In the Fishbowl of Life and All Things Star Trek, Paramount is the big shark on the block, owner of all it surveys. A. Decker is a big fish in the small pond of Star Traks. The aquarium of BorgSpace, and all the minnows contained within, is mine.
Children's Crusade
Captain was in Maintenance Bay #4 having his annual one year or three omnipotent experiences tune-up. A sign entitled "FastLube: Winterization specials start at $69.95! Free wash and wax with each purchase!" was tacked to one bulkhead, but no one was claiming responsibility; no one was rushing to take it down, neither. Captain lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, or he would have been had he been able to see.
"I want my eye back, Doctor. And I want my visual cortex on-line."
"Diagnostics are still running, big doggie, so be patient. You are the one who insisted on moving up your appointment by several weeks."
"I can't image dataspace input nor sensor grid information with my neural linkages shunted through diagnostic tools. All I see are blue and green lines dancing around in test patterns!"
"Shhhh. That is how it should be. Shhhhhh. Very good. Stimulating stored data files of the incident," murmured Doctor.
"Don't shush...whoa!"
Captain was suddenly dropped into a visual-only replay of the event which had prompted him to reschedule body maintenance. One part of him insisted he was in corridor 13 of subsection 14, submatrix 2, even as the rest of his senses informed him of his location in Maintenance Workshop #4. He was moving between point A and point B, tracking the illicit wires 222 of 510 had strung along the hallway floor, the purpose of which was not now relevant as Captain lay on the worktable. Ahead 15 meters, a drone abruptly entered the corridor. The problem? No cross-corridor intersected with the hallway; the drone had stepped out of a solid bulkhead.
At that point Captain had automatically delved into files to determine who it was and their current task. Naturally none of the queries were evident in the visual replay, only the retreating back of the unknown, unresponsive Borg. And it was an unknown, as transponder list returned positions of active units, none of whom were in front of him. Before Captain could demand the drone to identify itself (followed by a well rehearsed lecture on not altering the duty and location roster), it disappeared through another bulkhead.
The replay ended, plunging Captain again into darkness with only a test pattern for optical company. Subsequent analysis by engineering hierarchy had found no structural anomalies, and Weapons' holographic array was currently nonfunctional along the corridor. Delta had pointedly suggested Captain himself was the one to blame, not her systems, and thus he was now in a workshop under the dubious ministrations of Doctor. Overall, Captain would have been more deeply concerned over the status of his implants if the hallucination had not been one of a dozen similar sightings.
127 of 152, a medium and spiritual channeler in her nonassimilated life, called them the ghosts of drones sent to a useless and inefficient termination, returning to haunt the cube. She also insisted on wearing beads around her waist, a gold-flecked scarf over her head, and speaking in an accent which did not exist in her native language.
Whatever the actual origination of the hallucinations, be it a rash of implant malfunctions, random output from holo-emitters, a plane of reality slightly out of phase with the current one, or protoplasmic entities, the sightings had begun shortly after the Director incident. Admittedly, with a sample size of twelve it was difficult to generalize, but thus far only those who had been kidnapped by the giant eyeball had witnessed the mysterious manifestations. Those who had not experienced a subjective year on 20th century Terra (subunit #522, the insectoids, several other drones which sported unusual natural sensory systems) maintained nothing had occurred, except a brief intranet burp resulting from piloting a transwarp-speeding cube too close to a neutron star. Consensus was still very much out about the matter.
A pushing weight, followed by twisting and finally a 'click' indicated reinstallment of Captain's ocular implant. Vision, organic and technology mediated, flickered back on-line as the proper neural pathways were returned to their original configuration. Captain twisted his head to the side to hear Doctor's prognosis as the latter returned a sharp-edged tool to a wall rack.
"All is okie-dokie. No anomalies. Fit as a fiddle. Happy as a clam. Sharp as a..."
"I get the picture," hastily interrupted Captain as he swung himself to a more comfortable bipedal posture. He stored the diagnostic output he was concurrently receiving into the proper file associated with his designation's dossier, much like a car owner would add receipts to the vehicle's maintenance records. A notification loop was set to remind him in a year about his next scheduled tune-up.
"So," asked 92 of 133, "wash and wax? It is our special this week." The drone helpfully held out a bucket in one hand, squeegee and rag in the other. Captain quickly retreated from the workshop to the relative safety of the corridors and phantom Borg.
*****
Jyck was desperate. "Initiate search, parameters as stated prior," he shouted to the computer as hands - all six of them - frantically bolted, rebolted, fastened, discarded, and otherwise tried to jury-rig the yacht's secondary power core into a semblance of working condition. Tunnelwarp was not fast enough...never fast enough for what chased him.
"Volume to be searched?" queried the computer. Soprano tones another race might find shrill, Jyck heard as pleasantly mellow. But then again, his species typically conversed in the ultrasonic.
Jyck cursed - a glass-shattering shriek - as he pinched the fingers of his right medial hand. "Yon! You know what I'm looking for, so don't pull that BS on me. Divide that spiral galaxy we're at the outskirts of right now into six parts and scan, um, sextant two."
"Yes, sir."
A cold lump of partially melted metal went sailing across the cramped engineering room of the one-person racing yacht, thumping against the wall before falling to the ground. Jyck removed bruised fingers from his mouth in order to gain a better purchase on the very low-tech wrench he was wielding on an equally low-tech hex bolt. Damn second-hand already-assembled do-it-yourself kit; he /knew/ he should have taken the ship into a certified mechanic when he bought it from that kid. However, a blow-up like this one was expected on a two month shake-down cruise; usually, though, one wasn't under pressure to perform maintenance which was suited to atmospheric dry-dock.
"Progenitor...progenitor. We only want to talk to you," whispered a raspy voice of indeterminate gender over the speakers.
"Yon! Random heading change, random speed change; and scramble our communication frequencies again. And close off whatever trap door they used to get into your system. Have you found a hiding hole yet?"
"Working on the first orders. Probe expelled. Unknown if additional worms remain in my system, and I will continue to not know until the next one becomes active." Pause. "I have found a target, sir."
"Aim us at it, but not quite straight line. I almost have this core fixed, and I'd rather not have our pursuers track us by simple linear extrapolation."
"Right away, sir. Heading adjusted."
Several more minutes were spent in relative silence, broken only by the occasional mutter over the probable ancestry of the person who had assembled the yacht in the first place. "Yon, what is our target, anyway."
"As per parameter alpha of 'last place those f***ers will look', I have scanned what my files match as 'Borg cube.' The civilization in its current form is relatively new, only eight thousand years or so, and highly dependent upon cybernetics and nanometer-scale machines. Aggression factor one; with assumption of eventual achievement of transgalactic communication technologies, extrapolation places final expansion to cover the entire local cluster, at which time the civilization should finally collapse."
Jyck uttered an ultrasonic whistle, "That is one mean hiklon(click). I wouldn't want to live in this corner of the universe come a hundred thousand years down the road. You have anything in your files upon relationships between these Borg and our friends behind us?"
"Short entry - each generally ignores the other."
A solid-state circuit was inserted into a panel. "Well, as the saying goes, 'any port in a storm.' Give me the biographical run down of these Borg while I make final adjustments to this Director be-damned core."
Yon began, "Borg are..."
*****
{[Mouse cherry] approaches!} announced Sensors into the general intranet. The declaration would have been met with greater excitement had anyone other than Sensors herself knew what it meant. As far as anyone knew, a cloaked Federation fleet led by the Enterprise was bearing down on the lone cube.
Cube #347 was currently puttering along at low warp while engineering hierarchy made adjustments to the transwarp coils. /Someone/ had played a prank, inserting a small cyromagnent into each canister. The jokester had yet to be found, or made to confess, although several leads appeared promising. Delta was in the midst of her usual tirade as she described in detail punishment the guilty drone would serve.
{Repeat?} asked Captain. He was newly returned to his alcove, preparing to power down his systems for regeneration. Body lined up, he triggered the clamps which kept him steady (theoretically) in case of sudden deceleration.
{[Mouse cherry] and with a hint of purple [turtles],} helpfully added Sensors as she redirected a portion of the grid towards Captain.
{Thank you, Sensors. My brain now aches and the adjustments Doctor performed have been undone. Tell us what approaches.}
Silence. {Signature is Mech Species #3 - a Xenig folded-space drive. Are we expecting more deliveries?}
Captain sighed, disengaging the clamps and stepping from the alcove. A sideways glance was rewarded with the sight of Second swiftly closing the eye he had been using to peer at his hierarchy-mate. {We most certainly are not.} Captain tapped a pair of buttons next to Second's alcove. "I can feel your real signature under the false overlay you created: you are not in regeneration."
Faux signature collapsed to real as Second acknowledged his deception. With a hiss and 'clump', Captain's second-in-command stepped from his alcove to the walkway. Together, the two drones walked towards the nodal intersection in which hung Captain's viewscreen.
The large screen was already displaying active data as the pair entered, Cube #347 represented on the center of a black field as a green vector. A red asterisk representing the Xenig was popping in and out of sight, mech trying to match speed and direction while the cube continued onward without acknowledging its presence. Maybe if they never stopped the courier would not be able to deliver its package.
Suddenly the red asterisk overlaid the tail-end of the green arrow. The entire screen whited out as an extraneous alarm rang through corridors, conjunctant with a genderless computer voice stating efficiently, Emergency stop. Captain managed to utter the beginning of a four-letter oath - why, regardless of language, do many of the most severe of swear words have four letters/symbols? - as automatic safety protocols cut in.
The Collective does not rank safety as an overriding issue of importance. However, a cube represents a substantial amount of material and labor which should not be tossed down the nearest black hole because of a misfortune. Therefore, when confronted with a potential accident in the making proceeding at a pace even a well-tuned sub-collective could not react to in a timely manner, certain automatic reflexes would kick in. In this case, an emergency bail-out to a full stop. Unfortunately, an object as massive as a Borg cube can not stop on a dime.
Things flew everywhere as inertial dampers overloaded. No species yet assimilated by the Collective had perfected the art of absolute cancellation of the law "objects in motion tend to stay in motion," therefore the damper system remained less than faultless. Drones were among the objects flung around like rag dolls. Captain picked himself up off the deck, glancing at the body-shaped dent he had made in the bulkhead. It was a /very/ good feeling to know he did not experience pain. As it was, internal diagnostics were screaming of minor damage to organic elements. The input was silenced in favor of more pressing manners. Since the cube did not appear to be spread over half the grid, the emergency stop must have worked.
"Crud. Doctor is going to have a field day with me," spat Second's voice. Captain turned to observe the reserve facilitator and consensus monitor staring ruefully at his right limb, the one artificial below the primary elbow joint. The prosthetic was missing.
"You are..."
"I /know/ my arm is gone! Slam! and I hit a wall. Slam! and I hit the floor. Crunch! and my arm flies off, through an archway, and presumably to the bottom of the shaft."
If there was one pet peeve, no pun intended, Doctor exhibited, it was misplacement, for any reason, of prosthetics. Good explanation or bad for the loss, it did not matter. Second was in for one hell of a lecture.
Damage reports, surprisingly minor, were collecting on engineering's docket; drone maintenance was filling up as well. Both hierarchies were moving smoothly to cover their respective bailiwicks. Satisfied all was okay on that front, Captain turned his attention to a different, more disturbing datastream, bringing it to the forefront of his awareness. The ship which had forced the deceleration was floating calmly 116 kilometers off face #1, serene in smug Xenig knowledge nothing in the Collective's armaments could put a scratch on its smooth hull.
Collective files contained very few examples of Mech Species #3 vessels, but they were all alike in that they were unalike except for the distinctive spoor of folded-space drive. The specimen moving purposefully closer via wrinkling the very fabric of space-time itself was no exception to the rule. One could say it looked vaguely like a headless pterodactyl in flight, an opaque fabric stretched from body, primary support a leading edge spar. The two hundred meter wings were not capable of withstanding atmospheric stresses, therefore their function remained unknown. A forty meter long fuselage appeared ridiculously small when compared against its "wings," hull golden chrome with a soft antique-green patina. A relatively new scar stretched along the aft starboard quarter, dark undermetal puckered and melted into frozen runnels. Cube #347 had no wish to meet the enemy which had managed to lay weapon along the Xenig's flank. Hopefully it wasn't too pissed off, wasn't looking for something, anything, to displace its anger upon.
Nearer drifted the mech, ignoring subspace blasts from Cube #347 insistent upon communication. Sensors was running a suite of active scans in an attempt to gain information of the Xenig's intent. Standard protocol called for a sweep to determine organic life; surprisingly, the examination returned positive, species unknown. Meanwhile, passive portions of the grid reported a reciprocal scanning bombardment.
Mutual efforts at scanning halted. A request for dialogue, audio only (as expected from a species with a body which doubled as a mode of interstellar transportation), was received.
"Borg vessel, my name is Jyck. I request asylum. I have a buttload of trouble trying to catch up with me, and my drive just fried itself again. I've been told your vessel is the last place my pursuers would look, so I'd like a place to hide for a couple of days while I make repairs."
"We are the Borg. You are Mech Species #3. This cube is not suicidal. 87.1% probability you represent a trap. Permission denied. Leave us." Captain revved up the engines, preparing to limp back into warp. At least it wasn't a postal mech.
"Wait, wait, wait, wait! I am not this Mech Species #3. What Yon? Oh, Xenig! That's what they mean. Well, I'm not Xenig either. Far from it. I'm sure your scanners have picked up an organic presence...well, that presence is me. I'm the pilot of this hunk of second-hand junk - quiet, Yon, I mean the ship, not you - and I have several problems behind me a thousand light years or so. I would give you visual, but that portion of my communications system was knocked out, along with the main engines. And trust me, it is very low on the priority pole at the moment. So, do I get asylum?" The whistling voice was hurried, harried, demanding.
A consensus cascade was run. An empathetic 'no' was the outcome: no one (with a few minor exceptions) wanted to meet the trouble following behind. "Permission den..."
"Permission granted. Lower your shields and prepare for tractor lock," echoed the Greater Consciousness through Cube #347 systems, biological and otherwise. Someone, someone designated subunit #522 to be exact, had been communicating behind the host sub-collective's back. Captain winced as his mind (and four thousand others) was flipped one-eighty to the already derived consensus. Damn compulsions. Damn subunit #522. It would be the death of the cube yet.
{Subunit #522, we need to have a very long talk on the merits of self-preservation, especially in situations which include technology which can tear apart a fleet of Battle-class cubes, not to mention a single Exploratory-class,} rebuked Captain. His response was a sensation of satisfaction verging upon irrelevant gloating.
<<Assimilate. Comply,>> ordered the Greater Consciousness, pinning the sub-collective of Cube #347 down like an insect on a mounting board.
The sub-collective, mostly engineering and a semi-enthused assimilation hierarchy, the latter headed by Assimilation's forecast of depressive doom, began preparations for the endeavor. Hopefully not too many drones would be terminated as the ship was swarmed like a grasshopper at the mercy of a colony of army ants.
Informed Delta after shuffling through inventory, {Bulk Cargo Hold #1 will suffice, although the wings will be snapped off when brought inside. I would prefer Bulk Cargo Hold #6, but 171 of 230 was working on a kinetic jello sculpture in there when we made the emergency stop. Very messy. Very slick.}
Captain blinked, returning to the low-priority damage reports he had not requested forwarded to his personal attention when it became apparent no major malfunctions were on the horizon. Yes, there it was - 7,582 gallons of cherry jello. {Acknowledged. Delta, bring in the alien ship. Weapons, pause, do /not/ complain.}
{I...}
{Zip it.}
{I...}
{No. That is the final word.}
Silence.
{Good. Delta, you have tractor control.}
A tractor beam lanced out, missing the golden ship twice due to a sulking Weapons not fully compliant to Captain's demand. On the third attempt, the beam slid off, unable to gain a decent lock despite an accurate connection. A second beam, then third and forth, were targeted simultaneously, to no avail.
{Sensors thinks shield is operational on the craft.}
{I don't see any signs of a shield,} noted Delta as a subhierarchy tried and failed once more.
Throbbing jalepino pepper ripped through the senses as Sensors shunted part of the grid she was monitoring into the general datastreams. {No records exist for this profile,} helpfully added the insectoid, {although it is similar in some respects to that of species #6338.} A similar tongue-numbing taste hallucination screamed (literally in one case Captain could hear on his alcove tier level) into unprepared minds. Captain could not tell the difference between the first and the second. {Similar, but definitely distinct.}
{The taste, the taste!} weakly inserted 144 of 300 into a babble of background complaints.
{My brain is on fire!}
{Someone pull me out of this vat of comet slush. I thought it would put out the flames, but it didn't.}
{Bulk Cargo Hold #3 smells like burnt rubber and ozone. Have local air scrubbers malfunctioned?} The last query was from subunit #522, which had not been spared. The subunit had been submerged rather deeply in incoming grid data and had yet to recover from the shock.
Captain hurriedly opened a new communication link to Jyck's ship before Sensors could share another stimulating revelation with the sub-collective. "Lower your shields. You will comply."
Jyck's voice squeaked back, "Whoops. Thought I'd done that. Okay. Done. Could you please hurry?"
A trio of tractor beams securely latched onto the target's hull and drew it towards one corner of the cube as the exterior doors of Bulk Cargo Hold #1 ponderously began to open. Perhaps seeing the conundrum of fitting two hundred meter wings into a too small opening, the pinions smoothly folded towards seamless golden flanks.
Closer came Jyck's ship, now under intense scrutiny by the sensor hierarchy. Unfortunately, it was not to give up secrets beyond the already known fact of its organic occupant and residual spoor of a folded-space technology. The unusual wings, now nothing more than a neat bundle of nearly transparent unknown metallic alloy, were not necessary for the latter's operation; best hypothesis of function was as a solar sail for efficient (if slow) within solar system transport.
The exterior doors to Bulk Cargo Hold #1 swung shut with a ring of finality as the forty meter ovoid cleared the breech. Interior tractor beams delicately maneuvered their charge to a space cleared of the miscellaneous pieces of hardware and plain junk which breeds wherever in the universe garages and shops are built. An avenue of the local gravity grid had been turned off in order to facilitate moving the captured ship; one wrong move, and it would crash to the deck under the sudden press of full gravity. Slowly it lurched to its final resting place, tractors disengaging as normal gravity was reinitiated.
Two things readily became apparent. One, concern over damage due to one gravity of static mass was unfounded, as the ship rested without physical support twenty centimeters above the deck. Second, either Jyck had not been correct with his belief a Borg vessel would be a safe hiding place, or he had sat exposed long enough for his pursuers to gain a lock on his position.
One. Two. Six. Twelve. Twelve vessels, each different from the next and /all/ emanating spectra of folded-space drive technology, had silently englobed Cube #347 and were now sliding near. A brazenly belligerent attitude was clear in the cocky advance. Glint of distant starlight shimmered along sleek flanks of red, of silver, of light blue, along hulls which did not enfold an organic pilot, but an evolved computer sentience.
Cube #347 was screwed.
"The Xenig are holding position. Intercepted transmission reveals they know we are here, but are arguing how to proceed. These Borg are somewhat nervous," reported Yon to Jyck as the latter contemplated the mysteries of his folded-space drive. "Our hosts are becoming most insistent upon talking to us."
Jyck tossed a hand-rag liberally impregnated with oily residue to the deck. Both his lowermost manipulatory limbs continued to ratchet open yet another panel. Nothing in the secondary engine room retained its cover, raw circuits and liquid crystal displays bared to the elements. Multitudinous blinking lights winked various colors, most of which Jyck knew to be for show. The former owner must have kidnapped primitive aliens for laughs. "Let the Xenig stew...this bunch will require a while to muster the courage to demand me. Mystique is good for something, at least. And keep up the premise of communications failure for the Borg. That last jump totaled this core, and I need a bit more time to salvage the pieces that still work. Diagnostics for the sails okay?"
"Yes, sir. Will do. Sails return nominal status, fabric is intact, associated arrays are intact except for the scar on the rear quarter. It will not prove to be a hindrance."
"Well, at least one system works on this lemon. Of course, what use is a racer if you can't get to the course to begin with? Tunnelwarp isn't exactly a time saver," sighed Jyck. The yacht - tradition would not allow it to be named until it completed a maiden voyage under its new owner - was a slick racer, designed to surf the currents and shoals of the infinitesimal one-dimensional layer between realities. Secondary and tertiary drives of folded-space and tunnelwarp, respectively, were meant to get the speedy vessel to the starting line; the sails, a metallic alloy not quite firmly rooted in any particular reality, were the primary "engine." Schrodinger would have been pleased.
Think of current space-time as one page in a book infinitely thick, each leaf blueprinting an alternate reality. Some pages, such as the Fun Universe, were close to the perceived "original," mere variations upon a theme. Other realities existed which could not be described by simple words, could not be understood except by a one-way trip to rapturous destruction. As to the "original"...all sheets are the original to the native biota. In this case, Jyck, the Xenig, and the Borg shared a similar evolutionary line the broadest sense of originating, as one race might accurately describe it, as notes contributing to the same Song. To add complication to an already abstract notion, the book has no beginning nor end; and an infinite number of books comprise a library continually in the process of enlargement.
Focusing on the book at hand, stepping away to view it from the realm of no time, no matter, nothing, one can see there is a thin layer of the original ether between pages. This barrier, permeable /if/ one understands its nature, separates realities, prevents them from interacting on the grossest of levels such that constants native to one universe do not foul the next. Peculiar spatial anomalies, sentient-built objects, other flotsam of both intelligent and inanimate nature, can and do navigate the dangerous unreality. Some very few and select species make a game of it.
Permutations of reality, incidents which momentarily weaken the space-time continuum of any one page, ripple outwards from the point of origin. Most species pass through an epoch of noisy experimentation with time, with reality, assuming they survive to reach that monumental achievement. The ripples reach both "up" and "down" into neighboring pages, occasionally farther in the case of severe permutations, allowing technologically savvy races to ride the crests and troughs and be flung into the ether of unreality. The wings of Jyck's unnamed racer were the key.
The alloy resided in no particular reality, but was an amalgam of ores from many planes meticulously forged and spun in the space between pages. No longer a question of particle or wave, of cat-in-a-box alive or dead, but instead a glance at sails was a glance into the what-ifs of other universes as native and foreign permutations of reality passed through. The mode of travel, complex in mathematical theory and physical manufacturing, was known by the simple name of "ether sailing." Slower than folded-space methods, the apexial achievement of technologies was regulated to the realm of pleasure outings, competition, and a way to pick-up dates from alternate universes.
Jyck palmed a final quantum conduit manifold linkage from the folded-space drive, bringing it to eye-level for visual inspection. "I've done about all I can here, Yon. I would go with the miraculous recovery of communications scheme, if the visual wasn't truly malfunctioning. Therefore, if you have managed to search out the facilitator to this cube, give it a jingle that I'm coming out for a face-to-face discussion over our mutual problem."
"Done," intoned the computer after a brief couple of minutes. "The facilitator's designation is 4 of 8, although he also answers to the name Captain. This rather fluid group of minds is not happy about the current state of affairs. Ready for transport?"
Jyck dropped the manifold into an already bulging pocket of his work suit. "Yup. And I can tell by your tone you worry about my safety. I'm tralig to your lenig, Yon...I know what I am doing. And I'm a damn good at bluffing as well."
Jyck's answer was the fizzle of a transporter beam.
Words were whistling from Jyck's mouth even before the transporter beam completed its materialization cycle: "No, I am not one of those be-damned Progenitors, so don't ask. Major case of mistaken identity. My species is Gzhekay, and you have never encountered us before." Pause as purple special effects vanished. "AND, I'm perfectly safe from your rather primitive nanite technologies, as is my yacht, so don't bother."
Captain was taken aback by the brisk pronouncement, as were two other drones in the immediate vicinity. Second, however, maintained a file of prepared caustic remarks for such an occurrence. Although he was physically elsewhere receiving a new prosthetic, he nonetheless ran a random number generator and picked statement #32.
{Of all the sentients in the galaxy, why do the unassimilatable hitchhikers always end up on our cube?}
Jyck stifled a wheezing snort of what was probably laughter. Either that, or a sneeze.
The self-proclaimed Gzhekay was 1.6 meters tall, bipedal with three pairs of arms. Each manipulatory limb, progressively longer from upper to lowermost pair, had its own shoulder girdle; the bottom arms were nearly a meter in length and hung below Jyck's backwards knees. Digits were six, including two thumbs. Loose, muted green coveralls obscured a thin frame. Head was of typical mammalian stock - two eyes, two small external ears, one mouth, and a hooked nose which would not be out of place on a bird. A head of buzz-clipped black hair was mostly hidden under a bright yellow cap sporting an unknown logo or insignia; a pair of antennae poked through two holes cut in the hat.
Captain opened his mouth to respond to Jyck's initial comments when the alien spouted, "Aren't you going to answer that? Norr - she's the red one that looks like a folded umbrella - wants to speak to you. Oh, and pipe in a visual to this nifty screen here, with audio of course. This should prove to be amusing." A thumb was jerked over one shoulder to indicate the Captain's darkened viewscreen.
{Should we assimilate the arrogant sentient?} queried 138 of 203 as she loomed in the shadows.
Captain snapped an annoyed negative, designating part of command and control to search down the leak Jyck was accessing; high priority was placed upon a computer - Yon? - associated with the innocently quiescent, yet opaque to deep scans, ship in Bulk Cargo Hold #1. He was poorly disguising the fact he was privy to at least some dataspace commentaries. Immediate problems, however, were taking form in the shape of a Xenig demand for dialogue.
"Borg vessel, respond! I am Norr, leader of these hand-picked disciples of the Progenitor League!" shouted Norr over subspace. ("League of fanatics is more like it," muttered Jyck. Captain's mouth curled down in the slightest of frowns as the viewscreen remained dark and audio had not been initiated.) The Xenig paused. "Respond, Borg vessel. You have our Progenitor. We wish conversation with him, to be enlightened by one who has Transcended. We will do anything necessary to gain his audience, including wiping that cube, the entire Collective, from existence."
Captain noticed (technically, Captain did not notice himself, but through a subhierarchy) the verbal analogue of Mech Species #3 and that which Jyck spoke were linguistic first cousins. It could not be a consequence.
"F***," said Jyck. "Maybe this was the wrong place to hide. Look, you have to tell them...ah, sh**. Put this whole thing on audio and visual, and I'll tell them myself." Jyck stared back at Captain. "You, you're the one designated 4 of 8, the local facilitator. Chop-chop already!"
"You are a single sentient," returned Captain, advancing on Jyck, "and you will not give this drone orders. You will be assimilated."
Jyck waggled an index finger of right medial hand, "Ah, ah, ah...I don't think so. I grabbed much of the contents of this here cube before I was towed on board. Trust me on this, but I am not assimilatable even if I am killable. I am mortal, after all. Yon, the computer which runs my ship, is not so vulnerable. One-on-one, even with a crippled systems, he could take on one of those Xenig out there and possibly even win; you are no match in comparison. Were I to meet a...terminal end, Yon has directions to break out of here and sell the contents of your database to the sleaziest and most wide-reaching news magazine bidder. We have some interesting information about the Borg...and about this cube. Little bit of an embarrassment factor, aren't you?"
Captain recoiled, halting mid-step. The Greater Consciousness was keeping a distant metaphorical eye on developing issues via subunit #522, and the empathetic sensation was one of seething, impotent rage at the audacity of the small being. Loss of Cube #347 would be met with a shrug of nonexistant shoulders and the commission of a new Exploratory-class cube to stock with inevitable assimilation imperfection errors; exposing the Collective's closeted skeletons was not acceptable.
"You will purge your datatracks of our records," snarled Captain, "and you will leave this cube." Mentally Captain winced, {Subunit #522, stop using my body. Second, keep the subunit away from me before it kills all of us, and before I request Delta to have a little "accident" which leaves all in that cargo hold stranded in transwarp minus a vessel for protection.}
Jyck trilled in the ultrasonic, "Dissent in the ranks! Oh, sorry, sorry." The Gzhekay gave a weak grin. "That is rude of me, eavesdropping. Yon's keeping track of higher echelon communications and feeding distilled summaries to me in real time. Don't bother looking for the worm 'cause you won't find it."
138 of 203 called in a repair request as the initial high pitch squeal shorted out a key auditory implant, leaving her deaf in both ears. She shuffled in discomfort.
Captain mentally "jiggled" his viewscreen, waking it to remove the current blackout screensaver, revealing twelve irregular pie pieces, each centered on a different Xenig mech. A continually updated list in Borg alphanumerics detailing range to target and (known) weapon status scrolled unobtrusively at the edge.
"Audio?" asked Jyck hopefully, directing the question at Captain.
Captain replied, "They continue to describe threats to our existence, to the existence of the Collective, should we refuse to give you to them. Calculations and simulations are in process to determine if the latter threat is real. If the outcome is positive, you will be given a one-way trip into space. The mechs may deal with you, their Progenitor, as they please. The survival of the Collective is sacrosanct; public relations are irrelevant."
Jyck hrumphed. "Just between you, me, and the rest of the communal mind, let me tell you a little secret. This Progenitor stuff is all a mistake.
"Quite a few thousands of years ago, long before the Collective was a gleam in the universe's eye, these Progenitor dudes swept unto my poor planet-bound race in an awful hurry. There's been several dark ages - backwards steps and all the emotional and discriminatory baggage which is inherent in the genes of any sentient species - since then, so the records are a wee bit fragmented. The upshot is, they adopted us and showered us with technological marvels; we responded by becoming their grunts, learning their language in an effort to please. In the process, the Gzhekay, my race, lost their original tongue. After a time the Progenitors left, and we subsequently plunged into the first of several nightmarish wars. Why they left, who knows, but if those f***ing Xenig worshipers outside are any clue, I'd leave town too. Absolute adoration can only be tolerated in small quantities." Jyck shuddered, then continued. "My race has long since rediscovered and improved upon the technologies the Progenitors bestowed upon us.
"Now, enter me and my ship. I'm out touring the neighborhood on a shake-down cruise in my newly purchased racer. I have no clue what the Xenig were doing so close, as the area I was in has never seen them before, but they sensed my folded-space drive and were on me like ugly on a zaucna. Trying to explain the mistake only made the situation worse since my tongue is akin to their own base language. If only /pictures/ had been a part of the Xenig legacy.... Anyway, when I tried to send them picts of restored photos of their Progenitors - nasty looking little bastards yah tall," Jyck held an upper hand out level with his shoulder, "with a epidermal mucus problem and a face only a mother could love - that Norr mech slagged my transmitter array. She obviously decided I was trying to trick them. In the process, she utterly mangled my folded-space engine, forcing me to switch to less efficient methods to try and outrun that pack.
"And so, looking for refuge, here I am."
An emergency klaxon sounded, usual croaking replaced with musical chimes. A deaf 138 of 203 questioned what the problem was as the other two drones in the nodal intersection swiveled heads in unison to stare at a speaker with confusion. It was obvious someone had been performing some judicious modifications, without prior approval. Captain returned his attention to the viewscreen, one pie of which was flashing red as energy directed to the mech's weapon systems reached critical "butt-kicking" levels. A second and third pie followed suit; the demands on subspace had escalated to a point where action spoke louder than words.
"Tell ya what," said Jyck in a conspiratorial tone, modulating his voices to be heard over the chimes, "this is what we are going to have to do to get them off our backs...."
To a Xenig, to any space-faring mech species, it was a fundamental ability to see frequencies beyond that of organic systems, to hear the pulses of cosmic strings and feel the grit of dust on one's hull. The capability to internalize subspace carrier waves was just one more basic sense necessary for day-to-day survival. The dozen Xenig, each personality as unique as its chassis, were linked via quantum tunneling into a twelve-way party line, watching and commenting upon the unfolding communications from the recalcitrant Borg cube.
::The Progenitor,:: whispered Kolp in awe, highlighting Jyck's image with a golden halo. He ignored the motionless drones in the background.
::The Progenitor,:: agreed the eleven other personalities.
The silly Borg multivoice declared, "This sentient desires conversation with Mech Species #3. You will listen."
::We are listening, you technologically backwards cybernetic dead-end,:: fervently insulted Norr. She bled additional power from her folded-space drive to various weapons embedded beneath her hull; the other disciples were doing likewise. ::Let our Progenitor speak, then you will give him to us. Or else we will take him from you. If you decide to resist, we will make sure you, the deformed entity known as Collective, suffer. Painfully.::
The radiant Progenitor glanced over its shoulder at someone out of range of the camera's pickup, giving a slight nod. He sucked in a great breath, inflating his torso, and began to speak words derived from the holiest of languages.
"Look, you stupid machines, for the last time, I am NOT your Progenitor! I am Jyck, that is all! You have got to be the most..." Jyck suddenly fell back, all six hands clawing at his throat as a black armored arm wrapped around it. Pale face hovered next to an increasingly blue one, frantic struggles slowing. "No! I didn't..." squeaked the Progenitor with the last of his breath. A slight shifting revealed a thin tubule sprouting from Jyck's neck, leading back to the drone's thus far hidden second hand.
"Talk is irrelevant. Leave the vicinity of this cube, Mech Species #3. This sentient is to be assimilated and added to the Whole," boomed the Collective voice over the subspace link. The visual faded to one of infinite catwalks.
Stunned silence was the response.
Stunned silence permeated subspace airwaves. After several seconds, a babble of voices shouted, each certain its own question was of most importance.
"What happened?"
"Where did the Pro..."
"...to me you Borg, if you..."
"...you to component atoms!"
Four thousand Borg crossed four thousand fingers, awaiting breathlessly for the mob of angry mechs to come to their senses...or tear the cube apart molecule by molecule. Finally one voice arose above all, taking control of the situation by squealing electronic feedback upon its compatriots.
"That was no Progenitor! The Borg are unable to assimilate a Progenitor!"
Another round of silence reined, minutes ticking by as digital minds processed information, linked data, made conclusions. A spurt of Xenig-to-Xenig conversation picked up, dialogue occurring at a very high rate of speed and encrypted with multi-dimensional fractual encoding. It was not possible to eavesdrop. As quickly as the discussion began, it terminated. Eleven of the twelve vessels abruptly vanished, minute ripples of folded space-time left behind as a reminder of a presence which was no more. Four thousand throats exhaled a breath of relief even as tension remained high while the final Xenig approached.
"You may have the Progenitor impostor," haughtily declared the mech. Its synthetic voice conveyed a tone of disdain with a hint of 'we may have screwed up, but you won't have the satisfaction of pointing it out.' The dull red ship yawed slightly along its long axis. "You may have the Progenitor impostor, and his whole civilization should you ever find it, may they burn in Hell. They are worthless organic trash, bags of water and pus, thieves of the Progenitors' technologies; we were surely not built and programmed in /their/ image." With the final proclamation left to drip venom, the Xenig disappeared.
Cube #347 watched the living ship go on senses far beyond the visual.
"Well, it's about f***ing time!" declared the voice of one Jyck. "Here, let go of me, you moronic Borg. If I told you once, I told you a million times: you can't assimilate me, so don't bother." Four hands awkwardly reached behind to slap at Captain's torso while the upper pair continued to grasp at the encircling arm. A sigh. "YON!"
Jyck vanished in the grip of a transporter beam, lower left hand fisted except for an extended thumb and index finger. Captain grunted. Well, it was worth it to try. He cued a picture of Bulk Cargo Hold #1, zooming in on Jyck's ship.
Three hundred weapons drones, half of the hierarchy, stood in mute ranks encircling the golden ovoid, personal disrupters directed with deadly intent. Four mining lasers had been taken out of storage and set up by the engineering hierarchy; a fifth was in the process of erection, accompanied with much arm waving on the part of Weapons. Captain squinted, then ignored the picture as he searched through recent cube maintenance activity. Yes, the fifth device was not a mining laser, but Cutting Beam Emitter #16 from edge #12. Satisfied Jyck's vessel was going nowhere fast, hailing frequencies were triggered. As an afterthought, hold speakers were switched on.
{All together now...}
"We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Your technological and biological distinctiveness will be added to Our own. You are surrounded. Come out with your hands up. Resistance is futile."
"...futile," continued 101 of 300, always a beat behind. Overall the performance had been impressive, drones on the bay floor in sync with the general multivoice.
A loudspeaker crackled to life, origin the captive vessel. Jyck's voice spat, "I helped you get rid of those crazy mechs! If you don't let me go peacefully, I'll have to do it the hard way. I'm warning you, my secondary drive is nonfunctional, so things could get a bit...messy...." Golden wings were beginning to extend, the unknown material supported between spars rippling to unseen currents, winking into and out of visual perception.
{Cutting beam enabled,} quivered Weapons, fervent need for violence barely suppressed. He would man the aforesaid cutting beam personally. {Shall we disable the ship?}
Sensors' signature bumped into proceedings, {Sensors does not think...} However, she was too little too late as Captain gave the green light to Weapons, who crowed with success.
{You were saying, Sensors?}
Sigh. {It does not matter now. Hopefully we will not become burnt toast now.}
Toast?? Captain's full awareness centered upon the skirmish in Bulk Cargo Hold #1. Internal algorithms had translated the insectoid's words faithfully, with no extrapolation.
Disrupter fire shimmered off hull and wings, absorbed into an oily rainbow of color which rippled from each point of impact. Jyck's ship not only had a shield previously not detected, but it was form-fitting, not the normal globular type. Engineering and weapon hierarchies began cross-indexing known shield systems through a command and control mediated link to Collective archives...such technology broke at least five rules of physics. One by one, mining lasers activated, to no avail. Finally the cutting beam lanced out, warm-up cycle complete; perhaps due to its greater power, it /bounced/ off a sail, impacting outer bay doors. It was well on its way to melting a hole and explosively decompressing the cargo hold when Delta A and B managed to pull the plug from the wall.
The wings were now fully extended, tips brushing opposite walls of the cavernous bay, spanning two hundred meters. "Don't say I didn't warn you!" crackled from Jyck's ship.
Turning gracefully, wings swept over the crowd, most of whom ducked in an irrelevant sense of self-preservation. The gesture was not necessary, as shown by those few who trusted their range finders and found sails clearing heads by a good fifty centimeters. Unfortunately, two of the mining lasers were in the arc, both flying apart as barrels were sheared. A hum built from the main body of the vessel, cycling higher and higher like a phaser set on overload; wing sails completely disappeared from perception, leaving spars in skeletal extension.
{Reality constants are shifting in Bulk Cargo Hold #1,} informed Sensors calmly.
"Surf's up!" The exclamation came over the open subspace link, which dissolved into static as Jyck's ship appeared to spontaneously implode.
And, for lack of a better term, de-implode five kilometers off face #2. The action was like observing a film negative of gamma radiation from an evaporating black hole, only the tape was running backwards and viewed off a mirror. The subspace connection returned with a pop.
"Yon tells me that was a minor incident, about a third the galactic disc anti-spin from here in a region known as Federation. Good thing space-time wasn't perturbed any more than it was, otherwise I may have dragged that entire cube of yours into fractional space with me. As was, it was a clean translation...am I a good pilot, or what?" Pause. "Yes, Yon, I know it was mostly you who did the work, but I'm the biological entity here, and we can discuss who deserves the most credit later, okay? Okay."
A lack of damage reports, structural or crew, was the internal result of Jyck's leave-taking. For once, Cube #347 did not need to break into its vast supply of duct tape to keep everything in one piece while engineering soldered, welded, and patched. Outside, Jyck's vessel shone brighter than could be accounted for by starlight and buffed gold plating.
"You lied to us," accused Captain through the subspace link. He did not bother with the multivoice, nor theatrics of catwalks. This conversation had to occur face to face, so to say, even as four thousand minds rode in Captain's consciousness. "You told us you were not of the Progenitor race to Mech Species #3."
Visual to the winged ship flipped on, Jyck comfortably sitting in a chair, surrounded by the consoles of a command area. A steaming mug of dark liquid balanced in a cup holder. The lowermost of Jyck's arms tapped at a keyboard below the view of the camera, the middle pair lightly relaxed on the seat's arm rests, and the upper crossed over his torso. The left medial arm reached up to scratch an ear before returning to place.
"Seems visual wasn't as scrambled as I thought it was. Loose wire. Anyway, let me tell you what 'lanig' means in the old language. Child. It denotes not the physical aspect of a child, but the mental. Children can be brilliant, may have more knowledge than their parents, but they can also be trying. They have not learned the social graces of adulthood, but practice at it between bouts of healthful play. Even worse are when children enter adolescence, when they are ready to try independence, but become hell to live with in the process. This stage the old tongue calls 'xenig.' Do you understand? Xenig.
"One day, maybe, the adolescent learns to be independent. He or she realizes the restrictions of the parents were meant to allow a graceful translation to adulthood. This is known as 'tranig.' Tranig know one can have the dignity and social graces of knowledge while at the same time engage in the happy play of lanig. Growing up is something which must eventually be done on one's own terms, alone. If tranig doesn't force xenig to mature, xenig never will. For this reason, xenig - and I remember my rowdy xenig years well - are expelled from the home when they come of age. Most accept it, some despise it, a very few beg to be taken back, scared to peruse the grand adventure of adulthood. Occasionally the parents have to skip town in the middle of the night leaving behind nothing but half-truths. For the betterment of the child, of course."
"It's only been a little over two galactic revolutions, give them some time. They'll grow up eventually. I hope. I really, desperately hope. Well, gotta go." The connection was terminated.
"But you never answered our question," muttered Captain to the dark screen. He flipped to an exterior feed just in time to see Jyck's ship smoothly collapse in upon itself. The fizz of a carbonized drink echoed in his ears from portions of the grid retuned by Sensors. She quickly identified the aural hallucination to be decaying strange matter as protest arose.
The universe had just become a little bit more complicated.
Return to the Season 3 page