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If Meneks writes BorgSpace and she stole Happyverse from Butler, and if this disclaimer is complete clap your hands. *clap*clap*
A Trip to the Happy Side, Part I
Note: this story takes place several years following the Happyverse events of "So Happy Together." Any continuality errors with past or future-to-be Happyverse stories is not the fault of the BorgSpace author, who is perfect in all ways, but rather inherent inconsistencies with the rest of the universe. Have a Happy Day! :)
*****
"Thou must look to the happier side of life! / Thou must look to the happier side of death!"
Delta, body A, paused in her activities to look upwards as body B continued the delicate rewiring procedure. DEVIL, for reasons only known to the AI, had forsaken its normal obsessive trailing of Weapons to haunt the highest reaches of Central Engineering. If that wasn't bad enough, the thing had switched from quasi-omens and incomprehensible "quotes" to singing nonsense. Off-key.
"For life shall abuse you / And Death willth amuse you / And something something I think about curtains and conga-lines and bows!" belted DEVIL-as-caterpillar. The mid-syllable sneeze which momentarily morphed it into a prismatic butterfly barely interrupted the awkward flow of words; and the AI's control of local holoemitters and speakers was too icon-clad for any drone or drones to allot runtime resources to counter due to more important priorities.
Delta contemplated throwing a spanner at DEVIL, but did not. One, such action against a hologram would be futile; two, the spanner might be damaged; three, she needed the spanner; and four, the impulse was not her own.
{Don't you dare,} admonished Delta to 36 of 240 as body A caught the cock of arm in her peripheral vision.
"Thou must look to the happier side of death! / Thou must look to the happier side of death!" While the AI tended to fumble through the stanzas, it seemed to have no problem with the chorus.
Delta hunched her shoulders, decreased audio gain to aural implants as much as prudence allowed, and returned both of herself to her task. The jury-rigged fractal subspace booster was nearly complete.
Step back a moment and look at the hustle and bustle of engineering drones focused on one goal.
The vinculum, once the dominating heart of Central Engineering and sub-collective, is gone, reduced to scrap and ash by a complicated series of events. The remains have been swept away and stored, not recycled as is the normal fate of broken Borg devices, just in case an unlikely miracle allows salvage. Unfortunately, for a Borg sub-collective, miracles are irrelevant. On the other hand, it is permissible, although not advisable, to follow blueprints from a recently unearthed file promising that one can "Build Your Own Borg-Style Booster! It Really Works! Make Long Distance Calls Without Paying a Strip of Latinum!"
DEVIL, performing its base programming of search engine, had found the mail-order diagrams buried amid pentabytes (and then some) of digital junk and dross. Shortly after completing its helpful deed, it had embarked upon its singing.
The sub-collective was growing increasingly desperate to reconnect to the Collective, even if the result was a mere carrier wave. Despite many misadventures over thousands of years, no group of imperfectly assimilated drones had spent as much time completely severed as the current incarnation; and none had ever disintegrated a vinculum.
The nearly completed booster looked nothing like the component integrated in a vinculum. Dominating the device was a four meter diameter bowl made of tritanium and covered by several layers of aluminum foil. Within the bowl was a complicated gridwork of exotic metal wires from which rose a single, braided spire that terminated in a blinking green light. The gigantic bowl was steadied by a tripod; and in the middle of the legs, directly beneath the bowl's lowest point, a box full of convoluted wiring rested. The most difficult part of the plan's schematics had been wiring the box, a complication which included neural gel packs, meme crystals, and incomprehensible diagrams. An attempt had been made to reverse engineer the instructions, to understand how it worked - there was little "Borg" in the "Borg-style" device - but later abandoned after several hours of contemplation had yielded no results.
Delta finished soldering the last connection. She closed the access panel and stepped away, body B almost tripping on the heavy, black cable which snaked away from device, across the deck, and into a connecting hallway. Smaller leads sprouted from the dish itself and were strung across Central Engineering at neck height, eventually passing through holes in the wall to meld with cube superstructure at strategic locations.
{Are we ready?} queried Delta to her hierarchy. She transported the spanner and welder in her hands back to storage. Agreement trickled back as designations replied.
"Happy side of death! Happy side of death! Happy side of death! Happy side of death!" chanted DEVIL, evidentially stuck on the phrase. The caterpillar inanely tumbled through mid-air gymnastics, smoke from virtual cigar trailing behind. Abruptly the avatar stopped, mid-barrel roll and mid-word, vanishing. Delta was not sorry to see DEVIL disappear.
Said Delta to Captain, {All is set.}
{Acknowledged,} returned Captain. He followed with an intranet-wide announcement: {All drones - exceptions tagged by engineering hierarchy head - will return to their alcoves. Units will comply. Five minute countdown begins.} A digital clock appeared in the dataspaces, marching backwards to zero.
Delta felt the compulsion to go to her alcoves (she was not an exception) tug her psyche. Her destination was nearby, adjacent to Central Engineering. She allowed her bodies to dawdle as she cast her awareness to the two designations who would be the focus for the next phase to reconnect sub-collective with Collective.
{1 of 310 and 162 of 310: status check,} ordered Delta.
To say that a Borg cube had no up or down was a fallacy. Any vessel, unless it was a hollow shell with no internal gravity, required up and down. It was true that cube construction minimized apparent directionality, but a cube did have an equator located halfway between face #1 and face #6. It was at this point that interior gravitational potentialities switched direction, and a drone that jumped from one side to the other would start on his feet and land on his head. Needless to say, the change-over made for interesting games, especially those that involved dropping objects through shafts.
Construction-wise, a Borg cube mirrored "up" and "down" at the equator, at least for major structures. Central Engineering in subsection 14, submatrix 14 at the middle of the cube was one of those structures. Central Engineering housed the vinculum and was connected to Central Shaft #1.1, leading to face #1. On the other side of the equator, the Primary Core was present. The rooms largely looked the same, both several stories high with three accessible levels and ringed with data pillars and alcoves, except the Primary Core was dominated by a transwarp core unit instead of a vinculum. The Primary Core connected to Central Shaft #1.6 and thence to face #6.
The thick cable which twisted from the booster was fed through one of the few "legal" physical connections through the equator and connected to the primary transwarp core which provided power for the cube.
In the Primary Core waited 1 of 310 and 162 of 310. Their base species were #8052, Wonapa, a race whose physiology was highly resistant to electrocution. This natural ability had been enhanced upon assimilation, allowing charges lethal to other drones to be stored or shed as necessary. On top of that, for this task, both were wrapped in insulating suits of rubber that not only made movement very difficult, but created a strong resemblance to the Michelin Man, a pre-warp Terran corporate icon known only to a certain breed of eccentric historian.
162 of 310 flexed a hand held poised over a large switch which had been recently added to the core's housing. Rubber squeaked against rubber as only rubber can. He glanced at 1 of 310, who was bending as best as possible to inspect the cable's connection to the shunt mechanism. {Ready,} replied 162 of 310 to Delta.
Five minutes passed. Drones secured themselves in alcoves: only a few required prodding by command and control, even those most lost in a fantasy existence aware that the entirety of a power core was soon to be directed to a jury-rigged booster which included aluminum foil as a major construction element. The internal timer reached zero and started to flash.
{Initiate,} ordered Captain.
162 of 310 allowed his arm to fall, flipping the large switch and redirecting the power flow of the Primary Core.
::Happy side of death...:: whispered DEVIL's voice in the intranets.
*****
Captain Bobby-sox of the USS Funship HappyDays waited impatiently in his inflatable command chair. Being happy did not preclude one from being impatient, especially when an expected transmission was long overdue. Fingers hollowly drummed on clear vinyl.
"Do you want different music, Big Bob?" asked Ensign Sara-wara from the Internal Environment console. "Today we have a wide selection of Counselor-approved music, ranging from disco to easy listening to classical from many species." Her voice had the slightly mechanical and stilted quality of one who had been happied, de-happied, and re-happied one too many times in the years of chaos and rebuilding following Fun War IV.
Bobby-Sox cocked his ear at the soothing pre-warp Terran light rock which played in the background. It was the aural equivalent of calming pastels in a psyche ward. One part, a deeply hidden part, of him longed for sappy country-western, but sad music wasn't Counselor-approved; and if he did try to order it played, his happifier would disapprove. One /never/ challenged the happifier if one could help it.
"No, the music is perfectly joyful," answered Bobby-sox.
Replied Sara-wara, "Yes, sir."
Captain Bobby-sox returned to drumming on his chair. His thoughts wandered. Maybe he shouldn't have worn his sailor-boy outfit today. Although it was utterly adorable, it also tended to itch in uncomfortably sensitive spots when worn too long. On the other hand, today was supposed to be the day he became promotion material, and he wanted to look his best. It wasn't every day, after all, that one was accidentally emailed the master plans of a war-games exercise.
The USS Funship HappyDays was tasked to play the minor role of scout patrol during a week of war-games. Neat Place Nine was coordinating the fun; and as an "independent" element, Bobby-sox had indicated his desire to scout the volume of space between the station and the Fuzzylands. The other captains had laughed at him. What they didn't know was that the "enemy" fleet was supposed to sneak onto the battlefield from the direction of the Fuzzylands. Bobby-sox planned to be present to raise the initial alarm, thereby increasing his chance at the next round of promotions to be given something larger than his current Defiant-class command.
Unfortunately, the enemy fleet was inconsiderately late.
Just as Bobby-sox had begun to imagine himself Fiesta Modeing through space in his happy new Ebullient-class flagship, Lieutenant Kalli-cute at sensors squeaked, "Oh! Oh! I see something!"
Bobby-sox literally bounced out of his chair. He was so enthused that the flimsy furniture fell over. "About time! Where are they coming from?"
"No, no, Big Bob! It's not the war-game fleet! It's a big buncha omni-phasic radiation forming off our port bow a skip and a jump and fifty kilometers!" Lt. Kalli-cute always talked in exclamation marks.
"Oh glorious day! Oh happy day!" said Lieutenant Kaluhaluha, Andorian, from his position at tactical. "I get to push buttons! Should I raise shields, Big Bob?"
"Do so," snapped Bobby-sox to his tactical officer, "and Lt. Kalli-cute, put the joyful view on the happyscreen."
The main viewscreen, which had been displaying a computer generated kaleidoscope choreographed to the bridge music, faded to star-studded space. In the far distance was the angry, gaseous band of dark red which was the Fuzzylands. Closer, an unhappy combination of burnt umber and bright green was swirling in space like a miniature tempest. A boxy silhouette could vaguely be discerned at the center of the storm.
Bobby-sox adjusted his sailor hat: the pins holding it in place were pulling his hair. "Anyone know what it is? Lollipops to the first correct guess." Sounds of "Oh-oh!" and "Pick me!" echoed on the bridge.
Then the game was made moot.
The pyrotechnics faded to an illuminating glow. In the center of the artfully dissipating green fog a vessel quite a bit larger than HappyDays was revealed. Bridge music had shifted to an angelic choir, and the singing added to the element of awe.
"I thought they were all dead," gulped Captain Bobby-sox. His happiness was shattered; and he could feel the building pressure from his happifier as it warned that the intolerable situation had to be fixed and mood adjusted. From the expressions of the rest of the bridge crew, his implant wasn't the only one shifting to overtime.
Said Lt. Kaluhaluha, "This is most unhappy, Big Bob. We are outmassed, outgunned, and most of my readouts are an ugly puce. I suggest retreat?"
Bobby-sox grasped at the suggestion. Yes, retreat would make him very happy, which, in turn, would make the happifier happy. "Run away! Run away! Set course for Neat Place Nine and run away!"
HappyDay's engines flared as she skidded off into warp. She never noticed the distant sensor echoes which indicated the approach of the late war-games fleet.
*****
Sensors was blind. While her physical eyes continued to function normally, virtual sight linked to grid roiled in confusion. Both BorgStandard and "special" configurations were affected. Omni-phasic radiation dominated, but tachyons were a large bulk of the whole as well. Taus, virtual temporal particles, were sprinkled heavily in the morass; and a dash of omicrons provided a harsh seasoning. Disturbingly, the occasional aroma of lambda could be distinguished, and anything which included lambda had never gone well for Cube #347.
At a loss to dissect the complex concoction, Sensors did not try, instead guiding her hierarchy to see through the storm before the cube bumbled into something immobile, indestructible, omniscient and angry, or all the above.
{Shut it off! Shut it off!} called Captain to the duo tending the Primary Core, not for the first time; and his order wasn't the only one bombarding the pair, just the clearest and with the most units backing.
For the first few seconds after 162 of 310 had flipped the toggle, nothing had happened. That "Nothing" had swiftly become "Something," before graduating to "Not A Good Idea" proportions. The function of the booster, as advertised in the mail-order instructions, was a failure. Instead, the energy from a full transwarp power core had been shunted through the faux-booster and its oddly wired box, and thence into the superstructure of Cube #347 itself. The result had been electrifying. Literally.
And shocking. Definitely shocking.
Oh, and don't forget the sparks.
At the center of the maelstrom, 162 of 310 was unconscious...and glowing with a healthy dose of St. Elmo's Fire. 1 of 310 was balanced as best a Borg could on her comrade's body, taking advantage of the extra insulation provided. Unfortunately, her natural and artificial capacitors were still building charge at an unacceptable rate. Members of her species had been known to spontaneously combust when "over-charged." She was well beyond that point and heading towards meltdown territory.
{Shut it off!} The individuals of the sub-collective, those that had managed to avoid the effects of excessive charge, were becoming increasingly unified.
1 of 310 stiffly held her arms out to her sides as she calculated the distance to the toggle switch. Two point three meters. Not far, but not very close neither for one whose native long jump ability had been slight, even before addition of Borg hardware and insulating suit. Regardless, the compulsion to {Shut it off!} was strong, and so 1 of 310 launched herself at the shunt toggle.
Contact with the floor and the power core casing brought forth the monotone warning of diagnostic programs reporting massive internal injury. Heart spasmed. Muscles twitched. Neural patterns scrambled. Mechanically facing her goal only due to the throb of programmed compulsion in her brain, 1 of 310 shoved the switch to its "off" position before promptly crumpling to the deck plates.
{Sensors can see,} announced the head of the sensory hierarchy to the general intranet.
As the green fog slowly cleared, the first thing noted was unfamiliar star positions and radio bursts from pulsars and other galactic signposts. Cube #347 /was/ lost and had no navigational files, so unfamiliarity was expected. However, this new place was different than the one where the cube had been prior to testing the homemade fractal subspace booster. Conclusion? Cube #347 had moved.
The second item observed was the small ship, an antique Defiant-class from the First Federation and 535 years out of production. It looked brand new. Navigational files may have been deleted, but Weapons ensured multiple copies of tactical related data existed, even upon obscure, obsolete ships.
{Attack-ck-ck!} called Weapons. His mental voice stuttered even as he took stock of his physical self, noting peripheral damage such as severe crisping of the organic portions of his left leg. The targeting arrays would not focus, nor weapon ports stay open, drones not the only item affected by the cube's self-electrocution. {Fix-x-x. Attack-ck-ck.}
The Defiant-class ship pivoted on its y-axis and sped away at moderate warp speeds.
Said Weapons, not unexpected, {Foll-ll-llow!}
In his alcove, Captain had opened his eyes. His damage was easily reparable by nanites. The chain of ball lightning which aimlessly bobbed in the subshaft beyond his tier did not inspire confidence to leave his alcove, however. Not that he was required to do so. Power may no longer be actively energizing the superstructure, but time would be required for excess charge to bleed to space. At the moment, engineering hierarchy ranked quite a bit higher than Weapons' desire to cry chase on a vintage ship.
Replied Captain, {Negative. We have higher priorities.}
"Like, why am I magnetized?" The rhetorical question had been asked aloud. Next to Captain, Second had stepped from his alcove, although not on purpose: the clamps had spontaneously disengaged in reaction to a tier power conduit surge. Captain allowed sufficient awareness to return to his body in order to focus on the secondary consensus monitor and facilitator. Upon ejection from his alcove, Second had immediately stuck to the safety railing; and, in turn, loose bits of metal, such as a lost paperclip, had spun through the air and were now glommed to his carapace armor.
{Unknown [basket case] signatures approaching!} warned Sensors. As charge drained and the fog of unreal particles dissipated, the tactical long-range sensor envelope was expanding towards normal dimensions. At 3.2 light years distant, a concentration of 35 warp signatures could be sensed. Warp. Not transwarp nor hypertranswarp. Warp only.
Warp similar to the antique Federation signature of the Defiant-class which had just fled.
Weapons seized upon the data, charging those drones of his hierarchy still conscious and not too badly damaged to analyze the information. {Borg-gCraft scenario 274b-b-b most lik-kely with 87.3% prob-b-babilit-ty,} replied Weapons, invoking a circumstance conceived /before/ the sub-collective's "reincarnation" several years prior. {It is a fl-leet-t of pre-Dark Federation starship-p-ps. Assuming tech-chnology matches the level suggested b-by warp sig-gnature, our advanced w-w-weaponry will destroy them. Prob-b-bably. Although normal sure odds are slight-tly lowered t-to 18.5% consid-dering our present st-t-tat-te. Our inabilit-ty to raise shields to more than 10% may b-be a slight-t prob-blem.}
"Hey!" protested Second as 125 of 152 fell out of his alcove and stumbled into the backup consensus monitor and facilitator. They stuck together with a sharp clang.
Captain initiated a consensus cascade: fight or flight? Minutes stretched as scenarios were built, odds coldly calculated, and nonsensical options discarded. Engineering and drone maintenance weighted the matrix heavily as damage reports both mechanical and biological scrolled in the decision space. Finally, much to Weapons' disappointment, consensus suggested (temporary) retreat; and, more specifically, to a destination away from the nearing warp signatures and into the reddish nebula only ten light years distant.
"Not you too," groaned Second as most of the clamps to Captain's alcove spontaneously disengaged. Captain was left with his shoulder awkwardly pressed into the other's waist while right leg remained firmly in its original position.
*****
"Are you sure you don't need more fiber in your diet? Or at least a dose of HappyLax?"
Woofie regarded the human on the forward screen with contempt. Unfortunately, the scorn was internalized, Happymaster Dillon known to become very Unhappy if one didn't show at least superficial love and adoration. To that end, the lieutenant commander of the USS Funship Defiant Defiant kept a carefully polite smile on his face. To anyone who did not know him, Woofie appeared to be distinctly constipated.
"My bowel movements are joyfully regular," replied Woofie in a cartoony falsetto. "I can send over my personal number-two log if you require proof. My purpose in calling is to learn if his Happiness has any changes in his orders considering the sensor contact." Pause. "Cap'n Bennie at Neat Place Nine has concerns."
Happymaster General and Supreme Commander Travvy Dillon was the nominal head of the Funfleet who were serving as attackers in the war-games exercise. His presence was not strictly necessary - every ship had a competent captain, after all - but one did not say "no" to a man who had powerful mental powers which included the ability to crush windpipes and wedgie underwear with a mere thought. Then there was the certain-near-death experience, which had left his face scarred, his hair prematurely streaked with silver, and his mind slightly unbalanced towards the violent end of the spectrum. On top of that, the visible pieces of stolen Borgy technology which had been required to return him to mostly functional life tended to put people off and made it difficult to meet women at parties. To put it mildly, Dillon was a very bitter man.
Unfortunately for the Happymaster, he and his Empress Webber were not the supreme dictators-for-happily-ever-after that trillions of adoring happified subjects believed him to be. Woofie worked not for the Happymaster, but the real powers of authority whom were content with the shadow.
And those powers had /so/ much better taste in clothing than the pastel yellow and pink Neapolitan jacket with bright purple cape Dillon was wearing at the moment. Lace was not a positive fashion statement for the Happymaster.
"Concerns?" asked Dillon, his face enlarged to gargantuan proportions on the screen. Neither bridge nor crew of the Ebullient-class Federation of Fun flagship Secondprize II could be seen around the Happymaster's wide hat. "It is just a not-so-fun prank by the pitiful, unhappy rebels that putt-putt in the Fuzzylands. Not only did sensors show an impossible Borgy cube - they are all extinct, remember? - but said Borgy cube zoomed away much faster than possible, even by Borgies." Dillon flew a hand by his face while making "Vrooom!" noises.
Woofie shook his head, causing the bells woven into his ponytail to lightly chime. "Are you sure?"
"I am the HAPPYMASTER!" roared Dillon. "I am SUPREME COMMANDER! The concerns are duly noted and ignored. The war-games will continue. If you want to take your little ship and get lost in the Fuzzylands, go ahead. We'll just have to have fun pretending to blow up our own ships without you."
Most Funfleet crew, like the great majority of Federation citizens, did not know the Happymaster was not as supreme as it was believed. The war-game fleet would obey Dillon. Woofie very much wanted to follow the purported Borgy ship to the Fuzzylands and determine if it was a rebel plot or not, but he daren't leave the Happymaster on his own. Cap'n Bennie didn't approve when Dillon became a wee bit too ambitious; and Woofie /really/ wanted to be there when the Happymaster's "special" happifier kicked in.
"I'll inform Neat Place Nine of your decision, then," said Woofie.
"Do so," answered Dillon grandiosely before the transmission abruptly cut.
At Communications, an ensign in the standard Federation uniform of canary yellow with black shoulders raised his hand and frantically waved it.
"Mr. Hamilton-tang," spoke Woofie, "what is it?"
"Deployment directions, Benevolent-Sir-Who-Hasn't-Sliced-Anyone's-Head-Off-Today." Woofie had trained his crew well; and /they/ also knew where the real power in the Federation lay. "What shall I do?"
"Acknowledge and tell them we'll continue our observation position."
"No, Kind Sir, what shall I do about Mr. Fluffy?" Hamilton-tang held up a cuddly stuffed targ with pink fir. It had a big, white heart on its chest and a cute snarl on its face.
Woofie stalked over to the comm station and snatched away the toy. "I'll take care of Mr. Fluffy. If you are very good, maybe I'll let you baby-sit him again. As is, you /have/ earned the right to clean my spare boots with your tongue."
Mr. Hamilton-tang beamed, oblivious to the envious expressions from the other bridge members.
"Miss P'tahaha," barked Woofie at the lieutenant at the science console, "deploy a probe. Send it towards the Fuzzylands after the Borgy cube signature. It'll probably return no joy before it is blown to itsy, tiny, bitsy bits, but the effort will make the Cap'n happy. Very happy."
"Yes, sir!" squealed Miss P'tahaha as she tapped the necessary blinky buttons to comply.
*****
Cube #347 limped into the nebula at high impulse. In many respects, the phenomenon was like all of its type, a stellar nursery glowing with the light of young stars struggling to be born. Broad cavities within the gas were slightly older stars, still wreathed in their dusty afterbirth and some already beginning to spawn planetary families. On the other hand, the nebula did not attenuate gradually to interstellar vacuum, instead sporting an unnatural barrier, reddish clouds swirling majestically within an invisible corral. The barrier, as substantial as it was to the nebula, did not hinder Cube #347's passing; and the unexpected slow power drain encountered on the other side was easily neutralized via adjustments to shield harmonics.
Odd eddies of electromagnetic, gravitonic, and quantum flux set an edge of static upon already abused sensors.
Captain, after having managed to unlock his alcove and pry himself from Second, was in his nodal intersection. Surprisingly, the local holoemitters had survived the cube's mishap. Admittedly, the images were a tad on the blurry side and prone to gradual shifts in hue, but the emitters were functional. The consensus monitor and facilitator was currently the pivot of an orbit of windows, each a separate stream in the multi-tiered complexity Captain was striving to keep from degenerating into chaos.
A drone maintenance roster replaced a cube schematic of plasma conduit damage. Beneath the surface of the data represented by the slowly scrolling list lurked detailed files outlining medical assessment, required treatment, and prognosis. The dry information was liberally spiked with irrelevancies such as reactions to the stimulus of various pet toys. Several designations, a pittance considering the magnitude of the incident, blinked the dull red of termination.
{Update on 8 of 8,} queried Captain of Doctor. {We need him functioning as coordinator with engineering before Delta is completely overwhelmed.}
In Maintenance Bay #5, Doctor tiredly ground his molars in irritation. He had been at the end of his wake cycle when the emergency had hit and was now actively suppressing the body fatigue warnings from internal diagnostics. The electrical surge had overwhelmed the shunt capacity of over half the crew compliment; and that was a system which nanomachines could not rebuild to 100% functionality. In addition to those surgeries, multitudes of critical implants and prostheses required replacement, not to mention trauma to organics.
Doctor automatically located 8 of 8 in Maintenance Bay #10 on the other side of the cube. {The prognosis is very, very, very, very poor. The pup-patient has suffered complete collapse of higher synaptic and cognitive functioning following his...}
{Contact!} overrode Sensors to the intranet, blanketing the dataspaces with a hastily normalized grid output.
In his nodal intersection, Captain banished the windows in favor of a tactical god-perspective. Cube #347 sat in the center of the volume, just inside the nebula's boundary. At the very edge of the sensor envelope in non-nebular space blinked the signature of an irrelevant spy probe. However, it was the approaching transwarp wake which had triggered Sensors' warning.
An echo of an echo of the Collective washed across 3,953 neural transceivers.
{T-tactical situation. Mine,} demanded Weapons, stutter, while much diminished, still present. Captain, already spread unusually thin due to many priority datastreams, diminishment of command and control hierarchy from damage, and looming loss of a Hierarchy of Eight member, relinquished control with only the mildest of remonstrations to assess the situation before firing. Responded Weapons, {I comply.}
Shields had been raised to their current maximum of 50%, weapons brought on-line, and the cube set in a defensive rotation when the transwarp conduit spat forth its occupant. Or, rather, occupants. A Galaxy-class vessel with the distinctive glowing green of Borg technology embedded in its hull immediately accelerated to high warp, vector to intercept the lurking spy probe. The antique Federation ship had not created the conduit, however. Transportation had been provided via the slipstream of its companion, a Borg Exploratory-class cube.
The lash of Collective echoes whispered in neural transceivers again, but fractal frequencies were not aligned correctly to allow contact.
The other cube stopped a respectful 100 kilometers distant, out of the envelope of reliable beam weaponry, but well within the limit of short-to-medium range projectiles. Its shields were up, but weapons remained at idle. Sensor sweeps showed the cube to be obsolete technology, as pre-Dark as the Federation warship.
{Time travel...?} whispered background processes attempting to make sense of the situation. Sensors had seen/tasted/whatever tachyons during the incident which had transported the cube; and temporal displacement would explain the antique technology encountered. However, many other threads remained free to flap in the winds of the unexplained.
"Aren't thee to answer that?" asked the caterpillar avatar of DEVIL as it materialized amid the stars of the tactical display.
Captain shifted his head slightly, eye narrowed at the AI. "Answer what?"
DEVIL's image froze for a part second, then reanimated. "'Slap me for a chowder head and set me on fire,' I quoth from the Bible of Indignities, chapter 3, verse 18. I be requireth tau compensation to align me quantum projection algorithms to this Page."
The sensory hierarchy reported a hail from the other cube.
"Aren't thee to answer that?" repeated DEVIL.
A new window opened amid the three-dimensional tactical display. It was a CatwalkCam view, similar to that Captain knew was on the return video feed...except, were those balloons tied to safety railings? And could that be confetti drifting in the air?
"Knock-knock," intoned the multivoice of the other cube.
Silence. The sub-collective of Cube #347 knew the expected reply to the ancient gag opener, but was at a loss as to the relevance of a joke in this situation, or any situation for that matter. A transporter beam briefly illuminated the nodal intersection as Second returned from his demagnetization session.
"Knock-knock?" attempted the other again.
"Who's there?" responded the Cube #347 multivoice.
"Borgy."
"Borgy who?"
"Borgy on down to the fun! We are the Borgy. Resistance is futile. Life's a party and all fun technologies will be added to our own. You shall become One by having Fun." A waterfall of colorful balloons cascaded past the camera feed as drones conga-lined into view, all wearing party hats. Techno dance music began to play.
Muttered Second as Weapons finalized a targeting solution upon the insane cube, "That's not how knock-knock jokes are supposed to go."
Elsewhere in the sensor envelope, the Borgified Galaxy-class and spy probe signature merged. Only the former survived the encounter.
Cube #347 fired a low-yield photon torpedo at the Borgy cube. The warning torpedo hit, shivering the other's shields, but not causing damage. {No, no, no. Past, not at. Past-t.} Weapons was disappointed, not due to lack of explosions, but that targeting and fire control systems were not yet realigned.
The video from the other cube abruptly shifted, fading from party and refocusing to that of a single drone. His base race was species #2553 and his left side was heavily cybernized. The single whole eye was a startling blue. In fact, except for the clown hat he wore on his head, he looked like Captain, pre-Dark.
"Just kidding! Just kidding!" said the drone, whole hand lifting into view to waggle a rubber chicken. "Borgy does not assimilate Borgy, after all! This is Comedy-class Cube #347. Identify yourself and why you've only just returned to the party, especially in such a foul mood. A little enlightenment as to why we can't reach you on normal Borgy frequencies would be groovy as well."
Exploratory-class Cube #347's defensive spin held, as did the targeting lock. Shield strength was now 61.2% as repairs continued and systems were able to shift back to the primary generators.
Captain altered the Cube #347 video to show his nodal intersection, banishing the tactical view. Checking the feed, he noted Second was in the frame, but, thankfully, DEVIL was not. "We are Borg, not Borgy. This unit is Exploratory-class Cube #347. this is neither our reality nor our temporal vector. We are here due to an accident."
"Wow!" exclaimed the alt-Captain. "You look just like me, only more boring. And that other fellow looks like DJ! Another universe and time, eh? Sounds like a royal screw up somewhere. Well, I'm MC - short for 'Master of Ceremonies' - the consensus monitor and facilitator over here." MC grinned. The expression looked practiced, but not as out of place a similar smile would appear on Captain.
Captain cocked his head slightly as he tracked internal debate. The drone had used the singular, but if the sub-collective analogue had a similar imperfect status to that of Cube #347, then lack of pluralities meant little. On the other hand, given lack of knowledge about the "rules" of this reality, the party atmosphere and non-Borgness of the other cube could be perfectly normal.
"This drone is 4 of 8, subdesignated Captain," replied Captain, "and consensus monitor and facilitator of this sub-collective."
"Welcome to the Fuzzylands, Captain and crew. As soon as Explorer returns, what say you stand down your weapons and follow us back to Partymatrix 001?"
{Weapons...} said Captain to the head of the weapons hierarchy, a wordless order for the tactical alert level to lessen and full control to return to command and control.
Weapons wavered, finally admitting, {This situation has not been explored in a BorgCraft scenario. Yet. Our technology is more advanced and we have an 87.3% of victory. The invitation may be a trap.} A vast tree of what-ifs put down roots and began to grow.
Second interrupted, creating a still picture montage of balloons, confetti, and drone conga-lines. {Does that look like a trap to you?}
{Very elaborate deception,} affirmed Weapons.
"We will follow," said Captain to MC as command and control locked down weapons. The defensive spin was allowed to continue.
MC flipped rubber chicken into view once more. Clown hat bobbled. "Party on, dudes! Estimated time to Explorer's return is ten minutes."
Located in a pocket cleared of gas by action of solar wind from a newborn star, Partymatrix 001 outwardly looked like any Borg unimatrix facility. It was a bit small compared to the usual sprawling constructs the Cube #347 sub-collective was used to, but it amply abounded with vast nodes of geometric design and connecting tubes. That was as far as superficial similarity extended. No Borg unimatrix would tolerate the numbers of nonBorg vessels which parked within its volume; and the full tally of cubes was a bare handful, including one Battle-class (or its Borgy equivalent) under construction. Scanners indicated the majority of lifeforms to be unassimilated.
The trek from border to partymatrix through the nebula phenomenon locally designated as Fuzzylands had required half a cycle at moderate transwarp velocities. Alt-Cube #347 could not go faster, else risk losing the Galaxy-class vessel which rode its slipstream. The time had been sufficient for Captain to regenerate; and now he was returned to his nodal intersection. The trip had also allowed the transfer of many vital pieces of recent history in this reality.
Start with the Borg, or rather Borgy. They were a technologically-bound Collective, although Perfection through Oneness was not their focus. Being One remained important, but having Fun even more so. The Borgy goal was to assimilate everyone into a grand, giant Party. However, this universe-view had skewed priorities, in the view of the Cube #347 sub-collective. "Fun" and "party" technologies (i.e., a novel silly string formulation), and the civilizations which spawned them, were more likely to be assimilated than the inventor of a Giant Ray of Doom(tm).
Enter Fun War IV seven years prior, a Federation of Fun civil war. The conflict had been indirectly (or maybe directly) precipitated by crew from First Federation ships Aerostar and Explorer and the ambitions of a Frenchman. On one side was a ragged Federation of Fun, nominally led by Empress "brain-in-a-box" Webber and Happymaster Travvy Dillon, both revitalized from near-death by stolen Borgy technology (very long story). On the other side was nymphomaniac and ex-Playstation commander Lisa-Love Beck and Manservant Jaroch (an even longer story). Not having enough toys to beat each other around the head with, the two sides happy beamed - a variation of the Joegonotization ray - new allies in the form of Borgy and Dominionators, respectively.
**{Aerostar and Explorer crew?} queried Second, breaking the emerging stream of consciousness. {Why are we not overly surprised?} His snide asides were hushed.**
Fun War IV was a year of explosions, death and destruction, and mutual annihilation. It was grand and, above all, happy fun for those drifting on the clouds of artificial joy. Due to the emphasis on party technology, this alternative universe pre-Dark version of Borg were lacking in the offensive/defensive department. Cutting edge karaoke machines do not (normally) win space battles. On the other hand, Borgy numbers and enormous ship size were able to overcome the technological advantages of the Dominionators. On the losing side, Lisa-Love and Manservant Jaroch fled, leaving their allies to be gleefully ground into extinction.
Next the Federation of Fun and their adoringly coerced Borgy allies set about dismantling the rebel network. The rebels had arisen from those who either did not desire to find happiness at the end of a ray gun or were immune. An annoyance prior to Fun War IV when the Federation had been strong, their unhappiness quotient and boldness vastly increased during the civil war as they allied themselves with the Multeks and Cardassians. Most of the rebels had been converted to happy citizens and their networks broken by the time the Borgy mentally imploded.
**Second could not help himself: {What is with the phrase "adoringly coerced Borgy allies"? Slaves. The proper word is slaves. Who wrote this exposition?} He was shushed again.**
Within the Borgy psyche, "happy" and "fun" were two subtly different paradigms which did not play well with each other. After nearly a year and a half of internal and external abuse, the great majority of the Borgy had self-destructed. Some vessels simply stopped, their sub-collectives terminating mid-step; and others destroyed every Federation of Fun facility in sensor range before diving into the nearest sun. The end result had been a severely crippled Federation and the extinction of the Borgy.
Or so believed the Federation remnants.
As in the Borg universe, the Borgy Cube #347 sub-collective was not "right in the cranial region" when compared to the Whole. Whereas the Collective was the Party, the sub-collective was that inevitable cluster of people in the corner who absolutely cannot leave work behind. They were dour. They were serious. They had been on the far side of the galaxy on a compulsory stand-up comedy club circuit to work on their party and improvisational skills when Fun War IV had broken out.
**{Since when are rubber chickens, party hats, and conga-lines dour and serious?} inquired Second, interrupting once again. {Is there a point to this overly long recitation?} The boredom quotient was growing, and several designations with lesser attention spans were beginning to mentally fidget.**
Due to the mental distance maintained between imperfect drones and Greater Consciousness, the alt-Cube #347 sub-collective had been able to neutralize the happy beam effect that had propagated through the rest of the Whole. The drones broke their club contract and hurried to the scene of the civil war. Unfortunately, traversing the galaxy with transwarp requires at least a year; and like their Borg counterparts, unexpected and irrationally illogical incidents plagued the sub-collective. Alt-Cube #347 arrived in Federation of Fun territory just as the Borgy Collective suicided.
The mental backwash nearly sent the "serious" sub-collective to its own termination.
Holding onto its sanity by looping "Greatest Movie Party Moments" and collectively participating in intense mosh pit psychoanalytical sessions, the sub-collective found and gathered the few Borgy remnants that, for whatever reason, had not followed their brethren into termination. A backup Partymistress Queen had been the most important find. The Fuzzylands became the Borgy retreat, odd properties of the nebula fouling all but Borgy technology.
**{Mosh pit?} said 87 of 203 as she focused on a particular detail. {Can we install a mosh pit?} Her request was dutifully refused.**
Shortly thereafter, ex-physician Rebecca Singer and Colonel Martini Lazlo, rebels desperate enough to attempt the Fuzzylands in order to escape the Federation, made accidental contact with the hidden Borgy. They managed to convince the Borgy to (1) not assimilate them and (2) become the nucleus of a revitalized rebellion. A new disco ball for the Partymistress' renovated dance chamber had helped as well. From there the trickle of rebels had grown, eventually including Lisa-Love (later called "Lady") and Manservant Jaroch.
Mutual hate for an enemy makes bedfellows out of strange allies; and still the Federation had no clue of the Borgy hidden in the Fuzzylands. The Federation was aware that the rebels were somehow surviving through use of Borgy technology to shield propulsion and power systems, but assumed the equipment was scavenged, not factory fresh.
During the next months and years, the Federation of Fun managed to mysteriously acquire a new flagship prototype, code-named Ebullient-class. Whispers of Unhappyverse involvement spread throughout the quadrant as only rumors can. Then the rebels, seeing a chance to remove Happymaster Dillon and Empress Webber, had struck. The Unhappyverse had become involved again, only this time the contribution from the alternate reality was the secret to reversing happy beam effects en masse. With the Funship Explorer part of the rebellion and on a mission to unhappify the quadrant, thus freeing everyone from forced joviality, it seemed that all would end "happily ever after," so to say.
**Assimilation sighed as he added his observation upon life, {There must be a catch. Not only does nothing ever end that well, this datastream continues for quite a bit longer.}**
Turn back many years and enter a forgotten Federation station, Neat Place Nine. Situated on the backwater frontiers of the Federation of Fun, it had been a Cardassian oppressor to a subjugated Bajoran populace until the Federation had happy beamed the lot in the name of peace and happiness. The nearby stable wormhole had nothing to do with the pacification decision. Nothing at all. Nope. That the wormhole had stopped working shortly thereafter also had nothing to do with the corrective happification spa retreat certain officials had to undergo to overcome disappointment and an outbreak of frowns.
**{This is interesting,} noted 71 of 79, who had been browsing secondary appendix files attached to the main history. {Frowning is a capital offense in the Funfleet, punishable by forced tickling; and citizens who display even the slightest bit of melancholy that can't be cured at the local Happiness clinic are sent to Federation Funcamps for the Terminally Unhappy.}**
Then, in the opening days of the civil war, the wormhole had abruptly begun spilling forth pretty purple ships. Neat Place Nine had, naturally, happy beamed the snot out of them. After all, it is easier to make new friends when they are already glad to see you. Although the new Dominionator allies had subsequently been captured by Lisa-Love and company, the Neat Place Nine staff was content to continue to happify all newcomers, especially those non-Dominionator. In fact, a happy beam network was set up to automatically bring peace and light to anyone who came through. Neat Place Nine, however, neglected to tell anyone about the new captives - why bother important people in the middle of their Fun War? - instead secreting new acquisitions away on Bajor.
The Borgy cube that had later suicided nearby was similarly towed to the growing shipyard.
With the resurgence of the Federation of Fun, even after the demise of the Borgy, it appeared as if Neat Place Nine was to be forgotten once more, except for the pesky remnant rebels that hid in the Fuzzylands. Then the specter of mass de-happification crashed upon the Federation. As entire populaces were brutally ripped from the bosom of joy and sent into the harshly cold realities of the universe, Neat Place Nine engineers looked to Borgy technology. The final solution was a brain implant, the happifier, which not only neutralized the effects of the de-happy beam, but enforced good cheer upon its recipients.
**{Are we there yet?} grumbled Second. His outburst earned him a virtual skunk eye from Captain.**
Neat Place Nine thus sent forth its captured fleets, crews shielded with happifiers, to rescue Happymaster and Empress and stabilize the Federation. It was the Right Thing To Do, saving unhappy populations from doom and a life of disappointments. And so it was the Federation of Fun was saved. The Explorer, minus its re-happied crew and stolen by rebels who subsequently fled to the Fuzzylands, was a minor footnote.
At Neat Place Nine, a lowly station commander by the name of Bennie Sisko was not the shadow power behind the Federation of Fun. He did not have legions of Changelings loyal only to him; and he did not have the master nexus to which all happifiers were controlled. Such were ridiculous rumors which required immediate readjustment by a Counselor should a citizen ever utter them, should a happifier ever catch scent of such sedation among monitored mental patterns.
In the four years since the footnoted Explorer had become property of the rebels, the Federation of Fun had been recovering from civil war and the De-happy Crisis, rebuilding its fleets. At the same time, the rebels had been consolidating and making plans with the Borgy. Well, with alt-Cube #347 sub-collective, anyway, the activity uncomfortably "serious" for a Collective still in intense party therapy.
The rebels were ready to strike a blow for the cause of freedom to decide if one wanted to be happy or cranky; and Cube #347 had dropped into the middle of it.
Take a deep breath to banish an overlong recitation of History and return to the Partymatrix 001 vista.
{About time,} muttered Second, to a chorus of agreement.
"Honey, we're home!" said MC with cliche comedy when Captain accepted the intercube hail. The other consensus monitor and facilitator had swapped his party hat for a red wig with braided pigtails that stuck out horizontally from his head. "Welcome to Partymatrix 001, home of the Borgy and hotbed of rebel sedation." In the audio background sounded a rim tap and cymbal crash combination, followed by applause from a synthetic audience. "We are so sorry the Partymistress won't interact with you directly, but the Collective Will prefers that this sub-collective deal with the more serious topics in life, such as planning rebel raids and talking to alternate reality imperfect counterparts from the future."
The Borgy, in addition to their "non-professional" attitude (at least when compared against the /Borg/ quest for Perfection), had a small being propensity towards irrelevant small talk. Captain buried his annoyance and cut straight to the heart of a request delivered a hour prior: "Are the supplies we require available?" Luckily, none of the damage the cube had sustained in its inter-reality ride required dry-dock maintenance. On the other hand, the continuing repairs, now including ship-wide regeneration, had strained both replicator resources and the non-replicatable spares inventory.
The sensor grid registered a secondary datastream piggy-backing the primary subspace transmission. Decoding the packets revealed a list which Captain subsequently set to scrolling next to the MC holoscreen.
"Wow, right to the point, aren't you? As the Partymistress keeps telling us, you need to relax and figuratively let down your hair. You double so than us, it seems. As to your request, it appears a cube's a cube despite the reality, be it your Exploratory-class or this Comedy-class. The basics we can get you. However, there are some items such as the 'hypertranswarp coupling array' of which we are clueless; and tritanium is an alloy we've only recently encountered, its adaptation to our use currently of lower priority than vitally important projects such as the confetti gun."
The list of desires was compared to the list of availability. It would have to do. "Acceptable. Navigational charts?"
MC yelped as a stream of water, origination off-screen, hit him on the side of the head. "DJ! Can't you see I'm busy right now? I'll be to the Bulk Cargo Hold for the scheduled weekly water gun fight as soon as I can. Resistance to fun is futile." Pause, refocus on Captain. "Your peoples and my peoples will have to talk a bit more about that. This /is/ a different reality to your own, and we are assuming that you will want to go back eventually. The data could be just so much garbage." The synthetic audience was back, this time showing displeasure with hisses and boos.
"How do we return to our reality? The history indicated existence of an established protocol."
MC waved his whole hand (it was holding a sparkling pink water phaser). "That's a Federation of Fun thing. It isn't exactly a traditional 'party' tech, so we've not bothered to make any particular effort to assimilate it."
{That Galaxy-class is of Federation origin,} noted Second, picking out the relevant fact and displaying it to the sub-collective. In Captain's nodal intersection, a tactical window opened and focused on the Explorer, drifting ten kilometers from alt-Cube #347. Sensors initiated an intensive scan.
Captain mentally shrugged. {Detain and dismantle it. Weapons, tractor the vessel. The additional Borgy technology is inconsequential. No cube weapons: the Borgy Collective might object. Once the target's shields are depleted, transport a detachment to secure the vessel. No assimilations at this time; and attempt to keep casualties to unimportant staff, such as security.}
Weapons gleefully acknowledged the command.
"Where are you going?" inquired MC in puzzlement as Cube #347 abruptly lunged as best a Borg cube could towards Explorer.
Three tractor beams reached forth to the Explorer, with two making contact. For twenty long seconds the Federation ship did nothing, then it started to buck as impulse engines engaged. A pair of photon torpedoes, then a phaser burst, impacted upon Cube #347's still regenerating shields, but the primitive technology did not so much as trip a relay breaker.
"That's not very nice of you," commented MC mildly. "You are going to make me miss my scheduled party therapy if I have to deal with this matter."
A hail, directed at both Borg and Borgy, was intercepted by Cube #347. Captain opened the transmission to reveal a standard, if antique, Federation bridge, although the paint scheme showed signs of having been applied over a much brighter foundation. Shag carpet was also not among the normal decor the sub-collective had encountered. Standing in front of the captain's chair was an unhappy woman in a gray and black uniform (why did rebels, no matter the universe, go for the same two-tone clothing?) highlighted by a shoulder flash of bright red.
"Hey! This is Captain Singer here. MC, I know you told us to stay out of negotiations, but if you haven't noticed, my ship is being attacked. A little help here?" In the background, crewmembers were shouting to each other about status of shields and engines.
MC's attention shifted to the Explorer feed. "Oh, no problem. Be cool. The Borg just want your Unhappyverse drive. If you give it to them, I'm sure they'll stop. No worries." The Borgy drone did not seem unduly concerned that an ally was in the initial stages of a road that eventually led to assimilation.
More sparks from a console. Singer flinched as an ensign, or the rebel equivalent, called out 70% shield strength. "We don't have an Unhappyverse drive. When we stole the Explorer back from the Federation of Fun, it was smashed into intsy, tinsy, tiny bits. Fixing it hasn't been exactly top priority, assuming that the scraps haven't long since been swept into the disposal system."
Head cocked slightly as MC (and sub-collective) considered. "An engineer, then? If you have an engineer that knows about the Unhappyverse drive, I suppose you could send him or her over for assimilation. That will probably be acceptable."
"Read my lips you stupid, party-happy Borgy. We /stole/ the ship while the original crew was in detention being re-rehappied into the next dimension. I push buttons and give orders: the ship goes. Knowing esoteric information like how to make a device that jumps to another universe isn't on the resume of /anyone/ on this crew!" Singer appeared to be a wee bit stressed, and even more so as a rain of sparks showered down on her and threatened to catch hair on fire. She clutched an object reminiscent of a squishy ball in one hand.
"Oh, I see," responded MC. "In that case, Captain and Borg chaps, could you let the Explorer go? They contribute very importantly to the Party, and one day they will make excellent drones. Until then, they function better as individuals and we would be bummed if you assimilated or terminated them." The Borgy managed to look appropriately grave, red wig not withstanding.
{Can my hierarchy still kill a couple of security officers? We need the live practice,} attempted Weapons.
Captain enforced the decision tree's consensus. {Negative. Borgy displeasure may mean we will not receive the necessary resupply items. Additional ammunition, even of these low isoton yields and pre-Dark configurations, is on the list.}
The pull between "munitions" and "assault" mentally divided the weapons hierarchy, but with additional leverage from command and control, the former won. Tractor beams disengaged.
Explorer promptly cut the transmission to Cube #347 (a tight-beam remained in effect to the other cube, but the angle was wrong for eavesdropping) and scooted to put bulk of Borgy vessel between itself and its former attacker.
"Do any vessels here have the appropriate trans-universe drive?" asked Captain. Many nonBorgy ships were present in and around the partymatrix.
MC sighed. "Just a moment." Pause. "Scans indicate negative, but...we do know where one would certainly be found - the Funfleet flagship Secondprize II."
The sub-collective was not enthused. Not only was the designation "Secondprize" familiar, again from the same pre-Dark encounters that included the likes of Aerostar and Explorer, but the ship in question was probably halfway across the galaxy. The fact that the vessel was a flagship meant little considering pre-Dark weaponry and defensive systems. "Disclose location of the Secondprize II."
"The Funfleet has been performing military maneuvers and war-games for the last two weeks around Neat Place Nine and the Fuzzylands. Borgy and rebels were planning to make a raid within the next couple of days. Many opportunities present themselves." MC excitedly waved his water phaser. "We're going to go shopping! The rebellion needs new warships; and the Party is becoming a bit boring with the same old signatures. Therefore, while the rebels get ships, we get the crew. Want to join? It will be quite a bash with explosions and everything! We could use your advanced technology. If the Secondprize II isn't there when the fun descends, they'll join the party soon enough."
Captain cocked his head slightly as the sub-collective deliberated. "You, the Borgy, are not upset that we attacked your ally?"
MC shrugged, causing faux-pigtails to bounce. "Why? They are only small beings, not part of the Party. Maybe they will be assimilated one day. Until then, they are just...tools." The drone suddenly whirled and fired his water phaser at an unseen target. "Hah! Got you that time! Next time hide the transporter signature better, DJ."
Captain waited until MC faced the camera again. Finally, an understandable Borg-like attitude. "We will assist."
"Excellent," said MC. The synthetic audience broke into a standing ovation.
**********
Here ends "A Trip to the Happy Side, Part I." Will Cube #347 return to their Unhappyverse reality? Will Happymaster Dillon's special happifier provide amusement for Woofie? Will there be a musical number with Can-Can drones? You'll just have to read Part II to find out!
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