Star Traks - BorgSpace Season 4: Alternate Perspectives

Star Trek is produced and, gee whiz, owned by Paramount. Star Traks was created by Decker. BorgSpace, by Meneks, romps in the warped Traks universe. This story is brought to you by the number "5" and the letter "C"; and was such a good suggestion by Chad Hershey (hersheybar98@microcore.net), I had to steal the idea (with permission).

Alternate Perspectives

"Greetings out there in AD land from your wacky weather friends at KWTR, Kay-Weather, your all weather, all the time, subspace broadcast. It is now time for our current wormhole update and five day planner.

"Whoa-boy! If you are out in the northeast sphere, the big one we have been warning you about has arrived. Either you are a weather platform and can batten down hatches, or have left the area; anything else, and you can kiss your nether regions good-bye! Watch for extreme gravitonic and electromagnetic fluxes to impinge upon shipping lanes within the hour. A double-pulsar flag warning has been issued, indicating potential exists for temporal reversal zones. Beware of effects coming before causes! The storm is expected to last up to twelve hours over shipping lanes.

"The front will be dispersed by the 180 light hour contour, beyond which the surfer forecast looks utterly bodacious. Wave riders are already gathering at prime locations, so beware of congestion. Remember, dudes, to respect body-surf-only beacons: the fine for splattering a suited sentient across your deflectors was recently raised 20 credits for non-fatalities, and 50 credits for fatalities.

"Neither Arrival nor Departure systems are under threat this epoch, although Free Rocks Aychle and We Are A Happy Cult are in the fringes of the danger zone, and should thus take appropriate precautions.

"As far as the five day planner, it looks pretty quiet. Weather platforms in the north pole sphere have received initial indications of a minor disturbance, but it is too early to know if they will develop into flux of consequence, or if the waves will disperse. Shipping lanes are forecast to be clean and clear on all spheres for a nice, long stretch.

"That is it! Remember, tune in on the quarter hour for the latest wormhole update. We now move on to the Garage Gas Mining Report with Ecbert Lyting; and afterwards, a retrospective of how weather has shaped AD civilization since the last Great War, and before."

*****

A warning flashed within the minds of all Borg on Cube #347, followed by a simplified pictorial representation of the subspace environment within ten light hours of the cube. Most of the view was a snarled mass of colors and icons interpretable only by sensor hierarchy members. And this was the clean version of the data. The leading edge of the chaos was bearing down on the ship, a mere minute away.

Began the head of the sensory hierarchy, {Sensors thinks the approaching storm might be a tad larger and more powerful than...}

Blackness.

Captain awoke, automatically requesting cube status reports. The wormhole storm had swept over the ship, and...and that was the last clear image recorded in local gestalt memory. The cube had obviously survived moderately intact, else he would not be trying to request systems updates, would not be wondering why he was receiving file after file of engineering-related babble from computer diagnostics.

This was not the command and control datastreams! Instead of current status designation synopses and the Borg equivalent of summaries from the many subhierarchial levels which monitored cube mental and software health, Captain was enmeshed in mechanical detail -

{Primary core operating at sub-optimal efficiencies.}

{Regenerative systems for subsection 13, submatrix 17, alcove tiers 1-6 dysfunctional.}

{Plasma fire, Bulk Cargo Hold #7, quadrant grid 118.a; internal sensors note large amounts of carbon, indicative [inventory list subfile] charring of the two ton pile of Encyclopedia Galactica volumes.{

{Shields utilizing tertiary back-up systems, and registering 5% of normal levels; primary and secondary shield grids nonfunctional.}

And that was only a small fraction of the damage reports.

{Shall cube regeneration systems be initiated?}

A single question began to blink for Captain's attention, a query from the computer he, as command and control, as primary consensus monitor and facilitator, should not have been required to answer. The inquiry seared Captain's mind, a pulsating request/demand he mentally conceptualized as vivid reds and sense-numbing yellows. It was a question properly sent to Delta, not him!

{Ablative armor stripped, face #2, subsection 11, submatrix 19, subgrids 7-18.}

{Stress fractures detected in primary cooling conduit servicing Auxiliary Core #3.}

{Shields at 4% normal levels.}

{Shall cube regeneration systems be initiated?}

Less than a second has passed since Captain had awoken from empty nothingness to nightmare, but a second can be near eternity to those operating at computer speeds. Delta had set the power-hungry cube regeneration systems on stand-by, requiring her authorization as Will of Engineering to initiate. Perhaps Delta was terminated, perhaps the computer was confused, perhaps he was in a special Hell reserved for the imperfectly assimilated, whatever the reason, Captain knew he had to act, if only to cease the annoyingly repetitive question.

{Affirmative! Initiate cube regeneration systems.}

{Compliance, Delta. Cube regeneration systems initiated. Power reserves dropping rapidly - primary core unable to provide sufficient energy to sustain level of required regeneration.}

Delta? wondered Captain before wrenching startled thought processes back into a working track, {Status Auxiliary Core #1?}

{Nominal.} Idle, dully reported the computer.

{Start it. Unidle Auxiliary Core #1 to full output. Power sufficient?}

The reply was an abbreviated line graph, the symbol representing energy reserves slowly beginning to climb from dangerously low depths. {Affirmative.} Damage report details returned to the forefront, much to Captain's annoyance.

Captain ignored the computer. {Delta!} he shouted, simultaneously reaching for the crew roster to determine if the engineering head was still among the living, {This datastream belongs to you!}

Nothing. Not silence, but no response, neither. The computer droned on; and now, interrogations were coming from engineering hierarchy drones - requests for job priorities in specific areas, questions of what happened, summaries of personal status and logging of tasks currently engaged.

{Delta?} asked Captain again. Still no proper reply. {Computer, identify location of Delta.}

{Drone designated 'Delta' is in subsection 17, submatrix 10, alcove tier 7, alcove 14.}

{No she isn't. That is my locale.}

{Affirmative.}

{Computer, again, identify location of 12 of 19,} fumed Captain. If the computer were toaster sized, it would have received a good wallop on the theory a sharp concussion would reallign digital processes.

{Drone designated '12 of 19' is located subsection 14, submatrix 14, alcove tier 1, alcoves 4 and 5.}

What a minute, thought Captain.

{Computer, identify location of 4 of 8.}

{Drone designated '4 of 8' is located in subsection 17, submatrix 10, alcove tier 7, alcove 14.}

{Identify location of Captain.}

{Drone designated 'Captain' is located in subsection 17, submatrix 10, alcove tier 7, alcove 15.}

{No he isn't,} exploded Captain, {that is the location of 3 of 8.}

{Affirmative.}

A suspicion was forming in Captain's mind, likely bolstered by those enmeshed in similar difficulties. {Query: complete identification of this drone?}

{Unit is designated 4 of 8, secondary cognitive subauxiliary node to Unimatrix...} The computer continued the full identification string, a lengthy affair which included cube assignment, serial number, and (for reasons Captain never could determine, but all drones had one) fishing license issued by a small oceanic planetoid deep in BorgSpace, but never assimilated. Finally the ID closed with: {Current subdesignation is Delta, assigned as engineering hierarchy head.}

Captain groaned, {False. This drone is not Delta. Computer, reset second-order cognitive functions, software nodes 7-12 sequentially. Reinitialize designation recognizance functions.}

{Unable to comply.}

{Explain.}

{Unable to comply.}

{Explain, you bucket of rusted bolts and virus-infected software. Else I'll take a spanner to you, I will.} Captain shook his head with irritation: that was something Delta might threaten, not him.

{Unable to comply. Corruption detected within diagnostic software. Can not perform diagnostics on diagnostic software.}

Captain's mind whirled, {But, then, but...HOW is it known the diagnostic software is nonfunctional if diagnostic software is nonfunctional?}

{Diagnostic software for the diagnostic software remains functional,} replied the computer. If he didn't know better, Captain would swear the computer had a "well, duh, you idiot" tone to its stilted voice. Either his underdeveloped imagination had kicked in, or Depot was a bad influence on his idiot cousin of silicon, crystal, and neurogenic gel.

"I am not Captain, you glorified calculator! I was Captain last rotation, and I have been Second long enough this time around! I do not want a 'promotion!'" exploded from the alcove to Captain's right. A hiss-clump sounded as Second exited his alcove; Captain opened his eye to see Cube #347's second-in-command glaring at him. "The computer won't reset. It has labeled me with your subdesignation, yet it won't acknowledge commands to reboot. Do something. You are Captain of this tub. I don't want the responsibility."

"Don't look at me," said Captain, "I'm busy juggling engineering. The ship took a beating from that storm, and I'm laboring to cool Auxiliary Core #3 before it explodes. We need more ice machines. Besides, I have no command access at all. It is your problem. The computer doesn't know it has a problem because the diagnostics which would tell it so are scrambled. However, diagnostics for the diagnostics seem to be working, so maybe all will eventually be put to right. Now, I've a ship to keep together, else Delta will dismantle me and use my parts for repairs." Captain had just found 12 of 19, or, as the computer now recognized her, Assimilation.

"Diagnostics for the diagnostics..." Second appeared to be having as difficult a time grasping the concept as Captain. Coming to a similar conclusion that deeper inquiry was irrelevant and likely to lead to mental breakdown, the subject was shelved indefinitely for future consideration.

All the hierarchy heads had been switched, at least as far as the computer was concerned. Captain was engineering head, while Delta had been reassigned Assimilation. While Second was still recognized to be of command and control, albeit now of Captain status, frighteningly, Weapons now held Second's rightful position. Doctor had been shuffled to sensors, Sensors to weapons, and Assimilation was freed to the much more interesting drone maintenance.

Confused yet? The various hierarchies were, operating at suboptimal efficiency in response.

The alteration of whom the computer recognized as hierarchy head was not disastrous, but it was a difficulty a normal sub-collective would never encounter. Hierarchy heads acted as a nexus, a decision-making focus. Although many activities were handled automatically within the ranks of drone-to-computer-to-drone level, overall coordination was required. In comparison, the "self" of an individual can say "I want to walk across the room," but there is no conscious effort to monitor balance or contract muscles in proper sequence.

On Cube #347, hierarchies had defined roles. The heads organised duties within respective baliwicks, fluidly mediating nonpersonal interactions when conflict arose (personal introspection was governed by a completely different set of filters) and overseeing coordination with other hierarchies. Theoretically, any drone could perform any task, as was true for normal sub-collectives, but the computer for the cube was programmed to ignore, as an example, a member of drone maintenance from altering the sensor grid in order to satisfy a whim concerning star watching. Some functions were secondarily linked to alternative hierarchies for use in proscribed situations. For instance, command and control normally assumed active direction of propulsion, but weapons had access during tactical situations. Of course, software was no true deterrent to a drone determined to carry out an impulsive idea. However, in general, each stayed to his/her/its own.

In this case, the computer had utterly locked up, scrambled by the storm. Not only was it misidentifying the current hierarchy heads and refusing reset, but cross-hierarchical commands went unrecognized: each hierarchy was in its own box. To top it off, the computer had problems of its own, serious issues which it would either self-repair or compensate for, as soon as it fixed the diagnostics which allowed it to recognize dilemma existed. Cube #347 Borg could rewrite the affected code, but the sheer volume of the software to sift was immense, requiring the entire sub-collective to concentrate on the problem for an estimated three days to the exclusion of everything else; and the Greater Consciousness had already dismissed the cube's difficulties as too irrelevant to require shifting resources to deal with such an insignificant cog of the Whole. The only solution was time

Playing with the sensor grid, much to the disgust of Sensors, Doctor asked in confusion, {Where'd that thing come from?} It was obviously a ship, although he was slow accessing appropriate files to identify it, slow in altering the grid to the proper configuration to view it.

The ship was an elongated saucer centered over a pair of nacelles slung snugly under the hull. The saucer had a length of fifty meters; and the nacelles were slightly longer at sixty meters. Surprisingly, the nacelles radiated a supressed warp signature, unusual as the great majority of AD vessels were impulse only. The hull was painted a soothing abstract of duck egg blue and pale green. Emblazoned in red across the bow curve was the name Stormeye. In Lupilese.

Stormeye had begun operation far from Arrival-Departure as a science vessel designed to study high gravitational, high radiation phenomenon such as black holes and neutron stars. It was not of Lupil make, but rather one of the many vessels stolen, bought, begged, or traded for by General Ta'loc to bolster her Borg resistance fleet. Specifically, it was originally constructed by the Lupil's now assimilated neighbors the Denaki; and several of the ships had been modified by Ta'loc's superb combat engineers to serve either as scouts or as ambushers specializing in devastating strafing runs with the uncanny ability to dodge cube defenses while delivering explosive payloads. Stormeye may be a mosquito compared to Cube #347, but it was a mosquito with a big bite.

Sensors huffed, {Sensors say you are an idiot. The grid isn't even set remotely correct. You need to fix it so Sensors can see accurately beyond a hundred thousand kilometers, else she cannot orchestrate the weapons properly if weapons are needed. A thermal [palette] with [bursts] of plasma [lobsters] would be best. What Sensors cannot see, cannot be hit.}

{Untrue,} countered Weapons, {so very untrue. However, I now have propulsion control, so we go to meet the enemy! Sensors are irrelevant.} Unfortunately, personal influence was a many-edged sword in the sub-collective. Normally a Captain and Second would work together to moderate strong personalities and ensure operations were (somehow) kept within standard Borg parameters. In this case, the psychotic tendencies of Weapons were quickly infecting others, tilting the balance toward a general increase in impulsive behaviors as well as the formation of a bloc sympathetic to Weapons' bloody desires.

Second, acting-Captain, wrestled for control, wrestled to put the rabid genie back in the bottle. The real Captain could only watch from afar, fuming of his lack of access to command and control pathways. Engineering demanded attention, as did Delta, who was pestering him as a back-seat driver in what required to be accomplished. With a glance at Second, who was now motionless with vacant eyes, Captain beamed to the primary core. He preferred to be closer to the heart of engineering's domain if he were forced to supervise it.

{If shields aren't strengthened, that insignificant ship will be our downfall,} nagged Delta. She had not bothered to exit her alcoves once she had determined she held the dubious honor of head of the most useless hierarchy on Cube #347. {We are moving toward the scout and will be engaged before Second can regain propulsion...which means he'll likely loose control of another critical command and control system. Which in turn means, when the final outcome is reached and I'm back in my proper position, I will have all that much more to put back together.}

Captain paced back and forth in front of the primary core. He stopped, gazed up at it, then snapped his fingers. Of course! Engineering. In many ways, engineering was the hierarchy which actually ran the cube, which kept it in one piece. Captain cut all propulsion, smirking at the howls of frustration from Weapons.

Perhaps this feeling of satisfaction was the real reason Delta enjoyed thwarting Weapons.

Stormeye suddenly accelerated as it closed, aligned for a kamakazi collision with the current forward face as the cube glided on inertia alone. At the last moment thrusters nudged the small ship to a non-suicidal trajectory over face #6, just beyond shield boundaries. As Stormeye crossed, it jerked itself in vicious side-to-side motions which likely strained inertial damper systems to the breaking point. Simultaneously, the scout's shields were cycling through random modulatons designed to evade disrupter and tractor beams. The precautions were for naught, for Cube #347 only managed to fire once - an unaimed disrupter on the side of the cube opposite in relation to the threat.

{Oops,} said Sensors, followed by, {Wait a [red bug]. The feed from the sensor grid is backwards, is reversed. That [boxing glove] should have hit, would have impacted if Sensors view of the [sweat pants] had been correct.}

Command and control had nothing constructive to add or order at the moment. The hierarchy was embroiled in an internal tussle, all members engaged in a combination of Weapon pacification, "reeducating" those that were falling under the sway of the destruction-hungry drone, and self-censoring impulses before the rest of the cube could be influenced. It was like watching an end-of-game soccer brawl being held in a china shop which already held a resident bull. Until the situation was remedied, Cube #347 was left without effective consensus. The sub-collective was not paralyzed, the basic hierarchical divisions allowed major systems to continue to operate independently if necessary, but intrahierarchial exhanges and sub-collectivewide decisions already slowed due to computer error downshifted to a crawl.

{Computer, reset secondary cognative functions, relinking numerical designations to assigned subdesignations,} ordered Captain once more, just in case the computer had spontaneously fixed itself.

Cube #347 did not receive a miracle. For all the Enterprises in the universe with lucky captains and crew, physics required a balance to retain the overall order of reality. Cube #347 was stuck with the debatable privilege of furthering the good fortune of a vessel never met, one which was billions, if not trillions, of light years distant.

Said the computer between damage report notifications, {Unable to comply. No error detected.}

{Reset anyway. Comply.}

{Unable to comply.}

{Reset.}

{Unable to comply.}

{Bugger your digital processes,} swore Captain, mind still directed at the computer although the words were clearly not an appropriate order.

{Anatomical impossibility. Unable to comply.}

Captain sighed. A dozen drones were shifted from floor waxing ({/Not/ a primary concern, even if the linoleum in that hallway is looking dull.}) to patching holes in Comet Slurry Processing #1. Water was passing the meter mark in the room, kept from flooding adjacent corridors and compartments by force fields. The liquid needed to be returned to slush vats soonest, before security fields collapsed due to an urgent power need at a more vital location.

Elsewhere, a nebulous concept when applied to the software plain where code took on a concrete reality perceived differently by each drone, a string of code inverted in response to prodding from Doctor. Offered Doctor in way of explanation as to why the grid had been wrong in the first place, {The key may have been accidental bumped when I was trying to...}

{Sensors does not want explanations,} interrupted the insectoid, {she only wants results.} Sensors was uncharacteristically sharp with Doctor. {Just, don't touch anything else. At least Sensors can see okay now.}

{But...}

{Don't touch.}

{But...}

{Sensors does not want explanations,} she said.

{But what about the incoming Lupil ship?} asked Doctor in a burst, overpowering Sensors' objections.

The scout was returning at a fast clip, aiming for the face it had just buzzed. As before, it altered course at the last moment before commitment, this time streaking across face #1. Although Stormeye's captain did not bother to jigger back and forth in a manner guaranteed to create nausea in all but the most cast-iron of stomachs, disrupters still missed. At least this time fire had been directed at the correct side of the cube, even if the green beams stabbed at where the scout had been, instead of leading to strike where it was going to be.

{It is sort of tingly-wingly under the hull where the little scamp ran. How odd,} commented Doctor.

Replied Sensors, who although separated from her hierarchy still had a better grasp of what "tingly-wingly" meant than clueless Doctor, {It was a scan. Access records - did [fish] pass also [purple] scan?}

Whined Doctor, {You don't have to be so abrupt. Geesh. You need obedience lessors, young girl. You are acting an awful lot like Weapons usually does.} Despite the critism, the data records were briefly examined, disclosing Stormeye had indeed scanned Cube #347 as deeply as it could - not very - during the previous pass.

Behind thrummed the core; and within murmured on-going ship status reports, as well as datastreams originating from other hierarchies and of which Captain could frustratingly do little about. Instead, he stood in front of an open panel and began removing overloaded chips before replacing them with undamaged ones from a bucket. As he completed one section, he replaced the panel, took half a pace to his right, opened the next panel, then repeated the process. It was a low priority job, but it was also one suited to him as he did not mount several specialized tools which were part of the standard engineering drone introductory package, but only offered as a special assimilation option for other hierarchical types.

Stormeye was lining up for a third run. How many times was it to buzz Cube #347? Surely it had acquired enough data to warrant leaving the cube alone. Doctor may not have the sensor grid set properly, but Sensors was gaining control of weapons and would eventually swat the offending gnat.

{Plasma leak detected subsection 1, submatrix 1.}

{Gravity fluctuations subsection 12, submatrix 3.}

Captain shook his head as he dispatched a team posthaste to correct the plasma leak, likely associated with the local warp nacelle segment. The gravity (and the comet slurry vats and the encyclopedia fire and the broken crystal ovens in Dilithium Growth Laboratory #6 and the hundreds of other miscellaneous concerns) was not vital to Cube #347's immediate survival, and thus could wait.

Replace panel, half a pace, remove panel, swap defective chips. At least the activity almost distracted him from command and control's ongoing squabble which was swiftly winding to a close, Weapons on the losing end. He simply did not have the mental archetecture of a Hierarchy of Eight member, and losing was the only option. Of course, Weapons needed much persuassion to accept that fact.

Within the general cacophony of the core, unquiet efficiency as drones hurried about their assigned tasks, Captain missed the subtle sound of two drones leaving their alcoves. There were very few alcoves near the primary core, most located on tiers adjacent to shaft areas. Of the few alcoves nearby, only two were currently occupied. Formerly occupied.

"I am bored," commented Delta, both of her.

Captain swiveled his head until the twins in his peripheral vision, then returned concentration to his self-assigned chore. The plasma leak in subsection 1, submatrix 1 was not severe, and would be patched within minutes. Repairing primary and secondary shield nodes was another bucket of burnt chips altogether, and projections as to when the cube could disengage tertiary backups was not pleasing Weapons, neither the true one in command and control, nor the acting one. Ship regeneration was currently focused on structural integrity, and Captain was loath to alter the priority settings Delta had programmed into the automatic system.

"I said," repeated Delta, "that I am bored. Assimilation hierarchy is boring. There is nothing to do. All the assimilation systems were undamaged in the storm." Delta paused. "Assign me some work."

Muttered Captain as he slotted another chip replacement, "I cannot do that. No cross-hierarchical links. None. You, assimilation hierarchy, are responsible for your primary duties only, nothing more. I would prefer to assign you tasks, but the computer won't allow me. And until the computer fixes itself..."

"Unacceptable! I am bored. You have no idea how bored I am."

"Of course I do," said Captain. Delta was horribly bored, so bored that adverbs and metaphors were useless. "Enjoy your break while you can. However, enjoy it elsewhere. You are lowering my efficiency, engineering hierarchy efficiency."

Both of Delta glared at Captain's back, jagged blackness shooting through her thoughts like negative lightening bolts. If desire alone could cause fire, Captain would have been reduced to nothing more than a pile of ash and warped metal. Frustrated, the twins began to pace back and forth, not directly interfering with Captain, but present, nonetheless, to take control the nanosecond, the femptosecond, the computer reorganized itself.

Outside the cube, Stormeye had completed whatever preparations had been necessary, swiftly approaching the cube as if for another scanning pass. Although an insignificant gesture given the much greater bulk of Cube #347, ominous power spikes registered from the ventral bow phaser array.

Spillover from the sensory hierarchy, dialogue give and take between hierarchy head and "lesser" units usually internalized and thus insulated from the general intranets -

Doctor: {So, there are many things the energy spike could mean. Where is the sensor key located again? Which datatree branch?}

Even as several individuals highlighted the path to the desired material - a very large file with statements such as "If energy radiation is obviously of natural origin, go to Section 1A - Stellar Phenomenon. If unable to classify conclusively, go to step B." - other members had accessed shortcuts which indicated /exactly/ what the readings meant.

Impatiently noted 63 of 422, {It is preparing to fire at us!} Agreement echoed the drone.

{Well,} waffled Doctor, {what about other options than tooth and claw? This end key here - 1123B - indicates an eminent explosion of replicator facilities due to overutilization in making strained peas could be to blame. Strained peas are a yummy delicacy for species #6214 you know, so it could be possible.}

{Phaser fire!} chorused the response.

Doctor acquiesced, forced by the overwhelming majority of his adopted hierarchy. {Okie-dokie.} Data formally entered the general cube dataspaces, indicating high likelihood Stormeye was preparing to attack. Only now, precious milliseconds lost, had the weapons hierarchy enough data to respond.

Sensors tried to divert more power to the shields, as well as coordinate disrupter fire.

{No, no, no,} called Captain, {no! Tertiary shield nodes will} - all over the cube, the computer reported massive sequential failing of the system in question - {fail. All engineering drones, except those engaged in tasks preventing the cube from becoming a spontaneous fireball, shifted attention to shield repair.} One advantage he held over Delta, Captain could easily awaken the entire hierarchy for physical activity, if necessary. Whereas Delta did not have the mental facilities and neurological alterations to efficiently coordinate large numbers of active, possibly conflicting, drones, Captain did. Very few engineering drones remained in their alcoves.

Stormeye flew low over Cube #347's face, crew embolden by the unexpected shield collapse of their much larger adversary. Due to the high speeds of ship-to-ship combat, the Lupil scout swiftly passed over its target, leaving behind several unwelcome presents. The damage was superficial, but also highly annoying and more than a little embarrassing. The relevancy of embarrassment aside, the weapon hierarchy continued to record appalling misses, as it had for the previous two passes.

Stormeye was already arcing around for another strafing run. Perhaps the Lupil crew had images of single-handedly defeating its Borg foe. At this point, they had a decent chance to do so.

{We need shields,} said Sensors, stating the obvious. In the background, she was directing emitter crews to initiate a puzzling series of alterations to disrupter frequencies. Shortly, no two disrupter beams would be aligned the same.

Delta sighed impotently behind Captain, back and forth pace increasing. {Shields will be repaired as soon as possible. You disrupted many critical relays and junctions in the tertiary systems, which cascaded into parts of secondary and primary already rebuilt. We are compensating now,} replied Captain.

Interrupted Weapons, {No infighting. We don't have time. More efficiency from less bickering.}

Sensors and Captain paused, flabbergasted; all over the cube, drones delayed a beat before continuing their tasks. Since when could their exchange be considered bickering in light of what the weapon hierarchy head and Delta were notorious for? Delta stopped pacing, equally confused. Had Weapons actually urged calm, instead of unreasonable goads for battle? Had Weapons actually acted with responsibility? Was this the correct universe? Was Weapons replaced by an impostor? Many minds were turning to address the probability of each question as it occurred in the dataspaces, an avalanche quickly growing as mental resources shifted to engage the unexpected, the impossible.

Captain blinked as Second, Weapons, and other command and control elements slashed through the burgeoning mental slowdown. He returned to replacing chips; Delta began pacing again, stomping her feet just enough to verge on the edge of annoying without actually crossing the line.

{Weapons is learning new...skills,} explained Second to all, ending discussion upon the matter. {We will examine consequences and repercussions later.}

{Yes,} added Weapons, {because otherwise we won't be able to kill that pest ship, that small ship, that insignificant ship. Slice it into tiny bits. Destroy! Kill! Mangle!} The acting-Second's rant halted mid-tirade with a squeak as he was ambushed by a large contingent of command and control. He continued a heartbeat later, much calmer, {Efficiency and working as One will gain us our goal. We are Borg.}

Interjected Doctor, {Here comes the target again, ready to bite us, Telemetry data followed.}

{Very weak shields - 2% of standard - consolidated as part of the tertiary shielding system was salvaged.} Work continued to boost the unacceptably low amount.

The Lupil scout swept low over face #5, made overly bold by the many misses, then abruptly banked as sensors confirmed reappearance of Borg shields. During the plan abortion, three disrupters scored. Each of the beams were of differing frequencies. By coincidence, deliberate planning in battle rarely a hallmark of Cube #347's style even when everyone was in his or her correct place, two of the disrupters set a resonance shaking the shout's shields, forcing the Lupil crew to disengage them lest feedback destroy the little vessel's shield machinery and leave it completely defenseless. The third disrupter thence scored a long furrow across the trailing ventral edge of the saucer, continuing onto the port nacelle. It was a glancing injury, not fatal, but Stormeye nonetheless sharply yawed, running to leave cube weapon range. Subsequent disrupter bolts missed, as did a pair of hastily launched quantum torpedoes.

{Sensors wants to follow it,} urged Sensors. {Come on, come on. Sensors has some other frequencies she wants to try.}

Replied Captain, {No! The engines are not fully operational. Besides, the target is retreating to where we cannot follow.}

Mentally nudged by Second, Weapons reluctantly uttered, {I concur. We concur.} The last statement was said as consensus cascade returned the path of action the sub-collective would follow.

Meanwhile, Stormeye had set a course which pointed it deep into wormhole influenced environment. Steep gravitational grades and sleeting radiation damaging to both biological and technological systems were warded by a reraised shield. Saved from overload, it was a thin barrier against the surrounding hell, but the danger was also a familiar one, one which the ship had specifically been built to counter, once upon a time.

Sensors pouted, much as Weapons had been wont to do, although for slightly different reasons. Weapons had always been disappointed in not slaughtering something, while Sensors desired to test her tinkering against a live target.

"I'm bored," declared Delta in stereo, for the umpteenth time.

"Well, I'm not," retorted Captain, engineering to-do list a monstrous affair, now inclusive the minor damage inflicted by the Lupil scout. "For the last time, go pace somewhere else. Go do some assimilation related task." Captain motioned his hand in a shoo gesture.

Ignoring Captain's suggestion, Delta continued to trek back and forth, forth and back. Her thoughts were dark, gray, brooding, bored. Soon the forced inaction would drive the usually active should-be engineering head into fits of mental instability, which would allow her to fit nicely into the mindsets of the Group of 20, among whom the Assimilation title normally rotated.

Several hours later the computer reset itself with a lurching wrench. Datastreams wobbled, then altered; cross-hierarchical commands re-established. In Maintenance Bay #3, Assimilation faltered midstep, assumed duties falling away to be replaced with seemingly eternal boredom. Elsewhere, Delta gave an uncharacteristic yelp of joy as she emerged from the depressing depths of assimilation hierarchy, only to be confronted with the mess (in her opinion) which was now engineering. Captain swiftly retreated to his customary stomping grounds: physical distance was not a true escape from Delta, but neither was he in her immediate sight.

Sensors smoothly returned to her duties, leaving behind to Weapons the option to keep the alterations the insectoid had made, or jettison them. Weapons, predictably, reset all weapons to his standard - overpowered.

Among command and control, Second gratefully found himself Second again, although he would have preferred not to have held drone-sitting responsibilities at all. Preference, however, was irrelevant. The only foolproof way to escape was termination, an option Second fantisized at times, especially when the sub-collective was in a highly volatile mode.

Captain himself retook the reins of primary consensus monitor and facilitator. The "quiet" lasted for mere seconds before the first potential crisis surfaced. Blocking the feint by Weapons for propulsions was automatic, although the attempt by the latter had been half-hearted at best. Not only was the Lupil scout ship long gone, its spoor untraceable and any path sure to lead into areas Cube #347 could not follow, but Weapons had to contend with a hierarchy somewhat traumatized by contact with Sensors' unique worldview.

Everything was back to normal, such as could be defined for imperfect Cube #347.

*****

"KWTR, Kay-Weather, and if you need a weather freak, I'm your host. Even better, if you are a hot, rich babe of the Tunian variety and your clan isn't too picky about potential in-laws, drop me a line and we'll talk. Enough of the chitter-chatter: my supervisor is giving me the evil eye. Of course, my supervisor is Jeraki, so all she can give me are evil eyes. On to your wormhole weather update!

"The last dregs of the storm are passing the 180 light hour contour, much to the delight of the surfers out there. Only two fatalities thus far; and the normal cases of radiation poisoning will be easily cured. All shipping lanes are clear, much to the relief of haulers and merchants.

"The incident was a tad bit stronger than predicted. Free Rock We Are A Happy Cult was severely impacted, and is reported to be ignoring communication requests. Authorities are embarked to the Free Rock; and numerous organizations have entered petitions to assume the lease should no survivors be found.

"As a side note, importation records indicate a large influx of species non-specific poisons prior to the storm, so the cultists may have gone to the great beyond without help of the storm. Whatever the circumstances, if you desire to have a place on the lease list, I urge you to petition as soon as possible; large bribes will be accepted at all bureaucratic levels.

"No weather platforms have been announced lost, however, five shipping vessels of various capacities are thought to be destroyed. All five were independently owned, and likely crews were attempting to squeeze a final run for additional profit before the storm. Intercepted transmissions between a Lupil weather scout and Beachball indicates the Borg cube which has been lurking abour the AD systems was caught in the brunt of the shockwaves, but survived. Details are not forthcoming.

"The five day planner is still looking good. Deep wormhole disturbances continue to resonate between singularity pockets and gravitational refraction layers, and are expected at this time to stay there. Clear shipping lanes, but bad for the surfing scene. Better luck next week, dudes.

"Your personal weather freak now hands you to Janil for a spin around the Arrival terrestrials. I hear the duststorms on Sand have reached their seven Sand-year maximum, but I'll let Janil tell you all about the exciting details."

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