Once upon a time there lived three entities: a Big Entity named Paramount, a Medium Entity named Decker, and a Tiny Entity named Meneks. One day they all sat down to work. Paramount cobbled Star Trek and other Big Shoes; Decker mixed Star Traks and other Distorted Pastries; and Meneks stitched BorgSpace, and that was all. Then, through the woods came a little girl with golden curls...
An Asteroid Belt Runs Through It
Edgar was content, content to think. He thought of mathematics; he thought of chemistry; he thought of the long philosophical arguments he would like to engage in; he thought of many, many subjects only distantly related to the next. Thinking came naturally to Edgar, for the activity was about the only thing an asteroid can do except tumble on an orbit around its primary.
The rock's true name was not Edgar, and "he" was only a label of self-convenience. The actual designation of the asteroid was "Extremely-large-carbonaceous-chondrite-with-intrusion-of-inorganic-compounds-of-which-comprise..."; and which continued until the totality of Edgar was described to the smallest percentage of element. In all, the name would require the average Terran speaking at a normal conversational rate without pause for eating or sleeping approximately two sidereal years to relate. Therefore, Edgar was an acceptable shorthand as far as Edgar was concerned. And concerning gender, Edgar had only the fuzziest notion of what sex (not the activity!) was, information gleaned from the attenuated radio-band broadcasts which occasionally impinged upon his rocky skin. The notion of female, male, neuter, ticlon, brooder, and yeni was an ongoing contemplation; in this epoch, Edgar had decided to stylize himself as "he," although he was seriously considering a switch to glondock in a million orbits or so.
Now, at this point, one is probably thinking a sentient asteroid to be a bit farfetched, if not outright impossible.
Edgar was in fact unique. In all the cosmos, there were no other truly sapient rocks, perhaps a moderately bright pebble or two, maybe an insane disembodied brain who had managed to encase its life support apparatus in basalt and silicon, but not one intelligent asteroid. Edgar himself had no idea how he had come to be, although he had spent nearly half a billion years early in his consciousness formulating ideas.
Three primary theories competed, each unable to be advanced without additional input. The first focused on mere chance, the fact that no matter how improbable, all events will eventually occur. Edgar calculated his instantaneous awakening to awareness to bring odds only moderately more likely than a slug surviving a vacation to a salt farm on the Dead Sea, but hey, anything was possible. The second thesis concerned a Q (the most likely omnipotent being of several dozen) and an unfathomable joke; enough said. The third theory centered around the Grand Creator, who, in a fit of pique over smartass paradoxes such as "If God is all-powerful, couldn't He create a rock so heavy He could not lift it? And if He could not lift it, how could He be considered all-powerful?", decided to exercise a little divine creative talent before smiting questioners with lightening bolts and rabid ferrets.
Of the theories, Edgar believed the latter two to be the most reasonable. He based his conjecture on the fact the first thing he remembered after realizing he was aware were the words: "HA! That'll show 'em! Now if I could only remember were I left my wallet." Unfortunately, Q's were notoriously unreliable about answering their mail, so it might be awhile until one decided to pop by for a chat. And the Grand Creator? He/she/it was currently whipping up plaques of boils a billion light years distant and would not be strolling through this neck of the universe for three billion years or so. On both counts Edgar could wait: there were many other fascinating things to contemplate, and one did not want to be seen as egotistical.
After all, there was an image to maintain, even when you were a rocky race of one unique being.
*****
Cube #347 was dwarfed by a colossal carbonaceous chondrite. It was classified as an asteroid and not a planetoid only due to the fact it orbited a dim red dwarf among other debris in a belt, and not as a moon captured by the system's single distant gas giant. So large was the rock it had a substantial gravity well of 1/8 G and a wispy atmosphere of sodium, potassium, argon, and helium.
A carbonaceous chondrite is an asteroid composed of iron, calcium, aluminum, carbon, and the mineral olivine. It was the organic deposits which interested Cube #347, and more specifically Delta. Normally the carbon would be deposited as graphite nodules, or more rarely diamond, mixed evenly among the rock matrix with traces of ancient water and alcohol. However, in this case, nearly pure veins of organics ran in a complex network throughout the roughly potato-shaped object. Technically the asteroid was not quite a carbonaceous chondrite as it had many characteristics commonly associated with comets, but the very large size - 5200 kilometers in diameter, larger than Mercury - meant planetary forces were likely at work. Here and there deep impact craters catalogued instances where veins had welled to the surface like magma or water, forming vast scabs. Preliminary readings with sensors designed to peek at the cores of terrestrial planets indicated unusual anomalies, perhaps pointing to a center made of quartz and other piezoelectric crystalline compounds. In all, it was a find which would have had the geologists, cosmologists, and other -ologists of any race salivating in the name of science. The Borg only saw the asteroid as the galactic version of a Gas-n-Go.
{No, no, no! Sensors! We need amino acid - carbon bearing molecules! - readings in quadrant 1-alpha-3, not crystalline alcohols; and not sulfurics neither. Mining surface deposits will be easier than digging deep, and I require the location of the best organic vein. The alcohols this scan displays are not even organic alcohols!} criticized Delta harshly.
Sensors replied, {The planetary grid is aligned for carbon. Sensors is not [orange sofa]. You are reading data incorrectly.}
{Maybe if you correlated the data so it was sensible for everyone who is not species #6766 we would have no problem.}
{Sensors knows her task! Don't tell Sensors what to do! Sensors does not tell Delta how to remodulate [harpoons] on the [carpeted ceiling], although if she did transwarp [giggles] would increase. Therefore, Delta should not tell Sensors how to align the grids.}
{Delta damn well will when Delta wants to find carbon deposits, not alcohols,} retorted the engineering head, unconsciously mimicking Sensors' infectious manner of speech.
On the sidelines, a certain drone by the name of Weapons surveyed the exchange. For once he was not receiving the brunt of Delta's annoyance, not that his combative, thick-skinned personality truly minded.
{I will have your attentions, both as hierarchy heads and as hierarchies,} directed Captain to the feuding Cube #347 sub-collective components.
Weapons sighed. The party was over. Oh well. As nothing on this side-trip concerned him - he had already received his customary warning that the rocks would not be launching preemptive strikes with photon torpedoes - Weapons returned to simulated battles on BorgSpace, dataspace-only version. The hierarchy was busy building new scenarios; the original edit function had never been ported to the holographic spin-off. The latest script detailed a race of super intelligent asteroids intent on galactic domination; torpedoes figured prominently.
{Are we listening now?} asked Captain with sickly sweet sarcasm. He paused. {Second, you are supposed to be minding data collection tasks.}
{As if that duty would occupy the breadth of my mental resources.} Sarcasm was back where it belonged.
From the engineering and sensor hierarchies arose a sullen silence, echoed through the various levels. As Sensors and Delta had sniped at each other, so had those on progressively lower sub-hierarchies, creating a stalemate. Neither side had an advantage, each 1000 members strong. Now both sides waited quietly, background chatter denoting nominal functionality loud in the midst of cessation of all nonessential conversations.
{Good,} said Captain. {Sensors, make it so Delta can read the information. Make it so anybody outside of yourself can read it without the need for a translator algorithm. Assigning a simple color to carbon compounds is simplest, with intensity denoting combination of quality and distance beneath surface.}
Replied Sensors, {But that is what Sensors did do!}
{In shades of /microwave/?} inserted Delta. {Your species has visual apparatus naturally sensitive to microwave; mine does not.}
Captain pulsed what could best be described as a squeal of an ill-tuned megaphone over the synapses of the squabbling drones. The parties quickly parted. {Sensors.} The question, the statement, spoke literal wordless volumes of expectation for compliance, for efficiency.
Sensors acquiesced, {Sensors understands. Sensors complies.}
{Delta.}
{I will comply. This hierarchy will comply.}
Captain radiated acknowledgment, confirming his place as primary consensus monitor and facilitator. {Fine. Delta: mine the organics we require to recharge replicator and regeneration systems. At our current progress, this cube will return to current BorgSpace borders in three years. I wish to pick up the pace a bit before this vessel falls apart due to lack of scheduled dry-dock maintenance.} Pause. {Or before we become targets to the next omnipotent adolescent decides it would be funny to turn the reserve organic supply into polyester. Polyester may be carbon, but it is not usable as anything but clothing, and even that stretches the limit of civilized good taste.} The last was uttered with the conviction installed by the consistently concurring records of thousands of assimilated races.
*****
Just because one's body is in essence a small planetoid and one is normally contemplating the grander mysteries of the cosmos does not mean one is insensitive to the greater universe. Far from it!
Edgar was finely tuned to the universe which surrounded him, seeing without eyes, hearing without ears, feeling without touch. Decaying radio waves from numerous civilizations washed over his system every millennium or so, providing a fascinating history lesson for Edgar's on-going examination of sentient evolution. Unfortunately, he was far off the beaten track of commerce, his star one more boring red dwarf among countless red dwarfs, so while he could listen to subspace chatter, point sources rarely drifted his direction. Recently, at least on the scale for a being who marked his life in the billions of years, a somewhat local galactic civilization had begun to use fractual frequencies, which allowed data to travele far with little distortion. However, the Borg, as they stylized themselves, had yet to expand their influence to include Edgar; and if they did, the sapient rock figured they would ignore his lonely system as had other gnat-spanned civilizations.
Not that Edgar cared if he was left to his solitary existence. Just as he could receive broad-spectrum transmissions, he could call out greetings himself. If he so desired, Edgar could have invited the whole of the galaxy and then some to come sit at his metaphorical feet and soak up forgotten wisdom; or they could have enlightened him as to the need for several genders or how a cream pie to the face constituted humor. No, communication was not the problem, but rather time. A human would find talking to a dish of intelligent bacteria difficult, for as each individual cell had a fraction of the human life span, each sentient lived a minute percentage of Edgar's 10 billion years. Why, if he put a contemplative pause into a dialogue, not only would the conversationee die, but the species might go extinct! So, Edgar listened to the universe around him, but did not participate.
In addition to listening to the communication bands, Edgar observed the physical universe in other manners. He watched the stars in their slow dance around the galactic core, celebrating the birth of each fiery orb, marveling over spectacular supernova fireworks, and mourning those few which fell to untimely deaths from misapplied technology or purposeful destruction. Pulsars drummed a heartbeat cadence. Black holes captured all within their event horizon, preserving more perfectly than alcohol or inert gasses, time itself used as a fixative.
Occasionally the other bodies of the solar system disturbed Edgar's contemplation, captured within his gravity well, crashing to his surface. Such distractions were not exactly painful, not as gnat-spanned beings would call pain, but they were uncomfortable. Coolant fluids would well onto his skin, healing the wound, during which time that portion of his body would be unable to observe the universe. The "bleeding" and subsequent "scabbing" was eerily akin to biological systems, but drawing parallels where none truly existed was inherently dangerous.
In this epoch, in this era, in this time, Edgar examined the similarities behind mathematical infinities of pi, fractals, and a recently intercepted radio transmission describing the phenomenon of "exponential coat hanger breeding." Coat hangers - an animal? - were attributed to undergo spontaneous generation, the concept of which was both fascinating and slightly disturbing. He had yet to decide if this was a scientific reality, or should be shelved with such fallacies as the jackalope, urban myths of organ stealing, and spontaneous sentient combustion.
You really had to be a sapient rock approximately 10 billion years old to understand all the connections.
Edgar had noticed with the back of his mind that he was being bombarded with directed energy pulses. They selectively excited molecules and elements of himself, which in turn caused mental "sparks." Before he could become too annoyed, the insult halted.
Them the drilling began.
Edgar decided it was time to stop internal navel gazing and turn his awareness to the outside world. He did not like what he found.
*****
Delta body B fell to her knees as the ground shook, the third such incident in the last hour. The seismic instability was highly unusual in a planetoid lacking either a molten core or the tidal pull of a companion body. If the asteroid fell apart Delta would not complain, as long as she wasn't on it at the time, because desired organics would be simple to harvest.
Body B struggled to her feet as Delta required every drone on the surface to report. After Sensors had translated the sensor reading maps as demanded by the sub-collective via Captain, exploration for a quality, near-surface source of organics proceeded smoothly. Still, data from an asteroid the size of the Terran system moon Ganymede required time to compile, and the first drone with mining equipment had not transported to the surface until two hours previously.
Mining in this instance meant utilizing ship phasers as drills, a prospect Delta did not anticipate fondly. Until the time neared when the inevitable wrestling to control weaponry systems commenced, exact readings were necessary, test wells required drilling. Once fine scale measurements confirmed in greater resolution ship sensors, the actual process of vaporizing rock over organic vein would start. It was during test drilling with industrial lasers from storage the shaking began.
An aftershock shivered the surface, causing body B to stumble again. The light gravity allowed Delta to catch herself before she landed her on her face in another ungraceful tumble. The body returned to task of calibrating the unscatched laser.
{I said report, 160 of 230,} repeated Delta to the named drone.
{Oh, I thought you ordered something else,} replied 160 of 230. She was at site gamma, 21 kilometers to the local north. Six zones within an impact crater comprised the prospecting sites. Sometime in the past a small rock had collided with the planetoid directly over a vein. The surface organics were long ionized to uselessness or mixed into the surrounding rock matrix, but sensors indicated a large amino acid plume only 500 meters below the surface. {Laser is still cutting. This drone works to realign the frequency for maximum efficiency.}
Mentally nodded Delta, {Acceptable. Gamma, 183 of 240, report.} Delta proceeded down the surface roster of the 90 drones. Drilling continued amid an increasing number of tremors.
At site beta the laser automatically ceased as it punctured the rock dome overlaying an amino acid incursion. The ground shuddered not in seismic movement, but with a rumbling announcing the rapid arrival of contents formerly under extreme pressure. A canned carbonated beverage shook before opened might react in a similar manner. A dark gooey substance geysered into the air, falling in low gravity motion to coat all drones present.
{We have struck oil!} announced 27 of 42 gleefully. Before embarking upon the galaxy-spanning career of an engineer in the Borg Collective, he had served on corporate prospecting teams searching planets for exploitable substances.
27 of 42 was struck on the head by 2 of 300, a lazy backhand slap which left a residual ringing in his aural implants. The odd thing was the former topped 210 centimeters in height, while the latter was a fingersbreadth over 120 centimeters; 2 of 300 should not have been able to reach 27 of 42's head, much less smack him, yet she had. 27 of 42 routinely executed activities which should not have been possible, but when one sincerely believes one is three meters tall instead of actually possessing a body one third that size, certain compromises are possible.
Scoffed 2 of 300 in a booming mental voice which did not match her short reality, {There have never been living creatures on this planetoid, much less the number necessary to turn into oil.}
{It is black and it gushes,} protested 27 of 42. He arrayed his four limbs in a protective posture to guard against additional damage. One hand uselessly hovored at groin level with a deep male instinct unable to be completely purged.
Another drone was dutifully scanning the substance which coated his exoplating. The material was already beginning to steam in the thin atmosphere, water compounds evaporating in the 12 Kelvin surface temperature. {Simple amino acids in a slush compound containing many non-carbon impurities such as...}
{See?} spoke 2 of 300 over the background monotone of the other drone. {Not a long-carbon speck of oil in the mixture.}
27 of 42 muttered to himself, then turned to the task of erecting pillions to direct Cube #347's digging lasers as the slush was pronounced to be of acceptable quality. Two drones each, including Delta body B, beamed in from the other five sites to assist in dismantling the excavating laser. They quickly became covered in unoil.
The ground shook again. Deep in the planetoid rocks shifted along a fracture line created by the meteoroid which had originally dug the crater. Geyser slowed to a rapidly congealing trickle. The surface trembled.
*****
After 10 billion years of awareness there were few new sensations for Edgar to experience. New knowledge to gain, yes, always, but new physical sensations, no. Besides, when one lacks nerves and requires major cataclysmic damage to scratch rocky epidermis and disrupt inner contemplation, one tends not to pay much attention to one's mortal body.
The drilling...tickled.
Edgar was not quite sure what the Borgs were doing on his surface. They were avidly digging in one of his many craters, the purpose of which remained unknown. When he had finally noticed the ship in orbit, he had though of making contact, then dismissed the notion as pointless. They would be gone in a galactic blink or two, leaving him in an eternal solitude filled by the turning gears of his mind. Edgar never had been the social type. Lack of other sapient rocks probably contributed to his outlook, that or the fact company in his first several billion years before the rise of multicellular life, much less sentience, had been regulated to bacteria on distant worlds. One-celled organisms just aren't good conversationalists. Edgar knew, he had tried.
He could not help himself as the lasers carved out holes in his thick hide, thoughts interrupted by laughter. The sensation was akin to hurt, but no damage was accrued. It was an itching, pleasant feeling, an unusual feeling, a funny feeling. His entire body shuddered with involuntary contractions as he silently giggled.
Edgar wanted the Borgs to stop.
The tickling broke his concentration, turning careful theses and postulations into meaningless assemblages. Communication, formerly dismissed, was now a must...assuming he could bring himself under control. Finally the sensation stopped, all six itching pinpricks halting. One hole bled slightly, but it was a simple manner to contract in a controlled manner in the region, blocking coolant from escaping. Perhaps now he could talk to the Borgs, ask them to go away, or at least not perform additional drilling.
Now, how did the gnat-spanned converse with each other? Ten billion years of memory yielded appropriate protocols. Edgar phoned the ship.
*****
Light classical music playing over cube speakers dissolved into the screeching banshee wails of a badly tuned PA system. Everywhere within Cube #347 hands vainly rose to collective ears to block the horrid noise, tools clattering to the deck. In Maintenance Bay #5, 21 of 79 doubly suffered: one, his body was locked such that he could not cover his ear canals; and two, a spanner was now lodged in his abdomen and making unpleasant squishing sounds.
Captain as One with 4000 drones swiftly reached along pathways to terminate speaker output. Unfortunately, the computer refused to respond, providing unhelpful error messages indicating an alien lifeform was hacking the system. On the up side, the feedback finally halted. Somewhere an animal howled, crying of abused ears; Doctor immediately transported himself to that somewhere, scrambling automatic logging programs to hide his destination.
A coughing boomed over the speakers, followed by the rough static clearing of a nonexistent throat. "Borgs," a gravely Voice, once which had seen little, or more likely no, use. "Stop. Drilling. Me. It. Tickles. I. Thinking. Go. Away. Good-bye." The PA system returned to the middle of a jazzy rhythm and blues selection featuring a clarinet-saxophone duet.
{What the hell was that?}
"What the hell was that?" echoed Captain verbally. He opened his eyes and stepped from his alcove, destination nodal intersection. Internally Captain was directing the search to find the source of the Voice. Thus far a lead was established linking the Voice to a subspace transmission, a transmission originating deep in the heart of the asteroid Cube #347 orbited.
{Can't you be a bit more specific than that?} peevishly asked Second of Sensors as Captain entered the nodal intersection. His eyes alit on the viewscreen, which obediently displayed a rough asteroid schematic from planetary sensors.
Responded Sensors, {The rock is large enough to be a planet it if was in a location minus all the debris of this orbital plane. Without actually [silly putty] the crust open with an antimatter planet busting device, Sensors is unable to confirm what may be in the [golf ball] beyond a 32% probability for most likely hypothesis.}
{Let us destroy the asteroid! Before it fights back!} yelled Weapons forcefully. Although his attention had been firmly enmeshed in the BorgSpace program, a special filter listened to dataspace chatter, focusing upon key phrases like "planet busting" and "antimatter." While Cube #347 did not carry such weapons, the apparatus regulated primarily to Battle-class cubes on missions of species genocide, Weapons was confident he could whip up a planet buster or two in less than an hour, provided Delta fully contributed the entire engineering hierarchy to the effort. In fact, Weapons was already badgering command and control with three alternate designs for an antimatter doomsday bomb o' fun.
{No, no, no! No large booms, Weapons,} retorted Captain as the intrusive blueprints were wiped from his hierarchy's working memory.
{Not even a little one?}
{No. Absolutely not.}
Weapons mental voice turned dark, {Then don't come crying to this hierarchy when the rock attacks.}
{It is /not/ going to attack. Asteroids are not sentient, can not be sentient. There are no races of space-faring rocks sporting armadas of photon torpedoes. None.} The head of the weapon hierarchy hummed disapproval, then returned to such a BorgSpace scenario. One section of Weapons' consciousness began practicing "I told you so" just in case reality and the laws of physics turned out to be flawed.
On the asteroid, some drones continued to dismantle drilling lasers while others set the appropriate guide beacons for cube phasers. {Shall we continue?} inquired Delta.
A series of calculations flashed through the dataspaces of Cube #347. Possible dangers - sapient rocks, trickster omnipotent beings, ambushes - were weighted against the need for organics, then cross correlated with ease of accessibility as represented by the planetoid and more typical comet carbon sources. Time, effort, and expended materials added into the equation. Outcome? Cube #347 would continue with the plan to phaser to the amino acid vein, then harvest the outflow. A tangential analysis by an interested subunit of weapons hierarchy noted a nonsignificant 15.8% probability the action would destabilize asteroid matrix, leading to an aftermath similar, if in larger chunks, to the proposed antimatter bomb. Weapons' attitude lightened noticeably; the "I told you so" montage faded into the intranet chat room background.
Drones and dismantled lasers began beaming back to the cube. Those covered in black amino acid goo were diverted to Bulk Cargo Hold #6, where they were unceremoniously dumped into a large vat of lukewarm water. 199 of 240 momentarily commandeered the transporter system, materializing three bodies ten meters over what was essentially an aboveground swimming pool, complete with cheerful aquatic animals frolicking in two-dimensional fun along the outer rim. An inflated tri-colored plastic ball floated across the water. Shouting with surprise, verbally and otherwise, the three drones plummeted into the pool, producing momentous splashes. Delta body B was clunked on the head by a falling 20 of 42.
In his nodal intersection, Captain's viewscreen focused upon the target area. The cube was in geosynchronous orbit, rotating to bring phasers into alignment. A picture-in-picture window locked down upon the situation in Bulk Cargo Hold #6; a bewildered 199 of 240 had been beamed to the pool and was now the center of attention for 24 irate supersoaker welding drones. From 199 of 240's mental emanations, the supersoakers were not filled with water. Captain decided in this instance not to inquire too closely. Second, on the other hand, had no such compunctions and was actively participating in the wagering over the time required for the unlucky drone to wash the lime tint from his face.
{Weapons...} reminded Captain absently. He paused. {Delta, begin drilling when we are ready. And 199 of 240 is punished sufficiently.}
{There is a particular job waiting for him on the duty roster,} said Delta. The supersoaker packing drones in the cargo bay ceased fire. 199 of 240 disappeared amid a gurgling transporter beam; the plastic pool toys followed. {We are ready.}
Ordered Captain as he dismissed the picture-in-picture to fully scrutinize the planetoid below, {Commence.}
*****
Edgar reacted in surprise. Not tickling, but stabbing pain punctured his body. Where asteroids crashing into his rocky mantle produced a diffuse ache which subsumed quickly, the phasers lancing from the Borg cube sliced into his being, slowly carving deeper and deeper.
Needless to say, it was difficult to contemplate the Pythagorean Theorem, much less such cosmic mysteries as the evolution of cheez whiz and what constituted natural flavoring in manufactured food products.
Edgar shivered, then altered his mass, causing himself to rotate faster. This system, the system of his "birth" so many galactic revolutions ago, was a nice place to live. Decent neighborhood, quiet, far enough from the bustling hives of civilization to seem remote, yet close enough a strategically fashioned aluminum foil antenna could pick up decent TV and radio stations. While he knew methods to move his vast bulk, he was loath to do so, the system comfortable in the manner of old jeans, running shoes, and soft recliners. Perhaps another warning would emphasize his desire for the Borgs to move along and leave him in peace.
*****
"Go. Away," rolled from the speakers of Cube #347, a tornado given voice. Each word was a sentence unto itself. "I. Wish. No. Company. This. Epoch. No. Solicitors. No. Jehovah's. Witnesses. No. System. To. System. Life. Insurance. Companies. No. Borg. Come. Back. In. A. Million. Years. I. Am. Thinking. And. I. Don't. Want. To. Be. Bothered."
The PA system had crackled to life minutes after Sensors reported an abrupt deepening of the planetoid's gravity well. Like an ice skater puling in her arms, the asteroid began to speed its rotation. The action should have pulverized the rock, breaking the immense boulder into rubble. "Should have" was the key phrase, for it had flaunted the laws of physics governing space rocks. Cube #347 attempted to continue digging into the target, but was forced to abandon phasers in favor of self-preservation by climbing to a new altitude of geosynchronicity.
{Sentient rock!} crowed Weapons. {I told you so!}
{Shut up, Weapons,} calmly returned Captain. {Sensors, analyze and summarize.}
The sensor hierarchy had not been idle, rapidly compiling what little information which could be gleaned from the grid. Sapient asteroids remained low on the short list of true possibilities. {Sensors thinks the planetoid's core is an organo-crystalline matrix, atomic structures were inserted, although it is difficult to accurately resolve through 2300 kilometers of rock. Possibly a computer. The [heavy metal] may be due to a controlled singularity. However, key gravity wave [raspberries] of a black hole are [ghost]. Rocks do not customarily shift their gravitonic [glazed glass] though.}
True, rocks did not spontaneously alter their physical properties, and they definitely did not speak. The hunt for a possible match to the phenomenon was not as difficult as one might believe. A structure postulated to be of species #137 origin, possibly built by the enigmatic beings Xenig mechs termed Progenitors, had held Cube #347 in its grip for a time. Labeling itself the Maze 2000, it had turned out to be a vast artificial nebula created by a central, singularity-powered computer - a star system security device built on a vast scale. The similarities between the slightly senile Maze 2000 computer and the current situation were comparable, assuming one was the mental equivalent of nearsighted.
"Go. Away," repeated the Voice. "I. Am. Thinking."
Captain rode the incoming transmission frequency, a common subspace channel. Setting the appropriate pathways, he replied for the sub-collective in kind. "We are the Borg. Identify yourself."
A pregnant pause ensured, as if the thunderous Voice was not expecting a response, only obedience. It began to speak again, a hesitancy shading already glacial cadence. "I. Am. Edgar. I. Think. Therefore. I. Exist. I. Exist. To. Think. You. Bother. My. Thinking. You. Therefore. Bother. My. Existence. Go. Away."
"We require organic resources on the planetoid. We will continue our excavation."
{Warning,} spouted Sensors, followed an annoying beat behind by the computer as it automatically mimicked her words, {Sensor again reports a massive deepening of the gravity well.}
"I. Am. The. Planetoid! Go. Away!"
The asteroid's rotation increased speed, dragging the startled Borg cube. Cube #347 was snared in the planetoid's fluctuating gravity field like a fly in a spider web. A stone in a sling may have been a more apt analogy, for the gravity abruptly dropped to near nothing. A hail of surface debris followed Cube #347, both tumbling in a trajectory with destination Nowhere.
{I told you so! I told you so!} chanted loudly within all minds, but for one particular drone it was especially loud and obnoxious. {I told you so!}
Snarled Captain, {Shut up!}
*****
Edgar watched the Borg box somersault towards the outer system, thrusters frantically attempting to stabilize the ship. He was satisfied, especially with the English spin he had imparted as a departure present. An uncomfortable itch around his equator reminded him to reset his gravity to normal; manipulating his density was a simple trick, an ability discovered shortly after birth and refined over his first two hundred million years.
Distraction removed, Edgar returned to eternal contemplation.
*****
Normally after experiencing the fly swatter view from an annoying picnic-loving insect, the Cube #347 sub-collective would have counted itself lucky to be functional before trundling elsewhere, preferably far from the irate alien. The universe's sole example of a sentient rock should have been no exception. Plenty of comets swarmed in the outer reaches of the star system, any of which was a satisfactory supply depot. The organics might be more diffuse and processing more arduous, but one was also less likely to be flung edge over face while inertial dampers screamed in strain.
The Collective, unfortunately, had other ideas.
Gravity control was not new. With each application of tractor beam technology, every use of impulse engines, gravity was bent to the will of the user. The machinery present in anti-gravity cargo sleds represented the simplest utilization a species recent to gravity control might employ. Manipulation on the scale of a moon was a different kettle of fish. The Greater Consciousness wanted detailed scans of the planetoid's interior, demanded the asteroid to be broken apart for physical samples; although an intact gravitonic mechanism was the most desirable outcome, planetary demolition was not a process conducive to fine dissection.
And what about the sentient rock whose body they were ordered to prod, probe, and pulverize? What about the Edgar which had told the sub-collective so eloquently to go away? asked Cube #347.
An indelicate translation would phrase the reply <<Screw it.>> The Greater Consciousness was far from convinced data pointed towards the impossibility of a sapient rock. More likely was the sub-collective's first impression of a species #137 machine, or a remote controlled experiment manned by scientists with an irrelevant sense of humor. Whatever the actuality, Cube #347's newest task was outline, compliance expected, complience gained.
Cube #347 approached their enigmatic target cautiously.
The first stage of deep scans on an object the size of a small planet required the installation of three seismic nets. Each net was actually thirteen geoprobes in an "X" array, each leg five kilometers long; the probes were set at a depth of three meters beneath the surface. Nets were located at the apexes of an equilateral triangle 100 kilometers on an edge. As sound waves travel at different speeds depending on rock type, density, and a host of other factors, seismologists of many races considered seismic nets a fundamental tool in describing planetary composition. Borrowing their science from so many civilizations, the Borg believed likewise, but where small beings were satisfied to allow natural phenomenon and the occasional high explosive to provide necessary seismic input, the Borg thought much, much larger.
Planting the net proceeded swiftly. Edgar, the computer, the prankster scientists, whatever, did not respond to the probe setting drone invasion.
The triple volley of high isoton yield quantum torpedoes impacting the surface opposite the asteroid from the seismic nets was another matter all together.
"What. In. The. High. Radiation. Hell. Of. Cosmic. Heat. Death. Are. You. Doing?" rumbled/screamed from speakers. "I. Almost. Had. It! The. Ultimate. Question. To. The. Ultimate. Answer. Of. Life. The. Universe. And. Everything. Only. Two. Million. More. Years. And. You. Ruined. My. Train. Of. Thought!"
Weapons spat forth a final torpedo before command and control successfully blocked appropriate code pathways. It impacted among the black scars of a trio of fresh craters on the surface, sending a light plume of dust into the thin atmosphere.
"Ouch! That. Stung. I. Am. Getting. Very. Angry. Now. This. Is. Your. Second. Warning. Go. Away!" Pause. "I. May. Not. Be. So. Nice. Next. Time. You. Borgs."
A small hole, for lack of a better term, tore into existence directly in Cube #347's orbital path. It stretched larger and larger, an unlight brilliant to behold, yet exuding no photons, casting no shadows under its burning zinc glare. Tendrils of smoky nothingness reached hungrily towards the ship.
Cube #347 tried to put on the brakes, to no avail. Thrusters were as useless as slotted oars in a raceway; and impulse, warp, and transwarp all refused to initiate. The fabric of space-time was no longer robust enough to support the rigorous twisting of supralight drives. The menacing hole neared. Perversely, the seismic net continued to function perfectly, and spectra analysis of dust kicked up by torpedo impacts provided a wealth of information about crust constituents.
<<Iiiieee!>> exclaimed the sub-collective as the cube was engulfed...and spat out immediately within the system's Oort cloud. A very small comet plowed into face #4, heaping a slush of frozen water, oxygen, carbon dioxide, and simple organics into icy slopes six meters high.
{I told...}
{Shut up,} growled Captain, {you did not assist matters any with your actions, so shut up.}
*****
Edgar really hoped the Borgs had learned their lesson this time. A controlled singularity with no event horizon was difficult to create, requiring extreme concentration. It was also of limited range, the location he had transported the cube as far as he could manage safely, i.e. without leaving ship and gnat-spanned crew resembling deep fried spaghetti. He had to admit, though, a naked singularity was impressive.
If the cube returned, Edgar was at a loss as to how to proceed. He didn't want to hurt the beings within, much as a person dislikes pre-meditated murder of an interesting ant colony. They had a purpose in the cosmos, and far be it for Edgar to decide it was time for them to die. If they were subspace telemarketers, the outcome would be obvious, but they were only Borgs, trying to muddle through their gnat-spanned existence in the same manner Edgar muddled through his much longer life span. No, killing was not an option, even if they did return and felt the need to loudly knock again.
Edgar attempted to inspect the damage to himself, a difficult proposition when one has no eyes. The action was akin to examining an insect bite on that place between one's shoulder blades where it is nearly impossible to reach. First he carefully fluctuated his gravity, feeling the response from the injured area. Next he focused upon the faint radio transmissions washing through the system this era, listening to an incomprehensible jingle likening clean laundry to the pleasure of eating fresh, wiggling zozo bugs. Everything seemed to be in working order. The damage appeared to be largely cosmetic. Weaponry had not penetrated the organic veins which circulated cooling fluids.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Edgar returned to his deliberations. The thread of thought the torpedoes had loosened was not truly lost, merely misplaced. While part of himself worked on picking up the trail to the Ultimate Question, another part focused on the meaning of the soap commercial. A third portion of awareness turned an unblinking eye towards the Borg ship, noting with satisfaction its stationary status.
*****
"Waste not, want not." The philosophy epitomized efficiency, one of the pillars of Borg society. To be more precise, the Collective "wasted not" resources as long as gain outweighed loss, hence the allowance of imperfectly assimilated drones to survive. "Want not" did not necessarily apply, as the Greater Consciousness was always in a state of wanting additional technologies, bodies, and so forth in the quest for perfection. In the case of Cube #347, the comet slush now adorning face #4 was not a resource to ignore.
Four hundred eighty engineering drones dutifully shoveled frozen comet into designated piles. The ice mixture was thence transported to tanks for processing. Desired organics and other elements were stripped out, water itself split for oxygen and hydrogen. When the tanks of the latter two gasses were topped off, excess water would be vented back into space.
An additional 173 drones (plus or minus an odd 15 or so as scheduled regeneration cycles began and ended, or duties called individuals elsewhere) mixture from the other five hierarchies gleefully built one quadrant of slush into a towering mountain. Thus far it was 52 meters high at the summit and still growing. The notion was to create Cube #347's personal skiing resort, at least until engineering rendered it for carbon or the ship exceeded a velocity higher than that attainable with thrusters.
The refueling activities did not equate to a Collective disinterest in the asteroid. If anything, the Greater Consciousness was more avid to acquire samples from the core, both because of seismic readings and due to the cube's unglamorous ejection to the Oort cloud. The Collective was prepared to send Cube #347 to its doom to gain additional data. Captain was doing the unthinkable and attempting to talk the sub-collective's way out of it. So far he had avoided direct compliance. Unfortunately, Captain was unsure how much longer the cube could hold out. Eventually patience of trillions of drones linked in a galaxy spanning consciousness would snap in the face of the lone dissenter.
{It can't be a computer, nor any sentient built device. The seismic information indicates inefficiencies and messiness inherent in natural systems. Theory: the planetoid formed under normal conditions and was imbibed with sentience. The sentient then redesigned its body to improve functionality, but has been unable to do so perfectly. Proposed supporting evidence: crystalline core contains signature of impurities in concentrations no advanced race would tolerate in manufacturing process. Supplementary evidence: core elements commonly associated with outer crust of carbonaceous chondrite asteroid lacking. Conclusion: planetoid designated Edgar has sequestered material through unknown process to its thinking core, imperfectly shaping its evolution. Outcome: Exploratory-class Cube #347 versus Edgar suicidal for the former. No meaningful additional input will be gained; prototype quantum slip-stream technology carried by Cube #347 high probability of destruction,} sent Captain along the larger than normal link to the Greater Consciousness. With the logical argument traveled reams of data, carefully collated, key information highlighted, each graph meticulously drawn and labeled. The sub-collective did not wish to toss its existence down the cosmic toilet in such a meaningless fashion.
Oddly, throughout the exchange, subunit #522 remained silent, neither adding to the pleading conversation nor detracting. Whereas a year ago it would have spoke highbrow Borgesque insights interlaced with "You will comply" every other sentence, it was oddly silent. One garnered the slightest hint of disapproval, but that was all. As far as the Greater Consciousness was concerned, subunit #522's outward calm meant it remained functional within parameters. The sub-collective knew otherwise, but the current situation was not the most poetic time to shine the spotlight on the subunit's erratic behavior.
If all went badly, from the sub-collective's point of view, no behaviors, good or otherwise, would exist to reveal.
<<Hypothesis flawed,>> intoned the monotone multivoice of the Collective. <<Sub-collective of Exploratory-class Cube #347 is inherently imperfect, inherently flawed. Therefore, conclusions drawn are suspect.>>
Protested the lone voice of Captain acting as conduit for his sub-collective, {False conclusion from the Greater Consciousness! Imperfect assimilation does not beget imperfect calculations, not where logical analysis is involved.}
<<System 46.cd-beta3. Initiate local ship log recall.>>
Captain winced, {Once instance two hundred years ago resulting in the accidental destruction of a minor species #4567 colony. We admit the nova was a bit extreme, but this sub-collective has not made the same mistake since.}
<<Initiate local ship log recall: system 13a.b-gamma, system 493alpha.e1, the Banjo Incident, nebula cluster Olgati-delta...>> The list droned on and on, listing in nonchronological sequence every incident of flawed logic the most recent incarnation of imperfection had engaged.
{Okay,} agreed Captain when the list finally ended, {we admit there were a couple of snafus here and there. However, surely 20 trillion minds have never been wrong? Not even once?} Silence was Captain's response. {Initiate remote Collective recall: incident file 4-kappa regarding Federation when...}
<<Sub-collective of Exploratory-class Cube #347 will desist!>> Captain shut up, then groaned as the codes of forced compliance trickled over neural arrays, flooded synapses. <<The sub-collective will return to the planetoid and retrieve core samples. You will comply.>>
{We will comply,} automatically returned Captain. Some day he would learn to keep his mouth shut, his traitorous thoughts locked up. In retrospect, challenging the competence of the Collective was not a healthy action to undertake; and the only drone Captain could blame was himself.
*****
Edgar watched as Cube #347 slid into geosynchronous orbit over the photon damaged area. If he had possessed eyes, they would have squinted in suspicion. Surely even a gnat-spanned being was intelligent enough to realize when presence was not wanted. Perhaps sentience had gone downhill in the last billion years or so: new-fangled developments were never as good as the old, even when applied to evolution and not as an old man view of a halcyon golden age which had never existed.
A communication line was opened to the cube. As before, Edgar swiftly tunneled through the simplistic combination of biological and artificial neural nets, tapping directly into language files and vocal hardware components. "Go away," reiterated the planetoid. He spoke as quickly as he could, narrowing his time perception to the point where seconds were distinct units and not temporal smears passing like scenery at 700 kilometers a second. "You Borgs are bothering me, interrupting my thinking. If you want to float above me, fine, but no more torpedoes. Okay?"
"WearetheBorg," squealed the multitone response. Obviously Edgar and the gnat-spanned Collective continued to operate on differing temporal scales. Edgar was forced to concentrate to pick out individual words. He generally slowed intercepted radio and subspace transmissions to a comfortable pace. Biological time was such a pain. "Yourtechnologicaldistinctivenesswillbeaddedtoourown. Resistanceisfutile."
"You seem to be under the false impression I am a computer. I am just Edgar. I just want to think. Leave me alone. I do not wish to hurt you." As Edgar spoke he watched a small metallic casing materialize over the cube side facing the surface. A trio of tractor beams caught the object, carefully, hesitantly, positioning it. Curious, Edgar queried the 12th dimensional microsuperstring structure at the spatial coordinates represented by the object, listening to the echoing harmonics. For a moment, just the merest moment, he was confused by inverse tones crying dissonance. Then the knowledge crystallized: antimatter, enough to crack Edgar's body in twain.
Oh, dear.
*****
"You. Are. Making. A. Big. Mistake," said the Voice. "Antimatter. Is. Not. A. Toy. Very. Dangerous. Very. Disruptive. To. My. Thinking. Very. Disruptive. To. My. Existence."
Weapons nudged the planet buster on its way; Captain moved the cube into a higher orbit, one which would allow escape should the planetoid alter its gravity. The antimatter stuffed torpedo lazily fell, controlled orbital decay targeting a crater with a vast cavern of organics less than a kilometer below the surface. If the region was destroyed, calculations indicated a 78.5% chance the entire asteroid would disintegrate. At that point, it would be easy for Cube #347 to tractor the samples the Collective desired.
"ARG! Why. Did. You. Have. To. Use. Antimatter? I. Hate. Antimatter. Slippery. Substance. No. Place. To. Grip." Was it Captain's imagination, or did the Edgar voice sound frustrated? Sensors reported several gravity pinpoints consolidating near the descending capsule, but each evaporated as quickly as it formed.
The planetoid's gravity abruptly dropped to nil; rotation slowed until nigh near imperceptible. If the sentient rock was attempting to postpone the inevitable, it would not work. Engines on the torpedo casing fired, actively directing the bomb onward towards its destination. Cube #347 waited, judiciously moving another several million kilometers.
"I. Hate. Antimatter. I. Hate. Antimatter." The Voice paused, then mumbled ominously, "Fine. You. Leave. Me. No. Choice. Time. To. Say. Good-bye." Pause. "Good-bye."
'Oh, crap,' or versions thereof, echoed throughout the intranets. Just as initial panic reached the plateau of resigned acceptance, the planetoid disappeared. Not a pebble, not a pinch of dust remained to indicate it had ever existed, merely large hole in the system's primary asteroid belt uncharacteristically debris free. The antimatter bomb wailed in electronic confusion as target vanished; Cube #347 fared no better as it cast its sensor net wide, trying to determine how the impossible had occurred. Large asteroids did not, could not, evaporate without a trace.
Of course, there was no such thing as a sentient rock, neither.
*****
Edgar settled into his new orbit, his new system, somewhat uneasy concerning the neighborhood, but knowing it would become comfortable in a millennium or two. The star was a slightly hotter red dwarf, slightly younger than his old primary; two distant gas giants with their flock of moons orbited this star, frozen monsters of hydrogen and methane dominating their small kingdoms. The debris load of the two minor asteroid belts was lower than Edgar's previous home, but acceptable.
It would have to suffice.
Edgar cursed himself for never learning how to handle antimatter properly. It was a delicate substance requiring precise manipulation. However, everything which Edgar knew could only make the outcome worse, exploding the bomb in a greater magnitude than it could accomplish on its own, perhaps even tearing space-time itself. The few agencies in the cosmos which specialized in sewing rips in reality were not only expensive to employ, but constantly exuded an annoying "This is all your fault" attitude while working. Therefore, faced with miserable options, the rock had decided only one door remained - moving.
An asteroid is made of sterner stuff than a gnat-spanned biological, less prone to the many forces which exist able to cause cessation of life. Therefore, transport methods which Edgar would hesitate to use even on an annoying bug like the Borg were simple to apply to himself. While he hadn't done so in the last 3 billion years or so, Edgar had been quite the traveler in his youth, sightseeing the universe before it became cluttered with sentients in their little metal or organic ships.
No, the new system would be a fine place for thinking, for contemplation upon the grander cosmic mysteries. Edgar sighed, mentally settling himself. The conundrum of the location of dryer-lost socks awaited.
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