All Star Trek knick-knacks and paddy-whacks owned by Paramount. The dog running away with the Traks bone belongs to Decker. And I don't know /where/ to put this old man who came rolling into BorgSpace.
Give the Dog a Bone, Part I
Sterile. Windowless. Dark. The mineral flecks in the regolith-cement walls were the only sparks of radiance in the otherwise lightless hallway. Invisible, unknown were the dimensions of the corridor, its length, its width, its height. All was reduced to the one-point dimension of an expectant now.
In the distance muted footfalls echoed. The omnipresent computer, or at least a subroutine of the larger resident Personality, dutifully noted the approach of bipedal sentients. In response, ceiling-mounted strip lights blossomed to the yellow spectrum preferred by most Second Federation member species, revealing the corridor. Lit, the hallway became yet another conduit through the moonbase, its construction similar to thousands of such institutions, military and private, throughout Second Federation space.
A tunnel roughly three meters by three meters had been drilled through the crust of a moon, the waste product mixed with other components and used to plaster walls smooth and airtight. The floor was a "rubberized" metal, polished a dull, light-drinking grey, but easy on the feet for those beings who walked on it day after day. A double line of light strips snugged into the ceiling; and power outlets were recessed near floor level for the occasional extension cord, as well as for the small robots whose job consisted solely of buffing. Multiple sensors and speakers resided behind discrete panels. The total length of the corridor segment was ten meters, one end sharply bending out of sight, and the other capped by an imposing door. A single word - "Danger" - was scrawled across the door, but as to the reason of the hallway, the purpose of this part of the base...if one didn't already know before entering the gauntlet of security which was beyond the bend, then one did not belong in the first place.
The footsteps resolved into three types - one heavy with a deliberate stride; several of a lighter booted variety; and the non-cadence scuffle of a multi-legged creature whose claws could not find purchase on the floor, and whom was too excited to care.
First around the corner were none of the footstep owners, but a bright yellow ball. It had the sheen of salvia and a distinctly chewed appearance. Charging after came what appeared to be a dog with too many legs, else an animated dust mop of hairlike feathers. It slid around the corner, not quite making the turn, three sets of legs scrabbling furiously as it careened into the wall. Undaunted, it straightened itself, stood to its full shoulder(s) height of 25 centimeters (i.e., knee-high), flipped the half meter finely scaled tail which emerged from the rear portion of the sausage-shaped hairball, and galloped onward after its toy.
"Lups!" came an exasperated cry. "Have you no dignity?"
"It is an animal, Commander Tracy. Why did you insist on bringing your pet with you?" replied a second voice, synthetic undertones lending a metallic verb.
"Lups is more intelligent than she looks. Or acts," replied the first voice.
"Animal," insisted Voice Two in a tone which suggested the speaker had no use for creatures whose sole occupation was to be a companion.
Unconcerned, Lups, the focus of the conversation, continued down the corridor after her ball. Behind her, at a much more sedate pace, came the remainder of the footstep owners.
At the forefront of the party was Commander Richard Tracy. Tracy, who had a tendency to snarl at anyone smart-a** enough to use the traditional Terran moniker for his first name, was an imposing human of dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair. Wearing the black uniform of the least public branch of Second Federation military (why did secret ops from the dawn of history always go for the black?), the commander was a virtual walking shadow. The only hint of color was that of white teeth, the golden pips which hung on one collar, and the avocado green band of a very old-fashioned wristwatch adorning his left wrist.
Shoulder to shoulder with Commander Tracy was the owner of Voice Two. A Borg, and more precisely, a Colored Borg, the Peach drone known only as Liaison was even more impressive than the base commander. The armoring of Liaison was not as extreme as that of tactical drones, but it was sufficient to bulk out the frame of an otherwise undistinguished bipedal species which Tracy did not recognize. Tracy did recognize the embedded equipment which turned the drone into a walking spy platform, not unexpected considering the Peach "specialty" of espionage-for-hire. Due to this fact, base personnel and Personality had been very careful in allowing the drone access only to specific parts of the facility, and even that was risky.
The final three were security, names and races made anonymous behind uniform, head-englobing helmet, and heavy hand cannon.
Lups trotted back along the corridor, ball captured. Brown eyes glanced at Tracy before focusing upon Liaison. Tail sweeping back and forth, ball was spat out of mouth into one of the pseudo-hands held hidden on small arms under her coat. The slobbery ball was offered to the drone with a plaintive whine. One of the security turned a chuckle into a cough.
"No," rumbled Liaison.
Tracy gave a low whistle. "Over here Lups. Over here. Drop the ball." The ball was dropped and Tracy kicked it towards the closed door, much to Lups' pleasure. As the ball approached the door, the latter opened. Both ball and Lups disappeared into the room beyond.
Liaison cocked his head slightly, as if listening to something none else could hear. In fact, such was true. A mini-vinculum - it did not allow the Peach Greater Consciousness to determine the precise location of the secret Second Federation base - transported to the facility permitted the drone to remain linked. "We hypothesize that the reason you asked for our presence is behind that door."
"Brilliant deduction," said Tracy. "And could you leave the entirety of the Peach Collective out of this, as much as possible? At least leave the poor, small being that I am with the illusion of you, Liaison, as a singular entity."
Liaison blinked, then shifted to look squarely at Tracy. "I do understand the concept of sarcasm, Commander."
"Good. Then let's proceed."
The door gaped wider as the fivesome approached, opened by action of the Personality.
The room was ten meters by twelve meters, walled and floored as the rest of the compound. Except for ranks of folding chairs leaning against one wall, the room was empty of furniture. The side opposite the door was a ceiling-to-floor smart window, currently opaqued so that the contents of the space beyond could not be viewed; and against the window leaned Lups, ball momentarily forgotten.
Lups stood on her two hind pairs of legs, pseudo-hands and feet of her forelegs pushed against the window. She stared intently at the window despite the fact that she could not see through. A whine emerged from her muzzle, followed by an unexpected and artificial "Mama!" The feathering around Lups' throat fell back enough as she cocked her head to reveal the glint of a voder clasped around her neck like an oversized collar.
Liaison entered the room, following Tracy, then stopped as he saw Lups. Security was ignored as they berated the drone to take at least one more step to allow them to enter as well. An expression of confusion passed over the face of Liaison before abruptly wiping to neutrality.
"Do come in," said Tracy. "Sam...once Liaison isn't blocking the door, show what's beyond window number one."
"Yes, sir," replied the bodiless voice of the base Personality.
Liaison took the required step into the viewing room; and the window was depolarized.
Opposite Lups, as if in mirrored parody, was a quadruped reptilian form. It was crouched to bring its head level to that of Lups'; and its four arms, one pair with dexterous fingers and the other with tearing claws, were placed similar to that of the commander's pet. Despite the obvious brain bulge which domed the reptiloid's skill, there was a striking similarity between the two. Also eerily alike were the brown eyes.
"Mama!" spoke Lups again, voder robbing the utterance of all emotion other than exclamation point enthusiasm.
"Vyst! Luplup!" cried Liaison. "You have a Luplup here!" One arm raised as if to point, except Borg (and Colors) did not point except as a tool for aiming a chassis-mounted weapon. Liaison was not supposed to be armed. The three security scrambled, their own weapons coming to bear upon the drone.
In the room beyond the window, the Vyst growled. She leapt backwards from the window, raising into a posture of threat, allowing observers for the first time to clearly see the pallid nature of her scaled epidermis. Implants studded her skin; and her monofilament-edged claws flashed unnatural metal. "Bad-Mans!" she hissed. She lunged forward, claws sliding down the window. Fingernail shriek on chalkboard filled the room. Lups squeaked, dropped to six legs, and retreated behind Tracy's legs with a whimper.
"Sam! Polarize! And cut the sound!" shouted Commander Tracy. The window shimmered to mirrored neutrality, then faded to the dull luster of frosted glass.
Liaison held himself ridged, statue still, then slowly lowered his arm. Security did not relax. The drone's eye slid over Tracy, coming to rest upon Lups. "That is a Vyst larval form. 'Lups'...is it a form of humor? If so, the hilarity escapes me."
"Irony. It goes with sarcasm. Lups is a Yoole, the 'Vyst larval form,' yes. It is part of the method used to ensure Luplup's good behavior. There is more to it, of course, but Lups is one of the keys. Between you Colors and the Borg, Luplup is nearly extinct. This Luplup - several hundred thousand bodies - is the last remnant, Ops believes," conversed Tracy calmly. "And I presume you possess a weapon you managed to get past scans, despite the affirmation provided by Peach that such would not be tried?"
Liaison ignored the question. In the espionage game of cat-and-mouse, promises were made to be broken. Neither Tracy nor Peach seriously believed a ban on contraband would pass untried. "We have been efficient at exterminating the...abomination which is Luplup. She is vermin. An animal."
"She speaks. She thinks. She can reason, learn...adapt. Strictly speaking, she is not an animal."
Eye shifted away from Lups and to Tracy's face. "We/I know what you insinuate. The comparison is faulty. Except for the inclusion of nanites, the Vyst would not be sentient. Presentient, yes, but not sentient."
Countered Tracy. "Lups is nanite-free, yet she speaks. Sort of. With the help of a voder, of course. She lacks the physical ability to form words. That counts for something."
"There are fungi in our collective database which score higher on the intelligence quotient than unaltered Vysts, and those fungi are still considered non-sentient. In fact, humans..."
"Enough," interrupted Tracy. "This conversation can be continued later. You, and in this case I mean the plural, now know one of the dirty little secrets of the Second Federation. Fine. I'm sure you are also aware of that the Second Federation has been having...difficulties on a certain border near Borg-controlled space. Knowing the animosity between Collective and Luplup, it was thought that she could be used to give us time to reinforce the border, evacuate colonies and stations. For that, however, a consultant is needed as to the best way to deploy her; and for that reason, Peach was contracted."
Liaison was a long time answering, eye moving away from the commander and defocusing as the drone's attention turned fully inward. Somewhere, and nowhere, a debate was occurring. Finally Liaison returned to the here-and-now. "Luplup constitutes a obstacle to our Perfection, as does the original Collective. There is a 8.7% chance of mutual destruction; and a 96.5% chance of Luplup's extinction even if the Collective is victorious."
"Both probabilities of which I'm sure you will encourage as much as possible. Continue."
"True, despite your sarcasm, Commander. I continue. As the Collective is to be the target, we will not demand the immediate termination of Luplup, nor will we sell this information to other Colors. Luplup is one of the few things that will unite all Colors, which would result in the destruction of the Second Federation would all of Luplup not be turned over for disposal." Liaison paused. "Stop rolling your eyes Commander. As I said, we are willing to wait and see the outcome. And we are willing to be your consultant. Any plan, however, will require the use of one particular Collective lynchpin...the sub-collective of Exploratory-class Cube #347...."
*****
Just beyond an uncertain boundary at the edge of the vastness which was BorgSpace, a minor Second Federation military observation post was under assault. Also soon to be captured was the small attendant colony consisting of post-associated families and a minor commercial entity exploring the marketability of rainforest-derived drugs. The planet itself, a steaming jungle hell, was largely untouched, of no interest to the soon-to-be conquerors.
The purpose of the attack was not simple assimilation, but a feint to deliberately provoke a Second Federation response. The actual strike on the observation post only required a single Assimilation-class cube. While the addition of two Assault-class spheres and three Battle-class cubes, currently in orbit around the planet, was overkill, they did provide the measure by which the Second Federation was to be set. The Collective was looking for a fight. Should no response occur in a set amount of time, the Greater Consciousness was ready to assault increasingly larger and more important colonies until the Second Federation cavalry did transwarp to the rescue.
Exploratory-class Cube #347 was part of the offensive...sort of. It and eleven other Exploratory-class cubes were a picket force of sentinels tasked with monitoring a wide range of parameters, from subspace communications to transwarp signatures, in order to provide advanced warning of any Second Federation reaction. Of the twelve cubes arranged in a roughly globular formation, Cube #347 was the furthest from the epicenter at nearly thirteen light years distant, orbiting the near dead cinder of a brown dwarf.
"A fiver volley of surface-to-orbit missiles rise from the remains of the outpost. Rising. Rising. Rising. They are detonated with a counterstrike; and the response by the visitor team is overwhelming! Look at those explosions! A barrage of rocks sent from orbit via mass driver levels the part of the outpost from which resistance originated!" announced 193 of 212, ex-sportscaster and now a drone of the weapons hierarchy. The words echoed in Bulk Cargo Hold #5 as canned wolf whistles and thunderous applause suitable for a Jhad-ball game emitted from hidden speakers.
Holograms in part of the cargo hold reflected the reality of the assault. An intensely green planet held center stage, orbited by cubes and spheres, a small area on its surface turning black from fires and the fallout of deorbited rock. Abruptly the venue shifted to that of the surface as seen through the eyes of a tactical drone. Ragged walls of buildings recently destroyed rose like malformed teeth; and behind them came the angry and frightened shouts of those military personnel and colonists who were still alive, still unassimilated. An explosion rocked the point of view, but the switch to a new (functional) drone was smooth. Above the real-time surface hologram floated a stylized tactical overlay detailing drones as red dots, enemies as green dots, and recently assimilated sentients as yellow dots.
"Oh, that had to hurt. Three drones terminated in quadrant 16 due to pressure activated landmines; and eight additional units reporting injuries ranging from minor to severe from shrapnel. In quadrant 23, however, overwhelming odds have smashed resistance, resulting in the addition of 14 minds to the Collective," gushed 193 of 212.
"Kill them! Kill them all!" came a shout from the far end of Bulk Cargo Hold #5. While 193 of 212's announcer-mediated action echoed actuality, Weapons, meanwhile, was producing a large number of 'what-if's.' Simulations, most of them with Cube #347 central (and Weapons in charge), flashed with psychedelic intensity as the BorgCraft program ran several simultaneous threads. Some of the outcomes ended with Cube #347 triumphant, and others had the small observation post somehow warding off the Borg assault. All were resplendent with explosions, gore, and violence. Each simulation was increasingly bloodier than the one before; and none reflected the rather surgical reality at the planet.
Elsewhere in the cube, sanity of a more normal sort reigned, or at least as sane as Cube #347 ever was. There were the individual "blips" of psychoses, but all in all, the cube was quiet. Engineering was taking the time to catch up on the never-ending roster of repairs and maintenance. The entirety of the assimilation hierarchy was being forced to endure a treatise by Assimilation concerning how differing grays affected the growth rate (no change, but that was irrelevant) of vat-built nanites. Drone maintenance was treating the casualties of Assimilation's treatise, amid the normal influx of units with issues ranging from cranial dents to tendon replacement to severed limbs. Sensory hierarchy listened/watched/tasted/whatever for an incoming Second Federation threat. Command and control oversaw all.
Functionality and efficiency rated "normal" on the sub-collective's skewed scale.
And then it began to rain in Bulk Cargo Hold #5.
{The holograms are going all sparkly!} complained Weapons as the deluge commenced. Water interacting with the holo-matrixes was causing a scintillation effect, similar to a failing florescent light. {Fix it!} The few drones physically present in the cargo hold scurried for cover, else vanished within a transporter beam. 193 of 212 halted his commentary for a moment, continuing only after an open umbrella materialized in his hand. Weapons stood stoic in the rain, ignoring the inconvenience of being wet.
24 of 230, in the cargo hold performing maintenance on the comet slush system and inadvertent cause of the shower, whimpered, {I'm melting! I'm melting!} Her species had a tendency to slough skin when wet; and exposed skin was sloughing all over the place. The discomfort was worse under those bits of armor which weren't quite waterproof.
Water, quickly approaching ankle depth (quite an accomplishment considering the size of an Exploratory-class cube cargo hold), was threatening to rise further. Several pieces of floor-level equipment, able to withstand vacuum, but not damp, sparked merrily. Delta began a nearly continuous thought stream of orders, most of them having to do with removing devices of an electrical nature from the cargo hold to drier locales before half of the ship blew a fuse. For a moment, just a moment, even Weapons' demands for the water to stop were drowned out.
{You were thinking?} sent Second to Captain, tone implying irony. {Oh, and try not to get wet.} The latter advice was dispensed with no explanation offered.
Captain was in his alcove. He was not undergoing regeneration, but with nothing necessitating his direct attention, he had earlier decided against the nodal intersection. With a mental groan, Captain opened his eyes and prepared to exit his alcove.
*Plink* Pause. *Plink* Pause. *Pat-pat-pat-patpatpatpat*
Large drops of water were slowly building in tempo as they fell down subshaft #3.g2, slapping against catwalks and guardrails as they spiraled into the depths below. 24 of 230's mistake had caused a cascade of seal failures in locations well beyond that of Bulk Cargo Hold #5. {I think I'll just stay where I am.}
*****
Luplup was on the move.
All of Luplup, minus her eggQueens, were settled in the immense holds of giant cargo scows. While some of her Selves piloted the vessels, the rest of her collective body waited in crowded conditions. The vast volume of the cargo holds had been retrofitted and subdivided into a warren of levels, each the height of her tallest unit-subtype, to create densely packed layers of Selves. Each Self was attached by an umbilical to a temporary nutrient system. The individual Selves were not claustrophobic, no more than a toe worries about the close confines of a shoe. The total population amid the small scow flotilla was 275,634 bodies.
Within herSelf, Luplup scowled, growled, clawed her Second Federation (and now Bad-Mans!) captors. She was a slave. She understood the concept of slave, the concept of owning a being against that being's will. The concept of pet. Assimilated beings were different, as they became Self, and Self could not be a slave to Self. It was a fine line, but it was present. This Luplup was the last Luplup, the /real/ Luplup, and she had learned much in the many, many centuries since her inadvertent conception in the bowels of a Borg cube.
The Second Federation controlled (threatened) Luplup by three means: her eggQueens, her Original Self, and her larval Original Self.
EggQueens were a relatively minor affair. True, without eggQueens, Luplup could not repopulate those parts of her which died, could not expand herSelf to ever larger dimensions. However, Luplup could work around that difficulty, maybe. At any rate, the lack of eggQueens was not immediately hazardous to her larger Self.
Of greater importance was her Original Self, her nexus, her Achilles heel. While her Original Self was just another Self, just another body (and not even a body as finely tuned genetically and technically as her other Selves), it nonetheless represented that nebulous quality which could only be described as a soul. Centuries of self-evolution and self-experimentation had produced a creature who if deprived of Luplup would be little more than a collection of semi-autonomous bodies.
The part of Luplup designated Original Self was not truly the "original." That particular geneset had been claimed by another Luplup, an imposter Luplup, during her era of psyche splintering. The other Luplups had slowly ceased to exist over the centuries, even the imposter who stolen the mutilated Self which was the true original. Only this Luplup had proven her cunning and worth by killing false Luplups and evading Colors and Borgs.
Relatively early in her over half-millennia of existence, prior to her splintering, Luplup had mastered cloning, specifically, that of her adult Original Self unit. After the collapse of the Whole, this Luplup, the /real/ Luplup, grew a Queen for herSelf from Original Self samples, then proceeded to make sure the shattering would not happen again. As the Original Self then evolved to its current nexus status, it had became increasingly important for the transfer of "soul" to the new body to be as clean as possible, else mental aberrations developed. Some of the schisms had required decades to stabilize. Eventually Luplup had decided the transfer of adult to adult to be too difficult for maintenance of true cohesion. Thus, had entered the larval Luplup.
Luplup as larvae, as Yoole, was a regression of her Self to a simpler time, a time of mental innocence. Without nanites, without implants, without connection to the greater Self, larval Luplup represented a blank mental slate. When Luplup was ready to retire her Original Self, she would initiate metamorphosis, followed by nanite introduction to the Yoole. Upon the Yoole's transformation to Vyst, she was fully integrated into Self, her mind impressed with the "soul" held by the Original Self. The old Original Self was discarded; and the new Original Self set in its appropriate place. There were dangers, of course, with the system, but it worked. Had worked. Until the remnant Luplup, only a few hundred bodies at the time and running from the assault of a Color, had been found (and captured) by the Second Federation.
And turned into slaves.
A paradox existed. Luplup could persist without eggQueens. However, Luplup could not continue, not as she was, as she strived to be, without her nexus and without her larval Original Self. On the other hand, as a slave, as a pet, existence on her own terms was equally curtailed. In a bid to partially alleviate the problem, Luplup had secured her Original Self, pleading the impossibility of the task demanded of her without the Self. Unfortunately, her captors insisted upon separating her nexus from the bodies upon the scows; and pleading (groveling!) had not found release for either eggQueens or Yoole. Still...opportunities existed which had not been present in the base.
"You know the consequences," had said the dark Second Federation commander who kept her larval Self as pet, as hostage. "You have been let out on your leash, but if you try to do anything I don't like, I won't hesitate to yank you back."
So...she would attack the Borg Bad-Mans, as required. She would attack the particular Exploratory-class cube (obviously a different Cube #347 than that of her natal incubation, the original long turned to dust) which her captors insisted would respond to the provocation. EggQueens and larval Self held hostage, she would comply.
And then...and then she would strike. She was no one's slave. The future burned in her Mind, literally.
*****
Lups shook with whimpered anxiety as she was restrained on the biobed by a pair of sickbay orderlies. The location was not a vet office, but for Lups the difference between animal hospital and people hospital made no difference: her eyes were focused on the injector as it lay in its tray. Theoretically shots did not hurt, the pain factor of that particular procedure long removed from medicine. However, Lups had just enough brainpower to associate the injector with the discomfort which came afterwards, specifically nausea and pained muscles. She whimpered again as the doctor picked up the injector.
Commander Tracy grimaced slightly as Lups yelped. The metamorphic retardation shot was necessary, else the hold over Luplup be weakened sufficiently for the collective Vyst to decide an for attempt at freedom. Richard was not about to inform Peach, or anyone for that matter, that the restraint of Luplup was superficial at best. Ever-suspicious intelligence experts (of which Tracy was one) and scientists had crafted several scenarios in which Luplup won her freedom, often at the detriment of those in her way...and Tracy was beginning to suspect that Luplup was starting to see those opportunities for herself.
Beside Tracy, Liaison watched the display with typical Color (or Borg) indifference. Perhaps there was the mildest hint of pleasure in the crinkle of skin around eye and mouth, or perhaps not. The Colors could be damned inscrutable, Peach more so than most, and Tracy did not pretend to understand any of them.
"And what is the purpose of this shot?" asked Liaison, probing for information.
Tracy grunted, then turned off the display. "The shot is part of Lups' check-up. It retards her metamorphosis. If the Luplup Original Self was in constant contact with Lups, there would be no need for shots: Luplup has genetically engineered the Yoole form to be suppressed by something emanated by the O-Self. We have yet to isolate the compound; and we have to keep the two separated to maintain control over the Luplup whole. We don't understand the Yoole-Vyst lifecycle well enough - probably because there are no records of the creatures, which either means they are deep in BorgSpace, extinct, or both - to know when metamorphosis would normally occur outside of Luplup's presence."
"I understand," said Liaison.
Tracy had the distinct feeling that the Peach Collective knew more of Yoole-Vyst biology than it was willing to let Liaison divulge. However, the commander was not authorized to make bargains to gain the data. It would likely cost more than he, or the Second Federation, was willing to pay. Instead, he shifted the conversation to a different track. "So, how are your quarters?"
Commander Tracy (with a pair of security personnel) and Liaison were in a room which had been given over to the latter for personal use. To keep an eye on Luplup's actions, a small Ops Titan-class corvette was accompanying the much larger Vyst cargo scows. The corvette dated from before the reversion of Hive to Borg, and as such theoretically had the facilities to carry a (then Hive) Liaison. In reality, the room in question had long since been converted to a secondary sensor suite/computer core so as to better house the corvette's Personality "Slim Jim." As removing kilometers of wires was out of the question, quarters usually reserved for a pair of mid-level officers had been hastily renovated.
Almost everything, including the door to an unneeded bathroom, had been stripped from the room. The only fixtures were an alcove and a data pillar with holographic display. The latter had been procured from a Green supplier at what was likely an inflated cost. However, it did allow limited read-only access to specific databases Peach had requested; and all transactions, no matter how small, were monitored by Slim Jim. There were also sensors of various sorts buried into the walls, but due to whatever equipment was carried on Liaison's chassis, most of them were inoperable. The few exceptions were low-tech visual cameras, but even those were suspect as to reliability.
"They are...adequate," replied Liaison with just a dash of irony. "However, the quality of the data pillar is deplorable. The signature identifies it as Green manufacture, and not good at that. I hope you did not pay too much for it. Now, if I had direct database access through one of /your/ consoles, suitably stripped, of course, I..."
"Not going to happen, Liaison. No offense, but I trust you about as far as I could throw you in a heavy-G environment."
"Offense is irrelevant. Efficiency is not, but we will not attempt to countermand your lock-outs on this deficient pillar."
'Yah, right,' thought Commander Tracy to himself. He blinked as Slim Jim relayed a message through his neural transceiver, an implant all Second Federation military personnel acquired upon first posting so as to better communicate with ship and station Personalities. As Ops, his had a few more bells and whistles than that of the average grunt, but those capabilities were not widely advertised.
"Put her through Slim," said Tracy aloud. Slim Jim activated the pillar's display; and Luplup's O-Self blossomed into light-enhanced reality. Liaison and Luplup in the same room was not a good thing, as demonstrated the first day the two had met. Conversation, when necessary, had to be via holographic avatars.
"Bad-Manssssssss," hissed Luplup as she crouched into a threat display, heavy ripping hands quivering. It was the standard greeting when Liaison was a part of any dialogue.
Commander Tracy shook his head. "Luplup. Behave yourself. How are you faring, and what do you want?"
Luplup snorted as she shifted the body to a posture Tracy recognized as haughty disdain. Standing as straight as the quadruped reptilian frame allowed, she pointed her upturned muzzle to the commander and ignored Liaison. Her tail slowly swept back and forth. "I ams fine. This Self is adequately housssed in yours ship," she said, unconsciously echoing Liaison's words, minus irony, "as ares my sother Selves on the scows. Contact with my eggQueen Selvess grows tenuous, but iss sufficient. I demands four things. Ones, report upons the condition of my Yoole self." There was a noticeable non-capitalization of the word 'self', as the Yoole was not truly a part of the Vyst Whole. "Twos, I wants sto ssee my Yoole self. Three, the pet Spy Bad-Mans wills be provided tos me so that I can rends it into bloody stripssss. Four, delivery of egg shipments from eggQueens."
"Rend this drone?" muttered the Peach liaison in what was surely a manifestation of true individual personality, not that of the overseeing Mind.
Tracy ignored the slight baring of holographic teeth as Luplup heard the (likely intentional) comment, plunging ahead a reply. "Luplup, you've asked the same things before. And as before, the answers are the same. Ask Slim Jim as to the status of Lups, or ask for the reports to be downloaded to your computer access port. As to seeing Lups, you are scheduled for a visitation in five hours, as I'm sure you are well aware of. Eggs will be stockpiled and shipped via courier when the need arises, i.e., after you have encountered the Borg. And as far as rending Liaison, the answer is 'no' and will remain 'no.'"
Luplup's muzzle wrinkled at the final answer as she directed her focus upon the Peach drone. "I will claws the Spy Bad-Mans. I will."
"Try it," interjected Liaison. "You are vermin and you will be exterminated."
"Die. Die. Blood gushing. Fleshes quivering. Crunch of bonessss and screech of armor. Wails of implants. Luplup as Queen!"
"You and what army?"
"Children!" snapped Commander Tracy as the verbal sniping quickly dissolved into something resembling playground taunts. "Enough. Slim Jim, end this; and give Luplup the reports she wants." The hologram vanished as the Vyst leapt forward in mock charge. A long sigh racked the commander's body. "If you excuse me, Liaison, I have some things to take care of. I'll leave you to your 'adequate' housing."
Liaison, designation 1 of 12, watched Commander Tracy and his two security aides depart the room. As the door slid fully shut, there was the subtle click of a lock mechanism latching. Liaison had examined the door earlier, after disabling all except a few selected room spy sensors, and was confident that, given the need, he could easily exit, with or without the blessing, or knowledge, of the resident ship Personality. Second Federation Black Ops were light years behind in the espionage business, at least when compared to the highly specialized Peach. The drone took the few short strides necessary to reach his temporary alcove. Clamps snicked as he backed into place.
<<Report,>> commanded the Perch Greater Consciousness. After Liaison had data dumped the memory accumulation of recent events, a question was posed. <<Does Second Federation trust Luplup?>>
Peach was not the Borg; and it was not the Hive, from which the Color had schismed approximately two centuries prior. Each Color was slightly different as to the degree of autonomy individual units retained. Some, like Red and Purple, were on the Collective end of the spectrum, while others, like Orange or, to a lesser extent, Green, were more of a loose association all working towards a single, overriding goal. However, as many whom the various Colors interacted with tended to forget, none of them, despite outward appearances, were true individuals. Peach came close, at least for select operatives, as the Collective Mind had learned on occasion the single unit could gather more intelligence and make better leaps of intuition than the many; and 1 of 12 was one of Peach's best operatives, thus the question which was more an actual conversation than the illusion of one.
{No more than Second Federation trusts us. In the end, however, Second Federation knows where their advantage lies, and it is not with Luplup. I have circumnavigated some of the computer lock-outs and believe indications are present of a bid for freedom by Luplup. Whatever 'control' Second Federation has is insufficient. The history of Luplup is one where she is quite willing to take risks to herself for her own purposes, and this is no exception. She will discard eggQueens, her nexus Queen, and the larval Vyst, if necessary, and adapt to the consequences.}
<<We agree. How can we use this knowledge to our advantage?>>
Liaison was immediate in his reply, echoing the thought stream of the larger Whole. {Blackmail. Second Federation will surely think to blackmail us to the other Colors, citing a Peach-Luplup connection. However, we can use the same logic to counter the Second Federation; and we hold the advantage because Second Federation is the entity which /captured/ Luplup for their own purposes. We entered the game later and can plead the necessity of collecting as much data as possible for the eventual extermination of Luplup, to confirm we knew where all of her was for extinction.}
<<We agree. Our thoughts are One. Conclusion: what course of action shall we take?>>
The Greater Consciousness was asking Liaison's personal opinion. {We should allow the current gambit to play. Luplup and Borg Collective can battle against each other. If the chance presents, it may be possible to implicate Second Federation without mention of Us. As the Terran saying goes, allow sufficient rope of the Second Federation to hang itself. At the very least, if it appears as if Luplup will try to escape, I will try to terminate the nexus Queen, the Yoole, and as many Luplup units as possible. I have built contingency plans.} The schemes, all of which ended with Liaison's eventual termination, were uploaded to the Color Collective and approved with minor modifications. {It is recommended for vessels to be dispatched and be ready to exterminate the rest of Luplup while she is dazed from the attack.}
Despite the precautions taken by Commander Tracy and a variety of Personalities, Peach was well aware of the current location of Liaison, as well as that of the "secret" base. Combine that knowledge with the highly developed cloaking technology which Peach possessed, and Second Federation would not definitely know what (or whom) had hit them. It would be necessary to eradicate the Black Ops base, as well as any support ships in the vicinity, but they were only small beings. Second Federation could not complain too loudly, lest their own skeletons be aired for the galaxy to see.
<<Concurrence. Whatever else occurs, the abomination must be destroyed.>>
"Well, sir, can we trust either Luplup or Peach?" asked one guard-aide as the trio walked down the corridor after exiting Liaison's room.
Commander Tracy frowned, unaware of the similar question being posed by the Peach Collective to its operative. "No. In this business, I trust no one, and that includes my own government. Oh, I trust the individuals, most of the time, but the whole generally has its head up its a** when it comes to intelligent decisions." The last observation obviously applied to 'government,' not Luplup or Colored Borg. "However, that's the way things are." Tracy shrugged. "What has been will always be, and the universe keeps tottering along, oblivious to our existence."
"As you say, sir."
Tracy paused at an intersection, forcing the guard-aides to do so as well. "You two, get back to your normal duties. I've other things to do. And Roger, pass along to the Chief that I want the backup sensors in Liaison's suite ready to come on-line at a moment's notice. When they do, we may only have a couple of seconds before he fries them as he did the others, but those couple of seconds may be all we need."
"If I may speak frankly, sir, you live in a paranoid world," offered Roger.
A pained smile stretched across Tracy's face. "So I've been told. However, in the world of Black Ops, it is necessary for survival. And, if either of you have any intra-agency spy-on-the-commander handlers you are reporting to, you can tell 'em I said so."
*****
The Collective shuddered as 5,132 voices within the Whole were silenced. It was of minor consequence, even as it was unexpected. No warning, just...nothingness. All in all, the Collective was prosaic, even as it took the several seconds required to calculate the most likely reason for the disruption: experimental adaptation of recently assimilated technology occasionally led to minor industrial accidents.
A mining endeavor was occurring on a volcanic moon of a gas giant. To begin with, such a dynamic locale did not lend itself to the concept of "safety" which the Greater Consciousness did not subscribe. In addition, the torturous spasms of the moon were of greater intensity this galactic epoch as a formerly sedate yellow dwarf primary methodically expanded to red giant status. With the entire solar system in slow-motion upheaval, most races would detour well away, maybe leaving behind only an automated science probe or two. It was the cataclysm of the moon which drew the Borg.
Volcanic moons are inside-out places, elements and materials usually regulated to the deep core spread thickly on the surface for anyone daring (or stupid) enough to retrieve. Of course, there was the little "loss of life" qualifier which shied even the most desperate of free-lance miners; and even large mining companies able to afford heavy-duty robots found that sale of unusual isotopes at best provided sufficient funds to replace equipment, with no profit left over. The Borg, without care for loss of drones or machinery, but with the need for those rare minerals and elements, were one of the few races willing to mine volcanic moons.
On this particular nameless volcanic moon, 5,132 drones had been testing variations upon a newly assimilated technology with promise to be adapted to mining application. If adaptation was successful, full-scale ore recovery would go into effect, including all the attendant facilities. For now, the moon hosted what was essentially a skeleton crew with the minimum equipment necessary to maintain drone functionality, no space assets present. Up to the time of termination (for what else could have happened on a volcanic moon?), data had shown that the adaptation was successfully recovering larger amounts of final product for a given ore volume when compared to current techniques.
The Greater Consciousness gave the equivalent of a shrug and sent an Exploratory-cube to investigate. It would determine the extent of the damage so that the Collective could decide how much of the base was salvageable, if any. Meanwhile, a Cargo-class cube would be outfitted with sufficient alcoves to transport a new crew in long-term stasis, as well supplementary equipment.
Then the Exploratory-class cube vanished.
The Collective was vaguely aware of the Terran idiom "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me," as well as similar axioms from numerous other species. Such phrases were irrelevant, at least for a Collective Mind which had shown time and again to be reluctant to accept that it wasn't necessarily the biggest fish in the sea, or that small beings could defeat it. Therefore, when the Battle-class cube sent to discern the fate of the Exploratory-class cube also disappeared, the whole incident was hypothesized to be related to a natural phenomenon likely originating with the burgeoning red giant.
Even though cube sensors up to the time of loss had shown nothing unexpected.
It was time to send a more expendable asset. While the Collective had many a vessel which could be thrown at the problem, they were better used elsewhere. After all, it was only a minor mining venture. Exploratory-class Cube #347 was dispatched.
*****
Cube #347 (minus rainworks) entered the target system. No defensive precautions had been set as, after all, the task was supposed to be a quick "peek and see." The most difficult part of leaving the original location, after waiting for a replacement cube for the picket sphere, was Weapons' protests to be moving to a decidedly unmilitary chore. Fortunately, command and control had prevented Weapons' from firing on Exploratory-class Cube #91. Weapons was becoming increasingly paranoid and intractable of late, even for him, such that a subprocess was mulling a decision to simply deactivate the drone and lock him in stasis in order to analyze the problem.
Neither Delta nor her dense-packed tritanium-rated laser saws would be invited to the diagnosis.
Nothing untoward was found upon entry. The system was as expected, from bloated sun eating the innermost rocky planet to the warming of a former ice moon such that it would soon (relatively speaking) be habitable for several hundred thousand years. Ejected plasma and altered gravitonic potentials had perturbed the two asteroid belts, leading to a new era of meteor bombardment on all sufficiently large bodies; and young comets were diving with lethal intent to the central star, trailing immense tails of brilliant gas.
Cube #347 vectored towards the gas giant, volcanic moon currently in the sensor shadow. As the cube swung into a trajectory which would lead to orbital insertion, the moon rose into view; and with it, the shapes of two cubes. Confused, Cube #347 queried the cubes' sub-collectives, but heard nothing except silence upon the fractal subspace carrier waves. Sensor readings noted an active, if dampened, energy signature, both from the vessels and from the mining facility.
Localized natural interference which prevented proper Borg communication?
Captain flipped to non-fractal subspace radio, and when that elicited no response, primitive electromagnetic radio.
"Hello? Anybody home?" called Captain in the standard Borg ship-to-ship protocol. There was no verbal nor visual component equivalent, modus operandi more akin to bit and byte computer-esque language. The expected delay stretched beyond the necessary seconds required for the light speed message to reach the ships, during which Cube #347 closed the distance to the moon.
"We are Borg. We are experiencing technical difficulties." The response, when it came, was verbal and included an out of sync multivoice. A video element accompanied the unexpected audio, that of a catwalk focused tightly on the metal tread. This was not how two sub-collectives conversed. Was there damage? If so, sensor scans were not displaying any external vessel injury.
Captain switched to a similar format, minus the video. "Sub-collectives of Battle-class Cube #761, Exploratory-class Cube #1187, and Mining Facility #41103, report. This unit is Exploratory-class Cube #347. Detail assets required from the Collective to effect repairs. And switch to an appropriate ship-to-ship protocol...this is highly inefficient, even for this imperfect sub-collective."
The unconventionally long pause stretched even longer. Then the video feed abruptly changed to that of a snarling reptilian face. The extreme close-up pulled away to show several ranks of a four-legged, four-armed creatures of pale epidermis and heavy armor. Pieces of...drones coated the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the main controls of what appeared to be a primary power core. A chorus of barking yips erupted, underset by a nearly continuous growl.
"Luplup!" said Captain, his singular word translated to multivoice.
"Bad-Mans! Captain Bad-Mans!" spat a lone synthetic voice over the ambient cacophony.
<<Vyst!>> exclaimed the Greater Consciousness in the now very-near Collective background as the Mind abruptly focused on the unexpected threat.
{Spoon!} added 49 of 203 cheerfully.
{Die! Kill!} No need to know where those demands had originated.
"Kill the Bad-Mans!"
<<Abomination!>>
The two (former) Borg cubes in orbit around the moon shuddered to sluggish life. Offensive and defensive tactical systems energized, followed by insystem engines.
{Spoon! Spoon! Spoon!}
{I just got this vessel back together!} wailed Delta, backed up by the collective groan of the engineering hierarchy. {Can't we go a handful of regeneration cycles without damage?}
{She is looking good. Can I take one home?} asked Doctor, inappropriately reminding the sub-collective the ultimate origination of Luplup.
{Spooooooooon!}
In his alcove, Captain blinked and shook his head, caught in the center of intranet chaos. And, ever-present, the Collective was making its opinion of the matter, and the solution, known.
<<ATTACK!>> ordered the Greater Consciousness, disdainful of the reality represented by odds of one imperfect Exploratory-class cube arrayed against a second Exploratory-class cube, a Battle-class cube, and whatever additional hidden assets were present.
{ATTACK!} echoed Weapons.
"KILL!" screamed Luplup as the two cubes, obviously under her control, broke orbit on a direct course with Cube #347.
{SPOON!}
"My head," muttered Captain to himself. However, he had no choice. The Collective had spoken. Cube #347 lined itself on an attack vector with its opponents. And hit the accelerator to suicide.
*************
Here ends Part I of "Give the Dog a Bone." What will Part II hold? Will Cube #347 be destroyed? (If so...it will be a /very/ short story) Will Luplup prevail? Will spoons inherit the galaxy? And what does the newsnet board rumor.news.net have to do with anything?
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