Paramount's Star Trek can pick its nose;
Decker's Star Traks can pick its friends;
Meneks' BorgSpace cannot pick its friend's nose.
Boogers
Police action. Forceful debate. Necessary intervention for the good of the poor, oppressed peoples. Contract negotiations. Pre-emptive argument. Retaliatory price slashing. Political firestorm.
War.
Despite building tensions and outright aggressions, the galaxy is inherently a big place. An epic, solar system spanning battle may occur, but less than one hundred light years away the drama will go unknown to a planet-bound society; and even, a century later, if the race has both proper instrumentation and luck to focus on one particular star at one particular time, the outcome is ancient history, irrelevant. Of course, events occasionally affect those beyond the normal sphere of influence; and then an unlucky pilot spends the remainder of his life as a lab experiment on a low-tech planet at the inevitable Area Fifty-Something.
For a certain Borg cube, it was the calm between storms...or perhaps the eye of a hurricane. Either way, at the nonce the vessel, and the sub-collective within, was not being actively shot at. It was a novelty. Scars upon relatively new hull attested not only to recent target status, but that it was running low on supplies for engineering repair teams and ship regenerative systems. This specific Borg cube was committed to a course of action that likely was its death warrant, but first...first, the sub-collective really needed to go shopping.
Delta's wish list was long, and growing longer as her hierarchy completed a comprehensive supply inventory. No artificial system, no matter how efficient, is completely closed, and the slurry vats and other raw material repositories required replenishing. Of higher concern were the non-replicatable items, the completed devices and high-tech alloys that needed specialized manufactories not present on a Borg cube.
The targets towards which Cube #347 sped would pare the list to a more manageable size: Delta would never be completly satisfied, but such was the way of an engineer, be it Borg, Starfleet, or any other multiverse entity. The first destination - intersection time 2.57 hours - was a base embedded deep within the crust of the second planet's larger moon; and the other target was a sprawling structure in cloud-skimming orbit around the smaller of the system's Jovian gas planets. Both, according to the commercial starcharts which the sub-collective had worked so hard to acquire, were of Collective origin, abandoned, but still potentially dangerous. General cube files, on the other hand were more instructive: although the sub-collective had been physically 'lost' for much of the prior year, it had retained knowledge of /what/ things were, just not /where/ they were. The sub-collective knew the basics of Research Node #313 and supporting elements, knew that the Hive had performed species evaluation experiments for 53 years. Upon abandonment of the enterprise, facilities has been left in maintenance status, on the expectation that they would be needed in the future.
It was 167 years post-abandonment, and the Collective, in the form of one Exploratory-class full of imperfect drones declared rogue by the Whole, needed the facilities, just not in the manner the Greater Consciousness had envisioned.
Focus on one nodal intersection amongst many. Two drones stand, statue-still, engaged inward upon an electronic realm of data. Before the more heavily cybernized individual floats a holographic window, the screen of which mirrors to unseeing eyes a flashing visual representation of the sub-collective's stream-of-consciousness. In less than three hours the cube would fly past the lunar base, at which time a small detachment would beam down to start preparations. The cube would return in ten cycles, after visiting the Jovian structure, to complete the salvage operation. As all parties remained within the solar system communication limits imposed by hardware neural transceivers, the lack of a vinculum-enabled subspace booster array was irrelevant. The consensus cascade concerning salvage team composition was nearly complete - six engineering and one sensory drone were selected, only a command and control unit lacking.
The random designation generator algorithm was seeded; and the lottery began.
Second abruptly animated, flexing muscles stiff from hours of immobility. He briefly glanced at the holoscreen with its rapidly scrolling numbers, but largely ignored it, comfortable with raw datastreams as Captain was not. "I should just volunteer now," opinionated Second aloud, "as I know it is /my/ designation which will be 'randomized.'" Like multiple other command and control drones, he had deployed a small snippet of code to manipulate the outcome and prevent his election, to unrandomize the randomization. Unfortunately, history had shown a disturbing bias for his selection despite attempts to avoid it.
Next to Second, Captain turned his head slightly, bringing the backup consensus monitor and facilitator into peripheral view of his unartificial right eye. "Okay," replied Captain even as he entered '3 of 8' onto the salvage team roster, thus completing it.
Silence. An almost imperceptible widening of his two whole eyes as Second realized what had just occurred. A sputtering, very unBorg outburst was Second's protest, "I did not actually /mean/ it!"
"Too late now," calmly reminded Captain as he focused on his display screen. There was perhaps the merest hint of amusement in the monotone words, an emotion swiftly censored by cerebral governors. Eight drone dossiers were now being separately examined, Second among them, as a final perusal as to suitability of the units assigned. The assessment was a formality as only severe damage or termination could alter the roster.
Second was strongly considering his options.
Captain turned his head to fully look at Second. "Those thoughts better not become action. Even if you do throw yourself over the railing and into the shaft, I'll ensure drone maintenance elevates you to priority. I wouldn't want to be without my best backup, you know." Pause. "The salvage team is set. We require regeneration of all applicable units prior to their deployment, which includes you, Second. Off to your alcove. Comply."
Second didn't bother to censure the thoughts - very creative because he considered the realm of four-letter words to be uncouthly primitive - as he turned to exit the nodal intersection: the now redundant randomization algorithm had just completed its run, and his designation had /not/ been selected.
The salvage team was, as the quaint saying went, supposed to 'live off the land' until Cube #347 returned. In this case it meant engineering drones would adapt and/or build a temporary regeneration system, assuming alcoves had been stripped from the facility upon abandonment. Any other necessities would be jury-rigged from available supplies as well. A brief scan by the cube prior to the beam down had revealed a functional power source and air, although the quality of the latter was unclear.
Final item on the checklist confirmed, the salvage team was transported.
Second materialized, along with the other seven members of the group, within a hallway on the periphery of Research Node #313. Walls, ceiling, and floor were unfinished regolith, the tunnel one of an intricate maze burrowed through the crust long ago to mine trace elements required for facility operations. Due to the trajectory of the cube's fly-by, it had been easiest to set the team in one of the outlying corridors. Reaching the main complex would require less than an hour walk, even at the standard Borg pace.
Watching with eyes not his own, Second turned inward to observe the final maneuvering sequence which would send Cube #347 on the best vector to complete the gravity assist slingshot around the moon. Even if the vessel had not been too far away to be more than a swiftly moving star against a cosmic background, the half kilometer of lunar crust overhead was a more than effective blockade to sight. Satisfied all was occurring as smoothly as to be expected - distance and physical separation from Cube #347 did not excuse him from his duties (bummer) - Second returned full focus to his immediate environment.
"There is a really nice echo over here," noted 313 of 510 excitedly. Hands were clapped together in demonstration, producing a sharp retort that repeated several times as it retreated into the aural distance. Pleased with the results, the sensory drone, who was released from her alcove so very little, clapped a second time, then a third.
"Stop touching me."
"I never did."
Silence.
"You touched me again!"
"That was my accident."
"You elbowed me. That was not an accident."
"Yes it was."
Silence.
"Touch me again and I'll..."
"I did not touch you. 95 of 310 touched you."
"Don't you dare drag me into this."
182 of 230 absolutely disliked anyone touching him. In addition to making routine drone maintenance check-ups a headache, he had a tendency to accuse anyone within theoretical arm distance of touching him. In this case it was likely that 67 of 310 /was/ performing the hated action, the drone well known for her minor (and annoying) practical jokes. 67 of 310 was also highly proficient in the art of keeping the intranet version of a straight face. The potential scapegoat, 95 of 310, whom 67 of 310 was trying to bring into the confrontation was well away of the bad combination the pair represented and wanted to have nothing to do with it.
Began 182 of 230 once more, "Stop..."
"Cease!" ordered Second aloud and internally. The bickering immediately halted, and most of the drones froze in place. The continuation of clapping indicated the single exception. {313 of 510,} warned Second. The final echo faded to nothingness.
The salvage team was critically panned. All were festooned with a bewildering array of tools and diagnostic devices - walking hardware stores. Weight for most drones had increased substantially. The thin-framed 313 of 510 was especially affected, neither the sensory drone nor Second excused from being designated as pack mules for the engineering contingent. Second personally thought the team had overpacked, but the effort to separate an engineer from a gadget with perceived usefulness was staggering. The line had been drawn at the full-sized autoclave oven, but he strongly suspected a minature version was attached to someone's equipment harness.
Second waved an arm in the direction of the main complex. "There is a task to perform, remember?" he rhetorically inquired. "Let us proceed."
An order of march was established with 313 of 510 leading, the sensory drone able to perceive the furthest in the almost complete darkness which was the roughly hewn hallway. With much rattling, clanking, and other (echoing) noises, the column started on its unquiet way.
Besides the fact that stealth was not an inherent Borg trait, anything living when the facility had been abandoned 167 years ago had long since turned to dust.
As the column made its way towards the initial power core goal, signs of past habitation began to appear. The floor of the main corridor, as well as that of the cross hallways, smoothed from the passage of feet and equipment. Old strip lights adorned the ceiling, most dark, but a few segments glowing faintly in testament to Borg durability (or at least the ability to adapt the best design) and the fact that the Hive had neglected to turn out the lights when it had left. Recycled air became fresher and dust less prevalent. The engineers observed all these signs and speculated among themselves of the likelihood of X device or Y machine to be in a salvageable condition.
The group was passing yet another side passage when 313 of 510 abruptly halted. {I see something,} she said, followed by, {Hey, watch where you are going!}
10 of 42, who had been trailing the sensory unit so close as to be practically stepping on her heels, complained, {Give some warning when you are going to stop.}
313 of 510 refused to respond to the provocation, instead intently staring into the cross-hallway. {There is definitely something down there.}
Second, at the rear of the column to prevent straggling, tapped into the lead drone's senses. He was rewarded by an infrared image of two heat blobs. Borrowed vision panned left to the remainder of the crossing corridor, seeing another four indistinct shapes, then returned to the original pair. The heat sources radiated a typical humanoid pattern, although they tended to be a bit more rotund than normal. There was also an odd patchiness of cool spots, as if worn items were obscuring body heat emanations.
A creaking rustle-shuffle echoed from the right corridor: the two shapes advanced.
{Was a lifesign scan conducted?} demanded Second of Cube #347 sensory hierarchy head as he pushed himself to the fore of the column.
{Why bother?} responded Sensors, a hint of defensiveness to her thought stream, accompanied by what could only be described as a hint of plaid. {Research Node #313 is [snow].} Pause. {Dead. No [tree leaves] to be expected.}
Grumbled Second, {Because, if you kept up with our real-time datastream, you'd see 'tree leaves' are coming right at us.} He reached the front of the group, the position required for liaison duties and the location most likely to be targeted should weapons be among the intruders of not-so-abandoned Research Node #313.
From the shadowed gloom of natural light conditions shuffled a large shape. Metallic glints along extremities and torso caught stray light from ceiling strips and reflected it. No hesitancy was present, despite the fact that these two (and the four in the other tunnel) faced eight Borg. "We are..." began an ominous voice that stopped after only two words. The head blob swiveled to look over its shoulder at the darker shadow behind. "What are we, Joel-One?"
The reply, slightly higher pitched, was deeply annoyed. "We are Boogers! Boogers, Natin-Five! This is the last time I let you lead. Last time, you hear? You are a moron."
The Natin-Five shape faced fully forward. After clearing its throat, words began once more: "We are Boogers-Natin-Five. You will be...ouch! Why'd you hit me on the head?"
Joel-One shoved Natin-Five sideways, the latter impacting against stone wall with a dull thump and crackle. One of the shiny pieces fell to the floor. Joel-One's voice was full of scorn, "Not 'Booger-Natin-Five'. Idiot. I show you how it is done." A great breath was inhaled, the better to fuel the booming words which issued forth. "We are Boogers. You will be assimil-a-ted. Your things, and other things, and some more things will be added to us. Resistance is fu...futi...useless." There was a pause, then a more normal tone of voice, "See how easy that was, Natin-Five? You are /so/ a moron."
So entranced all eight drones had been by this unexpected encounter - viewed either directly or through another individual's sensory stream - that the four heat signatures in the other corridor had been dismissed from relevance. Therefore, Second was not alone in his surprise as a something was clicked around his neck from behind. Whole hand automatically went to throat to remove the item.
Second came to on the ground. He was not alone. Internal diagnostics noted the discharge of a large amount of electricity. Adaptation was already underway to prevent blackout reoccurrence. Internal chronometer showed the passage of less than fifteen seconds.
"That is how you catch rogues, Natin-Five," said one dark shape to the other, hovering over Second's blurry field of view. A finger tentatively poked a limb still stiff from the jolting. "Hmm. Somebody found better armor than normal. Where the light thingy? Here the light thingy?" There was a quiet click.
Light strips blazed to life, unexpected brightness overwhelming optics set to low ambient light levels. It was worse for 313 of 510, who was still viewing the universe via infrared. Ignoring internalized complaints, Second forced his optics to adapt to normal light spectrum, then focused on the revealed shapes.
{Species #5521?} queried Captain from the far (and retreating) safety of Cube #347.
Second squinted. It was indeed species #5521, Pakled. The flabby jowled face, waxy epidermis, and grandly rotund nature were Pakled hallmarks, as was the less visible mental ineptitude. Only due to long ago misplaced pity had the Pakleds ever lifted from the surface of their planet, much less acquired faster-than-light drives. Since then, the major occupation of those members of the race that left homeplanet was to collect the discarded leavings of more advanced species, occasionally successful in bodging together a 'technical advancement,' when the explorer wasn't blown up, that is.
The two Pakleds were covered head to toe with 'armor' of aluminum foil pasted on cardboard. One of the pair, presumably Joel-One because he was holding the remote control which had turned on the lights, had a cooking pot for a helmet, a much greater technological advance over Natin-Five's paper-mache hat. Both also had hoses taped here and there, as well as a colorful array of blinking diodes glued to exposed skin. It was as if the two Pakleds (and the four others that could be seen by rousing drones) had dressed in very bad costumes parodying Borg.
Joel-One poked Second again. "You did good acting job. Get up. We go to regen-er-a-tion room, get some pudding, then you go to jail until Top Booger is ready to reassim...reassi...suck you back to be a good Booger instead of a rogue Booger. With so many, good Boogers will be more than rogue Boogers. Top Booger knows numbers better than me." The Pakled paused, the speech extraordinarily long, considering the originating species. Head tilted in speculation. "Do I know you? Are you Billi? Did you paint your face and find new eyes?" A finger was put in mouth, then used to scrape at Second's cheek. "No paint. Hmm. Oh, well. To the regen-er-a-tion room!"
With much poking and prodding, six Pakleds encouraged eight Borg to regain their feet. The engineering hardware which weighed all drones did not help the endevour. Finally a rough line was formed; and a rope made from bungee cords and thin steel cabling was looped around the waists of the captives, the loose end in Joel-One's hand.
Joel-One tugged on the rope. "Let's go!" He started walking, but was quickly brought to a jerking halt when none of the captives deemed to move.
Second, at the forefront of the line, narrowed his eyes as he stared at Joel-One's neck. The cardboard armor was not a hindrance; and the Pakled was well within lunge range. No, the problem was a root level directive, one of several burned into the brain of every drone upon initial processing, incorruptible and enforced even without vinculum or Greater Consciousness: species #5521 was not to be assimilated. In fact, Research Node #313 had played a key role in the final decision that species #5521 would detract from Perfection, that the faults of the race outweighed any benefits. Such was saying a lot, since the Collective could generally adapt anything - for example, species #6766 "Bugs" - to service Itself.
An arm twitched as the rope was pulled again. While assimilating the Pakled was not an option, there was no prohibition against termination. The salvage team did not mount weapons like tactical drones, but mere aluminum foil, cardboard, and flesh was no impediment. A decision was made among the eight, with concurrence from the rest of the sub-collective.
For the second time in less than ten minutes, Second returned to consciousness on his back. At least this time his optics were adapted for the light level.
{Ouch,} muttered Second to himself, a word echoed in various forms amid the rest of the drone group.
"That was silly!" brightly said the silhouette which was Joel-One. He bent over to assist Second to his feet. "Top Booger knows what is happening everywhere! He doesn't like resist...resis...people trying to do bad things. You did a bad thing."
"Very bad," solemnly echoed Natin-Five as the latter pulled at 10 of 42, next in line behind Second. Unfortunately for Natin-Five, 10 of 42 was very heavy, even without extraneous hardware adding to her weight, and the drone did not budge. That small issue did not stop Natin-Five from doggedly digging in his heels and heaving with all his strength.
The engineers, those whom had recovered sufficient awareness, were already analyzing the jolt which had overwhelmed systems. {This one was a slightly different frequency than the first,} announced 1 of 230. {Whatever the power source and capacitors in this neckwear, it is obviously tunable. It may be similar to the enforcement collars of species #151. We do not think the Pakleds developed the technology themselves.}
{Gee, whatever gave you that idea?} sarcastically asked Second as he waved off Joel-One and staggered to his feet unassisted. Luckily the cable connecting him to 10 of 42 had some slack because the latter remained a very heavy paperweight, only now rousing.
1 of 230 ignored Second's comment as he continued, {Unless we are contradicted, tunable means adaptations will take longer.} There was no disagreement from the assimilation hierarchy, which could either mean 1 of 230 was correct or that Assimilation had dragged his hierarchy down into a bout of unresponsive depression. {And my systems don't seem to be recovering as fast as they should,} added 1 of 230 as an aside.
Second examined his own diagnostics, which had automatically triggered following his return to consciousness, noting a slight degradation of performance. It was nothing major, but it was present. A general query for another, more expert opinion was dispatched to drone maintenance hierarchy. The response was swift.
{No worries,} assured Doctor. {You are all happy healthy! The zap was just biggy-wiggy. Recovery is within normal parameters. Just try to not get bapped again.}
The cheery analysis was accepted by Second with ill grace. {And if we aren't "bapped," then we can't adapt.}
There was the mental image of shrugged ears and the sound of clicking teeth. That dilemma wasn't Doctor's problem, he only offered advice from the drone maintenance point of view.
A sub-collective consensus cascade shivered to a conclusion. Vocalized Captain, {Go with the Pakleds. Do not resist unless integrity is threatened. At present velocity, the cube can fly by the Jove facility for an initial scan and return to Research Node #313 in 2.13 cycles. We will "rescue" you at that time, well before regenerative stasis sets in for any unit. Additional decisions on how to proceed can be made later.}
{Live target practice?} opinionated Weapons.
Captain ignored the weapons hierarchy head, focusing his intranet conversation thread on Second alone, {Now aren't you glad I made you go to bed?}
Second's response could not be adequately verbalized. He settled on an anatomically impossible image for any entity with bones, drawn from a vast library he had compiled.
{Are you aware your picture is barred on most worlds? Yes, of course you are.} Captain answered his own question. {Well, have fun. See you physically in 2.13 cycles.}
The entire exchange, from recovery to diagnostic to decision to banter, had required less than a minute. Throughout, the Pakleds remained ignorant, although they did seem relieved when drones began getting to their feet and not making a commotion. 10 of 42 was the last to regain an upright stance.
Joel-One retrieved his rope and once more gave it a tug. "Let's go!" This time there was capitulation as all eight drones hobbled forwards.
The train of Borg and Pakleds marched (or, rather, shuffled) deeper into the complex, the direction the salvage team had been traveling prior to their ambush. As they did so, signs of long-term habitation became more pronounced, from a lessening of dust to splashes of not-so-decorative paint on the walls. Walls hewn from lunar rock were exchanged for proper metal; and cross-hallways acquired doors. The occasional Pakled, always clothed in faux armor, paused its activity to gaze after the triumphant Joel-One leading his captives. Drifts of discarded garbage mounded in the corners.
"First stop," announced Joel-One as the corridor opened up into a large space, "the regen-er-a-tion room! You must eat before you go wait to see Top Booger. Rogues are always hungry."
Second panned the 'regen-er-a-tion room' as he entered. Once upon a time the space had been one of the many working areas within the Research Node, as evidenced by the remains of tracked gantries embedded in the ceiling fifteen meters above. Now, however, the space was a dining hall, tables - tops waist-high, no chairs - arranged in regimental order, upon which were the remains of the most recent meal. Several younger Pakled, dressed in only the most rudimentary of cardboard armor moved, moved among the tables, gathering up bowls and spoons. The booty was taken to a bulk disruptor slot and unceremoniously tossed within, where all was recycled back into replicator stores.
The workers slowed as they noticed the visitors.
"Tol-Twenty, Quith-Many! Go get four, and, um, four again puddings for these rogues. The rest of you, work more effic...better!" barked Joel-One. Two of the youngsters, presumably the named pair, immediately scurried to a replicator port on the wall opposite to the disruptor slot. The remaining five Pakleds increased their pace...for a few moments, anyway, until it became clear Joel-One wasn't paying attention to them anymore. Gawking returned to its former intensity.
Joel-One hustled the drones to the side of one of the long tables. By the time the Borg were lined up to the Pakled's satisfaction, Tol-Twenty and Quith-Many had returned, each holding a tray upon which bowls and silverware were present. Following a wave of hand by Joel-One, a 'meal' was quickly set in front of each drone.
"Eat!" encouraged Joel-One happily, accompanying his pronouncement with lip smacking.
Second glanced downward, then found himself caught in a morbid fascination difficult to shake.
Within the bowl was a gray substance, an almost subliminal oily sheen refracting overhead lights into a shimmering rainbow. In consistency it seemed to fall somewhere between Jello and thick oatmeal, able to hold its shape for a few seconds before slowly flowing to fill its container; and as Second watched, the spoon balanced on top of the supposed food was engulfed in a wet *gloop*. It looked like someone had sliced a hunk of flesh from a sick Changeling. It was hideous, yet one did not want to even blink, in case a detail was lost.
A heavy, brooding weight sat on the visual streams of the salvage team: Assimilation, interest caught by an entire new class of grays represented by the substance.
{I think mine moved,} noted 1 of 230.
Urged Joel-One again, "Eat! Regen-er-a-tive pudding yummy!"
With effort, Second looked up from the bowl and pushed it away. He was the command and control unit, and, therefore, it was his unfortunate responsibility to speak for all. "No."
The Pakled twitched, obviously unused to defiance. "You must regen-er-ate your selves. Pudding is good. Who knows when Top Booger have time in busy schedule to assim...assil...suck you back into Collective."
This Pakled, and by extension the rest of the individuals present, was delusional. How he had come to think of his unassimilated self as some sort of pseudo-Borg was unknown, but there was one fact Second was sure of: "We will not eat." Eight puking Borg would not be a pretty sight, should the Pakled insist on forcing them to consume the substance.
Joel-One's face screwed up in deep thought. His comrades expectantly watched for instruction, Natin-Five shuffling from one foot to the other in anxiety. In the background, the table cleaners, Tol-Twenty and Quith-Many returned to their ranks, paused in their duties to watch the show. Finally Joel-One opened his eyes and shook his head. "Then you be hungry and not regen-er-ate well. Come, you go to waiting place and wait for Top Booger to see you."
With a tug of the rope, the string of Borg were led away.
The 'waiting place,' known to the rest of the universe as a brig, was exceedingly primitive, yet highly effective. A tritanium box with bars along one side and a manual lock, there were no forcefields to defeat nor electronics to confuse. As the engineering drones had not packed in expectation of cutting what was essentially transplanted hull metal, the multitude of tools were useless. Unceremoniously pushed into one of the larger holding pens, the salvage team had a bucket pointed to as a waste receptacle, told more pudding was forthcoming if the wait was to be long, and finally abandoned. The brig had not been built by the resident Pakleds, but rather was left from Hive assimilation experiments: Borg, after all, knew the best way to hold other Borg.
The salvage team remained in the jail for two cycles. The only visitor was Joel-One, inevitably accompanied by two adolescents with trays, on a quest to get his prisoners to "Eat! Yummy!" In a perfect universe the problem would soon be a memory, Cube #347 mere hours from transporting the captives out of their situation. The universe, however, was not perfect, at least not where the imperfect sub-collective was involved.
Cube #347 was experiencing...technical difficulties. Everything up to and including the first orbit of the target gas giant had been according to plan and schedule. Unfortunately, at closest approach to the supply depot skimming just above the cloud tops, the station had demonstrated it was not entirely off-line. Perhaps reacting to the scan, perhaps executing its last command, regardless of the reason, the station had thrown out a docking beam and locked onto Cube #347. The tractor, designed and powered to handle fully loaded Lugger-classes, easily resisted the attempts of Cube #347 to pull away; and the station was unresponsive to transmitted demands to cease. Weapons were the next ploy to try; and while Weapons was eager to indiscriminately fire at the station, discussions were underway as to the best tactic to use to allow salvage of a mostly intact structure.
Normally the continued delay of 'rescue' for a day or two would not have been of concern. If anything, the cube's difficulties were enlivening an otherwise dull wait, the mysterious Top Booger not hurrying to meet with his/her/its Borg detainees. Regrettably, the salvage team was experiencing technical difficulties of its own.
Something - a strong suspicion rested on the collars - was affecting the efficiency of internal nanites. The 5' nanomachines which normally augmented body processes, repaired tissues, and served as a replacement immune system were functioning below accepted parameters. The small devices were central in maintaining balanced biological systems to allow a drone to function for an extended period of time, if necessary, without regenerating. The disruption to nanite efficiency meant that certain drones, specifically 10 of 42, who could normally function for a minimum of five cycles without regeneration were now nearing stasis shut-down; and the remainder of the team were not far behind.
Unfortunately for the salvage team, Cube #347's immediate problem ranked far higher than eight drones, even when one included the backup consensus monitor and facilitator. After all, the loss of eight units was minor in the larger picture; and the bodies, if there were no survivors, could always be salvaged for parts and organic matter. It was cold. It was cruel. It was Borg.
Footsteps. Six pairs. From his position standing against the back wall, one of the line of Borg, Second opened his eyes to track the unexpected visitors. Not only was the number higher than usual, but regenerative pudding had been delivered less than an hour earlier. The other drones present crowded onto his visual stream, Second watched Joel-One direct his gaggle of Boogers to assemble outside the bars before approaching the door.
"Rogue peoples!" called Joel-One cheerily. "The Top Booger has time to see you now!" Pause. "Could I have some of your neato armor? Just a leg?"
It was a question, or variation thereof, Joel-One asked every time. "No," said Second succinctly as he headed for the door. Behind, the other seven drones lurched into motion. A large space was left around 182 of 230 in a futile bid to prevent accusations of touching.
Second panned Joel-One's fidgeting escort as the Pakled fumbled among a key ring, hunting for the correct key. He blinked, then tilted his head sideways in communal contemplation. The extra Pakleds were wearing cardboard armor with pillows strapped underneath, making them look even bulkier than usual, and each carried something with an uncanny resemblance to a crossbow (covered in aluminum foil and blinking light-emitting diodes).
As the proper key was snicked into the lock, Second asked, "Why them?"
Joel-One sagely nodded. "Top Booger said that tac...tactic...weapon Boogers needed. We normally only get one or two rogues at most, not four and, um, four more. Top Booger said you might be dangerous." Round shoulders shrugged. "Don't know why. Collars hurt. Nobody fights collars."
With the brig door open, the salvage team was gestured into the corridor where the bungee-cable rope was wound around each drone. Taking the lead, Joel-One gave a tug and led the group towards its destination. The 'weapon Boogers' trailed behind, more a menace to each other than the Borg they were supposedly escorting, as bolt points accidentally poked comrades.
The trek through the research facility was short, less than five minutes, ending in a room of similar dimensions to the mess hall. This one was darker and piles of abandoned machinery created obstacles. The knee-high carbon dioxide fog which swirled ominously, outlining all light sources in an eerie halo, did not help in the navigation department neither.
Joel-One stopped in front of a box mounted on a turntable. "The Top Booger!" he announced grandiosely.
Second stared. Did these less-than-cerebrally-endowed Pakled worship a packing crate?
"Turn this unit around," grated a voice with overtones of metallic reverberation.
As Joel-One aranged his captives into a partial arc facing the box, two of the Pakled escort swiveled the turntable, bringing the voice's owner into view.
Nestled into the packing crate, held in place by duct tape and bungee cords, was a Borg. The drone was not of recent vintage, base species impossible to determine. Hoses were cracked, armor worn, and several mobile assemblies frozen due to lack of lubrication. Epidermis, which should have been gray, had a distinct yellow pallor. Second, himself logging more than 135 chronological years since assimilation, recognized a fellow long-timer, although this drone had not had the best of care. A large dent distinctly creased the left side of the drone's skull; and the optical implant covering the eyesocket of the same side had the dull glint of nonfunctionality.
"We are Top Booger," slurred the drone. Head tilted slightly; and Second, along with the rest of the team, felt the faint tickling of fractal subspace carrier waves. Hardware transceivers automatically rejected the foreign intrusion. "You are not Hive. Explain your intrusion. Comply."
Second stepped forward as much as the binding allowed. He ignored fumbling crossbows, the weapons of greater danger to their wielders than any potential target. "We are not Hive. We are Borg. We will be released. Proper regeneration facilities will be furnished to these units. You will be recycled, these species #5521 individuals terminated, and Research Node #313 salvaged. /You/ will comply."
A staring contest developed between Second and Top Booger. The latter drone had never been of the command and control hierarchy, armor and assembly configurations denoting an assimilative function. As the silence lengthened and two of the Boogers devolved into an increasingly aggressive elbowing contest, the right side of Top Booger's face began to twitch. Finally jaw dropped and a high pitched, wheezing cackle emerged: the drone was laughing. Or else experiencing breathing difficulties.
"Funny. We are many. You are eight in this place. No support vessel is in orbit." Joel-One gasped at the use of a number higher than four. "You also wear collars. You are of no threat to us."
Whatever mental or physical disabilities the Hive drone had, he demonstrated he had control over the collars. A faint trickle of electricity, more warning than hazard, lightly jolted each drone. Bodies stiffened. Second narrowed his eyes as he gazed upon Top Booger.
"This unit has been center of Research Node #313 for 167.23 years. We will maintain ourself and the experimental units until such time the Hive returns-"
"The Hive does not exist anymore," interjected Second. "It has reconverted to the Borg Collective."
"-and resumes research," blithely continued Top Booger, ignoring Second's words except to increase his volume. "Interruption in this core mandate will not be tolerated."
"Research what?" asked Second with not a small trace of sarcasm. Pakled dossier files were accessed and scrolled to a point outlining the establishment of the research facility. Two hundred Pakleds, sufficient to form a small colony, had 'volunteered' to participate in the experiments. Only the Pakled Defamation League had protested the action; and after a brief legal battle whereupon the Hive showed that a large-print disclaimer had been included with each "You may be a winner of a fabulous prize!" sweepstakes mailing, the League disbanded to rally around more intellectually cognizant species like the Loch Ness Monster and certain colonies of refrigerator mold. "It was conclusively determined over an experimental period of 53 years at this Research Node that species #5521 is unfit for incorporation into the Collective. Not only is biological or technological distinctiveness lacking, assimilation detracts from attainment of Perfection."
The elbowing contest ended as the Boogers stared at each other, fingers scratching cardboard and/or cooking pot encased heads in confusion. "Top Booger, what does he say?" inquired Joel-One.
Top Booger blinked, single eye fluttering. Breath wheezed audibly. "They are rogues. Rogues upset our harmony. They can do nothing: the collars disrupt the functioning of critical nanites, preventing transmission of assimilative elements as well as decreasing efficiency of organic system maintenance." The outline of collar effects was directed at the eight Borg, Boogers lost after 'harmony,' or, in one case, 'they.'
A disturbance was arising in the adjacent hallway, one punctuated by shuffling feet and cardboard pushing against cardboard. It was ignored by all parties in the room. Top Booger's limbs jerked once, the right arm continuing to twitch like a bad case of palsy. The next words were very slurred, "Joel-One. Take the rogues to...to..." An intense seizure shook the drone. Functional eye focused on Second. "Terminate us." With that simple sentence, Top Booger went into a full fit, ending with him slumped forward and held in his crate only by dint of bungee cord and duct tape restraints.
"Oh, poo," exclaimed Joel-One, neither dismayed nor surprised at Top Booger's convulsion. "Natin-Five, go push the reset button. Remember, it is the big /yellow/ button, not the red button with all the stuffs on it so that it is hard to push." This was said with the air of one who had, somehow, even with difficulty implied, mistaken the two. "Top Booger gets unhappy when the red button is pushed."
Before Natin-Five could comply, the commotion in the hallway entered the room in the form of six Pakleds heavily thumping as only Pakleds could. The foremost individual was dressed almost identically to Joel-One. "Is now a bad time?" asked the leader as he abruptly stopped, causing a five-body pile-up behind him.
"Rupert-One!"
"Joel-One!"
The two Pakleds ran at each other and crashed into a monstrous bear hug, each slapping the other on the back. It was apparent, even to those not well-versed in Pakled features, that not only were the two brothers, but they were identical twins. After a few moments of hitting each other, enough time for the pile-up to regain feet and initiate conversation with Joel-One's escorts, the pair backed away from each other.
"What you doing here?" asked Joel-One.
"A raid."
"A raid?"
"Yes," enthused Rupert-One, "a raid. I heard from Talo, who heard from Waith, who heard from someone, who heard from someone else that you had caught rogues. I tried to count my team, but I have troubles with big numbers, so I thought we'd all come here and rescue them anyway."
"So they /are/ your team."
Rupert-One blinked, then marched in front of Second and company, bestowing the drones with a long, somewhat near-sighted scrutiny. "Hmm. I don't know. They are rogues, and we have the only rogues, so they must be mine." A long perusal, then a hand was waved in Second's direction. "I do like the armor."
{If we back out of here, do you think they will notice?} asked 1 of 230.
Second's whole hand strayed to his collar, then dropped. Several cameras glinted in the corners - they had been espied upon entrance. A Borg, even one clearly dysfunctional like Top Booger, did not need eyes, or a functional body, to see. The slightest of warning tingles from the collar at Second's tentative exploration strongly suggested Top Booger wasn't as unconscious as he seemed. {We have to remove the damn collars. These Boogers are parodying Borg. Perhaps if we allow "rescue" by the "rogues," they will have a solution.}
The speculation of 'maybe' and 'perhaps' were applied to a very small consensus cascade among the eight-member salvage team. While a larger decision space was desired, the remainder of the sub-collective was experiencing a wee bit of difficulty at the moment: the tractor emitter in which Cube #347 was caught had been successfully destroyed...only to be replaced by two new tractor beams, each of which was trying to tug the cube in a slightly different direction to separate docking facilities.
Joel-One and Rupert-One were in deep conversation, discussing the merits of Second's armor. Second turned as much as the rope shackle would allow and addressed the twins, "Are we to be rescued or not?"
Conversation halted. Rupert-One thoughtfully rubbed his jowls. "I guess that's what we came here for, unless it is a bad time..." A significant nod was directed at the slumped Top Booger.
"No problem. Top Booger goes to sleep all the time. All need to do is push red,...er, no, /yellow/ reset button. I tell Natin-Five to do so." Since no Pakleds had left the room, only entered to join a steadily growing party, unless the button was in the immediate vicinity, no pushing had commenced. "Until Top Booger wakes up, why don't you take rogues and figure out if they belong to you. If they don't, you can always return them." Pause. "By the way, they don't like regen-er-a-tive pudding."
Rupert-One's eyes widened at the mention of the Borg's unfathomable dislike. "How odd," he commented before continuing on. "A good plan. You always smartest, Joel-One. We take rogues back to our base. See you later, Joel-One!"
"Later, Rupert-One!" Joel-One picked up the end of the cable rope and handed it to his twin. Face then crinkled in delayed realization that Natin-Five had never fulfilled button pushing duties. The Pakled moved off to confront the miscreant, salvage team already dismissed from importance.
Rope was tugged in a familiar manner. "Come on!" said Rupert-One happily before yelling for his raiding team to follow.
The rogue Booger base was of similar dimensions of the mess hall; and, in fact, the latter had to be traversed to enter the corridors leading to the former. Throughout the trek, the rogues scuttled as fugitively as rotund Pakleds in faux-armor leading eight Borg could be. In reciprocal fashion, the Boogers encountered along the way pretended not to see the raiding party nor their booty, although a few had obviously forgot the subterfuge and offered greetings. It was a surreal experience.
While the rogue base had begun existence as a workshop facility, its resemblance to the mess hall ended there. It served as living quarters for at least thirty-five Pakled, the exact number of which was impossible to determine, even for eight Borg with on-board visual replay capacity, with bodies ever coming and going. Such a large room should have been ample for thirty-five individuals, even those as space-filling as Pakleds, except any place not occupied by sleeping pallet, table, or other necessary item was filled with junk. Literally.
Piles of dross and debris, perhaps signifying 167 years of gathering anything not nailed down, filled every available niche. Knowing the Pakled pack-rat penchant, it was likely there was some order to the chaos, even if it was the 'shiny and angular pile' variety, but the cataloguing was not readily apparent. Ancient PADDS lay upon a heap of bubble wrap; and discarded welders shared space with a wide variety of electrical plugs. A glint caught Second's eye as he was led past one pile; and he deftly palmed a data crystal, not that any Pakled present noticed (or cared about) the acumen the backup consensus monitor performed the unBorg action.
Finally Rupert-One stopped at a part of the badly illuminated room that seemed no different than that already traversed, except it may have been slightly cleaner of junk. The rogue Booger leader ordered bindings to be removed. They were, the cable subsequently squirreled away, presumably to be added to one of the piles.
"Remove the collars," demanded Second. The rest of the salvage team moved into an outward-looking, circular formation, less for defense - these /were/ Pakleds - and more as a means to perform a 360 degree appraisal of the situation. 10 of 42 was decidedly slower than her comrades.
Rupert-One tilted his head sideways in unknowing mockery of the Borg gesture. Eyes grew wide. "Oh, no! I cannot do that! Only Top Booger can remove collars. But don't worry, collars can't shock here: this is the rogue place." Compared to his brother, this faux-Borg Pakled's voice was slightly deeper, slightly more clipped. Other than that, he looked exactly the same, down to the number of dents in his headgear.
Second stared at the Booger, at a temporary loss in how to proceed: shocking was low on the list of crises, with nanite issues much higher. There were several suitably sarcastic words he might employ, but as Rupert-One was unlikely to understand the context - which was most of the enjoyment in uttering them - that response was shelved.
{The appropriate term is "restraint collar",} unexpectedly offered Assimilation in typical monotone fashion, accompanied by a datastream of schematics.
Second blinked, then after determining the Pakleds approaching the encircled watchers were of low concern, he turned inward to focus on the conversation. Rupert-One was dismissed to the periphery of his consciousness. {Do tell,} dryly ordered the backup consensus monitor and facilitator.
The restraint collars, according to Assimilation, were specialized assimilative hardware used expressedly in situations such as Research Node #313 where there was need to control an unassimilated populace (via shocking) and assimilated individuals. Drones were generally micromanaged by the Greater Consciousness only in the period following assimilation until hardware neural transceivers were installed, or in situations where exacting finesse was required. Normally a task was assigned and drones allowed to perform autonomously, broadly similar to the non-attention an individual may pay to a specific cell or body function.
Pakleds, along with a handful of other cerebrally deficient species, were different. If not supervised at all times, species #5521 drones tended to assimilate opportunistically and without discrimination, drifted from assigned tasks, and generally exhibited an extremely short attention span. During Research Node #313's endeavor to conclusively confirm the shortcomings of Pakled drones - unsuitable as battle fodder (too slow, below average strength, and, frankly, not the imposing image the Collective wanted to project) or computational nodes (the less said, the better) - restraint collars had disallowed assimilation of the colony populace. The collars had also substantially reduced the efficiency of maintenance nanites so as to keep drones reliant upon regenerative alcoves. If the research facility had been located on a living biosphere instead of an airless moon, the latter function limited the assimilation damage of an accidentally escaped drone before it went into stasis and was either retrieved or died due to lack of regenerative support.
{That's very informative, Assimilation, and I won't even ask why this data wasn't relayed when we were first captured,} said Second. {The much more important question in /our/ minds is how to /remove/ the collars.}
Assimilation gave a long sigh, one which seemed to fill the void between Research node and tractored cube. {The collars are welded into a whole unit by a molecular bond. Once activated, a radio frequency harmonic key is required for release.}
Second opened his eyes and glanced towards the rest of the salvage team. Their initial Pakled captors had never confiscated the equipment which draped each drone; and it was to these obviously removable items about twenty Pakled had gravitated. The Boogers were being held at bay by a combination of slaps, "Don't touch that", and the fact that girth disallowed the mob from becoming an overwhelming dog pile. 182 of 230 was particularly virulent in his effort to not be handled.
{We have plasma cutters,} noted 61 of 240 as she warded a questing hand from a spanner. {Why not just burn the collars?}
Assimilation hummed, then projected the impression of a dismissive shrug. {Why not? Your flesh will cut much more easily than the collar. Unfortunately, while it would be very easy to remove the collar from a neck stump, I do not believe drone maintenance can remedy decapitation among the species represented on the salvage team. If you want to try, however, I suppose it is an option.}
{No, no, no, no,} interrupted Doctor abruptly, the click of incisors accompanying his protest. {No decapitations! You will break yourselves, perfectly happy and functional, and will not be able to be put back together.} There was a pause, then the drone maintenance hierarchy head helpfully added, {10 of 42 will enter stasis lock in eleven to twelve hours, depending upon bark-and-run level. Other puppies will go to sleep over the next 35.2 hours until all slumbering. Unknown if we will return to grab you back to the kennel before you go to the big doggy bone in the sky.}
Second accessed a datastream of current cube status. Weapons had managed to temporarily slip his restraint, authorizing a largely unaimed volley of quantum torpedoes to be sent towards the processing facility. Unfortunately, not only had the majority of the dozen torpedoes either outright missed the target or disintegrated upon low-level rock-debris shields, the one that had impacted had affected altitude control. While the facility would eventually repair itself and boost back to its set orbit, the question was if Cube #347 would be dragged down to implosion depths - the purpose-built facility could survive much deeper atmospheric immersion than an Exploratory-class cube.
{Cutting won't work,} acceded Second, much to the disappointment of 61 of 240 and her engineering desire to use any tool in a semi-plausible manner, {so how /do/ we remove the collars.}
Assimilation repeated, {A radio frequency harmonic key is required.}
{Describe. Can it be built? There are six engineering units here, not to mention all the tools, after all.}
The engineering drones focused their full attention in anticipation of a Project. Expectations were swiftly dashed as Assimilation responded with depressive pessimism, {Even if it could be built outside of a fully equipped workshop, the device would have to project just one of several billion unique keys. The collars are programmable.} An inventory list was scrolled, three items highlighted. {There are units in storage, although not installed. I suppose we could haul one out of storage and prepare a list of standard default harmonics so that the collars can be removed from your corpses.}
Second frowned slightly, {Or our heads could be removed during the implant salvage process before organic parts are recycled by replicator reclamation. You are a fount of useless help.}
{Maybe you could remove the hardware from the Top Booger drone?} dully said Assimilation. {It is would be installed as a sub-assembly, likely within a limb, as the species #5521 individual did say that the drone can remove collars. All relevant keys to disengage the collars will be coded into the sub-assembly, thus allowing any drone to use it.}
Second sucked in his breath in preparation to mutter something scathingly unBorg, then let it out slowly, oath unvoiced. Fully reintegrating body and consciousness, Second scanned his immediate surroundings, looking for Rupert-One. The Pakled had not wandered far, and was in fact trying to hold his left arm next to the drone's reciprocal limb. The Booger's eyes were squinted in contemplation and in one hand he held a measuring tape. It was not too difficult to determine the Pakled's obsession.
"The armor belongs to this unit," sharply rebuked Second. Rupert-One jumped back, startled at the outburst, jowls waggling. Before any protest could be raised, the backup consensus monitor and facilitator continued, "We need to go to Top Booger."
Rupert-One tried to hide the tape measure behind his back. However, he was not entirely successful as a trailing length of it wrapped quite obviously around one foot. "On, no! That not right. Top Booger not seen by rogues except for three" - two fingers were held up - "reasons. First, maybe there is a raid and we stop by to say 'Hi'. Two, a rogue is caught and goes to Top Booger for re-assim-im-er-a-tion-ism. Two, and last, when the Change is to happen."
"Explain 'Change'," demanded Second, noting the verbal capitalization.
Rupert-One squinted at Second, as if questioning the /drone's/ intelligence. "What sort of rogue be you? Are you moron? Change is when new teams are made. Rogues can't be rogues ever and ever. Regen-er-a-tive pudding supplies run out; and rogues not allowed little Boogers. At Change all become one Booger group again. All rogues go to Top Booger, he say we all re-assim-er-a-ted, and then new teams are picked."
The wheels were turning in the collective heads of the salvage team. "When will Change happen?"
Rupert-One turned slightly and pointed towards a double high stack of barrels arrayed against a wall barely perceived in the low ambient light, "When barrels empty of regen-er-a-tive pudding."
Second locked gazes with those drones of the salvage team circle who were facing his direction. As one, all members removed cutting implements from their or a neighbor's harness. Ignoring the press of Pakleds, the seven began to make their way towards the barrels. Second turned his attention back to Rupert-One, "I believe there is about to be a catastrophic accident which will force you to advance your Change schedule."
The leader of the rogue Boogers looked upon Second in confusion, and perhaps a touch of awe, as he tried to digest the meaning of the polysyllable words.
"Yellow button!" shouted Joel-One loudly. "Yellow button, Natin-Five, you moron! Not the green button, not the red button, and not the blue button! Yellow button only!" The volume was necessary to be heard over the collective roar of conversation which arose from the overfull workshop that held Top Booger's crate.
Following the destruction of the pudding barrels, forty-seven rogue Boogers, eight Borg drones amongst them, had ambled through the Research Node hallways on the way to see Top Booger to request a Change. The trek had turned into an impromptu parade, many of the Pakled residents hastily tightening the strings which held their cardboard armor as they were swept up in the rogue's wake. At the destination, however, it had been discovered that the Top Booger had yet to be reawakened from his earlier fit. With all the rogues and a goodly number of other Boogers literally filling, and overfilling, the workshop, it was amazing that buttons could be found at all, much less pressed.
Finally there was a honking bleat, followed by a muffled whoop. "Yellow button pushed, Joel-One!" yelled Natin-Five's voice.
"About time," muttered Joel-One and Rupert-One simultaneously.
In the crate, there was movement. With a shudder of limbs and an audible creak, Top Booger straightened from his slump. He stared at an empty spot approximately one meter in front of himself, remaining eye glassy in a manner which indicated internal diagnostics being run. After a few awkward minutes in which Booger conversation largely transformed into a respectful, almost worshipful silence, the drone blinked, focus shifting to a world beyond the confines of his own body.
"Report what is occurring here. Comply," demanded Top Booger in his raspy voice.
Poked by Joel-One, Rupert-One waddled forward into the cleared space before Top Booger's crate. He was flanked on one side by Second and the other by 61 of 240, the most physically imposing of the engineering complement. "It is time to Change, Top Booger. There was a slight problem with the pudding and it is all gone now."
Top Booger inclined his head to look at Rupert-One, ignoring the Pakled's escort. "Another accident? What happened /this/ time?" As the question was asked, the functional eye rolled to stare at Second, as if to say the answer was already known, or at least strongly suspected.
Before Rupert-One could reply, Second held up a hand. Between two fingers was pinched a data crystal. "Did you know," began Second without preamble, "a unit designated 76 of 8931 was catalogued 'imminent termination, salvage costs outweigh potential benefits' 167.23 years ago? The last 3.2 hours of Research Node #313 are logged on this crystal. During the abandonment process when high-value equipment was being removed, there was an explosion. Five Hive drones terminated due to excessive damage; and a sixth, still living, discarded. 'Severe cranial and neurological trauma and general damage to right side of body' is the summary, linked to a graphical assessment. That description fits you, Top Booger...76 of 8931." The final sentence was phrased as a question, but the flat tone turned it into statement.
With the use of his designation, the demeanor of 76 of 8931 altered. Shoulders straightened and a constant tic puling the left corner of mouth slowed. A certain glint to the eye, perhaps that special madness which descends upon a drone severed overlong from the Greater Consciousness, decreased in intensity, although never fully retreated. "We are...76 of 8931. We are alone. There are no voices."
The Booger audience, except for one lone voice in the hallway complaining that she could not see, was completely silent.
Second gestured at his neck. The whine of muscle servos was loud. "We are Borg. Remove the restraint collars. You will comply."
"Species #5521 did not suit," slurred 76 of 8931 aloud, as much to himself as to his audience. "Their voices were never in harmony. Consensus ended the research, silenced the dissonance, set Collective root level blocks to prevent reintroduction. We assisted. We did what we were told. We were uplifted into the One, and we died.
"Then we lived, but is was a singular voice within the confines of a small being. The subject species #5521 were left to self-terminate: the cost to return them to the species point of origin was minor, but after 53 years and three generations, there was a prevalence of neurological aberrations. The subjects believed themselves to be Hive, despite evidence to the contrary, further demonstrating cerebral inadequacy. It was determined best to mothball them with the Research Node #313 facility."
The cold, analytical verbalization of the Hive's reasoning did not shock Second, the salvage team, the distant sub-collective. Such was the way of Borg, be it Hive, Collective, or Color. The Boogers simply did not understand; and more than a few elbowing contests were breaking out in the increasingly restless, bored crowd.
Continued 76 of 8931, "We wake. Species #5521 scored low on the innovation index, but they do have a moderate capacity to adapt. We are hooked to a makeshift alcove. We will survive. We will endure. We will maintain this facility and its experimental subjects for the Hive. We teach the subjects how to maintain themselves and environs. The Hive will not abandon us. We are disallowed to assimilate species #5521, and therefore we will not have voices, but when the Hive returns, there will be many once more."
Second stared up at the delusional drone. The data crystal was gone, replaced into a carrying compartment. "News flash," said Second, uncaring of how nonBorg he sounded. Who would the Boogers tell? "You were declared deceased. The Hive isn't returning; and, neither, in that vein, is the Borg. It may be another 167.23 years until /anything/ comes through this out-of-the-way system again."
For the first time, 76 of 8931 seemed to recognize Second not as Booger, but as another cybernetic being, perhaps related to him. A fractal subspace carrier wave, the same one noted upon the initial interaction with the drone, tickled hardware transceivers, and was again summarily rejected. "Terminate us. Upon this unit's death, the restraint collars will disengage. First, though, let us hear the voices." 76 of 8931's left arm reached forward in an abortive motion, halted by bungee cords.
Rupert-One had backed away from his exposed location during the conversation to stand beside his brother. "What does 'ter-min-ate' mean?" he asked of his twin in an overloud whisper.
Second gave a mental shrug as he stepped up to the turntable platform. It was a single drone. It was obviously insane, but such was pretty much true of the entire sub-collective. Linking 76 of 8931 into the sub-collective for a few seconds before his termination was an acceptable compromise to release the collars, and supplementary facility data might be downloaded from the unit at the same time. Besides, no drone should die alone, as a small being. Directly in front of the crate and level with 76 of 8931, Second reached for the other drone's neck.
"Hey, I found a red button!" excitedly called Natin-Five's voice. "It was under a bunch of stuffs. I'm pushing it now!"
"Not the red button!" chorused Joel-One and Rupert-One in alarm.
A muted *click* echoed in the suddenly silent workshop. 76 of 8931's bearing immediately changed, the insane glint of Top Booger taking preeminence in the drone's single eye. "76 of 8931 is gone. Only Top Booger remains. We will endure," he snarled to Second's face, tic pulling left corner of mouth into a rictus.
Second hesitated. It was his, and the salvage team's, undoing.
"The intruders are not Boogers!" slurred Top Booger loudly. "The intruders are rogue rogues, very bad, and need to be killed. Now. It is for the good of all. Comply!"
Joel-One and Rupert-One looked at each other, smiles lighting their faces. An expectant gleam flashed in their eyes. "Fun!" they called in excitement. "Kill the rogue rogues!"
The small sea of quiet Pakled transformed into storm-tossed chaos.
The seven drones on the floor formed a tight arc, backing against the platform and keeping a small space open. They were pressed by heavy Pakled bodies, although there was no organization behind the mob. Non-rogue and rogue Boogers were side-by-side as they tried to comply with Top Booger's orders. It was only a matter of time before sheer weight broke the engineering cordon; and the tickle of electricity, as well as the oppressive body-weariness which indicated collar-induced failure of nanites, suggested all would be resolved even before Boogers could properly organize.
"I/we don't think so," stated Second. He grabbed the side of Top Booger's head and wrenched it sideways, much further than the typical humanoid neck was designed to go. There was a dull snap. Immediately Top Booger slumped on limbs which could no longer support him. "We...we hear voices," cryptically sighed 76 of 8931 as a final breath escaped his lips. His single eye dulled, closed.
Collars fell from necks, hitting the ground with a clatter.
"Hey! That one made Top Booger go to sleep again!" shouted Joel-One, unaware that their leader had traveled well beyond the point where button pushing could awaken him. "Bad rogue rogues!"
A sharp pain, quickly quenched by nerve blockers, struck Second's left buttock. He looked over his shoulder and saw a short length of metal embedded in the relevant piece of anatomy. Just beyond the arc of engineering drones, Joel-One waved one of the homemade crossbows, several additionally bolts racked along the stock. Weapons of a brutal sort - clubs, spears - were appearing in Pakled hands, a diverse variety united in the fact that by their primitive nature they were able to damage Borg, especially in the salvage team's collar-weakened state.
{Retreat,} ordered Second. There was no objection.
Cube #347 limped into orbit around Research Node #313's moon five days following the salvage team's escape, retrieving its drones.
The sheer disorganization of the Pakled mob had allowed the drones to escape back to the rogue base, where, for whatever obscure Booger reason, the pursuers had not followed. Once there, three old alcoves, hidden under pack-rat piles of junk, had been recovered and jury-rigged into sufficient functionality to sustain the salvage team. Regeneration was completed in shifts, those not in alcoves expending as little energy as possible in order to avoid taxing abused nanite-maintained systems. What had happening in the rest of the complex following Top Booger's termination was been a mystery, but from the new armor glimpsed on either Joel-One or Rupert-One (exact individual was unknown) when he had peeked into the Borg refuge, it was obvious the Boogers were displaying a credible Borg-like lack of grief as they salvaged anything useful.
Meanwhile, the Jove facility had finally let Cube #347 go. All that had been required was to allow tractors to berth the cube, after which the facility had not cared at the speed the vessel had subsequently undocked in order to avoid implosion. Fast forward, after recovering its wayward salvage team, Cube #347 had returned to the gas giant. It now waited in a distant orbit for the platform to finish boosting itself into an accessible orbit.
In addition to detailing the final hours of Research Node #313, the data crystal Second had acquired held a final inventory of the facility. Vinculum had been among the high-value equipment removed, indicating the Hive had not been planning to return anytime soon following abandonment; and of the items left behind, most had, in some way, been used and/or abused by the Pakled colony. In other words, the Research Node held little desirable salvage. The mining and processing support facility on the other hand...
"That color isn't you," critiqued Captain as he craned his neck to look at Second's backside. As the other drone turned to obscure the view, Captain switched to one of the nodal cameras.
"Someone - whom I shall learn the designation of - painted many armor replacements magenta," protested Second, "and that included all the butt plates. It will be fixed as soon as possible, but it also isn't exactly on the top of the drone maintenance priorities list right now."
"Uh-hum," noncommittally voiced Captain as he returned to staring at a holographic window depicting the complexities of orbital mechanics and the remaining estimated time for the platform to complete its boost.
Second glared. Into an open hand materialized a spray can of black paint. "Then I will perform a temporary fix myself, followed by regeneration. And next time I volunteer for something, register me with drone maintenance, because obviously I need a neural readjustment."
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