Disclaimer, Part I: The Star Trek orchestra is conducted by Paramount. Decker leads the Star Traks 'billy-rock band. The solo BorgSpace harmonica on the corner is played by Meneks.
<Disclaimer, Part II: the following, where possible, has been edited and digitally remastered so that the normal minds of the universe might have a possibility of following a wholly unique worldview. Any temporary or permanent brain damage accrued during the reading of this story is not the fault of Management.>
Golden Orb Disco
The rumors were flying:
Last week.
Tomorrow.
Tonight.
Two days hence.
At the stroke of homeworld midnight at the capital city.
Five days and twenty minutes.
Soon a place joined the whisperings of time, long strings of coordinates that scattered could-be's and may-be's randomly upon the galactic map of an eavesdropper. However, it was unlikely a hidden listener would be monitoring the particular set of subspace frequencies the rumors wafted upon; and even if the hypothetical listener was paying attention, it was highly doubtful any sense could be made of the content.
Bug language was difficult enough to translate in the best of times. The use of the species' version of pig latin encrypted transmissions better than any security algorithm.
Eventually one particular place and one particular time trumped all others, quashing competing rumors. Those individuals whom knew of the little-used frequency, whom could understand the message and (most importantly) had received a coveted invitation, started making necessary preparations. Soon...soon it would appear! It was a once-in-a-decade opportunity! It was a legend!
It was the Golden Orb Disco!
*****
Cube #347 was sprinting through hypertranswarp, enroute to the nearest marker located upon the galactic map tied into the holomatrix of Doctor's EMH pet. The cube wasn't exactly running silent, but neither was it advertising its position. The nature of space was that even the most heavily populated regions were actually quite empty, although in this case it truly was barren, a loose cluster of old, metal-poor red dwarf stars unlikely to harbor life-bearing worlds nor resources of interest. To put it simply, even if the sub-collective had wanted to talk to someone, no one was present to hear.
Sensors was bored. Captain had recently disallowed her from altering more than one face to a nonstandard configuration, despite gains in sensory perception distance and discrimination. Without the balancing influence of a vinculum, combined with the finite stores of certain non-replicatable replacement implants and assemblies, it was the proclamation of command and control that the number of reports to drone maintenance by her hierarchy had to decrease. The result was the prohibition, unless an emergency dictated otherwise; relief for a hierarchy used to trying to sort grid ghosts from reality before passing along compiled data; and a bored insectoid overseeing the cataloguing of yet another mundane red dwarf, its transient presence a ghostly intrusion into the subspace layers transected by hypertranswarp.
A walking leg was absently flexed, the sound of metal striking metal lost amid the sounds of maintenance of which Sensors' tier was undergoing. Sensors increased awareness to her eyes - she had no lids to shut away the outside world, and considered the fleshy flaps of those who did to be quite silly - to visually check on the nearby activity, and was rewarded with the lightly armored backside of an engineering drone.
Sensors unlimbered her arms from their normal resting position. Perhaps she would go for a walk? Stretch limbs before the program which monitored muscle fitness forced her to do so anyway? As she shifted her arms, however, she noted the splatters of gray paint marring black exoskeleton. A shift in focus to actually /see/ what her eyes were registering, along with a query to the engineering activity roster, provided Sensor with an answer.
{Sensors tells you to watch where you paint!} chided Sensors to the engineering detail in general, and the drone in specific before her.
Faced with such a simple sentence, the Borg translator algorithms performed faultlessly. Of course, it helped that Sensors, like other Borgified members of her species, had learned following assimilation to strip the higher level gestalts from her speech...when she remembered and when she wasn't overly distracted. Even the addition of simple third degree indignity would be enough to confuse the translation program. It was the Bug equivalent of baby talk, as one might use on new larvae, as yet without eyes or the higher mental processes required to mesh gestalt phrases.
The engineering drone turned around so that Sensors was now faced with chest instead of back. A plastic smock had not warded all paint from decorating the unit. {9 of 24 tagged through here and it was decided to be easier to repaint than replace all the affected panels,} informed 30 of 42. Her signature tasted mildly of cherry-banana, indicating her current position of squad leader. {You narrowly missed having spray-paint applied to your head, which is better than can be said of most units on this tier. A little bit of gray paint is acceptable compared to what could have happened.} The explanation was accompanied by visuals of drones in neighboring alcoves, orange scribbles prominent. Added 30 of 42, {9 of 24's spray can stash has been found and disposed of and his access to the replicator limited. Delta has additionally appropriated him from Assimilation's hierarchy for the next ten cycles for menial tasks.}
Sensors would have flipped her short antennae, but her modified alcove prevented the gesture. She settled for second degree understanding, performed by arms alone, the motion both confined due to her location and lost upon the drone to whom she was talking.
{You should avoid leaving your alcove until we are completed and the paint dries,} advised 30 of 42. {Estimated time is five hours.}
With a mental sigh, Sensors sent wordless acknowledgement and resigned herself to additional boredom. Even buffing her exoskeleton of the paint would have to wait.
An odd subspace resonance captured Sensors' attention, redirecting it to her specially configured portion of the external grid. The flavor was faint with a hint of fuzziness due to attenuation. Filtering resolved it to a plucking of a trio of subspace harmonic frequencies rarely used to broadcast messages. While much information could be conveyed upon the particular bands, the odd rules which governed subspace dictated a one-way, nondirectional communique. By default, the primary users were spy agencies and covert military operations. Sensors' dutifully passed along to command and control notification of the intercepted transmission.
The transmission, unimportant and irrelevant to the task at hand, was briefly examined by command and control, then discarded: classified as species #6766 and encrypted by a method for which the key was not readily apparent, the message was completely incomprehensible and unlikely to be worth the diversion of neural resources to decode.
Body once again locked and external senses dimmed, Sensors perused a routine grid diagnostic. Normally the task would have had her complete attention, but this cycle, this minute, she was restless. Splitting her attention, Sensors brought forth discarded transmission packets for scrutiny.
Mentally cocking her head, Sensors rearranged a few of the overlaying code gestalts, untangling the encryption structure. In truth, the transmission had never been encrypted, at least not seriously, the primary carrier harmonic simply shifted half a tone with the secondary and tertiary subfrequencies so as to cause discord and white noise. As a 3rd instar subadult, one of Sensors' favorite games to play with friends had been to garble her speech in a similar manner, the species #6766 equivalent of pig latin, rediscovered by each generation as a supposed means of communication not understandable by adults.
The message fragment unfolded in Sensors' dataspace work area. The visual element was a species #6766 individual, age and gender unknown, dramatically shrouded in black cloth such that little was visible except tips of walking legs. Even the voice had been altered to synthetic neutrality, evidenced by the spoken component:
"...soon to a red dwarf near you is the Golden Orb Disco! Provided to all lucky invitees will be a wide selection of music offerings by top performers, drinks exotic and mundane, wondrous foods, dancing, games, pleasures, legal drugs, choral practice, and chant sessions. If it can be dreamt, the invitee need only ask. Invitees come from all walks of life, from the fabulous movie star with her perfect carapace to the low-caste jymungi rancher who has never traveled more than five ells from his farm. Have you received your invitation yet? Remember the only way to know the how or the where is to have an invitation. Party-crashers..."
What was to happen to party-crashers, good or bad, was unclear, for the message fragment terminated as sharply as it had begun. The original transmission had also been swallowed by the subspace ether - the interception had been a matter of chance - lost and unable to be found again.
{Golden Orb Disco?} inquired Captain to Sensors. The sensory hierarchy head's actions had not been lost upon other members of the sub-collective. {Very little of the message was comprehendible, but I did understand that part. Why does 'Golden Orb Disco' sound familiar?}
Sensors' ignored the rhetorical question. The transmission fragment, for her, had been perfectly legible. {[Golden Orb Disco],} corrected Sensors using the appropriate word gestalt, placing emphasis on the secondary pitch of the trinary chord structure. The dataspace architecture was starting to shift as a command and control partition began burrowing for a specific nugget of data. {Not 'Golden Orb Disco'.}
{That's what I said,} insisted Captain, {Golden Orb Disco.}
Sensors grumbled to herself: obviously the computer was experiencing issues with the translation. Captain's (and the general sub-collective) interpretation called to mind a sparkling dance floor set in the center of a golden ball. That was not the meaning at all! Just as Sensors was about to try simplifying the gestalt, the search partition had found what it wanted in the ship database. A new branch within the larger dataspace tree sprouted as Sensors was shifted to a position of lesser prominence.
The Golden Orb Disco was the name applied to what was essentially a grand species #6766 party that happened at irregular intervals. The vessel itself which housed the party was ever changing, the few observed ships never the same excepting their large size and advanced technologies. One might think a Bug ship to be of immense interest to the Borg, and one would be right. However, one would also have to know that efforts by the Collective to reverse-engineer the technologies to meld them with existing Borg tech was ever futile, despite the helpfully unhelpful help of captured Bugs. Which led to the final issue of the Golden Orb Disco, the infamous Pilgrim, and any other species #6766 ship: it came with Bugs...Bugs who /wanted/ to be assimilated.
The Golden Orb Disco entry in the ship database came with several warnings, the final recommendation being avoidance.
Unfortunately, the Golden Orb Disco advertisement could not be tracked to its source; and nor was the subsidiary carrier frequencies embedded with party coordinates, dates, or times. The only clue was...
{Sensors says red dwarfs. Red dwarf stars,} helpfully translated Sensors, unsure where certain sub-collective members had obtained the image of telephones, {like the cluster which we traverse.} She backed her explanation with a collage from the astronomy database.
There was a sudden (relative) quiet to the intranets. Sensors was unsure if it was due to her words, or a lack of understanding thereof.
{We require a new course, once which will exit us from this area of red dwarfs while maintaining least possible time to our destination. Sensors, describe what is to be expected along the following vectors...} by Captain was followed with a selection of possible course options. Sensors did not question the change in the sub-collective Song, only gathered her hierarchy to comply. On the up side, she was no longer bored!
*****
A diaphanous golden creature surfed the magnetic vortexes of a red dwarf star's corona. Closer inspection by a hypothetical observer resolves the unknown star beast into a compact ovoid ship suspended, like a seed under a dandelion fluff, below filaments of an unknown material. Somehow the vessel is not parboiled despite the fact that the temperature caressing hull is hundreds of thousands of degrees Celsius. The unusual solar sail flexes, sending an indigo ripple throughout its volume while simultaneously sliding the ship into a new rollercoaster heading. A line of complex scratches marring the otherwise flawless skin spins into view.
For one conversed in the complicated written language of the species contemporarily known as 'Bug' by the galactic populace, a rough translation would be 'Golden Orb Disco.'
Inside the Golden Orb Disco, it was the second day of a weeks-long Party; and only the initial hundred or so of 553 invitees had arrived. While most of the guests were Bugs, there were several individuals of the non-insectoid variety (not necessarily humanoid!) glimpsed within the small crowd. It was probably best not to dwell upon the mental processes of the non-Bug partygoers, especially as they appeared to be perfectly comfortable amid the orchestral choir, flicking antennae, and gesturing limbs which passed for Bug conversation. It was still early in the Party, and the equivalent of cocktail drinks and light dancing would occur for several days before the first of the main bands and major guests arrived. After all, one didn't expect to run a marathon without practicing; and similarly one could not last a Golden Orb Disco gala without the appropriate early-Party warm up exercises.
Then the Golden Orb Disco computer heard/saw/[fatz]ed something on the long-range scanners which triggered dormant processes. After analyzing the subspace wake signature and confirming its origin, the AI, acting upon a priority command programmed into all Bug computers, informed the lone crew member currently serving bridge watch of the finding. The crew member, quivering in excitement, immediately ran to the captain, who, in turn, tracked down the Golden Orb Disco EmCee, the latter hard at work inventorying the liquor supply amid rumors that there was insufficient Gild[rose-lemon] wine to last the first week.
"Really?" chirped the EmCee, the principle manager of the Party, body raising up into first degree surprise until she was standing upon walking leg claw-tip. Arms and hands performed the complicated gesture of demanded interrogation, the fluid movement unexpected from an exoskeletoned being. "Are you sure? Tell me more!" A held goblet of expensive Gild[lemon-rose] wine was accidentally spilt, but if the news was true, then it was a small matter.
The Golden Orb Disco captain bobbed his body violently in affirmation. Antennae quivered with barely suppressed exhilaration. "Oh, yes! The trace is confirmed and fresh...and there is a vector to follow...." The not-so-subtle invitation trailed off, accompanied by a modulated trill of (non-sexual) suggestion in the second undertone.
Pseudo-teeth of both arms were ground together, producing a dry rasp. The wine cup was discarded, tossed over the EmCee's back and forgotten. "I will poll the guests right away," she said. Faceted eyes flashed, reflecting the soft red glow of overhead light strips, as head was tilted into a posture of thoughtful consideration. "However, I think we all know what the answer will be. I suggest you prepare the Golden Orb Disco for a road trip...and I think this episode will finally drive it home to all the invitees yet to arrive that late is no longer fashionable."
The captain flicked acknowledgement with his antennae, then pivoted around on his rear walking legs to head to the bridge.
*****
Sensors examined the datastream of compiled grid data. While any drone could access the raw input, most cube functions which required sensor information utilized modified output. Processing occurred in real-time, the lag between grid and common datasphere measured in microseconds. One of the many duties of the sensory hierarchy head was quality control, confirming that the partitions lending their brains as cogs in the larger organic processing machine were performing their tasks appropriately. It was at this checkpoint that the sensor hallucinations and faulty conversions which regularly accompanied Sensors' nonBorgStandard grid configurations were theoretically weeded out...except Sensors, from her point of view, rarely saw anything wrong except that fine nuances of information had been removed, the larger gestalt collapsed to a more simplistic form.
At the moment, most of the grid, except for chromiton detectors, was in a standard configuration; and as the detectors rarely influenced hypertranswarp navigation, the main sensor stream was free of distortion, lacking ghostly overlays, and, in Sensors' estimation, boring. The red dwarf cluster had been left behind, their gravitational warping of the galactic weave receding. Ahead came the crackle of a neutron star, unique pulsations a galactic signpost equivalent of 'You Are Here.' The deep subspace layers here were mildly cracked, a not unusual occurrence when travel passed near supernova remnants. The fractures, which Sensors' perceived as a vivid lime flash each time one was traversed, were not dangerous, but, like speedbumps, tended to limit the top speed a vessel could attain.
At the edge of sensor resolution, a blip appeared. Not only was it following Cube #347's wake, it was gaining. Very few things could match, much less exceed, the hypertranswarp velocity of a Borg Exploratory-class cube.
{Is that a grid artifact?} queried Captain to Sensors, his strong intranet presence reflecting back the compiled sensory datastream with the blip highlighted.
Sensors, who just requested a mid-level diagnostic from the computer in anticipation of the oft-asked question, answered, {Sensors does not think so.} The diagnostic returned results of normal functionality; and a quick examination of the chromiton detector pathways found no cross-contamination with the main grid. {Sensors confirms it is not so.}
{What is it, then?} The simple not-so-rhetorical question shifted the Song of Cube #347, inserted new subharmonics into the Whole. It was a process Sensors, as a conductor of her own sometimes inharmonious choir, thrilled to watch. How much more magnificent would participation in the Collective Choir be, if Sensors had not been deemed flawed by the Greater Consciousness? Cube #347 was the merest shadow of what-could-have-been, but in Sensors' estimation, even participation in a lesser chorus of heaven-made-incarnate was better than none at all.
Supported by the continuous stream of sensor data, the blip, still too distant to fully resolve within the distortion-spawning confines of hypertranswarp, was analyzed. While weapons hierarchy flipped through the enormous ship database, natural phenomenon were considered by a combination of sensors and command and control hierarchies. Fortunately, the observation of 'very fast in hypertranswarp' narrowed the categories considerably; and unfortunately, none of the outputs fit actuality.
At the current rate of gain, the blip would intercept Cube #347 in less than twelve hours.
Sensors needed to see further, see better. With a flick of her mind, several faces altered configuration. Protests arose, not just from her own hierarchy, but from those partitions whom had been using the compiled grid stream to search for a match from cube files.
{Sensors!} rebuked Captain.
Sensors ignored the outburst as she concentrated upon the raw data incoming from faces #2, #3, and #4. Was that a hint of strawberry sherbet flavoring the data? A vibration in the secondary overharmonic of frequency 542.b2? Did it compliment the tingle of sea salt striking the subhull graviton array?
A profile emerged in Sensors' mind. It matched perfectly a class of supralight engines utilized by only one race: species #6766, Sensors' own. The conclusion was added to the datastream; and grid configuration returned to standard before command and control could force the issue.
Weapons verbalized the verdict, {A Bug ship.}
Meanwhile, elements of command and control were compiling other pieces of data, linking them to the discovery. To the mix were added the intercepted broadcast fragment and the recently left region of red dwarf stars. The sub-collective Song crystallized into a grand chord, one tinged by a disharmony of dreaded anticipation: Golden Orb Disco.
Despite the fractured nature of the local subspace, Captain increased the speed of Cube #347.
The Golden Orb Disco looked innocent, at least when viewed visually. Liquid metal technology was first introduced to species #6766 ships about the time of Sensors' assimilation, over 550 real-time years ago. A technology coveted by the Borg, it had /yet/ to be reverse engineered, much less adapted, despite the fact that each Golden Ticket pilgrimage vessel captured in the last five and a half centuries had demonstrated increased sophistication. The Golden Orb Disco was of a new class of Bug ships with full liquid metal technology integrated into the hull, allowing for the transformation into a wide variety of configurations limited only by underlying superstructure.
A metal teardrop with two stubby wings, the Golden Orb Disco was a pitiful 150 meters long compared to Cube #347's 1.3 kilometer edges. The wings bulged on the leading edge; and a deep scan, while largely garbled due to interference from the liquid metal hull substance, suggested compartments holding the ghostly outlines of neatly stowed solar sails. Beyond the shiny gold color and the scratch-on-scratch-on-scratch muddle which was species #6766 writing, the hull was featureless, lacking obvious sensor ports, hatches, weaponry apertures.
The latter is what most interested Weapons.
{What sort of weapons? What sort of defenses?} demanded the weapons hierarchy head of Sensors. When it had become apparent that Cube #347 would lose the hypertranswarp stern chase, no matter the extreme amount of speed involved, the sub-collective had decided to drop to normal space to confront the pursuer. Most importantly, normal space allowed the use of weaponry unable to be deployed in a subspace environment. Unfortunately, species #6766 prowess at combat was another mystery to the Borg, Bug crews gladly giving up when so ordered by the Collective, most welcoming assimilation with open arms.
{Sensors...unable to answer,} replied Sensors. The hull material continued to defeat every grid configuration Sensors attempted. One could not even determine number of lifesigns; and except for the continuous transmission from the Golden Orb Disco, a valid conclusion might very well have been that it was unpeopled.
At six hours into the chase, the Bug ship had begun to broadcast a transmission targeting Cube #347. At first the sub-collective had ignored the hail, acting upon the premise that disregarding the problem would make it go away. That theory had been proven invalid, as demonstrated by four continuous hours of hail attempts. By the end of the period, Sensors had seriously considered asking to be sent into deep regeneration, that the only place where she could (maybe) escape the unscratchable itching which tickled the inside of her skull. Either an implant had been installed incorrectly or nanites grown something which caused interference, regardless of the ultimate reason, Sensors despised unanswered hails.
When Captain had /finally/ answered the hail, the sub-collective had been confronted with a single species #6766 individual standing before a console. Behind her had been a large room with flashing lights and swirling fog; and Bug party music had accompanied the shapes of insectoid dancing. Upon the Borg response, the individual had perked up, greeted the sub-collective, then called over the nearest dancers. Next had commenced a saga of repetitiveness, eventually precipitating Cube #347 return to normal space.
"Will you assimilate us?" asked a chorus of Bugs.
"No," was the sub-collective response, multivoice engaged. "We are busy."
"Will you assimilate us?"
"No."
"Will you assimilate us?"
"No."
"Will you assimilate us?"
Unlike the rest of the galaxy's inhabitants, species #6766 looked forward to assimilation. The desire was deeply rooted in ancient teachings, part philosophy and part religion. For Bugs, life was a series of metamorphoses both physical (egg, nymph, subadult, adult, elder) and mental (the gaining of knowledge and experience). Upon death, the soul made its final transition, discarding body and ascending to Heaven, becoming a small voice in a grand Choir of countless beings singing of oneness and perfection. Eventually the universe would gather together all the parts of its scattered soul, sundered at its explosive birth, reforming as One in order to contemplate the myriad experiences which contributed to its unique Whole. Then, because the exploration of Self is a never-ending endeavor, the primal One would scatter itself again, once more beginning the eternal cycle.
Needless to say, the Borg Collective seemed like nirvana made reality. Why wait for death and its attendant loss of body when you could take it all with you in the here-and-now?
The exchange continued ad nausea for over two hours, some of the species #6766 participants wandering off, only to be replaced by others drawn from the background party. In the meantime, the Golden Orb Disco had caught up with and begun to pace Cube #347. Finally Captain had broken the chain: "No...and if you ask again, so help us, we /will/ pull over this cube."
"Hooray! Will you assimilate us?"
"That's it. We are pulling over now." And so Cube #347 had performed an emergency stop to normal space, severely testing deflectors and inertial dampers alike. Golden Orb Disco had matched the action, setting up the current confrontation.
{What weapons? What defenses?} demanded Weapons once again. His files on species #6766 vessels were very sketchy.
Sensors huffed. In her alcove she stomped a walking leg. {Being loud will not change the song of physics! Armaments and defenses are hidden from Sensors!}
There must have been a mistranslation, because Weapons did not immediately respond. Finally he said, {Then we will provoke a response and determine the answer directly.} Torpedo launchers and capacitors feeding neuruptors on the faces and edges, respectively, closest to Golden Orb Disco unidled. Captain did not interfere with the action because, from the emotional emanations tasted by Sensors, he (as representative of command and control, and the general sub-collective) desired to end the issue quickly and without taking on a load of new species #6766 assimilatees.
One neuruptor, then two, lanced out at the Golden Orb Disco, both uncharacteristically on target. Unfortunately, that unusual happenstance did not matter, for both bent /around/ the Bug ship, deflected. The cutting beam attempt suffered the same result, as did disruptors, phasers, and every other energy weapon which was brought to bear.
Torpedoes. A torpedo was fired, but it simply...disappeared as it impacted against the liquid metal hull. There was no explosion, either of the ship or the vanished munition, just a cessation of its presence on the sensor grid. Another torpedo of higher isoton yield was sent on its way, with the same non-result.
The Golden Orb Disco did not react, at least not in a hostile manner, to the provocation. Instead, as the second torpedo was lost, all the Bugs in the range of the video pick-up raised glasses (or vials or mugs or, in one case, the crystal skull of a humanoid) of colored liquid in a toast. There was what one presumed to be a cheer, else someone had kicked an orchestra down a long flight of steps. "Hooray!" was the tentative cube computer translation, followed by "Are we being assimilated?"
"No," brusquely replied the multivoice. "Leave us alone."
"Assimilate us into the Song!"
"No."
Sensors found herself the focus of Captain's attention. She whistled an inquiry, adding a willingness-to-please emphasis to the second tone.
{What do bananas have to do with anything?} asked Captain in confusion. {We require some way to convince this vessel of species #6766 to cease pursuit.} In the background, Second was forcing Weapons to stand down on futile attack. {And we need to do so in a manner which will not require us to assimilate the lot of them. The /last/ thing this sub-collective needs are more species #6766 drones.}
In her alcove, Sensors shifted slightly. Thus far the conversation had been one-sided, rhetorical, the action of the sub-collective talking to itself in a stream-of-conscious manner. Sensors could hear the shifting tones of decision in which her designation featured prominently.
{Sensors,} said Captain, {you will serve as liaison to the vessel: you will convince the Golden Orb Disco and its occupants to stop following us.} The assignment order was accompanied by an unspoken requirement for compliance, that refusal was unacceptable.
Not that Sensors would /ever/ decline the Will of the Whole! To purposefully add discordance was antithesis to her species' viewpoint that the Borg were a corporeal manifestation of the universe attempting to unite itself in the perfect Song. {Sensors complies,} she declared, absently stamping two walking legs in first degree affirmation.
{Oh goody,} inserted Second, his dataspace melody sharpening. The current backup consensus monitor and facilitator was ever spinning complex meanings within meanings; and of all the drones on Cube #347, he came the closest to crudely (and inadvertently) imitating Sensors' gestalt language. {Now that one of us will be able to understand what these Bugs are saying, we'll need a translator for the translator.}
"What about resolution of the third-level subspace horizon through heavy gravitonic fluctuation such as found near recent era supernova remnants? The wake effect of transient unreal particles created by the deflector shield render [fatz] analogues useless; and other methods are less than satisfactory." Sensors exhaled a third degree undertone of interrogation, adding a double-trill modulation to convey a long-standing minor frustration. It was refreshing to talk properly for once, to not have to simplify her sentences to their most basic meaning.
Captain Fern inclined his head politely. He had started his long space-faring career as an engineer with a sensory specialty and was one of Sensors' primary guides for a tour of the Golden Orb Disco. 'Fern' was partially in reference to the fine webbing of long-healed cracks which spidered over the back of the captain's meta-abdomen, but also an allusion to the crisp wetness of the rainforest in which he had grown to adulthood. Like all species #6766 personal designations, the full version of the name translated poorly; and in order to keep the universal translator from terminal meltdown, Sensors automatically rendered the name to the informal form.
Unfortunately, the algorithm was still only successfully translating, maybe, one word in five. The biting song which was Second had begun to smell more acrid than usual, synonymous with his assignment to oversee Sensors' task to the species #6766 ship. {What? Fuzzy navel raspberries? Stucco ginkgos? Was there anything useful at /all/ in that exchange?} inquired Second with confused peevishness.
Sensors ignored the backup consensus monitor and facilitator, as she had ignored every other of his similarly irrelevant queries. Instead she waited for an answer on her very, very important question.
Fern laid one hand on top of a computer panel, one of many on the Golden Orb Disco bridge. "This is the newest in non-military grade sensor grid technologies. The resolution for all near-reality subspace horizons is excellent; and devolution occurs only in the most extreme of situations, such as imminent black hole merger." The captain paused, then added tentatively, "Holy one, why not assimilate us and this ship? The AI would be ever so helpful. All your questions would be answered."
Second, who had obviously managed to understand the last exchange, snorted, then continued his perpetual background commentary: {As if /this/ particular assimilation would make things concerning species #6766 and its technology oh-so-much clearer, an outcome which has not occurred all the /previous/ times.}
"We cannot assimilate this vessel or its occupants. You will stop following us; and you will recall those individuals who are currently on our cube," dutifully replied Second, the words overly familiar due to repetition. She added a full-body bob of first degree requirement-to-comply.
"But holy one," protested EmCee Sky, hand rolling into a fluid gesture of apology, "/why/ cannot you assimilate us? It would be an honor! It would be the best ending a Golden Orb Disco party has ever had! All the guests agree. Well, most of the guests, but those few not of our species will surely understand the quest for enlightenment once they are introduced to the Song."
Something in the atmosphere was making Sensors lightheaded. The effect had been building throughout the mission, from her first transport to the Golden Orb Disco, through the tour of the dance floors and extensive culinary preparation rooms, to the bridge. Likely it was an air-borne drug, a weak narcotic purposefully added to the ventilation system in order to relax partygoers. Unfortunately, if so (diagnostics were not reporting unusual deviations from the norm), then her nanites and other filtering systems were not fully removing the substance, allowing it to slowly accumulate. The upshot was it was becoming increasingly difficult to fully concentrate on the non-negotiations.
Second mentally poked Sensors, {You are discussing the cube intruders? At least make /them/ go away. It is becoming increasingly hard to keep Weapons from using them as target practice, especially since the Golden Orb Disco is impervious to his efforts.} Shortly after Cube #347 had reined in Weapons' attempt to destroy the Bug vessel, transporters originating from Golden Orb Disco had cut through Cube #347's shields as if they weren't present, depositing several dozen Bugs upon the cube. That number had subsequently fluctuated, but averaging at twenty-nine. All the Bugs were freely wandering around the cube, many clutching colorful alcoholic drinks, accosting drones with assimilation requests. All units had been warned with a top-level compulsion to keep their nanites to themselves, the consequence of non-compliance being the job of primary microprocessor to the species #6766 translator algorithms.
Sensors released adrenaline-analogue into her system, temporarily countering her increased muzziness. Antennae lifted as she became more alert. "This drone would be honored to assimilate you, but it is not allowed. None of us are allowed at this time. Therefore, it would be most efficient if all guests were returned to this vessel." Sensors tried to emphasize her words, adding a hint of potential danger.
As Captain Fern shook his head, Sky answered, "Oh! I couldn't do that! This is an anything-goes party! Well, within reason, as deaths are highly frowned upon. Approved guests are free to come and go at their leisure."
Tilting her head slightly as the most recent routine sensor grid diagnostic temporarily took precedence, part of Sensors multiplexed thoughts soared off onto a tangent. Why not assimilate the Golden Orb Disco? Even if Cube #347 could not/would not accept so many species #6766 for processing, what was to halt Sensors from bestowing the gift of ultimate harmony? The Golden Orb Disco could form the basis of a species #6766 Collective, accepting unto itself the homeworld and colonies and any other whom desired Oneness. Then /all/ would be closer to Heaven, closer to helping the universe understand the Perfect Melody that would cumulate in the final Chord before exploding outward, once more, to test the next permutation of Perfection.
Sensors had gone so far as to lift her right hand in preparation to reach towards a suddenly anticipatory Sky when a deluge of remotely triggered neurotransmitters flooded her system. It was as she had been plunged into a freezing bath. Doctor's scent and taste flavored her personal datastream, {Ooooh! Itty buggy shows subsidiary diagnostics sliding out of kilter-wilter. I fix since buggy seems busy.}
The day-dream shattered, Sensors hastily wiped the now ridiculous notion from consideration. How could she have even remotely considered a Collective composed solely of her own species? Silly! /All/ races, all viewpoints had to be part of the Song for it to accurately reflect the universe!
Sky chirruped an interrogative as the hand was withdrawn.
"We cannot assimilate this vessel or its occupants," repeated Second dully. Stalemate between Golden Orb Disco and Cube #347 re-established, she turned her attention back to Fern. "How does this sensor system cope with-"
The question was never completed.
The sensor grid suddenly demanded Sensors' attention. Despite the fact she was temporarily assigned the futile job of convincing the Golden Orb Disco to stop following Cube #347, she remained head of her hierarchy. From seeming nowhere, an Assimilation-class cube had appeared. There was no residual taste of hypertranswarp, no warp wake signature smell, nothing to show how it had mysteriously arrived...nothing except, maybe, a fading sensation of [fuzzy lime teacups] customarily associated with Xenig folded space drives.
"And stay out!" spat a synthetic voice upon a wide range of common subspace communication bands. The origination was a small oblong device, nearly lost amid the overshadowing bulk of the Assimilation-class cube. "This is your last warning: stop bothering us, and most certainly stop attempting forays into our solar system. If it happens again, much, much harsher measures will be taken." Message delivered, the device exploded.
A scan of the debris confirmed characteristic Xenig alloys as well as fading vibrations of a collapsed zero-point array energy field. However, that recognition was placed into storage for later perusal: there were other, much larger, potential concerns looming.
The arrival of the new cube had not gone unnoticed by the Golden Orb Disco.
"Oh, blimey fun!" chirruped the Golden Orb Disco's main computer to the occupants of the bridge. "Another Borg cube has arrived! I'll put it up on the main screen!"
As one, Fern and Sky turned their heads to look at the holoscreen which had materialized; and the several lurking crewmembers and partygoers inside the hallways adjacent the bridge unobtrusively sidled into view for a better gander. Sensors ignored the picture: she had a much better vantage point in the form of Cube #347's grid.
EmCee Sky was the first to turn back to Sensors. The Bug bobbed her torso, then scraped together the pseudo-teeth of her left arm in delight. A breathy chuckle was exhaled through spiracles. "Oh! I understand, holy one! You tricked us! You meant that /you/ cannot assimilate us, but were only waiting for an appropriate vessel of a grander size!"
Despite the discordant chaos which was the reaction of the Cube #347 sub-collective to the unexpected appearance of a larger and much more powerful Borg ship well within energy weapon range, Sensors managed a reply. "No, that is not what we meant...." Although the protest was strongly emphasized with a sharp downward slash of both arms, it was obviously being discounted. Already the announcement of the new arrival was propagating through the Golden Orb Disco, assisted by judicious use of loudspeakers by the AI.
Meanwhile, the Assimilation-class cube, with standard Borg efficiency, was recovering from the shock of transport by determining where it was and re-establishing contact with the Greater Consciousness. Concerning the latter, there was the faintest of prickling in the back of Sensors' mind, as there was undoubtedly for all Cube #347 drones, due to the proximity of a working vinculum. However, the delights of the full Choir were denied, fractal subspace frequencies encrypted against access by those declared rogue.
{Sensors sees nearest weapons arrays coming online; and this cube is under targeting lock,} warned Sensors as the relevant information flowed, accompanied by the caress of the lock. For once no clarifications were demanded concerning translation errors; or, more likely given the personality involved, Weapons had seized the initiative. The target lock slid away as shields were strengthened and electromagnetic countermeasures deployed.
"When will nirvana arrive?" asked Sky eagerly, oblivious to the opening maneuvers by the two cubes, tactics inexorably leading to an inevitable confrontation. Upon the display, which was now split in twain in order to better show the Borg pair, the smaller of the cubes had begun a defensive spin.
Sensors voiced a tentative opinion, {Sensors thinks the Golden Orb Disco is now academic.} The cold logic of numbers and odds was a vortex of calm within the dataspaces, command and control weaving the first skeins of harmony from which the chord of collective decision would eventually emerge. Unfortunately, most branches in the consensus cascade were ending with the cube's destruction and an abrupt end of all Song. {Perhaps it would be time to retrieve Sensors?}
A subspace transmission blasted from the Assimilation-class cube, multiple common carrier bands flooded as the sub-collective (and, by proxy, the Collective) ensued its message was heard. Sensors found the words to be oddly doubled, Cube #347's grid processing the transmission several echoing milliseconds before the same words were conveyed by the Golden Orb Disco computer to local loudspeakers.
"Exploratory-class Cube #347, we are the Borg Collective-" ({Duh,} spoke Second as an aside, not even imminent termination able to halt is propensity for snide comments) "-and you are a declared rogue. You will stand down in preparation for all autonomous organic components to be recycled. If you do not comply, you will be destroyed." The transmission abruptly cut. No mention had been made of the Bug ship; and it was very likely that the Collective had simply dismissed it as irrelevant, assuming it had been registered at all.
Silence reigned on the bridge of the Golden Orb Disco, broken only by the faint sound of Sensors' servos as she shifted her front walking legs.
If there was one quirk concerning the eagerness of species #6766 to be assimilated, it was the race was picky. Oh, there were always a few individuals willing to accept the substandard nirvana which were Colors, but for the majority only the original Borg Collective would do. To be faced with rogue drones, those whom were in such discord with the Song that they had been ejected from the Choirs seeking to Sing the Perfection of Oneness, was even worse.
"I think," said Sky into the silence, "that it would be best if you were to leave." Although the EmCee was polite - courteousness was practically an inborn species #6766 trait - there was a distance in the words which had not been present before; and the honorific 'holy one' was noticeable in its lack. All aboard Cube #347, wandering partygoers were being recalled to the Golden Orb Disco, Bug transporters ignoring Borg shields.
Sensors dipped her body slightly in acknowledgement as a transporter locked onto her. It was easy enough for the Cube #347 computer to match its own shield harmonics in order to retrieve a drone; and no defensive shields had yet been raised by the Golden Orb Disco. As the bridge of the Bug ship faded, the ship's computer was announcing for a new poll.
{All we needed to do was tell them we were declared rogue,} said Captain to Sensors, tone flat. {Why did you not tell us before?}
{You did not ask,} replied Sensors, subtleties of surprised admonishment lost by the translation algorithm. Additional rebukes - nascent swirls within the larger cyclone which was command and control - were deferred as Sensors redirected sub-collective attention to the Assimilation-class cube, its weaponry preparing to fire despite lack of a firm target lock.
Neuruptors discharged. The sub-collective braced for impact; and engineering had preemptively rerouted power from those conduits and circuits susceptible to battle failure. However, except for a few minor scores upon shields, the sensation of which reminded Sensors of a struck bell, there was a definitive lack of explosions on the part of Cube #347.
"Will you assimilate us?"
The Golden Orb Disco moved surprisingly fast, interposing itself between Cube #347 and the Assimilation-class cube, forcing the Borg to acknowledge its existence. Solar sails had begun to unfurl as it had done so, increasing the apparent bulk of the otherwise small vessel ten-fold and making it even harder to ignore. Only a Bug mindset would have even contemplated such a maneuver; and only a Bug ship could prevent the action from being likened to instant suicide. Neuruptors impacted against Golden Orb Disco and sails, although there was no more damage evident than when Cube #347 had made its concerted effort.
The familiar pleading from the Bug ship sounded again over the open transmission, "Will you assimilate us?"
"No," responded the Borg multivoice after a few seconds. Thrusters lit along one side of the Assimilation-class as the vessel attempted to 'see' around the Golden Orb Disco. The Bug ship smoothly mirrored the movement, keeping itself firmly between the two cubes in a position the Borg could not dismiss as irrelevant.
{Now would be a good time to retreat,} opinionated Second.
As Cube #347 backed away, Sensors redirected the attention of her hierarchy upon deep subspace scans: it was always beneficial to look before you leapt into hypertranswarp. For a moment she considered applying a modification to a face in order to increase resolution, but a simple {No} from Captain, whom was monitoring the situation, prevented following through with the impulse.
Sensors sighed, spiracles producing a faint whistling noise which echoed off the alcove tier (not her own) where transporters had deposited her.
The standard protests from Weapons concerning fleeing from battle commenced, but Sensors did not bother to listen: the [hot blue] presence which was Weapons was not her consideration. Her bailiwick was to ensure Cube #347 did not strand itself upon the subspace equivalent of shoals, nor dash itself to pieces against unreal cliffs.
"Will you assimilate us?"
"No."
Cube #347 dove into hypertranswarp, leaving behind Golden Orb Disco and the new focus of its obsession.
Sensors clicked her mandibles together in consternation: the neuruptors, while not causing significant damage to the cube, had nonetheless precipitated an electrical surge that had temporarily overloaded transporter buffers. It was going to be a long walk back to her alcove.
*****
"Will you assimilate us?"
"No."
"Will you assimilate us?"
"No."
"Will you assimilate us?"
"No!"
Rumor, faster than light, faster than a GPS 'Yesterday Service' delivery, spread convoluted tentacles throughout the galaxy.
It started as fashionably late partygoers with a coveted Golden Orb Disco invitee arrived at the celebratory coordinates, only to find nothing. Had the party moved to a new, more exciting venue? Had an unfortunate combination of incompatible drinks and other mood-altering substances led to an explosion, such as had happened a century and a quarter before? Was it a joke, other participants giggling from afar as they waited to jump out with a loud 'surprise'?
Several miffed triV starlets flounced back to their fancy flats, their first act to call a friend in order to impart an acid-tinged criticism. That friend called another friend, who, in turn, called yet another friend, and the chain was begun.
Meanwhile, the ever-present network of party-crashers and paparazzi, spread into a net in order to snare the grand golden prize, chatted amongst themselves. Was that a Bug ship signature in grid 567.3, accompanied by a Borg hypertranswarp wake? Did you hear that Honey[click] Hbyk[descending rasp] never found the Party; and that some are saying she never really had an invitation? My little brother swears that the Borg transmission fragment he overheard mentioned the Disco...really!
Whatever the stories being told, whatever the cautious speculation and outright lies, only the absent Golden Orb Disco knew the truth.
"Will you assimilate us?"
"No."
"Will you assimilate us?"
"No!"
"Will you assimilate us?"
"No! Desist bothering us and go away!"
*****
Sensors gently rose from the non-time of regeneration, her conscious mind re-affirming connections with the melody of the surrounding sub-collective. Several programs scurried forward; and as one helpfully presented a list of necessities for the sensory hierarchy head to coordinate, another offered a summary of happenings during neural downtime. Additional program snippets of lesser importance lingered in the metaphorical wings, waiting to deliver their burdens when called to do so.
{Regeneration complete,} said the computer in its customary flat tone.
The last eight hours since leaving behind Assimilation-class cube and Golden Orb Disco had shown no sign of pursuit from either. Evasive maneuvers on the part of Cube #347, often accompanied by protests from Weapons who felt that the best defense was an overwhelming offense, had presumably muddled the cube's spoor such that tracking was impossible. The fate of the Bug ship was unknown, but its diversion, provided either through assimilation or following along and demanding such, had presumably assisted successful escape.
Sensors temporarily shifted a portion of the grid into one of her special configurations. A few minutes was more than sufficient to confirm no pursuit within a hundred light-year sphere. The grid was allowed to return to standard hypertranswarp configuration before hierarchy efficiency could begin to noticeably degrade, attracting the interest of command and control.
What to do? What to do? The trek to the Golden Orb Disco had stretched Sensors' muscles, resetting the diagnostic programs that monitored personal health. The next Terran poker tournament would not be starting for another three cycles; and dialogue with other drones was always a trial due to the imperfect nature of the universal translator when it came to her species' language.
Sensors spent several minutes replaying some memes from her excursion, taking pleasure (such as she was allowed) amid the memories of proper, gestalt conversation with others of her own race. The most interesting portion of the tour had been the bridge, and, specifically, explanation of the Golden Orb Disco's advanced sensor grid system. With perfect recall, Sensors listened to Captain Fern's words and observed movements of arm and leg. It was when she had halted the replay in order to zoom in upon a portion of computer panel glanced out of the corner of her eyes that Sensors had the idea.
The software modifications would be complex, not to mention the need to perform minor physical alterations to the deep subhull neutrino array, but the gain in scanning efficiency when in complex gravitational environments was potentially great. She would start adaptations right away....
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