Hey! Hear ye, hear ye Decker follows next At the line's end, there
Paramount owns all Star Trek In bad haiku formula is BorgSpace and I, fingers
Tremble, ye mortal Star Traks creator counting syllables
Convention
"Won gooble, won (cough) hillion and thwee." Cough, cough, snort. It was impossible to deny the Voice, the omniscient bodiless Voice, the naselless and mouthless Voice, had a horrible cold. A sound suspiciously like a good blow into a well used hankie echoed throughout the cube before the Voice's presence departed.
"Mmm," said the lesser, but no less imposing, voice of the Director Iris. "One googol, one billion and three." Mangled words were translated for those unable to speak post-nasal drop. "Oh! The Paradise universe! I thought I'd never actually have a chance to see it, much less go there! Not on my salary, anyway. There is only one number on the Infinity die which I could roll to the Paradise..."
The Voice intruded, interrupted. "No. I bid not say d...d...dillion. I said hillion. /Hillion/. A won wif six zeros." Pause. "Honey, can you get be by decongestant...?"
"Oh. One million."
"One billion, one million, is there really much difference? Every reality is out to get us anyway," Second expressed the opinion, one of many in the intranets, his tone holding more than a hint of sarcasm to it, and perhaps a touch of justified paranoia.
The scene within Cube #347 is familiar, and unremarkable. There is Captain and Second in Captain's primary nodal intersection with a certain eyeball slowly bouncing around the room like a three-dimensional screensaver. In her alcove, Sensors hangs comatose, blissfully unaware of the Nothingness beyond the hull. Doctor smuggles a six-legged hamster colony out of a hallway scheduled for routine strip and inspection by engineering, but forgets chewed wire and nests will be as damning evidence as the animals themselves. Elsewhere, 119 of 212, who recently had a psychotic break after violently dying in a shuttle crash serving as a cushion for Doctor and Delta, is making strives to return to a Borg semblance of sanity, or to stop screaming all the time at least, an action which was raising complaints from neighboring alcoves; the alternative option to sanity is to listen to Assimilation's monotonous paint monologues as delicate mental readjustment are performed.
Iris is silent, the quiet of one reading, of one absorbing, bad news. "One billion and one million. Quite a lot, actually. One is Paradise, while the other..."
What the other was was not learned, the final Fall into the next reality intervening. All went dark, silent...and then...
"It was a dark and stormy night. Well, maybe not so dark because it was noon, which meant that the sun was high overhead. That also means that it could not be night, unless one was nocturnal and definition of night was when one was sleeping. However, in this case, everyone involved were day beings, so the sun in the sky meant it was daytime.
"And the weather wasn't really stormy, neither. It was the wrong time of the year for storms, and the planet's weather control system didn't allow rogue rain events out of season. In fact, it was actually a rather nice day, with the sunlight and all, not too hot and not too cold. Therefore...
"It was a bright and pleasant day. Along the beach came..."
Reality resolved into a stage. On the stage was a single, rather nervous individual of no immediately clear designation. He was humanoid, although not human, unless the current genetically engineered fad included lilac skin, three eyes, and horns sticking out where ears were usually located. Two of the eyes were riveted upon a disturbingly thick sheaf of paper clutched in sweaty hands; and the third eye, high on the forehead, had a glazed quality as it roved over onlookers, never stopping in one place for long.
As the reader continued his convoluted recitation which had yet to reveal purpose or semblance of plot, other details swam into focus. First of all, the seven (or six, as both Delta were present and considering her to be two was an exercise in futility) hierarchy heads were standing behind a long table facing the stage. The table had been lowered on Sensors' end, the insectoid violently jolted from her induced coma. Second was not a true hierarchy head at the moment and thus was not present at the recitation: it became clear as the sub-collective sorted itself that Second was in a much less enviable position, but more on that horror later. All drones were present in this reality, scattered in ones or twos, but even numbering four thousand, the crew of Cube #347 were still a minor minority among the boisterous crowd.
Continued the three-eyed, horned being, "The man was thin, but had a fat man's attitude towards life. He saw life as something to gluttonously waste, like eating a single leg off a ten-kilo creely bug and throwing the rest away despite the fact that it could quite easily serve another five or six people. Gringor stopped the thin fat man as the latter walked along the beach, asking..."
Delta swiveled her heads, looking in two directions at once, {Where are we and how did the cube come to be parked on the field over there?}
{I don't know, and I don't know,} replied Captain, replied the bewildered sub-collective, {but that story has no plot. Has anyone caught a plot yet?}
{Assistance required! I have several pre-adolescent children hanging off my arms and hugging my legs! One is larger than me! There are sufficient numbers of parents urging on their progeny that if I do anything except comply, I will be terminated. Options? Provide options!} wailed Second from somewhere out of view from the stage.
Dominating the scene although it was five kilometers distant was the hulking, brooding bulk of Cube #347. Cubes, even the relatively small Exploratory-class, are not designed to land in a gravity well, yet there it was, sunk, according to the sensor grid, in a self-made hole thirty meters deep. A forcefield barrier disallowed people from approaching the final kilometer to the cube (except in one area where part of the face was a "rock" climbing course), but from that point outward to the stage and beyond was a colorful mass of tents set amid a swirling throng of every species known, and then some. Cube sensors counted approximately 50,000 sentient life signatures in the central tent city, plus another 10,000 in an outside ring of temporary residences.
The immediate area was a temporary metropolis with Cube #347 as the civic hub, vehicles at the fringes disgorging dozens of people a minute to boost the populace. While permanent buildings were lacking, every conceivable urban concession was present, either open air or housed under fluttering cloth. Depending on species physiology, restroom queues ranged from five minutes to three hours, whereupon in the latter case some individuals were reentering the line after finishing facility use, anticipating their next need. One mobile structure, tentatively identified as a Bolian masterpiece to pipes and the process of body waste elimination, had a clearance zone of fifty meters in all directions in addition to multi-linguistic warning signs...just in case an accident occurred.
"Gringor nodded his head sagely, heroic horns flashing in the light of the setting sun...but they would have flashed as well in lightning had it been a dark and stormy night. Once again he spoke to the thin fat man, 'How're you doing, mate? What'cha doing out of the beach this time of day?' Gringor flexed his muscles, striking an unconsciously masculine pose in his skimpy bathing suit." The reader's name, by coincidence, was also Gringor, or so was overheard in a muted discussion behind the drones, participants unseen. Unlike the story Gringor, the physique of the real Gringor would likely strike fear, not admiration, into onlookers if a swimsuit was actually donned.
For the first time, Captain noticed the discrete ankle shackles chaining him to a metal loop set into the ground. One by one, the other hierarchy heads glanced downward, confirming their captivity as well. Captain tested his bonds with a gentle yank, finding the chain solid. Next to Captain, Weapons gave a much stronger pull and was rewarded with an unexpected stimuli to his pain center, causing him to utter an unBorg yelp, more in surprise than actual hurt. Echoes of the unpleasant sensation filtered along the intranets to encompass the entire sub-collective.
On the stage, Gringor paused, confusion on his face. Unnoticed until now, an individual sitting on a stool in the shadowed stage wing stood and gestured for the reader to continue. The individual retook his seat out of view before species could be identified beyond "humanoid." Gringor went on.
And on.
And on.
And on.
The sun crept across the sky, reached zenith, then began to descend into early afternoon before Gringor ended his reading. Worryingly, only a small percentage of the sheaf had been completed.
"And so Gringor affirmed, 'I know exactly what you mean,' to Louisi," concluded Gringor. Louisi, the name of the thin fat man, had been revealed only ten minutes prior, following a complicated riddle game, after four hours of namelessness. Worst of all, there was still no plot, no /reason/ for the story.
A resounding applause greeted Gringor, an applause of appreciation, not of relief. The captive drones remained quiet. Gringor flushed lavender, performed a complicated bow, then moved away from the microphone. From the wings, the shadowed stranger reemerged, displacing Gringor on the stage.
The man was human. No cranial ornamentation, no pointed ears, no feathers, no tentacles, just plain as only humans could be. Somehow, the presence of a human was not surprising, the species nearly cockroach-like in its ability to be where it was unwelcome or did not belong. This particular human wore a black, skin-tight outfit that nonetheless gave the impression of a business suit, no matter it was a far cry from the traditional three-piece attire. His hair was black; and while he had a neatly trimmed moustache, was otherwise clean shaven, including the eyebrows. Before he began speaking, the look he shot the chained drones was the appraising glance one gives a potentially troublesome puppy, else a clothes dryer that was prone to act up in the sock-eating department. It most definitely was not the fearful expression Borg drones usually garnered.
"Thank-you Gringor, thank-you very much! As our annual BorgSpace fanfic winner, picked by you, the audience, from thousands of entries, Gringor will be reading a section each day for your pleasure. That was part one of ten, with the final reading taking place ten days from now at the conclusion of the Star Traks: BorgSpace convention. My name is Jack Lopez, and I, if you are unaware as of yet, am your Grand Host for this convention. If you have any problems, don't hesitate to contact one of my representatives. Now, if I may direct your attention to Concession and Souvenir Section Eighteen, you'll find a wonderful selection of merchandise currently on sale, most notably featuring..."
The chained drones silently looked at each other: ten days of this torture? And, somewhere, amid the voices of drones set to various other indignities to Borg kind, was Second, {I am not a climbing gym! No...no...don't throw up on my...foot. Will someone get these brats off of me?!}
{I still can't find a plot,} criticized Captain.
The Star Traks Experience BorgSpace convention was an annual occurrence. It, and its five sister conventions (Original Star Traks, Star Traks: Waystation, Star Traks: The Vexed Generation, Star Traks: Boldly Gone..., Star Traks: Banshee), each selected a new venue every Terran year within the civilized galaxy for a ten-day extravaganza. During those ten days, the entire BorgSpace cast was on display, as well as Cube #347, themed games, pictures, filming teams, concessions, and merchandise, all accessible for a moderate fee. If an individual actually wanted to purchase an object or service after entering the sixteen square kilometer convention grounds, cash was preferred, but several banks offered lines of credit with low introductory interest rates.
In this reality, BorgSpace was a well regarded and far circulating broadcast action-adventure series. It employed not a sound stage with battery of special effects computers, but an actual Borg cube, with real explosions and damage inflicted or accrued as appropriate. Connoisseurs of the show relished it for being unafraid to show reality, ensuing digital effects where possible. This meant when a plasma conduit broke, it really broke. Best of all, the cast consisted of 4,000 actual Borg drones. Tame Borg drones.
Recent history had the Borg Collective on the losing side of a great war. After most of the Collective had been destroyed, a daring final assault upon the last Borg stronghold had resulted in the capture of the remaining Queen and eventual "pacification" of approximately three million drones. While the majority of the drones were now used in dangerous jobs such as asteroid vacuum mining, the Cube #347 sub-collective had been deemed both more dangerous and more potentially profitable. More dangerous because Queen pacification did not strongly affect the Cube #347 sub-collective's mental status; and profitable because of the outrageous sum of money Star Traks Production was willing to offer - equal to the gross annual domestic output of the three most industrial planets known - for the rights to purchase wholesale drones and their cube.
To own Borg drones was not considered amoral. It was not perceived as slavery, at least not according to the law, which is where such definitions truly count. To have sentience is to have self-will; and slavery is the confining of a sentient's self-will. An individual Borg had all the self-will of a cog or co-processor, slaved to a Greater Consciousness now pacified; and while a case might be made that enslaving all Borg was akin to enslaving the self-willed Borg overmind, well, that was a gray area not even the most fervent of lawyers was willing to tackle. Meanwhile, Borg drones were owned, sold, traded, worked...all without pay.
The fact that the Cube #347 sub-collective may actually have a remnant of self-will due to assimilation imperfection status was conveniently ignored; and "bleeding-heart fringe" groups such as DAPT (Drones Are People Too) calling for Borg emancipation (while forgetting the horrors done in the quest for Perfection) were swiftly discredited.
"You will keep this sub-collective under control," said Lopez in a tone which dictated How Things Will Be. The human paced back and forth in front of Captain, the pair of them sheltered from the convention-at-large by a colorful "official" tent backed by a distortion field. "That little stunt pulled by Weapons today was unacceptable, and I saw you trying your bonds as well. There will be no 'incident' like there was three years ago. I don't care if that was an 'accident.' You remember the consequences."
Captain stood motionless, face expressionless, dead, as the tirade continued. Oddly, he did remember the "incident" in question, but seen/experienced as if a pre-assimilated memory, not the crisp meme of a Borg record. This was not his, the sub-collective's memory, but that of the sub-collective which usually fit in this timeline. He remembered a loss as drones were pried from the sub-collective, from the remnant Collective (collective), disconnected from the Whole (whole) and left to think their own small thoughts. While not as devastating as such would have been for non-Cube #347 drones, the experience nonetheless required months of rehabilitation for some units prior to reintegration.
"At this time, well, I have the replacement parts to your cube and selves that you can't replicate on board, parts for which you have requested spares. Now those spares will not be arriving until /after/ the convention is over, pending your - plural, mind you - good behavior.
"Do I make myself clear?"
Captain allowed himself to narrow his eyes into a near imperceptible glare, backed by the ire of the entire sub-collective. Unfortunately he, or at least the sub-collective of this reality which had been subsumed, was impotent. The expected words were replied, "We will comply."
"Good Borg."
Autographs. How the sub-collective came to hate autographs. Every drone was expected to spend a fixed amount of time at the autograph table, where a few Borg runes in the form of a numerical designation could fetch anywhere from 5 to 500 credits each. At the low end of the spectrum were the likes of 147 of 203, mere background bodies and prominent extras. Mid-range was 2 of 20, notorious ex-G'floo addict. Top money-makers were the BorgSpace stars. Rabid fans were known to sell body parts at one of several convenient convention pawnshops to raise the money for a specific signature. It took a lot of money to collect the entire Cube #347 set, but there were a few noteworthy fanatics who had made surprising strides despite the fact they did not have steady jobs, normally lived in the seedier neighborhoods, and subsisted on the species equivalent of Ramen noodles.
It was the star session, and lines stretched with those hopeful to queue to the front during the strict hour allotted for the activity that day. Captain dully signed "4 of 8" because it was required, mechanical repetition assuring each scrawl to be exact, as if produced from a printer. Although writing was not necessary in the Collective, it was a skill retained for emergency circumstances. For Captain, for all the drones, it was a simple matter to engage a signing algorithm, then set the routine to background execution.
Next to Captain, Second amused himself by appending vulgar sayings to his signature in the form of languages extinct or near-so outside the Collective. The Management (i.e., Lopez) was pleased by the addition, unaware of its true content. Lopez was less happy with Assimilation who insisted upon creating a work of art with each signature, a work which required five minutes per because he was using a paintbrush suitable for rice grains. Assimilation's final signature was thus invisible without assistance from a microscope.
Still, they /were/ signing, as bidden, and Lopez could not justify punishment under the circumstances.
{I got a doozie here,} commented Delta as both bodies signed the same designation on their photograph.
Delta's visual input was immediately piggy-backed by all interested parties, approximately half the sub-collective. It had become an amusement to find outrageously costumed fans, posting short clips into the dataspaces. An ongoing poll was being conducted, and this specimen would surely cause more than a few drones to switch their vote.
{Creative use of vegetation,} dryly observed Second as he scrawled a particularly scathing adage with bodily waste and laundry as the primary subjects.
The fan in question had an obviously homemade costume, but that was not unusual. The difference was instead of cardboard and plastic, hose and paint, this individual had used plant products. Perhaps there was a preponderance of such material at his home, perhaps there was religious reason, but the end product was...interesting.
Barks carefully selected, cut, and molded formed the base of the costume, the "Borg" exoskeleton. Vines of varying degrees of stiffness and color approximated hoses. The vines, in turn, were attached to bark and skin alike by a glistening sap-based adhesive. What little epidermis was visible, that which could be seen appeared to be naturally in the gray area of the spectrum. Any additional descriptors beyond "humanoid" were pointless because of the near full facial and cranium mask obscuring the entire head except jaw. Unfortunately for the owner, the costume had begun to sprout leaves and twigs in garish unBorg colors of pastel purple and shocking pink.
As the vegetated fan took its signed prize and made way for the next in line, Weapons vowed, {I refuse to change my vote. All will vote for my contribution, or else.} Weapons had seen an Ityg (species #4313), in and of itself not unusual, except this particular specimen had undergone a complete body depilation, removing all the hair which normally gave the species the appearance of a Cousin It.
At the end of the table, an orchestra crecendoed before lapsing back to the background. The origination was not ranks of winds, brasses, and strings, but a cluster of species #6766 attending to Sensors, or, the "Holy One" as translated by the overwhelmed universal translator. The species #6766 subroutine was currently disabled. The action had become necessary after several core processors on Cube #347 had instigated a small fire following complete meltdown, not to mention a third of sensory hierarchy either speaking backwards or mixing grammar like badly tuned Yodas.
The lack of translation was just as well, for the admiring species #6766 crowd were universally trying to convince Sensors to assimilate them into the Collective, some with greater guile than others. Assimilation was Against the Rules, as both Sensors and the fans knew, but that didn't stop the latter from attempting it in accordance to species #6766 religious doctrine and vision of heaven.
Loudspeakers placed throughout the convention grounds played an Important Announcement Forthcoming tone reminiscent of the BorgStandard bullfrog-and-bagpipe red alert klaxon. Lopez's voice boomed, "Attention BorgSpace fans! The BorgSpace Stars autograph session will conclude in ten minutes; and in half an hour you may view them at the Part Two reading of this year's fanfiction winner. Other signings will continue at the autograph table. Please consult your handheld computer or any convention kiosk for designation scheduling.
"The BorgSpace Convention Management is also happy to announce..."
Captain tuned out the rest of Lopez's words, regulating it to the background as another photo was automatically signed. {We must consider our options, especially if no plot materializes.}
While many timeworn cliches and absurd similes manifested during Part Two, a plot was not among them.
"That isn't very nice, Mr. Floontzy," admonished 39 of 240 to the sock puppet on his hand. The puppet blankly stared at the crowd circling 39 of 240, entire sock body swiveling exorcist style. One's wrist hurt just to watch, but 39 of 240 didn't take notice. The sock puppet then leaned in to whisper noiselessly in the ear of the drone it was attached to. "That may be, Mr. Floontzy, but it still isn't very nice."
The knot which was the crowd grew as the audience focused on the unexpected street theater entertainment.
"Now that is just plain wrong, Mr. Floontzy. You shouldn't use garbage bags for that. Muzzles, whips, and rubber pants are much better."
The sock puppet malevolently leered with button eyes at a spectator trying to inch forward to take a picture. The photographer blanched a pale yellow before melting back into the crowd.
Elsewhere, 2 of 20 babbled a continuous stream to several dozen admiring (and somewhat stoned) listeners. "...thenblueG'flooisputrifiedusingfilteredseawaterandayellowspottedspongeoriginatingfromaminimum1500meterdepth. (Drawing of breath) Ifagreenspottedspongeisused,onecan- expectconsequencessuchas..." 2 of 20's mania was amazing for its astounding force, by its apparent unstoppability. It was also causing a traffic jam along a major thoroughfare.
Throughout the convention, a major outbreak of assimilation imperfection was occurring, especially amid the more instable members; and many designations of sounder mind were taking advantage of the troubles to advance their own personal psychoses, neuroses, or obsession.
"/Do/ something!" demanded Lopez to Captain. The pair stood in Captain's nodal intersection, surrounded by dozens of holographic screens focusing on the more notorious performances. 2 of 20 was present, as was 39 of 240; and 34 of 230 had set up a karaoke machine with which to sing bad Bolian love songs. Currently, the foremost holoscreen showed riding lawnmower-push vacuum relay races occurring at the base of the cube.
"What do you think we are doing? What do you think we /were/ doing?" grumbled Captain. "The instability has become much worse since the pacification; and your actions several conventions ago to isolate designations, especially those from command and control hierarchy, as 'punishment' did not help."
In fact, such was not true, at least not for the visiting sub-collective. Cube #347 was as sane as usual, however such could be defined. However, the native sub-collective was a bit on the abused side, according to background meme files, and this mass breakdown was consistent with their mistreatment, even expected. What Lopez did not know was in this case the breakdown was contrived. Mostly. Tipping the balance from normal efficiency levels to the current chaos was easily accomplished by lessening control of certain censure programs and filters. Hopefully sufficient restraint remained with command and control to prevent the ruse from shifting to actuality.
Lopez glanced over his shoulder at Second, who remained impassive. Second carefully adjusted a strategically placed screen to flicker at a rate imperceptible to the conscious human brain. The hindbrain, on the other hand, would notice the change, translating it to "forbidding ambience" for the thinking mind. Lopez looked away.
"You were in your alcove, sleeping," responded Lopez to the question asked.
Captain theatrically sighed even as he manipulated volume of the subsonic emitters, increasing Lopez's discomfort. "Regenerating, not sleeping. I do not sleep. And when I regenerate, I am perfectly capable of fulfilling my duties of primary consensus monitor and facilitator. As is Second. As is any of the Hierarchy of Eight. We are attempting to control the problem, but we are hampered."
{Good work. Keep it up,} complimented Second to all active participants. {It is good to see we are efficient at something.} Of course, that something was the antithesis of desired Borg efficiency.
Lopez winced as a new window opened, this one focusing on 171 of 230 dismantling several concession tents in order to gain the prize she sought: bendy metal rods for her newest kinetic sculpture.
"Thirty-seven percent sub-collective populace is now detected to be operating beyond normality," murmured Second.
Added Captain, "The Greater Consciousness never permitted more than 3% of the total to be in noncompliance, else the entire sub-collective would be shut down and rebooted." He paused to let the implications set in. "At this time, of those numbers, 40% of the engineering hierarchy are affected. Another hundred drones from that hierarchy, and Delta will begin to lose her efficiency as hierarchy head, forcing more command and control to shift duties to compensate, which in turn means less available processing power for the present problem."
Lopez paled. "Problem? Disaster! /Do/ something! How are you hampered?" Upper Management was definitely becoming edgy, and likely would have been so even without assistance from subsonics and flickering screens. Captain and Second closely scrutinized the human from all angles, passing physiological data to drone maintenance and assimilation for interpretation.
"We require allowance to fully deploy drone maintenance via cube transporter systems. You will provide material resources currently unavailable: Doctor has a list completed. This list includes vital drone maintenance- and assimilation-related material unable to be internally produced via on-board replicators. Need we continue?"
Frazzled, Lopez shook his head. "No, no." He proffered a PADD he had been absently juggling from hand to hand. "Put your requirements here. Only put the ones needed to make this disaster go away. Other items will be ignored."
Captain accepted the PADD and swiftly input the data via nanotubule interface. The handheld computer was returned.
"Thirty-eight percent sub-collective populace now affected, including three more from engineering hierarchy," noted Second in the background.
Lopez closed his eyes, refusing to look at any more holodisplays. "I'll get my people on this ASAP."
Before the disaster was contained, 289 of 510 managed to gain control of the transporter system, initiating a game similar to, but not entirely alike, tag crossed with hide-and-seek. Captain later assured Lopez that 289 of 510 had been dealt with and all things transported without authorization had been returned to their place unharmed, including Grand Dame Thlox's pureblood Terran-descent poodle.
No one remarked upon the unlabeled faux-wood crate which appeared at the outskirts of one of the camping areas inhabited by the more dedicated BorgSpace fans.
Gee (aka, Geoffrey Pentz; mostly human with a hint of Betazoid and not a drop of empathic talent; brown hair, brown eyes, entirely average; voted most likely to be living with his parents at age 35 by graduating high school class; current age 32 and not showing any desire to leave the basement and get a real job, much to his parents' chagrin), upon exiting a portable toilet following a bout of constipation, was confronted with a box about the size of the refrigerator lying on its back. It had not been there before Gee's trip to the SaniLoo. Without regard for the why or how it arrived there, the first thing that entered Gee's mind was an overwhelming urge to open it. This operation was, of course, best accomplished with as many people as possible. Therefore, only a short time later, the box had an audience of the thirty or so campers in the Resistance Is Futile enclave who were not on the convention grounds proper.
"Who has a box opener?" shouted Gee after climbing onto the crate to gain everyone's attention.
Several lasers, the equivalent of Swiss Army knives, were thrust into the air in clenched fists. They were offset by a small cutlery forest of bladed implements of assured lethality. People began to bicker over which method of destruction to use, those with Swiss Army lasers outmatched by those in the ragged, blood-letting Knives of Doom department.
Gee stood above the commotion, arms crossed over his chest and tapping a toe impatiently.
A young girl, someone's six year old daughter or niece or some such, sidled to the side of the box and looked up. Gee looked down at the youngster, who was a puff of downy feathers where her jolly targ pattered jumper did not cover. The girl innocently returned Gee's gaze, large eyes blinking, as she chewed on one talon of her right hand. The other hand clutched the ears of a stuffed toy which might have once been a rabbit, but was now little more than a collection of patches and crudely attached button eyes placed where no eyes should be.
Finger was removed from mouth. "What 'bout the button, Mister?" piped the girl.
Blinked Gee. "Huh? What button, and where's your parent, uncle, whatever?"
"Uncle Biffy in there," solemnly indicated the youngster to the brawling mob. "Here's a button, Mister." A well chewed talon was pointed at a slightly depressed and discolored spot just below eye level...if one was a six-year old girl of unknown species. Before Gee could formulate a reply, the button was pushed.
Gee fell backwards as the crate top swung up, pitching him to his rear on the trampled ground. The mob stilled, debate between proponents of lasers and edged weaponry upstaged by a young girl. Gee struggled back to his feet, then peered into the box, assessing its contents. A wide grin lit his face.
"We have struck the jackpot, ladies, gentlemen, hermaphrodites, and neuters!"
In the crate which had been mistransported by one of the concession stands (or so rationalized the Resistance Is Futile enclave), were six dozen brightly colored and neatly packaged boxes. The product promotion - obvious, especially since words explicitly labeled it so - was a special kit entitled "Make Your Own Borg!" Catchphrases such as "Fun at Parties" and "Better Than Costumes or Makeup!" screamed forth from bright splotches of color.
Opening one of the boxes revealed a dermal injector, an unknown liquid that sluggishly sloshed in its vial, and fold out paper directions. After scanning the opening paragraphs of the Quick Start section, Gee discarded the rest, unread. He was too excited at the discovery.
"Synthetic nanoprobes for temporary assimilation," gleefully exclaimed Gee. In the resulting rush by the fans to be the first to try the product before its owners reclaimed it, none questioned the authenticity of the find. That particular thoughtlessly reckless quality was exactly what the Cube #347 plan depended upon.
Gee passed on the dermal injector with its vial payload. Belonging as he did to a generation descended from many generations insisting upon instant gratification, he was unhappy at the lack of immediate effect. A crumpled piece of paper - the discarded instruction sheet - caught Gee's attention, and he stooped to rescue it from the ground before too many feet tread on it.
Eyeing the paper, Gee's attention was caught by the "Side Effects" section, unobscured by the dusty boot prints which marred the rest of the directions. Squinting, he read -
'Side effects will (a part of the brain considered the wording, a "will" instead of the "may" favored by manufacturers, but the greater part of the brain hushed the worrywart side) include loss of hair, feathers, and other epidermal coverings; extreme skin pallor and/or mottling in species with no exoskeleton; loss of appetite and ability to digest food products; propensity toward verbal pluralities; eruption of external implants, especially about the hand and facial region; desire for Collectivity; and an extreme desire to pass on nanomachines to those unassimilated.'
Engrossed, Gee's eyes slipped down to the next paragraph. He ignored the pressure, an almost-pain, growing on the back of his right hand.
'Side effects can be reversed (hence "temporary") if injectee immediately contacts high-technology medical personnel directly upon injection of this product. Upon eruption of epidermal implants, however, Resistance Is Futile.'
One final line was legible beneath a boot mark.
'Another fine product of Cube #347 Enterprises, Limited.'
Gee blinked, then, absently scratched at the increasingly annoying spot on his hand. Suddenly the pressure released, like a burst blister, mixed equal parts pain and relief. With great foreboding, Gee turned over his hand to look at the affected area, finding not a welter of blood, but a thin fluid mostly clear with a tinge of pink. Where had been pressure moments before dully glinted a squat metal star with fourteen arms.
"Oh, sh**," exclaimed Gee, unheard, "we think we are in deep trouble."
"/Do/ something!" The refrain was familiar, only this time there was a waver of fear to the demand. Satisfaction was an allowable emotion, although it was normally applicable to successful completion of a task for the sake of Collective and Perfection. While the situation was not strictly appropriate, Captain nonetheless permitted a sense of satisfaction to seep into his psyche at Lopez's words.
"You have individual monitors upon all drones when those units are outside the cube. If you review the data, you will find we are not to blame, except for the poodle, and that has been taken care of," replied Captain. "What would you have us do?" The tone employed was one which indicated that proposals would be dutifully examined, then discarded, the verbal equivalent of a suggestions box.
Lopez whirled on his heel, finger pointed at Second. "I can /hear/ you smirk, so just don't." He returned nervous attention to Captain.
{Smirks don't make noise,} protested Second, who had, in fact, been doing as accused.
{The man's world is falling apart. Don't agitate him while he still has the authority and ability to do something lethal to us. Wait for later,} retorted Captain.
A holodisplay flickered, then zoomed in upon a sector of the camping grounds. Smooth picture movement indicated the viewing platform to be an airborne camera-bot, one diverted from drone monitoring for the duration of the emergency. The camera spiraled inward and downward, inducing visual vertigo as it showed top angle views of newly assimilated Borg. While some milled aimlessly near an open area surrounded by the remains of plastic wrap and paperboard, others busily infiltrated neighboring camps for fresh converts. On the edge of the view, a cluster of species #6766 were begging to be assimilated.
One drone peered upwards, focusing on the camera-bot. An arm was raised and what used to be a Swiss Army laser prior to its upgrade struck the robot. As the picture dissolved into static, another view was rotated into the window, this one from a more distant camera unit who caught the fiery demise of its compatriot. The debris that hit the ground were swiftly cannibalized for useful parts.
Lopez waved at the display. "Do something, like kill the lot of them."
Captain cocked his head. "You would provide the codes to remove weapons governors on this cube? Cube weapons are meant for conflicts between ships, and are not sufficiently precise to incinerate individuals. To ensure eradication of the 'problem,' we would have to sterilize the entire convention grounds to fused glass. We can do this."
Lopez blanched. "No, um, no, nothing so radical. Nothing so, um, difficult to spin to the media in a positive light. Why don't you just absorb the new drones into your sub-collective, then tell them to stop?"
There were voices, new voices, upon the fractal frequencies employed by Borg. That which was the pacified queen and remnant collective (small "c") were weak and distant in comparison to the emerging vibrancy. The voices had been many, chaotic, but even as Captain listened, they were beginning to flow in a unison that the imperfect sub-collective daren't intervene, lest the foetus Greater Consciousness shatter. The number of assimilated individuals required for the initial self-awakening of a new One Mind was approaching at an exponential pace.
"Only a queen can do that. You have pacified the remaining queen and she is no longer...able - the translation is not clear for one who is not Borg - to supervise the process. We can not do so, not without a queen, not without a Greater Mind to direct us. Besides," Captain paused as critical mass was achieved, "why would a Collective, even one newly formed, listen to those imperfectly assimilated?"
Lopez's eyes narrowed in the dim light of Captain's nodal intersection. He looked over his shoulder at Second, but seeing no perceptible expression on his face, smirk or otherwise, turned back to Captain. "There is no Collective anymore. The war took care of that. You are owned property now, chattel."
Captain allowed himself a very noticeable grin, perhaps more baring of teeth than grin, one which stretched unused facial muscles. "Would you like to meet the new Queen? She will disagree on the concept of chattel." The code and governors which hobbled Cube #347 from full functionality were stripped away. Transporter control was re-established. A form shimmered into being.
Lopez's first impression focused on the individual's short stature. She wore a pair of bib overalls which were too baggy for her, and her exposed arms looked oddly naked, as if they used to have a dense covering of hair or feathers. One hand clutched the ears of a ragged stuffed toy. The Queen of the new Collective had to remove a finger from her mouth in order to speak.
"Give us all your lollies, Mister. You will comply. Resistance is futile."
Finger went back in mouth.
Apologized Captain, "This new Greater Consciousness doesn't quite have all its priorities straight yet, but it is getting there. This convention is over."
Captain turned over the final page of the story in disgust. There was no plot. /No/ plot at all throughout ten parts of written product that equaled 1.051 gigabytes of data. Worthless! Oh, there was a rambling story of sorts, but just when it looked like a plot might emerge, millions of Borg swarmed the planet, assimilating the main character and supporting actors amid gruesomely vivid imagery. The end. It made no sense. How did it come to be the convention fan choice? Curious, Captain sent a low-level inquiry towards the appropriate quarters. After a time, it was returned.
In short, the drone who used to be known as Gringor had stuffed the electronic ballot box better than his fellow contestants.
The story was transported to replicator reclamation. Perhaps something useful could be made of its constituent elements. Other tasks demanded attention. Captain closed his eyes and settled into his alcove to concentrate upon the dataspaces.
The progress report on the new Collective was encouraging. It was still small and thus overly influenced by the residual desires of the Queen, but eventually fascination with lollies and Buster Bunny would mature to Perfection, especially once the pacified Borg remnant was liberated and members absorbed into the growing Whole. Until that time, the current Queen would retain her stuffed animal (suitably Borgified with sewn on hoses and implants).
The status of Cube #347 was not as bright.
In Supply Closet #109 of subsection 6, submatrix 23 was Lopez. The man was not assimilated, and would remain that way as per Collective directive. The closet had been converted to a comfortable apartment complete with entertainment console, dedicated video communications terminal, replicator programmed with gourmet recipes, and spa (with real water upon demand). Lopez currently reclined in a chair, ignoring the jhadball match on the console as he read the most recent Star Traks: BorgSpace script to be finalized and approved by the facets of Management which dealt with such activities. He was waiting for a subspace call.
The Collective may be returning to prominence, but for the Cube #347 of this reality, the situation had not radically changed. True, if the sub-collective balked at the demands of Star Traks Products, there would no longer be torture nor threats of withheld supplies. Instead, cooperation would be gained through imposed Collective Will. Cube #347 was part (albeit at figurative arms length) of the Whole again, but it was a part leased out. A part leased right back to Star Traks Productions for more BorgSpace and more conventions, especially the latter. Employing the self-assimilation kits, it was calculated there would be a good return in drones on worlds otherwise unable to be directly assaulted.
Time passed.
After finishing the subspace call he had been waiting for, Lopez waved his arms in front of a camera in a bid to attract the notice of his hosts. Captain allowed the man to degenerate from arm waving to a wiggle-jiggle dance before acknowledging. "State your intentions." It was the multivoice piped only to the supply closet, no picture accompanying on either communications or entertainment consoles.
Lopez immediately stopped his gyrations. "It is confirmed. There will be a second BorgSpace convention - unprecedented, two in a year, mind you, the fans are already lining up to buy tickets - to be set up on Regis IV in two weeks. The demanded lollies will be there at that time as well. A convention schedule is available."
"We know." All transmissions were, of course, monitored since they went through cube systems. There was no such thing as privacy on a Borg cube, not for drones, not for unwanted Management. The active link to Supply Closet #109 was severed. The schedule was already open in the dataspaces, virtual designation presence of 4,000 clustered around it like an especially important grade posting at school.
{The runner up to the last fanfiction contest will read?} exclaimed Captain, aghast. {Does it have a plot, at least?} A short excerpt from the story was included with the schedule. The conclusion was not only "unlikely," but the structure itself was highly convoluted as the author attempted to relay the tale entirely in rhyming couplets with lines following a complicated syllable count rule.
Captain shifted in his alcove, then disengaged it to step out. It was usually at these points that the Director appeared, or not, prior to the cube Falling. Captain waited expectantly for several minutes. Nothing. Then, finally, the ghost of an eyeball materialized, hovering unconcerned over the central shaft.
"May be a bit. Stay out of trouble.
Before a reply could be formulated, the Director was gone.
"How long is 'a bit'?" asked Captain useless as he stepped backwards and up into his alcove. Clamps and umbilicals engaged. It looked like the sub-collective was about to find out.
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