The perfectly coiffured people of Paramount own Star Trek. Alan Decker, who can occasionally afford to see a stylist, created Star Traks. If I, writer of BorgSpace, do not receive a haircut soon, I will no longer be able to see a hand waved in front of my face.
Bad Hair Day
Maintenance Bay #7 was empty. No drones, neither damaged nor whole, were present. Tools were neatly racked in anticipation of use; miscellaneous replacement parts lay in bins or on work benches. Ambient lighting was set several lumens below standard. The only sounds were those normal to a Borg cube traveling at high speed through a transwarp conduit.
Into the stillness, a figure arrived via transporter beam. Light brightened in response to an unvocalized command. The drone cautiously remote-viewed the corridors surrounding Maintenance Bay #7. Satisfied his was the only active signature within the immediate vicinity, two items grasped in hands were carefully placed on an empty examination table.
"Little Thorny, Jr., how are you doing? Nice wittle plant. Yummy food I have for your momma, but first I need to test it out on you. No, no, I don't think Thorny was too happy to let you go, but I did need a clipping, yes I ums did," happily mumbled Doctor to one of his charges. The ten centimeter vine, previously attached to a much larger bloodvine, had already rooted itself into its new pot of soil.
If Doctor noticed the plant cutting neglected to respond to his words, he did not care. It was a mindless vegetable, after all. Doctor stroked one of the small leaves before turning his attention to the thermos sized container which was also on the table. The top of the cylinder was carefully unscrewed, revealing steaming contents.
"Now, ums little baby Thorny, this may be a little tiny bit warm. I microwaved it before I cut you. The recipe doesn't call for heating this plant growth supplement, but little kitties like warm milk, so it won't hurt anything. Let your vet give you a little sip and then we can all see how much you like it!"
Doctor tilted the thermos, allowing the greenish liquid inside to trickle out the mouth. The stream arced from bottle to potted plant and was swiftly soaked up by the dirt. After approximately a pint of liquid fertilizer had been used, Doctor uprighted the thermos, capping it tightly. He returned his attention to Thorny, Jr.
The plant cutting was not in good shape. Where seconds before had stood a healthy, if Borgified, bloodvine, the subject now resembled a piece of limp twine. Previously green-gray coloration rapidly became brown, the few leaves shed at an alarming rate. Doctor yipped as Thorny, Jr. abruptly burst into flames.
"Oh my, oh my," said Doctor he looked around for a fire extinguisher, "that won't do at all. Not at all!" No extinguishers were in evidence, a fact he would have to bring up with Delta without telling her exactly how he had discovered the lack. However, the bloodvine had already doused itself and was nothing more than a snaking line of black ash. An acrid odor rose from the remains. Doctor hummed to himself in disappointment. "Obviously /that/ recipe for a growth supplement is not compatible with bloodvine physiology."
Doctor began the process to clean up his aborted attempt to boost Thorny's already prodigious growth. The ashes were quickly swept away behind a loose bulkhead plate, pot and soil beamed to replicator reclamation to be broken down into component atoms. The remaining liquid in the thermos, however, was a different story. Doctor shook the container, listening to the resultant quiet sloshing.
"What shall I do with this, hmm?" Doctor asked himself outloud. "I don't want Delta to find out what this stuff does, else she'll insist on using it as a herbicide against my defenseless Thorny. Poof! All up in flames like poor Thorny, Jr., and no larger poppa to get new cuttings from." Doctor mentally brought up a schematic of the surrounding submatrix, carefully examining every meter. There...access to a subreservoir for local regeneration systems.
Doctor transported himself down two levels and approximately forty meters anti-hullwards. The small room, slightly wider than normal three corridor nodal intersection, had what appeared to be half of a fifty liter drum sticking out of the wall at waist height. A complex data piller stood next to the half cylinder, the Borg equivalent of "Do not alter these settings, or else. The Management." displayed prominently on attendant display. With a glance down two of the corridors which served as access points to alcove tiers, Doctor opened a small hatch at the top of the drum.
A watery slurry, clear in color and odorless, greeted Doctor's sight. Held in suspension were the simple sugars, carbohydrates, minerals, and vitamin precursors which were common to all the biological forms on the cube. During regeneration, alcoves requested small dollops of the material, which were then modified into species specific supplements by a combination of enzymes and programmed nanoprobes. Other methods of body maintenance for drones were possible, including direct energy to matter replication of required elements, but until relatively recently - two centuries or so - it had been expensive in terms of power to allow such systems. Retrofitting of the Borg fleet was on-going for all older ships, an extensive process which required rebuilding much of the vessel interior and revamping cores. However, not only was Cube #347 far from dry-dock, it was very low on the Collective's refit priority list.
The regeneration system was very efficient at breaking down carbon compounds and reassembling them into alcove precursors. More than one drone on Cube #347 had used the system to dispose of illegal substances, much to the annoyance of whomever held the designation of engineering hierarchy head. Disregarding the wrath of the current Engineer, regeneration was a foolproof way to get rid of substances in such a way as to be virtually impossible to reassemble the original material.
Muttered Doctor as he upended the thermos bottle, "No way Delta is going to reassemble this fertilizer as a herbicide. No way." Doctor swished the open thermos back and forth in the slurry a few times to remove any remaining traces of his super bloodvine killer, then sent it to the same fate as pot and soil. Satisfied all was well, the head of the drone maintenance hierarchy initiated transporters and beamed himself elsewhere.
*****
The task of the nanomachine is to work at the level of the minute, but even they have trouble assembling very small structures. Individual cells are like very large houses to nanoprobes, DNA macroproteins as easily grasped and manipulated as rope. As objects become increasingly tiny, however, and it becomes important to build complexes of atoms into specific configurations, the nanoprobe functions like a mittened seamstress attempting to thread her needle. Femptomachines, an order of magnitude yet smaller than the nano variety, are an attractive solution to the problem, but no species yet assimilated have been able to construct what are in essence controlled electron clouds. Thus, the Borg look to enzymes to catalyze many of the reactions necessary in the old style cube regenerative system.
Enzymes are complexly folded proteins which are able to catalyze individual bonds between atoms or arrays of molecules. Enzymes not only function as Nature's version of the nanomachine, they are generally more efficient and can work on a smaller scale. The down side, from the Collective point of view, is the inability to program a single molecule to perform multiple functions, which is the strength behind the half organic and half inorganic nanoprobe. However, nanoprobes are able to construct a variety of enzymes from the appropriate building blocks, which in turn can assemble drone-specific required nutrients.
When a drone on Cube #347 plugs itself into an alcove for regeneration, instructions are automatically uploaded to the upright coffin of a device. The data not only notes any nutrient, vitamin, and so on deficiencies the mobile unit is experiencing, but also contains programming for the alcove-regenerative nanites as to how to construct species specific enzymes to make the required substances. Enzyme and nutrient precursors, as well as a variety of minerals and sugars, are then transported to the alcove from tier reservoirs, which in turn receive their slurry from increasingly centralized distribution points. The organic refueling process generally requires less than one hour total, nutrients delivered to body intravenously. The rest of the regeneration period is spent in internal maintenance, neural realignment, and the other processes necessary to sustain a drone unit.
When Doctor's liquid fertilizer was poured in the tier reservoir, local nanites and enzymes responsible in keeping the slurry pure set into action. Unlike alcove-regenerative nanites/enzymes, the function of those in the reservoir was to break down large molecules into precursors. Normally the bulk of the work was handled by larger upstream reservoirs, but subsystems were normally adequate for the job of miscellaneous sugar or proteins shed by a limb checking slurry balance. The fertilizer molecules were an exception.
More enzyme than static protein, the fertilizer had a novel and compact structure. The slurry's active components were confused, if one wanted to anthropomorphize unthinking, unaware assemblages of elements. A few side chains were snapped off by nanomachines, only to be reattached elsewhere by their purely organic counterparts. In the end, the autonomic system pronounced the slurry compromised by an inert substance it could not break down and sent the entire load back to the central subsection vats for reprocessing by stronger means.
Reprocessing only served to spread out the fertilizer, mix it over the entire volume of what was the organic fuel of every drone on the cube. The contaminant was not enough to trip warnings as it was not recognized to be of a toxic nature. Samples were transported to other subsection central vats to see if minute differences in enzyme mixture could decompose the substance. Finally the regeneration computer labeled the fertilizer as irrelevant and ceased trying to sunder it apart. Shortly thereafter, all tier reservoirs, all alcove reservoirs, were infected by at least one or two of the altered fertilizer molecules.
In the normal course of affairs, the minor contamination would be correctly deemed as unimportant. However, the enzymes and nanomachines of alcove reservoirs did not tear molecules apart, but put them together. Unusual dynamics of the altered substance were incorrectly recognized to be a template to create more of the neo-fertilizer, which was subsequently fed to regenerating drones along with normal nutrients.
And what had the fertilizer mutated into?
Among the races of the galaxy, those which sport hair, feathers, or other type of insulation, balding was a common occurrence. The reasons for balding were many, often age or gender related, sometimes linked with genotype, occasionally emotion driven. Sufficiently advanced species usually managed to eliminate balding if the process was undesirable; however, until that point, many the equivalent of a snakeoil salesman had grown rich selling miracle cures.
The Holy Grail for many races across the cosmos was a Universal Hair Restorative Tonic. That tonic, by pure accident, now resided in the reservoirs of the Borg vessel known as Exploratory-class Cube #347. And its drones.
*****
{Regeneration cycle complete,} whispered the computer. Captain awoke to the familiar scene of walkways and alcoves, of subsonic thrumming and the footfalls of a distant drone. Another ordinary duty cycle. Post-regenerative contemplation over, Captain disengaged himself from his alcove and turned towards his nodal intersection, mind already racing the dataspaces.
As he walked, Captain became aware of an odd sensation centered on the epidermis of his cranium. It was not pain, but a close cousin, the name of which sat just out of reach. Captain tried to ignore the prickling.
Pain, contrary to popular belief, is not unknown to the drones of the Collective. The sensation of pain is very useful, serving a function to gauge task efficiency in a damaged unit. "Pain" itself has been degraded to mere input, neural connections to reflex and hormones severed; and when pain becomes too insistent, too loud, the drone can simply disengage the appropriate synapses. Pain is irrelevant.
Captain reached his nodal intersection, feeling on his head becoming more pronounced. It was located on the exposed skin of the right half of his skull. By now he had managed to isolate a word from the dictionary which adequately described the sensation: an itch. Curious, Captain lifted his nonprosthetic limb to see if he could determine the nature of the problem without resorting to either a mirror or drone maintenance.
Fingers encountered a lightly fuzzy substance covering the afflicted epidermal region. It seemed to be growing out of the skin itself, many individual components making up the whole. Captain pinched several together in his fingertips and yanked.
The hand was brought in front of Captain and fist opened to see what he had pulled from his head. On his palm rested four downy feathers of emerald green.
A disaster of minor proportion was affecting the sub-collective of Cube #347, and none could determine where it was originating. The use of as strong a word such as "disaster" was misleading. While efficiency was not altered by what was essentially inconsequential cosmetic alteration, the fiasco was highly embarrassing. Hair, feathers, and other epidermal covering was sprouting from every drone, type dependent upon base species; and even those races which had never evolved insulation were showing instances of fuzz. Sensors was currently covered in a thin covering of fine fur striped in alternating colors of red and white such that she resembled a giant insect-shaped candy cane.
Disturbingly, the random hair cluster had even been found growing on bulkheads and in alcoves.
Subunit #522 appeared not to be affected, at least as far as Captain could tell. When queried as to the status of its drones, the subunit had not only immediately erected a security field along all inside walls of Bulk Cargo Hold #3, but had initiated its own atmospheric support system. Both actions together, along with building the specified power system to provide necessary energy, required several weeks to construct, not ten seconds. Such facts hinted that the subunit had been preparing for an "emergency" for quite a while. However, Captain had neither time nor resources to divert to study the increasingly paranoid subunit.
Command and control was interacting with engineering to examine the automatic logs for the past two days. The tedious line-by-line examination of literally tens of millions of time stamps recounted not only the commands of drones upon the system, but routine matters such as internal communication and autonomic diagnostics. While interesting items were being uncovered concerning illicit activities, the normal simmering of boredom was not important at the moment.
Captain was in his alcove, the minutely closer connection to the intranets afforded by the apparatus, not to mention the clamps which held his body upright, more comfortable for the task he was supervising. One partition had just reported upon activity in the game files; while the knowledge that 52,893 games of various solitaire types had been played, among other data tidbits, was irrelevant, all data stacks had to be covered. Currently Captain was immersed in automatic regeneration subsystem logs.
{Stop. Hold. Time stamp? Return: 763.12ca, nominal status all subsections. Stop. Hold. Time stamp? Return: 763.12cc, nominal status all subsections. Stop. Hold. Time stamp? Return: 763.12ce, low level contaminant detected subsection 6, submatrix 21, junction 47, grid 16.4e, primary tier reservoir 3a.}
The read, routine in mindnumbing monotony, became much more interesting after that point.
From the named tier reservoir, the unknown had been transported back to the primary slurry vats of the subsection. When the contaminant had proved to be unsusceptible to decomposition, specimens had been sent to the regenerative subsystems of all other subsections. After the compound had shown resistance to all methods of elimination, the computer had pronounced it inert, harmless due to its very low concentration, and consequently ignored it. The hypothesis was quickly building that the material had been anything but inert, and when it finally filtered to regenerating drones, the initial structure had not only been altered, but the concentration had mysteriously grown. All the blanks had yet to be filled in, but the contaminant was increasingly appeared to be at the center of Cube #347's hairy problem. Pun intended.
The next question to pursue was the identity of the mystery compound and who had dumped it into the regeneration system. While Cube #347 could potentially isolate the substance and compare it with the literally millions of complex molecules in Collective libraries, such a procedure would take too much time. It was much easier to continue examining transceiver and transporter records to narrow down the list of drones who had been in the area, if not the nodal intersection, when the contaminant had first been noticed by the computer. Less than ten intense data-crunching minutes later four thousand designations had been whittled down to one: 12 of 19, nee Doctor.
{Doctor,} called Captain.
Doctor's mental presence was highly agitated. As Captain observed, certain memory threads were being shunted to deep personal memory and encrypted. {I didn't do anything? Not a tiny bit?} Doctor quickly wilted under the sarcastic barb of disbelief which pierced him: he knew he could not lie when directly questioned. {The compound is a vegetative fertilizer of species #5002. Molecular structure can be found in chemical library theta, pathway 73413.} The address was ended in a long sigh.
Delta would not let Doctor get off the hook so easily, {Plant fertilizer? Was this for the /growth/ in subsection 8, or do you have another project hidden we should know about before it takes over?}
{Thorny,} muttered Doctor, {was looking a little thin. Its leaves were not as shiny as they should be; also, its growth has seemed a little less as of late. A good dose of medicine was needed for a pick-me-up.}
{And why did the fertilizer end up in regeneration systems?} pushed Delta.
{Not potent enough for Thorny-poo,} was the sullen reply.
Delta snorted, then bent her attention to the chemical structure now rotating serenely in the common dataspaces. If she had bothered to press Doctor, she might have discovered the exact fate of deceased Thorny, Jr. However, as it was, Doctor was not to voluntarily enlighten her, or anyone else on the Thorny-o-phobic cube about the action of the molecule found in chemical library theta, pathway 73413. He mentally slunk away, submerging himself in the task to catalogue the myriad of complaints received by his hierarchy, and dispensing veterinary wisdom of appropriate hair care products for a healthy and glossy coat.
The protocol regarding a nonlethal (if annoying) contaminant was to add an appropriate neutralizer to the regeneration system and allow it to filter through. The task required the suspension of large organic molecule breakdown; neutralizers, multi-functional enzymes, were (1) vulnerable to disintegration nanites in an active regeneration subsystem and (2) would attack the beneficiary decomposition enzymes present, potentially ignoring the much lower concentration contaminant. However, the regeneration system did not require a complete shut down, which would force a rushed time limit on the engineering hierarchy to diagnose and fix the problem. Enough sugars, minerals, and other simple substances remained available to allow standard regeneration cycles in most species for at least one week; the first effects of essential nutrient lack due to the inability of the system to assemble individually tailored amino acids, proteins, and so on would not been seen for at least another week past that point. Except for species #6516, which had a 86.7% of falling over dead within three days of the slow down.
The purpose of the slow down was to allow free reign for the neutralizer to interact with the offending compound, most of which was currently in alcove reservoirs and drones. Once it was cleaned out of both the systems of cube and crew, regeneration would be brought back to full capacity.
{Attention! Regeneration system level two slow down initiates in three...two...one...mark!} announced Delta into the intranets. Speakers throughout the cube echoed her words in the Collective Voice.
Within the slurry tanks and reservoirs of the regeneration system, nanomachines turned upon their mindless enzyme counterparts and tore them apart into nonfunctional units. A second series of commands on quantum wavelengths ordered the small machines into quiescence. Regeneration entered level two slow down.
Delta held two thirty liter casks of liquid, both of her at the edge of an opened vat of slurry. At the other twenty-size central slurry vats, one for each subsection, drones also stood ready. The engineering hierarchy had spent the last day levering open the tops to each giant container; two drones at Slurry Vat #5 had subsequently required rescuing when they had been pushed in as part of a prank. 216 of 230, initiator of the unfunny joke, would be riveting hull plates once the current crisis was past.
Generic neutralizer #1, a light green fluid which smelled faintly of pine, had been drawn from inventory and watered down to its current concentration as per directions pasted on the original containers. It functioned as a general solvent for long chain molecules and enzymes, breaking critical bonds. Once it had diffused in the main slurry vats, the regeneration system would be allowed to run in purge mode, transporting cured slurry and neutralizer to all reservoirs. The neutralizer would have no effect on those individuals currently in regeneration.
Delta upended the casks and allowed generic neutralizer #1 to spill into her vat. At each central slurry vat, a similar scene was occurring. Satisfied and fully expecting the problem compound to be shortly eliminated, Delta finger-combed unruly hair away from her faces. It was time to find a pony-tail tie.
Four hours later it was apparent nothing had changed in the regeneration system. Chemical analysis not only confirmed the presence of the unknown product, but indicated it was catalyzing its own reactions to make more of itself. The neutralizing agent was not present; it had been inactivated by the compound it was supposed to counteract and now served as a substrate.
Engineering hierarchy broke out generic neutralizer #2. The odoriferous brown substance swiftly went the way of its predecessor. Generic neutralizer #3, a bright orange powder looking like something which would be at home in a Pixie stick brand candy, fared no better. Suddenly Cube #347 was out of options: the Collective had never come across an organic contaminant which was resistant to all neutralizing agents.
{It is only a bunch of elements bound together in a complex folding structure,} rallied Delta, {and I do not want to be forced to do a level one shut down of the system to purge it! Such a procedure should only be done at a unimatrix complex, just in case the operation requires more time than a drone can be without regeneration.}
Agreed Doctor, {Yes. The mold problem was bad enough, and I know we do not wish to go through such icky-poo again.} Relevant files relating to the incident of the space-adapted fungus were inserted into the dataspaces. {As of right now, we can still regenerate in a limited fashion. Disregarding the hair of course.} Pause. {And I think I look quite fetching in my new coat!}
{You look like a piebald rat,} muttered 87 of 152. A pict of Doctor was displayed, one which showed his "fetching coat." It was a mismatched patchwork of short hair growing in different directions, very unlike the normal Seffite genotype. {You also look like you have mange.}
{Mange! I do not! Give me a mirror...no, stand still and let your vet look at himself...} Doctor's suddenly frantic preoccupation with his appearance was ignored by the others engaged in the primary discussion as to what action to take.
Said Delta, {There are other substances we might try to rid ourselves of the contamination. As long as it is non-toxic to the species mix on this cube, we have twenty-seven regenerative subsection systems to experiment in, and nearly two weeks before the situation becomes critical.}
Cried 490 of 510, 121 of 230, and 311 of 480, all of species #6516, {But what about us?}
{What about you, wimpy babies?} snarled Weapons. He could tolerate more than two weeks at limited regeneration, his body easily compensating for lack of trace nutrients.
Second mentally rebuked Weapons, then matter-of-fact replied, {You could try to sneak into Bulk Cargo Hold #3 and subunit #522; they remain unaffected. Or you can monitor your systems while waiting for the regeneration system to be repaired. You will most likely terminate before all is fixed and drone maintenance will harvest you for spare parts.} The remark was not callous, simply a statement of fact.
490 of 510, 121 of 230, and 311 of 480 were silent. Second noted the signatures transporting to the vicinity of Bulk Cargo Hold #3, along with several devices able to be utilized in penetrating the security fields. The normal ability to slip through forcefields did not apply when the opponent was another group of drones actively (in the hindbrain sense) discouraging visitors.
Captain routinely altered cube heading by a bearing of 0.003. Other than regeneration, all systems were nominal. A quick consensus was initiated, the results returning swiftly. {We will attempt suggestion from Delta and the engineering hierarchy. A list of possible neutralizers will be compiled. Assimilation hierarchy and drone maintenance will work together to determine if species in a particular subsection are compatible with the substances. If all pass muster, the material will be synthesized and introduced into subsection regeneration system.}
The sub-collective swiftly turned to work.
Most of the subsequent additions (for example: cooking wine, three types of household detergent, acetic acid, hydrosypropyl methylcellulose) had no effect. However there were a few exceptions; and those exceptions caused unexpected...complications.
Vanilla extract - provided by a very surly 120 of 203, who complained his next pastry concoction was now to be worthless, not that anyone on the cube had ever actually ate his cooking - in the regenerative subsystem of subsection 17 produced not a taste sensation, but excessive hair (or feather, or fuzz, or fur, or bristle) growth. The affected included Captain, and Second.
"Look at this! Just look at this...thing!" complained Second. "My species is not supposed to grow beards like this! A wispy little goatee, maybe, but that is all! And certainly not the color white! That is the last regeneration cycle I will be going through until this mess is cleared up."
Cube #347's secondary consensus monitor and facilitator was awash in facial hair which would have made Rip van Winkle proud. The whiskers reached to the floor, and then some, threatening feet entanglement. After initial application of scissors, only to discover the beard grew back to its extraordinary length as quickly as it could be cut, Second had resigned himself to his new indignity. However, surrender did not mean an end to griping.
The feathered mop in the nodal intersection with Second glared from underneath his green and blue bangs. While safe from visual barbs, the displeasure Captain was experiencing could easily be felt via the ever-present mental signature. A puff of air was directed upwards from mouth in a futile attempt to position bangs in order to temporarily see a vista which did not include hairlike feathers.
"At least you can see," muttered Captain. He spat out several feathers which had managed to invade his mouth. Like Second, like everyone in the subsection who had been regenerating during the addition of vanilla, he was now the victim of excessive covering which could not be cut. At least his problem was limited to head and neck; those with suddenly exorbitant body hair, especially under armor, were not to be envied. {Delta...fix the regeneration system.}
Instead of an annoyed rejoinder, or any personal response at all, Captain received the following recorded message in Collective Voice mode: {We are sorry, but Cube #347 engineering hierarchy is very busy right now. If you care to leave your designation and a short message at the beep, we will continue to ignore you. If you plan to complain about our current technical difficulties, you will be placed at the bottom of our "help soon" list. Your feedback is not important to us.} A monotone beep followed the words
Captain sighed...but prudently did not leave a message.
*****
Turn back the clock two time cycles, shortly after the addition of generic neutralizer #1 -
The first attempt by 490 of 510, 121 of 230, and 311 of 480 to break into Bulk Cargo Hold #3 did not work. Direct assault on the forcefield proved to be futile, two hundred fifty plus drones more than a match for three, no matter how desperate the latter were. After reviewing their options and noting the security field did not extend to the floor (the energy requirements to maintain the barrier along hold walls surely strained the power plant subunit #522 was known to have built...adding floors would have been prohibitively expensive), the trio decided to shift their location of attack.
An initial hole a fingerwidth in size, burned through many meters of duralloy plating from the cramped confines of an interstitial space, allowed the introduction of a spy probe. The small camera was necessary as subunit #522 had rendered those in the cargo hold inoperational several weeks prior by the simple action of repositioning all mobile platforms to face the bulkhead, then destroying motor control. A picture was still present, but it was an unexciting vista of a gray (bulkhead hue #18, accord to Assimilation, who spent an inordinate amount of time watching the feeds) wall; stationary lenses had been covered in spray paint, much to the disgust of Captain who had a fairly good idea what sub-collective the otherwise unimaginative subunit had learned the practice from. Replacing the cameras had not been on engineering priority list, both because of more important tasks elsewhere in the cube and the inability to devise a truly tamperproof system.
The spy probe was a very small camera on the end of a flexible rod, a wire of which plugged into a drone for the system to become an extension of the receiver's visual system. 490 of 510 scanned the hold, his two compatriots piggybacking his mind. The location of the central regeneration unit was the goal of their search. It was known the subunit had built one of the newer energy-to-matter systems when they had announced their initial disgust over the inefficiencies of cube regeneration, but it was unknown if the primary device remained in the same position it had been prior to disruption of overhead cameras. A high level of activity was occurring, most of it centered around a replicator and several tables piled with miscellaneous gizmo parts, but the current actions of subunit #522 were not important. 490 of 510 finally eyed the target, unshifted.
The probe was withdrawn and the three moved their location to one directly under the central regeneration unit. Time was beginning to become short. As of 490 of 510 began the slow process of burning to the goal, both 121 of 230 and 311 of 480 returned to their access point. 311 of 480 returned as 490 of 510 completed the first of two holes, dragging behind an insulated wire of an appropriate size to fit in the hole. 121 of 230 remained outside to complete final modifications of a spare alcove to properly accept and process energy-to-matter regeneration.
By the time consequences of vanilla were becoming evident in subsection 17, the jury-rigged alcove was ready to go. The drain upon subunit #522's central unit would be noticeable, but only if ceratin diagnostics were run; it was more likely a drone would notice the illicit wire. While 490 of 510, 121 of 230, and 311 of 480 were now forced to share the single alcove in rotation, they were also no longer in immediate danger of termination.
And they also did not have to worry about being experimentees in the continuing quest by engineering to chemically depilate the crew.
*****
Nail polish remover managed to slip past quality control and be dumped to regeneration systems of subsection 3. While it did not have any effect on the drones who received the substance (except 137 of 300, who promptly reported an inability to see), it did embolden the stealthy initiator and infamous pyro extraordinaire, 279 of 300, to attempt more flammable substances.
The lighter fluid, along with a strategically placed laser, caused the central slurry vat of subsection 7 to catch fire temporarily. After that, 279 of 300 was censored, no matter how much he begged for the introduction of gasoline or 200 proof ethanol.
As the bottom of the barrel was beginning to be scraped, various synthetics of unusual organic compounds were tried. Among the number was distillment of mumba berries, a known universal hair remover originating from species #7098 homeworld and colonies. To species #7098, mumba berries were an interesting spice; to many of the galaxy's cults, mumba berry extract, a syrupy concoction, represented a sure-fire way to endow followers with obligatory baldness.
After careful addition of synthetic mumba berry liquid to subsection 26, many drones began to report hair (and feathers, and bristles, etc.) growing in unusual colors. Browns were now greens, blues, and purples; yellows were puce, pink, and black; and the several incidents of plaid was just plain wrong. In addition, when drones attempted the known futile process to cut, laser, tear, or otherwise remove (or style) their hair, it was discovered nothing could break the strands. Absolutely nothing.
Tangles and knots took on a whole new meaning.
{G'floo! essence?} asked Captain. {Are you sure that is wise?} The question was highly relevant. Previous to his assimilation, 2 of 20 had been a notorious drug junkie, of which G'floo! was a major component; his brain synapses had been so fried not even microscopic intervention by nanoprobes had appropriately healed 2 of 20's brain. While G'floo! was harmless, as were all drugs, to a Borg drone due to his/her/its compliment of nanites, the interaction it might have with the fertilizer in the regeneration system was unknown. If /vanilla/ could causes problems, G'floo! was sure to be a nightmare.
Delta returned, {It will be a synthetic, of course.}
{So was mumba berries,} pointed out Captain. One hundred twenty-three drones with various sharp implements hopelessly caught in their locks enthusiastically added their support to the captain of Cube #347. Hundreds of other units from other subsections and/or not afflicted by unexpected cross-reactions, also voiced their skepticism of G'floo!...especially if it was to be added to /their/ regenerative subsystem.
{Do we have any choice at this point?} The question by Delta was highly relevant, voicing a growing previously subconscious concern of the sub-collective.
Part of the command and control hierarchy rapidly examined a quickly diminishing decision tree. {No.}
Delta acknowledged the tacit go-ahead; subsection 13 was next in the experimental rotation.
Several hours passed, allowing diffusion of the G'floo! essence. So many of the drones of the subsection were paranoid about regeneration, Captain finally resorted command overrides to acquire the necessary test subjects. One of the few local crew not requiring "persuasion" was Weapons: he voluntarily slipped into regeneration at his normally scheduled time even as he called everyone else wussies. Of course, he had yet to experience any nasty problems, his own hair (along with vast quantities of mousse) amenable to a stylish mohawk bisected by a ridge of metal.
A sneeze echoed in subsection 13, submatrix 24, tier 3, followed by a second and third in quick succession on tier 4. Very shortly uncontrollable coughs, hacking, sneezing, and post nasal drip were epidemic for all the units partaking of G'floo! essence supplement.
{This is [cough] not right,} wheezed Weapons. {I can not [hack sniffle] battle this inconvenience! Doctor, repair me!} The physical act of coughing was intruding upon intranet communications, no matter that such an action was supposedly not possible.
Five afflicted drones of the medical hierarchy subjected themselves to examination by their unaffected peers. Phlegm and long hair is not a good combination. After several quick procedures and experiments it became apparent were the trouble originated.
Said Doctor, {We can do nothing. G'floo! has caused sneezy drones to be allergic to own self. Specifically, poor noses run due to own hair. Or feathers. Or fur. Or...}
{We get the picture,} sighed Captain. He centered his attention on Delta, {Provide us with structural analysis of next batch of compounds.}
Doctor ahemed, {Your vet was not done yet. There is more to this report.}
Captain picted a waving arm making "get on with it" motions.
Doctor continued, {Patients are so so so so allergic, body is so so so so stressed, hair is falling out. Sick, sick puppies. Hair no longer shiny and long, and now needs special medicines to keep it...}
Second interrupted before Captain, {Back up. The G'floo! essence is causing hair to fall out?}
{Tragically, it is so. Such a sign means the animal is not in good health and should receive immediate care in the form of...}
{I don't care what the treatment should be. Upload all findings of the drone maintenance hierarchy in regards to effects of G'floo! on the units in subsection 13. Now!} returned Second. He was very eager to rid himself of his facial hair, reflecting the desires of the vast majority of the cube. Those who would rather keep their newly returned ornamentation were few - Weapons liked his mohawk and 129 of 480 had the curse of perfectly manageable feathers, for example - and they were quickly subjected to the feelings of body hair itching under armor.
Doctor complied with Second's order. Appended to the report were methods to treat droopy scale in rockfish and the course of medication required to retard hair loss in the eighteen most common Seffite pet species.
Synthetic essence of G'floo! was the key to Cube #347's salvation. The voracious fertilizer had met its match in the form of the complex molecule which was the active ingredient in G'floo!. Upon meeting, the two antagonists literally tore each other apart into a host of smaller components, all susceptible to normal regeneration system breakdown. However, among the bits and pieces introduced into the drone body was the dreaded Universal Allergen. Despite the suppressed immune system of a Borg, the function mostly taken over by nanites, enough activity remained to bestir a response fitting for a hypersensitive person towards an overly friendly feline.
Being allergic to oneself is no laughing matter; it is very hard to remove oneself from one's presence. Unfortunately, there was no way to avoid the consequences as each subsection in turn was subjected to the G'floo! treatment. Soon the hallways, catwalks, nodal intersections, and rooms reverberated to the sounds of hay fever in full bloom.
Cough. Cough. "Don't come too close to me, 4 of 8. Your feathers make me sneeze."
The being at the center of a green and blue blizzard of molted under-feathers, the type which can hang in mid-air for hours as is known by any bird owner, kicked at a large hair wad. "Come too close to you? Go back to your alcove, or elsewhere in the cube, if you (hack...ptooey, yuck) feel I am detrimental to your (sneeze) health." Pause. "Have you tried the hull?"
"After watching/feeling 48 of 240 (ca-hack...dang feather) collapse her lungs when she attempted to cough in vacuum?" Second once more reached unsuccessfully over his shoulder to grab at a small measure of hair poking between the juncture of shoulder plate and spinal armor. The stiffness inherent in the great majority of Borg defeated him. He settled for an undignified fidget. "You know as well as I do that (cough cough) nowhere is it possible to escape these symptoms; and our (fit of sneezing) tier is among the worst with 29 of 31's shedding." If the sub-collective's miscellaneous files had contained comprehensive examples of late 20th century Terran comedy, 29 of 31 would have been seen to be a carbon copy of a character once known as Cousin It. As it was, 29 of 31 was now informally designated as the walking mop; at the height of the hair crisis it had been impossible to determine front from back.
The most recent summary report by drone maintenance regarding subsection 13 was made available to the general consciousness of Cube #347. Nearly all hair/feathers/etc were gone and allergies were lessening. An appendum by engineering noted no signs of fertilizer could be found in subsection 13 slurry reservoirs; the regenerative system would be restarted to level three limited capacity, then revved back to full operation if the current status quo held.
Captain, mobile feather storm, exited one of the doors to his nodal intersection. As he stared across the open space to the catwalk and alcove tier opposite, he kicked a length of Second's beard (no longer attached to said drone) into the depths. A niggling thought, one which he could not identify as belonging solely to himself or the subconscious wanderings of another mind in a sea of four thousand, rose into Captain's mental musings.
Following the distraction of the transporter beaming an object to Second, Captain noted his back-up facilitator had found among the odds and ends of inventory a back scratcher. The specific lot number listed it as made from cheap yellow plastic in the form of four fingers, footnote commenting its origination to have been from the cargo hold of a traveling carnival ship. The resultant sigh of satisfaction from Second could be heard both audibly and in the dataspaces. Captain went back to the partition of his mind which contained his own thoughts, those which were separate from the task of balancing the psyche of Cube #347.
"I wonder..." began Captain as the trivial thought demanded to be voiced. The word trailed off, idea nearly lost before surging forward once more, "I wonder...now that we have all this hair, how long (cough) will it take to sweep it all up? And will we every rid the cube of the stuff, or when we are told to trade in this cube for a new one in fifty or so years if the (sneeeeeeeze) stuff will still be turning up?" The rest of the verbal self-inquiry was lost in a fresh round of hacking and spitting as several feathers unerringly slipped into open mouth.
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