Star Trek is Paramount's baby. Alan Decker discovered Star Traks as an orphaned waif. I'm not quite sure of the origins of BorgSpace, but I take full responsibility...well, except spitwads. I don't know how that occurred.
Bringing Up Baby
40 of 42 and 124 of 230, both of the engineering hierarchy, walked across the floor of Bulk Cargo Hold #2. Many items were stored in the bay: barrels of high-grade neurogenic gel, spare parts, metal coils, a complete and up-to-date set of the "Galactic Geographic Explorer" magazine, and so on. Five hundred forty-eight maturation chambers transported from Cargo-class Cube #522 sat in ordered rows along one edge, quietly humming, green lights of long-term stasis blinking in precise patterns next to small data input/display screens.
"I can not believe the transporters are out in this subsection again! Third time in the last five time cycles!" 40 of 42 was complaining loudly, his voice echoing against a wall twenty meters away.
124 of 230 agreed, "Yes, I know. It's all the fault of subunit #522. Its been having a little tiff with Captain, Second, and the rest of command and control over interpretation of our root commands. This odd region of space we are traversing...the subunit wants to take more time to examine it for possible dangers to cubes. Sensors has pronounced it safe; and Captain just wants to keep on going."
"Still, you'd think squabbling over the engines would not spill over into transporter functions...takes forever to walk anywhere."
A snort. "This little fiasco can ultimately be traced to 243 of 310. She apparently did some rewiring in this subsection last year, and in the process grounded herself against a power conduit. The original fault has yet to be traced to the source."
40 of 42 turned inward for a moment, accessing the dossier of 243 of 310. "Oh, yes. Scrambled her memory, among other things; thought she was a Yaric vulture for the next month until she spontaneously recovered. Kept trying to fly down central shaft #2."
Both went silent as new orders were issued by Delta concerning maintenance in the area. Courses were altered to target a corridor access point beyond the maturation chambers. The two drones were weaving their way around waist high cylinders when 40 of 42 suddenly fell down.
124 of 230, following, stopped. "You tripped," he said, stating the obvious.
40 of 42 rolled to his side and glared up at the other drone. "Thank you for informing me. Now, tell me what I tripped on." 40 of 42 pushed himself upright, holding onto a convenient chamber.
"Oh-oh."
"Oh-oh?"
"You tripped on a cord to maturation chamber #39. It pulled out of its mating socket. The chamber has lost power." 124 of 230 held the errant cable in his unaltered hand.
"Give me that!" 40 of 42 grabbed the cord, then leaned over to plug it back in its appropriate place. Readouts immediately lit up, lights returning to the steady blinking pattern of neighboring chambers. "There, good as new."
124 of 230 tapped a few buttons, reading the resulting display. "Well, seems the creche clone hasn't been damaged." Pause. "Watch where you are walking next time."
"/Me/ watch where /I/ am walking?" The incredulous tone of voice faded as the two drones continued towards the exit. "What about that time in central shaft #1 when you fell...."
The blinking green light on maturation chamber #39 lost its steady cadence, flashing to amber, then bright red. After a few moments, the original hue of "nominal system status" reappeared with a pair of quiet beeps, but pattern of blinks took on a new beat unlike any of its mates.
*****
222 of 510 was happily listening to his music...no, /experiencing/ his music. Loud rolls of percussion and wail of electric strings provided a strong backbeat to the soaring words. A multitude of species had developed the form of music 222 of 510 enjoyed, themes of fast vehicles, young lust, dangerous drugs, and lost love eerily similar. This particular cut featured two adolescents of opposing genders, the back seat of a one-person racing shuttle, and five pairs of straw shoes.
The alcove of 222 of 510 had been extensively modified, and now bared little resemblance to the original design. For one thing, 222 of 510 was fully enclosed within a pod-like affair when he was in his alcove, flat speakers plastered on every square inner surface, defining a new meaning to the phrase "surround sound." The balance of bass and treble was perfect, placing the listener in a cocoon of pure music. Unfortunately, the modified alcove was not quite soundproof.
A banging on the outside of the alcove was ignored, as was the muffled "Open up!" To be more precise, 222 of 510 never heard the command. More thumping was filed away as belonging to the music background. The five pairs of straw shoes were whirling in a dance of love. "Open up!" was washed away once more.
Suddenly the music terminated. 222 of 510's eyes flew open in shock. {Open up the alcove, or else we'll tear it apart around you.} The words were the combined thoughts of 222 of 510's six nearest neighbors on the walkway tier. The alcove was cracked open to reveal six bodies with murderous expressions.
"We have told you time and again to either increase the soundproofing on your alcove, or keep your music below a designated threshold." 436 of 510 was spokesdrone for the annoyed sixsome. "And since you have consistently ignored our demands, your alcove is to be moved."
"Wait just a minute," began 222 of 510. He did not have the chance to finish his sentence.
"You and your alcove have been reassigned to corridor 7 of subsection 24, submatrix 16. Now, evict yourself elsewhere while we reinstall it there."
222 of 510 accessed internal cube diagrams. "Hey...there are no alcove tiers there! Just regenerative subsystems and storage chambers for rail gun pellets."
"Exactly."
222 of 510 had retreated to Bulk Cargo Hold #2 when it became apparent his alcove was to be moved with or without his assistance. Rather than watch his carefully balanced sonic equalizers be knocked out of alignment, he had taken his portable music system (another culture might recognize it as a boom-box) and several chips of music in search of open spaces. Bulk Cargo Hold #2 had sufficed.
The echoes among the maturation chambers were excellent, sounds perfectly bouncing off of walls and objects with the area near maturation chamber #39 as the focal point. Nodding, 222 of 510 placed the dark box of metal and plastic on the focal maturation chamber, cranked the volume knob to its highest decibel output, then turned the machine on. The strains of "My Tender Red Rollian Pinenut" blasted across the hold, filling it with words of screaming endearment, betrayal, and the metaphoric saga of one Rollian pinenut.
222 of 510 closed his eyes in bliss, reaching out to observe vicariously the transport and reinstalling of his precious alcove. Care was not being taken in the task. Ignored, the telltales of maturation chamber #39 flashed in a warning cadence which swiftly modified to the backbeat of "Pinenut." A long readout scrolled up the display, unseen, cataloguing eminent faults and the process of autonomous adaptation/modification proceeding to limit damage.
*****
307 of 310 beamed into Bulk Cargo Hold #2, near lengths of replacement plasma conduit. A minor artery had exploded in subsection 6, submatrix 11 due to stress fractures. The accident had done little damage, and 307 of 310 had been dispatched to the nearest cargo hold to find an appropriate replacement.
The replacement in question was required to be 10.57 meters long; actual damage was 9.23 meters, but extra length was necessary to wield in a properly spliced patch. Spare conduits were neatly stacked at the bottom of a tall rack, ranging in size from 2.13 to 30.66 meters. 307 of 310 began to dig through the pile, trying to find a length which would require a minimum of trimming.
'Click, click...click click,' four almost delicate noises echoed just under the background hum of cargo hold sound. 307 of 310 stopped, holding a replacement conduit of 12.84 meters, to listen. The sound was not repeated. Blinking, the drone set aside the possible replacement and returned to her task.
Again the nearly subliminal ticks, this time distinctly nearer, 'click click...click...click, click.' They stopped immediately as 307 of 310 halted her actions. She straightened up and scanned the immediate area for a mechanical problem. Nothing. Next she queried locations of drones in the subsection. None in the cargo hold. Frowning, she bent back to peer into the rack. A hand extended to grab a likely looking conduit length.
'Click click click...click.' 307 of 310 abruptly straightened and whirled around. "Who's there?" she called. "You will identify your designation!" Unfortunately, she continued to hold to the 16.75 meter replacement as she performed the actions. The conduit traveled in a flat arc, sweeping along a shelf on a neighboring rack. Thirty-two bars of gold alloy fell to the deck with a musical thunk, followed by the shattering crash as a glass jar was tagged. White powder in the jar, a universal catalyst, flew in the air like flour, coating all nearby surfaces, including 307 of 310. Luckily, the activator liquid was kept on another shelf, or else 307 of 310 and several other items now dusted in white would have become piles of melting goo.
307 of 310 ignored the danger represented by the catalytic powder, focusing on the expanse of Bulk Cargo Hold #2. Nothing of interest could be seen...everything was in its place and no anomalous energy signatures were detected. Five hundred forty...307 of 310 stopped her impromptu inventory. Something indeed was wrong. One of the maturation chambers, #39 to be exact, had activated, modifying itself as if it were located in a potentially harmful environment. Nonstandard couplings and cables sprouted from the central cylinder, which itself had been modified to accommodate the growing neonate creche clone.
The maturation chamber growth alcove was empty. 307 of 310 dropped the now irrelevant conduit to the deck with a clatter, reporting the situation to the rest of the sub-collective.
*****
Racial Dossier Summary, Abridged
Species numerical designation: #7502
Species name: Loxian
Type: Hexapod, quasi-mammalian [tri-gender: female, male, brooder]
Technology status: Warp-capable, type I dispersal phase
Location: Homeworld in grid 4762; colonies in adjacent grids
Total population: Estimated at 13 billion with 12.5 billion on homeworld
Physical description: [follow path to pictorial representation] Average individual relates to male and female; brooder is approximately 0.3 again size of other two genders, and 0.5 again the mass.
Species #7502 is 1.8 meters in length, 1 meter height at secondary shoulder, 1.2 meter at head. Hexapod build is divided into quadruped stance, with forwardmost pair of limbs employed as manipulatory appendages. Six digits, including two opposable thumbs, comprise each hand. All limbs have two bi-directional joints between ankle/wrist and shoulder/hip girdles. Breathing spiracles leading to multi-pouched lungs are located as a row of six along abdomen side, under flap of skin. Species length includes 0.6 meter tail with barbed end capable of injecting powerful neurotoxin. Underslung, terminal mouth is found forward of arms; brainpan is above bony palate roof. The "head" is a gray-fuzzed protuberance where senses (multi-faceted eyes function in orange through ultra-violent spectrum; ears; air pressure/scent tactile organ) are concentrated.
[follow path to most efficient cybernetic implant configurations]
Resistance index [scale 1-10]: 4 [below average]
Drone uses: Excellent soldiers, especially in aquatic and thick atmospheric environs; unique muscle protein fibers are extremely efficienct and drone is able to carry heavy loads; natural production of biological neurotoxin
Assimilation status: On hold. Clarification: complete assimilation of species will commence at such time clone manufacture and genetic manipulation will allow persistence of species inside Collective without necessary influx of new individuals. Until this condition is met, no mass assimilation shall occur in grid 4762 or adjacent grids; ships exiting designated area will be assimilated and individuals added to Collective
*****
Assimilation was in Bulk Cargo Hold #2, downloading the automatic log from maturation chamber #39 and transferring it to the dataspaces. The neonate clone and chamber had suffered some type of unspecified damage, the latter falling into an automatic adaptation path only activated under conditions of extreme duress. Faults and self-repair attempts were numerous; most disturbing was the apparent inability of the chamber to sense its location on a Borg vessel.
A series of reports continually filtered in to Assimilation, as he was the hub of the search effort to find the missing drone. The reports were processed in the background. Assimilation fractured his awareness to examine the current situation, then sent a query-ping to Captain. {No sign of where the new drone disappeared. Bulk Cargo Hold #2 has been searched. Original damage appears to have affected neonate neural transceiver: low probability the drone recognizes its location on a cube, or can make contact with local dataspaces. High probability it is insane, even by this sub-collective's standards.} The mental sigh of defeat was heavy. Captain felt depression weigh upon him, but quickly shook it off.
{Understood. Assimilation hierarchy disengage from task. Reassignment of engineering hierarchy to locate rogue drone via internal sensors; command and control and weaponry hierarchies will begin physical search routine with Bulk Cargo Hold #2 as foci. Comply.} Mass assents poured into Captain's awareness as the massive rearrangement of duty priorities commenced.
{It looks somewhat like a manta ray with pipe-cleaners for legs, at least if you squint just right and slice off the head bump,} commented 20 of 212, assimilated human who had the habit of comparing things to items of Terran origin. He swiftly made a crude pict, superimposing it over that of species #7502.
Captain sighed, then erased the pictorial simile, {Knock it off and continue search. Progress report.}
Trios began to report in, nothingness the overwhelming theme. One team had found several copies of the comic book "Adventures of Super Goby" hidden in an interstitial space, but none confessed to ownership. A clicking occasionally could be heard, but it was not possible to discern its exact position, much less know if it originated from the rogue or was simply a mechanical fault.
Second was flipping through one of the "Goby" comics, commenting on the inane situations of the supposed super hero; however, Captain also noticed his second-in-command continued to page through it despite cutting remarks.
"So irrelevant it is not possible to put the comic away?"
"What?" asked Second, looking up from a colorful panel.
"Never mind. Not important." Captain split his viewscreen in his nodal intersection into ten windows, each showing a different view from a stationary sensor cluster. He set a program to begin shuffling randomly through the cameras, displaying each sight on a screen section for ten seconds. The program ran; once each second, a wedge changed to show another part of the cube within the search area.
"Something is bothering me," stated Captain after several minutes.
"What?" The comic book had engrossed part of Second's attention; the rest was actively involved in coordinating the search among part of the command and control hierarchy.
"The whole situation." Pause as Captain ran a rapid search of several language databases known for imaginative metaphors. "I think the appropriate phrase is, 'It is like something out of a horror/sci-fi movie'."
"If you say so," mumbled Second. Captain glanced over, saw Second had focused on Goby again, and shook his head. No...the whole situation just was not right.
*****
Click, click, click, click...the steady cadence of tritanium coated feet echoed in semi-darkness. A large bulk of black and gray moved along the subhull corridor of subsection 12, submatrix 15.
"Who are we?"
"What is our designation?"
"Where do we belong? Answer us! We demand data! We can not function alone!"
The last hoarse shout descended into a whimper of quiet agony, numberless drone decanted to a harsh world of unknowns, no past experiences of preassimilated memories to draw upon, no support. The drone only had the most basic of hardwired instincts, body modified to function in a hostile environment, programmed to seek other beings and add them to the a dimly perceived concept of "Collective."
Insanity.
Click. Drone stopped, acute aural sense picking up the activity of plasma cutters, whining of stress sounders, rattle-crash as a badly stacked pile of metal rods was overset. The specifics did not compute, but the overall meaning fell into the instinctive category of "sentient". A new program initiated: stealth.
Click, click, click, click.
*****
The engineering task force of five was performing routine preventive maintenance in subsection 12, submatrix 15. The job was one of those assignments which never ended: replacing hullward interior plating with newly replicated parts recycled from older metals. Every ten years or so the cycle would complete itself, only to start again at the beginning. It was a necessary, if repetitive, job.
Metal rods, each two meters in length, littered the floor of the corridor. They were components of an internal shock-scaffolding system located between innermost hull and deep ablative armor. The support structure was scheduled for examination, and replacement if necessary, during the current cycle of corridor plating.
"You knocked it over, 152 of 230, you pick it up," gestured a drone further down the corridor, dangerously waving a plasma welder. The purple-white cone of unflame whined with subliminal starfury. A third drone poked her head out of an interstitial space to view the mess, nearly liquefying her shoulder in the process. The two began to argue, leaving 152 of 230 to stare at what resembled a nasty game of pick-up-sticks. He began the task.
Click, click......click. 152 of 230 noisily stacked an armful of rods against the wall, then paused as a lightly erratic ticking sound came to his attention. 169 of 310 had returned to welding, and the other three were in the hullward interstitial space, examining scaffolding. Heat from earlier work was the explanation of highest probability, metal contracting as welds cooled. 152 of 230 peered down the corridor, noting how far rods had rolled, then trundled off after the most distant stragglers.
{169 of 310, give us three rods,} sent 258 of 310 towards the welder who had almost damaged her earlier. The other two members of the team were busy removing offending rods and required replacements; it was 258 of 310's job to bring them, and she would prefer the efficiency gained if 169 of 310 would simply push the necessary items through the access point. 258 of 310 crawled and maneuvered her way to the corridor opening, finding no rods when she arrived.
"169 of 310? 152 of 230? We need three rods...no, make that four rods," called 258 of 310. No answer. Oddly, no sounds of work could be heard either. Internal sensors pinpointed both drones in the hallway outside. 258 of 310 frowned as she braced her body, pushing herself out of the interstitial space and into the corridor.
Silence. 258 of 310 panned the hallway, looking for a loitering 169 of 310 or 152 of 230. Excessive heat registered from 258 of 310's left foot. Looking down, she saw she had placed her foot just outside the cone of starheat which was slowly melting its way through the deck plates. 258 of 310 reached down, picked up the plasma welder, and flicked it off. {169 of 310? 152 of 230? Answer.} The now very confused drone verbalized her mental questing as well.
A not-quite silence was returned. Click. Click. 258 of 310 turned just in time to see a large bulk descend from where it had been flattened against the ceiling. She was crushed to the deck under two hundred kilos of cyberneticized flesh.
"Who are we?"
"What is our designation?"
"Where do we belong? Answer us! We demand data! We can not function alone!"
The voice was petulant in its questions, but 258 of 310 had no ability to reply, her face smashed as it was against metal. The weight shifted slightly, followed by the registering of additional damage as something barbed punctured body armor, tearing into flesh, at the right shoulder. 258 of 310 heaved herself in an attempt to move, but was slammed to the ground once more.
"Who are we?"
"What is our designation?"
"Where do we belong? Answer us! We demand data! We can not function alone!"
258 of 310 tried to focus on the words, but they were becoming distant. She tried to access the dataspaces, to spread an alarm to the sub-collective, but was denied as her mental processes slowed to a glacial crawl. The universe swiftly faded to the sight of gunmetal deck plates; and then even that was gone.
*****
Drone, although he did not think of himself by that designation, did not have a designation, laid the five bodies into a neat row in the corridor. None had answered his questions. He knew there was something he was supposed to do to bring sentients closer to the blurred concept of "Collective," but these had not responded. Confused, he had barbed them with his tail. The effect was for the sentients to lose consciousness, perhaps terminate. Drone did not know the difference.
A feeling tickled Drone. The answers would not be found here. He did not know why he felt so, but he knew he needed to head deeper into the odd tunnels, deeper...deeper. A dimly perceived...something...was drawing him that way.
Drone crouched slightly, then leapt towards a wall, targeting a spot halfway up. A swift touch and kick, Drone landed on the ceiling, feet and hands modified in the maturation chamber dug into metal, tritanium impregnated claws punching holes and steadying bulk until powerful magnetic clamps engaged. Satisfied, Drone reoriented himself in the now upside-down corridor.
Click, click, click, click....
*****
Doctor finished his evaluation of the five engineering drones laying paralyzed in the maintenance workshop. They were alive and relatively undamaged, which was the good news. Doctor signaled for ten of his hierarchy, two for each of the injured drones, to take the bodies back to their respective alcoves.
{Report completed,} sent Doctor to Captain.
Captain tersely responded, {Expand.}
Doctor ordered his thoughts, then began to send a stream of data along with narration. {All five poor babies were tagged by a large dose of neurotoxin consistent with that produced by species #7502; high probability of origin being our rogue droney. None will be permanently damaged, and nanites are already breaking down the poison. However, as the toxin affects synapses, only the presence of standard support implants kept the bodies functioning. The five have been returned to their alcoves. In about twelve hours the poisons will flush from systems sufficiently for mental processes to function, albeit at substantially less than normal efficiency.
{Until then, all five sick puppies are effectively unconscious, unaware of their surroundings, have no access to their transceivers, and will be unable to relate the method by which the rogue dispatched them.}
Captain digested the report. {Query: how fast does it take for the poison to act? And is it possible to adapt the searchers to the neurotoxin?}
{Very fast acting.} Doctor sent data of toxin tests performed on by the Collective on "volunteer" species; none had been immune. {No knowledge of the attack was known until a search team stumbled over them. Adaptation is unlikely.}
Hunter details reorganized, now five per group with strict orders to keep all members within sight. New search parameters were defined with the scene of attack as the foci.
*****
Drone slipped through interstitial spaces, stalked the ceilings, and observed the scurrying patterns of the beings who inhabited the tunnels. They did not see him, or at least they were looking in all the wrong places. The larger groups, those with five who kept together in close knots, he did not bother with; Drone was alone, painfully alone, and knew he could not overcome so many. However, smaller crews worked at tasks - singletons, doubles, triples - all of whom were vulnerable.
"Who are we?"
"What is our designation?"
"Where do we belong? Answer us! We demand data! We can not function alone!"
None answered. Drone left the bodies behind, leaping to his personal travelway as the hunter groups inevitably converged on their fallen comrades. Drone's direction of movement was not quite random, but led him unconsciously deeper into the vast complex. Somewhere there were the answers to his questions, someone who could reply. A not-self which was greater than a single self resided, an echo of the concept "Collective." The not-self would provide data to lift the insanity.
*****
The rogue continued to elude hunter groups, attacking maintenance details who's only fault was to be in the way. The engineering hierarchy was having little luck adapting internal sensors to follow the rogue; and individual members were understandably wary when required repairs were in those areas the drone had last been sighted. A total of one hundred twenty-five drones had fallen to the rogue and its neurotoxin, but fortunately none had been seriously damaged nor terminated.
Despite the number of attacks, no crewmember had registered a complete view of the rogue. Enough partial impressions were present, however, to create a composite. The sub-collective picked apart pixels and enhanced data, combining fleeting, momentary sights of a dark bulk into an intelligible whole. Extrapolations of possible cybernetic configurations were made, including assumptions based on maturation chamber log data. The final three-dimensional pict was set to slowly spin in the dataspaces.
The basic form of species #7502 - manta ray on pipe-cleaner legs as descriptively imaged earlier - was the primary framework upon which the maturation chamber nanites had constructed the rogue. Clones produced in chambers, because they were grown from cells and not assimilated as individual beings, were decanted with many of implants and lesser assemblies that would otherwise be installed in a series of medical procedures. The extrapolated rogue had no limb replacements (the machinery was too complex for nanites to manufacture from scratch), but artificial peripheral nerves and enhancements for already efficient musculature was high on the list of probable alterations. Sensory upgrades, laminated endoskeleton, non-organic neural transceiver hardware, minimum 55% body armor coverage were all standard parameters for a tactical assault drone, which was the broad specialist category of the rogue. Evidence of movement via the ceiling indicated a powerful limb electromagnetic system. Even disregarding the hazard represented by the toxin, the rogue was a very dangerous package.
Most interesting were the phrases the drone had repeated to each victim before injecting neurotoxin:
"Who are we?"
"What is our designation?"
"Where do we belong? Answer us! We demand data! We can not function alone!"
The words never varied, nor did the response when the questions were not immediately answered.
The rogue appeared to be following a twisted parody of programming with the goal of integrating itself into the Collective. Unfortunately, with a misconfigured transceiver and damaged neural pathways, it could not recognize the fact it was already surrounded by what it sought to find. The reason behind the defects had yet to be fully traced, although a theory existed with the rogue's problems the cumulated effects of faults beginning with the industrial accident which had precipitated Cube #347's unwanted adventure.
{The rogue will be terminated; it represents a danger to the already mediocre efficiency of this sub-collective. Movements are directed, and objective is extrapolated to be subsection 17, submatrix 10. The following actions will be pursued to herd the rogue into designated ambush point at corridor 15, subsection 16, submatrix 14.... } The sub-collective of Cube #347 was submerged within itself, consensus pathways and direction of activity in a rare state of harmony. Captain rode the smooth wave of near Oneness, occasional light touches of encouragement subtle. The unity was not to last; discord originated from an unusual source: subunit #522.
{Insertion of new subroot command into control structure of Exploratory-class Cube #347 sub-collective: rogue drone of species #7502 is to be captured and reintegrated into Collective via medium represented by subunit #522.} The relatively smooth flowing of four thousand mentalities fell apart as the command and control hierarchy blocked the illicit order.
Captain focused his attention on the subunit. He had felt a rise in communication traffic between the subunit and the Greater Consciousness, but had not bothered to eavesdrop, assuming the former was simply relaying an update on the latest bungle by the cube. {Negative. Capturing the rogue would be a waste of resources when termination is simpler. Preparations for ambush will continue.}
{Species #7502 clone is required to be captured.}
{Clarify.}
I{t is not necessary to explain. You will comply.}
Captain groaned outloud. {It was this precise attitude which put us tens of thousands of light years from BorgSpace in the first place. We must know /why/ capture is required; bad things can happen when this sub-collective is forced to blindly obey.} The hint of an unspecified threat was included.
Silence from the subunit, although it was possible to feel it was processing pros and cons of divesting the information it was withholding. Finally, {The rogue represents a success in cloning species #7502; and it has held to its pre-programmed, if misguided, desire for Collective integration despite the...imperfections surrounding it. It must be captured and examined. If it can be determined why the creche clone successfully grew to term, the circumstances can be duplicated, and complete assimilation of species #7502 may begin.}
{That wasn't so hard, now, was it?} sarcastically interjected Second. Captain had the exact same feeling. Most of the cube, in fact, expressed similar sentiments.
{The information is irrelevant. The rogue will be captured.}
{The data is relevant. Now we know the reason behind the requirement, and can now determine the best plan to complete the task. The Collective's perfection must be refined, and species #7502 will add its distinctiveness. We will comply.}
The subunit was silent...not reprimanded, just silent.
Captain reset parameters, {Initiate new consensus cascade. Objective: capture rogue drone. Primary relevant tangent: determine reason behind directed rogue movement pattern. Secondary relevant.... } The silicon-organic computer which was Cube #347 began to crunch data.
*****
Drone halted. The not-self he had been tracking had moved. It felt closer, but finding it would require backtracking of corridors already traversed. The fact hunter groups and maintenance details had been scarce for an undetermined amount of time did not register. They were either obstacles to bypass or opportunities to exploit.
The not-self presence remained. Drone reoriented himself. Click, click, click, click.
*****
Captain once more transported to a different submatrix, the eighth such action in the last hour. The sub-collective (and subunit) was testing a theory with its captain as bait. The rogue was currently moving in the interstitial spaces, and as such, continued to elude remote sensors. However, simple audio clusters had registered the quiet 'click'ing of magnetized limbs traversing walls and ceilings. As had occurred the prior seven times, the telltale sound halted, then began again, new vector heading towards Captain's location.
{The rogue is attuned to your signature. Hypothesis: while it is removed from the Collective and all transceiver systems malfunctioning, it still somehow senses the active nexus mind of the cube. Programmed instinct sends the rogue towards the central mind in a quest for data.} Subunit #522 returned consensus a beat before Cube #347 sub-collective could state the same conclusion. Less than two hundred fifty minds connecting-the-dots faster than four thousand...it was embarrassing.
Updates on the sporadic progress of the rogue flowed to Captain; the drone was no immediate threat as estimates concluded several hours would be necessary for it to work its way to Captain's current location. Subunit #522 spoke, {Drone 4 of 8, subdesignation Captain, current consensus facilitator and monitor of Exploratory-class Cube #347...} Captain frowned at the use of his full designation; it was not a good thing. {...you will relocate yourself to Bulk Cargo Hold #6. The rogue will follow. You will confront the rogue and affix a temporary external neural transceiver at the appropriate spinal junction. We will then take charge of the rogue.}
{Me? Bait?} Captain had known what action the subunit would present, but the knowledge had not been quite real until the words were proclaimed. The worst-case scenario seemed to occur with depressing regularity. {I will not.}
{You will comply.}
{I will not.} Unlike other arguments in the past, none were backing their captain; if anything, they agreed with the subunit. Anything to rid the cube of the dangerous rogue. And without support, Captain was badly outmatched.
{You will comply. The rogue must be integrated into the Greater Consciousness.}
{I will not. There are other methods to immobilize the drone. If we can enhance internal sensors sufficiently or tag it with a transponder, then....}
{You /will/ comply.}
A trio of ceramometallic pipe lengths snaked out of the darkness near the ceiling; liquid, processed comet water, dribbled from the severed ends, dripping noisily to the deck in an ever expanding puddle. The rogue had apparently damaged the conduits when it had entered the hold via its very nonstandard method of moving throughout the cube. The absence of steady lighting, likely deliberate, added to the grainy ambiance.
Captain directed his sight upward, rapidly trying successive optic configurations in an attempt to gain a clear view of the ceiling. Unfortunately, general visual clutter and thermal inconsistencies reduced the endeavor to patches of clarity surrounded by vast blurred areas. Click, click, click....thump....thump. A large object had just dropped from the ceiling, rebounded off a wall, and landed on the floor. Directly behind. Captain whirled, then dodged to the right as the rogue lunged, clawed hands stiffly slashing the space just vacated.
"Who are we?"
"What is our designation?"
"Where do we belong? Answer us! We demand data! We can not function alone!"
A deep voice boomed from the underslung mouth, multifaceted eyes glittering with malevolence in the inconsistent lighting. The dangerous tail was held over the rogue's back as it crouched slightly, a scorpion prepared to strike.
"You are not alone," calmly stated Captain as he took a single step backwards. He located local internal visual sensors and tied part of his imaging cortex into the system; perhaps that might provide some warning when the rogue next attacked. Or else it may just be a dandy way to view his own downfall from the outside.
The rogue stiffened, snapping its mouth shut with a click as it drew in a long breath through the spiracles under its abdomen flaps. The toothed slit opened again, "We are alone."
"You are Borg. You can not be alone." Captain was about to continue with 'I,' but edited himself as subunit #522 momentarily flooded his awareness with warning. The drone was salvageable, had clung to a shred of manyness in its solitary hunt...don't ruin it. Captain frowned, but complied. "This drone is Borg; we are not alone. Let us help you. All will be explained."
Body posture relaxed slightly, then immediately tensed as Captain took a half step forward with temporary transceiver held in readiness. One 'click' echoed over the dripping water sounds as a clawed appendage was lifted and reset. "We are alone. The Collective is empty. We can not hear the Collective." Pause as thoughts were visibly reordered, neonatal programmed language base examined. "We feel. We feel...drawn...to the not-self which is the thinking center of this place. The not-self converses with us now."
"We are consensus monitor and facilitator; this drone's task is to integrate. You are malfunctioning. We can fix you." Captain now knew what it felt like to stick his head in the ri'kah's mouth. And where did /that/ allusion come from? Captain sent a probe towards Second.
{What?} asked Second as he rapidly reintegrated his divided mentality. The comic book was closed, but not before Captain skimmed from Second's short-term input pathways a scene of hero Goby sticking his head down a ri'kah's gullet. Captain snapped his attention back to the immediate, just in time to duck as barbed tail flicked forward.
"All systems functioning at nominal efficiency; regenerative time index: ninety-seven hours to stasis lock. We are not malfunctioning." {Still ninety-seven hours to stasis?} thought Captain as he consulted a comprehensive dossier of the race. Yes, assimilated specimens were capable of excessively long bouts of sustained activity between required regeneration. The rogue had already been active for nearly two hundred hours. A posture of readiness was once more displayed.
Captain was losing his patience. "We are facilitator, and you can feel it. You are malfunctioning and will stand down for repairs; or you will be terminated. You will comply."
"Who are we?"
"You are Borg."
"What is our designation?"
"Designation is irrelevant. You are Borg."
"Where do we belong?"
"You are Borg."
"Answer us! We demand data! We can not function alone!"
Captain screamed to himself in frustration. It was worse than talking to an automaton; and a damn sight more dangerous as well. "You are Borg. You are not alone. Stand down for repairs. Comply!"
Drone wilted slightly, tail curling slowly back to a position of non-threat. "Comply" was a word his programming understood, especially when given in such a manner by this particular being, the not-self whom he could almost "hear." It was tempting, compelling, to follow the order.
With transceiver held tightly, Captain saw his chance. The rogue was wavering, appeared to be surrendering. Captain took two long steps to the drone's side, bringing the transceiver into position. It was slammed into position at the junction of head and abdomen, just forward of the first shoulder girdle. Activated, the external implant immediately dug in clamps and proceeded to worm connection tendril into the nervous system to the appropriate brain centers.
"You attack us! You damage us!" The rogue bucked against Captain, throwing the lesser massed Borg against a rank of miscellaneous replacement parts. The view from relevant cameras was interesting, privately thought Captain as he watched from both first and third person as the rogue caught him in the neck with its tail. The action of the neurotoxin was quick, so he never registered the additional damage inflicted as the rogue proceeded to vent its frustration.
The sight of overhead lights and underside of a many-armed torture machine. Whines of drilling and hiss of small soldering lasers. Smell of cauterized flesh and metallic fire. Gyroscopic balances indicated a position of horizontal repose; and tactile sensors reported a flat slab supporting one's backside. Conclusion: a maintenance bay.
A rodent visage came into view as it leaned over the workbench. "Online again? Good boy, happy boy. A variety of 5' nanite has been introduced to your system which is specifically programmed to target and dismantle the neurotoxin structure."
Captain blinked. He did not want to talk; even thinking was difficult, although he could feel mental processes beginning to move towards normal speeds. He ran a diagnostic on his systems when he discovered his body below the neck had been paralyzed by maintenance commands.
The left arm, his prosthetic limb, was new. Previously it had been mechanical only below the elbow. Now, however, the entire limb, including shoulder joint, was artificial. Organic and nonorganic regenerative systems were very active. Exoplating on left torso and abdomen was new, as was artificial tendon and nerve fibers of the thigh.
"It would have been worse, most likely warranting termination and salvage, had the transceiver not completed its task and linked the rogue to subunit #522." Doctor's voice sounded from Captain's left side, just out of view. "The subunit overrode the rogue's actions, sending it into stasis. You, unhappy boy, were a mess."
"Expand," said Captain. Doctor complied, compressing pictures and actions of the last several hours. Captain watched his fast-forward reconstruction from a bloody pulp to something resembling normality. He had not had so much surgery at one time since his original assimilation. Captain blanked his optical input with a groan. "How long to full functionality."
"I'll be done here in another forty minutes or so, then you will require twenty hours in regeneration. Processing speeds will return to peak efficiency in three hours. Then I'll give you a special treat!"
{Hurry up, already,} commented Second. Captain could sense the workload Second was currently juggling. {I don't want to be facilitator, even if it is temporary, for one millisecond longer than I have to. When you were caught by the rogue and dropped out of the net, guess where all command functions shifted? You should have been more careful.}
The demotion to 'plain drone' of the command and control hierarchy was a relief which Captain was not in any hurry to end. {You heard Doctor. I must regenerate for twenty hours first, even if mentally I will be adequate in three hours. I must insist on complete repairs before I return to prime facilitator status. That will be most efficient.}
Second did not argue, not with overt words anyway. His disappointment was quite apparent, but he accepted the statement without fuss. {Twenty hours, then. And if you linger in regeneration on purpose, I will evict you from your alcove myself.} Second's awareness was suddenly called away by a budding problem elsewhere.
Captain allowed a fleeting moment of pleasure and victory to cross his face. It fled as Captain contemplated the rogue. He opened his eye and optic implant to the unimpressive sight of the maintenance bay ceiling. {Subunit #522: the rogue drone, it is secured?}
{2432 of 98110 is being integrated to the Greater Consciousness. The drone is uncorrupted by assimilation imperfection, and is thus salvageable for use,} responded the combined mentalities of subunit #522.
{Good. At least I didn't sacrifice myself for nothing.}
{You are only one, replaceable. Your damage is severe, but repairable. You will survive.}
Sarcastic reply: {Gee, thanks for your concern.}
One signature of subunit #522 separated itself from the rest, temporarily distancing itself as a timid child might step from a group of its peers when called by the teacher. {We are Borg. Our designation is 2432 of 98110, subunit #522, currently tasked to Exploratory-class Cube #347. We are One with the Collective; we are not alone.} A brief (illusionary? wistful?) sensation of gratitude brushed Captain's presence before the mentality faded, submerging itself in the general buzz of the subunit.
Captain centered himself in his body, the here and now where Doctor and two others of his hierarchy were patching the last of torn leg body armor. A fictional superhero named Goby, ticking of claw on metal, soundless hum of a dermal regenerator, a salvageable rogue, drone longing for Oneness regulated to the edge of usefulness: in a universe of inconsistent ironies, it seemed some days were safer if one never stepped from one's alcove.
Return to the Season 2 page