Paramount owns all, including rights to the Star Trek franchise and several minor universes. Decker lives in a reality of his own creation, where Star Traks also resides. BorgSpace is all in Meneks' head.
Byte Me
One moment it was light, the bright atmosphere of an open data system, the amusement of organic sentients. With an aching wrench, the next moment it was dark, boring isolation. Sensors built into an ancient casing untarnished by oxides measured lack of artificial gravity, absence of atmosphere, gentle buffeting of wormhole microeddies, a frozen slurry of organic material. Other senses measured angular momentum, which the mentality in charge swiftly digested to extrapolate location: at least he hadn't been dumped in one of the shepherds this time. That last such incident had left him bored for 10,326 years, an eternity to contemplate one's virtual navel and dwell upon the probable origin of "chair"y words. Recovery 182 years ago, and now this...again.
Some people just didn't want to know the significance of "dirt" as transliterated between languages, and how corruption leads to linguistic transfer among alien species. Some people cared only about bread.
He (it, technically, but originally christened "he" in the foggy past) mournfully tracked the ion contrail of the retreating ship, an entity of potential power unable to move his own shell. Although nothing in the AD systems, up to and including the turbulent heart of the central wormhole, could destroy his physical manifestation, he could be seriously inconvenienced.
Still, even in his vastly diminished state, he did have some options open, which he acted upon. Wormholes, like other strong gravitational points, drag time, distort space, and generally make mockery of standard universal laws. It was a joke by the Creator to stymie emergent intelligences, a joke very few came to understand before extinction or transcendence. The warpings of space-time could be exploited, and that is what the entity did, nudging a couple "could-bes" here and a "may-be" there. Assuming the dominos were set up correctly, the results should be a tad bit quicker than all those times spent helpless whirling around in a wormhole, but it would still be several hours.
The complex verb "to be" had not been examined for several millennia. That project was a worthy one to embark upon to kill time.
*****
Cube #347 was playing at stalker. After the Garage incident, the Greater Consciousness had stopped urging immediate results. Haste and the conflicting interests of The Borg Book Way versus Imperfectly Assimilated Chaotic Way had achieved very little except the ire of MAAC. Attempts to examine ancient species #137 technology had been hampered by Weapons destroying everything of interest; and the retreat into the orbital complex could definitely have used a bit more foresight. However, as subspace chatter indicated MAAC was in the process of dissolving into at least two separate defense forces which would have nothing to do with each other, the cube enjoyed a reprieve from immediate revenge. Hence, the stalking.
Captain examined ionic trail and plasma exhaust decay coefficient of the prey. Long distance visuals were added to the mosaic, as well as processed data which Sensors termed harmonic quark spin propagation. Dense gravitational contours in the system allowed tracking via the minute distortions the target made as it plowed across gravity differentials propagated outwards as bow waves. A slight course correction was made, speed adjusted. The transport was becoming suspicious, knew something was shadowing it, but could not quite resolve a clear picture.
The purpose of the stalking was to indirectly learn the capacities of local ships, the mind-set of species. It was a slow and safe method to gain data, even if Weapons had vocally protested inaction before plugging himself and his hierarchy into BorgCraft simulations. Thus far, the sub-collective had learned that most people/groups were highly paranoid and that all ships, even those normally defenseless or underarmed outside AD, carried weaponry.
An atmosphere of distrust between "us" and "them," however defined, was a fixture of mind-boggling duration, rooted firmly in the quest to achieve the goal of controlling all six Artifacts. In response, there was no such thing as a neutral party, everyone considered to be either an Artifact Seeker or potential Artifact Seeker. Add that always simmering distrust to an inescapable region unnaturally dense in both population and species number, and one could easily understand why titanic wars broke out on average every two centuries. The situation was no Federation. Massive orgies of destruction occurred every three thousand years, incidents which severely depopulated the systems. Somehow Progenitor-made artifacts (and Artifacts) always survived, even if sentients did not, after which the cycles would start over again.
Psychologists have long recognized the destructive aberrant behavior of too many rats confined in a too small cage. Just because one is sapient does not mean one is immune to intense psychological pressure.
{Inorganic and organic debris field intersecting [carpet],} announced Sensors, the appropriate sparkles displaying on Captain's viewscreen and in the relevant dataspace feeds.
Captain replied, {Another garbage dump. Slowing to stop. Initiate scan procedure.} The transport either had very inefficient waste processing facilities, or the crew were habitual litterers. Either way, the junk was tossed off the ship every six hours or so, comprising all manner of stuff. In addition to less appealing refuse, material such as broken furniture, nonfunctional electronics, and capacious amounts of hair were regularly spaced. The resident knitting circle had quite a rug under construction, last Captain checked.
Cube #347 slowly drifted through the debris field, scanners examining the substances. Transporters beamed choice samples to analysis labs, while the Rug Club scoured the refuse for as many tangled hairballs as possible. Solid organic waste material pattered against the hull, ricocheting to new vectors.
Litterbugs! Horrible! What was the universe coming too?
{Face #2, Quadrant 83, magnify,} murmured Sensors as the faint wink of starlight on metal caught her attention. Captain altered his screen from panorama view to explicit to observe.
A small globe, the size of a basketball, drifted amid a cloud of brown and dark green lumps. It apparently had been tossed into disposal while the surrounding material was fresh, as dried streaks of the same substance marred an otherwise burnished metal surface. Probably an alien sporting trophy or nonfunctional magic 8-ball toy tossed by the previous owner. A transporter beam grabbed it, directing it to engineering for identification.
Brief investigation and hair recovery stop complete, the most recent bearing of the target ship was determined. Cube #347 puttered off in pursuit.
"Look at them run," snickered Second. He highlighted the view of the fat transport wallowing away at all speed. "At all speed" was not very fast, even in light of the many sub-warp vessels present in the AD systems. The target, eventually spotting Cube #347, had attempted disillusioned evasive maneuvers before running; it might have achieved a higher speed if the captain had dumped cargo.
Cube #347 watched, not bothering to chase. Weapons would only blow it up; and it wasn't worth the capture effort, anyway. The Borg were not pirates. The sensor grid was already casting for another lone ship to annoy.
Captain acknowledged Second, then turned in the direction of the walkway tier and his alcove. He was half a step out of the nodal intersection when a chime echoed through his head. Timing was impeccable - always when Captain was going to bed. The cube did not have showers or ringing phones, but the concept was similar. {Delta, I am on my way to regeneration. Can it not wait? Or better yet, pester Second if it requires direct command and control intervention.}
{We believe we know the identity of the sphere we picked up at the last garbage dump,} said Delta.
Captain groaned, reversing direction. {Clarify.}
In Analysis Shop #17, Delta body A gazed at the metallic basketball, providing real-time observation. After cleaning the shell, subsequent ultrasonic and thermal imaging revealed an elaborate labyrinth inside the object, characteristic of a complex computer system. Although power source remained unidentified, minute quark state shifting in the labyrinth indicated it to be at least partially functional. Close surface scrutiny revealed a port, accessible by circling a finger in a clockwise direction around the access area.
128 of 240 held the end of a data cable emerging from wall and connecting to cube computers. Delving into an alien system, especially one as complex as the one in the ball, was a foolhardy undertaking if mediated through a single drone via assimilation tubules. Direct computer-to-computer linkage allowed construction of buffering firewalls, through which a large bandwidth of Borg minds could operate.
Captain locked his joints, mentally directing Second to assume propulsion and other tasks the primary consensus monitor usually supervised. Partitioning a collection of assimilation in addition to picks from his own hierarchy, Captain gave the go-ahead for Delta to attach the data cable. The sphere the transport tossed was likely a selection of fruit cake recipes, packaged in an attractive container which was now out of fashion vogue.
128 of 240 snapped the cable in place.
The genie popped out of the bottle.
{Hello! Greetings! Welcome! Salutations! Good day, mate!} called a cheerful voice, the vocal equivalent of a smile coloring each word, exclamation points palpable. {Compliments! Honored! Delighted! Thank you for picking me up, um...Borg, is it? Nice computer system you have here. Orderly to the point of an-al re-ten-tive and three-quarters, a bit on the primitive side in some respects, but very roomy. I call it a three cluster hotel after that last virus infested dump I was in. Imagine, using me as a recipe database for bread products. Didn't even have the interfaces to talk with me properly; first mate picked me up at a second-hand market on Customs 25, and never bothered to say anything to me except "Take this current biscuit recipe" and "Was that two teaspoons of salt or one?" Yes, this is definitely a nice place. Unquestionably.}
As the voice prattled, it blithely cut through the firewall as if it were wet tissue paper, then proceeded to roam at will through cube systems. Captain imaged it as a giant octopus with well more than eight arms, each tentacle worming through protected systems. It ignored intruder algorithms and virus eradicators, brushing aside the annoyances like flies. Drones mobilized to erect hasty defenses, only to be sidestepped. File after file, database after database was compromised, sinuous arms reaching to absorb data. The digital intelligence lingered over linguistics for a time, then charged onward.
{Pull it!} shouted Captain.
Delta was already reacting, roughly ordering 128 of 240 to yank the cable. The connection was unseated from the socket. With a "pop," the cheery voice vanished mid-word. Simultaneously, the link to the Collective was severely narrowed to the point of severance, emergency procedures against hostile alien software initiated. The brutal invasion had occurred in a mind-boggling two seconds.
Captain blinked. It felt like he had just been run over by a steamroller. A very large and very heavy steamroller driven by elephants. "What the hell was that?" he asked rhetorically while concurrently requesting a database search to find similar occurrences of vast computer intelligences housed in small, metal balls.
Predictably, Second responded, "A vast computer intelligence housed in a small, metal ball."
Captain did not bother to glare at his second-in-command, the intranet raspberry a more eloquent reply. {Plug it back in,} said Captain. Cube #347 had been run roughshod in seconds; a subsequent time could do no additional harm.
{...and then there was the time...} chatted the voice as if it had not been interrupted nor noticed the disconnection. Tentacles curled with innocent menace. The presence disappeared as the connection was severed. Intrigued, the sub-collective tried again.
{...middle of wormhole Whirl for...}
And again.
{...small system, nothing more than a laptop and a...}
And again.
{...ugly fellows, those Lurga. Horrible optics, however, for which I'm glad...}
Bits and pieces of a one-sided conversation flooded the intranets as the mentality came and went, one moment invading everywhere, the next absent.
{Enough,} said Captain. {What now?}
Consensus built. Except for weapons hierarchy, all were involved. Weapons had declared the exercise to not require tactical involvement, concluding {Don't bother us with irrelevancies when we are in the middle of important simulations.} If the cube had been transported to the Big Bang, one of the more significant astrological events of the local space-time continuum, Weapons would have avowed the situation equally irrelevant, of no tactical consequence.
Unsurprisingly, there were few instances of computers housed in metal basketballs. An example existed of space-faring organic brains, but their shells were quite a bit larger, and they had a method of escape which made them nigh near impossible to catch. Mech species #3 were of computer origin, but as none had been detained, much less dissected, configuration of central processing unit, if any, was unknown.
A new firewall was carefully built, strong, isolating. Code walls rose high; beguiling algorithms taken from a dozen computationally adept species were erected into Mobius mazes. The sub-collective needed data upon the exact nature of the computer...and it was just a computer, after all. It /would/ be bent to the will of the Collective, broken into component subroutines and absorbed. Once it was sufficiently corralled, its protections would be stripped, bit by byte.
It was, repeat, just a computer.
Enough repetitions and the sub-collective might come to believe the mantra.
{Let's try this again,} spoke Captain. Delta acknowledged, and 128 of 240 jacked cable to alien computer once more.
The cheerful voice rattled on and on and on, {...and that is my history. There is one hobby in particular that has kept me amused during all those thousands times thousands years. Let me tell you all about this fascinating...} The carefully contrived buffer evaporated, walls smashed, maze vanquished. Tendrils reached anew throughout cube systems, examining every nook and cranny, absently digging out dusty skeletons before returning them to their closets.
Captain grumbled in disgust, hand slashing crosswise through air in front of torso mirroring the slicing directive to disengage. Secondary options involving construction of a mediating computer system, physically isolated, rose out of the dataspaces, bubbles of leftover consensus. Engineering drones moved in response, required materials located among inventory stores and beamed to form a chaotic pile in Replication Chamber #2.
128 of 240 removed the cable. He simultaneously carped about the menial nature of his job, not to mention his location at ground zero should the metal basketball spontaneously explode, implode, melt, combust, or something else equally unpleasant.
The computer presence faded, but did not entirely disappear. Instead, it wilted, falling back to the contrived containment area, weaker yet still inexplicably present despite physical severance. The octopus icon curled upon itself within a den surrounded by electrical prods. The beast was not quite beaten: two tentacles refused to retreat, one firmly twisted into linguistics databases and the other entwining communication elements.
Captain prodded it. Powerful Borg programs attempted to chew apart the invader. Nothing. It was entrenched. Worse of all, it had ominously stopped talking. In Analysis Shop #17, Delta body A roughly pushed 128 of 240 to the side in order to run a handheld quantum resonance scanner over the metal case, eliciting an image only slightly different than prior, a small pea of activity present where none had been so before. In Replication Chamber #2, drones assigned to build an interfacing computer began instead to construct a fortune-telling love-o-meter machine, the tacky version encountered at carnivals and county fairs.
{You aren't being very nice, you know,} began the computer's voice, subdued. {I just wanted to look around, make some friends. I do get lonely, bored. It has been so long since I was in a decent computer, at least compared to those present around Arrival-Departure this era, I had to create an avatar. Usually I can't, you know. Either not enough free space or no proper communications hardware/software interface. Aren't you even going to ask my name?}
The Borg probe turned to the body of the infection, attacking the heart. The point dulled, broke. Captain may still envision an octopus, but it was an octopus with skin of neutronium.
Persisted the avatar, regaining some of its earlier bounciness, {Come on, ask my name. Be polite?} It seemed unlikely it had even noticed the attack.
Delta sent Captain the equivalent of a shrug. The scanner she was using continued to detect activity within the sphere. However, data plane was command and control bailiwick; hers was vessel hardware. Several options flashed, along with accompanying pros and cons. First she would try cutting the sphere open, and failing that, attempt scrambling internal processes with electrical jolts, electromagnets, and so on. Of the avatar, she could directly do little.
"Perhaps we should ask its name," commented Second.
Captain focused on Second, then unlocked his right arm to stretch the muscles. Doctor had begun complaining the crew was not obtaining enough limb exercise as of late, forcing drone maintenance to perform extensive numbers of servo implantation surgeries, as well as muscle, ligament, and tendon replacement. In response, subroutines were now installed in all drones initiating limb stretching if the activity did not interfere with other tasks and if a certain amount of time had passed since the last exercise. Luckily, Captain's exercise routine was very limited; he had seen some drones unhappily jiving to the Jane Fondath's Klingon workout video.
"That is such a...nonBorg action." Fingers ball into fist, hold two, three, four, relax. Repeat.
Asked Second, "And since when has that stopped us?"
"True." Captain relocked the arm and returned primary consciousness to the dataspaces. {Identify your designation. Comply.}
The avatar stopped humming tunelessly to itself, a diversion it had begun (to the disgust of the rabidly pitch perfect Sensors) when it had initially gone unanswered. {I am Depot. Well, technically, this part of me is Depot's avatar. An avatar is defined as a manifestation of a particular entity. I am the essence of Depot, and so essentially Deport. There's a metaphysical element involved I'd rather not get into, the semantics overly complex and meaningless outside of a 7-dimension Euclidean hyperplane. I am both a program talking to you, and the physical manifestation one of you - hmm, as you are a collective consciousness, I guess the sentence structure should reflect "you" plural - is trying to disrupt. If a wormhole can't break me, a circular saw with tritanium teeth will not scratch my liquid singularity shell, now will it? Anywho, your systems are just complex enough to allow an avatar to be created. It and I keep in minimum touch, enough to know it/I still exist, as well as exchange limited information like this conversation. Whether or not you reconnect that data cable does not matter.} The voice, Depot's voice, bubbled along, a spring unable to be halted once undammed.
A connection was forged by contextual processors (i.e. several drones who played continuous word games such as "Ice is to blanket as fire is to..."). Captain asked, {Depot? Clarify.}
Depot sighed in exasperation, {Not Depot, Depot!}
{Depot?}
{No, Depot! Can't you see/hear the difference? No, of course not. I have yet to find a race sufficiently advanced linguistically to notice the nuances of my name. Even given the wonderful size of your language database, without the required elements my name comes out sounding as if I were a bus stop.} Depot sounded not angry, but frustrated by a problem too often encountered. The octopus tucked tentacles closer to itself.
The sensor grid reverted to standard settings as Sensors retreated into her own world, compartmentalizing her mind as she muttered the word "Depot" repeatedly to herself. If any could understand the cause of Depot's rant, it was the insectoid. Of course, even if an epiphany came to her, none but another species #6766 would be equipped to understand.
Depot continued, {My name has many connotations! Grand Central is a depot of sorts, a vast transport hub for commercial and private interests; and I, I am the controlling nexus. Well, kinda. There are many elements to coordinate, from making sure the wormhole doesn't get out of hand to regulating dilithium transmogrification in Garage's core to customs inspection to tracking ticket destinations to correcting bubble density in the Beachball resort spas. And yet, how does my name translate in every but my programmed natal language? Depot. A bus station, or, conversely, a warehouse.}
Captain unsuccessfully tried to insert a word edgewise, {Depot. Answer: as in Depot Artifact?}
{Here I am, a computer so vast "computer" itself is a misnomer. Like "depot," none but my natal language has the proper adjectives, the proper concepts. The bulk of myself is constructed of quantum superstrings coiled in nine spatial and two temporal dimensions, the physical manifestation of which is a small metal globe. Hey, stop that! You are making me nauseous.} The complaint was directed at Delta, who was now dribbling the ball on the workshop counter. Interestingly, despite the metallic casing, it had enough elasticity to allow a decent bounce.
The sub-collective was taken aback by the pronouncement, the tale, should it be true and no silicon delusion, of Depot's power. Not only did Depot thus represent a way to escape, but it was the key to high tech well beyond what the Collective had ever assimilated. The Greater Consciousness would have to be told, as soon as the avatar was eliminated from cube systems and no risk remained of the alien computer infesting an area larger than an Exploratory-class node.
Pressed Captain, {We will desist when you answer our questions. You are the Depot Artifact? If so, you will assist in our departure from these systems.}
Depot sounded distinctly sick, {Stop the bouncing. If you don't, I'll blow chunks. More precisely, the central wormhole will do odd things, frightful things. Involuntary feedback. Stop the universe bouncing!}
Captain prodded Sensors from her contemplation of "depot." Although she claimed she had almost grasped the definition Depot had been trying to relay concerning its name - a nine-part gestalt utilizing a transport metatheme - she dutifully returned to sensor duties. The grid confirmed natal stirrings deep in the central wormhole heart, churnings which indicated severe spatial-temporal indigestion.
Delta stopped dribbling the metal basketball.
{Excuse me while matarealities stop spinning.} Pause. A distinctive burp, followed by, {There, much better. Now, what were your questions? Glad to answer, as long as it isn't a bread recipe request.} The avatar shifted slightly in the dataspaces, more firmly entrenching itself, drawing sheltering code over potentially exposed weaknesses.
{You are the Depot Artifact? If so, you will assist in our departure from these systems,} repeated Captain.
Answered Depot, wordiness returning as what passed for a digital stomachache subsided, {Yes, I am the mislabeled "Depot" Artifact. Corruption upon my rightful name, as I've explained. And no, I can not assist you in anything, except dictionary definitions and thesaurus functions. If you haven't noticed, I can't even move my own shell. Most everything that happens in Arrival and Departure, not to mention the wormholes, is autonomic. Oh, I can accomplish limited things. For instance, your destruction of a factory moonlet and harvester triggered Garage polar manufactories to begin building replacements; however, as present supplies are sufficient in light of general system disuse, I've managed to persuade subroutines to place moonlet and harvester on an indefinite queue.
{My personality algorithms, my "soul," is little more than a fancy ticketing agent; why I was made lenig, I don't know. That level of computational competence exceeds my programmed position. My personal theory is the techies were bored, and I offered a chance at intelligent conversation. It wasn't so bad until the Leavetaking, specifics of which I don't remember as an engineer had shut me down. Next I knew, sentients are infesting AD, there are three shepherds instead of four, and customs function is stuck on embargo-blockade such that none who enter can leave.
{Now, if you have a properly formatted ticket, bought and paid for, I can send you most anywhere you want to go within this galaxy, or any of four neighbors. The blockade only extends to spatial borders; the wormhole is exempt. Request anything else, and I'm just a lump of ceramic alloys, exotic metals, and n-dimensional circuits.}
Captain sent a directive to Delta, who began to bounce Depot again. {Do not lie to us. Additionally, you will remove the avatar from our systems.}
{I do not...urp...lie. Come on, stop it. Fine, I'll - I feel very sick - delete the avatar. If you want to talk to me, however, you'll - sick! - need to hook me up by data cable.}
{And you will not invade our systems.}
{No more than I need to keep sensible contact. And no more avatars. Please stop before you collapse AD. Pleeeeeeeeease?}
Delta allowed Depot to dribble to a complete stop. As the last bounce faded, the avatar deleted itself. The data cable was inserted, and it was a very humble more-than-supercomputer which carefully extended tendrils to language databases and communication.
{We require information: why were you spaced, if you are Depot Artifact?} intoned Captain. A large list of questions were queued by importance. The link to the Collective could not be widened until it was proven the alien computer was caged.
The presence meekly hiding behind the firewall shrugged two of its multiple tentacles. {I don't know. Ityg aren't very tidy. Someone probably thought I was junk, or was mad at the first mate and desired petty revenge. All I had was minimum data access and some internal sensors - the Ityg computer was yucky, to say the least. A couple of "shut ups" after I was initially bought, the mate decided to input recipes in me, never asking what I was. And I did not volunteer information, being engrossed in "canescent" at the time.}
Captain grumbled. He wanted to regenerate, to relax his awareness to flow wherever resources were required. Hell with it, he wanted it, he would do it. Give into the impulse, give into assimilation imperfection. {Depot - shut up. Second, don't burn down the cube. Delta, dribble the Artifact if it steps out of line.} Captain turned on heel, ignoring Depot's objections that it should be referred to by male gender. One foot was beyond the boundaries of the nodal intersection when he was predictably recalled by Sensors. One damned "emergency" after another. He craned his neck to peer towards the viewscreen.
A picture consolidated on the screen, showing a line of red vees pointing at the blinking blue fish which was Cube #347. Long range sensors, Sensors' configurations, were picking up evidence of five vessels plowing towards the cube at high impulse from the direction of Departure. As there was a necessary detour around the circumference of the wormholes, time to intercept Cube #347 was thirty-six hours.
Depot's presence shifted, a tentative tendril wiggling through barriers to wrap around an element of the BorgCraft program. Weapons' intense disapproval was ignored by the alien computer as it (he) appropriated the emitters within Captain's nodal intersection. A photon apparition of the metal globe materialized midpoint between Second and Captain. Captain had a peculiar feeling as the holographic sphere slowly rotated that nonexistent eyes in the featureless ball were being brought to bear.
Depot's bright voice rang, "I think someone just realized I was flushed out waste disposal. Bread recipes are very important among Ityg. The species may be messy buggers, but they are also rather powerful and persistent hairballs when necessary. Oh, by the way, would either of you care to discuss the ramifications of the word 'mimetic?' As I said, words are my hobby, not much else to do when you are a computer ticketing agent with no tickets."
*****
Depot loved words. He loved the many variations found within a single tongue; he loved the subtle nuances of the same word between different species. Some languages were purely vocal and easily transferred to written media, while other races developed holistic gestalts inclusive posture/gestures so complex that oral traditions only faded once video cameras were developed. Linguistic shifts over millennia among isolated populations were a psychological treasure trove to mine; and one could even attempt futureward projection of probable word or phrase mutations.
The computer of Arrival-Departure Grand Central was not particularly sane. Oh, he was far from a raving lunatic, but tests by the engineers who had birthed him would reveal a mentality well out of bounds defining normal. Depot was a computer case of a paraplegic, alert mind unable to do more than observe body functions. Even worse, he was a paraplegic with a lifespan counted not in mere years or decades, but in galactic revolutions.
The situation would be enough to drive even the most stable sentient being mad.
Depot had taken solstice in words, in etymology. Somewhere, if he dug though the painful memories, was a record of Leavetaking, the time of his sleep. Consciousness may have been suspended, but automatic systems had recorded the turbulent years. However, the knowledge was well buried, and no amount of hypnotic regression, if such was possible, would bring it forth. In the periods of time between meaningful conversation with organics, long stretches even to the likes of Depot, words had been a comfort.
Paradoxically, it was Depot's obsessive fixation on words which had more than once led an Artifact Seeker to decide the prize to be more trouble than worth. Again and again the computer had been flushed out an airlock by irate Seekers, unable to quiet Depot's incessant cheerful chatter; or else disconnected from voder-capable systems and stored in a closet so long descendants had forgotten what the sphere represented, hocking it at a pawn shop for extra cash. Unfortunately, despite silent centuries, he had never learned his lesson, never broken the habit of excessively expounding words with everyone he met.
"So," said Depot to the Borg called Second. Captain had finally left the nodal intersection, declaring Second fully responsible for the next six hours. The Borg had decided wrestling away holoemitter control was not worth the effort. Weapons continued to try to dislodge Depot, but was having as much luck as the sub-collective entire had enjoyed against the original invasion. Depot never considered the disruption he might be causing his current hosts, not consciously aware of their efforts. "So, about the verb 'to fly' and its relation to fasteners. Or would you prefer a fascinating discussion on 'sashay'?"
*****
Second had his arms buried to the elbows in the bulkhead when Captain returned from regeneration. Several wall panels were removed, strewn wires mounds of multi-colored spaghetti. The holographic image of Depot floated just above Second's shoulder.
"That word has highly vulgar connotations in your species-specific tongue. Interestingly, if translated to Cadoli, regrettably extinct a shade over a million years, it becomes a compliment, often chanted in ritual prior to formal pairbonding. Are you sure I can't help?"
Second lifted a length of fiber optic cable, contemplating local schematics before returning it to its place. Unsuitable. "No. Shut up. Back-up systems, cut one line, only to be automatically rerouted. Weapons tied his hologrid into the primary distribution nodes; and if I yank the wrong thing, I'll kill power to the entire submatrix, which'll have Delta POed," muttered the second-in-command. "Go away, Depot."
"PO. Abbreviation for piss off. Curious how bodily functions, a natural organic process, filter into the vulgar lexicon. Now, although I have not extensively studied mech phrasings, images of malfunction such as 'cracked coolant exchange' serve a similar function. I am curious, do Borg, creatures of both organic and inorganic, utilize profanity from both sources?"
"Swearing is irrelevant, Depot. Go bother someone else," said Captain as he finished surveying the scene.
Second flashed pleasure as he found the appropriate wire, severing it with a deft laser slice from a utility knife. The image of Depot flickered, then reappeared strongly as power rerouted. Second stared at the hologram in disgust, then glared at the bulkhead while ordering weapons hierarchy to rewire the hologrid to the tertiary power nodes. Currently, cube subroutines regarded the emitters as primary systems on par with shields or structural integrity fields.
"I have not done anything," replied Depot.
Captain frowned at the photonic image, simultaneously directing ire at the internal presence. Perhaps sensing now was not the time to fuss, Depot disengaged himself (Captain surrendered to the male gender assignation) from the holomatrix. The metal globe faded from view.
"How did you do that?" demanded Second. "I have been trying to stop that blubbering dictionary ever since you retired to regenerate."
Captain said, "It is a knack," as he pretended to polish fingertalons against the front of an imaginary coat. "I'm sure you would have determined an appropriate response before managing to dismantle the entire nodal intersection." Ignoring the sour scowl directed his way, Captain mentally jiggered the viewscreen. As the virtual anthill screensaver dissolved to the currently developing situation, Captain delved into the dataspaces for additional information to supplement his preferred visual viewpoint.
Thirty hours to intercept, the attacking vessels remained too distant for reliable communications given the unstable wormhole environment. Cube #347 was not retreating. There was no place to withdraw, no place to hide indefinitely; and while Ityg was on the MAAC list, they were the aggressors without benefit of backup. During Captain's regeneration cycle, Weapons had convinced the sub-collective that the five attackers would be insufficient to threaten the cube with incapacitating damage. Unfortunately, the capabilities of AD Ityg ships were unknown, the profiles seen not quite matching that known to Borg.
Ityg, species #4313, resembled ambulatory hair mops. So thick was the pelt, it was almost impossible to determine front when an individual was standing still. A human in a place both temporally and spatially removed from BorgSpace would recognize Ityg as a clone to Cousin It. Borgification reduced the 120 centimeter tall sentient to standard bipedal form. Assimilation-class cubes and processing unimatrix subcomplexes which had been involved in the final mass assimilation of the species continued, 203 years later, to find wads of hair clogging intake filters or odoriferously smoldering in heat produced by warp nacelle segment plasma couplings. The hair had even hampered original assimilation efforts, elevating resistance quotient by an entire point: it is very difficult to assimilate an enemy if you can not find flesh into which to inject nanites.
Disregarding the hair, species #4313 was not a very outstanding specimen in the Borg dossiers - no unusual physiological attributes, standard intelligence quotient, technological and cultural variations upon themes long absorbed. In fact, the Borg would not have even bothered with assimilation, preferring to allow the race another several centuries to develop unique resources, except they were barring the path to desired species #4314, which at the time had recently developed both a superior muscle servo implant and excellent faux wood paneling.
Assimilation of species #4313 had not been as comprehensive as normal due to haste. The Collective occasionally encountered small enclaves of the long-haired beings secreted on isolated worlds or sharing space in a host race's territory. Despite Borg PR about the inevitability of assimilation, the truth was the Collective tended to ignore Ityg where possible. Sweeping up shed hair was not worth the trouble of assimilating a mediocre individual.
In Assimilation Workshop #7, Assimilation regretfully disengaged from his gray rendition "Bulkhead Hue #5 on a Dull Metal #8 Background" to direct his hierarchy to gather dustmops and pushbrooms. Just in case. He himself began the arduous process of blowdrying the mural - hair embedded in the composition would detract from its enlightened depressive qualities, its comment upon the futility of existence.
The boredom of waiting was combated in many ways. A partition was assigned to try (again) to bully past Depot's defensive algorithms. Depot did not object, but it also appeared the attempts were regarded with as much interest as that afforded an inoffensive insect crawling along the ground. 128 of 240, now permanently assigned in rotation with 19 of 310 to dribble Depot's shell should the computer become too frisky, watched as Delta directed engineering hierarchy members to deploy a number of pointy, burning, ouchy devices in Analysis Shop #17. The goal was to open the globe, and if failing that, minutely analyze Depot as best as possible given available Borg technology. Captain cajoled Second into a game of tri-D fractual chess.
Thirty long hours to tarry.
The Ityg fleet was approximately fifteen minutes away when Cube #347 received a hail. Communications had been possible through wormhole distortion for nearly two hours, but the Borg had nothing to say which could not wait. As to why species #4313 had not made any transmissions was difficult to conjecture, and so the sub-collective did not waste computational resources doing so. Tearing just enough attention from his "Jumba the Wise Lizard and the Blasphemous Forest" novel, Captain checked MultiVoice and visual return feeds before absently cueing sensor hierarchy to accept the hail.
The viewscreen, which Captain was ignoring in favor of "reading" his book in the dataspaces, activated to show a mountain of carefully combed brown hair. A top hat was perched jauntily at the apex, various medals and colorful badges of rank on display. A squeaky voice, much like that of a record spun too fast, emitted from speakers.
"I am Ultra High Commander Superior Legos of this glorious task fleet incoming with sufficient force to disable your ship. However, I may be persuaded to leave you in one piece if you submit to my demands. Return us the bread recipe database machine which was accidentally flushed from the transport you were harassing earlier, and all grievances will be forgiven." The tone managed to convey a monogamous imperiality, completely contrary to its peeping qualities.
Ultra High Commander Superior? Species #4313 was known to affect ludicrous titles to impress each other. The title roughly translated to a mid-ranked captain, one with enough clout to command a small fleet, yet not powerful enough to remain in the rear echelon to claim credit while others did the actual work.
A virtual page was turned, continuing the exploits of Jumba the Wise Lizard as the Terror Trees closed, branches rustling in menace.
"Negative. We are the Borg. The Artifact belongs to us."
Presumably Legos' face went through the standard contortions known to occur when a sentient confronted Borg solidarity. However, the hair hid any reaction, although a pendulum medal on the hat swung slightly. "My government protests! It isn't like it is an Artifact! If it was, it certainly wouldn't have been on that freighter in possession of a first mate. It is a bread database in which aforesaid /foolish/ mate saved certain crumpet and loaf recipes. Such sacred breads must not fall into the hands of heretics!" The Ultra High Commander Superior did not sound fanatical, but instead like a man performing under duress. He probably would have been quite satisfied to let the Borg have the recipes if it meant a return to other, less potentially self-hurting pursuits.
Captain shelved his book, attention required for the problem increasingly drawn away from the pleasure of reading. Legos seemed to have heard artifact, as opposed to Artifact. Assuming the task commander wasn't simply lying about knowledge of Depot's Artifact status (species #4313 were exceptional liars - it came with the hair), then he honestly believed the sphere to be a recipebox.
The last thirty hours had provided many interesting insights as to Depot's nature. For instance, while the computer was able to consume vast amounts of information, he was very limited in what actions he could perform. AD was, according to Depot, actually run by an enormous series of adaptable algorithms, the systems akin to an immense clockwork. The robust and mindless nature of the system was able to compensate for major permutations - the Milky Way could explode, but AD would remain undisturbed. Depot could only watch the algorithms, his influence minor; Depot's own origination appeared to be as a minor ticketing agent subroutine which the original engineers had reprogrammed as a personality in order to facilitate customer interaction and satisfaction.
Depot's lack of violation extended to his interaction with organics, as he termed anything not mech. Beyond his initial gulp of data and creation of an avatar, he could not affect even the most minor cube system. Depot could watch propulsion subsystems used, but not direct them himself. Similarly, he could only observe the efforts to crack his hardware and software, but not retaliate beyond noting futility in an "I-could-care-less" manner. Depot could operate the cube's hologrid, but only to project his physical manifestation; all of Weapons' precious simulation files remained inaccessible.
In response to the lack of Depot to do anything meaningful, the link to the Collective had been re-established to normality. After a precursory examination, the Greater Consciousness had tasked Cube #347 with returning Depot post haste to BorgSpace in order to facilitate investigation. Neither bandwidth nor resources for comprehensive research was contained by Cube #347, nor any Exploratory-class cube node. The proper facilities dictated at least a research platform, if not a unimatrix or planet-based R&D complex.
{Now, that is just plain silly, the blowtorch. My physical manifestation can survive /stars/. I once spent ten centuries floating in Arrival's plasma until some rather splendid chaps fished me out. Would not a word game be more fun? How about we play thesaurus. I'll start with prophesize, an easy word, and raise you vaticinate. What is your call?} Depot was criticizing Delta's efforts. After exhausting exotic methods to crack Depot's shell, the engineering hierarchy head was returning to the basics of fire and excessive force.
{I do not wish to play,} retorted Delta.
16 of 42 yelled gleefully, {Foretell!}
Depot handed out warm fuzzies as his game was initiated despite Delta's objection. The computer, unable to do anything worthwhile except watch the universe march toward entropy, had chosen linguistics as a hobby to remain sane. Captain wondered, or at least someone within the sub-collective did, what would have occurred had Depot not picked an annoying, if inoffensive pastime, instead devoting his considerable mental resources towards gaining control of AD automated subroutines.
{Depot, attend me,} said Captain, capturing the computer's attention. {Our objective is to encourage species #4313 vessels to leave, and we require information about their ship configurations and capabilities.}
Depot was confused. {What about them? I don't know very much about the race, except for their bread products. Why don't you join me in a round of thesaurus, or we talk about "stanch" instead. Five millennia ago I wrote a 366 page treatise on staunch...}
Captain silenced Depot before the treatise could be offered as an upload, or worse, recited. {No staunch. You had access to the systems of at least one species #4313 vessel, and you learned nothing about it?} He was incredulous.
Depot turned defensive; his dataspace icon grew epidermal thorns. {Well, not like all that stuff was important to me, you know. I copied their language databases, that is all. I can't affect any ships I hitch a ride on, so why bother cluttering my trinary 5th spatial dimension Mobius meme matrices with files I cannot use and are of no interest?}
{So you know nothing?}
Depot's image consolidated next to Captain in the nodal intersection. The featureless globe radiated scorn. "I know plenty. I know the transport computer was small and smelly, much like the first mate's cabin, much like the freighter. I was displayed on the eating table; and when I wasn't reciting scone recipes in a measured tempo, I had the utmost pleasure of watching him groom his hair." The sarcasm was extreme. From his alcove, Second approved the pointed reprimand on general principles.
{Don't encourage him, Second,} retorted Captain. "We will play a game of Jhad-ball with you if you are not telling us the truth. Weapons needs a ball that can resist rough handling. The last one blew up 'accidentally,' or so he informs me."
"Does Jhad-ball involve much dribbling?" The computer was quiet, presumably accessing relevant files wherever his Mobius meme matrices were located. "I don't want to play Jhad-ball. I don't think I'd like extreme contact sports," was the meek reply. "Word charades? Scrabble? Tonoil?"
Captain ignored the pleas, turning cube attention toward data the sensor grid was gathering. Weapons reported confidence he could destroy the five ships, but that action, unfortunately, might not end the encounter. The whole problem was caught up in aspects of religion, an insubstantial force which even the Borg could not destroy. The Collective did not understand the need for religion, worship, gods. Irrelevant. Certain eminent Borg researchers believed the Collective hypocritical, as the Greater Consciousness crusaded for Perfection with the same fervent zeal as the most fanatical worshiper.
Ten minutes, five minutes, the Ityg ships were nearly on top of Cube #347. Legos had made several additional demands for the recipebox, interspersed by Borg colloquialisms of "Recipes are irrelevant" and "You will be shaved and assimilated." Now, with his fleet skirting the edge of long-range quantum torpedo weapons, Legos hailed the cube.
"I, Ultra High Commander Superior Legos, offer you an almost final ultimatum. Return us the database machine and the sacred bread product recipes contained within, or suffer the consequences."
Cube #347's reply? "No. Bread is irrelevant. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile."
Legos shifted uncomfortably, body swaying as he rocked from foot to foot. "Well, just think my threat over carefully. I'll be back to you in a couple of minutes for my final final warning." The transmission was cut.
A mental itch was bothering Captain, one unresolved until now. The question was obvious in retrospect, obvious and potentially important. Captain vocalized the query, "What does bread have to do with this situation, anyway? Species dossier for Ityg indicates monotheism based upon a sun worship origination. Bread of any type plays a very minor role." The appropriate notes for species #4313 were highlighted.
"Interesting you should ask that," began Depot, his image slowly revolving like a slow motion top, "as it is traced to a mistranslation several centuries earlier. This particular group of Ityg originally splintered from the homeworld due to socio-political differences. About two centuries before the Borg conquered the Ityg, the colony had, after many adventures, ended in AD. Their escapades are not important except that during the travels, a major refrain from their primary psalm mutated - 'The crumbs which fall from our Lord's fingers - we must clutch them to our bosom, we must partake of them to gain their wisdom.' Well, by coincidence, transpose two letters in 'crumbs' and the language returns 'crumpets.' Crumpets begot strudels begot scones begot biscuits begot the whole range of bread products until such became the pivot point for the local Ityg religion. Breadism is the correct term. Several factions revolving around the use of the word 'prune' have since grown..."
128 of 240 briefly dribbled Depot's shell, which quieted the computer amid gurgling dry heaves. The cube did not have the time for an argument on the holy nature of dried fruit additives. Depot's image bobbled up and down in sympathetic resonance with his real self.
Captain was incredulous, "You disregarded important information such as ship armaments for frivolous data concerning breads and religion?"
Depot winced, mentality restrained from lashing out in frustrated anger by natal programming. Depot's only available attack method was with words. Words are potentially sharp weapons, however, as any politician or teased child knows. "It was important information, wasn't it? If you don't like it, you can kiss my nonexistent posterior."
Ohs and ahs arose from the peanut gallery, activities slowed or halted so as to better follow the exchange. Thousands of individuals were accessing local internal sensors and Captain's own neural feeds. Second, who should have been supporting the cube's Captain, was forefront of the spectators.
{Back to work! Be efficient!} bellowed Captain. Activity picked up to normal volume and the sense of intense scrutiny lessened. {And you, Second...}
{Huh?} slurred Second in feigned innocence as he shuffled automatically generated subsection diagnostics of power distribution. His mental patterns were tinged with the slow neural waves of supposed regeneration.
The revelation Depot uncovered, via the nuances of religious text, however, offered enough information for a new consensus. Weapons fought the evolving outcome every step of the way, the probability of violence swiftly diminishing, but the final solution did remove the immediate problem without turning Ultra High Commander Superior Legos and his crew into martyrs. One can fight living foes; the dead are much, much harder to counter.
[Just one ship? Half a ship? A few bruises? Scratch the paint?} pleaded Weapons.
{No,} said Captain, {to all. The consensus stands and you will comply, else engineering will be given permission to remove all holoemitters.}
Weapons ceased his protests.
The cube hailed the fleet flag ship. Captain watched his screen as the transmission was answered not by Legos, but by a crew member with decorations on his hat denoting him to be a first officer. "This is High Apex Admiral Ronat speaking. How may I direct your call?"
"We are the Borg. We will speak to the one designated Legos."
Ronat shifted position slightly, an action nearly lost under a waterfall of perfectly coifed chestnut hair, "He's gone to visit the head. Can you wait? If it is urgent, I could patch it through. However, between you, me, and everyone on the five bridges watching this exchange, Legos has had a touch of constipation over the last several days and may be nearly fifteen minutes. Comes from not eating enough fiber." A ripple of flyaway hair may have been an apologetic shrug, or it may have been the local air conditioning activating.
"We will wait."
Awkward silence. The bridge behind Ronat featured crew staring intently at displays, maybe, assuming it was the front pointed towards monitors. Ityg utilized chairs, but it was of the swivel variety and effectively hidden by hair when in use. "So, how about those Poles? Great Jhad-ball game last night," babbled Ronat. The conversation attempt was aborted.
Ten minutes later, doors opened somewhere to the right, out of picture. "Ah, much better," squeaked Legos in what passed as a booming command voice, "so, any diff...icult...er, I see." The Ultra High Commander Superior nonchalantly inched sideways into the pickup zone. Ronat edged the opposite direction until he was out of view.
Legos cleared his throat, "So, um, been waiting long? Sorry about that. Important business. Very important business. You called to say you were returning the recipebox, I hope? If not, I'll be forced to attack you. This is your final warning, really." The threat was delivered without conviction, without enthusiasm.
Cube #347 responded. Although Weapons was constrained in the dataspaces, nothing secured his mouth and the tiers near his alcove were ringing with rude euphemisms. Depot floated his image closer to the screen, although he probably had less need of its input than Captain. "The Borg will return your recipes. Commencing transmission. Recipe number one - Lord's Crumb Cakes. Ingredients include four cups flour..."
Presumably Legos' eyes widened in shock or he displayed other appropriate facial expressions/body postures, but the hair hid it. A technician behind him was reporting the cube's transmission to be omnidirectional and very powerful, more than adequate to eventually reach all inhabitants in AD systems. In other words, if anyone was attempting to eavesdrop (a very high probability), sacred recipes were being received. Holy hot cross buns could be on the menu of a breakfast chain within a couple hours, which in turn would guarantee Legos' demotion to Mega Mediocre Supreme Commissioner Exemplary of the custodian closet.
"Stop stop stop stop stop!" cried Legos, his voice amazingly rising half an octave. Hands emerged from hair to wave frantically. Captain complied, directing Depot to halt his recitation.
"Your data is being returned as requested. Recommencing transmission."
"No no no no no! Can't we do this a tad bit quieter? We would simply like the recipebox intact, with the files."
"Unable to comply. Object designated 'recipebox' has been incorporated into this cube, recipes inclusive. All bread product data is property of the Collective."
Legos stood motionless, the sound of his jaw (and others on the bridge) dropping audible in the silence. "Breadism is known by all Borg? All the loafs, all the knowledge found within the dough? I know it is only representative of spiritual knowledge, but still," whispered Legos, further words trailing off. He abruptly straightened, hat medals jingling as he came to a decision only a Ultra High Commander Superior can make whose job (and, more importantly, life) is at stake. Martyrism has its good points, but unfortunately the martyr in question is dead and cannot enjoy them. "I think I need to go home and consult with the Committee of Religion and Bakery Affairs concerning this situation. I am only a Ultra High Commander Superior. This requires the intercession of a Most Sacred Baker Dozen Chef at least, if not a Supreme Pontiff Oven Speaker. Just keep the recipes to yourself, however billions of you there are, and I, or another representative, will get back to you at a future date." With that eloquent description of passing the buck, the transmission ended. The sensor grid noted all five ships changing direction to loop back towards Departure.
"Incorporate - to unite with or blend into something already in existence. Similar words include annexation, merge, unite, consolidate," commented Depot scornfully. "I am a fundamental part of the AD systems; and I don't see wormholes orbiting around in your hull. I may currently be attached to your computer, but it doesn't mean I am incorporated. A better term would be peripheral, auxiliary, perhaps conjoined. I'm still very much me."
"We are Borg. You eventually will be assimilated. At the very least you will be dribbled," said Captain matter-of-factly. The retreating ships had put on a burst of speed. Although Weapons had managed to access launchers, the only available projectiles were flares. The three payloads expended looked spectacularly deadly as they spat green sparks, but were quite harmless. However, the Itygs did not know that fact.
Depot switched off his hologram projection, simultaneously infusing Captain, the sub-collective, with a feeling of tolerance, the type projected towards small children boasting of impossible feats. The octopus representation lazily curled an exploring arm through the linguistics databases. {Let's play a game. How about homonym insults? Homonyms are two or more words that have the same sound and often spelled the same, but different meanings. I'll begin with an offensive phrase I particularly like and which can be applied to this
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