Listen, grasshopper, to the wisdom of the ages: the flame of Star Trek burns brightly for Paramount, and is very hot. In other, related news, Decker writes Star Traks; and Meneks pens BorgSpace. They try not to get scorched.
Feng Shui
Smugglers and desperate traders called it The Narrows. At the border of the Gamma and Delta quadrants, in the middle third of the distance from hub to rim where most galactic civilizations developed, stretched a dark matter nebula. Odd gravitational forces and fluctuations essentially made innavigable a volume of space a thousand light years wide by five hundred light years tall by two hundred light years deep; and treacherous, unmapped fingers reached from the core to snare unwary travelers. Permutations of space-time extended deep into subspace, prohibiting speeds faster than a few hundred kilometers per hour - a snail pace - suicidal. Even transmissions tended to become mired in the nebula, some emerging, if they did so at all, dozens of years later. One place, however, was passable at half impulse, a narrow region only a quarter light year deep where the nebula pinched together to form a hole: The Narrows.
Prior to Borg arrival to that portion of the galaxy, The Narrows had been a key trading route for civilizations to either side of the nebula. Rich trade flowed both directions, and many wars had been fought as to who would have the right to control toll. After the Borg arrived, however, all that ended as they took over The Narrows. At first presence had consisted of a cube at either end of the tunnel, ready to capture any who were foolish enough to make the dash. Later, as the hazard of the route became well known and that it was safer to spend the weeks otherwise required to go around the nebula, Borg occupancy became erratic: sometimes hundreds of vessels passed through, scant minutes apart, and at other times weeks would pass with nary a cube. Unlike pre-Borg, there was no schedule, so to be present at the wrong time was to be assimilated, a risk most captains were not willing to take.
The Narrows was a time saver, a shortcut very attractive to a certain bent of character. Smugglers looking to dodge custom patrols occasionally made the dive through The Narrows, as did legitimate freight masters with highly perishable cargo or loans from questionable sources about to become due. The rare dare or bet saw speedy ships try the route; and for a while an annual race included The Narrows as part of the course, until a fleet of Borg cubes in the fifth year of organization has assimilated all drivers, support crews, commentators, and major sponsors. Those who wanted to live a life outside the Collective tended to stay away from The Narrows.
Cube #347 approached The Narrows, dropping from hypertranswarp to the desired velocity of half impulse. It required several hours to transverse The Narrows and reach a spot where supraluminal speed was possible again. The transit was to be routine, even if the reason for it was not. Of course, little concerning Cube #347 was routine.
"More straw over here," called Delta loudly as she waved an arm of body B. A small portion of Bulk Cargo Hold #8 had been partitioned into a corral with sixty separate stalls two meters a side. Ten stalls comprised a row and an aisle was located between each row. The sub-collective was preparing for the farm business. "More straw!"
"It is under my shin guards," complained 35 of 42 as she awkwardly carried two bales from the large stack near the exterior ring of fencing.
Delta said, "Doesn't matter. Get over here and spread the straw out. These animals will require dried wheat grass bedding at least fifteen centimeters deep." Body A was in the primary core room, engaged in routine diagnoses. Soon Delta would have to switch to duties for the bodies and use the downtime to allow body B to remove several straws which were lodged most uncomfortably behind her left knee.
Captain observed the ordered work from several cameras situated at strategic spots on the ceiling, as well as monitored direct drone visual feeds. The corrals would be completed soon, well before expected arrival at planet #15,382 in three days. The fact some stalls might be painted orange and others purple was unimportant, for the live animal cargo would not care. As long as Doctor and the cargo were carefully monitored until transport was complete, nothing was expected to go awry.
Looking around his nodal intersection, Captain could not see anything which resembled wood. He knocked on a duralloy bulkhead instead.
Planet #15,382, previously known as Winic until its similarly named owner-species had abandoned their homeworld in response to Borg aggression, was a cornucopia of pharmaceutical resources. Many of the plants and animals had been genetically engineered, producing not only a world tamed through harnessing of the gene, but a wide selection of useful products. Enzymes, vitamins, and vaccines were commodities commonly pharmed by races early in a career of genetic manipulation, but the Winic had leapt far beyond such baby steps, creating, for example, an aquatic plant that harvested trace amounts of gold in saltwater through its roots, then secreted purified ingots in the form of golden fleshed fruit with an edible rind.
Cube #347 was on its way to pick up an eight-legged creature that otherwise resembled a goat. The animals - grats - were living smelters, using a combination of secreted enzymes and engineered bacteria to convert consumed unprocessed ore precursors into duralloy. The process which was carried out at body temperature in special gut organs, producing small ball-bearings which were voided along with the animal's normal organic wastes. As the grat was desired to be studied alive, one hundred twenty specimens, two each for the stalls being built in Bulk Cargo Hold #8, were to be transported by Cube #347 to Research Complex #161.
Why Cube #347? Well, other sub-collectives already on site were employed in inventorying the Winic homeworld resources and databases left behind by the hurried departure. Besides, the task was very low priority, a perfect endeavor for the imperfect.
*****
"Think they'll come here, Boss? Think they'll come here, Boss? Think they'll come here, Boss?" chattered the simuldroid. "Think they'll..." The robot squeaked its last amid a clatter of its own limbs as the machine was violently knocked over. It writhed on the damp deck with jerky movements of its legs, but was otherwise mercifully silent.
"Ju'puna! Where are you, you sticking carcass? Ju'puna!" shouted Captain Ne'toki at the top of his considerable lungs. The fact that the Dromelan's mouth was located under his body-sac at the juncture of his eight limbs did not muffle his efforts. "Ju'puna! Get your T'pulano butt up here now before I construct a petition to toss you out of our mutual clan! And out the airlock! Now!"
Ne'toki did not bother to turn around as he heard familiar furtive footsteps approaching from behind. There were only two people other than himself on the little ship, and his body servant Koto'li was much quieter on the faintly squishy deck surface than Ju'puna. Anyway, Koto'li had been half-asleep at the sensor station prior to rude awakening by violent droid deconstruction.
"Ju'puna! I told you not to construct any more of those stupid simuldroids. You never get the kits put together correctly, for one; and you always try to upload neural net software too complex for its simple brain. If I see or hear one more of those things on my ship, I'm going to string you up by all eight limbs." Ne'toki turned as he made his threat to his smaller engineer shipmate, pleased as the other paled.
Ju'puna swayed back and forth with Dromela negation, wide saucer eyes blinking. "It wasn't me, honest. He did it. Koto'li did it. He broke into my room and built it, honest." The octopoid pointed one arm-limb at the body servant, who obligingly cowered.
Beyond the fact that the robot's voice had been an exact match for Ju'puna, Ne'toki knew the engineer was a habitual liar. Koto'li was a good cook and could run the communication and sensory computers, but only understood the most basic of tools, such as the hammer. Mechanically inclined Koto'li was not. No, it was not the body servant. "Don't be ridiculous," said Ne'toki, "it wasn't Koto'li, and you know it. I will not punish my servant for something you did. I dislike those droids and you know it."
Ju'puna muttered something under his breath.
Ne'toki clacked his beak together. "I heard that. My line descends from a ruling House genome of the clan, and as such I have the genetic includes," he tapped his body-sac in the vicinity of the brain with one arm-limb, "to telepathically bond a body servant in the rookery Pools. You don't. Live with it." Ne'toki paused. "As far as your stupid robot's question, yes, they will be here. Koto'li overheard the trader say she was to make a run for The Narrows, and with that manifest showing what her cargo is, a capture will be worth it. The net is deployed across The Narrows, so all is good. The trader'll be here in a couple hours or so."
The Dromelans were privateers, and their snare was set. Unfortunately, the trader under discussion had lost an engine only minutes from dock and been forced to spend an extra day at the trading station to make repairs. The prey approaching was slightly larger than that anticipated.
*****
Cube #347 trundled through The Narrows at half impulse. Assault-class Sphere #36 had passed the same way a day prior, opposite direction, updating navigation maps. Therefore, the sub-collective was very surprised as the cube came to an abrupt, inertia damper-rattling stop. Around the ship flared a gridwork of brilliant gold, a mesh which swiftly faded to a pale yellow on the edge of visibility.
{Report!} snapped Captain as he tried to reverse the cube's direction. Nothing. The virtual stick shift was slammed back into forward, to no avail except a groaning superstructure and another burst of gold. Back. Forward. Back. Forward. The cube simultaneously twisted side to side, which only served to mire the vessel more securely in the trap, for trap was what it was.
As Cube #347's struggles finally shuddered to a halt, the first renderings of what had snared the vessel became available from the sensor hierarchy. Command and control began integrating the new information to alter the sub-collective's world view; and Captain displayed the net on a holographic display screen.
A vast diaphanous mesh, expanding five thousand kilometers in diameter to form a vast circle, blocked the middle of The Narrows. Normally such a net would be insignificant, unlikely to intercept anything larger than a dust mote in the vastness of space, but in this case, it obstructed a significant percentage of the passageway. The faintly luminescent barrier of lace had been deployed in the center of the narrowest portion of the passage, impeding the main thoroughfare and guaranteed to catch whatever came through.
The monofilament strands of the net were spun of a textile which was partially attuned to subspace. The Borg knew of this material - gossamer thread - a substance not widely employed by civilizations due to its annoying tendency to slip completely into subspace, and thus out of real space warehouses and cargo holds, if not kept in a natural gravity well of at least 0.5 G. Other quirks also precluded its use besides the difficulties of export. For instance, if the material was deployed on a planet or planetoid, it had a nasty inclination to spontaneously combust into plasma if it came into contact with sunlight, or nitrogen, carbon dioxide, oxygen, and most other gasses found on rocky bodies which were not airless and trekking through interstellar space. The odd gravitational fluctuations and twisted space-time of The Narrows and associated dark matter nebula was likely the only reason the finicky net of gossamer thread remained stable.
Partially embedded in subspace, the thread prevented Cube #347 from moving. Wrapped like a fish in a gill net, the ship was unable to progress, attempts at forward momentum captured by the thread and dumped to subspace. The more power funneled to drive engines, the brighter glowed the trap as that energy transferred to subspace, and nowhere did the cube progress. Cube #347 was a fly trapped in a spider's web.
At the distant edges of the net buoys kept the structure taunt, dense balls of the gossamer thread wrapped in duralloy acting as sea anchors. Assuming the cube could somehow destroy the buoys would not serve to free the vessel, for the anchors simply kept the rest of the net from drifting in response to random eddies of space-time. In fact, if the buoys were destroyed ({No, Weapons. Definitely not.}), the entire web would eventually be pulled into the odd currents of the dark nebula, effectively stranding Cube #347 to the dangers of random gravitational shear.
One of the buoys detached from the net and began to glide away. Attracted to the unexpected motion, Sensors directed the part of the grid facing that direction to focus on the object. Captain opened a second display, watching as the view zoomed in on the dull gray sphere.
The small vessel had a radius of twenty meters, a short-range Dromelan craft able to support a crew of three or four. It was usually associated with a larger mothership, but in this case, the ring of eight stubby warp nacelles rising from niches around the girth attested that it might be a lone vehicle. Destination near or far, it swung around to approach the net near where it had detached, spun slightly, then passed smoothly through the strings of gossamer thread unhindered. The ship obviously had the technology to cope with the entangling substance. Unfortunately, it was too far away to capture and was not stopping to answer broadcast demands to voluntarily submit to assimilation.
{I can get it!} announced Weapons loudly. {There are clear apertures on face #3.} A schematic of the cube rotated in the dataspaces, highlighting the appropriate areas with blinking red. Before he could be stopped, Weapons directed his hierarchy to launch a trio of quantum torpedoes. Unlike times when vital shots taken in the midst of battle had missed, all three were on target. The little sphere blew apart spectacularly.
Unknown to the cube, the careers of three Dromela, including one who, through a series of coincidences at home was soon to be notified of his ascendency in rank to the honorary position of clan Prince, abruptly came to an end. Of course, even if the sub-collective had known, they would not have cared.
Captain was exasperated, {Weapons!}
Weapons replied smugly, {We have been practicing. Aiming issues remain under battle stress, but the hierarchy definitely improves. High yield torpedoes also are helpful in these situations because a near miss detonation can be as crippling as a direct hit. For instance, battle simulation scenario...}
{Weapons,} interrupted Captain, {that ship had a 97.2% chance of containing technology to extract us. Now the chance that it will be able to assist us with our difficulty is zero percent.}
Weapons pondered, then declared, {We will just cut our way out.} Cutting beams along edges #3 and #7 began to warm up as capacitors cycled.
{No!} exclaimed Second and Captain together. If gossamer thread did not react well to the relatively light pitter-patter of photons filtered by a thick planetary atmosphere, then the net would surely not be happy with a concentrated dose as represented by the cutting beams. Gossamer thread which spontaneously decayed to subspace had occasionally been recorded to take with it whatever it had been in contact to, with terminal consequences. Second attempted to relay this concern to Weapons using simple words and very large, graphic pictures.
Captain turned to the engineering hierarchy, {Get us out of here.}
Delta was not in the best of moods. The sentiment was not hers alone, but rather one shared nebulously among the whole of the engineering hierarchy. Whenever something went wrong, it was up to engineering to fix it. Weapons broke one of their toys? Call engineering. The nanite growth vats were spewing their contents all over the room because someone had tried to convert one of them into a paint mixer? Call engineering. The neural gel synapse clusters associated with sensor grid on face #2, quadrant 16a, had exploded while trying to interpret quantum singularity flux harmonic redshift? Call engineering. Call engineering. Call engineering. It was always "call engineering."
The ship is fouled in a gossamer thread net because command and control had essentially panicked (in Delta's estimation) when first caught? Call engineering. They will make it all better. Oh, we don't know how you will make it all better, but we are sure you will. Engineering always picks up the pieces and makes it better. That is their job.
Yes, it was engineering hierarchy's job to fix mechanical problems. However, existence would have been much simpler if said problems were not 80% of the time caused directly by crew or were knee-jerk reactions taken in response to a situation.
The simmering black mood was understandable. Non-members of the engineering hierarchy limited their interactions when a glowering drone stomped by; and an effort was made to not report all the little problems which cropped up. When some of the latter were discovered - the bulkhead in subsection 2, submatrix 2, corridor 18, which was now a mere lace shadow of itself due to an acidic experiment, for example - heads might literally roll. For now, however, it was best to lie low while engineering hierarchy did top priority work and determined how to free the cube.
Gossamer thread, due to its environmental requirements, was generally produced in a 0.5 G+ well in sealed factories filled with an atmosphere of pure xenon. Other inert gasses worked as well, but helium was adept at escaping all but the most opaque of forcefield environments, neon reacted poorly to electricity, and noble elements heavier than xenon were increasingly difficult and expensive to produce in commercial quantities.
Once a batch of gossamer thread was spun, it had to be cut to appropriate lengths for whatever manufactory process was required. Again, due to the finicky nature of the substance, only certain methods could be applied successfully and nonlethally. Focused acoustics was the best, and basically only, way. Unfortunately, sound does not propagate in a vacuum; and a vacuum was exactly what was beyond Cube #347's hull.
Engineering first tried gravimetric and magnetic oscillators, equipment which sought to disrupt atomic bonds and were first cousins to disrupters. Unfortunately, the fact that the atomic bonds resided partially in subspace failed the effort. The net threads did not respond.
In an attempt to breach the subspace barrier, one short-lived experiment used directed photons of the phased variety. A small test case revealed gossamer threads to be sensitive to photons of whatever variance. Luckily, the plasma burned only a short time and did not spread domino-effect to portions of the web which had not been exposed to the experiment. The half meter deep crater in the hull ablative armor would be easy to repair, but was left for the nonce as a visual reminder as to why to stay away from solutions which involved a photon component.
Finally, in an act of desperation, engineering hierarchy tried high velocity circular saws. At first, the mechanical solution appeared to have as little effect as the magnetic oscillators, i.e., none. However, as the speed dial on the equipment was increased, careful examination showed a lessening integrity to the strand under assault. After being forced to sustain a too high sustained speed for too long, the saw broke, but not before the thread itself gracefully parted. The saw had functioned as an acoustic substitute, mechanical vibrations stimulating, albeit at a much slower rate, the same cutting mechanisms employed on the factory production floor.
The engineering hierarchy had a solution to the decree of "Get us out of here." Unfortunately, a new problem quickly became apparent: the loose ends had a tendency to reattach if they floated too close together, self-healing; and if a strand brushed against a drone, the luckless unit would become welded to the net, unable to escape until cut free.
The next cube scheduled to pass through The Narrows was Battle-class Cube #3333. When it did so, if Cube #347 was still entangled, then assistance would be rendered. There were closer vessels, but it was not as if the cube were in the midst of a task vital to Borg survival (grats were interesting, but by no means expected to be more than cud-chewing study subjects) or carrying essential cargo in its holds. Therefore, the Greater Consciousness decided not to divert an assist ship for Cube #347's sole benefit. There were more important things occurring. Cube #347 would have to free itself, else wait until Cube #3333 came by on routine transit.
Typical.
At ten hours into the gossamer thread cutting effort, a total of twenty-two drones were stuck. The transporter could not be used to displace an affected unit from the sticky dilemma. The net, predictably, reacted very poorly to transporter energies. How the destroyed Dromela ship had conveyed and deployed the net was a mystery unlikely to be solved soon. Until then, teams of drones which were better employed cutting thread from Cube #347's hull were instead rushing around, freeing those individuals stuck to the net.
20 of 310 and 182 of 310 trundled across the hull from one of the rare net-free (and therefore transporter safe) zones, stepping carefully over the faintly golden traces of webbing. Each had a vibrator - a handheld band-saw - clutched in one hand. The unusual piece of equipment was not conformed for inclusion on the standard engineering limb assembly which replaced an arm upon assimilation. Their goal was 54 of 240.
54 of 240 was sitting, lotus position, on the hull when the pair found him, eye closed and optic implant dimmed. 54 of 240 was assimilated species #7694, all of whom, regardless of gender, resembled weazened Asiatic men of indeterminate age. Both arms were enmeshed in the net from elbow to shoulder.
{Wake up,} said 20 of 310 as she carefully aimed a kick at 54 of 240's backside. His mental patterns were almost, but not quite, akin to those of regeneration. 54 of 240 called it meditation. {We are here to cut you out. Are your legs functional? That posture does not appear comfortable.} Indeed, for most drones the position 54 of 240 had assumed would be highly awkward.
54 of 240 first opened one eye, then activated his optic implant. He did not otherwise react to the intrusion, remaining seated. {I am busy. Go away. I do not need assistance.}
182 of 310 snorted, {You are covered in webbing.}
{Irrelevant,} replied 54 of 240 serenely.
{And how is that?} incredulously asked 20 of 310 as she eyed the thread, determining the best place to cut.
{Ah, grasshoppa, watch and learn. One has to ebb and flow with the cosmic rhythms. That simple truth is one of the deepest secrets the universe has to offer and is trying to teach. Wax on, wax off.} 54 of 240 gestured, spinning his arms in circular motions first one direction, then the other. The thread...fell away from his limbs, freeing him. With a smooth motion he stood, grace disparate that of the typical Borg, ignoring the slack-jawed stares from his would-be rescuers. {It is all a matter of reading the currents of energy which permeate the soul. Not that Borg have a soul, understand, but the concept still applies.} The last statement was said matter-of-factly, without the mystical overtones which had accompanied the other utterances. {Wax on, wax off, and become one with the universe. Simple.}
"No, no, no!" said 54 of 240 in exasperation. "You must be as the crane: light, delicate, and on one leg. That's right. Hold your arms wide and be the crane. Feel the crane. Already energy flows smoother."
247 of 300 swayed as he sought balance. However in equilibrium space-time was becoming, his top heavy body was not; and Borg were generally expected to keep all feet on the ground. Under 54 of 240's stern gaze, 247 of 300 overcompensated and crashed to the deck.
Sighing, 54 of 240 bade 247 of 300 to stand, then contemplated the exposed pipes which ran above the catwalk. "You must be a crane, here," declared 54 of 240. "Nylon products are transparent to the universe's energy. A little known fact I now pass on to you. You and you," two drones, one to each side of 247 of 300's designated location, both poised in their ordered contortion, "procure a nylon rope, loop it around the pipes, and use it to steady 247 of 300. Once he can stand on one leg without falling over, tell me. At that time we shall resume the Crane."
A transporter beam grabbed 54 of 240, whisking him to his next stop.
It was a twist of the fabric of space-time which mired Cube #347, a twist created by the gossamer thread net positioned as it was in The Narrows, a twist emphasized as momentum had been transferred from ship to subspace. The brute force method of escape required the web to be severed, the knot physically cut: that was the standard Borg modus operendi. Another way necessitated canceling all the minute contributors to motion to smooth the local subspace currents, and, thus, choke off the energies which were feeding the net and miring the cube.
Finding all forms of motion on the cube and silencing them was impossible. At the very least, hearts (for those without mechanical replacements) beat and the atoms which comprised atmosphere jiggled with Brownian motion. Although Cube #347's first struggles were the action to initially tangle the vessel, it was these insignificant movements, immense if added together over the volume of the cube, which truly kept it there. It was possible, however, if difficult, to cancel out the motions, much as a second magnet can void the field of a first. 54 of 240 had demonstrated unentangling to be possible on the scale of a single drone, and now he endeavored to do similarly for the entire cube.
Feng shui was the practice of addressing the relationship between sentients and their environment, of positioning items just so with an eye towards color and design in order to create harmony and freedom of energy. Balderdash, had exclaimed Delta at the time, labeling the exercise as primitive superstition, irrelevant. On the other hand, with the suggestion that the net might turn from hindrance to opportunity, the Greater Consciousness had conceived the desire to study the web...whole. No thread cutting. Species #7694 had several interesting "energy" theories loosely tied to quantum and subspace mechanics, echoed by other, similarly-minded races and unprovable by the Borg (artistry and instinct was impossible to duplicate after assimilation). The situation created an opportunity to test species #7694 "scientific philosophies," as well as gained for Collective study a gossamer thread item. Therefore, at the moment, Delta was located in Auxiliary Core #5, both of her mirror images of Crouching Tiger.
54 of 240 claimed to be master of feng shui, among other talents such as kazoo playing. His aptitude was in the realm of artistry, a quality unable to be cut and paste to other drones. He was the only one able to sense whatever it was he was sensing; and Doctor relayed an odd activity in one area of 54 of 240's brain which was classified as "unused" on his racial neurological profile. Sensors claimed she could almost see what 54 of 240 was trying to accomplish, but when she tried to explain, the translation algorithms went more berserk than usual, peppering the listener with actual whistling snatches of her native speech among [floor tiles] and [blue sky railings].
Materializing in Captain's nodal intersection, 54 of 240 intently scrutinized Captain, Second, and 5 of 8. The other members of the Hierarchy of Eight had been clumped similarly in nearby intersections, although 8 of 8 was located by himself in Supply Closet #43, surrounded by mops and brooms. Captain was in Opening Lotus Blossom, Don't Touch; Second held Stretching Dog With A Red Ball; and 5 of 8 posed with Cranky Alligator Eating Broomstick.
Second was convinced all the names were fabricated.
"The angle of your jaw is wrong, Second. Tighten the grip on the ball. You are a dog which has had a hard day of play, and is now tired, but doesn't want to give up the toy. Become the dog. Become the ball. Become the stretching dog, grasshoppa," said 54 of 240.
Second clenched his teeth, biting a chunk out of the ball. He spat chewed rubber to the deck, then began to make motions to leave his position of folded knees, stretched arms, and arched back. "First I am a dog, then a grasshopper? Make up your mind. You be Stretching Dog With A Rubber Ball, if you must. I will be Standing Drone In An Alcove."
"No, no, no, no, no, no!" 54 of 240 reached down to push Second back into position. A new ball materialized in his hand. "You must be Stretching Dog With A Red Ball. 186 of 480 is Standing Drone In An Alcove. Everyone has their place in the universe. To achieve total serenity and peace in this place, in this now, you must be Stretching Dog With A Red Ball. The more you become, the better chance the cube slips from this knot."
Captain shifted his eyes slightly, regarding the still protesting Second. Second spluttered his final objection and allowed 54 of 240 to stuff the ball back into his mouth.
Proclaimed 54 of 240, "Excellent! Arch your back slightly, Captain, and bend that knee. You are a lotus blossom. The colander on your head is adequately positioned. 5 of 8, the broomstick must be angled at precisely 22.7 degrees above the horizon. You are at 22.3 degrees. The broomstick is absolutely key to the energy eddies in this nodal intersection."
In addition to precisely positioned bodies, props of various sorts appeared to be necessary to 54 of 240's feng shui masterpiece. Broomsticks, colanders, and balls were standard items. The more unusual included rubber goldfish, lit sparklers, and plastic cacti.
"Very good. 22.7 degrees on the dot. Grasshoppas, feel the energy flow, so smooth, so smooth. Powerful is the lesson the universe is trying to teach us," said 54 of 240 before he beamed to his next stop.
{The universe is trying to flush us to waste reclamation, it always has, when it isn't flashing rude gestures at us,} muttered Second darkly, unable to speak aloud with the ball in his mouth. He did not bother to hide his scorn in quasi-private channels.
54 of 240 heard it, but was not disturbed. {The universe has many things to teach. In accepting the rude gesture, in becoming the rude gesture and absorbing it into yourself, you have heard the universe, and learned.}
Second could not begin to win a battle of philosophical proverbs, and so quieted.
54 of 240 transported himself all over the cube, from Supply Closet #16 to the primary core to Dilithium Growth Laboratory #9. It was necessary for 145 of 152 to reposition an elbow to accurately create Moth On Fire; and the many feet of 2 of 3 had to be just so for Busy Ants Moving Seeds To Storage In Preparation For Winter, Harsh Snow, And Creeping Ice. Finally everything was complete, the energies of space-time flowing as smoothly as possible without one last adjustment. 54 of 240 had left the keystone position for himself.
In subsection 19, submatrix 1, next to vat #8 of Nanite Assembly Room #2, 54 of 240 materialized. He drew himself straight, shoulders thrown back in the classic form of Man Standing. Slowly he brought both hands up until they were before him at chest height, palms facing out, fingers slightly splayed. {Wax on. Wax off,} pronounced 54 of 240 solemnly, right hand first making a circular clockwise motion, followed by the left hand in the opposite direction.
*****
In a place which was not, at a time where clocks did not belong, a Game continued. Remember this Game? A Board residing between dimensions with a semblance (or the real deal) of the Milky Way upon it? Two eyeballs and two pairs of lips, ambulatory without the benefit of a body? A hand? Other pieces of anatomy occasionally arriving with an order of pizza or chicken wings?
"Ouch!" exclaimed a voice under the table, a voice which improbably belonged to a hand. The Board jumped slightly as something hit the underside of the table on which it perched.
A green irised eyeball gazed under the table, but was unable to see through the mystical fog which the purple-painted pair of lips was creating with a chunk of dry ice in a tub of water. "What happened?" called the Director. "The Board almost fixed?"
The Editor shouted a negative. "Still going to be a while. However, I think I finally cleared up that problem near that dark matter nebula. Shocked myself doing so. Hurts like a son of a billy goat: I zapped a fingertip. You should see the nebula disperse in about five million years, give or take a millennium. I'm going to work on a little dilemma in the central black hole now."
The Critic finished fooling with the dry ice, regaining the seat. Peering at the Board, the lips grumped, "Hey, where'd my Giti ship piece go?"
"Sorry. I think it might have gone to the Board next door," responded the unseen Editor loudly. "A couple of wormholes opened up with I did that nebula fix."
The Critic jumped out of the chair so recently retaken. "No funny stuff, you," was directed to the two Directors, "while I'm gone. I'll be right back with my piece."
"Funny stuff?" said the brown irised eyeball next to the green with indignation. "What do you think I am, a Critic?"
*****
Wax on.
Wax off.
The words echoed well beyond the intranet confines of one Cube #347. The question was, did it matter? Perhaps the utterance may have impinged upon the ears of a certain industrious hand, but said hand was too busy wielding a jeweler's screwdriver on a stubborn knot of gravitational potentialities to listen. Besides, hands don't have ears; and the Borg try their best not to believe in irrelevant beings such as Directors, Critics, and Editors even as such entities quite believe in the Borg. The other entity which the words may have been heard by was the grand Mind which was the universe, but the universe regarded the Borg with as much interest as the average human contemplates a random atom comprising the paint on the apartment wall. Somewhere, some being, some thing might have noticed, or maybe not. Maybe it was simple cause and effect, subspace currents affected by the principles of feng shui, or, again, maybe not. Whatever it was, something did change with those fateful words.
Was on.
Wax off.
Space-time...slipped. Like a fresh watermelon seed held between forefinger and thumb, Cube #347 squirted free of the net which held it. Gossamer threads flickered completely into subspace, returning previously stolen momentum back to the cube. Cube #347 abruptly shot forward at half impulse, plus the sum of panicky thruster use, heartbeats, and random atmosphere Brownian motion accrued since the capture.
As the cube sped away from its trap, the net collapsed in on itself, initial folding into subspace quickly propagating upon its entire length, including buoys. In less than a blink of an eye, the net was gone, the only whisper of it ever existing in the slight warping of space-time which already twisted The Narrows.
Still holding Opening Lotus Blossom, Don't Touch, Captain was taken by surprise, and it required several seconds for command and control to secure engines and drop out of impulse. Second bit deeply into his ball again, this time unfortunately swallowing the loose bit.
In Nanite Assembly Room #2, a serene smile momentarily crossed 54 of 240's weazened face as another lesson was learnt. What exactly that lesson was, he wasn't quite sure, but it had been learned by someone. Feng shui was powerful stuff; and at the very least, he was building quite a catalogue of all the rude gestures a universe was capable of making.
Wax on.
Wax off.
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