Instructions: Insert tab Star Trek in slot Paramount. Tighten the screws to A. Decker's Star Traks. Glue Meneks' BorgSpace on top.
Repo Man
Green Collections Agency
Repossession Facility #1 - "Too Bad, So Sad"
Beta Quadrant
Star Catalogue #3521, IVa
Dear Borg Collective,
This correspondence is to inform you that your loan payment is unacceptably overdue; and that your case has been referred to Our collections branch. Unless back payment owed plus interest is deposited by close of business on the day following reception of this message, actions will be taken to secure assets in your possession which will fetch an equivalent value in an open market auction format.
We have noted your prior correspondence whereupon you stated repayment of the final 900,005,347,110,528.75 credit balance was invalid due to your status of Hive at the time of loan procurement. However, the loan contract specifically states, on page 1132 in fine nanoscale print, that should a change in Psyche occur (nee Hive reverting to Collective), all obligations for repayment shall fall to the emergent Consciousness.
Frankly, you have no legal leg to stand upon.
You will comply with this request of resumption of scheduled payments. Resistance is futile.
Sincerely,
Green Borg
*****
Flashing in all its multicolored plasma glory, the signature "Eat At Joe's!" sign sought to entice the weary starfarer to its greasy spoon eatery. Underneath, in slightly smaller and less garish letters, the appendum "Bar, Grill, Nutrients, and Small Item Emporium" altered to a different language every few minutes, visually confirming the ever-blaring subspace radio advert which saturated the local spatial volume to three light years.
It was all Captain could do to prevent Weapons from using the sign (and the freighter stop) as target practice.
Eat At Joe's! was a collection of pre-fab modules assembled into roughly oval configuration, as if the builder had been attempting a circle, but found himself with a few extra sections. Pylons short and long stuck out from the main body at every possible angle in order to accommodate any vessel from shuttle to superliner which may wish to hard dock; and a virtual swarm of beacons and anchor asteroids allowed those who preferred runabouts and transporters a vast array of nearby parking spots. The whole complex orbited a rather humdrum gas planet in a red dwarf system of no particular value other than it was conveniently located to several major space lanes.
Currently, all the parking spots were empty, as were most of the pylons, several of which sported the scars of swift evacuation. A few vessels remained, but only those with insufficient power to escape the docking clamps, else those who believed running might draw undue attention. The scene was not too unexpected, considering the fact that a Borg Exploratory-class cube loomed less than three kilometers distant. The facility, rather large for its kind at a half kilometer long-axis diameter, wasn't so much dwarfed by bulk and mass as it was cowed by the Collective's deserved reputation.
Captured in the center space of the station was a large mass of pipes, vast drums, fusion plants, and automatic distilleries suckling at an elongated chunk of cometary ice. The distillation station converted the comet into the nutrient slush or blocks that many races used as feedstock for their organic replicator systems; and it made a tasty egg-custard paste as well. The nutrient slush (not the egg-custard paste) was the focus of Cube #347's attentions.
First, it had to be understood that through the actions of 131 of 480 ({It was an accident, honest! I only wanted to see what that command sequence did! Command sequences should not be labeled so cryptically - "Regenerative System Flush and Evacuation" indeed. It sounded like some sort of toilet thing.}), a great majority of Cube #347's nutrients had been lost. Complete with flushing sound, origination of the audio file unknown. It was not a complete disaster, although it necessitated dropping from hypertranswarp to normal space to assay damage. Cube #347 was perfectly capable of trudging to the nearest star system and processing its own nutrients; or, sufficient resources remained to trek to unimatrix 008. However, when Cube #347 had re-entered normal space, it had been assaulted by Eat At Joe's! advertising; and it was deemed most efficient and expedient to pay the freighter stop a visit to demand a top-off.
And, so, the hasty evacuation of all who could upon the cube's arrival.
{Update,} requested Captain of Delta. A holonovel adaptation of a Jumba the Wise Lizard tale caught his attention. He picked up the crystal, read the title, the replaced it to the shelf: it was already part of his collection. At the sales counter, the portly and overly nervous clerk continued to stand so statue still as to do a Borg proud, cheesy fake smile plastered to his face.
{The clerk is convinced you are going to assimilate him at any moment. That orange sweat of his is unbecoming the pale facial fur of his species,} answered Delta.
Captain glanced at the clerk, then returned to browsing the detective novel section. {Update on our refueling status. The employees of freighter stops - especially Eat At Joe's! - and those who frequent them are not entirely desirable to the Collective. To have /us/ do the assimilation causes their Borgification to be unacceptable. They are perfectly safe.}
{Tell that to drone maintenance,} retorted Delta with a static snort. {Doctor and his minions are on their 59th deassimilation since we arrived.}
{Update. Comply,} sighed Captain. True, perhaps some of the assimilation hierarchy, ever disallowed from pursuing their specialty, were a little...enthusiastic and antsy. Control in the form of one ever-depressed Assimilation was not as strong as usual due to the latter's wall staring contest, now into its thirtieth hour. The wall was winning and Assimilation had a serious case of dry eye. However, as per Greater Consciousness directive, all those who had undergone nanite accidents were deassimilated. Captain picked up another crystal, this one in traditional audio format: Jumba the Wise Lizard and the Case of the Missing Spoon. It was a new find! The crystal was added to several other bookshop acquisitions.
Replied Delta, {Assuming no more breakdowns - this facility was not designed to handle continuous production of large quantities of nutrient - our storage tanks will reach capacity in ten hours.} A graphic of the progress-to-date was streamed with the verbal report.
Captain unconsciously paused, head tilted sideways, as he absorbed the incoming data. For a brief moment, the communal organism which was the sub-collective of Cube #347 digested the information. Then the moment passed and Captain continued browsing. {We acknowledge.}
The clerk tentatively cleared his voice. "Sir or madam?" The words cracked, altos and sopranos jumbled together. "Er, sir or madam, are you sure I can't help you find anything?"
Captain swung his head around to stare at the clerk. The clerk immediately shut up, returning to his statue pose and stitched smile. Renewed beads of orange sweat specked brow and cheeks.
Similarly, all over the station, drones of Cube #347 were semi-terrorizing the locals...when the locals weren't being "accidentally" assimilated, that was. Most of those on the freighter stop had managed to lock themselves in their quarters, or at least the nearest equivalent of a broom closet or bathroom. Those not so fortunate, such as the clerk, had to endure the presence of Collective drones.
Second materialized next to Captain.
"You are in my way," murmured Captain to his back-up consensus monitor and facilitator.
Second stepped back and sideways to allow Captain access to the next rack of bookstore crystals. "Green has captured itself another vessel," said Second.
Captain glanced at the clerk. {Internalize. And do something Borglike. Scanning, maybe? We have to keep up some appearances.}
Second gave a wordless response concerning appearances and Captain's Jumba madness.
{I am consensus monitor and facilitator. I have some prerogatives. Maybe you want the job?} Captain was amused as Second hastily (more or less) recanted his opinion. {And, yes, I am aware that Green took Battle-class Cube #3371. Technically Red did, but we all know who is ultimately responsible. All the Collective needs to do is find or acquire some worthless credits and give them to Green. Then Green would rein in its collection agency. But the Greater Consciousness will not. It is the principle of the matter.} Captain tonelessly offered his viewpoint, one undisputed by Second (or the rest of the sub-collective) and for which the final sentence was a dissection for many of the otherwise senseless things the usually logical Collective did.
Second moved towards the clerk, then proceeded to scan the very, very nervous man with a metal detector. At least the limb looked impressive with the flashing lights and whirling gizmos. {This fellow has several pins in his chest - must be some sort of cosmetic alteration. One of the pins is rather...racy.} Pause. {As I was saying, another vessel repossessed. One wonders where they will strike next.}
{Not here,} intoned Captain. {All the activity has been 10,000 light years away; and focus is on Borg shipping lanes and "high resale value" items such as Battle-class cubes and fully loaded Lugger- and Cargo-class cubes. Why us, for instance, in the middle of nowhere in an Exploratory-class cube of little worth?}
{You are correct...} began Second. He stopped as a series of alarms echoed through the dataspaces, mirroring the physical klaxons on the cube.
{Incoming!} chirped Sensors brightly. She added an interpretation of the local subspace volume in which propagated the hypertranswarp ripples of several large, soon-to-arrive ships. Either that, or Sensors was playing a graphic of a highly stylized, slow-motion study of neon yellow ripples across a pea green pond. The estimated tonnages were Battle-class. An emergency query for ship-unit positions to the Greater Consciousness returned nothing in the immediate area.
"The universe hates us," muttered Captain under his breath as he slipped his acquired crystals into a thigh storage compartment. {All units! Return to the cube. This means /everyone/! No exceptions. Sensors...why not a greater degree of warning?} Estimated time to real-space emergence was less than thirty seconds, insufficient time to collect all drones, sever the nutrient lines, engage engines, and escape.
{[Dragon] a [yellow jello-jello spoon].} Pause as the silence of incomprehension met Sensors' explanation. {Unknown cloak [crunch]. They [flowed] like Second Federation salvage prospectors.}
The specifications which tumbled through the dataspaces most closely resembled that of species #3467, much in the same way a caterpillar resembles a moth. One shows potential, while the other is maturity. The species #3467 cloak, when it worked, did not so much hide a vessel as it made it seem as it were something else, preferably a nonhostile or inert object. The problem was, as mentioned, it was not reliable; and it required an immense amount of energy, the signature of which was difficult to hide. Where Red - it was a Red vessel which emerged from hypertranswarp - had acquired the tech was unknown, but it was highly unlikely Red had done the modification. Peach on the other hand....
The sub-collective shook itself out of the loop of self-introspection (focusing on the disturbing evidence of the Collective to be falling behind the tech curve compared to its Colored rivals) as the small Red flotilla of four Battle-class cubes advanced in normal space. Their emergence had been insanely close to their target given the vagary of exact positioning when leaving hypertranswarp for the realm where Einstein ruled.
Captain materialized in his nodal intersection. Upon his arrival, a plethora of holographic windows opened, each showing a different aspect of the attack. Simultaneously, other, less visually orientated datastreams struck the consensus monitor and facilitator.
"By the flatulent King," unconsciously muttered Captain under his breath in an obscure curse from his pre-assimilation, followed by a more conventional, "Damn."
The nutrient lines were severed; and most of Cube #347's wayward crew were on board. Unfortunately, the cube, its shields down to allow more efficient transportation, had thus been open to less welcome visitors. Or, rather, invaders. Upon the exit which had placed the Red ships so close to their prey, they had begun beaming over an invasion. Not all the drones had actually arrived on Cube #347: some of them floated like discarded chaff in space, while others had rematerialized partially in bulkheads, with terminal consequences.
Still, more than enough had made it successfully to the cube.
Throughout Cube #347, impromptu battles were springing up. Large clots of weapons drones were holding their own; and a heavily armored racing lawnmower was a juggernaut of death with a manically grinning 233 of 510 in the driver's seat. Weapons was an insane whirlwind which even gave Red tactical drones pause. Unfortunately, the few good fortunes of the defenders was more than outweighed by the bad.
There. The window which was keeping track of Cube #347 near-volume came forward into focus. With only four Battle-class cubes, Cube #347 could not be completely englobed. An escape route beckoned. Captain engaged sublight.
Cube #347 did not move. There was the dataspace analogue of revving engines, but no changing of gears from neutral.
{Delta! Engines!} demanded Captain.
Spat back Delta, {We have been booted! And more boots are being installed. No. Go away!} The last was an echo of a verbalization. A Red had materialized next to Delta B and was attempting to apply an object which looked like a cross between a Club security device and a medium-sized disk brake. Delta A detached a low-tech wrench magnetically fastened to her torso and proceeded to thump the intruder over the head. As the Red sunk to the deck, assisted by application of Delta B's foot to his abdomen, both of Delta panned Auxiliary Core #3.
{The things are everywhere.}
Various sizes of boots were attached to various governors, controls, and exposed conduits. As Delta watched, another Red arrived, swiftly connecting a boot before transporting away again. Each boot disrupted the systems near which it was located. One or two (or fifty) would have been a mere annoyance, but the cumulative disruption done by the hundreds (and increasing) thus far installed throughout the cube was overwhelming.
"Damn. And double damn."
A phalanx of Reds advanced on Weapons' fortified position, crushing it. Weapons went down under a barrage of disruptor fire. Fortunately (or unfortunately depending upon point of view), he was not terminated; and neither were any other Cube #347 drones. Subdue, not terminate, was the Red mission.
"And triple damn."
Captain's holographic windows vanished. He pivoted in time to see an invader backing from the emitter where a boot had been placed. Unlike the rest of the Colored intruders, this one sported a green bandana around his forehead, a loose corner flipped over his skull. The drone offered a slight grin.
"Now that I have your attention, I suggest you hang on to something."
"Explain!" said Captain with all the force of a consensus monitor and facilitator backed by four thousand drones. "Comply!"
"It is quite simple. This Exploratory-class cube and its contents is being repossessed due to failure to repay loans. Resistance is futile." Pause. "I really would suggest you hold on to something."
"We will not comply," said Captain as he advanced on the Green drone.
The Green shrugged. "If you insist."
A Red cube closed within ultra-close-weapon distance, perfectly safe from Cube #347 due to the latter's boot difficulties. It unhurriedly swiveled on its Z-axis, aligning an edge...then unleashed a directed dampening ray. Power throughout Cube #347 died, as it did for a large quadrant of Eat At Joe's! caught in the edge of the weapon's cone.
"Quadruple damn," whispered Captain as gravity control ceased, along with lights and the dozens of other systems which operated on any starship.
"I warned you," said the Green.
Two Red cubes approached, latched on tractor beams, and towed Cube #347 away even as the last pockets of resistance were squelched.
"For such a new model Exploratory-class cube," simpered the Green repo assessment officer, "it has seen /such/ hard use! Stress fractions in the hull armor, misaligned conduits, an /entire/ nacelle recently replaced! What have you /done/ to this poor vessel? We'll /never/ receive as much at auction as we thought we would." One wrist flapped loosely with each emphasis.
Captain did not bother to hide his disdain for 131 of 2222, the Green who paced beside him in the hallway near Auxiliary Core #6 as the inspection reports were verbally summarized. 131 of 2222 was a biped remarkably similar to a Terran, until one examined him up close. The illusion was swiftly shattered by the talonous fingertips of the whole hand, four digits instead of five, and a distinctly horizontal pupil. The odd mincing walk and unusual demeanor, well, Captain had yet to determine if that was a function of the species or the individual.
"And the color scheme, so grey! Not even a single curtain to liven up the place." A deep sigh. "Well, except for that lovely little storage closet in subsection 2, but one storage closet hardly counts."
Tersely answered Captain in the catchall Borg phrase, "We are Borg."
The limp-wristed hand lightly slapped Captain's shoulder. "Oh stop being so melodramatic with all those pluralities and cliches. We get enough of that from Red. I know - we /all/ know - who and what you are, and that was one of the reasons this vessel was targeted for repossession." 131 of 2222 rolled his eyes. "Well, I guess it goes to show that we aren't perfect." The drone abruptly halted; and the silent escort of two Red drones forced Captain to come to a stop half a pace later. 131 of 2222 blinked, then stepped out and continued as if nothing had happened, hastily adding, "Not that we don't strive for perfection, you understand. Sometimes there are just wee...bumps...on the road."
There was a period of silence, punctuated only by the sounds of measured footsteps on metal and the normal ambient noises of a cube in orbit. While the directed dampening field had worn off, the ship was securely locked down with devices and governors more permanent than boots; and except for a few specific drones, all crew were in their alcoves. One of the major exceptions was Weapons, who was bound in an assimilation alcove, well gagged, and under gunpoint of at least three Red units at all times.
The foursome passed a team of Green inspectors contemplating bulkhead wiring, panels strewn throughout the hallway section. The distant scrape of metal on metal could be heard echoing from an interstitial access point.
"We have considered just parting this vessel, but it should still bring decent, although not exceptional, prices," continued 131 of 2222. "Some of the unexpected extras, like the /cute/ antique hat collection, may make up the difference when offered on gBay."
{No!!!} sobbed 10 of 19 in the intranets as the information was vicariously absorbed. {Not my /hat/ collection! My bowlers! My beanies!}
Delta directed a wordless response full of venom. She had long since given up on verbal (or other) protests as Cube #347 was dissected. Even 131 of 2222's previous summary of the cube's deficiencies had only brought a disturbing silence (as well as a loop of the drone being torn apart implant by assembly with a dull spanner).
Of course, 131 of 2222 could not hear the sub-collective of Cube #347, so he nattered on, oblivious. "It was also thought /perhaps/ that as imperfectly assimilated units, there might be some auction potential for you guys. And gals. And neuters. However, after a second and third consensus cascade, it was decided that attempting a reprogramming was not worth it. After all, if the /Collective/ can't really do anything with you, who /knows/ what might happen if we try. There is no assurance - without a complete cranialectomy, that is - assimilation imperfection won't spontaneously return." 131 of 2222 chuckled, then giggled.
"Then what is to happen to us?" inquired Captain. The Greater Consciousness was well aware of what was happening; and in fact had been a closer than normal distant observer riding the observational datastreams of Captain's mind. The response from the Collective, however, had been less than helpful, more along a "stand by for further instructions" stance which had never been followed through. It wasn't that the Greater Consciousness did not care that Cube #347 and its sub-collective had been seized. The exact opposite, if anything. It was that other priorities beckoned and that other options - such as the protest letter - existed considering the futile position of the cube.
131 of 2222 hummed. "We could dismantle you all for parts, but we'd risk loosing more credit than we take in, what with Maroon - maroon? Give me a /break/! - entering into the implant manufacturing business. 'Maroon Implants - Quality Body Parts That Don't Cost An Arm And A Leg' is /such/ an inane motto, don't you agree?
"And, well, most importantly, your Collective is /not/ happy. Downright pissy, if you ask me. So much for the 'emotions are irrelevant' spin. Your Collective /so/ overreacts when it comes to stolen drones. And, despite what /some/ Green and all of Red may believe, your Collective has more than sufficient resources to hunt down any Colored entity it takes exception to and erase it from existence."
131 of 2222 abruptly halted once more, limp wrist frozen in half-flap. His head titled. Forward progress was resumed. "Evidently, I now believe what most of the Green and all of Red does. Fancy that."
"What will become of us?" prodded Captain again. It did not sound as if they were to be terminated. However, on the other hand, neither were they to be simply returned to the Collective.
A long silence on the part of the Green repo officer followed the query. "It is decided to declare all drones of this cube a complete loss, as well as several items deemed unmarketable even on gBay. The moon this facility orbits, as I'm /sure/ you are aware of, has a thin, but breathable atmosphere. It is a /bit/ high in ammonia and sulfur, but olfactory senses are irrelevant, hey? Your Collection knows where you are; and you'll be given a mini-vinculum to keep in touch. When your Collective decides to pick you up, we won't protest as long as our facilities remain untouched."
Said Captain, "A mini-vinculum? What use is that? Cube #347 will be in orbit above us, not to mention at least one other Collective vessel. There are vinculums aplenty. What about alcoves? Energy sources?" Captain's words must have been delivered with a touch too much protest, for one of the Red escorts glared and touched a disruptor arm to his shoulder in warning.
131 of 2222 giggled, then limply flipped a hand. "Alcoves? Energy sources? You are /so/ funny. Those items are worth too much to be sent to the moon with you. If the Collective really wants you, they'll pick up the lot of you. Alive, that is. Recyclable spare parts will be viable /months/ from now." The Green chuckled again.
Querying the Greater Consciousness, Captain found the designations of three Borg ships within the critical distance and with sufficient capacity to recover the soon-to-be-stranded Cube #347 sub-collective. He also found that none had been provided with directive to do so. In fact, the Greater Consciousness was completely silent on the schedule of when the sub-collective would be "rescued," outright lie foreign to the Collective's mind set. The silence wasn't absolute, but with a busy signal and <<We're sorry, all circuits are busy right now. Try again later when volume on this subspace fractal frequency is less,>> it might as well have been.
"I...we understand," murmured Captain.
The unnamed moon was an odiferous (for those with a half-way decent olfactory sense) rock ball whose primary colors tended towards the yellows and browns. The sky was a dirty tan, vegetation a putrid gold, and the few bodies of standing water looked as if they were the byproduct of a sickly targ with intestinal parasites. In comparison, however, the moon was a paradise compared to its primary. The planet around which moon and repo facility orbited was a noxious, radioactive wreck from being leased to Red for a century as a weapons test bed for anything which did not actually crack the lower mantle.
Four thousand drones of the sub-collective of Cube #347 idly stood in a vast clump staring at each other, the vegetation, the dead planet as it hung just above the horizon, or, in the cast of 151 of 203, flying eggplant elephants. Miscellaneous items declared "nonmarketable" lay scattered among the crowd.
120 of 480 unobtrusively linked to Cube #347 in orbit high overhead and opened a subspace communications channel. The system, deemed by Green to be highly unlikely to be utilized for purposes of defense or offense by the sub-collective, had been left unwarded. 120 of 480 waited for connection into the galaxy-spanning internet web, then swiftly entered a login and password at the portal to one particular site.
{Welcome to gBay!} cheerfully echoed in 120 of 480's head. A spinning logo of an ancient wood auction hammer ringed by a whirlpool of stars accompanied a menu of selections. {BorgBoy, please choose what you wish to do today: open an auction, close an auction, create an auction, upload data and pictures, search for an auction item, browse auction items, bid on an auction item, check on status of a bid, or other commands.}
120 of 480 selected "close an auction." He currently only had one item for sale; and an examination of the bids offered by aficionados of the item type he habitually offered only made him more mournful. Unfortunately, his latest fungi-shui sculpture - fungi-shui: the art of carefully pruning and shaping mold on decaying fruit to exacting specifications to promote the expression of chi - had been among the things declared by Green to have resale value. A notification of closure was sent to all bidders, and the item was removed from gBay consideration.
Out of a tugging curiosity, 120 of 480 backed to the main menu, then performed a search of space capable vessels being sold by the above-orbiting Green repossession facility, alternately designated "All Ours." Cube #347 had yet to reach the auction block, not unexpected since Green required at least two weeks of prep work to ready it for market, but an Assault-class sphere and a nonBorg "mini-van" class shuttle were being offered. While the sphere - a hard-used vessel - was only receiving so-so prices, the credit amounts were quite out of the range of a penniless sub-collective, even if a major galactic bank branch were robbed. The mini-shuttle was garnering no interest at all. 120 of 480 returned to the main menu again in preparation to logout.
{Explain,} abruptly rattled Captain into 120 of 480's mind.
{Huh?} replied 120 of 480. He automatically checked for Captain's location, placing the primary consensus monitor and facilitator several hundred meters away.
Elaborated Captain, {What are you doing? Explain.}
120 of 480's forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. {gBay. Green now possesses an item I was auctioning. If I sell something I don't actually have, my personal rating will go down, down, down. Then I'll have /real/ trouble selling anything.}
{gBay?}
Had Captain never heard of gBay? {gBay: a galactic free-for-all auction house.}
Queried Captain to 120 of 480, {Anything can be sold? For credits?}
{Duh. I mean, yes. Affirmative,} hurriedly replied 120 of 480 as Captain's impatience was made clear. {Most anything can be bought and sold on gBay.}
{Including this...stuff?} Images of the abandoned dross from Cube #347 accompanied the words.
120 of 480 sent agreement. {Oh, yes. Most certainly, although likely not for much, else Green would have kept it.} 120 of 480 paused, then offered, {Now, Borg parts, especially the harder to find varieties, sell pretty good, assuming you know the right auction circle and word the descriptions just so. Too bad we don't have any spares from assimilation or drone maintenance.}
gBay automatically logged off 120 of 480 for idle inactivity. 120 of 480, however, did not notice: a schematic of his chassis was floating in the limited dataspace the sub-collective commanded, non-vital implants and assemblies highlighted with a vibrant purple.
{If we sold these...might we have enough for the mini-shuttle?} asked Captain, economics not his forte.
120 of 480 gulped, taking in a greater than appreciated taste of sulfurous ammonia air. {Maybe. But I can't be the only...donor.}
The beginning outlines of a plan was forming in the sub-collective's mind. It wasn't necessarily a good plan, but it was (maybe) better than waiting for a Collective rescue ship which was not coming.
"Work it baby!" exclaimed 93 of 510 as she circled a detached limb assembly twitching with residual power as it lay upon a cleared circle of sod. "Work it how I like it, baby! More twitch! That's right, baby!" In her former life, 93 of 510 had been a professional model photographer, her work filling the pages of many an electronic fashion magazine. If anything, her assimilation had enhanced her photographic abilities, camera and editing software no longer necessary as all could be done "on board."
Unfortunately, the only models 93 of 510 could find now were of the Borg variety, and the fashion 'zines did not like the racy photos of drones in underwear she tried to submit time to time. Rejection letters were usually accompanied with strongly worded requests to stop sending obscenities. Now, although no undergarments were involved and the picts would be used on an auction site, 93 of 510 was just happy to be published.
"That's right, baby! More whirl action!" 93 of 510 clicked her tongue against her teeth as she captured each image. Finally she ceased circling her target. "This one is done. Bring forth the next model!"
Two drone maintenance units shuffled forward, one removing the limb assembly and the other replacing it with a hand-wide cylinder festooned with blinking lights.
"Work it baby!" said 93 of 510 as her assistants returned to their former positions. "Flash me, baby!"
The limb assembly was carried to another part of the camp, there to join a collection of Borg bits and pieces which, in many cases, had resided as one with drones only a short time before. Nearby, several of the sub-collective's more verbally "creative" (i.e., could dance around a subject without actually lying) members were formulating a description for the latest lot of items about to be hocked on gBay.
Offered 191 of 203, {How about "An eccentric mix of new and antique Collective technology for the discerning enthusiast. Primary theme is limb augmentation. Guaranteed nanite-free to prevent unwanted assimilative accidents, or your money back."}
The working partition hemmed and hawed as the descriptor was digested. {Remove the money back part,} suggested 85 of 480, {or someone might get ideas to pull a scam. I know I would.}
{Ahh,} breathed the group as One as 85 of 480 shared his hustle, a variation of one he had used many times a lifetime ago.
Elsewhere, Captain and Second stood at the center of a knot of activity that the outside observer would find incomprehensive.
Captain stared blankly into space, focused on a bit of nothingness located where a hologram might be projected in his nodal intersection. However, no holoemitters were present; and nor was the least of antique viewscreens. Captain was forced to immerse himself deeper in the flow of the discordant sub-collective mind than he liked. A breath filled his lungs - the first in several minutes - and Captain allowed his awareness to expand to encompass the external.
"Update," said Captain to Second. When no response was immediately forthcoming, Captain sent a forceful ping to his backup consensus monitor and facilitator. "Update." {Turn on your aural systems.}
Second blinked several times, the eyelids of his two whole eyes operating independently of each other. "I heard you the first time. The ping was not necessary."
Captain's head swiveled slightly to more fully view Second's baleful stare. "Update." He could gain the update himself through a dataspace query, but he desired a small break from total data immersion.
"Update," grumbled Second in mimicry. He had been monitoring gBay transactions. "The update is that all hardware is selling at a brisk pace. We will soon have enough credit to put a bid on the rather dumpy mini-shuttle that Green is selling. A minimum bid, mind you, which I think is quite elevated to begin with. We, however, will be the only ones desperate enough to even attempt an offer since it has gained no interest otherwise and will soon close out."
"No asides, Second."
"Yah, yah. Whatever. As it is, with a 82.5% probability we will have sufficient credit just before close out. Sales could be made for a higher price if certain parts were offered..."
{You ain't getting my head! I need my head!} exclaimed 204 of 230 from the other side of the encampment where he waited for surgery to remove several currently unused cranial storage devices.
Second offered the slightest of shrugs to finish out his report.
"Acknowledgement," grunted Captain as he allowed himself to sink back into the dataspaces.
In the sky above, a shooting star appeared. The fiery contrail was no meteorite, however, as demonstrated by the smoothly unnatural way it controlled its descent through the atmosphere. The streak disappeared, replaced by a dot which grew increasingly large until it resolved into the tapered, near wingless form of a ship. Along the vessel's flanks were words which artistically morphed between languages every couple minutes: "Galactic Postal Service, Temporal Division - Anything, Anywhere, Anywhen."
The GPS mech was expected, even overdue.
The thirty meter vessel settled to a cleared area near the stockpile of Borg parts, a hatch to a presumed cargo hold immediately opening halfway down the fuselage. The mech's hull shimmered for a few brief seconds, then exuded a ramp suitable for Borg drones, at least for those who retained sufficient legs for self-locomotion.
"Come on, load me up!" boomed the Xenig, his bass voice originating from a series of featureless points along the hull. "I don't have all millennium! Well, actually I do, but my contract specifically stipulates no more than six paradoxes per work shift without compensation. And I like have a package to pick up an hour ago...big rush, rush, and so forth. So hurry it up!"
The units slated to act as stevedores hurriedly began performing as the GPS mech demanded.
Loaded, the courier left as it had arrived - hurriedly, but without the atmospheric entry fireworks. Several minutes later, the various escrow accounts which had been holding credit from accepted bids in limbo were released. With sufficient money now in hand, the bid for the mini-shuttle was placed with only seconds to spare before auction close.
The bid was accepted. The shuttle was bought. Now what? Unfortunately, while the plan had been concrete up to this point, it was and remained very fuzzy beyond the eventuality of the sub-collective actually acquiring the mini-shuttle.
The shuttle, as both auction description and picture had suggested, was not much. Practicality and the need to haul a large, young family had dictated the design, leaving performance and "fun" distant secondary considerations. The mini-shuttle was meant for insystem jaunts station-to-station or station-to-habitable-planet, so therefore lacked both supralight drive and a robust power core; and while the armor was appropriate to ward off the stray micrometeoroid or misaimed My First Raygun, an encounter with a low powered disruptor would leave behind a molten blob. On the up side, the shuttle could seat up to twelve adults comfortably and sill have room to carry all their vacation luggage. On the down side, the fifteen meter vessel had all the maneuverability of a brick, and the same general dimensions of said building material.
And, the previous owner, for reasons unknown, had painted it a screaming lime green which even Sensors found objectionable. Assimilation, stranded in his world of grays, swore that he could see a hint of a hue not monochromatic when he gazed upon the ship.
The sub-collective's dubious purchase lay on the yellowish turf at the edge of the encampment, engines ticking as they cooled. The mini-shuttle had been delivered less than an hour following confirmation of purchase, and less than eight hours after the sub-collective had been evicted from their cube. To one of side of the squared-off nose stood the impatient Green drone who had delivered the vessel. Weak sunlight flashed off her mirrored aviator glasses; and she aggressively chewed a wad of gum.
"Will the one who speaks for this motley collection of drones get his/her/its butt over here pronto? I can't leave until all paperwork is completed," yelled the exasperated drone.
Captain, who had been on the other side of the gathering when the shuttle had landed, pushed his way to the forefront. Lack of transporters was very inconvenient. "I speak for all."
Muttered the Green pilot, "About time." A PADD was thrust forward. "Sign this. Your species has unique fingerprints, so a thumbprint will do. Don't try to assimilate my PADD because nanites are a bugger to remove from the system." Gum was adroitly snapped.
Captain pressed a thumb of his whole hand on the screen of the proffered PADD until the device gave an acknowledging beep. "Is Green not curious as to why we acquired this shuttle?" he asked as the PADD was whipped away.
"Nah," replied the Green offhand as she inclined her head sideways slightly. "Even if you part yourselves out and auction everything, you will never have sufficient funds to buy back your cube. You are irrelevant; and we are happy to take money from anyone. Money is the route to Perfection, after all." Satisfied all was in order, the Green disappeared in the clutches of a transporter, presumably to the orbiting repo facility.
At an unspoken command, twenty members of engineering hierarchy moved forward to swarm the shuttle and catalogue for the sub-collective exactly what had been purchased.
{Partition configuration gamma-B. Options are required which will maximize our survival and use to the Collective,} announced Captain to all.
Immediately replied Weapons without hesitation, {Use the shuttle to attack the facility and gain back Cube #347. Green will never expect it. Surprise is on our side!}
{Termination is on our side,} countered Delta as she compiled the initial reports from the examination team. {The vessel is lightly armored and has no weapons. However, there may be sufficient salvageable material on the shuttle to build three or four alcoves - a more in-depth analysis is required following completion of inventory. The energy core should be able to power those alcoves until such time the Collective arrives to recover the survivors.} Unsaid was that even by sharing alcoves in shifts, the maximum number of drones who could survive was twenty out of 4,000...assuming the slap-dashed alcoves functioned perfectly and no drone required excessive regeneration time.
{And who would be among those chosen to live?} asked a designation who Captain identified as 8 of 203, a neurotic drone who was ever worrying about fairness in an inherently unfair and capricious universe. That question set off a series of arguments between those who operated on the Borg concept of logical "best for all" and those for whom personal survival was a tad bit stronger than it should be in a civilization which rated the individual less than the whole.
Captain roped together the loudest of the various viewpoints and assigned them their own subpartition. {When you come to a decision, inform the rest of us,} he said, well aware that this system's sun would fail long before /that/ eventuality occurred. {Next!}
{Attack!} insisted Weapons. {It is the only way!}
{Next!}
Suggested 120 of 480, the gBay guru who had largely organized the still ongoing "Borg bits" auction, {If the shuttle was cleaned up a bit, the lime paint removed, maybe modified to increase performance, and then offered in the appropriate venue on gBay, it is very likely we could gain a price greater than what we bought it at. It has been done before, and quite successfully by some people. If we then use that credit to purchase another fixer-upper of some sort, we may be able to eventually "trade up" to Cube #347 or another like vessel.}
{Too slow! Action must be taken now!} criticized Weapons. On one hand, Captain (and many others) agreed that the idea was too slow; but on the other hand, the action Weapons advocated was suicidal. Elsewhere in the intranet, the subpartition argued lustily.
{Say,} said 67 of 240, one of the engineering drones examining the shuttle, {I do not know what this is in the glove compartment, but it looks interesting.} 67 of 240 held the object up before his face to allow the entire sub-collective a view.
It was the flimsy, playing card-sized base of a cheap holoemitter unit, the type which was used to store promotions or a single short personal holo-sequence. The phrase "Made in Tiwin" - Tiwin a factory planet of sweatshops, cheap labor, and shoddy raw materials - was discretely stamped along one edge. Cracks indicated the advanced age of the unit, but as 67 of 240 tilted it, it came to faint, flickering life.
The form of a ten centimeter tall Borg drone smiled as she (a curved figure, very mammalian, practically screamed female) waved for the camera. Hovering in a halo around her body were suggestions of $, c, and other currency abbreviations. After several seconds of posing to best accentuate herself, she said, voice mildly distorted with age, "It's easy being Green." With a blur which might have once been a seamless blend, the unit reset itself to the start of the play loop.
{The drone is 112161 of 3622101,} informed Captain, surprised that his query to the Collective archives had returned a designation. {She was the first Green queen; and Green was the first Colored schism of the Hive. The holo unit is old.} Pause. {Antique? Is that the correct word?}
120 of 480, who had been undertaking a hurried search of the past auctions on gBay, started to reply, but was interrupted by Second. The latter opened a pict of 112161 of 3622101 when she had been a Hiver. While the faces and the implant configurations were similar, the differences were striking.
{The first Green queen was a tad blocky at one point, was she not?} Brick was a more apt analogy: edges, not curves, had been the dominant feature. {Quite a bit of plastic surgery there.}
{Enough, Second. 120 of 480, continue.}
After a beat, 120 of 480 did as he was bade. {The unit 67 of 240 is holding was mass produced 365 cycles ago. Due to the numbers and the fact that it was of better quality than the normal Tiwin product, a fair number survive to now. Thus, while one could gain a decent price on gBay, we would still not have enough funds to buy even the least significant piece of hull armor from the cheapest repossessed Borg cube or sphere.}
67 of 240 impatiently interjected. {No, not that side. I saw writing on the back.} The holobase was flipped, silencing the projection in mid-speak and mid-hip-thrust. Indeed, a scribble had been melted into the base by a low-powered laser, presumably also 365 cycles ago.
Even the subpartition (mostly) quieted as new opportunities arose.
Captain commandeered subspace communications for purposes of command and control; and a highly encrypted and scrambled message with data packet was sent hurrying through subspace. A reply came a very short while later.
"Go away. We don't want any," answered Captain's persistent electronic knocking. The multi-voice was the same as that used by the Collective, and much less personal than Green's normal habit of answering with a single liaison drone who spoke in the first person. "And if you don't go away, we have the means to make you." The sensor suite of the mini-shuttle, while very limited, was more than sufficient to register the warning buzz of EM crosshairs. Green could afford the finest in advanced weaponry; and while the Color could have swatted the shuttle like an annoying fly, they were equally willing to use threat of force, just in case the Collective took umbrage at the actual destruction of its drones.
Captain knew the Greater Consciousness was actually quite ambivalent over the latest insane notion of the imperfect sub-collective. On the other hand, single digit success probabilities were better than the zero percent waiting for the Collective to retrieve its wayward drones as living, functional units.
"We are not trying to sell anything. We are required to show you a document. If you will accept either a visual or data linkage...."
The Collective Green voice hissed, "No. We will not be privy to tricks of the Borg Collective to either subdue Us or subvert Us. Go back to the moon."
{Paranoid, aren't they? One might think Green has been listening to the conspiracy theories of Brown,} remarked Second to Captain. The former was not on the shuttle, instead minding other business and therefore observing from afar.
Retorted Captain, {Rather Brown than Red, else we would have been vaporized atoms contributing to the moon's atmosphere before the shuttle even lifted. Update: are you in place?}
{The entry was easy enough, but the systems on this boat are a tangle, not to mention the resident Personality is displeased.} With that statement, Captain noticed the background wail of an electronic mind under assault. The noise had actually been present for several minutes, but Captain had had no cause to attend to its screams as assimilation hierarchy systematically dissected its higher subroutines. {We require an estimated 3.7 minutes to gain full control.}
{If you don't push Assimilation to work faster, you may soon be Captain, Second. I can only split my awareness so many ways.}
{We comply,} stated Second in an uncharacteristic plural. For a moment, the garbling of the Personality became louder, then faded as Captain pointedly, coldly ignored the datastream as irrelevant.
"Just a very small moment of your time. It is very important. We have a communique..." Captain stumbled against one of the cloth-padded walls of the shuttle's interior as the vessel abruptly yawed down and simultaneously tilted sideways, overwhelming the substandard inertial dampers. Plugged into the controls at the front of the ship, 127 of 230, the only other drone physically present, offered neither excuse nor apology, only the playback of a kinetic missile (i.e., a rock) launched from a distant battery. It was the off-hand potshot one of the weapons hierarchy might engage in when the opportunity presented; and, likely, some Green drone was the recipient a stern talking-to concerning the issue of compliance, even the loose expectations of compliance by Green as opposed to the Borg version.
The Green multi-voice gave no hint that anything was amiss amid the rank and file. "Go away."
In the lime mini-shuttle, Captain (and 127 of 230) played target. Captain's presence was not necessary, but it lent perhaps a bit more weight to the dissuasion of Green outright terminating the shuttle. Or perhaps not. At any rate, they were here, floating less than 100 meters from a primary sensory array; and Captain /did/ have a communique to pass to Green, assuming Green would ever allow him to do so. Unfortunately, unless specific circumstances came to pass, that communique could not be verbal.
In the background, the Personality's cries halted. Captain was drawn to the datastream by virtue of the silence. {Second: update.}
{164 of 203 extracted the schematics from the computer and found the location of the Personality's base station. The obstacle has been managed.} A visual stream from the aforementioned drone was one of paneling ripped off the wall of a richly appointed suite, severed wires trailing to a fist-sized hunk of metal. {The Personality is not necessary to drive this thing. All systems are now secured.}
{Proceed.}
At one of the outriding docks, anchored to a buoy with only the lightest of tethers, the fine-tuned engines of a luxury yacht purred to blue-violet life. The vessel, of Second Federation private registry and with the name "Desire" splashed in a curling script across the bow, had been repo'ed from a business magnet who had learned, as so many before, that betting all on the spin of a roulette wheel, and then trying to run from the House, was not an intelligent choice. A phaser sliced the tether. The yacht was as well armed as a corvette of similar mass, although only presented conventional hull plates to the universe, not a Second Federation warship's regenerative bioarmor. She was already sold, but delivery had been delayed at the request of the new owner, thus her location so relatively distant from the main repo facility.
And, thus, her location on a course between the moon's surface and Captain's current position. The sensor shadow behind the yacht had been a convenient place for the mini-shuttle "warrenty-as-is" to experience a propulsion control problem while eight assimilation drones, Assimilation, and Second were shoved out the airlock on course for the target. With Second present to directly oversee Assimilation and provide prodding to what might have otherwise degenerated to an apathetic effort, the assimilation of the yacht had proceeded apace.
The circumstances which allowed verbal deliverance of the message had been achieved.
"What are you doing?" demanded Green, a note of unBorg hysteria coloring the multi-voice. A targeting solution fixed onto the yacht and as quickly cancelled as the vessel's weapons came online to aim at the relatively unprotected space docks where trillions of credits of repo'ed vessels were in various states of preparation for auction.
Replied Captain, "In the name of the First Galactic Bank, which has provided this sub-collective with temporary authority, and to whom the entity known as Green Borg has an outstanding monetary obligation - with interest - we are hereby repossessing the yacht. If you have any questions, open a dataport and the documents we, I, have been trying to provide you will be presented. If you fire upon the yacht, or any members of this sub-collective while we act as agents for First Galactic Bank...well...I would not want to be you."
There was a pause, then the sharp "snap" of a radio band subfrequency opening. "Provide us with the documents. Now."
The sub-collective of Exploratory-class Cube #347 was formally thus once again. Except for a few minor articles of a personal, neurotic nature, and therefore technically not part of the cube inventory, most everything, from hat collection to fungi-shui to sparkly paint, was in its place. Such could not be said about Cube #347 itself, which had been in the initial phase of refurbishing, and therefore had wire, conduits, crystals, and panels strewn everywhere. Delta and the engineering hierarchy would require weeks to set things right.
The promotional holo-unit found by 67 of 240 had indeed been old, dating back to the inception of Green when Green had held ambition, but not much cash. Since money is required to make more money, Green had taken out a small business loan from First Galactic Bank. The nature of the loan, due to its risk and the possible stigma of dealing with the first mental splinter of the Hive, had led to a hush-hush, under the table proposal which had left little in the way of paperwork behind, and less of electronic documentation. Later, after Green had thoroughly destroyed all evidence of the loan, the bank had been unable to prove a deal had been brokered in the first place. Now, centuries later, the original IOU had been found in the most unlikely of places and under the most unlikely of circumstances; and that much interest gaining interest on itself had led to a fiscal disaster which made even the astronomically rich Color wince and for whom the yacht would have been only the first in a string of repossessions and liens.
Green had been very quick to respond with the best lawyers which could be paid for and assimilated under very short notice.
In the end, a number of reciprocal transactions occurred between First Galactic Bank, Green, and the Borg Collective. The Collective received four of its repossessed vessels back (including Cube #347) with assurances that those particular ships would not be repo'ed again in the future (although the spate of repossessions was unfinished). What happened between Green and First Galactic Bank was not privy to those outside of the loan agreement, but from the subsequent activity from the various credit earning enterprises owned by Green, it was assumed that Perfection through Profit was a bit further from Green's grasp than before.
The politics of Collective, Color, and financial institution meant little to Cube #347. There were more immediate problems to deal with, such as the loss of atmospheric pressure to a third of its normal density throughout the ship.
{I didn't mean to!} protested 131 of 480. {How could I know the "Emergency Fire Depressurization" command sequence would open all eight bulk cargo hold door and set the force fields to selectively vent atmosphere? It is not as if the command sequence was adequately labeled or anything! And the operator's manual was extremely vague on the outcome.}
Said Captain, {It wasn't exactly cryptic, neither,} as he simultaneously gathered reports incoming due to the abrupt translation from hypertranswarp to normal space. Except for the inconvenience of insufficient oxygen for most of the species represented by the Cube #347 crew roster, there was little damage. Lack of a decent atmosphere was a problem, however, but due to the volume the cube represented, it would require many cycles to rebuild it unless another opportunity presented itself.
{Well, the "Dog and Pony Show" command produces neither dogs nor ponies,} retorted 131 of 480.
{She does have a point there,} commented Second.
{Stay out of this, Second. You are not helping.} Captain blinked as Sensors locked onto a very noisy advertisement blaring in subspace, blanketing several key communication frequencies. In his nodal intersection, he cocked his head as he listened to the audio-only stream as it played from a speaker.
"Come to Eat At Bob's!, a subsidiary of the Eat At Joe's! freighter stop mini-empire. We may not be as fancy, nor as clean, but we can chicken fry anything you desire to your personal idea of perfection. Therefore, come to Eat At Bob's! Open all hours, all days, all the time. Major credit cards and cash accepted. No out of quadrant checks."
Captain adjusted the cube's heading to Eat At Bob's! locator transponder, transmitted on a subfrequency. Sublight was initiated. {Enough, 131 of 480. for the next ten of your regenerative cycles, you are assigned to engineering. You are locked out of /all/ command sequences. Delta, 131 of 480 is yours to do with as you will.} Pause. {Attention all units, we are enroute to a freighter stop. We will see what is available to refurbish our atmosphere when we arrive....}
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