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 II
Excerpt from a Disruptors 'n' Ammo publication, contributed by Tol of Xenig Adventure Guides, Inc. -
"...When hunting Dark, the best bait is a Borg or Color cube. Don't go too big because you don't want to harm your prey. An Exploratory-class cube is just right. Your bait should be attached securely to an anchor, preferably an asteroid or comet containing a black hole. Your tether /should not/ be constructed of material able to be cut by Borg-based weaponry.
"When the Dark arrives, as it will if you've placed your bait near an appropriate game trail, it will attack. Opposite the cube, position a second tether system ready to harpoon the Dark when it passes by. At this point, the Dark is yours. Don't worry about the cube because Borg are not an endangered species.
"Before I continue to methods of termination or capture of your Dark, be sure you have not set your anchor on a space-time weak point, else you may find a nasty little anomaly on your hands..."
*********
The anomaly, at once new-born and exceedingly old, twisted the warp and woof of spatial threads. The tempest energies had yet to acquire a temporal aspect, and perhaps never would, but the pocket quasi-dimension was sufficiently turbulent without participation by Time. Swirls of dark blue and candy orange were prominent amid the otherwise gray color scheme; and the anomaly had an odd predilection for triangles (the musical instrument, not the shape).
Amid the whirlpool of blue and orange (with the occasional triangle flying by - remember, instrument - chased by its beater), spun three forms linked to each other. At the hub was a small comet, or at least something which looked like a comet. However, comets generally do not include among their ice-rock matrix a high-tech Xenig pseudo-metal construction material rated to withstand black hole stresses, not to mention the singularity at its heart. On the right side, or at least occasionally on the right as the entity in question flew by on its latest orbit, was the 2.3 kilometer segmented bulk of a Dark. It was harpooned midway along its body, attached to the comet by a thin line of not-metal. Opposite the Dark resided a Borg cube, the Exploratory-class variety, similarly tethered along one edge.
There was no reason for cube and Dark to be spinning around the comet, except for the ever-present decree of action producing opposite reaction. In fact, the careful observer able to see through the latest flock of triangles would notice that the pair were trying to attack each other. Unfortunately, thrusters applied by one would inevitably swing the enemy away, forever leaving the unmoving comet in the center. Occasional cessation of motion was more due to accident than purposeful causation.
A torpedo flew from the cube, aimed at the Dark. The gesture was futile. As torpedoes before, it arced off course, disappearing amid the spatial irregularities of the anomaly. To add insult to injury, before the torpedo disappeared from sight of both combatants and hypothetical observer, it took on a rather bouquety form of blue carnations and orange roses. At ten kilometers from each other, the pair were too far for effective disruptor/neuruptor/phaser/any-electromagetic-weapon warfare, but previous attempts to use such had been similarly ineffective. "Sparklers" was an apt description, both as visualization and a reflection upon the amount of damage caused.
The observer, after dodging another flock of triangles, would have the distinct impression that the two combatants were becoming increasingly frustrated.
*****
::This is ridiculous,:: muttered Storyteller aloud. Due to long years of solitude, he unconsciously employed the habitat of voicing his thoughts, especially when under stress. The combination of anomaly and general cube/non-comet situation definitely fell under the 'stressful' category.
Cube and Dark had been sniping at each other for awhile, in-between bouts of spinning like an out of control merry-go-round. Storyteller's time sense said that little more than an hour-equivalent had passed since the anomaly had swallowed him, but he was unsure if he could trust his internal chronometer in such an environment.
::Ridiculous!:: Storyteller said again, this time in a conscious bellow. In response, the cube on the other side of the un-comet unleashed yet another torpedo. Following the fate of so many before it vanished amid the blossoms of color which delineated this hellish place.
The hot blood of youth had long since cooled for Storyteller. His earlier thoughts of striking one last blow in a war lost many centicycles before was dismissed. The reality of now included the genuine chance that all the songs the historian-bard retained would be forgotten upon his death, most likely via the raging gravimetric shear of the flexing anomaly. In the estimation of Storyteller, the danger of the anomaly was greater than that represented by the cube; and, therefore, the former needed to be dealt with before the latter.
Unfortunately, it was entirely possible that he would require the cube-demon's assistance to escape to real space.
Figuratively sucking in his breath, Storyteller directed a burst of radiation in the form of radio waves at the demon's hide. The ping-request to conversation was sent. The only question was if the cube would respond like a civilized entity, or continue its belligerent attempts at destruction.
*PING!*
The superstructure of Cube #347 vibrated a harsh metallic tone as the mass of radio waves impacted. Radio waves should not have had such an effect, but in anomalies universal 'rules' often became 'guidelines' and the impossible was very probable.
*PING!*
"ARG! Click-whistle*trill*a'phooprun*[crescendo down]!" Sensors crouched in her alcove, arms tucked to her side in a body-instinct attempt to protect tympanum from a noise which largely originated from the sensor grid. The insectoid was swearing, a froth of species #6766 language the computer, in a spate of uncharacteristic self-preservation, refused to render into words understandable by the rest of the sub-collective. 223 of 300 selected a microphone sensor near Sensors' alcove and recorded the datastream for eventual inclusion into his vast lexicon of vulgarity.
{Hail! Hail! Hail!} incoherently gibbered Sensors into the intranet even as she continued her verbal tirade.
The firefight prior to anomaly entry had not been kind to Captain's nodal intersection, despite its protected location in comparison to primary cube damage. The intersection was of low concern for engineering repair squads. Delta was too busy to shift resources away from the fix-it-now roster or the ongoing effort to weaken the armoring over nacelle segment 7b. Captain had therefore enlisted the assistance of Second to repair several holographic emitters. The dark, vaguely drone-shaped sooty-stain against one bulkhead would wait until the janitorial staff had dealt with the koi pond, among other cleaning priorities. Unfortunately, Second's assistance largely consisted of making observations on Captain's engineering abilities.
"You missed a wire," said Second as he viewed Captain's work through the latter's visual input stream.
"Did not," muttered Captain, "I know what I am doing. I /do/ have engineering acumen; and I /was/ slated for engineering hierarchy prior to my assignment to command and control." He pointedly ignored the wire in question, concentrating on grounding the emitter's housing.
Second cocked his head as first the pings shook Cube #347, followed by Sensors' cries of {Hail! Hail! Hail!} arrowing through the intranets. The unnecessary response from Second was very dry: {We are in space. It does not hail.}
Sensors' tortured attention focused on Second. {Hail! Answer hail!} Sensors' view of the radio wave ping was directed at Second
The backup consensus monitor and facilitator temporarily lost his balance as mangled data input largely consisting of blue and orange squiggles seared his visual cortex. Clanging triangles of the instrument variety accompanied the input. Captain halted his emitter repair and glanced over his shoulder at Second. "Hail, as in communication? From the Dark?"
Captain's incredulous belief, and by extension a vast majority of the sub-collective, was understandable. It was known by the Collective that during the Dark War the xenophobic Dark had occasionally initiated conversation with others not of self, but the Borg/Hive had never been among those few. Why would the Dark, engineered to be enemies of everything in the galaxy, attempt a hail now?
Second could not respond, not while in the grip of raw sensor grid data re-interpreted from the mildly confusing to the downright debilitating. However, if he had replied, it would have been along the sarcastic lines of 'Who else is out here to hail us?'
Captain fully disengaged from the repair and ordered remaining nodal intersection emitters to provide a view of the Dark. The resulting hologram was somewhat unfocused, but usable. An answering ping was sent on subspace, if only to end Sensors' suffering.
*PING!*
The Dark did not respond to the subspace acknowledgement. It continued to bounce a massive quantity of radio waves off Cube #347's hull. A few seconds of deliberation produced the tentative conclusion that the Dark either could not or would not respond to subspace, or that subspace communications were hopelessly hashed by the anomaly environment. Before the next anticipated ping, Cube #347 emitted a burst of radio waves of its own. The resulting response was swift.
The audio stream was gobble-gook, a mishmash of languages strung together without regard for syntax of the originating tongue. There was no visual component; and any attempt by Cube #347 to add such in the tentative return feed was ignored. Slowly the universal translator, honed upon the grindstone of the Bug language, made sense of the garble, of the large variety of loan words used. Discrepancies in meaning remained, but they were unimportant. In his nodal intersection, Captain activated a speaker.
The computer/sub-collective interpretation of the Dark's voice was a curious growling synthetic. There was no particular timbre - no bass, baritone, tenor, alto - instead the sound of how an avalanche might sound should tons of falling rocks acquire the ability to talk. The occasional screech like fingernails on chalkboard were aural indicators of universal translator failure and the computer faithfully relaying the radio modulation of the original Dark speech.
"Greetings cube-demon," was the first phrase able to be fully understood. "I am Storyteller, bard-historian of the People." 'People' was translated from a culture for whom the word specified themselves to be the only truly sapient beings in the universe and all else were merely well-advanced animals...animals able to do spectacular engineering in the form of starships and supporting infrastructure, but animals nonetheless. That culture as of sixty years prior no longer existed, victims of a more advanced neighboring race whom had withstood the derogatory label of 'animal' one too many times. "Cease hostilities. We must work together to escape this trap, after which we can continue battle."
{Trap.} Weapons fired yet another torpedo, which did little except impart a small amount of momentum to Cube #347, reflected on the opposite end of the tether by the Dark's mirrored movement.
{Stop wasting munitions, Weapons,} said Captain to the head of the weapons hierarchy. {If the anomaly has negatively affected all previous attempts at hitting the target, it is highly likely that continuing attempts will similarly fail.}
In Bulk Cargo Hold #5, surrounded by a holoemitter mockup of the conditions outside, including cube, comet, and Dark, Weapons reached out one hand, cupping the Dark as if to crush it. If only all tactical engagements could be so easy, a simple reaching forth with deity-like powers to terminate all who stood before.... Weapons swiftly diverted the thought into a blind loop where it could not be accessed by the rest of the sub-collective, and thus not susceptible to censoring. {The forces of the anomaly have the minute, but real chance to align such that a torpedo or other kinetic weapon will hit. Eventually.}
"And Doctor will shed his impulse to pick up pets," murmured Second as he invoked another action with minute, but real chance to occur.
Captain's eye remained riveted to the Dark hologram even as he sent a wordless 'You aren't helping the situation' at Second. {True, Weapons, but by the time you actually hit the Dark, it will be highly unlikely we will have any munitions left for a follow-up shot. Perhaps you and your hierarchy should consider the alternative: if we exit this anomaly with the Dark, you must have sufficient torpedoes left to provide a suitable defense/offense of this cube.}
The thought had not occurred to Weapons, or at least not seriously. He pulled his hand back from the Dark and considered the options of free movement and no torpedoes...ramming was a possibility, but only if the Dark could be disabled sufficiently to prevent it from dodging. Weapons idled the torpedo launchers; and then booted BorgCraft to initiate a new set of scenarios.
That situation temporarily defused, Captain shifted his attention to determining what course of action to follow. More specifically, if the sub-collective should trust the Dark's implicit inquiry of assistance. To stall for more time, Captain collected a partition to converse with the behemoth.
"We are Borg."
Unfortunately, Borg were not noted conversationalists when unable to elaborate upon futile resistance or assimilation, neither of which were appropriate in this instance.
"You are cube-demon Borg. That is good to know. I will add you to my song-story, cube-demon Borg. Will we work together to leave this anomaly?"
The debate was raging within the intranets, acceptable strategy changing in the face of new calculations and as base partitions tried to lure those of less confident view points to one particular advocacy or another. On the one hand, it was an enemy Dark; and on the other hand, it did offer a chance of escape. Of course, there was always the 'It is a Trick' partition comprised large of Weapons-influenced tactical drones, not to mention the group which was convinced everything was part of a larger scheme whereupon the watermelons would inherit the universe, or at least the galaxy. Without the distant presence of the Greater Consciousness to lend weight one way or another, Captain was forced to state to the Dark:
"Stand by."
As an afterthought, a selection of light muzak was piped over the radio wave communication link.
Storyteller waited patiently for the cube-demon Borg to make up its mind. The beast was as cantankerous as any of its kind - note the final torpedo following the offer of assistance - and parasitized with organic beings to boot. Storyteller had used the time offered by the unspoken truce to scan Borg, quantifying the parasite load as light to moderate considering volume. Perhaps that was the reason the demons were ever so willing to fight? Maybe Borg would entertain suggestions on how to disinfect itself when/if the anomaly was escaped.
The cube-demon was singing an odd song as it considered its options. Storyteller did not understand the music; and did not particularly care for it, neither. It was a tinny whine full of jagged harmonies which conveyed no message that Storyteller could find. As a bard-historian, Storyteller was aware of the concepts able to be carried by music. However, the only message the Dark could see in Borg's disjointed noises was chaos...or really bad taste combined with supreme tone-deafness.
Just as a bored Storyteller had begun a game to imagine shapes caused by the interaction of opposing gravitonic shear forces clothed in blue and orange mists, Borg pinged its readiness to respond. Like before, there was an extra component to the message; and, like before, Storyteller ignored the curiously modulated sub-wave.
::What is your decision, Borg? Shall we cooperate?::
::Yes.::
The surface of the comet was an eerie place, one of stark contrasts - monochromatic colors, jagged crevices and mini-mountains unscathed by wind or water, sharp shadows cast in by the ambient unlight of the anomaly. Outwardly, it was the environment of a "pure" comet, one which had never experienced the rigors of a sun-ward plunge, the holy grail of cosmologists from civilizations at the low-orbit phase of space exploration. For the Borg, however, it was yet another iceball, one of countless quadrillions in the galaxy; and the Dark, if the comet had been as its facade suggested, might have regarded it as a light snack.
Unfortunately for tethered Borg and Dark, the comet was neither 'just another iceball' nor a 'light snack'. An organo-metallic complex similar to Xenig hull armor, chemical composition unknown to either Borg or Dark, was mixed into cometary ice and rock; and the same substance wholly composed the tethers. Of course, there was also the little matter of the miniature black hole at the center of the comet, guaranteed to cause indigestion even to a Dark.
Several engineering drones, including Delta body A, and a lone sensory drone gathered around the location where Cube #347's tether met with comet body. The gravity created by the black hole precluded individual drones or the equipment littering the ground nearby to go flying off the surface, although a good toss would have still sent the tossee into orbit...or a flat-line trajectory into the sensor-shrouded portions of the anomaly.
Overhead loomed Cube #347, like a cube-shaped balloon. While it was five kilometers distant, the ship was also 1.3 kilometers an edge, which made for a very large object that even a Borg drone did not wish to be underneath in the remote case of an emergency landing. In the background, the anomaly raged, orange and blue tatters violently swirling around the relative calm of the eddy which contained Dark, cube, and comet.
105 of 230 kicked at the point tether melded seamlessly with comet, raising a small cloud of ice dust.
{Desist, 105 of 230,} said Delta, {your actions are counterproductive.} Delta was unused to encountering situations in which Borg engineering or pure brute force was utterly unable to find a solution. True, the sub-collective was cut from the Collective databases due to the anomaly, but a great welter of information still existed locally. Like a primitive trying to cut dense-packed neutronium armor with an obsidian knife, the Borg were not making progress.
71 of 510 bent as well as he was able and attempted to fan the dust away, a futile attempt considering the airless nature of the comet. {Oh, bugger. There are fine organo-metallic particles in that dust; and it is messing with my imaging systems.} 71 of 510 was the sensory drone assigned to the party.
Delta pivoted slightly, looking at the array of equipment scattered around the group. Sufficient hardware was present to allow for the complete disassembly of the comet, given time and given that the comet had actually been a comet. As it was, the deeper one dug (which wasn't very far, given the small size of the planetoid) the denser the organo-metallic inclusions; and if cube weaponry couldn't sever the tether, a plasma welder was a candle in comparison. And nor did attempts at sonic resonance, phase modification, or solvent application advance escape. In a bid of desperation, fire (at the insistence of 279 of 300) had been tried, using an oxygen-rich metal matrix to allow a flame to burn despite vacuum conditions.
Upon Cube #347, Delta and her much larger cube-side work crew were slowly advancing the gambit of cutting out the anchor point from that end. For a moment, the hypothetical third person observer would have seen the twins pause and unerringly look towards each other despite distance, orientation, and occluding objects. Both bodies returned to their assigned tasks.
{Here come the Dark symbiotes!} called 7 of 240. As one, the six drone group turned to regard the incoming robots.
Dark symbiotes came in two flavors: macrometer and micrometer. The macrometer variety, such as those bounding on the comet surface, were twelve-armed spider robots with a limb-outstretched length of two meters. Analogous to Borg nanites, they served as the Dark's immune and repair system, albeit on a much larger scale. The micrometer type were true nanomachines, without the ability to assimilate, and functioned on the cellular level. Generally the macromoids remained within or upon the Dark's body, but they could be ordered to remote sites.
::What took you so long?:: demanded Delta to the macromoids as the trio of robots lurched to a stop. Prior to transportation to the surface, body A and the rest of the away team had been fitted with temporary radio transmitters to communicate directly with the Dark's proxies without relaying through cube systems.
::I do not have transporters,:: answered the lead robot serving as the Dark's mouthpiece, ::like you do, and thus could not directly send my symbiotes to the surface. They had to navigate the tether line from myself to the not-comet; and then they had to perform tests at my tether site.:: Storyteller was defensive, the tone evident even through the narrow-band radio link.
The other members of the party warily watched as two of the macromoid trio fanned out to distantly examine Borg hardware, both drones and equipment. Delta's gaze remained fixed upon the primary proxy. ::Were you successful in weakening tether matrix or comet substrate?::
::Why do you put up with organic parasites?:: asked Storyteller unexpectedly as he ignored Delta's question. ::I suppose organics have their strengths, but I would think the weaknesses would preclude their use as symbiotes. You have to feed them, you have to water them, you even have to modify them so they will withstand a benign environment such as vacuum and hard radiation. Are not the resources prohibitive when compared with robots such as my spiders?:: The macromoid raised itself on twelve legs to its full less-than-one-meter height.
::We are not...:: began Delta.
{Cease,} ordered Captain as a minor consensus partition came to a conclusion. {The Dark obviously believes the cube to be the primary entity and drones as nothing more than extensions, like its symbiotes. If it learns otherwise, it may realize that by terminating drones, it will weaken the overall efficiency of this cube.}
Delta, both of her, frowned slightly at the conjecture, but she did not finish the sentence.
::You are not what?:: prompted Storyteller via the proxy robot.
::We do not believe our 'symbiotes' prohibitive in regards to resource consumption. We use our 'symbiotes' in battle with the 'symbiotes' of other vessels. Now, where you successful in weakening tether matrix or comet substrate?::
The intangible quotes bracketing the word symbiote went unnoticed by Storyteller as he digested the brief and uninformative reply. ::I suppose one could send into battle one's symbiotes, although it seems a waste when you actually want to attack the primary controlling entity. You demon-kind is too alien to understand, which is why you are demons.:: The remark was off-hand, 'demon' not precisely an insult, but the ultimate descriptor of the alien non-self. ::I was not successful in weakening either matrix or substrate. I continue to have several of my macromoids digging downwards, but I believe there is a shell of the offending substance encapsulating the singularity; and that the tether may connect to the shell.::
Unfortunately, the sub-collective had come to the same conclusion. ::Agreed. We need time to reconsider the problem.:: And time to complete severing the immense number of spars which anchored the subhull armor above nacelle segment 7b.
::I understand.:: The spiders turned and bounded away to the side of the comet that the Dark was tethered. Meanwhile, Delta directed those of her group to gather up equipment in preparation to transportation back to Cube #347.
The last of Storyteller's symbiotes completed the tether traverse between not-comet and self. Two macromoids had been lost due to a variance in the anomaly's gravimetric sheer, the local equivalent of the symbiotes blowing away in a hurricane-force wind. The loss was insignificant, and Storyteller no more mourned over the destruction (well, actually, flowerification, because both robots had spontaneously morphed into rather charming bridal bouquets) of the macromoids than a human would ponder the termination of a killer T-cell.
The Dark had come to the conclusion that Borg was...odd. Discounting Borg's tendency to speak in plurals (perhaps its kind of demon were herd creatures?), there was the strange notion of Borg and its conspecifics waging war on each other using their symbiotes, parasites, whatever. It made no sense. Resources, after all, were for the strong, which was why adults bullied juveniles to the outer reaches of a system until the lads and lasses could demonstrate themselves robust enough to compete with the breeding pod. The contest was one for bodies on bodies, not symbiote against symbiote, where the winner might be based upon the entity who could field the most symbiotes, not the one who was stronger, faster, more fit.
Storyteller shrugged to himself, dismissing the nonsensical notions of Borg and its kind. It was a demon; and "demon" epitomized alien.
Storyteller's epidermis itched. The dust associated with this anomaly was denser than normal space, and it was coating his hide faster than normal. With dust inevitably came static electricity; and excessive static electricity adversely affected internal systems, organs, shield projection, and static warp bubble formation. Storyteller prepared to drain himself of static electric charge buildup, the action as automatic and unthought of as any instinct.
A small torpedo shot away from Storyteller (and definitely not in the direction of the rather paranoid Borg), trailing a fine line of conductive tissue. Like a reverse lightning rod, bright bolts of energy flickered along the tissue, excess charge draining from organic capacitors nearly full from storing epidermal static. Storyteller shuddered, the sensation akin to a goosebump shiver.
The anomaly flickered, mists agitated as gravitonic forces swirled with lethal intent. And, for just a moment, a rip through the clouds appeared, beyond which shone the sharp pinpoints and spectra of familiar stars.
Delta personally inspected the self-inflicted damage the engineering hierarchy had performed upon Cube #347. One part of her knew that the cut spars and conduits were necessary for escape from the comet in case a way to sever the tether was not found. However, the larger part of her, the original /engineering/ part of her soul which had never been able to be scrubbed out of existence by Borg reprogramming, was aghast at taking the cube apart instead of putting it together.
The sensor grid reported a massive flux of electrical charge originating from the far side of the Dark. Weapons immediately declared the lightning show to be a hostile move on the part of the enemy which forfeited the truce and required retribution. Delta ignored the rant by the head of the weapons hierarchy as she continued to push her bodies through the sparwork maze. More important tasks beckoned, such as the reconstruction of faces #1 and #3, which didn't involve Dark farts or yet another struggle for control of ship weaponry.
Then a new observation by the sensor grid was relayed to the general sub-collective, Sensors' words riding piggyback, {Exit [lightbulb]!}
The tear in the edge of the anomaly's quasi-universe was small, quickly returning to status quo. However, like a bit of scum on a pond disturbed by a thrown rock, it demonstrated that something /was/ on the other side; and that there /was/ a way to force the anomaly to bend to the wills of those held inside.
::We demand to know what you did,:: transmitted Captain with multivoice function engaged to the Dark via the inefficient radio waves the latter insisted upon for communication. Delta paused both her bodies: background probability calculations insisted that very soon engineering hierarchy would be required for a new project.
Storyteller's confusion was evident, even after his words had been translated by computer algorithms and provided a synthetic dataspace 'voice.' ::I removed the extra static charge built up on my epidermis.:: Pause. ::The negative ions were itchy.::
::How did you open the rift?:: insisted Captain again.
::Rift?:: Very long pause. ::Oh! The hole! I had not noticed, Borg. The discharge temporarily blinded me along that quarter.::
Weapons saved the inadvertently revealed Dark weakness linking large amounts of electricity and sensory disruption.
::Do it again, but with a greater discharge. We must experiment to determine if it is possible to manipulate the anomaly to allow us egress.::
Storyteller's reply was slow. ::Borg, you use too many large words to state your case. And I wouldn't like to create a much larger buildup on my epidermis. I could hurt myself, and I'm not a healer.::
::Likes are irrelevant. Damage is irrelevant. You will comply.::
::Borg, you are very, very pushy. Fine, I'll try. You really need to work on your attitude, Borg, or are all demons like you?::
::Attitudes are irrelevant.:: Captain cut the transmission.
Delta waited a few beats, but no new directives were forthcoming to the engineering hierarchy. Instead, the sub-collective was moving into a 'wait and see' readiness. Delta contemplated her possible actions, then came to a decision as she examined the progress reports and visual datastreams from workcrews. {All drones involved in separating the subhull except those working on nacelle segment 7b, return to your alcoves and prepare for new assignments. And /don't/ neglect putting away any tools not part of yourself. If I find forgotten tools, I will personally weld them to your body. Drones repairing faces #1 and #3 will similarly follow suit when damage on those quarters falls below 15%.}
A string of compliances were directed at Delta.
Storyteller twitched his sub-epidermal band of muscles, directing the resulting negative electrons to his hide. The charge subsequently drained to organic capacitors lining his dorsal and lateral longitudinal spar-spines. Eventually the capacitors filled and excess electrons built in a cloud of negative ions glommed to motes of epidermal dust. The sensation became increasingly uncomfortable, then painful, as static electricity started to interfere with the action of Storyteller's twitch muscles. Finally, as epidermal pain receptors screamed in agony and micromoids swarming throughout the cells of sub-epidermal organs reported lesion damage, the Dark decided that enough was enough. Torpedo and discharge tissue were released; and the charge drained.
"Insufficient," spoke Captain outloud in his nodal intersection as he involuntarily repeated the radioed conversation with Storyteller. "Your actions resulted in a 10.2% increase in rift size with a 5.3% increase in duration. More effort is required."
"This was the fourth attempt for your observations. I burned my epidermis and I have nascent organ failure in body cavity organs subsurface my sub-epidermal twitch muscles. I physically /cannot/ produce additional static electricity of the amount you seem to think is necessary, Borg." The Dark's translated words rumbled from a local speaker, escaped the nodal intersection, and echoed within the adjacent subshaft.
"Then we shall produce the additional amount of static electricity required."
"Be my guest, you insane demon-cube."
"You will continue to induce static charge as well."
"Whatever, but I will not burn my epidermis again. It demon-damned hurts."
The scene in Bulk Cargo Hold #2 could have been described as a surreal, science-fiction sweatshop, except Borg did not sweat. It was definitely surreal. Anything normally found on the deck, from shelves of spare equipment to the riding lawnmower repair facility, had been removed, clearing the vast volume of Bulk Cargo Hold #2. In their stead, giant globes balanced on small stalks had been raised; and those generators of static charge crashed with artificial lightening, spiking great bolts of light into the air. The cube itself, following several minor superstructure modifications, was being used as a capacitor, absorbing an increasing load of negative charge.
Drones who had reason to be outside hastily insulated alcoves wore strap-on rubber soles resembling beach-going flip-flops and made every attempt not to accidentally touch metal surfaces. Those who did not take appropriate precautions or were incautious tended to end up in a rubber-walled insane asyl...er...Maintenance Bay #5 if personal electrical shunts were insufficient. Doctor was complaining of how the odor of burnt flesh was /never/ to be completely scrubbed from the maintenance bay.
As the static generators crashed and boomed overhead, the floor of Bulk Cargo Hold #2 was alive with the bodies of 1500 drones of various hierarchies. In vast lines, they shuffled along lengths of carpet, collecting negative ions from the paradoxical, never-ending supply produced by cheap shag. At the end of the carpet, each drone would touch a metal plate, grounding him/her/itself before tramping to the next carpet.
{Damage report to drone maintenance hierarchy,} reported 172 of 203 as she stepped out of line. Behind her, a regular series of pops and snaps kept track of each drone discharge. {This unit has sustained third-degree burns to its right hand.}
Drone maintenance was overwhelmed, and the designation which fielded the report was unimpressed, especially in light of a recent maintenance entrant who had actually managed to set himself on fire with static electricity. {Will the damage compromise your mobility or usefulness?} asked 116 of 133.
{No,} answered 172 of 203. {At least not if I have to use the limb. It is rather black, though.}
{Cosmetics are irrelevant. Do your current duties require you to use the limb, or can you substitute another limb or pertinent body part?}
172 of 203 looked down at herself. {This unit has another hand. But what do I do about the smoke?}
{Use your other limb, if necessary, in your duties. Drone maintenance has drones with more extensive damage to deal with at the moment. As for the smoke, just don't wave your damaged hand around. The smoke will eventually dissipate.} 116 of 133 turned attention to the next complaint.
172 of 203 raised her burnt hand and regarded it for several long moments as bits of charred skin flaked off. {Get out of the way or get back in line!} was directed at her in the dataspaces as drones shuffled past. Finally she eeled back into the carpet conga-line, damaged limb held close to her body to prevent additional damage until such time drone maintenance could see her.
The shag carpet was not as efficient a producer of static electricity as the generators, but it did add a surprising number of ions to storage.
Cube #347 was building a tremendous negative charge.
In his nodal intersection, Captain felt static tingle his skin despite his position on an insulated mat five centimeters thick; and if he had retained feathers, they would have been standing on end, every barbule unzipped in the ultimate Bad Feather Day. A holographic thermometer visually indicated the amount of charge at 75% of potential maximum. It was time.
{All drones take appropriate precautions,} announced Captain into the general dataspaces. In Bulk Cargo Hold #2 there was a spate of transporter signatures as units abandoned their carpet duty and hastily returned to alcoves.
"We are ready," said Captain to Storyteller. "We will discharge in ten seconds. You will synchronize with us."
The Dark was puzzled, and had been for some time. He repeated a question asked several times prior. "Why don't you explode? I can feel the build-up from here! That much charge would short my symbiotes and disrupt organs. Is the non-conductive nature of organics the reason why you use parasites instead of robots?"
"Seven seconds. Are you ready for synchronization?"
"Yes, I am."
Five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One.
Cube #347 released a torpedo which spooled behind a leash of superconducting material. Concurrently, Storyteller followed suit with an organic counterpart. Vast sheets of lightening lit the mists of blue and orange; and the background tinkle of triangles rose to a bellowing (but still oddly melodic) cacophony.
The un-skies split, mists rapidly receding from the static discharge. The rift opened wide, pseudo-universe disgorging its contents to the real universe in a fit of indigestion. The stars gleamed; and, for a brief moment, Cube #347 reestablished a link with the Collective.
The Greater Consciousness had just enough time to make a "What the hell has happened to you?" equivalent inquiry before the moment of freedom vanished. Reasserting itself as excess negative ions drained into the cosmic winds of the universe, the anomaly snapped closed once more around cube, Dark, and anchor, breaking the fractal subspace contact.
"By the Beatles..." Captain unconsciously swore to himself, not realizing he had spoken his thoughts, much less the subject matter.
Storyteller pinged Cube #347. Once radio communication was re-established, the Dark said, "We almost escaped."
"Almost is irrelevant. Recharge yourself. Self-damage is irrelevant. We will charge ourselves as well."
"You are insane!"
Captain was not listening to the Dark's opinion on the sanity of Cube #347's sub-collective, instead ordering drones back to the shag carpet. Besides, as far as the Greater Consciousness was concerned, if it had been consulted upon the matter, the Dark was right.
Freedom!
The second, massive combined effort at static discharge had swept the anomaly away, revealing the stars and pulsar guideposts which Storyteller found familiar. This time, unlike last, both he and Borg continued to trickle a flow of negative ions. While the cataclysmic lightening storm had been necessary to initiate the gateway, the rift remained open as long as a minor electrical field remained.
With the anomaly at bay, it was time to focus upon to the not-comet and the devilish tethers.
::Borg, we are free of the anomaly. Once we loosen ourselves from this comet, the truce will be over. At that time, I will banish your demon self from this reality, but until then, we must continue working together. Have you any thoughts on how to remove our bodies from the not-comet?::
Borg did not reply. In fact, it seemed as if Borg was not listening at all. Instead, the cube was straining its sublight engines in an effort to pull away from the comet. Storyteller knew the demon was unable to escape in such a manner, else it would have freed itself before the anomaly had formed. Perhaps Borg had gone mad following that last massive electrical discharge, its brain addled?
::Borg, what do you do? The tether is anchored into you. You will only injure yourself if you continue.::
The tether was taunt; and the comet, anchored by its miniature black hole, was not going to move under the impetus of something as underpowered as Borg impulse drive. However, something /had/ to give.
Storyteller continued to observe in incomprehension as the cube-demon's edge deformed and bits of its armored hide flecked off....
With a screech like that of nails on chalkboard, Cube #347 pulled free of the tether and shot forward on impulse. Those few drones who had not returned to their alcoves for the static discharge found themselves making close acquaintance with bulkheads or falling over shaft railing when the inertial dampers could not quite compensate (the strap-on prototypes had long since been removed to an unimatrix). For several seconds Cube #347 wobbled alarmingly, stressed gyroscopes counterbalancing the sudden loss in mass along edge #7.
Captain (who had taken refuge in his alcove in anticipation of successful egress from the anomaly), eyes closed, drifted in cube dataspaces. One part of him was mediating the connection to the Greater Consciousness, dumping data so that the Collective might know what had transpired for the sub-collective; and other parts were coordinating the commands which slowed the cube to a relative stand-still, which pivoted the ship to face the gaping hole away from potential danger.
Through it all, the computer was a background presence calmly reported the obvious: {Major damage to edge #7. Major damage to warp nacelle 7. Complete loss of warp nacelle segment 7b.} In accompaniment, an audio alarm blared in all sub-sections. It was not the BorgStandard of dying-frog-playing-bagpipe, instead a hard Andorian-rock version of a Terran funeral dirge. The priority to determine who had altered the affected subroutine was extremely low, as was the thought command required to silence the alarm.
Cube #347 sighted upon the tethered Dark. Four auxiliary cores revved from idle to active. Engineering repair teams left their alcoves and began to cauterize the would to the vessel's edge even as Delta initiated ship-regenerative function. Weapons powered up all armaments in eager anticipation.
{Terminate it,} pronounced Captain, repeating the primary order of the Greater Consciousness.
Before Cube #347 could advance, the anomaly started to pulsate. Backlit by the unlight of the phenomenon, the Dark and comet were silhouettes against a orange and blue furnace. The trickle of static discharge flowing from Storyteller was insufficient to stay the anomaly. For a moment, the sensor grid reported an increase in negative ionic charge; and, for a moment, the rift stabilized and even shrank. However, it was the calm before the storm, or the crouching of a tiger prior to the leap. The phenomenon abruptly expanded, engulfing the Dark in a fury of orange and blue, then disappeared.
{Triangles,} commented Sensors into the intranet. Despite the fact that the computer insisted the word to have been translated true, it still made no sense to the vast majority of the sub-collective.
Still on high alert status, the sensor grid of Cube #347 actively probed the region of space where the anomaly had existed. Neither BorgStandard configurations nor specialty headaches created by Sensors sensed anything amiss with the space-time fabric. There was, perhaps, an odd 'bending' at the deepest subspace layers, those which were beyond even the information laden realm of subspace transmissions, but it was little more than a shadow of a shadow. For all practical purposes, the newly designated Spatial Anomaly #3598 was vanished from the local universe, along with the last existant Dark.
In the distant background white noise hum which was the Greater Consciousness, Captain observed the Collective conclude that the Dark was terminated, destroyed by the anomaly. Commands were authorized which stood down the cubes and spheres committed to rescuing and/or sweeping up the remains of Cube #347, sending the units back to their normal routine.
<<Return to previous heading of unimatrix 009,>> spoke the hollow Voice of Authority.
No protest was possible, even one which might point out the difficulties of high speed travel when a gaping hole existed in a ship's exterior. Damage was irrelevant, but Orders on What Would Be were not. Without a backwards sensory glance at the Dark's final resting place, Cube #347 limped into transwarp (not hypertranswarp, which would cause a wee too much stress) at less than stellar velocities.
*****
The anomaly had changed, was changing. Perhaps it was the massive influx of negative ions, perhaps the phenomenon was simply maturing. Whatever the reason, a pale yellow had joined the two resident hues and a tinny saxophone assisted the triangle section. The gravimetric sheer of the quasi-universe was less severe, but it had been more than compensated by a nasty vortex of microwave radiation which verged upon burst-maser. Within the anomaly floated the last living Dark, nee Storyteller, chained by an impossibly thin, yet immensely strong, tether to an immobile black hole anchor masquerading as a comet.
The Dark was not precisely bitter at the cube-demon's actions, although he was mad...not at the demon, but at himself for not anticipating Borg's traitorous bent. Storyteller was also resigned, resigned that once again he was stuck in an anomaly with no hope, except that in Fate (or Luck) itself, that he would ever see the stars again.
With nothing else to amuse him in his purgatory, Storyteller, the last history-bard of his kind, began to sing. The anomaly responded, as such a mindless spatial phenomenon might, with the sympathetic resonance of objects which were, yet were not, triangles and saxophones.
*****
Tol folded to the coordinates where Dark and Borg cube had vanished into the anomaly. Hindsight contemplation had convinced the mech that he perhaps should not have placed the snare at that particular location: spatial fabric had scanned a little worn, but seemed sturdy enough at the time. Oh, well. Live and learn.
James, Tol's client, was at a family compound on Tholtos Prime. It seemed his great-grandmother was making a "miraculous recovery" from her formerly "terminal" illness, but James had felt obligated for familial reasons to remain nearby...just in case there was a relapse. From what Tol had understood of the organic's blabber, rumors were floating around that he, James, might be receiving a minor shuttle parts manufactory to manage due to his prompt attendance upon his great-grandmamma. The end result was Tol still on retainer by the human in case the factory did not materialize; and he was to return in approximately one week, Terran time, to see if his services were required.
For what James was paying for Tol to do essentially nothing, the mech was perfectly happy to comply.
Tol had dismissed his three junior porters for the time period, expounding upon them to stay out of trouble. As if that was possible at their age, but hopefully they wouldn't antagonize too many species, stations, governments, or individuals. He himself had returned to the Dark trap coordinates. It was ethical to release the Dark (and the Borg), assuming he had survived, in order to have the creature available for a hunt on a later date.
The lag time spent traveling to and from James' family compound had allowed Tol the opportunity to examine the anomaly scan data. He was confident he had the appropriate subspace harmonics to force the anomaly to disgorge its contents, much as squeezing on a pea pod will cause the seeds to spurt out. Scanning one final time to confirm the anomaly's location, Tol bathed the region of space with modified output from his folded space drive.
The universe temporarily split, revealing a jagged maw which leaked mist tri-colored orange, blue, and yellow. Several triangles and a saxophone (the instrument variety!) escaped, only to swiftly evaporate among the reality constants of a universe incrementally unlike that of the originating quasi-reality. Tol pulsed his drive again, and this time the anomaly birthed the contents which had been trapped before snapping shut with an audible gravitonic shimmer. All which remained to mark the anomaly were dissipating tri-colored mists and the metallic chime of a lone triangle.
Tol made a mental note to avoid placing any future singularity anchors at this particular space-time coordinate.
The Dark was intact, if a bit stunned from his sudden departure from the anomaly. The tattered remains of the Dark version of singing faded to a surprised whisper. Tol's quick scan proved that the Dark was otherwise none-the-worse for wear from his adventure. He remained tethered to the comet; and, as expected, the comet with its central singularity, was unscathed.
On the other hand, the Borg cube was nowhere to be seen.
Tol considered with puzzlement the length of tether lazily floating loose. There was a fragment of Borg nacelle segment and a good chunk of the overlaying armor. Beyond that, no Borg cube. It almost looked as if the cube had been torn away from the tether...quite violently at that. Tol dismissed the cube with a mental shrug. No matter. Likely the interior of the anomaly - rather unstable in Tol's estimation - had pulled the cube apart. No loss to the universe; and the Collective always had the resources to construct and crew another Exploratory-class cube.
Boldly advancing upon the Dark, Tol aimed a tightly encoded subspace burst transmission at comet. In response, nano-emitters reversed the initial tethering process, removing the anchor and relaxing back to the comet surface. The Dark would not even have a scar on his epidermis to which to recall the snare. Tol slid towards the comet...one final thing to remove.
The Dark, suddenly realizing it was free, spun its bulk with deceptive ease to point along a vector which was anywhere but here. He engaged his embedded warp drive into bat-out-of-hell gear. Tol chucked. Organics could be so funny. Still laughing to himself, Tol speared the comet with a towing line, expanded the range of influence of his drive, and folded home.
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