This is not deja vu. You have not seen this disclaimer before. In the Fishbowl of Life and All Things Star Trek, Paramount is the big shark on the block, owner of all it surveys. Decker is a big fish in the small pond of Star Traks. The aquarium of BorgSpace, and all the minnows contained within, is mine.
Brains, Trains, and Lightspeed Scooters
{Estimated time to completion?} requested Captain to Delta, engineering hierarchy head. As he did so, he sincerely wished for a drone-to-drone volume control. Unfortunately, such did not exist, with the only options mute, normal, and emergency. Captain knew the response would be at the lattermost levels.
{Stick the timetable up your nose,} snarled Delta. {The task will be done when it is done. No sooner, likely later...especially if I am continually interrupted.}
Captain knew there were certain times when a drone, even a primary consensus monitor and facilitator, should not push. This was one of those times. He sent an acknowledgement, then returned to the holographic game of Andorian battlechess. As usual, Second was winning; and, as usual, Captain suspected cheating, although he had yet to determine how.
Second moved a Tunnel Solder from a surface antechamber down to a level-3 passage. "Careful, else you will awake from regeneration one cycle with a head to toe rash, like 77 of 422."
Studying the board (and trying to skim Second's thought processes), Captain answered, "I just try to do my job. You are welcome to it if you want." Second's move defied logic, for the level-3 passage had neither offensive nor defensive strategic value, and nor did it seem to be a feint. Captain decided to ignore the Tunnel Soldier, instead advancing a Mounted Knight on level-1 by two T-junctures. "Weapon change on the knight to zhatzzats pole." Obligingly, the holographic representation of the Andorian knight on his insectoid mount unclipped a rod from the saddle pommel, telescoping it to a three meter length.
"No, no, no, no. I refuse to be primary consensus monitor. One day, the Collective will allow hierarchy head rotation again, and I will no longer even be the reserve." The lone Tunnel Solder was sent to a level-3 food storage chamber...in the wrong direction to press any attack on Captain's Royals.
Captain narrowed his whole eye, then sent the game volume slowly rotating. What was Second planning?
In the interstitial spaces, Delta, both of her, was not having a good day. Consequentially, engineering hierarchy was not having a good day. One did not curse the Collective, nor display (not that one could, mind you) hostility towards the Greater Consciousness. However, if such had been possible, Delta would have cheerfully strangled the current Queen and all her replacements.
Definitely not a good day.
Cube #347 was undergoing a retrofit. Cube and sphere retrofits were not unusual, even one as new as the current incarnation of Cube #347. Technologies were always being adapted or tweaked, resulting in better sensor definition or increased drive efficiency. The improvement may only be 0.0001% over the old, but after a few centuries of similar modifications, the increments added up. On the other hand, certain major systems, like as the inertial dampers, were not designed to be upgradeable.
Not that the Collective cared. Inconvenience was irrelevant.
The inertial damper system of an Exploratory-class cube consisted of 182 black boxes integrated into the spar structure which was a cube's basic skeletal framework. At the vast Borg shipyards, inertial dampers were literally embedded within the immense tritanium spars. When the damper system was working correctly, no reason existed to inspect the components; and when it was malfunctioning, a vessel either compensated, else was shook to pieces.
Of all the technologies the Collective had assimilated, the inertial damper was the least understood. This was not due to lack of technological prowess, but rather because none of the races absorbed understood inertial dampers either. Since the Greater Consciousness labeled curiosity as irrelevant and knowledge a feature to assimilate, if a 'client' species did not know the fundamentals of a technology, neither did the Collective.
Inertial dampers were the inevitable result of a space-faring species. Usually created during the investigation of an unrelated subject (i.e., advanced luge racing or duct tape), they were necessary once a race broke the light speed barrier. Even if a species itself was immune to extreme space-time turbulence, ships eventually crumbled from the stresses. Thus, the application of an inertial damper.
However, since dampers were created, without exception, through roundabout, accidental methods, no one truly understood how they functioned. The proverbial black box made real, they just /worked/. After the initial invention, future refinements to a given damper system was a result of trial and error. Most adjustments did not work, but a very few bettered the system. An excellent refinement to the inertial damper had been discovered on a species #9998 high-gravity luge-coaster extreme thrill ride.
Initial adaptation had successfully transferred the technology from luge-coaster to generic shuttle/runabout. The adaptation had been straightforward since the luge-coaster cars and shuttle chassis were roughly the same size. Next, the Collective had decided to apply the process to a full-sized cube test bed, an experiment since scaling to a larger vessel was not always effective. Cube #347, an expendable Exploratory-class of imperfectly assimilated drones, was the most suitable candidate for field trials.
Delta pushed body B into the working chamber meticulously carved next to the secondary X-axis support spar, located in subsection 15, submatrix 17. The action was akin to a cork popping from a bottle and required the assistance of the four drones already present when body B's shoulders became wedged in the connector tunnel. Because structural spars were not meant to be visited for maintenance outside of space dock, there were no interstitial space byways which led directly to them, necessitating brute force and a lot of construction laser use to access the inertial damper retrofit sites.
"Can we complete the install?" asked 117 of 230 as he heavily rapped the top of a toaster oven-sized black box with a spanner. The holder of the box, 28 of 42, shifted the inertial damper to prevent inadvertent damage, suffering a crack to the shoulder by the spanner on its final decent.
For the (check of datafiles) 257th time, Delta silently wondered why the protocol for damper installation required the head of the engineering hierarchy to be physically present. The counter advanced to 258. There was no logical reason as (1) on a normal Borg vessel, the 'head' was a fluid position, capable of assignation to nearly any drone at any time, and (2) Delta could view all relevant datastreams and visual feeds from anywhere on or off the cube, providng the appropriate oversight. It was likely a remnant instruction absorbed during a species assimilation and never purged; and it was damned inconvenient.
"Start already," ordered Delta. Body B had sixteen more of the fifty total installations to observe, and /she/ was the bottleneck in this particular manifestation of Cube #347 inefficiency. Body A was in drone maintenance following an accident involving 225 of 310, a cutting torch, and an avalanche of superballs. That body required long surgery, and by the time that part of Delta was mobile, the retrofit would be complete.
Without further ado, the drones Delta had come to observe turned in the cramped space and began to bungee cord and superglue the inertial damper in place. None of the installation sites were congruent with existing dampers, the Collective having determined via simulations of 'this is how it should work' the best locales for the new equipment. Following the tests, the Greater Consciousness' R&D division would want the devices back, and so damned if Delta was going to allow permanent attachment to the spars such that entire chunks of superstructure would have to be removed at a later date.
Once the black box was installed to Delta's satisfaction, several wires strung through the temporary access hole were plugged in to provide power, control, and feed back.
Delta turned and began to force body B back through the passage.
{We are done,} said Delta to Captain. There was perhaps the faintest note of nonBorg relief coloring her thought patterns, one which did not do justice to body A's leg nor the contusions and scrapes experienced by body B.
{Acknowledged,} replied Captain as he concurrently set into motion the initial system status checks of the inertial dampers. They would not be actually engaged for several more hours.
As with every turn before, Captain eyed Second's lone Tunnel Soldier on level-3; and as with every turn before, Captain could see no reason for its location. Once it had reached a level-3 auxiliary storage chamber in a corner of the gamespace, Second proceeded to ignore it. After many, many years of being both shipmate and fellow Hierarchy of Eight, Captain knew Second /always/ had a reason for moves, even when the outcome was not apparent. Captain moved his Queen Royal laterally one tunnel, taking a Tunnel Soldier from Second.
"Done," said Captain. "And I give up...what is the purpose of the Tunnel Soldier over there. It is strategically insignificant."
Second said nothing, the slightest of smiles his only reply. A Siege Fortress ponderously slid forward one space on the surface of the gamespace. "Really? Strategically insignificant?"
Captain returned full attention to the board even as part of his background awareness absorbed the incoming status reports from the fifty inertial dampers. He would figure out what Second was planning.
Bodies in alcoves, Delta had just completed an abbreviated regeneration cycle while command and control performed pre-test checks. She was uneasy, or at least not as confident concerning the forthcoming engineering trial as she normally was wont to be. She reflected the general consensual acknowledgement that it was low odds Cube #347 would survive unscathed. Delta did not care about the vessel crew, only, as befitting one whose bailiwick revolved around metals, plastics, and exotic ceramics, the cube itself.
{We continue to be unsure we can restart the embedded inertial dampers if they are completely disconnected,} stated Delta as she spoke the trepidation of engineering hierarchy. {There is a 37.2% chance we will have to burrow to each damper and jumpstart it.} Delta included a mental image of a car battery and jumper cables hooked up to a black box. Over the life of a space-faring ship, the integral inertial dampers were never disengaged except in extreme circumstances, usually ones with fatal consequences.
From his own alcove - all drones had returned to their alcoves in preparation for the upcoming test - Captain responded, {Irrelevant. The tests will proceed.} Pause. {Would you rather face the Will of an annoyed Collective, or perform your function? The former would mean termination at this time because of that Trimali IV-5-delta incident a couple of days ago. The Collective will not stand insubordination, even from those imperfectly assimilated.}
Captain referred to a case of spontaneous individuality at the aforementioned crust mining complex whereupon a group of drones had abruptly decided danger to self outweighed radioactive isotope extraction. The fact that the drones declared they would rather watch the finale to the Ferrengi hit "How Would You Rule a Populous Planet?" had sealed their fate. All drones at the complex had been destroyed.
The imperfectly assimilated required a low profile for the next several work cycles.
{The test will proceed,} dully repeated Delta. {It is the function of engineering hierarchy to warn of possible dangers and consequences. Disengaging inertial dampers. Don't drive the ship into a star: it is time consuming to remove all the scorch marks.}
Captain snorted aloud. {And how many times has command and control driven the cube into a star? On purpose, mind you. 181 of 480's escapade last month doesn't count. Besides, we only made it as far as the corona before the hierarchy regained complete control. Hardly any scorch marks at all.}
*****
The inventor team of father-daughter watched the cube intently, much as they had been doing since the vessel entered the uninhabited system. They had been at the red dwarf star testing novel orbital insertion techniques around the lone, nearly airless rock of a planet when the intruder had arrived. Neither had ever seen anything like it, not surprising since their race had only discovered warp drive two decades ago. At eight light years from the home planet, father and daughter were among its farthest explorers.
"I didn't think you could build anything so big," whispered the daughter for the umpteenth time. "Our calculations show a static warp bubble can't expand much more than 400 meters in diameter."
"Lucil," answered the father, "we are, admittedly, just entering an age of exploration with a new technology. Who knows what is and isn't possible to advanced species. Besides, sensors conclusively show that monstrosity isn't driven by warp, but another type of propulsion."
"Daa-aaad," moaned Lucil. Her small eyes rolled in the standard dismay the multiverses over concerning parents.
The father, whose name, when not 'daa-aaad', was Rodge, sighed. After several minutes of companionable silence, he squirmed around on his seat. Next came the most common complaint voiced by the pair throughout the two month voyage: "Why couldn't these chairs have been fabricated with comfort in mind? I'm getting a butt-ache again, and this one might turn into a migraine."
Lucil made suitably soothing noises, but made no move to help her father retrieve another blanket from his bed for padding. She had finally found the perfect configuration and damned if she was going to move if she didn't have to.
The anatomy of the race which called itself Honi was a bit unusual. A humanoid species, Honi were about the size of a human with the normal compliment of two arms and two legs. The stature of a Honi, however, was very aptly described as a pyramid balanced on a pair of monstrous drumsticks. The buttocks were extremely ample; and from there, the body slanted inward, cumulating at a pinhead which was barely large enough to contain eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. An x-ray would swiftly reveal the reason for the odd body configuration, for the brain (larger in volume than many similar sized humanoids) was located not in the head, but just above the buttocks. Consequentially, to prevent unacceptable jarring during day to day activities, the rear end of the Honi had evolved an enormous amount of natural padding; and supplementation in the form of pillow'ed pants was not only necessary for those individuals who spent long hours sitting, but was also regarded as very sexy.
"Dad! The alien is moving again!" cried Lucil excitedly.
Rodge hurried forward from the cramped aft section into the equally cramped piloting pocket, blanket forgotten. He avidly stared at the main screen where the cube was showing signs of movement. Their ship "Explorer" had earlier tried to hail the aliens, but had garnered no response. In orbit around the single planet, Explorer was small, little more than an oversized box with a nacelle located dorsal and ventral, marketed by the Honi commercial ship companies as a lightspeed scooter. Despite its small size, it was quite visible to anyone looking its way. Father and daughter had the distinct feeling they were being ignored, a blow to the ego of a race just entering the exciting age of interstellar exploration, to whom the meeting of a new alien is still novel.
"Look how smoothly they move," gasped Lucil. "Not a bump, not a shimmy!" Smooth movement was the holy grail for the Honi, a race who had invented high performance pneumatic suspension systems for slave-carried sedan chairs over three thousand years ago. With each step forward in travel, from animal drawn cart to chemical rocket, had come the need for technologies to protect delicate Honi brains from becoming rattled. Padding could only go so far. Thus far, neither the inertial dampers developed by Honi bungee jump enthusiasts nor those purchased from the few alien traders had adequately smoothed all the turbulence associated with faster-than-light travel. The cube, however, had piqued the interest of father and daughter.
"The coefficients are marvelous!" exclaimed Rodge as he quickly initiated a specialty sensor dedicated wholly to the Honi-derived science of perfect suspension.
Lucil sighed. "I wonder if they would be willing to sell us one of their dampers? Maybe a goodwill gift of meeting? That is assuming we can get their attention."
Rodge frowned. "Maybe." He called up the nav-puter. "Let's get a bit closer. It'll be harder to ignore us if we are next to their hull."
*****
Pair by pair, Delta brought the new inertial dampers online, critical oversight provided by command and control. Following each power up several minutes were spent confirming operationality. Surprisingly (and to much disappointment among those drones who had wagered otherwise) there were no malfunctions, no "difficulties." Within an hour, all fifty prototypes quietly hummed beneath their bindings of bungee cords and, in one instance, bailing wire.
Cube #347 failed to shake apart.
{I lodge a final protest,} warned Delta before Captain could issue the order to disengage the embedded dampers.
Captain curtly responded, {Noted and ignored as irrelevant. We will do as we have been tasked to do. Comply.}
{Compliance,} sighed Delta. {Do not place blame upon me if the dampers do not reinitialize later.} Delta mentally broke the final strings of code which surrounded the "off" command of the 182 inertial dampers which had been laid down with Cube #347's superstructure.
A slight, but perceptible, jolt shook the Exploratory-class cube. Except for a culinary experiment by 17 of 19, nothing exploded, imploded, or otherwise melted down. A mop and bucket were transported to Supply Closet #39, subsection 11, submatrix 18 to facilitate the clean up of a souffle gone horribly wrong.
"Well, are we going to move, or what?" demanded a voice from the alcove to Captain's right.
Captain said, "Stop being a backseat driver, Second." The Andorian battlechess game was currently paused as command and control focused upon the upcoming tests.
As if waiting for such a retort, Second swiftly stated the obvious in a droll tone which had required hundreds of hours of practice and many minute alterations to the synthetic undertones of his artificial larynx, "Exploratory-class cubes are not equipped with back seats."
No response was possible: Second would never let the subject go without having the last word. Captain ground his teeth together ({Naughty puppy!} chastised Doctor into Captain's stream of thought) and pushed the cube into motion along the positive Z-axis. {Initiating mobility test #1,} announced Captain.
Elements of engineering and command and control, supported by the sensory hierarchy, began collecting data. The small, boxy vessel orbiting the star's single planet was ignored as irrelevant, greater priority placed upon the inertial dampers.
{It works,} uttered the mildly surprised voice of Delta as she echoed the general consensus of engineering hierarchy disbelief. Thorough testing, however, would encompass a rigorous schedule over the next 215 hours, and that was assuming everything proceeded perfectly. The chances of such occurring had been calculated at odds of 71,251 to 1 for a normal sub-collective, and quite a bit higher for one composed of imperfectly assimilated members. There would be plenty of time for something to go awry.
*****
Rodge and his daughter waddled down the corridor, small heads swiveling rapidly back and forth as they attempted to take in all the sights. For such a bottom-heavy race, they were able to move surprisingly fast. After being ignored despite provocations short of ramming their scooter into the alien cube, they had decided to use the newly perfected matter-transporter system in an attempt to force face-to-face contact. Since the transporter wasn't very powerful, the father/daughter team could only reach the first of what appeared to be numerous levels. The volume of the cube was enormous! There had to be an equally large crew, or so the two conjectured.
"Where is everyone?" asked Rodge to no one in particular. He had yet to see anyone; and, in fact, except for a thin trail of clean deck plating, the floor was more than a little dusty.
Lucil paid no attention to her father, her keen engineering mind focused on other issues as she waved the Honi version of a tricorder. "This metal is some sort of tritanium-derived alloy, only denser. I've never seen the like! Imagine the resources it took to assemble all the material! I wonder how long it took to put this ship together and what its purpose is? Surely the civilization can't have many of this type of cube...it would bankrupt a government!"
The corridor was long and largely featureless except for a few angular runes laser-etched on the occasional panel. At periodic intervals cross-corridors branched, but because the looked as exciting and well lit (no sarcasm, not a bit) as the one they were on, Rodge and Lucil kept to their dusty way.
Lucil blinked, then straightened from where she had been examining a particularly complicated scrawl. A rhythmic thumping, heavy on the metal-on-metal harmonics, echoed in the hallway. It was coming closer. "Do you hear that, Dad?"
Rodge peered at his daughter. "I've not gone deaf quite yet, Lucil. I bet it is our welcoming committee at last." Gleefully the elder inventor pulled out a box the size of a large hardback book from inside the vest he wore and hung it around his neck. "I'll finally get the chance to try out the portable translator!"
Lucil sighed. "Are you sure it works, Dad? Don't forget that it 'translated' your sprig's snort-growls into a request for tea and biscuits." The sprig was the standard Honi house pet, bearing a resemblance to a cross between ferret and chicken, often lavender or blue in color.
Looking hurt, Rodge replied, "Well, Teral did eat the biscuits."
"And he then threw them all up when he tried to drink the tea. You should know better than to feed a sprig a stimulant."
"I fixed the translator. It works fine. Except when it mistranslated that alien trader's request a couple of months ago, and the mistake the computer made when it substituted 'newspaper' for 'bathroom' was perfectly innocent. It wasn't like the computer tried to insult the trader. After all, the two words do have similar linguistic roots and tonal inflections." Rodge defensively clutched the translator to his chest.
Lucil waved one hand at her father in a 'later' gesture. "The person is coming."
From around a corner about fifty meters ahead, an alien stiffly jogged into view. It was following the clean path through the light dust. The alien was humanoid, but the body dimensions clearly showed it to have a brain in its head instead of its gluteus maximums. No taller than Rodge or Lucil, the skin was unnaturally pale with gray splotches, making it look more akin to a zombie from a horror movie than a living thing. Most disturbing was the artificial arm, accompanied by numerous other metal bits embedded in the skin; and instead of clothes, it wore a set of unremovable body armor. Incongruously, a white sweat band encircled the forehead.
Rodge stood ramrod stiff. As he spoke, the translator dutifully translated words into a trading language common to the sector. "Hail alien creature. My name is Rodge Tinker. I am a Honi. I have...wait...don't you want to talk to me?"
Ignoring both father and daughter, the alien jogged past, heavy footfalls clanking against the deck. Without looking backwards, without acknowledging anything was amiss, the presumed crewmember continued along the dustfree track. After several minutes of stunned mutual silence, the sounds of jogging progress were lost to the ears of Rodge and Lucil.
"That was...odd," remarked Lucil.
Rodge frowned. "Let's continue on. There /has/ to be someone else around here. I'm sure there is a perfectly logical reason for that being's nonresponse. Maybe that fellow or gal or whatever was mentally deficient." Returning to the direction the two had been trekking, Rodge waddled forward with determination.
*****
Both of Delta frowned as she felt a distinct "pop" amid inertial damper system feedback. Immediately after, the sensor hierarchy reported a minute increase in vibrations; and at the same time, overall damper efficiency dropped by 0.0052%. A traceroot highlighted one of the new dampers as having shorted out during the previous maneuver. Delta sent an advisory to command and control, which prompted Captain to slow the cube to a halt. The entire chain of events, from malfunction to response, required less than five seconds. Delta disengaged the blown damper's pair, suppressing the vibration problem.
A vessel under a thirty meter threshold only needed one inertial damper, but anything larger required pairs of the devices for even load distribution. An odd number of dampers, or a spatially unbalanced load, was a risk for damage, and perhaps ship disintegration if vibrations became sufficiently violent. At the very least, an uneven application of dampers caused sections of a ship to not quite be in inertial sync, which might be fine for metal able to absorb the stresses, but usually left the unlucky crewmember in the affected area as a smear on the bulkhead.
Anticipating the likelihood of blown dampers during the test, the Collective had included thirty spares. Only the damaged one required swap out. Delta dispatched a four-crew to damper #47 to remove it and prepare the spar for its replacement. She then disengaged body B from her alcove for the installation oversight.
{Estimated time to repair,} inquired Captain.
Delta ran a quick simulation. {Forty minutes. Determine why the latest maneuver caused the malfunction so that dampers can be adjusted.}
An untranslatable almost-emotion, one composed primarily of exasperation, was directed at Delta. {I do know how to do my job. I may not desire to do my job, but I am competent.}
{Good,} replied Delta. As body B transported to the appropriate temporary breach into the interstitial spaces, Delta watched dataspace topography shift as partitions of command and control, sensors, and engineering mulled over the failure and how to correct it.
There were still many other tasks which required consideration. Cube #347 needed minor repairs and adjustments all the time, tests or no tests, which required attention before they became major problems. Delta accessed the task roster, focusing on priorities and dispatching the appropriate designations. The entire list was scrolled and examined, but it would require a dedicated engineering hierarchy three times the current allocation on Cube #347 to actually complete all duties.
At the bottom of the list, dismissed by Delta as insignificant, sensors at hull plate #1237761a reported stresses akin to that caused by a micrometeorite strike. It was unusual because deflectors normally prevented such damage, but not undocumented if said rock was neutral in charge. The reality of a mooring line anchored at one end into the hull and the other to a small box with nacelles did not occur to Delta (and even the paranoid Weapons labeled such an incident as "extremely unlikely").
*****
Lucil spotted the crewman first, but was quick to inform her father. "Look Dad, another of those people. That one is different, but it still looks like a walking tool box."
"I wonder why they do that?" questioned Rodge.
Shrugging, Lucil said analytically, "Maybe the two we've seen were hurt and this is how they heal themselves. Maybe it is cosmetic choice. It is something we'll have to ask about, assuming we ever get a response."
"Let's try this one, then," said Rodge amicably as he strode boldly forward to the object of the father-daughter discussion.
While the alien crewmember was obviously of a different species from the jogger, it remained undoubtedly related via the presence of an artificial leg and bits of metal and tubes sticking out of its head. Both arms were hidden, the crewbeing shoulder deep in bulkhead as it blindly worked on something within the maintenance space. A displaced panel leaned against the wall. The being's whole eye was half closed, presumably in concentration, and a tongue tip protruded from its mouth.
"Sir, madam, or whatever gender, could I have a few moments with you?" brightly asked Rodge, words rendered into trade tongue by his translator. "I saw your stupendous vessel when you entered this system, and as representatives of a race new to faster-than-light travel, I thought I and my daughter might have a few words with your captain, king, minister, or whomever. We were especially impressed by your inertial damper system. Perhaps you could take us to your leader?"
The crewbeing ignored Rodge's request. Its head titled slightly as it leaned forward into the bulkhead. Muffled zaps came from within the open panel space, accompanied by the sharp white flash of plasma sparks.
"Hello?" asked Rodge again. He laid one hand on the crewbeing and lightly shook it. No response.
Lucil raised her datapad and scanned the alien. "It isn't a robot," she reported, "nor an android."
The pair - mostly Rodge - continued to attempt contact. Short of bashing the crewmember on the head or pushing it over, nothing focused attention on the two and away from the depths of the maintenance panel.
"Let's try somewhere else, Dad," said Lucil as she pulled her father away.
*****
{It's flooding! It's flooding!} called the panicked voice of 118 of 300 into the intranet. {A wall of water!}
Delta immediately switched her primary attention from monitoring inertial damper performance to internal sensors. As sensory hierarchy rapidly scanned the interior of Cube #347, Delta noted an extreme lack of wetness, much less the flood of biblical proportions 118 of 300 was projecting. {Where?} demanded Delta.
118 of 300 relayed, {Bulk Cargo Hold #3! So much water!}
The spare inertial dampers were in Bulk Cargo Hold #3. With a mixture of confusion and urgency, a close scan was completed of the hold. Nothing. Delta located 118 of 300 in the aforementioned hold, but visual from the drone was lacking due to his tightly closed eyes.
{Survey the damage,} commanded Delta. {You are the closest designation.} Simultaneously, Delta triggered a priority first-level diagnostic of the internal sensors to determine if possible damage was hampering proper performance.
Suddenly Weapons roared, {Wimp, 118 of 300! You should not be a tactical drone! Captain, 118 of 300 will be removed from my hierarchy forthright, else I will do so myself. The assault squads need a non-holographic target for practice at full weaponry strength.}
As Captain's presence turned to convincing Weapons that (1) 118 of 300 would not be reassigned, and (2) purposeful termination was not the proper way to register a complaint about a particular designation, Delta reviewed 118 of 300's visual feed. Water was in fact present in Bulk Cargo Hold #3...a puddle at most three meters in diameter and one millimeter deep. A leak from high overhead was causing the slow, but steady, expansion of the puddle. Unfortunately, the drip was uncomfortably close to the pallet of spare dampers; and dampers worked poorly when exposed to water. They would have to be moved just in case the pipe blew before it could be repaired.
Delta brought up a list of available designations and highlighted a dozen of them. {The following drones will report to Bulk Cargo Hold #3. 26 of 42, you will locate in inventory six mops and at least two buckets. Transport them soonest.}
*****
Somewhere, someplace, sometime, a train charged along a track. It was powered by a mixture of wood and coal; and a blue-black smoke spewed into the sky. The existance of the train somewhere, someplace, sometime had absolutely no bearance upon the outcome of the drama upon a Borg Exploratory-class cube far distant. In fact, there is no reason for the train to be included in this story.
Forget it was even mentioned.
*****
The space was immense. Explorer could have landed with ease...and still had room available for the largest experimental Honi starship yet floated off the spacedock. Scooter sensors had reported the presence of the cargo area (one of eight), but neither Rodge nor Lucil had actually believed such was structurally possible. Father and daughter had been very impressed when they had materialized in the hold.
"Look at all this stuff," voiced Rodge with awe. He and his daughter were slowly touring one of the many aisles of towering shelves. While many of the shelves were full of items of alien manufacture, some things were familiar due to the whims of technological convergent evolution. After all, there were only so many configurations a spool of small-gauge flexible conduit could take.
"How do I look?" asked Lucil.
Rodge turned to see his daughter wearing an absurdly large hat. The hat - multicolored with a small, unmotorized propeller on top - slipped over Lucil's eyes. While it may have fit a humanoid who had a cranially located brain, such was not true for a Honi. "Put that back," hissed Rodge. "It isn't yours."
Lucil pouted as she removed it, then placed it back on a shelf that held a vast collection of other hats. "I saw that tool you pocketed, Dad. And that rock."
"All in the name of science," defended Rodge as he quickly continued down the aisle, forcing his daughter to hurry to catch up.
The end of the row opened into the immensity of the hold. Rodge paused as he noticed several of the alien crew materialize from a green transporter beam fifty meters distant. With no words exchanged, they quickly set to work (Rodge counted eleven of them) rearranging boxes, barrels, and piles of spare conduits too bulky to fit on the shelves. Lucil joined her father.
"Shall we try again?" asked Lucil with doubt.
Rodge shrugged. "Sure. It is why we are here, after all."
As the pair made their way to the bustle, a twelfth alien arrived with arms full of mops and buckets. It immediately dropped most of its burden, keeping one mop and beginning to sweep it through a puddle previously overlooked. After several passes, the mop was squeezed out into a bucket. Meanwhile, a line formed among the other crewmembers and, one by one, black boxes on a pallet were carefully passed firebucket brigade fashion to a pallet located 100 meters distant.
"Hello? Hello?" Rodge called loudly as they approached pallet, puddle, and busy crew. As before, they were utterly ignored. Muttered Rodge, "I am getting tired of this. If we aren't wanted here, we could be told. This silent treatment is just plain rude." The translator dutifully translated the aside.
Lucil halted next to the pallet of approximately seventeen boxes. Five had already made the trek to the other pallet; and as she watched, a sixth was carefully hefted and sent down the line. She flipped open her datapad and began to scan, trying to determine what the objects were. Her eyes widened as she read the output, and her ample buttocks wobbled in surprise. "Dad! Dad! These are inertial dampers!"
Box number seven followed the previous six.
Rodge abruptly broke off his contact attempts, shook one foot which had inadvertently found the puddle, then hurried to his daughter. Reading over her shoulder, he quickly agreed with her conclusion. "They are! They have to be better than ours. If /only/ we could talk to this race." Squaring his shoulders, Rodge declared, "And I /will/ talk to them. We /need/ a damper, if only to save the backside of our species from a collective butt-ache."
Marching to the alien crewman (number eight went hand to hand down the line) adjacent the pallet, Rodge placed himself squarely between it and next person in line. Near the other pallet, a crewmember tripped slightly, almost dropping a box.
"Excuse me," said Rodge, "but, you see, I've been trying to talk to one of you. Any of you." The blank expression, the eyes which seemed to be looking at something which was behind Rodge, caused a moment of faltering. Rodge rallied himself. The next words tumbled out. "An inertial damper. Could you please, please allow me access to one? I..." Rodge stopped in disbelief as the crewmember deposited one in his arms. Unnoticed behind Rodge, the rest of the line went through the pantomime motions of transfer despite the fact that they actually held nothing.
"Thank...thank you," stammered Rodge as she slipped out of the line.
Lucil urged her father, "Come on, Dad. Let's get out of here. These people are giving me the creeps."
Rodge stopped to watch the mopper, the line. Abruptly he caught the gist of what his daughter was trying to say - the absolute lack of conversation, the expressionless faces, the precise movements, the coordination which was inherent in a machine, not a group of biologicals. "Perhaps you are right, Lucil."
Explorer severed the anchor line to the cubeship and left the large vessel with as much fanfare, and notice, as the initial approach.
*****
In Captain's nodal intersection, the Andorian battlechess game was drawing to a conclusion. Due to a lack of anything but a smooth ride, even when one or more prototype inertial dampers overloaded, many of the Cube #347 drones who were usually mobile had left their alcoves to pursue objectives which in several cases actually related to their assigned function. Captain had already informed the Greater Consciousness that the cube was running out of spare dampers, but it would require [chronometer check] 352 hours until additional quantities were to be delivered. That was fine with Captain because it postponed the extremely dangerous faster-than-light testing phase: the greatest threat of a less than perfect damper system at sublight speeds was vibration. However, at supralight speeds, a millisecond reaction delay in halting meant the difference between exiting warp in one piece or multiple pieces.
Captain stared at the battlechess gamespace, turning it over and rotating it so as to see it from every conceivable angle. It seemed as if he were about to win, about to move a Borer into check position. Second should have been emanating a sense of brooding, of concentration, of anything except an uncensored satisfaction which bordered on the smug. Halting the gamespace examination, Captain triggered the Borer to move forward two chambers, placing it a wall away from Second's Grand King Royal.
Second did not stop to contemplate the layout. The solo Tunnel Soldier on level-3 disappeared, replaced by Captain's Borer. The check was broken, the Soldier at the back side of the Royal chamber wall. Stunned and disbelieving, Captain watched a ripple propagate through the gamespace. When the board stabilized, /all/ of Second's pieces, except the Grand King Royal, were Queen Royals. Needless to say, it was game over for Captain.
"Wait just a minute!" spluttered Captain. "That...that was blatantly against the rules for this game. And if you say rules are irrelevant, I /will/ have you escorted by the largest maintenance and weaponry drones on this cube to an assimilation workshop for personality erasure and reprogramming. It is irrelevant that you are of the Hierarchy of Eight: you can be replaced."
Second did not immediately reply beyond a lazy shrug. He did not smile - Borg just did not look right when they so exercised their underutilized facial muscles - but the emotive content Captain was receiving substituted for the expression. Finally, faced with the increasingly black mood growing from the primary consensus monitor and facilitator, he spoke. "Are you sure I did not follow the rules? Perhaps you should reacquaint yourself with the complete rule book."
The Andorian battlechess game volume was dismissed, replaced by a scrollable window full of writing. At an astounding 3.5 gigabytes in size, the file was the complete and unabridged copy of Andorian battlechess rules, circa old Terran date 2919. The rules were long and complex, with many caveats and tangents focused on important points of player protocol such as which type of weapons were appropriate for a duel challenge, and what provocation (e.g., chewing gum in the hours between dusk and dawn when all Royals were in the Royal chamber) allowed for challenges and penalties.
Captain rapidly scrolled through the rules. Eye narrowed, he slowed and finally stopped on a rule buried between the penalty for sicing live willy-bugs on an opponent and the accepted way to move a Siege Engine on the first day of a new year. In summary, it described the situation Second had engineered, including Tunnel Soldier, Borer, and Grand King Royal; and it also outlined the accepted move with the consequence of transforming all pieces. While there was no explicit rule that stated "When all else fails, cheat," Captain was, to put it mildly, very suspicious.
"That cannot be a real rule," said Captain bluntly.
Second refused to verbally respond to the implicit accusation. Instead, he mildly replied, "This is a game which allows victory in a multitude of ways, many of them involving terminal incapacitation of an opponent."
"Did you alter the rules?" demanded Captain.
Borg could not directly lie to each other...it was not possible. A drone could, however, shade the meaning or deflect the question, at least those of the Cube #347 sub-collective could and did. However, just because a drone was quiet on a question did not automatically assign guilt. It was, on the other hand, very damning. Second remained quiet.
Captain swiftly examined the rule file, but could not find any of the telltales of tampering. The data seemed to be uncorrupted. Unfortunately, neither could he compare this copy of the rules with another. Due to the sheer size of the file, none of the sub-collective's drones had completely loaded it to personal memory files; and Captain would not query the Greater Consciousness about such a triviality.
"I know you did something," glowered Captain to Second, "even if I can't prove it. Fine, the victory stands."
As Captain conceded the win, Cube #347 overloaded another damper. In a routine grown familiar, Captain halted the ship and initiated the partitions tasked with the responsibility to determine causation of the latest malfunction. His primary multi-tasking thread, however, remained fixated on the battlechess file.
{The last damper is gone,} inserted Delta into Captain's thoughtstream.
Captain continued to examine the file, beginning an arduous line by line dissection. {I don't have it. Inventory shows one remains.}
Delta mentally huffed. {Yes, inventory shows one remains. However, it is not in Bulk Cargo Hold #3.} Captain was forced to lock his joints as his visual input was unexpectedly high-jacked and substituted with a view of an empty cargo hold pallet. The view panned left and right, up and down, finally turning to focus upon one of Delta's bodies. Delta did not look pleased. {Find it for us.}
Captain dismissed the rule file, transmitting Delta's demand to Sensors for her hierarchy to search for the missing damper. Each prototype had a unique radio frequency emitter embedded in its case. {Delta, sever the visual to this unit.} Captain faced both Second and the bulkhead of his nodal intersection once more.
After several long minutes, Sensors replied. {The [black ball of fun] is not present.} A pink and lime ship schematic formed in front of Captain; and Captain abruptly wished he was still looking at Delta's face. Within the lacework of struts blinked a scattering of orange stars - the active inertial dampers. Malfunctioning prototypes were a cluster of shimmering sparks in Analysis Shop #28.
{Just a [lemon]...[warcraft] sensors [diploma] near [oriental rug],} helpfully added Sensors.
Captain looked at Second, and Second looked at Captain. The universal translator algorithm had made a greater than usual hash out of the statement from the sensory hierarchy head. {Repeat,} ordered Captain, {with alternate words.}
Instead of providing a verbal reply, the holograph of Cube #347 swiftly shrunk to a pinpoint as the display morphed into a stylized representation of the current star system. Or at least Captain assumed it was a representation because he had no records of a paisley sun. In orbit around the single plant was a ship the size of a Second Federation shuttle; and on that alien ship was the missing inertial damper.
Delta was flabbergasted. {How did the prototype get there?}
It was a matter of minutes to review recent memory memes, to construct the sequence of Honi approach, invasion, 'gift' reception, and retreat. Due to past episodes of unknown aliens wandering unchallenged on Borg cubes and creating havoc, the Cube #347 sub-collective had a root-level command modification which normally permitted heightened awareness of those non-Borg. However, in this instance, the tests had been of such high priority that the modified root code had been regulated to minor importance.
Cube #347 rotated slightly and with the remaining 48 prototype dampers still functional (technically there were 49, but one had been switched off-line for proper load balance), engaged high impulse towards the system's single planet.
*****
Lucil peered into the dark space, flashlight inconveniently just off kilter from where she wanted it to be shining. The scooter wasn't meant to have certain systems, like the inertial dampers, tinkered on from the inside, but she and her father were inventors, and the Explorer was their laboratory. Many modifications had been made since the ship's purchase. Therefore, she made due with reaching into tight spaces and splicing wire by feel rather than sight.
"I don't think it is quite lined up right," offered Rodge from his position in a pilot's chair. He was minding the controls and the boards while his daughter did the difficult work, providing only the best in unhelpful fatherly comments.
Growled Lucil, her voice somewhat echoing, "Do you want to come back here and do this?"
Rodge smiled. "No, no. You are doing a marvelous job, Lucil. You also fit better than your dear old dad. But the damper isn't quite lined up: the loading balance is a little off."
"We can fix the load via the computer, then. I'm not going to try to perfectly center this thing." Lucil tightened another bolt on the harness which held the inertial damper in place.
Rodge idly glanced at the sensor display to see what the alien cube was doing. Up to this point, it had been charging around the system at various speeds, occasionally sliding around in tight (relatively speaking) corners like an oversized slalom racer, only to dash along a new vector. Every once in a while it would tractor an asteroid or destroy it with powerful weaponry Rodge had not known could exist.
The cube was on a direct course for Explorer.
"Lucil! I don't think we are being ignored anymore!" shouted Rodge.
From the aft section of the scooter there was the meaty sound of head and shoulders hitting metal, followed by a curse and a "Huh?" Lucil staggered into the pilot pod, holding a spanner and rubbing her right hip. "What did you say? I hit the side of my butt on your bunk, and now I'm starting to ache."
Rodge looked at his daughter, then indicated the appropriate display. "The aliens are coming right for us. Quite quickly, at that. They'll be here in less than twenty minutes."
Lucil sat down in the empty chair just as the computer beeped, indicating an incoming transmission. Rodge pressed a button, accepting the hail. Words boomed over the speakers...in the Honi language, unmediated by the computer's inexpert universal translator. Multiple tones, multiple voices spoke together with an electronic reverberation: "We are the Borg. You have stolen equipment from us. It will be returned. You will comply." There was a beat, and almost as an afterthought additional words were spoken. "You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile."
The transmission terminated before Rodge could reply; and hails sent from Explorer were ignored. The cube continued along its unerring path.
"Do you think they mean the inertial damper?" asked Rodge. "I thought it was a gift."
Lucil was swiftly inputting commands into the nav-puter. "Gift or not, it sounds like the aliens want it back. If it works - and it will - maybe this should be a case of possession is nine-tenths the law. That inertial damper will make us heroes to our race. Never will there be a sore brain again! Not only starships can benefit, but ordinary transportation...even merry-go-a-rounds, Ferris wheels, rollercoasters and other extreme sports."
An inventor, like a writer or an actor, had great acquaintance with the poetic adjective of 'starving.' Financial ends were always difficult to meet. Very few inventions were truly successful; and those that did produce credits were inevitably used to fund the next investigation. A superior inertial damper would not only provide for Rodge and Lucil's next lightspeed scooter payment, meals, and invention seed money, it would make them very, very rich.
"Riiiight," said Rodge. As elder, it was his responsibility to make the ultimate decision. "Let's get out of here, then." He waved one hand in imitation of a fictional starship captain from a popular fictional science fiction sitcom-comedy.
Lucil rolled her eyes at her father's grandiose pronouncement and gesture She finished the input and pushed the final key, waiting with great expectation. Nothing happened. Lucil read the screen, then groaned. "On the up side, the inertial damper is working perfectly. On the down side, it is interfering with the warp core: we can't go to warp. A stable static warp bubble can't be formed."
Rodge gulped, eyes firmly on the incoming juggernaut. "Well, then, as your father, it is my duty to say that it is time to get the hell out of here, any means necessary. I'll drive while you make the damper and warp core talk nice to each other." With nary a bump, shimmer, or vibration to affect delicate behinds and the brains within, Explorer boosted away from the planet at high impulse.
*****
Cube #347 chased its quarry. Theoretically, the cube should have caught the small vessel with no problem. The reality was inertial damper which overloaded at inconvenient times during the pursuit, which, in turn, warranted an immediate response. By the time the halted cube had redistributed inertial load and began following again, a sizable gap needed to be closed before tractors attempted.
The Collective had determined an Exploratory-class cube needed a minimum of 32 prototype dampers for acceptable ship performance, assuming the load was balanced correctly. Anything less would make the vessel useless not because of loss of structural integrity, but due to the terminal effects of improper inertial damping on drones. The use of fifty dampers in the test was a reflection of the Borg propensity for redundancy. However, with more than a few problems to iron out, acceptable balance by the remaining dampers was difficult to achieve. Currently there were forty functional dampers, 36 of which were on-line and four of which were in transit to better location for load distribution.
{Enough is enough. Delta, reinitialize the original inertial dampers,} Captain ordered.
Delta, busy as she simultaneously assisted with an install and wielded plasma laser to carve a path to a main superstructure spar, replied, {Compliance.} The appropriate 'on' codes were mentally massaged. With a virtual sound that roughly translated to that of an internal combustion engine failing to turn over, the system failed to start. A second and third attempt was made; and a second and third failure was recorded.
{I told you so,} said Delta to Captain.
{I told you so,} said Delta to Captain. Captain locked his jaw to prevent tooth grinding: now was not the time to trigger Doctor's chiding, followed by a multi-media assault featuring dental care (Captain had yet to disengage the automated response...Doctor, a middling programmer, had enlisted the ex-hacker dataspace wizard of 142 of 203 to build the code).
Delta was starting to show signs of strain as the numbers of engineering hierarchy members mobilized increased. Engineering teams were troubleshooting overloaded dampers in an attempt to make repairs; and others were physically transporting the remaining functional prototypes to locales more conducive for load balance. As Captain watched, Delta marshaled more drones, these ones tasked with burning to the embedded dampers and performing manual jump-starts.
Captain had not wanted to contact the Greater Consciousness, to request official direction. He was 95% sure what the answer would be. Still, he was running out of options; and now was the time to pass the responsibility to a higher authority. The appropriate subspace fractal frequency channel was widened between Cube #347 sub-collective to main Collective.
{Priority, request directive,} said Captain as he simultaneously fed a compressed datastream recent cube history.
<<We're sorry, all priority circuits are busy right now. You are currently 12th in the priority hotline queue. You will be answered in 2.7 minutes.>>
"Bugger," swore Captain aloud. A countdown timer was activated in the dataspaces; and tinny muzac flooded all general audio channels.
Captain knew the most efficient course of action was to abandon the pursuit. Unfortunately, it was very unlikely the Greater Consciousness would agree with the opinion of a mere drone, an insignificant and imperfectly assimilated cog. After all, the Collective followed a stern policy of disallowing theft of anything, including nuts and bolts, from functional vessels. The moment a cube or sphere was destroyed, the Greater Consciousness lost interest; and scavengers often quickly descended upon Borg debris in order to supply a thriving black market for such items. The only exception was drones, which the Collective would reclaim, dead or alive. Cube #347, remained a (mostly) functional vessel; and the facts clearly showed the Honi ship to have stolen a prototype damper.
The timer hit zero and began flashing. The muzac stopped. The brooding presence of the Greater Consciousness focused upon its Cube #347 node, briefly weighed options and considered the ship's deteriorating condition, then pronounced, <<Continue pursuit.>>
The 95% conjecture became 100% reality.
*****
Lucil was still trying to force the warp core and new inertial damper to play nice with each other. The most logical course of action was to abandon effort on the stolen prototype, except for the very important consideration that it provided the best ride a Honi butt (and brain) had ever experienced. Thus far, Lucil's reward was a thin, black smoke which filled the scooter and the distinct smell of burnt rubber. The sparks were a mere annoyance. There was no need for environmental suits, yet, but if fire suppression was inadvertently triggered by the smoke, all bets were off. Honi, like most races evolved on oxy-nitrogen worlds, had difficulty breathing carbon dioxide.
At the navigation boards, Rodge piloted Explorer. While the smaller vessel was intrinsically more maneuverable due to less mass, in a stern chase the large cube had a better acceleration and would ultimately catch the scooter. A distinct lack of convenient debris warranted the aforementioned stern chase; and Rodge was at a loss as to why they had not been caught or destroyed.
An eye attending both tracking display and enhanced visual, Rodge watched a familiar drama play itself out once more.
The cube no longer had a smooth ride, but showed distinctive jerks, jogging, and other characteristics of a not-quite-functional inertial damper system. The hindrance did not hinder the alien ship's pursuit, and at a speed slightly greater than the highest practical impulse Rodge could push Explorer, passed its quarry. Abruptly the cube slowed to half impulse, likely with a jolt that stressed its faltering dampers, and attempted to spear the scooter with tractor beams. At the speed Explorer was traveling there was no time to alter vectors and avoid the cube and its tractors. However, successfully capturing a high impulse object while trekking at a much slower velocity was extremely difficult, necessitating a near perfect mesh between computer and operator. As the times prior, the tractors failed to lock; and the stern chase recommenced.
Rodge gulped. He was too damn old for this. "Lucil, darling, could you hurry it up a bit? That last one was a bit close."
*****
{Tractors, not weapons, Weapons. Tractors,} berated Captain to the head of the weapons hierarchy. Cube #347 had been lined up perfectly for the last capture attempt, except an stab by Weapons to engage torpedoes instead of tractor beams had caused the vital hesitancy that allowed the Honi vessel to slip by once again.
Weapons was petulant. {Neither disruptors nor neuruptors were to be used. Torpedoes would not have caused an inertial damper overload.}
{That's not the point, Weapons,} attempted Captain once more. {We must capture the ship and retrieve the prototype. If you destroy the target, then there will be no prototype to retrieve.} Captain could see that on an academic level Weapons was following the logic, but reasoning still refused to sink in for behavior modification. {Tractor beams only. Comply.}
There was a long pause, then Weapons spat a sullen {Compliance.}
It was possible to technically label the capture attempt as "docking," which would allow engineering access to the tractor beams, a situation Captain would prefer. However, with Delta on the edge of mental overload due to the number of her hierarchy mobile, adding the burden of tractor beams was not prudent. Command and control was already shouldering an increasing amount of logistical overflow from engineering; and a growing percentage of the assimilation hierarchy were being pressed into engineering service.
The curious actions observed by Rodge were due to the need of Cube #347 to preserve its remaining inertial dampers. A short had been discovered, unknown in location, but one which would cause damper overload if the cube used any energy-based weaponry while traveling faster than half impulse. A large part of the engineering hierarchy was now dedicated to tracking the fault, but with literally thousands of kilometers of conduits and wiring to check, it was highly unlikely the short would be found in the next week, much less the next fifteen minutes. Even with precautions, however, the uneven load still precipitated blown dampers.
Captain brought Cube #347 to a halt after an inertial damper exploded, literally. As he accepted summary partition reports and weaved together what-if simulations into a fabric from which to base a decision, he (or, rather, the sub-collective) contemplated what action to pursue. Cube #347 was now at the 32 working inertial damper threshold, and the load was not properly distributed. The drone maintenance roster was growing as units, mostly engineering, found themselves in locations where inertia was not quite cancelled when the cube made a sudden maneuver. The crux point had arrived.
And passed.
{Weapons, modification of orders,} said Captain. {Pursuit is no longer a relevant option. The target will be destroyed the next time we catch up to prevent the unauthorized departure of the prototype damper from this system.}
{About time,} was the reply as sufficient weapon systems to destroy a Second Federation capital ship, much less the Honi vessel, powered up from idle.
*****
"Here they come again," yelled Rodge, "and I don't think they are going to try tractoring this time! The sensors are reading the same energy spikes present when the cube was destroying rocks, only more so. I don't think Explorer will be able to escape from a wall of whatever it is preparing to throw at us." Rodge was feeling helpless, unable to avoid the inevitable, not even a small asteroid to put between himself and the oncoming juggernaut.
Lucil's muffled voice called, "I think I almost have it. I just need to solder this final connection. Just a little more time..." Lengths of wires adorned the aft part of the ship, strung between the inertial damper, the warp core control housing, and various intermediary datapads.
"We don't have a little more time. The cube has passed us...and there's the emergency slow. I can't drive around them, Lucil...this isn't the expressway at home. More energy spikes. We are going to pass by in less than ten seconds."
Silence was Rodge's response. Suddenly there was a curse (where /did/ Lucil pick up that language?). "I think I've soldered my fingernail to this connector, but goose the accelerator anyway, Dad!"
Praying to whatever gods looked out for trouble-mired inventors, Rodge pushed the key to initialize the warp core. If anything, the transition to light speed was even smoother than the cloud-like ride of high impulse.
*****
The planet was taking a serious beating. Several craters were visible from orbit, and what little atmosphere present was turning orange. Lackluster tectonics were being revitalized near the equator with the eruption of a trio of volcanoes. Cube #347 did not have the armaments necessary to destroy a planet, but Weapons was certainly trying.
{You are wasting power and munitions, Weapons,} warned Captain.
Weapons ignored Captain, disruptors shaving several meters off the planet's highest peak before being used to carve several deep canyons for the burgeoning lava river. {Weapons hierarchy is performing live fire exercises in the event we are required to assist in an orbital assault.}
It was a decent rationalization, and Captain let it stand rather than challenge what was essentially a temper tantrum by Weapons over missing the Honi ship. The target had reacquired warp seconds before entering Cube #347's weapons envelope; and lacking serviceable inertial dampers, an attempt at faster-than-light speeds with untested prototypes was suicide. Even the Collective had agreed with the Cube #347 sub-collective decision matrix (minus Weapons' dissention) that pursuit would destroy the cube without gaining the prize. The Greater Consciousness cared not so much about the drones on board (drones were easy to replace, after all), but the material and time investment represented by the construction of an Exploratory-class cube.
The stolen inertial damper was the Collective's problem now. While a Cargo-class would eventually deliver sufficient new prototypes for Cube #347 to resume tests, five Assault-class spheres had been dispatched to find and confront the Honi. Cube #347's role in the drama was over, allowing engineering hierarchy to pick up the pieces.
Captain tilted his head slightly as he heard footsteps enter his nodal intersection from the catwalk. Without turning his attention away from the holographic representation of the engineering to-do list, he tagged the arriving unit as 3 of 8.
"So," spoke Second, "fancy another Andorian battlechess game to pass the time?"
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