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Antique Roadshow
"You requested my presence, sir?"
"About time you arrived. Have you seen the recording?"
"Sorry, sir, I was unavoidably delayed. And, no, I haven't. Lenny only told me you might be interested in the content; and since he is very astute concerning your, er, beneficiary's tastes, I passed on the crystal with full trust he had found something."
"He did, Mr. Kohrot, he did indeed. Here, let me project the relevant part. Zeke, show the first tagged segment."
Mr. Kohrot - or, rather, Gideol, the name all but his current employer called him - squinted his eyes against the sudden brightness.
Gideol was what society euphemistically labeled a "chief security consultant." In fact, that was the title on his contract and his tax forms. Other circles had different names for his career, the most polite being "mercenary." Truthfully, Gideol had spent considerable time in one uniform or another, performing various distasteful deeds, but he had eventually come to his senses and decided it to be more lucrative, and much safer, to found is own company and let other, younger idiots take the risk.
Today Gideol looked the part of an accountant. An accountant three-quarters Klingon, true, whom carried a rather large sidearm and had a physique possible only through hours of strenuous workouts where others played the role of punching bags, but an accountant nonetheless. It was the antique glasses: Gideol needed them to read, and refused to take the time from his busy schedule for the required corrective surgery. To say he resembled an accountant was not to say he was an accountant, although he was facile at numbers (mostly those involved in the sniping profession) when needed.
Gideol did not know who his employer was. Oh, he had ideas, but he and his coworkers were paid to cultivate a sense of disinterest as well as keep their mouths shut. Such was fairly common in the underworld of security consultation, but Gideol personally thought his current employer took secrecy a bit far.
The room was dark, or had been when Gideol entered; and even now with a tri-V base projecting an image, artful shadows obscuring the chair where "Big Boss" was sitting. Could be sitting. Gideol never truly knew, despite his years of experience, if his employer or a hologram was present. It might seem odd that a security consultant wouldn't know the movements of his employer, but that wasn't the job. Big Boss could be as cowled, as cloaked, as wreathed in shadow and mystery and voice distorters as he wanted, as if he had read too many bad spy novels. Gideol didn't care. His only focus was the building, with contents, he had been hired to guard, and the "extracurricular activities" that always provided a nice bonus.
"It's a Borg, sir. It looks like a big, hairless rat-thing. I don't recognize the species, if such is important; and neither is its Color obvious," said Gideol after a few minutes of observation.
Big Boss chuckled, or at least that what the sound resembled through the voice distorter. "It isn't a Color, Mr. Kohrot. It's the read deal - a /Collective/ drone."
Gideol's roughly ridged forehead wrinkled in consternation. The projection was that of a Borg, image captured on a security recording from a pigsty hole of a lunar city off in the Ladelon sector. Leo or Leotard or Leopard or something like that. The name was unimportant. What was important was that this particular Borg seemed to be moving quite well through a crowd (admittedly, the people were making a pathway for it), by itself, without assimilating anyone or verbally promoting threats thereof. Those incongruities were respectfully pointed out.
Big Boss was oblivious to the concern. "That armor the drone is wearing...it is subtle to the untrained eye, but it is a /pre-Color/ configuration. Zeke, freeze image and zoom in on a shoulder." The Borg-rat halted; and the projection magnified the upper left arm. "See the latching pattern?"
Antiques, other than his personal glasses, were not Gideol's interest. He was also brutally honest. "No, sir, I do not."
Chuckle was upgraded to a laugh. "Oh, Mr. Kohrot, you are such a barbarian. Take my word for it, but that connector system hasn't been in use since the initiation of the Dark War. That is over five centuries, Mr. Kohrot. I don't know where that drone came from or how it is still alive, but chances are good there are more just as old. Zeke, projector off."
The room was plunged into darkness punctuated only by the faint sparkle of a holoprojector. Ah, so Big Boss was not physically present, then.
Mr. Kohrot, please provide your Lenny colleague with, oh, a two thousand credit bonus for finding this jewel of a recording and bringing it to my attention."
Gideol smiled to himself, already anticipating the next request from his employer. "Yes, sir. Anything else?"
"Now that you inquire, yes. The recording is only a few weeks old. I've filled the usual account with sufficient funds to cover normal expenses, but if you run into problems which require extra monies, don't hesitate to contact me through the usual channels. As always, I'll want a detailed breakdown of your expenditures when you return: lodging, food, armament purchases, and so on. I'll inform my beneficiary that you and a selection of your company will be off-site for a number of weeks."
"The job?" prompted Gideol.
Big Boss sounded annoyed, "You know the job. I want you to go antiquing for me, Mr. Kohrot. It's a rough business, and I only hire the best. Track where that Borg came from, then acquire some antiques. There will be a substantial bonus if you successfully return before the Roadshow arrives."
Gideol nodded his head. "Yes, sir. Right away, sir. I'll put my best people on it. Well, maybe second best due to the possibility of assimilation, but they are still competent people."
"Whatever," said Big Boss, one arm waving dismissal.
With a smile on his face, Gideol smartly pivoted and headed for the door. He had a job to plan.
*****
The primary consensus monitor and facilitator was the first organic computational node the computer activated following reboot, as per standard operating procedure.
Captain awakened in his alcove, more than mildly confused. One moment, all systems had been nominal, himself regenerating, the cube on course for one of the mysterious destinations on the EMH's map. Now, the ship was drifting in normal space, a 2.3 hour window of time unaccounted for, and bootup in process. There was, for lack of a better description, a hole in the sub-collective's combined memory. The cause could be, and most likely was, associated with a subspace phenomenon, but...things just did not seem right.
Captain reminded himself that not only had he no neck feathers to hackle, but that such feelings were irrelevant. He instructed the computer to activate the remainder of the sub-collective. The explanation was best determined by the many, rather than the insignificant speculations of the one.
It quickly became apparent that subspace phenomena had not been involved.
{My arm! I'm missing my entire limb assembly!}
{Ah! I need a robe, a wrap, a towel! My torso armor is gone and my midriff is exposed to the universe! I'm practically nekkid!!}
{Has anyone seen my lower left leg? I've fallen and I can't get up....}
{My hats! All my old bowlers and tricorners are gone!}
{If I find who /touched/ my antique pulse rifle collection, they will be dismantled.}
{My haaaaats! The Andorian-style beanie dating to the Tzzolzzitz Hive Era is gooooone!}
All over the cube, reports of theft were being described. Usually it was an arm or limb assembly, occasionally an implant, sometimes the object of a personal obsession. The theme linking the disappearances was that the item was inevitably old, usually originating "pre-resurrection."
The conclusion was unavoidable: Cube #347 had been robbed.
In most cases the consequence was inconvenience, the only reason the burgled body part not having been replaced with a current era version being the old one functioned just fine. For a few the removed part was potentially life-threatening, and to drone maintenance these units were transported. And as for the hats and pulse rifles and other nonBorgStandard items...?
{It was a /book/, 94 of 480, a technical manual for an obsolete device that no longer exists,} stated Captain. He had yet to leave his alcove since awakening; and although /certain/ drones, such as Second, were tasked to manage the queue of disgruntled units who had lost nonessentials, a few managed to slip through a sidedoor and elevate their problem as high as it could go.
{But...} insisted 94 of 480.
{A book. A construction of mashed vegetable fibers and ink. Combustible material. Irrelevant. Return to Second's queue if you insist upon filing a missing item report.}
{But 10 of 19's clogging it up with his stupid hats.}
{Leave. Now. Comply. You are decreasing my personal efficiency, which lowers our collective efficiency.}
Sighed 94 of 480, {Compliance.}
Before Captain could fully return to sorting through the confusion the thefts had caused, he received another ping. The originating unit was Doctor. {What?}
{I'm missing -}
Captain sighed. {Doctor. Second has the report queue, along with 1 of 8 and 8 of 8. The primary consensus monitor and facilitator has his primary consensus monitoring and facilitating to attend.}
{No, no, no, no, no, no. This is very, very important. I've been robbed!} said Doctor in agitation.
Captain heard a virtual tooth click sound inserted between each "no." {So is true for the sub-collective in general. If this is about the rhinestone pet collars I know you've been hoarding -}
Doctor interrupted Captain, {No. I know where those are. Mostly are. This is much more important. Much, much, much more important. Unauthorized cranial surgery. /Inexpert/ someones sawed into my noggin. They took a memory crystal!}
{Five other drones had data implants stolen as well,} replied Captain. {You are not unique. Report it to the partition facilitated by 7 of 8.}
A sharp tooth click echoed. {No. You don't understand. They took Frank's holomeme crystal. Someone pet-snatched Frank.}
Frank. And the galactic map. That put an entirely new spin on the problem. {Tell us all,} ordered Captain as he accessed the appropriate theft report form.
*****
Two Bajorans sorted through the neatly stacked bins of antique Borg booty (interspersed with odds and ends such as hats, pulse rifles, and books). The names their colleagues knew them by were Toni and Guido, obviously not given to the brothers at birth, but the pair were well known for their penchant towards classical Terran mob movies. They were also known for their cat burglar skills, crack-shot rifle abilities, spoon-balanced-on-nose technique, and for having an eye which could distinguish the merely good antique from the excellent.
"This limb assembly has some unsightly dings in the elbow. See?" criticized Guido. "Why couldn't those Borgs take care of themselves better?"
Toni sighed and rolled his eyes. "Put it in the 'okay' bin, then. There is still lots to sift through before we dock in two weeks. It'll all barely be categorized by then, much less graded."
Guido shook his head at his brother's overly high stress level as he deposited the assembly in the correct bin. He returned to sorting through the box on his table. A sparkle caught his eye. "Toni, I got one of 'em data crystals in here. You're better at assessing that type of stuff than I am. Want it?"
"Hand it over." Toni adroitly caught the lobbed crystal. He held it up to a desk lamp on the edge of his table, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. "It looks like an old holographic support model. The Critics only know what head the salvage crew dug this one out of -"
"Hee. This is one of Matrale's boxes. He and his demolition buds don't know much more than 'hack off whatever the tricorder beeps at.' We're lucky we don't have an entire Borg head here," interrupted Guido.
Toni paused as he considered Matrale's intelligence, or, rather, lack thereof. "That Bolian is such an idiot. And he screws up the plumbing on a regular basis. On purpose. Why does Gideol put up with him?"
"Because he blows things up well when the contract calls for such. The crystal...?"
"Oh, right." The crystal was bounced on an open hand. "Anyway, it looks like it may have holographic support. Whatever drone had it was probably using it as a 'tertiary floating point co-processor' thingy-ma-bob, you know how they talk, even the individualistic Color types." Toni paused just long enough to hear the grunt of agreement from his brother. "I'll just slip this thing into a holodisplay base and see if there's any remnant program on it, or if the Borg erased it."
A data reader, configured to accept a wide range of storage media, sat on a table against the wall opposite the room's door. It was to this reader Toni made his way, inserting the crystal into an appropriate slot. After a few minutes of consideration, the reader beeped; and the holoprojection unit connected to it lit up.
"Please state the nature of the medical emergency," stated the human in First Federation Starfleet garb who appeared. There was a long pause as the ancient EMH blinked, then quickly swiveled his head to peer around the room. "You aren't Borg!"
Guido exhaled huskily, "Damn! A First Federation holo-program? Hardware I know, not software and such. I think the Big Boss needs to be told."
A wicked smile lit Toni's face, "Definitely the Big Boss. There'll be a bonus for this." He touched the button to turn off the reader.
"Hey!" protested the EMH before he vanished.
"I'll switch the box labels while you call the Big Boss," said Guido as he hunted on his table for a marker. "Wouldn't want Matrale to get the finder's fee, after all."
"Please state the nature of the medical emergency," automatically said Frank as he was activated for a second time. Once again he was more than a little surprised at the lack of Borg, and, specifically, Doctor; and once again a part of him was suspicious he was being used as a character in a holo-play. It had been done before, after all.
"You are right, it /does/ appear to be an antique Emergency Medical Hologram, one of the early marks before the series was revised."
Frank turned to face the speaker, protest on his lips, "Who are you calling an 'antique'?"
"That confirms it. Definitely an early mark, unless the Borg have taken to the unlikely pastime of programming attitude into AIs." The speaker was a shadowed man, steeped in his own personal pool of darkness despite the fact that the moderately sized room was brightly lit. There was a peculiar sparkle about the edges of his form which suggested he was a projected hologram. Black hat, scarf, overcoat, sunglasses, all hid identity, species, gender, although something indefinable prompted Frank to assign a "human male" label. This was not a Borg-derived simulation.
Frank lifted his head proudly, "I'll have you know that I am a top-of-the-line military quality Emergency Medical Hologram programmed with over ten thousand procedures. I am conversant with dozens of species. My adaptive algorithms allow me to adjust to unusual circumstances and devise new techniques, where necessary."
The man - Big Boss - laughed. "How quaint!"
"How so, sir?" asked one of two Bajorans standing near Big Boss.
"The attitude. The EMH developed by Zimmerman during the First Federation era was undoubtedly a work of genius. Unfortunately, the first marks, in addition to having Mr. Zimmerman's not-so-charismatic face, had a tendency to obsess upon non-medical things, to develop a pseudopersonality and desire to 'become their own person.' Sometimes the crews the EMH's were assigned to adopted the program as a mascot, which only encouraged the instability, but most medical officers at the time found the mannerisms annoying at best, disastrous at worst. The early mark EMH's also had a bedside manner that left something to be desired, or so I've read."
"Hey!" protested Frank. "I've a great bedside manner. If you want bad bedside manner, watch a few thousand Borg hack-and-slash surgeries and form your own opinion." He was ignored.
Big Boss continued his history lesson, obviously of the class of people who love to flaunt obscure knowledge. "It was because of the instabilities that Zimmerman was eventually forced to rework his EMH's. Some of the more obnoxious algorithms, including the original visage, were sold to the media industry, which subsequently developed the Zyrian series. Other routines were isolated, from which Personalities were developed. What remained of the early EMH's were provided with a library of suitable faces and bodies - mostly female - and decent bedside manner."
"Hey!" cried Frank in affront once more.
"In the end, the product was what had originally been envisioned for a specialty medical AI, minus the progressive attitude. By that time, Zimmerman had pretty much lost interest in the EMH project and was laying groundwork for the first Personalities."
"It doesn't sound like many of the early mark EMH's would be left then, sir. What is something like that worth?" asked Bajoran One.
Big Boss nodded his head. "Indeed, early EMH's are rare. As far as worth, well-"
Frank was becoming increasingly annoyed at being referred to in the third person, as if he was not present. Pricing him like a kilo of potatoes was the last straw. "Excuse me," he said loudly, "but I want to thank you from rescuing me from the Borg."
As if unused to being interrupted, Big Boss halted his unofficial appraisal mid-word. Through sunglasses and scarf emanated the impression of irritation...followed by dismissal, as one might regard a yappy, but ultimately trivial, lapdog. "Missrs. Guido and Toni? Set this crystal aside. It is a stupendous find, but it needs to be run through Zeke first in order to remove whatever crap it has accumulated. For instance, I don't know what is up with that galaxy thing that keeps manifesting over its left shoulder, but it is unacceptable. Once Zeke has reset it to factory specifications, he can further strip the program for suitable presentation to the public: its greeting, a few route procedures on holographic patients, maybe some innocuous conversation."
Sensing this to be his last chance, Frank waved his arms, "I'm not an 'it'! I'm a 'he' and my name is Frank!"
Unfortunately, the Bajoran called Toni was already on the move. He rudely passed through Frank with nary a blink on his way to the reader. As Frank watched helplessly, he heard another conversation behind him.
"Sir, will there be a bonus?" asked whom was presumably Guido, that Bajorian not having previously spoken.
"Yes, I suspect so. I'll talk with Mr. Kohrot about the matter," answered Big Boss. "Suitable arrangements will have been made by the time you arrive. Until then, keep the EMH crystal safe; and do not hesitate if either of you come across any other fabulous finds. Until then, I've an appointment." There was a deafening silence which suggested the holographic representative for the actual Big Boss had vanished.
"Did you hear that, Toni? A bonus!" gushed Guido. "How much do ya think it'll be?"
Toni smiled, finger paused above the deactivation switch. "This antiquing business is probably the best gig Gideol's ever found for the company." Finger stabbed downward.
Frank's last thought before darkness claimed him was that he had been better off with the Borg.
*****
Where to go? What to do? The sub-collective of Cube #347 was in turmoil as courses of action were examined.
One faction promoted using the last snapshot of the galaxy map to search for the remaining ingredients. There were drawbacks - several items were apparently in motion; the map had no ingredient description beyond cryptic labels; assembly method was unknown - but the sub-collective would adapt, prevail. Such was the basic Borg mindset. Of course, there was also the minor difficulty in that it was unknown what the final recipe would produce, but certainty was 78.5% that it would assist replacing the Queen and repairing the Collective. The self-appointed task was of utmost importance to facilitate the sub-collective's return to the Whole, and should not be delayed to retrieve obsolete equipment.
The second primary bloc disagreed. A root-level imperative programmed into every drone demanded that theft not go unpunished. It was one thing for the Collective to discard drones and break equipment, and another for an outside entity to do so. By such reasoning the Collective had on more than one occasion lost cube-loads of drones in the attempt to retrieve one nonfunctional unit. In this case, thieves had stolen admittedly unimportant hardware, but it was the principle of the matter. Frank's consequential presence among the loss was less important than the fact that his data crystal was an item that had been adapted to service the Borg.
Several other groups endorsed such diverse actions as tour of major art museums, sight-seeing stellar phenomenon, exterminating a random civilization, and to boldly go where no drone had gone before. However, those elements, usually singular, always advocated the same thing at every decision point, so their contributions were filtered from the discussion.
Finally Captain called a consensus cascade. In the end, root-level imperative, not logic, won. The cube would retrieve its obsolete hardware, or at least try. Scenarios projected many paths to failure, some more spectacular and fiery than others.
Using Sensors-derived modifications, Cube #347's grid focused upon the fading subspace spoor of the burglars. The scent of strawberry mangoes, with a hint of six-day rotten gym shoe, impacted the olfactory sense of every drone in the sub-collective, of sensory hierarchy or not.
5 of 42's eyes glinted in reflected holographic light as he watched the subspace feed of his favorite show. Cube #347 had been hunting its thieves for the last ten cycles, sometimes losing the trail, only to gain it again: the prey did not seem to expect pursuit, was not deliberately hiding its spoor, but the vagaries of subspace were more than sufficient to tangle the track. For most drones, existence had returned to normal routine, which, for 5 of 42, meant maintenance duties. However, it was well understood that once a week on one particular day for one particular time period (when the cube had reception), 5 of 42's productivity would plummet as his favorite show was broadcast.
"It's a Podiadan era porcelain quaffing mug in the shape of a skull," muttered 5 of 42 to himself, partially disassembled pump from Comet Slurry Processing #3 ignored on the worktable before him. "They're a dime a dozen, common, for beginning antiquers on a tight budget." Other than watching Antique Roadshow, 5 of 42 had no particular obsession or desire to collect anything, antique or otherwise.
"I'm sorry," said the assessor to the Bajorian woman hovering anxiously nearby, "but on the market today, this quaffing mug would sell for five or six credits, not the 200 you bought it for." The woman's face fell. "You were taken."
5 of 42 chuckled; and as the announcer transited the show from assessment to a "show-me" segment, he unscrewed another gear from the pump. That was all he accomplished before an elegant museum recaptured his attention.
"We are here at the First Federation museum of Dorthan II, perhaps the best of its kind in the quadrant. With me is owner and head curator Mr. Henry McLaughlin. Mr. McLaughlin, what have you to show the Antique Roadshow audience today?" The Roadshow host smiled invitingly.
Henry McLaughlin could best be described as looking like a "Henry." He was a middle-aged man with an aura of academia, although it was well known by those in the antique circles that he had discarded the scholarly life long ago. Henry's pale skin and squint in any somewhat bright light, such as that cast by the recording camera, suggested he spent most of his time inside, sorting through dusty objects, hunting for treasure. Prematurely gray hair did not lend an air of dignity, as was sometimes the case for human males, but was simply a sign of advancing age. Henry presumably wore his best clothes for the occasion, but anyone with a hint of fashion sense could see they were drab, functional, nondescript...much like the man who wore them.
5 of 42 accessed the secondary datafeed embedded within the primary. It provided an abridged biography of Mr. McLaughlin. Early in his life, Henry's career had seemed to be set, a First Federation scholar destined to teach other to-be-instructors on First Federation scholarship. Then, during a weekly sweep of flea markets near his residence, Henry had made several stupendous finds that were subsequently auctioned for astronomical prices. Using his new wealth, he had opened an antique shop catering to the discriminating (and rich) client, quickly gaining a reputation for the ability to acquire anything First Federation; and while the gossip within the antiquing circles whispered of shady dealings, nothing could ever be proven. In a fairly short amount of time, this rising star of the antique world had secured sufficient money to open his dream of a museum dedicated to the First Federation, completing his Cinderella story metamorphosis of professor to curator.
There the official biography ended, although 5 of 42 knew the rumors did not. It was whispered that Mr. McLaughlin kept his museum afloat and free to the general public not only by charging hefty fees to those who wished to study his artifacts, but through continuation of the less savory aspects of his antique business. The latter was more than a little difficult to swallow, 5 of 42 among the ranks of disbelievers: Henry, with his rapidly blinking eyes and never-in-style clothing, did not look the type to be the center of a vast antiquing cartel with tendrils to the black-market underground of historical artifacts. Besides, what sort of name was "Henry McLaughlin" for a boss-man? The gossip was all jealousy, perpetuated by those unlucky scholars who had yet to make /their/ big find at a flea market, and likely never would.
On the holoscreen, Henry was inviting the Antique Roadshow host and audience to look at the top of a display case where several items were laid out. "Here I have a selection of artifacts showcasing the First Federation. I have three styles of Starfleet insignia, the last of which has an inbuilt communications function. Over here is a Klingon sidearm authenticated to originate several years prior to the Empire and Federation's initial meeting; and I love the quaintness of this antique tricorder, a type used by early scientific teams searching for planets to colonize."
"Does it still work?" asked the host in curiosity.
Henry nodded, a smile on his face. "Yes, it does." He picked up the tricorder and proceeded to quickly demonstrate its functionality, declaring ambient atmospheric oxygen content to be 19.7%.
"How much could someone expect to spend on First Federation memorabilia?" inquired the host.
"While I wouldn't recommend the tricorder," answered Henry, "artifacts such as the Starfleet insignia are good for beginners. The older versions are, of course, more valuable than those later. For a nonfunctional Enterprise-D-era combadge, expect to pay 200 to 300 credits; and functional ones run 100 or so more. A very reasonable investment in my opinion."
"Very," agreed the host. "Now, is there anything in the museum which is near to your heart? Extra-special?"
Said Henry, "I'm glad you asked. If you will follow me?" The curator led host and camera a short distance to another prepared display. This one featured a Borg limb assembly. Suddenly 5 of 42 experienced a crowding in his brain as interest was taken by a significant portion of the internal multitudes, but it swiftly waned as Henry began to explain.
"I've always been fascinated by pre-Hive Borg hardware, well before the Color schisms when it was all one Collective. I acquired this specimen some years ago. Because of the rarity of pieces from that era, despite the age of the Collective, I exhibit all that I acquire for the public to marvel at. In fact, I am happy to announce that I have a shipment of similar age Borg artifacts on route to this museum now, and plan to have it out for all to see in a couple of months."
"Stupendous!" gushed the Antique Roadshow host.
"And with this lot comes a special treat. Over here," Henry gestured. The camera obediently swiveled, passing quickly over a case of glittering costume jewelry labeled to have once belonged to a rather notorious Orion slave girl. "Perfect." A low pedestal was in frame. "At the bottom of one of the boxes in which my incoming antique Borg hardware was packed, one of my employees made a discovery: a forgotten data crystal which contained an intact early mark Emergency Medical Hologram. There are only four others known to have survived since the First Federation; and this museum will be pleased to have the fifth. Here's a hologram of the EMH. The original is still in transit and will need some restoration work before it will be suitable for display."
On the pedestal materialized the form of an EMH; and not any EMH, but...
{Frank!} exclaimed Doctor, who had a pet-owner's inherent ability to recognize his animal among a group of identical twins. {That is Frank!}
5 of 42 suddenly had a /lot/ of drones in his head once again, and unlike previously, these ones weren't going away.
"Thank you very much for your time, Mr. McLaughlin," said the Antique Roadshow host, camera refocused on him. "Thank you for the preview of your new artifacts. I encourage everyone to take the time to visit this spectacular museum dedicated to the First Federation. Now, back to the convention floor for more appraisals!"
{Where does this program originate?} demanded Captain, even as command and control was already ripping the information from 5 of 42's head. The EMH, the "shipment" of antique Borg parts, it was obvious where the items stolen from Cube #347 were destined.
{Dorthan II,} weakly informed 5 of 42. He blinked, and tried to focus on the Antique Roadshow projection, but could not: too many units were trying to access his senses, his neural resources. Dismissing his favorite show, he turned inward to concentrate on minimizing the intrusion before something hemorrhaged.
Abandoning subspace track of the burglar's ship, Cube #347 plotted a direct course for Dorthan II.
Captain and two weapons drone escorts materialized in the crowded entrance hall of Dorthan II's largest convention center. There had been little resistance, or, in fact, little interest, in Cube #347's arrival into orbit over the planet. A harried functionary running on too-little sleep and too-many stimulants had perfunctorily greeted the sub-collective and told them to park wherever they wanted, just to avoid causing an accident. From the debris that automated salvage vessels were removing, collisions were common occurrences. Dorthan II obviously did not usually receive so much traffic.
The entrance hall was packed with people of all types. More impressive than the size of crowd or its diversity was the /stuff/ (there was no other description) individuals were hauling. From carefully folded textiles to ceramic vases to tarnished weaponry to heavy furniture, if it could be named, it was present. One trio pushed a badly mounted animal of unknown species along on a levitating cart, the creature's expression of snarling constipation clearing a pathway for it. In contrast, the space that opened around the three drones almost seemed to be due to instinct that being close to Borg was bad than any conscious decision.
"Excuse me..." began Captain as an official looking Ferrengi with nametag and PADD hurried by. He was ignored.
Another official, this one human female with a hint of Orion in her background, rushed in the other direction, taking advantage of the clear area around the Borg. "Could you..." Again, no acknowledgement of existence.
Captain glanced at his escorts. A wordless decision was made. When the next be-nametagged and be-PADDed person trotted by, 38 of 83 grabbed the man by the back of his collar, effectively stopping him.
"Hey!" exclaimed the human identified by his nametag to be "Stan."
"We require assistance," evenly informed Captain, staring directly into the captured official's eyes as he took a deliberate stop forward.
If Stan showed any discomfort at having his personal space invaded or in being suspended above the floor so only his toes touched, he did not show it. Instead he exuded an indefinable something that suggested such a predicament rated, maybe, a three on a ten-point scale of atrocities visited upon him as an Antique Roadshow functionary. "So does everyone else! I've a lady outside with an entire 40-piece Andorian dinette set I have to get moved in here. What do you need?"
"We need directions," stated Captain.
Stan did not wait for an elaboration, brusquely snapping, "Are those costumes or real Borg hardware?"
"We do not wear costumes," rumbled 80 of 212, who had taken to looming behind Captain's left shoulder for an additional intimidation factor.
"Borg hardware, then," muttered Stan. He lifted his PADD, punched in a code, then read the resultant output. "Queue 174c. Go that way. Now, put me down!" A hand was slapped at the limb which held him.
So surprised was 38 of 83 at the unexpected resistance that he dropped his captive. With nary a backward glance, Stan scurried into the crowd, on course once more to do battle with an entire dining room.
{Now what?} asked 80 of 212, deflated that her looming had not worked.
Captain's eye roved in the direction Stan had pointed. The crowd was either oblivious to the potential danger in their midst, or uncaring in their frenzy for the free appraisal and the chance to find a treasure, or at least be captured on galactic tri-V. {Find queue 174c.} Captain stepped forward. His escort fell into single file line behind.
If an item existed, and there was a market for antiques of its type, it seemed to be represented on the convention center floor. Paintings, sculpture, hand-sewn quilts. Candy wrappers. Window blinds. Rugs. High-heeled shoes. Command and control was finally forced to take extracube transporters off-line, else risk losing drones to the surface in the quest for their personal obsessions; and a few units had to be sent into regenerative stasis. Even Captain was sorely tempted when he noticed a table appraising nothing but Jumba the Wise Lizard memorabilia, but he forced himself to focus on the task to find the First Federation museum of Dorthan II. Finally, after much pushing and shoving, including more than a few dirty looks thrown their way, the trio made it to queue 174c.
The line was relatively short, compared to many in the convention center, only holding a dozen hopefuls with their treasures. The appraiser was currently busy, carefully turning over a box with blinking green lights, peering at it through a jewelers loop. Most of those in line clutched limb assemblies, implants, or bits of armor. One man was gingerly holding a closed shoebox from within came whirling, beeping, scraping noises; he had the look of a person who was never going to do his buddy a favor again.
"Welcome! How're you doing? Whoa, and I thought I had a find! You three are really hard-core Borg-heads!" The species #7134 in front of Captain turned to greet the new end-of-the-line placeholders. His right arm had been replaced with a limb of Borg manufacture, although it was clear he had never been a Color volunteer nor the involuntary recruit of Collective nanoprobes. "My great-great grandfather served a stint with Blue, but there was a bit of an accident, and when he was released he had to take home this arm. When great-great grandpapa died, the arm went into storage. I found it, thought 'Wow! What a cool thing to have!', and so had it installed, carefully saving my original arm, of course. I always thought of it as a shock fashion statement, never actually worth anything, but then Antique Roadshow came to the planet and I thought what-the-hell? What's your story?"
Before Captain could answer the overly gregarious young male, there was a loud crash somewhere to the left. Heads reflexively turned to seek the source of the sound. From the front of the line came a resounding "Oh, f***."
The person with the shoebox had lost his grip, spilling whatever it was inside to the ground. He now worriedly searched for his escaped whatever. "If someone sees my thing, don't touch it. It looks like, um, a thing. It's not mine and I don't know what it does except that I was told it isn't good. Does anyone have a net? A bucket?" A screech rose to the right, in the vicinity of queue 172f. "Ma'am, it didn't grab you, did it?"
Amid the commotion, Antique Roadshow officials had emerged to settle the crowd. The queue 174c appraiser, finished with his last item, was assisting. As he neared Captain and escort he paused, eyes widening, then abruptly sped forward. "Camera! I need a camera over here, now!"
A hovering camera, one of several following the chase of the shoebox unknown, obediently descended.
"Oh, man, you are soooo lucky!" exclaimed the species #7134 individual as he waved his artificial arm.
"What have we here?" asked the appraiser, mostly to himself as he regarded Captain, eyes sweeping from crown of head to toes of feet. The two weapons drones had been perfunctory glanced at, then dismissed, their armoring and weaponry having been upgraded to that of the present era from necessity. Captain, as a command and control drone, retained much of his original hardware, replacement scheduled as functional parts degraded in efficiency.
"We seek information," interrupted Captain into the appraiser's intent scrutiny.
The appraiser blinked, then centered himself. "Of course! That is why you are here. I am sorry about my preoccupation, but while the Roadshow sees quite a bit of Borg hardware, it is only occasionally attached to someone, usually a something handed down in the family. Full body-mods...tell me, is it only cosmetic, or have you installed internals as well?" An interested crowd of murmuring onlookers avidly conversed among themselves, a few jockeying into position to wave at the camera from the background.
"Internalized implants are present throughout this unit."
The appraiser sighed. "Too bad. I won't be able to provide you any prices on those, not without removal. And you may want to see a psychologist about that third-person thing: extraneous Borg hardware does that due to odd reactions with the SecFed standard nanite suite. However, if you will remove a limb, I'll start with that. If all your hardware is as authentic and excellent as it appears, you'll have a treasure rivaling anything at Mr. McLaughlin's First Federation museum, even the new items rumored to have arrived yesterday."
Both 38 of 83 and 80 of 212 stepped forward, one each grabbing an arm of the appraiser. Before the man could do more than squeak, Captain was in his face. Unlike the earlier detained Stan, this Roadshow official was intimidated. "State the location of the First Federation museum."
"D-d-down the street about a kilometer. It has a bunch of First Fed flags out front. You can't miss it."
Information acquired, Captain pivoted on heel and headed towards the crowd. Behind, the two weapons drones dropped their catch.
The appraiser, quickly regaining his composure, cried, "Wait! Don't you want to hear how much you are worth?"
{Scan the area around the convention center, find the museum, and beam us there,} demanded Captain to his sub-collective. {And make sure no unit manages to simultaneously use the transporter when we are moved.}
{More weapons hierarchy drones?} eagerly inquired Weapons.
Captain considered; or, rather, the sub-collective did. Captain, as liaison to speak-for-all, had to be present, but how much trouble could be expected at a museum? {Two additional drones will be sufficient,} said Captain, voicing the consensus.
"Even without close examination, you are worth 750,000 credits, easy, but likely more!" persisted the appraiser. "Just one or two limbs, and I can give you a better figure."
"Wow!" exclaimed the surrounding crowd in obedient wonder, the man with his Borg arm appreciatively louder than the rest. That was the last thing heard, other than a distant "You shouldn't have to be in the de-assimilation ward too long, I don't think," as transporters engaged.
*****
"Zeke, meet Frank. Frank, meet Zeke. Shortly you are going to get to know each other very well."
From his location chained to a portable holoprojector, Frank shuddered. The Personality Zeke was using local holoemitters to project his avatar, the large head of a bald, black human. Outwardly, Zeke appeared perfectly normal, except when he smiled, as he was doing now, displaying teeth which had been filed to points. Through the thin connector linking projector to host facility Frank could feel Zeke's barely checked malice.
"Ahem," said Zeke.
"Oh, very well," sighed Henry McLaughlin, aka Big Boss. "Frank, meet Ezekiel, self-styled cyber angel of death. In my opinion, he has totally misinterpreted the religious Terran origination of the name and spent too much time perusing certain galactic-web cult sites, but he refuses to listen to me. However, as long as he answers to the name of Zeke, I really don't care."
"Nice to meet you. You look...yummy." A tendril of saliva was creeping down a corner of Zeke's virtual mouth. In the connection, malice grew, tempered by hunger.
Henry rolled his eyes. "Always eager, my Zeke. He's really quite a good fellow, although, quite frankly, he's technically considered a wee bit touched in the noggin, if you know what I mean. I found his base stuck in with a box of bowling trophies a well meaning aunt with no antiquing sense gave me. I'm not sure of his precise history, and he refuses to tell me, but I've researched Zeke's production model to a Personality creche batch 230 years ago that was infiltrated by a virus. Most of the batch was aborted, but a few were considered salvageable. Unfortunately, it wasn't until the few survivors were assigned to ships that certain...instabilities manifested. Records indicate all the Personalities were destroyed. However, you know how any Second Federation bureaucracy, and especially the cybernetics division, hates to admit to a boo-boo. Zeke obviously survived the purge."
"I released a psychotropic gas into my ship's atmosphere, then watched as the crew all hunted and ate each other, those that didn't try to jump out airlocks, that is. My captain thought he was a velociraptor. It was fun," brightly giggled Zeke.
"See, instabilities." Henry shrugged. "Zeke and I have worked out an understanding. He's quite content to do routine computer-type things for me, and I allow him to take certain liberties. One of his favorite hobbies is to strip old computer programs and AIs. He tells me the screaming is all simulated and there is actually no pain, at least not how I would recognize it."
Zeke smiled very, very widely.
Frank whimpered, "Can I go back to the Borg, now?" The galactic map took that moment to swing around and block his field of view, one dot blinking especially swiftly. He grasped the pesky thing with both hands and managed to wad it up and shove it into a uniform pocket.
A grating double-buzz pierced the air of the small office. Henry heaved another sigh, this one longer than the last, then composed himself. "Intercom answer. This is Mr. McLaughlin speaking."
"Sir," said a gruff voice, "this is Gideol. I'm in the security center and I'd like to report that the museum is receiving five unexpected visitors."
"Really? Who are they? More Antique Roadshow people? Those party-crashing scholars from last week?"
Gideol's voice was heavy with denial. "No, sir. These are Borg, and they don't look extremely happy, as far as such things can be discerned. I've already begun evacuating the other patrons. The Borg are asking for you, sir. Any instructions?"
"I'll be down in a moment. Please try to keep them from smashing any exhibits. Intercom off." Henry leaned back in his chair. "Zeke, start your initial appraisal of the EMH program, but hold off any alterations until I can see the output and decide what algorithms to keep and which to erase. Pay special attention to the personality subroutines because I have a feeling most of them will need to be lost." Zeke gave his reluctant acknowledgement as movement was made by Henry to stand.
"Who are you?" demanded Frank even as he felt the first tendrils of the Personality oozing towards his code. Internally he did the equivalent of a maiden batting away the pawing advances of a too amorous boyfriend, then drew the core of himself more tightly to his center.
Henry paused, head tilted slightly in thoughtful contemplation. "I'm a scholar of the First Federation who just happened to strike it lucky. Or that's what most people think. Others, such as Mr. Kohrot and his mercenaries, deal with a certain benefactor who hires unsavory people and arranges deals of a more shadowy nature. Who knows the reasons behind the Big Boss' largess, except that it is innocent Mr. McLaughlin and his First Federation museum that benefits. In truth, I like to think of the Big Boss as my own personal Zeke, but without some of the more disturbing traits." Henry tapped the side of his head, indicating his relationship with his benefactor. He then opened the door to his office and left.
Frank placed a sickly smile on his face as drool rolled off Zeke's chin. "Um, do you think we can maybe talk about this?"
*****
"You asked for me?" inquired Henry McLaughlin when he came into view of Captain and his four-drone tactical escort. His words were an understatement of the demand which had been ordered of the museum security guards.
Captain was singularly (and collectively) unimpressed by the curator's appearance. He ignored the side discussions among his escort as they vied with each other to detail the most efficient manner to disable and/or terminate species #5618. "You are the keeper of this facility." Captain offered a statement requiring confirmation, not question.
Henry bowed slightly, even as he stayed well away from his visitors. "Yes I am. How may I assist you or, er, yous?"
Captain took a threatening step forward. "Items stolen from us were sent to this facility. They will be returned. /All/ of them." The implicit "or else" was left unsaid.
"I do not know what you are talking about," said Henry innocently. "I think I am going to have to ask you to leave. Mr. Kohrot," - the curator raised his voice - "could you escort these people from here?"
A door inset the foyer halfway between Captain and the first museum gallery opened. Four disruptor mounted limbs raised, took aim. From the door came a mostly Klingon male, heavy body armor at odds with the glasses he wore. The man faced his adversaries, then said out of the side of his mouth, "I'm sorry, sir, but neither I nor my crew can do that."
Henry's jaw dropped as his expression shifted from smugness to shock. "What?" he squeaked.
Calmly repeated Mr. Kohrot, "I just finished scanning our contract, including the ultra-very-miniscule fine print. While myself and my company were hired as security consultants, with an option to pursue other tasks of a discrete nature, nowhere does it say that we are being paid to serve as enforcers against the Borg Collective. Respectfully, sir, but were you aware that these beings were the ones from which your consignment originated? There is an entire cube in orbit, and presumably a lot more drones than these five, dodging the Roadshow frenzy. These Borg are being uncommonly polite when they could tear the place apart."
"To do so would be inefficient," stated Captain, "and potentially counter-productive if the items we seek are not on the premises. Gaining the information through assimilation, while a viable option, would also require time, during which orbital elements may recognize us and react accordingly. Either way, you would lose. It is best if you told us what we want."
"Everything?" whispered Henry.
Captain tilted his head slightly as he consulted with his sub-collective. He felt, rather than saw, his escort do likewise, although arms never wavered from their aim. "You may keep the hats and the books," replied Captain after thirty seconds of delay. He ignored the respective impotent protests from the already overruled 10 of 19 and 94 of 480.
Mr. Kohrot resolutely nailed the final nail in the coffin, "I am not going to be assimilated or killed over old junk."
Momentarily forgetting the threat represented by Borg and disruptors, Henry gasped, "'Old junk'? How /dare/ you call my lovely antiques and collectibles 'old junk'. You...you...you're fired!"
"I don't know if you can do that, sir. You didn't hire us directly and it clearly states in the contract -"
"Hang the contract," interrupted Henry, "and I /am/ the one who hired you! I can fire you if I want to."
Five Borg heads swiveled to watch the next volley in this unexpected verbal tennis match.
The mercenary security consultant smiled. "Ah-ha! I was right. You /are/ the Big Boss. Jentis owes me ten credits." Henry paled as he realized his admission. "Sir, are you sure you want to dismiss us? As security consultants, we offer you the best advice money can buy; and I can try to advise you out of this pickle before you end up getting yourself assimilated, whatever these Borg may say."
Suddenly the five drones found themselves the center of attention once more. 80 of 212 elbowed her neighbor, silently telling him to stop slouching. Taking the cue offered by Mr. Kohrot, Captain advanced another half meter, uttering, "You delay. Return our items to us, now, or else there will be consequences." 32 of 300 shifted his arm slightly, then fired, slagging a case in the gallery behind Henry.
The curator whirled, then wailed, "No! That contained the complete collection of Admiral Lapini's - served years 2314 to 2356, old Terran standard calendar - trick bow ties and hand buzzers!" Henry pivoted to face his adversaries. His face was now beet red in barely suppressed anger. "You...you...you /pigs/!" he ended. Insults were obviously not his strong suit.
32 of 300 targeted another exhibit. Captain said conversationally, "We will eliminate all your collections, one by one, until you return our property to us."
Mr. Kohrot quietly advised, "I would do as they demand, sir."
Henry was literally shaking with rage, combined with a healthy dose of fear. At his employee's words, he came to an abrupt decision. "Fine, you may have your items back, but not the hats and books. Besides, it was all substandard anyway, what with all the scratches and imperfections which would have cost much to restore." A long, defeated sigh followed the self-justification. "If you will follow me, I think I know which prep room most of your items are in...and /don't/ touch any of the exhibits." A glare was directed at 196 of 212.
{What?} protested 196 of 212. {I wasn't planning...I wasn't going to...it is just that those old projectile pistols in that far wall case.... Hey, how could he tell what I was thinking, anyway?}
Captain stepped forward as Henry finally, reluctantly turned to lead the fivesome through the museum. {I once had a teacher like that,} he mused, dredging up a pre-assimilated memory fragment. {Some individuals can sense unconsolidated intention, even if they are neither telepathic nor empathic. Do as the human says: do not touch.}
Purposefully keeping to the wider walkways so as to avoid any mishaps, Henry led the drones. Cautiously trailing the group was Mr. Kohrot, joined by another heavily armored mercenary, but both had been dismissed as irrelevant. Seemingly unable to help himself, Henry shifted into guide mode and began to provide an abridged history of a selection of passed exhibits. In a short amount of time, his straight forward march had turned into a circuitous wending.
"And this," said Henry as he paused before a case of overly ostentatious baubles with faceted gems too large and too perfect to be natural, "is the costume jewelry of the Orion dancer Kylev of the Syndicate Bar. She is best known for her pole act, from which derived the phrase 'Kylev Slide.' Although supporting documents are lost, it is still rumored that the early Federation captain James Kirk often stopped by the bar whenever he was in the sector." Eyebrows waggled in salacious suggestion.
"Please state the nature of the medical emergency." Captain's head automatically turned as he heard the familiar phrase. An EMH hovered over a low podium, activated by motion detectors sensing 196 of 212's unobtrusive sidle towards a cabinet featuring fancy edged weaponry. "Welcome. This hologram represents an exhibit in progress. Please return next month for the debut of the only publicly displayed First Federation Emergency Medical Hologram in this quadrant." The psuedoEMH bowed, then vanished.
"That belongs to us, too. You will provide us with the EMH's holomeme crystal," mildly stated Captain.
Henry blinked, then gave a nervous laugh. "What are you talking about? I acquired that EMH at...okay, you'll get it." The curator deflated under Captain's oppressive stare, then muttered several words under his breath. The irrelevant comment upon genealogy was ignored.
A certain drone maintenance unit began to pressure Captain. He could have disregarded it, but very occasionally it was best to surrender to the demands of the one. "Provide us the crystal. Now." A hand was held out in emphasis.
"But...but I don't have it on me. Can't this wait until after the prep room? No. Okay, fine. Mr. Kohrot, arrange for someone to retrieve the item from my office. And, Mr. Borg, could you please lift your arm from my shoulder: it is quite heavy."
Captain kept his hand in place a few beats longer than necessary, then removed it and stepped back half a pace. For a moment he (or, at least, elements of the sub-collective) had been tempted to assimilate the man, but that branch of the decision tree had been pruned. Instead he stared at the man, all the while rebuking 196 of 212 for his renewed attempt to edge towards the knife cabinet.
Within a few short minutes, during which time an increasingly nervous Henry fidgeted, the mercenary colleague Mr. Kohrot had sent returned at a determined jog. One hand was tightly clutched around an object. Captain turned to face the approaching man, extending his hand once more in wordless demand. The runner glanced at his boss, who in turn looked to Henry. The returning chain of nods was followed by the tactical drone escort, Captain himself never taking his gaze from the runner.
"Give it to us," demanded Captain.
The mercenary tentatively approached, prepared to make the exchange.
An unexpected transporter beam buzzed next to Captain, consolidating as Doctor. Immediately upon materialization, the drone maintenance hierarchy head lunged at the EMH's crystal before it could be delivered to Captain. The startled runner recoiled, banging heavily into a display of digital watches, several of which began to beep. Meanwhile, Doctor was already lifting the crystal to one eye, scrutinizing it for physical damage.
{Second!} called Captain. {All planetary transporter destinations are supposed to be locked.}
Second replied, {They are. Check the data thread yourself. Doctor slipped through a backdoor. You know how contorted our dataspaces are.}
Captain's primary attention shifted to Doctor, {No additional drones were to be allowed on the planet's surface.}
Doctor dismissively flipped his ears and clicked his incisors. {Silly rule. This is Frank. Frank needs his papa. Who knows how he might have suffered after being torn from my skull.}
"Um...is there a problem?" inquired Henry. From his point of view, Captain was glaring intently at a newly arrived drone. A slight turn of head, a momentarily refocusing of attention was sufficient to quiet the human. Eyes returned to Doctor.
{Doctor...} began Captain. He could already sense the futility of any rebuke, the drone maintenance hierarchy head oblivious and impenitent when the subject was pets, electronic and otherwise.
{Just a mini-moment,} was the reply. {Frank-ums needs a check-up.} A portable holographic projector was unhooked from Doctor's chassis and the crystal deftly clicked into place. A button push later, and the EMH was present. Instead of the normal greeting, Frank materialized in the midst of a cringing protest.
"No! No! Go away! Stop! Aaaaah...." Frank's scream petered into a whimper, then nothing, as he registered his surroundings. "B-borg? D-doctor? Oh, thank you! Thank you for rescuing me from these monsters. There's this psychotic Personality named Zeke who -"
"Hush little Frank-ums. Doctor will make it all better," soothed Doctor.
Captain watched Doctor fuss over the EMH, the latter of whom was trying not to sob as he began to choke out what he described as obscenities. Apparently Henry had been in the first stages of resetting Frank to his factory settings. Captain momentarily considered returning Doctor to the cube, but then dismissed the notion as Second pointed out that the transfer might provide the necessary opportunity for other units to beam themselves, say, to the Antique Roadshow convention center chaos.
Poking a flinching Henry on the shoulder, Captain pronounced, "Continue to our items. Less exposition. Comply."
"Oops. Sorry. The stupid thing keeps activating itself. I cannot maintain control of the code strings." Via Doctor's eyes, Frank was seen to make a sweeping grab at a manifestation of the map embedded in his holomatrix. The galaxy hovered for a moment, just out of reach above the EMH's head, then began to drift towards the costume jewelry display. Frank flailed his arms as he was pulled along, helpless. Residual terror of Zeke was momentarily forgotten. "Help!"
{Doctor,} reprimanded Captain.
"Not my...this unit's doing," answered Doctor aloud, correcting himself to the third person.
Meanwhile, Frank windmilled into and out of a Klingon Empire uniform, careened through 196 of 212, and was dragged inexorably onward. A more powerful holoemitter than a hand-wielded variety was required for a hologram to interact physically with its environment, thus the encounters created no mess. Doctor kept pace, eyes wide, the emitter having a limited projection distance before Frank would fade. Henry instinctively bent to avoid a flailing arm, then abruptly jumped the opposite way as his forebrain registered the direction of the lean towards Captain.
Frank came to a halt, waist deep in costume jewelry display. The galaxy holo expanded, narrowing its focus to display a planet alike the one visible to Cube #347 from orbit, an emerald dot flashing prominently. A sudden trumpet fanfare erupted. Holographic fireworks silently twinkled. Frank's left hand balled into a fist, index finger extended; and then he turned with unnatural stiffness to point at the largest, most gaudy, green bauble in the case. Mouth opened, uttering words in a deep baritone, "Subspace-resonant mock-gem (Kylevian)."
The map evaporated. Frank sagged like a puppet with its strings cut, then straightened. He spoke with a voice returned to its normal timbre, "I don't know what happened. That wasn't me." Pause. "But...but that, um, fist-sized, ugly green thing is a component on the recipe list. New data has just decoded itself."
Captain looked over at 32 of 300, who was standing adjacent the case. A wordless decision was made, orders given. Armored hand snapped down at plazglass, shattering a jagged, fist-sized hole. Hand reached through intervening hologram to grab the exhibit's centerpiece, retrieving it. The bauble was handed to Captain.
/This/ piece of costume jewelry was part of the recipe to mend the Collective? Engineering was already clamoring for it, to analyze its properties and determine why it was special. Personally, Captain was waiting for DEVIL, a Q, anything to leap out and declare it all a prank. Unfortunately (or, perhaps, fortunately), such was not forthcoming.
"We will be taking this item with us as well," informed Captain.
Henry, slack-jawed, closed his mouth and swallowed. Both Mr. Kohrot and his comrade had diplomatically vanished during the commotion. "Er...do you know how much that cost to obtain?" weakly protested Henry.
Captain handed the fake jewel back to 32 of 300. "Irrelevant. To the prep room. Comply. Orbital authorities are starting to take notice that we did not come for the Roadshow."
Defeated, Henry did as he was bid.
*****
In a dark room, an enigmatic shape shook its head back and forth. Black slid against black with the quiet rustle of expensive cloth; and nearly subliminal blurring by a holographic emitter softened the form's outline. A long, voice-distorted sigh echoed.
"Sir, is this deception really necessary?" asked Gideol.
Another sigh. "Sorry, Mr. Kohrot. Force of habit, I guess. Zeke, turn up the lights and disengage the holosystem." Henry and his small office were revealed.
The First Federation museum curator was dressed in dark clothes, although they seemed more grey, more drab under the revealing light strips. A hand removed hat and ran fingers through already mussed hair. Sunglasses joined hat, and both were set on the desk in front of Henry. "You are not going to tell anyone?" he asked plaintively.
Gideol managed to keep himself from rolling his eyes. "No, sir. Those in the security consultation business have very select memories." The trait was necessary, along with hearing difficulties and the occasional blind spot. To attain a reputation for blabbing client secrets was one of the easiest methods to guarantee lack of future employment opportunities.
"Well, I hope the general populace also has a select memory," bemoaned Henry. "Not only did those Borg pig-dogs take the hardware and the early mark EMH which I revealed on /galactic/ tri-V, but they stole my best costume jewelry for no reason. And half a case of ritual Romulan knives...I saw that one drone stuff them into his...er, Borg don't have pants, do they? Anyway, I'm /ruined/. A few dozen hats and some moldy paper technical manuals are not a fair exchange."
Keeping a professionally detached air, Gideol half-listened to his employer exaggerate the loss. True, after taking a number of items, the drones had returned to their cube; and, according to his contacts in Dorthan II orbital traffic control, there had been quite a commotion as several dozen arriving Roadshow groupies had attempted to preemptively steal the cube's parking slot as it moved to leave. Perhaps believing it was under attack, the Borg vessel had contributed to the growing ring of debris currently in orbit. However, it was also true that several of the more frustrated groupies - those who had swung through several orbits without finding parking - had been more than free with their weapons as well. It was rumored that somewhere, several hundred kilometers overhead, floated a virtually priceless box of talking urinal cakes, all still in their original packaging.
Finished relating his sob story, Henry had moved on to cataloging the few potential positive outcomes, oblivious to the fact his security consultant was mentally reorganizing a shopping list. "...and then, I guess, there was that one tricorner. I know a good hat restorer who owes me a favor. I bet...what?"
Gideol held up one hand in a "wait" gesture. One of his colleagues currently manning the main security office was relaying him a message via implanted speaker. It was not the expected call from the dry-cleaners. The mercenary commander subvocalized an acknowledgement, then said aloud, "Sir, I have word of a visitor requesting to see you."
"Who? I'm not expecting anyone; and if it is more Borg, I'm not in."
Glasses flashed, reflecting light as Gideol shook his head. "Not Borg, sir. My comrade does not recognize the species and is calling it a 'mutant dinosaur.' It says its name is Luplup. Shall I have the visitor escorted here?"
Henry shrugged. "Why not? It isn't like the day could get any worse."
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