Star Trek is Paramount's; A. Decker built Star Traks; mind controlling rays from secret military satellites made M. Meneks create BorgSpace
- I'm not paranoid, it's just that they ARE out to get me
Down the Drain
The small ship fell to the wayside and was swiftly left behind. Neither its resemblance to a covered canoe, nor its pygmy fifteen meter length had dissuaded its unknown owners from trying to engage the much, much larger Cube #347. Pitiful shields and dust-sweeping laser had been no match to Borg disrupters. Unfortunately, the incident was far from isolated.
Sensors compiled the latest medium-range sensor grid update, uniting with weapons hierarchy to organize the many blips into order of threat. There were a myriad of blips.
At Beachball, six, nine, a dozen Artifact Seekers had been waiting for General Ta'loc to err, to make a mistake which might lead to the contested Key Artifact changing owners. After Cube #347 had fled with the Artifact in question, not to mention all the other known Artifacts, it had become the center of unwanted attention. Artifact Seekers had seemingly spontaneously generated, well more than the original dozen hopefuls noted at Beachball, all pointed at the cube, the sole repository of Artifacts.
Eavesdropping on communications had shown only the most cursory cooperation. Some groups were beginning to band together in response to the reality that the cube could field a run and fight option for a long time. However, while the largest group, headed by the dangerous Lupil battleship Cube Killer, was still distant, that did not stop adventurous singletons.
Currently Cube #347 was on a heading which sent it into the outer fringes of the central wormhole, consensus deciding the environment hostile enough to dissuade some of the less structurally sound Seekers. Impulse was the propulsion of choice, for while the cube could have employed warp, the fundamental inability to escape AD would only mean a delay of the inevitable confrontation. It was tactically superior to dispose of (or be disposed by, which was a distinct possibility the consensus cascade did not dwell upon) the bolder Artifact Seekers before a larger fleet than the current ad hoc pursuers could be assembled.
While a great majority of attention was directed to happenings beyond the hull, part of the sub-collective's focus was upon the newly acquired Key Artifact. It lay on a bench with the five other AD Artifacts in Analysis Shop #17. Not yet assembled into the whole which was rumored to impart Great Powers to the owner (it was also variously gossiped to be an ecstasy agent, the Progenitor equivalent of a telephone, a sports trophy, and a music synthesizer), the disjointed parts waited as the newest addition to the collection was closely investigated.
The Key Artifact was an amorphous blue and silver blob the size of a fist, made of a material which slowly molded itself to most comfortably fit the hand of whomever was holding it. Close examination revealed the presence of a speaker, the equivalent of "play" and "stop" buttons, and other hallmarks of a solid-state player. Of an "eject" or "load" button there was no indication, so whatever was currently hidden within the seamless machine was unable to be accessed. Pushing the play button elicited a combination of beeps, buzzes, tones, and carefully recited, untranslatable phrases, a series which was not only the same every time, but was oddly unable to be accurately recorded. Attempts to copy the player's output resulted in the audio equivalent of photocopying paper money - tiny imperfections at key points which invalidated the entire reproduction.
Delta replaced the Key Artifact on the bench. The two drones assisting body A cocked their heads slightly as they received new instructions, then exited the shop via the door enroute to reassignment of maintenance and repair. Various possible assembled configurations for the Artifacts - the Master Contraption - were displayed in the dataspaces, all resembling the mutant spawn of a vintage cash register.
A pair of forty meter vessels of frigate configuration, likely under Jeraki ownership as evidenced by the language gracing the hull, entered firing range - cube weapons envelope, not frigate. One ship disintegrated under an excessive hail of torpedoes. The second attacker, now alone, loosed a pair of its own torpedoes in belligerent response before radically altering its incoming vector. As it swiftly parted, the frigate screamed its desire on communication bands to join the consolidating Lupil headed force.
Focusing on the task in front of her, Delta queried Depot, "Well, do you have anything useful to add?"
"I'm a ticketing agent, not an engineer. I also make a darn fine bookend and dictionary, and have been used as an electronic organizer. Oh, did you know I recently finished a comprehensive thesis on why so many race names translate to "The People", "Us", "The Chosen," or other similar description? Well, except for Altog, which roughly means "Plaid fish." I'd be glad to read it to you for your enjoyment, or maybe we can have a rousing discourse on the subject."
"No," quickly said Delta before Depot could begin.
*****
General Ta'loc glared at the primary bridge monitor. The Borg cube filled the screen, image magnified until it eclipsed the wormhole it was skirting. The point of no return was rapidly approaching for the cubeship, whereupon it would either continue on its ultimately suicidal course, else turn at bay to face its pursuers.
If Ta'loc had learned one thing during her battles with the Collective, it was the Borg were predictable. Push the buttons in a certain order, and a specific response would be elicited. Eventually the Collective would realize the futility of a set of actions and switch tactics, but the new strategy would inevitably be as predictable as the former once behavior was closely examined. The problem lay in the sheer variety of tactics the Borg could adopt, and the many drones able to be thrown at a problem. Despite General Ta'loc strategic brilliance, she had not been able to be everywhere all the time; and her race had ultimately been assimilated by the Borg. However, in this case, with a single cube, the Collective did not have the luxury of testing dozens of different tactical assumptions for a workable solution. Thus, given the current situation, the cube would turn to fight.
The General stood from her command chair. "Status!" she barked.
The crewman at communications looked up from her console. "We have most of Artifact Seekers in the chase willing to strike as one force. Arguments over the spoils can be shelved until later."
"Most?" asked General Ta'loc. She wasn't surprised, given AD politics, but confirmation of the situation was necessary.
A cocked Lupil head and a twitch of mouth corner was the species equivalent of a shrug. "The remaining Jeraki vessel is talking the usual double-speak, and there are the normal independents unwilling to compromise. Overall, there seems to be a remarkable level of cooperation given target and prizes. Even a Sphinxian captained vessel is willing to join our attack, and you know how those ferrets feel about Borg."
"Good, good," said General Ta'loc, eyes once more riveted on the main viewscreen. The flanking secondary monitors flipped between tactical schematics and images of the various ships numbering among the chasers. She continued, "Tell the others to hold steady, then. When the cube slows, Cube Killer and our Lupil fleet will strike the first blow."
*****
Cube #347 was as deep in the wormhole fringes as it could comfortably go. Any deeper, and tidal stresses would begin to severely impact maneuverability, not that a ship as massive as a Borg cube could be called nimble in the best of circumstances. Nonetheless, Cube #347 needed to retain as much mobility as possible. The cube turned to face the opposition (metaphorically speaking, because when one is an outwardly featureless geometric object, 'front' is loose terminology), powering weapons.
{Weapons are already powered, and have been since we left Beachball,} noted Captain to Weapons.
Critically added Delta, {Energy flows indicate imminent weaponry overload.}
{One cannot have too many weapons,} mater-of-fact stated Weapons as he attempted to work around the engineering hierarchy to unidle Auxiliary Core #6. He did not bother to disguise his transparent goal of diverting yet more power to munitions.
{Yes one can,} retorted Delta, {when they explode due to overcharge.}
Captain translated the situation to a concept easily grasped by Weapons, {Boom. No more weapons.}
Attempts to activate the auxiliary core ceased, and energy flow to overstressed weapons relaxed to sensible levels of potential destruction.
The Lupil battleship Cube Killer led the oncoming swarm of Artifact Seekers. The main body of the vessel was nearly one kilometer long, overshadowing the next largest ship of the AD fleet and rivaling an edge of Cube #347 itself. A pair of warp nacelles were set in outrigger positions flanking the central torpedo-shaped fuselage, but due to the general uselessness of warp in the AD systems, were dark as power was directed to other systems. The other systems in question were weapons, weapons, and more weapons, the view from the sensor grid showing little hull space which wasn't a fundamental part of Cube Killer's offense. A quick comparison between the Cube Killer of now versus the Cube Killer of a decade prior during the Lupil species resistance showed the battleship was, if anything, more heavily armed and armored.
One on one, calculations warned Cube #347 to be hard-pressed if set against only Cube Killer. Adding the thirty-eight other ships of various tonnages and configurations to the equation, and a fully functional Battle-class cube would find itself on the defensive. The sub-collective of Cube #347 was screwed. Again.
{We need those Artifacts assembled,} told Captain to Delta, {and we need those Artifacts assembled now.}
{But we aren't sure what they do, if assembled,} protested Delta, who, due to long experience, disliked plugging together items which could not be discerned as to purpose. {It could do nothing. It could blow up. It could do many things, none of which will be helpful to us. And Depot isn't aiding, despite the fact he is an Artifact himself.}
Answered Second, {And when is Depot ever helpful? Assemble it. We are toast, anyway.} He was currently in his alcove, where he had retreated several hours previously to escape Depot's annoying holoemitted image. True, Depot was perfectly able to be bothersome in the dataspace environment, but he tended to prefer interactions which included a physical component, even if 'physical' was only a construction of photons and magnetic fields.
The battle began.
*****
General Ta'loc winced as Cube Killer rang like a bell, a quantum torpedo of immense yield slamming into the battleship's rear quarter, just forward the tertiary engineering compartment. In the bigger picture, the damage was messy, but minor, the vessel's systems in many ways as redundant as the Borg cube engaged. However, General Ta'loc was not an emotionless drone, and internally mourned each passing life, even if she could not allow the luxury to react outwardly.
"Get that damn rear shield quadrant back on-line!" General Ta'loc shouted. "And drop us behind a screen until we are ready to strike again!"
The orders were superfluous, well-trained crew already reacting before words were voiced. Deep in the aft sections of Cube Killer, fire teams sealed compromised sections, saved what lives they could, and jury-rigged where necessary to keep systems operational. Meanwhile, helm was already dropping the massive ship back in the battle order, allowing ships of lesser tonnage to shift to the front line.
"Make it so, and make it so yesterday!" bellowed the general.
*****
Captain breathed a sigh of relief as Cube Killer faded to the rear of the encircling swarm of opponents. Weapons had been concentrating on the large battleship, to the near exclusion of its smaller, but no less lethal, compatriots. Admittedly, Cube Killer was the primary adversary, but one could not ignore the combined might of the other ships, which together had more than sufficient firepower to overwhelm Cube #347. Still, breathing room was gained by the temporary withdrawal of the Lupil flagship.
In Analysis Shop #17, Delta directed the assembly of the Master Contraption. She was also among the teams attempting to keep the cube intact, more or less, which illustrated the advantage to being able to be literally two places at once, not having to depend upon the second-hand account of another's biased point of view. Central of the Contraption was the cash register form Ticket Artifact, to which was connected the shoebox sized Lock Artifact by a pair of leads. The crystalline Schedule Artifact obviously fit into a snug hole atop the Ticket Artifact. The precise nature of the Card and Key Artifacts was not readily apparent, and Depot remained physically unattached. However, with only three of the six Artifacts directly linked with each other, results were forthcoming.
A holographic screen gleamed above the Ticket Artifact, a response elicited earlier during random prodding and poking of the device. Unlike prior attempts at making sense of the disjointed parts, the letters and numbers were in comprehensible (Borg alphanumeric!) sequences, spelling out a cheerful phrase of greeting which looked unnatural considering the language.
"Greetings," spouted nearby Depot, verbally mirroring written word in Borg language, "and welcome to Grand Central Station. I am Depot, your automated ticketing agent. At this kiosk, I offer a wide range of services, including ticket purchase, arrival and departure times, motel and restaurant listings, shuttle rental reservations, tourist information, and much more. You only have to ask; I await your convenience. What would you like to do today?" The tone was light, conversational, and unusually polite.
{A ticket,} prompted Second, who had been closely following any procedure which had the remote potential to cause Depot discomfort.
"A ticket," repeated Delta.
"Please input destination code. If you do not know destination code, tell me approximate location relative to core of this galaxy, and I will search for the nearest available transfer point," said Depot.
123 of 230, who currently was tasked with the job of shaking Depot's casing should the computer become too overly obnoxious, craned her neck from her position next to Depot's sphere. "Is he okay? That doesn't sound like Depot at all."
Delta glared at the note of concern in 123 of 230's signature. Depot was entirely too facile in winning as acquaintances those he did not drive to distraction with requests of games or who were willing to listen to hours of treatise on the origin of words. "BorgSpace," replied Delta to Depot. She accessed the appropriate starcharts, nonverbally indicating a point deep in Collective occupied territory, near a major unimatix complex.
"Searching," responded Depot. Electronic percussion muzak filled the air as local speakers were activated. Of all the systems which were affected by the battle, the speakers were unfortunately not one of them. Delta swiftly disabled the feeds, but the action did not prevent Depot himself from continuing the composition amid the occasional verbal reminder of his searching.
Meanwhile, Weapons had scored several hits on the attacking swarm. Included was one freighter, converted from hauling to duties of a more nasty nature. However, a freighter was still fundamentally a freighter, no matter how many weapons installed nor the intimidating paint job. Pieces of freighter, some rather large, impacted shields, causing a section of cube defenses to switch to secondary systems. Momentarily distracted, Delta dispatched idle, nonregenerating engineering members to assist repairs, including 123 of 230. Shortly, Delta, body A, was the sole drone remaining in Analysis Shop #17.
The muzak ceased. "Node 118 functional. Ticket destination set to Lollipop Hill. Is this an individual ticket, or passage for a vessel?"
"Vessel," snapped Delta. She was somewhat diverted due to the fact she was also coordinating ongoing repairs and making sure Weapons did not leech more power than his bailiwick warranted. Herself, body B to be exact, was also trying to replace a faulty power distribution node without frying her arm on exposed wires in the process.
"Is the vessel private, commercial, industrial, military, or other? If military, is the vessel supported by private, commercial, or governmental concerns?"
"Government military." Neither descriptor was precisely correct, but it was close enough.
"Please provide a detailed description of vessel, including tonnage, dimensions, crew, passengers, power source, cargo, inventory of any nonsynthetic fruits and/or vegetables, declaration of an textiles imported from the planet Gypsum..." The list went on and on, alphanumeric equivalent scrolling for over five minutes on the Master Contraption holographic screen. One by one, Delta funneled required datum to Depot, resorting often as not to direct data feed. "Processing request," finally said Depot.
Several seconds later, the computer spoke again, "Cost is 1,578,323,023 plecos and 27 centars. How will you be paying?"
Paying? Oh-oh. The Collective didn't use money. The sub-collective paused as it tried to determine what action to take. The deliberations were aborted as sensors indicated Cube Killer preparing to reenter battle. Noting Second's interest in proceedings, Captain deputized his backup to lead whatever few crew numbers could be spared to secure the BorgSpace ticket and leave behind Arrival-Departure.
{That is an outrageous price!} complained Second.
Depot replied, "I am so sorry. Prices for bulk ship translation is set by the transit monopoly and is nonnegotiable. Your government does not have any discount contracts with Grand Central. I am only a ticketing agent, and am not authorized to respond to complaints. However, I can provide the contact number for our Complaints Department, or else you may personally visit the main Complaints office on Customs 1, 2, 4, and 7, located in the Arrival system."
{One point five billion? Where the hell do we get /that/ kind of money? How about trade? Barter?} asked Second.
"I am so sorry. The ticket is only sellable in pleco units. Currency may be exchanged either on Customs 15, located in the Arrival system, or else the Gray Matter Lounge complex, located in Beachball orbit in the Departure system. However, I do accept a wide variety of major credit cards, including Visa Consortium, MasterCharge, Explorer, and Quantum Express. If you have another brand, I will see what I can do to accommodate you."
Delta snatched the Card Artifact from the bench, holding it up to the light. Neutronium Visa. She flicked her eyes to the Key Artifact. The thoughts of the sub-collective were many - calculations as to which attacking target was priority for torpedoes, fifty-three recipes for chocolate-rum cake, outlining possible paths of a strategic advance to the rear, determining if magenta and yellow was truly a workable color combination for scalp dye.
{Visa,} said Second. {You accept Visa.}
"Yes, I do. Please present your card to the kiosk."
Delta obediently swiped the card, frowning as nothing occurred. She peered at it, realizing the card was upside-down. Whoops. Swiftly she flipped it to proper orientation, stumbling slightly as her other body tripped in response to local shaking as the cube suffered phaser abuse. The card was swiped; and a familiar authorization dialogue flashed upon the Contraption's screen
"Please input key," translated Depot needlessly.
Delta, body A, picked up the Key Artifact and held it near the flickering screen requesting credit card PIN identification. Her thumb brushed against the play button.
Simultaneously, the shield buffers overloaded from the phaser of an otherwise insignificant battle participant. Essentially a refitted ship-to-ship cargo shuttle for those species lacking transporter technology, the boxy vessel mounted a single phaser strip which required most of the energy from the small core to fire. Normally the contribution by the shuttle would have gone unremarked, ignored, cube shields more than sufficient to repel damage. However, Cube #347"s shields were already highly stressed, both in fending off opponents and protecting the ship from increasing wormhole stresses. The shuttle"s phaser was the proverbial straw which broke the camel"s back, forcing cube shields to flicker as systems compensated.
The vultures descended. In the less-than-minute required to reset buffers, transporter signatures registered all over the cube, items snatched as Artifact Seekers forsook dishing punishment for stealing anything which vaguely resembled an Artifact. A tritanium construction hat from 10 of 19's hat collection vanished, as well as miscellaneous replacement relays and a set of Delta's prized Allen wrenches. 12 of 310 whimpered as a rare thirteen kilogram dilithium ore crystal with near perfect lattice structure was swiped from his rock collection. In Analysis Shop #17, Delta found herself holding nothing as the Key Artifact was beamed from her hand, followed by individual components of the Artifact conglomeration. Only Depot remained.
Elsewhere, Second blinked in astonishment as cube systems registered a transporter lock upon his body. The universe blurred into orange waves, reforming as the busy bridge of a small warship. Several races manned stations, species #10034 and species #10035 - Zyn and Tunian - the most prominent, with a pair of blocky species #7493 - Okim - standing a glassy-eyed sentry detail near lift doors. Absolute silence prevailed as the nature of the package, Borg and not Artifact, registered.
"Send it back! Send it back! Send it back, now!" squealed a high-pitched voice. Second shifted his attention to the central captain's position where a tan Sphinxian was curled in a miserable ball of fur, voice quite audible despite the fact his head was buried under his arms in stereotypical 'kiss-your-[whatever-piece-of-anatomy]-good-bye' position. "Send the Borg back!"
Shaking out of her state of stunned surprise, a crewman at the back of the bridge danced fingers across console. The orange waves of the vessel's transporter system returned; and when they dissipated, Second found himself in a hallway in subsection 22, submatrix 14, quite distant from his location before his unexpected excursion.
{Shields reconsolidated at 67% maximum.} Several of the battle group were already beginning to turn upon each other, greed and suspicion overruling atmosphere of cooperation. Three MAAC participants turned weapons upon Cube Killer, who herself was attempting to aim not only at the cube, but also at a mid-sized freighter attempting to disengage from the free-for-all. Before Cube #347 could resume the battle, to wade through the chaotic mess to determine which ships had managed to steal Artifacts, the sensor grid reported a spatial disturbance consolidating around the ship.
{[Jumping cable modem cell stomach, orange printers],} exclaimed Sensors with absolutely no trace of comprehensibility. Even translated approximations, which sometimes provided at least a peripheral meaning as to the insectoid's purpose, were useless. As Sensors provided her definition of the evolving situation, she inserted a thread of raw sensor data from a portion of grid tuned to fractual quantum temporal resonance frequencies, an extreme example of hardware and software abuse, not to mention the wetware now subjected to the worldview of the one being on Cube #347 which marched to the beat of a very different drummer.
The cube reeled from the onslaught. Luckily, MAAC and MAAB members (and newly formed HYAC, KLONG, JUS, and other acronyms as ships fluidly changed allegiance according to the perception of personal gain), as well as various independents, were too busy focusing on each other, and more precisely on whom had been elevated to the status of Artifact Seeker with Artifact, to worry about pounding on something as insignificant as a Borg cube. General Ta'loc and her Lupil forces may have had a different view of the matter, loathing of all things Collective as they were, but as recipient of not one, but two Artifacts, Cube Killer was swiftly becoming besieged by former allies.
Captain blocked all exterior sensor data, blinding the cube, but also freeing the sub-collective from the sensation of a sunburn on the /inside/ of one's skull. {Slowly, Sensors, slowly. And no more raw data from that grid configuration!} he chastised the insectoid.
Tried Sensors a second time as the grid was relinquished to the sensor hierarchy, {We are [wobble] by an energy barrier?} She refrained from displaying the exact signatures which indicated the forming spatial anomaly.
A shimmering surrounded the cube, now visible in wavelengths other than that originally seen by Sensors. The heating multi-front Artifact battle appeared increasingly distant, as if a distant mirage viewed across hot desert sands. Simultaneously, the ever-present link to the Collective became muffled, as if voices were heard from the other side of a wall instead of through a cracked door. Then, suddenly (and frighteningly, well, that is if the Greater Consciousness would allow such an inefficient emotion such as fright), the spatial bubble, with Cube #347 inside, accelerated towards the central wormhole.
The battle was left behind, entities fighting among themselves in the cumulation of a cycle which had been occurring since the first races had found themselves trapped in the AD systems. The overdue war would spread, eventually winnowing the population of the AD habitats, perhaps extirpating a few races, perhaps driving extinct a species or two lost to the universe outside the wormhole systems, and definitely scattering the Artifacts once more. Only the inscrutable mechanoid Ehtu and the primary AD master computer would emerge unscathed, unchanged, squabbles of organics either an occurrence to be studied or an incident to be ignored, respectively.
The wild white water ride into the depths of the wormhole came to an end for Cube #347, not in implosion, but in unexpected...normality. Engines thrummed, power cores throbbed, motors whirled, automatic alerts quietly beeped at random intervals for no apparent reason. Captain picked himself off the deck where he found himself sprawled, demanding updates from sensors, engineering, and weapons hierarchies about location, damage and why the hell they were still alive, and external threats, respectively and in that order. Return reports began to flood the command and control architecture.
Depot's familiar sphere reverse faded into view as the nodal intersection holoemitter was activated. "Why do the Seekers always neglect to steal me?" Depot asked to no one in particular. He had reverted to his normal persona from automated ticket agent. "Even this sub-collective's reserve consensus monitor was taken for a couple of seconds, but never me. Never me. Why?"
Second beamed into the nodal intersection, answering before Captain could do more than open his mouth. "Because you are annoying, and the universe enjoys bestowing upon this cube annoying things."
"Oh! Wrong!" rang a voice, nonBorg, but distinctly familiar. "You are so wrong! The universe has more important things to do than worry about one cube. Depot wasn't taken, well, you've only transportered him once? Yes? Well, unless he's actively concentrating to allow his manifestation to be transported - and he isn't actually beamed anywhere, since, technically, his manifestation is only the merest shadow of himself - one could no more lock to his shell than this cube could transport this entire system. Geesh! I thought Borg had a slightly better grasp of analyzing circumstantial evidence for trends than that."
An eyeball moseyed in from the catwalk. A green-irised eyeball sans mouth or other visible speaking organs. The legs and arms were incidental, juncture between eyeball and limbs one of those things which caused one's brain to itch. It (she? a distinct impression of female gender was present) lifted a spritz bottle to spray itself (herself) with a fine misting of water.
"Excuse me. Dry eye. Touch of allergies combined with the low humidity environment I've lately been cursed with plus a lack of eyelid makes for a horrid itch. Your sauna here, though, is making me feel much better. Perhaps I should visit more often."
Depot wobbled back and forth. "Hi, Director! I assume you're the one - Maria Branson - who certified the transfer of funds for the ticket. I need final authorization before the translation can continue."
"Will a retinal scan do?"
"Sure." Depot stilled, then began to slowly spin once more. "Processing. Funds transfer cleared. Translation protocols begun. Thirty minutes to translation." The Artifact's unusually one-dimensional, computer-like voice abruptly filled into its normal jovial cant as he asked, "Do you have time for a scrabble game?"
"Later. I need to explain to these poor Borg what is going on before someone bursts something."
"Okay!" Depot quieted, content to spin.
Maria Branson. Maria Branson. The name was familiar. More than familiar. The memory had something to do with Terra? Humans? Hollywood? A game? Dice? The lines of inquiry were blurred, confused, utterly unlike the normal crisp memories stored with perfect Borg recall. Director, that title, however, was clear as to meaning.
Captain stepped forward, confronting the eyeball. As consensus monitor and facilitator, it was his job to speak for the sub-collective Whole. It was also his job to be mangled if the recipient of said message decided to blame the messenger. Yet another reason to despise his position. "Director. Classification - omnipotent being, unable to be assimilated. Standing orders - avoid if possible. Query - state your intentions."
The eyeball spritzed itself again. "Isn't it obvious? Saving your collective butts. You know, you could have left this system at anytime, simply by tapping together the heels of your cobalt blue slippers five times, then performing a little tap dance."
Captain became distracted by sensor data detailing the surrounding environment, and so passed communication duties to a loitering Second. The cube appeared to be in an eddy, a region of stillness well within the region of wormhole which should have reduced the cube to scrap. The eddy, the vacuole, appeared to be sinking deeper into the central wormhole.
{Thanks,} said Second with sarcastic gratuity. Outloud, he replied to the Director in an incredulous tone, standard Borg monotone not bothered to be used, "Cobalt slippers?"
"Why, yes, your cobalt slip...pers..." The Director registered a pained expression to its...eyeball. A small device materialized in one and she quietly murmured to it: "Note to self, return to Uz, ASAP. Remember!" Clearing her nonthroat and banishing the recorder, the Director gave the impression of a weak smile. "Well, never mind the slippers. Forget I said anything about slippers. Now, where was I?"
"Eddy, maybe?" prompted Depot, inscrutable as ever, both internally and externally.
The Director snapped her fingers. "Ah, yes, eddy. Your ticket request for translation back to your neck of the galaxy went through because I decided to pay for it. I kinda, accidentally, lost my Visa card in this system quite a while ago, but as I don't really need the travel services offered by the wormholes, I decided the misplacement wasn't a major deal. I still remember the PIN - don't ask me how." The eyeball babbled on, occasionally misting water on herself. "The long and short, this vortex is moving to the transfer point, after which you will return to BorgSpace."
Silence by all parties. The sensor grid had confirmed what the Director was saying, the cube slowly sinking in the wormhole depths, well beyond the point of no return. The eddy was the sole barrier to the unforgiving outside, an eddy which would be suicidal to leave. Captain was busy dissuading anyone from 'experimenting' with the vessel's relative safety.
"Director, sure we can't play a word game?" asked Depot. "We still have twenty minutes to this vessel's translation."
The eyeball shrugged. "Why not?"
The wormhole translation was a relief. Due to an unknown delay (no traffic, yet somehow there was a hold up because of congestion), the twenty minutes waiting time stretched to a horrendous three hours. During the three hours, the entire computational might and extensive resources of the sub-collective were for naught, one scrabble game lost to the Director and five to the too smug Depot. It was downright embarrassing, although probably foreseeable as one entity was omnipotent and the other a massively powerful and ancient supercomputer with a word obsession.
"Well, I guess this is where I get off," said the Director, "wormholes just don't agree with my digestion."
Captain and Second worked diligently to suppress any questions which had to do with the subject of a being such as a Director having the need for a digestion system. The effort was successful, barely.
Continued the eyeball, "And I will be taking Depot with me. He can't go through the wormhole, anyway, and the attempt might do," pause, "Bad Things," the capital letters were evident, "to your ship, as well as this corner of the universe. No, no, don't bother to protest. Depot is a fundamental part of the AD systems, and, well, imagine trying to remove the fanbelt from a running internal combustion engine. Possible, but not recommended."
The sub-collective did not argue. Nope. The pre-translation vortex had narrowed the link to the Greater Consciousness to a point of mere presence, coherent data flow in either direction not possible. Explanations as to why Depot had not returned with the sub-collective could occur later. For now, the Director was welcome to the too chatty, too annoying Artifact.
With no argument forthcoming, the Director waved. "Ta-ta! See you later!" Ominous good-bye spoken, the eyeball disappeared before the pun could fully register, followed by the physical and mental presence of Depot.
Translation was entered.
The translation experience was anti-climatic. The Progenitor builders had long perfected the act of wormhole travel, dampening deadly event horizon effects and taming twisted cross-currents of gravitational and temporal sheer. One moment the cube was in the eddy, and the next the sub-collective found itself less than two light years from a unimatrix complex, deep in the heart of BorgSpace. The Greater Consciousness was closer, stronger than it had been for years, a presence which quickly distanced itself as instructions were dispensed.
<<Set coordinates to unimatrix complex 005, transwarp, automatic pilot. Priority items to be off-loaded - prototype quantum slipstream drive components; subunit #522; individuals assimilated from Beta Quadrant, especially new species originating from Arrival-Departure phenomenon. Dry-dock clearance granted for repair and upgrades. Sub-collective #347, initiate stasis,>> echoed the Greater Consciousness multivoice, other commands less easily translated into words also transmitted. No time was provided to Cube #347 to accidentally wander off on a new adventure before key pieces of cargo could be safely debarked.
A huge grin (relatively speaking) crossed Captain's face, mirrored by Second, as the directives were received. More important than the verbalizable orders were the less translatable mandates, instructions which indicated a reinitiating of the rotation of the primary consensus monitor and facilitator position. The rotation had been suspended at the most recent awakening in favor of the current working configuration. However, without explanation (the Collective did not explain its actions, not to normal drones, and certainly not to imperfectly assimilated drones), the rotation which had evolved over thousands of years as a workable system for Cube #347 and its predecessors was reinstated.
The reason behind the Collective's decree was irrelevant. All which mattered was the proclamation.
"Yeeehaw!" shouted Captain as he exited his nodal intersection, an almost-bounce to his heavy step as he headed to his alcove as directed, mind guiding the sub-collective through the steps necessary for full stasis mode. "Yeeehaw!"
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