This is your only warning! Star Trek is owned by Paramount. Star Traks was created by Decker. BorgSpace is written by Meneks. Trespassers will be lethally disciplined.
Leonardo
Cube #347 drifted silently, slowly spinning as it listened. The patch of space the Exploratory-class cube occupied appeared no different than any other volume of interstellar near-emptiness. It sported average neutrino flux, average cosmic radiation, average dust content, average everything, at least on the surface. One needed to probe deeper, look to the hidden subspace realm to know why the sub-collective languished.
Subspace radio was more similar to its light-speed bound cousin as viewed on the terrestrial scale than one might first suspect. Subspace could be likened to a type of nether atmosphere, mirroring its planetary counterpart with analogies of weather, thermoclinic boundaries, and bands of ionization. Most important, there were places in the universe - random, never the same - where forces conspired to allow the listener to hear long-distance subspace broadcasts which otherwise would have been lost. Like a peculiar atmospheric condition bouncing a local AM station from a university student-run facility to an insomniac oldster on the other side of a planet, subspace radio followed similar tenants.
Cube #347 had found one of those coveted sweet spots; and so it listened.
"And now a word from our sponsors! Chaco-chick mix is..."
{Next band.}
"...when I wish upon a spinger, then I wanna..."
{Next band.}
"Three theta five sixteen beta." Pause. "Eight eight two omega two."
{Partition five, continue [blanket]. Next band.}
"...and I said Hellfire! Hellfire! Hellfire will rain upon..."
{Next band.}
The sensory hierarchy was scrolling through available frequencies one at a time. With each snatch, the band was evaluated with Sensors elucidating the decision as to if the frequency required further blankets, er, monitoring by an assigned partition. The sub-collective was hunting for Collective communications in order to determine if a Borg ship was closer than unimatrix 013. While no indication of the Collective had been found amid static and banal chatter and infomercials for Nasal Hair Remover, there were the occasional encoded military transmissions (many types, not solely Second Federation) which warranted further examination.
"Five six one twelve Capricorn. Zeus lives on Olympos Mons. Three ten."
{Partition six, [blanket blanket blanket]. Next band.}
"Sparta! How I love you! However, I cannot be with you! My doctor's brother-in-law's second ex-wife's dentist is watching my every move! Even today was a risk, although I'm scheduled to eat my own..."
{No! "All My Neuters" is not [technicolor rainbow]. Record, not [ranch dressing] or [blanket]. Next band.}
The remainder of the sub-collective was not idle. Well, most of it anyway: the pathologically bored machinations of an unused assimilation hierarchy did not count. While Collective signals had yet to be intercepted, the coded military transmissions were available to break. Unfortunately, without support from the Greater Consciousness, and more importantly, the latest revolving encryption keys, the few thousand organic processors engaged with the task could only wrest tantalizing hints from the whole.
60 of 79, speaker of partition 2.b, {We've got one! It reads: "Pizza delivery for Bravo company at 1800. Order is as follows - one pepperoni, hold the olives; two sardine and pickles; one super, extra-large sausage special; one Veggie-Lovers Delight; three...."}
{That is not a covert message, but a misuse of military resources!} exclaimed Second, who was overseeing the code breakage efforts. {It is a company commander's pizza list! Work on message #18.}
{But what if there is a code under a code?} persisted 60 of 79.
{Sardine and pickles? Veggie-Lovers Delight? Message #18. Now,} insisted Second. When one of the Hierarchy of Eight insisted, even when it was 3 of 8, drones complied.
{Yes,} said 60 of 79.
Second switched attention back to partition 4.a. Those units had been uncovering tantalizing hints of Something Big amid Second Federation military when partition 2.b had loudly interrupted. {Again.}
{Encoding is very complex,} reported 107 of 480. {False encryptions, doubling, transliteration, fractal revolving key. On the up side, we do have a list of every Cracker Jack code ring manufactured, so that particular twist is transparent. We will require days to completely dissect, and only if the entire sub-collective is dedicated to this task and nothing else.}
{Summarize what the partition has broken.}
{Second Federation is looking for something. A Borg vessel. The bits which detail the ship - Collective or Color; designation; search area - are heavily encoded, as is the basis for the hunt.} Pause. {New codeline: the sender is noting that "Starfleet better find it before others do." The subject could be the mystery ship, or a general's shuttle keys, due to phrase isolation.}
Second's face twisted into a hint of sneering smile before relaxing. He was in his alcove for this task. {One would not want to be the vessel Second Federation is after. Continue hacking the transmission.}
Interjected 60 of 79, {We think the tomato sauce actually stands for...}
{Message #18!} roared Second. {No more pizza orders!}
A singular transmission abruptly overwhelmed all the frequencies the sensory hierarchy had been sifting through. It was pervasive, as if it was being sent within a light year by a very powerful transmitter although sensor sweeps displayed only average amounts of nothing within such a volume.
Thump. Rattle. Clink of glass on glass. Heavy breathing. More thumping. Glooping of a thick liquid into a container. Rattle, rattle. Metal on glass. The breathy sound of air being squeezed out of a plastic container. A wordless grumble of frustration. Thump.
Somewhere, someone had accidentally keyed a microphone. How annoying, especially as the sweet spot relayed it differentially to the detriment of hearing anything else.
"Well, let's give that a whirl." The actual sentence was a collection of rough, spitting, consonant-laden words with vowels a rare commodity. It was a known tongue, however, and universal translators automatically tagged it as species #6498.
Click.
Blast of static.
{Ow! Ow-wow-wow-wow!} complained Sensors, uniquely sensitive to the sensor grid. {[Stash it fish! Flower power! Seeds of Saint Plug!]}
The universal translator, strained at the best of times when translating species #6766 language, was overwhelmed at what were obviously vulgarities of the lowest sort.
Three hundred meters from face #6, a mirage shimmered, solidified. The vessel was only vaguely shiplike and largely lost under a forest of flanges, antennae, and superfluous air spoilers. Multicolored lights blinked in no discernable pattern from places lights had no business being. Something which looked suspiciously like an oversized, overstuffed sofa was bolted to the starboard(?) side; and on the dorsal surface stood an abstract sculpture...no, it really /was/ a vacuum desiccated tree. If there were engines, weapons, anything recognizable as belonging to a ship, it was lost under the dross.
Another burst of static sent Sensors into a new realm of Ouch.
"Dang it! Not again! All I want is a smoothie from the blender!" The mic was unkeyed; and transmission from the ship ceased. Unfortunately, during the short span that the vessel had been transmitting, the sweet spot had faded and was gone.
Although far from the Collective, both figuratively and literally, its precepts continued to ride strongly in the sub-collective's mind. The spiky ship had arrived using an unknown propulsion; and species #6498 was not known for its innovative technology. If anything, the exact opposite as the species insisted upon only using inventions originating from within its own race despite the fact that more advanced technology was available from the Second Federation, of which it was a minor member. Therefore, species #6498 was limited to homemade vessels utilizing sub-warp 5 engines, puttering along in the galactic slow lane among their backwater rim stars. Needless to say, the race had not attracted much Borg attention, the Greater Consciousness willing to wait the requisite centuries for an innovation which would compliment the Collective's quest for Perfection.
Unfortunately, that innovation may have occurred; and Cube #347 could not relay that fact to the Mind. The cube could, however, secure ship and occupant (a scan showed only one lifesign) against the inevitable return of sub-collective to Collective.
{Weapons: tractor the vessel and bring it aboard to Bulk Cargo Hold #2. Do /not/ destroy it. Do /not/ almost destroy it. Do /not/ scratch the target's hull in any manner,} ordered Captain. Weapons had become milder these last couple of months since a near-termination experience, but a certain consensus monitor and facilitator did not believe it would last. {Assimilation: secure the single crew and begin assimilation process. Put the new unit into deep regenerative storage as soon as possible to limit contagion from us. Delta: dismantle the vessel and cataloging its parts so that it can be reassembled without leaving out an extra bolt. Comply.}
Delta's response was immediate, if indignant, {Compliance. This hierarchy knows its job and is efficient in its tasks.}
{Compliance,} said a bored Assimilation. While his hierarchy was soon to perform its actual function, a single subject would be little more than a mere diversion.
Weapons was the last to respond, although he did do so without need of additional prompting from command and control. {Compliance.} The word was curt.
Intoned Captain, {Initiate.}
A tractor beam stabbed from edge #6, missed, tried again. On the third attempt it contacted the species #6498 ship and began to tow it to the opening doors of Bulk Cargo Hold #2. As if one tractor was insufficient, two, three, four, five additional beams of directed gravitonic energy latched on. Through it all, the target made no audiovisual protests, did not attempt to raise shields, did not struggle to escape, did not power-up weapons. It was odd to be ignored by a victim, but on the positive side, the lack of response meant Weapons had no provocation to respond with crushing force: Weapons had long since been notified (repeatedly) that "'Nothing' does not constitute a valid threat."
The vessel was dragged without protest to the threshold of Bulk Cargo Hold #2, then passed to internal tractor beams. It sailed through the opening, one flange missing the verge by mere meters. The spiky ship was settled to the cargo hold floor in an open spot, set on what appeared to be landing struts, but which could equally have been more senseless decoration like the sofa.
As the exterior cargo doors began to close, ten tactical drones and an equal number of assimilation drones materialized near the ship. While Weapons was among his weapons squad, Assimilation was not in personal evidence due to contemplation of two subtly unmatched grays in corridor 43 of subsection 11, submatrix 7. Twenty engineering drones (neither Delta body present because both were in regeneration) arrived well outside the cordon of their more heavily armored brethren, quickly jockeying for the best positions from which to watch the show.
{That is an access hatch,} said Weapons with authority as he mentally highlighted a rectangular section of hull. Pointing and talking aloud was not encouraged, for even though the fate of the occupant was a foregone conclusion, it was best not to flaunt the little, not-quite-Borg-protocol things. The strategy session continued. {If no exterior computer port can be found for assimilation hierarchy to jack into, we will set explosives to...}
{There's a door a'opening!} called 40 of 230 from the engineering peanut gallery, thoroughly ruining Weapons' conference.
The hatch slowly irising open was not the area of hull Weapons had indicated (later examination would show the "door" to be painted decoration). An irregular oval dilated to reveal a dark, round silhouette set against overly bright interior lights; and, simultaneously, a ridged ramp extended from a formerly hidden slot, angling for the deck plating. Ten arms incorporating lethal hardware were pointed at the silhouette.
"I say," boomed a voice, the same one heard earlier on subspace, from a ship-mounted speaker system, "thank you for picking me up. Which Color are you, and can I ask for a bit of directions? Oh, and a few parts for my blender would be marvelous...I still haven't quite worked out that flux resistor problem yet."
The silhouette took a mincing step forward, paused, and began to frantically wave dimly seen shadows which were properly positioned to be arms. The bubble in which the individual was encased rocked, then began to ponderously roll down the rampway. The action was not voluntary in nature. Just as it was building speed, the bubble snapped to an abrupt halt at the base of the ramp, brought up short by a clear hose which disappeared into the open hatch.
"More traction on the ramp, maybe? I don't really want to put legs on this design: that would be so old-fashioned, so yesterday. Ramp...yes...I can see it now...ramp traction and maybe some sort of scalloped steps. A dash of chrome for a post-industrial effect." The loudspeaker continued to loudly broadcast the bubble occupant even as it was obvious the words were not meant for an audience. The mumbling continued as the individual righted itself inside the bubble, oblivious to the very real threat represented by ten hair-trigger weapons drones.
"Sorry about that. No harm done. What Color are you again? Oh, definitely not White. Maybe Red? Chartreuse?"
Slightly distorted by the absurd clear bubble he was wearing, the features and form of the being peering at the assembled drones was typical for species #6498. Start with a walrus, or more precisely, a walrus' head. A ponderously heavy muzzle studded with spiked whiskers centered a globular, mostly bald pate. Beneath the flattened muzzle was a wide mouth which contained a pair of short, downward pointing tusks; and above were two liquid black eyes. Unwalrus were the two feline ears which perked in obvious anticipation nor the short mohawk of hair shockingly white against dark brown epidermis.
While the species #6498 body was humanoid, the just-under-two-meter frame appeared out of proportion. To blame was the long and rather rotund torso against which the head seemed too small and limbs too short. Arms terminated in six digits of which two were thumbs; and on this particular specimen, the fingers were overly long. The pocketed vest and cargo pants with black and white horizontal stripes were neither flattering nor stylish; and the thick tool belt only emphasized the slightly overweight nature of the pilot's mid-region.
"My name is Leonardo." The non-species #6498 name was startlingly liquid against the guttural backdrop of native language. "A Terran name, I know, but when my lifework of tinkering became evident, what better use-name than that of the foremost inventor the galaxy - the universe! - has ever known!" The bubbly, talkative optimism of Leonardo would have been infectious had his audience not been expressionless Borg drones.
{Enough,} said Captain, observing many points of view from afar. {Secure the individual and his ship.}
"My blender needs a couple of spare parts. Maybe you could help? A motor, a Lovelock electromagnet, a small linear accelerator, a bit of plutonium...nothing exotic. Hey! Careful now!"
Leonardo bleated an indignant protest as he was knocked sideways by the assimilation drone who had crossed the killing zone to secure the inventor. Unfortunately, the ridged roundness of the bubble meant that a grip of any sort was impossible.
{Somebody /could/ assist me,} grumped 181 of 203.
After a few seconds, during which an upset Leonardo was regaining balance and feet, 12 of 46 pushed through the line of motionless tactical drones. She took the side opposite 181 of 203, but still the slippery slickness and taunt pressure of the unusual suit defeated all efforts. Unuseful suggestions flowed on the intranets.
{68 of 310, go set the situation straight,} ordered Delta, her consciousness observing even as her bodies slept in regeneration. {You have the appropriate tools on your chassis.}
Returned 68 of 310, {But what if the ship or the pilot have hidden weapons? I don't have the same armoring as a weapons or assimilation hierarchy member!}
{Then your tools will be mounted on a unit more efficient and compliant than yourself. The rest of your body will be appropriately recycled. Go.}
{Compliance,} sullenly said 68 of 310.
68 of 310, engineering unit, shuffled from the peanut gallery of his peers, maneuvering his way through assimilation and weapons drones to reach Leonardo. Ignoring the comical struggle between drones and bubble, 68 of 310 detoured to the clear hose snaking along the ramp and ground. He aimed his left arm; and, with a well placed cutting laser, severed the tough plastic. The bubble suit immediately crumpled in on Leonardo, deflating with a loud rush of air.
"No blender parts, then," said Leonardo sadly as the plastic draped his rotund body. If the evacuation of air bothered him, he did not show it. Leonardo's words were now muffled by the former bubble suit, ship speaker system no longer functioning following severance of the air hose. "You could have just said so. Oh, and note to self: portable atmospheric system is a must, and a patching kit, maybe something like those air mattress kits, only better."
181 of 203 and 12 of 46 were now able to easily grip Leonardo through the thick plastic. While 181 of 203 held the inventor (still cataloguing improvements, each increasingly complex and some verging on the impossible), 12 of 46 ripped the tough suit from Leonardo's body. Meanwhile, 68 of 310 retreated to relative safety behind lines of heavily armored drones.
"Ouch!" exclaimed Leonardo, shocked from his ongoing monologue. That particular word sounded much the same in every language the Borg had catalogued. "You are trying to assimilate me! That's not very Color of you! In fact, its down...right...Borg. Is this a Borg Collective ship?"
Unable to wait longer, Weapons ordered his squad in the bulk cargo hold to capture the ship. While the ramp remained largely blocked by Leonardo and two drones, the open hatch was too much an invitation. The line of drones broke as all ten weapons units, lead by Weapons, started forward.
Reacting to the threat to itself as it had not responded to the assault on its pilot, the ship acted. The deflated and faintly hissing hose was rapidly reeled into the hatch, followed by the swift retraction of ramp. The door irised closed with an audible clang. A forcefield shimmered into existence, cutting through several unfortunate crates positioned a shade too close to the parked vessel; and, most importantly, many formerly undetected weapons of the anti-personnel kind extended from ports hidden beneath unnecessary crenulations and flanges.
"This vessel is protected by a Cybolt security system," coldly announced the vessel over its loudspeakers with a mechanically-accented version of the species #6498 language. "Any attempt to pass the forcefield will be met with lethal action; and nonlethal, but disfiguring and horribly painful, methods will be employed against biologicals within one meter of the forcefield. This is your only warning." The ship silenced except for the faint crackle of forcefield and intermittent hum of servos swiveling gun mounts.
Said Leonardo, unaffected by the nanites injected by 181 of 203, "Oh, dear. I forgot to turn off the security system again, didn't I? I hate it when I do that. A bit overenthusiastic, isn't it? I keep missing my appointments to take it to the Cybolt dealership to get it adjusted."
Reported 181 of 203, {This individual must have counter-nanites in circulation. The standard assimilation suite is not working.}
Assimilation's sigh was visceral: his contemplation of corridor 43 grays would have to be postponed while a vat of the appropriate nanites was manufactured. {Transport him to Assimilation Workshop #16 and secure him for processing. We will eventually assimilate him.}
The soft buzz of air ionized by a high-powered laser announced that a weapons unit had approached the forcefield, disregarding the warning. The buzz was followed by a clattering thump as said unit's left leg was neatly severed at the knee. The whine of a transporter ended the audio sequence, the incapacitated drone swept away to drone maintenance for repairs.
Weapons marched to Leonardo and his two captors. {A moment. Turn him towards his vessel.} 181 of 203 and 12 of 46 bodily picked up the slightly overweight inventor-pilot and swung him to face his ship. "Deactivate the security system. Now. Comply." Weapons could take the ship, but there would be much work for drone maintenance, the resultant mess to Bulk Cargo Hold #2 would displease Delta, and, most important, he was tasked to secure it mostly whole, not as tiny bits.
If Leonardo was discomforted with having a heavily armed and armored Borg barking demands mere centimeters from his face, he did not show it. If anything, his expression was one of helpful remorse. "Sorry. I can't."
"You will deactivate the security system. Comply!" Weapons' voice rose in volume.
"I can't."
"You will! Comply!"
"I can't. Wait, wait! I really can't. I changed the password recently, and I don't remember what I changed it to."
Weapons was silent a moment, then backed away half a pace. A finger prodded Leonardo's chest, eliciting a gasp of air. "Try."
Leonardo shrugged as best he could, considering his circumstances and new bruise to his chest. "Okay, except..."
"Try. Comply!"
"Fine." Leonardo sighed, then raised his voice. "Um, password: cherry jubilee."
"Voice print correct. Password incorrect," rumbled the ship via loudspeakers. "You have two more attempts."
"Again," said Weapons.
"But," tried Leonardo again, desisting when he saw arm with finger exchanged for arm with weapon. "Password: blendermania."
"Voice print correct. Password incorrect. You have one more attempt." Servos whined as four anti-personnel weapons were aimed at Leonardo.
Said Leonardo before Weapons could urge a third attempt, "If you insist, please put me behind a large blast door and give me a remote speaker. I only have three attempts, then the security system tries to kill me before it resets to three tries. Another minor problem I need adjusted. Makes a mess, it does, the way it shoots up everything. I'm barred from four, no, five spaceports now because of damage. And then there was that redesign of my homeworld's capital because of all the large holes." Leonardo sighed, then gave Weapons a look of helpful suffering. "Again?"
Weapons stared at Leonardo several long seconds, then swiveled on heel to regard the vessel. {This individual is useless. We will secure the ship our own way.}
{No more need of him, then?} inquired 181 of 203.
{No,} replied Weapons.
{Okay.}
A transporter was triggered. Leonardo and escort beamed to Assimilation Workshop #16.
Leonardo looked around the room with interest, his head the only part of his body not securely strapped into the alcove. He was alone. While his captors could be an obscure Color, perhaps Avocado and given to taking practical jokes too far, he was pretty sure they were of the Borg Collective. At least that was what his nanites were telling him.
Like many members of the Second Federation, Leonardo had opted for a basic medicinal nanite injection to boost immune functioning and hasten natural healing processes. Unfortunately, a rash had developed. A rash was a common side effect, requiring slight adjustments to the nanite suite at any authorized medical facility. However, true to his Terran namesake, Leonardo had decided to take matters of tinkering into his own hand, oblivious to his personal risk. The end result had been no rash, with the minor side effect of a super-aggressive nanomachine biosystem. Leonardo had to be careful no one contacted his blood lest they be infected with his nanites.
And his nanites sometime talked to him as well, else Leonardo was "overhearing" normal "dialogue" between elements. He was pretty sure the system wasn't sentient, but it did sometimes exhibit an extremely dry, ironic humor. The horrible puns, on the other hand, were surely a sign of non-intelligence. At least the microscopic machines had not tried to compromise his actions, that he knew of, disregarding several odd sleepwalking episodes. Oh well, one more thing to eventually have checked out, like his ship's security system...assuming, first, he could ever make the blender work.
Leonardo's mind jumped from topic to topic as he gazed around the assimilation workshop, ideas striking like random bolts of lightening. Even trussed as he was, he could not stop considering improvements to ongoing projects or contemplating new ventures that begged to be started. For instance, the piece of surgical equipment sitting dusty and forgotten against the far wall could use improvements in display output, not to mention the scalpel lasers had lenses which were /so/ six months ago.
Thoughts of escape to his ship long forgotten, if they had ever been present in the first place, Leonardo wiggled his fingers slightly, then used his right index digit to lightly caress a toggle on his utility belt. A beep, whirr, and click later, and Leonardo was striding across the deck to the surgical instrument which had so captured his attention. He absently scratched the place that one Borg had tried to inject nanites, but the rash was already fading. Behind, the supposedly impossible-to-escape alcove was wafting a thin corkscrew of smoke, something shorted somewhere.
Reaching into a pocket of his trousers, Leonardo retrieved a tinkering tool of his own design. Part wrench, part screwdriver, part submolecular manipulator, part little twinkly lights he had found at a second-hand store, the tool was as obtuse to the uninformed outsider as his ship. It also folded up Swiss-Army knife fashion into a conveniently compact form. A blade snicked into place as Leonardo approached his target.
A panel on the side of the surgical instrument was popped open. Wires and molecular circuitry were rooted through. An adjustment was made to a cutter arm, improving focus by 3.3 nanometers. "I bet I can use this in my blender," said Leonardo as he removed a fist-sized mass of metal blades, redundant in the face of the newly envisioned and soon-to-be-installed forcefield scalpel system.
As the captive vessel's overpowered and numerous anti-personnel weapons "nonlethally" disabled a trio of weapons drones attempting to overfly the ship using an anti-gravity pallet mover, Weapons did not snarl. Such would have been very unBorg. Instead, he punched the dented wall next to himself, adding one more blemish to those already present. Several other units sharing the command post cupola constructed of hastily welded duralloy plating took a careful step away.
The assault on the ship had begun in earnest once its owner had been transportered away. The vessel did not contain a Personality, only a single-minded computer determined to follow its security algorithms to the byte. As Cube #347 was severed from its Collective link, an onboard data search of Cybolt products had found little except a few obscure obituaries of owners killed by their security systems and a news listing of star systems Cybolt enhanced vessels were prohibited from entering.
Bulk Cargo Hold #2 had the appearance of a warzone. At the center of destruction, hidden behind a shimmering forcefield, was the ship. Outside the energy dome, blackened plating, twisted metal, and more than one holed cargo box or barrel attested to repelled attacks. A formerly neatly stacked pile of spare conduits and replacement interhull struts was now fit only for reclamation. A jagged hole blown through the exterior doors was the latest complaint from Delta; and Doctor was asking for Weapons to hold off on the casualties, at least until those currently overflowing drone maintenance could be cleared.
Wimps.
{Update on Plan #241,} ordered Weapons as he panned the hold. While the clumps of hesitant assimilation drones were expected, the units of his own hierarchy attempting to hide behind haphazardly concocted barriers was inexcusable.
The target's forcefield did not extend below the deck floor. Therefore, it was conceivable that a team might traverse the underhull to a point directly below the vessel and well within its shield. A drill and a well placed explosive, and the opponent would be disabled. The ship might not be in as whole a piece as command and control originally wanted, but that was secondary at this point. Weapons was confident Delta would sufficiently reassemble it to satisfy the Greater Consciousness.
{In position,} reported 132 of 212. Weapons accepted the drone's visual feed, gathering several other datastreams as well from the team. In his virtual eyes, the two engineering drones who were part of Plan #241 finished securing the mining drill to underhull struts, aimed, and triggered it to burn.
In Bulk Cargo Hold #2, nothing seemed to happen for many long minutes (other than another diversionary assault). Then, slowly, infrared frequencies revealed a warming of hull plates under what had been labeled as the ship's bow. Infrared gave way to a dull red in the visual spectrum, then orange and yellow. The Cybolt security system was beaten!
A ventral hatch under an especially intricate port flange popped open, dropping a pair of toaster-sized machines to the deck. Resembling horseshoe crabs on wheels, they exuded manipulators and grabbed a football shaped object which followed their ejection. The football was alternately pulled and pushed by the robots until it was placed directly over the glowing deck plates. One crab prodded a barely visible button on the football, then both robots scuttled away, disappeared in the dark forest of spikes that studded the ship's underside.
Weapons focused on the football, magnifying the image.
Sensors, a little quicker on the uptake when it came to analyzing sensor data, relayed a cryptic warning from her hierarchy, {Stop. Halt. [Droid.] Object is [wooden door] and will....} The rest of the warning was lost as the football, a shaped charge activated by extreme heat, exploded, directing energy downward.
More drones were entered on the drone maintenance roster; and several chunks of hull armor delicately folded outward like a budding flower. Automatic forcefields flickered into place, preventing excessive atmospheric loss.
{Enough!} declared Captain. {Get rid of that ship and its pilot. Eject them into space. We do not have the time for this.} By the cold logic of command and control, mounting loss had just outweighed potential gain.
{But...} began Weapons. Plan #242 was ready for commencement.
{Space them. Now.}
181 of 203 and 12 of 46 beamed into Assimilation Workshop #16, prepared to unstrap the inventor and reunite him with his obstinate ship. Leonardo was not in his alcove; and, in fact, the alcove seemed to have suffered a small electrical fire. The cameras in the workshop had not been monitored: after all, the restraints could easily hold an angry Flarn, much less a pudgy Budair.
Leonardo's voice from the other side of the room caused both drones to turn. "Just in time!" The inventor, finished with his surgical tool upgrade, had moved onto a data pillar. Several of the pillar's panels were removed and a spaghetti nest of multi-colored wires spilled across the floor. Several of the wires connected to a partially disassembled alcove and others to a microwave built of parts cannibalized from a door locking mechanism and room sensors. "I just don't have enough hands. If one of you fellows, ma'ams, whatever could touch that blinking light over there, I'll be able to splice these wires together. At that point, I /think/ I'll have a popcorn machine. Or a drain scouring device for particularly tough clogs. I'm not quite sure which, yet."
As if strings were attached to their heads, both drones looked to the blinking yellow button indicated by an affable nod by Leonardo; and before a single {No} could be voiced, 181 of 203 had taken the requisite steps and fingered the button.
Leonardo spliced the wires. Nothing happened.
Leonardo hummed in disappointment, which turned to confusion as the two drones fell to the ground, convulsing.
All over the cube, drones followed the example of 181 of 203 and 12 of 46. Even those units locked in alcoves or strapped to surgical tables twitched uncontrollably. Leonardo had built, by accident, a machine capable of disabling the motor functions of any cybernetic organism within a five kilometer radius.
The inventor unspliced the wires. "Well, that obviously didn't work. Maybe the blue and blue wires together will activate the popcorn function, instead of blue and yellow."
181 of 203 and 12 of 46 groggily picked themselves off the deck. Mental confusion reigned in the dataspaces: during the brief interlude, several open files in active status had been altered...or deleted. 120 of 203's horror over the modification of a custard recipe was not hugely important, but the loss of all navigational files constituted a disaster.
{Get rid of him /now/, before he causes any more damage,} demanded Captain, strong with consensus.
The two drones wobbled their way to a mildly curious Leonardo, each roughly grabbing an arm. All three transported to Bulk Cargo Hold #2.
"Go 'way," slurred 12 of 46 as scarred cargo doors began to open, atmosphere and vacuum separated by a thin, static-laced forcefield.
Leonardo, who had managed to grab his prized ball o' blades for his blender, protested, "But I can't get in my ship! Besides, I need parts for my blender."
"We don' care. Go 'way," repeated 12 of 46. One beat, then two, and three. A small cocktail blender materialized in 181 of 203's arms. The machine was shoved at Leonardo. Both drones retreated from the inventor, weaving their wobbling way towards an internal door not too badly warped.
Wailed Leonardo, "Wait! I can't remember the password!"
"Voice print correct. Password 'I can't remember' correct. Cybolt security system powering down," mechanically said the ship as its forcefield blinked out of existence. The ramp exuded itself as the main door irised open.
Leonardo stood for a moment, indecisive and clutching blender and blades, then ran as well as he could up the ramp. He was just in time, for as the ship's hatch closed, the forcefield holding air in Bulk Cargo Hold #2 dropped, expelling vessel and loose objects to space in an explosive decompression burp.
{Ejected,} reported Delta, who had taken control of the forcefield when it became apparent Weapons had been wavering in the face of deactivation of the Cybolt defenses.
{Let it go,} said Captain. {Don't blow it up. Don't touch it. We cannot predict what sort of calamity will befall us if it explodes. We've already a mess in Bulk Cargo Hold #2, have downtime on a full third of weapons and assimilation hierarchies, and lost our navigational database.} Captain initiated a lock on the offensive cube systems; and then, at least to any outside observers, Cube #347 proceeded to ignore the tumbling, drifting species #6498 ship.
Such continued for nearly an hour, the sub-collective in deep navel contemplation as it futilely tried to reassemble its navigational maps.
Bzzz. Static. Bzzz. Hammering sounds. Humming. A drill rotating at tooth-cringing speeds. More hammering. Metal on metal on plastic. A ratchet wrench tightening a bolt.
The omnidirectional subspace radio broadcast from Leonardo's ship was open. Again.
Heavy breathing. "I think it's fixed now! This will be the universe's best smoothie! Now, where are those fresh yontoberries?" The whine of a blender.
The scream of static as Leonardo and ship vanished, sped away by an unknown translight drive accidentally cross-linked to a blender's puree cycle.
{Ow! [Seeds of Saint Plug!]} moaned Sensors.
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