We interrupt this story before it has begun for an important announcement: Star Trek is the property of Paramount, Star Traks was created by A. Decker, and BorgSpace is written by me. That is all.
Me, Myself, and I
{Disengage stasis. Reinitiate higher neural functions. Wakey, wakey! Time to get up!}
"Go away, Doctor. You'll confuse the drone more than it already is going to be."
"Hey! You requested my help on this project in the first place!"
"Quiet! Both of you! Doctor, go find someone else to bother. Assimilation, you will continue to oversee the transference."
The words make no sense, babble at the edge of our hearing, at the edge of our senses. Darkness. Visual input is not active. Internal diagnostic complete - all body assemblies and implants at nominal status, except our neural transceiver. It has been slightly retuned. We reach for the Collective, prepared to reintegrate ourself and learn what has happened to us. Blocked? Something impedes our progress, subtly deflecting us back into ourself. The One is just beyond our reach, just on the other side of a barrier we can only now sense.
"The drone is coming around."
"I know. I felt his attempt to rejoin the Great Consciousness. I stopped him before he could be rejected: I don't think it would be good for his psyche right now, especially when he learns what has occurred."
"No."
Legible phrases flow into ourself. Who do these two discuss? And why verbalize at all? We do not understand. We are aboard a Borg vessel, we can confirm that information, know that knowledge, and no danger threatens. We must know why we are in this status.
We open our eye; we increase power flow to our optic implant. A scene blinks into view, which we immediately recognize as the standard layout for an Exploratory-class cube Assimilation Workshop. We are in an alcove. Before us stand two drones, both of humanoid stock. The one to our left we briefly examine, dismissing him from our attention as irrelevant. To our right...the drone to our right we focus upon.
Innate knowledge identifies this drone as 4 of 8 and our...our consensus monitor and facilitator, the one who functions as all in our sub-collective, coordinating us into an efficient limb of the Collective. His exoplating is dense, like that of a tactical drone; much of his original body on the left side is artificial. The excessive cyberism signifies a drone long a member of the Collective, a unit which has seen hard use, or both. The iris of the eye which looks at us is not the darker colors common to drones, but a startling sharp blue contrasting strongly with gray epidermis and black armor. To this unit we direct our question.
"We require input. We are..." We stop, contemplating ourself. What is our designation? To what sub-collective are we assigned? We should know this information, know it intimately as our place within the One, a part of the Whole. "We have no designation. State our designation. State our function." Our voice is steady, but internally we are confused, an alien emotion - panic? - seeping into us.
"His mental patterns are becoming erratic, Captain. Perhaps you should answer before he goes over the edge again," spoke the drone to our left, words an overly excessive monotone as if nothing was relevant.
"Working on it...working on it. Command and control is processing the data now."
We watch without eyes, feel the flow of data in an area, a dataspace, like yet unlike the metamind of the Collective. Our resume is brought up, listing the attributes of our species, the tasks we have been assigned since our assimilation. We are not a specialized unit, but have performed many duties over the years, from assault to general maintenance. Six drone submanifests are simultaneously loaded, three immediately discarded, leaving "Command and Control", "Engineering", and "Weapons" in the foreground. This structure is unlike any we have seen before, more rigid than our concept of a proper sub-collective even as it remains fluid in comparison to hierarchies of non-assimilated races.
First "Command and Control" and then "Weapons" are dismissed, myriad of reasons written to a temporary file. "Engineering" is expanded, one thousand designations divided into five groupings displayed. Most slots are full, a fingernail sketch of the drone dossier associated with number. Twenty-six entries are highlighted, the rest dismissed, each of those chosen listed in the format "status: terminated - [time stamp] - [explanation]".
"You are now 39 of 42, assigned to engineering hierarchy," directed 4 of 8 to this drone. We note in the passing before the manifest was put away that our predecessor had met her end due to an accident involving ore processing, rendering her into elements suitable for conduit replication. Simultaneously we became aware of our new designation, the numbers linked to our unique interplexing beacon signature, the action making our place in the One secure once more.
At the same time we finally realize what sub-collective we are now associated with: Exploratory-class Cube #347. The vessel of those imperfectly assimilated.
4 of 8 captured our attention, actively directing our focus onto him. "Before you go drawing too many conclusions, you should know what has occurred. You have always been recognized as a borderline case of imperfect assimilation, but support from whatever normal sub-collective you were assigned to has kept you from slipping. Most recently you were a member of Cargo-class Cube #522, and then subunit #522 on this cube. The close proximity of this sub-collective has...infected you, made leaning become a full-blown case.
"Subunit #522 was not amused when you cut your link with them and declared yourself Master of the Universe. That and you instructed the replicator subunit #522 maintains to produce various squishy food items, which you promptly began to throw at other drones."
We blinked. We had no memory of that ridiculous incident. Closer examination of our internal logs showed a length of missing data shortly following our last clear memory, an erasure artificial in origin.
"Since this sub-collective was convenient, it was decided by the Greater Consciousness to simply foster you off onto us, rather than terminate you or put you into long-term stasis."
The blue eye of 4 of 8 bored into us, asking if we understood without the use of words, verbal or otherwise. We felt compelled to answer.
"We understand. What is our function?"
A snort of amusement echoed within us. "You claim to understand, but I can tell you only answer in such a manner because you know it is how you are supposed to answer. I'm sure you'll soon be adding to my headache with the rest of the malcontents in this sub-collective. You are assigned to engineering: Doctor will be installing the appropriate assemblies for your new specialty."
We felt a transporter from internal systems lock onto 4 of 8. Before he dematerialized, a final directive was spoke to us: "And can that stupid plural crud." Our new consensus monitor and facilitator disappeared.
"Brace yourself. This won't hurt a bit, although there may be a wee tingle." 27 of 27, subdesignation Doctor and owner of one of the voices we had awoken to, was personally performing part of this unit's operation. Currently the medical drone was replacing our prosthetic right arm with an assembly more suitable for engineering work; other members of the maintenance hierarchy worked on our lower limbs. Bits and pieces of our body littered tables in the work area. We did not understand the admonishment...of course the procedure would produce no pain.
Doctor's originator race was species #7922, mammalian biped stock with rodent characteristics. We now had access to Cube #347 files and limited contact to the interactive intranets, although we were to be kept from full integration until the completion of this operation. The dossier of species #7922 was not outstanding, contribution to the Collective primarily in the fields of macro-environmental engineering and efficient techniques for gas giant mining, but their recent complete assimilation welcome none-the-less.
We impassively observed as our arm was twisted and tugged from its seating, finally removed with a pop. Doctor put it aside on a nearby workbench, picking up what would be the replacement. Before the new hardware could be installed, several specialized sensors embedded in the prosthetic required adjustment to our physiology, body chemistry, and neural wiring. We split our primary visual cortex input to accept data from a sensor cluster in the corner, that vantage point better suited to watch procedures beginning on our lower torso.
We heard as the computer notified Doctor of a maintenance problem elsewhere in the cube, details frustratingly unavailable to us until our complete integration. The drone put down our new limb with a sigh, bading the others to continue work. He then focused on us, nose twitching as he spoke, "Be right back, boy. Don't cause trouble now! No biting, no clawing, no weewee!" The head of the drone maintenance hierarchy disappeared in a transporter beam.
We worried about the mental stability of this sub-collective; we worried about /our/ mental stability that we were now categorized as belonging to such. However, the Collective did not make mistakes.
Subliminal laughter fluttered at the edge of our senses following our thoughts to ourself, chortling which we traced as originating from a drone industriously performing a tune-up of our internal biometric power source. The drone, face composed in typical non-expression, gave us a glance which plainly stated 'I didn't do anything! Why are you looking at me?' before returning to his assigned duty.
We were not used to masking our internal digressions, ramblings which none would comment upon because such view points were irrelevant in the greater scheme of the Borg and thus not worthy of remark. Such thinking, when it grew beyond the bounds of acceptance, was routinely edited and purged by the greater sub-collective. This censorship did not appear to be enforced on Cube #347. We would obviously have to make an effort to think to ourself more quietly.
Doctor reappeared next to our workbench, picking up prosthetic as if he had never left. The diversion was obviously taken care of, or else delegated to others. Movement on the bulkhead behind 27 of 27's form caught our attention. We shifted our head slightly, that the only body part we could currently move, and zoomed in on the distraction.
A small animal, ten centimeters in length, with mottled gray coloration clung to the wall with sex legs. Soft black eyes blinked as nose twitched. It lost its grip, falling to the top of a tool cabinet with an audible squeak. All in the room immediately abandoned work on us, focusing exclusively on the creature.
{Hamster!} rose a very clear shout of multiple signatures in the intranet.
{They were all exterminated two years ago, weren't they Weapons?} Captain was speaking, words directed at a drone that we had not 'met' yet. The reply was a forceful affirmative, surprise evident; a personality not accustomed to failure. Full attention was now placed on 27 of 27, who had continued to finish adjustments to our prosthetic, albeit at a faster pace. {Doctor?}
{Didn't do anything. Can't prove I did anything.} Doctor had a miniature tool inserted in an arm aperture, carefully entering numbers via computer to the fifth decimal point and reading the subsequent output.
{Hamsters, Doctor...cute hamsters.}
We watched as three weapons designated drones charged into the maintenance bay, all raising arms and carefully taking aim with disruptors. The animal on the tool cabinet suddenly seemed to realize its imminent demise, leaping to the air in a desperate bid to escape. It was caught mid-jump, vaporizing in a salvo of green. The trio of drones congratulated each other as they left; Doctor winced.
{That has better have been the only one, Doctor.} The comment was the final one directed at the unit 27 of 27, sub-collective now stirred to a state of minor agitation. Directives originating from command and control through the medium of Captain instructed a cursory examination of the cube, task to search out and destroy any other similar animals.
Doctor put down the limb again. "You're almost done here, 39 of 42. Get ya back on your feetsies and off to engineering in another hour. First, however, I've a little tiny bit of business to attend to. Nothing important, but it does need to be done." 27 of 27 dematerialized; we had not heard a call necessitating his need elsewhere.
Following our rebuilding to the specifications of an engineering specialty, we were assigned to an alcove and allowed to regenerate. Our cycle proceeded uneventfully, during which time we received our duty assignment from 12 of 19, nee Delta. We were to be a floater, to go where ever an extra body was required.
We did not realize our first task would be a literal interpretation.
We floated at the end of a tether ten meters above the outer hull of the cube, grabbing for a single antenna within a sensor cluster. Above our head, held at bay by application of electromagnetic forces, a transwarp conduit glowed green, occasional swirls of white and violet flashing past at great velocity. Within the Collective memory resided the echoes of drones in similar situations, units who had a tether fail and subsequently drifted towards oblivion. While a very few bounced off the internal shield boundary and survived, most simply terminated as immense quantities of energy fried synapses and hardware; a small number, those with very low velocities, managed to slip through the visually invisible barrier, momentarily adding the experience of riding through transwarp without benefit of a vessel to the Whole. Those drones usually survived the experience for an average of three milliseconds...three milliseconds of feeling one's body torn apart by quantum forces.
The accessed memories were consciously purged from our active matrix, the echoes dismissed. Still, we felt apprehension each time we accidentally revolved face-on to green infinity.
A jerk on our tether caught our wandering attention, focused us back to the task at hand. We peered down between our feet to where a second drone was now assisting our original tether handler. The signature within the lattices identified the newcomer as Delta A, one of the...our thoughts faltered, unable to precisely catalogue the twin Borg. 12 of 19 curiously epitomized the end product to be One, yet at the same time was more akin to an individual organism instead of a collective drawing upon the strengths of all.
{No, no, no, no! You are flying him all wrong! He is not a kite; there is no wind up there! You have to pull him like this,} said Delta A to 218 of 240. The tether was jerked again; the target antenna sped toward our face with alarming speed. At last moment another pull veered us to the side, but the metal pole still caught us a hard hit on our shoulder. We reflexively grabbed, held on tightly. {Much better. 39 of 42, how are you doing up there?}
We risked a glance downward, seeing the faces of both drones watching us intently. An internal diagnostic told us of biological damage done to this unit, but it was not important, would heal within minutes. All was fine and we were now ready to continue with our task. {This drone is functional.}
{"This drone"? Well, whatever. Look around. Can you see what is wrong?} A request had been registered by the sensor hierarchy concerning problems with this section of the cube grid. Troubleshooting had narrowed the cause to this particular sensor cluster of fourteen antennas. We panned back and forth, cycling through different frequencies and phasic variations in our careful examination of the small forest of poles. Our hierarchy had tied into our visual cortex and was swiftly evaluating our input.
{Whoa. Stop...go back to temporal phase shift variation z6.3. Do you see it?} We obediently returned to the desired frequency, once again viewing the cluster tops from our awkward vantage point. Unknown strands, almost webbing, curled around the antennas. The source of grid interference was found.
A silence lengthened. Had Delta expected us to respond? We peered downwards once more, but was not enlightened. {Yes, this unit observes the probable problem.}
{Probable, nothing! You are already up there, so cut that crud off.}
How? We were expected to come up with a solution by ourself? We could not do that! Our hesitation, our puzzlement, radiated clearly to the engineering hierarchy, to Delta.
{That's right, you were borderline case and a true part of the One for many years.} Past cases similar to the current problem came to our attention; several solutions presented themselves. {Normally one just reaches into the hierarchy for direction, not wait for it to be fed like babyfood. Don't worry, it will come to you.}
We did not want it to come to us: we wanted to be returned to subunit #522. Unfortunately, no drone was supposed to "want" anything personal beyond the desire to see perfection attained. A normal unit would have no self-doubts, much less verge on questioning the wisdom of the Greater Consciousness. We were worried; we did not want to be worried. No drone was supposed to "want" anything personal beyond desire to see perfection attained. A normal unit...
We slashed through the vicious circle, isolating the mental processes and purging them. The unconstrained musings of thousands of minds was beginning to seriously affect us, to affect our performance and efficiency. That could not be allowed.
A miniature temporal accelerator able to produce phase shifted elemental particles, not a standard item for a limb prosthesis, materialized 17.3 centimeters from our face; we grabbed for it before it could float out of reach. There was a task to perform.
We looked at the opening into the interstitial spaces of this cube, measuring the entrance and comparing it with our body. Schematics of the vessel indicated a wider area inside, but the fit would continue to be tight. This drone was not the most efficient use of mobile resources, not in this case. We reported so to 12 of 19.
{I don't care. A sixth pair of hands, or rather a sixth body, is needed at the work zone. You are the designated floater closest. Make your way inside and serve as the biological interface filter between electronic sensor input and the calibrations the sensor hierarchy needs to run.}
{There are drones more suited for tasks in constricted environments such as this one. We sent the profiles of the five units aboard which could perform the job best.}
{I very well know that, and if you bothered to check their locations or the current duty roster, you would know all five are currently within. So get in there with them!}
The last command triggered pathways within ourself which stimulated complete obedience. {We will comply.} Even as we carefully slid sideways into the access point and slithered towards the wider spaces ahead, we reviewed our most recent actions and were appalled. We bordered on insubordination! It was not right! We manually began procedures designed to strengthen neural synapses and hardware/software connections which were associated with obedience.
{Twenty to one 39 of 42 will refuse assignment when he learns exactly what is involved.}
{Fifty to one! One hundred to one! Why offer the odds anyway? He's too fresh from the Collective, been too long as One, the lucky bugger. Never had to think for himself, not really, not had all those loose impulses floating around in his brain. He'll do as Delta says, no question asked.}
The 'betting' and 'offering of odds', exercises in probability, had been happening in the background ever since 12 of 19 first delegated us our most current assignment. We did not understand; it was almost as if we had a choice in the task. The interstitial space was now very dark, last visages of light from the corridor fading to nothing. Dimly ahead we could hear banging and shuffling from toiling drones. We altered our optic implant to enhanced light frequencies and continued on.
A bright light backed by a long, bristled shape suddenly rose in front of us from an open hatchway leading down to the next level. Overloaded, our optic pathways momentarily shut down, leaving us without sight at all. We lifted an arm to ward us from the light, squinting with our organic eye as we shuffled to a frequency appropriate for the brighter conditions.
"Got him!" snickered a voice, mechanical in nature. We could now see our assailant was 2 of 3, the long and low insectoid of species #7001. Its species did not evolve with the ability to vocalize sounds in a manner distinguishable by most of the galaxy's races, and so assimilated members were fit with voders which rendered speech to standard levels. 2 of 3 also lacked eyes, relying primarily on the antennae ruff which encircled its body for tactile information, but atrophied visual centers did exist in the cortex; to these parts of the brain implants were wired and surgical procedures expanded upon to allow for limited visual input.
Our own vision had recovered enough to note 2 of 3 was not alone, was accompanied by 218 of 310. The latter unit's base species was #6214, skinny bipedal reptiloids sans tail. The unaltered specimen could easily fit body anywhere narrow head on short neck could go, joints selectively dislocated for the purpose. Cybernized drones were not as facile due to addition of assemblies and implants, but were still capable of close work in narrow quarters. We continued to scan the racial dossier, noting the complete assimilation of the species seven years prior; an extreme racial territoriality forbid the more typical fleeing behavior often seen in the final stages of assimilation, specimens down to small subunits standing ground and fighting to the bitter end. The very versatile species now serviced the Collective in numerous ways.
218 of 310 chortled himself in response to 2 of 3's words, "Very good joke. Come, we must get back to the task at hand before Delta notices our lapse. Come along 39 of 42, and we'll show you where you need to plug yourself in."
"He's not going to like it," commented 2 of 3.
"Shush."
The two drones proceeded this unit through the narrow corridor, extraneous flashlight dimmed to a more reasonable level. While the other three drones in the space were also of species #6214, only one other hailed from engineering - 58 of 240 [engineering], 215 of 300 [weapons], and 78 of 79 [command and control]. The passage to the cramped work area required five additional minutes.
"Okay, this is fairly simple," said 218 of 310 as he waved his non-prosthetic hand at a section of exposed wiring, "with you plugging yourself into that node there. When all is ready, the sensor hierarchy will begin calibrations on the new cluster that has been installed on the hull and you will monitor the return input for major discrepancies. You will note the problems and tell us, after which we will make what physical modifications are necessary in this juncture. Understand."
"We understand." And we did, for as the verbal explanation had occurred we had reviewed the data concerning this particular task, from original need for additional secondary sensors on the grid to the work up to this point. We had understood the first time when 12 of 19 had assigned this duty to us, and despite our notification of our physical impairment to actually arrive at the node, we knew our place in what was a rather routine maintenance chore.
We approached a small, portable data pillar adjacent to the wiring in question, laying our palm flat against the screen. High rate data transfer swiftly began as we entered the sensor grid at this node, routing ourself to the appropriate virtual locale to serve as biological filter and conduit. We signaled our readiness.
The calibration began with standard visual commands, a series of basic tests focusing on stars with known parameters and matching read spectrum with archive spectrum. We did not see major discrepancies; small percentages of deviation was noted in visual ranges of orange and green, which was swiftly corrected by the other five drones. Infrared, x-ray, radio, subspace, and neutrino views of the universe swiftly followed.
{Good, good,} commented 1 of 3, current sensor hierarchy foci, {and now Sensors will try [raspberry chocolate gazelle dip].}
We were not quite sure what happened next; a sudden system overload from unexpected input scrambled this drone's synapses, sending us into unconsciousness.
We awoke to darkness. If we had been so damaged as to be rendered permanently blind, we would not have regained consciousness at all, so went our chain of logical thought. We were prone, on a metallic surface, surrounded by the mechanical sounds associated with drills and laser scapel. A query to the computer system placed our location to be Maintenance Bay #2, the closest active bay to our previous task area. We attempted to link with bay cameras to gain a look at our condition, to no avail.
"Whoa there, boy," said a soothing voice recognized as Doctor. He had arrived unnoticed. "It's okay, all will be okay. Shhhhh. You've had a small blow-out in your visual cortex, but your species responds well to rebuilding. We've already placed an artificial image bridge implant in your brain, and the nanites will be done momentarily repairing and linking the appropriate nerves.
"Word of the wise...do not directly consume any more unprocessed sensor data when Sensors has altered the grid to her special specifications: most brainies can't handle it, yours included."
Several minutes later sight was beginning to return, grainy and out-of-focus scene slowly sharpening to crystal clarity. Black and white faded to grayscale, which was superseded by color as organic brain matter meshed with our new implant, relearning pathways, lessons augmented with nanoprobe help. When all appeared to have returned to normal, we ran a diagnostic on our body for confirmation. Output? Nominal, all systems within tolerable parameters; a small subset of the program reported the replacement of a small section of our skull with a piece of tritanium metal.
We lay on the bench, unable to move due to maintenance commands locking our body. Doctor had left, muttering something about hamsters, a thing called Thorny, and the possibilities of them playing nicely together; the maintenance bay was empty. We idly wondered how long we would have to wait until we were allowed to return to our duties.
It was a long wait.
{Electrical overload: subsection 7, Bulk Cargo Hold #5, quadrant grid 4d.3,} dully murmured the computer as it performed one of the never-ending series of system diagnostics ran at the rate of three per minute. We were aware of the trinary report - a series of digitally encoded impulses, not words - as we regenerated, one of several dozen minor breakdowns which occurred daily on a vessel as massive as Cube #347. The output was mulled over by the general engineering hierarchy, routinely prioritized and categorized, drones in the manifest awarded assignments due to proximity and any relevant specialty implants.
{We comply,} returned this drone as we received notification to diagnose exact cause of the problem in Bulk Cargo Hold #5 and repair. We completed our regenerative cycle, stepping from our alcove to the busy walkway tier. Local transporters were activated to take us to the site in question.
We emerged on a space station, hallway dark except for a blinking emergency lighting strip of red running down the center of the ceiling. Occasional showers of sparks from malfunctioning access panels threw our shadow into starkly erratic strobing relief behind us. A battle had occurred here, disrupter and phaser scars evident on all surfaces; in the distance one could hear an ongoing skirmish punctuated by shouts and screams.
Location was confirmed: we were in Bulk Cargo Hold #5. However, we were /also/ on a station of Federation design. The situation was very confusing.
A human male emerged from a closed door near us, shirt ragged and torn, pips of a lieutenant marking his collar. He squinted into what for a human was inadequate lighting, talking over his shoulder to someone designated Lira, telling that person to "keep the children quiet until I can secure a bolthole for us." When he eventually espied us, raising his phaser to fire, a five-squad of tactical drones materialized nearby and immediately charged through the door. More screams, some high pitched, emerged.
One of the five drones came out of the room, spotting us. We immediately identified the unit as 45 of 300, covered in soot and specks of gore. "39 of 42," he said, "finally you've been sent to us. Follow." He turned, walking through a wall. We instantly understood the cargo hold was a large holo-simulation.
Through bulkheads we were led, detouring only once due to a massive firefight between slowly advancing drones and thirty holographic station personnel behind a sturdy barricade. Finally we emerged from the simulation into a space of relative calm, a hallway of half Federation and half BorgStandard walls. 45 of 300, Weapons, pointed. "We had a little...accident."
The accident in question involved a furrow of melted duralloy metal three meters in length, ending in a deep hole which burrowed through a panel. Blackened and exposed wires within the crater indicated a mechanical fatality for the power node; troubleshooting was not an issue. Within seconds we were already requesting replacement parts, kneeling to begin clearing away charred fibers.
Weapons observed for several minutes, actively fidgeting. We could hear him receiving a stern reprimand from Delta, followed by the same from the secondary consensus monitor and facilitator. "Okay, okay, whatever," he mumbled to himself before turning attention on me. "39 of 42, get it fixed as soon as possible. I've need to return to the main simulation, and without that power node functional, this part of the station does not match with the rest." Weapons abruptly turned, walking through the opposite wall, leaving us to our task.
We quietly, efficiently went about our assignment, paying attention to our surroundings only when the necessary replacement was beamed to our location. Wires required splicing, current analyzed for resistance and amphere indexes, melted metal burned or chiseled away to make room for the new tertiary power node.
Occasionally a holographic member of the station personnel ran past us, often pursued by drones following assault protocol. Pseudo weapon fire flickered over our head: it was not relevant. At one point a Starfleeter took cover behind this drone, programming seeing us as "furniture" as opposed to a threat. Suddenly disruptor fire was aimed at us! It was an unsettling experience despite the fake nature of the weaponry, drone apparently firing on drone. The human was shortly dispatched, allowing the opposing duo of units to continue to another part of the station.
Soon we were done, last connections snapped into place, final wires soldered and spliced. We rerouted power in the subgrid to return to its normal flow, a trickle of which entered the node. A pair of flickers followed as the hold wall disappeared, replaced with Federation plating.
The cube began to shudder quietly in tune to massive bombardment of photons against shields. We knew this action was /not/ part of the simulation parameters.
The attack was fierce, if simplistic in strategy. Waves of small craft, little more than photon holding bays outfitted with impulse engine and cockpit, rushed at the cube, disgorging their contents before screaming away. The vessels, measuring 2.3 meters in length and 1.1 meter in width, were easy to individually dispatch due to absence of shields, but in wings of thirty to forty ships each were formidable because of sheer numbers. Despite the minuscule size, the attackers were under intelligent and manual guidance; the pilots were obviously not of typical humanoid stature.
In the frustrating distance a mother ship silently observed, serving as a refuel and rearm depot for her swarm. At least three waves were moving from carrier to Cube #347 at all times, disrupting efforts to simply destroy the central rallying point of the attacking craft. Overt moves towards the primary vessel was hindered by the swarm, allowing enough time for it to sedately move away, keeping its overwatch position.
The attack had originally come in the form of a subspace snare, one which produced disruptions in the space-time fabric of seemingly natural origin, forcing the cube to slow from transwarp to high impulse to cross the narrow anomaly. The carrier and four waves had been watching for the appearance of Cube #347; it was unknown if the aliens had expected their trap to net such a large prize.
One communique had been sent to Cube #347, a standard translation algorithm followed by a scratchy audio-only transmission calling for surrender and preparation for boarding. The voice identified itself as Jur, designation being individual or species unknown, and stated that while the cube was not a recognized ship type, it would still fall. Weighting within the dataspaces leaned heavily towards pirate persuasion.
We absorbed each new tidbit of information as it arrived or was inferred from available data, watched as the weapons hierarchy held off each wave even as the seemingly inexhaustible supply of ships released numerous photons to detonate against shields in a steady pounding. Power systems within the cube were fluctuating, surges and brownouts due to defense and offense demands reducing some systems to forth or even fifth level back-ups in heavily targeted areas. All was currently holding steady, but much of engineering scurried throughout the vessel, repairing and replacing the lesser priority technologies ignored by cube regeneration.
We completed reinitializing a cluster series of five shield generators, allowing them to come back on-line and remove strain from tertiary systems laboring under the pressure. Several fuses in secondary generators required replacement, which would finish repairs in the area and allow us to query for another task. Delta had other plans for us.
{39 of 42, report to the primary nodal intersection of subsection 17, submatrix 10.} We were already in the vicinity, the exact location one hundred ten meters coreward. {Transporters are temporarily disabled in the area, and you are the closest floater unoccupied with vital repairs. Go.}
{Compliance.} With most efficient walking route firmly within our memory, we began our trek, reviewing the fault we were to encounter when we arrived at our destination.
"About bloody time someone sauntered in here," stated 3 of 8, our secondary consensus monitor and facilitator. "I was beginning to believe we were supposed to fend for ourselves in a cube with one thousand dedicated to engineering matters, and another thirty-six hundred perfectly suited to chip in a bit of help if necessary." Sarcasm? The words and feelings directed at us and the engineering hierarchy in general stopped us short in uncertainty. 3 of 8 was holding a welder in one hand as he looked over his shoulder at us; the large hole of a blown plasma conduit was focus of his jury-rigged endeavor to fix a break.
4 of 8 - Captain we reminded ourself - ignored his back-up's comments, focused blankly at a large viewscreen. Within the dataspaces we could feel the whirl of his personality directing the current effort of survival, keeping all generally moving towards the same goal using the same tactics. The drone's immobility belied the sheer power and energy of a dedicated facilitator at work, especially one with the special talents required to maintain the resemblance of sanity in a subBorgStandard environment such as this.
"I heard that," mildly commented Captain...to us. "You are as defective as the lot of us, even if you still won't admit it to yourself, even as you persist in that plural crud. And Second, you know very well Delta has trouble coordinating the entire engineering hierarchy when it begins to approach 60% physical activity, and the other hierarchies are busy at their duties as well. Join me in coordinating this madhouse and let 39 of 42 do his assigned task."
Grumbled Second as he dropped the welder to the ground with a clang, "Yah, yah, yah. Whatever."
Silence. The screen changed scene slightly to another exterior input cluster in response to an observation by the sensor hierarchy. As the visual dissolved to a false-image view of high-band subspace radio, Captain commented, "See what I think we see?"
"Yah."
"Let's see if we can take advantage of the opportunity."
Partitions suddenly raised within the dataspaces I was monitoring, command and control split into subhierarchies for the purpose of formulating tactics, a series of decisions made in solitude by Cube #347 when a normal sub-collective would be well linked to the Collective and abiding by the thoughts of the Whole. It was not our worry; we would terminate or we would not. There was a duty for us to perform.
The welder Second had dropped was not necessary for this drone, the appropriate equipment part of our prosthesis. Nevertheless, we picked it up, magnetically attaching it to our torso, just in case. To the wall we focused our attention, noting the explosion which had occurred during a power surge. A glance at the opposite bulkhead confirmed the force of the bursting conduit, and by proximity to the viewscreen and the motionless 4 of 8, Cube #347 sub-collective had nearly lost its primary facilitator. Second would have taken the position, but the vital seconds of confusion theoretically might have opened the way for the swarming ships.
Outside, the small vessels continued their assault, numbers slowly diminishing, although not in appreciable amounts. Within the intranet, new tactics continued to be formulated, now with active participation from weapon hierarchy; damage mounting throughout the cube called additional drones out of down-time and into activity. The conduit in front of us was our current occupation.
We could not keep our mind solely focused on our task, automatically patching the leak with only half of our attention. The rest of us listened, eavesdropped. The Jur alien appeared to have a weakness, specifically the subspace communications between mother ship and wings could be disrupted now that carrier frequency was known - offensive electronic warfare. Would it work? Many uncertainties prevailed, yet the sub-collective refused to fully link with the Greater Consciousness, to allow the One to direct actions. We did not understand! Even the imperfectly assimilated had to - must! - require additional input in the face of possible destruction.
We halted our work; neither Captain nor Second noticed. The Collective was just beyond our reach, yet a simple line of command, one automatically performed tens of thousands of times during our assimilated lifetime, melded our individual unit signature into the vinculum's factual frequency booster. Thus our mind linked with the One, becoming the One.
The contact we craved, the connection we needed, the communion which was /necessary/ as we saw it, necessary to prevent the continuing stalemate between Cube #347 and the carrier ship, was rejected. We brushed against the mighty current of the Greater Consciousness for mere seconds, submerged in the great Mind as we had done in the many years since our assimilation, only to be tossed back to the shore of our new sub-collective when our identity was processed. We were not totally denied the joy of the One and striving perfection, but instead held away at arm's length.
Devastation. Depression. Desolation. Other emotions bubbled to the surface, emotions we could not put a name to. These emotions we could not handle, should have long since been purged, yet, frighteningly (another sensation!) lurked in the depths of ourself (oneself?), hidden.
If we could not have the One, be the One, it meant we were truly defective. We could not allow ourself to survive. We must terminate ourself. Already we could feel ourself responding to the command by Captain to end our direct link with the Collective. Yes, yes we would most certainly terminate our link.
The extra welder would assist us, if applied just so to the cranium.
We awoke in an unnatural prone position, front down, head twisted sideways. We had not expected to regain consciousness at all: echoes in the Collective were neural reverberations, forever servicing the Whole without benefit of bodies, without benefit of "knowing." The terminated could not pinpoint location to be Maintenance Bay #2, nor perform a self-diagnostic and discover one's body to be functional.
{Wakey, wakey! Time to get...oh, already awake I see,} said the bright voice of Doctor. He continued verbally, "Hmmm. Someone else must have reinitiated you. Oh well, no matter. I suppose you are wondering why you are here at all, naughty boy, so I will explain."
The tale Doctor told contained the final moments of the battle, and the sub-collective memory logs fully fleshed out the recounting in a manner normal for Borg, but impossible for the unassimilated. 39 of 42 was there as Cube #347 jammed communications between fighters and carrier, sending the latter into confusion. As the cube had surged forward to take advantage of the lapse in attack, Captain had felt our attempt to suicide, an action if carried through might have sent a severe shock throughout the sub-collective. The few milliseconds required to shut us down allowed the carrier to escape; the wings left behind either self-destruct, or impacted against the shields in kamikaze fashion.
We had sustained damage, the welder burning epidermis and searing skull. When we were rendered unconscious, the still active tool had fell from our grip, severely burning our lower right leg; it was now replaced with a prosthesis. Other instances of damage had been similarly repaired.
"39 of 42," said Doctor, speaking to us again, "you have severe problems, ones that can not be fixed by simple maintenance and application of bandages to your boo-boos. The consensus is that you were plunged into our sub-collective a wee bit too fast after your five years of normality, and perhaps may not quite be ready. You will be sent to Assimilation, and maybe he can fix you all up!"
We did not desire to be fixed. Assimilation would not fix us, we stubbornly resolved.
The mental realignment and rebuilding took days, but we (I) were (was) now returned to our alcove to complete rewiring of neural processes and self-perception. We, meaning Borg, sought perfection, a knowing that the sum of the many parts is greater than the individual. How else is consciousness, a sense of self, to be explained? An organism can add individual neurons, cells specialized to pass information along via chemical medium, and biologically gain nothing over its predecessors; yet a nebulous something arises when a critical point is passed, when the sum is more profound than a simple series of synapses may suggest.
So, as the sapience is the next step beyond animal, the Collective is a necessary evolution beyond individual. Enter assimilation imperfection: even defects have their uses
An organism unable to adapt is doomed to death. The Collective is very adaptable, drawing upon trillions of minds and over ten thousand species points of view. However, the Collective must /know/ of the theme in order to apply knowledge and recognize variations; totally novel situations are difficult to respond to, may even be ignored as irrelevant when the case is not so. Besides serving as testing ground of dangerous technologies and bodies to peruse low priority tasks, Cube #347 was a pool of occasional fresh ideas able to add a twist to solutions.
Thus Cube #347, sub-collective of the mildly insane by Borg perceptions and not to be sorely missed if it ever permanently disappeared, was important in the ultimate survival of the Collective and quest for perfection. Quasi-individuality, the ability to see a situation from a unique point of view, was the key.
And so we thought to ourself, pluralities slipping fitfully away:
We are Borg, but /I/ am 39 of 42.
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