I have heard the word, and the word is Paramount, Lord of Star Trek! And I have heard the name, the name of Decker, King of Star Traks! And I have heard of the place, the place known as BorgSpace where drones can be drones and Meneks is the BSQueen!
Total Recall
Product: Neural Transceiver
Serial Number: 162-56f6-7c-d23
Lot Number: 1895-b
Note: Neural transceivers of lot number 1895-b, produced at planet #1, factory complex zeta, are recalled. Contamination of metal-crystalline stock solution created an imperfect production run. The units of lot number 1895-b function within parameters at first, but impurities have created a state of abrupt and accelerated deterioration of the imprinted quantum tangle state of the trinary subband series (complete details contained on datapath Ctzp-48.k3e). Unit-organic interface is affected.
Solution: Remove compromised unit and replace
Recall Priority: Alpha
*****
The space station was a jagged affair of angular mismatched blocks, painted matte black except for the occasional stylized white eye. The original owners, species #9416, had abandoned their outpost three weeks prior in the face of Borg threat. The race was under Borg assault, an invasion which would end with complete assimilation, yet individuals, such as those who had manned the station, insisted on falling back with the shortening front line to assist resistance. Current fighting was dozens of light years distant, and the job of station inventory was a minor task not important enough to divert a ship of the line. Therefore, it was hardly surprising the assignment fell to Cube #347.
Species #9416, Cofee, were standard humanoid bipeds. Their outstanding physiological characteristic was a bright green epidermis due to the inclusion of chlorophyll in the upper skin layers. The chlorophyll only granted a limited photosynthetic ability, not enough for a Cofee individual to survive upon, and principally served as vitamin factories and organic catalytic converters to cleanse the blood of poisons. Due to the well-being of an individual to be linked to skin exposure, species #9416 had no nudity taboo. That particular social observance was irrelevant, but the fact the primary religion was based upon voodoo was not. The firm belief in curses and other magics influenced the resistance style of the race; and defensive hexes, such as the type which supposedly protected the abandoned station, were backed by more prosaic means in the form of lethal booby traps. After all, the efficiency of bad juju was enhanced if used in sympathetic conjunction with physical means.
The interior of the station was as blocky and chaotic as the outside. Cramped hallways gave way to corridors voluminous enough to march a parade, assuming it consisted of one elephant and the first row of a marching band. Doors which should open onto cargo holds instead egressed to small supply closets; and one out-of-the-way hall was completely dedicated to bathrooms, none of which fit the species #9416 physiology. Everywhere the stylized eye was painted, a visual icon of the powerful negative magics cast prior to leavetaking.
Thus far, Cube #347 had found signs of hasty abandonment, although not so fast that the previous owners had neglected to purge computer files. Reconstruction of erased data was paramount, with the primary goal a map. Species #9416 did not utilize standardized station design, so each orbital complex was different. To make matters worse, outside dimensions did not necessarily reflect internal schematics, so it was not possible to devise an accurate blueprint by solely scanning the outside of the station. Exploration was required, a dirty, intense exploration which required each step be mapped, each door opened, each corner examined for secret passageways, and every centimeter of wall scrutinized for traps.
It was a dangerous task for those drones assigned to assault parties.
111 of 212 cocked her head as she noticed whispering. The indecipherable hisses faded after several seconds, but she had heard them. The station, however, had tested negative for lifesigns; and 111 of 212 accessed the most recent scans to confirm such was still the case. Yes, no lifesigns.
57 of 83 prodded 111 of 212's backside. "Move forward," the other drone complained, "I'm cramped." This section of hallway was narrow, and 57 of 83's blocky body was wide enough to force him to scrape through sideways. Immobile torso armor meant sucking in one's gut did not serve to lessen one's profile. 57 of 83 had already been stuck once, requiring crowbars to unwedge him, and he did not want to repeat the experience.
"I think I heard something. Whispers," responded 111 of 212 as she attempted to isolate the noise again.
Silence, then, "There's nothin' here except those stupid eyes, and they ain't talkin'. Move." 57 of 83 was growing impatient, an emotion he did not bother to censure.
"Yah! Move!" shouted a voice further back in the four-drone squad.
Perhaps it was the PA system. There was a speaker nearby, and 111 of 212 would not put it past some joker trying to get a laugh from what was a tense situation fraught with booby traps. The whispers sounded again, louder. 111 of 212 lifted an arm and shot the speaker. The whispers immediately cut.
"What did you do that fer?" growled 57 of 83. He used his free arm to push 111 of 212, trying to make her move forward.
"There were people talking, I know it," replied 111 of 212, her attention firmly on the sparking and smoking wreck of what used to be a speaker. She took half a pace at 57 of 83's insistence.
57 of 83 groaned. "Well, plark! I'm freakin' wedged again! I know I shouldn't've stopped. Could someone spray mineral oil on me, then give me a push? 111 of 212, you c'n pull me a good tug."
111 of 212 took several more steps into the wider corridor segment. Her eyes darted back and forth as she ignored 57 of 83's curses. The whispers - no, the voices - were back, louder than ever. They were everywhere! She could not understand what they were saying, but she knew it was gossip about her.
"Do you hear it now?" shouted 111 of 212, pitching her voice to carry over the crowd.
"Hear what? I hear nothin' except you. Yer crazy, girl, or yer aural implants are all loopy," pronounced 57 of 83. "Give me a hand here. I need that tug."
111 of 212 whirled in a circle, disrupter in her arm aimed at nothing in particular as she tried to face the unseen threat. "They're everywhere! Can't you hear them? Everywhere!" She abruptly began firing, destroying every speaker she could see. When that action did not rectify the problem, she began to use her weapon indiscriminately, nearly hitting 57 of 83 twice. "Everywhere!"
"Hey! Watch it!" shouted 57 of 83. "Pull, lads, pull! Get my carcass out of here. 111 of 212's gone complete stark, ravin' bonkers!" At the same time, 57 of 83 called to command and control, {Pull the plug on 111 of 212! She needs a tune-up, now!}
{Command pathway override to drone unit 111 of 212,} rumbled Captain's voice in the intranets, focused on the named drone, {initiate immediate drone deep regenerative sequence. Comply.}
{Compliance,} echoed 111 of 212 before her mental presence stilled to that of sleep patterns. In the hallway, 111 of 212 stopped her random firing, stiffened, then fell to the deck. Smoke from destroyed electronics filled the corridor. Station fire suppression systems were still operational, as demonstrated by the shrill alarm which screamed from a single surviving speaker. Sprinklers descended from the ceiling.
Muttered 57 of 83, "'Bout time." Louder, "Pull, lads, pull! I'm starting to move. The rain might be helpin', but perhaps you might aid it a bit by squirtin' on a wee bit more oil."
Maintenance bays had not appreciably changed over five centuries. The most efficient manner to work on a drone - horizontal slabs - was still the same, as were most of the tools, so the lack of variation was not surprising. There were minor differences in restraint styles, and, for some reason, excessive amounts of chrome. Discrete holoemitters shared space with cameras in the bay corners.
Doctor had ordered the chrome to be spray painted black shortly after assignment to the new Cube #347. The purpose was not only to cut the glare, but to increase the efficiency of 32 of 152, who insisted on stopping to preen every time he sighted himself in a reflective surface.
"So, how's the wittle patient doing today?" asked Doctor to 111 of 212. The question was rhetorical, but the "wittle patient" responded anyway.
{Horrible. I'm half deaf.}
Doctor patted 111 of 212's back. The drone in question was face down on a table in Maintenance Bay #5, her head twisted sideways to bare the left ear. The skull had been partially removed, exposing innards both organic and mechanical. Doctor held a cochlear implant close to his eye, visually inspecting it. Leads dived into the hole in 111 of 212's head, connecting to various nerves and wires for diagnostic purposes.
"The aural implants are functional, as are interfaces," said Doctor, a note of perplexity coloring his voice. 64 of 133 reached over to plug another device into 111 of 212's gray matter, eliciting a squishing sound. "Careful," admonished Doctor, "that was motor-wotor control."
64 of 133 snorted, "Bladder control. Not like she needs it."
{That's my brain you're talking about. I'm rather attached to it, you know.}
"All the bits and pieces and tiny-weenie parts will be put back or replaced, good as a new nail," brightly reassured Doctor as he patted 111 of 212's back again. "Now, tell your good vet what happened, again? There was no audio memory recorded and none of your playmates heard it."
111 of 212 was forceful, {I heard them! They were there with their whispering and their laughing and their talking. They /were/ there!} If she could have done so, she would have physically demonstrated her frustration. However, her body was paralyzed, and the only manifestation of her agitation was in the intranets. {There must have been a malfunction - perhaps /certain/ drones put something in my brain and forgot to remove it - to prohibit a memory record.}
"Keep up the innuendoes..." warned 64 of 133.
"Puppies! Puppies!" exclaimed Doctor. "Play nice! There is no malfunction in either implants or neural pathways. You appear functional. You shall be returned to duty, but you will keep you vet appraised of further malfunction."
Doctor continued to quietly examine the cochlear implant. He did not bother to tell 111 of 212 of the pair of pliers he had found in her brain. It had only been a very small pair of pliers, after all, and certainly not near memory hardware. If anything, she would likely find her left leg to be slightly more responsive.
{Whispers!} suddenly intruded 111 of 212. {I hear whispers. They are back!}
Doctor blinked, then peered down at his patient as he clicked his incisors together. A glance and a wordless question to 64 of 133 was returned with the equally nonvocal answer that diagnostics were not registering aural stimulation. The whispers were certainly not real since no one in the maintenance bay, drone maintenance units or patients, were hearing anything.
111 of 212's head was turned to the other side and armored skull plates swiftly removed. Doctor quickly and competently inserted a pair of probes. The cutters at the end of the probes delicately sliced a key connection between aural implant cluster and neural interface, severing the connection. With the cochlear implant of the other ear already removed, 111 of 212 was effectively deaf.
It did not help.
{They are shouting at me! They are shouting whispers at me!} As on the station, 111 of 212 was growing disturbed, verging on mental breakdown. Internally she was fighting the body paralysis command. If she broke it, the prospect of having a fully loaded tactical drone in a room filled with delicate equipment was not a good one.
Doctor swore: {Oh, riggily-piggily-poo.} Grinding his teeth together, he flattened his ears against his head. {Initiate deep regenerative pathway, drone maintenance command override, target 111 of 212.} On the table, 111 of 212's eye sagged shut; and in the dataspaces, her signature faded to a state just above hibernation. She would not be able to return to higher consciousness without a command routed directly to her primary processor governors.
"Not the aural pathways," mused Doctor. "Maybe naughty nanites cross-linked something? We shall need a high resolution neural scanner and..." began Doctor. He suddenly stopped as half a dozen, a dozen, two dozen designations were registered on the drone maintenance docket. Most were aural hallucinations leading to a forced shutdown, but there were two cases of visual manifestations as well. Oh-oh. Whatever 111 of 212 had, it seemed to be catching.
136 of 480 sprawled on the deck, staring at a bulkhead. Every once in a while he would lean forward and lick it, convinced the duralloy wall was a gigantic grape lollipop.
Captain skirted 136 of 480. The drone was delusional, but not violent; and the wall needed a good cleaning. At first, when it was apparent that 111 of 212 was not an isolated case, every drone so afflicted with problems which could not be traced to a specific subsystem assembly were put into regeneration and returned to their alcove. Within a couple of hours, however, a significant fraction of the sub-collective had been sent to sleep, which in turn slowed overall sub-collective performance. Necessity forced the careful reawakening of those who, unlike the paranoid 111 of 212 and her whispers, were deemed to be relatively benign in their reactions. Sure, some like 197 of 480, who was trying to net unseen butterflies, weren't precisely performing a normal duty, but on the other hand, the uncorrupted portion of their mental resources were available for use. The deep regeneration necessary to deaden a drone's consciousness had the negative effect of removing that particular node from the computer which was Cube #347.
Captain paused to allow 224 of 240 to run past. She was "on fire" again. Luckily, 354 of 510 was directly behind, wielding a bucket with water to put her out. 354 of 510 actually thought he was splashing paint on a moving artwork, but the end result of extinguishing illusionary fire (for fifteen minutes on the nanosecond) was worth the puddles and making sure 354 of 510 had water in his bucket instead of, say, acid or another noxious substance.
Pause. There was that smell again, like burnt dog hair. Captain shook his head in an attempt to focus on something else. He was using sheer willpower to try to overcome the scent illusion which had plagued him on and off for the last hour.
Currently the sub-collective was limping with the hypothesis that a gadget on the station was responsible for the difficulties. 111 of 212 had been the first victim, followed by others who had also been assigned to inventory and trap clearing duties. The entwined nature of Borg minds ensured the problem would not be confined to a single drone, but spread cancer-like to other linked individuals.
A common species #9416 hex was "confusion to the enemy," and was symbolized by the white eyes painted all over the station. It was very possible the previous tenants had built or bought a device intended to degrade sensory implant input, which would explain why no defects had been found in cranial hardware. An external field influence would not be seen by diagnostic equipment, neither. Unfortunately, thus far, the hypothesis was not provable, scans of the station negative for device, power source, or field. A solution had to be found soonest: the delusions would envelope the entire sub-collective in an estimated ten hours. As more of the sub-collective was affected, the worse the effects would become; and, more often, individuals would be drawn into each other's delusions, creating a true group hallucination scenario.
{Report,} ordered Captain to Sensors. He had paused at an intersection, but was soon forced to move onward. As long as he did not dally, the smell hunting him would remain at bay. It had been a long time since Captain had walked through his subsection 17 home, his normal transport method the transporter.
{Lemon juniper yellow is elite table happy brown. Pine fresh [note] water are metallic juice. Sensors [remote] blanket paisley what tile going philodendron [ostrich] osprey,} babbled Sensors. Captain hit his head with the heel of his hand, as if the action would unscramble the sentences. Unfortunately, the computer insisted translation algorithms were faithful, including the words of which there were no equivalents outside Sensor's own language.
{Sensory hierarchy, not Sensors, report,} called Captain. He paused, the swiftly stepped forward as burnt dog hair tickled his nostrils.
99 of 422 replied, {Sensors thinks she is communicating normally. We don't think she believes us when we tell her otherwise.}
{"Don't think"?}
{Sensors is Sensors. She isn't exactly the most transparent drone in the best of times, you know.}
Captain accepted the retort, acknowledging the relevance of the rebuke. {Report on sensor grid. Interpret it for us, without Sensors' input if necessary.} The line of questioning was returned to its original tract.
{Porcupine books are not recycling chair!} exclaimed Sensors indignantly.
{Sensors, don't talk. 99 of 422, reply.} The sensation associated with Sensors' signature was one of impotent frustration.
99 of 422 waited several beats before reporting, well aware he was acting in Sensors' stead. Theoretically, there was no difference in who said what, as long as the data was compiled; however, the reality was Sensors' was very conscious of her responsibilities and was uncomfortable in relinquishing any accountability when she thought she was possessing all her facilities. {The grid is frozen in configurations optimal to Sensors' perceptions. We are 91.6% sure that no energy field emitted from the station is responsible for our difficulties.}
{Only 91.6%?} queried Captain.
{You interpret what the grid output means when it is focusing on the vibrations of quantum superstrings. To me it all looks like green squiggles; and not even the computer is much assistance. We have tried to request computational resources from the Greater Consciousness, but we are being ignored.}
Captain snorted, {No surprise there. Continue analyzing sensor data. We require as close to 100% accuracy as possible; and continue attempting to convince Sensors that she makes less sense than usual.}
{Fun! Sofa and windows break weather in the clouds!}
Captain ignored Sensors' grammatically correct, if still insensible, outburst. A sedate walking pace was no longer sufficient to keep the scent at bay. He lengthened his strides.
72 of 83 nervously peered around a corner, then ducked back as he caught sight of one of the white hex eyes. This part of the station was thick with sigils. Holding out a hand, he received a Contraption from the drone behind him in the assault detail. The Contraption consisted of a spray can of paint mounted on an accordion arm. Apprehensively, 72 of 83 edged around the corner again, aiming the Contraption at the eye and deploying it.
The end of the Contraption burst into flames as a flame thrower spat an inferno from a cleverly hidden niche in the wall. Responding to movement, the tongue of flame would have singed, if not incinerated, the mid-torso of the average humanoid drone; a taller drone (assuming one could fit in the crazy station corridors) would have been hit in the pelvis and a shorter unit squarely in the head. It was a very dangerous, very effective trap. 72 of 83 dropped the Contraption before the spray can could explode, taking shelter back behind the corner. With a wet *kerpoof!*, black paint and acrid smoke splashed the wall of the T-intersection the squad was attempting to investigate.
Another Contraption materialized amid the group: engineering was working overtime assembling the high demand objects.
The squads of weapons and assimilation drones on the station weren't so much worried about the traps as they were nervous about the station's hex. Horribly lethal booby traps were a concept well understood. Black magic, on the other hand, was an unknown. Intellectually, voodoo was irrelevant, nothing more than one of a myriad of religions practiced by many small beings. However, the hallucinatory incidents leading to mental unhinging (or mental losing-the-barn-door-in-the-wake-of-a-tornado) had only began after Cube #347 had arrived at the station. No explanation to the contrary had been devised yet, and, oddly enough, "Really Bad Juju" was the top hypothesis the sub-collective could concoct.
The simplest course of action, if it actually was the station causing the sub-collective's woes, would be to leave. A nonBorg vessel would likely have left long ago, as soon as a tentative link between afflictions and station was forged. Cube #347, however, was Borg, and had been tasked to inventory the station. The Collective would not accept "scary" as a valid reason for dereliction of duty; and lenient punishment in the Collective tended toward the realm of very harsh to terminal. Cube #347 did not have the leeway to abandon their assignment. Attempts to contact the Greater Consciousness to request assistance in the form of a more plausible reason of malfunction than magic was thus far fruitless, the Overmind utterly ignoring the sub-collective. The silence was not unusual: it was not that the Collective was purposefully ignoring Cube #347, it was just the sub-collective and its problem was too insignificant to warrant immediate attention.
In absence of a concrete answer, the solution was to improvise. Borg, of whatever persuasion, were not good at improvising, Cube #347 inclusive. The solution to the difficulties was to inventory the station while erasing the hex marks on the off chance their presence contributed to the hypothesized magic. Meanwhile, drone maintenance continued to examine afflicted drones, searching for a more physical and understandable reason than voodoo.
Magic or no magic, plausible solution or no plausible solution, the situation still left 72 of 83 and company in a corridor adjacent to a station T-intersection. The new Contraption was outfitted with fire extinguisher instead of paint can. Hopefully the trap could be countered and the eye painted over before another drone of the squad succumbed to what might be the very relevant threat of bad juju.
A drone, 138 of 212, lay on the table. He was quite alive, if unconscious, although the uninitiated might look at the state of his head and declare him a gruesome medical experiment. Most of 138 of 212's skull was removed, the curved plates of metal laminated over bone set in a neat pile. The exposed brain was obvious in its tri-lobe structure, a brain as much inorganic as organic. Macrosized wires as well as those of molecular and nanometer scale wound through neural matter. Vital implants glinted here and there; and several devices lay on a nearby tray.
Doctor peered into the brain, eyes narrowed as he focused on his work at extreme close-up. He reached forward with an implement, its razor-thin edge magnified to butter knife proportions, carefully teasing apart a neural fiber from a dull wire. Simultaneously, he watched with internal interest the output of a voltmeter measuring potentialities along the pathway he was trying to follow. Perhaps the problem originated in the centers that integrated sensory input? In most species, the proper area was located near the neural transceiver, so as to better integrate the Will of the Collective and intradrone communications with the host.
"I need the quantum morphic resonance scanner," said Doctor. He clicked his incisors together with impatience as his outstretched hand did not receive the requested equipment. "Be a good dog and fetch me a quantum morphic resonance scanner." Still no answer.
Doctor sighed and reset his vision. Extreme close-ups of facial pores did not make the prettiest picture, not to mention the difficulties involved with trying to navigate a room viewed at micrometer scale. He turned to regard the drone assigned as his assistant this wake period, prepared to give a lecture about the duties of a veterinarian assistant. The words died in his throat, replaced with another sigh.
106 of 152 was staring, wide-eyed, at first one hand, then the other. She began to frantically make brushing motions with them, as if wiping something off of them. The movements became more frenzied. "Bugs! Bugs! There are bugs crawling all over me! Little black bugs with beady red eyes. Lots and lots of bugs." Grabbing at a laser razor, 106 of 152 aimed it at her left forearm, then collapsed bonelessly before she could activate it and turn herself into an amputee.
Doctor looked down at 106 of 152's still form, whom he had sent into regeneration. Another of his hierarchy out of action; and drone maintenance wasn't very large to begin with in a sub-collective of four thousand. Each unit out of commission, therefore, enacted a proportionally greater degree of damage.
After making sure his patient was stable, Doctor mentally called for two drones to return 106 of 152 to her alcove. Picking up the quantum morphic resonance scanner, he resumed his search. He, the drone maintenance hierarchy, was so close, yet seemed so far! Unfortunately, with the need to take care of all the malfunctioning drones in the sub-collective, the hierarchy wasn't at its most efficient in finding either cause or solution.
Captain loped through the corridors, verging on a run at times, or at least as close to a run as the average armor encrusted Borg could manage. He had left behind subsection 17 and was now in subsection 18, an astounding distance for a Borg vessel where the normal mode of travel was by transporter. More and more often the smell was catching him no matter how quickly he moved. Concentration on anything other than the odor was becoming increasingly difficult.
Second materialized directly in Captain's path, solidifying before the primary consensus monitor and facilitator could dodge. Captain was forced to stop.
"So, how're you doing?" asked Second, arms casually outstretched to prevent Captain's passing in the narrow hallway.
"Out of the way. The small is becoming unbearable."
"Then go back the way you came." The corridor behind was quite free of obstinate obstacles.
Captain fumed, "You know I can't: the smell lingers wherever I've been." Pause. "You remain unaffected and are being cruel."
"Me, cruel?" asked Second with complete innocence. "I'm never cruel. Cruelty is irrelevant."
"Move. Now. Comply."
The order did not have the usual bite of required compliance. Second could have ignored it, yet, he stepped aside before bowing with an arm flourish. No hint of mockery colored either vice or mental signature: "Your wish is our command. Your delusions are affecting our performance and perceptions. I'm doing my best to compensate, but five of the Hierarchy of Eight, including yourself, are either out of commission or acting...not right."
Second may as well have been talking a wall. Captain rushed by, unlistening and muttering about the unbearable stench and the need to outrun it at all cost.
*****
Assimilation-class Cube #141 charged through subspace, hypertranswarp propelling the ship at ludicrous speed. Every ten minutes it would cast a request for conference to the ship-unit designated Exploratory-class Cube #347, but no reply was forthcoming.
The attitude permeating the dataspace webwork of Cube #141 could best be described as stoic acceptance with a dash of disgust. The emotional label was that only - a label. Reality was both more complex and simpler: more complex because trying to quantify the state of mind of a multi-chord of liquid quasi-personalities was an exercise in futility; and simpler due to the fact that normal sub-collectives, especially individuals in normal sub-collectives, were not allowed to have emotions which differed from the Whole. It might be better to say the Collective was harboring a slight annoyance concerning the situation of Cube #347, and that feeling was reflected in the mindset of the Assimilation-class cube.
Cube #141 had been returning to the front lines of the assault upon a primary species #9416 colony world when the change in orders had been received. A load of 120,000 new units had just been deposited on planet #31,721 for final processing, therefore, the empty cube was convenient. In grid beta, sector 1010, Exploratory-class Cube #347 was inventorying a species #9416 station; and to there Cube #141 had been dispatched. The original reintegration of the imperfectly assimilated sub-collective of Exploratory-class Cube #347 had included retrofit with modern neural transceivers, transceivers which had been discovered to be defective. It was Cube #141's assignment to ascertain the condition of Cube #347 (current ping status: unresponsive, but still located in grid beta, sector 1010) and make repairs to drone units, if necessary.
The task did not have the essence of pleasure which came with the knowledge of assisting directly with the quest for perfection and expanding the Whole. However, unlike those Cube #141 went to aid, there was no argument or even hint of dissension.
Assimilation-class Cube #141, once again, requested a response from Cube #347 acknowledging the former's assignment and soon arrival; and, once again, silence, other than an automatic computer ping reply, was the only answer.
*****
{Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble, blue [pancakes] burn and pictures tumble,} warned Sensors. She deluged the sub-collective with an exterior view, a large wavering blur highlighted by a golden aura and set against a backdrop of topaz jewels on velvet. A few lonely voices claimed that cameras were showing a cube of the Collective, but they were the minority whereupon most had twisted the universe Sensors' showed into even more fantastic sights. Purple dragons, a godly vision, a gaping mouth, a beautiful moth, if anything, the blur which was approaching Cube #347 was closer to the truth than the optical hallucinations vying for supremacy.
The sub-collective required consensus concerning the behemoth as it entered weapons range. Cosmic phoenixes fought a pod of star whales, and finally the image which emerged triumphant was that of a boxy species #402 dreadnought. The fact that the dimensions of the dreadnought did not approach that of an Exploratory-class cube, much less the Enemy in question, did not matter; and nor did the fact species #402 had been assimilated seven thousand years prior and was confirmed extinct outside the Collective. Consensus became Truth, and Truth became Enemy.
{Kill it!} gleefully shouted Weapons into the intranet as he was given free reign. He was unrestrained, his primary anchor in the form of Captain still trying to escape burnt dog hair by motoring on a scooter while holding his breath. Many of the other members of command and control similarly had concerns other than, well, command and control; and those few, such as Second, who remained seemingly unaffected were too busy keeping the sub-collective from degrading into general chaos to deal with strong-willed personalities like Weapons.
Weapons were brought on-line, aiming at the supposed dreadnought. The illusions which had created the dreadnought in the first place, however, allowed the initial volley of high yield quantum torpedoes to miss by nearly 10,000 kilometers. The second volley did not come much closer. At that point, the consensus of dreadnought shattered, replaced in quick progression by the ghostly outlines of pieces of anatomy (particularly eyeballs, lips, and a hand) before solidifying with the form of a giant jack-o-lantern. Logically, the image was insensible, but the very altered perceptions of what constituted reality for the sub-collective accepted the impossibility.
{Prepare to become pumpkin pie!} hooted Weapons as neurupters were activated along edge #6. {You will be carved!}
At this point, the jack-o-lantern, nee Assimilation-class Cube #141, gave up trying to contact its smaller opponent. Its sensor grid told it danger was limited, weapons of Cube #347 misaimed. The situation of cube versus cube was consulted with the Greater Consciousness and orders provided. Assimilation-class Cube #141 had nothing wrong with its target lock, and Cube #347 was squarely hit with a directed dampening field, disrupting the energy grid and instantly plunging offense and defense off-line.
Many centuries of disputes with Borg (or Hive) against Colored Borg provided for a rich arsenal of Borg specific weaponry options. Moving to less than five kilometers, the maximum range of the particular weapon chosen, a temporal stasis field was erected, effectively trapping the target in time. Within minutes, drones from Cube #141, suitably outfitted with temporal null devices to counteract the stasis field, began to beam to the afflicted cube to start the task of extracting recalled neural transceivers and replacing them with new.
The sooner the assignment was completed, the better; and the faster Assimilation-class Cube #141 could return to the front lines of the assimilation of species #9416, the quicker the sub-collective could contribute to spreading the gift of perfection to several hundred thousand more individuals waiting to be enlightened.
Captain tapped his forehead, listening to the not-noise of echoing static in his head. While he remained functional, everything originating from the intranets and dataspaces had a doubled quality. The effect was more nuisance than anything else. The medical drones from Assimilation-class Cube #141, in their haste to refit four thousand neural transceivers and leave as soon as possible, had not performed perfect operations in all cases. Captain was one of those cases.
{How much longer?} inquired Captain to Doctor. As he did so, he checked drone maintenance roster logs, noting the estimated time to his appointment.
Doctor grumbled. His hierarchy was very busy resetting those implants like Captain's which were not quite correct, as well as fixing a variety of damages acquired by those drones whose hallucinations had not been benign to their bodies. {Busy (busy), busy (busy). Check (check) the (the) roster (roster) like (like) a (a) good (good) boy (boy),} was the curt, echoing reply.
The sub-collective of Cube #347 had received a production lot of damaged neural transceivers during the retrofit following the drones' resurrection from pre-Dark times. Malfunction had not been immediate, but when the effects had manifested, the degradation had occurred nearly simultaneously in all transceivers. The odds of such mass, synchronized failure was not a farfetched as it seemed, for even when the factories of the Collective messed up, it was done with perfection and panache.
The first symptoms of malfunctions were subtle. Shortly after arriving at the species #9416 station, the corruption began with the degradation of the drone-vinculum-Collective link. Neural transceivers were complex, operating on several subbands, depending on content. Some bands were dedicated to carrying data; others mediated intradrone communication with those units close enough to connect without the vinculum; and yet other subfrequencies were necessary for communication over light years through the vinculum booster to the Greater Consciousness and data archives of the Collective. It was the lattermost function which had degraded, leaving only the basic carrier wave indicating simple information such as base drone health and status.
The loss of the higher echelons of communication to the Collective had not been noticed. The Greater Consciousness, after all, was still felt as present; and the uncommunicativeness of the Whole was not worrisome since the imperfectly assimilated sub-collective was usually held at a distance. Therefore, the notices sent to Cube #347 from the Collective and Cube #141 had never been "heard"; and, similarly, while the sub-collective had believed it had sent requests for data and assistance to the Greater Consciousness, such had not actually occurred.
As the degradation of the neural transceivers progressed, other effects had become apparent, extent depending on drone species. Some races were affected to a greater degree than others, conditional to the natural redundancy of the brain perceptual centers to compensate for increasingly confusing data streams. In trying to integrate the nonsensical data, hallucinations and illusions had bombarded the senses, in turn leading to extreme reactionary behavior.
The linkage of one drone to another only served to exaggerate the problem. In the end, the sheer mass of conflicting perceptions had turned Assimilation-class Cube #141 into first a dreadnought, then a pumpkin.
Captain tapped his head again, receiving the same pleasure in his discomfort as he used to gain by picking scabs off old cuts.
"You really shouldn't do that," commented Second as he entered the nodal intersection. "Doctor will lecture you about further dislodging the connections."
Captain frowned. "I can do what I want to my body." Second, the sarcastic bastard, had remained unaffected beyond initial degradation, his brain structure able to counteract the breakdowns. Captain changed the direction of the conversation. "What I do not understand is why I still smell burnt dog hair. It isn't near as strong as it was, but it is still there. It must be related to the bad implant job I received. Drone maintenance will fix it."
Second raised his head, sniffing. He did not have the best of noses, but it was better than the facilities possessed by Captain. Oddly, he detected the acrid aroma too. "Something must be very wrong, because I smell it as well."
Captain blinked. He wordlessly requested confirmation.
"Yes," was the uncomfortable reply. Had another lot of malfunctioning neural transceivers been installed?
Loudly sniffing, the two drones followed the scent of burnt hair to a wall, and more specifically, a panel. The metal sheet was removed, baring the bulkhead innards. An exposed plasma conduit had a patch of insufficient insulation, allowing it to radiate a slightly excessive amount of heat. The incident was not unusual, considering the tens of thousands of kilometers of conduit requiring periodic maintenance checks in the cube, nor dangerous. However, the snaggle of smoldering hair caught on the conduit was not regulation.
Narrowing his eye in suspicion, Captain plucked the wad from its resting place. It was the source of the odor. Somewhere in the darkness of the interstitial space came the scrabbling of tiny claws on metal; and the reflection of retinas momentarily flashed at the edge of peripheral vision. Second, understanding Captain's concern, summoned a portable genetic sequencer to the nodal intersection. The bit of hair was inserted into the shoebox sized device.
{Analysis (analysis) complete (complete),} bluntly said the computer in Captain's mind. {Sample (sample) match (match) found (found) in (in) database (database) sixteen (sixteen).} Database sixteen was a long list of the genetic profiles of animals, specifically nonsentients acquired by a certain ex-vet. {Sample (sample) matches (matches) profile (profile) 126 (126).}
Profile 126 was...hexapod hamsters.
After five centuries, a trip through the afterlife, and a new cube later, the hexapod hamster nuisance survived? It was well known many items had been ingeniously smuggled from the old Cube #347 to the new, but for hamsters to be among the contraband was mind-boggling. What other pets might Doctor have transferred?
At least the burnt /hamster/ hair smell had not entirely been a hallucination.
{Doctor,} spoke Captain to a certain signature suddenly very hard to isolate, {I require repair, now. And then we are going to have a very detailed, very long discussion concerning hamsters and other similar creatures.}
Return to the Season 5 page