Once upon a time in a studio far, far away, Star Trek came life, and it was good. Paramount, the Evil Empire, ruled over all, until the Rebel Alliance materialized. Leading the Alliance is A. Decker, spinning the Star Traks spoof, opening the door to brave, new parodies. Loyal follower M. Meneks began her own Rebel cell, calling it by the cryptic name BorgSpace.
The Latest Fad
The lockdown of subsection 8 was complete. The hereto unknown quasi-plant designated "Thorny" by Doctor had mysteriously exploded in size during mere days of shipwide drone stasis, growing to an immense volume within the subsection, sending tendrils and roots of itself everywhere; removal proved to be highly impractical, not to mention dangerous, as Thorny defied extermination with active passive-resistance. After intense debate over what action to take, it had been decided to completely evacuate the subsection and isolate it with forcefields, hoping no major maintenance problems cropped up in the area in the near future. A return to appropriate shipyard facilities - those able to scaffold and extract entire subsections - in BorgSpace would be necessary before the bloodvine could be eliminated.
Delta's engineering hierarchy had received the task; Doctor was hiding his mental signature and physical self as well as one could in a sub-collective mind where every member was linked to the next.
A silver-green vine, leaking pink fluid from a rapidly healing stump, slowly slithered forwards, expanding its territory once more now that nothing was bushwhacking it. The large tendril paused as it encountered an electromagnetic repulsion, then resumed its advance, drawn by light source further down the hallway.
BZZZZT!
Delta, eyes narrowed and optic implants tuned to specific frequencies, watched the tendril pull backwards, much faster than a traditionally sessile plant. The barrier would hold; both bodies, at widely separate locales, observed similar performances, as did small engineering detachments elsewhere. It rankled to give up the subsection to a simple plant, but the effort and material required to eradicate it could be spent more efficiently in other ways.
Tangential thoughts of supplies automatically called up an inventory list, which was much shorter than it should have been due to the blow out of Bulk Cargo Hold #2, which had taken place during the same time period Thorny had gone through its growth spurt. Ignoring the loss of five hundred forty-seven maturation chambers, a goodly portion of Cube #347's spare conduits, as well as other miscellaneous manufactured products, had been stored in the bay. All was now gone. Replicators were working at full bore to replace as many items as possible, but the raw material the replicators needed was being severely depleted at a rapid pace. In response to Delta's request, Captain had altered course to intersect with an uninhabited system on long-range sensors. The outer fringes of the impromptu supply depot would be encountered in the next hour.
{We are done here. The following detachments will continue to monitor subsection 8 to observe bloodvine behavior and forcefield strength. All others will either enter regeneration if scheduled, or else return to normal maintenance tasks. The following designations will prepare hierarchy and facilities for material acquisition at target system.} Nearly one thousand designations were sorted and posted, accompanied by inevitable groans by the multitudes as duties were received, acknowledged. A massive shift change began.
####FORTY YEARS EARLIER####
Zh'kula, of Clan D'markac as well as one of the five spawn of his Breeding Season to have been conceived in the sacred family rookery Pools at Chokoo, swore a blue streak up and down as his chosen target escaped. He had researched this species for months, finally picking a prize individual - the top of her genetic lineage - to add to his collection. The fact the individual was one of an identical twin set was a bonus, as removing her from the breeding population would not deprive the race of the assets represented by the tightly woven helixes of her chromosomes.
And now, the Borg, galactic busybodies and spoilsports, had swept in, stealing her from the colony...hell, they were in the process of assimilating the entire Grikite enclave, including all the prime stocks which had led to the target's birth.
The shuttle, ignored by the giant cubeships, echoed with a few more seething phrases, literally peeling paint from a bulkhead as Zh'kula's telekinetic abilities escaped his control. Seeing the paint strips floating in the comfortable environment of zero-gee, the Dromela sucked in his breath and held it, slowly calming down. He was a renown genetic conusor, breeding and exhibiting thousands of sentient and nonsentient species, many of whom were now extinct in the "wild" universe, or unavailable due to scourges such as the Borg. Genetic fads came and went in the Ijexian Empire, and a good zoological collector needed to keep on top of the market. Big credits were to be made if one was in the right place at the right time with the right creature, either through private showings or selling of extra specimens. Too bad the Empire was so strict concerning the keeping of those sentients whom were member species.
Incarceration? Slavery? Hah! The beings lived better lives in artificially maintained natural habitats then in the wild. Most of them even /ate/ better meals than him!
Zh'kula barked an order to the shuttle's computer; most of the hardware at his disposal was not of dubious Dromelan origin, but procured over the years at prohibitive prices (or heartbreaking genetic swaps) from far-flung civilizations more technologically endowed. The computer, eavesdropping on Borg communications, tersely related the eminent complete assimilation of the entire Grikite species. Zh'kula groaned, an eerie rise of breathless clicks.
"Computer, open hailing frequencies to the 'Glo'titi'." A reply swiftly followed from Oh'kula, Zh'kula's younger sib and the ship's chief gene wrangler. The Glo'titi itself, a prize which would attract unwanted Borg attention even as the insignificant shuttle did not, was hidden nearby in a subspace pocket. "Bad news, sis. Borg got here before we did. Tell the crew, then have them break out the shuttles to retrieve our other targets before all become unavailable. I'll return to 'Glo'titi' and bring her to rendezvous Alpha. Once there, we can see what we managed to salvage out of this fiasco. Zh'kula out."
Zh'kula sighed again, tightening a foot-claw on one of the grips welded to the floor. He was no oracle, but he could foresee a long couple of hectic weeks in his near future.
####RETURN TO PRESENT####
{And a whee! Wheeee! Wheeeeeeeeee! Fireflies! Let's all go see the sparks!}
Cube #347 was rapidly retreating, was already out of optic range to those on the trio of asteroids. Extrapolated trajectory intercepted a satellite of a local gas giant, a moon which was in the process of spectacularly breaking up, perhaps due to bombardment of comet fragments pushing it into an eccentric orbit. 24 of 79 had hijacked the cube's propulsion systems to go take a closer look; the suddenness of the activity from a hereto quiet drone had caught Captain by complete surprise.
{Wheeeeee! Wheeeeeeeeeeee!}
It did not appear that control would be regained any time soon. Delta, both bodies, sighed. Body A remained on Cube #347, experiencing the joyride, while body B was among those on the asteroids. A few terse commands returned the sixty of engineering hierarchy back to the task of placing explosives.
The asteroids in question had the exact mixture of ores required for raw replicator fodder, but were too large to be processed as is. While it would be possible to carve the rocks up into manageable bits via cutting beam, Weapons disliked relinquishing control of the tractors, much less the offensive weaponry; and directing Weapons to cut the asteroids in the precise manner Delta wanted would undoubtedly end with a cloud of pebbles and the need to find a new target. Demolition work was more efficient.
Body B yanked the stubborn drill from its hole, nearly launching the body into space. 8 of 19 reached out to grab a limb of body B, steadying Delta; 18 of 240 peered into the hole before beginning to stuff it with a moldable explosive. A line of filled holes capped with blinking radio detonators followed a stress fracture of asteroid A. Below the curvature of the horizon, another team worked, slowly traveling in the opposite direction.
Delta put an end to 24 of 79's fun by powering down the core below operable threshold for impulse drives; concentration broken, 24 of 79 quickly submitted to Captain's control. Several critical relays were blown during the procedure, an occurrence which became readily apparent - one case involved a spectacular shower of orange sparks - as power levels were returned to nominal status. Less than an hour would be required to fix the damaged replays. While the cube functioned perfectly fine by rerouting impulse control through one of the multitudes of redundant pathways, there was no hurry to return to the asteroids. Work on the rocks required at least an additional two hours, and no hostile forces were descending upon the cube for once.
Delta told Captain her desire to repair relays promptly before returning to the rocks. Favorable consensus on the relatively minor matter achieved, the engineering hierarchy went to work.
Elsewhere in the system, a cloaked vessel, of equivalent mass if quite different design than Cube #347, dropped out of a subspace pocket, exit concealed with a small flash of gamma radiation chaff. Sensors routinely logged the pungent citrus signature as the annihilation of a spontaneous proton materialization and its anti-matter twin.
"Genetic scan complete," announced Oh'kula, swiveling her body such that her eyes faced her older sib Zh'kula, captain-owner of Glo'titi. The excitement in her voice was unmistakable. "There are Grikite here! One is on the cube, the other on an asteroid!"
Zh'kula warbled a click of interrogation, "Gender?" He badly needed Grikite breeding stock: forty years ago when a genetic lineage was saved from the Borg, the requirements for a successful breeding pool had not been ascertained. Over the subsequent years, close examination of Grikite genetic material revealed need for a relatively large population to keep deadly recessives at bay. Zh'kula had been forced to consider some rather aggressive measures to retain Grikites in his collection, which now would include the raiding of Borg ships. Dangerous!
"Female, bro! Both are female, but I suspect it'll be easier to grab the one on the rock."
Lamoor, shuttle and fighter chief, looked up from the console he had been consulting, hearing the confirmation of target. He was Cadarite, a bipedal rabbit-like mammal with jet-black fur, and did not particularly appreciate the low gravity Zh'kula maintained on the bridge in comparison to the multi-special crew enclave areas. However, the pay being what it was, Lamoor could easily withstand floppy ears and less-than-secure footing. "Shall I git a crew to break out a shuttle and grab yer beastie?"
Zh'kula waved an arm-limb in negation. He had stumped over to Oh'kula's display to see the genetic readout for himself. "No, no. That would take too much time, and I suspect the Borg won't be too happy when we take one of their own. I've heard rumors about the capabilities of an aroused cubeship and its drones, and I'd rather not have a shuttle exposed to such a storm. We'll maneuver 'Glo'titi' in, transport our target to a maximum security vet cell, tranquilize her, and fade back into subspace. We pull this off successfully, and I'll add a bonus of 500 credits to each crew paycheck."
"And if we aren't successful?" asked the always pragmatic Cadarite.
"I don't think you'll have much need for money."
Silence.
"Anyway," cheerfully continued Zh'kula, "Lamoor, go wrangle up a vet crew. Not your job, I know, but I suspect they and your fellows are in the same place busily gambling away the bonus they don't yet know about. Oh'kula, get the proper tranquilizers ready, both dart and gas form. I'll go wake up my nephew Al'kula. I would pilot the ship myself, but I'm getting up in age and I feel we'll need the younger reflexes of a hot-shot spawn."
A large shadow abruptly consolidated over the area Delta and her detachment were steadily working. Without the meager light, already optically enhanced, thrown by the primary, the asteroid's surface became very treacherous. 18 of 240 stumbled into 8 of 19; a 13.9 kilogram packet of explosives gained escape velocity as limbs were tangled, followed by several miscellaneous tools and nearly 18 of 240.
{What the hell?} asked Delta, optic implant of body B swiftly reconfigured to a frequency not dependent on visual light. 18 of 240 unhelpfully waved her limbs about as she was pulled in, almost sending would-be rescuers into their own personal stellar orbits. The extremely large mass continued to hang ominously - stereotypical theatrics? - only hundreds of meters above the engineering task force. Cube #347 was too removed to assist, either with weapons or transporters, and the other detachments would only fly into space should they try to hurry to the contact point.
A prickling sensation crawled along body B's limbs, signaling transporter lock and early stages of beaming. There was nothing Delta could do to resist: her resources on the asteroid were nonexistent, and those on Cube #347 too distant.
The unsolicited ride ended with body B in a rather cramped room, sterile white. Dim lights focused orange light downwards and the air registered a relatively chill 22.4 Celsius...well, much warmer than the temperature on the rock, but less than a typical Borg cube. If anything, the environment was similar to the homeworld of species #4888, Grikite. Vents at the intersection of ceiling and wall opened with a quiet hiss, disgorging a pale blue gas which quickly sunk to the floor.
Delta, body A to be exact, abruptly collapsed in a state of neural shock as part of her mind blanked, half of her soul (assuming Borg retained such an item) blinking out of existence.
"We got her?" asked Zh'kula, his voice buzzing with excitement. Oh'kula gestured an affirmative, followed by a positive reaction to the gaseous contact tranquilizer. "Then cloak and get us out of here, nephew!"
Al'kula, who had been nervously watching the viewscreen and the rapidly approaching Borg cube, glanced once at his uncle before flailing away at his console with all four arms in a complicated show of exacting coordination. Glo'titi cloaked.
Unknown to those on board, 13.9 kilograms of Very High Explosive - enough to level small mountains in the right circumstance - was caught near one of the massive engine mounts of Glo'titi, wedged between strut and hull. Under normal conditions the explosive was as inert as basalt rock, requiring a radio transceiver to grossly amplify the trigger frequencies for fiery mayhem. Currently the deformed cylinder of pale blue clay was stuck approximately 200 meters from a huge engine core, one which was not perfectly shielded electromagnetic-wise to the general universe when the driver rammed the stick shift from idle to Bat-Out-Of-Hell speed.
One of the frequencies emanated from the core as Glo'titi tore a hole in subspace and dropped into the resultant pocket was coincidentally that which was used to trigger Borg explosives, but more powerful. Much more powerful. The resultant concussion actually shook the superstructure of Glo'titi, and at first blush that appeared to be the extent of the consequences. Even as the ship slipped into the subspace pocket, sewing the hole behind shut, crew frantically ran diagnostics to determine what happened. All readouts returned healthy system information.
A very small leak trickled plasma into the unvoid, a few drops from a straw into the vastness of an ocean.
The stealing of a Borg drone, be it Delta or any other body, was not an action to be taken lightly. It wasn't that Cube #347 (or the Collective) couldn't afford to lose a drone, even a damn good engineer like Delta, but the principle of the matter. A bad message might inadvertently be sent to the rest of the galaxy if it became known one could take the Collective's toys and not expect to be punished. Therefore, Cube #347 rushed to the rescue.
The alien ship, after a quick scan of archives, registered to be in the top 5% of the "large" category for nonBorg, nonMech vessels; the configuration was classified as unknown. Initial estimates from the engineering hierarchy, still reeling over the functional loss of their head and not yet in synch with the random engineering drone, 13 of 42, Captain had chosen for a replacement placed the kidnapper at equal (and perhaps a bit more) tonnage to Cube #347. A series of further scans, the only action possible as the cube rushed towards the asteroids, showed a bewildering array of lifeform and environmental signatures...and a very light weaponry system, at least in comparison to what would be expected for a warship of similar stature. In the normal course of events, it could handily hold its own against raiders or the occasional paranoid species; against a Borg cube, even an Exploratory-class, the alien would be lunch meat.
From nose to stern, the vessel was a 3.4 kilometer centipede, multiple compartments taking on the role of segments with long legs stretching out to anchor an unusual shielding system. The bulbous "head", itself over 500 meters in diameter, was not a bridge, but served as cargo and hanger area. Four 400 meter nacelles, each arrayed as three interdependent sub-engines, were mounted on stubby pillions to the aft sections, two to the back of the centipede, two on the belly. The color of the ship was a unitarian gray, except across the "forehead" where thirty meter high green letters of unknown script spelled out what was probably a name; no official registration number could be seen.
As Cube #347 entered the envelope of its most far-reaching weapons, the target disappeared. Cloak. The sensor hierarchy began to scan the electromagnetic spectrum and to watch for a sudden jump of specific particle emissions, all telltale spoor of the various cloaking technologies known to the Borg.
A large explosion suddenly blossomed, sending a ripple through the alien's cloak, momentarily disrupting it and allowing a lock to extrapolate possible trajectories. Sensors then reported a subspace rip forming to the front of the target, one which was visible as a glaring gape into nothingness. The tear folded back on itself, healing, swallowing the partially cloaked vessel.
Cube #347 slowed to a halt, quarry lost.
The Dromela produced a pair of snapping noises, as if a hidden beak was being clicked rapidly together. It (he, she, or otherwise...differences between genders were unknown as of yet) was of lesser stature than the Jhad-ball players encountered as the first representatives of the species, central body-head sac of the amphibious octopod slightly crinkled, limbs thick in a way that might suggest advanced age or an out-of-shape condition. The watery green eyes - four - that peered from the front of the glistening brown sac were alert, belying thoughts of senility. Modified pinchers on the ends of the foot-limbs firmly clutched the spongy floor; delicate fingers were hidden in the horny sheaths which capped arm-limbs currently curled close to the body.
The being was only noted in passing, residing as it did on the opposite side of a large pane of clear material, not glass nor plastic or transparent aluminum. And not a forcefield, either. The room was not the original one transported to, although light and temperature were similar. Delta, body B, was too busy staring at the wall in a somewhat catatonic state, consciousness regained only a short time before: she had not only been kidnapped and could no longer feel the others of Cube #347, much less the Collective, but half of /herself/ was lost, gone. An arm, a leg, vital organs could all be replaced, but /she/ was torn asunder! Delta body B did not know how to react, could not remember a time she had been so...ALONE...SINGLE...in her entire existence, including pre-assimilation.
How did the singletons of the universe cope?
Before the watchful eyes of the Dromela, Delta body B did the only thing she could considering the intolerable, downright frightening, situation: she scrambled the electrical and chemical connections of brainware/hardware, returning her SOLITARY body to unconsciousness, this time of her own violation. She did not register the squishy impact of her body falling to the deck.
"Mama," sighed Leeta, "aren't you making a lot of fuss..."
"...about this whole graduation thing?" continued Leeta's twin Kitra. "We won't be moving that..."
"...far away when we start our new job..."
"...with Astro-Engineering."
Leeta and Kitra, identical twins in a race where such was extremely rare, suffered in silence as their mother continued dithering. The graduation robes had to look just right, a small sprig of the traditional good luck plant juibi pinned on the right shoulder. She was used to the way her offspring completed the other's sentence, although someone not of the family might be startled.
"There you go, my darlings, just right. Humor your poor mother...you're my only daughters and I don't want them growing up so fast. Astro-Engineering may be gaining some of the finest engineers on the colony after the ceremony, but I will be losing the both of you." Tears welled in Mama's eyes, threatening to fall in a scene repeated over the ages billions of times on millions of worlds throughout the cosmos.
Pull back from the idyllic picture, one which occurred many years ago on an outpost belonging to a peaceful race known as Grikite, species #4888, only days before the terror of the civilization's complete assimilation into the Borg Collective. Deep memories from a time when two linked bodies did not truly think as One, when different points of view and personal perspectives about a situation belonged to separate minds. The last jewel of a shared life sparkling as a bright dream, halves of a soul born as two attempting to resurrect the meaning of singleness in a time when it was conceivable a set of twins may eventually be separated.
Odd...for while the dreamers were separated in space and linkages, both technologically forged and that present since birth, broken, the identical scene played out in the minds of both. Near sixty years of togetherness is not possible to be erased in mere hours.
Leeta as the sprig of juibi was adjusted yet again: "Mama...."
"Vet crew! Get a vet crew in there now!" bellowed Zh'kula as his newest prize collapsed. He didn't understand...the environmental conditions mimicked the subject's homeworld and subsonics were designed to pacify her. Grikites in general had shown much promise as a kept species, unusually pragmatic about their condition. Unlike most sentients in Zh'kula's genetic collection, Grikites knowledgeably accepted their role as specimens in a private zoo, happy in the security of their habitat without the inherent trauma of wiping-rewriting memories with each vet checkup.
A door opened in the acclimation cell, admitting four people of various races, all members of the Ijexian Empire. They were suited in level three armored environment suits, the leader carefully administering a hypospray cocktail to the Grikite's arm, ingredients undoubtedly containing a limb paralyzing agent. Of those on the ship, none had direct contact with the Borg, a distant threat, if known at all by those crew who signed up during occasional forays of Glo'titi back to Ijexian Empire-controlled space. Not even Zh'kula, who had rarely set foot-claw outside his ship's hull since he had bought her so many years ago, could articulate what a Borg drone might be capable of doing, that particular civilization generally avoided when encountered on long-range sensors. However, despite the mechanical contraptions embedded in the subject's flesh, she was still fundamentally Grikite, physiology of which was well known.
Jubo'lig, of Clan Thyri and Zh'kula's lifetime body servant, respectfully called for his master's attention. "Sir, I've a detailed report on the damage caused by the explosion." The servant was nearly the same age as Zh'kula, the lesser Clanner telepathically bonded to his master when both were spawns fresh from the rookery Pools.
"Spit it out, Jubo'lig." A gurney was being rolled into the cell in preparation to take the Grikite Borg to an examination room. "I've not all day."
"Yes, sir," bobbed Jubo'lig, his legs bending slightly in genetically programmed subservience. "There is a slight rupture in the outer manifold of our lower starboard engine, and we are leaking plasma. There is no loss of power, and normal procedure would be to tear back into normal space and weld a patch, but there are indications the Borg might be pursuing and could easily spot the ship if we left the pocket. With the leak as it is, there may or may not be enough of a trail for the Borg to follow." Jubo'lig cringed slightly, another genetic reflex although no member of Clan D'markac had beat a servant of Clan Thyri because of bad news for over a hundred years.
Zh'kula curled an arm underneath his body sac, rasping on an arm-sheath in thought. "Jubo'lig, go tell Al'kula to keep going, using his best judgment as far as evasive course corrections go. We'll have to chance it, hoping the leak isn't enough for the cube to pinpoint us. Once we escape, emergency repairs will be made."
"Yes, sir." Jubo'lig bobbed another bow, then scurried off to find Al'kula. Zh'kula turned to go in the opposite direction, towards the appropriate vet bay, thoughts revolving around the reason for the Grikite's worrisome collapse.
{[Lemon meringue fish]! There is a trail, heavy with [fish]. Although the [lemon] is dilute, it is possible to follow.}
{But? I hear a "but" in your signature,} Sensors, returned Captain.
It is the slipwarp drive the alien uses...[lemon] and [fish] must diffuse from their pocket to real space.
13 of 42, now of the temporary designation Engineer, concurred, {Yes, we do not have the ability to track the slipwarp course directly; and even if we had the appropriate engine, we couldn't use it anyway.}
Captain nodded, that final point was certainly true. Even as the immense centipede of a ship made the spectacular tear in space-time, Cube #347 had sent a request to the Greater Consciousness for details of an obscure mode of travel known as slipwarp. Faster than normal warp, yet slower than transwarp, slipwarp, first encountered with species #5773, and only seen once since. Theory and engineering-wise, it was easier to jump from warp to transwarp than to stray down the path of slipwarp despite its attractive in-between speeds.
Slipwarp, like other warp-flavored modes of travel, began with a warp bubble enclosing a vessel and slipping into the underlayers of real space, where Einstein could be thwarted. At that point, resemblance to the most commonly employed drives ended. The barrier of the slipwarp shell had two "modes," frictionless and sandpaper, for lack of better terms outside the realm of pure mathematics. When the field exhibited sandpaper tendencies, the subspace pocket with ship did not move forward, instead transferring energy via capacitors (one of the functions of the nacelles) to the fabric of subspace. The effect was similar to stretching a rubber band, storing energy. A spontaneous shift in mode to frictionless released the locally pent up energy, sending the ship forward at great velocities in a manner reminiscent of fingers squirting a watermelon seed. Depending on the amount of power initially wound into subspace warp and woof, various speeds and distances could be experienced, with the latter a maximum of ten real universe light years before recharged capacitors went to work again. Travel occurred in pulses, with only a few seconds required to rewinding space-time; heavy inertial dampers were required to smooth an otherwise bumpy ride.
Technobabble aside, there was one overriding reason the Borg did not employ this method of travel, which was both faster than warp and nigh untraceable. The slipwarp bubble, by its very pulsed nature, seriously interfered with the fractual communication system the Collective relied upon to keep all drones connected as One. Early attempts to adapt the drive to service the Borg had proven disastrous, entire sub-collectives lost to an insanity requiring termination. As slipwarp was not a necessary technology, it was eventually shelved with other such endeavors, label of "dangerous" inscribed into the data.
Pausing over the trio of asteroids to recover the drones otherwise stranded there, Cube #347 shot radio transceivers (different frequency than the detonators!) into the rocks' crust so that they might be found later. At the same time, the sensor grid was realigned such that maximum resolution of the trail - plasma - could be gained. General trajectory plotted, Cube #347 took off into high warp.
"Leeta? Leeta?" screamed Kitra, sight blurry with tears. "Answer me! Come on, sister, wake up! Don't leave me alone. I'm scared." The last was uttered as mere whisper.
The dream had taken a turn for the worse, bright joy of graduation and thoughts of a successful future degenerating into darkness. The entry of wrongness had been both gradual and sudden, a dreamer's paradox which cannot be resolved, nor should. Monsters, half machine beings who called themselves Borg, were swarming over the colony, stealing people away. Leeta and Kitra had fought at first, until the first twin had fallen, disruptor burn to the shoulder calling down unconsciousness.
"I'm sorry Leeta, I'm sorry. I know you didn't really want to fight, only hide and hope these Borg creatures went away, but I insisted. And you almost always let me get my way. I'm so, so sorry." Kitra stroked her twin's hair, holding the head in her lap. Around her the battle continued to rage, remains of the local militia volunteers pushed back. As the dominant twin of the pair, Kitra held an undue influence over Leeta, one which the former was now regretting. "Don't die. I don't want to be alone."
A shadow, dark in the increasingly surrealistic scene, fell over the pair. Kitra looked up to see the pale, implant shrouded face of a Borg invader. "Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated," mechanically stated the creature.
Returned Kitra, looking down at her sister, listening to soft breaths of pain, "I don't care about assimilation. Just kill me. My twin is dying and I can't face being alone. I would rather die than be without Leeta."
The dream shattered into complete chaos, 'I can't face being alone' and 'I would rather die' echoing incessantly in a cavern reaching to forever. Missing...something was missing. Where was the other?
On Cube #347:
Delta body A awoke, familiar ceiling of a maintenance bay overhead. It was all wrong! Body B was missing! Half of Delta, half of self, was gone! Rather than face the pain of separation anew, the being once known as Leeta fled back to the comfortable world of the past, before the Borg. Her sister was there. She was whole.
On Glo'titi:
Delta body B awoke, restraints at wrist and ankle, too bright lights focused upon her face. This was not Cube #347, this was not a drone maintenance shop. More importantly, half of Delta, half of self, was gone! The being once known as Kitra longed to return to the comfortable confines of a world left behind, but chemicals in her blood would not allow her. She was forced, as circumstances had forced so long ago, to face existence without part of herself. She was SINGLE. She was not whole.
Zh'kula was pleased. For once, everything appeared to be going well. Despite the leak in the manifold, the Borg had not caught Glo'titi, and the longer the ship was free, the greater the chance the cube would be lost. The vet report on the Grikite female was confused, as could be expected considering all the hardware in her, but the appropriate therapies had brought Zh'kula's hard won prize back from the brink of death; they continued to mull over the problem of implant removal. To top off the good news, a complete genetic typing confirmed this particular specimen was one of a targeted pair lost to Borg assimilation forty years ago.
After stabilization of the Grikite female, she had been brought to an observation room. Zh'kula had decided it would be best for her psyche to reintroduce her quickly to her own species, allowing comfort in their presence to begin mental healing. True physical health, i.e. removal of Borg machines, would take a bit longer, according to the vets.
The door to the mini-habitat opened, allowing the eligible male, the one who's genes would best compliment Zh'kula's newest acquisition to his Grikite stable, to enter. Jeriah was the male's name, an older fellow who had been rescued from the race's homeworld hours before the Borg overwhelmed the system's planetary forces. In subsequent years, after Jeriah had entered puberty and became of an age acceptable for fatherhood, he had become one of the Zh'kula's primary studs, subtlety guided to be responsible for eight children; happily, Grikite did not mate for life, unlike some of the less productive members of the Glo'titi genetic collection.
Jeriah was one of the multitude of silly mammalian species which populated the galaxy, exteriors alike except for superficial cosmetic features. Two arms, two legs, a head to top the body, Zh'kula was convinced the Directors had run out of ideas when then had gotten around to setting the stage for the evolution of mammal intelligence. Jeriah's hair was long and lustrous, with a deep blue tinged black color; handsome ridges of horn decorated nose, arcing up over eye sockets before trailing towards the ear holes. The Grikite had dressed in his best ceremonial toga, ready to welcome what he had been told was to be the newest habitat member, prepared to offer explanations to an undoubtedly scared female. Grikite's were not animals, after all, and Zh'kula knew it might be several weeks, months or even years, for preliminary courting to be completed and actual breeding activity to begin; he just wanted to observe the first introductory stage.
"I offer greetings from the Grikite habitat! I know there are many questions on your mind, the least of which why you are on the 'Glo'titi', which I....will......" Jeriah's enthusiastic spiel trailed off into inaudibility, mind catching up with mouth and body. Eyes opened wide in fear. "Borg! Borg! It's a Borg!" The female made no move of hostility, her gaze passively directed at the male of her species, yet Jeriah abruptly began to shiver and moan, dropping to his knees. "Mama! What are they, Mama? What are those things on the television? Why are they coming here? Why are they killing everyone? Is my sister ever going to come home from the defense squads? I want Papa! Maybe if I hide in the cave fort, they won't find me. Mama? Mama!"
Jeriah was now curled up in a ball on the floor, toga twisted behind his knees, calling for his mother between bouts of verbal recounting of an invasion forty years past. Zh'kula knew the Grikite had been the final subject caught on the homeworld, hiding in the hills behind his dwelling even as the first Borg cubes were entering orbit. He also thought the trauma of the distant event had been erased, soothed both by time and advanced medical devices. Evidently the plan to add the female to the breeding populace would take a bit more work than usual; an arm-sheath was rasped by beak with the diligence of a decades old bad habit.
Zh'kula blinked his eyes to the monitor, witnessing movement in the room. It was not a vet crew coming to remove Jeriah, but the female, staring directly into a camera pickup. Zh'kula flipped a switch to alter the view to another input; the Borg swiveled her head, unerringly following the change in audio-visual transmission.
"You made a mistake when you did not kill this body nor allow it to die. Whoever you are, you are dead. Assimilation is too good for the one who maimed this body, the one who killed its mind."
The dull monotone threat was not forceful, was stated as simple fact. Zh'kula nervously watched (chewing on two sheaths) as the vet crew entered to retrieve Jeriah, all without incident. Maybe the whole Borg idea needed to be rethought: there were other, very artificial and time consuming, methods to increase genetic stock robustness without addition of a new lineage.
Delta body B carefully held her mind blank, an empty slate between what remained of her psyche and certain madness. No, she was already mad, already quite insane, but giving in to a darkness where she wouldn't be forced to dwell on her SINGLENESS would only invite the very efficient medical crew and their chemicals to revive her. To do more, to think about her future options, was impossible. Hopefully, without the proper equipment to maintain the Borg body, body B would terminate despite the best attempts of the doctors. Perhaps that would be best, if only to end her deranged condition.
Delta body B frowned. Unless she was already dead, in which case the existence of a Hell was now proven, and she would be forever forced to face ALONENESS. No. Blank mind. Blank mind. Blank mind.
The door to the small room opened. Like the other times in immediate memory, the environment of the space matched that of species #4888 homeworld, although the previously spongy and damp floor was replaced with a soothing neutral beige carpet, as one might find in hospitals across the multiverses. Several hidden cameras were mounted near the ceiling, active power flow to one of them automatically sensed by an optic implant subassembly. The being which entered the room was instantly classified as the species to which the environmental conditions belonged. He was middle-aged, but still quite healthy, even attractive, although such observations held little meaning to a Borg drone, and could expect to live for many decades barring accident or disease. Activity of information processing was automated, and did not disrupt Delta body B's blank mind effort.
"I offer greetings from the Grikite habitat! I know there are many questions on your mind, the least of which why you are on the 'Glo'titi', which I....will......" began the male Grikite, excitement in his voice rapidly changing to horror. "Borg! Borg! It's a Borg!" The intruder was impinging upon Delta body B's emptiness, making her think. She looked at him in annoyance, as one might regard a fly shortly before the swatter descends. The male quickly degenerated into babbling, further awakening the demon of LONLINESS inside.
At this juncture, something snapped inside the torn shell of a mind which had once been a complete...well, not individual, but certainly a whole self in other respects. The person, the embodiment of evil, which had perpetrated the horrible deed was to blame. He or she would pay. Purpose to live life regained, even if the drive would only last as long as the body continued to function without regenerative support, Delta body B focused her attention on the active camera. The power flow switched to a second point of view, but the radiating energy signature was simple to follow.
"You made a mistake when you did not kill this body nor allow it to die. Whomever you are, you are dead. Assimilation is too good for the one who maimed this body, the one who killed its mind."
Delta body B was deep in thought, crippled by singularity although adequately functional, when a medical team arrived to remove the blubbering species #4888 male. They were ignored as inconsequential. Much needed to be planned for revenge.
{Sensors doesn't taste/smell anything. Sensors thinks we overshot it again.}
Frustration! Captain sent the cube to retracing its path, once again. The in-between speed of slipwarp left Cube #347 in the dust when the latter trailed at traditional warp, yet shifting into transwarp guaranteed the plasma breadcrumbs to be lost as the kidnapper was overshot during one of its frequent course corrections. In consequence, Cube #347 was traveling twice the spatial distance of the alien centipede, risking loss of the scent during frequent coursing to rediscover the trail.
{Doctor, status of Delta?} directed Captain towards the head of drone maintenance. It would be several minutes before the cube returned to normal space to continue the hunt.
{Physically, Delta body A is functional; mentally...that is a different story. Her condition is beyond the precepts of drone maintenance: engrams indicate she has locked herself into deep memory pathways. She is useless as is. Shall we terminate and harvest parts?}
Captain focused on the signature which represented Delta, feeling the same nothingness, the same eerily filled emptiness which had characterized the drone's mental state since the abduction of the other body. Borg drones were either alive and functional, or dead and a collection of spare parts. This vegetative state was unusual, which lent a sense of hesitancy over what should be done. On one hand, if body B could be recovered intact, Delta theoretically would regain functionality; and on the other hand, body A, as is, warranted termination. Captain was loath to bring such a matter to the Greater Consciousness' attention, for not only should the sub-collective be able to resolve the problem on their own, the order to begin dismantlement of Delta body A would be the inevitable conclusion.
Cube #347 slowed to a halt, allowing the sensor hierarchy to search for the trail. {Sensors has it!} said Sensors, followed by a new travel vector. {It is stronger than last time: we are gaining.} Captain initiated the new course, sending the cube into transwarp, before returning to the problem of Delta. Finally he initiated a consensus cascade over the troubling manner.
{I understand,} returned Doctor as the consensus cleared. {The body will be maintained until such time we lose the trail and any chance to recover body B, or Delta's mind is reintegrated.}
Leeta frowned, she and Kitra were playing hide-and-seek in the wooded park behind the house, and she was "it". Kitra had hidden herself really, really good. Normally the twins did not play hide-and-seek because each always seemed to know where the other was hiding, but today was just a hide-and-seek kind of afternoon.
Thoughts did not drift to the question concerning the absence of the other children. For some reason they were all in school and the twins were at home. The teacher must had given a special pass to go home and play hide-and-seek.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are! I give up, Kitra, you found a really good hiding place," shouted Leeta, hands cupped to mouth. "Please come out!"
Afternoon was changing to evening, sun sinking quickly towards dusk. Formerly innocent trees were growing claws and fangs, eyeing her hungrily. "Kitra? I'm scared, Kitra. I give up! You win, you always win. Can we go home now?" Leeta shivered, feeling lonely, cold. Bolder Kitra always could handle these scary situations better; she would know how to make the bad trees to away.
Delta body B awoke to yet a different room. Shortly after the male of her species had been removed from the cell, contact sedative gas had been introduced. This space was not empty, but contained a sleeping shelf, one-piece table and chair blocks attached to the floor, and a replicator terminal. As body B approached the electronic hardware, it beeped and began a prerecorded message in an pleasant artificial voice.
"Greetings, lifeform. I am your replicator. I can dispense food dishes and nonalcoholic drinks native to your racial homeworld or colonies, but may not be used to produce other materials. Additionally, I can follow your voice commands to alter local environmental settings if the present one is not to your liking. Selected parameters include temperature, humidity, gravity, and lighting."
Body B looked the patiently waiting machine up and down. "You are a simplistic device. You will comply with my demands."
"I am built to serve you."
"Yes, you will service me." Hand was laid on the terminal, triggering assimilation tubules to link body B with the computer system. Barriers to access were nearly nonexistent, those few firewalls easily circumnavigated or broken. The calm, nearly suicidal mental state of body B analytically examined each problem as it was presented, determining solutions. Even with the resources of a single, halved mind, computer systems were quickly compromised, bringing them under the control of a master engineer.
The first thing determined was body B's imprisoned state, stuck in a room with an external, old-fashioned manual locking mechanism. The walls, floor, and ceiling would be impossible to cut through without a plasma torch and several hours of dedicated effort. Transporters were useful, but for what body B had planned, the isolation of the room would be a boon. As difficult as it was to escape, gaining entry could be just as tough. Delta body B was an engineer, not a tactical drone, and her way was more subtle, although just as potentially devastating.
Satisfied she had complete control of critical systems, body B did as the replicator had suggested, altering the environment of the ship to that more comfortable, specifically Borg normal. Humidity, temperature, gravity, lighting, air mixture, and other variables were changed all over the Glo'titi, both in habitat and crew areas.
Delta body B began a systematic campaign of engineering terror, as that was her forte, even if she wasn't all quite there at the moment. Simultaneously she accessed data files to begin her primary self-imposed mission: to locate and destroy the being responsible for her mental rape. Glo'titi, vessel designation which corresponded to a Dromela naturalist who first put forth the theory of evolution to his race, was owned and captained by a member of the same species, name Zh'kula. A pict of Zh'kula from his personal files revealed the same Dromela body B had seen in her catatonic state when first beamed aboard.
Zh'kula...he was the head of what passed for hierarchies on the Glo'titi...he would be the target of body B's wrath.
{The [fish] is very strong, very old...we have gained much ground,} stated Sensors as the cube dropped from transwarp to determine how far off-course they had become. Amazingly, it seemed the target had not only /not/ deviated from their trail, but had slowed, as if the captain of the ship /wanted/ the Borg to catch up.
Screamed Weapons, {It is a trap! There is a secret weapon and they plan to use it on us! We must attack first and destroy them all!}
{Quiet, Weapons. Original sensor data indicated nothing more devastating than quantum torpedoes; and after a hit or two, we will adapt. No doomsday weapon on board.} At the same time Captain sent his retort to Weapons, he was reviewing that same information, just in case.
{Sensors has a new trajectory lock. The vessel is very close. Sensors also has no clue how we will be able to get it out of its pocket. Sensors just tracks.}
{Engineer?}
The new head of the engineering hierarchy was quite busy on his own, trying to coordinate normal maintenance with the excitement of pursuit. The former was slowly falling to the wayside as various drones ditched responsibilities, throwing Delta's careful schedules into shambles. It would be days before Engineer fully asserted his absolute control.
{Engineer?}
{What? Oh...that's a right. You wanted a way to a get the vessel out of her pocket,} sang-song Engineer. An extremely odd accent flavored the mental words. {We are a working on it right a now. Schematics for a subspace charge have been procured and we are a now altering some of our own weaponry for a use.}
{All right!} crowed Weapons. {More toys! I like this new Engineer!}
Captain shook his head. /That/ proclamation was a first. The data from Sensors was fed into engines; a short transwarp hop engaged.
Zh'kula stumbled onto the bridge, vowing to not use the lift system again until the current crisis was resolved. His body servant stumbled in the captain-owner's wake, skin shiny with the Dromela version of tapioca pudding. The replicators in Zh'kula's suite had gone absolutely insane, spewing the one substance he despised, a hated breakfast dessert he had been forced to consume as a young spawn. Fleeing the mess had led to the lifts, which proceeded to make both Dromela feel like well-shaken cans of soda. The incidents were by no means isolated.
All over the ship, including carefully controlled habitat spaces, environmental conditions had altered to a single setting. By amphibious Dromela standards, temperature and humidity were fine, although the heavier gravity and dim lighting made circumstances ripe for tripping. The diverse species crew had it worse, those who wore clothing due to custom or nudity taboo stripping to skivvies just to remain functional. Even some genetic collections were in peril, entire breeding lineages on the verge of death.
The entire crew, relatively small given the size of the vessel, was swarming over systems, attempting to fix problems as they occurred, or simply reporting on sections to be avoided at all costs. The replicators in the two primary crew mess areas were dumping all matter of odd things, ranging from the birthday pastry meant to feed fifty to liters of scalding vegetable stew, sans bowls. Doors opened invitingly, only to malevolently snap close on the being passing between; the fear from this action was only aggravated as the doors did not always misbehave. As far as the bathrooms...one didn't even think about entering the bathrooms, not after the "incident" involving a Hjurin - the species was famous for their obsessively well-groomed appearance - and thirty liters of unprocessed raw sewage. Transporters were another off-limits system, not because anything bad had happened, but because no one wanted to be the first to experience a misbeaming.
To add insult to injury, loudspeakers throughout Glo'titi coughed to life, ringing to the sound of Zh'kula's voice. The Dromela groaned: the material was his private diary and log. Not only had he recorded his thoughts concerning the quasi-legal possibility of using his often transient crew as a "free range" genetic experiment, but his most intimate sexual fantasies were available for misuse. Most of the log was relatively dry, concerning day to day operations, but such information did not interest the saboteur, not when more juicy gossip abounded.
"Report! Report! It is that Borg, isn't it? Isn't it?!" Zh'kula's calm demeanor was broken. He tried to ignore the current fantasy, one from his younger days when his drive had been greater than it was now, being recounted over the speakers.
A Cadarite by the name of Jabat, maintenance boss and long-time employee, nervously eyed some loose tools on the deck at the feet of his employer. They were twitching as the Dromela's telekinesis responded to uncontrolled emotions. And the Jhad-ball commission continued to disbelieve reports on the strong mental powers of the Dromela species? Jabat did not understand such blindness.
"Borg? Yes, sir. The isolated Grikite female, prior to the room surveillance cameras shorting out, was seen to approach the replicator and put a hand on it. Minutes later, this nightmare began. I've everyone, from regular engineering to shuttle jockeys and vet crew, anyone who can wield a spanner for that matter, busy. The battle is being lost, Boss, lost big time."
Zh'kula nervously rasped on all four of his arm-sheaths, deep in thought. The habit calmed him, even as Jabat urked and began to pound on a console with a wrench, bringing forth a shower of sparks. A hatch in the floor near the lift swung up, allowing Hy'kula, Dromela head of security and one of the few D'markac Clan members not of Zh'kula's immediate family, access to the bridge.
Hy'kula pulled himself to the deck, tiredly standing to his full height under the heavy gravity. Zh'kula sniffed, a process involving not a nose, but the action of waving an arm in the emergent Dromela's direction, before taking a step away. Other crew were making furtive retreats of their own, especially those with sensitive senses of smell.
"Zh'kula...the Borg is completely isolated, no way to get to her," began Hy'kula.
Interrupted Zh'kula, "What is that stench? No, stay over there."
Hy'kula shuffled his feet awkwardly. "That is one of the reasons why we can not secure the Grikite female. The sections around the quarantine room reek, the closer to the door one gets, the worse the stench. And we can't go in with environmental suits because the lockers are all locked and surrounding deck area electrified. Beaming in a security detail or vet crew is suicide; and without cameras to see what is happening, no Dromela can physically manipulate the environment from afar."
"So we are /stuck/ with this?" Zh'kula waved an arm, indicating everything, from Jarat cursing at yet another console to the speakers most current recitation. The ship lurched, dim lights momentarily darkening further, as inertial dampers failed during a slipwarp pulse. Everyone picked themselves up off the deck, some with more dignity than others.
The Dromela security head did not respond to Zh'kula's question. No answer needed to be voiced.
A shimmer of a transporter beam caught Zh'kula's attention. Thoughts of 'now what' dissolved as Lamoor materialized on the bridge, Cadarite grin of triumph pasted on his rabbit face. "By golly, it worked!" He turned towards Zh'kula, nose wrinkling as Hy'kula's smell screamed for attention, "Sir, the shuttle transporters, they haven't been compromised. And the fighters have some spare suits stored in them. I think all the pieces are available to take care of the root of our troubles."
Deepest, darkest midnight with full moon shining shadow - a baleful staring eye. Leeta huddled, knees hugged to chest, tears streaming down her face. She was dying, she knew it. People lost in the woods always died. If the cold did not suck the life from a body, bad monsters with glaring green eyes and eight waving tentacles would rend flesh from bone. Where was Kitra?
Closing her eyes, feeling for that deep place where Kitra was supposed to be, had always been, Leeta sensed emptiness. Examining the nothingness in minute detail, Leeta discovered the emptiness was so perfect as to be artificial, like a hologram indistinguishable from reality until you waved your hand through the matrix, shattering illusion. Ignoring the menacing trees (very difficult, especially the dripping saliva), Leeta focused within.
The evil monsters had Kitra, which is why they had not come after their prey in the woods yet. Kitra had challenged the head monster to a duel, and was now fighting him, trying to escape. Leeta silently cheered her sister, wincing as the black blanket separated the pair again. Alone...Leeta was alone in the woods again, waiting to die.
Delta body B knew it would eventually happen as she could not cover all the bases, but she had been hoping her activities might continue a bit longer. Zh'kula had almost been cornered in his room, and then the turbolift, but had escaped at the last moment as Glo'titi security crews attempted an assault on her position, forcing her to change her sphere of direct concentration. Another fifteen minutes, and the Dromela would have been transported to the special habitat body B was in the process of altering, one which was based on Zh'kula's personal version of Hell. The five hulking thugs in armored environmental suits and packing tranquilizer rifles ended her endeavor.
Body B dropped to the floor unconscious. Fifteen darts stuck out of various parts of her anatomy, nine of which had actually pierced flesh unobscured by armor or implant.
{Now where?} asked Captain to Sensors. The latter was babbling on about fish and needed to be prodded for a direction. Engineer chimed in to say the adapted charges were nearly complete; Weapons continued to metaphorically salivate over the new additions to the armory.
{[Lemon meringue] is now strong, and grows stronger.}
{Which means...?} queried Captain. {Just use simple terms for once, Sensors. Just once.}
{[Lemon meringue], it is here!}
Captain's attention was suddenly grabbed as the sensor grid registered the target vessel leaving its pocket, returning to normal space. The 3.4 kilometer centipede virtually charged out of its hiding spot, ambushing the cube. Before even the hair trigger weapon hierarchy could react, the attacker did not rev up its own armaments, but within the space of seconds released a buoy, shot off a pod, and exploded several torpedoes well short of Cube #347's shields. Blink of an eye, and the ship was gone once more.
{[Fish, fish, fish, fish, lemon meringue fish]....Sensors has lost the track: everything smells the same. The torpedoes contained plasma, which has polluted the trail.}
It did not matter, for the sub-collective of Cube #347 now had no reason to dog the alien. In the confusion of the moment, one thing was very clear: the pod contained the missing half of Delta. The cube forged forward to secure the pod with a tractor before beaming the contents to Doctor.
They buoy, before it was exploded by Weapons in a fit of temper contained a short message: "Take the damn drone back, take her! We will not bother the Borg again, never! Please just take the drone back!"
"...and the personal diaries of Zh'kula..."
"...actually held the notion of putting body B..."
"...into a breeding population of species #4888?"
"How fascinating."
Delta was holding a conversation with herself, both bodies well on the way to reintegration. Her mind was still somewhat shattered, still held an unpleasant tendency towards schizophrenia, but soon she would be better.
"Would you believe a food called tapioca..."
"...pudding was a major phobia for Zh'kula? He used..."
"...to have nightmares about it as a young subunit."
When both bodies had returned to consciousness, the first thing Delta had discovered was her impromptu replacement by 13 of 42. While she did not particularly enjoy being head of the engineering hierarchy, she had always done her job with efficiency. 13 of 42, in his short stint as Engineer, had not only made shambles of routine maintenance and ignored many of the normal problems as they inevitably cropped up, but had left a large mess in Bulk Cargo Hold #5. The mess was the result of retooling several torpedoes. Delta had quickly reasserted herself as engineer head, detailing 13 of 42 to clean up the clutter in cargo bay...by himself.
"I must relate to myself again all the details..."
"...surrounding Zh'kula's view of Hell, for which I..."
"...nearly completed in Habitat #23. Besides the sea..."
"...of tapioca pudding, near freezing temperatures, and..."
"...zero humidity, there was the...."
{Delta,} Captain's signature interrupted, {we are on course to continue salvage of the three asteroids. Enter regeneration so we may complete that task soonest when we arrive.} This side trip, by the Greater Consciousness' view, was overly wasteful.
Delta stuttered to a halt, both bodies frowning as she regarded herself from two points of view. {No,} was the response returned to the consensus facilitator and monitor, accompanied with wordless threat. Captain immediately backed off.
"As I was saying, besides the sea of tapioca pudding, near..."
"...freezing temperature, and zero humidity, there was the..."
"...lightening to strike every time he chewed on an arm-sheath."
"Of course, one can not forget...."
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