Tribble Trouble / Puffskein Panic!

Chapter One: Prelude: How the Fur hit the Fan

Standard disclaimer applies. The universes belong to their owners. The plot belongs mostly to me, seeing as the co-owner would probably kill me if identified.

"I don't care if you break it! Get them out of here while you can!"

"Are you mad! We'll blow out the pattern buffers with this many!"

"Just do it before they wake up and start breeding again!"

"I'm telling you, we can't do it all at once! Not an entire cargo bay-full!"

"The gas won't keep them all asleep long enough to do two runs! We have to do them all right now!"

"We don't have enough power reserves to control a transport that big!"

The object of the argument – or rather, objects – were dozing on the floor of DS11's hub cargo bay in a huge yellowish-brownish-creamy heap about the size of a room. Each was small and furry and vaguely round, and they were inspiring the fear of god into the two men nearby.

"We're out of options! Hit the bloody panel!"

"Idiot! If we lose the buffers in mid-port the safeties will kick in and reset the target co-ordinates! They'll be random! God knows where they might end up!"

"I don't care, as long as it's not here!"

"Fine! But if they end up with the Borg then we're all screwed and I'm blaming you!"

Parts of the heap started to emit a strange sort of groggy-sounding squeaky buzz. The stressed-out and panicky transporter chief's head snapped around towards the source, his face a rictus of horror behind the full body biosuit that he wore. There was a suggestion of movement on the outer edges of the surreal pile. The buzzing grew stronger. It sounded like a dying balloon on bad LSD.

"Oh, hell! They're waking up! Do it! Do it now!"

"I know, damnit!"

The sound changed, becoming deeper and more menacing. A buzzing roar filled the cargo bay as both men ran for cover behind the makeshift transport station near the bay doors. The junior Ensign/technician frantically worked the controls as the furry, growling heap started to vibrate.

"They're pissed off! Hurry!"

"So would you be if you'd been gassed and then shoved into a heap! I'm going as fast as I can!"

"Go faster!"

"There!"

A blue glow appeared in the air around the pile of fur. It grew and sparkled and made a noise like musical tinsel. To the intense relief of both men the heap started to fade from view. But all of a sudden –

"Hell! The buffers are overloading! I can't purge them fast enough!"

"Dump the pattern to the main computer!"

Smoke started pouring from the bank of towers behind them as the tech wrestled frantically with the machine.

"I can't! It's too long, it'll fragment!"

"Increase the power then!"

"Target co-ordinates have reset! I can't reprogram them! Going to full power!"

The chief started praying. Suddenly, the blue glow turned green, and a cascade of glowing particles filled the air. He panicked.

"What! A temporal field! Purge everything! Stop the transport!"

The tech hit every reset button that he could reach, but with a crack, the buzzing, growling heap vanished from view. There was a flare of green as the field collapsed.

"It's too late! They've gone!"

The crackling and hissing of the ruined transport station was only sound in the room as the two men stared, utterly stunned, at the empty bay.

"I told you this would happen", the Ensign said dejectedly.

The transport chief tried to hold back the dread in his voice. "Where… where have we sent them?"

"I don't know…but that's not the worst part…"

"I know. I know."

There was a further silence. The Ensign's voice cracked in fear as he whispered:

"The question is… when have we sent them to?"