Worth of Paramount's Star Trek universe? A gazillion dollars. What does Decker's Star Traks cost? $13.23 per story. And my BorgSpace? Priceless (because no one has yet to offer the author money).
Galactic Shopping Network
There was a "hrumph," the half-cough of a purposefully cleared throat. A pause, then the sound of fidgeting and crinkling paper. Captain cocked his head slightly so as to better focus on the noises with one ear; and the Director Iris heaved a long sigh as it rolled its, um, eye. Eye rolling in a Director is a fine art. Finally the Voice, for that was the entity the sub-collective was awaiting upon to learn its next destination, began to speak.
"Greetings! I am your temporary Voice, courtesy of VoiceTemp. Remember VoiceTemp can staff all your bodiless Voice needs. The, er, number is...negative fifth-dimension root of twenty seven raised to the power of 10.9i." The Voice was young, or at least sounded thus, and had yet to cultivate the professional timbre utilized by those employed in the speaking fields. There was more than a suggestion of enthusiasm, an excitement in a job - a first job - where intrinsic dullness of the work has not had a chance to register. Eventually the Voice would reflect the dull resignation that comes with the realization it has been employed too long at a job with no hope of upward movement, but not yet, not for a while.
The Director, embedded in the ceiling of Captain's nodal intersection, mused, "I think I know that Voice. Nice enough, if a bit young."
Captain joined a tangential thread wondering how an omnipotent being, theoretically ageless, could be considered "young." It implied a lifecycle of birth and death, or an analogous process because entities such as the eyeball were missing certain vital pieces of reproductive equipment.
A secondary subdigression considered the fact that Directors, Critics, and other related beings seemed to be singular pieces of anatomy. Could there somewhere be...
Captain suppressed /that/ line of thinking before it could consume too many mental resources.
The Fall into the next reality usually commenced immediately following number announcement. Nothing was occurring.
The Voice returned. "Sorry. Negative fifth-dimension root of twenty seven raised to the power of 10.9i. Now."
Beyond the hull of Cube #347, Nothingness remained. Iris grumbled, wiggled a bit in its perch, blew a trio of cigar bubbles, and tapped on its PADD.
"Er, sorry again. Okay, this time...NOW!"
More nothing. More embarrassed silence.
"Oops. I think I read that wrong. The little hand is really on...okay. Sorry...sorry...my bad. Ready? One...two...three.... NOW!"
With an abruptness uncharacteristic of other Falls, the transition from Nothing to Something occurred. Iris grunted, "About time. Now I /know/ that I know that Voice. Always been a bit of a spaz." It returned to its PADD, muttering under its breath that the roll had been so close to one minus infinity.
Captain ignored the Director, turning attention to the routine built over many Falls. As Sensors was prodded into functionality, the sensor hierarchy peered at the surrounding universe, attempting to place Cube #347 within a familiar location upon galactic astrometric charts originating from a different reality. At the same time, imminent hazards in near cubespace were assessed; and the call for re-integration went out on standard Borg fractal subspace channels despite the fact past experience had demonstrated local Collectives could be nonexistent, lacking in resources, or outright alien and/or hostile. Almost immediately, a possible threat was discovered.
A moderate-sized non-Borg vessel 70 meters in length was facing Cube #347, bow pointed at face #1. Tonnage and presence of light weaponry tentatively pigeonholed it in the ship class many species labeled frigate. It was not a ship of the line except for the most desperate of stellar navies, suitable instead for picket duties, chasing smugglers, or, if deployed in packs, providing the coup de grace to severely wounded enemy vessels at the edge of conflict. Weapons of the roughly cylindrical ship were not hot; and its inadequate shielding system indicated either poor maintenance or inability to find vital spare parts. The intruder was not a danger.
As the potential enemy was considered, Cube #347 placed itself within a galaxy broadly similar to that expected via navigational charts. There were anomalies, some glaringly large, but expected pulsars were present; and temporal calculations tentatively located the time to be a century in the future, although reckoning upon the tau axis was unreliable given possible alternate histories. Currently, Cube #347 and its opponent were located in the galactic equivalent of a dark alley, far from habitable stars or normal commerce lanes.
A hail was received from the ship.
Captain activated a holographic window, displaying the unknown vessel.
The Director looked up from its PADD, then returned to reading the small screen. It had yet to disappear. "I wouldn't destroy it just yet," warned Iris.
Captain stared upwards for a long moment, then turned attention to the miniature ship floating against a bulkhead. {Identify probable species origin,} directed Captain. {And there is no pressing need to destroy the intruder yet, Weapons,} went a warning to the appropriate personage.
{It could house a hidden suicide bomb which will generate a spatial anomaly. Our component atoms will be sundered into naked protons, neutrons, and electrons,} informed Weapons. He was rapidly shuffling through BorgCraft files, hunting for those scenarios which dealt with similar situations.
Asked Second, butting in, {And what is the probability of such an action?} There was more than a hint of sarcasm.
Replied Weapons after a few beats, {Probability is 0.009%.}
{The risk is acceptable,} said Captain in response to the small consensus cascade the analysis triggered, {and the answer is still no. You may charge a few weapons and plant a tractor beam on the vessel, but there will be no explosions, accidental or otherwise. Do you understand?}
{Understood.} Unfortunately, while Weapons always claimed he understood, that understanding seemed to disappear when confronted with an actual target. Several dozen command and control units were tasked to minutely examine Weapons' outgoing command streams. While there was always the possibility a random impulse aimed at the more trigger-happy weapons hierarchy members could result in an undesired consequence, a deliberate goad for destruction was likely to be caught and censored.
A moderate amount of cube weaponry became active - more than sufficient to destroy the frigate several times over. "Moderate" was relative, especially in Weapons' case. Simultaneously, a tractor beam lanced from an emitter, striking the intruder squarely after only three attempts. Shields quickly collapsed under the tractor beam's vampiric attractions; and shortly the gravitonic beam was firmly attached to frigate hull.
The requests for conversation from the vessel became more persistent. Sensors, in her alcove and now awake, twitched limbs erratically in irritation, as she always did in response to incessant hails. Her discomfort transferred to the dataspaces, but she did not either verbally complain or insist that someone answer the phone.
From the ceiling, Iris began to make little "Oh! Oh!" noises. The sounds of excitement turned to disappointment, even disgust.
Captain tilted his head to the uncomfortable angle required to view the Director and demanded, "You are still here. Assist us by providing data."
The continued stress of Falls, of not knowing what was to happen next, had pushed Captain to the pluralities he normally avoided. The switch in tense was not missed by Iris, "A little testy, are we? I was just catching up with my favorite jhad-ball team. There have been ups and downs for the Quantum Singularities this season"
{Ask about Platinum Roses,} pleaded 429 of 510 follower of jhad-ball and of late growing increasingly frantic about his team's standing as the biannual finals approached. With his daily (or hourly) jhad-ball fix severed since the start of the flux jumps, jhad-ball withdrawal was beginning to affect the addict.
Captain ignored 429 of 510's request. "Relevant data," he added.
"Relevant data depends on your point of view," informed Iris grandly. Since the Director could not be assimilated, the sharp, blue-eyed stare from the consensus monitor and facilitator did not bother the eyeball. Iris finally sighed, "You have no sense of humor...Borg in general, I mean." The PADD beeped. The Director looked at it, then gave the impression of a slight frown. "Er, I've gotta make this quick.
"This reality is awash in consumerism. Very, very pervasive. For all practical purposes, the economy is a religion with cash sacrificed to a figurative altar in order to keep the markets expanding. Companies are clerics. Okay, the analogue limps, I know," said Iris defensively. "The Green Borg have taken over and are in charge. They force consumption. I'm sure you'll learn more shortly, if you don't blow up the ship out there. The people on the vessel are part of a rebellion. You are also in the rebellion." The sentences were becoming choppy, terse, the mark of someone trying to impart as much information as possible in a short amount of time.
What warning the eyeball exploded like a soundless firework. Captain inspected the ceiling of his nodal intersection for damage once the colored sparks were gone. As expected, the Director's leave-taking had not left marks.
{We shall blow up the frigate now,} calmly informed Weapons.
{No, we shall not blow up the frigate now,} responded Captain. The impulse from Weapons was deftly blocked by command and control. The intruder vessel, still hailing, still whole, was more closely examined.
The frigate was not identifiable as belonging to any particular species; and, in fact, it had been pieced together using parts of other ships, likely without the stabilizing support of dry-dock. The hull armor of the cylindrical fuselage was mismatched patchwork, each plate a differing alloy combination from its neighbors. Similarly, sensor patches and antennae were of multiple types. The two ventral nacelles, 65 meters long, may have belonged to the original hull, but the dorsally mounted engine was not only 10 meters shorter than its mates, it radiated a different energy signature. On the side of the hull near the bow was a sloppily painted name: "Sacrifice".
As with the ship's exterior, the 122 lifesigns registering within the vessel were varied. Conclusive identification as to species was not possible in all cases, but the majority of the crew was human (species #5618), Lapolin (Species #7831), and Trigolyte (Species #9214). Although all were accepting of a standard oxy-nitro atmosphere, the eclectic collection was not typical.
As the detailed scan of Sacrifice occurred, Cube #347 examined its own interior as well. Changes following a Fall were common, and resultant cube functionality could be affected by unknown subtractions, additions, or outright alterations. In general, status was nominal. However, all cargo holds were full of freight. Most of the payload came in the form of boxes of varying sizes shrink-wrapped together into large, bulky cubes, but in the case of Bulk Cargo Hold #2, thirteen ships - used, as evidenced by hull wear or, in two cases, scorch marks - were clamped in temporary berths, with a fourteenth berth open.
In the dataspaces, a large manifest was discovered, terabytes of list.
{Sensors asks if anyone [fish] answer the hail,} inserted Sensors hopefully. {Sensors [disks].} The insectoid had finally succumbed to the discomfort she experienced during hails.
Captain did as requested. As much scanner-derived information as possible had been gathered concerning Sacrifice.
{We could blow it up,} persisted Weapons, {and perform a spectral analysis upon vaporized material.}
{Not acceptable. We will first attempt a method which is a bit less permanent,} replied Captain. Command and control scanned through offensive systems, confirming they were not in the process of cycling into active firing mode.
A new holoscreen overlaid the view of the rotating frigate in Captain's nodal intersection, the visual as received from Sacrifice. The return feed, Captain knew, was the standard CatwalkCam, triple checked to confirm any drones in view were acting as proper Borg: no rude gestures, no dancing, no waving, no "Hello universe!" signs. The human who appeared looked puzzled as to the sight he was seeing, as if he had expected something different. In the background, at stations as patchwork as the hull, moved a mixture of species, including one each of lavender-furred Species #7831 and pale-skinned Species #9214.
"What took you so long? And why the tractors, much less the hot weapons and visual feed?" asked the human in a mode more accusation than question. A hand was waved at the screen. Dressed in a black and dark blue uniform sans insignia or rank markers, the human male was typical for his species. Black hair...wait a minute, cranial hair was a toupee, a good one if a bit lopsided at the moment. Captain blinked in surprise as background processes absorbed the picture, adding up speaker inconsistencies: he had the surgical scars of one who used to be Borg. Examination of the background crew showed similar stigmata to greater or lesser extent.
"You are drones severed from the Collective. Disclose your purpose," boomed the multivoice at Sacrifice.
The man sighed, but did not look surprised at the demand. A Lapolin at a background station rolled her eyes before leaning out of the frame of view to converse with an unseen neighbor. "My name is Tom, remember? Tom Butcher. Ex-designation 4661 of 9983, secondary...this is ridiculous! Do we have to go through this every single time? Is the plan on or not?" Tom was beginning to turn red, emphasizing a series of long scars along the left side of his face. Then his left ear fell off. "Damn! This is not my day. Will someone tell the doctor that his newest fleshglue concoction did not work?" Attention was returned to the transmission.
An off-screen voice called, "Cube #347's weapons preparing to fire."
{Weapons,} snapped Captain as he split his awareness and added his weight behind that already struggling with the head of the weapons hierarchy. All commands to offensive elements were censured.
"Weapons standing down."
Tom, who had been unconsciously holding his breath, exhaled loudly. "Did you encode /everything/ again? Captain, I know you are listening. Can we dispense with the Collective sanctioned screensaver, at least? Do you remember anything at all except these rendezvous coordinates?"
"Clarify."
Tom shook his head, then glanced downward and to the side as something caught his attention. "Put the ear on my chair. Thanks," he murmured to an unseen presence. Focus was redirected. "Fine. The primary password is 'Gnomes are fun.' The secondary password is 'Rainy day.'" Tom waited with resigned expectation.
In front of Captain's nose, forcing a retreat of two steps, a hologram materialized. It was himself. Simultaneously, a large file, previously hidden and doubly encrypted, opened, spilling its contents to the dataspaces. Captain looked at himself, his waiting hologram in the stiff posture of one trying (and failing) to relax while recording a message.
A rapid tattoo of footsteps from the alcove tier beyond the nodal intersection slowed to a normal walking pace. Second entered, showing no signs that he had been pushing his gait into an unBorg jog. "I have to see this for myself. No vicarious viewpoints." Only Captain was receiving a hologram. The rest of the sub-collective had to be satisfied with message delivery via intranet.
{Play,} ordered Captain to the computer.
The hologram blurred to pseudolife. "This thing running?" Pause, holoCaptain's head tilted sideways as the computer was consulted. "Yes, looking good. Not cutting off my head or feet this time." There was a short pause. "If you" (plural) "are seeing this, then we have successfully rendezvoused with Sacrifice. The raid against the Galactic Shopping Network node at unimatrix 004 is prepared to proceed. 'What raid?' you are asking right now. The files now unfolding in the dataspace detail the plan, primary contingencies, and all information leading up to the plan's creation. Meeting minutes. All the rigmarole of the rebellion. Tom is ex-Borg, but he has taken on the small being propensity to selective memory, forgetting how intrusive a Collective can be to a sub-collective, and hence the need for the encryption protocols. What we don't know, the Green Greater Consciousness can't know, neither. Be patient with him. He and the rebellion is key to remove Green influence and restore what used to be. To summarize..."
HoloCaptain briefly reviewed a complicated raid upon unimatrix 004. At the same time, dataspace files provided more intricate and in-depth aspects. In short, Cube #347 was to transport Sacrifice and her crew to the unimatrix, disguised as cargo amid the regular shipment currently filled the cube's holds. Once there, selected drone elements of the cube would disable several minor systems, which in turn would allow Sacrifice raiders to beam into the Galactic Shopping Network node, broadcast their message to the consuming masses, destroy the node, then escape. All this would be done without directly implicating Cube #347, thus preserving the sub-collective's usefulness for future missions.
As noted previously, it was complicated, complex, and fraught with propensity for failure. It was also bold, a move required by the rebels in their quest to destroy the economic dictatorship Green Borg held over most of the galaxy.
The holographic Captain ended its recital, then waited patiently. "Any questions?"
The data was closely examined. Omissions were noted. Captain asked himself, "We lack certain information. Provide additional passwords."
HoloCaptain nodded. "Additional password is 'password.'"
Second blinked. "That is a stupid password. Obvious."
"If Second is present, and even if he is not, here is the answer to the comment he always make around this time: the password is so obvious, who would use it?" Holographic Captain's tone was mild.
"I have a point," said Captain. Second grumbled wordlessly, his store of sarcastic replies not covering this situation. Captain continued, {Computer: input "password."}
{Compliance,} chirruped the computer. The observed gaps were swiftly filled.
HoloCaptain blurred, then stabilized. "Good, you have input the correct password. Now, we are undoubtedly asking ourselves about now - 'What do the rebels want? What do we want? What is the point for risking ourself on this raid?' The answer is that we both want the downfall of Green Borg. The rebels just want Green influence broken, an end to forced consumerism. We see the perversion Green has made to the quest for Perfection. Nothing less than eradication is warranted." HoloCaptain's voice hardened. "This sub-collective was accepted by Green when the original Collective was conquered, although not allowed access to the Green Greater Consciousness. Green Collective closely watches us, but we do not know why, as we do not know why we were spared from termination. Our goal is not only to destroy Green, but to reinstate Borg for the proper striving to Perfection. The rebels, most ex-Borg, do not know our true purpose, although they suspect with 78% certainty. However, we are required for their greater plan to succeed, just as we need them, so there is mutual cooperation."
During the speech, the hologram's feet slowly disappeared. HoloCaptain stopped, message delivered, and appeared to notice the discrepancy for the first time. There was modification of the recording. Now feet were back, but head was cut off above the neck. "By the twins! I dislike this recording device. It needs a better tripod. Memo to self: construct a better platform." The hologram faded.
Captain swiveled his head slightly to regard the Sacrifice transmission. Tom waited patiently, staring at the pickup on his end. His eyes had the slightly glazed character of a Borg (or ex-Borg) consulting internal data. Captain substituted CatwalkCam for a view of himself and his nodal intersection. Multivoice was disengaged.
"We understand," informed Captain. "Berth is prepared in Bulk Cargo Hold #2. Manifest is being altered."
Tom snapped out of his introspection. "About time."
Cargo bay doors ponderously opened; and the tractor beam was shifted from edge emitters to docking control. Weapons groused as Engineering took over.
{We want to berth the vessel, not crash it,} said Delta.
While Weapons was verbally silent, his stream of consciousness on the matter was not disguised. Unfortunately (from his point of view), he and his hierarchy were held in check.
After receiving confirmation from bridge crew that Sacrifice was moving into a cargo hold, Tom invited, "Assuming your regeneration schedule allows, why don't you drop by for a little chat after this ship is docked?"
"And if you call now in the next ten minutes, you will not only get this fine dustbuster for all your dustbusting needs, you will also receive a mini-buster, suitable for vacuuming the dander directly from your pet before it becomes a problem!!" On the screen, a standard hung-on-the-wall model, two hand-held vacuums were displayed, one a fifth the size of the other. Data at the upper corners indicated time left to make a purchase for the product and the number of units remaining to be sold. Across the bottom scrolled short descriptors and "studies" emphasizing the dustbusters' sell points. All spoken statements had audible exclamation points.
{I may need one of those,} mused Doctor.
Captain tersely replied, {No, you do not. None of us need /anything/.} The latter comment was directed to the general sub-collective. While all outgoing long-distance subspace calls were currently blocked, that did not guarantee a drone would not be so stricken with desire for a particular product that he, she, or it would not attempt to circumvent the obstruction.
"Computer: broadcast off," said Tom, more than a little loathing venom in his tone. "I don't know why I look at that crud: it only makes me angry. I can feel my hardware filtering out the embedded hypnotics and subliminals. If I didn't already know the undesirable consequences, I'd ask you to assimilate and process my family and friends, heck my entire species and that of my crew, in order to free them from Green influence." Tom glanced at Captain, then turned and stiffly walked towards a bottle sitting on a work table. The container only held water, however, remnant Borg hardware and wetware in Tom's body metabolizing alcohol (sensing poison) too efficiently to allow escape through drunkenness.
Captain eyed Tom, captain of the Sacrifice and rebel leader. While most exterior indicators of Tom's status as ex-Borg had been removed or hidden through cosmetic surgery, he had been long a unit in the Collective, consequently gaining a load of hardware which could not be replaced lest the host be terminated or mobility severely curtailed. For instance, many muscles, tendons, bones, and nerves of the human's lower back were artificial, hence the stiff gait, for removing them would paralyze Tom from the ribcage down. Also obvious in the privacy of Tom's quarters, where he could remove his hairpiece, was the fact that much of the back of his skull was metal alloy, a dully winking reminder of his forced cybernization.
The room, both office and living space, reflected Tom's Borg origins. It was spare and, except for a desk cluttered with PADDs and paper hardcopies, very neat. Everything in its place. Nothing extraneous. There was a framed picture of a pre-assimilated Tom smiling as he stood among a crowd of people under a banner reading "Butcher Family Reunion," but other than the one photo there were no personal touches which declared to the universe "This is my space." A simple cot was pushed against one wall; and a food replicator adjacent attested to another need of a small being. If Tom never returned to his room and the picture disappeared, none would know he had ever lived there.
Captain cocked his head slightly, searching through the dataspaces for a relevant memory nugget revealed by the previously passworded protection. When none was found, he asked the most powerful, yet simple, of questions, "Why?"
Tom paused as he poured himself a glass of water. "Why what? Why assimilate?" Without waiting for confirmation, he continued, "You know as well as I do those who are, or who have been, assimilated and then processed with basic Borg cerebral implants are immune to Green marketing techniques. No more overwhelming need to buy an unneeded or useless product. With that urge gone, perhaps a people, a planet, an entire civilization could provide adequate resistance to Green forces when they descended to 'cleanse' the resulting bad market." Tom snorted, then said with an irony even Captain could detect, "Of course, there are drawbacks to being assimilated."
"No. Expand why you did not return to the Borg." Captain opened the appropriate decrypted files on Tom and condensed them. "Tom Butcher. Human, Species #5618. Full designation 4661 of 9983, secondary sensory filter. Assigned to Cube #9112. Terminated 13.32 Standard years prior when Cube #9112 was destroyed due to rogue spatial anomaly."
Tom blinked. "Well, that is a new line of questioning. You, or your sub-collective through you, have asked some non sequiturs, but nothing like that." He finished pouring his water. A sip was taken. "Thirteen and a half years ago, that spatial anomaly was the best thing that could have happened. At the time, however, I hated it as much as I was allowed. I also felt fear, an emotion I had thought had been purged from me long before. There was an explosion which scrambled my neural transceiver," Tom tapped the side of his head, "severing me from the Collective. Somehow I was the sole survivor of Cube #9112, left with a small pocket of air leaking to vacuum and a temperature rapidly plummeting to absolute zero.
"A science ship from Bartok University had been tracking the anomaly. It came in and rescued me before I terminated, and before the Borg sent a vessel to confirm Cube #9112's destruction. From there, to put it succinctly, I was deassimilated. Oh, how I wanted, and how I tried, to escape and return to the Collective! However, as I slowly relearned how to sleep, to eat, to /be/ me as an individual, that desire went away. Instead, I yearned to free others from the Borg.
"Then, about twelve years ago, the Green Borg took over. Green has been feuding with Borg ever since the faction arose, but never total warfare. Original Borg was destroyed, as well as any other Colors which might compete with it, except for a few useful remnants such as yourselves. Now, the galactic super-economy, Green milking credits from as many sources as possible to try to buy Perfection." Tom frowned; and his water glass shook and made ominous creaking sounds as his hand squeezed tightly.
"All planets and colonies have a buying quota to maintain. The Green do not care what happens within the governmental structure itself, only so long as quotas are made. That means everyone who is able works...and works...and works. That money is then used to buy things. Most places receive several dozen Galactic Shopping Network channels hawking a variety of goods, all urging purchase. Citizens succumbing to GSN urges usually fills the quarterly quota, although not always, in which case the government must make the required purchases however it can. There are other systems too, but that one is the most common. Unfortunately, it also means that those individuals who are at the end of their productivity or who are inherently unable to work because of injury or congenital defect are not valued. They are considered a parasite, a drain on the need to make quota. You can fill in the rest.
"Those planets that don't make quota...there is one warning. One. If quota is not made the next quarter, with extra purchases to balance the previous financial period, then the colony or planet, is considered a 'bad market.' Green enforcers 'sterilize' the offending market, assimilating the entire populace. The territory is then opened for colonization; and those markets which have been extremely good at surpassing quota are allowed to start enclaves."
Tom frowned. "Earth was among the first markets sterilized. I was not born there, nor did I have many close relatives, but still...my ancestral planet. The Second Federation continues, but in a neutered form, calling for 'secret' debate and referendum among member planets even as there is nothing more than token protests to Green and its agenda. After Terra, I began searching for other ex-Borg and recruiting from those species whom Green marketing techniques do not affect. Less than a year following Earth's demise, my colony home was declared a bad market."
The glass, already close to shattering, finally broke. Shards spilled over Tom's hand, lubricated by water. Numerous lacerations were visible when Tom turned his hand over to inspect the damage. Deassimilation meant Tom no longer had the ability to heal himself with Borg swiftness. Blood dripped to the floor. "Damn."
Tom still controlled pain reception; and following use of a dermal regenerator to mend his hand, he continued, albeit at a more subdued emotional level. The plan was reviewed. Drones from Cube #347 would "open the door" for the rebels by weakening or lowering key security forcefields. The rebels would then piggyback on the transporter system unloading cube cargo holds, make their way from unimatrix cargo facility to Galactic Shopping Network broadcasting, deliver their message, and finally cripple the facility by destroying transmittal ability. The ensuing chaos would allow the rebels to escape. The sub-collective of Cube #347, relevant memories suitably suppressed and hidden, would later claim ignorance of its use as a Trojan Horse.
The rebels, Tom especially, did not completely trust Cube #347. The relationship was not quite "enemy of my enemy is my friend," but "the enemy of my enemy is tolerable...for now." Early in his rebel career, Tom had realized that the small raids he and his comrades executed against Green were less than fleabites, easily countered and damage, if any, easily fixed. An inside partner was necessary. After learning of the survival and sullen subjection of Cube #347, and after intense debates amid rebel representatives, the sub-collective had been approached. There was a mutual goal - destruction of Green - to base cooperation upon, and the imperfect sub-collective had agreed to lend assistance where possible. Seven years later, following many raids with each requiring additional support or critical information from Cube #347, the attack upon the Galactic Shopping Network node at unimatrix 004 had been conceived.
And now it had passed the point of no return.
Throughout the conversation with Captain, Tom obliquely continued to repeat his distrust of Captain and his motives. After all, Captain was fundamentally Borg, as was Green. However, Borg were not necessarily known for subtlety, a fact Tom as ex-Borg was well aware, and seven years was a long time for Cube #347 never to show a hint of intention to expose the rebels. At this point, the rebellion against Green was much larger than the 122 individuals on Sacrifice, and while the loss of Tom and comrades might be a set-back, it would not be a crippling blow to the larger organization. Potential reward outweighed the risk.
When Tom noted a need to meet with several key persons on Sacrifice prior to the raid, Captain was able to escape back to his nodal intersection.
{Destination: unimatrix 004,} intoned Sensors as Cube #347 dropped from hypertranswarp, journey complete.
Unimatrix 004 was a standard Borg unimatrix facility. Dozens of nodes large enough to house multiple Lugger-class cubes, with room to spare, were linked to each other via a spaghetti maze of supports and transport ways. Hundreds of additional facilities, small only in comparison to the primary nodes, were scattered throughout the complex, each more than sufficient to engulf Cube #347. A unimatrix was a traditional nexus for ships, communications, and data storage, as well as an access point to those transwarp conduits which had been utilized so often that they had achieved the status of permanence. While unimatrix 004 had been built by the original Borg, Green currently occupied it.
Unimatrix 004 was busy with vessels, but there was less traffic than the Cube #347 sub-collective expected when compared with memes from its own reality. Scans confirmed that the facility, able to house more than a staggering 30 billion Borg, not including those transient on ships, had a miniscule one billion present. That number was still large, but only a small fraction as to potential. Much of the unimatrix, especially the multiple dry-dock facilities, registered uninhabited and in long-term storage. The only part of the unimatrix fully active was an addition which had been constructed since Green occupancy.
A primary unimatrix node studded with clusters of powerful subspace broadcast equipment was the center of activity. Cargo-class and Lugger-class cubes snuggled up to docking stabilizers, their large size dwarfed by the even greater bulk of the node. Smaller cubes of other types floated amid their larger brethren; and a pair of enormous Assault-class spheres, each near the size of the Lugger-class cube, slid along on a patrol path. Three angular boxes were connected to the node by transport tubes, and more Green vessels clustered at those docking facilities, although the sense of frantic work was a less for those ships.
Sensors abruptly pointed out, {Xenig! See the [sharp film] emissions?} The mixture of unusual frequencies Sensors had processed was impressed upon the general sub-collective. The exterior scene took on a ghostly green quality, as if viewed through night-vision goggles, quickly degenerating into a multicolored static in which bright sparks danced. Lime and skunk tickled the olfactory senses. {See?}
{Sensors!} warned Captain. {Restore the grid input to a configuration the rest of us can interpret.}
{Oh. Oops. Sensors is sorry.} Sensors was not truly apologizing, only offering an automatic reply. The exterior view was returned to normal, with a substream highlighting small ships emitting the characteristic Xenig signature of engines harnessing vacuum energy. Eleven Xenig couriers - each had prominent GPS runes scrawled along their sides - clustered together at the edge of a sensor shadow cast by one of the boxy subnodes. As Cube #347 watched, one of the mechs abruptly disappeared, folding space and twisting reality with a technology Borg, Original or Green, had yet to assimilate.
All these observations were registered within minutes of Cube #347 arriving at unimatrix 004. As the cube continued its incoming trajectory towards the complex, a hail impinged upon the grid.
"Borg Exploratory-class Cube #347, continue along the following route," intoned a bored voice, singular and genderless, with the synthetic overtones of a drone. The words were accompanied by a datastream with a detailed vector path terminating at a docking port on the primary node. "Your berth is Port #13a. No deviations from your path this time. Last time you caused sufficient disruption to require eighteen hours to unsnarl the mess and return to a normal routine. Following unloading, you will take on cargo at tertiary node beta, Port #18, as well as receive scheduled maintenance and required supplies." There was a long pause, as if the dispatcher was waiting for something. "Well...?"
Captain signaled acknowledgement with a terse "Compliance."
"About time. Transmit cargo manifest and list of drone units that will be providing dockside assistance during unloading procedures."
The manifest, the modified version which included Sacrifice as an impounded vessel to be auctioned, comprised of a wide range of items. There were pallets of blenders, liters of cosmetics, metric tons of high-grade potting soil. Rare artwork and gaudy costume jewelry shared space within the same shrink-wrapped package. Half of the space in Bulk Cargo Hold #6 was dedicated to refrigerators, freezers, and other large household appliances. The tightly packed masses within the cargo holds - all room possible was utilized - returned a jumbled confusion to scanning devices; and after an avalanche of tawdry romance novels in Bulk Cargo Hold #1 buried three drones who should not have been exploring in the first place, all holds were labeled off-limits except to those who had a demonstrateable reason to be there. Even with transporters, unloading all eight cargo holds would require many long hours, perhaps days if even a small percentage of pallets or packages required inspection and/or special handling.
Without incident, Cube #347 glided to a smooth halt adjacent to Port #13a. Stabilizers, like enormous claws, reached out from the overshadowing cliff of the primary unimatrix node and clamped upon the hull. Connectors shot forth on compressed gas charges, grappling to access ports to allow exchange of data. There were no tubes for the conveyance of drones from cube to unimatrix or visa-versa for the simple reason Borg did not build exterior airlocks on their vessels, preferring to use transporters.
"Beam liaison units to Port #13a unloading facility for inspection," ordered the Green voice of unimatrix 004. One hundred ten drones from command and control were dispatched as required.
There was a Green Greater Consciousness, but Cube #347 was not allowed to be a part of it. The total separation required communication to be mediated through standard subspace channels or other inefficient means. Although uneconomical, the segregation was nonetheless not unexpected as Colored factions in Cube #347's experience kept to their own communication and encryption protocols and utilized their own fractal subspace bands. All the Borg Minds, including the original, were paranoid, not wanting outsiders to access what was the wide-flung neural network of the Greater Consciousness, no more than an individual relished non-self entities poking around in their brain. Therefore, Green required face-to-face liaisons with Cube #347 to coordinate unloading procedures.
Second, among those selected for liaison duty, materialized in the unloading facility. It was a large, empty cavern of a space with sufficient floor area to store the contents of a Lugger-class cube. The walls were ten kilometers distant; and the ceiling 200 meters overhead. The enormous pillars which periodically interrupted the view served as additional structural support as well as mounted tractor beams of the type normally found on the hulls of spare-faring vessels. It was a room which would shrink the ego of any unassimilated being, emphasizing an individual's insignificance. The grandeur was ignored by the Borg, both Green and original.
The Green unloading crew, 110 drones matching the number of Cube #347 liaisons, waited in a rough formation. One drone, a hulking Flarn, stepped forward. She rasped, "I am 836 of 9990. You are each assigned to a unit of this work detail. Which one of you is 3 of 8?"
Second stepped forward.
836 of 9990 looked Second up and down. There was a snicker in the Green ranks, one quickly stifled. Green, while Borg, held a looser rein upon individuality in comparison to their "parent." It was akin to assimilation imperfection, although lacking the chaotic indiscipline and uncensored impulses which occasionally wracked Cube #347's psyche. A PADD was thrust into Second's chest. "Assimilate this data. It is a work roster, including your Green partner and to what part of the unloading process you are assigned. Estimation for complete unloading and inspection is fifty-eight Standard hours...assuming nothing unanticipated happens." This statement was made as if "unanticipated" incidents were common occurrences when Cube #347 was in dock. "We will begin unloading Bulk Cargo Hold #1 in twenty minutes." Flarn eyes focused upon Second exclusively, "3 of 8, you are with me."
Second glanced down at the PADD he held, then plunged assimilation tubules into the device. Data assessment required less than a minute, after which a rigid almost-smile crossed his face. "Compliance. Perhaps I could introduce you to my sub-designation: Second. Can you say 'Second'?"
Cube #347's liaison drones were dispersing among the Green continent, with pairs transportered elsewhere in the unimatrix complex as necessary. 836 of 9990 snorted. "Sub-designations are irrelevant, 3 of 8. You will remain 3 of 8, 3 of 8." Second's formal designation was emphasized strongly...very strongly, verging on the sarcastic.
{I've found a new friend!} exclaimed Second dryly.
Captain heaved a sigh, then dismissed the holographic windows in his nodal intersection, preparing to return to his alcove for regeneration. Regeneration was not urgent, but in his alcove he could follow the unloading procedures as well as he could in his nodal intersection surrounded by split-screen holodisplays. Tom and his rebels were not scheduled to depart on their activities for several hours, that time required for the liaison drones to make the appropriate forcefield and internal security alterations.
Captain had only been in regeneration for two hours when a voice transmission originating from the unimatrix complex intruded unto his drifting awareness: "Unit 4 of 8, consensus monitor and facilitator of Cube #347, you are summoned to Queen Chamber #1. You will disengage from your alcove and ready yourself for transportation." Instead of the singular voice of the dispatcher, this was the Green multivoice.
{Computer: interrupt regeneration,} grumbled Captain as he snapped his awareness back to that of his body. He had been observing the datastream from 113 of 480 of the liaison detachment. 113 of 480 had purposefully instigated one of 836 of 9990's dreaded "unanticipated" incidents; and amid the argument about who was to blame for the waist-high drifts of soap powder in Inspection Room #93c, had managed to disengage a key forcefield without raising an alarm.
{Regeneration incomplete,} chirped the computer.
Ignoring the computer's automatic complaint, Captain stepped from his alcove. He immediately felt a transporter lock. Rematerialization occurred in a tall chamber, reminiscent of Cube #347's Primary Core, minus several stories of mezzanine catwalks.
Queen Chamber #1 rose twenty meters to a distant ceiling, circumference of the room round in an angular manner. Alcoves, some occupied, and data pillars lined the wall with the mouths of dark corridors interspersed at regular intervals. The subtle hum and shimmer of forcefields indicated that the hallways were warded. At the center focus of the chamber was a tall contraption (unassimilated races who knew of it often employed the unsuitable word "throne") used for storage of a queen when her physical presence was not required, a type of highly modified alcove. Although it was not strictly necessary because a queen, as any drone, was compatible with a normal alcove, it did lend a impression of awe for what otherwise would just be another big room.
Waiting in front of the throne was a wizened figure. At 140 centimeters, it was short, barely coming up to Captain's chest; and it afflicted a crouching hunch despite Borgification options available to straighten a spine. Coldly calculating eyes, practiced with weighing the value of anything, including souls, were framed by large, wrinkled ears. A large dome of a head was visible, as was the slightest hint of a smile which could not hide sharp, snaggled teeth. External Borgification was not excessive, but the drone was likely fairly new, and as the years passed, replacement body parts would raise the percentage of artificiality until little of the original being was left.
Captain was not fooled by the small, gnomish Ferrengi of a drone. Even without a link to the Green Collective, he knew that this particular unit was special, was a queen. She was lawyer, judge, and jury, and with one thought could order his destruction, not to mention that of his sub-collective. True, the decision would technically be that of the Greater Consciousness, with the queen a mere focus, but in the Borg Mind some units were more equal than others, influencing consensus to a greater degree. A queen was one of those units.
"Welcome, 4 of 8. How are you?" asked the queen as she suddenly animated. She shuffle-marched forward from the throne, pausing a meter from Captain. The Ferrengi tilted her head upwards to peer into Captain's face, then cocked her head slightly. A Green drone materialized next to queen, set a crate onto the floor, then disappeared again. Stepping onto the box, the queen was now at eye level. "Much better. Oh, don't play these games, 4 of 8. Answer the question."
Captain kept the twinge of revulsion from his face, but the intranets of Cube #347 roiled with the collective distaste of the sub-collective. The original Collective had deemed Ferrengi unworthy of assimilation. They brought nothing useful or novel to the Whole, be it technological or biological. If anything, the species' single-tracked pursuit of money was unable to be suitably redirected for proper integration into the Greater Consciousness, leading inevitably to failed drones that required termination and recycling. The Green faction, focused on buying Perfection, had no such qualms, and in fact actively sought Ferrengi and other like-minded races or individuals.
"Answer," grated the queen once more.
"This unit is functional," said Captain. He stared straight ahead, eyes focused on nothing in particular.
The rebels were beginning to beam into the unimatrix complex, piggybacking their signal to that of the unloading facility so as to hide their presence. Clumps of ex-Borg appeared on the dock deck, witnessed by those Cube #347 drones who were present. The rebels quickly dispersed towards the nearest access corridor. Tom and three of his most trusted comrades, festooned with weapons and devices, approached a free-standing data pillar, corrupted by a Cube #347 liaison earlier to allow untraceable access to the unimatrix transporter system. After a few seconds of entering manual override codes, the foursome vanished, beamed to another destination.
The queen heaved a sigh, wobbling her box. "So formal, 4 of 8. So formal. You've hidden yourself from yourself again, haven't you? Such precautions are necessary, I suppose, so as to keep your actions and decisions consistent." The use of "your" was plural, indicating that more than Captain was under discussion. The next sentence, however, reverted to the singular. "No matter. Once this little farce is complete, you will be my consort."
Captain's eyes immediately snapped to the Ferrengi's face. The /ugly/ Ferrengi's face. He reached back with one foot, carefully feeling for purchase, then shifted his balance away from the queen. His second foot swiftly matched the first, and Captain had retreated a long half-pace from the Green Ferrengi. His mind whirled, inappropriate visualizations surging to the forefront. No, it couldn't be, not even in an alternate universe. "What you suggest is not possible. Borg do not engage in..."
"Be still!" snapped the queen. Captain complied. The Ferrengi hopped, there was no other word, from her box and began to pace. After two circuits, she abruptly stopped and retook her impromptu dais. "Consort of the mind, you imperfect dumbbell. The mind! You really have locked yourself away this time. Here, who better to explain what is happening than you? Password: swordfish."
Captain blinked as the password filtered through him and into the dataspaces, opening additional caches of hidden files. Drones on Cube #347 and off slowed their activities, even pausing. In front of Captain in Queen Chamber #1, /another/ holoCaptain solidified. This holoCaptain, however, had a different bearing than that Captain associated with himself. This holoCaptain was somehow more...menacing.
"Hello, myself and through me the sub-collective of Borg Exploratory-class Cube #347," formally greeted holoCaptain. "If I am viewing this, then I've really locked down my own and sub-collective memories. New files are now decrypting in the dataspaces, detailing seven years of ruse with the rebels, a ruse now to end.
"The rebellion, consisting of ex-Borg and other individuals resistant to Green selling techniques, can not be tolerated by the Green. They represent a segment of market which does not contribute to an increase in the super-economy, which in turn means they do not contribute to Green down payments on Perfection. Beyond this, the rebellion has the potential to alter currently stable markets to their viewpoint. Unacceptable. Therefore, they must be eliminated.
"Now, I am surely asking myself, what is in it for the Cube #347 sub-collective? Integration, absorption, Oneness. The Green Collective is not nearly as picky as the original Borg concerning assimilation flaws. Green is more flexible, willing to tolerate disharmony from this imperfect sub-collective. Instead of being held to the fringes of the Mind, we will be immersed in it. Most importantly, we will /belong/ again, not be a small remnant of foregone times. The cost is not large, merely a few ex-Borg individuals with delusions of grandeur. They will be re-assimilated, interrogated, and used to dismantle the rebellion."
Captain stood, stunned, as dataspace files confirmed and expanded the brief summary by his holographic self. New memories from the Cube #347 sub-collective of this reality intruded, laying themselves over the facade already built by Tom's triggered password. On the surface, Cube #347 was a captured remnant of the original Borg, set to hauling cargo between unimatrices. Deeper, the sub-collective was the focus of a Green plot to cull a rebellion.
"Confusion is expected," purred the queen. "Purr" was not an apt descriptor, for a Borgified Ferrengi crone cannot purr. "Rasped" was more appropriate. "Your part in the deception is complete. No more need to lock away your memories. Once these rebels are processed and it is determined if they hold the information we require, you will gain your reward. Bur first..." The queen tilted her head sideways, a visual indicator of orders being dispatched.
Just as the Cube #347 liaisons were scattered throughout the unimatrix primary node, so were the rebels. Green drones who had been ignoring the ex-Borg as they snuck through passageways, input data into pillars, and crossed strategically weakened forcefields, suddenly took notice of the invaders. Captain watched through Second's point-of-view on the main dock as 836 of 9990 casually approached an unsuspecting rebel concentrating on data scrolling across a pillar display. Before the rebel could process his danger, he was captured in the Flarn's grip, head wrenched sideways to expose neck, and, most importantly, arteries, for nanite injection.
{Very good techniques,} observed Assimilation on Cube #347 with professional interest.
Captain blinked as the multiple dramas he witnessed similarly ended as in the cargo unloading area. Some rebels struggled, but even muscles augmented with Borg hardware were no match when held by two or three Greens. Still, the coup de grace did not fall, the rebels held in place without re-assimilation.
"Why do you hesitate?" asked Captain.
The Ferrengi queen imparted a small, calculated smile, exposing triangular nubs of teeth. "4661 of 9983 needs to know the full extent of his folly. He needs to know how his plan was flawed from the beginning."
The queen was gloating. Actually gloating! Occasional Borg queens had been known to exude an overconfidence, a reflection upon the Collective, but it never descended to wallowing in a triumph not yet realized. It was like a badly written story featuring a climatic pontification by a supervillain. If such a script was being played out, then the next action of the queen would be to explain in exquisite detail the Green plan. If this performance would be followed by placing the hero in an easily escaped cage warded by inept guards was unknown, but that was the pattern. Captain vaguely wondered if the Green Collective had accidentally assimilated a conference of substandard novelists.
Five meters distant, Tom materialized, flanked by two Green drones of the dull-eyed, no-neck persuasion. His arms were held behind his back, making escape impossible. Toupee had been lost somewhere, fully revealing the artificial portion of his skull; and rips in clothing showed hints of external implants on legs and torso which had also not been fully excised by surgery. Tom's left ear was gone, evidence of fleshglue failure.
"Release him," verbally ordered the queen. The two Green tactical units did as bidden.
Tom ripped his arms from the grip of the Green Borg. His eyes darted back and forth as he registered his location, his lack of escape options. The Ferrengi queen on her box was the focus of long examination before Captain himself came under scrutiny. "What is happening? Explain!"
"Even deassimilated, he retains a certain Borg quality, do you not agree, 4 of 8?" questioned the queen. Her attention was directed unwavering upon Tom.
Captain considered the rebel leader. "He does retain Borg speech patterns, but such could be a reflection of his personality prior to assimilation."
Consensus within the sub-collective was returning a meager amount of viable options. "More time! More time!" was the need, and so Captain complied by attempting to stall. While Green offered Oneness, and perhaps such was attractive to the native Cube #347, /this/ sub-collective did not want to mesh: somewhere there was the "home" reality, and a proper Collective...even if that Collective did hold the imperfectly assimilated at figurative arm's length.
"He is more Borg than he cares to remember. Or admit. The patterns are there, if submerged. Your reports do so show us, 4 of 8."
Realization dawned on Tom's face. He took an angry step forward, then pulled up as one of his flankers clutched an arm in restraint. Speech, however, could not be so contained. "You? You two-timing /Borg/!" The word was twisted into a venom-laced vulgarity. "You sold us out! You said Green was a corruption to Perfection, and nothing less than their destruction was sufficient! What was offered to change your view?"
The queen smoothly answered, "Belonging. Oneness. Poor Cube #347 was weary of being small. Twelve years...that is a long time to be alone, even for the imperfectly assimilated."
Understanding, even pity, crossed Tom's face. However, those emotions were not tempered with forgiveness.
"Assimilate the rebel, 4 of 8. Return 4661 of 9983 to us," ordered the queen. A waving gesture with one arm set the box to rocking, forcing her to ungracefully hop off before she ignobly toppled.
Tom held his ground as Captain advanced. He stood tall, accepting his fate. "Traitor. Traitor to your own kind. Traitor to Borg and Perfection."
{Delayed password - swordfish - input accepted,} announced the Cube #347 computer into Captain's mind. A virtual timer flashed zero. New files, /again/, unfolded, unlocked, spilling their contents. Captain paused, hesitated a long moment as he absorbed the data, then continued his ordered advance. Consensus was reached. Captain set his whole hand against Tom's waiting neck and triggered his assimilation tubules.
The queen radiated an aura of what could only be described as smugness as Captain stepped back from Tom. The rebel stood still, eyes glazing over, as nanites took effect. Then the queen blinked as certain actions by the Cube #347 liaisons, those who were in close proximity of a restrained rebel, caught her attention. "I only told you to assimilate this one, not all of them," she protested.
Captain turned to regard the short queen. "We know," he stated, utilizing the plural he so often ignored. Brushing past the two tactical drones who continued to flank Tom like immobile statues, Captain went to the nearest data pillar. He placed his hand against the input control and triggered his tubules. All was in flux. The unimatrix computer system was surely beginning to report that control of dock transporters, already corrupted in support of the rebels, had shifted to Cube #347, and more specifically to an entity on the Exploratory-class cube. Captain did know, through visual confirmation of liaisons, that nonGreen drones were materializing, nonGreen drones heavy with armor and weaponry. "We have a message for you."
The holoCaptain, never dismissed, flickered into animation. "Surprise! This sub-collective rejects your offer. We have had a better one, from the Collective which you never completely destroyed. Just as the rebels were never really rebels, so we were never under your complete control. You are a corruption to Perfection, and the Green faction will be destroyed."
Captain watched the Green queen's reaction. He was not disappointed as her pale face became increasingly orange, unaccustomed blood flow to the skin returning epidermis to a semblance of its pre-assimilated state. The Green Greater Consciousness was POed. Very POed, to lose emotional control over a queen.
Over two decades prior, the Borg Collective of this reality had seen their demise by the increasingly powerful Green splinter, and taken steps to avoid extinction. "Sleeper cells" were established, drones prepared with special neural implants and then purposefully severed from the Collective under circumstances whereupon they could be rescued and deassimilated. Those drones were the seeds of the rebel cells. The rebels, in turn, were subtly directed through contact with Cube #347, captured by Green and put to use, as expected, hauling cargo.
Wheels within wheels, and conspiracies within conspiracies, for over a decade, the Cube #347 of this reality had been forced to fragment and continually rewrite its self in response to a continual parade of passwords. It was a dangerous game and a risky gamble, both for Cube #347 and also the hidden Borg Collective remnant. Many unforeseeable incidents, including those by an unknowing imperfect sub-collective, could derail the plans, yet at a mere 9.1% chance for success, it was the best strategy possible. Now, at this time, all the veneers Cube #347 had hidden behind were gone, stripped to the original core.
Prior to meeting Sacrifice, Cube #347 had made a short detour under guise of mechanical failure. During the stopover in an otherwise unremarkable system, the cargos of Bulk Cargo Holds #3 through #8 had been altered to include 120,000 tactical drones and one queen, a huge and potentially fatal commitment for a Collective which numbered less than 250,000 units. Only the outer pallet layers of the huge piles of cargo had remained intact, special devices to confuse scans hiding Borg and equipment within. Stacked like so much cordwood, each drone was set to stasis with only the most minimal of support. Mortality was expected to be 10%. Only the queen, the last Collective queen, rated a complete alcove.
Now, first hundreds, then thousands, and then tens of thousands of Borg drones invaded unimatrix 004 from the most unlikely of Trojan Horses. Unassimilated Green employees began to boost Borg ranks as pushes were made towards targets as diverse as Galactic Shopping Network central broadcast, power plants, and vinculum.
"We are 4661 of 9983," announced Tom as he roused from his fugue state. "We are Borg. You will not be assimilated. You will be eradicated."
Noted Captain, "Our queen is awake."
At the Galactic Shopping Network headquarters, Borg burst into the control rooms. All forty-two channels selling various merchandise abruptly cut, twisting into an ancient test pattern of vertical lines in multiple colors accompanied by a monotonous electronic whistle. Rebel cells throughout the galaxy cheered, unaware that the plan had not gone quite as expected. Suddenly the forty-two channels faded into noiseless static, a single word "Comply" announced by an ominously familiar multivoice, before the transmission was completely severed. Ex-Borg rebels, faces rendered emotionless as implanted commands took over, turned upon confused comrades who had either really escaped the Borg or whom had never been assimilated in the first place.
The Ferrengi queen pointed at Captain, "We will resist this hostile takeover." Half a dozen Green drones materialized from a transporter beam, arms pointed at Captain in dangerous menace. "You, however, will be a casualty of this attempted merger."
Captain's last view was of disruptor fire.
Captain awoke. A loud noise filled his auditory senses. A loud, screaming noise. A loud, screaming, echoing nose. It took him a moment to realize it was himself. Screaming, for whatever reason, was unBorg. He stopped.
"You died," said a familiar voice, a Director's voice. "You Borg don't seem to take death and reanimation too well. Not even you."
Items began to register. He was locked into an alcove; and the computer reported his position to be Assimilation Workshop #3. There was Nothing beyond the hull. Cube #347 and its sub-collective were in the midst of a flux jump. He was alive.
Captain opened his organic eye and simultaneously fed power to his ocular implant. A green-eyed eyeball came into focus, hovering above and behind Assimilation's back. The assimilation workshop was full of bodies in alcoves. A drone - 59 of 79 - on the other side of the room abruptly woke, eyes snapping open as awareness flooded into the intranets, and began to shriek.
Assimilation said, {Just a moment.} Another member of the assimilation hierarchy on the other side of the workshop tapped a manual command code override into the alcove's controls, introducing a sedative into 59 of 79. The screaming decreased in volume to a blubber, and finally silence.
Iris floated closer, eyeballing Captain. "You should be okay discounting nightmares and other psychological scars. After you died and before the Fall, the original Borg had managed to secure a large portion of the unimatrix complex. Lots of fighting."
{And I was left as consensus monitor and facilitator,} accused Second. {Now that you are alive and conscious again, you can have it back.} Links Captain had not yet registered as being broken re-established themselves as Second divested himself of the responsibility he didn't want.
Assimilation examined Captain visually, then glanced at a readout next to the alcove. A hand was ran over Captain's head, deep scanning for anomalous neural signatures. Assimilation sighed: his usefulness would soon end as all formerly dead drones were discharged. "You are functional. Reintegration proceeding apace. If you hear less voices than normal, contact assimilation hierarchy. 213 of 480 will be hosting the first meeting of the Death Anonymous support group. Location will be Supply Closet #67c, subsection 14, submatrix 21. Rumor is that there will be cookies, even though no one can consume them."
"You should attend," added Iris seriously. "Put this death behind you. I've a bad feeling about the next infinity die roll: Lips was /smiling/ at me. Never trust a smiling Critic. Never." Pause. "And since you don't eat cookies, perhaps I can snag a few?"
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