The Big Dog on the block is Paramount, who guards the house of Star Trek. Decker is the Medium Dog who plays tug-of-war with Star Traks out in the yard. I am the Small, Yappy Dog down the street with the BorgSpace bone.
Big Game Hunter, Part I
The station, a structure barely deserving the name, was largely constructed of the mothballed hulls purchased cheap, barges, and miscellaneous metal cylinders. The complicated mess was loosely attached to a small, partially hollowed asteroid, which added to the "living" space. While the always-chilly temperature was barely considered adequate by most inhabitants and visitors, the station, despite its appearance, rarely experienced major atmospheric leaks or decompression events. Personally, Tol thought the station to be a large pile of trash not even worth the metal content to recycle, but it did have one major plus: it was out of the way and /anything/ could be purchased, sold, or shipped by one who was in the know. And Tol was in the know.
Tol was a Xenig. His fifty meter, unreflective black hull could be described as a successful mating between lawn dart and a four-lobed starfruit. He floated several hundred meters from the conglomeration of cast off odds and ends held together by vacuum welds and collective prayer. As supervisor of the other three Xenig in his small fleet, there was no reason for him to risk his hide docking with the station when he could delegate the task.
The other Xenig, as befitting their roll of porter, wore hulls more conducive to hauling cargo than Tol's sleek lines. A creative being might describe them as pregnant horseshoe crabs, minus tail. Like Tol, the hulls were a spectrum-drinking black. They were not precisely subordinate to Tol: they could leave at any time and they certainly spoke their opinions when the need arose. Xenig had no concept of slave or indentured servitude. However, the trio were much younger than Tol, barely out of the creche, and this was their first "real" job. Experience was required in a universe of unpredictable organic-based sentients in order to determine personal aptitude...to learn what each wanted to do with the rest of their lives as the mech species strove towards the racial goal of the Search for Transcendence. Currently, Loog was docked, suffering the local longshoremen access to her hold to off-load the latest hunting trophies.
"How much longer?" groused the human Tol billeted. Sometimes he envied the porters he employed. They only had to transport dead things. Dead things never (okay, only once, but that was a fluke) tried to engage a Xenig in conversation. However, the human was paying more than enough to warrant Tol to be polite. Hell, for what the human had shelled out for Tol's services as big game hunting guide, a small, modestly populated planet could have been bought.
Tol answered. "Several more hours, sir. I am negotiating with a buyer for the truski meat now - prime truski steaks are a delicacy for the connoisseur that wants to experience rare, exotic game; and the trophy forl tusks you wanted to send home need to be shipped by a 'special service.'"
"You mean a smuggler," translated the human.
"My customers rarely wish to use such direct language, but yes, a smuggler. After all, forls are exceedingly endangered, and the authorities of your home planet might become very excitable should they decide to inspect the package containing the tusks. It is part of my services to make sure your trophies arrive to where you want them." Tol was very proud of the contacts he had groomed over the last five centuries since entering into the guide business.
Tol had no moral qualms about leading his customers on trips which usually ended with a creature killed at the finale. In his eyes, as with most Xenig, all organics were, well, organic. There was little difference between a sentient bag of carbon bonds and one which had just sufficient instincts to eat and procreate. Sometimes it seemed both ends of the biotic spectrum were one in the same. Most of his customers, including the present, tended towards the dangerous (and often rare) prey, however he had been on the equivalent of butterfly collecting trips and photo hunts as well. Unlike most customers, his current client had near unlimited funds to squander.
"Whatever," said the human. "Will you be able to procure that item I asked for?"
Tol had no head to nod, but he could chime a tone which signaled the same thing. He did so. "Yes, sir. The rum-flavored 'Double-Bubble' chewing gum is expected to arrive by GPS courier shortly."
The human - James d'Arthur III - flashed a wide grin, his personal vice soon to be satisfied. He was mildly handsome, a bit taller than average, reasonably intelligent, psychologically well-adjusted...in short, the recipient of the best cosmetic and genetic tinkering money could buy. An expensive medical nanite suite rivaling the best from the Second Federation military labs patrolled his body, maintaining his health and, as a side-effect, guaranteeing a lifespan roughly thrice that of an unmodified human. However, at thirty years old, an age which in years past would have long demarked him an adult, he was little more than an well-grown infant in the eyes of his business mogul family. Hell, he'd have to wait until his great-grandmamma kicked the bucket before he be given so much as a minor sweatshop to manage; and old Bitty d'Arthur, in between hypochondriatic bouts, was showing every sign of living for several more decades. Until then, James was forced to endure a boredom that even an allowance greater than the gross domestic product of a major industrial planet could not allay.
Dressed in his idea of the quintessential big game hunter - beige shorts, short-sleeved beige shirt (with breast pockets), wide-brimmed hat - James was growing impatient. For the sake of this event, he'd even learned an archaic accent known once-upon-a-time as "English" so as to complete the ensemble. Thus far, however, the creatures he'd shot were little more than exotic versions of lions and tigers and bears, oh my. The universe had to hold greater challengers for a bored member of the insanely rich elite.
"What is the next item on the hunt, Tol?" asked James as he idly regarded a screen which showed a view from the mech's hull looking at the station.
Tol, who had been debating that very question with his junior partners, answered, "How about a vatoosi?" The image on the monitor vanished, replaced with the video of a plant more fauna than flora. With Venus-flytrap jaws and a chameleon skin, it was the vegetative ruler of its ecosystem. "Very vicious. The sap is acidic and quite poisonous. A serious botany collector would give almost anything for either a dead or live specimen. Live would be much more challenging."
James frowned, top lip verging on a sneer. "I don't like salads."
"How about a snip-snap, then?" questioned Tol. The odd name was the designator for a deep-sea animal the size of a small runabout which looked like an armored octopus with lobster claws grafted at the end of each tentacle.
"What's it good for?"
"Makes a mighty fine sushi, I've been told, once you get rid of the 99.9% of flesh that will kill you if you so much as touch it. The testicle-equivalent is the proper part to eat for a human. Of course, since 9 of 10 of the animals are female, it may require time in order to find a male."
"Nah. Too much work," dismissed James.
One at a time, Tol scrolled through a long list of creatures, each one more a challenge than the one before. While the mech had a large file of huntable species which required days of recitation to reach the end, it was not inexhaustible and he was growing increasingly exasperated at the objection to each one. "Sir, do /you/ have a suggestion?"
James smiled, turning away from the screen. "You bet I do. I want to go after an Ehtu! Imagine the prize that would be!"
Tol was silent at the pronouncement. Oh, he could imagine the prize. He could also image the twenty-seven kinds of Hell would descend upon him if he actually survived an encounter with an Ehtu. Ehtu normally deployed the lowest tech necessary in a given situation, but that did not mean the knowledge of high-tech was not present. After all, rumors whispered on the galactic winds hinted that the species had survived the initiation of the current universe, hailing from the one prior. Not even Xenig were confident they could do that. Besides the fact that Tol refused to hunt another sentient mech on moral grounds, when the Ehtu in question inevitably won the encounter, the Xenig home system could expect a swarm of the massive, multi-shelled mechs seeking retribution. It was an event which could motivate even the usually sedentary adults from their chosen home sites; and an elder Ehtu often had a body numbering in the /tens of millions/ of shells.
"Well?" pushed James.
Tol carefully answered, "Such a quarry would not be wise, James. To hunt Ehtu would require, first, finding a spacefaring adolescent, and they are few and far between. It could take /weeks/ to track one down. And then, a healthy adolescent has at least 500,000 shell units comprising its body. It would be necessary to eradicate 490,000 of the units, or the equivalent proportion of a larger Ehtu, for the greater body to be 'killed'. I hesitate to reveal any weaknesses, James, but that might be a tall order even for a large fleet of Xenig, much less myself, Loog, Yue, and Caz. And, of course, there would be real danger to yourself as well." Tol had long since learned James to be of that class of customer who wanted the illusion of danger, but did not actually desire to experience pain or discomfort.
James blanched as he imagined the outcome of 500,000 to 1. "Well, maybe not an Ehtu. I /do/ want something more challenging, though, Tol. I am paying you enough. Something a bit...smarter...than the animals I've taken before now."
Smarter, was it? Tol had no qualms about pointing customers at sapient organics. In fact, a good proportion of his clients over the years desired the illicit thrill of hunting another intelligent being. Considering the amount of money involved, Tol brought out his trump card. Forsaking the monitor screen, Tol projected a holographic representation of a particular spacefaring quarry.
James gasped. "I thought they were all extinct! The histories show the Borg, er, Hive were very methodical about eradicating every single one of them. The Hive and allies were even willing to blow up gas giants and entire stars to get rid of a single..."
"You did want intelligence," interrupted Tol, "and this one certainly has that. It is also the last one of its kind as far as I know. Think of the trophy you could make of it, not to mention the bragging rights."
"But a Dark...." muttered James, enthralled, eyes focused upon the image as it began to slowly rotate.
Tol knew he had his client's attention. "It gets even better. This fellow is rather wary, and it will require a special bait to lure him in. Acquiring the bait itself will be...interesting."
A large grin crossed James face. He was excited. /This/ was the challenge he sought. "That sounds great! Tell me all about it! What bait...what strategy...what weapons. I want it to be sporting, but not too sporting, you know."
Tol proceeded to lay out the plan.
*****
{Did anyone get the signature of that nova?} muzzily asked Second as he came on-line.
While the question was rhetoric, nonetheless Sensors tried to answer, {Nova? Sensors [jumps] no signature of a nova.}
{I wasn't looking for a response,} said Second as his mental processes quickly increased to normal working speeds. However, it was too little, too late, the moment Second had voiced the initial remark.
Spoke 45 of 422: {I see a nova! It is category number HYD-997 and exploded approximately 27.3 million years ago.}
{No...I didn't mean...}
{If we were hit by a nova,} interrupted 256 of 422, {it would have to be closer than that. And more recent. We must perform a full scan for nova remnants.} The sensor hierarchy, temporarily absconded from Sensors as she performed a post-awakening self-diagnostic, shifted large portions of the grid into a configuration best suited to search for exploded stars, catastrophic industrial accidents, and out-of-control chemistry experiments.
"That was a mistake," muttered Second aloud from his alcove. To his left came the sounds of disengagement from the various clamps and umbilici which held a drone in place. Captain stepped down to the catwalk and into Second's view.
"Yes. Examination of recent memory shows nothing, nova or otherwise. One moment we were in hypertranswarp enroute to unimatrix 009, and the next - ten hours later according to the chronometer - here, reawaking. Not even passive sensors were on-line," verbalized Captain. The explanation was unneeded, Second well aware of the processes occurring in the dataspaces.
Captain turned and headed for his nodal intersection. After a few seconds of personal deliberation, Second exited his alcove and followed.
Second entered the nodal intersection just as a navigation hologram materialized in response to an unnecessary, if flashy, arm flourish by Captain. At the center of the display was Cube #347. Various neutron stars (the remains of supernovas, so the sensor hierarchy's impulsive hunt for the fictional antagonist to Second's ill-advised remark was useful) populated the volume, true distances distorted in order to fit light years into a sphere less than two meters in diameter. Simultaneously, dataspace processes were searching through the star map catalogue, attempting to place the cube.
"There we are," said Captain. The cube was 54.8 light years rimward and galactic north from the last known coordinates. They were in tenacious orbit around a hot, young blue giant, but the primary was so distant that it was only a slightly brighter point of light compared to other stars in view.
Every drone on Cube #347 paused as the Greater Consciousness abruptly made Itself known. The wordless message was simple: <<Get to unimatrix 009, now!>>
Captain automatically input the coordinates for the unimatrix as soon as the Collective Mind retreated to a comfortable, self-imposed mental distance. Detailed local exterior scans had been neglected during the impromptu nova hunt, but as nothing had immediately threatened the cube, the lack was deemed unimportant. Sensors regained control of her hierarchy and reported a scan of the deeper subspace layers revealed no obstacles or anomalies. Cube #347 was clear to proceed. Engines revved; and Captain shifted the cube into hypertranswarp.
Cube #347 went precisely nowhere.
{Delta!} snapped Captain to the head of engineering hierarchy.
{All is working within parameters,} immediately replied Delta. Several datastreams were directed at Captain, each showing unequivocally that the cube should be at hypertranswarp velocities and enroute to unimatrix 009. Certain numbers were slowly creeping into 'yellow' territory on the way to redline. Engines were disengaged.
Neglected sensor sweeps of the immediate volume were performed. In addition to learning the young star had a denser than normal dust disk which included an unusual concentration of water and hydrogen peroxide molecules, the sub-collective found itself tethered to a comet. The ice ball was small and irregularly shaped, no more than forty meters on its longest axis; and the five kilometer tether attached the center of edge #7 was no more than two centimeters thick.
{Shoot 'em all!} exclaimed Weapons, before command and control could censor his actions. Several neuruptors and cutting beams were activated. However, both comet and tether resisted the onslaught. Not even a scar marred the icy nucleus following bombardment by torpedoes.
Captain took control of the impulse stream. {No. We will not use our singularity torps.}
{Why not?} snarled Weapons as his mind slithered through the dataspaces looking for a workaround.
{Because...} began Captain. He was unable to finish the justification due to the announcement from the sensory hierarchy through Sensors.
{Sensors sees [snake duster] waves: mech species #3 energy signature.}
Immediately following the identification of the incoming Xenig, four hulls folded into existence ten kilometers from Cube #347. Three were alike in form, a dorsal-laterally flattened half-oval 120 meters long. The fourth, while smaller, was quite different with its aggressive chassis. The standoff stretched into several minutes, during which time Captain experimented with various methods of propulsion, discovering the cube could swing around the comet nexus within the volume allowed by the tether, but no further. Finally, it was from the dart-shaped Xenig that a hail was received.
"Hello!" The transmission included a visual component; and that visual contained the head and shoulders of an oddly dressed human. The purpose of the beige hat was unknown, but 10 of 19 was immediately covetous. "How are you doing?"
Captain initiated internal camera #78 (after checking its suitability) for a return reply. "You will release this cube at once."
"I think they are a wee bit pissed off," brightly commented the human, not to Cube #347.
The answering voice was a pleasant tenor verging on the bass register. "You are correct, James. Hold on...there may be a slight bump." If there was a subsequent rattle, it did now show in the transmission.
{Stop firing torpedoes at the mechs,} chided Captain to Weapons. {You know that torpedoes won't touch them; and you'll only make them unhappy if you do manage to scratch a hull plate.}
{You never know,} said Weapons. Precisely /what/ was never known was not elaborated upon, but Weapons did halt the bombardment, and even refrained from activating electromagnetic-based weaponry.
"You will release this cube," repeated Captain, the words suitably translated into the multi-voice. Assistance had already been requested of the Collective, link with the Greater Consciousness not blocked, scrambled, or otherwise unavailable for once. Two Battle-class cubes and a trio of Assault-class spheres were enroute...or would be in a bit. The Collective wasn't exactly rushing to Cube #347's aid. Besides the fact that the Exploratory-class cube ranked fairly low on priorities, there was the very relevant fact of four Xenig. If Cube #347 and its imperfect sub-collective was to be terminated by the Xenig, then there was no reason to lose five perfectly functional tactical vessels as well. Therefore, the rescue detachment (or 'sweeping up the debris' detachment, depending on point of view) would arrive when it arrived.
"How will the quarry know that this Borg ship is here?" queried James to the yet unnamed Xenig.
"You will release this cube."
"Oh, the quarry will know. Trust me on this. I've followed his habits for the last three hundred Terran years or so."
"You will release this cube." Cube #347 was being utterly ignored.
"Three hundred years? Won't the quarry be a bit...old? Decrepit, even?"
"Grizzled, certainly. But that's only made him more wise. More of a challenge. You wanted a challenge, after all."
"You will release this cube."
"How about the Borg over there?" A thumb was absently pointed over one shoulder regardless of actual relative position.
"They may survive. Maybe not. The Collective won't be able to respond before the quarry arrives. Are you worried about the health of the Borg cube?"
"You will release this cube."
"Not really. And could you cut the transmission? If I hear those words repeat one more time, I think I'll have to shoot the cube myself. And then you'll have to find a new bait."
The transmission terminated.
Quarry? Bait? Those were very unsettling words to overhear when one is staked out like a goat offering for a hungry lion...or dragon.
{Keep the weapons on-line,} ordered Captain to the weapons hierarchy. This was one bait that would bite back.
{I always do,} replied Weapons as he redistributed energy from Auxiliary Core #5 to weaponry banks.
*****
Storyteller traveled the same migration route he had followed since first taking up the wandering life of a history-bard. That time had been centuries prior when he had been a young male, new to the excitement which existed beyond the creche of comet, asteroid, and nurses. While his inclination was to be a singer of songs and teller of tales, he trekked silently, as much as to avoid the demons which had persecuted his race as to listen for any sign that he was not the last of his kind.
Oh, there had been a time when he had fought in the battles of his youth; and he had the scars on his flanks to prove it. Not even his internal symbiotes could completely heal the jagged lines of gray against black hide. Then...something had happened. Storyteller remembered flashes of cold and heat, of arcing electromagnetic potentialities, of the odd twisting which occurs only when space and time are spindled by an anomaly. His was a tale of epic proportions, of terror and the eventual tranquility when he had emerged from the phenomenon. It was a story which begged to be sung. Unfortunately, when he had surfaced from the space-time confusion, it was only to find that many decicycles had passed. In an act of genocide, the demons of cubes and saucers and indescribable shapes with their organic parasites had destroyed the glory which was Dark.
At that point, Storyteller could have suicided, either through purposeful immolation in the heat of a star or through futile attack of the nearest parasite infested metal-creature. He did not. His psyche was such that he /had/ to tell his story to someone; and a strong conviction impelled him to /know/ that the demons could not have destroyed all his kind. There had to be other unlucky (lucky?) individuals who, as himself, had been caught in the swirl of a temporal anomaly. That was the drive which had kept Storyteller moving, hoping, living for the long centicycles.
And now? Now, where once there was a young Dark, full of energy, a grizzled male of advanced cycles existed.
Storyteller paused as a singing in the fractal subspace ether caught his attention. For a moment, he imagined it was another of his kind. Those hopes were swiftly dashed as he recognized the signature of cube-demons. Every year it seemed that one or another breed of demon was encroaching on his lonely haunt. This one, however, was different; and it took him several beats to realize the significance of the event.
The cube-demon was...stuck. Something had happened and the creature was unable to leave distant orbit around a nearby star Storyteller occasionally used for foraging. It was bleating for other cube-demons to help it.
For a long moment, Storyteller considered passing it by, just as he had ignored other parasitized metal-beasts in the past. But, truth be told, he was not getting younger; and with each passing cycle, the chance of him meeting another of his kind grew increasingly dim. Maybe...maybe just this once he should strike a blow against the demons, a final battle in a war long since lost. Besides, by the signature, it was the smallest class of cube-demons, easily destroyed. Storyteller would be long gone by the time other individuals of the demon nest arrived to help their comrade.
Storyteller changed course.
*****
Cube #347 orbited around the comet like a demented tetherball. The comet pivoted around its central anchor point so there was no worry about the eventuality of spiraling inward. The expenditure of energy was academically wasteful, but with a total of eleven power cores available, the activity was an insignificant drain on resources. Besides, it kept the five very vocal members of the Extreme Thrills Society quiet.
Thus far, the sub-collective was no closer to escaping than it had been upon awaking. Sensors had swiftly determined the reason of the comet's immobility in the form of a miniature black hole. It was no larger than one meter in radius from the central singularity to the gravitonic edge-of-no-return. How the anchor had been constructed - stable black holes of such a miniscule magnitude were not common in this galaxy - was unknown, but lack of knowledge did not negate the fact of its presence. The Xenig were obviously responsible.
The Xenig were also responsible for the comet. A small singularity torp, launched without protest from command and control, had provided sufficient vaporized material to show the sensory hierarchy that the comet was anything but naturally formed. There was ice and rock and carbon and iron and trace amounts of other compounds, but it also contained an organo-metallic molecule chain which appeared to be a close chemical cousin to a Xenig hull. While the analysis was extremely interesting to the Collective, which had siphoned the data as soon as the sub-collective analyzed the results, it did not bring Cube #347 any closer to release. The singularity torp had carved a disappointingly (to Weapons, at least) small crater in the faux-comet. Calculations showed a minimum of fifty singularity torps necessary to fracture the comet such that the tether could be extracted, which was more than the cube had materials to assemble.
The tether was constructed of the same exotic molecule. Needless to say, if a near detonation of a singularity torp did not affect it, it was impervious to all attempts at cutting it. An hour of experimentation was required to confirm the hypothesis, followed by a second hour of halting Weapons from continuing the futile exercise.
{The entirety of nacelle segment 7b will have to be removed,} said Delta in response to an update request from Captain. A schematic of the cube was called up, the area of the cube under discussion highlighted. {All overlaying armor and structure is required to be removed as well.} Both of Delta, as well as over a hundred of the engineering hierarchy, were clambering around hull and underhull in the vicinity of the tether's attachment point to Cube #347.
Examination had shown the tether to be molecularly bonded to the cube to a depth of forty meters...into the nacelle segment. The only way to excise the tether was to cut away all surrounding material. Unfortunately, surrounding material included the nacelle; and the segment required to be removed in whole...with all armoring hullwards.
In his nodal intersection, Captain stared at the diagram and sighed. {Extrapolation of damage.}
{Besides the resulting hole in edge #7?} asked Delta. She received confirmation. {Regenerative systems can repair the compromised armor, but we will deplete our regenerative precursor reserves. Length of time to minimum hull repair estimated at fifteen hours. The nacelle segment will require dry-dock support to replace. Nacelle 7 will be unable to be utilized in propulsion, but warp velocities will not be lessened as long as the need to use the nacelle does not arise.}
The report was the short form. A longer, more comprehensive analysis streamed in the dataspaces. Captain absorbed both modes, neither of which were Good. Weapons was indecisive about which option to endorse, on the one hand desiring mobility beyond that afforded by the tether and on the other hand cringing at the compromised defense.
{Shall we begin extraction?} inquired Delta.
Captain turned inward as the consensus cascade began to flow. Taken into account was the present situation, the off-standing Xenig, time to arrival of dispatched assault detail, and the propensity of Cube #347 to become embroiled in unhealthy situations. The determination was made. Captain announced the outcome.
{Engineering hierarchy: begin excision of nacelle segment 7b and 70% of the underhull. Do not complete the extraction at this time.}
{Compliance,} said Delta as she simultaneously ordered additional members of her hierarchy to the work site, along more than sufficient plasma cutters. {If extraction is not necessary, it will be easy, relatively speaking, to repair the damage.}
{And a good yank on the tether will tear the armor and nacelle segment from our hull, allowing us to reassert mobility!} exclaimed Weapons as he absorbed the ramifications of the strategy. {The destruction will be horrendous!}
{To us,} retorted Delta as she directed the first crews to their work sites. {And I'll have to fix it.}
{I meant the Xenig,} snapped back Weapons, conveniently dismissing the fact that whole hull or no whole hull, an Exploratory-class cube (or any Borg vessel) was no match for the least Xenig.
{Sure you did.}
Interrupted Second, {Children! Children! Small beings! Cease argument. You lower our efficiency, such as it is.}
Engineering and weapons hierarchy returned to their respective duties.
"One day," said Second as he entered the nodal intersection where Captain stared at the hologram of the nacelle segment extraction, "there will be a brawl between engineering and weapons. And command and control will not be able to halt it."
Captain's eye did not leave the hologram. "This sub-collective has survived many subjective years and two vessels with this arrangement. We will survive another day."
*****
"I'm bored," whined James as he chewed his rum-flavored gum, "really bored. Nothing to do but watch that stupid cube go round and round."
Tol, who stocked a wide range of software, electronic, chemical, and physical amusements for the gratification of his clients, did not answer. The human had not actually asked a question, not even a rhetorical one, and Tol did not feel like dealing with the organic at this moment, especially when gum was being chewed. Chewed gum eventually produced a gum wad, and said gum wad inevitably found itself stuck under a seat, under a counter, or on a wall, despite well marked disposal receptacles.
James had been specifically directed to discard the gum in a garbage disintegrator, but the words had obviously not made an impression. Once the inappropriately disposed gum dried, Tol's internal subunits found it difficult to remove the substance without significant damage to the surrounding matrix. The human was making an absolute mess of Tol's insides one gum wad at a time; and at the moment Tol did not feel able to make civil conversation if such was not required. Instead, Tol focused upon his porters.
"Do you know your role?" queried Tol to Loog, Yue, and Caz. The question was not so much asked in any verbal 'language' as it was transmitted as a speedy string of data with as much resemblance to binary notation as English has to grunts.
Caz replied, "You are an old foggie, man. While /some/ of us in this little fleet may have faulty long-term memory cores, I and my fellow creche-mates are not among them. The plans are stored nicely for retrieval when necessary."
Tol did not take umbrage at the tone employed. If anything, it amused him. He had been that age once, a mere 300 cycles old and recently released from the creche with his first /real/ job and in his first /real/ chassis. At that time, anyone over a 1000 had been viewed as an ancient. Now, at the vantage of a comfortable mid-life 10,000 cycles or so, he was secure in himself. Not so the youngsters he had hired. "I do not fault your ability to retain the information, Caz. I require confirmation that you understand the sequence of events to happen. Any mere nonsentient computer, even sophisticated types like the Second Federation Personalities, can regurgitate upon demand. It takes a sapient mind to /know/. Are you sentient...or just a computer wearing a fancy chassis?"
As Caz sputtered over the insult, Loog captured the threads of conversation. "/I/ am a Xenig, not a Personality. I know what I will be doing, even if Caz has Enlightenment issues." Loog was a cocky lass, gender among Xenig a manner of self-assignment rather than genetic dictation.
"Then show me," challenged Tol to the trio. He swiftly constructed a virtual scenario then invited the three to extend avatars into one of his processing blocks. On to the scene appeared the juniors. Caz had projected himself to be significantly larger than his actual hull, with a few extra fins and blisters as well.
"Perspective and body, Caz. This is a scenario, not a 'what I wish my hull was' wish list," chided Tol. Caz immediately altered the virtual chassis to an appropriate configuration. "Good. Let us proceed at fast forward until the initial Dark capture, then slow to virtual real-time."
A comet with tethered Borg cube appeared; and, more distant, the form of a Dark. At speeds too swift for reality, the Dark stooped upon its quarry, the cube retaliating with standard Borg tactics minus defensive spin. As the Dark passed on the opposite side of the comet from the cube, a hidden launcher explosively spat a harpoon into the Dark's side. The tether alloy molecularly bonded itself to the Dark upon contact, leashing it as securely to the anchor as was the cube bait.
"Go," muttered Tol as the scenario slowed.
The trio of avatars advanced upon the Dark, spreading out so as to approach from three different directions. With continual coordination of "You are behind a bit" and "Slow down, you organic-brained moron" the three managed to move together within five kilometers of the thrashing Dark. Harpoons, one each, were deployed into the Dark's sides; and an electromagnetic pulse was channeled down the super-conducting lines, stunning the quarry into quiescence. At that point, Tol moved his own avatar closer, deploying a barbed torpedo with no warhead. The torpedo would be remote controlled by James, with his task to punch it in and out of the Dark's body until sufficient nerve clusters had been disrupted to terminate the creature. It was a tactic used by the Borg/Hive and their allies during the Dark wars, only on a much smaller scale because Tol refused to sully his hull with organic fluids and ichor. To faithfully complete the scenario, Tol used the torpedo to hole the Dark to a pre-determined threshold of damage. With the Dark 'dead', the scenario ended and Dark, comet anchor, and Borg cube vanished.
"Very good," pronounced Tol. "No difficulties at all, although I do suggest Loog use a more pronounced amplitude during the pacification." One always had to find something wrong, even if it was minor, else youngsters might become too big for their hulls.
Yue, the quiet (and likely most intelligent) one of the trio, spoke, "Before our avatars are dismissed, I have a question."
Replied Tol, "Yes?"
"Isn't this trussing and termination a bit, well, extreme? It is just an organic, I know, but my studies and observations on the concept of 'hunting' show that this method is less than sporting. One might as well be at a slaughterhouse."
Tol bobbed his avatar ship up and down in a virtual-visual equivalent of a shrug. "No, it isn't sporting, but James is a borderline sociopath. His genetic line is likely selected for the trait as his family are hereditary CEOs of major galactic companies. He learned to see people, other entities in general, as objects at a young age, which is necessary in the arena of acquisitions, mergers, and terminations. Why should this Dark, or any of the quarry we have pursued in the last several semi-cycles, be any different? If anything, the killing of the Dark will be a visual representation of what James-the-future-CEO will do following his first hostile take-over."
"Oh!" exclaimed Yue at this insight into organic behavior.
Tol was pleased...such moments of understanding were what he strived for when mentoring young Xenig in the ways of a universe populated with organics. He dismissed the avatars and collapsed the scenario space.
"I'm boooooored," pronounced James yet again. The review with question and answer session had required less than a minute, during which time James had secreted a gum wad on the base of the main monitor.
"Well, damn. I didn't expect that," muttered Tol aloud for the benefit of the human.
"Wha?" said James as he stood from his chair. "What is happening?"
"I've been tracking the Dark in warp, but he didn't emerge where I thought he would, sir. Quite a bit further, in fact. Well, he /did/ survive the Dark war and I know him to be on the wary side. His actions, however, display a bit of paranoia as well. Still, once he determines that the cube is alone and decides we don't constitute a threat, I expect him to charge in as anticipated."
"And I'll not be bored anymore," stated James pointedly.
Tol altered the display to accept visual input from an appropriately placed hull sensor. "No, sir. Why don't you watch the action for a bit. I'm readying the remote controlled torpedo now."
"Finally."
*****
Storyteller dropped out of warp well before reaching his target. A quick hit-and-run would have best been served by decelerating as close to the quarry as possible, but he was exceedingly suspicious and did not trust that a trap had not been set. Therefore, outside the range of demon-driven long-distance weapons, Storyteller observed the cube.
The demon spun in a tight orbit around an icy ball which was not a comet, despite outward appearances. There was solid water and basalt and the odd organic tang, but there was also a darker vibration/scent/gravimetric disturbance intimately mixed into the frozen slush matrix. The same material - refined and missing the masking signatures of hydrogen, oxygen, and silicon - was a sharp slash linking cube and not-comet together. The demon itself was not outstanding, neither in form (cube-demons were always the same) nor energy signature; and as Storyteller watched, it slowed its restless tugging at its tether, halting with the leading edge pointed in his direction.
Even from far away, the scent of singularities was a pungent smell. At the center of the comet-not-a-comet resided the source of an active, if small, black hole; and the evaporated remains of a second was present at the surface of the not-comet. A magnified view of the irregular ball of ice, rock, and unknown material revealed a small divot. Storyteller would have to approach carefully, for evidence supported the presence of the cube demon possessing singularity-based weaponry. A black hole applied to one's epidermis was not a good thing.
Attention next shifted to the additional, non-cube foursome which shared near-space volume with the tethered demon. They were tiny, from Storyteller's point of view, but the Dark knew from experience that small things could contain nasty and lethal surprises. The two configurations presented were not known, but the energy signatures which twisted and throbbed in the high subspace layer bands were easily recognizable: Xenig.
Storyteller had little to do with the particular demon which called itself Xenig, except to have the vague understanding that they did not suffer organic parasites to ride within them. Their hulls blocked attempts to scan for lifesigns, so Storyteller could neither confirm nor deny the theory for himself. In his youth, he had listened to the melodic arguments of philosophers as they debated if the mechanized species - for they were supposedly spacefaring, self-reproducing machines - were even to be classified as demons. If a consensus had been made upon the matter, Storyteller did not know, his return from the anomaly made after the last philosopher of his kind had been eradicated. He did remember the Xenig ignoring the Dark during those parts of the war he had experienced (and before), much as they ignored most entities within the galaxy.
Storyteller also remembered those Dark who did not ignore the Xenig in return tended to have a lifespan measured in seconds...if the Xenig in question was having a good cycle. Xenig were not creatures to be assaulted.
Since the Xenig did not appear to be directly involved with the cube-demon, beyond sharing volume, Storyteller would pretend they did not exist.
For several long minutes Storyteller examined all of space, from immediate reality through as many layers of subspace as possible, for sign of ambush. No disturbances, beyond that perpetuated by Xenig, cube-demon, or singularity were apparent. It seemed as if the cube truly was trapped...and alone. If Storyteller had possessed a face and a mouth, he would have grimly smiled in self-satisfaction. The universe would shortly become a better place, if only through the loss of a single demon.
Confident, Storyteller began to initialize his offense/defense systems and brazenly approached cube and not-comet.
The sensory hierarchy was the first to match signature and silhouette to file description. The delay took longer than normal, partially because Sensors' current grid configuration made it difficult for the rest of her hierarchy to make sense of input but also due to the fact that the match was not present in standard ship descriptors. Instead, the match was to be found in archived species profiles. The object which had exited warp was species #11086 - Dark.
The Collective was aware of its involvement in the self-deception which produced the initial Dark constructs, as well as spawned an era of Hive and Colors, eventually shaping the Borg of now. That is not to say that the contemporary Collective desired Dark to exist. In this case, so many centuries prior, the Borg had done a very good job in designing the Dark; and two were more than sufficient to eventually populate the galaxy such that there was no room for anything else, much less the on-going Borg quest for Perfection. Therefore, the Dark was a threat.
In the distant give-and-take which was the Greater Consciousness, Captain heard a reissuing of directives which elevated Cube #347's situation to a higher tactical priority than before. Unfortunately, the estimated time to arrival of an assault force sufficient to conclusively terminate the Dark was a minimum of thirty hours. Long before thirty hours had passed, Cube #347 was very likely (88.5%, as quickly calculated) to be a smear of scrap.
Cube #347 ceased its orbits, coming to a halt pointing at the enemy.
The Dark, after waiting several long minutes, abruptly appeared to come to a decision. It charged on a vector directly intersecting Cube #347. At 2.3 kilometers in length - 0.3 kilometers longer than the records indicated maximum size - and displaying old battle scars, it was obviously an old veteran of the Dark war, possessing the knowledge to dispatch a Borg cube.
A sub-collective decision was made: total control was passed to the weapons hierarchy.
{About time,} exclaimed Weapons. Upon relinquishment of control of non-tactical systems ranging from shielding to energy distribution to propulsion (Delta refused access to anything engineering), Weapons immediately transportered himself to Bulk Cargo Hold #5. Within the initiated immersion hologram, Weapons was a minor deity of war able to survey the battlefield and his foe. {Singularity torpedoes. Ready two, four by four proton yield each, to be fired from tubes 5-bd and 5-cd. A diversionary spread of high-isoton cobalt torpedoes will be deployed simultaneously, as well as anti-matter bomblet chaff.}
Weapons hierarchy drones rapidly complied.
Sensors announced, {Xenig move.} While there were additional words included in the warning, they were lost amid [gaggle of geese] and [camera tarnish].
Weapons glanced at the symbols which designated the Xenig, noting Target 1 (the dart-shaped hull) was advancing from the overwatch position. It swiveled slightly, then fired a low velocity warhead. The torpedo puttered on a vector which utterly missed Cube #347 and at a speed that a relatively nimble rock could dodge. If the lack of threat was not sufficiently clear, it exploded less than five kilometers from the Xenig and distant any viable targets.
{Sensors taste [lemons]!}
"Whatever," muttered Weapons under his breath as numbers from several datathreads flooded his processing cortex. The singularity torps were loaded and primed; and calculations indicated the Dark target was entering a range within which only the most number-blind and cross-eyed of drones - Weapons quickly confirmed 66 of 83 was /not/ crewing anything which required the ability to aim - could miss. Sensors' citrus-laced concern was unimportant.
{Fire,} ordered Weapons.
Storyteller felt the wash of unreal particles tickle his epidermis and trigger sensory clusters deeper in his body core. The torpedo from the Xenig did not otherwise appear to have any immediate effect; and, at any rate, Storyteller was too committed to his charge to turn aside. Ahead, energy surges from the demon-cube sparkled in his vision, indicating the transfer of power to attack and defense systems. In Storyteller's favor - he was already confident that the cube would shortly be rendered into debris - the comet and tether prevented the demon from spinning, which meant that stressed portions of its shield could not rotate away from a concentrated field of fire.
The demon spat forth its first attack at Storyteller neared. Incoming missiles numbered eight; and the cube's form wavered as a deafening curtain of anti-matter and metallic dust disrupted the Dark's visual/aural/electromagnetic gestalt. The missiles were unimportant, Storyteller's bulk more than sufficient to shrug off such assaults.
::Damnation!:: Storyteller trumpeted the oath aloud, despite the fact that there were no Dark present to hear his word. Two of the torpedoes tasted of the high energies produced by mini-accelerators, a primary component of the singularity weapons employed by a variety of demons, including the cube variety. The tell-tale signature had been previously masked amid the radiation illusions caused by the demon's defensive measures. While normal torpedoes would have little effect upon Storyteller, the bite of a black hole, even a small one, was a different story.
Too late. Storyteller braced for the impact.
In quick succession, one-two-three-four conventional missiles splashed against hide, causing discoloration and minor sub-epidermal bruising. Two additional torpedoes missed, flying away on straight-line trajectories to nowhere. The pair of singularity torps...hit...then bounced away, undetonated, much to Storyteller's surprise. As he passed the cube, neuruptors raked broadside, rending vast lengths of hide, but none penetrating deeper than the uppermost muscle layer.
The first pass was complete. Storyteller was unsure why the singularity weapons had not torn chunks out of his body, but he was not one to question fate. That was the job of the philosophers who no longer existed. As the cube repositioned itself on the end of the tether, Storyteller turned in a vast arc, once more aligning himself with the demon. This time, he would utilize his own weapons...which included his own bulk. The smaller enemy would be crushed.
"Can't have the bait damaging your trophy, now can we?" rhetorically commented Tol to James following successful deployment of the singularity-dampening torpedo.
{Damage to hull quadrant #455.g6, subsection 6, submatrix 5. Damage to subhull armor layers - 20 meters - at hull quadrant #455.g6, subsection 6, submatrix 5. Flooding from ornamental koi pond, Supply Closet #72, subsection 6, submatrix 14....} The computer calmly supplied a continual 'verbal' monologue of damage reports as sensors reported malfunction to damage control pathways. A separate datastream further compiled the list as to severity; and members of both command and control and engineering vetted the file into the final 'need to do now' roster.
Delta, bodies in separate locations and both wielding tools, was only one (two?) of many drones triaging cube systems and structure. Secondary and, in several cases, tertiary backups were performing adequately, but many repairs were necessary. The brisk pace of work did not prevent Delta from commenting, {You are supposed to evade large, incoming objects, Weapons.}
Cube #347 had suffered a glancing blow along edge #3 and face #1. The large object in question was the Dark itself, which had used its own body as a battering ram. The damage would have been worse (i.e., terminal), if command and control had not usurped propulsion at the last moment when it became apparent the weapons hierarchy was not going to dodge. A ship the size of an Exploratory-class cube is not exactly nimble, but with a maneuver which nearly incapacitated the inertial damper system, Cube #347 had been able to avoid a direct confrontation.
Barely.
Weapons did not respond to Delta's accusation, too intent on tracking the target as it ponderously arced around in preparation of another attack.
Storyteller was pleased with himself. While his port fore-segments ached, the pain was worth the effort: the demon-cube had been well hit. The pattern of energy spikes and the presence of leaked atmosphere, not to mention the impact scar on the cube itself, attested to the force of the assault. If the demon had not managed to move aside at the last moment, Storyteller was sure he could have crashed directly through the hull, using the same maneuver the demons had employed during the war to kill Dark.
Storyteller appreciated irony.
The old history-bard arced along a path which would take him on the opposite side of the not-comet from the demon. Because the cube could not spin, it was most gainful to attack again along the same general course as previously, taking advantage of prior inflicted damage.
*****
Just below the surface of the comet opposite the cube, a sensor awaits. It is not fancy, nothing more than motion detector. While it hailed from Xenig assembly lines, the technology was of a type widely available to any civilization sufficiently advanced to possess camcorders. The sequence of events was simple: when the sensor detected motion, it triggered a capacitor, which in turn activated a low-tech pyrotechnic explosion.
A shape passes into the sensor's field of view.
A solid explosive ignites, the burning red of oxygen swiftly extinguished in the vacuum of space.
A harpoon hurls outward, burrowing deep into Dark flesh.
Swift elastic expansion triggers nano-emitters associated with the semi-liquid organo-metallic flux. Sympathetic molecular resonation precipitated by the nano-emitters causes any subspace within a twenty meter radius of the flux-line to be altered into a substance almost, but not quite, similar to the flux. An anchor is established.
The Dark, to whom the tether is now embedded, swings into a wild arc; and in counter-balance to the celestial rule of equal and opposite motion, a Borg cube follows suit on the opposite side of the comet.
This could have been the end of the story, but it was not.
Due to poking and prodding of races such as human and Borg, both of whom share the singular characteristic of /not/ considering the outcome of tampering with the fundamental fabric of space and time, the Milky Way galaxy is awash with anomalies. Weak spots exist in many places, waiting for a trigger in the form of an inadvertent explosion, an unfortunately placed high-energy scientific facility, the expulsion of the organic sewage contents of a poorly maintained freighter, or similar action. That trigger, when it comes, creates yet another phenomenon with the potential to destroy existence unless rescue comes about in the form of a heroic ship and its stalwart crew.
The day that the annual retainer to Bubba's Temporal-Spatial Repair and Repo Shop is late is the day that the Milky Way will cease to exist.
Until that time - far in the future - arrives, the Borg have recorded 3497 phenomenon, from a wandering anomaly barely a meter across where fresh posies appear every 20.2 hours to nebulae one would swear are naturally created. A new entry is about to be added to the Collective catalogue.
The ill placement of the anchor singularity combined with the stress of the Xenig weapon was too much for the local space-time continuum. After waiting a suitably dramatic amount of time, the nascent anomaly ripped into a full-blown phenomenon, complete with odd sound effects and mysterious glowing fog. Naturally Borg cube, last existing Dark, and comet were swallowed.
*****
On the monitor James was avidly watching, Borg cube and Dark quarry disappeared as the trio of porter Xenig lined themselves up for the harpooning. James' jaw dropped in astonishment. Surprise was quickly replaced by disgust with a healthy addition of exasperation. "Where did my trophy go?" demanded James with the icy tones of the spoiled. The Dark had been replaced with a dispersing mist of neon orange; and there was the distinct impression of fading trumpets and triangles.
Tol did not answer.
"Well?"
"Just a moment, sir. Dimensional potentialities and subspace rift-fractures are occluding my senses. The gravimetric static isn't helping neither. I'm having a difficult time seeing through all the crap out there." Tol's synthetic voice was as calm as always.
James looked at the screen again, seeing nothing out of the usual with that particular patch of space except that it did not contain his Dark trophy. "I don't see anything wrong. Where did the Dark go?"
"An anomaly. One of the nastier varieties, too. Fairly limited in scope, however. I /think/ I am tracking them...or at least I've locked onto a signature which appears to be a distorted version of the anchor singularity."
"I don't understand."
Tol internally sighed, then dialed back the techno-babble to a level that even a human could understand. "James. Have you ever looked at an ocean? More specifically, have you ever looked at the ocean where deep underwater there is a bright light?"
James' eyes narrowed at the patronizing attitude. "Yeees." The word was drawn out into a hiss. "Deep-kelp farms on Arturus III. The harvesting submersibles moving among the kelp rows have bright lights in order to scare off certain herbivores. Why?"
"The light...was it dim? Hard to track? Occasionally disappeared all together, only to reappear where you didn't expect?"
"Sure, especially when the waves were up and the wind blowing."
"Good. Keep that image in your mind, only alter your planet-bound weather phenomenon into a major hurricane. Now try to track the light of your harvesting machine. That is what I'm trying to do. It is doable, but difficult; and I don't know when the anomaly will spit the Dark or cube out. There's no temporal twist to the anomaly that I can discern, but I could be wrong." Tol was pleased that the analogy had worked.
James pouted. "Then my trophy is gone?"
"Well...we can..." Tol paused, then continued, "Temporal bow wave incoming, signature that of a GPS-rated Xenig drive. Mail call! I'll refocus the camera for you."
On the monitor, stars slewed right and down, picture coming to rest on a patch of empty space alike all other patches of empty space. For a long minute there was nothing, then a faint glow began to emanate. The glow swiftly built into a blinding glare, which then faded. Left behind was a Xenig with a conical hull intermediate between that of Tol and the porters - dart-shaped, but ballooned waist and aft to delineate cargo areas. On its flanks was the GPS logo, followed by the motto of the temporal arm of the delivery company. As James watched, the flowing silver script fluidly altered into a language he could read: "When you absolutely have to get your package there before it was sent."
"Courier delivery for James d'Arthur III. Please vocalize your acceptance of an urgent message," boomed over the internal speakers with a voice which was not Tol.
"Tol?" asked James.
"Just say 'I accept'," counseled Tol. "Goi is a very busy mech."
"I accept," said James.
There was a pause, then the delivery Xenig disappeared. One moment it was there, and the next it was gone. Tol spoke before James could, "I have received the message for you. I will play it on your monitor."
The monitor altered. On the flat-screen display swam into focus James' father, an older, more-stern version of the thirty-something man who was in Tol's hull. The message was short and to the point. "Son. Get your butt back home. Your great-grandmother is sick again. I want you here with the rest of your family - assuming I can track down your sister - if your great-grandmother finally passes and this isn't another of her hypochondriac moments. We are lodged at the d'Arthur Industries compound." The screen blanked.
"That all?" asked James.
"That is all, sir." Tol paused, then delicately asked, "You do not seem anxious, James. Usually when family members receive news of a relative's sickness, there is a bit more...emotion. This is true even among my kind, such as we define relations. Forgive me if I have stepped out of bounds."
James gave a small, bitter smile. "There is nothing to forgive. Great-grandmamma has had five 'terminal episode emergencies' over the last ten years. Hopefully this time the doctors will declare her truly incurable and the old bat will finally die. Then, maybe, I'll be given something useful to do, like manage a small planet or company."
"I...see," said Tol. "Then, do you wish to continue the hunt, or do you have other orders? You are still paid up for my guide - or taxi - services through the end of your calendar month."
James sighed. "As much as I want to get my trophy, well, I really should be there if great-grandmamma kicks the bucket. If she doesn't, I'm sure that you can find the Dark again for me." Of the cube there was no mention. Borg (and Colors), after all, were common in the galaxy, and there would always be another Exploratory-class cube. "Take me to the d'Arthur Industries primary compound on Tholtos Prime."
"As your desire, sir."
*********
Here ends Part I of "Big Game Hunter." Tune in next story to find out what happens to Cube #347. Will the sub-collective survive in one piece? Will Storyteller be a bit testy concerning the thorn in his side? And what of the anomaly? Is the mysterious man at the local fast-food franchise really Elvis' cousin's grand-niece's step-son's promotional agent and palm reader?
Return to the Season 7 page