The big Paramount dog barks Star Trek. The Decker mutt howls Star Traks. The Meneks lapdog annoyingly yelps BorgSpace while biting ankles.
Silence of the Dogs, Part II
In Part I:
No Cube #347! What a gyp! Instead of action in the form of the BorgSpace series' imperfect sub-collective, there was plot and set-up. Second Federation Black Ops made an appearance, as did Peach Borg, and an organization called the Taurini mob. Admittedly, the fact that Luplup is now a mob boss was interesting, as was the introduction of Lup, a rogue self escaped from the Luplup whole. However, intrigue is not enough! Cube #347's presence is demanded!
*****
Ali blinked as the scene reformed. Gone was the dry air and well-lit confines of Detention's closed-level cellblock, replaced by heat, humidity, and, well, an ominous ambience. There was a sense of openness and echoing sound that can only be conveyed by outdoor arenas or very large rooms. That was the sum total of first impressions, for even as Ali's hindbrain was cataloguing the gross differences between 'there' and 'here', the thinking part of her was noticing in alarm that Lup was no longer safely caged behind forcefield, Plexiglas, and metal.
Lup, however, did not seem willing to take advantage of her unexpected freedom. The vyst had crouched down upon her four walking legs until belly nearly brushed the floor; and from her mouth came an untranslatable hissing of much greater volume and ferocity than that ever evoked when confronted by a Peach liaison drone. Eyes were open wide. Unlike past performances - and, Ali knew, performances they were - timbre and posture revealed actual fear.
"Not good," calmly commented Liaison's slightly reverberant voice from behind the xenopsychologist.
Ali turned her head to see what, exactly, 'not good' entailed.
The trio, plus several additional detainees of Detention's high security wing, were scattered within a twenty meter area that roughly aligned to their prior positions within the cellblock. Where that twenty meter area was now located was unimportant, for Borg drones of a heavily armored nature formed a loose perimeter, arms aimed inwards. Ali did not see any immediate clues as to identity of the controlling Mind, but a small voice inside her did not think any Color to be the culprit. Eyes (and ocular implants) stared at the prisoners, seeing everything.
One of the captives, a long-time Detention inmate by the name of Hue't, abruptly made a break for what seemed to be a weak spot in the perimeter. Hue't's race were stupendous sprinters, able to accelerate to high speed in a matter of two or three strides. The weak spot, as represented by a drone half the height of its compatriots, did not flinch as three disruptors struck the escapee, negating his existence less than fifty centimeters in front of its nose. Hue't would never again be considering scams to bring havoc to major financial institutions. Arms which had shifted to terminate Hue't returned to their previous aim.
Most of those arms, noted Ali in a detached manner, were pointed at Lup or Liaison. Her position between the two was not entirely enviable.
Lup continued her impression of a steam boiler about to explode.
"What is going on?" hissed Ali towards Liaison as the silent drones did nothing except stand with motionless menace, a waiting game stretching for one minute, two minutes, and longer. The remaining ex-detainees, quite intelligent, especially after witnessing the fate of Hue't, seemed to be emulating the Borg.
Liaison's voice replied, "I...do not know. We have left Detention, probably at hypertranswarp speeds: my link with my Greater Consciousness has been severed due to distance." Pause. "Something happens. Perhaps we are shortly to learn of our fate."
Ali noted the switch of the Peach drone's tense from singular to a rather disturbing collective 'we' that included Ali within the grouping. She also noticed that there was no mention of a 'why' or 'how' in the words, only a fatalistic inevitability as to what was to occur.
Two of the ringing drones near Ali, Liaison, and Lup sidestepped, making a hole. Lup spun to face this new potential threat. The sound of a transporter beam was audible, even through the vyst's unending hiss. Into the space materialized a new drone, heavily cybernized on its left side. It was less bulky, lacked an arm-mounted weapon, and was no taller than either of its neighbors, yet it radiated a sense of authority which made it larger, more important than any other drone present. A single blue eye panned across the trio in front of it, the prisoners at the other end of the enclosure already dismissed from relevancy.
"You may refer to this drone as 4 of 8, subdesignation Captain," intoned the blue-eyed drone. "And I bet you are wondering why we have brought you all here today."
"You may refer to this drone as 4 of 8, subdesignation Captain. And I bet you are all wondering why we have brought you all here today," said Captain to the three captives before him, using a deliberate mixture of singular and plural. The remaining prisoners were unfortunate victims of a transporter grab completed under less-than-optimal conditions. It was these three who were the true prizes.
The vyst was similar to all other vyst selves Captain had had the misfortune to encounter over the years, a variation upon a theme modified by purposeful self-evolution through genetic manipulation. Four walking legs connected together by a complicated hip girdle gave the reptiloid form a quadruped stance, heavy tail counterbalancing torso, neck, and head. Four arms were divided into the hands-major and hands-minor, the former heavily muscled and tipped with long talons, perfect for ripping, and the latter a dexterous hand. The presence of assimilative elements grayed skin and scales, washing out what in the natural vyst was a boldly striped camouflage of black, brown, and dark green. Eyes with too much intelligence looked out upon the world from under an obscenely bulged skull. The queen Selves had grown larger over the centuries, this particular specimen a finger under one meter at the shoulders and able to lift her head to 140 centimeters. While none of the limbs had undergone total replacement, nonetheless the signs of surgery were observable, ranging from talons replaced with tritanium to targeting laser to suspicious subepidermal bulges hinting of internal implants.
Standing equidistant between the twin threats of vyst and Colored drone was a human female. At first glance she seemed out of place, a thirty-something woman with brownish-blonde hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. She wore no jewelry, except a silver ring; and no makeup was in evidence. Her plainness went as far as the unassuming uniform she wore, mostly black with a touch of blue about the cuffs and neck, no emblem of rank present. It was the woman's eyes, however, which gave her away, a certain hardness which looked out upon the universe with more than a touch of wary skepticism. The eyes belonged to a person who was among the 'need to know' when a certain class of cliches were spoken.
The final number of the trio was a Peach drone. The base species was #7753, potentially difficult for a nonBorg to discern, but assimilation hierarchy had no problem virtually removing exterior prosthetics and armor to determine what lay beneath. Outwardly unremarkable, the drone looked like all other drones to the uninitiated eye, although sensors embedded in the bulk cargo hold and mounted on tactical units reported the Peach to have the expected espionage suite. The exact nature of the implants, and if weaponry was among them, was impossible to conclusively resolve without actually dissecting the drone. Such would probably be safest as he wasn't strictly required, unlike vyst and human, but Captain, the sub-collective, was uncharacteristically loath to discard the Peach. Captain mentally shook his head as concerns were dismissed: there were other matters to attend.
The human, with lack of patience typical for the species, was the first to speak. She ignored Captain's rhetorical question. "I am-"
"We know who you are," interrupted Captain, raising his voice to be heard over the vyst's hissing. At the other end of the secured area, assimilation hierarchy drones were arriving, pushing their way through the tactical cordon. "You are Ali Trumenson, rank commander, Black Ops branch of Second Federation Starfleet. You are a xenopsychologist specializing in non-humanoids and non-carbon-based lifeforms. Your current primary assignment is the abomination designated Lup, a self severed from Luplup. Your favorite drink is the hurricane, easy on the dark rum. While you publicly enjoy listening to Bolian water pipe sonatas, your secret passion runs to rude Klingon drinking songs. Shall I continue? Our file on you is extensive."
With each increasingly personal fact revealed, Ali's eyes widened. "How do you know all that about me?" she sputtered.
Captain shrugged slightly. "It is available if you know where to look. The rumor.news.net bulletin board is an excellent source of information...once all the garbage and conspiracy theories are removed."
"Captain, whom I presume is the consensus monitor and facilitator for this rather unique sub-collective, is quite correct. Say, did you find the one about-" began Liaison.
"Shut up," snapped Ali. She was just out of arm's reach, else an ill-advised punch to armored shoulder might have occurred, if the slight tightening of her right fist was any indication. "I can hear you snickering."
"Borg do not snicker."
"Don't give me those cliches. You are snickering, even if you are not doing so out loud."
Lup continued her hiss, as if she had an unending supply of air. Captain decided he had had enough of that particular noise. He abruptly shifted his attention to the vyst. To his left and right, tactical units altered their aim so Lup was the primary target. "Vyst, you will be silent."
Reptilian head twisted to scrutinize the increased level of threat. The assessment ended with eyes on Captain. "Yous plan to kills me anyway...that is whats I would do to this I. No comply." The words were woven into Lup's hiss, voder cutting through the static.
"Unfortunately, termination is not a viable option, at least not at this time," muttered Captain distastefully. He ignored the ripple of puzzlement which swiftly crossed, and was erased from, the Peach drone's face. {7 of 212, scenario 2a is in effect. Remember, use the tranquilizer gun, not a disruptor.}
The weapons drone who had been selected in the event of scenario 2a - probability had verged upon certainty the given what-if series would occur - materialized just outside the cordon, to Lup's left flank. For a moment it seemed as if Weapons' background urgings would win, but after what an observer would only see as a beat of hesitation, the bulky rifle the unit held in her left hand was raised. With stock set against shoulder and overlarge muzzle aimed, 7 of 212 sighted down the bore with the concentration of her former assassination profession. The hard puff of compressed air went unheard except by the drones nearest the rifle.
A feathered dart stuck into Lup's side, just forward of the light armoring which did not quite cover the complex hip girdle.
{Perfect,} commented 7 of 212 with satisfaction as she loaded another tranquilizer into the gun from the attached magazine.
Hissing abruptly halted as head swung sideways at deceptive speed. Jaws snapped on the dart, ripping the offending item out of flesh. However, before further defiance could occur, another dart impacted, this one on exposed neck. A third sprouted at the juncture of tail to body; and a fourth burrowed into a minute opening on the vyst's torso just behind the armpit. Lup turned her head to look at the source of the projectiles, then recentered herself upon Captain. Only a single wobbling step forward was taken before eyes sagged shut. Lup crashed muzzle-first to the deck plates.
{Poor puppy,} commented Doctor in the background. He immediately shut up as a large majority of the sub-collective focused upon the ex-vet, the ultimate reason /why/ Luplup had plagued Cube #347, with a special fixation upon its consensus monitor and facilitator, for over five hundred subjective years. {Um...recall we are unsure how long the soporific formulation will last. I suggest haste?}
{Secure the vyst, then transport her to the prepared supply closet,} ordered Captain. Six drones, those nearest 7 of 212, lowered their disruptor arms, a variety of ropes and bungee cords materializing into waiting hands. As aim from the remaining units shifted to favor Ali and the Peach, those half dozen set to trussing the sleeping vyst such that no movement would be possible beyond a twitching tail-tip in the event of an unforeseen awakening.
"Thank you," said the Peach with what Captain recognized as faux politeness, "that noise was grating against my aural receptors. So, are we to be tranquilized and tied up next?"
Captain stared at the drone. The Peach was potentially the most dangerous thing in the bulk cargo hold, even greater than the vyst, which had been grabbed from the detention facility. "State your designation and function."
"I am disappointed your undoubtedly thorough research on rumor.news.net did not mention me, but I am also unsurprised. This drone's designation is 8 of 12; and as I am currently assigned as a liaison to Starfleet Black Ops, and specifically the Lup Project, an acceptable subdesignation is Liaison."
"Neither of you will be tranquillized or trussed, unless you do not comply with orders," said Captain. "If resistance is offered, appropriate measures will be taken." The exact nature of the 'measures' was left unsaid, a large menu of responses prepared by Weapons, from harsh language to actions which required the recipient to undergo major reconstructive surgery before anything resembling functionality was restored. The hog-tied Lup vanished in a transporter beam. Tactical units closed in upon the duo. "You will be walking to the prepared detention facility. Given the unknowns associated with 8 of 12's implanted hardware, we do not trust transporters." Captain paused. "Also, although our plans have now altered to include 8 of 12, we did not initially anticipate acquiring a Peach drone. Modifications to the detention facility are being made now. You two will be kept together, it a less efficient use of sub-collective resources than if you were housed separately."
Not to mention trying to find /three/ suitable supply closets adjacent each other would be a headache. Two was difficult enough. All potential candidates were either full of supplies, uncomfortably close to critical facilities such as an auxiliary core, or sported low-priority maintenance issues that would have to be addressed before conversion for use.
"Will you comply?"
"Do we have a choice?" asked Ali rhetorically. The xenopsychologist had been relatively quiet until now. Assimilation hierarchy suggested the human to be recovering from her traumatic change in circumstances.
"There are always choices. Some are better than others."
The Peach drone snorted at the response as he otherwise impassively watched the advancing weapons units. "All the alternate 'choices' currently open to me, as such I can calculate considering my single-node status, are abysmal. A simple 'no' would have sufficed."
Captain did not respond. {Take them to their new quarters. Attach a transceiver jammer to that Peach drone. Ignore all questions and demands from the human; and watch Lup to make sure she does not cause too much damage to her supply closet after she rouses. Second: ensure Weapons and his hierarchy refrain from accidentally disrupting any of our guests, either on purpose or accidentally. I will deal with all three after regeneration.} The orders were less orders and more verbalization of the existing stream of sub-collective consciousness. Captain locked a transporter on himself in preparation to return to his alcove.
Ali stiffened as the first weapons drone prodded her shoulder with a disruptor arm in a wordless gesture to indicate which direction to exit the cargo hold. "What is going to happen to them?" she asked, hand waving to where the other detainees had been herded into a tight knot. Whereas the three Colored ex-drones had the staring unsight of descending catatonia, the remaining ten high-order -paths were voicing their complaints.
A temporary suspension was sent to the transporter, followed by a query to Assimilation concerning the matter. Captain had not been part of the relevant consensus cascade, except in a very peripheral way as sub-collective coordinator. The answer was received. "The unassimilated subjects will be processed and tested for suitability to be added to the Whole. Given their implied sociological histories considering where they were detained in a criminal psychiatric facility, it is unlikely any will be acceptable. However, it will give assimilation hierarchy something to do. The three Colored ex-drones are to be euthanized and recycled."
The human was clearly taken aback at the coldly clinical how-it-will-be response. "That's...that's...that's cruel, even for the likes of them! Inhumane!" Although rumors.news.net, and other sources, indicated Borg and Colors to be one of Ali's study interests, it was apparent she had never been directly exposed to the reality of any of the Collectives.
"We are not human. We are Borg," stated Captain. The transporter was unpaused. As he dematerialized, Captain heard the gruff command from one of the weapons drones demanding complete compliance, or else.
*****
"Yous will provide a unit to fix the squeak that happens when one of these selves walks over this part of floor," said the Luplup integrator, type III, her oddly deformed head held unnaturally steady as she focused upon the recipient of her orders. Compared to other vysts selves, the integrators seemed misshapen, limbs undersized and elongated bodies bloated with internalized technologies meant to link self with self. Integrators were also not especially intelligent, their normal duties consisting of sitting in one place to act as a living subspace booster/hub; and for this one to be sufficiently motivated to provide recognizable directives meant that it was being puppeted from afar by a higher order Luplup unit.
Joseph Li, captain of the Taurini mob ship Pretty Lady, frowned. He did not like having these vyst /things/ on his ship, but they - an integrator, a worker, and a tactical - had been installed when he had stopped at the rendezvous to pick up his cargo in the form of the Bajoran Valren Rei. The unlucky mob representative had been the most recent messenger sent to Luplup for a demanded face-to-muzzle conversation with the vyst Queen. Rei, standing beside the captain in the room which had been converted to meet vyst requirements, nudged Joseph with an elbow before the latter could open his mouth to say what he really wanted.
"My crew is both small and very busy for such a low-priority task. Why can you not use that worker of yours to fix the squeak?" substituted Joseph. The very deadly tactical unit, the reason for the covert nudge, relaxed slightly, although her eyes never ceased their penetrating stare, that of predator considering prey.
"No," countered the integrator. "This worker type is for body maintenance, is for fixing my selves. Yous provide the proper unit to fix the floor."
"Surely you can-"
Interrupted Rei, "Yes, Luplup. Your request will be granted right away." Before Joseph could object, the Bajoran had grabbed the captain's nearest elbow and hustled him from the room. The door slid shut, blocking view of the three vysts. Rei heaved a great sigh of relief.
"What was that for?" protested Joseph as he turned to confront Rei. While his ship could not be said to run with military precision by any long stretch of the imagination, he was still unused to anyone usurping his command. He generally considered mobile cargo in the form of passengers, even important ones like mob representatives, to have less rights aboard his vessel than the galley food replicator. After all, accidents could occur (and had) in the deep black between ports-of-call.
Rei held up thumb and forefinger, a centimeter of air between them. "The Lady was about that far from needing a new captain, assuming Luplup didn't just assimilate everyone on board...or tear them limb from limb. I wish to make it home in one piece. Fix the squeak, Joseph. Luplup is worse than a two-year old toddler when it comes to selfishness; and she does not care if she breaks her toys."
Joseph eyed the rep. The fact that Rei had successfully survived a trip, alone, to the vyst nest indicated that, maybe, the man knew what he was talking about. "Those vyst things pollute my ship."
"The liaison idea will work, or Luplup will lose interest and recall her selves. Deal with it. Or would you rather tell your Taurini employers that you'd like to strike out on your own? With your debt load, such might not be the best of ideas."
Pretty Lady's captain narrowed his eyes at the mention of the albatross tying him to the mob. One (okay, more than one) little mistake.... Joseph grunted, "Fine. I'll find a crewmember and a can of WD-40 to fix the squeak."
"Good," said Rei.
*****
"This is not what I expected from the Borg Collective," commented Ali. She might as well been talking to herself, despite the fact that there were at least three visible drones within earshot - Liaison and two nameless Borg units - and likely more listening via hidden sensors. The little voice Ali always thought of as her inner shrink cruelly commented that as far as the Collective (and probably Peach) was concerned, she was little more than a tool to be ignored until needed. That feeling of personal irrelevancy, as well as the /quiet/ - the thrum of machinery was ever-present, but there was a decided lack of organic noises such as coughs or whispers - was likely what drove her to ask the question, to try to remind her hosts (and herself) that she existed.
Ali deliberately quashed that particular line of pessimistic thought. One of the pitfalls of being a psychologist was the occasional tendency towards self-analysis.
With a sigh, Ali leaned back against the wall, trying to eke out as much comfort as possible from her cot. The room in which she had been abandoned - check of internal chronometer - over six hours earlier was bare except for basic necessities. Or at least what Borg considered to be the basic necessities of an unassimilated hostage. Furniture consisted of cot, food replicator, and toilet. While the poor excuse for a toilet did have an out-of-place bamboo screen around it, Ali was under no illusion that it actually afforded anything resembling privacy. There were no blankets for the cot, no spare clothes, and while the replicator would provide water in flimsy plastic cups, such was insufficient for even the most basic of personal hygiene. Even her request for a toothbrush had been ignored.
Less than five meters away, against the wall opposite the cot, was an alcove; and in the alcove was Liaison. The alcove looked as if it had been hastily installed, ragged slices through metal suggesting normal residence was elsewhere. Extra bits had been bodged on and open panels showed where other things had been removed. How this affected the overall working of the alcove, Ali had no clue, engineering and the mechanical arts not her forte. Upon arrival to the room, a rodent-like Borg had roughly attached some sort of external implant that looked like a bloated spider to Liaison's neck, then directed him to the alcove. The Peach drone had complied, offering not a single objection to either his handling or the order. Since then, Ali's 'roommate' had been utterly motionless.
The other living statues present were located near the room's single egress, one inside and one outside. A shimmering blue forcefield warded the opening - there was no door - but Ali knew that the barrier was as air to the drones. Approximately three hours into her incarceration, long after it had become apparent that all questions would be ignored, there had been a changing of the guard, the Borg outside swapping position with the one inside. The 'why' was uncertain, with the result relieving the monotony for all of the five minutes it took for Ali to realize that no other actions were to occur. For all practical purposes, the guards were as much furniture as cot or toilet, except most household furnishings outside the Andorian market did not sport disruptors.
A screech shattered the unsilence. The noise made Ali's teeth ache, as if someone had run fingernails along a chalkboard. It was a familiar, if irregularly heard, sound, that of a vyst protesting most heinously to some sort of indignity. Ali was unsure where, exactly, Lup was, but it was close; and it was equally obvious that the vyst had not been experiencing a boring six hour interlude of nothing.
"Definitely not what I expected from the Borg Collective," muttered Ali to herself as she attempted to find something new for her eyes to look upon. She had just settled on trying to decide if a color imperfection on a wall paneling most resembled a horse or a cow when Liaison opened his eyes.
"Surely Black Ops knows of assimilation imperfection?" asked Liaison, speaking as if he were responding to a question just posed, not one five minutes prior.
Ali blinked, then sat upright on cot to regard the drone. "You are awake!"
"This unit was never asleep," said Liaison. "As I asked, surely Black Ops knows of assimilation imperfection? Despite anything I may have implied at Detention, I am well aware of your early studies upon the Borg and Color psyches when you entered Starfleet's espionage branch. I would think assimilation imperfection would be well known."
Brow furled. "Yes, I read about it."
Liaison's whole eye shifted in the direction of the guards, although it was doubtful he could actually see anything due to the angle of the alcove and obscuring side. "Then what if I told you this was Exploratory-class Cube #347, one of the Borg Collective's repositories of those units too discordant for the Whole, yet too useful to be discarded?"
Ali glanced over at the Borg which was in the room. While it had not shifted position, there was a more alert seeming to its eyes. Outside the doorway, the guard's compatriot had moved and was now gazing through the forcefield, silently watching its charges. "How would you know? And would it make any difference? I'm assuming that any 'imperfect' drones would be just as much a part of the larger Collective as a normal Borg."
The hiss of retracting umbilicals and clank of disengaging clamps was Ali's answer. Liaison stepped from his alcove and turned to gaze at the two guards. In turn, the guards stared at the Peach drone, the inside unit raising its arm in unmistakable threat. "We know...or I should say Peach knew, and therefore I knew, before I was removed from the influence of my Greater Consciousness. And yes, it does make a difference, especially as it is also known by certain entities, inclusive Peach, that the Borg Collective has declared the sub-collective of Cube #347 rogue, rejecting them from the Whole. They are acting alone; and an imperfect sub-collective acting alone raises some very interesting possibilities." The next words were directed at the guards. "I will speak to your primary consensus monitor and facilitator."
"Your demands are as irrelevant as the human requesting a toothbrush or deodorant," spoke the guard. "If room sensors indicate you to be trying anything funny with whatever it is you have grafted onto your chassis, you will be used for target practice. It is unlikely a modified sensory drone has sufficient armoring to withstand many direct disruptor hits."
Liaison inclined his head slightly. "You are correct. Still, I will speak to your primary consensus monitor and facilitator. Unless there has been a shuffling in your command and control hierarchies in the last few hours, his designation is 4 of 8, correct?"
"You are correct, but I did not come here at your summons. We are ready to proceed, and Lup's handler is required," said a new voice. The forcefield abruptly vanished, revealing the form of the blue-eyed drone whom had named himself 'Captain' in the cargo hold. The interior tactical drone stepped aside, allowing Captain a wider field of view, although disruptor arm never wavered from its target.
Ali scrambled to her feet from the cot. The action put her uncomfortably close to Liaison, but she was confident the Peach would not take advantage of the situation to 'accidentally' attempt the assimilation he had offered many times on Detention. Reasonably confident. Even among the Colors, however, Peach was a cipher. Still, better Liaison whom she was (somewhat) familiar with than the Borg captain.
"You will come, Ali. Comply," said Captain.
Ali felt watched as the drone's single blue eye left Liaison to focus upon her. "And do what? What having you been doing to Lup? And why should I assist in any of it?"
Captain muttered something under his breath, a something that distinctly used the words "humans" and "questions". A snicker(?) sounded from the drone next to him. The noise may have been a figment of Ali's imagination, but the guard did elicit a sharp look from the Borg captain. A breath was inhaled, "Resistance is futile. If you refuse, you will be bodily picked up and taken to where we need you. We do not have time for these irrelevancies. Your function to us is as Lup's handler, a role which cannot be fulfilled if you are assimilated, so that option is closed to us." A sense of actual /frustration/ was in evidence.
A smile crossed Ali's face as she added up the incongruities. "And when this is all done? What's my motivation? While I harbor a fascination with Lup, she /is/ just an assignment, one I was fortunate to acquire. I do not want to end up like those detainees you grabbed along with me."
Eye narrowed. Replied Captain, "Assuming we all survive - and your cooperation may very well determine if such occurs - you will be released. We do not have time to deal with high-level military nanites, nor do we have time to deal with the most excellent drone you would undoubtedly become...a most excellent, normal drone who would then likely go insane if subjected to us."
"The Peach Collective has determined her to be a most superb specimen. Alas, she has thus far refused all offers to join, even when informed of the benefits," inserted Liaison.
Ali was unsure how to respond to either Borg, and so remained quiet. In the background, a vyst shriek echoed.
Captain tilted his head slightly in the standard posture of internal communion. Head straightened. "Time is wasting. Ali, you will accompany me, either of your own violation or not. It is all the same to me, although certain members of the weapons hierarchy would prefer the latter option."
Choices were quickly considered, and Ali liked none of them. Still, better to go with the appearance of free-will than to be carried like a sack of dirty laundry. Her inner shrink had much to say upon that particular rationalization, but Ali ignored the words. She started forward, heading for the doorway.
Liaison followed behind.
"No," said Captain. Ali halted in confusion, but she was not the focus of the drone's attention. "You shall not come."
"What if I was to say I was the handler assigned to the handler?" attempted Liaison. The high pitched whine of capacitors charging could be heard originating from the tactical drone stationed inside the room.
Captain shook his head in an abortive motion that did not feel as if it belonged to whatever base species his was. Ali-the-xenopsychologist found the implications of cross-species transfer of gestures through the communal Mind fascinating even as Ali-the-prisoner waited in nervous anticipation. "No. Do not push. I'm not really sure why we even kept you in the first place. Besides, it is crowded enough where Lup is without adding yet another body. Ali, come. Comply."
Liaison remained in place. Ali complied.
Captain led the human next door, to the adjacent supply closet. Through the eyes of the weapons drone escort trailing behind, he could see that Ali was confused at the short length of the trip. However, the sub-collective had determined it to be most effective to keep all its potential problems in one location. The inner turmoil which roiled the intranets belied the outer facade presented to Cube #347's guests.
Within the local volume of space was one of the ingredients required to free the Collective from its quantum virus contagion, or so insisted the map grafted to EMH Frank's holomatrix. Unlike the previous ingredients, this one was in motion, although it, or whatever carried it, showed no proclivity to leave for more easily accessible areas. With the other ingredients distant, or in locations with obvious difficulties, this target was the sub-collective's focus; and one major Borg fault was to become fixated on a goal to the point of absurdity, the ends justifying a means which included major material resource loss.
Such was a description of the Cube #347 sub-collective's state of mind.
When the questing Cube #347 had entered the local volume of space in pursuit of its goal, the territory claimed by Taurini mob, and by extension Luplup, had also been violated. Luplup, born of Borg and perhaps even more single-minded than the Collective when it came to certain things, had discovered the intrusion. An unexpected Battle-class cube, clearly controlled by the vyst, had been sicced upon the smaller Exploratory-class, along with a motley collection of lesser, non-Borg-derived ships. The sane response would be to leave, to find another ingredient, to attempt anything else, but the goal beckoning oh-so-near kept the cube orbiting as a moth around a flame, presenting Luplup with opportunities to attack her most despised foe. Thus far, Cube #347 had escaped the confrontations with only minor damage, but such could not continue indefinitely.
With the vyst and her ships an obstacle to the ingredient goal, it was not unexpected for Borg tunnel-vision to dictate the only logical action was to destroy Luplup so that she could no longer hinder the sub-collective. Subsequent research of an unorthodox sort, the only type open to Cube #347 as there was no Collective link, had devised a plan (3.2% chance of success, the highest of all schemes contemplated), eventually leading to this point-in-time with Captain standing before the door to Lup's room with Ali, waiting for the exterior guard to remember the lock's key-number code.
68 of 300's finger hovered over the keyboard, uncertain. {We double encrypted the passcode after the last entry into the cell,} he explained sheepishly, 'we' in this case the weapons hierarchy, {and then encrypted the encryption key with a randomly rotating fractal encryption.} Unlike the forcefield ward utilized for the adjacent room, this door was constructed from hull-rated neutronium armor, adapted from Cube #347's limited stores. Several vertical slits had been laboriously cut at eye level, mere suggestion of bars than actual bars, because certain conventions of 'jail cell' were impossible to purge from the collective database. The door was the only way in or out, a device on the inside preventing transporter use.
{This is not helping our image,} commented Captain, glad the human was unaware of the mad scramble happening among the weapons hierarchy. Unfortunately, the password permutations possible, while not infinite, were very, very, very large. {You did not use the Cracker Jack rings this time, did you?}
{No,} inserted Weapons into the conversation. {This encryption was too important. Security was necessary, just in case.}
Interrupted Second, sarcasm heavy in his mental tone, {Just in case of what? The Peach drone somehow infiltrates our system for nefarious espionage purposes? No, don't answer that. The door passcode is one-two-three-four-five.}
{How do you know that?} asked Weapons suspiciously.
{Because 39 of 212, one of the weapons drones inside Lup's room, writes down the password each time it is changed. If you look at the door through an interior camera to Supply Closet #34, anyone can see the numbers in grease pencil.}
As Weapons focused attention on 39 of 212, a unit with a notoriously bad short-term memory no matter the tinkering by drone maintenance to fix the problem, and began to berate her over the perceived security breach, the passcode was punched into the keyboard. Door was swung open.
{Do not close that door: I do not wish to be locked in here when the password is changed again...and lost,} said Captain. The weapons drone escort pushed Ali into the room when the human did not move fast enough. Captain followed behind.
Lup's supply closet was slightly larger than the one inhabited by Ali and the Peach drone, although it felt much smaller. Although the only 'furniture' in the room was a specialty alcove built to conform to the vyst's body and keep the self in a functional condition, a dozen drones more than filled the area. The addition of three more bodies made the confines closer. Most of the drones were tactical, although two drone maintenance units (not Doctor!) were present, as well as a single representative from assimilation hierarchy.
{The human is nervous,} noted 11 of 203, the assimilation drone, {although she is trying to hide it.} A datastream was presented, one detailing a sudden increase in heartbeat and respiration levels, in addition to other signs of stress such as the light sheen of sweat and subtle changes in scent.
{If no heart attack or stroke is imminent, she will deal with it,} commented Captain. He stopped, whole hand reaching forward to halt Ali's reluctant forward progression. The human, predictably, flinched. A blank holowindow shimmered into existence next to Captain, set flush to the adjacent wall.
"What is going on?" asked Ali.
Captain ignored the question. His awareness was split, a common affair for any member of the Hierarchy of Eight, multi-tasking a necessary ability. In truth, the slice of himself required to move his body, to interact with the human was very small. The great majority of himself was involved in the current complexities of coordination in driving the cube. The state of the shields, a recent series of scores crossing the hull, a minor plasma leak, all attested to the fact that Cube #347 was currently in a running battle. Located deep in the cube's bulk, the detainees had never realized the danger. In truth, the Exploratory-class cube could easily outrun its Battle-class pursuer, except the plan required Cube #347 remain on the knife edge between escape and falling victim to the mayhem following behind.
Cube #347 was the bait to its own trap. Now it was time to make the bait irresistible.
{Initiate. Bring forth the vyst,} intoned Captain. Bodies abruptly lurched into motion. An angry screech echoed loudly in the supply closet.
Previously hidden by the cordon of taller weapons drones, Lup was dragged forward. Around her neck was a collar, a thick device of metal, closely related to any number of restraint devices developed to control potentially dangerous pets. Bonds of a similar type circled all four ankles; and one pair of legs was additionally hobbled. Hands-major were bound tightly to chest, leaving only the delicate hands-minor free to ineffectively paw at the air. Attached to the collar were two leashes, pink in color.
Captain decided it was best, given the circumstances, to ignore the unBorg hue.
"Lup," said Captain as he looked down at the vyst with distaste, an expression he did not bother to censor, "we will shortly be hailing Luplup, whom I am certain you are quite aware is following us. You will talk to her. You will ensure that she continues to follow us, no matter what."
Ali opened her mouth as if to speak, but a prodding by her weapons drone escort halted any words before they were uttered.
Lup raised her head as high as possible, muzzle tipped up to regard Captain, and only Captain. Her response was defiant. "Captain Bad-Mans, finally we sees each other face-to-face. Yous have bound me, like I was a bad girl. Why should I do as you tells me to?"
"You will survive, for now. You are not absolutely required, but your presence raises /our/ chance for survival several percentage points, sufficient to be worth the risk of gaining you and your handler. However, we have contingencies."
Lup's eyes glanced in Ali's direction before returning to Captain. "That is reason enough, to lives. More opportunities for mes if I bes alive than if I bes dead. There is only one self of me, after all."
Captain internally frowned at the sardonic tone, as well as the questions it raised. In so many little ways, this vyst self-designated Lup was not the Luplup Captain, the sub-collective, was familiar with. The implications would be considered later, when the danger of imminent destruction was a tiny bit less. Those drones holding the leashes reached forward to unclip them. "You will be told more later, but for now other things beckon."
Personally, Captain disliked the plan, the need for Lup at all. However, he had been overruled by the majority, a single protesting cog of no importance despite his position as primary consensus monitor and facilitator.
Drones backed away from Lup, leaving an open spot around her and the nearby holowindow. Such was not to say that vigilance was any less, the arms of all the weapon hierarchy units present pointed unwaveringly at the vyst. When the plan had been devised, command and control had been firm in the requirement that all drones from Weapons' hierarchy assigned to Lup duty would (1) be able to hit what they aimed at, and (2) not fire unless there was true provocation.
One of multiple hullside feeds was redirected to the display. The sight of a Battle-class cube, surrounded by several non-Borg ships made small only due to proximity of their companion, consolidated. The current chase was occurring under very high impulse; and as all watched, a torpedo was unleashed from the Battle-class, only to disintegrate upon Cube #347's shields. Lup shifted her head to regard the visual. "Luplup," she hissed.
"Okay, the 'what is going on' question I'll drop for now, because I will obviously not receive any answers. However, I do want to know /why/ I am here. What is my purpose? You obviously have the guns-and-threats department covered quite adequately," challenged Ali, blatantly ignoring her escort's nonverbal warning.
Captain swiveled his head to regard the human. The datastream from 11 of 203 continued to show Ali's extreme discomfort, yet the Black Ops xenopsychologist presented an outwardly calm visage. The Peach liaison was correct: this human was excellent drone material. Maybe, when everything was done, if Cube #347 survived, the chance should be taken to assimilate her, but that was an uncertain future.
"Your purpose for now is to watch, to observe. We...need someone who has studied Luplup, and Lup. A handler. We need an interpreter to assist us to understand, for Borg, after all, cannot /know/ an enemy until it has been assimilated into self. The vyst is an abomination, and will not be assimilated; and we need you whole, sane, to extend our understanding. If you were assimilated, there is a near 100% likelihood your ability to interpolate, to /know/, to innovate - your language does not have the vocabulary for this concept - would be lost. Without this understanding, our task to destroy /all/ of Luplup will fail. Failure is death, both for ourselves and for you. Do you understand?"
"Not really," admitted Ali.
Captain allowed an ironic half-smile to crease his features, "Then follow Lup's lead that personal survival is a sufficient reason for cooperation." Face was returned to standard non-expression as awareness shifted to other, more important items. The point of no return was passed, the sub-collective committed. {Hail the Battle-class.}
*****
Luplup blinked as she answered the hail from the Bad-Mans ship. All her Selves faltered a beat, a noticeable hesitation.
The first knowledge that the evil Captain Bad-Mans and his cube was near had come several months prior. Luplup had sent a Self and several not-selves to introduce the Taurini to a man specializing in black-market antiquities, a business the mob desired to enter. The ship with Captain had just left, not that Luplup had fielded sufficient resources in the area to give chase with any hope of winning. Instead, she had bided her time and was eventually rewarded when her nemesis had actually entered /her/ territory, the place where /she/ was strong.
The fact that Cube #347 could have retreated at any time, yet did not, had never registered.
Luplup now harried the cube which contained the Captain Bad-Mans, whom she would rend. Luplup knew Captain would never grovel, would never plead, but she had wanted the personal satisfaction of detailing to him the tortures he would undergo once his cube was captured. She would first kill his sub-collective, tearing one by one each member of his not-self pack away, before finally, slowly, ripping pieces of his own mind, the pieces that made Captain, Captain. Luplup had experimented with Gray when she had taken the Color; and she knew the technique would work.
It was not Captain who answered the hail, nor even a view of infinite catwalks. Instead it was herSelf?
At the shipyard node, secure in her well-fortified nest, the nexusQueen hissed confusion. A hands-minor absently increased the tempo of stroking her stuffed cat toy.
"I bes Lup," said the not-self Self, hands-minor thumping chest in emphasis. There were incongruities to the image, including a collar and bound hands-major, but their relevance paled when considering the overall atrocity. "I am the Queen you threw away, the Queen who escaped. I have joined with the Captain Bad-Mans, and together we will kills you, leaving only Me!" The boast was emphasized with a staccato snap of jaws.
The visual portion of the communication to the Bad-Mans cube featured several Selves, those upon the ex-Gray Battle-class who had been within convenient camera range at the time of hail acceptance. Those Selves now went into a display of barking, of hissing, at the hubris of the not-self Self on the screen. Several small technicians, type III, were trampled. Luplup abruptly severed the communication, not bothering to respond.
That queen (not capitalized) was dead, terminated along with the rest of failed batch 17b. Luplup had seen the stolen shuttle explode, victim of several torpedoes. It was a trick by the Captain Bad-Mans, a hologram, a fantasy of light.
Luplup came to a decision: Captain must be destroyed /now/. If he and sufficient of his pack survived to allow slow termination, fine. However, it was of greater importance to blow up the offensive cube, the offensive Captain. Big explosions may not prudent in the region of space Luplup and her forces were entering, but that was irrelevant.
Weapons of the pursuing Battle-class were made ready as Luplup leapt her smaller, faster non-cube ships to the attack.
*****
The locals called it the Flame Nebula.
The Flame Nebula was not actually a nebula, despite its gaseous nature. None were quite sure what it was, exactly, although many dissertations had been written about it over the years by budding astrophysicists. Some claimed it to be a remnant assemblage of exotic matter dating to the Big Bang; and others believed it to be the result of a healed crack in space-time, origin another metareality. At least one graduate thesis had evoked snot and hankies and decongestant, /that/ particular student eventually absorbed into the Polka-Dot Color after a fierce recruitment campaign with Plaid.
When viewed from afar, the Flame Nebula was a beautiful fairy cobweb of delicate reds and oranges encompassing 350 cubed light year volume in the rough shape of a cough drop. 'Afar' was the best viewing place, according to the captains who plied the local space lanes, because to enter the nebula was to risk never coming back out. There were no malignant intelligences within, nor odd gravimetric sheer or temporal anomalies. To put it simply, the Flame Nebula acquired its name not due to its color, which did resemble a fantasy campfire, but rather its flammable nature.
Vast sheets of lightning occasionally lit the nebula, starting a conflagration which would burn for months. Unlucky vessels which attempted the Flame Nebula at that time were inevitably reduced to metallic vapor contaminated by a thin carbon residue. Once the ur-fires extinguished, usually as mysteriously as they had first begun, no change in the nebula's composition was evident, the multiple elements proposed over the centuries to be fuel unconsumed.
In between the times of flame, a ship could safely cross the Flame Nebula. Usually. However, there were also several recorded instances of the ship itself sparking the inferno, the ultimate cause unknown and unknowable, all traces of the offender reduced to residue not even the most accomplished forensic examiner could unravel. It was for that reason most vessels (those pursuing scientific inquiry aside) gave the Flame Nebula a wide berth, even when it was in its quiescent state of glowing beauty.
The Borg vessel known as Cube #347, depository of the Collective's imperfectly assimilated and currently declared rogue, was charging with all impulse haste into the outskirts of the fickle Flame Nebula before abruptly leaping to low warp. Behind Cube #347 chased a much larger Battle-class cube, once of Gray and now of Luplup, its accompanying fleet of ships converted to war platforms accelerating in front of their big brother.
In the distant space lanes, private and government vessels alike slowed to watch the unfolding drama.
*****
Ali silently watched Lup's performance, her assertions, her not-quite lies. After the hail was cut, the vyst submitted to the leashes with their anomalous pink color, although not without a grumbling protest. However, she was not immediately led away, not that there was anywhere to go in the crowded room. Instead, the leashes were held by a pair of drones, too-blank expressions suggesting they were not fully in the here-and-now.
The holodisplay had enlarged to a size suitable for a large jhad-ball party, entire window filled with a wispy reddish-orange gas which softly glowed with its own light. A single glance around the room made it obvious that none were paying attention to the display, tilted heads and glazed eyes indicating internal communion. Despite the lack of reaction to Ali's impatient shuffle or Lup's half-hearted pawing at her collar, the xenopsychologist was not tempted to try anything as stupid as strolling out of the room through the blatantly open door. Liaison, one of the few drones Ali had ever really interacted with, was also given to the occasional fugue, but could return to the present swiftly enough if there was cause. Ali did not doubt such was true here as well; and between the drone-mounted disruptors and threat of assimilation, she knew it highly unlikely that any illicit action would end well for her.
The display split into three windows. The central pane retained the original view of what one presumed to be a nebula or other similar stellar phenomenon, although Ali was far from an expert in such things. As far as she truly knew, a camera was focused on a close-up of luminescent novelty cotton candy. The right-hand window centered upon an ill-perceived outline of an unknown something surrounded by a scattering of sparkling lights; and as Ali watched, the picture was subtly enhanced until it became apparent that a Borg cube was the central focal point. The third window showed more glowing gas.
Lup swung her head to stare at the cubeship. "Luplup follows this self," quietly hissed the vyst, a comment muttered to herself.
It was the unnatural quiet which broke Ali. She moved to place herself in front of Captain. He did not react, even when she waved a hand directly in front of his face. Finally Ali nerved herself to actually touch the drone, gingerly shaking his nonprosthetic arm. "Hello? Anyone home? You told me to watch, but I don't even have subtitles to tell me what is going on." And the silence is unsettling, added Ali, but only to herself and her inner shrink.
Captain blinked once. Whole eye, accompanied by the mechanical hum of its matching ocular implant, swiveled to gaze directly at Ali, who took a prudent step backwards. A sigh - an actual sigh! - was heaved. "Small beings are so..." What, exactly, small beings were was never revealed. Instead, a hand gestured at the triple holowindow display. "We have been reminded that one of the purposes of this drone is to liaise with small beings like you, therefore I will do so. Observe."
The mixture of plurals and singular was odd, but to remark or inquire upon it was probably not the best tact to take at the moment. Instead, Ali did as bid, repositioning herself such that she could see both Captain and the windows, yet not have Lup uncomfortably at her back. The vyst had perked up at the drone's movement.
"We are 1.1 light years into the phenomenon called the 'Flame Nebula'. We-"
"What just happened?" asked Ali, interrupting Captain's words. The left window had suddenly sprouted a Borg cube! It filled the entire display, which meant it was very big, very close, very magnified, or all of the above.
"If you will cease your interruptions, perhaps we can enlighten you," said Captain. Ali turned her head to regard the drone...was that a hint of impatience coloring his voice? Xenopsychologist-Ali wished for anything, even a low-tech tape recorder, to document what was undoubtedly a unique glimpse into this purported imperfect sub-collective's psyche. "I will begin again. We are 1.1 light years into the phenomenon called the 'Flame Nebula'. We are being pursued by forces belonging to the abomination Luplup, a self of which you are familiar. We...have reason to stay in this volume of space, that occupied by Luplup, but we cannot do so safely because of Luplup. Therefore, we must eliminate Luplup.
"Our vessel does not have sufficient firepower to match a Battle-class, which is what chases us. The smaller ships are unimportant. Therefore other measures are required."
The recitation became increasingly mechanical, as if Captain had set his body on autopilot as he attended to other, more important manners than a single human. On the right screen, the presumed distant cube with its accompanying swarm was nearing; and the cube on the left display had begun to rotate. Borg alphanumerics scrolled up the left edges of all panes.
A /shudder/ shook Ali, nearly causing her to lose her balance. Lup, with four feet, fared better, although a cranky protest was lodged. None of the drones appeared to have noticed the quake.
"Cloak enabled," informed Captain. "Countermeasures deployed.
"The Flame Nebula is the product of a failed weapons test attempted 53,622 Terran years ago during the early epoch of the Star Empire. If an unshielded subspace engine such as an exterior-mounted warp nacelle or transwarp ring is used to initiate faster-than-light speeds within the volume of the weapon, instant-"
"Boom!" shouted an unsolicited voice from one of the drones with arms pointed at Lup. The owner of the voice visibly winced as Captain's gaze sharpened, focusing on the source. Attention lingered for several long seconds before returning to Ali. Narrative continued.
"As 97 of 212 inelegantly expressed, instant boom." Ali risked a glance back to the named 97 of 212 and was rewarded with a stoic non-expression, although, just maybe, the shoulders hunched under her perusal. Once more Ali desired a recorder. Captain did not stop talking, ignoring his audience's momentary inattention. "Not only did coloration make the weapon too visible, but it proved to be highly instable, prone to spontaneous detonation. Therefore, it was abandoned.
"We have lured Luplup's Battle-class cube resource into the Flame Nebula. Bait has been set in the form of a shuttle outfit with a holographic generator and sensor scramblers: the decoy 'looks' like us. We have cloaked and are now preparing to retreat out of the nebula. Luplup will be suspicious, but will investigate the bait to ensure it is not us. After we exit the nebula, we will remotely initiate warp drive on the shuttle, detonating the Flame Nebula. The Battle-class cube will not survive."
The explanation concluded; and it was obvious that the resident sub-collective (or Captain) felt the obligation to relay what was happening was now discharged.
An aspect of the explanation was bothering Ali. As a xenopsychologist, stellar phenomenon were not exactly high on her list of interests, but still the name sounded familiar. Flame Nebula...Flame Nebula...Flame Nebula...hadn't there been a nature special on unusual spatial anomalies several years back? And hadn't the Flame Nebula been mentioned within the group of 'pretty, but we bigwig scientists don't have a clue when it comes to where it came from or how it operates'? Several things suddenly clicked into place, prompting a Most Important question.
"Captain, how do you know all this about the Flame Nebula? Liaison says that you are severed from the Borg Collective; and the Collective wasn't around 50,000 years ago. I also know that /no one/ knows how the Flame Nebula works."
A blink of eye. Head swiveled exorcist style to directly face Ali. Instead of distant attention, focus was immediate...and multiple. "We are Borg." It was the stock answer.
Ali persisted, "Yes, you are Borg. But if the information isn't assimilated, then you cannot know it. This is true of Borg or Color."
"We are Borg?"
"And being severed from your Greater Consciousness, wouldn't unknown data be even /harder/ to come by? Impossible, I would believe. I think you are making up everything you told me!"
"Borg do not lie." Conviction.
"Then /where/ did you find your information on the Flame Nebula?"
Captain's gaze actually shifted down and away, finally focusing on the holowindows. Sheepishness? Embarrassment? Papers begged to be written. Ali wondered in distant, analytical fascination how many emotions were present in drones of the Borg Collective, but were usually suppressed; or if her observations were a phenomenon of this sub-collective alone. "The data may have originated from the rumor.news.net GalacWeb bulletin board," Captain muttered.
A synthetic chuckle came from the direction of Lup, the voder's sound abruptly cut as both leashes were yanked.
"That is the largest and most infamous rumor mongering source in the galaxy," flatly said Ali.
Silence. The view in the displays remained largely unchanged, the sub-collective not making any obvious bid to escape despite the verbal conviction that such was part of the plan. Finally Captain spoke, eyes focused tightly on the holowindows. "Truth is present on rumor.news.net. One must sift out all the misinformation and conspiracy theories. This is how we learned about you."
"So you mentioned in the big room. However, learning about me and learning about a supposed weapon over 50,000 years old are different things."
"The actual data on the Flame Nebula did not come from the bulletin board. The original post was found in the archives. It was pinned 131.6 years earlier and referenced a graduate thesis on the topic. That thesis /was/ among the files we maintain."
Ali ignored the omission of why an obscure thesis was kept in on-board storage. There was more to this story than was being admitted, and if she was to be kept hostage she wanted to know /exactly/ the extent of this sub-collective's instability. Therefore, drawing on her training and years of dealing with alien minds, Ali leapt to the attack. "What institute did the thesis come from? Who was the author? Remember, Borg do not lie."
Captain's face, that half which Ali could see and which was not obscured by implants, was beyond deadpan. "This drone cannot reproduce the name of the author, who was a Bug. The Bug was a student at the Golden Wyvern Academy on Ferenginar."
"So," crowed Ali as all the pieces dropped into place, "you have based a plan to rid yourself of Luplup off a single posting - and a /single/ post means that it was too weird even for the beings who are regular readers - on a rumor board that led to a /Bug-authored/ research paper published from a Ferengi diploma-mill - what else are on Ferenginar? - where diplomas are a matter of latinum, not merit."
"This plan will rid us of a single Battle-class cube that belongs to Luplup, not Luplup herself," corrected Captain stonily. "The remainder of the plan, including that portion in which you and Lup are required, had a different origination. This line of discussion is terminated. We have issues to attend, and you are lowering our efficiency." The drone closed his eye.
Even without years of experience, Black Ops and before, to utilize dealing with difficult and often dangerous subjects, Ali knew better than to push. Then it hit her...what, exactly, had the Borg meant when he said 'remainder of the plan'?
Captain pushed Ali to a small corner of his mind and labeled her as an irrelevant distraction. Her small being questions and small being concerns would have to wait. Other matters, such as survival, were much more important.
{We need /any/ sort of supralight drive, Delta,} said Captain, not for the first time.
All over the cube, engineering hierarchy was scrambling. Delta herself was split, body A in the Primary Core and body B at nacelle coupling joint 3b-3c. {We are looking for the fault,} replied Delta defensively. In the mental dataspace background echoed the sound of an engine cranking, but refusing to turn over. {You know that the cloak doesn't play well with other systems, even when everything is working. With all the deferred maintenance that really requires dry-dock support, now is not the best of times.}
Exterior the cube, sensors showed the decoy moving at high impulse deeper into the nebula. Luplup's Battle-class cube had dropped from its warp hop, following behind the smaller ships of its miniature fleet who were already in close pursuit. Ominously, the cube was lagging behind, as if the controlling Mind was not quite willing to commit, despite the final provocation provided by Lup's performance.
A tertiary consensus cascade analyzing the situation came to a conclusion and provided a recommendation. {Weapons, alter decoy emissions: simulate an engine problem.}
{We should attack,} grumbled Weapons. While his hierarchy had been assigned the task to drive the bait, the passive role was not entirely agreeable. The fact that weapons had been locked in order to prevent an inadvertent energy signature in a supposedly empty cubical volume of space was also a source of discontent. {We are cloaked and have the advantage of ambush. We will prevail!}
{No we won't,} countered Captain.
From his alcove where he was lending mental resources to assist with engineering hierarchy coordination, Second added, {A 0.5% chance of success in destroying the Battle-class doesn't count, Weapons. The scenario which included the added bonus of Cube #347 surviving in one piece was 0.07%. Despite Captain's oh-so-exemplary liaising with the Black Ops operative where he filled her with the utmost confidence at our devious scheme, we really do not know what will happen if we use weapons in the Flame Nebula. After all, 73.8% of your /own/ BorgCraft simulations ended with the entire phenomenon on /fire/.}
{Alter the decoy emissions, Weapons,} ordered Captain a second time. Without waiting for the muttered {Compliance}, attention was returned to Delta. {Engines. Now.}
{And I'll just pull out a magic wand and wave it to make everything better, will I?} countered Delta. Even with the assistance of command and control, the strain of having over 85% of her hierarchy active was showing. Body A kicked a loose panel out of the way, rewarding Delta with a foot bruised even through armoring.
Suddenly, as misbehaving systems with no apparent fault are wont to do, warp drive initiated. Perhaps a key isolinear chip had been replaced or a juncture receiving spanner-mediated concussion therapy had realigned; maybe an intermittent short had fixed itself; or, just possibly, a magic wand had been waved. Whatever the cause, the result was the sudden blossoming of a static warp shell.
Because Cube #347's nacelles were internalized, no portal to a lightning Hell was opened. Either the Bug's thesis had been correct, or a different stimuli than an unshielded translight drive activated the Flame Nebula.
High warp was engaged. If Cube #347 had been a ground-bound wheeled vehicle, instead of a large cubical spaceship, the squeal of rubber against pavement would have accompanied the maneuver.
It was not surprising both cloak and engines failed when Cube #347 was less than 0.5 light year from the outer boundary of the Flame Nebula. The latter simply caused an abrupt translation back to normal space, inertial dampers and superstructure protesting, but otherwise causing no lasting damage. The former, however, created a spectacular display in Warp Core Annex #6 where the primary cloak integrator was located.
{Cloak will be nonfunctional for a while,} reported Delta once the fire suppression systems had disengaged, allowing drone access into Warp Core Annex #6. With a visual stereo, Delta examined the melted mass which had once been the primary controlling node of the cloak, but now resembled one of 171 of 230's abstract sculptures. {Quite a while, actually. Inventory shows we lack the specialty solid state electronics to repair it, and nor can it be replicated.} Delta's signature suggested she was not entirely displeased at the prospect, the cloak second only to cube regeneration as a system she personally reviled.
Within the Flame Nebula, Luplup's fleet had turned away from the decoy. The small ships were returning with all haste to the Battle-class. While the large cube could warp in to attack the now stationary and very visible Cube #347, leaving the smaller vessels to catch up, Luplup had more than once in the past demonstrated her propensity to bring overwhelming force to bear when merely adequate force would suffice.
<<Detonate it.>> The order originated not from Captain alone, but was the combined Voice of the sub-collective.
Weapons gleefully pushed the metaphorical Big Red Button.
Nothing happened.
{Detonate it, Weapons,} spoke Captain.
The button pushing became not so much frantic, but definitely more determined. {We are trying, but something is wrong. It is all engineering's fault.}
{Don't you dare bring my hierarchy into this,} protested Delta. {/You/ were the one who won that decision under the claim that since the vessel was to be converted into a remotely piloted bomb, it was the bailiwick of tactical. It was /your/ drones who rewired the shuttle to attach an explosive payload to the nacelles.}
{You should have objected louder. By not swaying consensus to overrule me, it is engineering's fault.} As usual, Weapons' form of logic attempted to place the blame anywhere except where it belonged. Within the nebula, the holographically projected decoy was beginning to undergo gyrations no actual cube could undergo due to bulk and inertia constraints. Weapons was trying to shake the shuttle in an attempt to force warp drive to engage.
{Children, children-} inserted Second into the building argument. He was ignored.
Captain would have put palm to face and shook his head, except for the Black Ops operative in the storage closet next to his body. Instead he had to be satisfied by the dataspace manifestation of the quasi-emotion. Censure filters were reinitiated, an event occurring with increasing frequency in the months since Collective rejection when it became apparent to even the dullest drone that the vinculum was not to be replaced any time soon. {Cease, you two. Now is not the time to decrease our efficiency quotient even lower than its already sub-standard condition.} Luplup's cube was beginning to tractor to itself the first of her arriving fleet in preparation for pursuit. {We need options. Initiate a multi-partition, parallel decision cascade based on the following inputs-}
The sensor grid reported a small explosion.
Weapons radiated satisfaction, his shuttle gyrations finally successful. {Boom.}
Or, rather, BOOM.
Beginning at the nexus representing the ex-decoy, a ripple which shattered more than a few tenants of the Einstienian universe propagated with a speed much greater than that pitiful tortoise known as light. Behind the induced instability built potentialities which could roughly be described as negative and positive, but in reality bore as little resemblance to such a crude concept as did the vanished language of the Star Empire to any existent tongue. However, as any student of elementary physics knows, positives and negatives are attracted to each other, creating such diverse phenomenon as electricity and the love-hate relationship. In this case, the outward manifestation of opposite potentialities striving to meet was the creation of vast sheets of lightning, albeit on a scale which dwarfed even the largest of gas-giant-spanning storms.
The Flame Nebula literally caught on fire.
"By the Directors..." breathed a voice.
Captain shifted primary awareness to his body, the success of the plan decreasing the immediate needs of the sub-collective for his input as consensus monitor. Eye was opened and power fed to optic implant. The sight which greeted him was a triple holowindow display of the Flame Nebula exploding, a pale reflection of the datastream linked to the sensor grid, but impressive nonetheless. Reds and oranges, shot through with bright bursts of blue, writhed, the display providing a glimpse into a classical view of Hell as depicted by a large number of religions. The right-hand hologram continued to focus upon the enemy, the Battle-class cube's fate inevitable even as the last of its fleet was tractored.
A sheet of lightning several light years in width tore through the volume of space which included Luplup's resources. When the view cleared, nothing was left to show that the Battle-class had ever existed.
Captain allowed himself a slight smile.
"You are all insane!" exclaimed Ali. "All of you! And I don't need a degree in xenopsychology to make that diagnosis!"
Captain wiped the expression from his face, then dismissed the holowindows. The slice of Hell was abruptly doused, although it continued unabated via the sensor stream. With only the standard light strips now providing illumination, the supply closet seemed darker. {Retire the vyst to her alcove,} said Captain as he turned to face Ali. The resultant profanity from Lup as her leashes were tugged was ignored.
"Insane," murmured Ali again.
"That opinion upon this sub-collective has been made more than once; and such is our label by the Borg Collective itself," replied Captain. "You will now be returned to Supply Closet #35. Additional instruction will be forthcoming." A tactical drone responded to the wordless command, prodding the now silent operative in the direction of the door.
Several minutes passed, Captain standing motionless as the sub-collective settled to relative normalcy. There was much to oversee, from propulsion repair to eavesdropping on the conversation between Ali and Peach drone to convincing 279 of 300 to not attempt a small scale recreation of the Flame Nebula in Bulk Cargo Hold #2. Finally Captain made the personal decision that he needed to return to his alcove so as to better mesh his mental resources which that of the sub-collective. He turned towards the door just in time to see it swing shut.
{Entry code to Supply Closet #34 encrypted,} announced Weapons into the portion of the dataspace dedicated to his hierarchy.
A quick query of the local weapons drones showed that 39 of 212, with his faulty short-term memory and, more importantly, his grease pencil, was not present.
Liaison waited.
The alcove supplied for his use was inadequate, but that was expected. It had been hastily modified, the most important alteration the crude, but effective, slashing of the vital components which automatically linked a drone into the local dataspace. As if the transceiver jammer attached to his neck was insufficient. Well, in truth, it was, not that he was to tell the local sub-collective. The lack of direct access to the dataspaces would make things a wee bit more complicated.
Therefore, as Liaison waited for Ali to return, he stood in the alcove and contemplated possible courses of actions. And tried to ignore the subtle (and not so subtle) indications that the cube was embroiled in a battle.
Peach had many metaphorical irons in the galactic fire. The eventual goal was, of course, Perfection, but the route to attain it was at best described as convoluted to the non-Peach outsider. Not all plans came to fruition. One long-shot scheme had been initiated many years ago during a convention held by Colors and Starfleet, then subsequently regulated to minor status when it became apparent the outcome was not to be the Peach Greater Consciousness' favor. Then, by a set of fortuitous consequences, the Color had intersected twice with the Cube #347 node, the most recent involving a unit of Liaison's own Group of 12, specialty high-level operatives, actually inserting sleeper code into the sub-collective's own consensus monitor.
Then the Cube #347 node had dropped off the figurative and literal radar. Once again Peach had dismissed the erratic element as irrelevant; and, once again, here it was taking central stage.
Liaison /really/ wished he could connect to his Collective, to ask for more directions than those which had been provided in the brief interlude on Detention between kidnapping and leaving the influence of the facility's mini-vinculum. However, a link would take time...not to mention dataspace access that the understandably paranoid sub-collective had denied him.
It was a good thing 1 of 12's sleeper code had never been discovered and purged. Those few lines of quasi-virus were all which were standing between Liaison functional and Liaison recycled into replicator reclamation.
The sound of a forcefield disengaging caught Liaison's attention. He opened his eyes and stepped from the alcove just in time to see Ali prodded into the room. Her drone escort took the place of the tactical drone currently standing internal guard, then froze into a position of waiting readiness.
Liaison craved information, that desire the root of Peach. Locked in this empty room, denied dataspace access, denied even a view of space outside the cube, Liaison was as close to Hell as his Color could conceive. However, despite his eagerness, his hunger for data, he dared not display such to Ali. When he had claimed to be a handler for the Black Ops handler, he had not been entirely untruthful.
Liaison was rewarded by the small being propensity to tell someone, anyone, about a momentous occurrence. As another human, or even a dog, was not available, Liaison would have to do.
"This sub-collective is /insane/," moaned Ali as she sat down on her cot, ignoring the drone looming over her. "Certifiably insane. And it's going to be the death of me! I think I would /prefer/ assimilation by Peach...but don't be getting any ideas."
*****
Luplup was having a tantrum.
Again.
It seemed that Luplup was having a lot of temper tantrums as of late as things did not go her way. On the vessels where Luplup had installed liaisons, crews made sure that certain doors were locked and tried to ignore the sound of breakage. Upon the den-world, many small, furry animals cowered in their burrows as angry barks echoed. Finally, within the ship-construction node, the Luplup nexusQueen herSelf vented her rage against a large pillow, one which bore an uncanny resemblance to a certain Borg Captain Bad-Mans.
It was only when the pillow had been reduced to shredded fabric strips and mounds of feathers that Luplup calmed all of herSelf.
The nexusQueen panted, held her breath, hiccupped, panted again, then sneezed as a bit of floating down invaded nostrils. A worker handed over the stuffed cat, the toy no longer in immediate danger of destruction.
Luplup came to a decision.
The ship of Captain with his Bad-Mans pack was irrelevant. Yes, irrelevant. Oh, she would eventually kill Captain, rend him, but now was obviously not the time. Luplup had too many other things to do, things that were necessary to make her strong and big; and, once again, Captain had shown her why it was bad to split herself. She would hunt down Captain once she could bring the resources of /five/ Battle-class talons to bear, /five/ talons of a fleet of /fifty/.
New information gathered from Taurini mob sources suggested that Captain and his pack were hunting for something. Now that their harassers were gone, burnt in flame, the most logical thing for the Bad-Mans was to continue their search. Borg, after all, were nothing if not logical.
If Captain came within easy reach at a later date, Luplup may attack, but until then, her to-do list included both SecFed and Peach.
It never occurred to Luplup that Cube #347's form of dubious logic would not prompt a return to hunting ingredients, but rather confrontation and extermination.
***********
Here ends "Silence of the Dogs, Part II". Now that an entire nebula has been exploded for the enjoyment of the reading audience, what could the BorgSpace author use as an encore? You will just have to return to Part III to find out.
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