This is the BorgSpace Borgmeister here, and to all you out there in Reality Land, remember that Paramount owns Star Trek, Decker created Star Traks, and the Meneks-author writes BorgSpace.
Tricked Out
The Mission: To take a starship and rebuild it with limited funds while remaining stock in appearance, then put it through its paces. Of course, it must look cool.
The Price: 50 million credits
The Time: One Terran week
The Target: A late-model Borg Exploratory-class cube
*****
Cube #347 was in the visually boring (to all except Sensors) realm which was hypertranswarp. That, in itself, was not unusual as all Borg extraluminary vessels routinely employed ludicrous speeds. However, the great majority completed the trek unassisted, i.e., without being on the lasso end of a double Xenig tractor-beam truss. On the other hand, Cube #347 did not fall among the Borg category of "great majority."
The two Xenig pulling Cube #347 were twins. As the propensity for Xenig to individualize their chassis was great, the fact that the pair were alike signified the hulls likely to be a uniform. The words "Yeen's Tow Service and Salvage Experts - Black Hole and Space-Time Anomaly Experts" emblazoned on their sides strengthened the hypothesis.
The Xenig resembled vertically elongated pyramids which had been tilted to their sides to allow the top point to lead. Hull coloration, dull sandy-white with a hint of brick, added to the pyramid illusion. There were no obvious exterior ports, not even for maneuvering thrusters, but considering the Xenig ability to directly manipulate probabilities as an aid to transportation, the lack was not unexpected.
At the time of the capture (the Xenig had not been noticed until they had deployed tractors due to a raging internal argument concerning the need to stop to ask for directions to a species #9442 colony), and for some time afterwards, the sub-collective of Cube #347 had attempted escape, weapons ranging from harshly worded demands to a singularity torpedo. All efforts had been equally ignored.
Cube #347 remained in normal contact with the Greater Consciousness for once, not that the Collective was in any hurry to extract the imperfectly assimilated sub-collective (or, more importantly, the physical resource represented by the cube). Still, considering how many other misadventures had included severance from the Whole....
{We are heeeeeerrrrreeee...} announced Sensors brightly as the cube dropped from forced hypertranswarp transit to normal space with an abrupt bump. {Determining location from [blinky].}
As sensor hierarchy swiftly searched for pulsar landmarks to pinpoint the cube's location, the rest of the sub-collective prepared in various hierarchical and individualistic ways for what was to come. Mostly it meant a chaotic intranet and dataspace equivalent to unsubstantiated gossip as conversation was exchanged and incoming datastreams absorbed.
"The middle of nowhere would be a step up from this place," commented Second with standard sarcasm as he joined Captain in the latter's nodal intersection. The holoemitters were displaying several windows, the exterior view currently prominent.
"The small...sun is a nice touch, though," commented Captain.
Second shrugged. "Very homey. Still beyond the middle of nowhere, no matter how many stars you build. Not a Burger Emperor nor an abandoned alcoholic beverage container as far as the sensors can scan." Second had a very specific, if low-class, definition of civilization.
Prominent in the view and only mildly distorted by the probability ripples originating from the Xenig towships was a star. Except for being the size of an Assault-class sphere, it was a cheerful, bright ball of plasma with the spectra of a mid-age yellow dwarf. It was...not right. A ball of gas of similar size should have extreme difficulty retaining cohesion, much less igniting with a sustained fusion; and a /star/ of such size was generally better known as a neutron star with all the radiation and gravitational extremes implied. Unfortunately, the star (a Xenig construct?) ignored all scientific "should-be's" as it serenely violated several laws of physics and stellar dynamics.
Near the miniature star were five hunks of cometary ice and an asteroid, all roughly half the size of the plasma ball. As the artificial star did not confer sufficient mass for significant gravitational warpage of space-time (and, thus, raising further questions as to how it could even exist), there was little orbital movement of either ice or rock. Long-distance scanning indicated origination to be at least two separate natal systems, signifying their purposeful transport to the artificial system.
Highly magnified visuals suggested the presence of structures on all comet nuclei and asteroid. Several were likely complex machines, due to the signatures of idling (conventional, not Xenig) power cores. Scattered solely on one ice ball was a jumbled junkyard of scrap, some of it concentrated as points indicating smooth landings, and other bits dispersed in a shotgun pattern as if terminally hurled to the icy surface.
It was the scaffolding which drew the most attention, however.
Large enough to enclose Cube #347, a complex skeleton of metal spars floated near the junkyard comet. Small robotic vessels, mere minute energetic pinpoints, swarmed about the structure on unknowable errands. The scaffolding overshadowed a nearby conventional dry-dock suitable for a wide range of ship configurations less than 100 meters in length. It was towards the scaffolding the Xenig towships vectored.
"Um, no," echoed Captain as the sub-collective's relatively limited excuse for an imagination became highly creative in a very unBorg fashion. Think of it as focusing on "what-ifs" of limited probability, the type of which any sane collective of Borg minds would dismiss. Of course, even the most likely scenarios involved much in the way of plasma torches and verbs like "to dismantle." The consensus was such an outcome was Not Good. {Prepare weapons for another escape attempt. Primary target is the scaffolding.}
{Compliance,} eagerly said 183 of 300, still possessing the Weapons position since 45 of 300 had been sent into stasis. The latter remained in that state as drone maintenance performed a wide variety of ongoing tests to determine cause of 45 of 300's paranoia overload.
Playing the assigned role of pessimistic devil's advocate in order to voice the negative variables of the sub-collective's decision, Second began, "And what if..." He did not have the chance to complete the first objection as a syrupy wave rippled through cube superstructure and drones alike, starting at the face nearest the Xenig and proceeding through the vessel. As it did so, the connection to the Collective, formerly clear, twisted to a series of whistling distortions and bursts of crackling white noise. The link remained, but it had become unusable. Captain could not turn off the vinculum - no drone or sub-collective had such an ability, not even the Queen - but he could narrow the incoming datastream.
{Tau [turtle blanket] and [window treatment] where as [pillow pineapple papered]!} reported Sensors, the universal translator mangling meaning worse than usual. Confused silence followed the pronouncement.
In her alcove, Sensors unconsciously danced an impatient fidget, artificial legs clicking on deck plating, unable to adequately convey information through the interface with her native language. So important was the message that instead of repeating herself or awaiting compilation sub-partitions of her hierarchy to analyze (and report upon) was so obvious in the raw grid data that she shifted to a less precise (and non-gestated) tongue. {Tau vector shifts. Temporal distortion/bubble. Details to follow.}
Cube #347 had been pulled into a stable temporal bubble. Artificial or natural, the specifics were unimportant, as were the details that the sensor hierarchy were now assembling, graphics only slightly influenced by Sensors. What was important was that weapon systems retained full functionality and that the scaffolding was approaching optimum range. The distance was perhaps a bit closer than that required by a normal sub-collective, but experience had long since demonstrated that to hit anything accurately, the closer, the better. Weaponry unidled in preparation to fire, aiming systems actively painting the target.
A blinding purple-rose glow momentarily enveloped the cube, lingering as pseudo-flares played over conduits and alcoves like St. Elmo's fire. Second stared wordlessly at a ghostly flaming arm; and pyromaniac 279 of 300 huffed in disappointment as he determined via marshmallow-on-a-stick method that alcove-neighbor 137 of 203 was not actually afire.
{Report,} demanded Captain of engineering, ignoring Second's attempts to shake away illusionary flames. The order was echoed milliseconds later by Weapons.
Delta, collecting incoming reports from computer and hierarchy partitions, rapidly summarized, {No propulsion. No offensive or defensive capability. No tractor beams. No transporter. No laundromat. No sauna. All life support, replication, gravity, holographic, and other similar systems functioning nominally.} Delta scrolled a list of affected systems. {It is as if we were hit by a very specific directed dampening field, one designed to only target mobilization and offensive/defensive subsystems. Unsure how the laundromat and sauna fit the profile.}
{We still get tri-V,} inappropriately inserted 192 of 480, tri-V (and certain subspace radio channels) fanatic. {Well, the Knowledge Semi-Reality Game Show Network, anyway. My favorite show is coming on.}
"Will you cease? It is distracting," criticized Captain to Second, who was still trying to shake unflames from his arm. And to 192 of 480, {Return to your appropriate duties.} Captain turned the majority of his multi-faceted attention to those partitions building potential courses of action for consensus, to incoming data, to managing his hierarchy, to the minueta of details required to keep the cube in mostly functional order, threat or no threat.
A directional subspace broadcast, aimed at the Xenig towships, scaffolding, and dry-dock, was sent, demanding the cube be released, or else. While there was no "or else" to back the implied threat, the phrasing was Borg modus operandi. Predictably, there was no response, although perhaps a hint of chuckle was received from the chassis designated Xenig #1. Or perhaps the snigger was nothing more than an artifact of the temporal bubble.
{Whoa. You gotta see this new "Tricked Out" episode,} interrupted 192 of 480 into Captain's primary thoughtstream.
Captain ponderously shifted his awareness. {192 of 480...} he warned.
{I'm serious,} said the tri-V addict as she redirected the audio-visual feed, bringing her concern into the limelight of the sub-collective entire. Even Second, now resigned to spectral fire, cocked his head slightly as he blanked the exterior universe.
"...and staying on for the build team," announced a robust voice, "owner of Yeen's Tow Service, Yeen!" A vessel configured similar to the towships, only painted blue with white lettering, rotated in the video portion of the tri-V stream. "Here from distant Calzone's Star, chrome artist and welder extraordinaire, Miz Mary Parker!"
The announcer and foreground parade of beings were ignored in favor of the background...a background showing an Exploratory-class cube sliding into a giant dry-dock scaffolding, just as Cube #347 was doing now. A background scene which featured a pair of Xenig towships, comet nuclei, a miniature sun...
{What I don't understand,} noted 192 of 480, {is how the producers are accomplishing this. Hours of footage goes into Tricked Out. I know 'cause I've seen all the behind-the-scenes shows. There is a lot of cutting and editing and so forth. It is definitely not a live show. Maybe this temporal distortion has something to do with it.} 192 of 480 continued to ramble, unheeded.
Interrupted Captain {What is the purpose of this show?} to 192 of 480 as Cube #347, on screen and off, was snugged into scaffolding. The towships released their tractors as ones mounted on the sparwork took over.
Replied 192 of 480, {Tricked Out? Well, a ship - usually something next to worthless, but not always - is severely modified to serve another purpose. All in about a Terran week. There's a budget too, not that it is always kept; and some other rules. At the end is the fun part...competition!}
{How "severely modified"?} queried Delta, suddenly very interested.
192 of 480 cheerfully explained, in detail, to the growing horror of many in the sub-collective, especially engineering hierarchy, and especially Delta.
*****
Tricked Out factoid:
* An Exploratory-class cube is the smallest Borg vessel type at 1.3 kilometers per edge. It has a nominal crew of 4,000.
* A Lugger-class cube is the largest Borg vessel type at 8 kilometers per edge, yet only has a crew size of 3,000.
*****
Tess Rodar, mostly human with at least one ancestor each Klingon, Romulan, and Cardassian, was annoyed. Of course, given the collection of egos and know-it-alls (Tess not excepted, especially considering her genetic background) which often comprised the build teams, being annoyed was part and parcel of life. However, it usually happened later in the week, not on the first day.
"Zee dronez," complained Miz Mary Parker - she had been christened 'Miz' and insisted on her full name - with an artificial and carefully constructed speech impediment that shifted selected "s" and "th" into "z", "they are, how do you say it, getting in zee way. Can we not just fumigate zee ship?"
"Between body shield, armor, and the very expensive medical nannies in your blood supplied by this show, they can't hurt you," replied Tess in exasperation. "And you've only been on the cube, the hull even, for a grand total of an hour so far!"
Miz sniffed and tossed her blond hair, "Even so, zee drones are in zee way."
"We can't get rid of them, which you were /specifically/ warned before you were selected for the show. They are an integral part of the ship - no drone, no looking stock. If you absolutely insist, I'll up your guards."
"Barely adequate." Miz tilted her nose ceilingward, affecting airs. "My zuppliez, zey are on their way, yes?"
"Chrome-plated wheels from antique ground vehicles are on their way. And no bears or overweight targs or such...you /will/ use one of the suggestions from the design team," growled Tess. One of the ubiquitous cameras, resembling a small and very nosy flying saucer, drifted too near. She took an absent swat at it. The machine retreated.
"Oh, paleeeeeze. You will have a zuitable variation upon your insisted ob-zen-i-ty. Now, if you excuze-iz me, I have work to do. I must, how do I put it, finish determining which face iz the best and then start zee prep work. Zee battle hull of a Borg cube is /soooo/ tough." Miz turned on her heel and strode from the garage conference nook, heading for the airlocks.
Tess muttered fanciful things under her breath about the artist's probable ancestry.
"Genetic impossibility," inserted the flat mechanical voice which belonged to one of Yeen's remotes. The Xenig was ill-suited to be personally present either in the garage or on the cube, and so was employing mechanicals which usually served as mobile damage control agents for the mech's chassis. They looked too much like outsized - two meter diameter - spiders for Tess' taste. "Anatomical impossibility as well. The female..."
"Shut up, Yeen. Don't you have work to do?"
The spider bobbed in a shoulderless shrug. "Yes. I am already working on it, however."
"Then I suggest you use this mech as well to make your work go faster."
"As you say, mistress of the garage." The spider scuttled towards the scattering of equipment and parts on the garage decking. While the synthetic voice could not convey emotion, nonetheless the words had included a tang of sarcasm.
Tess, at her most fundamental level, was a mechanic. A damn good one, too, if a bit on the abrasive side. Long before the Knowledge Semi-Reality Game Show Network had approached her with its crazy suggestion for a show, she had made a living tearing apart perfectly good ships and putting them back together with not always legal modifications. Perhaps it had been the promise of a new dry-dock garage and other perks, but Tess strongly believed the real reason she had accepted the offer (and the subsequent headaches) was due to some freak genetic quirk passed to her from a great-great-grandfather of the unpresuming name Mikey Rodar.
Mikey was the galaxy's most famous, and flamboyant, scene stealer. Originally a small-time crook, he switched careers after the three year prison sentence from pinching money from the wrong people. The trigger had been the live broadcast of the rather exciting shipchase. Mikey discovered that he /liked/ being on the tri-V, craved it, and started his odyssey to fame by being a "background pedestrian" for man-on-the-street newscasts and progressed to "crazy fan in the bleachers" and "streaking naked through commercial spots." In the end, he had become a highly paid professional, on retainer with many major commercial and motion picture giants to appear without warning during production and making background hash of the shooting. If the editors did not catch his scene stealing antics, Mikey would end up in the final cut, much to the delight of the "Where's Mikey?" fan club devoted to seeking him in every movie or commercial. Otherwise, he was a perennial gag reel favorite.
Flash forward a century, and Tess Rodar was host of Tricked Out.
Tess frowned. She was also host to a mess in her garage. Most shows were filmed in the comfort of her fully atmospheric-capable dry-dock: ships were brought in the pressurized garage and modifications completed without the need for vacuum suits. A Borg cube of any size was far too massive for her facilities, however. This time her garage served as a staging area, supplies stacked in haphazard piles according to function and/or primary user.
Tractor beam mounts; smelting equipment; railguns - one military grade, seven appropriate for low-velocity vacuum loads; and two odd, yet compact, cylinders about which industriously climbed three of Yeen's mobiles. As Tess surveyed her domain, an empty area was transformed into series of giant pyramids as Miz's expected chrome wheels were delivered from a GPS courier via transporter. Somehow, someway, these disparate materials, along with several others too delicate for the garage deck, would convert a hostile Borg cube into an asteroid ore processor.
"Tess! Zee damn dronez, they be /firing/ hand dizruptors at me! You said they would have no transporter control and zerefore could not be on zee hull!" Miz's shrill voice sounded from a nearby wall speaker. While a skull transceiver with sound transmitted via jawbone conduction to the ear would have been more confidential, the purpose of a show which included a fleet of spy cameras did not include privacy.
"Security is coming, Miz Mary Parker," sighed Tess. Yes, it was going to be a long week, and this was only the first build day.
There was a brief scream, abruptly cut, and the noise of a scuffle. Tess, along with two of the build team, looked up from the puzzle of how to connect the (standard) railgun to the primary ejector of the massive bulk of ore processor machinery which rose above the trio. She dropped her plasma welder in disgust, picking up her sawed-off shotgun (well, not quite, but it looked similar, except for spitting extremely dense metal pellets able to carve most organic lifeforms into swiss cheese of, as well as a wide variety of common metals).
"I thought I said to secure the doors leading into the cargo holds!" bellowed Tess as she watched the hapless security guard be pulled through the opening and into the corridors beyond. Other guards, along with a pair of show technicians, were already rushing forward, not to save the man from his fate, but to comply with Tess' implicit demand.
The Tricked Out head tech, a waist-high crab-like creature with an incredible array of delicate appendages which made the recently encountered species natural tinkerers and much sought for in the technical fields, scuttled over. "Sorry." The voice was airy, aspirated, as it emerged from a series of vents on the undercarapace. "The drones must have disconnected the alarms. We've similarly secured the other holds, but they only seem interested in this one."
"Because this one is the only one with unassimilated meat in it," muttered Tess.
Continued Gruss, ignoring the side comment, "I'll add some more welds. In fact, I might as well have my lads and lasses and neuters melt on solid plates of the cube's own hull armor. That'll take awhile to burn through. We won't be able to use the doors, but we don't exactly need to, do we?"
"Good, and those?" Tess tilted her head at the massive cargo doors which dominated one wall of the hold.
"Secure for now. Once you get the remote installed, no future problems are anticipated." Gruss tapped one foot-claw thoughtfully. "Even if we do have another door incident before then, my team has the forcefield generators up and positioned to prevent decompression.
"This is turning into one of the most..."
A loud bang echoed through the cargo hold, followed by a faint "Oops" and the zing of a small object ricocheting at high velocity. Tess instinctively fell flat to the deck, and Gruss crouched as low as the Cathon physiology allowed. A crash and a thud and a tinkle of glass ended the threat.
"The railgun is working!" excitedly shouted Delorn, joined Trillian electrical engineers, recreational welder, and occasional spiritualist. "It'll be a snap for the other six; and the mil-spec one can't be all that different!"
Tess carefully opened her eyes, only to see a furrow plowed by the test shot in front of her nose. A more thorough scan of the hold showed where the load had come to rest deeply embedded in a wall. And this was a civilian-grade railgun. The shot had passed through one of the many crate stacked in the hold, splintering it and powdering the ceramic ballerina figurines packed inside.
"Jolly," grumbled Tess. "Well, test it again later! I want the tractors functional ASAP! And I want to know how Yeen is doing! This is only the first hold!" Pause, then to Gruss at a much more moderate level, "Get those slabs welded."
Wheezed Gruss, "Aye, aye, mistress!" The crab shuffled away.
Tess drove away one of the ubiquitous cameras which had floated too near by the simple method of clonking it on its shell with her shotgun. It wobbled as its internal gyros realigned, then silently slid to a more appropriate distance. It and two of its comrades had their white surfaces marred by the black soot which had been a result of an earlier minor fire cum explosion. That bit of excitement was surely destined to be included in the final production.
This room was one of ten(!) housings for auxiliary power cores. Built on the old dilithium warp core platform, except for size, the centerpieces of the room were not unfamiliar. Oh, there were odd modifications, likely "borrowed" from assimilated species, but the base component was recognizable. Of course, "warp" cores rarely powered warp nacelles in the modern society, at least not amid those who could afford faster transport, but the energy produced was easily used by transwarp coils, hypertranswarp apparatus, and blender alike. It was all a matter of the correct adaptor. The warp core was simply a power plant.
And this one was now a power plant with a semi-transparent blister attached.
Four of Yeen's spiders were in the room, the full complement of motiles, if Tess remembered correctly. One squatted near the main entrance, two clambered over the core, and the final stood alertly next to Tess. No other members of the build team were present, none able to contribute to Yeen's task since none outside of a Xenig understood Xenig technology.
"Other than the pyrotechnic interruption," replied Yeen via spider to Tess' question, "which was my fault because I misjudged the ability of a conduit to absorb extraneous voltage, I am essentially done. The two arrays I've installed will supply more than sufficient energy without need for Borg cooperation."
Out of the corner of her eye, Tess caught the motion of a camera drifting over the door guard's form and into the corridor. The dark shapes of lurking Borg shifted in the hallway; and one slapped the camera's shell with a low-tech wrench, considerably harder than Tess' love tap. The camera fell to the deck amid sparks.
"Damn Delta. That's the third camera she has killed." A new camera, sparkling white to the other pair's soot, materialized in the room. "How can anyone appreciate my work if the cameras watching me are destroyed?"
Tess repressed a snort. The Xenig had thus far precipitated an explosion, which was much more likely to make the final edit than any display of boring competence. "You are not worried the Borg will remove your, um, array when you leave? And who or what the hell is 'Delta'?"
The spider bobbed. "Negative. The only reason I've a motile at the door - the other entrances I jammed shut, but this one I could not - is to restrain the drones from swarming. They can be very annoying. The array is phased: standard Borg tools can't touch it; and they would have to completely remove the core from the ship to get to the array. That's not happening without major unimatrix dry-dock support. As far as the Delta...well, the simplistic encodings and dataspace of the Borg are easy enough to infiltrate, and rather boring once one is inside. Therefore, why bother? To put it simply, I can eavesdrop. The head of the engineering hierarchy is subdesignated 'Delta,' and that's one of her bodies out in the hall." Yeen did not seem inclined to additional explanation.
"Well," said Tess as she glanced at a nearby camera, "Could you tell the audience what your array is - other than a power source?"
Verbally pushed in the spotlight, Yeen preened. The two spiders on the core rapidly scaled the structure to the shadowy cylinder. "The array is indeed a power source. A zero-point field array, to be exact. It isn't powerful, not really, not like the array on my chassis: it only outputs twice the total available energy of this cube. The two I installed are little more than kits young Xenig receive when they are creche-bound - sufficient to experiment and learn with, but no threat to universe integrity.
"I've completed a slight modification by altering the phase in relationship to the universal standard. It is on a timer, and well before this cube reaches a place where equipment is available to remove and dissect the array, it'll completely phase itself to a rho-shift perpendicular to the local continuum-potential. I don't want Xenig tech in Borg clutches! Now, at the dorsal-nadir end of the array..."
As Yeen lapsed into increasingly complex technobabble which /would not/ be in the final, extended, or bloop reels, Tess froze her "interested host" expression on her face. Torture. She hoped the rest of the build team was accomplishing tasks, not degenerating to petty squabbles. Only a few more days to go; and it /always/ blew up on the last day.
It was the last day. Build team meltdown was in progress. Schedules had gone out the airlock, along with manners and sleep. The non-Xenig members of the team (and many of the increasingly frazzled behind-the-scenes security and technician staff) were largely operating on the personal stimulant of choice to keep awake and mildly functional.
Miz Mary Parker screeched over the communicator, "It iz impoz-i-ble! Thiz work, it will not be perfect!"
"Who the f*** gives a f***," swore Marty, a human who had largely installed the tractors. He was now helping Miz Mary Parker, well behind schedule, weld the required acres of chrome. The two worked together as well as oil and water, much to the delight of the producers. "All it f***ing has to do is hold together until after the f***ing contest." Marty's vocabulary of swear words was limited to a single favorite, but he used it with indiscriminate gusto.
"Don't you be talking to me, a great art-eest, like that. You be no more than a common, how shall I say, dockworker. An art-eest doez not work with zee time limits or..."
Tess, her face frozen in perpetual agonized annoyance (this was one of the worse teams ever: it would take days of rest and at least one bottle of a certain quasi-legal liquid to decompress), keyed her transmitter. A squeal tone preambled her announcement, "You have less than two hours to finish the chrome. At this point, I'm quite willing to ask security to slag you both, then have robots finish the job, making sure your lifeless remains are prominently displayed in the final product, of course."
There was silence, then a predictable sputter from Miz Mary Parker. Her voice was relayed through an on-site camera, Tess not presently in her garage with its convenient speaker system.
"End of story," snapped Tess. "You have two minutes to get your asses in gear. Yeen'll be over to help - don't bother responding, Yeen. If I don't hear a favorable report in two minutes, well, there'll be lovely footage for the producers to use." Tess didn't usually loose her temper, at least not in public, but it had been known to happen and, inevitably, those episodes were the highest rated. "Back off," she grumbled to a camera which had coasted too near.
The last day. The last hours. While the tractors and power plants were complete, such could not be similarly said of the surface chrome, the military-grade railgun, or the vital remote control. The railgun, despite Delorn's assurance to the contrary many days prior, had turned into a f***er (according to Marty) to install; and until it was done, the final ore processor could not be considered complete. The remote control, a deceptively simple black box, had become another nightmare, one which was Tess' personal hell.
The remote control, as promised by the (literally) oily Green salesdrone, was supposed to provide "hours of enjoyment by subjecting the most massive of Borg or Colored (not Green, of course) ships to your pleasure...Green are not responsible for any assimilations or traumas; read all warnings before installation." Any sub-collective severed from its Collective - which the temporal discontinuity was supposed to accomplish - was theoretically at a loss when it came to direction. The box, when attached to the vinculum, contained a frequency override that, until the sub-collective adapted, made it seem as if commands from the remote control, no matter how ludicrous, originated from the Greater Consciousness. The details were unimportant. What was important was that it wasn't working.
"This sub-collective is a mite pissed off," relayed Yeen through the single spider present with the remote control team at the vinculum, "and I think the drones will charge soon, me or no me present. The Deltas are especially unhappy."
Tess took a moment to look beyond the cordon of spider mobile and production security, eyes alighting on the unusual drone twins. Tess hadn't known drone twins were possible. She had always assumed any twins (or triplets, etc) assimilated would be separated and given different implants, assemblies, and so forth.
"Don't know why it's not working. Illogical," said Tony who, despite his very human name, was a Vulcan. A Vulcan with psychological problems, as expected when a Vulcan was raised by human parents employed by a traveling circus. However, he nonetheless was a Vulcan with an excellent aptitude with all things Borg. "What does the meter show at contact B?"
"The same thing that it showed before. According to it, everything is functioning dandy, even when it plainly isn't." Tess waved a free hand at the glowering drones. "Once this is installed we won't have to worry about them. You said this would be easy."
"It is. I have performed the operation numerous times." Pause. "On a holodeck, anyway. Something is wrong."
"No kidding. It won't matter how perfect the chrome is nor how accurate the railguns, if this isn't installed, all the team's efforts will be for nothing."
"A new drone approaches," called Yeen.
The crowd of spanner and plasma torch-wielding drones had opened a path for another Borg. The newcomer was heavily cybernized, his left side almost completely so. With no hesitation, the drone walked directly to Yeen's spider, stopping less than a meter from it. Even from her position on the anti-grav sled partway up the vinculum, Tess could see the unusual blue color of the drone's single whole eye.
That eye flicked up once to Tess and Tony, registering them, then refocused on the motile. "This drone is 4 of 8, subdesignated Captain. You will allow us to speak with the entity designated Tess Rodar."
"Don't forget the autograph!" was shouted anonymously and unexpectedly from the depths of the gathered crowd. The synthetic voice was abruptly cut, and after a brief commotion, the stiff form of a drone was carried away.
The Borg - Captain - in front of Yeen reiterated, as if the incident had not occurred, "We will speak to Tess Rodar."
Tess shrugged. "Get your box, Tony," she said out of her mouth. "I don't want to leave it up here." She waited for Tony to detach the malfunctioning remote control, then keyed the controls of the sled to descend.
Yeen's voice intruded, "Are you sure?"
"Let the drone through, Yeen," said Tess as the sled settled on the deck, then continued, as much for her own benefit as to warn the Borg against trouble. "It is not as if it could assimilate me. I'm sure they are working to crack security's protection, if they haven't already, but I've better nannites in my system than them." Beside her, Tony pointed his scanner at the drone. Tony was always scanning things, perhaps a nervous habit, a psychological manifestation of being raised in a less than logical environment.
"This drone is 4 of 8, subdesignated Captain," repeated the Borg when it stopped in front of Tess' sled. "You will desist. Your actions are futile."
Tess leaned against a safety railing, affecting an air of casual indifference. "You already said the first, and why should I believe you on the second, Mr. Captain."
"Captain," corrected Captain. Head cocked sideways slightly. "Because it is true. Your device will not affect us, not when attached to our vinculum. We do not lie. Your efforts are futile. You will release us and declare your insignificant show a failure."
Tess snorted. "The build team still has an hour and a half to go. Impossible miracles have happened before, although I do admit a Q was involved in one of them. Still..." The cameras were avidly recording the confrontation.
"Tess," said Tony, a note of urgency entering his studiously practiced calm voice. "Tess."
"What?" snapped Tess, her eyes never leaving the Borg.
"I think this drone is the primary data control node for this sub-collective, not the vinculum. Yeen, can you confirm?"
"Just a moment," rumbled the spider. "You are correct."
"And this means?" asked Tess. "Without the technobabble."
Replied Tony, "The box didn't work on the vinculum, but it should work on the drone. If we get the drone, we'll have the sub-collective."
Captain had taken half a step backwards.
"Can you do the mods in an hour thirty?" pointedly inquired Tess.
Tony nodded. "Hour, at the most."
Another half step; torso began to swivel.
"Detain our visitor, Yeen."
Tony was able to complete the job in thirty minutes; and only eight security were lost in the time before temporary control over the sub-collective was established.
*****
Tricked Out factoid:
*A Borg Assimilation-class cube has a base crew size of 10,000 (with 30,000 "extra" alcoves). Following a major assimilation event, onboard drone numbers can swell to 130,000. Alcoves are shared on a rotating basis.
*****
Welcome back, Tricked Out fans! This is Blackie Blackmeister; and while my bud the Shagster is here with me today, a small bout of Lecklorian flu has left him with laryngitis and the most /silly/ thing growing out of his ears. It's a good thing we are only voices for this program, 'cause otherwise the sight of the Shagster would have small children running for their closets and grown entities crying! Oh, don't glare at me like that Shagster, with purple mucus dripping off your proboscis like that, it is only true!
Ouch! Keep your tentacles to yourself, Shagster.
Anyway, here we are at the challenge, waiting for Tess to show with her mean machine. The operator of that top-line asteroid processor is looking a little bored, as if thinks Tess or no Tess, he has this challenge in the bank. Wait...what is this? It is Tess in her snazzed up shuttle, but she can't be taking on the challenge like that! No way! No...she's holding up something in the cockpit of her super racing shuttle and showing it to the processor's driver. And smiling. A small box with joysticks and an antenna?
Oh, stop glaring all six eyes at me like that, Shagster. I'm sticking to the script as best I can without your normal input.
Whoa! Red alert! Time to head for the hills, or at lest the deepest reaches of space! It is a Borg invasion! Wait...Tess is laughing. Well, I don't consider Borg a laughing manner, and neither does the processor driver. Like a laughing Tess, things aren't quite as they appear, and such is surely true here. Yes, the cube is being towed by a pair of Xenig. Remember, folks, for all your salvage and tow needs, small or BIG, call Yeen.
Whoops! Looks like we'll have to wait a few minutes as the ambulance squad resuscitates the processor driver. Say, this reminds me of a great story about the time Shagster...Ouch! Now that was uncalled for, Shagster. Stop twisting my arm like that - you'll break it. Fine, I won't tell the story, as amusing as it is...can I have my arm back now? Thank you.
Looks like the processor driver is certifiably alive and ready to go again. Great ambulance team we have here today.
Tess is holding up the remote control again; and the driver is revving his engines.
In case you can't see, two courses of eight asteroids each have been set up. The vehicles must pick up and process the asteroids to their constituent minerals and elements, the final products ready for shipment. The first one who processes the asteroids and crosses the finish line, wins! Oh, stop looking at me like that, Shagster. And they're off!
At least the processor is off. For such a lumbering beast, it is actually quite agile. It swallows one asteroid and, after a brief processing time, ejects several pallets and canisters for a chase ship to recover. Two asteroids! Three! And Tess /still/ sits there, watching the action, and grinning. Oh-oh, everyone knows what that grin means: something is about to be eaten for lunch. Raw.
Tess is pushing buttons on the remote control and toggling toggles, and the Borg cube is moving into action. What is this? Doors - eight of them! - are opening in the cube; and several panels are flipping over on that side to reveal an expanse of chrome. Oh, stop pinching me, Shagster, I'm sure the audience can see that the chrome is aligning into a most inappropriate outline. The broadcaster'll just have to deal with it. Tess is laughing her ass off. And I can say "ass" if I want to, Shagster. Have I ever told you how much a prude you are? Well I just did.
Security! Will someone remove or tranquilize Shagster before this neck grip tightens any? Thank you.
Back to the action! With eight bays open, it is possible to see into the cube! Look at those drones scramble! Well, without drones, the Borg cube would not be stock. Wow! A tractor beam is shooting out of each bay, one at a time, as the cube passes the asteroids; and each rock is being brought into a separate hold. I think the processor driver is about to have another heart attack. Good piloting, Tess!
The bays are all closing now - time to process. This may be closer than it seems, folks (yes, just leave the medicinal salve there...Shagster's slime does burn a bit), as Tess' creation has to break those rocks down to bits. The processor may have time to catch up and has finished rock five...no, six! Seven is being engulfed now!
And now...eight! This is too close to call, everyone! The doors to the bays are opening...and the cube is also starting to spin. Tess has that evil look on her face, people, and she has retrieved a second remote control, one which only has a single, red button on it.
Wow! Look at that processor explode! Bits everywhere! It seems Tess wanted to make a point with winning. The ejection mechanism of the last bay was set on a military-issue railgun platform! And the processor just got hit by several tons of iron ball bearings and diamond nuggets, not to mention packaged gasses cylinder torpedoes. That's a processor that packs a punch!
The ambulance is on the way to see if anything salvageable remains of the driver, but that doesn't matter because Tess has won! Even with a head start, the processor could not win against the Tricked Out machine.,
Whoops...looks like Tess might have lost control of the Borg cube, or at least the remote isn't working anymore. The towships are racing in to lay down the law of the land, but at least one ball bearing spread is launched at Tess' ship. Miss! The cube is turning now, retreating, with the Xenig harrying it from behind.
No matter. Tess is okay; and, most important, has won yet again. She has no time for cowardly Borg cubes, so you'd better return to see what Tess has cooked up for the next Tricked Out!
*****
Exploratory-class Borg cube: Freebie
Railguns, standard (7): 13,500,000
Railguns, military (1): 30,000,000
Remote control: 550,013.43
Antique chrome wheels: 1,430,875
Ore processing equipment: Freebie
Tractors: 16,040,500
Power plant, Xenig (2): 12,000,000 (to the Xenig Transcendence Fund)
Security (15): Freebie
Total: Greater than 50 million credits, but it is a special
edition, so who cares!
*****
{It will require at least five cycles to remove the modifications and return all systems and structures to standard,} reported Delta. Body A was on the hull, part of the work detail levering up chromed wheels for disposal; and body B was in Bulk Cargo Hold #6 inspecting the moorage of the overly powerful tractor beam which had been bodged in to replace the normal fixture. {We would like to retain the upgrades to the two auxiliary cores.}
{We'll see about the cores, once the Greater Consciousness decides to notice us again. Since the upgrades do contain Xenig technology, don't become too attached to them as there is a high probability we will be directed to dry-dock to have them removed for the advancement of the Collective,} said Captain as he reviewed the large engineering schematic which visually summarized the necessary reconstruction work. He was not in his nodal intersection, but Maintenance Bay #17. The black box, now short-circuited, Tess and the Vulcan had superglued to his abdomen was proving difficult to remove without taking an unacceptably large hunk of his torso. Captain cocked his head slightly as incoming vinculum traffic became more focused, direct.
Captain intoned, {We comply.} Pause. {Delta...}
{I can hear it too. We all can,} replied Delta. {Core mods to be left alone until unimatrix 005.}
Cube #347, hurling through hypertranswarp, altered course slightly for the aforementioned unimatrix. Time to transit was seven cycles, at which time most (theoretically all, but it /was/ the Cube #347 sub-collective under consideration) of the nonBorgStandard modifications would be removed.
192 of 480, returned to her regularly scheduled multi-feed tri-V channel surfing extravaganza, excitedly announced to the general drone populace, {On the Temporal Paradox Channel's "Ship Autopsy" program next week, they are going to feature the dissection of an Exploratory-class cube. Borg. Very interesting, because everyone knows that...}
What was very interesting was not voiced as 192 of 480 began to loudly protest as command and control summarily blocked all commercial subspace broadcasts.
Cube #347 increased velocity. Six cycles to unimatrix 005. Six cycles.
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