G'day mate! BorgSpace is written by a professional, and should never be attempted unless you have gone around the bend, much like the author. Paramount owns Star Trek; and Decker created Star Traks. Steve and Terri originate from The Crocodile Hunter, an interesting educational show which is an Animal Planet production. Remember, don't let yourself be bitten by a dingo!
Molpul Hunter
An out-of-focus scene consisting of flowing geometric shapes bathed in a greenish light or as seen through a like-colored filter. Fuzzy lights blinked red, white, and orange. Pivoting, the picture turned, focusing on a pair of humans, both dressed in perfectly laundered and pressed khaki shorts and button-down shirts, top edges of socks rising from boots suitable for long distance hikes over rough terrain. The man, to the left, was average in height, a lopsided smile lighting his face, eyes sparkling with anticipation. Conservatively cut light brown hair gently framed features. His female companion was of similar height, although her appearance slightly sharper. Her eyes danced with an expectation alike to that of her comrade. Long hair was pulled back into a sensible tail.
"This time on Molpul Hunter, we leave those with fangs and claws behind, traveling to explore a new environment - a Borg cube! G'day mate!" narrated a solid voice in a decidedly Australian accent with just a hint of joyful boyishness. "I am your host, Steve, and this is me good mate, Terri." Terri, the woman, waved.
"Nature comes in many shapes and has evolved creatures, even civilizations, to take advantage of an infinite variety of niches. The Borg, a collective consciousness comprised of billions, if not trillions, of linked individuals, is just another fascinating variation." Steve strolled down a hallway as he spoke, corridor walls, now discernible, studded with small displays set next to mysterious buttons and devices, in addition to the occasional group of blinking lights. Ahead, the corridor ended, opening into a larger space.
Steve motioned towards someone behind the camera, for this was a filmed excursion, no script required. "Hold up, mates. I will take a gander to see if there is anything of interest." He crept forward, head peering several minutes at something out of sight around a corner. Finally he motioned for Terri and camera to advance.
"Ah, this is a treat," quietly breathed Steve. Behind him was a place where several corridors met. "Please, get a close-up of the magnificent creature standing in the intersection. That is the alpha leader of this cube."
Carefully the camera nosed forward, rewarded with the sight of a lone drone facing a viewscreen. From behind, the drone looked like any other of his type - mechanical, menacing, and not very photogenic. The camera's position was to the rear left quarter of the Borg, in a visual blind spot created by the optical implant obscured eyesocket. Over his shoulder, the viewscreen was active, split into four sections. The upper right quadrant was a static view of an asteroid as seen from afar; and the other three quadrants displayed an ever-changing view of ship interior.
Said Steve from off-camera, "Now, I can tell this is the alpha leader due to my long centuries of observing the natural world. For anybody else, he looks much like any other drone on this cube. Be quiet, all, and let us simply watch for a bit. I would not want to startle this admirable specimen. Shall we listen in?"
Although the drone was relatively motionless, except for small jerks of his head in a sequence following the changing interior pictures, he was not silent. A conversation was being held with others unknown, unseen.
"Two humans, plus a camera crew made up of two undocumented beings, both the same racial profile. It cannot be /that/ hard to find them. Unauthorized humans cause too much trouble, so locate them. Weapons, you can spare part of your active hierarchy for the hunt, as can you, Assimilation."
The screen altered, still in four sections, but the hunk of rock now occupying a central circle with the outer edge divided into three equal portions. The rim pictures continued to blink between interior cube views, most showing little except machinery bathed in twilight. A few scenes were active with moving bodies busily accomplishing unfamiliar tasks.
"Weapons, can you or can you not destroy the orbiting defenses?" Pause. "Destroy them and leave us intact. You know what I meant. The meaning never changes, and will not change." Four tracks, thin orange ribbons, wound around the asteroid. A yellow ball traced each path. "Delta, I am well aware of the rare metals available, those able to be converted into tritanium and other dense metal alloys." Pause. "Prepare plans for consensus, Weapons. And there /will/ be a consensus before we enter attack vector. The defenses are of foreign design, built by an uncatalogued race. Dead race, by all data. Sensors, continue sweeps to obtain as many details as possible."
The camera turned to focus on Steve. He adjusted his shirt slightly, tugging it straight. "What a rare occurrence, actual recording of the use of the singular. This may be a first. However, keep in mind that this is the cube Alpha, and as such is a mental nexus of all others in the ship when the Collective isn't supervising directly. As we continue our expedition through this cube, exploring the Borg in their natural environment, we will keep a weather eye out for additional aberrant behavior."
Terri patted Steve's arm, pointing back towards the intersection. The self-conversation had stopped. Eerie quiet permeated the air, broken only by the distant hum and thump of machinery. "What is it, love?"
Swinging to follow Terri's finger, the camera focused upon the Borg. Instead of looking at the viewscreen, he was staring directly at Steve, expression not quite deadpan. Puzzled? Confused? Surprise? Something passed over his face before reassertion of studied neutrality. The viewscreen trisections were all the same, displaying Steve, Terri, and the two cameramen from the point of view of the drone. A step was taken.
"Steady, steady," soothed Steve for the sake of the audience, "we may be in a bit of difficulty here, but we can avoid trouble. It appears that the Borg may be getting ready to charge, but, like many pack animals, he would be braver if there were more than just him alone."
Uttered the Borg: "You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile."
Steve smiled at the side of the screen, "Wow! Did you hear that? That is the standard Borg threat-display call. He is riled up now! Let us all carefully back away, in order to show that we are not a threat." Steve began to demonstrate, hands held up, palms forward. He took one step after another backwards. "And now that we have some space between us and him, we run. Borg are not known for either their sprinting ability or their long-distance endurance, having few natural predators which would foster the need for speed from an individual drone."
The camera wobbled after Molpul Hunter and Terri, following the two humans as they jogged to safer corridors. Time on the move was not too long, approximately ten minutes, but of sufficient duration to lose initial pursuers. Soon Steve had set up a quiet ambush point, peering around the corner at Borg approaching from down the corridor, and intently reading the display of a small handheld device he waved in the drone's general direction.
Four drones had passed the hiding spot unmolested except for passive scans when Steve quietly addressed the camera, eyes twinkling, "An appropriate target is coming, and so we need to be very quiet. Borg may not look strong, but appearances are deceiving. The least drone could whack me from here to the Andromeda galaxy, like that," a snap of fingers emphasized words. "What I am going to do takes surprise." The molpul hunter turned and theatrically crouched. Out in the corridor came the measured sounds of a stout body approaching.
Terri's voice, off-camera: "Remember, Steve is a highly trained professional, and you should not try this on your own. If you find yourself faced with Borg difficulties, flee to your nearest military outpost, assuming it hasn't already been assimilated."
First a shadow, then a distinct shape, a tall humanoid form stepped into the ambush area, a point where one hallway T'ed with another. Steve leaped forward, a full body tackle which slammed the drone to opposite wall, then floor. Terri scampered forward, lending her weight to assist in calming the thrashing drone.
"The key to proper Borg securement is this little gizmo," panted Steve as he kneeled on the cybernized humanoid's shoulder blades. The gizmo in question was a small black box with two prongs set at one end, a small arc of electricity crackling between the nubs. "What you do is - Hold those legs, Terri! Good girl! - administer a small shock to the base of the skull like this." The stunner was shoved at juncture of head and neck, causing the drone to jerk. "This action will not work on those individuals who are specialized for tactical or engineering due to extra exoskeletal electrical shunting, but for others such as this fine fellow, the stunner works a charm. Terri, finish strapping him so everybody can get a look at this specimen."
The Borg was rolled upon his back. He stared at a point somewhere a meter in front of himself, waving a hand in front of his face. "I can't see! I can't see! I'm blind! I can't hear any of the others! I can't move my legs! I can't see!" he moaned. An optic implant obscured half of his face; and pupils in the two matching eyes on the opposite side were tightly constricted.
Terri pulled a strap out of a pocket, handing one end to Steve. The two of them first worked to cinch legs together, then attempted to trap arms to sides. As they labored, Steve continued to talk, "That little love tap does not actually hurt the drone, although he may complain a bit. Like a pig, he'll squeal at the slightest indignity!"
Background: "I'm blind! Where are the others? What are you doing to me?"
"The primary effect of the stunner - a little tighter there, Terri - is to temporarily knock the drone out of the Collective by scrambling his neural transceiver. He'll recover pretty fast, so we have to complete this examination quick. There are sometimes other, minor side effects, but they will not permanently hamper the drone." Steve was not able to dodge fast enough as a still loose arm clamped onto his shoulder. Assimilation tubules triggered.
With unconcern, Steve trapped the hand, lifting it. He held it as one might hold a snake, his own hand around the drone's wrist. "Wonderful! This is how a drone behaves in his natural environment, so he must not be too stressed. Could you get a close up of this?" The camera obliged, zooming in until pale and living hand were the only objects on the screen. "What this bugger was trying to do was assimilate me. This is the primary defensive and offensive reaction of a Borg drone. What this fellow doesn't know - hit him with the stunner again, Terri - is that neither I nor Terri are assimilatable."
The hand twitched in response to massive amounts of electricity applied at an unshielded juncture. "As you all out there know, my body is actually a doppelganger created centuries ago by the Sponsors. The original Steve and Terri lived on a place called Earth, where they produced a series of educational adventure shows showcasing the diversity of that planet's natural environment. Adoring the program, the Sponsors abducted the originals long enough to acquire full mind and body scans, then animated us, sending us into the galaxy to bring similar shows to the masses. Most recently, the Sponsors sent Terri and I to the Arrival-Departure systems, where we have developed the award-winning Molpul Hunter series. Today, our adventures have brought us to the latest addition to AD systems, this Borg cube.
"Naturally, the Sponsors did not want anything to happen to us, impressed as they were with Steve and Terri's resistance to animal hazards. Thus, we are similarly imbued with superhuman immunity, although our camera crew is not. However, it has been almost two months," Steve emphasized the word by holding up two fingers, "since we lost our previous crew to those poisonous devilsnake buggers, a new Molpul Hunter record. Even I was surprised at how far they could spit venom."
The camera backed up, displaying the entire scene of Steve and Terri sitting on the trussed up drone, as if he were a safari prize. The loose hand was professionally incorporated into the binding. "We are ready to show you our new friend, a model Borg drone."
Steve and Terri wrestled the drone to a standing position, ignoring mutters of "Even my diagnostics are screwed," and "Who the hell are you? Identify yourself, intruders." Steve tapped breast armor, "Wooee! This fella would be a tough nut to crack. Tritanium armor, although neither as thick nor dense as those drones specialized for assault. In fact, I believe he might be a secondary leader, kind of a Beta to that grand Alpha we saw earlier."
"But, Steve," asked Terri as she rechecked the binding on her side, "how can you tell? This size cube is small, but still has a complement of four thousand drones."
Steve nodded, "Good question, mate. You see, the reason I know this fine creature may be a Beta, a second-in-command to the main node, if you will, is through many centuries of observing the natural world in all her majesty and variation. That, and a sensor device I used when the fellow was trying to assimilate me showed a more complex than normal neural structure, indicating a leadership cadre position.
"Very special, you understand, to have seen not only the Alpha, but a Beta. Very special. But, as I was saying earlier, this fellow, Beta or not, is still a good example of a typical Borg drone."
Steve rapped torso armor again, ignoring an arm attempting to get loose, "Tritanium armor. This and personal shielding - zap him again, Terri, as he's getting a bit frisky - helps to protect against hostile attacks. The exoskeleton also serves as a shunt for electricity, thermal and vacuum regulation, and attachment point for internal artificial systems. Magnificent."
"Do you think I stunned him too much?" asked Terri as the drone began to complain about pink elephants stepping on his toes.
Steve shook his head, "No. The stunner is harmless. Inside this beastie, at sizes too small for you or me to see without a scanning-tunneling electron microscope, are small critters called nanomachines. These nanites, even as we speak, are working to repair any damage caused by the stunner. Nanoprobes come in several different varieties, and the ones that are fixing electrocuted cells are not the same as the ones as the assimilation vectors. A fascinating asexual reproductive system, one which we will unfortunately not have the time to cover today."
Terri pointed to the drone's arm prosthesis, "Perhaps you could talk about that?"
Steve nodded, "Good call, Terri! The Collective often modifies its drones, substituting organic parts for technological. In addition to limbs, legs, eyes, ears, and bits of internal organs may be replaced. By doing this, an individual drone is not required to carry pieces of equipment which may be easily lost, such as my pocket scanner or the zapper Terri is holding. Reaffirming my belief this fellow is a Beta is the nature of his prosthetics, which lack specialty implants associated with tactical or engineering clades. I would remove this arm to show you better, but I require specific tools; and it might cause our specimen undue stress as well."
The drone began to struggle harder, perhaps in response to hearing of his impromptu dissection. "Let this drone go! Let go! The moment sight and transceiver function return..." threatened the Borg.
Terri tried to zap the drone again, to no avail.
"Ah," said Steve, motioning for Terri to back off, "here we see a major defense: adaptation." Now unsupported, the Borg slid sideways from his precarious leaning position, impacting the floor. He spouted something that sounded almost like a curse. "This drone has now adapted to the stunner, and is no longer susceptible to its effects. Once he complete repairs to himself and reconnects with his comrades, the adaptation will be passed on, and none will be affected by it. Of course, this can easily be remedied by changing frequencies of the stunner, but the next round of adaptation will be slightly faster. Eventually the Collective will either be immune to the zapper, or able to adapt so fast as to only allow one use. Since we may need the stunner to acquire future specimens, we will leave this stupendous creature alone to recover."
The drone was actively thrashing now. One straining bond broke, allowing the lower left arm free. While he still professed an inability to see, that did not prohibit an attempt to reach for the other straps still confining body.
"Wonderful! Our specimen seems to be reviving. We should back off and observe from a distance, ready to assist if he appears to be in distress. If it looks like he will recuperate without help, we will move on and allow him to rejoin his companions. There is still a lot to explore on this cube!" exclaimed Steve.
Blackness. Not quite blackness - dark velvet with pinpoints of light. Almost space, yet lacking the hard quality of vacuum. Simulated space. Familiar space, woolly wormhole dominating scene, with twin lights Arrival and Departure to either side, former brighter than the latter. Central the vista, an asteroid, small as such things go, seen in false color images of infrared, ultraviolet, and radio. Several satellites orbited the rock, following paths of the same orange color as prior noted on the Alpha drone's viewscreen.
Behind the image, for it was an image, loomed the ghostly reality of large walls and a room 200 meters on a side.
A holoprojection, and in the middle, standing as if he were a god, or at least a minor deity, was a drone. From nebulous "behind" flew a flight of green torpedoes, loosed towards satellites with a dramatic hand gesture. They spectacularly exploded, but did no harm.
"No!" screamed the Borg. "The volley was imperfect. Lead! Lead the target! Increase isoton yield! If we can't hit it, then a near miss will have to do! Closer! The technology is old, decrepit, abandoned, and not of Progenitor-make! We are Borg, and we will prevail...or blow it up, trying!" The asteroid grew larger, point of view now obvious to be that of the advancing cube. Geometric designs - straight lines, boxes - were softened by the pall of dust long settled in a low-G environment, hinting at a mining operation long forsaken.
Steve was a shape in the darkness, an outline against starry backdrop and flashing battle. "This is a standard tactical, or weapons, drone. While I would like to show you the fellow close up as I did for our Beta, such an action would be highly dangerous as the stunner would not work like it did for our cybernetic administrator."
Spoke Terri's voice, herself a shadow, "Steve has survived as long as he has, not only because he is a Sponsored construct, but also due to his extensive ability to recognize, even for him, highly dangerous situations."
The cube must have been within the orbital path of the satellites now, for one rushed past, a confusing blur of metal. As it passed, the picture suddenly whited out; in fact, the entire holoprojection dissolved amid the drone's wordless howl of despair. The noise twisted into comprehensibility, "Intense electrical surge! Systems compensating. Additional power rerouted to primary emitters, edges #1, #5, and #8. Shields nonfunctional." The holograms flickered back to greater-than-life. "Bulk Cargo Hold #5 emitters restored."
"Let's see if I can move a tad bit closer," whispered Steve. "I will take the camera. My crew is very important to me, and I would not wish to put them in undue and unnecessary danger." The view bounced and shifted as a new hand took control, then dropped towards the ground as the operator began to crawl towards the pacing drone.
The sky flash white again, but did not lose coherency. One of the weapons platforms exploded in a colossal explosion of red and orange, swiftly fading. A flurry of disrupters missed the next satellite to pass, however.
The Borg became larger and larger, until he filled the entire picture. Steve was almost at the drone's feet, ignored as hundreds of unseen others were directed in the fight against the weapons platforms. Legs and feet suddenly loomed, the picture shaking a body on the floor was tripped over, Steve's body, to be exact.
"Wha' the?" questioned the Borg, looking down. His attention was abruptly diverted as the cube shook in response to an attack, head angling upward to contemplate a scene more real than hologramatic projections. More important things were occurring than an unexpected roadblock. Steve scooted backwards.
"Well," hissed Steve, "it seems this fellow is a mite bit preoccupied at the moment. While he is a lone specimen, it is kinda dark to be taking pictures. We shall move on to greener pastures, where there will be plenty of chances to film other tactical drones."
The drone in question groaned as disrupters missed again, urging comrades to greater feats of accuracy, or else.
"Busy as bees, or ants in a mound: Borg are one of the most efficient civilizations in the galaxy, trading individuality for cooperation." A surround sound groan, accompanied by a flowering of sparks from a pillar in the middistance, sent drones scurrying in new patterns. The multi-level area was tens of meters high, centered on a huge energy core, necessary to power the vast machine which was the cube. Directing the not-quite-chaotic mob were two drones, twin images of each other, a quiet eddy in the middle of the storm. They stood nearby, out of the paths of those moving from area to area, yet not ignored. Both held fire extinguishers, one turning to spray the contents over a panel which abruptly overloaded.
Exclaimed Steve, "What beautiful she-las!. A perfectly matched pair, highly unusual. From they way they are standing to the side, I expect they are overseeing operations. Foremen, or forewomen, if you will. While we can not get close enough for scanning, as everybody knows, these," Steve indicated his eyes, "are much more important than any technology. And best of all, no batteries required."
Superstructure groaned again; the constant pulse of the core increased. "We know this cube is engaged in a fight," explained Terri, off-screen. "Likely the noises and sights are associated with battle. Do not worry, however, as we are deep in the cube, and safe from any exterior difficulties."
"No worries," repeated Steve, absorbed in watching scrambling Borg.
The two engineering drones began to pace, speaking to themselves between ferocious bouts of fire extinguisher use. At Steve's insistence, the camera zoomed close to the scene.
Muttered one of the twins: "Damn Weapons, charging in like that, before..."
Continued the second drone in a matter which was more of stream of consciousness than conversation, "...Sensors could identify armaments on those..."
"...platforms. Massive amounts of electricity striking..."
"...the cube! Taken by surprise, we could not adapt fast enough..."
"...before shields were overwhelmed and superstructure..."
"...affected. The capacitors on those platforms must be immense."
"However, due to Weapons' normal rush to create pretty explosions, we not only have to..."
"...continue struggling to keep shields on-line, we must fix..."
"...all the damage the shock caused. The shorts are cascading..."
"...through systems faster than we can repair. Damn Weapons!"
"Damn Weapons!" concluded the first twin to end the monologue. Both turned to discharge their extinguishers on a small plasma fire, dropping the used canisters as they spluttered. New cylinders materialized in their hands as they stalked across the floor towards a smoky conflagration.
A wrench, followed by a spanner, fell from an upper level, just missing the twins. The camera peered up to find the origination, spotting a Borg leaning over the guardrail. The face quickly disappeared as the affronted pair halted in their tracks to gaze upwards themselves.
"Efficiency!" bellowed the two in a single voice. "Losing tools is not efficient! Do I have to do everything myself?"
The chamber rang like a gong. All the drones stopped still, then flung themselves away from various consoles, pillars, anything with an iota of electrical charge running through wires. After several minutes of sizzling electronics, fires were brought under control, primarily by flooding local air with carbon dioxide, thus smothering flames. The camera began to droop.
"Whoops! Terri, mate, could you give our boys here a hand? Seems the air's gone a mite bit bad, and we forgot to pack respirators." The scene steadied. In the background, a screen made small by distance showed an exterior shot, a large globe studded with weapons exploding into glowing debris. One of the twins damned Weapons again, before cryptically adding, "Battle complete. Initiate mining and salvage protocols, stacking duties on repair."
Terri murmured, "Come along."
Steve left the core, jauntily skipping down one of the many corridors which radiated into the subsection. The floors were dusty at the edges. He did not seem overly bothered by the stale air, although his patter did increase as oxygen content rose towards normal levels. As he walked, he pointed out interesting features, spending several minutes expounding the delicate balance between a tertiary power distribution node and a regeneration alcove. The explanation included much tweaking of a panel next to said node, with resultant scrutiny of an adjacent alcove housing a regenerating Borg, his expressions twisting ridiculously as different buttons were depressed. Discourse finished, the molpul hunter continued along the hallway, which increasingly appeared disused.
"What is this? It looks like a Borg has become separated from its buddies, and is now stuck. Let us go and take a look. We may have to rescue it!" Steve bounded forward.
A drone indeed did appear to be wedged in the wall, stranded half in the interstitial space behind the bulkhead and half in the hallway. Attention was directed inward; and muffled sounds indicated the hidden arm was moving. As Steve approached closer, new scratches marring torso and backplates became visible, rough streaks caused by metal scraping against metal in a too-small opening.
"Terri! Come here and help me. First we have to examine the poor bugger to see if there are any injuries from his predicament. So far, all I eyeball is cosmetic damage. If you find anything else, holler. I'm going to try to get this fellow's attention." Terri, who had been unobtrusively hanging back, moved towards the drone, peering avidly at the armored body. Steve, meanwhile, started rapping a fist against the back of the trapped Borg's head as if he were knocking at a door.
Rumbled the drone, words echoing from inside the bulkhead, "I don't know who you are, but desist. 'M busy. Go away."
Said Terri, "He's pretty well wedged in there, Steve, but I don't see anything broken."
"I agree. The poor bugger appears to be so distressed, he doesn't want help. Just like an injured dingo: if he hurts a paw, he'll den up until better. I suspect what happened here," explained Steve, "is this magnificent he-Borg damaged himself in such a way that he is afraid he has lost his efficiency. If he sincerely believes this, all the other drones will too; and if he encounters one of his comrades, well, he will be taken to the scrap pile. However, if he can hide long enough for his little nanite friends to work their healing miracle, then the rest of the pack will accept him back. What we have to do, Terri, is pull the fellow out. I don't see any injuries, so I bet the damage has already been healed, but now he can't extract himself. Once he is back in the open, he'll happily return to his friends."
The Borg's voice echoed again, "Huh? What did you say? You said something, didn't you? Wait...no! Don't do that! Stop!"
Steve had directed Terri to grab onto the drone's leg while he latched onto the free arm. "One, two, three, pull!" called Steve, both he and Terri straining. As they tugged, he also shouted words of comfort to the trapped Borg: "Hold on, there, fellow. We'll have you free in two jifs."
"Wait...no! I'm trying to find a short back here! There are many exposed, hot wires, and if I don't extract myself perfectly, I'll fry! Arg! No!" wailed the muffled voice. His body started jerking as he tried to wedge himself more firmly, to resist.
Commented Steve to Terri, "Poor fellow has gone mental. Sad thing to happen to such a wonderful specimen. From the architecture I can observe, he is of the engineering clade; and this sub-collective, alone as it is in AD, needs all the engineering help possible if it is to survive. We must draw this drone out. Once he is free, he will feel better. Pull!" Disregarding flailing arm, Steve leaned backwards with all his weight, Terri assisting.
The drone abruptly popped free, a cork from a champagne bottle. Within the interstitial space, yellow sparks showered, several glowing filaments spitting into the hallway itself. Smoke poured into the hallway. And the object of rescue? The drone lay on his back, seizing, a naked wire wrapped around an upper arm. Blue arcs of electricity rolled over exoskeleton.
"Power conduit disconnecting," muttered the drone from his prone position as the lightshow ended. His unaltered eye was shut and wisps of smoke rose from joints and beneath armor plates. He looked very singed. "Ouch. Massive internal and external damage. Body systems compensating."
Steve ignored the remarks, instead clapping happily as three humanoid shapes materialized from a transporter beam, surrounding the downed form. "And look! Just as I thought. Now that the fellow is free, his comrades have come to take him back." All four disappeared after the wire leading back into interstitial space had been gingerly disentangled from limb. "My work here is done. Let us continue and see what else of interest we may find in this stupendous example of a working Borg cube!"
Steve ambled down the dim hallway, trailed by always helpful Terri.
Fifteen minutes of wandering later, the camera looked over Steve's shoulder, pointing into a room created by the intersection of several hallways. Reclined tables radiated from the center in a starburst pattern, plenty of room between benches for busy and often bulky Borg to move without bumping each other or patients. Of the latter, three of the tables were in use, two drones alone while a third was obscured by four drones hovering around. Two of the foursome were actually performing surgery, while the other pair assisted between bouts of scanning otherwise ignored patients.
Steve wiggled a finger in a "follow me" gesture, then squatted into a crouch. "Borg are very caring when it comes to their own. In the event nanites can not fix a malfunction, or large assemblies need to be installed or replaced, this is where drones go: the sickbay. Crikes! Maintenance bay, is more like it! This looks like me car-crazy uncle's garage, back on Earth!" Steve returned to surveying the scene, turning excitedly as a hole allowed a clear sighting of the patient on the busy bench.
"This is a bonus, mates! The she-la on the bench," the view zoomed in on the lax body as a rat shaped Borg examined a disarticulated artificial arm assembly tipped with clamps and a spinning thing which had no apparent purpose other than to create a menacing atmosphere, "it seems to be a female Lupil, newly assimilated. You can tell because very little surgery has been done to her thus far. Stunning! I would bet, by the recent news, that the new drone is No'kul, the half-sister to which General Ta'loc now admits. Rare footage indeed!"
"Why do you think the other two patients are here?" queried Terri.
Steve peered from afar, diagnosing the silent forms with a glance, "I could not tell without a good, close lookover, which I will not attempt without an arsenal of tranquilizer guns. Such a disruption to the behavior here could be severe, however, and any decent naturalist strives to minimize his or her impact. The closer one, however, looks as if a small fire is to blame. The farther patient is unmarked, which leads a host of possibilities too many to consider.
A thump indicated a dropped medical instrument, or engineering tool, depending on one's point of view. The close-up of the operation in progress resumed, only glimpses of action possible between armored backs.
"Intruders," croaked a rusted voice. Camera swiveled from operation to the source, focusing on a more-than-slightly-singed drone prone on a bench. A better description would be blackened, or well-done. It was the Borg who had been stuck. "Those're 'em. They 'lectocut'd 'e," slurred the alarm. One shaky arm pointed. "Unknown 'ntruders."
One by one, heads of the four Borg involved in surgery turned to regard Steve, Terri, and camera crew. The upright rodent wrinkled his nose, then clacked teeth together. "Oh, dear me! Vermin! But aren't they just cute? Shush-shush, 155 of 230, else you'll burst something, and that might be messy. 62 of 133, why don't you see if you can corner them? This sleeping puppy here is in the middle of an operation and needs to be finished, as ordered by the Greater Consciousness." The nearer of the mobile assistants set down a laser scalpel, then opened her arms wide as if she were trying to herd sheep.
"Well," commented Steve, "I suggest now might be the time to leave this fine establishment. In addition to being very caring towards their injured, Borg are also highly protective, even concerning their dead. Reminds me of elephants in some respects, with mothers unwilling to leave their deceased young, sometimes for days! Fascinating! These Borg are obviously disturbed by us being here, and it would be best if we disappeared, allowing them to return to their natural activities."
Four transporter beams flickered in the room, ghostly humanoid images within the pale light swiftly solidifying.
"Swift departure is the key. Come!"
A dark place, a dim place. Silver-green leaves the size of dinner plates covered lighting fixtures, reducing ambient light to a quarter normal luminescence. Thick, ropy vines mottled gray and dark green lined the floor, climbed walls, and clung to the ceiling; sharp thorns studded vegetative length. The feeling of being in a jungle was strong, a watching jungle, waiting for the moment to pounce.
Steve blithely advanced on a leaf, picking it. The tendril it was attached to curled away. The menacing air deepened.
"While avoiding the natural defense response of this cube - imagine it a vast immune system, our pursuers antibodies and us seen as phages - we came across this area. It appears to have been abandoned, or at least closed off. Once we managed to break through the forcefield protecting this section, the drones chasing us left."
Off-camera, a gruff voice, low-pitched, "I still think one of 'em was laughing, boss. It wasn't nice laughter, either."
Steve beamed a boyish smile, "Nonsense! Borg don't laugh, it isn't among their programmed responses. Likely this area is off-limits for other reasons, and once we entered it, we left the worldview of the sub-collective. No, clearly we are in the middle of an infestation, but /what/ an infestation! Look at this plant specimen! Magnificent!"
Terri stepped forward to hold the leaf while Steve pinched a second off an adjacent vine. "This is a very rare bloodvine, the largest I have ever seen. In fact, it was believed most of the cultivated strains were lost after the Vogue were assimilated by the Borg, yet here one is! Botanists have since discovered remnants of this highly useful controller of mammalian agricultural pests, but never such a stupendous specimen. It appears to have a unique color mutation, and is slightly more mobile than usual." Vines were slithering forward, small tendrils beginning to explore the shoelaces of Steve's boots.
"I wonder how it arrived here?" asked Terri rhetorically. "I bet it if it could talk, it would have quite a story to tell."
"Right you are, mate, right you are. However, we are not here to examine this admittedly wonderful plant, but to observe Borg in their natural environment. We will return to the forcefield, and if the cube has withdrawn its solders, we will continue our explorations. There are many places yet to investigate!"
The tendrils holding Steve's boot snapped as he stepped forward, leaking pink sap which looked like dark blood under the dimmed lights. Vine rustled, slithering over each other with a hiss like an endless supply of salt pouring through an infinitely large timer. The camera, after a quick pan, swiftly caught up with the retreating backs of Steve and Terri.
"And this big space is likely a cargo hold, similar to the holotheater encountered earlier, but without the big rock. What have we here?" asked Steve as he stood next to a tall pile of metal boxes marked with a silver runic script. In a clear area of the cavernous room were thirty Borg arrayed in a double line of fifteen each. Before them stood a single drone, speaking something in a dull monotone indistinguishable due to distance.
Steve crept forward with theatrical care, shuffling in a crouch. Terri followed, upright. The clandestine attitude was likely uncalled, audience so intently focused on their speaker a bomb could have exploded unremarked.
Spoke Steve to the camera after watching for a few long minutes. "This is a treat! Borg normally pass information directly, head to head, like computers sharing data." An index finger tapped head in emphasis. "However, as any schoolboy knows, reading is not the same as doing, which is true even for Borg. Practice, practice, practice! What we have here is a rare event, a teaching class. Let us quietly observe."
The camera zoomed past Steve's shoulder, centering on the dully reciting leader. Audio gain improved, allowing the words to become clear.
"Assimilation is not difficult. It is not like we have much to do on this cube, therefore, as Captain has informed me, there is no excuse for our inefficiency. Proper technique is the key. Until you can demonstrate you have adequately assimilated the data provided in 'Ins and Outs of Assimilation - A Primer,' you will not be allowed to leave this cargo hold. Unfortunately, neither will I. Let us begin."
A figure wavered into view next to the speaker. It swiftly solidified into a holographic human wearing Starfleet uniform, insignia that of an ensign. "Here we have a standard humanoid form, this species chosen due to thinness of skin and lack of epidermal bone armor. As the Primer indicates, most efficient insertion points are large veins and arteries in the neck, which is the technique we will be practicing. Nothing fancy."
A hand was raised in the audience, followed by, "What about species #7502 which lacks a true neck?"
The speaker sighed, a drawn out affair which used the entire body to denote the futility of life, "Species #7502 is a hexapod covered in 'Advanced Assimilations' and not a bipedal mammal, which is the present workshop topic. As I was saying, nothing fancy. Here is a demonstration."
The drone positioned himself directly behind the unmoving hologram, reaching forward with one arm to encircle neck, locking target's head against an armored shoulder. The head was then forced sideways, exposing the neck. The other hand smoothly approached the neck, plunged in assimilation tubules, then withdrew. Stepping away, the speaker allowed the lax human body to slump to the ground.
"Simple. Boring. You will all now receive one practice hologram. Your initial hologram will not resist; and once you have demonstrated to me that you understand the standard technique, you will be allowed to progress to more difficult races such as Vulcan, Klingon, and Cardassian. Next cycle the workshop will examine assimilation of nonbipedal mammalians, so do not complain. The more efficiently you practice, the quicker I will return to the boring uselessness which is my life. Begin."
Thirty human Starfleet ensigns of various ethnicities and hair color materialized next to the students. Soon all were engaged in mock assimilations, many overseen by the teacher. The practice assimilations did not progress nearly as smooth as the demonstration, drones attempting fancy maneuvers which were inappropriate given the target species, or haltingly advancing as if consulting a step-by-step manual.
"Stupendous!" exclaimed Steve. "We don't see something like that everyday. It is time to move on and find other wonders in this cube. Careful there, Terri."
Terri turned her head curiously toward Steve. As she did so, she kicked a bucket which was being employed as a precarious prop to steady several sheets of metal. The metal fell with a ringing clang, beginning a domino effect which ended only when several tons of laden boxes crashed to the floor, spilling their contents of brackets and rivets.
The camera focused first on an embarrassed Terri, followed by Steve, who was ruefully shaking his head back and forth. "Quite a blooper there, mate." Finally the view steadied on the class, which was staring in the direction of the chaos.
"There are some live targets. They all appear to be mammalian bipeds. Try your practice techniques on them," called the instructor, still droning in a monotone. "And remember, major neck arteries and veins. Nothing fancy. Be efficient. There will be a test later."
"Well, dang," said Steve, "we have lost out camera crew. As I mentioned earlier, while myself and Terri are immune to assimilation, our crew was not. However, we did save the camera! Terri, wonderful she-la that she is, is filming now. Say hello, Terri!"
The scene sickenly turned as Terri flipped the camera around, then held it out at arms length in order to show that she indeed was in control. It swiftly returned to a more normal orientation as Steve called out his newest find.
"Well, look here! This, believe it or not, is a Borg too! I know it looks like a big bug, but it is a big and magnificent bug! This one is shaped somewhat like a large praying mantis, which on Earth is a very beneficial insect. Borg do not only assimilate mammalians like our camera crew, but they also accept insectoids. A non-discriminatory institution, is the Collective. Fine chaps."
Steve held out his hand, "Terri, do you have that temperature probe? Thank you." The molpul hunter held up the digital thermometer. It was a long stick, from the top of which emerged a cord connected to a readout. "On a cube this size, I might expect to find three, four at most insectoids. It would be highly unlikely for any of them to be of the same species. As this extraordinary bug appears to be asleep at the moment - the technical term is regeneration - I am going to take its temperature. While it is not necessary to take its temperature, it seems like an interesting nugget of information to learn. This will simultaneously demonstrate how deeply Borg rest when in regeneration."
"Steve," asked Terri's voice, not worried, but rather requesting information for the audience, "how can you be sure it is in regeneration?"
Steve confidently replied, "Good question! I can tell because the lights on this panel here are flashing in a particular sequence which indicates our bug is deep in sleepland." The temperature probe was held up again, "Now, if I can just find a place to insert the sensor..."
The black praying mantis form was standing under a heavily modified alcove, looking much like a bug trapped under a bathtub. It was still, serene. Occasionally an antenna twitched. Steve carefully examined the torso of the insectoid, pointing out a row of holes in the carapace through which gently inhaled and exhaled air.
"This looks like a good aperture. We'll try here." Steve inserted the temperature probe.
The bug's antennae quivered, followed by grinding of mandibles. "Who is sticking [oranges] in my spiracles? Identify yourself! Intruders!" The drone apparently was not in regeneration.
Steve backed up, looking curiously at the blinking lights which he had claimed to indicate a regenerative status. "Oops! My mistake. I examined the wrong display. The panel for this alcove is over there," pointed Steve.
Several drones materialized to either side of the camera. Their faces mirrored annoyance, as opposed to the expected deadpan. One of them was the "Beta" earlier trussed up as a demonstration in Borg anatomy. The rest were of the weapons hierarchy, disrupters prominently attached to their aimed arms.
"Hello!" said Steve. "Can we help you?"
A picture of the Borg cube, as seen from the outside, floating several kilometers above a face. Distant sunlight reflected off metal pitted by dust and phasers. Behind, the dark backdrop included the majestic fury of the AD wormholes.
Steve floated into view sans spacesuit, quite alive despite the hard vacuum surrounding him. His khaki outfit continued to appear perfectly pressed; and his hair waved as if in a light breeze.
"Well, wasn't that a fun adventure! The Borg asked us to leave, emphasizing their request by beaming us into space. Quite polite, allowing us this stupendous view of the outside of their ship. Each edge is a whopping 1.3 kilometers long! And this is only the smallest of several vessel classes! Amazing!" Steve's voice spoke in time with his moving mouth, disregarding the fact that a vacuum environment can not carry sound. Of course, as the man had yet to explosively decompress, such a small indiscretion was easily overlooked.
A small device was lobbed towards Steve from a position behind the camera. Steve easily caught it. "Thanks, Terri. If it wasn't for you, I'd forget where I left my head. At any rate, the Sponsors will be picking us up soon, and I and Terri wish to thank you for spending time with us on this Molpul Hunter adventure! And remember, I am a professional; you should observe the natural world from afar, and leave dangerous work to people like me. G'night, mate!"
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