The Evil Death Rays Paramount has aimed at this poor author has prompted her to remind you Star Trek is owned by them, now and forever, a fact which no temporal paradox can undo. Alan Decker, safe beneath his Death-Ray-B-Gone shield, happily created Star Traks. I write BorgSpace; and excuse me while I find some aluminum foil to cower under.
Ghosts in the Machine, Part II
::Disembodied Voice (male, with obviously fake Australian accent. You know, the type people attempt, but which always comes off sounding like an Irish-British-American South muddle. Er, um...that's right, on with the recap.)::
Last time on Star Traks: BorgSpace...
While traveling through transwarp, Cube #347 encountered an unusual anomaly signature. Upon closer look, the phenomenon turned out to be a bizarre binary system containing several wormholes between the widely separated stars. Obviously artificial in nature (not withstanding transmitters welcoming travelers to Grand Central Station), the system has become a one-way trap for any ship drawn towards it, including a multitude of disparate species located insystem squabbling over Artifacts. However, the system is not the focus of the story.
During the sequence of events leading to cube entering the wormhole system, subunit #522 falls off its rocker. It severs its connection with the Greater Consciousness and locks itself in Bulk Cargo Hold #3. The Collective responds by designating the subunit rogue and directing the resident sub-collective to "retire" the wayward units. Easier said than done, especially when nightmarish flashes of Cube #347 going boom affect the neural net. Finally, the cargo hold is opened and what the sub-collective of Cube #347 finds is nothing...subunit #522 had vanished.
On with the story, mates.
*****
The universe twisted (is twisting/will twist), bent (is bending/will bend), contorted (is contorting/will contort) into ninth-dimensional impossibilities as a space-time rip formed in a relatively unimportant spiral galaxy. Paradoxes bloomed and faded. The primary timeline abruptly altered, as an incident minor on the scale of the infinite rippled reality with hurricane force. Civilizations fell; civilizations rose; a major historical figure due to be born in 243 years was never conceived. Gzhekay ether surfers sailed pterodactyl-winged ships to the most distant quantum realities yet reported by the Guinness Tome of Galactic Records. A feared cybernetic consciousness known as Borg dissolved amid the throes of a mental plague, which in turn opened the galactic borders first to the locust-like ravages of the Dark, and later the organic Borg analogue known simply as They. The devil is replaced by a demon more fearful, and the Milky Way becomes lost in dark fear for eight galactic revolutions. Finally, a new wave of sentience emerges (is emerging/will emerge) from worlds scoured an era earlier to primitive organisms; and while peering through its telescope, a long being wonders if anyone lives on hospitable worlds circling distant stars.
And the incident which initiates (initiated/will initiate) the collapse?
*
In the depths of space, a transwarp conduit terminus formed, an angry turquoise whirlpool spitting sparks of white unlike the normal exit portal. From the tear into a non-Einstein space tumbled an Exploratory-class Borg cube, one corner shearing against termini boundary and ripping into a scattering of debris. The damage, however horrible, was minor considering the real emergency, the proverbial stake through the heart upon which the cube writhed: fiery crevices ripped a hundred meters deep through duralloy hide, showing where powerful cores used to reside; unseen from the outside was the gaping hole at the center where the primary core, plus the surrounding fifty meters, was now a globe of molten metal.
The wounds were mortal, terminal, and it was only the robust noncentralized character of Borg engineering which kept the ship in one piece, allowed it to transfer back to normal space at all. Somewhere a single power core remained functional, bleeding yet still beating. Of the biological machinery, thousands of drones were dead or dying, the living too busy patching, welding, wiring, duct taping to do anything but step over the bodies of the fallen, to shove aside a corpse blocking a critical panel. Most frightening of all, one which an observer would not know from dispassionate expressions, was the severance with the Collective, for the vinculum, assuming it survived the initial explosion, was not working. True death awaited the crew, not Borg immortality as memory, whisper, within the One.
The maintenance effort was not enough, willing hands too few, damage too grave. Ponderously spinning, shedding gasses and metal, a giant fireball consumed Cube #347, swiftly feeding on oxygenated atmosphere before extinguishing itself. Left behind were cooling spars and charred remains, black on black to the universe, flotsam and jetsam to blow before the cosmic winds.
*
One otherwise expendable ship, lost at the wrong time for the wrong reason, may have the power of butterfly wings. Into motion are set the currents of change, which from innocent beginnings rise a storm.
*****
Images of destruction swept through the sub-collective of Cube #347, a future-past echo of what-may-be. The true temporal nature of the graphically raw depiction was not recognized, thousands of minds cataloging the incident as a data trip wire triggered by entry into Bulk Cargo Hold #3. Captain, many levels and subsections removed from the site of forced entry nonetheless was amid the front ranks of engineering and weapons hierarchy members, examining a scene minus the expected presence of rogue subunit #522. The signs of methodical, if hasty, departure were in evidence.
A flick of the communal mind sent a dozen drones at the van of the aborted mission forward despite protests. Mode shifted from securing and recycling to examination with the same jerking hesitancy of a car with failing transmission. While a subhierarchy of command and control oversaw the redirection of immediate priorities (long range goal of "retiring" subunit #522 remained effective), another subgroup slashed through software jungles for additional hidden pitfalls left by the absent prey. The latter effort was for naught.
"There is nothing here," exclaimed Captain with disgust as he waved one hand towards his viewscreen, the first movement he had made in the two hours since breaking into Bulk Cargo Hold #3. Data - encrypted Borg alphanumerics - scrolled up the screen too quickly to be parsed by sight alone. It did not matter as the display was solely melodramatic: actual summarization and compilation of information occurred in the dataspaces, crunched by the organic processing power of many cybernetically-enhanced brains laboring in parallel.
Second, also in the nodal intersection, broke his deep link to the working sub-collective, glassy eyes blinking as submerged personality reasserted individuality. "I don't know," he responded. "There was that collection of Rugalic conception poetry, not to mention the clips of 'Wackiest Moments in Borg Assimilation' 87 of 422 compiled."
"You know I meant subunit #522, not the tangents we arrested." Second's wordless reply was noncommittal. "Not only is there no trace of the original trap, but there is no relevant data in any operational system which the subunit was required to share with us. Subunit #522 could not have lived in an information vacuum, that is impossible for Borg, yet..." Captain's tirade trailed off as the sensory feed associated with 105 of 240's signature was highlighted by an autonomic filtering program.
{Will ya looky here, Boss! See what I found!}
{Data nodes,} commented Delta to the engineering drone. {You are assigned maintenance overhaul of nanite growth vats in subsection 8, submatrix 14 on this portion of your wake period, not scavenging in Bulk Cargo Hold #3.}
{They were hidden under a scrap pile, near the Odd Contraption,} noted 105 of 240 with unnecessary helpfulness. The Odd Contraption was a construct of individually recognized components which together did not make sense. It was yet another piece of the confusing jigsaw whole. {What should I be doin' with 'em, Boss?}
{They will be linked to the dataspaces,} replied Delta with exasperation. {Do we have to think of everything?}
105 of 240 responded, {Hey, hey! I just work here, ya know. I'm jus' a drone. Thinkin's not my strong suit.}
{Then don't,} rebuked Delta acidly. 105 of 240 suddenly straightened as a transporter caught him, beaming him back to his boring task on the other side of the cube. The data nodes clattered to the ground and were quickly retrieved by a unit actually assigned to the hold. {Thinking your presence was better suited in Bulk Cargo Hold #3 after removing four multi-spectral gas analysis sensors has allowed vat #5 to bubble over. Clean the mess when proper repairs are complete.}
The nodes were linked to the dataspaces and entered, following a paranoid virus spring cleaning. No software nasties waited with sharp algorithmic fangs. Instead, information in the nodes was found to be highly fragmental due to incomplete encryption/erasure. The base data was chopped into short segments of two to six gigabytes, then overlain with not with one, but four randomly modulated fractual encryption layers. The keys lay somewhere amid the millions of security permutations stored in Borg archives, "somewhere" being the operative word. Unconnected fragments were separated by immense holes; and tantalizingly faint tracings of relevant information lay nearly obscured under layers of purposefully recorded garbage. Much time and dedicated resources would be required to reconstruct the semblance of comprehensibility. The Greater Consciousness grudgingly deemed the project important enough to provide additional processing power, at least until more pressing considerations - i.e. the Galactic Inquirer ships which were homing in on the unimatrix location of the current Queen - interrupted. As subunit #522 was not only isolated from the Collective, but appeared to have physically disappeared, the rogue units were no longer a primary priority.
Even without major processing, one repeating phrase was obvious because of its numerical character. What "157.362.B" meant, however, was unknown. Discoveries from the physical front were more forthcoming, if equally frustrating.
{The chromoton elements suggest a temporal function,} argued Delta with herself. In an effort to understand the Odd Contraption, she had appropriated 150 regenerating engineering units plus ten command and control, dividing the group evenly. She had then taken the highly unusual step of designating each of her bodies as focal point. Delta did not normally compartmentalize her two physical selves into quasi-separate units, the sensation akin to an individual consciously forcing him or herself to develop multiple personality disorder, but in this case, a similar, if slightly different view, was required by the 160 participating mentalities.
{Species #7924 technology - Drinian - indicates cloaking. Hypothesis is bolstered due to presence of personal phase-cloak hardware of species #56 modified by Luplup for use by her vyst bodies,} indicated body B as her subhierarchy highlighted the appropriate parts on an internalized Odd Contraption model.
The Odd Contraption was a chaotic mess incorporating elements from transporters, tricorders, temporal containment devices, and clock and matter phasing technologies. The base unit was a cylinder with superficial resemblance to a hot water heater or overly tall maturation chamber. Bundles of wires and tubes sprouted from junctures on the skin, accompanied by the inevitable blinking green lights. As far as the sub-collective could discern, most of the appendages and lights were superfluous, although some circuits did lead to five pieces of auxiliary equipment which looked like knee-high boxes topped with yellow lava lamps. The contraption was powered by the subunit's private power plant.
A data node connected to the central base had undergone the same complicated scrambling procedure as earlier found nodes. The reoccurring theme of 157.362.B was in evidence, but meaning remained unfathomable.
Delta finally broke the deliberating subhierarchy apart, reintegrating herself and dispersing individual members to other duties. No insights had been gained. The situation appeared it would remain stalemated until at least one node was partially reconstructed. The rhythms of the cube continued, normal maintenance affected only slightly by the process of determining subunit #522's fate.
One particular drone, diverted from spare limb prosthesis inventory to salvaging medical apparatus in Bulk Cargo Hold #3, abruptly halted as she came to the hold's immense threshold. A tailgater bumped into her, and a bottleneck swiftly developed. 127 of 152, however, simply clutched gold-flecked turquoise shawl tightly to her shoulders, refusing to enter.
{Spiritual radiance fills the air. Ghostly vapors permeate the ether, the spectral shadows of sprites from the Other Side. If I enter unprotected, I will surely disrupt the lay lines. The emission is much like that in Replication Chamber #6, only brighter, stronger,} explained the former gypsy in an excited tone when queried as to her hesitation. {I must convene a seance! Contact the spirits with an Ouija board to learn why they gather here!}
Doctor: {No, no, no, stubborn puppy! Subunit #522 had vet equipment which needs to be sorted and transferred to drone maintenance stores.}
"Crystal balls and candles. I must have crystal balls and candles," muttered 127 of 152 as she surveyed a scene only she could see. She dismissed her duty timetable as unimportant. "Yes, a crystal ball on that workbench there." Another body bumped into her, but was ignored. "And at least one, no two, black tapers on the power generator. No...three...definitely three." The intranet complaints of her roadblock status were given the same disinterest as physical jostling by drones sidling by. Outward, all remained silent amid the disrupted flow of bodies through the partially blocked door; inward, grumblings were swiftly gaining force.
Knowing 127 of 152 would not comply without a slight tickle of Pavlovian reinforcement, Doctor triggered compliance pathways. He disliked doing so, but sometimes standard praise and reward programs did not work. He watched/felt compliance impulses travel the customary detour into command and control, as all such high-level compulsions did. Automatic background processes confirmed unit 27 of 27 held the hierarchical status to force compliance in unit 127 of 152. However, the target never received her software prod, the impulse interrupted and dispersed before it could complete its mission. Doctor grumbled.
{What is the meaning of this boo-boo, Big Dog Captain? 127 of 152 is delaying our ant hill schedules, causing inefficiencies which will have Mad Cat Delta on my poor tail. I am only the vet. We must comply with the order to strip Bulk Cargo Hold #3 of useful material, even if the bad boys and girls of the subunit itself have gone bye-bye. Therefore, 127 of 152 must comply too in a timely manner, or no treat.} Doctor picted a bone-shaped biscuit product, of which several hundred kilograms were secreted in various locales on the cube.
{Negative,} intoned Captain. Latent stimuli-response pathways had adjusted immediate priorities for Captain, for command and control, for the cube. New orders were dispersed. Three drones from maintenance materialized next to a now paralyzed 127 of 152. She was bodily picked up and moved into the cargo hold proper, her mutterings of disrupted spiritual essences ignored. 127 of 152's continued scathing words went unheard as the medical trio lay her on the same workbench contemplated only moments before as the proper location to center a crystal ball. The tooth numbing whine of a surgical instrument spiraled into the ultrasonic registers, merging with background white nose of engineering's continuing efforts to salvage serviceable material.
Replied Doctor, {We understandy-wandy! Compliance. Sorry, poor 127 of 152. You get a biscuit anyway.}
After the Ghost episode, 127 of 152, the only drone on the cube able to see the phased intruders due to a unique combination of technology and biology, had been outfitted with an auxiliary implant. The implant passively monitored visual-cortex activity and estimated the phase variance 127 of 152 was detecting at any given moment. Normally phase adjustment was zero, although occasional transient spikes had been recorded. Hailing from an alternate quantum universe, the Ghosts had been left behind several months earlier without adequate measurement of variance shift; and without satisfactory analysis, the Borg could not dispatch extra-dimensional ships to assimilate the natives. The monitoring implant in 127 of 152 was now registering a massive phase oscillation different from Ghost frequencies. While drone maintenance could remotely read recorded shift variances, specifics were required which could only be obtained by immediate implant extraction and examination.
80 of 133 placed a bloody implant onto the table next to the gypsy's head, splatters of thick, red liquid slowly drying to rust stains on the blue and gold shawl. His prosthetic was waved over the small metal globule several times, like a magician flourishing wand over hat. 127 of 152's artificial eye had been completely removed, leaving behind an empty socket. The drone herself remained functional, and demanding her eye be replaced and visual input restored.
{Frequency variance 157.362.B,} said 80 of 133, a familiar number swiftly consumed by the sub-collective. The phase shift was the same repeated sequence found in fragmented and as yet unresolved data nodes from subunit #522. It could not be, and was not, a coincidence. Even the poor consensus engine which was the sub-collective of Cube #347 could knit together sufficient circumstantial evidence to pronounce nodes and frequency variance conclusively related.
*
An electrical storm; an epileptic fit spanning half a galaxy and multiple realities. A consciousness unable to cope, unable to heal itself, searching (has searched/will search) for a cure lost when the unstable minds of an unimportant vessel were viciously severed from the Whole. Not just minds, but bodies and files...files long purged from conventional archives as irrelevant, files still existent within the dusty data coffers and mildly insane brains of that now vital cube.
Hopeless.
Futile.
A galaxy watches (has watched/will watch) in anticipation as a dreaded entity labeled by some to be akin to a natural disaster (including several major insurance companies) tore itself apart. Anticipation turns to horror as cybernetic chaos self-destructs in fits of destruction, demolishing planets, solar systems, stars, sectors. At the center, the coherent Borg consciousness continues to dwindle as parts of the All spin away and are lost. The mental plague is (was/will be) unstoppable, the final terminal point known, inevitable.
Futile.
Blackness.
*****
Corruption. Corruption. Corruption.
Subunit #522 marched into the strongly beating heart of Corruption. The cancerous growth had to be cut out at the source, purified in searing fire, prior to the temporal insert indicated by calculations to be the pivot separating Perfection from perversion. An obsessive drive to perfection would eventually expel the infection represented by Cube #347, but the time required to do so was unacceptable. Recovery was calculated to be much swifter if the locus was removed.
Cold, perfect logic.
The subunit disregarded the drones which shared the spatial-temporal epoch. They, the sub-collective host, were as much an impediment as a duralloy bulkhead - none. In turn, the sub-collective ignored the insubstantial forms of subunit #522. Initial reconnaissance complete, the subunit reassembled in Replication Reclamation Chamber #8, walking through bulkheads which were not quite there. The subunit had only itself to rely on, minds entwined as a too small One, denied by both shift variance and voluntary self-exile the invisible Consciousness which even Cube #347 (and the subunit of now) could access. All which remained was to determine proper triggering sequences...
*
Many observing as One; many speaking as One. Yet, insidiously, not quite One. Individual thoughts, individual opinions, individual consciousness fluidly flowed within the Whole, merging and disincorporating as necessary. Many working as One, yes, but not truly One. Not truly One in the classic sense of the Perfection Borg had been striving to obtain for millennia.
It was a great day, a historic day, a celebration reflected in the scene beheld by a lone(!) point-of-view. The wary stance of unobtrusive guards in unusual, yet recognizable, Starfleet uniform gave evidence all was not as trusting as it could be. However, after decades of animosity, the attitude was understandable. The Hive Collective was not offended. Offense was an attitude for small beings.
A human (<<Species #5618,>> whispered from the depths automatically) female stepped to the table. The individual - a drone - standing prepared was openly curious about the pomp and circumstance of the occasion. Why was this ceremony necessary? Why the finery and protocol? The Collective was not impressed, could not be impressed by shiny weapons and neatly pressed clothes. None of the questions were vocalized, and no inquisitiveness was reflected in the drone's deadpan expression. Perhaps the whole eye darted back and forth a bit more than proscribed, but that was all. Most oddly, for one unknowing of the fundamental changes in the core Greater Consciousness, the lone drone was not forcefully reabsorbed into the One for his individualistically-inclined transgressions. As long as he did not actively oppose the goals of the Whole, small mental aberrations could be overlooked, deemed irrelevant.
But why should he resist the Will of the Hive? After all, he was among the first generation of willing volunteers for assimilation.
"You are ready to sign the Commonwealth Treaty?" inquired the medal-bedecked woman, ornate lapel rank denoting her a high-ranking admiral. (Martina McCallister, hissed the ever-present Voice, accompanied by an extensive dossier containing everything from official Starfleet accomplishments to current familial difficulties to sexual/species orientation.) "Are you the total representation?" Martina asked, questioning tone one of mild disbelief. She had obviously expected something more grandiose than a single drone on the ground and a very inoffensive pre-Dark Exploratory-class cube in Earth orbit.
Answered the drone: "A single unit is sufficient for this irrelevant ceremony. We are prepared. We are Hive."
After visibly overcoming the reminder that trillions, not one, Hiver attended the ceremony, the woman picked up an old-fashioned ink pen. The drone did likewise. A word-filled sheet of pressed and dried vegetative pulp material was signed under the watchful lenses of dozens of unobtrusive cambots broadcasting to the multitudes of individuals tuning in on one of the most important treaties in Federation history.
*
The future-past echo washed over the consciousness of subunit #522, startling it. Something was very, very wrong. A future of the Borg (Hive?) submitting to a treaty with the Federation? A future with individuality obviously rife within the Greater Consciousness? A drone with true free will, no matter how limited, was the hallmark of Corruption!
Tens of eyes gazed at a diverse suite of instruments, reading and collating measurements. A backwards running clock, always at the edge of consciousness, was carefully examined. When the timer reached zero, the subunit's gambit would be over as individual units began to experience consequences associated with lack of regeneration; however, at this point, time was not critical. A conclusion swiftly formed.
This temporal era was unsuitable: the harbingers of corruption had embarked upon a hunt for the subunit. Not the oblivious sub-collective-now, but the sub-collective-to-be. Despite the potential minor setback, all was not lost. With time and space literally no barrier, variance spoor could be confused, trackers lost. Cube #347 sub-collective might be successful in this somewhen, but other era awaited.
Subunit #522 gathered into a tight knot, precious equipment at the center, and vanished.
*****
Temporal phasing, the technology was called. Both species #988 and species #2061 had been in initial stages of experimentation when fully assimilated. The Collective accelerated assimilation progress when temporal mechanics were actively pursued by a target race for defensive (or offensive) purposes. Untangling spaghetti timelines to emphasize the path most favorable to the Borg was time consuming and an inefficient use of resources better spent in the present.
The technology of temporal phasing combined the concepts of time travel and spatial phase-cloaks. It allowed an object to be transported through time, arriving slightly out of phase in relation to surrounding matter. Phasing took advantage of the fact all matter, except that found in the heart of black holes, was largely empty "air." A phased object, animate or inanimate, could slip its atomic structure through that of a "normal" object, electrons, protons, and neutrons never quite mathematically occupying the same space as overlying matter. Of course, the denser the obstructing medium, the more difficult it was to penetrate, but anything less than dense-packed neutronium - found only in the casings of certain hellish weapons at this particular junction in Borg civilization - was easily compromised. The Collective held matter phasing to be a rather useless technology, phased objects unable to affect normal objects, and visa-versa; except in the case of phasers or disrupters, which due to their nature could handily rid the universe of any spies thinking to take advantage of the ability to walk through walls.
Phasing and temporal technologies were difficult to interface, although not impossible. Explosions altering the past and future timelines of the lab attempting to explore the technology tended to put a damper on research. The Greater Consciousness had never seriously pursued the concept of temporal phasing due to two major difficulties. The first hurdle related to the fact the technology was unsuitable for temporal translocation of any individual point mass greater than 200 kilograms. The second, and foremost, argument dealt with the inability for temporally phased drones to form a link with any but another similarly transported drone; i.e. connection with the Collective was not possible, forcing drones to rely upon insufficient mental resources and programmed instincts.
The dark future-past echo which had momentarily overwhelmed the sub-collective was gone. Although the ghostly reality had dissipated to the maybe-future where it belonged as one of multitudinous possibilities, the memory of it was etched upon the sub-collective's neural net. Paralyzing panic was the predictable consequence.
{By us dying, the Collective disintegrates? What type of future is that?} wailed 21 of 39. {Damned to assimilation imperfection if we live, damned to terminate all Borg if we don't,} he continued with a bastardized version of a popular cliche.
Interjected Second, trying to calm the situation, {Only if we are destroyed in the near future, does it seem as if the Borg cease to exist. If we are terminated at any other nexus...}
{But I don't want to terminate at all! What if there is a supreme being directing all our actions? Do you want to have it say "I turned my back for two centuries, and now my Herds are scattered. Explain how this happened." What could I reply, but "Oops?"} continued 21 of 39. His eccentric religious views as an ex-pastor for the Ministry of Universal Unitarianism Togetherness and Infinite Cows (MUUTIC) had never been completely purged. True, he no longer converted unwilling subjects by forcing a victim to milk a cow while he preached of a Deity gathering his Herd of souls, but certain aspects of MUUTIC remained. 21 of 39's rhetorical question set off a series of internal deliberations about termination, which individual Borg could be blamed for Collective extinction, and the merits of bovine spontaneous generation.
{Desist!} roared Captain into the intranets. The command echoed into the suddenly quiet spaces, interrupted only by commentary swiftly fading to a sputtering halt. {This unBorg panic is irrelevant in any instance, and even more so if no physical reason exists for an explosion to occur. We must learn if we are at risk before we can act. How shall we accomplish this?}
{But,} questioned 145 of 230, {what about the temporal factor? If the subunit has gone to the past, it surely knows what we will try to do to counter its actions, and will take steps to counter-counteract. In turn, by stopping at the appropriate place on the tau vector, we will know what the subunit did, and perform a counter-counter-counteraction in order to affirm that the original actions we desire - not exploding - happen. However, now if subunit #522...}
The science of paradoxes is confusing, especially when temporal mechanics are involved. As 145 of 230 twisted circular logic into increasingly convoluted knots, Captain's eyes glazed over, following by a numbing of his brain. At least those were the best descriptors for the general deer-in-the-spotlight condition which was threatening to envelope the sub-collective. Work all over the cube ground to a stand still as 145 of 230 expounded why dodging destiny was an exercise in futility.
Finally, out of sheer self-defense for the sanity of the sub-collective mind, Captain grabbed the nearest unsecured object in a transporter lock and beamed it into the air over 145 of 230's head. Unfortunately for Second, he was that object. No damage was sustained by either drone, and best of all, 145 of 230 ended his tirade. He was warned not to embark upon the subject of temporal paradox again, else be dumped outside the protection of the cube during transwarp.
Captain initiated the consensus process, engineering and sensory hierarchies the primary resources upon which the cascade relied. A viable solution surfaced: scanning the cube for residual shift variance trances of frequency 157.362.B.
A phased object leaves behind a fingerprint signature when it passes through non-gaseous matter, normal atmospheric gasses too diffuse to support spoor for more than a few seconds. The denser the material transversed the longer it was possible to read traces of that passage. Unfortunately, initial internal scans indicated many residual prints of phased matter intersecting the cube, concentrations located near engine cores, Bulk Cargo Hold #3, and other internal areas. All which could be concluded was that subunit #522 had been very, very busy in the immediate past, or rather pasts as some residues were calculated by decay profile to have originated shortly after the Terra-Director episode. A more precise method was required to pinpoint any phased objects (or drones!) currently aboard the cube.
Delta, or more precisely the engineering hierarchy, supplied the simple answer: density. The solution was intuitive, assuming one had intuition; Cube #347, like all Borg sub-collectives, lacked such an asset and had to rely upon assimilated knowledge. Concisely, a phased object increased the density profile of any matter it overlapped. For instance, a volume of duralloy had a given density, but if a phased mass was concurrently filling "empty" atomic space, then density readings of the duralloy in question would increase. To precisely pinpoint anomalies required an intensive scan from an external source, in this case, small, remotely operated vehicles (ROVs) - coffin shaped platforms mounting thrusters, reaction mass, and sensor modules able to be quickly substituted for a specific task.
After much bickering over who was to pilot the ROVs, the scan began. A picture quickly built of the cube's interior. Most of the ship was a shadowed outline, more suggestion of Borg might than reality. However, a dozen anomalies sat menacingly within the superstructure, one each for periphery auxiliary cores, and two for the buried main drive. The scan abruptly ended as one ROV crashed into another, beginning a chain reaction of bad driving accusations, cumulating in a free-for-all demolition derby.
{Sensors tells you to be more careful!} complained the head of the sensory hierarchy as a machine corpse wrapped itself around an exposed sensor antenna. The entire grid output wobbled slightly, as if perception was through the eyes of the mildly drunk, before stabilizing. {Sensors is trying to keep tabs on insystem activity, not that the situation has changed since we were first noticed.}
Despite the destruction of scanning platforms, engineering had recovered enough data to establish anomaly locations. Drones dispatched to locales found nothing...at least to the unaided eye or standard sensor suite. Dense-o-matics, however, confirmed the presence of a phased object embedded in bulkheads; and 127 of 152 sullenly divulged additional data when dragged to one of the sites.
"It is a chunky thing with hoses sticking out to the side and purple wires over next to the do-hickey. Not a do-hickey, exactly, but a whatchamacallit."
57 of 510, former police sketch artist, attempted to draw what 127 of 152 described. Although it would have been more efficient for 127 of 152 to image the object directly, her "inner eye" currently seemed unable to resolve it into an adequate visual. The aura was too intense, claimed the gypsy. Doctor believed the actual cause was faulty wiring or a short circuit in the visual cortex, even though drone maintenance was unable to find such. More extensive diagnostics were required, of which there was no time to perform.
"No," said 127 of 152, "more flare there, near the spork shape. And put a pair of yellow wires twisting around the wicket."
"What is a wicket?" asked 57 of 510. "There is no definition in the libraries, unless you are referring to a piece of equipment associated with odd Terran sport called croquet." As a sketch artist for a multi-species authority, 57 of 510 had been forced to draw from dreadful oral descriptions before, but never of this magnitude. The emerging picture looked like something a hyperactive five year-old might put together, assuming he had access to a metal shop, a junked car, a fraternity party worth of beer cans, and lots of duct tape. Either that, or it was a sculptor's masterpiece.
As it turned out ten minutes later, it was an infamous abstract artwork. Titled "Psychedelic Fish Rapper in C Minor," it had been conveniently reported "lost" by the Galactic Institute of Tasteful Art six decades prior following three deaths and numerous mental breakdowns after two days of exhibition. The anomalies of actual interest - 11 - had a much different, if no less menacing, shape. They were also instantly recognizable as to their deadly function.
A given bomb was a sphere thirty centimeters in diameter, belted by six cylinders each the size of a soda can. A complicated series of wires laced the sphere's surface, connecting cylinders to center, and entering a box ten centimeters an edge situated on top. The overall form was that of species #5252 Devastation Device(TM): a miniature tactical nuke designed by sabotage experts to "surgically" remove targets protected within dense population clusters. The sealed box was a sensor cluster programmed to trigger detonation at a given cue. As the stimulant could range from speeding faster than warp 5 to stopping to utilizing a specific lidar frequency, the explosion could be immanent. However, if future-past echoes were correct, the final moments leading to immolation were associated with transwarp.
It was impossible to disarm the bombs while they were presently phased into the bulkhead armoring transwarp cores. It would be necessary to follow the subunit back in phased time and remove the bombs during original placement. Use of the temporal phasing device would theoretically also place any sub-collective members in the same space-time frame as subunit #522, activating Collective mandate to capture and deactivate.
At least Cube #347 was not in transwarp, and would not be entering such a mode of travel in the immediate future given the nature of the system in which the ship was trapped. The next hurdle, therefore, was to determine how to operate the Odd Contraption temporal phasing device.
****************
End Part II -
Fooled you! I bet you thought you would only have a Part II to open Season 4, finishing the Season 3 cliffhanger. You, however, are wrong. There will be a Part III. Will the future-past echoes come true? Will the Odd Contraption work? And what about the unusual wormhole system conveniently ignored by this story? Maybe these questions will be answered in "Ghosts in the Machine, Part III"; and then again, maybe not.
Return to the Season 4 page