Paramount owns Star Trek;
Decker created Star Traks; and
Meneks writes BorgSpace.
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You Can't Get There From Here
The coordinates had not only led to a valid destination, but a valid destination with the fading subspace spoor of recent Borg presence. Collective Borg.
During his abduction by his "relatives," Assimilation had downloaded data from a PADD dropped by one of his captors. While the Newest Age facility had yet to be found despite intensive internal scans of subsection 7 - leading to the hypothesis that Assimilation had actually been kidnapped by one of a pantheon of omniscient beings - the acquired information had been authentic. Buried under a harlequin romance novel library, scraps of mostly erased data resolved to detail five navigational pulsars. Those pulsars, in turn, were the key points on a map leading to a metaphorical "X."
The pulsars recognizable and relatively close, to that "X" Cube #347 had trekked...and possibly hit the jackpot.
The system was nondescript, a common variation upon a theme repeated millions of times. At the center was a yellow star, made old before its time by a companion brown dwarf. The failed star inhabited the realm where life-giving terrestrials normally orbited, a presence which had long ago fated this particular system to be stillborn and barren of life. Further out, away from the disproportionate twins, lurked three gas giants wreathed in cold clouds of blue and green, the innermost one on a death spiral which would, in hundreds of millions of years, collide it with the brown dwarf. Each gas giant was the primary of an eclectic collection of moons and captured asteroids; and from one of the minor bodies circling the second giant was the Borg signature strongest.
Cube #347 glided across the system, on an intersect course to arrive at the moon destination in 4.7 hours. The sensor grid continued to actively scan. Something was not right.
No vinculum was in operation at the target moon, or anywhere else in the system. The fact was indisputable: an operational vinculum would have immediately linked the wayward drones to the Collective once neural transceivers had entered a critical half light year envelope. On the other hand, those same neural transceivers, near four thousand, could taste/feel/scent/hear the fractal subspace resonances that indicated not only recent vinculum presence, but a vinculum of many years in one location.
Had a Borg outpost been recently dismantled? [No appropriate Borg vessel signatures were in evidence.] Had the outpost experienced catastrophically damage? [The moon's geology was boring in its stability; and nothing suggested a force, natural or otherwise, to have visited the satellite.]
Scans continued.
Approximately one light year from the system stretched a spatial anomaly, a fracture, a rift. While only five light years thick, in "length" it stretched 150 light years, and in "height" 100 light years. The rift was a vast sheet slowly bowing around the star system, and would, in a brief few million years, have completely draped itself around the system, encircling it, removing it from the ready ken of the local universe.
Beyond the rift, two Collective Exploratory-class cubes could be frustratingly observed. Cube #347 was certainly within their sensor envelope as well. Unfortunately, subspace properties of the fracture extended deep into the subspace layers, effectively blocking both standard subspace transmissions and warp-plus speeds. Scanners, operating on slightly different tenants, were not similarly constrained to the light speed barrier.
However, the truth was that even if Cube #347 was to approach the precipice of the rift, and even if it stood with metaphorical face pressed against unseen glass and shouted a supraluminal message, the cubes would likely ignore the yelp for assistance. Without linkage through the vinculum, without being within that critical half light year distance to conclusively identify self, Cube #347 was an alien. Long ago, certain Colors had attempted a similar ruse to trick the Collective, and captured important assets represented by cubes and spheres, but adaptation had occurred after a very few acts of piracy.
The Borg were very good at ignoring things.
So close, yet so far. Perhaps the moon, the final destination of the acquired coordinates, would produce a method by which the beleaguered Cube #347 could contact its conspecifics, links once again with the Collective. Perhaps there were answers to be had.
Then again, the history of Cube #347, imperfect sub-collective, suggested that only questions, and probably a Situation or two, were likely to be found.
The irregular, potato-shaped moon had began existence as an asteroid, only relatively recently, in cosmic terms, captured by the methane gas giant. In a retrograde orbit, the heavily cratered hunk of rock was 8.6 kilometers long and 2.1 to 3.8 kilometers wide, depending upon measuring location. Gravity was nearly non-existent, a strong jump sufficient to achieve escape velocity.
The Borg facility arose like a boil. The asteroid's spin and orientation had been altered such that the surface with the greatest area perpetually pointed towards the system's north pole and, noncoincidentally, the Rift. That surface was littered with dishes, antennas, and other aspects of an extensive sensor grid configured for intense scrutiny of the phenomenon. One antennae cluster, at the periphery of the large assembly, was only partially built, seemingly abandoned in the midst of construction, tools and materials scattered on the surrounding regolith.
Ground-penetrating radar revealed an extensive tunnel system - mines required for raw replicator material - centered upon the drone depot. While Borg did not require irrelevancies such as recreation or quarters, facilities for regeneration, repair, and oxygen recharging were necessary. Although nearly lost under Borg modifications, the depot appeared to have been adapted from an earlier, existent structure: the Collective, after all, did not need disguised hangers, especially those of a size to harbor the small, one-person cargo haulers favored by a certain class of smuggler.
One of the two hangers was currently gaping open, forcefield warding interior atmosphere against vacuum.
In his nodal intersection, surrounded by holographic displays reflecting a myriad of datastreams, Captain shared the stymied bewilderment of his sub-collective. Observations suggested abandonment of the outpost, yet there were no signs of evacuation. The opposite, if anything, with the depot undergoing expansion. Sensors had picked up a dissipating, incoming, nonBorg ship signature, but the trail terminated at the outpost; and there were no indications of weapons discharge. Each scan begat additional, unanswerable questions, such as why the distant (yet so near!) Exploratory-classes continued to ignore Cube #347's provocative actions, why the Collective was not investigating/repopulating the outpost, why the local vinculum was apparently inoperable.
Those drones who thrived upon conspiracy theories were weighting the decision tree matrixes. Unfortunately, without better data, flights of dark fantasy comprised the best explanations.
A new window shifted to the forefront of the holographic herd, signifying Captain's current focus. The consensus monitor and facilitator paid no attention to the flashing designation list, awareness inward as he directed the oft times inharmonic symphony which was the sub-collective at work.
{The following designations are assigned to reconnoiter the moon facility,} said Captain as a preamble to listing twenty drones. The composition was mostly weapons hierarchy, a few assimilation units, one engineering drone. He finished with {...and Second.}
{I protest!} exploded Second. From the alcove tier came the distinct, if distant, sound of alcove clamps disengaging.
{We require a command and control drone to accompany the operation,} answered Captain with an internal shrug, {and your designation was picked.}
Steps echoed from the tier. {There is a full command and control hierarchy to choose from! Why is /my/ designation weighted to be selected so often?} Second entered the nodal designation.
Captain raised his awareness sufficiently to observe Second's entrance to his holographic domain. "I just input the selection parameters and run the code. If it is less than random, it is because /certain/ drones," emphasis was heavy, "are continually tweaking the randomizer. You obviously haven't kept up with the tweaks."
Second allowed himself a frown as he examined the mess which was the designation randomizer. The code severely needed to be overwritten with a fresh copy. Unfortunately, such, like the star charts, could not be accomplished without a link to the Collective. "Maybe I should not have trounced 350 of 480 so soundly at Andorian battlechess," he admitted.
The designation list was set, and Captain knew Second knew that without glaring need (desire not to go did not count), the randomizer would not be rerun. "Think about the consequences next time you so obviously cheat...or at least hide the trace better."
"I did not..." began Second.
Captain gave Second a skeptical look, accompanied by the intranet equivalent, that stopped Second mid-protest. {Named designations, prepare for transportation.}
The twenty drones materialized in a compact circle, facing outward, so as to acquire a 360 degree visual of the surrounding area and to better respond to a hostile situation. Or that was the plan, at least. In reality, about half the drones arrived facing the center, and several seconds were required for those units to appropriates reposition themselves.
{No! Stop! Don't...shoot! Don't shoot again, anyway,} said Second as 81 of 83 automatically discharged his disruptor. The target had been - past tense - a sheet of curved metal, leaning against a workbench, which had fallen over upon the drones' arrival. The sheet was now a partially molten blob, and the table was missing a support.
{Oops?} answered 81 of 83.
Second stepped away from the group, breaking the silence. "This is ridiculous. There is no one here, neither Borg nor mysterious mutant aliens bent upon conquest of the universe."
Noted Weapons from afar, {The aliens could be invisible.} There was a pause as the sub-collective prodded the weapons hierarchy head onto a less immediately destructive path. {Secure the depot.}
All except Second and the engineering drone scurried off to do as ordered. The assimilation units were noticeably more hesitant than those of the weapons hierarchy, not because of the possibility of invisible mutant aliens, but due to the fact that any invisible mutant aliens would undoubtedly be armed. Assimilation members did not sport weapons and were not as well armored as their tactical brethren.
The beam down location was an open area, one of the two hangers to be precise. In its previous incarnation as a smugger cache, the depot had not consisted of much more than the hangers and adjacent storage facilities, all carved out of the regolith such that a reasonable amount of bulk goods could be safekept in addition to a smuggler's ship.
Surprisingly, a smuggling ship, or at least what used to be one, was in residence. It had been largely disassembled, materials scavenged for use in building the exterior sensor array, leaving behind little except a stripped chassis. The twenty meter long skeletal framework suggested the mating of two boxes, small forward compartment a claustrophobic coffin for the pilot, maximum storage potential for the cargo. Propulsion was not apparent, but lack of pylon supports suggested hypertranswarp drive, which made sense considering a smuggler's need for speed. The dissipating wake cube sensors had seen was also consistent with a small hypertranswarp vessel.
{There is another ship in here,} observed 49 of 212 from the other (open) hanger, unnecessary because all could see what she saw. {It seems to be a shuttle of some sort.}
{Not any shuttle,} excitedly interposed 127 of 230, racing shuttled enthusiast, into the thread, {but a Klingon 'Terror-wagon 4' runabout!} Transporter systems engaged before command and control could lock them against unauthorized surface transport; and 49 of 212 visually confirmed 127 of 230's arrival. {It really /is/ an original Klingon 'Terror-wagon 4' runabout!}
Sharply rebuked Captain, {127 of 230.} He was bolstered by Second; and both were utterly ignored by the named drone.
127 of 230 reverently approached the shuttle, setting one hand on its immaculately clean hull. At its core, the vessel was a streamlined box ten meters long, bow tapering to a stubby nose forward the pilot cabin. Two wings swept out and down from either side of the body, vaguely mimicking similar structures on the ancient Klingon Bird-of-Prey. The wings truncated in warp nacelles; and it was those nacelles which were serving as landing gear for the shuttle to rest upon. The rear hatch was closed, as were the two side doors. The polarized front window was so opaque that it might as well been solid metal. The vessel radiated a lethality no shuttle should possess, a feeling heightened by a blue/black/silver camouflage paint job and the glassy reflections of neuruptor ports fore and aft. Incongruously, Terran block letters in the form of "Betsy" were stenciled in bright red above the stern hatch.
{"Shuttles," volume 2741, described the 'Terror-wagon 4' as a "force to be reckoned with during commute, combining superior maneuvering ability with a weaponry system that sends road rage to a new level,"} continued 127 of 230. {But that issue came out seventy T-years ago! Only a limited number of the shuttles were ever produced, the line never really catching on among the Jhad-ball mother crowd; and while a few minor changes would have made it perfect for the amateur racing shuttle-demolition circuits, the obsession at the time leaned towards Cardassian models. This is an absolute antique! And it looks like it has extremely low light years on it, as if it has had only one owner of the proverbial old-lady variety. Oh, I just /need/ to look at the odometer, see if the interior is as well kept as the exterior....}
{127 of 230!} spoke Captain and Second in unison, backed by other members of command and control. 127 of 230 stiffened as her obsession was overruled. Continued Captain alone, {We have other considerations, of which shuttles rank very low. You will return to Cube #347,}
Before 127 of 230 could offer either compliance or protest, a transporter beam had already locked onto her.
49 of 212 peered at the shuttle for a long moment, then turned away to continue securing procedures. It was a nice looking shuttle, but still only a shuttle. If it had been a large pile of hand-knotted rugs woven from rare textiles, that would have been an entirely different matter.
In short order the main depot - hanger and Borg additions - were pronounced secure...and empty. The mining tunnels remained to be searched, but scans from Cube #347 were finding them as abandoned as the rest of the rock.
Second stood in what had been the primary focal node of the depot. Thirty alcoves, likely representing the total Borg population, lined the periphery of the room, interspersed by data pillars. While there were signs that the original distance spanning floor to ceiling had been no more than two meters, the room had been altered such that the dominant fixture at five meters in height, the vinculum, could be comfortably housed. With Second was the engineering drone, as well as several assimilation units. All were staring at the vinculum.
"Blimey! That tonker is all bloody wanked, ya know?" commented 119 of 240. The universal translator footnoted the language to be 'post-transitional Australian, archaic, English variant,' a Terran derivative. However, while 119 of 240 was humanoid, he was not human, instead a species which could best be described as kangaroo-like around the ears and pouch.
Neither 'tonker' nor 'wanked' were passing the universal translator well, but Second could guess their approximate meaning. Yes, the vinculum appeared to be royally wanked.
Damage from disruptors, neuruptors, and even a mining laser scored the vinculum, twisting it into a nonfunctional abstract sculpture. On the one hand, the vinculum still existed, unlike the pile of dust which was Cube #347's hardware. On the other hand...
"It's gonna take more than a wrench and duct tape to fix that disaster. Beer and a miracle is in order, except my bloody Borg physiology won't let me rent the beer long enough to get drunk, and I don't know any God of Vinculum chants," said 119 of 240.
Disturbingly, the damage to the vinculum had been Borg inflicted, as evidenced by the lethal devices discarded around the room.
119 of 240 abruptly huffed as he stepped forward, lifting his prosthetic hand to almost, but not quite, touch the vinculum. As he started circumnavigation, he muttered, "I am of the opinion that this vinculum be as fixable as a squashed cane toad in the belly of a croc, but I am only a minority quorum. We need more data."
Spurred into action, 32 of 203, assimilation drone, turned and placed his hand against one of the flickering data pillars...only to disengage moments later. The sub-collective virtually reeled: the databanks had been wiped clean. The only thing left behind was the spoor of a self-terminating virus, one specifically engineered by the Collective, one whose sole function was to perform clean formatting of computer systems (or, on occasion, drones).
This whole situation was making less and less sense.
{A [bedspread]!} interrupted Sensors into the main intranet. {Sensors sees a [bedspread]!}
As no beds were in evidence...{Report,} ordered Captain. In his nodal intersection, he cleared his holographic windows for the compiled sensor grid datastream. A three-dimensional schematic of the moon's tunnel system resolved, indicating the large amount of regolith needed for a replicator to create the necessary components for surface construction. At the furthest extent of the current intensive sensor sweep, a (mostly) green dot shone. {Lifesign? Borg? Alive?} hazarded Captain, verbalizing the majority consensus.
{That is what Sensors said,} replied Sensors, a trace of indignity (or watermelon) flavoring her signature. {Sensors speaks [reflection and roses].}
A Borg lifesign. So why was the unit not being "heard" by the sub-collective? Hardware transceivers were perfectly adequate to lock onto the emanations of any drones within the solar system. A few kilometers of moon was not a deterrent.
Input Second, {If I'm to be stuck on this rock, I will be part of the subteam to scout the situation.} Unsaid was the fact that watching an engineering drone scan an obviously dead vinculum was quite boring, as was eavesdropping on the assimilation hierarchy discussion about how to proceed with the database, assuming the very efficient virus had not missed anything.
{That is fine,} answered Captain, {especially as the unrandomizer generated your designation again...from the entirety of the command and control hierarchy.}
When the squad, and Second, reached the depot drone, it was instantly obvious why she had not been perceived by the Cube #347 sub-collective. Less obvious was why she remained functional, much less sufficiently so to be trying to walk into a wall.
True, the drone was of species #9333, recognized to have one of the more decentralized central nervous systems among humanoids. However, even cybernized members of species #9333 tended to not do well when half their brain, including hardware and organic neural transceivers, had been removed by a self-inflicted disruptor blast. There were some injuries nanoprobes could just not repair.
"Betsy. Betsy. Betsy," intoned the drone in a dull monotone as she walked into the tunnel wall, backed up, and repeated the action. She no more registered the presence of the squad than she did the lack of a door.
Two weapons drones stepped forward, captured the nameless drone by her arms, then swung her around. She continued to try to walk despite her restraint. The state of her armoring and assemblies, or general lack thereof, indicated a unit recently assimilated.
"State your designation. Comply," ordered Second.
Mumbled the drone, eyes focusing on nothing, "Betsy. Betsy. Betsy. Betsy."
"That is not a proper designation," said Second.
{The poor puppy should have terminated,} opinioned Doctor from afar. He was attempting to extrapolate by visual a damage assessment. {All higher brain functions are likely scrambled-wambled. There must be augmentation of the second and third spinal ganglions to allow movement and barking.}
"Betsy. Bet..." The drone halted her litany mid-word, then stiffened.
Helpfully diagnosed Doctor, {Stasis lock. The species is rated for 138 to 155 hours activity, depending upon configuration.}
"Why would she be repeating that shuttle's designation?" asked 272 of 300, one of the arm holders.
Second glared at the speaker. "We don't know. You know very well we don't know. Why even ask the question?"
"Because I have the tendency to verbalize the obvious, like I am doing right now. And did you know your upper left eye squints when..."
"Yes."
"How about..."
"Yes."
"And..."
"272 of 300, shut up, else I will lock your jaw muscles."
{Take the drone to Assimilation Workshop #14,} intoned Captain into the exchange as the sub-collective came to a decision on the matter. {The best we can do in the field with such a badly damaged drone is to obtain a designation and last assigned task. We need more data. We are in concurrence: a neural extraction is required.}
A neural extraction included the removal of all onboard data crystals and meme storage devices, as well as stimulation-examination of relevant neural clusters. It was 100% fatal: no known species could withstand the required decapitation, spinalectomy, and other dissection procedures necessary for maximum data extraction.
The decision was cold, and very Borg.
{Poor girl,} commented Doctor. {Oh, well, she wasn't very fixable anyway, and her left over parts can be reused.}
The two cubes on the far side of the spatial anomaly had changed their position in relation to each other. Exploratory-class cubes had the most sensitive grids of Borg vessels. However, as with all things, there was a limit. On the other hand, by interferometry, by positioning cubes to act as two input sources in order to combine data and form a picture equivalent to having a much larger grid, sensor resolution and range could be extended. It was a common technique. Unfortunately, /if/ the two cubes were in fact meshed for interferometry, and not moved for reasons only known to the Greater Consciousness, then the focus was out of Cube #347's ken.
Captain dismissed the tactical view to a background thread, minimizing the holographic display and storing it near the ceiling. It was time to review the results of the neural extraction.
The depot drone had been designated 489 of 17100, one drone of 31 total, assigned to Observatory #3127. She had also been assimilated a mere ten cycles earlier, the pilot of the stripped smuggling ship.
Most of 489 of 17100's pre-assimilation extractable organic memories were fragmentary. They were flashes, a parade of faces in no particular order: sweaty Ferrengi; an aged human woman; several Qual'tohf, their faces variations upon a theme; a bored Orion; more humans; a single, nervous Gorn. A succession of seedy spaceports and less-than-upscale bars was a long blur, each locale melting into the other with an inherent sameness.
Many memories had either been wiped as a standard assimilation processing protocol, else were scrambled beyond retrieval by the head wound. The last clear, pre-assimilation sequence detailed 489 of 17100's final actions, experienced via first person, but as if performed by another person:
**
Confirmation of final course correction prior to a nap, destination a small cache, last used several years ago, perfect for long-term storage of her cargos.
Motion of landing a wake-up alarm. It will be good to get out of the cramped piloting niche, stretch legs, use a proper hygienic facility, sleep in a real bed. Stupid piece-of-junk ship is flashing the lifesign symbol again, like it has been doing on and off since the shuttle was picked up. Nothing alive in /this/ cache, unless it can survive for years on darkness and dust and rock.
Atmosphere registers. The cache computer must have actually worked this time, turning on the atmospheric generator prior to her arrival. No need to wait impatiently in the ship, nor struggle into a spacesuit. That sonic shower will feel wonderful. The hatch is pushed open, and feet, legs, hips are thrust out, booted toes searching for the ground. Stupid configuration.
A big breath of freshly reconstituted air not recycled so many times that one's stink has bonded to the oxygen molecules. Wait a moment...what is that scent? And that sound? Has someone found her cache? Is the disruptor of a rival even now pointed at her back? And then a heavy hand grasps her shoulder. A turn of her head. The sight of a pale face.
Swear words bubble up from her throat, reflexively commenting with scatological reference upon the situation, the universe, life in general.
Maybe the lifesign scanner wasn't as fritzed as she had thought.
**
Past that point, much was unclear, the new drone primarily kept in an alcove except for periodic wakening for surgery. Like the organic memories, technologically augmented recollections were few, a casualty of disruptor-to-the-head disease. Events were mostly a big blank, excepting activation by the Collective with specific orders to initiate database wipe, destroy the vinculum, and finally self-terminate.
In the depot, 49 of 212 walked her assigned patrol route. She was only vaguely following the machinations of command and control and assimilation hierarchies, content to allow those with greater cerebral processing power than herself to make decisions. She went where she was ordered and shot what she was told. Well, sometimes the safety slipped when aiming, but the accidental target was usually fixable else irrelevant. At this moment in time, her body was on autopilot, mind primarily engaged with the cooperative formulation of new BorgCraft scenarios.
{Enemy Epsilon should be assigned a random attack vector from any of the game sectors surrounding the cube,} insisted 49 of 212. {If it happens to correspond with Enemy Beta, so be it. As racial enemies, Epsilon and Beta should be allowed to thence engage in their own battle-within-a-battle. It would be more interesting. Just a moment....}
49 of 212 disengaged from the burst of supportive and opposing argument as her visual systems registered an anomaly. She centered herself in her body, then paused her patrol to slowly pan the hanger. Everything was in order except...the rear hatch of the shuttle was open. 49 of 212 moved to investigate, weapon-arm raised.
The hatch formed a smooth ramp, and it was up this 49 of 212 ascended. Stopped half a step from actually entering the vessel, she carefully scanned the interior with visual and other built-in sensors. Dim interior lights revealed little except a small open area, terminating forward with two chairs at the piloting niche. The decoration could best be described as "retro grandmother," heavy on the lace doilies. On the floor of the main compartment...
"Hand-knotted rugs," breathed 49 of 212 excitedly. "A whole pile of them." She hastily powered down her weapon and stepped forward to more closely examine the find.
The rear hatch slammed shut with unnatural speed.
Nonvital activities, from 489 of 17100's data extraction review to BorgCraft scenario building, abruptly ceased as 49 of 212's link with the sub-collective was severed.
{The shuttle!} barked Weapons into the intranets as the last images from 49 of 212 were replayed and absorbed. {Invisible mutant aliens are in the shuttle, insulated from scans. 49 of 212 must be retrieved!}
Although Captain was among the majority opinion that an explanation more reasonable than "invisible mutant aliens" was responsible, core programming did demand retrieval of the drone, or whatever was left of her. {Support Weapons and his hierarchy,} said Captain to Second and the non-tactical drones in the depot. The cube disengaged from scanning of the deep moon tunnels to focus on the shuttle, just in case there was an iota of truth in it being something other than an antique runabout.
{And do what?} inquired Second as he broke off observing the assimilation drones' search to find a physically disconnected chip or other hardware storage device which had not been erased. {Throw rocks at it? Use harsh language?}
{Just go.}
Second shrugged, then joined the general exodus towards the hanger, falling into line behind 119 of 240.
The shuttle Betsy quickly became the center of deadly attention as all weapons drones on the moon converged on the hanger, surrounding the innocent seeming vessel. As if fourteen armed drones was not enough, another fifteen representing those most heavily armored and armed of the sub-collective's front-line troops materialized from Cube #347. Weapons joined the excursion as well, unwilling to be left out of the "fun." Within the hanger expectant silence reigned, broken only by the hum of chassis-mounted weaponry.
"Go ahead, make my day," hissed Weapons under his breath.
Muttered Second from beyond the lethal ring, "You've been wanting to say that ever since you watched that old Terran movie, haven't you?" He was not answered.
Ship-borne scanners continued to register an innocuous, and lifesign-less, shuttle.
The electronic whine of actuators accompanied the sight of the rear hatch slowly opening.
Ordered Weapons as he took half a step forward, {Prepare to fire! Saturate the vessel's interior to destroy any existent enemy!}
"Wait!" interrupted Second verbally as he stepped into the most unhealthy of locations between trigger-happy weapons drones and a target. The automatic safeties which were supposed to prevent one drone from inadvertently firing upon another did not always function properly among the tactical units of Cube #347. The shuttle door was halfway open. "We can feel 49 of 212. The transceiver is weak, but present."
Weapons narrowed his eyes. "A hostage situation. Irrelevant. It is better to terminate 49 of 212 in battle than to negotiate."
{Did anyone mention anything about negotiation?} asked Captain from Cube #347. {Borg do not negotiate. Just allow us - the sub-collective "us," not the weapons "us" - to ascertain the situation /before/ it is vaporized. Comply.}
Weapons fidgeted, mirrored by the drones of his hierarchy present. {We comply,} he grumbled. He glared at Second as the latter exited direct line of fire.
The hatch thumped against the ground. Silhouetted against interior shuttle lighting, 49 of 212 peered outward, transceiver still oddly muted to the point only a carrier signal was present. No aliens, no hostage takers, were in evidence...although, as Weapons continued to insist, the instigators could be invisible.
Next to 49 of 212, a large easel was present. Upon the easel rested a flat-screen version of the flip-chart. Other than a blinking green cursor, the electronic board was blank.
49 of 212 looked out upon the silent array, panning left to right to observe the ranks of active weapons aimed at her. She opened her mouth in preparation to speak, then clenched her jaw shut. Seeming without her violation, her prosthetic left arm rose halfway, only to be slapped down by her largely organic right limb. Very quickly, 49 of 212 was engaged in a battle with herself, arms struggling against each other as she shuffled back and forth, moving neither forwards nor back.
Finally 49 of 212 stilled, staring out upon the weapons drones. An unBorg tic continued to affect the left side of her face. "I am...Betsy," croaked 49 of 212, as if her vocal synthesizer was not working well. The right arm came up, fingers spayed in a particularly species-specific rude gesture at herself, before being harshly slapped down by disruptor arm. "I demand to speak to your leader."
Second stepped cautiously in front of the weapons drones again, not to prevent inopportune mayhem, but to present himself as a liaison.
49 of 212's head twitched like a spasmodic puppet with a broken string. "You are not the leader. I don't like hive organisms. I want to speak to your actual, current, real leader...now." 49 of 212 continued to remain just inside the shuttle, at the top of the ramp, looking down.
Captain, internally focused upon multiple visual feeds from drones in the hanger, did not register DEVIL's appearance in his nodal intersection, did not see the extreme close-up of DEVIL which revealed every holographic pore. Hands waved before eyes did not elicit a response, and nor did a solidified holographic matrix pushing at shoulder. However, when the AI purposefully disrupted the gravity grid at strategic locations, much to the exasperation of drones who had just finished mopping up the latest leak in Comet Slurry Processing #2, Captain was forced to pay attention.
"We are busy," informed Captain to DEVIL in a litany long grown old, "and we definitely /do not/ have the time for your antics. One more bothersome 'prank,' and Weapons' hunter-seekers will decompile you, even if we erase all our critical systems in the process."
"'Watch out! Beware! Sometimes a hungry monster will mock the meat it feeds upon,' I quoth from Will's Zookeeper Guide, chapter 3, verse 17. The quantum ripples and rip currents are strong. A nexus approacheth; and I do not knowest which way to tell thee to sail through the fog," said DEVIL.
"Very helpful," skeptically replied Captain. "Return to wherever you hide, because it has been declared that I have liaison duties to attend." Captain vanished from his nodal intersection, leaving behind the dissipating afterimage of a transporter beam and an anxious caterpillar about which billowed the merest hint of Mandelbrot wings, present despite lack of a sneeze.
Captain rematerialized in the hanger, next to Second. Second took the opportunity to sidle away as best as possible - Borg do not sidle well - and remove himself from downrange of barely constrained weapons drones. Captain waited for Second to complete the maneuver, silently observing the twitchy 49 of 212 before saying, "I am 4 of 8, subdesignated Captain, current consensus monitor and facilitator. I speak for all. Return to us the drone."
49 of 212, or whomever/whatever was puppeting her, waved her prosthetic arm. "You may call me Betsy. It is not my true name, but after seventy Terran years - so short, so long - I am rather fond of it."
Captain's eye flicked up to the block letters spelling "Betsy" above the shuttle's rear hatch, then back to 49 of 212. Tentative connections were being drawn by the sub-collective, and while invisible mutant aliens were low on the revised probability scale, the replacement explanations were not an improvement.
"I am a member of a race who left their corporeal forms behind long ago. We evolved, expanded, and finally discarded our bodies billions of light years from here, among the first intelligences to arise in a young universe. We are /not/ Q, mind you - we are /not/ omnipotent and we are born to a finite lifespan, although beings such as yourself would number the years as galactic revolutions, not planetary orbits.
"Regardless of the length of our lives, we do pass through the stages of growth, from baby to ancient; and when one is my age, one is expected to temporarily return to the corporeal universe from whence we evolved, studying the younger races and, mostly, recalling our earlier state of existence. In the vernacular of this here and this now, I am a graduate student working on her thesis."
49 of 212 (or Betsy) seemed to have much more to say, but right foot had begun to edge forward, to try to take the body beyond an invisible boundary delineated by the hatch frame. The neural transceiver link momentarily strengthened, but then returned to its prior state as the drone somehow managed to kick the offending limb with her other leg, returning it back into position.
Captain watched the display with narrowed eyes, waiting until Betsy/49 of 212 was more or less still. "Explanations are irrelevant. Release the drone."
"Explanations are not irrelevant," retorted Betsy. The electronic board, still upright despite several close calls by earlier flailed arms, brightened. Upon it formed the picture of an aged human woman, perhaps showing a bit of Cardassian ancestry by the color of her skin and a thickening of bone associated with cranium and neck. "I am interested in the corporeal process of aging and its parallels among my race. My current subject is Paulina Ann Swarznik, who I have been observing for seventy years.
"My race can physically manifest a part of the noncorporeal body to corporeal form, anchoring oneself within the matter-dominated dimensions of the membrane. I am limited in that the manifestation must be inorganic; and the process is very energy intensive, requiring great expenditure before reaching a steady state at which maintenance is nominal, easily satisfied.
"After much background research, I chose both Paulina Ann Swarznik and the form of this shuttle. Everything was proceeding swimmingly, until this quantum fiasco began to develop. Everyone who interacts with the corporeal has been given a deadline for evacuation; and I'm wasting precious field time out here away from my subject.
"With my native form, stepping from one end of the universe to the other is trivial, swift. This shuttle manifestation, however, anchors me to local laws of physics, including the slow speeds achievable by my warp nacelles." The board altered to that of rapidly scrolling mathematical formulas, on top of which rotated the shuttle. A large frowny face, colored Mr. Yuck green, held position at the top center of the electronic pad. "Paulina Ann Swarznik's plans to smuggle me out of the Legos II Retirement Castle for Active Old People for storage in this ass-end of nowhere took me by surprise. As an innocuous shuttle, albeit one whose nacelles are desired by SecFed authorities, I could not break my cover.
"Then, of course, there is that slight problem in that I do not have Q-ness omnipotence. I have limitations. I cannot normally reach beyond the boundary of my manifestation to manipulate objects or beings...and not having hands can be a real bugger, let me tell you, although a shuttle is /much/ better than a toaster. Through small expenditures of energy I can create minor items within my manifestation, such as this display board or the bait I used to lure this drone. Also, while I cannot influence organics, I /can/ interact with inorganics that enter my hull. You Borg have enough hardware bits and pieces that I can pull a few strings. People don't always listen to talking shuttles, after all.
"I tried to contact the other Borg who were here previously, but it did not work very well. Every time one entered my hull to begin dismantling me for my nacelles and bulk parts - impossible, of course - I would possess...only to have the damn drone die on me. And then another drone would come to pick up where his or her fellow left off. The dying thing was some sort of automatic Collective response, I think, because by the time I had refined my technique to not trigger instant termination, the depot had pretty much ran out of drones and the Collective had /finally/ figured out that thirty deaths in a row under suspicious circumstances was not a fluke. There was a final drone, but the last I saw of it, it was dragging something bulky and rather lethal looking out of this hanger and into the main facility."
The sub-collective could fill in the rest, 489 of 17100's final actions now making sense. The new drone, still not completely processed, had been tasked to destroy vital files, the vinculum, and finally technology in the form of the unit herself to prevent an unknown entity from acquiring access to the Borg. The Collective had not known Betsy, assuming she was telling the truth, could not act beyond her shuttle body.
"But, more drones - you - are here, and since this one hasn't kicked the bucket, I guess I've gotten this possession thing down right." 49 of 212's whole arm balled up a fist before proceeding to land an awkward blow to the jaw. The arm was restrained. "Almost right. If this body was an android, this would be so much easier. Anyway, you must have a faster mode of transportation than nacelles...think you can give me a lift to the Retirement Castle? I do want to get back to my field studies before the final evacuation call comes. I just can't get there from here on nacelles alone."
Before the sub-collective could even contemplate, and reject, the possibility of /another/ hitchhiker, DEVIL asked, ::Where be the bodies of thy cybernetic kin?::
"Well?" inquired Betsy forcefully, part of 49 of 212's face twitching in a half-grin, muscles fighting against each other.
Captain blinked; and many of the drones in the hanger began to move their heads as the sub-collective looked for Borg remnants. The neural extraction of 489 of 17100 did not show any gathering of bodies, although such a memory could have been among those permanently lost. Still, some remnant, be it a scuff mark from dragging or scorched implants due to incomplete disruption of dead bodies, should have been left. Nothing, neither here nor elsewhere Cube #347 drones had explored in the depot.
"Just haul me out of the hanger and up to your vessel," insisted Betsy. "If I may, I'd like to keep this drone a bit longer. Communication, you know."
"Where art, er, are the bodies?" repeated Captain, paraphrasing DEVIL's question. "Proper recycling procedures must be followed for terminations."
49 of 212's body began to twitch unhealthily. "I don't know. I study aging, not decomposition. Look, all I want is a ride, nothing more." Speech was slurring heavily, reaching a point of near incomprehension.
::I will attempt something,:: whispered DEVIL, ::else this be the end. The probabilities cannot collapseth, the waves of quantum may not break, if none observeth them....:: The AI's remark was cryptic; and odder yet, the program was voluntarily evoking some of the same encryption algorithms which normally activated only when the thing sneezed.
What the AI was doing was unimportant, for at that moment, 49 of 212 seized. She violently shook, knocking the easel over before she pitched forward to lie upon the ramp. Weapons drones tracked the movement, unmindful that their consensus monitor and facilitator was squarely between them and the target.
"No," croaked 49 of 212, staring up at the ceiling, not blinking. "No...comply. Bad." No longer shadowed by Betsy, the drone's neural transceiver link had re-established a more normal bandwidth. The warning she was trying to convey verbally was much more eloquently stated, if still disjointed, within the dataspaces.
There were no bodies because upon each automatic termination Betsy had "eaten" them, as she was planning to consume the entirety of Cube #347. She maintained the steady-state of her manifestation by sipping on forces - electromagnetic, gravitonic, quantal-organic - as a sort of benign vampire. True, Betsy could not arrive at her destination in a timely manner while anchored with her shuttle body, but if she ate, say, a Borg cube, then supped upon the brown dwarf, she could temporarily return to her native state, zip to her field station, and become Betsy-the-shuttle once more.
Betsy had been unable to possess 49 of 212, however tentatively via control of assemblies, servos, and implants, without relaying her plans. As 49 of 212 was planned to be a literal post-dinner sweet, the enlightenment had been unimportant.
{Fire,} ordered Weapons calmly. Captain collapsed to the ground as disruptors disintegrated the shuttle's interior. The Terror-wagon may have been a manifestation of a noncorporeal being, but the panels brightly sparked as they were hit. Interior lights darkened.
127 of 230 sighed. {It wasn't really a Klingon 'Terror-wagon 4' runabout, so it could not have been properly added to my collection. But still...it was a beautiful reproduction.}
With upholstery within the shuttle suitably on fire, Weapons called for a cessation of disruptors. Captain began to laboriously stand up, a process made easier when Second stepped forward to assist.
{All drones return to Cube #347,} ordered Captain. Weapons practically thrummed with anticipation as transporter beams locked on.
Doctor grumbled as 49 of 212 was detoured to Maintenance Bay #5, {What a mess. Someone needs a thorough shampoo and grooming.} He brightened, {I have a new scent: Peaches and Rosemary. It will make your coat shine!}
Cube #347 dipped its tenacious orbit towards the moon until a surface observer would have had the heavens reduced to the visage of a Borg cube. A cutting beam lanced towards the depot, piercing the blister which housed the mangled vinculum and causing an explosion of atmosphere through the resultant hole. Oops. Another two tries were similarly unsuccessful, one melting regolith and the other slicing through a portion of the observatory array. Finally, on the fourth try, cutting beams carved into Betsy's hanger. The exposed shuttle was snatched from the ground with a tractor beam. Cube and prize retreated to a higher, more stable orbit.
A target lock was acquired. Neuruptors along edges #5 and #6 powered up. Destruction of the shuttle was a pragmatic removal of a threat, not an act of revenge. Revenge was irrelevant; and it was highly unlikely the non-corporeal being which had described the vessel as a "manifestation" would be seriously harmed. Besides, it gave weapons hierarchy target practice.
Running lights along the side of Betsy, formerly dark, activated with a weak flicker.
Captain watched Betsy from his nodal intersection via a camera feed. Beside the window was a second hologram, this one a schematic of the cube, capacitors associated with neuruptors beginning to redline as Weapons delayed firing in order to achieve massive overkill. Slightly behind Captain stood Second; and on top of the latter's head appeared DEVIL.
"Thou shouldest runneth away! This be folly! Thou cannot hurt Betsy in such a manner, so sayeth the quantum. I have castest a pall around the waves such that they be locked in a Schrodinger box, but the quantum will refute the disruption soonest. The quantum will be observed and the cat let free to roam," whined DEVIL. Although caterpillar in form, the avatar seemed indistinct, as if wreathed in shadow although the holoemitters reported normal operation.
Second raised a hand and futilely swatted at the hologram. "The impossible has never stopped Weapons before."
Captain sent wordless agreement. The cube was committed. The shuttle remained a cipher to sensors, registering as a simple runabout, even as such had been demonstrated otherwise. Then the hologramatic displays (not DEVIL) froze, mirrored by a sudden stiffening of Captain and Second. The sensor grid was picking up a new reading, this one just entering the edge of long-distance resolution.
Cube schematic and exterior display vanished in favor of tactical plot. At the center was Cube #347. The spatial anomaly arced to the galactic north, the two Exploratory-classes, still in interferometry positioning, on the far side. Two sets of hypertranswarp wakes were rippling subspace, one angling in from the hubward direction and the other, slightly more distant, following the recent path of Cube #347. Both were aimed at the solar system.
Analytical algorithms automatically dissected the signatures of the nearer group, sensory hierarchy forming a conclusion with 95.7% probability. {Sensors sees Collective vessels!} announced Sensors with unusual clarity, punctuating the declaration with a warbling whistle.
Further reports labeled the second group also Borg, albeit of Colored variety. The account was dismissed as unimportant, sub-collective focused upon the signature of the vessels which would arrive first.
Mostly focused, that is. {I and my hierarchy want to blow up Betsy,} asserted Weapons. The shuttle was showing increasing signs of activity, although it had yet to initiate engines or test the tractor beam.
{We wait,} intoned Captain as weapons were locked, for the nonce, against discharge. {The Greater Consciousness will decide how to dispose of Betsy.} The Collective, in the past, had become occasionally miffed when Cube #347, and predecessor incarnations of imperfect sub-collectives, had accidentally destroyed individuals, technologies, entire civilizations which might have furthered Perfection.
DEVIL's urgings to flee were ignored.
The sensor grid tracked the hypertranswarp wakes as they neared, anticipation high. Betsy, still in a tractor lock, was regulated to irrelevancy, unimportant. If the sub-collective could have been likened to Pavlov's experimental dogs, the lab floor would have been ankle-deep in saliva. Then, anticlimactically, four Borg vessels appeared in normal space, fifteen minutes distant at normal insystem impulse.
The three Battle-class cubes and one Assault-class sphere were a welcome sight. Confidently, Captain wove his sub-collective together and reached towards the ships with their vinculums. The Greater Consciousness, after the expected metaphorical sigh over the latest irregularity of the imperfect sub-collective, would make it all better.
Fractal subspace frequencies aligned, encryptions passed and accepted, identification confirmed...the Greater Consciousness registered the reappearance of a disengaged node.
Rejection!
The sub-collective reeled as the tentative connection was barred, their probe ejected with the speed and force normally reserved for virii and Colors too nosy for their own good. Battle-classes and Assault-class accelerated with exacting purpose.
The tractor beam holding Betsy vanished.
{What happened?} voiced Captain into the intranets, reflecting his sub-collective's confusion. Such rejection had never happened in the history of the imperfect sub-collective, any imperfect sub-collective. They were not exactly held in high regard, but they were Borg. The Collective was very selfish when it came to its assets.
Captain re-assembled the tattered unity of Cube #347, and tried again, with the same results.
"The probabilities, forsooth, be not good for thou, and me, if thee doesn't runneth away," warned DEVIL strongly. "Flee!"
Captain absently shook his head, ignoring the AI perched atop Second's head. What had happened? The unseen tactical plot noted the vectors of the Borg vessels, as well as the nearing signature of the second set of hypertranswarp wakes. Betsy was a small dot, nearly lost upon the map.
Contact. Rejection. Contact. Rejection. With every attempt, each more disorganized than the previous, the sub-collective lost cohesive unity, slipped towards chaos. Cube #347 drifted without purpose.
A /hail/ was received. Captain answered it. The incoming audio-visual feed, a stream of which was automatically diverted to Captain's nodal intersection, opened as a view of alcove tiers and distantly moving figures. The multivoice spoke, "We are the Borg. You will provide us with your nacelle cargo. You will submit to us to be towed to the nearest unimatrix for recycling of drone crew."
Recycling. The word was an euphemism for termination and rendering for parts. If such was to be the fate of Cube #347, so be it...except why did the Collective offer rejection when it could simply have accepted the sub-collective before ordering How It Would Be?
"Runneth away!" urged DEVIL. "Run...nnn...nnn...ACHOO!" A swirl of colors exploded as the shadowed caterpillar transmogrified into its butterfly alter ego. Instead of its usual collapsing back to caterpillar form, the holographic butterfly continued its fit, each sneeze shimmering its wings into more exotic Mandelbrot forms. Second looked as if he were crowned by the ultimate Mardi Gras decoration.
Thrusters along Betsy's flanks halted the tumble imparted following banishment of the tractor beam. For a moment, the shuttle's nose pointed at Cube #347, then it swung towards the four larger Borg vessels incoming. Nacelles flared. The runabout accelerated.
Into the path between Cube #347 and Collective conspecifics - eight minutes distant at current speed and entering extreme long-distance weapons envelope - appeared the owners of the second set of hypertranswarp signatures. They were cubes, a motley mix of mostly Exploratory-class and some Battle-classes; and multi-colored highlights and exterior spotlights marked them for a mixture of Colors, Green predominant. A flurry of low-powered neuruptors, more annoyance than danger (at least to another vessel the size and armoring of the least of Color/Borg ships) broke out within the pack.
"We told you to stop following us!"
"Following you? Why would I want to follow /you/? We were tracking the spoor on our own!"
"Don't you dare cloak! My sensors are locked on you. A cloak will not gain you any advantage."
"Incoming!"
The babble of arguing voices leaking upon the subspace frequencies, some in multivoice format and others that of single drones, abruptly ceased as the four Collective ships plowed into the Colored pack. The previous equivalent of pushing became much more lethal as the power of close-range weaponry was increased to dangerous levels; and torpedoes augmented the fray. It was everyone for themselves. While the Collective vessels were the general focus of the Colors, individuals ships were not above taking pot-shots at rivals when the opportunity presented.
Betsy, nearing the skirmish, sped faster. An observer with a gift for imagination might label the shuttle as eager.
{What do we do?} asked Captain into the intranets. Cube #347 drunkenly spun, one moment wobbling in the direction of the fracas to join the Collective against the Colors, the next randomly drifting in any direction but the battle.
DEVIL sneezed a final time, wrapped its wings around itself. ::Run,:: it suggested, both via the intranets and aloud in Captain's nodal intersection. "This fit hath exposed the pall, released the encryption. Woe, for the Cat hath escaped its prison and the universe observeth the quantum once more. The waves be poised to break."
A torpedo, propellant expended and on a ballistic trajectory to nowhere, missed the cube. The pack was distinctively moving in their direction, would soon engulf Betsy, and shortly thereafter Cube #347. At the moment, every time a ship dared to dart towards Cube #347, it experienced the collective ire of the participants, forcing it to return to the brawl.
{What do we do?}
::Runneth away.::
{What do we do?}
::Runneth away.::
{What do we do?}
::The probabilities insist that if thou doesn't runneth now, thou never will! Flee!::
Betsy had reached the edge of the battle, an insignificant fly amongst a contest of Titans. As a Green Exploratory-class cube trekked by, many factors of size larger than the runabout, it belched a spread of anti-matter bomblets, more than sufficient to render any shuttle into scrap. Betsy disappeared within the bright explosions, reappearing unharmed, paint unchipped. A blue beam stabbed forth from the small ship, spearing the threatening Exploratory-class, passing through shields as if they were not present. The Green ship flared, then slowly faded like the afterimage of an old television set.
"We must assist the Collective," said Captain aloud, consensus starting to form. "We must submit to the will of the Collective, to Perfection, even if we are to be dismantled. That is Borg. Perhaps we will be re-integrated to the Whole before we are recycled."
DEVIL's form was slowly, much more so than usual, reforming back to that of caterpillar. The ghost of wings continued to wrap its body. Second stared straight ahead, disregarding the hologram as he attended to internal matters. "Forsooth, thou art dense. The danger comes not from thy Borg comrades nor thy pursuers, although hazard doth exist. The quantum pronounce /Betsy/ to be thy doom! Look!" DEVIL pointed two trembling arms at the tactical display.
A Borg Battle-class was engulfed in the blue beam, vanishing the way of the Green vessel. At the edge of the pack, the #66CC33 ship was hastily disengaging even as the shuttle drew the communal fury of the remaining contestants. Betsy shrugged off the increasingly vigorous attacks even as she advanced upon another victim.
"She be drawn preferentially to concentrations of the living, for they fuel her best. If thou doth not flee, she /will/ seeketh thou out once she hath disposed of her main meal, and add you, and me, as a final snack!"
The #66CC33 cube vanished into hypertranswarp.
Captain wavered, the sub-collective wavered...the impetus to join the battle remained.
The Assault-class sphere, one of the most fearsome of vessels in the Borg stable, became a meal to the hungry runabout manifestation. The Colors were now beginning to pull away, to leave the two remaining Borg ships behind, to follow the example of #66CC33. A lingering Peach vessel faded, followed in quick succession by the final two Borg Battle-classes. Finally, all which was left to show a battle had even occurred were memes stored by the observing Cube #347, a few scraps of metal dislodged prior to Betsy's entrance, and a starburst pattern of fleeing transwarp signatures.
The stubby nose of the runabout swiveled to face Cube #347. The blue beam lashed out, caught a few of the larger scraps, vanished them. Nacelles flared.
::Thou final and last chance: runneth away! Do as DEVIL says! The waves are roiling, breaking!::
Choosing a random direction which was not Rift, not Color vector, Cube #347 fled.
Betsy slowed, then stopped as her prey sped away. The shuttle began to rotate: the system still offered a suitable smorgasbord. Paulina Ann Swarznik would be /so/ happy to have her Betsy back; and Betsy would be able to finish her field research profitably. First, however, a gas giant for dessert.
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