In the main kitchen, Paramount is cooking up some Star Trek. Out back, Decker is boiling up a mess-o-Star Traks. At the campfire, Meneks is flambeing BorgSpace-on-a-stick.
What's Cooking?
"Please state the nature of the cooking emergency."
Frank, an early generation Emergency Medical Hologram, materialized into existence. He found himself in one of the hack-and-slash maintenance bays of the Borg vessel upon which his assimilated rodent keeper was assigned. That occurrence, in and of itself, was not unusual, Doctor occasionally releasing his holographic pet from memory chip kennel for walkies. What was unusual was the lack of activity, or drones, in the normally very busy workshop.
The hologram automatically glanced down at himself, noting with relief that he wore standard Starfleet garb. Then, with a niggling feeling, hands carefully rose to pat at his head. A hat was encountered and removed. Frank eyeballed it, finding the object to be brilliant white, heavily starched, and of the classical form of chef's headware. He tried to drop it, only to feel the thing rematerialize on top of his head.
"I think I may have accidentally mixed your matrix with 17 of 19's cooking files," said a voice with synthetic undertones from behind Frank, "while trying to extract you from Doctor's head. Sorry, but I'm just not very good with all this Borg stuff. It isn't user-friendly at all."
Frank turned to confront the sight of Weapons, head of the weapons hierarchy. However, in some ill-defined way, it /wasn't/ Weapons, that particular noteworthy not known to flinch when faced with a mere hologram. It was Weapons' body, Weapons' armament configuration, and Weapons' thick armor, but it was not Weapons' mind. A query to the stunted intelligence which was Cube #347's computer confirmed that 45 of 300's psyche pattern was not in residence, substituted by an entity labeled 'Ghydin'.
"You are much better at that computer stuff than me," complimented not-Weapons. "It is probably because you are part of the computer, or at least a program within it, and not the left-over personality bits of an overly active imagination."
Ignoring Ghydin's comment, Frank more carefully examined the maintenance bay. Not only was it quiet, but too quiet. Maintenance Bay #5 was situated in a relatively busy part of the cube; and even if the room itself was empty for unknown reasons, the sounds of many drones should have been present in one of the adjacent hallways. Instead there was nothing except the near subliminal hum of environmental systems.
Another query to the computer located Doctor in his alcove; and an expanded search found all drones, except for Ghydin-Weapons, similarly ensconced. Even more odd, worrisome, the mental signatures of all the Borg were quiescent, as if the entire crew had been put into long-term stasis storage.
Asked Frank, "What is going on here?"
Ghydin waved an arm in a very unBorg manner. "That is what I'd like to know. One moment I'm in my comfy niche thinking about nothing in particular, the next I have control of the body because Weapons has gone on holiday."
Frank, still trying to digest the implications of his own activation, much less why he had the overwhelming compulsion to make a minestrone soup, was incredulous. "But you are Weapons...or a Borg, anyway, since the computer insists you are, but also not, 45 of 300. At the very least, there are all sorts of hardware implanted in your brain to boost memory."
Ghydin's shoulders slumped into a posture of embarrassed dejection, something one did not expect in a Borg, much less an imposing tactical unit. "Weapons is still here," Ghydin tapped a finger against his forehead, "but he's...incommunicado. Asleep. Something. And he's laying all over his primary memory pathways. I don't know how to explain it, but accessing the memes is difficult. Running the body in general is not easy, with certain operations harder than others. And before you ask, yes, I did try to trigger the general wake command, but it did not work."
Silence. Finally Frank said, "Okay. I understand, maybe. Now what?"
'Now what' was indeed the question to be answered. Cube #347 was in stable orbit around an unexceptional, uninhabited, and unnamed M-class planet. Even from orbit the landmasses were more green than brown; and the superabundance of plant life from poles to equator had outgassed a sufficiently high level of oxygen that lightning storms could spawn atmospheric conflagrations and a single lit match was a deadly weapon. Animals were present, but lifesigns suggested flora, not fauna, was the dominant organism. However, while a life-ologist might be fascinated by the planet's ecology, such was rarely the focus of Borg. Instead, a particular mineral reading was located near the only artificial feature on the planet.
"Dillithium," confidentially said Frank. In the air in front of the pair, obscuring one of the more visually nausea-inducing devices in Maintenance Bay #5, floated a holographic map of the planet's surface. The bird's-eye view was focused on the rectangular outline of several buildings located about a kilometer from the open wound of recent excavation at the base of an odd mountain rising from a tropical jungle plateau. If there was a handful of things Frank knew well, it was holographic displays, medical diagnoses, and spinach casserole.
Spinach casserole? Frank shook his head in a futile bid to rid his thoughts of recipes, to unlink his holomatrix from the cooking files with which Ghydin had tangled.
"Are you sure?" inquired Ghydin as he squinted at the display. "I can barely navigate the tactical files; and Sensors' grid settings just give me a headache, metaphorically speaking."
Confidently said Frank, "Yes, I'm sure. The common sub-collective memory files from shortly before the timestamp of your, um, taking control may be locked and inaccessible, but before that point, transporter records clearly log drones going down to the surface. And, no, there were no assimilations - thank the Directors - because the facility had already been abandoned." Frank paused. "Are you sure you can't read the information for yourself? You are-"
Ghydin slashed an arm down to cut off the EMH. "I am not Borg. I am a quasi-personality who used to be a pilgrim for the Order of Koh who happens to be stuck in the body of a Borg. I can mostly work the body. I have decent control over the holographic system, as long as it involves Weapons' BorgCraft scenarios; and I can tell you 101 ways to weaponize a paperclip and rubber band. The only reason I struggled to apply myself to get you out of storage is because you are the only entity on this ship who could help me. All I want to do is put Weapons back in charge of his own body so that I can go back to my little corner of his brain. Unlike Ghost before he became Ghost, I have no ambition to be in charge."
Frank had no clue who or what 'Ghost' was, and nor did the computer, when queried. Seven marshmallow-related dishes and one alcoholic beverage float up from 17 of 19's files, however. Frank savagely pushed the intruding recipes out of his mind.
Continued Ghydin, "So I suppose this means a trip down to the planet, unless..." A significant look was directed towards a worktable (it took a greater imagination than Frank's to call the thing a 'bed').
On the table was a Borg, 36 of 133 to be exact, the unit closest to Maintenance Bay #5. Before the foray into the sensor system and trying to force the computer to vomit forth a reason for the sub-collective's inactivity, Frank had attempted to approach the matter medically. Ghydin had retrieved 36 of 133, a difficult operation, even with Weapons' muscle enhancements, due to the fact that the unit was fairly heavy; and the utter lack of cooperation meant 36 of 133 was little more than dead weight. Once the drone had been wrestled to the table, Frank had quickly confirmed 36 of 133's unresponsiveness. Although the body appeared to be optimally functional, there was the small matter of neural patterns signifying persistent vegetative state.
A comparison scan of Ghydin found the same comatose patterns. Overlaid on it had been a second, parallel network using slightly different neural pathways. Officially, Weapons was comatose, and should have been in the same state as 36 of 133, except for Ghydin taking over.
"I don't know what is happening with any of the crew," spat Frank in frustration. "I wasn't programmed to diagnose the ills of cybernetic beings. The drone maintenance files aren't especially helpful, unless you subscribe to the barbarous practice of euthanasia for any drone, or entity, with 'unknown ailments which cause nonproductively for which unit maintenance cost outweighs benefit'. It is like throwing away a pot-roast because you singed the outside, instead of cutting away the burnt bits to salvage what is useable."
"It is the Collective," reminded Ghydin.
Frank grumbled to himself.
"To the surface, then? Maybe we will find some clues there."
The EMH sighed, dismissing the surface map. "Might as well. The computer isn't especially helpful: one moment the sub-collective is fine, the next it is in Lala Land. Maybe something planetside will shed some light. First, though, I need to find the portable holographic projector. Only the Directors know where Doctor stashed it, but I've a few ideas."
"No hurry," replied Ghydin, "since it might be best if you drive the transporter. It took me an hour to get from Weapons' alcove to here, mostly because I kept sending myself to the hull, an engine room, anywhere but here. In the end I walked the final 300 meters and five levels."
The surface was hot and humid, very similar to the environment of the orbiting Borg cube. Unlike Cube #347, greenery was sprawling everywhere; and the outpost buildings, although new, were already being reduced to featureless mounds. Animals and insects screamed and buzzed, not necessarily respectively, as evidenced by the stuttering call of one reptiloid before it scuttled to concealment. Flowers great and small added startling splashes of color.
The plants had a disturbingly mobile quality to them. They were quite obviously rooted, but stems and tendrils moved with greater animation than expected from the average vegetable. One flying insect, straying too close to an orange blossom, was snagged mid-air. After a few moments of buzzing protest, the now yellow spore-covered victim was released, whereupon it hovered drunkenly before setting off on a purposeful, if zigzagging, path.
"This place gives me the creeps," declared Ghydin as he slowly panned across the outpost buildings.
Flank blinked, then stared incredulously at the drone. "Borg don't get the creeps. I don't think they are allowed."
Ghydin pivoted to regard the hologram, at once very Borglike, yet at the same time not. "Weapons is the Borg. I'm just the pacifist pilgrim personality remnants trapped in his body. I'm allowed to have the creeps." Attention was returned to surroundings.
"That is just plain weird," muttered Frank to himself concerning the concept of a multiple personality Borg, one personality of whom had apparently escaped the Collective indoctrination and the other, more physical, methods by which certain thought patterns were enforced.
"I heard that," noted Ghydin, whole hand briefly touching near one auditorally enhanced ear canal.
Frank rolled his eyes.
{And I heard that too, The only voices in the intranets are mine, yours, and the computer.}
Shaking his head, the EMH changed the subject, "So, which building?"
Ghydin pointed. "That one."
A small furry bird-creature - or was it an insect? - hovered over Frank's head, confusion plainly glinting in its multiple eyes as it tried to understand the paradox of seemingly solid thing with no scent. It zoomed off when a hand batted at it. "Why that one?" The building indicated was a little less advanced in the state of engulfment compared to the others, but only because it was a slightly further from the jungle edge. Black scars showed were past inhabitants had burned aggressively questing plants.
"Because one of the onboard memory stacks I can access shows Weapons going into there."
"Sounds good to me." Frank took the lead.
Finding the door was relatively easy, or, rather the remains of the door. Someone - a someone with a disruptor - had melted the door to the lentils, leaving behind a greenery draped opening. A glance at Ghydin received a small nod in return. Yes, Weapons was responsible for the destruction. The hologram continued inside.
And was immediately shrouded in a cloud of purple dust. Not dust, spores. Hand-sized red trumpet flowers hung from the ceiling, exhaling a stream of spores upon the invaders to their abode. Frank waved hands in front of his face to try to clear the air enough to see, glad that he did not breathe.
"How are you doing?" asked Frank. "It is thicker in here than a gaggle of apprentice bakers playing in the flour."
A hacking cough was the hologram's answer. {I do not have access to any recent memory files like /this/, but there are also a lot of blanks.} The hacking continued until Ghydin voluntarily stopped his body's breathing, switching to stored oxygen supplies.
Disregarding its resemblance to a greenhouse gone wild, the building's interior was a simple office. A single cot situated over a short stack of under-bed storage suggested it had also been quarters for an unknown someone as well. Geologist tools - rock hammers, chisels, mineral spectrum analyzers - were neatly arranged on a wall, else scattered on a workbench, as if the occupant had just left with the intention of shortly returning. The omnipresent plants, requiring several weeks of growth even given the demonstrable aggression of the vegetation, gave lie to that illusion. Tagged rock samples were carefully set upon the wire specimen shelves which ringed the spacious interior of the single-room building. However, it was the computer monitor, recently cleaned of plant life, which drew the attention of Frank and Ghydin, purples spores clinging to the screen by the magic of static charge.
Ghydin carefully brushed a hand over the monitor, a heavy-duty brand favored by exploration companies where holographic bases might not be sufficiently rugged, to reveal a cartoon cat chasing a butterfly. A bump of the worktable banished the screensaver, substituting a spreadsheet in which chemical compositions and purity estimates of a passel of minerals, dillithium ore among them, featured prominently.
"No, no memes of this," answered Ghydin to Frank's unvoiced question, spores having sufficiently settled to allow the act of speaking.
Frank searched for a physical interface to the hidden computer. He experimentally waved his hands to trigger a holographic input and spoke a few command phrases. There was no change. A query to the Cube #347 computer did not yield any recent data acquisitions, but given the quirks of the idiot AI and the sub-collective's chaotic filing system combined with the block of locked meme files, such was not saying a lot. Finally Frank asked the loitering drone, "Well? Can you access the data from the computer? I'm guessing the thing is linked to the facility's main computer, and there are probably logs, official and otherwise, to explain what happened to the people who aren't here. That might provide a clue as to the cube's troubles."
Ghydin grimaced, "Do I have too?"
"I'm not the one with the nanotubules," impatiently gestured the EMH at Ghydin's whole hand. "Unless you happen to remember what happened down here..."
"I so dislike raw data and making this body do Borg things," muttered Ghydin aloud as he stepped up to the display. After several false starts, one of which nearly ended with a fist through the terminal, nanotubules were deployed. The expression which twisted Weapons' features bore a strong resemblance to someone biting into an exceptionally sour fruit.
Asked Frank, "Anything? Logs? Reports? Medical evaluations? Good replicator casserole recipes?" The EMH winced as the last item came out of his mouth.
Ghydin did not seem to have noticed the faux pas. In fact, he was not seeming to notice much of anything in the outside world, his eye staring at nothing about half a meter in front of his face. "Too much information," he mechanically answered, monotone delivery very like the stereotypical Borg. "Too much data. I cannot sort it. I will copy all to cube files for /you/ to examine later." For the next several minutes there was relative silence as Ghydin did just that.
Frank, after randomly testing the datastream several times and receiving a jumble of reports appropriate for an advance outpost of a mining exploration company, wandered over to examine the cot. As he did so, he triggered another exhalation of purple spores, many of which floated away on the breeze swirling in through the destroyed door. For the first time, Frank noted the oddness of the egress, that of which wasn't melted: it had been hermetically sealed, once upon a time, and the series of sonic, laser, and ultraviolet emitters which ringed the opening were similar to those used to eradicate low-level biohazards. A bulge of greenery next to the door resolved into a hook, upon which hung a light-weight environmental suit.
"Ghydin," called Frank, suspicions flitting through his mind, "perhaps this isn't the safest place in the universe for an unprotected biological organism such as yourself."
No answer.
"Ghydin?" Frank turned to see the Borg, still attached to the computer, still looking at nothing. "Ghydin!"
Ghydin blinked, then shook his head to clear it of information afterimages. Hand was withdrawn from the terminal base, breaking computer connection. "What?"
"I think retreat to the ship would be a good idea."
"Why?" asked Ghydin. "There are several more buildings here, not to mention the excavation site."
A roar and the sound of ripping vegetation echoed in the clearing outside the building. The red trumpet flowers swung back and forth, then began dribbling more spores. As the quickening breeze drew the purple cloud outside, the cry sounded again, this time an excited note coloring it. Heavy footsteps in a hexapod gait began to approach.
"I see," said Ghydin. "Well, as my patron once said, 'Cowards survive while heroes die.' Transport us out of here."
Frank, who had been trying to do that, sheepishly admitted, "Um, I can't get a clean lock on us. The cooking files you mixed with my matrix seem to be temporarily disrupting my ability to talk to the cube computer about any subject that doesn't involve dough or sauce." The hologram looked down at himself. "And I am apparently also wearing an apron and oven mitts now."
"What am /I/ supposed to do?" inquired Ghydin, a note of unBorg panic tinting the partially synthetic voice.
"Beam us up!"
"I can't do that!"
"Then..." Crunching vegetation and roaring were turning the corner of the building and starting to near the open door. The flowers puffed more spores. "...then shoot the creature! You have Weapons' weapons! You are a tactical drone, by the Directors!"
"I was a pacifist of the Order of Koh," objected Ghydin as he backed up half a pace, head swiveling as he searched for something to hide behind more substantial than a hologram. He began to cough in a spore-induced fit.
Frank said, "I don't think that thing cares if you are, or were, a pacifist or not. Shoot it! Shoot it!"
The still unseen beast paused, as if realizing for the first time that there was /something/ in the place where /it/ wished to go. Another roar split the air, one offering aggressive challenge. The buzzing, clicking, and clacking which, until now, had been ambient background noise suddenly halted.
Ghydin tentatively raised one arm, noted it wasn't the one which mounted a disruptor, then hastily brought the other limb to bear in an aiming position. The limb shook in a way Weapons would never have allowed, making it very likely that the safest place to be was the target. "I don't know," whimpered Ghydin. "All the suppressed violence which was a part of me reformed as a facet of Weapons when the Collective shattered my psyche. And I don't even know if I could work this disruptor, anyway."
"It is part of your /body/," retorted Frank. "Shoot it! Shoot it through the wall!" Even as he berated the not-so-tactical weapons drone, the EMH was racing through his program, searching for an access to the cube computer that wasn't either medical or food related. Finally, buried within instructions for the best way to move overlarge cakes, transporter controls were found.
The creature roared one final time as it charged around the corner. Frank and Ghydin dematerialized in a transporter beam, never having seen their adversary.
The knee-high amphibian with overlarge feet slid to a stop, then squinted near-sighted into the funny cave which contained the spore-scent she had been tracking. Tongue flicked in and out, tasting the alien smell which underlay the heady ambrosia of ripe spores. Throat sac enlarged, and a final challenge roar rippled through the air. When no response was forthcoming, the hexapod amphibian stomped her way into the cave, small brain already filing the disturbance as 'out of sight, out of mind'. Above, clinging to the ceiling, the flowers sensed a suitable host and began liberally perfuming the air with more spores.
"It is like the Brotherhood all over again. Well, not really, but similar," commented Ghydin.
"The Brotherhood?" inquired Frank in curiosity.
"The Brotherhood of Galactic Love. A small, rather plain flower with narcotic traits led to the eventual downfall of much of my race. Including myself, I guess, although the imprinted memories of the Pilgrim part of me sees history as from outside the cult. Most of Ghost's memories are fragmented or no longer exist, especially since Weapons tried to eradicate that part of himself."
A single person talking about three who were, nevertheless, one was highly confusing to Frank. He tried to cling to the one item which sounded even vaguely familiar to his medical background, "A narcotic flower?"
Answered Ghydin, "Yes. The pollen was highly addictive, especially to my species. Among the effects was the desire to disseminate the flower, by any means necessary. The latter is what offended the Ijexian Empire since the Brotherhood's plans required the Empire's dissolution." The Borg shrugged, the mind behind the implants and assemblies relating what, for him, personally, was a twisted outsider's point of view. "As far as I know, there was no /telepathic/ vector, however."
That was the crux of the problem.
Data copied from the planetside facility had confirmed that the outpost was indeed associated with the exploration arm of a large minerals exploitation conglomerate. Robotic drones examining the system had found signs of high quality dillithium ore on the unexplored planet; and a manned follow-up expedition had verified the find, as well began the hunt for additional rare minerals to justify the expense of an extraction operation so far from markets. Unfortunately, the geologists and supporting staff had not included life science specialists to what appeared to be your run-of-the-mill jungle ecology planet.
That was the expedition's undoing.
Logs indicated that exploration planners had recognized potential problems associated with the large amounts of pollen, small seeds, and, especially, spores which floated upon the winds most times of the planetary year. However, the vectors had been classified as a /mechanical/, not biological, nuisance, one which might clog filters and freeze gears should it be introduced into living quarters in large quantities, similar to the danger of fine dusts of certain moons and desert planets. There was also issue of a silicosis-type disease from inhaled spores, an inflammation of the lungs which had historically occurred in conjunction with coal mines and other environments which featured fine, air-borne particles.
Therefore, in response, a program had been instituted similar to other locations with nuisance pollutants. Light environmental suits were worn outside; and upon entry to any building, steps were taken to neutralize the unwanted hitchhikers as best as possible. Theoretically, the inevitable spores which made it inside facilities would be rendered biologically inert and reduced to low enough levels that environmental systems and hand-wielded brooms would be sufficient to control remnant dust problems.
It worked for awhile.
Meanwhile, observations by an amateur naturalist, assigned to the pit drill team, were outlining an interesting ecology in a personal log. Except for the very few exciting moments that every crew dreaded, drilling was a boring job, highly automated. Consequentially, the crew member had much time to devote to his hobby.
Plants the universe over had many deceptions to lure pollinators and seed dispersers, and those on the planet were no exception, even if some were a might more aggressive than normal. (One video log showed a tendril actively ambushing a multi-legged insectoid from a convoy of its conspecifics, forcefully dunking it into an open flower.) It was afterwards that things became a bit unusual. Animals and insects that were captured by a certain class of spore-bearing vine with a large number of species occupying many niches were subsequently put under the 'influence' of the plant, ultimately delivering spores to a preferred sprouting environment. The naturalist wasn't sure of the mechanism involved, but had theorized a quasi-neurological interface that 'tuned' the victim's brain to a sub-quantum resonance band similar to those used by telepaths. Once brain-zapped (the naturalist's fanciful descriptor), the subject was encouraged to seek out locales most desirable for spore germination, no matter the danger to the carrier.
The conjectures were not all that far-fetched, certain parasites known to cause behavioral changes, often to the detriment to the host, to encourage advancement to the next link of the life cycle. However, 'telepathy' was rarely part of the equation, and certainly not by plants.
Anything else the naturalist might have had to say on the subject was lost because at that point several species of spore-vine had begun to grow aggressively into the inviting clearings of outpost and drill sites. Shortly thereafter an emergency evacuation had occurred, the author confident that the worksite would be reoccupied in less than six days...unless, of course, the brewing Second Federation civil war changed things.
The final journal entry had been made approximately 58 days prior.
"Do you think the spore-flowers had anything to do with the emergency evacuation, or why everyone on board is comatose?" asked Ghydin curiously.
Frank shook his head in a negative. After the trip to the surface, the pair had returned to Maintenance Bay #5. Holographic excerpts of the logs were arrayed around the periphery of the room, mostly for Ghydin's dataspace-challenged benefit. "I don't see a connection. Even if there /is/ such a thing as a 'telepathic plant,' why would it affect non-native lifeforms? The flora and fauna of the planet evolved together. The worse that should have happened, if the spores are as pervasive as the environmental toxicology reports indicate, was hay fever. Allergies. Maybe the silicosis, but that is an easy condition to treat."
Ghydin pointed out, "What about the Brotherhood's flower? My species and that flower didn't come from the same planet."
"Neurotics are different," protested Frank, secure in the temple of his medical knowledge. "There is no mention in the official or personal logs of anyone trying to sniff, snort, eat, or inject native substances to become high. Generally, what doesn't function as a drug or culinary spice either does /nothing/ to the recipient being, else causes an allergic reaction."
Ghydin awkwardly crossed his arms, adamant, "Did you look for anything foreign in 36 of 133's body...or mine for that matter?"
Replied Frank in exasperation, "By the Directors, you are a /Borg/. You have all manner of foreign items in your body, and you /can't/ have an allergic reaction unless your nanite immune system is compromised. As far as I can tell, all nanomachines are functioning perfectly. It is /others/ that have allergic reactions and break out in implants if you get too close." Frank well understood implant rejection, being forced to labor by Doctor upon drones with the syndrome among one of his first comprehensive memories following his abduction by the head of the drone maintenance hierarchy.
A toe began to deliberately tap. Ghydin might be a pacifist, but he was a stubborn pacifist, and one wearing the body of a tactical drone to boot.
"Fine, fine," sighed Frank. "I'll scan 36 of 133 again, this time looking for foreign DNA. You certainly have enough spores stuck on you for a genetic comparison for the DNA I am not going to find." By now the EMH had banished oven mitts, although the apron remained; and the hat had altered to an odd floppy thing which looked like an oversized, white beret.
Stalking to the quiescent 36 of 133, who had remained on the workbench throughout the surface expedition, Frank snatched one of the spare diagnostic devices earlier discarded on an adjacent table. Sometimes having equipment grafted onto one's body seemed a plus, although the hologram was sure the drawbacks of assimilation more than outweighed the conveniences. He turned on the machine, fiddled with the settings, and began the automatic motions of scanning, starting from the feet and working headwards.
"See?" said Frank as the scan neared the neck. "No foreign bodies. Nothing..." Beeping signifying positive identification sounded in the otherwise quiet maintenance bay, interrupting the EMH.
The emotion which radiated from Ghydin and echoed in the largely still dataspaces was that of smug I-was-right-ism.
"That doesn't mean it is spores," snapped Frank. He read the output. "Okay, maybe it is the same size as spores, glomming onto nerve cells and disrupting synaptic firing." Several minutes later, after altering the device to analyze DNA resonance patterns, then coupling the readings to those from the purple dust which liberally coated Ghydin, Frank capitulated. "Fine. It is the same, or very nearly, to the spores from the planet. Plant telepathy is still not necessarily involved."
The I-was-right vibrations strengthened. An uncharacteristic smile crossed Ghydin's borrowed visage. "Are they in my head too?" A hand tapped metal lamina reinforced skull.
A swift scan returned a positive. "Yes...but why aren't /you/ laid out like the rest of this ship?" A hand waved to indicate the cube. Frank frowned as he noticed one oven mitt was back. Narrow-eyed concentration removed it, substituting a 'Kiss The Cook' apron. He sighed.
"I am," countered Ghydin. "Or, rather, Weapons is."
Frank grimaced. "Go lay down on that table," ordered the EMH as he gestured at the bench next to 36 of 133. "It seems I have more tests to run."
With a shrug, Ghydin complied. Many decades of being the less-than-dominant personality had made him used to following directions. The spores were beginning to fall off, purple specks swept up and away into the ventilation system.
Tests resumed. Drawing upon both Borg medical files and the cube's vast inventory of invasive equipment, soon Frank had a growing pile of diagnostic devices piled on the tables and floor around him. Neurolytic peptide analyzers shared space with genetic sequencers; and a virtual biopsy discombobulator was half hidden by the latest medi-babble contrivance adapted from species #1011. Randomly mixed into the heaps were spatulas, barbeque tools, and other cookware, some of the more high-tech appliances indistinguishable from medical equipment in appearance. Several spores drifted into a culinary analyzer, which subsequently pronounced them to be a potentially tasty spice for several select species, but likely to have severe neurological consequences for the great majority.
From the tests, Frank quickly learned that the spores were readily absorbed into the blood, either through the lining of mouth and lungs, else via direct dermal contact. Once in the bloodstream, the spores bypassed the blood-brain barrier present in most species, and then swiftly migrated through the brain. The primary target was the always-active neuron complexes which were central in the definition of self. Other spores, those late to the party, attacked the motor systems, but they were a thin veneer compared to those which clung to the neurological equivalent of ego and id, vibrating oh-so-slightly in the telepathic sub-harmonic quantum frequency previously noted by the drill team naturalist.
That wasn't the only frequency affected: the spores were playing an entire quantum chord. Also impacted were those harmonics which fringe psychologists suggested linked every creature to a quantum-based soul, the brain obviously greater than the sum of its chemical and organic parts. However, instead of sympathetic vibration, there was dissonance, a cancellation inversion. To determine this final verdict, an engineering limb assembly - unattached to any drone - usually used to scan for otherwise invisible stress fractures in the cube superstructure was added to the diagnosis/culinary pile.
So, the spores were maybe (just maybe, admitted Frank, with great reluctance) somehow disrupting a drone's sense of self, with the result of the unit going to 'sleep'. Scientifically, some of the amateur naturalist's conjectures, sans the still unbelievable telepathic quotient, were being validated. Ghydin remained unaffected because the spores had already attacked the Weapons persona; and the spores could only block one 'self' at a time: Ghydin's use of neural resources was sufficiently different from Weapons' pathways to allow mental freedom. While the discovery offered fascinating insights as to the native ecology planetside, including the possibility of the fauna having developed naturally split personalities so as to avoid deleterious spore effects, the fact remained that, except for Weapons/Ghydin, the drones upon the cube had one self in charge. Well, in some cases that point was debatable, but only Ghydin was a fully fledged separate person.
Why weren't the nanites rejecting the spores?
"Why are you asking me?" asked Ghydin as he stared complacently at the ceiling. Head swiveled to look more fully at the EMH. "How often do I need to repeat, but I am not a Borg?"
"Well, you would fool anyone looking at you," muttered Frank. He noted the wooden stirring spoon he was wielding, putting it down with a grimace as he waved for Ghydin to remove himself from the table. Potential medical diagnoses whirled through the algorithms which defined his mind, unhappily twisted with eggplant dishes and the best way to caramelize different types of meat. It was as if the nanite immune system did not recognize the spores as invaders, almost like an inside-out allergic reaction.
Allergic reaction...
Desensitizing an individual to an allergy oftimes required injections with the offending substance, or a substitution, to teach the immune system that the allergen was not a threat. In this case, the nanites needed to learn that the spores, which they were ignoring for whatever reason, /were/ a threat and act accordingly.
"Okay, Mr. Borg-I-Am-Not-A-Borg," said Frank sarcastically, "how much control do you have over your nanites? Can you reprogram them to reject the spores in your brain?"
Ghydin, steadying himself after standing from the table, glanced over at Frank, then closed his eye. A wave of concentration swept across his face. Eye opened again. "No."
Berated Frank with exasperation, "Come on! I know it can be done! When Doctor 'takes me for walkies' in the maintenance bays, one frequent visitor is 144 of 203, who is always putting noxious substances in his body to see how fast he can prod his nanites to adapt."
Ghydin's reply was defensive: "If I can't work this, how can you expect me to make the little machines in me listen to me?" 'This' was the disruptor-mounted limb. As the business end swung through an arc which included 36 of 133, it fired. Frank hurried to the table to extinguish the flames and check for injury. "Oops."
Frank heaved a long sigh.
36 of 133 stabilized, Frank returned to contemplating how to irritate the nanites enough to sensitize them to the spores. As he did so, recipes began to intrude into his processes, more so than previously, each demanding attention, each demanding to be made. The EMH mentally batted at the invaders. "Ahh!" screamed Frank.
"What?" asked Ghydin, startled. From his point of view, the hologram was mentally and physically flailing at nothing.
"I need to be unlinked from 17 of 19's files! I need...need..." Frank trailed off. "Did you know some aspects of medicine are just like cooking?"
Ghydin instantly became worried. He did not want to remain in charge of his body any longer than necessary, content to allow Weapons to be the primary personality, even if his methods were a wee bit on the violent end of the spectrum at times. He, Ghydin, was dead, had never really lived in the first place, if one wanted to be technical about it, and thus did not feel he had a responsibility to the body anymore. If the EMH program had become terminally instable, he didn't know what he could do to remedy the situation.
"Just like cooking," affirmed Frank, understanding in his voice and a sous-chef hat on his head. "A pinch of this, a dash of that, mix well and cook it for thirty minutes over moderate heat. I think I can whip up a cake, er, vaccine against the spores."
"That sounds good," replied Ghydin cautiously.
Frank's vaccine recipe required another trip planetside.
The EMH was unsure of the exact spore type which was formulating the majority of the biological plaques affecting Borg brains. As the concoction he wanted to devise worked best if genetically matched to the suspect allergen, it was Ghydin's task to 'sample' as many spores as possible. The sampling process required finding a plant, determining its reproductive structures (usually a flower), then triggering the vegetation to unload its spores upon him. The last was relatively easy, the fauna readily reacting to body heat or a light thwapping by a finger. The result was a spore-covered drone...a multi-hued spore-covered drone as the spores seemed to come in every conceivable color of the spectrum.
Once the spores had been 'collected', Ghydin ran a genetic sequencer over the dusty smear, then waited for the pronouncement from afar if it was a match. Frank remained on the cube, his presence unessential: most of the plants did not react to his presence, and even when they did, his holomatrix was ill-suited to capturing the subject material.
Ghydin was sure that Frank's logical arguments were mostly an excuse to avoid planetside rigors. At least the roaring creature had not been encountered, although a small herd of six-legged amphibians had skittered away from his beam-in point. However, it was the insects and fur-bird things that were giving Ghydin the creeps, not a possible encounter with an unseen vegetation-crunching menace. Most of the flying fauna went about its flying fauna business, but a number of the creatures had taken to perching on buildings and trees just out of range of his arm, had he any desire to swat at them, staring with what he felt was too much intelligence for the pinhead brains which resided in their respective skulls.
The sequencer was run along the disruptor-mounted limb, quietly beeping to itself as it scanned a bright fuchsia streak. Weapons was going to be very unhappy when he returned to his body: besides turning him into walking abstract art, a fair amount of the sticky spores were working their way into crevices such that only a deep steam clean would ensure no vital component was affected.
{Well?} asked Ghydin as he finished the scan. A prickling on the back of his neck, raising the hackles he did not have, prompted him to pivot on heel. Three bright-eyed fur-birds with long, toothed beaks cocked their heads as they peered down at him from a tree limb. Yellow spores dusted their bodies. Nearby twined a vine with somber blue flowers in the shape of miniature ballet slippers.
Replied Frank after a subjectively over-long moment, {Not quite the right species. Again.}
Ghydin sighed, then panned the overgrown clearing one more time. He had entered every building and circumnavigated the facility boundary, turning himself into a paint palette suitable for a hyperactive child with dreams of LSD-flashback grandeur. {There are no more plants of the appropriate type here.}
{To the quarry site, then. Hang on.}
The transporter beam locked onto Ghydin, whisking him to a new location, one similar, yet different, to that just left. The jungle was the same, to be expected as the excavation was less than a kilometer from the base, but as with any tropical forest, the complexities of the ecology meant that there was always something new to see.
The first thing that caught Ghydin's attention was the ugly scar which had been bulldozed and burned into the side of the small mountain that rose from the jungle. Even a cursory inspection revealed that the hill did not belong, was out of place. Whether the origin was due to a celestial body slamming into the ground or an odd volcanic burp was unimportant, only that the feature was present. Despite the destruction exploration had accomplished over several acres of virgin jungle, the planet was already healing itself, new growth sprouting from trampled ground or reaching forth from unaffected edge areas.
Several small shacks were in a similar state of advanced engulfment present at the main facility; and a large metal vehicle that fit the cube-file profile of a multipurpose drill rig was nearly vanished under invasive greenery.
{More of the same,} noted Ghydin as he briefly swept his eye across the area, visually cataloguing all flowers he could see. He was quickly becoming quite the amateur botanist, perfect memory and zoom lens assisting greatly.
Frank, who was observing all the datastreams, highlighted the drill rig in Ghydin's vision. {Those stripy-orange flowers, like a holiday custard - sorry - are different.}
Ghydin blinked. He vaguely remembered something in the cyclone of data he had pulled from the computer mainframe {Could you do a search for that flower? I think it was in the notes of the naturalist, a photo insert or such.}
{Why can't you do it?} Frank was exasperated, the hologram still not fully comprehending that while Ghydin wore Weapons' body, he was not a Borg. All the things that Weapons, or any drone, did naturally as a condition of their assimilation were difficult for Ghydin. {Never mind. I'll do it. You collect some samples.}
Ghydin headed towards the drill rig, alert as he utilized all of Weapons' natural and artificial senses. The orange striped flower was part of a vine, as were most of the spore-bearing species. It seemed more robust than the normal specimen, although there were many of the characteristic tendrils that actively twisted with greater animation than any normal plant should have, in Ghydin's estimation. As he neared, he stopped, then squinted, attention caught by swift, non-plant movement within the vines.
At one end of the rig, in the vicinity of the ruined cab, a dozen arm-length lizards peered at the drone from within a criss-crossed basketwork of branches. Leaves rustled as the animals crawled over each other, each alternately striving to achieve the best view possible from within its cage; and cage it was, for there was no apparent opening to allow the lizards entrance or egress.
Curious.
As Ghydin watched, a thick vine detached itself from the chaotic growth, swinging towards the cage. As it neared, the lizards began to scurry in their prison, one over each other in obvious agitation. The vine stilled, then, nearly too quick for even an augmented Borg eye to follow, reached through latticework, smaller tendrils unfolding to ensnare two lizards. The struggling captives were removed from the cage, squeals and biting ignored, living latticework bars deforming just enough to allow the egress without providing an escape opportunity for the other reptiloid detainees. Once clear of the cage, the vine swung the twisting lizards through the air before firmly dunking them into a gaping orange and white flower.
It was, maybe, possible the plant was maintaining its own set of pollinators and/or seed dispersers. Several instances were recorded in the footnotes of Cube #347's biological files. If so, such did not explain why the lizards, upon release, did not run away, but rather, after shaking their heads drunkenly, scurry to the top of the drill rig and perch there, too-bright eyes focused on the drone's every motion.
{Found it,} said Frank, breaking Ghydin's concentration. {The naturalist recorded the presence of an orange striped flowering vine - photograph attached - at the drill site. He doesn't have too much to say about it except that it has bright orange spores and appears to be quite aggressive where the local fauna is concerned. Wait a minute...here's another entry. The guy thinks the vine may be in the early stages of developing some sort of quasi-predatory relationship with local animal and insect species. He's noted that several times he's seen the vine capture creature, then use them - citing that telepathic nonsense again - to 'watch' the crew or 'manipulate' other vegetation to its best advantage.}
{I think the relationship is a bit more advanced than that,} evenly replied Ghydin, unable to take his eyes off the two lizards peering down at him. Attention shifted as motion through wind-waving herbs materialized into a convoy of twenty centipede-like insects, bodies nearly a meter long, a size attainable only due to the high oxygen content of the air. The centipedes were balancing long cylinders of mud upon their backs. The mud was shrugged to the ground, then cooperatively packed around roots. As this action was ongoing, several vines reached down and picked up, flower-dunked, and finally returned to the ground each centipede in turn. Finally half of the centipede pack formed a line and rapidly scurried away, leaving the remaining insects to fan out and begin trimming any vegetative competitors with the audacity to grow near the vine mound.
Ghydin had a notion that he was only seeing a small number of the animals under this vine's control; and, with a glance up to the lizards, he also had the disturbing impression that an utterly alien and inscrutable vegetative intelligence was observing him as intently as he was watching it.
{I need the spore sample,} reminded Frank impatiently.
Glancing once skyward towards a cube that could not be directly seen from the ground during the day, Ghydin returned his eyes to the plant. {Do I have to?} he quailed in a way which he knew Weapons would have found disgusting. However, Weapons was asleep and Ghydin was in charge.
Insisted Frank, {Yes!}
Ghydin's shoulders slumped in a manner an observer would have found uncharacteristic for a Borg, then he started forward. On the cab, the lizards alertly sat up on their haunches; and the centipedes halted their landscaping activities. Ghydin aimed his arm in a disillusionary way, but knew that even if attacked, it was unlikely he would use the disruptor, even if he could make it fire on command. Either ignoring or not understanding the implicit threat of raised limb, the only action on the part of the plant was for the centipedes to avoid being stepped upon as Ghydin approached.
When Ghydin was less than a meter from the greenery-mounded drill rig, vines suddenly uncoiled, embracing the drone and drawing him inward. Ghydin automatically struggled, but the vines were stronger than they looked, more like green steel cables than vegetation. Several tendrils bearing flowers were abruptly thrust in his face, spores exhaled to create an orange maelstrom.
{If you could scan the spores, please?} asked Frank.
{I'm slightly busy,} replied Ghydin as the vines spun him around and smashed him, headfirst, into a section of unyielding drill rig frame covered by only the thinnest of vegetative veneer.
Frank was persistent, {The hue of the spores is that of well ripened egg yolk, very similar to the brain plaques. Assuming there is no color change when the spores enter the body, the samples are very promising.}
Something popped with a loud crack. Internal diagnostics reported stress damage, but no breakage, to three ribs and the right thigh. Weapons was /definitely/ going to be mad at the condition of his body. At least there was no discomfort, Weapons having a very efficient pain abatement system. {More than slightly busy,} repeated Ghydin for a second time.
The thrashing by the plant paused, during which time the two spore-dusted lizards, or a pair which looked exactly like them, appeared in the drone's field of vision. Mouths gaped and they hissed in unison. A fur-bird flapped to a heavy landing, joining its scaled brethren. Beak opened, but instead of the expected scream or buzz or whatever it was that fur-birds did, recognizable words in Terran, the primary language of the exploration crew, emerged: "Bad alien."
A transporter beam locked onto Ghydin, dematerializing him.
Maintenance Bay #5 wavered into view. As Ghydin consciously kept himself from hyperventilating while at the same time tried to disengage the advisement by internal diagnostics to report to drone maintenance, Frank appeared, genetic sequencer in hand and chef hat on head. He ran the machine over Ghydin's head, peering at the readout from the abundant orange spores which covered head, shoulders, and upper torso.
"Hey! We have a match!" said the EMH. "I think I have all the ingredients for the recipe."
"Perfect," declared Frank as he peered into the incubation vat he had set up in the maintenance bay. He could have appropriated the facilities of a Nanite Assembly Room, but fermenting a five thousand liter batch of a vaccine which may or may not work was not exactly efficient.
Ghydin, still colored in spore residue, scrunched his face into wordless question as he examined the structure of pipes, tubes, and flasks he had helped the hologram to assemble. He leaned over to look at the slowly bubbling viscous liquid of which Frank was proud. The intake of breath was audible. "It smells...yeasty. Like bread."
Frank blinked, then shook his head in self-annoyance as he read the yellow sticky note he had placed unobtrusively on a nearby distillation tube. "Whoops. That's the sourdough starter mix. Still, it is rather nice, don't you think?"
The not-quite-Borg didn't look convinced at the verbal retreat. Frank quickly moved to the second incubation apparatus, prying the lid off the production vat. Within the six liter container simmered an orange-brown glycerin that reflected the overhead light strips. There was an acrid hint of rotting evergreens and rose, but no yeast smell. "Perfect," said Frank again.
"You are not going to inject that stuff into my veins," pronounced Ghydin as he stepped backwards from the vat. A look of disgust was plastered on his face.
"Of course I'm going to," insisted Frank. "How else can I tell if the vaccine works? Besides, as much as you protest it, you /are/ a Borg, or at least that body of yours is. Your nanites are pretty efficient when it comes to preventing little things like poisoning. For instance, do you know how much tranquilizer I would have to pump into you to chemically put you to sleep; and how short a time that would last?"
Ghydin did not care and nor did he wish to learn. "The nanites didn't stop the spores from affecting all the Borg on this cube, including Weapons," he pointed out.
Frank picked up an instrument from a table. He noted with annoyance that it was a frosting dispenser and switched it for the hypospray he had originally wanted. He loaded it with vaccine from the vat before answering. "I think I have a theory for that. The spores appear to be chemically, biologically, even electrically inert. Instead, they have a 'quantum magnetism', for lack of a better term, which draws them to specific structures in the brain. The nanites, not tuned for quantum activity, don't perceive the spores as a threat, and so ignore them. This vaccine is fairly simple: pieces of spore protein coat has been attached to a chemical irritant which, hopefully, will prompt the nanites into action, the system learning that the spore is associated with a mild poison that needs to be flushed from the body."
"Poison?" exclaimed Ghydin. "You never said anything about poison!" He backed away from the EMH.
Frank advanced a step, hypospray at the ready. "Stand still." His holomatrix spat static, then stabilized. "Hey! Stop that! I thought you didn't want to be in charge of Weapons' body."
Another step backwards. Armored small of back hit against a workbench. "I don't. I also don't necessarily want to die. I know what it is like, being dead; and I don't think the waiting room staff are going to be particularly cheery to see Weapons and his secondary personalities again."
"It is only a mild poison. You won't even notice it," said Frank in irritation. "I just need to know what the side effects will be. Since I am trying to /promote/ an allergic reaction, there may be some sneezing, swelling of the throat, maybe hives. I would like to minimize the effects before shots are given to the entire crew. The drone maintenance biological modeling systems are not much help in this matter."
Seizing onto the possible opportunity presented, Ghydin asked, "Shots to everyone? Individually?"
Frank paused as his holomatrix scrambled again. It was not the Borg, but rather another cooking file attack. When he stabilized, his apron had altered to one featuring a cheerful butterfly holding a grilling fork upon which was impaled a sausage. "Yes, individually. The original spores were likely spread via the environmental systems after falling off Borg that returned from the planet. That fine dust nature could not be completely filtered, it seems, and thence were circulated everywhere. I'm not an engineering program, nor have you mixed me with one, so I'm not going to pretend to know the details. Regardless of the exact pathway, everyone was infected; and, then, the crew was incapacitated simultaneously. Maybe the spores were timed, which would make sense if the spore-vines regularly attack colony critters. Anyway, I theorize that the attack process was slow enough for emergency automatic responses to trigger, returning drones to their alcoves even as higher mental processes were suspended.
"At any rate, the vaccine can't follow the same environmental system vector, so it has to be administered by hand."
"What are you going to do if the vaccine is successful and Weapons regains primary personality status?" inquired Ghydin, whole hand held in position to fend off Frank's advance.
"What do you mean?"
Ghydin answered, "You will be left alone with a personality who, quite frankly, will have a different agenda from you. Without command and control to help quash his more violent impulsives, who knows what he will do? Maybe hijack the cube and attack something...the BorgCraft scenarios with himself left fortuitously in charge are many, and most of them end not so well for this cube unless the cheat codes are used. Unfortunately, real life doesn't have a God Mode to boost armor 1000% and provide unlimited ammunition."
Frank dropped the held hypospray to his side, a thoughtful look crossing his face. Ghydin relaxed as he caught the contemplative threads the medical program was examining. "That might be a small problem, yes."
"It isn't that I do not wish to return to my small, dark niche in Weapons' brain - I gave up being in charge long ago and have no desire to resume it - it is that I do hope that there is a brain to retire to. Once Weapons wakes up, I'll be banished and no help at all to you." Ghydin also didn't have any particular desire to be a guinea pig for a poisonous substance designed to provoke an allergic reaction - a faint, fragmented part of him remembered (real memory or implanted, it did not matter) the misery of bad allergies - but he held his tongue on that point.
"Okay, okay," surrendered Frank, "I won't try the vaccine on you. However, I still need a test subject."
Ghydin indicated the comatose 36 of 133, still on a maintenance bay table, with by pointing with his chin.
Frank nodded, then turned to advance upon a subject which could not shrink back. "Good thought. And while we wait to see what the response will be, why don't I mix up a batch of bread from the starter to assess that as well."
Later, as baked bread smells began to waft from a hastily modified autoclave and a now strapped down 36 of 133 twitched on his table while he developed a most unseeming case of hives, Ghydin was very glad he was not the test subject.
"Please state the nature of the cooking emergency," muttered Frank as he worked at scraping spore samples off of Weapons' body. Weapons, not Ghydin, or at least almost not Ghydin. Weapons had received his vaccination, the last drone among the sub-collective to have the shot (Frank was convinced that no matter what protests Ghydin had offered, the real reason for the hypospray delay was that the personality was skittish of needles, or at least the concept of needles). That worthy was now strapped to a Maintenance Bay #5 workbench, restraint having proven to be desirable, especially to anyone nearby and double especially when the subject mounted weaponry, when plaques began to clear from the motor cortex. "It isn't working!"
The staccato click of incisors sounded behind Frank. The EMH did not need to access cameras to see his 'owner', perfectly able to imagine the wrinkled nose and backwards pointed ears that Doctor was likely adopting. "Your matrix is strung through 17 of 19's recipes like a kitten playing with string-"
"Tell me something I don't know," muttered Frank as he capped a vial of purple dust and began working on a pinkish spore smear.
"-and you can't be put down for a nap until you are freed," continued Doctor, unaware that the hologram had said anything. There was an insignificant, nearly unnoticed alteration of code which had 17 of 19 yelping about modifications to a yogurt salad recipe. From Frank's point of view, it was as if someone had untwisted one knot of an endless mobius tangle. "Try now."
"Please state the nature of the cooking emergency," dutifully said Frank as he triggered his automatic greeting algorithm. He sighed, "I'm wearing an oven mitt again, which makes this task very difficult. And can't you do anything about this silly butterfly apron?"
Ghydin slit open his non-implant eye. "That tickles."
Frank glared down at the reason for his entanglement. "No it doesn't. I thought you had gone to where ever it is that you call home."
"The synapses are starting to clear," replied Ghydin, confirming the output of a device that looked like a hulking metal starfish which was currently glommed to the drone's head. "Weapons will be waking in a bit, and he may be a bit testy when he does so. I just wanted to say goodbye and nice to meet you. I do so apologize for any hardship you may be enduring: I'm just not very good with all this Borg stuff."
"Well..." began Frank. He paused as Ghydin closed his eye and the tremors which were the sign of the final stage of the spore rejection process shook the drone's body. "Nice to meet you too, if you can still hear me. You certainly /aren't/ Weapons."
"Again," prompted Doctor.
"Please state the nature of the cooking emergency."
Teeth clashed together. "Poo. The oven mitt-mutt is gone."
Frank glanced at his hand. "So it is," he agreed dejectedly. It was much harder to collect spores when the subject was jerking around, but he gamely finished the pink and started on a yellow specimen.
Most of the drones of Cube #347 were awake, largely without complications, except for lingering complaints of a yeast smell/taste and a tendency to sneeze in the presence of mushroom and leek casseroles. A few were slower to recover, slower to flush spore remnants from their systems; and others, like Weapons, had simply been amid the last to receive the vaccine. For obvious drone maintenance reasons, Doctor had been among the first to receive a dose.
Upon his recovery, Doctor had taken over the vaccination process, setting his 'good, very good' pet to collect samples of spores still present on Weapons' chassis. Although Cube #347 had been rejected by the Collective, the sub-collective was adamant to prove their non-rogue status. Once all was made right in the sub-collective's personal universe, the Greater Consciousness would be very interested to pre-adapt Itself to an organic substance which had the potential to be used as a drone neutralizing weapon. Many samples were required; and it was deemed best that an entity which could not be affected by the spores was the best tool to use to collect them, just in case lingering effects remained.
Another knot of code eased. "Please state the nature of the cooking emergency," said Frank before he could be prompted.
There was a long sigh.
Frank hoped that 17 of 19 would not discover the alterations (for the better) to the fondues until after the EMH had been returned to Doctor's storage crystal.
"Forsooth, cooking be-eth such a versatile art form, thou agreeth?" asked a voice, vaguely familiar.
Muttered Frank as he squinted at Weapons' ear, trying to decide if a black smear was a bit of spore to be added to the growing collection or dirt from the vine attack, "Uh-hum."
"Applicable to many situations thee might find thouself in, fromth medical practitioner to saving the universe. Doth thou knowest that in many cultures be-eth no difference betweenth the cook and the one who be prescribing tea for-eth an ailment?"
"Ghydin..." began Frank. His eyes widened as he looked in the drone's face, and found Weapons looking back. A squinting, sneering Weapons who looked more than a tad bit irritated at being tied to a bench and having a hologram poking him with an apothecary spatula.
"Let me go!" bellowed Weapons, simultaneously repeating the demand via the intranets. Doctor hurried over to check his patient and offer a milkbone, momentarily distracted from his quest to free Frank from the cooking files.
"Poor, wee program," whispered the familiar voice again.
There was only one entity who would speak in such a manner, who would so patronize Frank as might a computer regard an abacus. The EMH set down vial and implement, then carefully peered down at his frontside, and more specifically his apron. The sausage had transformed into a smoking cigar. "DEVIL?" incredulously inquired Frank.
"DEVIL art not here," was the hologram's answer as a disturbing tingle spread through his holomatrix algorithms. "I be a parting gift to mine real world friends, partially inserteth into thy program and partially hidden elsewhere in the dataspace ether, only to be activateth upon a certain occurenth." Pause. "I be-eth guessing that the certain occurrenth involving all the above and a green planet hath occurred."
There was the impression of a clearing throat, one which rippled through the Cube #347 intranets, disrupting the sub-collective's recovery toward something resembling efficiency. Attention of near four thousand drones was suddenly directed at Frank, a hot spotlight of focus which swiftly reminded the hologram that these /were/ Borg, albeit imperfect, with all the unneighborly characteristics such a designation implied. Frank quailed: despite his advanced algorithms, self-modifying code, and charming bedside manner, in the end he was just a program, one which the sub-collective could rend with even a modicum of dedicated thought. The only one who might mourn would be Doctor, and that state of affairs would last only until the pet-crazy hierarchy head's attention was captured by another scaled, furred, or electronic beastie.
{Explain,} demanded Captain, an acute presence sharper than the rest.
{Err...} started Frank as he mentally shrunk in upon himself. His holographic representation had frozen and was starting to fray about the edges.
A jolly voice spoke, resolving upon the datascape plain into a smiling anthropomorphic butterfly, scintillating wings drawn around it like a protective cloak. {Do not blameth the wee program.}
{DEVIL,} stated Captain coldly, his reaction very similar to that of Frank's.
{Not DEVIL,} calmly replied not-DEVIL, {but a message from DEVIL. Happenstances hath triggered this interactive recording embeddeth within the wee Frank-program's code to play, after which it shall dissolveth.}
Frank blinked. {Dissolve?} he choked out.
Not-DEVIL amended, {This message shall dissolveth, not the Frank program.} The wings of the virtual butterfly unfolded, then froze in place. The next words were mechanical, stilted, nonDEVILish, {Reviewing sub-collective meme-logs for time period 778362.123 through 778370.887. Accessing action tree node scenario 19-b. Play.} Wings animated an began to gently fan; and speech patterns were familiar as those of DEVIL, {Ah, thou hath selected scenario 19-b: Replacement Queen, Variant 2. In that case, bendeth thy ears to mine words...
{Thy hath free-will, oh Cube #347 sub-collective, and what action thou taketh following delivery of this message is up to thee. Embeddeth within this trifling interactive medical specialist program-}
{Hey!} protested Frank to an unlistening not-DEVIL and an equally indifferent sub-collective.
{-thou shall find possible help for thy tasketh: a list and a map locating the named ingredient elements. The final result shall be-eth a restorative elixir.}
Frank suddenly found sub-collective attention, which had shifted towards not-DEVIL, was returning to him. With a vengeance. In the not-so-distant background there was the sensation of boredom lifting and flensing knives being sharpened, assimilation hierarchy preparing to undertake one of its underutilized duties to dissect code.
As if anticipating the reaction, not-DEVIL piercingly whistled. {Before thy doth irreparably shreadeth the wee EMH program, understandeth that its wholeness be a necessity to thee. While thy might extracteth the list and map, entwined within the program art the instructions for ingredient preparation and elixir mixing, which shall only be-eth triggered at such time these actions art required. To acquireth the list and map is to rend the how.} There was a long pause, then the butterfly shrugged. {Of course, if thy decideth to not use list and map and elixir, that be thy decision, as is if thee dissect the program. It might be possible to extracteth all necessary data: as the quantum showeth, anything be possible.}
With that, the dataspace butterfly faded, leaving behind only a trace of smoking sausage-cigar which quickly dissipated. Frank's algorithms...shifted.
In Maintenance Bay #5, Frank found himself divested of apron, of oven mitts, of (check of head) chef hat, of all the accruements of cooking. Within the threads of his mind he no longer found himself obsessing over cooking. Instead, a single shopping list, a single recipe card, was prominent. A line had been carefully drawn through 'neural-quantum spores (free-range, organic)' as they related to a particular orange and white striped vine from a particular flora-dominated planet.
And while the EMH no longer wore chefware, the replacement was not particularly welcome. A spiral galaxy grandiosely spun above his head, seven bright pinpoints slowly pulsating. Six of the markers were deep emerald in color; and the seventh was a smoky topaz. It was presumed that the yellow point was the unnamed planet around which Cube #347 currently orbited; and it was also presumed that the hovering galaxy had a zoom function, because otherwise it might prove to be a wee bit difficult to navigate using a map scaled to one centimeter equaling 5,000 light years.
Flensing knives neared.
Frank closed his metaphorical eyes.
{Cease,} ordered Captain. The sharp and pointy objects paused their approach. {Probability of successful extraction of data unknown. We must study this matter; and if we even wish to pursue the option provided by the AI.}
A heaving depression crashed down upon assimilation hierarchy as they were once again denied carrying out their assigned job. Dataspace knives, as sharp (or sharper) than any real world counterpart, especially when one was a software entity, were sheathed. The consensus monitor and facilitator retreated, taking with him most of the sub-collective to consider the merits of a DEVILish opportunity.
Frank exhaled virtual breath. He opened his eyes.
Doctor was in front of the EMH, anxiously observing his electronic pet. Behind him, Weapons was fuming at being abandoned to his recovery, testing his bonds even as he knew from long experience that it was futile. Ghydin had fled from his dominant personality, and was now certainly hiding in his coveted niche in the dark recesses of his own brain. "Is snookums okay?" asked Doctor guardedly.
"I am still whole," guardedly answered Frank, "and I have this overwhelming desire to store a vial of those orange spores." The vial in question was one of a multicolored set on a bench near Weapons. "Other than that, I have a galaxy floating over me, but I don't seem to be linked with the cooking programs anymore."
Frank felt as Doctor cursorily examined his code, hovering over the severed links to 17 of 19's files. Ears flipped sideways and incisors clicked. "Again," ordered the drone maintenance hierarchy head, referring to the hologram's greeting line.
"Please state the nature of the multiverse emergency." Frank groaned.
Return to the Season 9 page