Money speaks all languages, and Paramount has more than enough money to assert Star Trek dominance, no matter what gibberish is spoken. With the tongue of the comic satirist, Decker has brought to the world Star Traks. Meanwhile, Meneks technobabbles her way through BorgSpace.
Se Habla Espanol?
Cube #347 cautiously advanced into the unusual system, sensors at maximum resolution. The cube gulped copious oceans of data, short- through long-range envelope funneling all to the sensory hierarchy for interpretation and analysis. Concentrating on a spherical volume with a radius of 200 light hours, the sub-collective peered through a veil of obscuring dust and wormhole-caused spatial distortion and listened to insystems chatter from resident races, slowly building as detailed a map as possible given the circumstances.
At the center of the system, an artifact likely belonging to the presumed extinct species #137, was an enormous wormhole. The wormhole, one end anchored in the system, was blind at the other terminus, former exit point detached. It currently whirled and raged as an almost-blackhole, suppressed from sinking into gravitational collapse by three smaller shepherd wormholes. The stable shepherds connected back upon themselves, relatively harmless as such phenomena went, as long as no one attempted to transit them. The outcome of such a foolhardy action would be limbo. Although small, they were more than powerful enough to confine their temper-tantrum throwing brother.
Two yellow dwarf stars, so absolutely matched in size, age, and composition as to be constructed, not naturally formed, circled the wormholes at opposite ends of a nearly perfect orbit. The shepherds moderated gravitational influence of themselves and companion so well that while it may have been /galactic revolutions/ since the last species #137 citizen had gazed upon the system, likely the binary pair had remained unperturbed in their shared orbit. Each star had associated planets to a distance of three light hours, after which the gravitational eddies species #137 had painstakingly established attenuated to random spatial warping. Outside the relative calm of the binary pair, "natural" rocky bodies (assuming anything in the systems could be classified as natural) undertook chaotic orbits, fell into hungry wormhole maws, or became pulverized dust. Intercepted insystems gossip from recognizable languages designated the stars Arrival and Departure, neither of which had as yet been visited by the cube.
Departure was the outwardly more standard of the two solar systems. The largest planet, a gas giant, was named Beachball. The reason behind the whimsical nomenclature was unknown if to be the latest in a long series of names, or the original; whatever the background, it was irrelevant. Beachball hosted many moons and planetoids, one of which was a very powerful communications facility. At least five additional major planets - two gaseous, three rocky - also existed in the system, as well as inhabited planetoids.
Arrival was comprised solely of terrestrials and other rocky bodies. Thus far, the only name planet Cube #347 had overheard mentioned was Customs, an ominous designation. Customs was not actually a single planet, but rather 124 planetoids each the size of the Terran system moon of Ganymede. The planets all shared the same orbit, each equidistant from the next, at a distance 2.8 light hours from the primary. At least a dozen other major planets also circled Arrival, each placed in a specific orbit emphasizing exacting temperature and atmospheric mixtures.
Throughout both the volume of Arrival and Departure, as well as points between and far outside, drifted a wide variety of radio and subspace transmission sources. Some, like the beacon which had welcomed the cube to the wormhole-binary system with words proclaiming a "Grand Central" traveling nexus, were self-evident as to function. Others were nothing more than unresolvable points. Large sources hinted at free-floating metropolises, societies existing without benefit of an anchoring planet or moon. Other major sources were mysterious, fleeting: perhaps wormhole-cast sensor ghosts, or monitoring equipment abandoned by species #137? A great majority of sources, however, were linkable to specific vector information - i.e. ships.
The ships, for the most part, sported alien signatures, indicating species not previously encountered by the Borg. Until approaches were contrived to scan the unknowns, the Collective could not verify if owners were truly foreign, familiar races with technological mutations of recognizable machinery, or known species plying the ether with vessels not of their own manufacture. The character of the vessels in question could be extrapolated without close-up confirmation, based upon size, degree of subspace noise, spectroscopy of exhaust gasses, where located, what actions being performed, and the occasional translatable transmission capture. In general, four ship categories existed: science vessels clustered near the wormholes or drifting high in the elliptic, ships recently captured by the system and at the periphery attempting to leave, service and trade ships trundling between habitations, and warships. The latter were inevitably associated with chatter describing Artifacts guarding, or engaged in maneuvers with the ultimate goal to gain an Artifact.
Cube #347 processed the data it gained, spending over a day languishly drifting in the direction of the central wormhole. No feint was made towards either Arrival or Departure due to a Lupil (species #6214) by the name General Ta'loc threatening the might of MAAC (Mutual Alliance Against the Collective) should the cube attack a coalition member. General Ta'loc was a familiar face to the Borg, one associated with destroying Battle- and Assimilation-class cubes during initial assimilation forays into Lupil colony systems. If Ta'loc commanded vessels more powerful than a fleet of weaponless orbit-to-surface shuttles, Exploratory-class Cube #347 was in trouble. Personally, the sub-collective (other than weapons hierarchy) was of the opinion Cube #347 would be in trouble if Ta'loc controlled anything remotely spaceworthy, of man-with-plasma-torch tonnage or greater.
A primary problem Cube #347 quickly realized was lack of data, lack of data about the ancient purpose of the system, about the many unknown species, about the languages. The bits and pieces intercepted were not sufficient for Borg translation algorithms. The sub-collective required contact, Ta'loc's warning or not, to remedy the deficit. The Borg did not function well in a data vacuum. Assimilation was called for. A target, a lone ship, was chosen. Cube #347 closed, a shark stalking prey.
The cube neared within a few million kilometers of the target, a vessel of unknown affiliation holding steady amid spatial instabilities caused by the wormhole. Function appeared to be science, evidenced by both the myriad of sensors visible on the hull now that Cube #347 was close enough to utilize optics, and by position. It was located in the orbital plane of the four wormholes, more than close enough to experience tidal stresses, yet not in mortal danger. The location was perfect for mapping complex gravitational interactions between shepherds and compatriot, or for measuring particle density fluctuations as space-warping tempests formed deep in the complex system.
The vessel was a slightly elongated saucer 85 meters long, affording bilateral symmetry. Although a warp core provided energy, undersized nacelles attached at longitudinal saucer edges could provide a top speed of high impulse, no more. Dataspace simulations showed a true static warp shell would simply not form. On reflection, locally constructed ships would have no need of warp, the "places to go, things to do" list for the artificial system centered within a relatively small volume. Warp would be an inefficient expenditure of energy. However, the core did provide more than sufficient power for engines designed to skip around the wormholes, as well luxury amenities such as five disc CD changer and retractable moon roof. Block letters reminiscent of Russian Cyrillic arced across the saucer, an obvious name, if unreadable. Optics also resolved much smaller scrawlings here and there, undoubtedly the equivalent of "Heat exhaust," "Radiation danger," and "Don't step here unless you want to lose a foot."
The vessel was not without armaments despite its scientific mission. Four phaser banks - two fore and two aft, split again dorsal and ventral to provide full spherical coverage - followed forward and back curves, with torpedo apertures recessed in the area delineated by the arc. The stub-nosed muzzles of two rail guns were also visible, although those weapons did not command the same coverage as the phasers.
As Cube #347 closed, the ship maneuvered to present its low profile bow towards approaching danger. Most specialized sensors and antennae descended into the hull, with those facing the wormholes remaining active. Power diverted to weapons and idling engines. The cube slid closer, only to watch the target match velocities in the opposite direction. It comfortably dropped deeper into the wormholes' influences, which although weak at this distance still made cube superstructure groan now and then. The cube was in no structural danger, but it did emphasize the relevant point smaller ships were affected less by gravitational tides than larger brethren
The frustrating game of cat and mouse continued. Always the target kept just out of weapon reach, defensive posture. Always Cube #347 followed, attempting various tactics to lessen the distance. No contact had been made, the sub-collective unsure of alien alliances, unsure as to species and if immediate understanding was possible. All well and good to spout the "You will be assimilated" spiel, only to learn the recipients thought it to be a goodwill message, or, more embarrassing, a recipe for Miz Gala's Hot Pepper Salsa. Misunderstandings had occurred before; and Miz Gala's attorney stable was difficult to shake once sicced.
Finally the cube stopped, mirrored by the alien ship. For five motionless minutes both gazed at the other through millions of kilometers of dust and spatial fluctuations. Expenditures were made to keep Weapons contained, to resist the impulse to charge recklessly forward while flinging torpedoes. Data was the purpose of this careful attack, data which had to be extracted in the form of intact computer files or assimilated sentients. A mangled ship corpse would provide neither.
A hail was received, transmission cutting strongly through subspace interference. In his nodal intersection, Captain routed incoming communication to his viewscreen for direct perusal. Return transmission was simultaneously double- and triple-checked to confirm multivoice and an appropriate CatwalkCam were engaged. Other than the streamer decorations strewn along alcove tiers 3-8 of subsection 5, submatrix 17, any of numerous pickups were available for use.
The viewscreen showed the head and shoulders of a standard humanoid variation. The androgynous face gave little hint as to gender, although a slight mammary rounding visible at the lower edge of the screen suggested female. Unfortunately, secondary sexual characteristics, assuming structures were such, are notoriously unreliable gender indicators in a universe where Nature is always stirring the evolutionary pot. Epidermis was dark red; and black cranial hair was aggressively styled in an immense afro, out of which poked the sharp, burgundy tips of a pair of horns. The face followed normal humanoid proportions, with eyes a bit on the small side. Pupils were orientated as vertical slots, surrounding iris a smoky gray. Silver jangle earrings dangling from petite external ears could have many meanings, from decoration to social status to military rank to breeding condition. Unusually, /two/ mouths were in evidence, one located at the typical facial location, with the second low on the neck in the hollow of the collarbone girdle. Extrapolations of skeleton and gastro-respiratory plumbing indicated odd contortions, especially if the second mouth functioned as such, and was not the biological version of a pickpocket proof storage pouch. Overall impression was of a double mouthed devil with poor choice in hair stylists.
Eyes widened in surprise, confronted with the sight of [recheck - {Move, 30 of 480, the back of your head is obscuring the camera}] distant catwalks and alcove tiers. Nostrils flared as the alien recomposed itself, attempting to hide confusion and consternation. Both mouths gaped slightly, then the head embarked upon what was likely introduction followed by a series of demands. Although language and species were unfamiliar, tens of thousands of similar encounters in Borg history demonstrated a common thread. Within the dataspaces of Cube #347, massive algorithms of the universal translator program began the monumental task of turning the incoming spew of words into sense.
The universal translator is a technological marvel, able to take a strange language with unknown grammar structure and spin it into familiar words and syntax. The Borg had an advantage over other civilizations, literally a database containing tens of thousands of tongues and alien viewpoints to draw upon, as well as massive computational ability. With relatively few examples of the language in question and a minimum amount of time, the universal translator could provide comprehension. There were always exceptions, insectoid species #6766 represented by Sensors an outstanding example, but such problems were few and far between, limited to those beings with vastly deviant neural architecture and/or sensor perceptions from the galactic norm.
The real challenge for a universal translator lay not in the actual translations, but in matching onscreen lip movements to the words of the dominant language. Civilizations which employed mixed species ship crews tended to "encourage" a single tongue, making advancement very difficult for those who refused cultural assimilation. Such an example was the Federation, which somehow avoided claims of specism; Section 31 was thought to somehow be involved. Of course, humans also tended to captain Federation vessels; and the military Starfleet arm held a very conspicuous glass ceiling when it came to nonTerran advancement within the command track, despite objections to the contrary. Racial equality issues aside, a normal computer given the task to not only translate dozens of languages real-time, then through technological ventriloquism make it seem the speaker were actually speaking the recipient's native tongue would cause any self-respecting machine to crash on the spot. Those races physiologically unable to speak Federationese wore discrete voders, self-contained machines which transliterated the speaker's words.
The Borg concept of universal translator was somewhat different. Each drone was directly connected to the computer, and more importantly, the language databases. Neural interface programs automatically translated all input into the native language of the receiver, thus he/she/it always perceived the Borg consciousness as a partyline held in his/hers/its own tongue. Drone-to-drone verbalization was similar, with the listener transliterating the speaker's words into comprehensible sentences. For direct drone-to-nondrone communication (cube-to-ship utilized synthetic vocal reproductions), the drone in question drew upon extensive databases, then voiced the required language, assuming the drone was physically equipped. Subvocalizers and voders assisted with the more intricate growls, gurgles, clicks, and whistles, but some drone accents could be nigh near unfathomable.
As the translation process progressed, requiring an inordinate amount of time, a drone - 133 of 310 - shuffled into Captain's nodal intersection. She was enroute between point A and point B, pulling a little red wagon overflowing with optic wiring, isolinear chips, and diagnostic equipment. Captain did not bother to turn his head to watch her progress, contact with computer sufficient to confirm designation, destination, and task. Shuffle shuffle shuffle. 133 of 310 dragged her feet as she walked, more than the average drone. Finally Captain swiveled his head to observe the problem, followed by body in stunned disbelief.
"That is wrong," muttered Captain. "Just wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong."
"What is?" asked 133 of 310, stopping. She was wearing hot pants. Very tight hot pants. Very tight pink hot pants. While designed to be salaciously revealing of the humanoid form, on a Borg they were, well, just plain wrong.
Captain tore his optics away from the frightful sight. Unfortunately, the picture was burned into his visual cortex. "Just wrong. Remove them at once."
133 of 310 grimaced, "The pants? Do you know how long it took me to get into them? Besides, I'll be naked."
"133 of 310...you are assimilated; armor covers everything. Modesty is irrelevant. However, /decency/ is very relevant. If that...thing...is not sent to waste reclamation and destroyed within the next five minutes, it will be forcibly transported there. If you are still wearing it at the time, too bad. This cube has /some/ standards to uphold. Not many, but some."
Pouting, 133 of 310 beamed herself elsewhere, leaving behind the wagon. Captain locked a tracer on her signature, then sicced a subhierarchy of command and control upon her to verify she was doing as commanded.
A bell chimed, the universal translator was done (as were the brownies 17 of 19 was baking in an oven installed at the back of his alcove, by coincidence). Understanding flowed through Captain, through the sub-collective, concerning the pseudodevil on the screen. The translation, however, was not without a few minor problems. A low hissing accompanied words, likely an artifact of subspace transmission through a wormhole twisted environment. Algorithms had attempted to incorporate the noise into the overall translation for some odd reason. Captain distractedly began to examine the code for corruption, then put aside the monumental task for another time. It wasn't quite broken, so no need to fix it.
A compressed recording recounted remarks to the present.
First: "Alien cubeship, I am Captain Kisti, female this cycle. I greet you in the name of the Jeraki science platform Eyeball. What is your business? We have no Artifacts and we seek no Artifacts." *ssssuglyshipssss * ssssgoawayssss * ssssbothersomessss*
Followed by: Nostril flare. "Answer, please. The valiant Lupil mentioned entities called Borg. Are you them? We apologize for not allowing you too close, but some people are just not very nice. I am concerned. Are you having communication difficulties? Can you transmit audio? Your camera feed seems to be odd." *sssschingLupilsss * ssssBorgsss * sssskeepawayssss * sssscouldntcarelessssss*
Finally: Moderately distressed voice, "Sirs and madams, I repeat myself. I am Captain Kisti, female. This is Jeraki science platform Eyeball, on a peaceful mission. No Artifacts here. Do you need assistance?" *ssssidiotsssss * ssssifwecouldboardwemightgainassetsssss*
Real-time marched on, the Jeraki captain continuing her polite questions of assistance. As she talked with the mouth traditionally placed, the second maw lisped nearly soundless with hisses of escaping air. That was the source of quasistatic interfering with the universal translator. Irrelevant. One could now clearly converse with the Jeraki, and with the knowledge that this particular species was not among General Ta'loc's don't-touch list.
"We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Your technological and biological distinctiveness will be added to our own. Resistance is futile." Intelligent discourse for the Borg meant something completely different in comparison to a species which does not rely upon direct absorption of knowledge.
Captain goosed the cube's thrusters, directing it aggressively towards Eyeball. The science ship promptly responded by backing deeper into the phenomenon. The distance to the point of no return remained distant, but the Jeraki defensive threat was pointed. The devilish captain would continue to drop her ship into the gravity well, daring the larger cube to follow, victory to the vessel better able to withstand gravitational stress.
Kisti grimaced, nostrils flaring as she gave a very slow blink. The deliberate combination probably had rude connotations among Jeraki, understanding of which would elude the sub-collective until one of the race was assimilated. Words continued to sound calm, reasonable; however, the universal translator appeared to have increasing problems concerning the quiet hissing. Reanalysis indicated the whispers were in fact a secondary component of the Jeraki speech pattern.
"We will be so happy to help you in any way we can. Lower shields, cut power to weapons and engines, and allow yourself to drift. The currents will bring you straight to us," said Kisti amicably, a slight upturn of primary mouth showing the tips of very sharp canines. Simultaneously: *sssscomeonsuckerssss * sssshelplessinriptidesssss * sssslikeuglyonameatbeastssss*
Sensors isolated a small portion of the continuous scan sweeps of the cube's external environment, rendering it impossible for the average drone to understand in the process. Captain's viewscreen regulated the Jeraki head to picture-in-picture status, faux modern art reproduction monopolizing the screen. {Warning!} announced Sensors. The already high-strung weapons hierarchy tried to expend a volley of quantum torpedoes, aimed at the universe in general and halted only by Second. Engineering temporarily disabled launchers.
{Sensors,} chastised Captain, {you know better than to do that when Weapons is ready to commit us! Additionally, this output from your hierarchy is incomprehensible.}
Background chatter: {Jeraki target is withdrawing all sensor clusters into hull recesses. Power is being diverted from weapon and secondary life support to shield generators and internal structural integrity fields,} noted from those of sensory hierarchy observing Eyeball with standard grid settings, not Sensors' rendition of the universe as pastel blocks and electric scribbles. Returned a part of Captain, integration of the view into a whole even while still reeling from Sensors' contribution, {Understood.}
The sub-collective's answer to Kisti's continued suggestions of help was a distracted "Unacceptable. You will be assimilated. Lower your shields, disengage engines, and await tractor grapple. Comply." Only a fraction of the multi-tasking consciousness was focused upon the noncomplying Eyeball.
Captain's viewscreen rearranged itself, pictorial data unscrambled. One point was Cube #347, a second point the science platform. Complex symbols and vectors colored a myriad of shades represented ebb and flow of gravitational currents, spatial eddies, and other such wormhole-dictated phenomena; dataspace representation was much richer in content, a real-time three-dimensional observation complimenting the pale shadow on Captain's screen. Rapidly approaching the two vessels was a scribbled mess. {Sensors...} said Captain.
{Sensors not at fault. Disturbance, storm, is approaching. Grid cannot resolve its complexities.}
Oh. Cube #347 revised its current subjective worldview. Suddenly the science platform's preparations made sense. With extensive data on the region, it had recognized the danger well before the cube, and was now battening down hatches.
"All is perfectly safe," wheedled Kisti, as if she had not received the Borg ultimatum, as if no tempest was bearing down. "In the name of cooperation and peace, we wish to inform you a small squall is incoming. It will arrive in about three minutes with a traveling velocity about 25% light speed. Nothing to worry about. One could probably ride it out unshielded, as long as one has a good hull to counter dust ablation." *ssssgonnabeagoodonessss * sssswidowmakerssss * ssssallhandsprepareforsalvagessss*
The computer burped, or at least that was as good a description as any. Between the difficult job of double translating - in addition to the contrary content, the secondary mouth was not whispering the same language as the primary - for four thousand drones and lip-synching Captain's viewscreen, the translation algorithms momentarily froze. Lack of allotted resources was swiftly remedied, automatic operations shuffling organic and inorganic processors. The unexpected wrenching precipitated a domino effect, which subsequently cascaded through systems to sensors to transporters to replicators to regeneration, one system after another finding itself deprived of resources due to sequential reallotment.
Second found himself abruptly assigned to determining optimal frequencies for shield adaptation, one more drone affected as the entire sub-collective fell into disarray. Neural resources shifted to hierarchies with which individuals were not normally associated. Unfortunately, Second had been the focal point to contain and calm Weapons. Before he could re-establish authority, Weapons pounced in the free nanoseconds, ripping through firewalls and compulsions with tactical hierarchy supporting.
The cube powered forward on impulse, straight at Eyeball. The Jeraki science platform seemed not to have expected the sudden attack, or perhaps had turned more attention than prudent towards the approaching wavefront. Whatever the reason, reaction was sluggish, and for several long seconds it was within long distance weapons range. Four torpedoes raced towards Eyeball, one of which actually impacted. The glancing blow shattered shields.
If Kisti had anything more to say, any retort, it was lost amid a wave of static as the (relatively) minor spatial disturbance washed over the two ships. Cube #347 throttled back as Captain regained control of propulsion, Second now disentangled from his untimely reassignment to return to the more pressing duty of Weapons-sitting. Gravitational forces strove to twist the cube apart, but between shields and robust Borg engineering, no damage accrued. Upsets occurred here and there as inertial dampers strained - a bucket of Assimilation's latest gray creation spilt in assimilation workshop #5, a broken crate of superballs in Bulk Cargo Hold #8, shorting of a forcefield bank barricading Thorny from a subsection 7 hallway. Except for the latter, which had engineering scrambling for machetes to beat back any bloodvine excursions, no major disasters occurred. The same could not be observed for Eyeball.
The Jeraki science vessel was slowly tumbling, occasional random puffs from thrusters worsening the situation. One nacelle was dark; and scans confirmed cessation of power. The other nacelle flickered, then also went off-line, energetically spewing plasma no longer contained by magnetic bottles. Power was faltering all over the ship, including life support. Loss of structural integrity fields even in the remote outskirts of the wormhole quad was a death sentence, alloy unbuffered by forcefields quickly failing. Spectrum analysis noted the presence of gasses common to nitro-oxy species, indicating an atmospheric leak.
Still performing diagnostics and resisting Weapons' cries for action, Cube #347 did not react as several shuttles launched from Eyeball. Each of the four large shuttles was of a size to haul large quantities of bulky cargo. Abundant life signs attested to current usage as escape vehicles. Nothing attributable to a humanoid remained on the drifting Eyeball. One by one, the impulse capable shuttles pointed noses in a direction to leave on an outbound trajectory angling galactic north, eventual destination unknown. No farewell, pseudocivil or otherwise, was offered, haste evident.
Captain initiated a consensus cascade as to what action to pursue. Weapons response was expected: demolish Eyeball, followed by chase and destruction of the cargo shuttles. Decision was leaning towards the sane consensus of salvaging the science ship for recoverable computer files when Sensors spouted {Warning!} again. Captain and Second together kept a hold on the weapon hierarchy, dissuading ineffectual release of munitions.
{Secondary wave,} announced Sensors, {hidden in sensor shadow behind turbulence of initial tempest. Ionic character. Little gravitational fluctuation. Prepare for electrical surge.} All over the cube came the sounds of drones interrupting regeneration cycles and exiting alcoves. Electrical surges sometimes affected alcoves in spectacular manner, including sparks and flying bodies; and while a Borg was wired to allow survival following shuntage of gigawatts of energy through exoskeletal armor, the temporary double (triple, quadruple) vision afterwards typically lowered efficiency, as did the involuntary muscle contractions.
A tsunami of electrically charged particles buffeted the cube. Unlike the sweep of gravitational flux and battering of displaced dust particles prior, the shields were relatively useless. As excess electrical charge built upon the shields, automatic systems drained it to a temporary sink in the cube, necessary to prevent collapse. Unlike strikes of focused EM and plasma weaponry, the insult was diffuse, affecting all parts of the defense at once. Capacitor sinks quickly filled, necessitating storage within internal security and structural field matrices. Anyone who touched the walls at certain points was sure to receive a nasty static shock. Several drones predictably did, ending on drone maintenance roster for shorted out limb prostheses.
The electrical squall passed. Delta directed bleeding of stored power back to shields to radiate away into space, possible now that the surrounding area was not saturated in like charge. Meanwhile, Captain inventoried those files stored in elements of the cube structure. Unless utterly necessary to be downloaded into drones for safekeeping, standard operating procedure kept common use data and programs of monstrous size within hardware matrices. Besides, the sensation of trekking through a crewmember's psychoses on the way to the propulsion commands, or having a hundred minds crawling through one's brain and stomping on memories was somewhat disturbing. The surge had the possibility of corrupting vital files, circuits and crystals both more and less vulnerable to insult than biologically buffered systems, depending on the circumstance. Captain had to know what was potentially damaged so requests for copies could be made to Collective archives. Although the cube was stuck in the wormhole system, fractual subspace communications continued to function fine.
Most common use software was intact. The exception, a major one, was the all-important universal translator algorithms and linguistic databases. Already stressed by the Jeraki and not fully adapted to processing the contrary double speech of the race, it tottered on the brink of functionality. Without the software, not only was cube-to-alien communication compromised, but the four thousand Borg crew would not be able to gossip amongst themselves except for those who historically or artificially shared tongues. It was a potential disaster of epic proportions threatening to paralyze efficiency.
A large proportion of command and control, with support from assimilation, laboriously began to salvage algorithm and database. Captain, meanwhile, widened the link to the Greater Consciousness, requesting replacement copies of the mangled code.
<<We are sorry. All relevant FTP sites are in use. Your request has been assessed, and you are 1,773 on the waiting list. Attempts to circumvent this list are futile,>> was the recorded reply, a cheery multivoice with feminine overtones and a nasal twang.
Simultaneously, 127 of 203 plugged a string of festive colored lights (yellow and purple) into an outlet next to his alcove, adding to the three dozen strings already creating a fire hazard nightmare. The breaker for the alcove tier popped, followed in cascading failure by adjacent tiers, submatrix, subsection. The problem was swiftly remedied, circuit breaker reset, but the damage was done: all universal translator-related data disappeared into a spaghetti scramble.
Shocked, Captain stared at his screen. During the storm crisis, Second had joined Captain in the nodal intersection. He was in the process of spewing a sarcastic comment concerning the FTP waiting list when it turned to garble. "...plusik c'tang slo ai blopik tra."
"What?" asked Captain. His mind joined the thousands of others flailing in the dataspaces, requiring comprehension.
"Yak?" inquired Second in return.
"What?"
"Yak?"
"What?"
"Yak?"
"Stop it."
"Yak?"
"Stop. It." Captain raised the volume of his voice, as if increased decibels would provide understanding.
"Yak?"
Captain glared at Second. Although the universal translator was kaput, emotional gauges remained functional. Second was not radiating true confusion, but rather a facsimile thereof. Captain gestured a hand towards viewscreen, where the blank picture-in-picture inset was replaced with a stick figure sporting Second's face, set within a cube. "Stop it, or..." The stick figure was beamed outside the box, where it floated, lost. The real Second blinked innocently, but said nothing, "Yak" or otherwise.
All over the cube, Captain felt the sub-collective's tentative hold upon oneness weakening. Although many operations were automatic and wordless, for example vector calculation of the drifting Eyeball in relation to cube and surrounding environment, other tasks were not. "Reading" was the same as "speaking" or "listening" in regards to language comprehension skills, at least when it came to dataspaces and intranets. Engineering rosters were in a state of disarray, drones unable to determine current duty. Many were erring on the side of "caution" and declining to accept any task. Those groups which knew assignment and could not manage to ditch it were unable to communicate even the simplest idea, such as "Give me the plasma welder to patch this conduit before it explodes all over us." Drone maintenance was in worse shape regarding the latter concern, woe to any crew member in the middle of an operation requiring more than one pair of hands.
To add to emergent problems, the viewscreen began to blink. Simultaneously, a chime sounded in Captain's head, directing command and control to an incoming sensor datastream from Sensors. Both Captain and Second focused on the screen, on the dataspace depiction. Building was a stylized view of the local region out to one light hour (Borg numerical data, distance, time were an innate part of the original program installed in all drones and therefore not mediated by the universal translator), cube positioned in the middle of a series of concentric rings. At the edge of the screen a dark mass slowly advanced, intersecting the cube in approximately four hours. The two-part wormhole squall Cube #347 and Eyeball had withstood was the equivalent of a light breeze in comparison to the looming monster.
"Sh**," said Captain, mind whirling upon what required to be done before the storm arrived, tasks which had been noted in aborted consensus cascade and would have been difficult to coordinate prior to translator meltdown. Similar, if incomprehensible, vibes were arising from those signatures known to be fairly responsible, while others were still panicking or had turned inward to contemplate personal endeavors. Each drone was both alone and not alone. Unfortunately, the required translator files would be uploaded to the cube when the FTP backlog cleared, which could occur in five minutes, or five days.
"Flug," echoed Second, no translation necessary.
The first order of business was to return all drones to their alcoves, except for those involved in tasks critical to immediate cube survival. Luckily for Borg undergoing maintenance, no operations were of consequence: the life of a single drone was not important enough to be considered a reason to avoid the order. Duct tape, bailing wire, and staples were sufficient to piece patients back together; 159 of 212 tottered back to his alcove carrying his left forearm assembly.
The purpose of the act was to limit extraneous movement, focusing resources within the dataspaces rather than the physical plane. The recall was especially critical for Cube #347 because alcove-bound drones were less likely to behave poorly than those free. Loss of universal translator algorithms had weakened behavior-governing filters, inhibition of impulses normally supported by surrounding comrades was less effective when one cannot understand the angel on the shoulder warning against an action.
The compulsions initiated by Captain was one of many nonverbal orders possible, cause and effect stimulus programming the equivalent of puppet strings. Trigger the correct software string, and the automatic code cascade following cumulates in a myriad of predictable outcomes. Besides allowing interesting dance contests with one drone puppeting the body of another, it permitted the Greater Consciousness, should it desire, to directly micromanage a sub-collective, even an individual drone. Such was usually not done, the comparison akin to a complex multicellular organism consciously orchestrating ionic gates and vacuoles of intestinal cells during digestion.
While an outsider might find it theoretically possible for Captain, or any primary consensus monitor and facilitator, to control the sub-collective as a body extension using the command pathways, such was not the case. The basic Borg framework of collectivism forbade such a course of action, minds combined into a Whole to oversee the survival of the Whole. No more can a single neuron direct the body, than can a single drone do likewise. Standard operating procedure saw a continual give and take within the background of consensus, minor decision making groups forming to deliberate even petty considerations such as the most efficient route for a drone moving between two locales. To speed decisions, specialties such as engineering primarily resolved engineering problems, etcetera; inclusive of additional drones slowed the overall process. The nature of assimilation imperfection lessened the directives of consensus on individuals if any leeway, any loophole, was available, but all told, even Cube #347 observed Borg structure.
Returning bodies to alcoves did not halt the chaos of minds seeking comprehension, however. Babble snarled the intranets, each signature attempting to make others understand. Many queries were directed at command and control; and, in turn, individual command and control elements looked to the primary consensus monitor and facilitator to make everything right. Captain was besieged by gibberish.
{Loci cleat pra lk?}
{[click]tra'la [rattle] [image of fisted hand held at shoulder height] gling?}
{Anklo trtrcrylosloprin, plx.}
{Captain, I am confused. What shall I do? Direct this drone.}
Captain blinked. He understood the [check of signatures] words from 23 of 24, assimilation hierarchy member. Yet, 23 of 24 was of species #5993, not Captain's base race. 23 of 24's words drowned under the white noise of garble. Something needed to be done, and that something required unilateral action from Captain to inject the semblance of order.
{Quiet! Quiet! Quiet!} bellowed Captain, simultaneously triggering the little used pain goad with each repeated word. The command was general in nature, so Captain experienced the sensation as well, a pounding ache in his temples radiating down intact limbs. The Borg take away pain perception, dulling it to unimportance and regulating it to a role of notification in the case of body damage; the Borg can also reinstate pain reception where necessary.
Intranet babble stopped, then, one by one, voices attempted to start chattering again. One by one, Captain snarled {Quiet} and tripped sub-collective pain again. The Pavlovian goad not only shushed useless talk, but had neighbors to drones contemplating broaching silence temporarily exiting alcoves to kick shins or punch shoulders, anything to avert another pain shot.
{If you can understand me, answer,} called Captain. Silence. {No more pain. Answer.}
23 of 24 hesitantly responded, {I can,} followed by {Me too,} from 277 of 510. Additionally, and not so surprising considering her species' profile acumen for languages due to impossibility of universal translators to adequately interpret, Sensors, {Sensors here.}
Captain said, {Can you speak with anyone else, or can another converse with you?}
277 of 510: {Not me, but 78 of 133 knows some species #5618 phrases.} 277 of 510 and 78 of 133 were of like race and historically shared the same language.
{Usefully so? Swearing does not count,} replied Captain.
{Swearing?} asked 277 of 510 as he consulted his private dictionary, {Promising something?}
{Swearing. Expletives. Vulgar words.}
{Oh.} A flurry of communication between 277 of 510 and 78 of 133 commenced, of which Captain could follow not a word. Simply copying language information from one drone to another was unfeasible, for not only was it not possible for a single individual, no matter how expanded the memory, to personally remember the thousands of languages active on Cube #347, but with alternative languages came alternative perceptions and backgrounds, both vital for true fluency. And some languages were too alien for another not of the same race to grasp. {Yes. She knows words in addition to vulgarities,} replied 277 of 510.
{Don't forget Sensors!} spouted Sensors. {Sensors knows lots of talks from lots of species, including,} Sensors rattled off eight racial designations. {Sensors can [ascending whistle-chirp] for any [eight beeps in rapid tempo].}
Captain mentally blinked. {Repeat last sentence.} Sensors did so, but the blanks remained blanks. One got the idea why the translator occasionally spouted apparent nonsense when the insectoid was speaking. Captain felt similar confusion radiating from 23 of 24 and 277 of 510. {Some...words...do not make sense.}
{Oh. Sensors may not have quite all the words for certain concepts in your language. Holes, you know. Sensors call it [clicking scale descending, A minor; stylized species #6766 form slightly crouching].}
Captain grumbled, {Good enough. It will have to do. All, make a verbal chain. Determine who understands you, or can make themselves understood. Primary objective to establish links between hierarchy heads, then secondarily to as many drones as possible. Comply.} The sub-collective set to work reorganizing itself.
{Testing, one, two, three, testing. Second, can you understand?} queried Captain. Except for Assimilation, who continued to live in a world of gray paint and probably in his depression did not even realize the crisis, or did not care, a chain was now established to all primary drone nodes. Translation links in some cases were short - Delta to Doctor three links - and in other cases long - Captain to Weapons thirteen links. The longer the chain the higher likelihood for misunderstanding.
{Pig in a blanket fine. Are we taking joy, yet?} was the reply Captain received. At least this line did not go through Sensors, as did the one to Weapons. That particular reply had included Cheshire quilting bees.
Captain sighed. The process had required an agonizing fifteen minutes, an eternity to beings which often dashed along at the literal speed of thought. The next task, to form consensus upon what path to pursue, hopefully would be decided before the storm front arrived. {Priority command, all receiving units. Link and input pictorial representation of possible action pathways to form consensus upon.} The message filtered over the impromptu network.
Slowly disjointed images formed in the dataspaces. Captain viewed them as picture windows hanging unsupported in gray nothingness, playing action sequences ending in various positive outcomes. Below, probabilities began to be tallied, representing likelihood of successfully completing the pictured movie.
Examining the various plans, Captain noticed several similar elements. Quickly he broke the proposals into components, then rebuilt a flowchart tree format. Picture windows now hung in the dataspace, each displaying a short action sequence, with arrows linking elements together.
The propositions were many. Depictions ranged from leaving (followed by waiting for new translator algorithms - 98.5% success rate) to weathering storm (54.1% success rate) to destroying Eyeball, charging after an escaped shuttle, assimilating occupants, blowing up the other escapees, leaving the storm region (from Weapons - 2.3% success rate). The most attractive option thus far was tractoring Eyeball into an available cargo hold, then running like hell. With a highly optimistic success rate of 73.5%, it offered the highest percentages possible allowing for twin goals of gathering new data and surviving the storm. Admittedly, the data would not be processed promptly, but then again, without universal translator, the sub-collective would not be able to interpret the information anyway.
From Weapons, heavily interpreted without Sensors' additions: {Trap! Ship trap! If put in hold, explode! Kill outside! Trap! Boom!}
The gist of the message was clear: Weapons desired to carve up Eyeball in case of booby traps. While a reasonable paranoia, the action could destroy data, assuming Weapons' overkill left behind parts large enough to salvage. The concern was added to the already too-long consensus, an affair now 37 minutes in length. Unimpaired, the sub-collective would have required three seconds, maximum, to declare consensus; and a non assimilation imperfection group needed less than a second to sort relevancies.
Despite Weapons insistence otherwise, the sub-collective focused upon the tractoring Eyeball option.
{And we have a winner!} announced Captain, highlighting the series of picture windows leading to desired outcome. Hopefully the relay across languages would not become too ragged. {Let us begin.}
Delta grumbled in stereo, her bodies uselessly pacing back and forth. The prohibition against loose drones was lifted, allowing the engineering head to exit her alcoves. Stopping, she peered towards the still closed doors of Bulk Cargo Hold #1. Orange airplane cones clutched in hands protested her excessively strong grip with plaintive plastic groans. Thirty-six additional drones waited in the wings, out of danger, for their cues in the salvage operation.
{Open the doors /before/ Eyeball arrives. Not after, not during. Cause and effect, cause and effect! I can't think of everything, but even I know the laws of physics disallows two solid objects in phase with each other to occupy the same space. What will break first, Eyeball or the doors?} The rant was directed in a general broadcast in the hope those designations assigned to door duty would correctly respond.
The fairly smooth machine which was engineering hierarchy under normal conditions was currently jerking fitfully. With the storm front looming on sensors and only eighteen minutes distant, the relatively simple salvage operation had become a tragic comedy of errors, at least as far as Delta was concerned. Perhaps it was best only four drones understood the low mutterings of her bodies.
The first obstacle following consensus was to appropriate tractor control. Weapons had buried the appropriate command codes under a mutating security algorithm, then claimed through relay that he had no clue what Delta was requesting.
{Give me tractor control,} said Delta.
Relay return: {I have no grain harvesting machinery. Sorry.}
Delta: {Relinquish tractor emitter control to engineering.}
Weapons: {Give you remote controlled cultivation equipment? Confirm request.}
Delta turned body A and smashed a fist into the wall. The slight dent joined others which had slowly built during near three decades into a respectable depression in the duralloy metal next to her alcoves. {Captain! Make Weapons give up tractor control, else I will dismantle him with a rusty screwdriver.} Delta released a graphic image to the dataspaces, directed at Weapons. It portrayed the object of her ire slowly taken apart extremities inward, extreme care taken so the subject remained neurally functional until the very end. Weapons' response was bland, simply an alteration to emphasize a slightly different approach which would increase efficiency and keep his hypothetical self aware for ten additional minutes. {Captain!} complained Delta again, exasperated anguish lost in the translation chain.
The command codes abruptly became available, accompanied by the message, {You just need to ask politely.} The relay was amazingly coherent, too amazingly coherent. Delta filed the incident away in an ever growing list of why she disliked 45 of 300.
Problems, however, did not end with the Weapons incident. With a thousand drones in engineering, 252 of which were associated with the effort to tractor and secure Eyeball in Bulk Cargo Hold #1, there were bound to be some difficulties. Okay, lots of difficulties. For example-
Delta rotated the Eyeball icon in the dataspaces, utilizing pictures to bolster word commands. {Tractor placement fore to haul target near. Hold emitters will take over with placement fore, aft, and at nacelle-saucer junction to facilitate fine movements as directed by my bodies.}
{Golf?} asked 41 of 42. As the primary linkage node to those manipulating exterior emitters, she was a potential bottleneck as all commands were relayed through her. {Fore?}
Delta highlighted the nose section of Eyeball. {Fore. Bow. Front.}
{Bow? Necktie?}
{Front. Of. The. Ship,} slowly enunciated Delta, pausing between each word.
{Oh. Giblatz!} exclaimed 41 of 42, voice colored with tone of sudden understanding. Delta hoped 'giblatz' stood for the appropriate portion of ship anatomy.
All of which brought the situation to the now, Eyeball rapidly incoming and hold doors shut. As to the answer of the question concerning which would break first, Jeraki science vessel or doors, assuming a structure already weakened by the previous storm, 85.2% probability the doors would survive intact. The unasked for computation, delayed due to translation relay, filled the silent void.
{Doors. Open them!} urged Delta to those responsible for the hold doors. All over the cube, doors whooshed open, followed by the ponderous movement of all eight cargo hold doors. Close enough, thought Delta as she watched the massive edifices open just in time to glimpse the nose of Eyeball 100 meters distant. Forcefields restricting decompression were automatic systems, a grateful fact as otherwise by the time a barrier was erected, everything, including Delta, would likely have long been blown into space.
Hold tractor beams lanced out, gripping Eyeball at almost all the designated spots. Nudging those at various emitter controls, followed by insisting loudly for exterior beams to be disengaged, finally brought the large science ship under hold control. Eyeball would just fit into Bulk Cargo Hold #1, much of the normal stuff shoved to the ends, transported to other holds, or simply stacked in adjacent corridors. Unfortunately, the ship required rotation once it was brought fully into the hold in order to line up with the crude cradle erected on the floor. At worst case, Eyeball would simply be dropped to the deck plates, damage accrued under a full G environment hopefully not creating damage preventing recovery of assimilatable materials.
Delta lifted her orange cones to the ready, preparing to signal rotation. This area of the hold was currently lacking gravity in order to cause less strain on tractor emitters. Tens of thousands of metric tons is difficult enough to manipulate when inertia is the overriding concern; and additional difficulties relating to gravity and drones who were communicating to each other by gestures and pidgin was a recipe for disaster.
Eyeball began to rotate. Delta frantically waved her cones in negation while yelling {No! No!} in the intranets. {Too early! The vessel had not cleared the doors.} With a ringing crash, one nacelle glanced off a three meter thick door, debris peeling off to ricochet around the hold.
{Counterclockwise. Left!} raved Delta. She gestured with the cones as the bulk of the science platform overshadowed her. {Other left, other left!} The ship swung to a stop, then rotated the other direction, undamaged nacelle nearly brushing a walkway suspended against the innermost wall. Body B backed away, followed by body A, as Eyeball swept lower, arriving roughly above the cradle.
Delta continued commands, echoed pictorially in the dataspaces. {Align Eyeball to cradle and halt descent 50 centimeters above supports. Reinitiate gravity at 10% increments.} Eyeball moved at alarming speeds for such a large object in such a confined space, controlled only by tractor beams. Delta had neglected to include a time format for gravity increases, and therefore weight returned suddenly, albeit at 10% increments.
The head of the engineering hierarchy had not moved either of her bodies to safety, and both watched wide-eyed at the mass hovering above their heads, metal groaning dreadfully in the gravity field. An emitter abruptly shorted out, unable to take the strain. Two more went off-line in quick sequence, prompting the disengagement of the rest before they too followed the same fate. Eyeball crashed upon the supports, cradle shuddering. Delta crouched, hands still clutching cones held over heads in a futile warding gesture. One eye, then another was opened to the fact she was not a pancake. Although the cradle was holding, Delta prudently removed her bodies from potential danger.
{Task complete,} sent Delta towards command and control. {Detailed report delayed until recovery of universal translator.} She paused, glancing towards open hold doors. {Close doors. Close them. Begin securing procedures on the vessel.}
Captain fielded the incoming relay from Delta, {Job done. Fine bang stuck on the runway until we can go talky again.} Off in the distance, the sound of doors snapping closed could be heard, as could the noises of those caught in said doors. Time to storm front - five minutes.
Escape was easier said than done. A navigational chart consolidated in the dataspaces, vectors indicating departure routes. As the tempest approached, those paths which passed near the front shaded blue in warning, then disappeared when no longer feasible to transverse. Still, many routes remained open, each with attendant pros and cons. A consensus on the manner, one which usually took milliseconds and was contained solely within select specialized partitions of command and control, was not an option. At least not an option which would require less than five minutes.
"Eenie, menie, miney, moe," muttered Captain, a nursery rhyme he had heard as a fledge in the nest. It was of Terran origin, part of the rock and roll era package an ancestor had discovered, but as far as he could tell, it was nonsense in any language. Except for species #4313, that is, in which it was rendered into a highly vulgar proverb likening one's facial features to a particularly nasty sexually transmitted disease. "...and you are it." One path blinked.
Cube #347 revved engines, limping rapidly along the chosen vector. Impulse would be adequate to escape the storm. At any rate, warp was not possible until hold doors were shut completely; and two sets of doors were currently stuck halfway.
As the cube raced outbound, galactic south, a bell chimed in the dataspaces, followed by handshake protocols to link local file coffers with a remote Borg FTP site. Data began to flow - universal translator algorithms plus necessary databases, all of the most recent version. Too late to do immediate good, of course, which was a given in a perverse universe where Murphy's Law was a force measured by a race yet to be catalogued by the Borg.
<<File request fulfilled,>> spoke the automated Collective Voice, <<FTP site gamma3. Consult README text file for version update information concerning the WeCanTalk program. Refer to technical support personnel if you experience difficulties during installation. Have a Perfect day.>>
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