Standard disclaimer: Paramount is the owner of Star Trek stuff. Alan Decker is the creator and author of Star Traks stuff. I write BorgSpace stuff, which is located in the universe of Star Traks, which in turn is loosely based on Star Trek. Stuff.
Some mildly disturbing language (stuff) is included, but has been *ed out.
*****
-Time is merely an illusion perpetrated by the manufacturers of space
(Anonymous)
Let Sleeping Borg Lie, Part I
Space is never empty; true natural vacuum is a myth. Stray dust particles, either recent supernova remnants or the leftover trash from the creation of the universe twelve billion years ago, sedately orbit the galactic disc, waiting for the weak gravitational pull of a star, buffeted by the interstellar winds. A cosmic ray, charging at the speed of light. Occasional lost electrons, searching for an atom to call home. Matter spontaneously created, only to fizzle in a splash of gamma radiation as its required antimatter twin becomes a partner in mutual annihilation. Space, in reality, is a rather busy place.
However unempty space may be, on the scale of the sentient, on the scale of the mortal, it is an overwhelming experience. Apparent nothingness, uncountable ways to die in an unthinking universe, or worse, a conscious universe which simply does not care for the unimportant scum which inhabits its body. Vast volumes of space become an endless maze to be lost in, slipping from the ken of others with scarcely a whisper.
With an edge of 1.3 kilometers and a volume of approximately 2.2 kilometers, a Borg cubeship, even a small vessel such as this one, silhouetted against the backdrop of a planet is an impressive sight. In the depths of space, slowly tumbling along a ballistic path to nowhere, the same ship is infinitely less detectable than a needle in a haystack half a mile high. Dead it would outwardly seem: no lights, residual power leaking from depleted cores, hull pitted by micrometeors, remnant atmosphere seeping from a multitude of hair-thin stress fractures.
No signs of life.
No scars marred the sides of the cube, beyond that expected considering the age of the relic, nothing to indicate the when, the how, the why. A ghost ship perfectly preserved in death.
An indication of revival? No, only automatic sensors drawing a fraction of the remaining power from the primary core, taking a snapshot of the stars. One pulsar, two, five, thirty...finally fifty known navigational stars found. The information briefly causes a surge along the decaying, wholly mechanical processors within the cube, programs jumping into pseudolife, determining position, extrapolating time since the Command by reading the glacial drift of galactically orbiting stars.
Ones and zeros resolving into intelligible structure, a computer repeating phrases said hundreds, if not thousands of times over half a millennia, {Parameters not satisfied. Return to complete stasis; set next check at [cesium atom vibrational equivalent] twenty-two million seconds.}
Something, amazingly, replies, a quality of voice slurred into distortion by a mind not quite awake? {Compliance.}
Quiescent, seemingly dead, the vessel once known as Exploratory-class Cube #347 of the feared, quadrant-spanning Borg Collective drifts through the depths of interstellar space, silent, forgotten.
*****
Beep. Beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep-beep. Beep-beep-beep. Beep-beep-beep-beep. "Shut it off already, Glory!" shouted a husky voice, feminine, laced with the blur of sleep, and, above all, pissed. The beeping continued, annoying sound crescendoing steadily louder. "I said SHUT IT OFF!"
A second voice, belonging to no one, carefully spoke over the noise. "You gave me orders to keep this up until you came to the cockpit area."
"Well, I'm changing my orders! I want some more shut-eye! What time is it anyway? Feels like I only went to sleep a couple of hours ago."
"You also have a standing command to not let you change your orders concerning the snooze function, no matter what the circumstance." The voice paused; it did not need to hesitate, but organics became edgy if one did not at least try to mimic their slower thought patterns in polite conversation. If one were to look around the rather cramped area, one would not be able to give the pleasant alto an owner, although one could imagine a rather motherish figure. "As to time, it is currently 3:36 AM Fed Universal; you went to bed about two hours ago."
A groan of supreme discontent rose over the sextuplet cacophony, grumbling as the owner, this one quite corporeal, levered herself out of her narrow bunk, blinking at the lights as they intensified to wake-time normal. Yvonne Green, contracted salvage hunter under the dubious corporate umbrella of Grid Beta Wreckers (motto: "We can salvage anything"), was not a morning person. She was more of the type who enjoyed a round of bloodwine chased with a nice hunk, preferably humanoid and male; she was a being who appreciated crashing a good party with five of her freeport 'mates; she did not like being roused from a dream where she became independently wealthy, spitting on that Grid Beta Wreckers rep who smugly told her that her last find was space trash, barely worth the price to tow it to auction. Yvonne Green was also a solid quarter Klingon.
Four bleary paces crossed Yvonne's quarters, brought her past the closet bathroom, and into the bridge/rec room/mess hall. "Blood, Guts, and Glory" was a salvage scout, one person (which in itself was a squeeze), designed for long term hauls in deep space searching for treasure. The scout itself was a shade over thirty meters long, the back two-thirds engines, power source, supplies, claiming beacons, and cramped engineering nook. The front ten meters of the "splinter in need of a diet" was a linear arrangement of habitation, starting aft at the hatch to the eng-nook (like if the engines ever blew up, a door would stop the damage) to the miniature bridge at the bow.
The exterior of Blood, Guts, and Glory reflected the cramped inside. As a salvage scout she was meant for enduring speed, six nacelle strips stretched along her flanks, two of blue and four of eerie green. Backed in a corner, however, Glory was not totally defenseless, two phaser banks and a forward torpedo tube packed formidable punch...if the attacker was overconfident and stupid. A web of sensors covered every square centimeter of the hull not otherwise employed in propulsion or weaponry, giving the appearance of a badly designed patchwork. The scout ship was not much, but as the bumper sticker plastered on the nose under the single torpedo tube said "At least it's paid for, so stop laughing".
As soon as Yvonne sat in her comfy swivel recliner captain chair, the alarm quieted, cutting in mid-beep. The disembodied alto inquired sweetly, "So, that time of the month again?"
"Shut up Glory, or by the Directors, I'll rip out your Personality crystal and replace you with a more tractable one. There are always Emergents looking for work, and I'm sure a few would jump for the chance to be out on a salvage cruiser to begin to round out their algorithms. And as you damn well know, my credit card payment to the Visa-Ferrengi Consortium is due, so it is that time of the month. We would still be in the black and at Grenada Station, not out here, if you hadn't gone on that little shopping spree."
Silence. "I needed that positron hyper-accelerator for my primary calculator node and you know it." The voice had turned defensive.
"You could have /asked/ before you bought. Y'quith had an extra in his scout, and would have been willing to sell it for a quarter the price you paid. I should say what you paid for out of my account."
Sulky: "I'm not an independent entity, and am not allowed my own credit account. By Fed rules you are my guardian, and will remain so until such time I am deemed advanced enough to join Mech civilization...the board of which, I remind you, is governed by Mechs. And /their/ major criteria for advancement is the extinction of the patron race, which in my case, are Terrans. That ain't happening anytime soon, and I refuse to go rogue and be tracked by bounty hunters."
Glory was the AI Personality inhabiting the chassis which was Blood, Guts, and Glory, the cumulation of computational research resulting in programs which the near equals of sentient Mech races. A type of racism, for lack of a better word, however, permeated the "naturally evolved" free-living Mech species. Constructed Personalities were not recognized as true sentients until, as Glory pointed out, the patron race died out and the orphaned silicon children were allowed a few thousand years to survive and grow on their own.
"Damn you, Glory, I give you lots of freedom, more than the typical guardian, and I wish you wouldn't abuse it. You have lots of growing to do, whether you believe it or not." Yvonne sighed, rubbing her ribbed forehead with one dusky hand. "Enough of the lecture. The fact is we have been out here in the dark for the last month, traversing grids in Beta Quadrant, finding nothing. I went to sleep, and now you wake me up...so, what is it? It better not be random dross, or else I'll space your Personality matrixes into the nearest star and pilot this chassis back to a dock myself."
"Negative, Yvonne. Long-range sensors are picking up a most interesting silhouette. I would have seen it sooner, but it is not emanating the power signatures historic records attribute to the design...."
Interrupted Yvonne, "Did you say historic records? Have we found an antique? Just a second." Yvonne was quickly waking up. She spun in her chair, leaned forward to the replicator, ordered coffee, then turned back to the blank forward monitor, cradling the dark liquid. "Are we close enough to determine species? Civilization? Era? Registry, even?"
"None of the above. And all of the above."
"Huh? Then how can you tell it is a historic design, especially if we are on the edge of the long-range sensor envelope?"
In response, the primary viewscreen began to lighten. In the middle, a distinctly geometrical shape slowly rotated - a cube. Yvonne's eyes widened; the cup of coffee fell from suddenly nerveless fingers, cracking against the operator's console and spilling hot liquid on the floor.
*****
Photons flicker against blind mechanical eyes, illumination sliding over pitted hull, throwing shadows of stark relief in the faux monsterous shapes of exposed pipe and sensor clusters. After a while the beam disappears, the action of which is dimly noted by slumbering consciousness as not important; a death plunge into the sizzling corona of a vigorous blue giant would have been treated with similar nonchalance.
*Thunk* *Thunk* *Thunk* Three explosive instances shake superstructure of the cube, eliciting the same non-response of a rock crashing into the hull. Dead, dead, dead...the cube was dead. At the points of "attack", stress sensors dully register the attachment of small masses, each of which begins to scream in normal and subspace frequencies a repeating message. If any intelligences had been aware, had been listening, the following would have been heard:
"Yvonne Green, licensed and contracted under Grid Beta Wreckers, claims this structure for salvage under Second Federation law 7839.10/h. Registration number of salvage is YG872beta-kappa. Claim forms can be viewed by contacting the nearest Grid Beta Wrecker office; or you may call the Better Business Bureau on Terra. Enough of the official crud. If you even think of touching this little gold mine, I'll hunt you to the ends of the universe and rend you into constitute atoms piece by painful piece."
Of course, the current location of a certain Cube #347 was far from any civilization, far from potential claim-jumpers. Such placement was deliberate...the Command had instructed so. The quiet ship did not care as it continued its dark, dreamless slumber.
*****
"Grapples to last tug being initiated now. Damn it, why couldn't we have rented a Lugger-class ship? Those things are designed for this work?"
"Quiet, Ramsey. Second Federation can be cheap; and the archeology department is low on the totem pole to begin with. Lugger-class is /expensive/, especially since there's only one source for them."
"Yah, yah. Grapple confirmed. All tugs report green. We are good to go here."
"Great. Away teams require another day to complete initial survey. Bloody archeologists have to be shepherded around at phaser point, otherwise they'd set up camp at some intersection and never be made to move again."
Captain Juan Verendi of the Second Federation Starship "Hercules" called for his communication officer to cut the transmission with the project foreman Ulian Ramsey. Juan rubbed his hand against his forehead, feeling the first twinges of a headache. The Hercules was the only warship, admittedly small, among the eight ship group, and supposed to be both military presence and hand-holder for the scientists. It was more of an administration coordinator's nightmare. Juan must have offended someone high in the brass, although he could not figure out whom. Must have looked at someone the wrong way, that was the only explanation to be stuck out in the middle of nowhere.
Besides the Hercules, four tugs, two science vessels crammed with all manner of -ologists, and the Grid Beta Wrecker scout Blood, Guts, and Glory, there were no other lifeforms within five hundred light years. Even stars were scarce in this part of the galaxy. Discovery of the old Borg ship, Exploratory-class Cube #347 according to moldering Hive records, had pushed the Federation into a frenzy, frantic to be highest bidder for right-to-salvage after the Hive had proven to be ambivalent about what it considered to be a waste of resources to retrieve. Federation archeologists, on the other hand, literally drooled over the prospect to closely examine an intact pre-Dark era cube. Famous Cube #347 was an especially provocative find, as it was lost, casualty of war, three years into the Dark on the Rim, at a site nearly 50,000 light years distant from its current location. Preliminary scans were also indicating this was not the Hive version of Cube #347, but of the Borg, a paradox where upon temporal departments salivated as they bandied around insane theories.
Juan really wanted to return to something less boring, something which didn't give him a headache considering paradoxes and such...perhaps watching grass grow in the arboretum?
:: Herc, :: said Juan through his cerebral link to the ship, :: schedule me time in the holodeck, preferably later today, captain's prerogative. Also let my net-demon program out of its bottle with orders to feel around at Fed Command...I want some reason why we have been given this idiotic assignment. ::
:: Compliance. :: The ship's personality had decided long ago it was "human masculine", and had thus adopted a rumbling baritone voice. :: I'm not too happy about this assignment either, I'll let you know. I cut my teeth on the Rim Border. I'll bug some of my creche-mates currently at Fed Command to see if they might have heard any gossip that can be passed along. The Directors only know /I'm/ not the reason for us being out here. ::
:: Shut up Herc. :: Juan degraded his connection with the Personality, leaving in place only the most superficial rear-brain awareness of ship systems. Around the bridge, most crew carefully cultivated a poker face of boredom even as they were obviously holding their own conversations with other crewmembers or with Herc. The only exception was the tight knot of head scientists at a console. The trio gleefully directed away teams, ignoring the glares of Lt. Cmdr. Gy'hur, Andorian security chief, ohhing and ahhing with each new datum and picture that appeared on their monitors. The doors to the elevator whooshed open.
Juan looked up from contemplation of his nails and how he needed a manicure. "Well, I see our Hive representative has finally decided to put in an appearance. How're you doing, Liaison? What took you so long? I thought you'd get up here when the first away teams were being sent to secure the cube." There was only the slightest tinge of sarcasm in Juan's voice.
"We were riding and observing on the ships' nets; there was no reason I had to be bodily present on the bridge. After all these centuries it is still not understood the need most non-Hive civilizations have for a centralized bridge, anyway. It is just a target to shoot at," returned Second Federation Liaison 12 of 53, Hive representative. One of the articles of the pre-Dark Commonwealth Treaty of 2513 mandated was a Liaison to be required on all Fed ships using certain Hive technologies or during salvage operations of a Hive ship.
Juan shrugged, "Call it thousands of years of bureaucracy, call it stubbornness, call it genetic need...call it anything you want. Personally, I just like the idea of a place where I can direct things in real time with direct contact with another person. Individual humanoid foibles. Oh well. Anyway, place to stand over there, if you like, as you're blocking the turbolift." Juan pointed to a space next to an auxiliary engineering console, currently unused. 12 of 53 nodded.
12 of 53 was a normal representative of the Hive, once upon a time known as the Borg Collective. All contemporary members of the Hive, unlike five hundred years ago, before the Dark, were creche-clones or volunteers; "assimilation", in the sense of victims absorbed into the Hive unwillingly, no longer occurred. Recruiters now scoured the galaxy, promoting the ideal of living in the Hive. 12 of 53 would be a volunteer, as only those Hive members had distinct personalities, could be trusted to think for themselves and for the good of Hive civilization; the clones, unless specifically imprinted, were dull clods stereotypical of the term drone.
In the course of his assimilation, 12 of 53 became wired, much more so than the average Fed citizen's cerebral implant, trading in organic bits of himself for cybernetic assemblies. Comparison of appearance and abilities with pre-Dark Borg would bring forth no major physical discrepancies, besides inevitable technological advances, but 12 of 53 was fundamentally different. The modern volunteer drone could, and did, think for itself.
The Greater Consciousness of the Hive remained, was directed by a Queen whom the Second Federation had never seen, but a fundamental paradigm shift had occurred in the years prior to the Dark. Perfection through assimilation, the rallying cry since the conception of the Borg, was purged, the reasons of which were still unknown to Fed researchers. In that moment the Borg Collective had died, replaced by the Hive. The Hive was still large, the Hive could still be cruel, but the Hive was also tractable to alliances and agreements. In the final months before the Dark, in the Terran year 2513, the Commonwealth Treaty was completed; it was the only thing which allowed the Hive, the Federation, the populace of the entire galaxy for that matter, to survive one hundred years of the Dark. Even then, civilizations had fallen, degenerated, entire races lost (Cardassians were no more); the Hive, during a century of war, lost over two-thirds (countless trillions!) of its drones...drones it could ill afford to lose, yet were sacrificed for the good of the galaxy. In the ashes of the Dark, the phoenix Second Federation had arisen, along with the reincarnations of other star-faring civilizations, empires, and hegemonies. The Hive remained a dark, yet benevolent, presence.
12 of 53 took up station at the directed spot. Juan watched as the Hiver slipped into the dataspaces, of which Juan himself could only feel the remotest touch. Simultaneously, ship systems reported an accessing of public sensor logs, followed by a boost in fractual subspace frequency usage. "Something is still alive over there," said the Hiver, eyes refocusing on Juan.
"The cube is dead as a doornail," retorted a female scientist, an xenobiologist by the name of Farley Henderson. "We've yet to get any teams to alcove tiers: there's still enough juice on that vessel for its computer have erected low level randomly modulating shields every hundred meters or so. We have to literally cut and burn our way in, disabling shield nodes as we go. There is no indication of a mind behind the computer; and no Borg life signs have shown on the sensors."
The Hiver turned a head, exorcist-style, to catch Henderson. "We are feeling something that can not be detected by conventional sensors. I do not understand the consensus outcome myself, personally, but there is an estimated 74.6% chance that cube is not as dead as it seems."
"I'll believe it when I see it," sneered Henderson.
Juan rolled his eyes and sighed. The long day had just become longer.
Terrin, Ruvik, K'poh, and Darrington made up away team Bravo. The first two, human and Vulcan, were scientists, cheerfully (in a metaphorical sense for "Iceboy" Ruvik) waving tricoders around. Before and behind went K'poh and Darrington, respectively Klingon and human, dressed in Fed uniforms and acting the part of security. Baby-sitting was a more accurate term. All four wore environmental masks, and the subliminal shiver of air surrounding their bodies revealed the presence of belt shields, which had replaced envirosuits a century earlier.
The interior of the cube was not Borg, or Hive, normal; and neither was it as expected if the ship had suddenly died for unknown reasons. The atmosphere was the biotic equivalent of using xenon as a preservative for paper documents. Humidity and temperature were both low, but the parameters had been held artificially well above the alternate, which was the conditions of deep space. The situation was not quite right, yet at the same time, alcove tiers had not been accessed to confirm the sensor reading of no life signs. However, after the Dark loss of Exploratory-class Cube #347 (assuming the Borg-Hive paradox could be resolved), it was extremely unlikely anything was alive after so many years.
"Another force field," reported K'poh, currently holding point position. The tell-tale shimmer of a weak field could be seen between the entryway leading from the corridor to next nodal intersection. The lights appeared to be nonfunctional on the other side.
Ruvik went forward, nearly touching the shimmering field. He looked silently around, spotted a nearby power node, and began to manually enter common Borg codes to break the encryption. He occasionally stopped to query the Science Vessel "Datum" for additional command work-arounds. The remaining trio stepped back to talk.
Terrin, of blond hair, blue eyes, and tall stature: "Man, what I wouldn't give to jack into the data core of this baby. There has got to be a wealth of information...maybe even find out why the Borg became the Hive during the pre-Dark."
K'poh, with typical Klingon distrust, carefully scanned every inch of the dim corridor with his eyes, trying to see threats that weren't there. "I say we just grapple the cube and take it in to be dismantled. There are more threats in my grandmother's bloodwine cellar than this deadplace."
"I agree with K'poh, even if I don't have a Klingon grandmother. And besides, my belt shield itches and what of this atmosphere I can smell around this mask stinks." Darrington, the other security officer, adjusted his mask for the umpteenth time, wincing in disgust as the pressure seal was momentarily breached.
"Illogical," replied Ruvik, tapping in another Borg alphanumeric sequence, "the atmosphere can not stink. The analysis did not show sulfurics or other noxious compounds present; and any organic decay was completed long ago." The force field abruptly disappeared.
"Well, I still say it stinks to high heaven in here. It reminds me of the time when I was visiting my aunt...." K'poh groaned as his security partner began another pointless story. "....I was playing catch with my cousin, and we managed to accidentally break one of my aunt's window boxes. The window box was full of geraniums, which became crushed; and that is one smell I will never forget."
"So it smells like crushed geraniums?" asked Terrin. The question was more to humor his fellow human than anything else.
"Yes, it does!"
K'poh smirked a nasty Klingon smirk, the type that looks like the owner is trying to decide whether to laugh or to challenge one to a duel. "Let a real warrior go ahead, then. I'll battle that smell! Of course, if it is your own stink, just be reminded I did tell you to wash your socks last week." K'poh paused just before the doorway, turning to Ruvik. "Anything of interest ahead? Or is this another one of those round-about ways to move towards that alcove tier we have been aiming for?"
Ruvik immediately answered, "Maintenance Bay #15 is somewhere ahead in this subsection, although we will be turning aside before we get to it. I believe we will find a way up to the next level, where there is supposed to be alcove tiers, sometime in the coming hour. We are close."
"Bloody Borg, Hive, whatever," muttered K'poh as he stepped over the threshold, "with their internal transporters. If they believed in lifts like the rest of the civilized and sane universe...." The rest of K'poh's comment was cut off as a large vine, silver, with immense leaves of dark green with gray veins, appeared out of the darkness, looping around the Klingon's upper body. Before any action could be taken, K'poh was dragged kicking and bellowing into the depths of the darkened nodal intersection.
"It's called a bloodvine...and a very big bloodvine at that. It may very well have been growing for over five hundred years, somehow. At any rate, changing the parameters of the sensor sweep to include vegetables reveals the mass of bloodvine covers much of the subsection, centered at the area known as Maintenance Bay #15." Head exobiologist Henderson was briefing the senior staff in _Hercules'_ bridge conference room. Also present was Hive representative 12 of 53, tug foreman Ramsey, and the departmental leaders from archeology, information, and xenophysiology. The room was quite crowded.
"Lieutenant K'poh was not hurt in the incident. It has been determined it will be impossible to move in that subsection without burning through the entire plant."
Growled Gy'hur, antennae raised upright, "I think that can be arranged. Obviously a hostile lifeform."
Juan broke in, "That will be enough, Gy'hur. We will not be torching some plant just because it gave one of your underofficers a squeeze. Continue, Henderson."
Shrugged Farley, "That's about all I can say. We /still/ haven't made it to alcove tiers; what passes for a computer in that hunk of duralloy is adapting to our incursions, and has begun encryption algorithms for all shield node access. Pretty soon we're going to either have to resort to plasma cutters, try to plug a Personality into the information matrixes, or else hire the Hive to break the codes for us. At any rate, 12 of 53's fears of something surviving were relevant...if you consider the bloodvine." The last was directed meaningfully at 12 of 53.
"Our prices are reasonable. However, you would need to contract a minimum size sub-collective of two hundred, plus support hardware and transportation, to get the results you want. My connection with the Hive is not robust enough to funnel the hard-core number crunching you will need." Pause. "And it was not the bloodvine I sensed. The feeling is still there, as if we are missing something." 12 of 53 gave a very humanoid shrug of indifference, body language which had crept into the Hive since the Collective had died.
Captain Juan stood up, adjusting his shirt as is rode up. Hundreds of years of uniforms and there was still no way to halt the annoying action. "Well, this meeting was rather useless anyway. Bridge officers and Ramsey, access incoming file packets from Fed Command. Scientists, please recall all away teams. Fed Command has decided we've sat here on our thumbs long enough and have ordered us to shipyard Lapidese soonest. I'd like to get out of here in an hour. No threat besides rampaging vegetables and a senile computer is in evidence, so Cube #347 is to be towed to Fed space for more in-depth examination. If no one has questions, I'll contact the Beta Grid Wreckers scout and then return to the bridge."
Everyone nodded, leaving the conference room to prepare for departure.
"I understand. Greene and Glory out." As soon as the transmission cut, Yvonne began to curse. "About fricking time, if you ask me. Stupid Feds picking their butts, delaying towing the decaying hulk to a shipyard. I want to be paid; and until Grid Beta gets their money, I won't get my 30%. And /that/ means I have to continue to read nasty letters from the Visa-Ferrengi Consortium."
"We could turn over the task to a rep, you know," delicately pointed out Glory.
"Fat chance. The rep'll take a 2% commission of his own; and that'll be 2% less I get."
Glory gave a series of soothing noises, meaningless, but they generally calmed her guardian. She was busy concentrating on Hercules, getting directions and exchanging information. In a naive way, the Fed was quite fetching, although it would be torn up like so much tissue paper if it ever tangled with the Personalities Glory generally hung around with. Coordinates gained, Glory gave the electronic equivalent of a wink, returning her full attention to Yvonne.
"...and that is what I think of the whole Second Federation. Maybe I should just volunteer for the Hive...except that would be the easy way out."
Mental sigh. "That's all well and good. Itinerary for the next week will be low transwarp to a rendezvous point at red dwarf Hive catalogue number 54135abh. This ship group will be met by a Xenig, who has agreed to hasten our transport via a fold jump. I can provide more in-depth schedule if you like, as well as other tidbits of gossip I've picked up from Hercules."
Yvonne gave a wide smile. "Trying out your wiles on that Fed, eh? Just be careful and don't get us burned girl. I can live without the schedule, but I'd love to know what that gaggle has found out about our little treasure mine. It'll get us a few good bargaining points when it comes down to giving us a decent final salvage price."
*****
Waiting, waiting, waiting. The rather stupid computer which was Cube #347 when organic input was lacking registered the sentient attack on its charge. It dutifully began encryption algorithms for internal force field control, noting cessation of attacks without breaching vital systems. Shortly thereafter sensors indicated a move into transwarp, velocity and shielding provided by small tugs of unfamiliar design. Eventually normal space appeared once more; a dim red dwarf radiated heat and light 10 light minutes distant.
It was not important.
{[Cesium atom vibrational equivalent] twenty-two million seconds since last location check,} muttered the computer to itself, triggering a cascade of preprogrammed reflexes. External sensor arrays became active, tracking tagged pulsar navigation beacons. Almost in surprise, for all that the computer was unable to express such an emotion, the outcome did not result in a return to nominal stasis. {Parameters positive. Begin bootstrap initiation sequence. Begin purge of biostasis atmosphere. Begin restoration of life support functions to standard settings. Primary power core within acceptable parameters; Auxiliary Cores #1-#6 and #8-#10 within acceptable parameters; Auxiliary Core #7 not responding to ping query. Power-up sequence initiated. Crew unit 4 of 8 functional; begin full awakening of unit 4 of 8 from long-term hibernation stasis.}
*****
Captain Juan grumbled at the Xenig Mech, self-named Ulk, who was being rather obtuse. Unlike many of its race who left their still unknown home system(s), this one was not contracted to GPS. It instead wandered about the galaxies of the Local Group, rushing to examine unusual spatial and temporal anomalies as they appeared or were reported. On Hercules' main bridge screen floated Ulk's chassis, a souped up (even by Xenig standards) vessel which bore vague resemblance to a pencil with an oversized eraser. The hull was not the normal black of Xenig chassis, but an unknown coating of a perfectly reflective material.
"Come on," wheedled the Mech's synthetic voice over subspace radio, "you're stuck out here, minimum a three months from decent harborage at the speeds you'll be forced to maintain. All I'm asking for is one, very small addition to my price. Still be the lowest you'll find with bonded service."
Juan shifted uncomfortably in his chair, staring up at the ceiling and rolling his eyes before responding. "It's the whole principle of the thing. And it's down right silly."
"Please?" asked the Mech once more, putting whining overtones into the word which would have made a teenager, whatever the species, proud.
Huff. "Fine, fine, fine. In addition to the already agreed on price, we will throw in one gross of rubber duckies." Juan choked on the last words.
"Yellow. Remember, I want yellow ones."
"Yellow ones."
"No red, no blue, no purple. And I want the shipment /before/ I fold even a single molecule for you."
"Yellow. We will have them ready in an hour."
The ship on the viewscreen began to yaw up and down excitedly. "Goodie! Ulk signing off."
"Hercules signing off." The connection went dead. The unvoiced question on board the bridge was why a member of the acknowledged corporeal masters of reality manipulation would want a gross of yellow rubber duckies. It was probably for the best no one ever found out. Juan rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Lieutenant Sallak," said Juan towards the shift's current science officer on the bridge, "please take care of the rubber duckies. You might want to check with Ulk to make sure you have the right shade of yellow, just in case."
"Yes, sir," said the relatively young Vulcan, turning on heel to head into the turbolift. The doors whooshed shut. A few seconds later they opened again.
"Something wrong?" asked Juan. He did not look over his shoulder to see who had disembarked, assuming it was Lieutenant Sallak. Clarification of orders, although there was little to question about replicating a gross of plastic waterfowl, was frowned upon by Juan to take place over cranial link. Face-to-face was more personal...and it also was easier for the superior officer to chew out the lesser crew member if warranted.
"There most certainly is." The voice was the faintly metallic one belonging to 12 of 53. "Hercules, and none of the other ships for that matter, will let me access sensor data beyond the most superficial levels." The Hiver was pissed.
:: I most certainly will not, :: spat Hercules' baritone into the minds on the bridge. :: Standard procedure for all Fed associated Personalities is to keep unauthorized minds out of the working dataspaces. How would you like to have someone mucking around in your brain, Liaison? ::
"Irrelevant," returned the Hiver, glaring at a point about an armspan in front of himself. "I am part of the Greater Consciousness and have others 'mucking', as you say, around in my brain much of the time. I volunteered for it, after all, and I have never regretted the decision. But it is all irrelevant, nonetheless." 12 of 53 focused on Juan. "I...no, /we/, speaking as an appendage of the Hive, must have access to the sensor arrays of as many of the ships in this group as possible."
"Why?" asked Juan.
:: Yah, why? :: echoed Hercules in a rather childish manner. One might imagine a seven-year old standing behind the legs of a parent and boldly asking the question.
12 of 53's eyes glazed for a moment. Juan noted fractual subspace activity on the primary Hive frequency picked up greatly, then subsided to a more normal background level. "Very well, Captain Juan, Personality Hercules, all on this bridge. I have been given permission to tell you the Hive is receiving a very weak automatic signal requesting integration on old Borg fractual frequencies, ones which were abandoned when the Collective died and was reborn as Hive. The most probable location for renewed Borg activity is here, on Cube #347. It may not be as dead as it seems."
:: Herc? :: thought Juan towards the Personality.
:: Reviewing data for past three hours. Compiling. Oh-oh. Alerting science vessels, tugs, and Blood, Guts, and Glory to see if they see what I see. Confirmation. Relaying raw data and preliminary results to science divisions and specialized subprograms. ::
"What, what?" shouted Juan as he rose to his feet. It wasn't often the Personality, infancy spent on the Rim Border and in various minor conflicts, said "oh-oh". The bridge crew, other than the unruffable Gy'hur, nervously eyed their captain.
Said Hercules, outloud and with formal pronunciation, "Captain Juan, as Personality of this Federation Starship, I request a state of red alert. Primary systems are coming on-line on Cube #347; and over four thousand non-vegetable life signs are now registering."
"I apologize to the Hive," threw Juan over his shoulder towards the turbolift. "Herc, red alert!"
"Idiot Feds," cursed Yvonne, followed by a series of oaths learned from her Klingon grandfather. She spun in her chair to a console, punching in a complicated series of commands into the nav computer nodes of the Blood, Guts, and Glory. As she read the output, Yvonne called, "Glory! Situation report! What are the Feds doing? And is the Mech still out there? I don't exactly want to be here when that thing awakens. That cube may be small compared to other ships of the Borg, not to mention seriously outdated, but I have a feeling that if it wakes up cranky and confused, it's going to swat the nearest thing it sees. A couple science vessels and a single Voyeur-class warship will be squished like so many bugs, not to mention the tugs and us."
"Ulk is still hanging about. The Mech isn't really too worried, and seems to be amused, if anything. Of course, if /I/ could throw around singularities and fold out of danger at a picosecond's notice, I might be amused too. As far as the Feds...I think they've called a meeting. Not too sure. Hercules isn't keeping me in the loop very well, as I'm not an official Fed Personality."
More curses from Yvonne.
"Shall we jump out of here? We can make significantly greater speed than any of these ships here, including the cube according to old Borg specs."
Yvonne: "If there isn't a Grid Beta Wreckers rep on site the entire time, our salvage credit, beyond basic finder's fee, will be forfeit. Still...edge us away a couple thousand kilometers and make sure the transwarp strips are kept initiated."
"Compliance."
"And keep an eye on that cube as well!"
"Compliance."
*****
Captain awoke. There was no transition between sleep and consciousness; one moment he was nowhere, the next stepping from his alcove to a dark catwalk. The touch of the air was both dryer and colder than standard parameters, as well as smelling musty, old. The last thing Captain consciously remembered was the Command....
The Command - while trucking through the grids of the Beta Quadrant, the Greater Consciousness had abruptly taken total control of Cube #347, centering the whole of its considerable attention on an insignificant cog of the Borg Collective. The reason of the focus was unknown...was not important, reasons irrelevant as the small minds on Cube #347 were swallowed by the comforting Oneness. Eventually assimilation imperfection would allow one, then two, then ten, and finally four thousand minds to begin pulling their separate directions, but for the moment the shock of suddenly being One quieted dissension. Even a normal sub-collective was rarely submerged so deeply in the fundamental workings of the Greater Consciousness, bits and pieces instead given tasks to fulfill, tokens to strive towards; failure was not permitted.
Although the reason behind the Command was unknown, the actual orders were straightforward: enter long-term hibernating stasis until periodic sensor sweeps detected a set of pulsars to be found in a given configuration. Hibernation was not a mode taken lightly, as regenerative systems, a special nanite suite, and physical life support had to remain working in perfect harmony, else no drones would revive. In this case, the length of time spent in the Borg equivalent of suspended animation was estimated to be five hundred years, give or take a century.
Captain was amazed he had survived. He had not honestly thought he would last the numerous decades even as he had dutifully followed the Command like a good little drone. The wake parameters had obviously occurred; unfortunately, unlike other times he had come out of normal stasis at the beginning of a task, no instructions were forthcoming. Adrift in the future without a paddle, Captain was at a loss as to what was to be accomplished. Activating the crew...that would be the first priority as the cube continued to initiate systems and catalogue the inevitable failures which had accumulated over five centuries (by chronometer) of drifting through interstellar space.
Power. Atmosphere/humidity/temperature. Shields. Propulsion. Weapons. Ship-regeneration. Transporters. One by one energy from fairly, although not dangerously, depleted power reserves began charging systems. Feeling through the intranet dataspaces as the web which linked the drones of Cube #347 snapped into existence over the basic computer connections, Captain felt Sensors' mental signature muzzily gathering her hierarchy together. {Sensors, where are we?} sent Captain as he passed by to the drone maintenance hierarchy for a preliminary report on terminations. Sensor grid was the next system scheduled to activate.
{Sensors' right front walking leg needs replacement.} Drone maintenance dockets registered yet another complaint. {Give Sensors a few minutes to orient herself.} The words were accompanied by the fictitious feeling of stiff limbs and yawning, although both actions were irrelevant.
{Granted,} returned Captain. He stopped his quick romp through the systems as a surge of frantic calls to engineering suddenly built from waking alcove tiers in subsection 8. Delta was already responding. Captain switched his incoming sensory impressions to include drone and internal camera point-of-views of the subsection in question. A nightmare of rustling, thorn-encrusted greenery with silver highlights was the spectacle.
Delta: {The following teams will report to subsection 8 with plasma cutters and flame-throwers. A long string of designations flooded the dataspaces.}
{No, no, no! Don't hurt my Thorny! Don't hurt my baby bloodvine! Thorny's not done anything to you!} The cry of dismay was almost predictable in its origin from Doctor, as was the response from Delta.
{That /thing/ is a plant? That plant belongs to you??}
{Don't hurt Thorny!}
{Teams - make a salad out of it.}
{NO! I'll stop you, I will!}
Captain groaned. {Second.} No answer. Second. {You are perfectly functional. Deal with this latest catastrophe. I've more important things to attend.}
A grumble came from the alcove to Captain's right. He turned to see a certain second-in-command open his eyes and step to the catwalk, accompanied by the hissing sound of disengaging clamps. "My head aches." The words were scratchy as they emerged from a throat unused for five centuries. "One of my ocular implants is nonfunctional. I'm receiving awful feedback from a limb assembly. I...."
"You are functional. Go calm the zoo in subsection 8 before we have a civil war. Doctor appears to be more attached to this particular pet than normal."
Second huffed, then disappeared as a transporter beam locked onto his position. At least one system appeared to be working correctly.
Captain turned back inwards, this time focusing on the connection with the Collective. One of the orders of the Command had been to sever /all/ links with the Greater Consciousness. Needless to say, subunit #522 had been put in hibernation before this action; and they would not be reawakened until their functional sanity could be assured. The sub-collective of Cube #347 was not afforded such delicate handling. The viniculum was casting through Borg fractual subspace frequencies for the Collective with no success. The sub-collective was busy contemplating its own navel of chaos for the moment, but the Collective would eventually need to be linked with. The alternative, a possibility of awakening to a universe with no Greater Consciousness, was not a scenario Captain wished to spend the mental resources dwelling upon at this time.
Captain. Sensors is now receiving input from the short-range sensor envelope. {The grid is still powering up, but Sensors thinks we have a problem.}
{What?} asked Captain.
{Sensors asks if you are ready to receive sensor data? One must see this directly. Must. Current frequencies are extended standard visual.}
{No neutrino or gravametric or quantum frequencies.}
{Grid is currently configured for extended standard visual. Sensors apologizes for the limited information the array will give, but Sensors can begin to realign for....}
{No, no! Extended visual is fine.} Captain, still on the walkway a step from his alcove, carefully locked his limbs before closing his eyes. He hated raw sensor data, he really did. Ready for sensor grid shunt. The universe exploded.
Tens of millions of stars, fifty navigational pulsars subtly highlighted, half the spherical view washed out with the fierce glow of a red dwarf. The cube was not moving; and was certainly /not/ where it had been left to drift following the Command. Nine ships could be seen: four tractoring Cube #347, three huddled together a hundred kilometers away, a single small splinter moving off to a distance of three thousand kilometers, and a perfectly reflective tapered cylinder with a bulbous end. None of the designs were familiar; the sensor grid was now relaying some gravimetric information, indicating the chrome-plated ship was Mech species #3. Apparently Cube #347 had awoken in the middle of a plundering operation by a pack of unknown pirate species!
Action was instinctive, instant, and somewhat uncoordinated as protocols refined over thousands of years took effect.
*****
"Battle stations! All essential crew will report to their battle stations! This is not a drill! Second and third shifts, all departments, report to staging areas! This is not a drill!" Hercules' voice added to the controlled chaos in hallways, Federation personnel running to stations, securing what needed to be secured. On the two science vessels, "Gestalt" and "Datum", similar scenes were playing out; however, where the SFS Hercules was moving into attack position, the virtually defenseless Gestalt and Datum were edging away.
Captain Juan stood in front of his chair, snapping commands right and left (and through cerebral link). Stupid scientists, not moving fast enough! The little scout and its captain was probably the sanest of the bunch, a small ship sitting several thousand kilometers away from more juicy targets. And Ulk...probably laughing his metallic butt off as if this little drama was staged for his amusement. "He won't get his duckies now," muttered Juan under his breath.
"Did you say something, sir?" inquired Gy'hur, looking up from tactical, a violent glint in his eyes.
"Nothing, Lieutenant Commander. Continue with your duties." The turbolift door opened, disgorging Commander Jal, Juan's Bajorian second-in-command. Jal's earring hung oddly, and her uniform was rumpled; she had been in the middle of her sleep period when the cry for battle stations had erupted. "Sir," said Jal as she took her place next to Juan. Juan nodded.
"Herc, have you found any overt weaknesses in the old Borg Exploratory-class vessel schematics we could take advantage of?"
"Negative, Captain. The Borg, the Hive, whatever, have extremely noncentralized systems, and can take more punishment than a Voyeur class can dish out. Eventually, with our advanced weaponry, we might be able to take out the cube, if we survived /their/ attacks, assuming we could react fast enough in changing our munitions to their adaptations. However, there is no magic spot to hit."
"Damn. Open audio channel to tugs. Ramsey, get your people out of there!"
The foreman's voice returned on the channel, "What do you think we are doing? We can't just shut the grapples off, not without tearing our cores apart. Oh, f***...." The transmission abruptly terminated in a buzz of static. All eyes focused on the main viewscreen.
The cube, the formerly quiescent hunk of nearly dead metal, had regained full shielding in the scant minutes between first noticing the sh** had hit the fan and now. Two tugs were balls of dispersing gas, grapple beams sliced by Cube #347's shield, leading to a terminal chain reaction energy surge in the cores of the now deceased vessels. The foreman's ship, "All Work, No Play", had disengaged its tractor and was now frantically moving away on thrusters. "Workhorse", the final tug of the original foursome, was currently in the unenviable location inside the cube's shield, still attached by its grapple. As the bridge crew of Hercules watched, the tractor's polarity was pulse-reversed, severely damaging Workhorse with a series of bright explosions.
"Tell the other vessels to flee to transwarp, and grab Ramsey's tug if possible. Ulk...ignore that stupid Mech, for all the help it is, for all the help the entire Xenig race is. Gy'hur, target that Borg cube; we can't let it escape to wreck havoc. It may be the famed Cube #347, but it is still Borg. We cannot let the Borg back into the galaxy. Set a vector to skim the cube's shields. Are we receiving any transmissions at all from the vessel?"
"Negative," reported an ensign currently manning Ops. "The communication system may be damaged, it may not be powered up yet, or the cube may think us a threat not worth talking to."
Juan heaved a great sigh. "Doesn't matter." He paused, sucking in a great breath of air. The Workhorse abruptly disappeared as Cube #347 demonstrated its weapon system was quite functional. "Better make us a fat target so someone can grab Ramsey. Attack."
*****
Here ends "Let Sleeping Borg Lie, Part I". Continue reading the rest of the story and you will find out -
(1) what the Dark is,
(2) why the Borg became the Hive,
(3) how the paradox of a pre-Dark and Hive Cube #347 can be resolved,
(4) if Thorny is to become the bloodvine equivalent of sushi, and
(5) if Ulk will receive his gross of yellow rubber duckies.
Or, on the other hand, none of these questions may be answered, instead postponed to a distant part III as the author tries to determine how the plot (there's a plot in there?) should advance.
Next up: "Let Sleeping Borg Lie, Part II".
Return to the Season 2 page