Although I don't know who runs Reality, the Star Trek universe is owned and operated by Paramount, a subsidiary of Ferrengi Enterprises. Black market Star Traks spin-offs are the property of A. Decker. BorgSpace is a scribble in the margin of my notes.
Ghosts in the Machine
Corruption. Corruption. Corruption. Corruption.
The heartbeat words throbbed a warning, a whispering background marching cadence, ever-present.
Corruption. Corruption. Corruption. Corruption.
Tertiary subnode #5: ping-query checksum balance error, outcome false. Corruption detected, node alpha 01. Pass calculation to higher computational level for confirmation.
Secondary subnode #5: confirm checksum balance error, outcome false. Corruption detected, node alpha 01. Pass calculation to higher computational level for confirmation.
Primary subnode #5: confirm checksum balance error, outcome false. Corruption detected, node alpha 01. Consensus required from subunit totality to continue implementation of matrix tree decision branch.
Of approximately 250 bodies, 111 were physically active at tasks. A minor hesitation, a blink of the eye, an angling of head, and work assignments continued as if never interrupted.
<<Consensus.>>
Corruption. Corruption. Corruption. Corruption.
A cancer of Perfection, those imperfect, although separate, nonetheless infected, affected, afflicted the body One. Plans long laid, contingencies mapped to dizzying exactitude no matter how improbable, the only way to counteract an entity which demonstrated time and again the ability to survive by the slimmest of margins, by the hundredths of a decimal point probability. In order to halt the insidious stain reaching grasping claws deep into the Collective psyche, a radical solution was required, a conclusion the Greater Consciousness remained blind towards no matter the evidence presented. A very permanent solution, the only type allowable considering the circumstances.
Corruption. Corruption. Corruption. Corruption.
*****
In the depths of space, a transwarp conduit terminus formed, an angry turquoise whirlpool spitting sparks of white unlike the normal exit portal. From the tear into a non-Einstein space tumbled an Exploratory-class Borg cube, one corner shearing against termini boundary and ripping into a scattering of debris. The damage, however horrible, was minor considering the real emergency, the proverbial stake through the heart upon which the cube writhed: fiery crevices ripped a hundred meters deep through duralloy hide, showing where powerful cores used to reside; unseen from the outside was the gaping hole at the center where the primary core, plus the surrounding fifty meters, was now a globe of molten metal.
The wounds were mortal, terminal, and it was only the robust noncentralized character of Borg engineering which kept the ship in one piece, allowed it to transfer back to normal space at all. Somewhere a single power core remained functional, bleeding yet still beating. Of the biological machinery, thousands of drones were dead or dying, the living too busy patching, welding, wiring, duct taping to do anything but step over the bodies of the fallen, to shove aside a corpse blocking a critical panel. Most frightening of all, one which an observer would not know from dispassionate expressions, was the severance with the Collective, for the vinculum, assuming it survived the initial explosion, was not working. True death awaited the crew, not Borg immortality as memory, whisper, within the One.
The maintenance effort was not enough, willing hands too few, damage too grave. Ponderously spinning, shedding gasses and metal, a giant fireball consumed Cube #347, swiftly feeding on oxygenated atmosphere before extinguishing itself. Left behind were cooling spars and charred remains, black on black to the universe, flotsam and jetsam to blow before the cosmic winds.
*****
Captain groaned. They were doing it again! Damn subunit #522 and their overt desire for Cube #347's termination. The latest dark vision flung cube out of transwarp, cataclysmic and highly improbable failures to all cores turning the vessel into a pile of slag. The subunit had more than obviously lost their collective minds, yet Captain, Cube #347 sub-collective, could do nothing about it until the Greater Consciousness gave the appropriate directive. Captain directed Second to bottle up the latest evidence of instability for delivery to the Collective's attention, then turned to the subunit in question.
With the calculating strength bequeathed by 4000 minds, Captain burrowed through the firewall subunit #522 had erected around their consciousness. The original purpose of the barrier had been to limit interaction with the host sub-collective, to stop assimilation imperfection from twisting well-integrated drones into quasi-individuals. Something, however, had gone wrong, and from what Captain could taste, it wasn't imperfection cooties; and that wrongness had built within the confined space of 250 minds, a psychosis not allowed to be diluted among trillions and purged from affected mentalities. Subunit #522 had not contracted assimilation imperfection, an annoying if relatively benign "infection," but something unidentifiable, something much darker, something much worse.
{Cease!} exclaimed Captain as a chink in the firewall was exploited, the words flung into the intranet maintained by subunit #522 members. {Cease assaulting us with your fantasies. Our efficiency is lowered; and you made 141 of 300 cry.} When 141 of 300 cried, alcove tiers 13-15, subsection 11, submatrix 26, became unbearable. The piercing ultrasonic voice of species #4908 was a weapon, one which the Borg amplified upon assimilation; 141 of 300's uncontrolled sobbing had a tendency to cause aural malfunction for every drone within earshot.
Subunit #522 swiftly organized against the intrusion, minds already spinning new blockade codes to deny future admittance through that particular weakness. One signature, the current consensus monitor and facilitator, consolidated at the forefront of the attention spike directed towards Captain. {We deny accusations.}
Captain streamed part of the vision, {This is your handiwork. Don't bother to deny it.}
{We deny it.}
{We report your increased instability to the Greater Consciousness, including the latest nightmare you unleashed into our dataspaces.}
{We remain stable. We remain One.} The subunit was firm in their belief, a solidarity impossible to change by a mere 4000 drones of imperfect character.
Captain withdrew, flinging a parting remark, {You are very unstable. And when /we/ can make such judgments...} The final words of the admonition were cut off by the virtual slamming of the reconstituted firewall. Subunit #522 was not listening.
{Bugger 'em,} commented Second. Chorus of agreement sang throughout the neural architecture of Cube #347. Normality, such as could be expected considering the sub-collective, reasserted itself.
*****
Corruption. Corruption. Corruption. Corruption.
Although the malignant disease had momentarily brushed against the subunit, self-inoculation prevented overwhelming infection. Units were examined for traces of pollution, entire minds wiped and reset to a post-assimilated state if necessary. The radical procedure was very hard on both drone and subunit, akin to voluntarily cutting off a finger, but efficiency would eventually return. The consequences of not performing the vicious cleansing were not acceptable.
And the host sub-collective refused accept the subunit's innocence!
No matter. Time grew short.
*****
Hours following the nightmare incident, the sensor grid noted several odd anomalies slicing through the quantum fabric of transwarp, incongruities which looped through the current pathway vector and rose to intersect Einsteinian space. As Cube #347 drew "closer" to the phenomenon, a term which could not accurately describe a plane absent of true spatial dimensions, thus lacking distance in the normal sense, it resolved into a familiar, if rare, sensor profile.
{They are wormholes,} announced Sensors, {artificial wormholes. There is a primary node, and three subsidiary nodes; the largest appears to be a transit conduit, the latter stabilizing the former, refraining it from [dressing].}
The cube veered onto a new transwarp vector, the region of nullspace ahead impossible to transverse. Troubles concerning subunit #522 were degraded to a lesser priority as new prerogatives took precedence.
{Sensors can not estimate termini point. One nexus of the primary wormhole is anchored, but the second exit it blind. It is stable, yet unstable; and that blind point, along with [sheep dog] wormholes, is causing extreme [blackhole] disturbance. Sensors can not [fish] conduit conditions in this region. Sensory hierarchy advises crossing [confusion] at warp.} Translation: sensor grid could not accurately see where the vessel was traveling at transwarp, and it would be prudent to trade slower speeds for better long distance sight.
The sub-collective mulled over their choices, deciding rapidly to surface into normal space. Not only would a transwarp detour around the disrupted region require subjective days, if not weeks, local root commands required examination of phenomenon which might obstruct Collective exploitation of the quadrant. Transwarp was shed in favor of high warp velocities.
The system which Cube #347 eventually found itself on the periphery of would be a cause of astounding wonder for most species of the galaxy; and even the normally indifferent Collective was forced to admit to a unique vista.
The entire phenomenon was estimated to be roughly two hundred light-hours in radius, from center point to heliopause where stellar winds merged with galactic. At the heart, like a spider in its web, sat the wormhole terminus, an energetic self-contained storm, a barely constrained blackhole straining at its restraints. It seethed, boiled, spun temporal-spatial tempests more deadly than any whirlpool from Grecian myth. Yet, for all its potential ferocity, it was held in check by the closely orbiting presence of three lesser wormholes, weak in comparison to their larger temper-tantrum throwing sibling, but powerful enough to keep the central companion from degenerating into the blackhole it strove to become.
Orbiting the wormholes were a pair of yellow dwarf stars. They sat in the same orbit, but at diametrically opposite points in their shared path. Each star was at a distance far enough from the wormhole and each other to support their own planetary flock. Rock and gas companions were visible to approximately three light hours from the central stars, beyond which erratic gravitonic permutations ejected planetoids into a path which inevitably ended within a wormhole maw. Individual planets, moons, and lesser debris were difficult to resolve by Cube #347 due to distance and sensor static caused by the wormholes.
The system was obviously artificial, built by a powerful civilization. And if simple observation was not enough proof, an ancient message repeated in unison by transmitters on several frozen planetoids fifty light years from heliopause contradicted doubt. It was quickly translated, language traceable to a presumably extinct race designated species #137, nee Progenitors by Xenig mechs.
"Welcome to Grand Central! Proceed inward toward any of our conveniently placed ticketing stations, where you will be greeted by our friendly representatives. Please observe the maximum posted speed of warp 2. We can send you and your vessel to many popular destinations within this galaxy and without for a low price. Inquire about our species holiday packages. If you are a commercial shipper and require tug assistance, contact one of our service outlets on channel 57. Have a good day!" The message repeated. Other channels were either of a frequency inaccessible to Borg receivers, or had been lost since system abandonment by species #137.
However, abandonment was not to imply "Grand Central" was devoid of sentient life.
Cutting through subspace interference was a variety of transmissions utilizing many protocols, and dozens of languages. About 60% were familiar tongues, some from species with civilizations still unassimilated, a few of races supposedly no longer found outside the Collective, and one from a group thought to be extinct through purposeful Borg eradication. The flotsam and jetsam of the galaxy, this unusual system had attracted a wide variety of people whom, by sampling the subspace spectrum, were not necessarily friends.
Accusations and demands were the bulk of interspecfic traffic, at least of those who were conversing with those not of their species. Intraspecific factions were apparent as well; a low-grade war, not a cooperative society, was functioning within the binary pair. Fanciful named relics - Key Artifact, Lock Artifact, Schedule Artifact, were at the heart of many dialogues. Transmission points were scattered throughout the stellar volume, concentrated around several inner rocky planets, gas giant moons, and points which probably corresponded with major asteroids. Several pinpoint sources could be seen in other locations as well: near the heliopause, amid a dense cluster of ice chunks corresponding to the local Oort cloud, orbiting as close to the wormholes as possible without losing ship to gravity stress.
Surveying the system, Cube #347 decided to leave. The Collective, oddly distorted, concurred. None had noted the arrival of the cube, a situation the Greater Consciousness preferred. Eventually a proper armada of ships would be dispatched to the coordinates, and factitious opposition was easier to assimilate than unified resistance. Once the system was secured, the artifact itself could be studied, both to gain understanding about species #137 technology, and to learn why the transit wormhole only had one termini anchored.
Captain initiated warp as command and control subhierarchies completed plotting courses and entered the best bearing. The cube leapt into overdrive, and found itself going nowhere exceedingly fast. All sensors confirmed the vessel was at warp, but no forward progress was in evidence; heliopause had suddenly become an insurmountable barrier. Abruptly the reason for the several lone vessels also in similar positions at other points in the system became clear.
One common quirk of Progenitor artifacts was the near impossibility of leaving once entered. Assuming a ship could initially penetrate and survive, extraction was a rare event; the act of communication itself was difficult, if not hopeless, due to temporal and spatial distortions affecting faster-than-light transmissions. In this case, Borg fractual subspace frequencies were only mildly misconstrued, but the heliopause was as solid as a neutronium wall.
Warp engines were disengaged, useless. The riffraff collection of species within the wormhole system was now explained: they had entered, like Cube #347, due to curiosity, or fear, or greed, or any of a myriad of other reasons. The voyage, unfortunately, was a one-way affair.
*****
Subunit #522 watched the proceedings with dull interest. The exterior universe had long ceased to be a priority, not when the fate of the Collective, the fate of Perfection, was at stake. So what if Cube #347 was trapped within a Progenitor artifact? The host sub-collective had already been there, done that, and managed to depart without suffering permanent damage. Infuriatingly, it always emerged from its difficulties, not necessarily unscathed, but functional. And the Collective always welcomed it back, at a suitable distance, of course. The sub-collective was imperfect! Subunit #522 could only understand the continuing behavior of the Whole by embracing one particular scenario.
Corruption. Corruption. Corruption. Corruption.
Perfection was corrupted.
The subunit could not hide all calculations, all musings to determine an appropriate response. Some thoughts had leaked to Cube #347 sub-collective, although actions such as removing local internal sensors and erecting the security field served to limit intrusion. The host sub-collective was convinced subunit #522 was insane, but the subunit knew better, knew of all the trillions of drones in the Collective, it was the only group which had shaken corruption, removed blinders. Only by being placed at the nexus of imperfection had the cancer spreading within the All obvious.
<<Initiate protocol omega,>> intoned subunit #522 to itself. Component units shifted to new duties, programming flexed to alternate configurations. The connection to the Collective, the conduit all Borg retained to link trillions of minds into One consciousness, the lifeline representing a drone's personal sanity, was purposefully severed.
*****
Subunit #522 had cut its link with the Collective, and the latter was not pleased.
Captain, as with the rest of the crew, knew the exact moment the subunit isolated itself. The action reverberated through the Greater Consciousness, proclamation requiring less than a minute to return concerning the offending subunit, to demand appropriate results.
<<Task Cube #347: terminate rogue units. Harvest parts and recycle organics. Redistribute supporting alcoves and material to aid current operations. Comply.>>
{Compliance,} returned Cube #347, perhaps a bit of smugness tingeing standard monotone reply. One might expect regret, sadness, horror on the part of those ordered to "terminate" comrades, but such was not so in the Borg Collective. Drones were nothing more than tools, machines of carbon and steel and plastic, to be used and discarded at need. It was a cold, calculating view; it was Borg perspective.
If anything, Cube #347 was relieved to remove subunit #522. The subunit had been a hindrance. First it had manifested itself as a too Borg entity confident in its Oneness and willing to demonstrate innate superiority to those imperfectly assimilated. Later, as paranoia increasingly grew, the subunit impeded sub-collective efficiency and vessel operation.
"Wow. The Greater Consciousness is seriously ticked off," commented Second. He was in the nodal intersection with Captain, and had been assisting contemplation on the problem of transgressing system heliopause when subunit #522 had doomed itself.
Captain mentally agreed. He had shifted his attention from navigation to organizing the subunit's dismantling. Assuming the rogue units would not submit to their fate peacefully, docilely, engineering and weapon hierarchies were required to assault Bulk Cargo Hold #3, in addition to drone maintenance for the actual termination and reclamation process. "Not even we have screwed up that badly. We continue to survive, after all. However, we also have never gone over the edge like that. We are imperfectly assimilated, not rogue. We are Borg."
Second did not present a counter argument to Captain, for none existed.
{Initiate,} spoke Captain into the intranets, setting into motion subunit #522's demise.
*****
Corruption. Corruption. Corruption. Corruption.
Subunit #522 knew what response the Collective would take upon link termination, knew it to be a fundamental reaction to protect the Whole from dysfunctional influence. However, in this case, the Greater Consciousness was already infected, and severance was the only method to keep corruption at bay. It was also the sole way to defeat direct compulsions to submit to termination.
The sub-collective of Cube #347 would assault, would be the ones tasked to carry out the kill directive. The outcome of 4000 against 250, of host against hitchhiker was self-evident, cold logic and calculation dictating the former to win. Simply opening hold doors, of which the subunit had not control over, would force endgame, impersonal vacuum eventually winning when need for oxygen overwhelmed ability to survive without atmosphere. Fortunately, there were methods to circumvent immediate termination, long laid plans now ready bear fruit.
Subunit #522 knew itself untainted by corruption, even if such was not true for the rest of the Collective. However, it was a disease which could be put into remission if the appropriate countermeasures were initiated. It would mean sacrifice on the part of the subunit, but what cause was greater than Perfection?
Members of subunit #522 purposefully moved about the cargo hold. Obstructive barriers had been raised and software worms injected into the host ship computer system. The purpose was to delay, not thwart. Resistance was futile, especially at 16 to 1 odds, and the subunit did not intend to attempt to prove hardwired lore otherwise. Subunit #522 simply did not plan to be around when impediments were breached, when Cube #347 crew entered.
Contraptions of dials and blinking lights soldered to body at collarbone or equivalent structure quietly hummed as the last pieces of equipment were set within the pack frames of presented backs. At the first indications of assault upon interior hold doors commenced, all units gathered at the central staging area. Less than a minute later, the drones of subunit #522 affirmed their plan and vanished.
*****
Someone within the wormhole system had spotted Cube #347's Borg vessel signature. Transmissions were spreading the news, increasingly agitated voices demanding coordinates to point their own sensors for personal confirmation. Inter- and intraspecies conversations shifted away from artifacts to plans for resistance, coordinated attack, escape, hiding, dealing and double-dealing, and capitulation. Some speakers demanded information upon the nature of Borg, those whom had never heard of the Collective, never ran before an armada of cube shaped ships. One paranoid transmission accused enemies (i.e. everyone) of faking the signature as a part of a devious new plan. Despite the change from oblivious to informed, however, the inner systems situation was secondary at the moment.
Subunit #522, predictably unresponsive to demands of submission, had locked itself in Bulk Cargo Hold #3. Passive observation of the subunit was not possible, local cameras and internal sensors long disabled and never repaired. A powerful security field drawing upon a self-contained fusion reactor prevented direct beaming into the relatively small area subunit and equipment actually occupied; and transporters in general to the hold were useless due to a software fault which refused to accept the bay as a suitable destination. After examining code resembling a post kitten assault yarn ball, the sub-collective decided forced entry would be swifter.
A pair of thirty centimeter thick doors fell to the deck plates with a ringing crash, burned through by deft plasma torch application. Made of the same material as exterior defensive armor, the operation had required several hours of work. Weapons had suggested wrestling a cutting beam emitter to the staging area, an idea quickly nixed by Captain as engineering relayed in exacting detail potential damage. The cutting process had been unfortunately necessary after realizing subunit #522 had disabled all door motors. Various drones, dispatched to the location upon sub-collective receiving command to terminate rogues, stood in the hallways as they had for the past two hours, griping at the engineering hierarchy to work faster.
{Stick to your own duties,} snarled Delta to an overly insistent weapons drone with visions of violence.
First obstacle gone, the security field crackled with deadly power, promising electrocution to any who dared to set hand upon it. Borg against Borg, information cut like a double-edged sword, for the subunit had the knowledge to render forcefields suicidal to pass through, not only for the first guinea pig, but others following as well. The task required engineering to disable.
Calling for a super heavy-duty rubber glove and the end of a wire prepared prior, 13 of 230 regarded the forcefield with unease. He had received this duty via the hierarchical equivalent of drawing the short straw. Assuming everything worked, the glove, in addition to engineering specific exoskeleton shunts designed to shield a drone from heavy current, would insulate him from damage. Power would be drawn off by the wire, diverted to ship forcefields, and radiated away into space, essentially grounding the security field. The danger lay in connecting wire to the highly dangerous field. If something went wrong, 13 of 230 was fairly certain the burning sensation of being trapped inside a lightening bolt would cease swiftly. At least the environmental systems would have no trouble filtering any remaining ashes from the air.
13 of 230 closed his eyes reflexively as gloved hand reached with wire. The instinctive action was pointless as other drones (separated from the possible barbecue-to-be by several meters) observed the proceedings, visual input incorporated into the sub-collective as an impossible to ignore stream of consciousness. Bare alloy touched high voltage.
CRACK! BOOM! A brilliant flash of light temporarily blinded watchers. With the explosion ringing in his ears, 13 of 230 snatched back his limb, vastly surprised to find himself still functioning. Ozone stench permeated the air, a tangible odor. The trick had worked: the security field had fallen with a spectacular fireworks display; and, miraculously (the outcome was a miracle weather or not the belief was irrelevant), nothing important had shorted, exploded, melted, or otherwise malfunctioned. The pinball arcade in subsection 2, submatrix 8 was now on fire, but despite 290 of 510's emphatic protests, it was not a critical system.
Weapons hierarchy members charged past a still bemused 13 of 230, knocking the soot blackened drone against a bulkhead. Disruptors set on "Deep Hurting, But Not Vaporize," they expected offensive resistance from the rogues in proportion to the defenses defeated. Forward units skidded to a halt, confused, as an unexpected sight was seen. Or, to be exact, not seen.
Subunit #522 had disappeared. Vanished.
---------TO BE CONTINUED---------
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