Omnipotent Paramount are Lords of Creation and Owners of Star Trek Stuff, including Voyager. A. Decker is Omniscient Architect of Star Traks. Omnipresent (from the computer's point of view) M. Meneks authors BorgSpace.
Special guest: Amanda Miley, 1000th BorgSpace visitor, starring as Q
We Are Q
"I'm bored." Dangerous words, this simple statement of boredom. Many a galactic spanning empire had crumbled, entire enlightened species spiraling down the track of self-oblivion, following such a comment about the tedium of the moment. "I'm really bored."
Infinitely old, yet forever young; powerful paradox given existence. At this space-time moment, a hint of sparkling green compliments length of brown, amorphous form only a vague outline of what-will-be. "There has /got/ to be something to do around this universe!" The voice now has an owner, one self-thought as feminine, although gender is largely an issue of cosmetics among her kind.
"I'm going out for a few millennia; don't wait up for me." The being is now gone, her kin batting barely an eye, for they too are bored. The universe only offers so many diversions, so many "toys" to play with; she'll be back shortly...well, short as measured by beings for whom a century is but a heartbeat, if that. The novelties of the greater universe will pall, and the wandering presence will drift back along the road to the porch, the chair, the scarecrow, the dog, hoping something new might have appeared. Yes, the community of Q knows Q will eventually return.
*****
{No, no, no, no, no! You were supposed to catalogue and cross-reference ship types of species #8523 with observed and extrapolated technologies!}
{Yes, assimilated species #3285. Finished. Did you know those files already existed?}
{Species #8523...Ijexian, you idiot!}
{Species #3285, Yuidot. That is what I said; and I am not a jinx.}
Second groaned. 63 of 79 had been tasked with the command and control equivalent of sorting folders and affixing labels. He had failed most heinously. The problem was not new, and could be traced back four years when 63 of 79 had come millimeters from being reduced to spare parts during inventory of a captured space station from species #5039 during a series of advancements which eventually ended in complete assimilation of the race. Xenophobic to the extreme, species #5039 routinely booby-trapped all structures they built; 63 of 79, booby, had been caught in a high explosive blast. The resultant damage to his brain had been repairable, although massive inclusion of artificial replacements was required. Unfortunately, the Borg had yet to assimilate a species which had produced a surrogate for high order neural tissue that was as satisfactory as the original. Consequently, every couple of months 63 of 79 had to go to drone maintenance to have his brain realigned. Now was one of those times.
{63 of 79, report to drone maintenance for routine repair.}
{Sure, I will send the report to drone maintenance, but I don't understand why they would want technological information about species #3285.}
{Go. To. The. Nearest. Maintenance. Workshop. Now.} Second pulsed the words slowly with as much clarity as possible. 63 of 79 gave the mental equivalent of a confused shrug with his compliance. Second immediately posted the drone to the general maintenance dossier, adding a note to go find the subject in question if he did not actually report to a workshop in the next ten minutes.
How Second disliked times like these. One minor crisis chasing on the tail of another. Captain was currently in regeneration, his body cycling through its normal downtime while the mentality, along with one hundred others of command and control, led the sensory hierarchy in an efficient, if intense, organization of spatial topography maps of the grids thus far traversed since being flung into the Beta quadrant. The task required most of Captain's resources, which left Second in charge of routine matters.
"You're funny. I like you."
{Implement first diagnostic review, weapon and power systems, subsections 1 through 6.} Unlike Captain, Second did not mind receiving vast amounts of data or viewing sensor input wholly within the dataspaces. While he was physically within the nodal intersection Captain frequented, it was only because the area was closest to the alcove he didn't wish to be in at the moment. The large viewscreen was darkened but for an occasional streak of color; Second stared blindly at a bulkhead, busy on a plain of constructed reality which was often more immediate than the actual universe itself. {Implement second diagnostic review, weapon and power systems, subsections 7 through 6 and 16 through 18.}
"So formal, so serious. I betcha you break a lot of hearts as you move around the galaxy." A giggle.
{Implement third diagnostic review, weapon and power systems, subsections 10 through 15. Implement fourth diagnostic review, weapon and power systems, subsections 19 though 21. Implement fifth diagnostic review, weapon and power systems, subsections 22 through 27.}
"You really know how to talk to a girl, don't you?" Giggle. Giggle. The second titter had a hard edge to it, as if the voice was becoming tired of the one-sided flirting. "Here now, why don't you stop for a bit? You are a rather fascinating creature, after all. There weren't any like you at all last time I was out and about, but that was about two hundred thousand years ago; things change." A snap of fingers.
{Implement first diagnostic review, propulsion systems, subsections 1 through 6.} Second blinked, organic eyes momentarily lidding as optical sensors in the other two sockets fuzzed. When he could focus again, he saw he was not alone in the intersection. A human? female? intruder was also present, grinning a lopsided smirk.
"Now, I will admit the Borg are a bit on the boring side in general, but this particular group is different. Fun." Pause. "And you're kinda cute, in a cybernetic-monster sort of way. The blinking lights and targeting laser are a good touch; you guys must've assimilated a colony of insane special effect and make-up artists when your civilization was just embarking on its quest of whatever it is you quest for. Oh yes, perfection, that's right. What a quaint concept." Giggle.
No fear, no agitation, the human continued to prattle about irrelevant things, motoring her way from topic to topic. She was 165 centimeters tall, average for the race, with slightly longer than shoulder length brown hair held away from the face with a barrette. Bright green eyes perfectly matched delicate emerald and silver earrings. Apparent age was unknown, although manner was consistent with that of an adolescent of the species. She wore a generic pair of black pants, light leather hiking boots, and a dark green shirt with a fanciful cat picked out in gold stitches. The cat sported a chillingly Cheshire grin.
{Intruder alert! General order: expand awareness to include humanoid forms, specifically Terran standard. Report. Captain, this is your show, not mine. Re-establish main control and command hierarchical flow to primary consensus monitor and facilitator, designation 4 of 8. Captain, get your butt out of your alcove now, or else I'll transport you here.} The alert klaxon, a monotone synthetic noise like someone was beating an out-of-tune bagpipe, sounded throughout the cube. The shimmering green of a drone beaming into the nodal intersection announced Captain's arrival on the scene. The human began to pout.
"No fun. I thought this was supposed to be a private party, just you and me." A gesture in the direction of a speaker; the alert abruptly cut to silence. "There, that's better. Oh yes, why don't you go elsewhere, Mr. Borg captain. As the Terrans say, two's company, but three's a crowd." Captain disappeared with a flash of white light; his shocked mental signature indicated he had reappeared near the primary transwarp core in subsection 14, submatrix 14. Transporters abruptly went off-line for no apparent reason, sending Delta into a fit. Second was stunned - this human was anything but human, and there were no protocols on how to deal with the intruder.
A smile. "There, as I said, much better. Hard to think with all that racket. Anyway, my name is Q, but you can call me Q. Q is so formal, and while other Q would rather be addressed as such, I think just plain Q is fine."
"Q," repeated Second. {Database query: Q. Path return: energy-based lifeform with inherent ability to manipulate universal reality constants; extrapolation that lifeform is not native to base universe. No confirmation of existence.} That passage comprised the total racial dossier of Q; Second watched as Captain erased the "No" of the final entry, capitalizing the "c" and adding a time index. Meanwhile, several drones on the subsection, submatrix had responded to the intruder alert, but found themselves unable to enter the nodal intersection. They peered through the entranceways, not able to proceed.
Q smiled, "Yes, just plain Q." She looked over her shoulder at the drones standing outside the intersection. "Don't bother trying to figure out why you can't get in. I want to talk some more with Mr. Borgie here, and I need peace and quiet for that." The entranceways turned opaque.
"This drone's designation is 3 of 8...." began Second. He did not get far.
"Oh pooh, I know who you are. Second's your name right now." Giggle. "I can hear you talking between all the others; you have absolutely no clue what to do about me, do you? All you corporeals, and even some noncorporeals, get so /flustered/ when a Q comes to visit! Hey, I see Mr. Borg captain is passing the buck to the Collective. Nope, your hive mind is clueless too." Q was verbally repeating the actions precisely. "Can't assimilate me; thought Q was a rumor before I came along." Outright laugh. "You guys are the /greatest/! I've not had so much fun in ages! And I always thought Q had all the fun messing around with the Starfleeters...wait until I tell him about this!"
Fun. Q's idea of fun was obviously of the type where one kicked over an anthill to watch the insects scurry. Hopefully the game would stop short of a magnifying lens. Or the can of Raid.
Q's grin faded to a grimace of annoyance. "Oh bother, Q and Q want to talk to me face to face back home. Guess they heard about that little incident with the black holes; it wasn't completely my fault! I kinda slipped...could've happened to /anyone/. The galaxies will recover in a billion years or so, even if supralight travel for the corporeals won't be possible until that time." Q chewed on her lip as she narrowed her eyes in contemplation, ignoring Second, who was sidling sideways in an attempt to escape through an opaque entrance.
"Hey, I have an idea!" Second stopped. "I do really like you, and I think I could get you to lighten up, maybe develop a real sense of humor. Don't know when I'll be around this stretch of the universe again, so why don't you come with?" Second opened his mouth to reply. "No, no...don't thank me. It'll be a favor." Q's voice turned introspective as she tapped her chin with a finger, "Now, you corporeals don't tend to live too long, and it'll probably take longer than your lifespan to shake loose the wild and crazy being that's inside, sooooo....so why don't I give you a touch of omnipotence? Heck...half measures aren't much fun; I'll just go the whole way." The last statement was decisive, final; Q snapped her fingers.
Second felt nothing; no difference was immediately apparent. A prickling sensation began to surge along Second's limbs. The unpleasant feeling was reminiscent of the few times he had passed the tolerance rating of exoskeletal conductors to redirect electricity from a power conduit away from his flesh. Second instinctively delved deeper into his link with the sub-collective, attempting to noncentralize the increasingly painful (subroutines began alerts although no damage was apparent) sensation. Unfortunately, omnipotence appeared to be a catchable "illness," spreading among minds entwined in the dataspaces to attack physically separated bodies.
The shock of omnipotent Q-power ran from drone to drone, infecting each Borg on board; several things happened nearly simultaneously. First, a physical energy surge pulsed through the cube superstructure, knocking out systems. A minor circuit breaker in the viniculum, the central piece of hardware connecting Cube #347 with the Greater Consciousness, tripped, then promptly melted into a mass of black goo. Contact with the Collective was severed before omnipotence could reach along the link to the primary hive mind. Next, most on-board copies of navigation charts scrambled into an unretrievable mess, vast gaps of previously known space re-entitled with the cryptic words "Here Be Dragons."
Q disappeared from Cube #347, a confused Second in tow. In immediate response, the command and control hierarchy, accustomed to working closely in a manner the other hierarchies could not quite emulate, latched onto Second's fading mental signature. From all over the vessel, six hundred Borg faded with a flash of collapsing white light. Stunned, bewildered, and with less than a true unison face turned towards the blooming crisis, the remaining thirty-six hundred drones (not including subunit #522, all of whom had been literally knocked off-line and unconscious when the viniculum breaker had toasted) reached out to follow. With the loss of the primary unifying minds of the sub-collective, however, the action was a disaster. The cube disappeared from its path of travel with a blinding flash of white.
On the plus side, all remaining members of Cube #347 managed to stay together; even the vessel arrived intact. On the minus side, there was no way to know where they were, except that the galaxy appeared to be their native one. Given a couple of days, the melted breaker switch was easily fixable; but until then, Cube #347 had no clue as to where they were presently located nor the current whereabouts of the command and control hierarchy. On top of everything, unity in the sub-collective was plunging to hell with the speed of a heavily weighted handbasket caught in the gravity well of a neutron star.
The remaining hierarchy heads sucked in a collective breath and began the process of stabilizing systems, beginning repairs, and trying to determine what had happened and what course to follow. Sensors interrupted the massive realigning and distribution of command functions as the long range sensor grid came back on-line: the shadow of a ship....
*****
Focus on a lone Federation starship, Intrepid class, sedately motoring along at warp three, sensors scanning the surrounding parsecs, searching for hostiles...or opportunities. A closer look reveals hard use and indications of years without dry-dock maintenance: faded phaser scars mar the once sleek hull, paint chipped, occasional empty bolt hole where a less important exterior instrument has been removed for use in a more vital location. On the saucer section, brightly lit with floodlights, a name is proudly embossed in large letters - Voyager. Inside the ship, all boredom comes to a screeching halt as a familiar, dreaded silhouette is detected on long-range sensors.
Borg cube. Red alert. All nonessential systems are immediately shut down in an effort to play possum, to blend with background thermal and radiation signature, to pretend to be a bit of dross floating in the immensity of space. The effort is useless; sensors detect a heading change by the Borg cube. Destination? Voyager. Time to intercept? Three hours.
The Voyager bridge was darkened, lights dimmed to emergency status; in the background a nameless ensign tripped, dropping the PADD on which he was inscribing his last thoughts. Under the accusing stares of the bridge crew, the ensign protested that it wasn't his fault he had bad night vision, then scurried into a lift in search of a less somber area. The waiting game was about to come to an end.
Sitting in the Big Chair, one redhead of moderate stature but simmering temper, spoke in response to a statement from Ops, "It's in visual? On screen." Captain Kathryn Janeway's orders were followed. The viewscreen filled with the menacing presence of a Borg cube.
A sigh racked Janeway's frame, "Additional suggestions, anyone? Anything that hasn't been said in the last three hours? We haven't exactly made the Borg 'good' list as of late."
Tom Paris, at his normal helm position, appeared as if here were about to spout something mildly sarcastic and less than funny. He swallowed the comment after a Look Of Death from Janeway. Too bad the same Look couldn't be bottled and mounted on a torpedo; nothing would be able to stand in the way of Voyager.
A sudden flurry of beeping from the console mounted above and behind the command chairs caught the captain's attention. Commands were being entered at a hurried, yet precise, rate. Pause. A second, shorter round of inputting. Pause. "Captain, we must vacate this region of space immediately. If we accelerate to maximum warp now, we may be able to outrun this cube."
Commander Chakotay craned his neck around to eyeball Seven of Nine, ex-drone and the instigator of the beeping. "Don't want to meet your former family? Well, none of us do, but we can't exactly outrun one of those cubes."
"Correction, this ship can not outrun a normal cube. It may be possible to outdistance this one long enough to hide in a spatial phenomenon or the asteroid belt of a nearby system. But we must leave now." Pause. "My cranial implants are starting to relay voices." Agitation in Seven's voice; she knew something about the nearing vessel, but was oddly, uncharacteristically, reluctant to say it.
The cube was approaching nearer, heading now matching that of Voyager. The obvious question in everyone's minds was the phrase "normal cube," as if the one bearing down were not.
Janeway: "We'll sort this out later. Helm, plot us a course towards that system we passed twelve hours ago, maximum warp. Engage."
Voyager's nacelles briefly glowed blue, then pushed the ship into ever increasing warp velocities. A momentary hesitation, then the cube followed with no ostentatious display of acceleration.
"Four point five. Five point seven. Warp seven," said Paris. The rear view showed the cube slowly gaining. "Warp eight. Eight point five. Nine point two. Nine point five five." Voyager was rapidly approaching her speed limit at conventional warpdrive. Still the Borg cube gained in size.
"This isn't working," stated Ensign Harry Kim at Ops. "They're going to catch us!"
"Seven?" questioned Janeway. It was less a query than a statement demanding any scrap of technical help in the obviously upcoming fight. Seven of Nine, however, was staring straight ahead and focused inward, a look of pure horror on her normally expressionless face. Under her breath the vague words of "Imperfection" and "Chaos" could distinctly be heard. No assistance there.
"Tuvok, power up weapon systems. Paris, drop us out of warp...let's see if we might be able to duck and run the other way before trying to go mano a mano." Commander Tuvok, the dark Vulcan manning Tactical gave his acknowledgment even as Tom was typing in the appropriate commands. Inertial dampers protested as Voyager abruptly dropped from ludicrous speed to a near halt. Unfortunately, the Borg cube was not fooled. Seconds later, Voyager was in the grip of four tractor beams.
"Random shield modulations! Rotating phaser frequencies! Hit them with everything we have! We might just get lucky!" Janeway was now standing in the center of the bridge, barking orders at a rapid pace.
Phasers lanced out at the cube as the Federation ship did a masterful imitation of a cornered rat. Photon torpedoes blazed away, only to detonate harmlessly. A spread of antimatter was no more helpful than a volley of spitwads.
Yelled Tom, "Shield modulations aren't helping any, Tuvok!"
Seven had somewhat recovered, and she answered, "Each tractor beam that is holding us is a different frequency. Even if we could defeat one, three more would still be engaged. It appears the Borg have successfully adapted to this form of defense."
"Don't sound so impressed, Seven. Is there any trick at all to get us out of here? And why haven't they begun to drain our shields yet? We are hitting them with everything we have, but there hasn't been a response." Captain Janeway was now pacing back and forth. The questions had all been rhetorical. The redhead paused. "Tuvok, stop the attack."
"Captain?" One eyebrow was raised in the classic Vulcan body language of protesting disbelief.
"Just do it."
"Aye, aye, Captain." The attack halted. Voyager sat quiescent, held firmly in place by four tractor beams. Nothing. Silence permeated the bridge.
"We are receiving a hail," reported Seven. The words were choppy, as if her attention were only partially in the immediate vicinity.
"On screen."
The scene which appeared was not what the Voyager crew expected. No endless catwalks bordering a vast space, no throbbing power core; the Borg multivoice did not begin to broadcast its intentions of assimilation and warning of resistance. Instead, six Borg, arrayed in a double row of three, stood in a fairly enclosed area. While four looked like the normal Borg, one appeared to be a hairless bipedal rat, and a second was a nightmare originating from the dreams of a person with an insect phobia.
One drone, fairly short and in the front row, spoke, "I say we dismantle the ship and just take what we need. More fun that way."
Tuvok reported weapon systems coming on-line along the parts of the cube nearest Voyager. As swiftly as they warmed up, the weaponry powered down again.
"Bad Weapons! Bad, bad, bad Weapons! You know if we do that we might lose the information! Then where would we be? Looking for more happy explorers, that's where." The rat was speaking as it poked the one it referred to as Weapons in the arm, emphasizing each word. The latter swiveled his head to frown at the rat.
"Enough!" Two drones in the back row, perfect twins as far as the Voyager crew could tell, spoke in unison. "We don't have time for your antics, either of you. We...."
Janeway, losing patience, finally interrupted. "Borg cube, I am Captain Kathryn..."
The Borg multivoice suddenly broke in, interrupting the interrupter. None of the six on the screen were moving their mouths. "You are Captain Kathryn Janeway of the Federation starship Voyager. We know who you are; your presence means we are currently located in the Delta quadrant."
Continued a single, mildly tenor voice from the twin (provisionally female, at least the curves were in the right places) on the right: "If we wanted to"
Twin on left: "destroy or assimilate you, you"
Right: "would already be oblivious, one way"
Left: "or another. However, you have data"
"we need. You will give us your star charts"
"for Delta and Beta quadrants."
Together: "You will transmit them to us now."
Silence on the Voyager bridge as members looked to their captain to see what she was going to do. A puzzled look crossed Janeway's face, an emotion which was quickly erased. As she sucked in a breath to ask the Borg /why/ they wanted star charts, Seven spoke...not to Janeway, but to the six on the screen.
"I am preparing our database for transfer now. You will leave us intact after the download? I do assume standard operating procedure on your cube still contains a block to mass assimilation without consensus of the Collective."
Chided Janeway as her authority was passed over and frankly trampled into the dirt, "Seven!" The other crew flinched at the tone of She Who Must Be Obeyed at full strength. The ex-drone pointedly stared at the screen, ignoring the captain's outburst.
The fourth of the "normal" drones suddenly perked up. He had been slouching next to the taller twins, apparently only mildly interested in the proceedings. Now this one entered into the ongoing conversation, "I knew that weak signature we've been feeling was familiar. Assimilation file lookup, path match signature with designation. Output: 'Seven of Nine, tertiary adjunct to unimatrix zero-one.' Dossier follows."
The insectoid began to prance in place, its (no way anyone on Voyager was going to attempt to place a gender on this drone) four walking legs picked up and dropped in place one by one. Small antennae stood straight up, then folded back out of view. The voice, when it finally came, was full of clicks and rasps, yet quite understandable. Each word was pronounced precisely in a melodically tonal manner. "How the mighty have fallen! Hah! The crew on this ship are more One with the Song, more fully immersed in the joyous Whole than the mind who once directed among the highest Choirs, who was once favored by the Queen herself!
"Sensors assumes you have provided the Voyager Borg-derived star maps of Beta and Delta quadrants. You will give us that information."
The Borg voice again: "You will comply. Resistance is futile."
"Send the information," said Janeway, attempting to salvage the control she had long lost.
A few taps of buttons, "Transmitting, Captain."
Chakotay, useless up to this point, stood from his chair and approached the captain. Whispering, he asked, "How do we know the Borg will let us go when they have their star charts? The last time we cooperated with them...."
"You are as chaotic as ever, I can hear it, so don't proclaim the wonders of the One of which you only know the most peripheral. I can also hear you are missing an entire rank among your hierarchies. Is this related to your request?" Seven had begun a conversation with the cube, drowning out Chakotay's soft warning.
"Answers are irrelevant. We might have had a small problem in which navigation files were corrupted and our primary link with the Collective rendered useless, but it is no concern of yours."
The twin drones continued with their speaking duet where the harmonic voice left off, "However, seeing how your status has changed, you might be more fitting here on this cube than as an ex-adjunct to unimatrix zero-one. Your file indicates you would be a suitable facilitator and consensus monitor; and we have several openings among the Hierarchy of Eight at the moment."
Terror on Seven's face, pure terror. "I would rather terminate myself, or have all my remaining cranial implants removed with a dull spoon without the application of anesthesia or nerve blocks."
With an odd shrug, the insect, Sensors, replied, "Your loss. Sensors has received all data; it is slightly out of date, but it is sufficient. Weapons, let the vessel go."
Growled Weapons, "Why don't we just destroy it?"
"Bad Weapons! No, no, no, no...bad boy! We have other matters to attend. We don't have the time to deal with the Voyager properly." The tractor beams abruptly disappeared. "Good drone, good puppy-boy." Attention shifted away from the glowering Weapons towards the twins, "Sensors...are you ready?"
"Sensors is ready. See this coordinate?" One by one the remaining five (perhaps four...the twins replied simultaneously) gave their verbal assent. "Good. Sensors believes that is the point where the command and control hierarchy left us. From there we may be able to determine where they went."
Delta: "Agreed. Now, remember this mode of travel is different than that we are used to. We, all on this ship, must image the same destination. When your hierarchy is ready, say so. It is by NOT doing this task perfectly we got into this predicament in the first place."
Again, one by one, before the confused visages of the watching Voyager crew, the six replied positively. Suddenly, with a flash of bright white which quickly collapsed in on itself, the Borg cube was gone without a trace.
Janeway looked around the bridge. Crew from various stations peered back. "Computer, cancel red alert. Seven, to my ready room...you have quite a bit of explaining to do."
"Captain, I would rather...."
"I don't care if you would rather have your 'cranial implants removed with a dull spoon', I want answers. Now."
"Yes, Captain. I will comply." Seven's normally erect carriage was slumped dejectedly, her head hung with shame. Unasked questions already floated: what heinous secret of the Borg was Seven of Nine trying to hide? Let the scene dissolve, for the outcome is not important; whatever the consequence, Voyager will continue her trek across the cosmos.
*****
"Ah, home boring home! We have /really/ got to do something about this scenery!" Q rolled her eyes while waving a hand at the vista, such that it was. "Q brought some mortals here once, and the continuum seems to have become stuck on their perceptions ever since. And of course, no one sees fit to change anything. 'Don't sweat the small stuff,' GAH! Stuffed shirts, the lot of them!"
Second and Q were standing on a single lane road to infinity running through a dry wasteland. No plant life, no scrabble of indigenous life, just blowing dust and rattling pebbles. In the far distance mountains rose, but one had the feeling that no matter how long one walked, the peaks would never come closer. Approximately a kilometer further down the desolate track, a small porched shack squatted, surrounded by an odd collection of knickknacks.
"Why don't you wait here for a bit? Q and Q are demanding to talk to me now, and I daren't have them cool their heels longer than necessary." Second saw no one, and was not allowed to get a word in edgewise to protest. "It should only take a few minutes, after which I'll show you what being omniscient really means. And then we'll take a spin around the...whoa!" Q stopped in midsentence, eyes going wide in alarm. "Oops."
Oops? Second did not like the sound of that, no he did not like the sound of that at all. From a being who blithely spoke about the near destruction of entire galaxies as if it were a common affair, an "oops" was /not/ a comment designed to bring comfort.
Bright vortexes of pure white, the essence of light, began to flash along the road and nearby wasteland. Each burst collapsed on itself, leaving behind a Borg drone radiating confusion. Shortly it became apparent the entire command and control hierarchy had somehow managed to follow Second's kidnapping to the Q-continuum.
"Oh, crap. Now it has /really/ hit the fan." Second tore his attention away from six hundred milling drones voicing questions to focus on Q. She looked very displeased; it was not a pretty sight. The gold-stitched cat on Q's shirt mirrored her expression.
Q was staring at a point in the mid-distance. Second turned his head in that direction just in time to see a very large flash of light. At 1.3 kilometers an edge, a Borg cube, even a small one such as Exploratory-class, was an impressive sight when viewed from the outside at short range. The sides rose up and up, one side of a metal canyon, casting a long shadow of paradox over a wasteland with no recognizable source to its sunlight. It hovered in the air momentarily, then fell five meters with a rolling boom. Luckily no one had been under the massive bulk, for a cube was not designed to actually perform atmospheric entries or planet landings.
{I don't care if you just made a rock hover without touching it. Yes, the cube is neato. I said line up! No, don't start to turn pebbles into Klicka bugs, not even small yellow ones. Second, there you are: I require your assistance. Take charge of this hierarchy while I see about the rest in the cube before our vessel is torn apart.} Second methodically scanned, attempting to locate Captain. Really odd stuff was occurring, such as the sudden appearance of five towering black barked trees with red needles. Elsewhere, a swarm of blue Klicka bugs buzzed, cloud of insects growing larger by the passing second. Second found Captain just in time to hear {Definitely not a transporter beam} as the latter disappeared from the plain in a similar manner to his initial arrival.
Second coerced the remaining members of the Hierarchy of Eight to assist in straightening out the chaos. 5 of 8 at first refused, then swiftly changed his mind as the Klicka bugs landed on him and began to eat his exoplating. The situation on Cube #347 was much worse as sixfold as many drones explored the concept of omnipotence and how it could make every poorly controlled impulse become reality. Distancing himself for a moment from the re-established local links, Second turned his head to look at the unusually quiet Q.
Q's eyes were downcast, focusing at a point about fifty centimeters above the road. "Q and Q are coming now. I'll be right back, promise." Movement from the direction of the shack, a pair of loping hound dogs, dust pluming to the air with each footfall. Although a kilometer separated "here" with "there", the dogs approached with supernatural swiftness despite the sedate-seeming pace. The hounds pair stopped thirty meters from the main gathering of drones, rumps plopping to the ground; they stared at Q, ignoring both the cube's bulk and the collection of new "decorations" scattered about. Q sighed as she trotting towards the duo. Listening carefully, it was possible to hear an odd one-sided conversation between Q and the nonspeaking animals.
"Look, I'm sorry about the black hole business, but I'm not the one....why...but....let me explain myself! No, well, yes, I guess the Borg there are my fault, but how was I to know omniscience would spread on their net?" Pause. One could imagine a stern lecture taking place as Q stared at the road, absently toeing a small rock. The impression was of parents reprimanding a child, although in this case, "child" was definitely not a true simile. "Can't I keep them? They did follow me home, you know; not like I encouraged them or anything." Silence. "Okay, maybe the cube is a bit much, but I can't I have one drone at least? I promise to train it and everything!" More silence, followed by a heaving sigh. "Okay, okay, okay, you don't have to yell like that! I understand. I'll fix everything, just don't have the continuum ground me; I'm a big Q and I can keep out of trouble." Pause. "Yes, I'll see what I can do about those galaxies too." Q turned and slowly walk back towards Second's location. The dogs silently stared at cube and drones for a few disconcerting moments, then loped back towards the shack at their deceptive pace.
"Q and Q say pets aren't allowed in the continuum. Therefore I can't keep you and I have to put you back where I found you." Q's voice had a rebellious note to it; the abstract Cheshire cat looked...not pleased. "I'm the same age as they, yet they talk to me like I was only born a billion years ago, a child! I'm supposed to be the 'good little Q', not like Q at all; and so when I do something the tiniest bit wrong, the consequences come down on my head like a ton of brick!"
Second had no response and wasn't going to offer one, not in Q's currently volatile mood. The command and control hierarchy was now leashed, more or less, standing in long rows of fifty drones each. The Klicka bugs had found the trees; one of the trunks had a large hole growing near its base.
"Bother!" Q snapped her fingers angrily; Klicka bugs, trees, all the "additions" disappeared. A similar report was issued concernig the chaos inside the cube. The hand was raised again, fingers snapping twice in quick succession.
Second found himself back in the nodal intersection where all the trouble had begun. A quick dip into the sensor grid confirmed Cube #347 was back in the Beta quadrant. "There, and I've taken away the omniscient powers too. Q was rather adamant about that issue because the Borg aren't scheduled to develop such abilities for a very, very long time." Second opened his mouth to respond, but Q interrupted before the thought could emerge. "Yes, yes, I'll make sure your navigation charts are restored and all the physical damage to your ship repaired before I move on. Q made that point quite clear as well: 'Leave everything as you found it.'
"Still, you are a cutie in a menacing way, and I still like you...." Q paused with a frown. "Q just told me to get my butt in gear and go fix those galaxies. Oh well, it was an interesting couple of hours. Maybe I'll look you up in the future when I've a little bit of time." Q gave a broad smile before disappearing.
The mid-air demented grin of the gold-stitched cat required several long, eerie minutes before it too faded into nothingness.
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