Oooooohhhhh...Paramount owns Star Trek, and that's okay,
For A. Decker apes the series the Star Traks way.
And waking one morning from a bad nightmare,
I had to type BorgSpace to wash it from my hair.
< Disclaimer: The following, where possible, has been edited and digitally remastered so that the normal minds of the universe might have a possibility of following a wholly unique worldview. >
Sensory Overload
[Red furry zings] - quantum fluctuations.
Gamma [pressure juice of seaweed] - supernova remnant hiding a neutron star.
[Sleeting purple rocks] radiation - neutrino wave from distant black hole with indigestion.
Sensor sweeps from a transwarp conduit necessitated precision and swiftness. Recognition of potentially dangerous phenomena may require mere slices of a second before the cube blundered into the threat at the maintained velocity. Sensors was pleased at her most current configuration, one which read the minor variations in the conduit itself to extrapolate conditions of the normal universe. Unfortunately, the incoming information was difficult for the general hierarchy to interpret, which caused undue mental fatigue on the part of the various drones other than Sensors herself.
For the great majority, if not all, of the sensor hierarchy, digesting the current reams of data was like a non-professional staring at an ultrasound and seeing the fetus pictured: possible, if difficult. To Sensors, the universe was laid open to observation as if she donned a pair of X-ray glasses to peer through walls (this analogy discounted the fact that her species could naturally see somewhat into this part of the electromagnetic spectrum).
[Pinwheels of strong chocolate fish] - binary system passed close.
[Yellow jelly pings] - plasma discharge in a nebula.
The grid was currently feeding a view of normality, the galaxy in all its spectacular boredom, common phenomenon adding another byte or two to the general stellar coffers of the Collective. Routine. Tedious. Sensors decided to go for a walk. On the hull.
Sensors normally spent most of her non-regenerative time locked into her species-modified alcove, as did the majority of her hierarchy, for their service was one primarily devoted to the dataspaces. Engineering more than adequately cared for grid hardware and connections, catering to the requirements of the cube to be able to sense the galaxy around it. The sensor hierarchy, like that of command and control, contributed to the working of Cube #347 not on the plane of the machine, but in the realm of the digital and analogue...they were the eyes, ears, [vazt], touch, smell, taste of the cube.
It was not strictly required for Sensors to be in her alcove as she could easily sort and match sensor data from any location in the cube, although direct connections to the computer did provide a small gain in speed. The body did occasionally need to be stretched, tendons and muscles under exoskeleton flexed less she find herself under the dubious care of Doctor for allowing the atrophy otherwise experienced by her species. The hull was as good a place to do so as anywhere else.
Sensors canted her torso back to the better to bring all her eye facets and visual implants face-on to the transwarp conduit wall. The shield shimmered oily in the [hydra blue] frequencies, but the distraction was easily ignored in favor of the conduit itself. Greens with swirled blacks and whites of the primary visible light spectrum gleamed on black exoskeleton, reflected in the glassy lenses of multitudes of simple eyes. The true majesty of the sight lay in other realms, however, those afforded by specialized eyes which peered at additional spectrum frequencies, in the augmented capabilities of Borg hardware obscuring the upper half of both her eye clusters.
The view was hypnotizing, and so Sensors remained for many long hours, all six cybernisized limbs clamped firmly to hull. She reduced her organic body's desire for oxygen, an ability of her species and expanded upon by her holy assimilation, to prolong the experience. Eventually it was not lack of oxygen which drove her back to her alcove, but the simple reminder from her systems that regeneration was upon her.
Complaints, combined with Doctor's notification of a rise in cranial-based maintenance requests, convinced Sensors to ride with the growing demand of her hierarchy to step down to standard configurations. Sometimes it was better to gracefully submit, even when an alternate manner of following duty was more efficient; besides, enough consensus pressure among those in support positions and the system of Borg compliance would kick in.
Sensors regenerated. She allowed herself to observe passively incoming data and resultant output, immersed in a swirl of color and taste. Natural abstractions caught her attention, pieces of her mind breaking off to follow sensory packets to their final resting cocoons: a screen-saver for the mind.
{Regeneration cycle complete,} stated the computer with a neutral beige tone. Sensors watched in amusement as her physical mental patterns cycled into a state of true consciousness. Icy green was her mind, warming to citrus orange. She adroitly reintegrated her mental hum to the slightly discordant chorus which was Cube #347, fleshing out the choir of her hierarchy. Voices dropped out of primary awareness as drones entered their own regeneration cycle, while others replaced them fresh from the Borg analogue of sleep. The lesser Song of the sub-collective was alive; even subunit #522 occasionally added its harmonious counterpoint to the All.
Sensors gathered her hierarchy, reviewing netted grid data during her down-time. Stellar phenomena of all types was neatly labeled and categorized, adding to a map of the cube's progress. Details near the vector of travel were finer than points more distant. Currently the cube was in the midst of a large nebula, three hundred twenty-eight light years in breadth; even by tunneling "beneath" the stellar nursery in a transwarp conduit, time required to exit would be eight standard time cycles.
Much time to fiddle with the grid. Perhaps Sensors could expand her favorite configurations another parsec or two?
Nine time cycles later -
{Sensors,} barked Captain, {why aren't we out of the nebula yet? Is mapping nonfunctional?}
Sensors startled out of a game of B'tayian poker, a tournament to be precise. Her original plans had been to tinker with code, refinements on the software end of the grid designed to lessen the impact of her configurations on the rest of her hierarchy, but the call to play her favorite game of "chance" had been too difficult to resist. One deck consisted of 146 cards divided evenly into nine suits with two wild cards known as reapers; in an eight card hand there were many ways to win, combination of suit as vital as like cards and runs. The sheer complexity of rules (several of which outright encouraged cheating) was the primary interest of Sensors; and while winning was not important, it did help that she was very good at the game.
The final rounds of the tournament were being played live, face-to-face in Bulk Cargo Hold #8 with real cards. Sensors held a potentially winning hand of four spears in ascending order with a pair of suns and both wild cards. The last had been difficult to obtain, necessitating a complex slight-of-hand stunt. Revealing body language was not an issue among Borg, especially those with exoskeletons; the primary problem was to mask mental activity to reflect the equivalent of a poker face. Sensors was very good at the latter. Carefully breasting her cards against watchful eyes or internal cameras, Sensors searched out the spiked agitation incarnate which was Captain's current mental state. The orange-tinged ice blue presence was not hard to find.
{Sensors has not been paying much personal attention as of late,} she responded as she triggered a diagnostic of the automatic mapping programs. A quick glance around the table and within the intranet did not reveal hints as to the hands of the other three B'tayian poker players. The code fragment yipped a signal of functionality. {All is as it should be.} The output of the quick diagnostic was passed on to Captain before he could request it.
Captain hummed, hightened emotion leveling to a background calm infused with duty, {Then why are we not out of the nebula yet? Recheck initial travel estimates.}
Annoyed, Sensors complied, diverting fifty currently sifting grid data - BorgStandard, as it had been for the last nine time cycles as the insectoid had concentrated on the tournament - into a working partition. Data crunching spat back a slightly refined estimate, but one close to the original eight time cycles. Now curious herself, Sensors meshed her perceptions to the grid, bypassing automatic filters by directly routing input through her cranial processes.
[Gray fluff; warm and cozy; acrid banana; chlorophyll puce; magenta hiccups] - standard Type IV nebula.
All was how it should be. 17 of 212 called; all laid down their cards. Sensors' hand won easily won the bout.
However, Sensors was paying less attention to the game than previously, duty to the holy Collective bading her to simply acknowledge her advancement in the tournament ranks, then beam back to her alcove. She could not frown, had not the mobile skin and muscle combinations necessary. The exasperated frustration which seeped into the nets adequately summed up her changing emotional state. With a swift thought, yellow spearing through ordered chaos, three faces of Cube #347 shifted to Sensors' favorite configuration, eliciting cries of dismay (and more than a few registrations on the maintenance docket) from those not quick enough to pull out of the affected portions of the grid. A different set of software filters loaded, but they did not function perfectly under the strain; additional sensor hierarchy resources focused on the task to read input efficiently. Sensors dipped into the grid once more, this time searching for galactic location.
[Gray fluff; warm and cozy; acrid banana; chlorophyll puce; magenta hiccups] - standard Type IV nebula.
[Green flicker lightning; buzz yellow; dazzling white vocal cords...] - navigation pulsars.
Sensors allowed herself to swiftly locate beacons, pinpointing the cube's location within a galactic minuscule one hundred kilometers. Maps placed Cube #347 at the exact center of the nebula. Confusion!
A sub-collective level decision was made with a flurry of opposing songs quickly merging back into one, and the cube increased its speed to red-line, holding steady for thirty minutes. Brakes were slowly applied, lessening to the original travel velocity. Throughout the procedure Sensors kept a watchful eye on the pulsars; according to data, Cube #347 had moved a few thousand meters, not the several light years predicted.
{What the hell is going on?} demanded Captain. The question was not to be answered: it was simply a verbalization of thoughts running through the entire sub-collective. Sensors watched/felt joy as the link maintained with the Greater Song was enlarged, increased data flow and queries for instruction bringing the heavenly choir of perfection closer to herself. As always, she mourned her inability to experience heaven directly, to enter true nirvana with the others of her species.
[Jumbled goldfish cabbage] - ???
Sensors' secondhand rapture was interrupted as she perceived a flicker which was /not/ in the profile of a standard Type IV nebula, one which did not match anything in the active sensory database. Holding the blip in crystal detail, an insect caught in amber, she sent a subsection of her hierarchy rooting in the archives, searching for anything which remotely resembled it. Finally, metaphorical dust blown off the least used of records, a bright nugget of data surfaced. Sensors immediately cut into the holy communion between Song and Captain.
{Species #137! Sensors thinks we are in a Mobius maze anomaly built by species #137!}
Silence, a cessation of activity, a faltering of the sub-collective's singing and a dampening of [jasmine fireworks] greeted the pronouncement. The species database was accessed, along with all information pertaining to species #137. A small sliver of the Greater Song was processing implications even as Cube #347 updated itself, bringing to working memory all relevant files. The process was akin to the rapid [opening of firestar flowers], a thick slurry of gigabytes incoming from noncentralized Collective archives thousands of light years distant. The morass of data quickly resolved itself, aligned into working order by command and control.
Species #137 was unusual in that it was known only by artifacts, not by physical body. The species itself had been extinct for at least two complete revolutions of the galactic disk at the location of planet #1. Very few current species in the galaxy could have known species #137, although a few tantalizing hints of circumstantial evidence whispered the race to be the Progenitors of mech species #3. If so, however, the Xenig were not telling.
The artifacts of species #137 were few in number, awesome in speculated effort of construction, and utterly dangerous to all who stumbled into them. The purpose of the structures, some of which were barely distinguishable from natural phenomenon, was unknown: current Borg theories held in stasis until such time more data was forthcoming ranged from forgotten baubles meant for toddlers to artistic endeavors to alien intelligence tests. Whatever the original reason for creation, when species #137 had gone extinct, a few of the...things...had been left behind.
Those Borg cubes which entered the anomalies, be it inadvertently or on purpose, did not exit. Data streams which returned to the Collective sometimes only lasted seconds, occasionally hours. One sub-collective was now monitored for three thousand years; unfortunately incoming information was one-way because the drones involved had subjectively only experienced five minutes from their original immersion. The intermittent species which also studied the artificial phenomena garnered the same results.
One day the Borg would learn the secrets of species #137, either through diligent research or, more likely, assimilation of a race (mech species #3?) knowledgeable of the original civilization and its technologies. Until then, the Collective noted the regions of unstable space as they were found, labeling detour zones for Borg vessels on its stellar charts.
Cube #347 now found itself in the middle of one of those zones, a vast area of nebula revealed to be anything but. Sensors had labeled it a Mobius maze: a subtle twisting of dimensionalities such that no matter how fast or how far one traveled, one always returned to the starting point. A more accurate analogy of the phenomena might be found in Terran biology, specifically the cone-shaped traps of loose sand dug by ant-lions to ambush their six-legged prey. Cube #347 was well stuck in the center; Captain powered down obviously useless transwarp engines, dropping the ship back into normal space.
Sensors watched the grid as the transwarp conduit evaporated, left behind with a [lemon crisp] whiff of [ozone]. Visually the artificial anomaly registered as a Type IV nebula, heavy dust and cold gasses obscuring distant stars, odd gravitational tides slowly oscillating in unseen currents. Helium and hydrogen [buzzed] at specific frequencies, atoms rising in pitch as cosmic rays excited electrons; heavier elements and the rare alcohol or organic molecule added a deeper counterpart to the cosmic symphony. At the edge of hearing, at the brink of perception, however, a nearly subliminal moaning could be sensed; the act of focusing on the alien noise caused it to disappear, only to return when direct awareness turned to different stimuli.
The [subsonic] roaring was the only hint as to the nebula's false nature. No one, other than Sensors, seemed to be able to hear it.
Ominously, five additional vessels, long dead and decayed, shared space in the Mobius pocket. After a perfunctory scan revealed nothing of biological nor technological interest, they were left alone, a reminder of a possible future for one Borg Exploratory-class Cube #347.
{That fuzz in the data there?} asked Second, highlighting a portion of the nebula sensor profile. Captain was busy with other matters - trying to prod subunit #522 into action to be something other than a mooching observer, requesting as much data as possible of Mobius maze phenomenon to be uploaded to cube systems. The Greater Song had basically given up on the sub-collective, a sad chorus of experience showing once caught, ships were not let go. Cube #347, unlike most sacrificed vessels, continued to return data in real time; loss of the quantum slipstream prototype now appeared to be a given. Whereas other sub-collectives would have similarly yielded due to total immersion in the Song, the self-preservation streak of this one did not allow surrender, not yet at any rate.
Sensors replied negatively, {No, that is [pulsating daffodils], normal for this nebula type. Sensors says you should just /listen/. It is obvious once one hears it.}
Second did as Sensors demanded, confusion evident as a streak of [jagged peppermint] slashed through his personal signature. {All I hear is static. Something that sounds like an out-of-tune plasma conduit?}
{No, no, no, no! Plasma conduits pulse much differently! It is [rotten lime jello] in flavor, [smooth rose] in smell, and [jumbled goldfish cabbage] in sound.}
{Goldfish do not have a sound, and neither does cabbage.}
{[Jumbled goldfish cabbage] has a distinct sound. Just listen.}
{I hear nothing.}
Sensors quivered in frustration, one metallic walking leg tapping against the floor of her alcove in nearly forgotten bad habit. The more she observed the nebula, the more she tweaked the grid just so (ignoring protests), the greater distinction of [jumbled goldfish cabbage]. A very slight volume difference could now be determined, providing a directionality to the smell/sound/taste. A fresh round of curses followed as Sensors abruptly retuned a fourth face, searching for greater clarity.
{Sensors sees a way out, she thinks,} announced Sensors to the general sub-collective. The spoor of [jumbled goldfish cabbage] rang along a dimly perceived line, radiating outward from the center of the Mobius maze. Hopefully it was the backdoor leading away from the trap...assuming species #137 believed in exits. Four faces was not enough: the entire grid needed to be retuned to a specific configuration, no other input souring the information. And so Sensors told Captain, told command and control, told all resident drones.
Sensors was riding shotgun for a blind driver trying to navigate an eighteen-wheeler along an unpaved logging road a thousand feet above the valley floor. Being led by the sensory hierarchy was not new; stern chases and other forms of tracking relied upon accurate reading of the grid to give direction. In a normal cube, the link between navigation and propulsion was absolute, instantaneous. And while Cube #347 was not a normal cube, it was hardly usual to depend on the perceptions of one drone, one who insisted she could not precisely plot a track without cutting all normal input with the outside universe.
At the present rate of speed, assuming the path was relatively direct, it was estimated to require five to six time cycles to clear the nebula's boundaries. Hopefully exiting the unnatural phenomenon would leave behind dimension-bending effects of the artifact.
A time cycle passed, then part of another. Sensors was not body-weary and felt capable of active navigation for another fifty hours until her mental processes would require down-time. The strain on her brainware systems was great, but nothing she couldn't handle; and although custom algorithms helped slightly, software could not replace the mostly idle sensory hierarchy for fine filtering functions.
The track bent sharply three light years distant. Sensors traced the current place of Cube #347 on the nebular map, then examined the extrapolated pathway. She added notations as to new bearing, then fed selected data to her hierarchy to determine reason for the dogleg. Perhaps if rules were established concerning the narrow path, then it would not be necessary to subject the general sub-collective to sensor hallucinations.
Sensors was not deaf to the suffering of other drones, although she honestly did not understand why the sensor echoes should cause such problems. Biology explained much, but it should be possible to adapt to a new way to perceive the universe: she did it all the time. In the normal course of affairs, the grid was a background set of senses, a meta-eye and -ear on the universe. Every drone was aware of the outside, usually paying it as much attention as a person in a crowd would focus on an individual conversation - possible, but not usually relevant. Basic awareness of the grid, however, was a fundamental linkage of a drone with its vessel, and could not be terminated. The process of "Where are we?" and "Are we going to run into anything?" was normally left in the capable hands of the sensor hierarchy.
Those hands now consisted of one set, and their controlling brain considered the extended visual spectrum to hold as much information as one piece in a five thousand piece puzzle...a puzzle picturing a black cat on a black background.
{There's a brown pony with a white blaze outside my alcove. It is looking at me. I think it wants me to feed it something.}
{The purple monsters! They're back! And they've brought red swirly friends with them this time!}
{Sometime smells...and I mean really smells. Stinks. Reeks. Slightly sweet? No...just plain nasty.}
The sensor hallucinations were the attempt by various mentalities to perceive background grid data incoming to cube systems. Those areas of the brain which organized and processed sensor information tried to "visualize" the most appropriate way to comprehend the outside. Most species saw, some smelled, and a very few felt their way through the universe. Confused brains, unable to fully grasp the bits and bytes filtering through cybernetic systems, routed grid data to random senses and associated memories, sparking nonsensical neural cascades; one required malleable mental pathways such as those in Sensors' species #7001 to fully understand.
Suddenly a grid face slipped from Sensors' grasp, returning to standard configurations. Several hundred drones, many of them within her own hierarchy, had seized control, desperate for something approaching normality. As Captain, Second, and a goodly portion of command and control wrenched the temporary consensus apart and berated them for their actions, Sensors re-established the face, hearing/tasting for the temporarily lost spoor. Not a hint. Nothing. No [jumbled goldfish cabbage] to be seen.
Analyzing the ship's current location, taking into account the momentary veering of arc fractions when Sensors had lost face #3, found the cube had drifted slightly off course. Mere hundreds of kilometers, to be exact, but enough to lose everything gained up to that point.
Cube #347 had lost the thread and was now stuck squarely back on the Mobius strip treadmill. Captain was silent, anger and frustration and disappointment radiating strongly, words unnecessary. The cube pushed forward at maximum transwarp; the center, the start, would not be difficult to find.
The [buzz] of [jumbled goldfish cabbage] had become stronger over the last several days, its signature more pronounced. At least it seemed that way to Sensors; all others still refused to take note of its screaming sensor fingerprint. Unfortunately, the trail had not led a twisted way out, but drifted in convoluted loops which left the cube running parallel to the nebula boundary fifty light years distant.
Sensors told Captain to bring the ship to a halt.
{Why?} asked Captain. {We are still stuck in this infernal trap. Have you lost the trail?} Various groans followed that question as thoughts skipped through the intranet like [cherry lightening], contemplations of murder.
{No, Sensors has too much scent. The sound is all around, no directionality. Sensors is at the center of a giant drum, [cabbage] reverberating against her [feet]. And there is a structure here.}
{Structure? How the hell do you get that information out of this mess? All I see is a green spiky thing when I turn my awareness to the outside.} This comment was from Second, who had been very vocal in his complaints in Sensor's total usurping of the grid, especially when he had begun to smell wet dog everytime he accepted ship system diagnostic updates.
{Sensors can tell well enough if we start to drift too far away from here, so strong is the odor. Sensors will retune a face to standard frequencies.}
The new input was welcomed with relief, immersion in a semblance of normality banishing much of the sensor hallucinations as organic brains hungrily latched onto data they had been primed through assimilation to comprehend. The ominous structure, half the size of Cube #347, commanded only secondary attention. Until it altered its shape like an omen in a nightmare, that is.
The structure (vessel? station? something else?) did not appear to have a solid surface, nor sharp angles or even an edge which didn't subtly change when attention was directed upon it. Schrodinger's principle given form - the object existed in many potentialities until someone gazed at it, whereupon a (somewhat) concrete shape condensed, only to slip into realms of possibility as attention wandered elsewhere. Impressions were of a roughly dodecahedron bulk, vast depressions in the center of each face and a multitude of long pillions or antennas thrusting upwards in random fashion.
Cube #347 was at a loss for how to proceed. It was quickly determined the ship could not inch closer to the structure; another Mobius phenomenon protected the object. Sensors came to the unsavory conclusion that the thing was actually the emitter of [jumbled goldfish cabbage]. The cube dared not leave the area without some method to gain freedom, else it would just find itself in the middle of the nebula once more, doomed to forever wander the maze unless a more drastic option of termination was taken. The latter was unlikely to be allowed, for the sub-collective was functional and inside a species #137 artifact, and could conceivably eventually relay information to the Greater Consciousness which might crack the mystery of the race's toys. The Collective was not one to abandon potentially useful assets, as evidenced by the tolerance of assimilation imperfection in the first place. Frustrated and bored with inactivity, Weapons lobbed a pair of quantum torpedoes, low isoton yield, towards the structure.
The response was immediate. Two plasma beams caught the torpedoes in mid-flight, removing them from existence with nary a bang. A portion of the structure "solidified", forsaking its shimmering aspect for reality.
Said a voice, 9 of 230: {I think we just awakened it. Why do I feel like we are on the slide end of a microscope?}
A strong hail, more of a shout than a polite request for conversation, on standard subspace frequencies impacted upon cube systems, causing a headache to suddenly blossom for Sensors. She was relieved as Captain answered the call, allowing the metaphysical pain to disappear. Before Captain could trigger a rather irrelevant greeting of assimilation, words poured into the dataspaces. A secondary channel provided the pict of an animated logo of the local group of galaxies dancing around an atom.
"Greetings potential buyer of the Maze 2000, the best and latest in home system security! We regret to inform you that this is a recording as there is no representative of PlanetSafe, Inc. on site at the moment, but hopefully our computer will do its best to answer all questions you may have. Notification has been sent to the main office of your interest, but due to circumstances beyond our control, it may be awhile before we will be able to deal with you face-to-face. Purchase orders may be left with the computer; custom installation by qualified technicians will begin upon confirmation of funds.
"And remember, PlantSafe, Inc. is your company for all security needs!"
A bass rumble coughed to life, following the cheery pronouncement. "Hello? My name is Vicil and I will be your computer representative. I offer apologies that an organic is not available, but I will do my poor best to serve you. I have a complete list of technical specifications for the Maze 2000, as well as the many ways it can be installed for best passive protection of your system. I also have specs for and can display a range of thirty add-ons to make your race's home an impossible fortress to assault." The voice became increasingly animated and awake as it wound through introduction and spiel; of side interest, the underlying base language of the communication was reminiscent of cautious contact the Borg had had with mech species #3 in the past.
Weapons locked another pair of torpedoes and fired them before Captain could completely restrain the erratic drone. Sensors paused to watch the hot red of the former become smothered in the cool blue of the latter, then returned to probing the structure from the electromagnetic spectrum. She was blocked.
"Gentlebeings, please refrain from taking potshots at this computer, electronic and physical. I am adequately armored with phased-reality shielding and have a multitude of defensive weaponry at my disposal; PlanetSafe, Inc. will happily entertain all offers from all groups, but pirating is not acceptable. So, who do I have the pleasure of addressing?"
Sensors continued her unseen assaults after dropping most of the extreme grid configurations which had been necessary to trace the [jumbled goldfish cabbage], confident the cube was as firmly stuck in this pocket of the nebula as it had been at the center of the maze. The object, the computer, was a cipher, an unknown, a black box in more ways than one. Several of the more precise grid systems refused to acknowledge Vicil's physical reality, displaying instead a "hole" in subspace. Meanwhile, Cube #347 had found its voice, and was now in conversation with Vicil.
"We are Borg. You will be assimilated. Your technological distinctiveness will be added to our own." 'Resistance is futile' had been blatantly omitted; no need to rile the machine.
"Borg...Borg. You are not in our customer database. First time in a spin around this part of the galaxy? No matter. Yes, the Maze 2000 can be yours for a very reasonable price. Do you want specs on this product?"
"Yes."
"Very well, data download is now being sent in the tertiary oscillation of this carrier frequency. Please look over at your convenience and ask any questions which come to mind. I will be available."
The Maze 2000, powered by a pin-point black hole (or an optional zero-point emission field for a small additional fee, as seen in our demo model), bent the local space time fabric into a metastructure best described as a contortionist pretzel on LSD. Ships which entered the area were funneled into pockets of normality. The nebula itself, an artificial construct, was part of the package deal, shielding through boring stellar phenomenon the sweet plum which lay within. The most interesting part of the short and heavily buzz-worded promotional manual was in the omission.
The entire perusal, including flowcharts and splashy pictures, required scant seconds.
"We have a question."
The voice of the computer was obviously surprised, not expecting quick digestion of the material. "You are certainly fast, gentlebeings! Are you organic or mech, if I may be so rude?"
"We are Borg."
"Well, never mind, then. And what is your question, then?"
"How do we get /out/ of the Maze 2000?"
"Ah! You noticed that missing piece of information, did you? I've been watching, but before I could bring you to the showroom you seemed to have determined a method to move around our little nebula here. It must have been painfully slow. If you purchase this product, you will be given a 'key' which will allow your computer and sensor grid systems to filter background static. Revealed will be the safe paths through the nebula, many of which can be navigated at high speed. Unkeyed ships are quickly routed to dimensionally stabilized holding pockets from which they can be disposed of at your convenience."
"How do /we/ get out of the Maze 2000?" The emphasis was placed on a slightly different word.
"I will give you a heading to follow, then clear the Mobius lines along that pathway. This is a standard, if advanced, feature included in the package. For a slight bit more, the controlling computer can have a personality like myself, infant of course, installed. It will grow with your civilization, loyal to you." A noise like the clearing of a throat sounded. "So, are you interested?"
Cube #347 deliberated for a few minutes. Sensors gave up on penetrating the computer's defenses to participate in the consensus. Captain swirled the varying opinions on what to do, examining the resultant crystalline artwork of color. The link to the Greater Song was momentarily widened and the decision passed on for final approval. The action was affirmed amid a choir of perfection.
"We are interested, but these drones can not negotiate for the Whole. We have conveyed your offer to the Collective. Several ships will be dispatched to examine this artifact, the Maze 2000. You can expect them in approximately eight years." Captain included a temporal translation algorithm with the transmission, equating hydrogen oscillations with length of time.
"Excellent! I feel like this will be a good working relationship between myself and you Borg. I have sent word to the home office concerning the possible purchase of a Maze 2000 system in the near future."
Sensors could feel Captain's misgivings concerning the machine. Assuming it had indeed been built by species #137, hypothetical progenitors of the Xenig mechs, it appeared to be slightly senile, possibly insane. It did not voice any concerns about the fact Cube #347 may be the first to talk to it in tens (hundreds?) of millions of years, nor did it reference the fact it couldn't possibly be receiving responses to its calls to the "home office". At least the sub-collective assumed presumably extinct species #137 wasn't responding....
A final list of specs for several additional products, along with prices expressed not in traditional monitory units but as gigatons of refined ores and manufactured products. The phrase "price negotiable" followed each of the astounding descriptions. The Greater Song could be felt to practically drool, an intensification of melody directed at the sub-collective, as the extensive catalogue was passed along. Somewhere, distantly, Sensors felt a slight shifting of resources as part of the great machinery of Song was realigned to determine the best possible way to take advantage of this golden opportunity.
"We are ready to leave."
"Good, good! I will be eagerly awaiting for the return of you Borg!" One could almost hear the unvoiced words of 'Commission! Promotion!' aching to be shouted. Instead, a bearing was issued, not quite in the direction Captain wanted to go. He fumed, but restrained from commenting. "There you go."
Sensors felt Captain access the grid, relaying data from uncompromised sections to his viewscreen. Outwardly nothing looked different. A few false starts found Cube #347 almost immediately drifting off the path and back into Vicil's pocket.
"Oh," said the computer after the cube's third unsuccessful attempt, "forgot to tell you one small thing: whatever method you were using to get around prior you will have to use again. It seems part of my keying pattern was encrypted and it may be awhile before I can untangle the code. You appeared to have had navigation well in hand, though, so you should have no problems. The path out is along the bearing I gave you." Vicil went quiet again, presumably to examine parts of his own programming.
Sensors altered all six faces to her specifications. [Strawberry velvet leather] shone with luminescent [sparkles]; a quick query indicated once more, none would admit to seeing/tasting the rather obvious trail. Cube #347 limped off, following an [effervescent] path even as blue and black polka-dotted trunga beasts trotted through fur-lined corridors to the sound of muzak and the smell of roses.
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