Paramount owns Star Trek, plus a wide assortment of lawyers and eternal souls. A. Decker created Star Traks; and continues to mix the occasional pudding. I write BorgSpace to stay off the streets, out of trouble, and fill the free time I've fooled myself into believing exists.
The Trading Game
Bzzzzzzzzz. Whiiiiiiiiir. Bzzzzzzzzz. Whiiiii-iiiii-iiiir. Bzzz...zzzz...zzzz... Cough. Hack. Click. Bzzz... Click. Click. Foomph!
The abused chrome polisher in 25 of 46's hands burst into flame. Startled, 25 of 46 dropped it to the ground, accidentally kicking it off the alcove tier. It fell, still spitting pale flames and a tendril of blue smoke, over a hundred meters before coming to rest loudly against a subsection bulkhead. Faint curses arose from the depths: someone had missed a beaning by mere centimeters.
"Oops," muttered 25 of 46. He peered at himself in a mirror set next to his alcove, noting in distaste the dull matte finish to a large portion of his head. Why couldn't the machine have lasted five minutes longer? The question was a common commiseration, asked billions of times on millions of worlds, in one rare instance spawning a vast philosophical debate with civilization-altering consequences. A spit shine test returned unsatisfactory results. Looking around, 25 of 46 spotted a chrome polisher on the cubby shelf above a neighboring alcove. He reached for it.
"Don't even," warned 49 of 133, the alcove's occupant, eyes popping open. "I do not want it to blow up, catch fire, or otherwise be rendered nonfunctional. Go steal another chrome polisher, replicate one if you can, but that specimen is off limits." 49 of 133 stepped from his alcove, positioning body squarely between 25 of 46 and goal.
The replicators, unfortunately, were not an open option.
The replicators were unavailable to general drone use, ever since the fan, cottage cheese, and pineapple incident several days prior. Delta had set a guard program to log all replicator use, both normal traffic and illicit (i.e. not necessary to cube operation). 25 of 46, along with many others in the sub-collective, had yet to construct a covert method to bypass the nasty watchdog without responsible elements of command and control (and Delta!) being aware.
"You know I can't use the replicators to make another chrome polisher!" complained 25 of 46. "I only want to borrow it long enough to finish up my head."
"That's what you said about the last polisher I loaned you," countered 49 of 133 with a meaningful look towards alcove tier railing. Far below a blacked piece of machinery spat out final weak flames before being covered with foam from a too exuberant extinguisher-wielding engineering drone. "I'm not going to allow you use of the one I have now, the one I finally replicated months ago while waiting for you to return the original."
Wheedled 25 of 46, "Come on. What about the motto of Oneness, what's yours is mine and mine is yours?"
"Doesn't apply to chrome polishers." 49 of 133 was adamant.
"You want me to beg, don't you?"
49 of 133 gave a stiff half grin. "What do you think?"
"I know what you think, and you want me to beg. I won't do it. It is not dignified and not remotely Borglike. And I really need that polisher. I can not go around with half my head done. What if I was called on to go assimilate someone? The PR department would be appalled!"
"Well, maybe there is something you could do for me if you can't wait until Delta lifts replicator restrictions," began 49 of 133. 25 of 46 shook his head up and down in agreement. "I have been wanting to touch up my alcove a bit, make it more...sparkly in places. However, I do not have access to the type of paint I require; and in this instance the replicator lockdown is affecting me as well."
25 of 46 listened to 49 of 133's proposition. "I won't do it." Formerly positive nodding had turned to negative head shaking.
49 of 133 reached to the cubby shelf, then held out the chrome polisher invitingly. It was snatched back before 25 of 46 could lay a finger (or prosthetic) on it. "Do you want this thing or not?"
A sigh. "I'll do it."
2 of 8 was painting her fingernails when 25 of 46 casually strolled by. Although first glance would place her as engrossed in her task, the belief would not be correct.
"Put it down," said 2 of 8, not bothering to look up from her work.
25 of 46 stopped and turned to face the Hierarchy of Eight member, hand and prosthetic held behind his back. "Put down what?" he asked innocently while maintaining a sequence of fractual multiplication tables 'loudly' reciting on his mental surface.
"The liter can of sparkly paint you are hiding behind you." 2 of 8 gestured with a nail brush as she shook the other hand in an air-drying motion.
25 of 46 brought his hands to the fore, acting surprised as he saw the container. "Wow! How'd that get there?" he asked in a stilted tone of questioning.
"Gee. I. Don't. Know," responded 2 of 8 even more insincerely. "And stop the math. It was obvious you were up to something long before I realized it was aimed at my sparkly paint. Now, what do you want?"
"Sparkly paint. Chrome polisher," was the sullen reply.
2 of 8 frowned, then gestured again with brush hand. "I could dig into your head and extract the whole story, but I won't. Bombarded as we are every moment of our existences with mental leaks not serious enough for filters to censure, why would I purposefully dive into your neuroses? You obviously want some of my sparkly nail polish. I don't need to know why."
25 of 46 nodded brightly, "Yes."
"But this isn't an attempt to comply with the suggestions I posted last week over the topic of personal adornment and the drabness of the ordinary drone."
Borg could not lie to Borg. Misdirect, maybe; but not lie. "No."
"The you can't have it," 2 of 8 said. 25 of 46 sighed. "Unless you can meet my price. And don't bother thinking you can steal any from my private stash because I know where /all/ the sparkly paint resides on this cube."
"What do you want?" asked 25 of 46 dully. The chrome polisher seemed to be receding from his grasp.
"Multiphasic zipper. I'm working on a curtain for my alcove, and I need a multiphasic zipper to finish it. Unfortunately, there is only one source of the required fastening equipment on this cube."
25 of 46 gulped. He was now required to make a pilgrimage into The Shop.
The Shop. One of the most disturbing places on Cube #347, with vegetation choked subsection 8 and Weapons' more exotic holosimulations coming in a distant second, The Shop was located in supply closet 15a, subsection 5, submatrix 15. Records indicated a spatial anomaly had formed in the closet 325 years ago, shortly after the cube's transfer from aging front-line vessel to imperfectly assimilated dumping ground. The Collective had long since given up trying to understand the phenomenon which gave the normally 10 by 8 meter closet a floorspace more appropriate for a warehouse megastore.
For more than three centuries, supply closet 15a, subsection 5, submatrix 15 had served as, well, storage, albeit of more stuff than the average closet. Unfortunately, items one wished to see again could not be put into the larger-inside-than-out space as the phenomenon would occasionally "burp," causing random contents to disappear. While as everybody who had ever washed laundry knows dryers come with a built in spatial anomaly partial to socks, such had no place being on a Borg cube; even if it was theorized to have emerged due to a long deceased drone with an obsession for collecting clothes washing implements, which had subsequently imploded one day because of excessive "dryer density."
The past was the past, and supply closet 15a was once again housing items associated with clothes. Twelve years prior, unable to shake his fashion designer past, 220 of 310 commandeered the closet, turning it into a tailoring and attire shop. Never mind drones did not wear clothes; and Delta hoped a "burp" would one day take all the fabric stock (and 220 of 310) into the lost sock dimension. Twelve years of fashion disasters - 220 of 310 had not been a good designer - hung from ceilings, off racks, and attired dummies.
The effect was disturbing in a grade B movie way; one always expected a cardigan or polyester mutant to leap from behind a dusty, poorly lit red-tag sales rack.
"220 of 310," called 25 of 46, "I know you are in here. Come out. I require assistance." Unfortunately, the nature of the anomaly made it impossible to pinpoint interplexing beacon signatures. As far at the computer was concerned, the storage closet continued to measure 10 by 8 meters.
A rustling arose within a display of velvet curtains, followed by 220 of 310 emerging from fabric shrouds. "Something in a paisley, I think," commented 220 of 310, eye narrowed as he visually took measurements. Several sewing needles of various sizes were magnetically attached to torso; red and white polka-dotted cloth lay flung over left shoulder. "Yes, a sassy paisley number with sheer nylons and cherry red pumps will be astounding. Knock them dead at parties."
25 of 46 shook his head violently and took a prudent step backwards. This was worse than a ragwool monster! "No! I...I just require a multiphasic zipper. Quickly, before this place burps and removes me to wherever the things in here go."
A frown passed over 220 of 310's face, accompanying dark thoughts barbing on the dataspace plane. It was unclear if the target was 25 of 46's not wanting the hideous outfit, the room's peculiar behavior, or both. "Place ate most of my fastener stock two regeneration cycles ago. Luckily fashions this season lean toward wraps and saris, but who knows the whims for spring." Hand was thrown up in theatrical dismay. "I only have a few fasteners in stock, and I'm personally predicting retro funk-punk will be all the rage - heavy leather designs with zippers everywhere." 220 of 310 paused. "No, can't let you have that." He turned to disappear back into the depths of The Shop.
'Chrome polisher!' though 25 of 46 frantically. "Wait, wait, wait! A swap. With replicator use limited, perhaps there is something I can bring you in trade for a multiphasic zipper."
220 of 310 swiveled, then chewed on a bethimbled index finger as he pondered. Many images whirled from the mental node which was 220 of 310, most of them clothing related. "Now that you mention it, I'll be having a pink flamingo winter sale next week. Have to clear out old fashions to make way for the new." He gestured at a series of racks upon which lay twelve years of stacked clothing alternating with heavy dust. No shoppers had ever graced this establishment. "It is exceedingly unlikely I'll find real flamingos in time for the sale, but those lawn ornament types will work nicely. If you can scrounge up a dozen of them, I guess I can sacrifice a multiphasic zipper."
"Fine," said 25 of 46, "a dozen pink flamingos." Inwardly he groaned to himself: the trading chain had to end /somewhere/...eventually.
25 of 46 found 39 of 240 in Bulk Cargo Hold #8. The drone was at the head of a semicircle delineated by thirty pink flamingos. Each plastic bird faced 39 of 240, dull black eyes staring at nothing.
"Look Mr. Floontzy, look who is here," said 39 of 240 to a nearby flamingo. He nodded, then switched his attention to a neighboring lawn ornament, "Yes, I hear you, Mr. Floontzy, but Mr. Floontzy was speaking first. Mr. Floontzy," yet another bird was addressed, "welcome 25 of 46 for us."
25 of 46 heard nothing, which was not unexpected. If a voice had been present, it would have meant an immediate maintenance request.
39 of 240 had always maintained an imaginary friend named Mr. Floontzy, pathology likely originating due to a maturation chamber malfunction. Nearly grown to acceptable size, the Collective had deemed 39 of 240 serviceable...then shipped him to Cube #347 when his defect manifested. As long as he was allowed occasional long "tea parties" and other conversational exercises with Mr. Floontzy - whatever its current "physical" incarnation - 39 of 240 functioned normally; a horrible temper tantrum was the consequence otherwise.
"39 of 240," said 25 of 46 has he immediately came to the crux of the matter, "I need a dozen of your flamingos."
39 of 240's eye widened. "You want to take Mr. Floontzy? That is /not/ acceptable! Especially not when we were in the middle of our discussion group on Klingon literature."
"No. Not Mr. Floontzy. I want twelve of, um, Mr. Floontzy's bodies. He will still have sixteen others."
"So you say! If I took your arm, your heart, your central nervous system, would you still be you?"
25 of 46 held up his prosthetic in display. "My arm is already removed," he replied, "and my heart and general cardiovascular system is augmented to withstand extreme stress. I am still me, more or less."
"Well," acceded 39 of 240, "I guess Mr. Floontzy can get along without legs and such. Buuuut...what did you say Mr. Floontzy?" 39 of 240 cocked his head as if listening to someone talking in his ear. At least he wasn't speaking to a sock puppet this month. "Really? I understand. Why don't you tell 25 of 46, then? Oh, I see. You are being shy. Very well, I'll tell him myself."
25 of 46 watched as 39 of 240 plucked a flamingo and held it to eye level. "Mr. Floontzy tells me you can have all of his body here if you get him a new one. He says he likes riding lawnmowers. More expression potential than flighty flamingos."
25 of 46 nodded, spoke agreement, and swiftly exited the cargo bay. Where the hell would he find a riding lawnmower countless light years from the nearest expanse of grass?
Checking inventory, 25 of 46 was surprised to discover Cube #347 listed not one riding lawnmower, but five. All of them were currently in use in the maze of hallways near Auxiliary Core #8. 25 of 46 locked onto the location of one of the five moving dots pictured within a wireframe visualization of the subsection and transported.
And was nearly ran over.
"Yeehaw! Out of the way, out! No brakes, no brakes! Brakes are malfunctioning!"
25 of 46 had less than a second to register the visage and signature of 111 of 152 before he found himself sideswiped by a lawnmower. The machine brushed past, motor roaring, bright orange paint shining in the hallway lighting. It slammed into a wall, coughed twice, belched smoke, spat sparks, was still. 111 of 152 climbed off the driver's seat where he had been insecurely perched.
{I'm out,} he yelled into the intranet. {I'll try to get 'er up and ready for the next race series.} Several acknowledgments returned promptly.
111 of 152 sighed as he surveyed the riding lawnmower, then turned to 25 of 46. "Why'd you get in front of me like that?" he shouted.
"I did not realize there was a /lawnmower racing/ course set up here." 25 of 46 quickly accessed the betting pool associated with the four signatures who had responded to 111 of 152. "What does Delta, engineering, think of this?"
"What do you think she/they think?"
"And why are you yelling like that? There is no reason."
"Yelling like what? This is how I normally verbalize; it is you who are whispering. Lawnmowers are loud, you know. The silence is louder when nothing fills it."
"Um, I don't understand. Wait! I don't want to understand." 25 of 46 visually inspected the lawnmower from afar. "I'm looking for a lawnmower just like that one. I need to borrow it for a bit."
"Borrow my trusty racing lawnmower? I've 10:1 odds riding on that grass cutting beauty tomorrow, and only so many hours to fix it. That crash surely killed the vibrator, the do-hickey which simulates the notable noise of a true gas-guzzling engine; internal fusion is too quiet. I must repair it, as well as any other rattled components. What is a lawnmower race without the sounds watchers expect?"
Muttered 25 of 46, "A lot quieter."
If 111 of 152 heard 25 of 46's rejoinder, he did not react. 25 of 46 observed silently as 111 of 152 ran his prosthetic over the lawnmower, reading internalized scans as the other took them. The jolt to the machine had been more serious than first impressions.
"Well, damn. Mower is going to require /days/ of work, days of scrounging parts and jury-rigging 'cause Delta would have my head on a silver platter if I requested irrelevant items from the replicator." 111 of 152 sighed, his voice dropping to nearly normal volume. "I guess I can let you borrow the lawnmower for a bit..."
25 of 46 locked transporter on the machine, believing he had finally found an end to the trading chain. The lock was abruptly terminated by the still speaking 111 of 152.
"...but I want something in return. A beanie hat, with propeller."
25 of 46 groaned in disappointment.
The areas of Bulk Cargo Hold #3 not occupied by subunit #522 were shrouded in darkness, dim enough to require optical enhancement. 25 of 46 slowly picked his way along a particular aisle, reading the placards in front of each dusty hat. He knew several drones of subunit #522 had left their mysterious hustle and bustle, standing at the edge of the lighted space (and the barrier of a now ever-present force field) to watch his progress. In the dataspaces, the partition that was the subunit had become increasingly isolationist; currently it resembled a tight ball of yarn curled up in a mirrored ball. 25 of 46 was of the opinion it had progressed into a realm of insanity which the ever busy Greater Consciousness refused to recognize, a dark cancer waiting to explode into postal rampancy.
The subunit had not protested when he beamed into the cargo hold, simply dispatching what was obviously a not-so-subtle nonverbal warning of some sort. The silent drones gave him the creeps. 25 of 46 did not have the time to ponder significance, nor wonder at the subunit's actions; a certain collection of exotic hats was on his agenda. Unfortunately, when he arrived to the tag inscribed "Beanie - Species #5618 ," all that could be seen was a clean circle amid deep dust. The hat had been removed.
So much for hopes of a swift end to the trading. Was a chrome polisher really worth this much effort? 25 of 46 fingered the unfinished side of his scalp and decided yes.
25 of 46 dove into the dataspaces, searching for 10 of 19, collector of esoteric hats and the drone most likely to have taken the desired item. 10 of 19 occasionally wore his hats, although he tended to be partial towards straw sunbonnets. 25 of 46 found his target in Volatile Processing Area #9.
Leaky seals between comet slush vats and various pieces of gas extracting equipment had caused a mess in Volatile Processing Area #9. While the seals had been fixed and machinery restored to factory specifications, the general locale remained very damp. 25 of 46 beamed into the controlled chaos of fifty-eight drones aiming hairdryer-like appliances at walls, floor, all surfaces, in an effort to dry the place before mildew could grow. Several loud vents sucked up heated and humid air, conveying it elsewhere to be condensed for the water, with the result a perceptible breeze could be felt. 25 of 46 spotted 10 of 19 near an intake, propeller of green and blue beanie merrily twirling.
The hairdryer whirred noisily as 25 of 46 neared. "10 of 19!"
"What?"
"I require speech with you!"
"What?" The vent rattled as internal fans picked up a few more RPMs. The dryer screamed at high setting.
"I require speech with you!"
"What? I can't hear you! I've turned off my aural implants!"
Muttered 25 of 46, "Why didn't you say so the first time?"
"What?"
25 of 46 switched communication to alternate frequencies, {I require speech with you regarding your beanie.}
{Hey,} responded 10 of 19 defensively, {since it isn't lowering my efficiency at this task, I see no reason to remove it.}
{Don't jump to conclusions. I need the hat, 10 of 19.}
10 of 19 steadily held his hairdryer over a vertical surface. Reflected air pushed the propeller to higher spin rate. {I'm busy using the beanie right now; come back later.}
25 of 46 sighed, {What might you want in trade?} The litany had become all too familiar.
10 of 19 swiveled his head to regard 25 of 46 for a long motionless minute. Finally he toggled his dryer off and mentally indicated the other to follow him through the transporter system to a less noisy location. "Much easier to converse here. As far as what I might trade...a pair of silver-plated steel balls," stated 10 of 19 firmly.
"What?!?"
Repeated 10 of 19, "A pair of silver-plated steel balls. Big ones."
25 of 46 stared at 10 of 19, mouth hanging open in disbelief. Starting at the crown of the head, 25 of 46 slowly panned down the other drone's body, lingering momentarily at the groin area before quickly sliding down legs to feet. Simultaneously the dossier, species #4676, for 10 of 19's base race was accessed. Certain key points of anatomy were examined especially close.
"Isn't that a bit...ostentatious?" asked 25 of 46 weakly.
10 of 19 replied, "So? Not like I'm going to be using them; just for look you see. I vaguely thought about getting a set more akin to the real thing, but realized there was no room to demonstrate techniques. Not even Bulk Cargo Hold #5, should it be possible to program an ambiance other than Weapons' war games, would suit."
"Demonstrate techniques," murmured 25 of 46.
"Yup," continued 10 of 19 animatedly, gesturing with hairdryer clamped at the end of prosthetic limb, "take a stick and hit the old balls around. Unique game. However, as I said, not enough room to play it, so I'd just like a set of silver-plated steel balls instead. Nickel, any shiny metal for that matter, will work as well. If you can do that, the beanie hat is yours."
25 of 46 winced in remembered pain; he had not been assimilated so long ago as to forget the sensation which sporadically comes with external genitalia. "Hit the old balls.... Are you joking?"
10 of 19 blinked, then looked at 25 of 46 in confusion. "What are you babbling about? I told you I want a pair of silver-plated steel golf balls. I've switched from hats to collecting models of unique Alpha Quadrant sports implements, and little is more unusual and pointless than the Terran game of golf. Well, maybe tennis, but that activity is unfortunately quite common among several species." 25 of 46 felt his mind riffled by the other, information extracted. A look of disgust crossed 10 of 19's face, accompanying a loathing mental emotion, "Your thoughts belong in a sewer. You actually believed...no, I won't repeat it."
Protested 25 of 46, "Hey! You didn't specify golf balls, you just said 'balls.' What was I supposed to imagine?" 10 of 19 continued to glower darkly. "Okay, okay. Two silver-plated steel /golf/ balls in exchange for a propeller beanie hat."
"I have a good mind to not let you have the hat on general principles."
"No! I'll get you your balls." 25 of 46 paused, ruthlessly suppressing the picture which threatened to rise into coherence once again. "I'll get them soonest."
10 of 19 grumbled. "My absence has been noticed. I must return to my task." He vanished back to Volatile Processing Area #9, transporter beam shimmering a green afterglow. 25 of 46 did not notice, too busy setting blocks in his neural architecture to lessen the crude sexual connotation of an otherwise innocent word; he was not succeeding.
"Silver-plated steel golf balls, eh? Difficult, but I c'n do 't," stated 171 of 230 confidently from behind the implements necessary to a sculptor. After the disaster of the kinetic cherry Jello mold, she had changed mediums to that less likely to leave stains. Admittedly hot metal and stone had potential to melt unprotected prosthetics and would certainly char flesh, but accidents could be fixed by drone maintenance. The faded red tint 171 of 230 sported on legs and as droplets across her torso had yet to be completed erased either by water or sandblasting. "By the way, what tis a golf ball?"
25 of 46 provided 171 of 230 with the carefully edited image of a dimpled orb.
"Yah, I c'n do that," she confirmed, "although findin' the silver 'ill be a pain." 25 of 46 opened his mouth to reply that he could get all the metals, but 171 of 230 continued without stopping. "Howe'er, I c'n do that too. The question be payment on this commission."
"We are Borg," complained 25 of 46, "and we don't have money! We are /supposed/ to be the perfect communal society." Somehow vision and reality was not meshing as of late, at least not for a certain drone desiring a simple chrome polisher.
Conceded 171 of 230, "Yes. Howe'er, you be requesting a luxury item, at least with the replicators watched as they 're. I'm not to be makin' golf balls, silver-plated or no, for yer entertainment alone. If in it was to be displayed to all, then /of course/ it would be for the greater Borg self, but 'art is irrelevant.' Therefore, I want payment fer yer bit of selfish wantin'."
Mechanically asked 25 of 46, "What do you want?"
"I am planin' t' do a study of garden gnomes, but need real models. Dataspace images don't quite work; and neither does holograms, which I tried by stealin' one of Weapons' local holoemitters fer a few hours. I need the stony hardness of a garden gnome, or three, to make my sculptures cum alive."
25 of 46 received the leaked impression of "alive" being more akin to "alive" as in movement than "alive" as in artistic presence. To be more precise, three four meter tall garden gnomes performing an interpretive dance routine set to the theme of the Big Bang. It was to be 171 of 230's grand masterpiece! She would smuggle it off the cube and send it towards appreciative galactic audiences, she would.... 25 of 46 wrenched his mind out of 171 of 230's thought cascades, reclaiming his mental self. "Garden gnomes. Okaaaay."
"Why do you have a garden gnome?" asked 25 of 46 to Sensors, "And why is it perched on your alcove?"
The alcove of the quadrupedal insectoid was more horizontal than standard vertical, arching to half enclose abdomen and thorax. Sensors was not in regeneration, but remained in her alcove due to the closer tie with grid and computer possible than when separated. Nothing exciting was occurring in the transwarp conduit Cube #347 transversed, nor in normal space; however, sensory hierarchy functioned more efficiently in general when individual drones were not wandering about.
Sensors cocked her head at an angle, antennae slowly waving back and forth. She contemplated the statue through 25 of 46's visual input. "You refer to the [stone talisman]. It is a curiosity Sensors found one point six years ago in abandoned outpost we examined." Sensors referred to an uneventful sidetrip Cube #347 took at the insistence of subunit #522 when said subunit was more interested in enforcing exact Collective-set root commands than locking itself in Bulk Cargo Hold #3. The several dome structures found on a moon orbiting an uninhabited class M planet proved to be an unsuccessful initial scientific outpost/colonization push from a species which had shortly thereafter lost warp capacity. The computer's ancient records had degraded beyond the point of recovery, only noting through fragmentary logs the recall of outpost members to a home planet; the fate of the race remained unknown - extinction or slide into pre-warp civilization - as did home system coordinates.
"Yes, the garden gnome."
Sensors shrugged, torso heaving up and down. "[Stone talisman] is Sensors' now. Glued it on Sensors' alcove did Sensors. Don't know why, but it seemed like a good idea at the time."
"Are you using it?"
"No."
"Can I have it?"
"No."
25 of 46 asked evenly, "Why not?" Internally he seethed over the perversity of the sub-collective drones, conveniently disregarded his own self-imposed task which was now less about a chrome polisher than finding a way to break the trading chain.
"You did not ask Sensors nicely. What is magic word?"
"Please."
"No."
"Abracadabra."
"No."
"Hocus pocus."
"No."
"Will you give me a hint? Or am I to verbalize every word in the Collective's very extensive dictionary?"
Part of the sensor grid shifted to hunt for high energy emissions; another quadrant intercepted possible sentient signals, only to be dismissed milliseconds later by the sensory hierarchy as ghosts propagated via fortuitous subspace conditions. Sensors mulled 25 of 46's not unreasonable request.
"Okay." Sensors disengaged herself from her alcove, clamps hissing. She squatted slightly to clear her abdomen, then stood up straight. 25 of 46 noticed the insectoid's surface-accessible thoughts were carefully wiped blank. "Charades," she said. A flurry of movement followed: two fingers held up, one folding into her fist, extended digit striking metal on metal twice against opposite forearm of prosthetic limb before gesturing to upper torso where the ear holes of species #6766 lay hidden under a thin plate of chitin.
"Two words, first word two syllables, sounds like...." dutifully interpreted 25 of 46. Sensors went through a series of convulsive motions, arms rotating in an outward flinging motion. "Throw. Toss. Cast. Casting. Searching. Fishing." The insectoid held up her hand to stop the guesses, then slapped two fingers against forearm once. "Second word, one syllable." Sensors pretended to throw a long pointed object. "Fishing spear. Fishing javelin...no, too many syllables. Fishing stick. Fishing pole."
"Yes, yes! Magic word is [fishing pole]!" Sensors bobbed up and down, formerly blank mind now radiating excitement. "[Fishing pole]!"
25 of 46 blinked. "Is that it? I can now have the garden gnome?"
Sensors stilled her gyrations. "No."
"Then what?" cried 25 of 46 in frustration.
"You have said magic word, but not brought magic item. Bring Sensors [fishing pole] and you can have [stone talisman]."
"Fishing pole," repeated 25 of 46 tiredly.
"You have a fishing pole," stated 25 of 46; it was not a question, but a declaration of fact.
Replied Doctor, "Oh, yes I indeedy do. Fishy pole."
"What use is a fishing pole? We don't have any...fish...on.....board. Do we?" 25 of 46's final words were drawn out as Doctor maintained a thoroughly innocent air.
"Yes, no fishies on board, at least not anymore."
"Then you won't mind if I use it."
"Oh, yes. Never know when a fishy pole may be handy. However, I suppose I could part with it for a copy of 'Hawking for Dummies, fourth edition.' It is supposed to contain care, feeding, and training information for raptor-like birds from thirty different worlds."
"And why..." 25 of 46 trailed off as he automatically reached for the desired knowledge held by Doctor. The latter, meanwhile, had already shuffled the data to another portion of his personal augmented memory, encrypting it under a complex fractual algorithm. By the time 25 of 46 managed to decode the top levels of protection, it would certainly be moved and encrypted again. A minimum of a dozen drones would be necessary to corral and extract the information Doctor was trying to keep hidden. 25 of 46's brief impression gained before data lockdown was that of a bedraggled bird with sharp talons and beak, a previously noble bird now resembling a plucked chicken as half of its feathers had fallen out. "Never mind. An owner's manual for hawking. Check."
"'Hawking for Dummies, fourth edition'?" asked 94 of 480 as her eyes slid over an immense rack of data crystals, each capable of holding a library's worth of data within a three dimensional, multi-spectral lattice. "Yup, I have that. Lot 112a.eb, animal husbandry." She plucked the appropriate crystal and held it up to reflect light. "But a library needs to grow, you understand, especially one like this which would be purged by the Greater Consciousness if it was held properly within the dataspaces all the time. Find me the collected holographic artworks of Zazahn Cralter, species #4252, and 'Hawking for Dummies' is yours."
"Zazahn Cralter? That's a hideous artist if you ask me."
"I didn't ask you," growled 25 of 46, "and all I want is the artwork."
"I guess I can give the memcrystal to you, if you find me a pink and white quartzite rock, 2.789 kilograms."
"A rock?"
163 of 230 said defensively, "Why I need a rock is none of your business, so stop probing. No rock, no art."
12 of 310 nodded in affirmation. "I indeed have a quartzite specimen, pick and white, of about 2.789 kilograms. 2.812 to be exact. Just dusted it off yesterday."
25 of 46 looked around the catwalk. Today appeared to be corundum day, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires glinted as in a gemologist's dream; for the Borg, chunks of perfect emeralds as big as a double fist were worthless except in certain industrial processes. "Can I borrow it?"
"Heck, you have it if," 12 of 310 held up a stone buffing cloth in emphasis, "if I receive the five most recent issues of the gossip magazine 'Star Life.' Hardcopy only."
"Five most recent issues of 'Star Life' in hardcopy."
"Honey, honey, honey. Asking for the moon, aren't ya?"
"I do not want a large rocky satellite, 26 of 79," said 25 of 46. After a moment he added quietly to himself, "Although that will probably be the next request."
"No, dear. Figure of speech." 26 of 79 sounded like a slightly plump school marm or nanny; she looked like a pale victim of starvation. "I do have 'Star Life' among my soaps magazines. I understand you are making trades for such items. I want a nice wicker rocking chair in return."
Protested 25 of 46, "But Borg do not sit!"
26 of 79 clucked in mother hen disapproval over the outburst, "It's all ambiance, dear. All ambiance."
25 of 46 peered left and right along the alcove tier, trying and failing to picture how a wicker rocking chair fit into the scene. If a local camera was ever used to project the area during interspecies contact, the Greater Consciousness would surely have a fit over the unprofessional appearance garnered by a rocking chair. However... "Right. Ambiance."
"A wicker rocking chair? Get me an umbrella with a frog on it, and I'll see what I can do."
One hundred twenty seven links later, 25 of 46 stood next to Delta. Both of her bodies were engaged in removing screws from an alcove tier railing prior to replacement. Someone had drawn graffiti all over the metal; someone had also not been observant enough to not sign his name at the conclusion of the cartoon images; and someone was now scanning for stress fractures in the underlayers of the outer hull, bodily clambering over deep shock absorbers in a near vacuum environment. Body A was removing screws as body B caught them before each could fall into the shaft.
"Allen wrench set? Yes I have the cube's only Allen wrench set, which I keep on one or another of my bodies at all times. Allen wrenches do not grow on trees, especially not the antiquated English measure variety, therefore they are not to be loaned lightly." Body B had the less demanding task and so was doing most of the speaking.
"Damn!" exclaimed Delta, both bodies swearing simultaneously. Body A held a power screwdriver up to eye level, inspecting damage. Somewhere inside the casing the shaft had broken. "Well, this thing is worthless. Shoddy imported trash. Why does the Collective insist on assimilating species #1982 tool transports every time we need more screwdrivers and needlenose pliers? Probably an old root command embedded deeply which the Greater Consciousness has never revised nor purged."
As body A continued to glower at the screwdriver, body B regarded 25 of 46. Said Delta, body B only, "If you can get me a decent /non/species #1982 power screwdriver, you can borrow the Allen wrench set."
25 of 46 blinked. /He/ had exactly what Delta wanted. The chain was broken; the chrome polisher was his! He immediately transported the desired item to his hand, presenting it to Delta.
Body A plucked a small plastic case from a compartment in her prosthetic arm and handed it to body B, who in turn gave it to 25 of 46. "There. Now let me get back to work."
25 of 46 eagerly engaged the transporter...he had many links to retrace.
The power screwdriver was no better maintained than a certain defunct chrome polisher. It had once belonged to another drone, since terminated and unable to demand her tool returned.
Whiiiiiiiiir. Zzzzzzzzzz. Grrr-rrr-rrr. Zzzz...zzzz...zzzz... Click. Whiiiir-zzz... Click. Click. Foomph!
The instrument in Delta's hands burst into flame. She yelped in surprise; body A dropped the screwdriver off the alcove tier. It twirled end over end, finally smacking into the subsection bulkhead barrier at the bottom of the shaft, eliciting curses from a drone who had narrowly escaped falling hardware only fourteen hours previously. Delta gazed to the distant deck, watching an eager drone materialize with fire extinguisher to put out sputtering flames.
She wanted her wrenches back, and she wanted them now. The trade was obviously flawed. Transporter locked onto both bodies, whisking them to the current locale of the tool set.
"Hey! I needed those Allen wrenches!" yelled 131 of 152 to an unresponsive Delta as she dematerialized. Rumbled 131 of 152 to himself, "Well, if I can't have Allen wrenches, then I want my brick back."
"The futon!"
"I was using that wool carpet."
"Mr. Floontzy is very, very angry now."
The trading chain was disintegrating, falling apart link by rapidly broken link, as POed drones snatched back the items they had loaned. One by one the dominos fell, getting closer and closer to an unknowing 25 of 46. Oh, he was aware of a growing discontent in the cube intranets, one which command and control elements were struggling to defuse. However, his awareness was focused on raising chrome polisher to head, turning on the machine, and feeling the rough abrasions as cranium was shined to a remarkable glow.
The distant sound of a transporter intruded through the whirring of the polisher.
"Nice use of glitter, but the liter is mine. Gimme."
"Hey," cried 49 of 133 as 2 of 8 disappeared the way she had come, can of sparkly paint in hand.
In retaliation, 49 of 133 stepped over to 25 of 46, seizing chrome polisher out of the latter's hand. It coughed to a standstill as the off switch was toggled.
"Arg! My head isn't done yet!"
"Too bad," snarled 49 of 133. "No paint, no polisher. That was the agreement." The machine was replaced on the cubby shelf, a glaring 49 of 133 mentally daring 25 of 46 to steal it back.
25 of 46 sighed and hung his head, peering into the mirror. After all that work, and his head was /still/ unfinished, only a few swipes necessary before final buffing. 25 of 46 steeled himself, he would not be beaten by this little setback. After all, the Borg motto did focus upon futile resistance!
"49 of 133, come on...I only need to borrow it for two minutes. I'll give it back right away...."
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