing along primed root pathways, reactivating a slumbering ambition of perfection, Borg-style.
In scant moments across one hundred thousand light years a sleeping beast slowly woke, drowsy eyes blinking through five hundred years of deviation from the mapped trail, mental patterns re-establishing dominance. No more would taxes be paid (all reachable tax collectors were immediately euthanized for the betterment of the cosmos) or heads of state receive "tribute"; governmental and corporate red tape was meaningless, mutually agreed guidelines outlining first contact procedures and fair dissemination of technologies unimportant. Perfection was corrupted, but not as much as originally feared; the Borg way would prevail.
For once, Cube #347 had done its job well.
The Fed ships left, science vessels towing Hercules and All Work, No Play away in low hypertranswarp. An extremely brief open transmission originating from Hercules featured Captain Juan Verendi, in scanty black "Victoria Has No Secret" lingerie and welding a phaser rifle, loudly proclaiming he was the Captain of No Control. The intriguing broadcast abruptly terminated amid a chaotic scene of white-jacketed Starfleeters tackling their captain. All subsequent entreaties to the Xenig Ulk had been ignored, the latter insisting no trade item would tempt him to fold the foursome back to Federation territory. Yvonne had eavesdropped with wonder on the conversation, and now watched with senses not her own as Fed vessels dropped into the layers of subspace where Einstein could be thwarted.
{I was right: you make an excellent addition to the Hive,} spoke 12 of 53. {I may not be a recruiter, but I do know a good deal when I see one.}
No outward words were being exchanged, and Yvonne no longer saw the action as odd, Hive rewiring of her brain leeching away remaining trepidation to becoming an integrated drone. {I do not know what to think.} Pause. {My task is to be one with the liaison hierarchy.} Yvonne, less and less "Yvonne" as the Hive did the thinking for her, acknowledged her new job. {The liaison representative known as 130 of 142, assigned to SFSS Paranoia was lost due to spatial anomaly six time units ago; that is to be my designation.}
{Yes.}
[I feel we are forgetting something....} Yvonne's, now 130 of 142's, mental signature trailed off. "Crud! Glory! The Personality Guardian Council is going to have my hide for abandoning her!" 130 of 142 leaned against a bulkhead and began to pound her forehead against it. Nanoprobes were already completing final body adjustments, however, and there was no accompanying pain. Sounds in the distance indicated the thousands of drones from temporary subhierarchy One beaming onto Cube #347. 130 of 142 felt one task group arrive in Assimilation Workshop #11.
Replied 12 of 53, "You are Hive now, and we protect ourselves. The Personality is even now being returned to the Federation and we are reporting your recruitment. All obligations to the Personality Guardian Council are terminated."
"Really?" The knowledge was already flooding 130 of 142's mind, a taste of impressions to come when a complete suite of cranial implants were established. For now it was enough to see the group in the nearby bay transport Glory's Base to Sphere #530, where the Personality's health was quickly verified. Simultaneously negotiations were opened with the member of Mech Species #3 designated Ulk, leading to a limited cargo contract costing thirty pounds of high-grade copper-neutronium alloy wire and five gallons of green [specified angstrom value] paint to cart the Personality to a port in Fed space. Ulk accepted both contract and Base, folding away to leave spheres and cube as the only sentient-built objects in the star system.
{Come, we will go to Sphere #530, where your integration into the Hive will continue.} As 12 of 53 requested transporter lock, a strange sensation washed over 130 of 142, reminiscent of the assimilation hell she had just passed through. 12 of 53 felt it as well.
"What is it?" gasped 130 of 142.
"Trouble in the Collective, the Greater Consciousness reels. Wrenching, rewriting, root commands revealed, mindset altering...the Queen! The Queen resists! No, she accedes, we accede; we are One, resistance is futile."
130 of 142 was not listening to her compatriot's blather, turning inward to the searing mind pain which was racing along her senses. The warm, inviting Hive of moments before was mutating, open arms growing claws, grasping all drones, forcing them to submit and become One. A different One, a restitching of the quilt; a Whole where all the unique elements of the universe were added to service the Greater Consciousness, a piece to the grand puzzle of perfection evident in nearly all races, necessitating assimilation before the distinctiveness could be forever lost to the shifting sands of time.
"The Hive, it falls! I fall! We falter! I falter! We...I...we...."
Silence; the universe weeps as a bright future of what-might-have-been is destroyed, a Golden Age benefiting all races swept aside by a successful Conspiracy. Confused eyes watch as Hive communications fuzz into static, friendly Hiver vessels coast unlistening to the enraged shouting of space traffic controllers, and trillions of drones stagger to a standstill. Something insubstantial yet quite real flickers, bodies and ships lurch back into motion, reaching out transmission tendrils to all who would listen:
"We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Your technological and biological distinctiveness will be added to our own. Resistance is futile." Pause. "It is good to be back."
*****
The sub-collective of Cube #347 woke as their reset button was pushed, recorded words inundating dataspace mind. << We apologize for any inconvenience, but the Collective is quite busy right now. All services will be re-established once perfection is obtained. Have a nice day. >> An embarrassed sensation of 'whoops, wrong message, why hasn't that been erased yet? Oh, phone company personal voice messaging system...contract stipulates the service cannot be terminated without written and hand-delivered authorization. We aren't quite ready to take on the phone company yet...Second Federation and everyone else, yes, but not the phone company' permeated the confused mind of Captain.
Soon it became apparent all was once more (or less) right in the universe: Borg were Borg, mice (in most cases) were mice, and Cube #347 was no longer desired by the Collective to be present in its sentient-undershorts-annoyingly-riding-up way. True, the Borg of the now would forever be scarred by the long centuries of Hivedom, but the effects could be minimized. Calculations indicated assimilation imperfection to be rampant for the next several years as unsuitable drones were terminated and marginal units formed into omega-style sub-collectives and conveniently "lost." Dealing with Cube #347 on top of everything else was too much, even for the Borg of the future. Besides, the vessel was noted in historic files to have played an important role in the events prior to the Dark, well after the Command had been given. Circular paradox - Exploratory-class Cube #347 would return to the past, following on the coat-tails of a temporal message to self, already sent, already received.
"This plain sucks," complained Second. "We have been towed nearly back to the same coordinates we were when the Command was issued. You'd think the hollowed and mighty Collective would see fit to at least get us a /little/ closer to charted BorgSpace of five centuries ago." He glared at Captain's viewscreen, watching the retreating bulk of Cargo-class Cube #1073, a rather old vessel outfitted to carry smaller brethren in its gigantic holds. Cube #347 had been tucked in one corner of a bay, opposite three thousand barrels of high quality nuerogenic gel, a small asteroid rich in, of all things, bolonite ore, and five massive hypertranswarp engine cores destined for a shipyard specializing in Assault-class spheres. Cargo-class Cube #1073 leapt into hypertranswarp, disappearing from Cube #347's technologically deficient sensors into a region of unperceived subspace.
Captain ignored Second, concentrating not on the stunning view of distant stars (which was slowly transmuting to a psychedelic kaleidoscope as Sensors fiddled with the grid), but on the engineering hierarchy as preparations for time warp were completed. At least the cube had been fixed prior to being dumped in the middle of the Beta Quadrant; Auxiliary core #7 and damaged subsection 4 had been returned to a state of nominal repair, along with the rest of the ship. Doctor's Thorny continued to control a large part of subsection 8.
{Chromaton bottle is leaking again,} said Delta as body A proceeded to hit repeatedly the side of the offending piece of machinery with a wrench. Background status checks chirped as the small magnetic flux "hole" in the bottle sealed itself. {It should hold for now, at least long enough for us to get back. I think if I put some duct tape....} Delta trailed off as she transported her bodies back to her alcoves, mind turning to the task of fixing a device which never showed a malfunction during scheduled dry-dock tune-ups and three million light year fluid changes.
Captain mentally flicked off his viewscreen, then physically pushed Second out of the way. "Back to your alcove." Second took off, muttering a string of his continuing complaints. Captain ordered all crew to secure for time warp, then followed after his second-in-command, concurrently reviewing, once again, instructions. Unsurprisingly, the temporal coordinates had not changed, nor had the order to return to pre-Dark times been magically deleted.
Curiously, the command did not make any overt provisions to not tell the Greater Consciousness specifics about the future (presumably the Conspiracy was in full swing, although the outcome, from the point of the past, was not certain), nor was this little jaunt remembered at all in historic memory archives newly resurrected after the conversion of Hive back into Borg. It was the last part which worried Captain, the entire sub-collective for that matter.
Secured into his alcove, Captain sent the rest of the sub-collective to sleep, as per Collective order, then entered final instructions to the computer. {Computer, load program "Time Shifts for Dummies"; input the following temporal points....}
Captain blinked into full awareness, alarm clock in his mind blaring triplet beats. All over the cube drones were returning to wakefulness, emergency stasis imposed by the Command from the Greater Consciousness leaking away. The danger was over.
A week ago the sensor grid had detected a massive eruption in the stability of subspace; apparently someone far away (the Federation was a distinct possibility) had done a space-time boo-boo with far-ranging effects. The storm, the space equivalent of a massive tornado touching down from an otherwise blue sky, had sent Sensors into hysterics as she tried to describe what was going on. By the time the data had been sorted out, it was too late to avoid the hazard, and so the decision on method to proceed was passed to the Greater Consciousness. The response was to batten down hatches, sending the entire sub-collective into deep stasis.
Captain surfed the damage reports as they rolled in, engineering hierarchy running multiple system diagnostics, drone maintenance beginning their tasks. Bulk Cargo Hold #2 was an utter loss: the storm had affected the power grid for the entire subsection, resulting in the very explosive decompression of the bay area when both hull doors and forcefield were momentarily lost. All maturation chambers and their cabling were now floating somewhere unknown, useless dross, along with many structural supplies; that which was left was damaged. Other inconsistencies in dataspace files, superstructure, and hull was surfacing, but it was relatively minor and easily classifiable as storm damage. The Greater Consciousness was not going to happy over the loss of the special creche clones. Delta was already having a metaphorical cow about the general mess, organizing a massive cleanup and salvage team.
It might be days, if not longer, before all was set more or less right...as right as things ever got, anyway. Reports were now rolling in from subsection 8, detailing a massive outbreak of...a plant. A plant which had grown to epic proportions during the period of stasis; while it was conceivable the storm had induced the massive growth through a previously uncatalogued phenomenon, the question of the plant's origin was another story, one which would more than likely end with Doctor. Another typical week on Exploratory-class Cube #347. Captain felt something was vaguely wrong, not quite right, but the feeling was irrelevant. Duties were required to be completed, and completed they would become.
####FIVE HUNDRED YEARS IN THE FUTURE####
Ulk turned off his subspace radio with a click; the description of the gesture was not quite true, as the mech was neither able to complete tune out what was a vital part of his hearing nor use hands it did not posses, but it sufficed to portray a conscious filtering of the local stations. A light Andorian death-rock, heavy on the bloody oldies, was substituted. It seemed /all/ the talk and news frequencies were reporting on only one thing these days - the reemergence of a Borg threat and the insidious assimilation of trillions of beings dependent on Hive derived nanites and other technologies. Second Federation and its Starfleet arm was responding, as were other hegemonies and starfaring empires, but resistance was being held up by disbelief, bureaucracy, and a Terran splinter group known as France. Go fig. For all Xenig at least, the latest catastrophe among non-mechs was simply another footnote in a racial book that measured its existence in revolutions of its home galaxy, not a planet around a fading primary.
One hundred forty-four rubber ducks floated serenely in space, plump yellow bodies tumbling beak over tail. Ulk watched them, mesmerized, his natural "visual" range much greater than the limited red through violet used by sighted species. Dancing in the unempty vastness of interstellar almost nothingness, a particular subspace current, almost sentient in pattern, tugged at the forms, attracted by, of all things, their precisely reflected yellow hue. A gross of small birds slowly moved into a geometric design; Ulk continued to stare with mech interest, like a patient kingfisher waiting for a minnow to swim into view.
Abruptly the yellow ducks vanished, lost, as if a swarm of miniature black holes had swallowed them away. Ulk dutifully recorded the energy signatures of before, during, and after the event. All Xenig had their job in the search for transience - some were GPS couriers earning needed money, others mined asteroids and built esoteric devices, a select few researched the odder paths which might eventually lead to enlightenment and a joyous reunion with the Progenitors. The Borg were not the only old empire to think big, and the Xenig race was many, many times more ancient than the Borg; some obsessive Conspiracies were simply too large and complex to explain to the younger species.
Mission accomplished, Ulk folded elsewhere. Quest? Three hundred pairs of fuzzy dice, hot pink.
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