Happy Paramount owns cute Star Trek. Happier Decker created cuter Star Traks parodies. Happiest Meneks writes cutest BorgSpace. Happy happy happy! Cute cute cute! Plushkins The Star Navy man was a standard humanoid: bipedal, two eyes, two ears, mouth, nose, perhaps legs longer than the norm and arms shorter. He wore a uniform which had seen better days, once crisp command colors hidden under a pall of dirt and grime; the pin denoting captain rank was long lost, victim of a vicious scuffle between himself and a now deceased primary engineer. The ship itself - lowly tug, not the man's carrier, shattered pride of a broken fleet - reflected her captain, space-worthy only by dint of continual repair, duct tape, sweat, spit, and fervent prayer. "You can do it," whispered the man to his ship, the last warp-capable vessel left of a once mighty empire. "Just a few more lights, you can do it." The aluminum foil wrapped around the captain's head glinted dully under emergency lights. The warp drive coughed, giving a rumbling whine which all Star Navy personnel remaining on the tug recognized as the engine's dying cry. The few engineers, all bedecked in strategically placed foil, leapt into tired action, disabling the core before it could explode, preparing to embark upon futile repairs. Everyone knew, from captain to mop-boy, that the trip had been one-way from the beginning. "Damn it!" cursed the captain, his fingers flying over the console. He glanced at the main screen, reading output. He was alone on a bridge meant for a half dozen, other personnel required elsewhere. They had not made it to the entombing system, to the specially prepared moons. However, a cold grave between stars might be as effective. Fingers danced again: the barge the tug towed remained intact. The captain activated ship-wide communications. "This is your captain speaking. Engineers, continue your tasks...see if we can get anymore juice out of this old junkheap." The word was not a slur, but rather affectionate, a tribute to an orbital museum mothballed tug with functional warp. It had remained intact during a crisis which rendered anything with interstellar capability into fusion-induced scrap because it had not been listed in any but the most obscure records. "It looks like this is our final destination. I am blowing bolts and setting barge thrusters. If in ten hours it looks like we are truly stranded, I suggest we convene in the mess to discuss our future. "Let this action not have been in vain! For the Star Empire!" Voices all over the tug rose in answering shouts. Unfortunately, twelve hours later the ancient matriarch became a funeral pyre, her captain deciding death by cleansing fire better than unglamorous starvation or personal suicide. The quadrant-spanning Star Empire self-destructed within a year, heroic efforts from such as the Star Navy captain unable to forestall utter ruin from a danger recognized too late. Elsewhere in the galaxy, a young species known as Llarn gazed at the stars, wondering if life dwelled beyond their planet; scientists had recently announced the discovery Home was round like a ball, an epiphany swiftly leading to political and religious strife. The Borg Collective would not come into existence for another two thousand years. * * * * * Sensors cocked her head as Cube #347 approached the target. The grid was feeding images of a boxy barge, recognized as such due to large cargo areas and lack of engines beyond maneuvering thrusters. Only the most primitive computers, long dead from power loss, had controlled the vessel, another ship necessary for actual movement; no consideration had ever been made for a living crew, and any pressure which may have been contained within holds was lost to vacuum millennia ago. Hull was unpainted, decoration pointless. Any registration once gracing the scow was vanished as completely as if sandblasted. Dead, powerless, heat and radiation at ambient background levels, Cube #347 should have passed this microscopic needle in the cosmic haystack without awareness of its existence. However, something, some fluke, had tripped the computer's emergency stop routines. Upon emergence to normal space the barge had been waiting less than five kilometers distant, a precision driving impossibility. Had Captain been trying to perform such a maneuver, the odds were very low he would have been able to duplicate the feat. He was now trying to trace the command, but thus far was unsuccessful. Sensors continued to gather as much information as she could, parsing it for integration into the sub-collective with minimum of whining complaints. Unfortunately little new data was forthcoming. Metallurgical analysis via cutting beam protocols was required to profile alloy composition and determine age, both of which would narrow the species owners. Sensors knew the barge was old, ancient, as evidenced by purely visual scans. It was impossible for it to arrive in the middle of nowhere accidentally. Someone had deliberately cast it aside for a very good reason. Within the intranet hypotheticals raged, speculations upon origin and abandonment. Weapons, as normal, wanted to destroy it immediately, an action others voiced as well. Many scoffed at the paranoia, declaring a millennium dead hunk of junk posed no problem to the much larger Exploratory-class Borg cube, and was fit only for resource deconstruction. Sensors reserved her opinion, did not know towards which of the several camps she leaned, but the ghost barge did not seem...friendly. State of friendliness was irrelevant, the insectoid reminded herself. New data from a static-charge lidar dust sweep indicated heavy particle concentration in h5.13 grid quadrant. Sensors shifted primary attention to the indicated region, focusing myriad of sensing devices. Data suggested a rough globe of slowly moving debris, some as large as three centimeters across, consisting largely of metal alloys including an odd concentration of aluminum, with miscellaneous carbons, waters, and other traces of once living organics. Backward calculations brought the ancient debris into a zero point at a time approximately ten thousand years prior; addition of barge trajectory proposed an origination from the deposed ship. New sub-collective hypothesis: ten millennium prior, a warp-capable vessel had sent the barge on its voyage, shortly thereafter scuttling. The "why" remained unknown, but a possible "who" began to consolidate. The Borg had found traces of a highly advanced Beta Quadrant civilization which had come to an abrupt end two thousand years before the Collective emerged. Its outer sphere of influence overlapped current core BorgSpace boundaries; and had the civilization been existent when the Borg first forged into the universe, it was likely early cubeships would have found themselves bounced back to planet #1. Little was left of the kingdom, the empire, the federation, the regime, whatever name it went by, except for a decayed outpost here or fragmented records there. Ten thousand years was a long time for entropy to be at work, plenty of time for even the most robust leavings of a multi-race culture to disappear into the dust of antiquity. The cube was now close enough for detailed internal scans. Blasts of diffuse x-rays and other organic-lethal radiation flooded space, triggering shifts in atomic nuclei energy waves. Slowly the one hundred meter long barge yielded its secrets, showing each of its eight sequential holds held desiccated organics. Exact composition of cargo would wait until drones were beamed to the hull and allowed to bore into a compartment. The task of the sensory hierarchy drew to a close, grid switching to warn mode, watching for subspace disturbances heralding any of a myriad natural and unnatural dangers. Primary duties shifted to engineering, and to a lesser extent weapons, to sample and probe the derelict, wrinkling all its secrets. Eventually the barge would be dismantled and raw resources added to cube stockpiles. Sensors rocked back and forth on her walking legs, watching the show. Cutting beam samples quickly confirmed barge origination, selected hull pieces vaporized and resultant vapor examined with spectroscope. Spectral spikes indicated presence and proportion of specific elements, the profile matching alloy records of the extinct civilization. Sensors dutifully added the data to that sensory hierarchy coffers, notations absently scribed in shorthand she found most convenient. The metal composite itself was not unique, one of a thousand variations upon standard civilian-grade ship plating, predictably degraded after long years of abrading exposure to vacuum, dust, and cosmic radiation. Attention turned to the hold, a cargo presumably of such danger it necessitated disposal between stars. Why not incinerate in a sun? Why not vaporize with phasers? Why not bury on a suitable planetoid? Without specimens a part of Collective perfection, the Greater Consciousness could not know alien psychology, could not know the biology and history which favored one mode of thought over another. Therefore, Cube #347 did not attempt to psychoanalyze a long dead culture, an irrelevant exercise. A hold was opened, cutting beam lance shaving off five meters of stern. The action was uncalled for, Weapons acting with typical impatience as the sub-collective decided how to proceed. Tens of thousands of small shapes, black spots against the black velvet of interstellar space, spilled into the gap between cube and barge. Disruptors vaporized swathes of miniature targets before the weapon hierarchy head could be brought under control. Several intact specimens were beamed on board for analysis by engineering. Sensors added her voice to sub-collective Choir. {What is it? What is it? What is it?} sung the intranet, thousands of individuals demanding answers with the persistent whining of a child. {What is it? What is it? What is it?} The whispers gathered volume, strength, synchronization. The holds contained only one cargo - hundreds of thousands of fist-sized dolls. To be more precise, they were dirty, curled up caricatures of an animal, once brightly colored fur dull and dry. The toy appeared to be a construct, a chimera of biological and inorganic parts. It was not anything as pronounced as the Borg method of augmentation, but rather what might be grown in a biofactory. The outcome was a "pet" suitable for small children, able to interact and play to a limited degree, yet not subject to the vagaries of an inconsistent feeding schedule, nor needing a litter pan. {What is it? What is it? What is it?} {Give us a minute. That is what we are attempting to determine,} answered Delta. Body B waved her prosthetic limb over the desiccated lump, automatically funneling information to interested parties. Sensors agreed with the general consensus it would look better if it were given a bath. Perhaps a dip in nutrient fluid suitably cleansed of nanoprobes? Although an animal would be long dead, the object was a toy construct able to withstand the unintentional cruelties of a young sentient. Ten thousand years was a very long long-shot, but if the doll could be reanimated, the technology of a dead culture would demonstrate enough merit to be added to Collective perfection. On the other hand, if the endeavor failed, organic and inorganic element supplies always needed topping. Sensors flowed with the Choir, immersing herself in the local Song. Never as grand as the Song she wished to join, denied to join, but soothing nonetheless. {What is it? What is it? What is it?} {I said be patient!} reiterated Delta strongly as a liter of regeneration goop sans nanoprobes materialized at body B's elbow. The platform Delta was using as an impromptu workbench was becoming crowded. A specialized tool was placed on the bench, completely unnecessary, but 51 of 240 wanted to see the toy live. Delta ignored the drone; Sensors watched through the head engineering drone's perceptions, feeling the thousands of other minds doing likewise. It was a party, and everyone invited! The dried body was picked up and plunked unceremoniously into the nutrient solution. Bubbles erupted from the toy, momentarily turning the container into a roiling demonstration on why not to shake a soda can. The froth subsided, clear container sides allowing access to a near miraculous transformation. At first the toy sat, no change evident. Then slowly, very slowly, color returned to softening fur. Deep reds and violets streaked across an increasingly plump body. Small button eyes - black - popped open to gaze vacantly. One well-versed in Terran late 20th century American culture might say the construct perfectly combined the lovable qualities of tribble and beenie baby into one package. And after ten millennium, think of the resale value! Cube #347 had a whole barge full of the extraordinarily cute toys. <> sighed the sub-collective as One. Even Borg were not immune to such adorable irrelevancy. Sensors gazed enchanted through Delta's body B eyes: she had to have one of her own. In the nutrient fluid, the Plushkin twitched. * * * * * Emotitons can be divided into two broad categories - positons and negatons. Positons consist of all the positive emotions a creature can experience, such as cutitons, happitons, ecstasitons, and so on. Negatons are the opposite of positons, examples of which are hatitons, jealousitons, angritons, and despisitons. A natural, although not obvious, outgrowth of quantum mechanics and wave-particle theory is the idea that emotions are both wave and particle. An empath can feel the emotive outpourings of another creature, and the very strong may be able to manipulate emotions. That ability is the first indication to an observant race that emotions have a "carrier wave", and all frequencies are characterized by waves or particles, flip sides of the same Schrodinger coin. The electromagnetic spectrum is invariably the first particle-wave duality to be described, followed by increasingly exotic forces. The key to gravity manipulation lies in gravitons, and time travel in chromotons. Advanced species able to mold matter and reality itself as if it were pottery clay know even macroscopic objects are little more than particle-wave manifestations. Some races, usually those highly empathic, travel down the road of emotitons, the particle version of emotions. Once a force is quantified, it becomes susceptible to artificial creation and manipulation by machines; and once controllable, it has the potential to be modified into a weapon. Across the cosmos, sad reality shows the same cruel natural selection which drives a race to ascend into sapiency is difficult to subsequently disregard, leading to inter- and intraspecial wars. All species have a genetic disposition towards "not-self" paranoia, a tendency which must be consciously and intellectually controlled before it can eventually be bred out, a process requiring survival for tens of thousands of years. "Sweet and kindness" sentients never succeed when confronted by the local version of the saber-toothed tiger. On the battlefield, deployment of both positons and negatons is devastating. A platoon caught in ecstasy is easy prey for swaths of killing bullets, pleasure overriding common sense. Jealousy and hate will cause a unit to literally tear itself apart. Counters are possible, of course, from automatic deployment of chaff designed to intercept incoming rounds with the diametrically opposite emotiton, to neural surgery removing the emotion center. Eventually battle technology will mutate for the civilian marketplace. Plushkins were designed as a toy, an organic construct which would respond to a child's projected emotions. As a happy and contented child was the goal, the Plushkin thrived in an environment of pleasurable emotions. Stimulus from sadtons or angritons would cause the toy to do its best to alter emotive output, either through amusing antics or emoting subtle counter-emotions of its own. Most Plushkins were imbibed with cutiton factors because of the difficulty to retain a negative emotion in the face of cuteness. The creators of Plushkins were not the Star Empire, but a defunct civilization much, much older. Somewhere in the dusts of time, an entrepreneur had the idea of reproducing Plushkins, a new one budding off the elder. Depending on the emotions fed to the parent Plushkin, the child would be slightly different, with positons creating the most vibrantly coloring offspring. One could trade or sell their stock; and the entrepreneur would be able to retire in luxury. The scheme worked too well. By providing reproductive ability with a limited mutation function to the toy, natural selection entered the picture. Previous Plushkins had been grown in factory nutrient vats, computers splicing genetic variation into constructs to reflect changing market demands in coloration and pelt design. The most successful of the new Plushkins were those which bred in conditions of high positons, colorful fur leading them to be widely traded. Eventually a point was reached where the /Plushkins/ were actively demanding input of positons, cutitons the primary goad; owners did not feel happy unless they were projecting positive emotions towards their Plushkin. Civilization ground to a halt, populace held in thrall by a parasitic toy. Unfortunately the parasite had not learned moderation, and its own survival became questionable as the host died. Plushkins by the billions shriveled, retreating into a hibernation originally programmed to counter a child forgetful of feeding his or her pet. Life returned when a curious star-faring race chanced upon the ruins of the elder civilization. The consequences were predictable, another host died. For over one million years, unlucky civilizations rose in the Milky Way galaxy, only to fall after finding the cute relic of a previous era. Some sentients were luckier than others, seeing danger and responding appropriately, ridding themselves of the menace and destroying as many Plushkins as possible. Unfortunately, total eradication was impossible, Plushkin caches spread all over the galaxy, some a million years dead, others viable. The Star Empire almost succeeded in saving itself, but almost was not close enough. * * * * * Sensors beamed herself to the barge hull opposite deconstruction efforts. Despite the unique adorability factor of the constructs thus far revived, only a few specimens were retained, Collective Will to place the things in cryogenic storage for future reverse engineering overwhelming any feelings of a single drone. The rest were being subsequently tossed into organic reclamation systems the barge was dismantled for metals. Sensors, however, /had/ to find one of the constructs for herself. Noting the locations of other drones, Sensors carefully created a blindspot in the sensor grid. There was little she could do about her beacon signature should anyone query her locale, but such an occurrence was unlikely. Sensors rarely left her alcove except to exercise her body, thereby resisting the muscle atrophication her species was subject to when Borgified. Sensors detached a plasma welder from her carapace and began burning an entrance into the cargo hold. The hull was thin, less than thirty centimeters, indicating the barge was not designed to carry delicate objects. Refined ore was probably the normal cargo, not toys; however it was difficult to make conjectures on a civilization ten millennia dead. After all, species #1541 had a fleet of freighters which transported insects called Whezi Flies from outpost to outpost, a tradition began centuries earlier for reasons no longer known. Light from cutting beams sparkled with [shoe] brilliance over Sensors' faceted eyes. A ten meter barge segment was caught in tractor beams, contents selectively sliced and sorted before final beaming to appropriate locations within the cube. In some respects it would have been easier to tuck the barge into a cargo hold and dismantle it there, but on the other hand in space there was no need to sweep up afterwards. Sensors absently guided her cutter as she watched a cloud of dried constructs dematerialize. Tracing the transporter buffer found the bodies casually released into a vast vat of nanoprobe solution, nanites programmed to dissolve organics and scavenge rare earth trace elements such as thulium and ytterbium. One might believe he operation from barge deconstruction to element reclamation would offer many opportunities for an opportunistic insectoid to "misdirect" a construct. Unfortunately, command and control had the same idea - most suspicions focused on Doctor - and careful watch was placed on engineering efforts. The plasma cutter was shut off as the final slice was made, tool magnetically reattached to abdomen. Securing hand and foot holds, Sensors wedged a lever into the cut section. She pulled smoothly. The thick circle sprung free from the main hull and floated away, lever allowed to follow. Sensors peered into the cargo hold, undaunted by lack of visible light. To the insectoid, the hold was far from dark. Even had she not sported visual augmentation to the upper half of both compound eye structures, sight would not have been a worry. As it was, the soft glow of X-rays and radiation decay lent a pearl glow to the well packed area, active personal lidar mapping curves and undulations of the recently jostled cargo. Several constructs law within easy grasp, one of the seven unburned by plasma cutter flame. Gleefully Sensors reached into the hole to snag the uncharred construct. She looked it over in the reflected light of distant stars, green [fuzz] cutting beam, and her own infrared radiation. Where those markings the faintest hints of a purple/yellow scheme? Was the brittle fur slightly longer than that of those specimens currently languishing in cryogenic storage? Sensors radiated pleasure over her successful raid. "Sensors shall call it a Plushkin," whistled Sensors brightly. As with every other species on any cube, verbal speech was usually in native language, universal translators transmogrifying speech into words understandable by the recipient. The dataspaces employed no such convolutions, technological "telepathy" of One surmounting nearly all thought boundaries. Exceptions existed, those species too alien to add to the Collective and thus eliminated from the universe lest perfection be potentially compromised; and others such as Sensors' species which were borderline cases. Drones generally do not speak; and a visitor to Cube #347 would find hallways frighteningly silent despite a chatty (by Collective standards) reputation. No one was in range to hear Sensors' words; and even if someone had been near, the question of translation from species #6766 language into the semblance of comprehension was iffy. The insectoid chanted songs to herself, melodies affirming her allegiance to One and her joy of mortal nirvana. The grid noted return to transwarp, barge salvage complete; outside of cryounit, Sensors had the sole remaining intact construct. Sensors was near her alcove in Custodial Closet #53, a crowded room of custodial supplies badly in need of cleaning. Dusty mops and brooms were stacked fifteen deep in one corner, shelves lining the walls held all manner of cleaning supplies, bottle and boxes still bright with colors and alien scripts under product names proclaiming scrubbing bubble power. An empty alcove was nearly lost behind a mountain of dust rags and buckets. Local histories noted 153 years before present the cube briefly formed a custodial service subhierarchy within the larger engineering hierarchy, an undertaking discontinued mere months after initiation. The reason for disbanding was unknown, files which might offer explanation scrambled beyond recovery. The Greater Consciousness, oddly, seemed to have suffered a similar catastrophic memory fragmentation at the same time concerning actions associated with Cube #347. On a 200 liter barrel of glass cleaning solution, a small container of water, sugar, and electrolytes sat. Within the solution floated a vibrantly colored Plushkin, striking deep purples and sunny yellows woven through with metallic gold undertones. The hair slowly waved back and forth in the liquid womb, seven centimeter fur promising to dry to a silky smoothness never needing grooming, although the owner was encouraged to brush for shining perfection. This Plushkin was the product of adoring love. "Perfect Plushkin," murmured Sensors. She reached into the container with one grasping limb and hauled the dripping construct into the air. A hairdryer, already plugged into the wall, roared to life. Why would a Borg cube need a hairdryer for its follicle-challenged populace? Let's just say the nooks, crannies, and holds of Cube #347 held a pack-rat nest worth of all manner of odds and ends; and one of those many items was a hairdryer. The device whirred loudly, blowing capacious amounts of hot air onto the Plushkin. Sensors radiated satisfaction as a brush fluffed fur, allowing it to dry evenly. Button Plushkin eyes gazed at the insectoid with affection, genetically programmed instructions reacting to stimulus with a vibrating purr. The Plushkin was the perfect gengineered companion: easily "fed" by sugar-nutrient water, tough enough to withstand extreme abuse, never judgmental over questionable owner actions, and, above all, cute. * * * * * The Plushkin surveyed its new owner, tasted the emotive currents nearby. The environment was suitable for growth and reproduction, barely. However, as evidenced by its bright colors and graceful hair, it had descended from a long line of successful constructs, overendowed with cutiton emitters, able to harvest and use even the most low powered positon. A recent mutation five generations prior had given this particular Plushkin line happiton emitters, which in turn stimulated happitons in the target, more than recouping the expense required to manufacture the emotitons. Perhaps one day in quasi-Darwinian fashion all Plushkins would emit cutitons AND happitons. Attributing nefarious plans to the Plushkin was useless, nor relevant. Like a virus, albeit a double-fist sized fluffy cute virus, the construct did not actively plan the downfall of its host. Its aim was simple - reproduction. The requirement to attain goal were an equally simplistic absorption of nutrients and positons, both attainable by creating happiness in the owner. Minor problems, such as the dissolution of quadrant-spanning civilizations with a long history of peace, were merely unintentional side-effects. The Plushkin brain - a primitive neural network diffused among the muscle/reproductive/digestive solid cell mass under colorful fir - could barely hold a coherent thought. Those thoughts it could internalize were very limited, linked intimately with positon output. Everything else was unthinking instinct, stimulus and response. i am cute i am cute i am cute i am cute i am cute i am cute i am happy i am happy i am happy i am happy i am happy i am happy Happitons, flavored with the strong bouquet of satisfaction, was the Plushkin's reward. It encouraged the burst by emitting more positons. i am cute i am cute i am cute i am happy i am happy i am happy * * * * * When Sensors awoke from regeneration, the first thing she did was check her Plushkin. The convoluted architecture of her alcove and attendant machinery allowed more than ample room to build a hidden playpen fifty centimeters on a side, complete with bowl of nutrient solution and heat lamp. She smoothly crouched until her abdomen scraped the floor, canting torso and shuffling forward until she could peer into the box. Awaiting her were two Plushkins, the original plus a black on white polka-dotted one. The latter was a third the size of the parent, who was also reduced in bulk. Sensors whistled, "A new Plushkin! Sensors not [vinyl chair] construct could reproduce." She picked up both unprotesting furballs, scooting backwards until she could stand again. The black and white Plushkin had the same long hair as its parent, slightly damp at the end which had been immersed in the water bowl. It was perhaps not quite as cute as the purple/yellow/gold one, but certainly striking in its own way. Sensors had the overwhelming urge to share the Plushkin, to give it away. {What are you hiding?} intruded into Sensors' mind. Signature identified the voice as 115 of 422, Sensors' immediate neighbor drone on the alcove tier. Sensor's gaze fell on 115 of 422, sending wordless request for expansion of query. The drone in question disengaged herself from her alcove and stepped forward. She re-enunciated verbally, "I ask again: What are you hiding? What are you holding? Your thought patterns are more dense than usual, less attention devoted to the grid." Not that 115 of 422 was complaining, merely observing. The drone craned her head for a better view as Sensors' put both laden hands behind her thorax. "Sensors' asks you not to report Sensors, not to draw [yellow sticky notes] to Sensors' actions. If so, Sensors' will show you." 115 of 422 nodded. "You know your thoughts are difficult to dissect even in the best of times, and right now are nigh near impossible. Show me." Sensors brought artificial hands into view. Digits curled carefully around the constructs, both of which the insectoid could feel lightly rumbling. Quivering antennae could almost feel/taste/hear a subsonic purr. "Oh!" exclaimed 115 of 422, whole hand clapping against prosthetic counterpart. "They are...adorable! Much nicer than those things 27 of 27 smuggles on board. Let me hold one." Sensors passed over the small black and white Plushkin. 115 of 422's reaction was unBorglike to say the least, especially with use of the word 'adorable,' but Sensors did not notice, caught in the thrall of the furballs herself. "Much, much softer than 12 of 310's pet rocks as well." Asked Sensors, "Do you want it? The purple and yellow one is mine. That one just [swam]." "It is one of the gengineered creatures we have in storage for dissection by the Collective when we return to BorgSpace, is it not?" 115 of 422 already knew the answer as she spoke, but Sensors answered regardless. "Yes. This [animal cracker] is nicer. Sensors [fished] it from the barge. It just fell on Sensors when she was taking a walk! Very, very [television]." "Yes," solemnly agreed 115 of 422, "whatever you just said, it must have been the truth. How does one care for the construct?" "It is called a Plushkin," began Sensors, "and since it is not alive, one can not [punish] it. Beyond that, it needs..." Sensors related the care and feeding of a Plushkin with the confidence of an expert. {Psst. Meet me at the rendezvous.} {What do you have?} {Something special.} {Give me a peek.} {Come see it for yourself.} The two voices, anonymous among the background noise of normal functioning and computer chatter, cut. One minute later two drones beamed into a shadowy section of subsection 6, submatrix 15, corridor 22, a hallway adjacent to inner hull structures. The lights in the section were dimmer than the norm, reflecting low power priority in an area rarely visited by crew other than engineering performing routine maintenance. "What do you have?" "See for yourself." The owner of the second voice reached into a satchel worn over one arm, withdrawing a green and yellow striped Plushkin. It had the variegated look of an understory tropical plant, light splotches of watery brown providing the illusion of recently fallen raindrops. Limpid eyes peered at both Borg, radiating happiness. The construct would continue to be happy even if blenderized for a Plushkin shake. "Nice," commented the first voice. "Give it to me for a closer look." The construct exchanged hands. "So," began Voice Two, "does it meet with approval? I know it does. If you want it for your collection, you know the price." "The Amethyst Jewel Plushkin. It is yours." A fuzzy oblong object materialized a meter above the ground. It fell to the deckplates with a happy squeak. Hair glowed with a deep purple luster, verging on ultraviolet in patches. It was scooped up, given a perfunctory examination, then stuffed into satchel. Both drones disappeared, transaction complete. A drone worriedly looked around, peering both corridor directions in a hunt for danger. On an alternate level, he monitored for signs of approaching signatures. Safe. A wall panel was opened, a window into interstitial space darkness. A bag bulging with Plushkins was upended, pouring several dozen objects. Discrete shuffling from many short legs, more than that explainable by the deposit, indicated the maneuver was not a first occurrence. "I need a little more room in the stable," muttered the drone, "but I'll set processes to think of you all every wake cycle, every regeneration." The panel was reset into wall, drone shuffling down the corridor, nonchalant. {19 of 42, you are falling behind on your quota. You are not displaying efficiency. State problem,} barked Delta into the aforementioned drone's mind. 19 of 42 quickly pocketed the stylish blue, black, and light green Plushkin into a thigh pocket recently self-installed for the purpose. He had been gazing at it, considering its perfection. It was of the short hair variety, skin covered by a thin fuzz to display better colored epidermis underneath, a type swiftly becoming popular among a certain subset of collectors. 19 of 42 preferred long hair, but hoped with enough concentration this Plushkin would produce the first coveted naked variation, which he would then use for trade. Needless to say, he had not been performing his assigned task to mend microfractures in plasma conduits of warp nacelle 2, tri-segment 2; quota was measured by length of conduit repaired in tens of meters per hour. {Tool is not at peak efficiency,} replied 19 of 42. He began to smack his prosthetic arm against the nearest wall, attempting to break the appropriate components. Within the limb something snapped, then tinkled; 19 of 42 winced as sensors reported a minor fire caused by intense arcing. Although it quickly extinguished itself, knowing oneself was aflame, however minutely, was not comforting. A wave of relaxing happiness swept over him, drowning worry. {I am forced to pass over each section twice, therefore falling behind quota.} Delta's mind voice displayed overtones of suspicion. {I understand. Finish your quota, then report to drone maintenance. We must all be at top efficiency.} {Compliance.} 19 of 42 retrieved his Plushkin, regarding its cute Plushkinness with adoration. Sugar-electrolyte solution was drizzled on the plump body to encourage reproduction. * * * * * The emotitons the growing avalanche of Plushkins lived on were not the intense flavors ancestors past had enjoyed. The constructs did not know their new owners were individualistic Borg. All Borg retain emotions, albeit locked deep within the confines of the mind with only select feelings such as satisfaction or happiness in serving the Collective allowed, even unto pleasure in seeking termination if directed by the Greater Consciousness for the good of the One. In the case of the imperfectly assimilated, emotions were faded, washed out, weak in comparison to the beings they had been once, yet strong in the face of standard drones such as those self-interred in Bulk Cargo Hold #3. The most successful Plushkins were those able to extract each positon which was directed at it, as well as elicit appropriate responses by intensifying cutiton and happiton emitting. The drones were nearly mind-blind to empathetic processes not explicitly drone-to-drone via intranet. In order to breech that barrier prosperous Plushkin lineages slowly refined each generation those apparatus best able to allow parasitic specialization upon Borg mentalities. Unsuccessful Plushkins did not reproduce. The failed furballs could not compete with the favorable, were perceived as not cute enough. Without nutrients or adequate positons, they were left to fend for themselves, often stored behind bulkheads by drones culling their Plushkin herds. The situation was akin to the forgetfulness of a child; the construct was not programmed to know jealousy towards well-fed cousins, self-pity, or abandonment. One day some owner would consider them cute, although the waiting period at the bottom of the toybox or on the shelf at the second-hand store might stretch to years. Plushkins had the ultimate patience endemic with no functionally cognizant brain. Despite the handicaps inherent on a Borg ship, the Plushkin population grew. And grew. And grew. * * * * * {Originating node - command and control hierarchy; destination node - weaponry hierarchy. Request information on tactical simulation exercise beta-C, third segment.} Pause. {Originating node - command and control hierarchy; destination node - weaponry hierarchy. Request information on tactical simulation exercise beta-C, third segment.} Pause {Originating node - command and control hierarchy; destination node - unit 4 of 8, primary consensus monitor and facilitator. Problem: weapon hierarchy not responding. Solution: troubleshoot and fix.} {Compliance,} responded Captain. Every several weeks individual cubes ran a standard set of tactical simulation exercises. The outcome was filed in triplicate and scores across the fleet examined by the Greater Consciousness in a never-ending search for inefficiency. For those cubes falling below a minimum score, steps were taken to realign the resident sub-collective to maximum efficiency. Sometimes the action required shuffling a few key drones, terminating those past their prime and reassigning new units to a dedicated tactical specialty. Occasionally large portions, half or more, of the sub-collective were retired to the spare parts bin, new drones transferred in to fill the holes. Cube #347 was not expected to match the standards set for normal cubes, but Weapons nevertheless relished the challenge to show his hierarchy was fit for the front-line duty the cube would never receive. More often than not, the cube failed the exercises, which deterred Weapons not at all. For Weapons not to answer and [check of computational resources] not enmeshed in a battle simulation and thus declining to respond was worrisome. While the Greater Consciousness ignored tactical exercise scores submitted by Cube #347, that did not mean the cube was free in turn to ignore the preset schedule; if no scores were filed, Collective action would be taken. Captain briefly contemplated the task assigned by the command and control subhierarchy, reviewing numerous attempts, both formal and informal, to gain Weapons' attention. 45 of 300 remained on the ship and functional according to interplexing beacon ping-queries, but he refused to acknowledge. {Weapons,} shouted Captain at the signature which was the head tactical drone, {wake up! The efficiency of the weapon hierarchy has dropped to unacceptable, substandard levels! Assigned exercise has not been completed! Respond! Comply!} All forced compliance codes sent to Weapons were either absorbed without comment, or blithely bounced back. It was as if the drone had become a mental black hole, unaffected by standard goads. If Weapons had found a method to directly disobey the Hierarchy of Eight, trouble was potentially brewing. The situation demanded a face-to-face encounter, a physical reminder of who was in charge. Ping-queries to other weapon hierarchy drones returned a similar state of apathy, else an admission of no knowledge concerning problems with their head. Captain beamed to Weapons' alcove, took one look at the situation, then directed three drone maintenance units to attend. Weapons was awkwardly sitting! on the deck next to his alcove, back propped against the bulkhead and legs sprawled in front. His attention was locked upon a furball held in his hand; a dozen additional piles of fuzz overflowed Weapons' lap. He cooed to the cream and tan swirled thing he clutched, eyes riveted upon the limpid black orbs of the creature. "Aren't you so cute. Yes you are. You are soooo cute. I think so." The trio of maintenance drones arrived. Something was definitely wrong with Weapons. {Doctor! Explain!} {Wha? What? I have done nothing,} protested Doctor, mind radiating confusion. Captain scooped up one of the loose animals, a purring pink thing the size of an earmuff. He held it up to his eyes and diverted part of the visual stream to Doctor. {This thing. It is one of the constructs from the barge. How did you get so many of them. Explain. Also relate what it has done to 45 of 300, and probably the hierarchy member minds which display a similar state of almost non response.} {I didn't do it! I didn't! I wanted one, but there was no way I could work around the barriers command and control erected. I tried. I failed,} responded Doctor, forced into complete truth by the direct question, as well as the need to prove his innocence. {They are quite interesting, but I did not bring any on board.} {Then who did? And don't pretend you know nothing of these constructs.} Doctor was quiet, wordlessly admitting he had known of the semi-animals for a time, then said, {Sensors did. She designated the constructs 'Plushkins'.} "Cute, cute, cute. Happy, happy, happy. Yes, you are cute and I am happy. Have something to drink," sang Weapons tunelessly at Captain's feet. The tactical drone dunked the Plushkin into a jar of clear solution sitting on the walkway beside him, presence previously obscured by intervening body. Captain tossed the pink Plushkin over the walkway rail. It continued to purr as it fell, bouncing like a happy superball when hit bottom, unperturbed and undamaged by the abuse. It was quickly snatched by a drone who had been searching for that exact shade to add to her collection. {Take this drone to a maintenance bay,} directed Captain to the trio standing behind him. As they lifted Weapons to his feet, Captain noticed 71 of 133 stealthily attempt to stuff a black Plushkin into a torso compartment. {And do not take any of those constructs with you.} The furball was dropped. {Sensors,} called Captain as the foursome disappeared in the clutches of a transporter beam, {we need to have a little discussion.} Sensors attempted to focus on the blurred shape in front of her, the shape which had taken her Plushkins. She wanted her Plushkins, needed her Plushkins. Somewhere someone was shouting at her, but the words were unimportant, nonsense garblings. She tried to lunge at the thief, but found herself restrained, body below neck unresponsive, paralyzed. Antennae, still free, waved in frustration. {Sick bug-girl,} whispered an almost familiar voice, not directed at her, {that is fourth try she attempt to pass neural block. I had to put an exterior shunt over her neural cord, in case buggy brakes conditioning.} The shape moved out of direct line of sight, although peripheral vision continued to track a shadowy ghost image. Where were her Plushkins? Who had taken her Plushkins? A second voice commented, {Synapse waveforms returning to repetitive mnemonic state. Primary cognizant patterns, that which can be resolved from species #6766 neural architecture, anyway, are focusing on a particular memory pattern.} {Fuzzy, fuzzy Plushkins,} confidently stated first voice. {If I were buggy, I would think of fuzzies. That is what the other puppies have been contemplating. Diagnosis? Treatment?} The questions were posed to a much larger audience, a faceless (or too many faced) rustling of calculating decision cascades. {Very dangerous for us,} commented a third voice. {Doctor, are we sure this will break fugue state?} {Nothing is yes-no. At best, all will be hunky-dory. At worst, involuntary synaptic surges at termination will blind cube sensors, make universe unknown to us, send us careening into a transwarp conduit barrier, will...} {Enough Doctor. Commence. Sensors has coded the data into a format only she can easily read. With our currently limited resources, it will require days to translate the information, at which time, who knows?} {Hip-deep in Plushkins,} said Doctor confidently. A mental shudder was the reply. {Okay. I will perform the vet treatment.} Sensors ignored the conversation, fixated upon her Plushkins. Who would feed them? Groom them? Love them? Take care of the subunits? The quandaries were the same questions which had paralyzed countless civilizations over a million years, accompanied by the agitation of an addict separated from the Plushkin drug. A new sensation impinged upon Sensors cyclic catatonic unhappiness. Exotic colors. Symphonic sounds. Scrumptious tastes. A rich feast for the senses draining dependence upon happitons and cutitons. A flawed sensation, imperfect, out of tune. Sensors automatically reached for the akimbo component, setting the grid to right, reveling in the flavors of a complex universe. {Working,} noted Doctor. Captain interrupted Doctor's report, {Translate this. Sensors, translate this file.} Old sensors data, that of the hypothetical deceased vessel which had pulled the barge, tickled synapses. How could this information not be clear? {Translate, now.} {Aluminum,} said Sensors with puzzlement. {Spectral analyses indicates unexpected concentrations of aluminum.} Aluminum foil became the newest fashion statement on Cube #347. Judicious experimentation revealed the offensive empathic nature of the Plushkins, exposed their role as emotive parasite. For unknown reasons, aluminum foil halted empathic assault, phenomenon of which there was no time to closely examine. Of the normal 4000 drones, less than a quarter were not rapt by Plushkins, resistant but not immune. Cube #347 efficiency was abysmal. Replicated by the roll, aluminum pieces were wrapped and molded around the body region corresponding with a drone's brain. For most species this meant the cranium, although not all. A few unlucky individuals with diffuse nervous systems and no primary brain were wrapped from end to end; 2 of 3, insectoid, looked like an ambulatory wrapped sausage. Second adjusted his foil cap. "What do you think?" he asked as headware was repositioned. "Should it be worn at a rakish slant this season, or perhaps pulled low to hide the ears?" Both styles were demonstrated. Captain watched his backup with narrowed eye. "Stop fooling around," he said. Internally a different set of instructions were ordered, {Priority: track all unresponsive drones and install defensive armament. Secondary priority: collect constructs for temporary storage in Bulk Cargo Hold #8 behind security forcefield. Compliance.} A specific forcefield tuning dampened emotive output, although it did not quite eliminate it. {Compliance,} was the ragged return, multivoice diminished in mental ears. {Initiate.} "And a one and a two, and a one and a two, and a one and a two," tunelessly sang Doctor as he and eighty-two of his hierarchy cut large sheets of aluminum foil into more manageable squares. {Keep at it, good doggies! Mush! Mush!} Through the Plushkin episode, Doctor had remained curiously immune. One might have thought he would be among the first to fall under the sway of the constructs, but in fact while he had known of the collecting craze, he had not felt compelled to delve into it. There was something...creepy about the Plushkins in Doctor's estimation, not that such thoughts prevented him from encouraging the acquisition of pets in others. Perhaps the Plushkins had just been too cute. No matter. As aluminum squares piled up, other drones, bedecked with their own foil protection, grabbed a handful before beaming elsewhere in the cube. The destinations were the location of unresponsive units, those 3209 crew enthralled by Plushkins. It was unlikely the spell would be immediately broken as shiny hats were molded onto heads (or other body regions), but it was among the first of several necessary steps to return Cube #347 to a semblance of efficiency. "And a one and a two, and a one and a two!" and {Mush, doggies, mush!} Wielding shovel and broom, box and wheelbarrow, Plushkins were swept into piles and carted to Bulk Cargo Hold #8 for storage. Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of colorful furballs were picked from the deck, careful watch centered on those drones recently rescued from the collection fever. And that was only the beginning. A horde of unwanted Plushkins - not quite cute enough - were hidden within the interstitial spaces. This fact was revealed in two ways: one, by unraveling the mental pathways of addicted drones; and two, the fuzzy avalanche which spilled across a recently dePlushkined corridor when an engineering drone removed a wall panel to determine origination of a rustling noise. Construct after construct poured from the interstitial spaces and were added to Bulk Cargo Hold #8. Yet more Plushkins were secreted around the cube, purposefully hidden. These constructs were the jewels of individual collections, prizes concealed from rivals, trump cards to use in future acquisitions. Behind alcoves, in conduits empty of normal substances due to maintenance, stuffed under otherwise innocent construction material, finding new caches was like a tedious game of hide-and-seek. Still, the task had to be done, all the countless Plushkins rounded up. Missing just one construct set the possibility of reoccurrence, only next time Cube #347 might be docked at a Borg facility were billions of drones had access to the parasitic toys, not just four thousand. Each drone cured of addiction added another body to the task. {Where did you hide the Plushkins, 47 of 203? Reveal. Comply,} spoke three command and control units in unison to the drone physically corralled in a corner. The scene had an uncanny resemblance to mob enforcers shaking down a client delinquent on a payment. The fact 32 of 39, 179 of 480, and 187 of 480 were of species with wide shoulder and essentially no necks enhanced the likeness. 47 of 203 pressed against the bulkhead, mind purposefully fuzzed with the static of nonsense phrases and fractual multiplication tables. "I don't know what you are talking about," he stammered. Posture and mental leaks denoted otherwise. The foil barrier wrapped around cranium only insulated from emotiton assault and did not provide instant elimination of addiction. The trio took half a step closer, bodies presenting a barrier to any conceivable escape. {Reveal. Comply.} Verbalizations of the demand would have weakened compulsion; that 47 of 203 continued to talk outloud indicated his internal troubles. "No no no no no," babbled 47 of 203. {Comply!} A drone could not hold out forever against the will of the greater Collective, or sub-collective in this case. Resistance was a quality carefully culled in the assimilation processes, even those imperfectly assimilated, with termination the destiny for rogue units. A regimen of punishment and reward accompanied reprogramming until opposition was an impossibility. 47 of 203 shattered, mind pulled apart, desired information spilling forth. The sub-collective siphoned data from the compromised drone, command and control threesome charged with another enforcement assignment. Catching himself in a half-sob, 47 of 203 straightened, reset the cap which was his Plushkin barrier, and immersed himself into the sub-collective in a search for tasks, for distraction. The Plushkins were piled in a huge purring, squeaking mound. One might think such confinement would make any organic with a nervous system miserable, but the constructs did not have the genetic programming to be other than happy. The balls of fur slowly crawled over each other on short legs, one or two occasionally dislodged to roll down the hill to a fate of forcefield mediated electrocution amid the smell of burnt hair. The synergistic combination of cutiton and happiton output from the concentrated Plushkins was amazing, emotitons burrowing through dampening forcefield through sheer force of numbers. Aluminum foil protection on some drones had increased to a centimeter thickness; and the most empathically sensitive species were in a state of forced catatonia on the opposite side of the cube from Bulk Cargo Hold #8. Entry into the hold for any but teleoperated machines was restricted to class one emergencies, the type denoting imminent ship destruction or a lack of sufficient alcoholic beverages to last a five hour sporting match for ten Llarn. One was unsure where the latter ancient directive originated, but by extension all Borg outposts and vessels maintained a stash of (dust covered) beer. {Fifth repetition of internal scan negative,} stated Delta. {We read no Plushkin signatures anywhere. That cache in subsection 20, submatrix 1 in boxes hung under catwalks seems to have been our last concentration. No singleton signatures detected either.} Output from scans was appended to command and control for double-checking. Captain acknowledged the packets, assigning subhierarchies to examine the information. The unique empathetic nature of the Plushkins had allowed reconfiguration of key internal sensors to hunt for the alien toys. {Data received. Increase resolution and rescan. If we miss even one of the constructs...} The rest was not left unsaid, merely did not require enunciation. {Understood,} replied Delta. {New configuration requests being constructed for sensor hierarchy initiation.} Half an hour later it was clear no Plushkins remained free. No lone constructs forgotten under a pipe, no stashes purposefully hidden. Drones who had been under the influence were queried concerning their collections, minds torn open for information in the dispassionate manner of Borg. Unassimilated beings would have declared the processes mental rape; the Collective called it standard operating procedure. {Cube #347 clear,} announced Delta. Said Captain, {Eject the constructs into transwarp.} * * * * * Cube #347 sped onward, confident the Plushkins dumped would suffer the same fate as other unshielded matter in the quantum Hell transwarp conduits transversed. Indeed, the constructs swiftly dissolved into component quarks, gluons, and other minuscule building blocks, torn apart by powerful tides caused by realities pulling against each other. In less than a millisecond, the towering mound of Plushkins was sundered into energy and quantum dust. And in that same millisecond, a something, a /someone/ leisurely swooped in to grab a prize. The being was a complex structured pattern of energy constructing both a "mind" and "body" at home in the over- and under-layers of the universe. For it and its kind, matter-layer was an exotic, frigid purgatory full of strange things like "elements" and "atoms" binding together into "molecules." Even the most energetic plasmas of the matter-layer were ice-cold slurries. Most amazing of all to the beings was the fact such a hostile environment could evolve life, sentience. It is all a manner of perspective. The being, race and personal-name-of-the-moment untranslatable, was a scientist-explorer, following those sentients who had managed to pierce the home-layers with their technology. Someday the data collected by it and its colleagues would be used to decide if first contact should be initiated; or if the atomic races required further evolution to reach a point whereupon they could directly perceive home-layers, contact otherwise stunting technologies and personal growth. The debate raged on, and would for many tides to come. As a scientist-explorer, the being held within itself the patterns-of-potential which allowed contact with atomic objects, even permitted brief excursions to the matter-layer itself if necessary. The appropriate receptacle formed, the being caught an atomic, easily sculling away from the miniature maelstrom created by the annihilation of so much free matter. The long hair Plushkin of purple, yellow, and gold was unlike anything the being had ever encountered before in its travels. It deftly probed and prodded the object, tasting atomic structures and translating them into the energetic sequences it better understood. It could not see the bright Plushkin colors, nor feel the soft Plushkin fur and plump body, or gaze into loving Plushkin eyes. However, one thing was quite clear.... The Plushkin was dang cute, and the scientist-explorer had the sudden overwhelming urge display the find to others.