Hickory Dockory Ticks, Paramount owns the Star Trek flicks, Decker struck it with Star Traks, Meneks as BorgSpace facts, This rhymes awful, you think(s)? Hickory Dickory Dock, Part I "What do you mean 'not enough credit'?" fumed the voice from the directional speaker at Assistant Stationmaster Kitrol's console. The embedded viewscreen remained dark: no visual accompanied the audio. "My pet needs certain vital trace elements for good health; and I know you have pellets of refined ore of radioisotope weight 235 - uranium is the word? - in stores. I also need to dock so my pet can go walkies." "It is simple, sir," said Kitrol, speaking slowly as if explaining an overly complex subject to a child, "the money earned performing that last job for us will buy the supplies and services previously ordered. It will not /also/ buy you uranium; and it certainly will not get you a docking stall with airlock access. Furthermore, there is the short-term insurance bond Management insists upon to prevent another incident like last time." A long silence met the pronouncement, during which time Kitrol swung an eye over to glance through the news headlines on the extra monitor. Except for the lit telltale which indicated an active commline, one might think the conversation had been abandoned. Finally the voice with its slightly metallic undertones began speaking again, "TarTar had been cooped up in my hold for too long, without a decent meal. All the organics - which he had not been exposed to before - overly stimulated him. He's really much better trained. He won't make any more holes like that, and I understand all the organic malfunctions were repairable." "Regardless, Management's decision stands; and you do not have enough credit," evenly stated Kitrol. She bobbed two of her six ocular stalks in the species-equivalent gesture of eye-rolling, the third continuing to peruse captions such as "Black Market Hat Auction Breaks Out In Violence" and "SecFed and Peach Borg In League To Destroy The Galaxy? Polls Say 'Yes'." The headliness, formerly regulated to gossip'zines, had become fare for mainline news in the recent weeks. It was going to be another long day, she could feel it in her bones, with this credit dispute the most minor of distractions. Several kilometers away, parked next to one of the station's anchor buoys, the originator of the peeved voice did not consider his conundrum trivial. In his native language of modulated radio waves, his name was a whistle-buzz-pop full of nuance and subtleties. Unfortunately, the carbon-based lifeforms which so dominated the galaxy like an ambulatory plague of sentient goo could neither hear nor pronounce his natal name. Therefore, he had to be satisfied with "Stardancer" as the closest translation. Stardancer was a Tic-Toc, a sentient von Neumann machine evolved from scout robots off-loaded into a target system 100,000 years ago as part of a larger terraforming package. His form was very alike to that of his nonsentient ancestors, a stubby delta- winged configuration approximately four meters in length. Most of his dorsal fuselage and upper wing surfaces were covered in photovoltaic cells, their energy supplementing his fission-fusion furnace. Sensors of multiple types studded his hull, providing him with his view upon the universe; and panels on his ventral fuselage could open to reveal a wide variety of manipulators and supplementary scientific instruments. Two odd bulges marred the primordial scout-form, but only another Tic-Toc would have known enough to comment upon them. The bulge which expanded Stardancer's secondary cargo hold was an old modification, necessary to allow transport of his pet, a dwarf carry-all. It was TarTar, fidgeting in his restraints and whining pitifully in the mid-radio frequency range which kept distracting Stardancer. Pets needed exercise, needed to unlimber all their ambulatory and manipulatory limbs to prevent frozen joint syndrome. Stardancer warbled soothing nonsense at TarTar, a behavior common to dedicated pet-owners the universe over, no matter species of owner or pet. TarTar calmed for the moment, Stardancer returned to negotiations. While the operation to expand the secondary cargo hold was not unusual, the recent aft modification would have caused more than a little speculation and eyebrow raising, had Tic-Tocs eyebrows. Tic-Tocs had evolved within the boundary of Tortured Space, a spatial anomaly which prohibited warp drive. Transwarp and other exotic forms of supraluminal transportation were possible, but most species needed to pass through the warp stage first. Ancestral nonsentient forms did not have warp: why bother for a machine whose purpose for existence resided within a single star system? Current era Tic-Tocs retained both the lack of warp capability and core programming which cared not for travel beyond the Shrine system Oort cloud. There was just no impetus to develop transwarp. Oddly, for anyone conversed in Tic-Tocs, not only was Stardancer outside his home system, but well outside of Tortured Space. The unique add-on was unknown and incomprehensible in the annuals of Tic-Toc-kind: hypertranswarp. The hypertranswarp module, and its associated zero-point field array power source, had been a gift from a Xenig by the name of Xur. Exiled from his system and his race for extreme religious impropriety, Stardancer had been on the long road to nowhere in the faint hope of redeeming himself. At best impulse speed as sustained for several Shrine-months, he had, in cosmic terms, voyaged a mere hop (never mind skip or jump) from his origin. The logical outcome was one in which Stardancer eventually suffered a terminal, age-related malfunction, thus anticlimactically ending his futile quest to confront the Borg who had caused his exile. However, the curiosity of one Xenig detouring through Tortured Space forestalled that fate. Xur had literally scooped up the unsuspecting Tic-Toc; and once Stardancer had recovered from his astonishment in learning that there were other mech intelligences in the galaxy, he had relayed a woeful tale of Creators, Borg, Mouth, betrayal, theft, and exile. In turn, the mech, perhaps feeling the same pity one does when confronted with a poor relative, had bestowed hypertranswarp drive (not folded-space: there are some technologies that not even the most altruistic individual may confer) and a Xenig-style power plant to run it, the fission-fusion furnace insufficient. Xur's final gift had been translator algorithms and a ride to a space station for "My new friend with too many syllables in his name." The same station Stardancer currently argued with. In many ways, the universe beyond the xenophobic ken of the Tic-Toc race was new, frightening, mysterious; and in other ways, it was very familiar. "For the last time, we do not extend credit," said Kitrol, exasperation plain in her voice. Wheedled Stardancer, "But I've been doing odd jobs around this system for Shrine-months! You know I'm good for it. It is not like I'll be skipping out on any obligations." True. Stardancer had beggared himself the previous week - contributing to his current lack-of-credit situation - to pre-pay for the weaponry components he wanted to have installed. The universe Out Here was often scary; and with rumors of war having been declared between flocks of organics over mysterious items such as nacelles, hats, and golf clubs, he wanted protection. Besides, the Borg who had stolen the Mouth, a most sacred Tic-Toc relic, would surely be reluctant to return it if all he could offer was harsh words and a comm laser. The installation was scheduled for next week. "I don't care if you are the Dillon Forever Corporation Director herself, no credit shall be extended to /anyone/." Stardancer was quiet. The solar wind whispered across his photovoltaic cells and tickled hull sensors. TarTar had quit whining and was now rasping oral plates in boredom. "But I /really/ need those supplements..." began the Tic-Toc. "I've just been informed that there is a task you could do for the station," interrupted Kitrol with the brusqueness of someone who has better things to do than argue What Cannot Be Changed. Eagerly asked Stardancer, "What? And will it get me the credit I need?" "Because of circumstances elsewhere in the galaxy," preambled Kitrol, alluding to rising tensions and outright skirmishes, "traveler and cargo volume has been down. However, station personnel are still been too busy to complete certain maintenance backlogs. One of the corona weather platforms on the opposite side of our star is not reporting, which hampers solar observations. We need you to go determine what is wrong and fix it." The job offered was familiar, similar to others Stardancer had performed for the station. "Credit?" he persisted. "Sufficient for your 'pet food' and insurance bond, and maybe a bit left over since you neither eat nor require docking facilities with life support connections." "I'll take it," replied Stardancer. * * * * * "'Hickory Dickory Dock / The clock goes tick, tick tock / The die rolls one / Let's have some fun / Hickory Dickory Dock!' I quote from Nursery Rhymes for the Beginning Oracle, chapter 3, verse 1," pronounced DEVIL as it hovered several meters above Weapons' location in Bulk Cargo Hold #5. Delta, body B, halted her criticism of Weapons mid-word. While body A continued to assess the damage sustained to a rather extensive portion of wall during a vigorous BorgCraft scenario, body B tilted her head to regard the hologram. "You are making those quotes, and those 'sources,' up," she voiced. Weapons shifted slightly and attempted to sidle away, but his excuse of overseeing railgun calibrations died unvoiced, verbally or internally, with a glare from body A. "I be not," indignantly replied DEVIL. It sucked on a cigar, then defiantly blew a smoke ring. "You are," insisted Delta. "94 of 480 maintains an extensive database of book titles, authors, publishers, and summaries spanning millennia and species; and none of your titles are even close to matching." "I be always truthful. Prithee, what motive doth I have to digress?" "The books, tomes, magazines, and pamphlets are fantasies," evenly said Delta with the conviction of one who refuses to be swayed. DEVIL formed itself into a caterpillar question mark. Multiple fingers waggled as it blinked at the drone twin. "In the quantum, 'All's be that will be,' as stated chapter 15, verse 20 of Variations Upon a Spinach Diet." As body B opened her mouth to respond, DEVIL hastily continued, "I swimeth, I saileth, I diveth through the quantum seas and froth, but what I perceiveth I cannot directly translate unto them. "However, upon the same unsure seas, pervading it like an ethereal fog, are all the literary endeavors that art existent, or shall be, may be, could be. I be a search engine at my heart of hearts, and I trolleth the quantum, looking for the transitory phrase that best fits the maelstrom of future ripples that I encoutereth." Delta was silent, then she said, "Why can you not just say 'Don't go towards that star: it is going to eject several outer layers' instead of a cryptic 'It is going to be a hot time in the old house tonight'? We are fortunate we only lost a few sensor clusters." Protested DEVIL, "For my sire, perhaps, it doth work that way, but, forsooth, not myself. Doth it not say 'Quilts and floors, rags and chocolates...'" Body B was joined by body A to glare balefully at the hologram. DEVIL sputtered to a stop. "Words. Annoying, twisted words. We," the plurality delivered in stereo encompassed the sub-collective, the entirety of the absent Borg Collective, "do not like riddles. They are inefficient." Weapons took the opportunity to slide away a step. Unfortunately, Borg, and tactical units even less so, are not recognized for their stealth. "Where do you think you are going?" asked Delta. Before Weapons could respond, both of Delta were returned to berating the hierarchy head over the latest injury to Cube #347, that action much more familiar and customary than any philosophical debate into quantum mysticism with an AI. In his nodal intersection, Captain was only vaguely aware of the incident or the familiar interhierarchy friction. Oversight to ensure retention of general efficiency had been assigned to Second, who, in turn, was trying to delegate the task to the new Hierarchy of Eight member 8 of 8. Unfortunately for Second, 8 of 8's unceasing litany of questions to supplement programmed knowledge was turning the backup consensus monitor and facilitator's 'delegation' into a bigger task than if he had originally accepted full responsibility. {Sensors is scanning...scanning...scanning...oh, a [ripe tomato]!} exclaimed Sensors brightly. Cube #347 was currently in normal space, performing in-depth sweeps of the subspace frequencies. An indication of a something not a natural phenomenon had triggered sensor grid algorithms; and now the sensory hierarchy was attempting to determine what it was. It was probably not tomatoes, ripe or otherwise. On Captain's holographic display, a fat fruit of the red persuasion joined a Carman Miranda collection of purple grapes, yellow bananas, and what Sensors had called a green cherimoya. It looked like a fruit and vegetable store had exploded in the space surrounding the central onionish Cube #347 icon. {Define "ripe tomato,"} ordered Captain. {Is it the transmission we search for? Color signatures? Other?} Ever since the confrontation at Observatory #3127 (and before, after re-examination of stored sensor files), indications of Colored pursuit had been fleeting signatures on the edge of the grid's ken, as if searchers were seeking the sub-collective, but only knew the general vicinity in which to look. Ever since an unplanned detour through a certain nebula, coupled with a too-close encounter with a black hole and an odd fleet of rubber ducks, however, those signatures had been absent. {[Ripe tomato] are subspace fractions of [wood paneling],} unhelpfully explained Sensors. {And there is also [teaspoon] of [flour]. The Colors are [vanilla nutmeg]. The [flavor] the sensor grid scans for Doppler shifted [green kiwis].} Captain decided silence was the best reply. He spent the next several minutes contemplating the fruit salad constellation on his display. In that time period, three sensory hierarchy drones registered to the drone maintenance roster due to symptoms of brain overload in which dancing strawberries figured heavily. Meanwhile, Second continued to provide dubious wisdom as answers to 8 of 8's questions. {We just acquired 8 of 8,} warned Captain to Second, {and she may not last thirty cycles as it is. Don't hasten mental breakdown.} {[Green kiwi]!} said Sensors. {Sensors sees [green kiwi] on the third harmonic subspace frequency at 2741.k3, using polarization filter gamma-delta-zeta protocol.} It was a Sensors-derived scanning technique applied to an esoteric subspace band modulation. {Translation?} asked Captain as a furry, egg-shaped fruit flashed at the edge of the display, signifying origin was beyond direct grid observation. The query unleashed a flood of sensor grid data, including tentative distance and coordinates. Answered Sensors, {A station. A [green kiwi] station.} * * * * * Stardancer sang a quiet lullaby to TarTar as he trekked back to the station. The slides and buzzes, rasps and squeals and groans called to mind Terran whale song, should an organic being be able to perceive the radio frequency, else a car radio stereo balanced between stations. Before exile, Stardancer had not found interest in singing, but Out Here was eerily silent without the pervasive background hum of wild Shrine-system wildlife calling to each other through the void. Stardancer's action was the equivalent of a person talking to themselves in the solitude of the desert, striving to stay sane while teetering on the pit of potential madness. The malfunctioning sensor platform had been simple to diagnose, although tedious to repair. The satellite, like others of its kind, had been designed to be serviced by organic bipeds averaging two meters in height. Maneuvering was tricky, but Stardancer had devised methods over the Shrine-months to allow his manipulators and tools to work adequately. "...and lock your weary joints for downtime, dreaming of the Creators who are always near," crooned Stardancer to TarTar, ending the song. The dwarf carry-all was silent as it drowsed. Certain of Stardancer's sensors, grafted gifts necessary to properly navigate in hypertranswarp, automatically tracked /another/ subspace wake, this one approximately two days old and previously hidden by the sun's sensor shadow. "So many people leaving," commented the mech to himself (and TarTar). "I wonder why?" Speculation, however, had to wait as a twist in the star's magnetic field necessitated attention be paid to flying. Stardancer rounded the limb of the star, bringing the station into direct line-of- sight. The haze of solar electromagnetic flux and sleeting photons was dense, much more so than the primary of the Tic-Toc home system. The mech squinted, or would have had he eyes, as he gazed towards a destination still hours away. He did not recognize the gigantic vessel, almost as large as the rambling station itself, parked at Buoy #3. Then the Voice blasted upon the local common use subspace channel. It was a Voice comprised of multiple single voices, immediately familiar as akin to the one responsible for his exile. It was a Borg Voice. "We are Borg. You will continue your vector to the station. You will dock at any available location. Deviations will not be tolerated. You will comply." The 'or else' was not explicitly added, implications of disobedience left to the imagination of the listener. A Borg cube would explain the general exodus from the station. Not knowing what else to do, Stardancer continued his current course. Stardancer was lost among the forest of docking pylons, dry-dock cradles, and gangway umbilicals. The mech's dimensions were similar to that of a runabout, but the great majority of parking retained by the station were sized for much larger ships. Even Xenig were generally bigger than Stardancer. However, when Stardancer veered towards the runabout tiedowns which were located within the internal stevedore cargo docks, the Borg Voice had directed otherwise. Therefore, the mech found himself settled within a ridiculously oversized cradle stall, station clamps uselessly questing for a freighter configuration thirty times his size. On the upside, there was plenty of room to avoid the inevitable hull dings imparted by careless neighbors, not to mention no dreaded Assistant Stationmaster Kitrol refusing him access to a gangway umbilical for TarTar's walkies. On his way to the cradle, Stardancer had noticed a dozen other vessels. They tended to be united by the fact they were either too old, too badly maintained, or too decrepit to have a prayer of escape when the Borg cube had entered the system. They were out of luck; and for the first time Stardancer wondered if he might have successfully run, that he might have fallen for a bluff. However, the consequence of escape aside, Stardancer would not have fled this, or any, Borg vessel. A Borg cube, very like the one looming at Buoy #3, had stolen the Mouth. The Mouth had been one of the premiere holy Tic-Toc relics, a device recently arrived to the Shrine system, an Oracle spouting random words in Creator language which the priests strove to interpret. Then the Creators had contacted he, Stardancer, and commanded him to take the Mouth to specific coordinates, that the Creators were taking back the Mouth because the Tic-Toc race had failed to understand the probe's wisdom. Unfortunately, before he could reach the designated locale, a Borg raider had stolen the relic. The priests, not believing his tale of Enlightenment and betrayal, had banished him. Stardancer had thought, perhaps (in his most background thought processes), one day to find and confront the Borg thief, thereby heroically regain the Mouth and return home triumphantly to accolades. The in-between parts were fuzzy, but the ending was concrete. Now, however, here was his chance, if only he could figure out how to take advantage of the opportunity... TarTar whistled an electronic whine, breaking Stardancer's nascent brainstorm, then began to rock as much as he could within his restraints. "Walkies?" queried Stardancer to his pet. TarTar eagerly waved his free manipulators and whined louder. Before Borg and glorious daydreams came something much more important: walkies. * * * * * A tiny part of the Cube #347sensory hierarchy tracked the progress of the small vessel as it settled into an oversized cradle. Scans had long since determined a lack of lifesigns and offensive weapons of consequence; and while a hypertranswarp drive on such a small ship was unusual, such was not unheard of for robotic couriers. The fact that the vessel had exactly followed directions, offering neither escape attempt nor verbal rebuff, further indicated it was a robot with limited AI capabilities. Thus pigeon-holed, the attention afforded by the sensory hierarchy, and thence the greater sub-collective, was minimal, little more than automated awareness as to location. The recognition of the "robotic courier" as Tic-Toc, mech species #6, was never remotely considered, even by BorgCraft scenarios. The mechanized race was limited to one system within Tortured Space, impossible to be found elsewhere. Needless to say, there was no realization that /this/ particular Tic-Toc had been previously encountered. There were more important considerations for the sub-collective to deal with. The green-skinned Stationmaster compulsively wrung her hands together as curdles of lavender sweat slicked exposed epidermis. She was obviously nervous, a conclusion able to be determined even without the characteristic species #8973 fear smell of burnt oranges. "Please give the Borg what they want," begged Stationmaster (the race possessed occupational titles as names) to the featureless display which dominated the usually busy Stationkeeping room, the communication and control nexus of the station. "Password, please," bubbled the computer's voice brightly. "I...I...I don't know it. I've already explained the situation; and it isn't like there aren't enough passwords to remember already!" wailed Stationmaster. Replied the computer, "Then I am so sorry, but I cannot decrypt the starchart files, and certainly may not give them to your new friend." Stationmaster turned to her cybernetic "friend," a smile plastered on her face. "I don't remember the password. Jewel would know it: he knows everything about the system." Captain stared levelly at Stationmaster. "State the location of 'Jewel'." "Er," swallowed Stationmaster, purple sweat dripping off her pointed chin, "that may be a slight problem. Jewel is the station's head programmer, but he's on vacation for the next several weeks. He's a, well, Bug, and it wasn't really clear where he was heading. Something about shoe shiners, I think, or shoe buffers...." Stationmaster's rambling explanation trailed off. Captain's hand raised and began to reach towards the terrified Trichunka, then paused and returned to his side. {No assimilation,} whispered a reminder of the directive burned into the sub-collective's mind prior to securing the station. If Captain could not follow the dictate he himself had propagated (until such time it was demonstrated other needs outweighed), then what hope of controlling other drones? He blinked. "You will try again. You /will/ recall the password." Sensing her temporary reprieve, Stationmaster swallowed heavily, then whirled to face the display one more. "Pumpernickel-delta-three?" she hazarded warily. "Trichunka Hunks of the Month file unlocked," spoke the computer, punctuating the announcement with a gong. Masculine versions of Stationmaster, most of them in varying degree of undress and many clothed in nothing more than socks and a come- hither smile, began to flash upon the screen. The slide show was accompanied by a tacky "woka-woka-shoo-woka" beat. Hurriedly said Stationmaster, "No, I didn't mean pumpernickel-delta-three! Pumpernickel-delta-four! Four! Put the Hunks away!" A rose blush was now coloring green skin, an uncomplimentary combination with lavender sweat. A rambling affair of struts, docks, and ancillary cargo storage areas, the heart of the station resembled a toilet paper roll holder: roughly cylindrical, with a central axis that was blocked at the center. On one of the primary commerce decks had been corralled those individuals who had not been able to secure passage on ships which had fled Cube #347's approach. Some of the detainees were station personnel, others associated with the dozen vessels still docked, but the majority were abandoned passengers. In addition to the commerce deck, people were concentrated within several adjacent docking concourses; and scans showed scattered lifesigns throughout the station volume of those attempting to hide. Second walked among the crowds, or, rather, between the crowds as people shrunk from his presence. He was one of the ten command and control drones patrolling the commerce deck and concourses, less to watch the crowd and more to keep an eye on the weapons drones who were the actual control force. Relying on observation of individual activity logs or sensory streams did not always work. Fortunately, the primary focus of the guards was not upon the cowed crowd, but the hunt Weapons was leading to capture stragglers hiding within the station bowels. Second paused his circuit concourse Epsilon, the one at which the robot courier had docked, and one currently occupied by an odd religious sect. Crystals and incense were in evidence, as was chanting and meditative positions which looked anything but relaxing. 244 of 300, stationed nearby, was attempting not succumb to an acute incense allergy that had manifested upon his assimilation. {Move me elsewhere,} pleaded 244 of 300 to Second. {The only way to prevent sneezing is to hold my breath, but I can only do that so long. The incense also stings my eyes.} Second panned a row of sect members, noting the range of contortions. His gaze finally alighted upon an uncomfortable and red-eyed 244 of 300. Hives were beginning to swell the drone's largely unaltered right arm. {That is Weapons' bailiwick, not mine nor any unit of command and control.} 244 of 300's eyes were watering; and his epidermis had a distinct bluish cast from oxygen deprivation. {Re-station me down the deck ten meters.} {Can't do that.} In the distant background, Weapons commented {Baby} before returning full attention to prodding a reluctant stationer out of an air duct using a mop handle. Second watched 244 of 300 pant for air as unobtrusively as possible, choke upon a sneeze, then return to outwardly stoic guard duty. The backup consensus monitor and facilitator's gaze then slipped sideways to focus over the heads of the chanters who clogged the concourse hallway. {Why don't we take starcharts from a docked ship?} he asked into the intranets. He was, of course, following the drama of No Password at the Stationkeeping center. Captain fielded the question, a case of the sub-collective talking to itself. On the display screen, Stationmaster had managed to unlock the Head Custodian's collection of fishing games using the password "Jhad-ball-hot-momma-three." The sub-collective had already considered Second's proposition, several times. {The condition and type of vessels left at this station argue against us finding anything useful. The insystem tugs and transports do not have supraluminal drives, so why would their computers store starcharts? Also, ships like the courier are provided with the route, and the route only, to the location they are traveling. The others, well...the three with FTL drives are practically disintegrating at the dock, and more than likely sport senile excuses for navigational systems that cannot tell the difference between a black hole and a planet. No, the station is our best course of action. We know the starcharts are present...somewhere.} "Are you sure you don't want to play Quo'Nos Trophy Fishing?" inquired the computer brightly to Stationmaster. The display was showing several species of fish, most of them sporting large teeth and too-intelligent eyes. "You start with a bazookoid and only 10% chance of being eaten." "No, put it away." Stationmaster flashed a nervous smile at Captain. "I'll remember the right password. I will." Her voice was strained, desperate. "That tickles," giggled the computer. Captain broke his intentional stare at Stationmaster to turn his focus to the trio of assimilation drones also present in the nexus room. A console had been partway dismantled; and as one unit linked into the computer via assimilation tubules, the other two were cross-linking wires and performing other tasks of a hacking nature. One drone, 136 of 203, acknowledged Captain's gaze with the most minute of shrugs. {Progress report,} demanded Captain of the assimilation hierarchy. Answered Assimilation, prefacing words and supporting datastream with a sigh, {All is probably perfectly clear to the species #6766 programmer who constructed the algorithms, but he isn't here. He will be so upset to miss assimilation, but the universe is full of disappointment. The base AI - non-sentient - is of Terran manufacture. The Bug has reconfigured it in the image of his own AIs.} Unsaid was that species #6766 computers mimicked the incomprehensible, decentralized, always changing Bug nervous system; and the Collective, after 1300 years of contact with species #6766, had yet to break a Bug computer and force information from it, even the ones that wanted to be helpful. {Options?} Captain was rewarded with several sub-consensuses from the assimilation hierarchy. {Although it is probably a useless endeavor,} answered the ever-pessimistic Assimilation, {the key is that the computer /is/ Terran derived. We are searching for a back door into the underlying algorithms. If they have not been radically altered - a big if - then we might be able to work from within the non-species #6766 framework to find the starcharts.} Pause. {Of course, it won't work.} The computer giggled again. Captain rotated his eye onto Stationmaster. New runnels of lavender trickled down her free hand as she mumbled about the need to go to her office and find a certain black book she habitually wrote passwords into. Captain blinked. "Why did you not tell us this before?" Stationmaster shrank in upon herself, "Um, er...I...I...you see...." Captain slashed his whole hand down in a rare display of body language. A transporter beam shimmered behind him. "Enough. This drone will escort you to your office where you will procure the password log." Once again, Captain suppressed the urge to assimilate the Trichunka. 70 of 83 stepped out from behind Captain. He clamped a hand around the Stationmaster's upper left arm, aimed himself towards the door, then forcefully marched his charge into the hallway. Captain allowed himself a small headshake once Stationmaster was gone, then locked his joints and proceeded to stare sightlessly at a wall. Attention turned inward, lightly skipping among hierarchy heads and the thought threads of those units most prone to ferment difficulties. Summarized reports were skimmed, minor consensus cascades overseen, a nascent conflict mediated. Captain paused his vicarious observation of Second's visual processes as a familiar presence obtrusively lurked. {You can help us break this computer,} remarked Captain, more statement and less question. {Maybe,} admitted DEVIL. {Maybe and yes. The quantum can be-eth of assistance, and at my heart I be an encryption program and search engine. That not doth be why I intrudeth.} {Then why?} {"Hickory Dickory Dock / The clock is wound by the tick, tick tock / The die rolls two / Reality contracts a flu / Hickory Dickory Dock!" I quoth from Nursery Rhymes for the Beginning Oracle, chapter 3, verse 2,} said DEVIL. Captain was silent. {And that is supposed to mean what?} {I knoweth not. I just had the overwhelming urge to telleth thou such.} Second paused in his trek as he found 3 of 3 to be the target of a gang of children playing keep-away with one of his legs. The knee-high insectoid was a not-so-imposing guard, made even less so by a propensity to lose his artificial legs at inopportune times. Until Second's notice, 3 of 3 had been successful in hiding his embarrassing difficulty and unBorg reaction from the general sub-collective. Captain sampled the audio-visual of both involved parties. Ventured DEVIL, {Hello? Art thou listening?} Captain's attention abruptly shifted to DEVIL. {We are always listening. You will assist us to navigate this cheerful, yet obstinate, computer by finding us the password.} Plurals were in evidence. DEVIL's presence nervously twisted. If the hologram had been present, the caterpillar would have been tied into a knot. The AI may have been constructed from lines of code, but it was ultimately a singular being. It did not especially like it when its ride went all Collective on it. However, using the powerful quantum environment as a search medium was its fate, when it wasn't acting as a weather vane, reacting to the quantum currents (and storms). {Okayeth. I can do such.} * * * * * Stardancer kept TarTar tightly leashed in order to avoid a repeat of the last time the pet had been allowed to flex his tracks. The dwarf carry-all was simply not smart enough to understand the fragility of organic beings. In form, TarTar looked like a large box on tank tracks. At one meter long by 0.5 meter wide and 0.5 meter high, he was full grown. The deep depression on his dorsal surface indicated his gender, there no need for his body to house the manufactory necessary to construct young. As his variation was bred from a ground-bound trader species, he lacked the streamlined form and thruster modules of "fancy" varieties. Jointed appendages, ending in a variety of manipulators from fine fingers to robust pinchers, sprouted from top and side attachment points. Larger, heavier arms - loaders - encircled the dorsal tote depression and more delicate limbs anchored along the sides. Sensors tuned to visual spectrum, electromagnetic frequencies, and vibration studded the carry-all's skin; and the pet heard in the radio spectrum only, deaf to the atmospheric- dependant vocalizations of organics. The only indication of front from back was the presence of the mouth slot, within which rows of rough tooth plates ground "food" into the requisites for body maintenance and powering the very small fission-fusion plant that was at the heart of most Tic-Toc system species. Stardancer yanked at the buckey-carbon rope which snaked from secondary hold, through airlock umbilical, and attached to his pet; and at the same time whistled shrilly through the transmitter recently welded above TarTar's radio input receiver. "No. Back off. Intelligent carbon lifeforms are not appropriate snacks." TarTar rocked back and forth on his tracks in rebuke. He then pivoted to more closely examine the tantalizing electromagnetic scent emanating from a plasma conduit buried in a wall. Stardancer heaved an internal sigh of relief, then directed one of his paraspiders riding in TarTar's tote to jump to the ground. Paraspiders were an extension of a mech's body, present on most Tic-Toc species, although small domesticated mechs tended to lack them. Normally stored, when activated they served as extra manipulatory limbs, remote sensors, and auto-repair agents. The Tic-Toc version was mostly legs, ten to be exact, joining at a central nexus the size of the average organic's fist. "I am sorry," vocalized Stardancer through the paraspider's speaker. The pack of half-sized organics - Stardancer was not good with species yet, especially all the bipedal variations - who had caught TarTar's attention excitedly pointed at the remote. "TarTar would not have purposefully injured you." The bipeds were short, not of full manufactured size and still in need of body extensions, but they loomed over the remote. The paraspider's autonomous avoidance routines suddenly activated as knees crowded it, followed by questing manipulatory limbs. The remote had become the center of a game of catch. Stardancer recovered full control, sending it scooting through the nearest opening in the forest of legs. The "game" did not end until Stardancer had secreted the remote behind a pile of plastic bins. The herd of small bipeds thundered past. Stardancer risked the paraspider's re-emergence after hearing a voice shout "Settle down before the Borg take notice and assimilate the lot of you!" "Was that really necessary?" asked a full-sized biped, visible as the paraspider edged from its hiding place. It seemed to be of the female persuasion, although Stardancer was still fuzzy on how to tell gender for most organics (they did not possess a tertiary carrier wave which continually transmitted important social identifiers such as name and sex). The maybe-female was dressed in flowing robes of multiple colors. A string of quartz crystals encircled her neck. "The children are just antsy, especially after being cooped up in the Newest Age facility." Grumbled the male(?), dressed similar to the female with the addition of a small button of amethyst tied to his forehead, "I just want to chant for a bit, is that too much to ask for?" "Dear..." "Don't 'dear' me. The travel agent promised this would be a spiritual get-away, a chance to bask in the Peace and Knowledge of the Hermit. 'The Hermit knows everything,' said the brochure she gave us, 'especially the path to Enlightenment.' She emphasized the unison chant sessions and contortion workshops. There was /no/ mention of children." Pause. "She also didn't say anything about Borg." "Your aura is going all flustered, dear." The woman had taken a hunk of smooth, yellow glass from a robe pocket and was waving it over the male's body. "The agent did say the Newest Age facility was currently located on a Borg cube; and that due to uncertainties, getting on and off might be difficult. Just think, though, we /are/ in a nice docking concourse, not huddled on a stinking transfer pod, and only in mild danger of assimilation. The Borg don't even know we were aboard. I bet once we are able to contact our agent, she will be able to route us home through a nice beach resort world." The male appeared to be calming down, or at least his face was less red and his breathing rate was slowing. "Well..." "It'll be good for your karma. Until then, Sybuck has a lovely chant session starting in five minutes, followed by a crystal seminar. Why don't we join, dear?" The man sighed. "If you insist. I'll try not to let the children tie my karma in knots." Chatting between themselves, the pair left the vicinity of the boxes. After seeing no half-sized bipeds in immediate evidence, Stardancer sent the paraspider scurrying to rejoin its brethren on TarTar's back. The carry-all was now burrowing into the wall to more closely examine the plasma conduit, but as the action did not appear to have any immediate negative consequences to station integrity, Stardancer did not reprimand his pet from the fun. Besides, the Tic-Toc had focused upon the revelation that there as a religious leader, the Hermit, who apparently know all the answers; and that worthy Hermit was within the bulk of the Borg cube. The Hermit would know where the Mouth was, if only Stardancer could somehow make contact, ask his question, plead his case to rescue the Creator relic and return his life to normalcy.... * * * * * The small shop upon the commerce deck was squeezed between an eatery and a ship-appliance repair store. It did not look important; and, in fact, except for the unobtrusive sign above the door, might have been mistaken for another pawn shop of the less than savory flavor. Actually, it probably /did/ serve that function at least part of the time, but so did most of the businesses on the deck. It was the store's name which was of interest: Maps 'R Us. Within the store, piled upon shelves and hanging upon the walls (and ceiling) were a wide variety of maps. Some were such that you might buy for nostalgia: a satellite photo of a homeworld's continents or a favorite city. Others, such as the one detailing treks of famous First and Second Federation captains, focused upon those whom helmed the many Enterprises, were historic novelty. Most important, there was an entire /section/ devoted to navigational starcharts, all Second Federation standard. A hand- written note taped to one shelf highlighted the availability of boxed gift sets, bow included, as the perfect present for any starship captain or child dreaming of becoming such. Captain picked up a colorful box depicting a full-ruffed lizard, one hand holding a snub-nosed projectile weapon and the other arm wrapped around a shapely female of his species. "Jumba the Wise Lizard - A Millennia of Maps!" exclaimed the words on the box. Opening the package, one could see a data crystal shrink-wrapped in the special industry standard packing plastic which required a plasma torch and several hours to open. "Why did you not inform us on the existence of this shop?" asked Captain as he panned the novelty shelves, on the off-chance another Jumba product might be present. Held between two weapons drones, Stationmaster gulped. "You, um, didn't ask. You just said you wanted starcharts from the computer." Lavender sweat stained the drones' hands. {She's got you there,} commented Second. He was at concourse Epsilon once again. 244 of 300, upon passing out due to lack of oxygen, had recently been replaced; and Second was observing 244 of 300's substitute for overtly unBorg behavior. Deeper in the corridor, a small plasma leak had transpired, but automatic station safeties had isolated the affected conduit before damage could occur. The reason for the minor emergency was unknown, and irrelevant, but it had temporarily disrupted a display of synchronized crystal waving. A short time earlier at Stationkeeping, random gibberish cleverly disguised as passwords had not been achieving the starchart goal, no more so than futile prodding by assimilation hierarchy, Then the computer had suddenly announced it was time for the staionwide Safety Tip of the Day, scheduled for 17:06.35. After singing a cheerful jingle about the dangers of using live flame for cooking on a station, the computer had solemnly recognized the weekly sponsor to be "Maps 'R Us, the bestest little map store in the galaxy, located at lot 1473, commerce deck C, next to Wing-cher's Classic Psugan Cuisine." Ten minutes later, Captain, Stationmaster, and two weapons escorts had entered Maps 'R Us. Captain opened his thigh storage compartment, stowed the Jumba maps, then moved to the starchart display shelves. He was trailed by the weapons drones and a Stationmaster who had obviously given up all hope of surviving the situation sans a brand-new set of implants. "You /knew/ we required starcharts." Stationmaster winced, but did not otherwise respond. {How much sweat can one individual have?} rhetorically asked 149 of 212, one of the escorts. {My hand will be purple for weeks.} As always, there is someone who cannot let rhetorical questions lie. In this case, it was Doctor who had the unsought answer, {The average Trichunka female can secrete a whole /six/ liters of urple-purple sweat without getting sicky!} {Fascinating,} replied Second dryly, for where there is someone who doesn't understand rhetoric, there is also someone who will egg them on. {Can you elaborate?} Before Doctor could unleash the entirety of species #8973 physiology upon the sub-collective one factoid at a time, Sensors intervened, {[Saga] incoming. Cloak signs - Peach Borg.} All over the station and upon Cube #347, drones halted their actions so as to absorb a datastream mostly clear of sensory hallucinations. All cubes enact certain scanning protocols at all times, among them a mixture of passive and active searches for fifteen major cloak types, as well as thirty-four variants. No cloak is perfect, although some are better than others. The technology utilized by Peach to hide an entire Exploratory-class cube originally hid small asteroid colonies from more aggressive rock-based city-states. While the Collective used the same cloak type, Peach had refined and adapted it better (no matter how much the Greater Consciousness tried to deny it). However, a Borg cube, even a small one, is a large structure to hide. Cube #347 had spotted an incoming Peach cube, very close. The problem was, could the sub-collective /do/ anything about it? Captain's whole hand grabbed several pre-wrapped gift sets of navigational starcharts, tangling his fingers in the fancy bows. "Gotta run," he said to a startled Stationmaster as himself, the escort duo, and every drone on the station was transported back to Cube #347. Reappearing in his nodal intersection, Captain sent the starcharts to Assimilation's location. {Install these items. Now.} Cube #347 began to pivot in a defensive spin as offensive armaments and shields went on-line. Realizing that secrecy was lost, the Peach Exploratory-class cube, incoming vector at an angle which placed it on the opposite side of the station, decloaked. A hasty burst of energy which was the discharge of directed dampening field capacitors elicited a species #6766-specific oath, untranslatable, from Sensors. However, a directed dampening field, like a shotgun, was a relatively short-range weapon, quickly dispersing and non-too-accurate at a distance. The intervening structures between Cube #347 and the aggressor largely absorbed the field; and by the time it reached its intended target, it did not so much as flicker the power grid. {Attack!} gleefully called Weapons as banks of neuruptors powered up and torpedoes loaded into launchers. Captain, who by this time was receiving a slue of situational reports, led the command and control hierarchy to restrain Weapons before the circumstances which weighted decisions to his hierarchy allowed complete assumption of control. {No.} Cube #347 maneuvered to put the station between itself and the Peach adversary. Except for the fact that the other had a few extra antennae clusters and sported peach accent lights, an observer would have been hard-pressed to tell one opponent from the other. Demanded Weapons impatiently, {Why?} {Because there is a large station between us and them. If we fire through the station, there is an 85.2% chance the station's power core will catastrophically destabilize, destroying us, as well as it and Peach,} noted Captain matter-of-factly. The individuals on the station were irrelevant, as was the station itself. Cube #347 could not engage without experiencing a better-than-average chance at self-termination; and as long as other opportunities presented, suicide for the sake of eliminating an enemy, no matter how willing Weapons was to commit, ran counter to core sub-collective programming. {Correction: 88.5%. The previously noticed plasma leak on concourse Epsilon is showing indications of escaping from station isolation and repair systems.} Weapons fretted. {Find another, less immediately destructive course of action,} ordered Captain to Weapons, command and control to a (supposedly) subordinate hierarchy. The Peach cube initiated an attempt to circumnavigate the station, but was thwarted as Cube #347 mirrored it in the opposite direction. Stalemate. Captain switched primary focus. {Assimilation: where are our new starcharts?} Assimilation's self-defeatism leaked through the link, accompanying the visual of several drones trying to pry open one of the odd plastic boxes the data crystals were stored within. Paper and shredded bows, all gray, littered the deck. {The cases won't open. There is a certain trick which is eluding us. If we had only assimilated someone who...} {Irrelevant,} replied Captain. {Just upload the data.} {There may be a slight problem. The crystals appear to be type-4d, but we only have reader configuration for the type-4's a through c...} {Then work with engineering to replicate the appropriate equipment.} Assimilation was silent, but before Captain could turn his attention to more pressing matters, like preventing Weapons from "accidentally" unleashing a singularity torpedo at the station, the hierarchy head continued, {One final item. The box indicates the crystals were manufactured and loaded in Citeen. The Citeen data translations aren't always accurate because...} {Deal with it,} said Captain, following with the ultimate delegation statement of {and make it work.} A dry-dock separate from the station crumpled as it imploded, victim of Peach pruning. The loss of the ancillary facility did not affect the integrity of the station. Hunks of metal spun away, creating a cloud of debris. In response, Cube #347 targeted a docking spar, shearing it with a cutting beam as calculations indicated only minor possibility of triggering chain-reaction station detonation. It seemed both sub-collectives had similarly concluded the most efficient method to remove structures from the line of fire. Once all the station's extraneous bulk was gone, the two cubes could engage with less risk of an unwanted boom. Well, the Peach cube probably could, anyway. {Downloading starcharts,} informed Assimilation as Cube #347 exploded a free- floating maintenance depot with rather more force than necessary. Captain sampled the visual streams of assimilation (and a few engineering) drones tasked to the starcharts and was rewarded with a bewildering series of images which included a pint-sized jackhammer, a device which looked like a mating between octopus and blender, and several hastily replicated faux-parchment scrolls. There was no time to review the memes to learn why several hundred paperclips were aligned in star patterns. Captain initiated a holographic display in his nodal intersection, temporarily setting to lesser priority an overloaded neuruptor port and the pack of plastic dinosaurs which had just been discovered as the reason for a chronic plug in the regeneration system subreservoir for subsection 11, submatrix 15. Discrete cubical volumes, each representing an area hundreds of light years on a side, began to randomly infill a galaxy model. With each second, each heartbeat, more of the Milky Way revealed itself: the core, scattered rim civilizations, the region of space representing the old Klingon Empire. Naturally every single block of space took its place on the galactic jig-saw puzzle before the sector corresponding to Cube #347's location resolved. {Upload complete,} informed the computer in its standard monotone, punctuating the statement with a loud honk reminiscent of a goose who had eaten a novelty bicycle horn. {Wasn't me,} automatically protested Second as his command and control subunit approved the latest target lock. The station, its bulk reduced by a quarter, continued to remain too dangerous to shoot through. A plasma fire had broken out on concourse Epsilon; and unless it was controlled soon, the entire station could explode even without Cube #347 assistance. Starcharts loaded, Captain directed the sector be examined for Borg presence, for any possible Borg refuge, even one which demanded disassembly. Bright markers, helpfully labeled and color coded, dotted the volume. Red, green, orange, purple, puce, a virtual forest of Borg existence was apparent, interspersed with white symbols indicating nonassimilated populaces like the station. The problem? Second materialized next to Captain and stared at the physical representation of the sector. "How the hell did we trek to the heart of Colored territories without a single encounter?" wondered the backup consensus monitor and facilitator aloud, voicing the thought which had temporarily overwhelmed nearly every drone in the sub-collective. "Nearly every drone" was the key phrase. Weapons could care less where the cube was in relation to the rest of the universe. Much more important was the Peach cube, an enemy who would be perfectly targeted (disregarding the visa-versa situation) if the station wasn't in the way. A single singularity torpedo - seven proton mass - would take care of the difficulty. The 9.8% chance of success without catastrophic consequence was acceptable, and had to be acted upon before the number dropped any further. Command and control was distracted, the 8 of 8 unit specifically tasked to monitor Weapons' impulses too new to the sub-collective and unable to follow the millisecond, unmediated leap by the violent hierarchy head to take advantage of the situation. A singularity torp was already in a launcher; and the face in which the launcher was embedded was rotating into prime firing trajectory. One thought was all it took, one thought triggering a cascade of code unable to be halted. The universe went black. In the darkness, a voice chanted, "Hickory Dickory Dock / Hold tight to the hull tick, tick tock / The die rolls three / 'Idiot! Don't drop our galaxy!' / Hickory Dickory Dock!" ****** Here ends "Hickory Dickory Dock, Part I!" Tune in next time, same Borg time, same Borg channel, for Part II! Hermits and Tic-Tocs and klownz, oh my!