It is a collection of the usual suspects: Paramount owns Star Trek; Decker created Star Treks; and Meneks writes BorgSpace. Any questions? None? Good!

Prime Duty

It was the wee hours of third-shift aboard the University Research Vessel Newton and the hallways were quiet. Between tours and with a skeletal crew to shepherd her home from semi-annual dry-dock maintenance, the empty corridors conjured up not an eerie ambiance, but rather a sense of restful contemplation. In a few short weeks the silence would be a distant memory, the decks repopulated with the two-thirds of the crew currently on vacation, not to mention the bustling excitement that accompanied researchers with their entourages of graduate student slaves. For now, however, it felt as if the ship were reveling in her well-deserted respite.

Such was not to say that all were asleep. In addition to the handful of third-shift personnel quietly reading a book or playing solitaire at their stations, the gym on deck two-forward was in use. Blazing lights threw shadows into the dim hallway; and Terran style music with a strong backbeat echoed through the adjoining corridor. Inside, half a dozen pieces of heavy equipment had been pushed, or simply lifted, out of the way, enlarging the space at one end of the gym set aside for group activities such as martial arts and yoga. The adjacent wall had been ordered to a mirrored state; and before it stood a large figure, almost 2.5 meters tall with dark epidermis the dull sheen of exoskeleton. The figure was precisely gesturing with its arms, always in time with the music.

"That's just not right," stated a voice from the gym entrance. The words were barely discernable over the wailing guitars and frenetic drumming of the current song selection.

The figure before the mirrors neither paused nor otherwise acknowledged it had noticed the intruder. In fact, it had heard the sound of the speaker's approaching footsteps long before it had materialized from the third-shift dimmed hallways. And even if the noise of approach might have somehow been missed, keen multifaceted eyes specialized to detect movement had followed the image of the speaker reflected via mirror.

Not that the speaker had been attempting stealth. Those who accidentally (or purposefully) startled a Flarn tended to need a visit to the doctor afterwards, or, at the very least, a change in the underwear department.

Janzki Taren-y'tel-galoni, Flarn and Chief Engineer of the URV Newton, did not stop her yo-yo practice. The University yo-yo competition was only three months away, and as five year reigning champion, she had a title to defend. The previous years' crop of challengers had been particularly fierce, and a similar quality of excellence was expected at the upcoming contest. Although Janzki already had the choreography for her routine planned, there were always individual elements requiring refinement.

While Janzki would not cease her practice for mere conversation, she could, and did, provide a response somewhere in the register between baritone and bass, "Having trouble sleeping again, Ricky?"

Janzki herself needed little sleep. Except for certain times of the year or when sick, the average Flarn required only two or three hours of sleep during the standard Second Federation day-night period which the Newton maintained. Therefore, once her first-shift assignment ended, Janzki had many hours to kill. Once the next tour began, there would be more than enough crises revolving around experimental equipment malfunction (and impact to the ship from said malfunctions) to fill any number of shifts. Even then, however, the early hours of third-shift tended to be sufficiently quiet to allow time for yo-yoing. If anything, Janzki dreaded the lack-of-work downtime between tours, although it did allow her to watch her beloved holodramas or to catch up on reading about the latest advances in the engineering journals: even a defending champion could not yo-yo around the clock, after all.

With a flourish of cymbal and saxophone, the song came to an end. Two yo-yos, one for each hand, thumped into awaiting palms. Janzki grunted...synchronization of the dismount was not quite perfect, although the average observer would not notice anything amiss. Unfortunately, the judges at the yo-yo competition were not average observers; and the difference of a few points more often than not separated the score of first place from second.

"Figgy, pause the music," called Janzki to the air. Newton's Personality obliged the order, acknowledgement a simple beep.

Adroitly slipping the yo-yos into pockets at the front of her vest specifically designed for the purpose, Janzki turned to regard the individual who had interrupted her practice. The vest, a complicated affair of pockets and grommets and zippers, was not standard issue. Then again, Janzki was not only Flarn, but Chief Engineer, either of which was a label sufficient to make a sane person pause in any request to remove it. Otherwise, she was garbed in gray trousers and short-sleeved shirt, both tailored to her unique physique, a strip of green about her upper right arm indicating engineering department affiliation and pin upon collar her specific rank.

The uniform (minus vest) was standard issue for the Newton, and the soft-skin watching Janzki wore similar garb, with the purple of command and the rank-pin of second-in-command. In truth, the uniforms were not required. After all, the Newton was a research vessel, not a by-the-book military ship, and the crew small enough to know each other. However, the uniforms did serve to separate the ever-changing whirlwind of researchers from the permanent crew, as well as provided a focus for the scientist who absolutely needed a piece of equipment fixed right-now-if-not-sooner.

As long as the vest was known to be sacrosanct, Janzki was accepting of the uniform requirement. Although some might grumble about them, it made the daily decision about what to wear very easy.

"What do you want, Ricky?" asked Janzki. "I refuse to listen to any tale of woe which may concern the latest on-line girlfriend who dumped you. I told you that last time." She took a few steps forward to loom over the first officer. Ricky merely eyeballed the Flarn. Long years of familiarity tempered the reflexive cringe most soft-skins performed when faced by a large being intruding into one's personal space.

"It's just not right."

Janzki sighed, giving up on acquiring a sensible answer. "What's not right?"

"You. You are tall and, well, big. You can move heavy items." A hand was waved to indicate the displaced exercise equipment. "I bet not one of those things weigh less than 120 kilos."

"Even I would need a grav sled, or at least a wheeled dolly, to shift this equipment more than a few feet."

The protest was ignored. "By all rights, your brain should be as thick as your muscles. And you certainly shouldn't have the dexterity to use a yo-yo."

If Janzki had been able to roll her eyes, she would have. Red-haired Ricky McFadden was average in height for a soft-skin biped, and thus only came to mid-chest on the Flarn. He had a Vulcan grandmother, but was otherwise human; and the Vulcan genes were only apparent in slightly pointed ears and a tendency to analyze a problem in greater detail than necessary. Sometimes his thinking got the better of him, and the only cure was to hear out whatever he had to say. If the speaker had been anyone other than Ricky, a long-time acquaintance with a shared a personal history, the Flarn would have asked the individual to leave her to her yo-yo practice.

"That's a nice observation, anything else?" inquired Janzki sarcastically.

"Well, you are smart. I mean, really smart. The scientists that treat you like dirt when you don't fix their contraptions post-haste have no clue you have advanced degrees - plural! - in theoretical warp mechanics and materials sciences. They just see a big grease-" Pause "-monkey."

"How else am I supposed to understand all that needs to be done to keep the ship healthy? Particularly when the chief big-heads start plugging devices into the nearest outlet with no regard to what will happen in the neighboring lab, or Newton's life support. And if you call me a primate one more time, I'll be forced to tear a limb from your body and smack you with it. Then you might die if you couldn't crawl to Sick Bay in time to save yourself from massive blood loss, which would make me very, very sad." Janzki delivered her words with a straight face. Then again, given that facial expressions were not a Flarn forte, such was easy to achieve.

Ricky huffed, but otherwise ignored the threat. "But you are smart, much more so than me-"

"Like that would be difficult."

"-or most anyone on the crew. Right now, for instance, there is absolutely none of the hissing or sibilance that accompany most Flarn when they talk."

"That's because the universal translators cannot render Flarn correctly! None of the algorithm variants. Since I do not want to sound like a drunken snake drowning in its own spit, I speak Terran Standard when I'm around you soft-skins. The computer has a much easier time with Standard."

Crowed Ricky, "Exactly! You don't need to learn another language than your native tongue, but you have! How many languages are you up to now? Three? Four?"

"Five," admitted Janzki with a shrug of her massive shoulders. "I need something to occupy my time when off-shift. I've started on Dominionese, but while the word/meaning interface is easy, the syntax is a real bitch. I should be sufficiently fluent to hold up my end of a conversation in six or seven months. Assuming I can find anyone to converse with, that is. Dominionese is a dead language."

"And then-"

Grumbled Janzki, "Enough. You came to tell me something, and this utterly fascinating treatise on how I do not fit some monkey-boy Flarn stereotype is not it. Spit it out, else I'm going to tie a string to your ankles and fling you around like a yo-yo until you do. Again, if this is all leading up to some dating or lack-of-sex problem, I-"

"It is the upcoming tour," replied Ricky hastily. "I was sitting in my room, unable to sleep, so I checked my interdepartmental mail. You haven't looked at yours yet, have you?"

"And by the four hells, why should I do that? You know I check the stuff as little as possible. Most of it is irrelevant junk, from my point of view."

"The memo is quite relevant to engineering, and you in particular. It is a list of the researchers and experiments to be on-loaded next month."

"So? I'll read the memo next week. It isn't like I've ever not had Newton ready for the big-heads."

"Er...one of the finalists has a Color-flavored experiment."

"Again, so what? Borg-tech minus the Borg I can live with. As long as none of those cybernetic menaces step foot onto any deck I control, I can suffer the universe having Borg. Barely." As a Flarn, Janzki severely disliked all things Borg. After all, it was the Borg that nearly eradicated the Flarn; and it was the Borg that forcefully dissolved the budding Flarn empire, sending refuges to beg asylum from Terrans, from Klingons, from Romulans. It had been the most humiliating moment in the annuals of the proud race. For Janzki, it did not matter if it was Color or Hive, they were all Borg; and as Borg, they would eventually show their true selves.

Said Ricky, eyes downcast as if the gym floor had suddenly become incredibly interesting, "The scientist will be accompanied by several unconventional assistants. Er, Ultraviolet and Peach seem to be major backers of the guy's research, and both will be sending representatives to observe the experiment. Several representatives."

"What?!?" bellowed Janzki. Several expletives followed, all echoing through the corridors adjacent the gym.

Ricky squeezed his eyes closed. He was very familiar with Flarn: the Toleti III enclave, from which Janzki hailed, was located adjacent to the non-Flarn neighborhood of his youth. As demonstrated throughout history, mere walls were no impediment to children, be they with or without exoskeletons, determined to play (or mock-war) with each other. Unfortunately, familiarity could also beget too much knowledge: Ricky knew the rage encompassed in that shout could easily be redirected at the dismemberable, soft-skinned biped who had delivered the bad news. Flarn did not necessarily ascribe to the adage of not blaming the messenger. On the other hand, if it had come to light that he had known of the news, but not warned Janzki, the types of hell to pay might have been exponentially worse.

"No, no, no...I'll snot ssstand for thiss...atrocity," slurred Janzki. In her anger, the Flarn had slipped back to her native tongue, and now the universal translator was struggling to cope. There was a crash as a fist encountered something metal, but ultimately yielding. "First...first I musst reads the mail. Then I wills have many, many calls to make. Theres be Borgs aboard my ship over my cooling carcassss." Janzki stomped from the gym, her footsteps slow to fade from hearing.

Ricky opened his eyes. The damage was not as extensive as he had feared. Only one treadmill had been reduced to recyclable scrap. While Ricky could exercise his rank to order the gym tidied right now, it was probably best to wait until first-shift. "Figgy, terminate Janzki's program. I seriously doubt she'll be back this shift."

The Personality beeped an acknowledgment.

The URV Newton had left its university berth. The destination...was not important, at least not to the majority of persons who comprised the permanent crew. Maybe it was a red dwarf, or perhaps a blue giant on the cusp of explosion, else a point in the depths of space far from anything. All which was of consequence was that the latest tour to further science (and egos) sponsored by Tanatus II University was underway.

As usual, the engineer department was caught in the middle of a disorganized chaos.

Labs to be set up, graduate students with special requirements, equipment to be unpacked and assembled, blown fuses to be set (and reset), there was a never-ending list of things to do. And every Prime Investigator, every Chief Scientist, every being with multiple acronyms and letters following his, her, or its name felt that they should be the first to be serviced. While there were always exceptions to the rule, as a breed, the average top scientist had acquired his position, and tenure, not through timidity, but by being able to (1) outshout the competition and (2) attract vast sums of money to his program via grants and/or sponsorships. With so many inflated egos trapped together for two months in a tin can, something would eventually give. It was the unspoken tenet of engineering for ensure that the inevitable explosion be delayed until the end of the trip; and, thus, double- or even triple-shifts were common the first days until things within the lab decks settled to routine.

Janzki's office looked out upon the bustle of Main Engineering. A large window allowed the Flarn, when she was in residence, to survey her minions as they performed vital functions in and around the pulsating power core that dominated the center of engineering's domain. Within the office, the ceiling rose a comfortable three meters above the deck, allowing Janzki to stand straight, as opposed to the bent knees, slumped shoulders, and lowered head that characterized her posture in hallways that otherwise barely cleared her 2.5 meter height. The back wall was a veritable trophy display, showing off yo-yo tournament plaques; certificates of appreciation from famous scientists who had toured on the Newton; photos of the Flarn with any number of Big Names in the engineering realm; a stuffed targ head; advanced degrees from prestigious institutions (not that the scientists aboard would ever take the time to read of Janzki's accomplishments); and ratings earned from the SecFed merchant marines, the organization which certified crew to (legal) non-military vessels. Also amid the clutter of frames, metal plates, and real-wood commemoratives was a small piece of paper which certified her Chief Engineer rank. Of everything, except the yo-yo trophies, it was her proudest accomplishment. Only the secret engineering society known as the Brotherhood of the Spanner could endorse a Chief Engineer, capitalized; and through a long understanding between the Brotherhood and many governments and institutions throughout the galaxy (and beyond), only Chief Engineers were allowed to take the chief engineering position in vessels of significance, such as the Newton.

Janzki's office consisted of more than window, high ceiling, and mementoes. Dominating the center of the space was a desk and chair, both sized to comfortably fit a Flarn frame. Several chairs, usually stacked in a corner, kept on hand for soft-skinned visitors to the Chief Engineer looked like children's furniture when set before the desk. To the right as one entered the office, most of the wall was divided into myriad displays, the primary of which featured an ever-changing schematic of the Newton. The schematic board was accompanied by a keyboard, waist-high to a Flarn; and from this point could Janzki oversee her realm like the spider at the center of a high-tech web. The opposite wall featured a bench built into the bulkhead, upon which half a dozen projects lay in various states of dismantlement and/or repair: any engineer worth the title was a consummate tinkerer when given the chance, and Janzki was no exception.

During the first four or five days of a tour, Janzki was rarely in her office. Managing an assortment of emergencies, both real and imagined - sometimes her mere looming presence was sufficient to stop a researcher mid-harangue, demanding the impossible of an already overworked technician - was a full time job. There was rarely even enough time for a quick yo-yo practice session. However, at this day, and in this minute, the Chief Engineer was entertaining a visitor to her personal sanctuary.

Doctor Eugene Austis was not a happy man. At 152 centimeters tall, he was below average in height for a human, which in turn made him appear to be a midget in a room with furniture oversized for a Flarn physique. He had the slightly pudgy paunch of the middle-aged, one who might have once exercised, but had given up due to other interests monopolizing his time. He was not an especially attractive man, even a Flarn normally blind to the concept of beauty among the soft-skinned species could see that. Nor was his intrinsic homeliness helped by the way his eyes bulged and face mottled red as he vented his anger upon the Newton's Chief Engineer.

Janzki found the whole display comical. It was probably for the best that only another Flarn, or someone who had spent much time amongst Flarns, would know that her body posture was the equivalent of an amused smirk.

"This is unacceptable! Totally unacceptable! What do you mean I cannot set up my equipment?! What do you mean that my life's work will fail?! The theory is perfectly sound and has passed all the lab tests! All it needs is field verification! I demand to talk to your captain about this!" The good doctor had eschewed the human-sized chair set out for him to lean over Janzki's desk. Spittle was landing on several stacked PADDs.

Hissing her disgust, Janzki reached out to slide the bespittled PADDs out of the danger zone. She would have to sterilize them later with alcohol wipes. Unlike the incensed researcher, the Flarn was sitting in her chair. Of course, to do otherwise would commit her to towering over the man. It wasn't that Janzki particularly cared if she intimidated the soft-skin, but that she knew from long experience that a scientist in full spate could not be cowed. What was a mere Flarn compared to departmental in-fighting and the yearly budget allocation debate?

"Quiet," rumbled Janzki. Amazingly, Eugene sputtered to a stop. "I never said, nor implied, that your theory was flawed. The issue is not one of implementation in general, but implementation upon the Newton. It is obvious, once I examined the configuration of your experiment, that you designed it using the schematic of a Cochran-class research vessel fresh from the ship yards. I would have caught the issue sooner, but your 'comrades', and I am guessing Peach is primarily to blame, blacked out critical elements of your experimental setup until after we left dock.

"There is no such thing as 'need-to-know' on my ship. And as far as talking to the captain, she'll just refer you back to me."

Said Eugene in disbelief, "You are saying I made a mistake!" A hand waved in the general direction of the ceiling. "Is the Newton not Cochran-class?"

Janzki sighed, then pushed a button on her desk. A hologram of the Newton materialized and slowly started to spin. "The Newton is Cochran-class, but not standard. For instance, did it not occur to you to wonder why green is forbidden in lab #4-forward? Or why the cargo capacity of the secondary aft hold is eight times what it should be?" As she spoke, the appropriate locales were highlighted upon the model. "The latter happened following an incident three years ago that I'd rather not go in to. The outcome was stable; and although the extra space is not apparent to the casual observer, it adversely impacts subspace streamlining when the ship has accelerated to extraluminal velocities.

"In response to these, and other, alterations that have occurred over the years, during both my tenancy as Chief Engineer and those that came before, the Newton has been changed. It is no longer 'standard' by any long stretch of the imagination. Modifications have occurred to every system, from waste reclamation to power generation, to mitigate for all the experiments. Even the hull is molecularly atypical, a contribution I made five years ago to stop quantum parasites from attacking the transwarp rings. Therefore, to balance the requirements of all the researchers, and to keep the Newton from imploding into a singularity or being thrown into an alternative subdimension, I have to ensure that the toys that are lugged aboard will not interfere with each other or the ship. It is I who has final say on the experiments, not the captain, not the selection committee, not your Borg buddies, and certainly not yourself. I and I alone."

Eugene was staring at Janzki, as if she had grown multiple heads.

Continued the Flarn, "Following every tour, I update Newton's stats and schematics, posting at a publicly accessible node of the university net. And I know that the selection committee that vets proposals for Newton's tours require all hardware components be designed according to the updates." Janzki paused. "You ignored it all, didn't you? Why in every tour is there always one of you soft-skin big-head a**holes who thinks themselves above little things like the rules of physics?"

The insult appeared to finally spur Eugene to action. "You cannot talk to me like that! You are merely a...a...a technician! A glorified technician! You are just an engineer! I will be allowed to perform my experiments, else I will ensure that you are fired and that you never find a job anywhere in the Second Federation again!"

"Yah, whatever." Bluster from ego-inflated scientists was nothing new to Janzki. "I'm sure there is a wee threat of assimilation somewhere hanging over your head. Sign a contract with Ultraviolet or Peach that you didn't read fully because you really, really needed their backing?" Sullen silence was the answer as Eugene's face abruptly paled. "I thought so. Well, as much as I would not grieve to know you were no longer among those able to annoy me, it is my job to confirm that experiments hauled upon this ship are implementable. If you had listened to me at the very beginning, I never said that your proposal could not be completed, just not as configured given the Newton's modifications."

Janzki typed a couple of quick commands on the keyboard embedded in her desk, and the holographic Newton tilted before zooming in to a close-up of the lab decks. "First of all, I will have to move you to a new lab. You are too close to the plasma relays feeding the portside shield emitters. The backscatter in the gamma-lambda Klein node of the secondary quantum harmonic has potential to interact with the tau-astrometry experiment in adjoining lab #2b-forward. Shifting you to lab #7c-aft, although a pain in the butt for my personnel given how all your boxes are already uncrated, should mitigate that little temporal displacement disaster waiting to happen. Lab #7c-aft has the added benefit in that it is one of three retrofitted late last year with what I have been calling a Disharmonizing Forcefield System. The DFS produces a quasi-forcefield that, well, think of it as the equivalent of a noise nullifier. Only instead of putting a cone of silence around a snorer, it cancels out some of the odder subspace harmonics that might interact nastily with the Newton. Completely nontangible to us real-world beings. You won't even know it is there, except that it'll keep your section of the ship in a single, thermally stable piece."

If Eugene had been flabbergasted before, the display of technobabble from an engineer, from a Flarn, had reached a point of astonishment that the only response was silence. Janzki liked the development. Outside in Main Engineering, the few techs taking a break from sorting researcher demands were studiously pretending they had not been watching the entertainment.

Janzki stood from her chair. The hologram vanished. Looking downward - the top of the scientist's head came barely to the bottom of her chest - the Chief Engineer crossed her arms over her vest. "Do you accept my modifications to your proposal? Changes to the contraption itself may be necessary as well, although I will not know until it is assembled and certain in-situ diagnostics are run. Or do you prefer to be doing nothing the next two months?"

"I call it the Fractulator," replied Eugene quietly. The researcher had finally cowed. Most did when confronted by the immobile tritanium wall which was Chief Engineer Janzki in her home realm. "I think there may be room for cooperation. But not collaboration, mind you: I refuse to have a mere engineer included as an author on the papers I will publish following analysis of the Fractulator tests."

"Deities forbid," muttered Janzki. She shook her head. "Follow me. I'll escort you to lab #7c-aft so that you can look at your new space."

Many have tried, and failed, to describe a Flarn. 'Beatle', 'bug', and 'insect' have all been used, often in conjunction with variations upon 'lizard' and 'dinosaur'. Mammals such as 'bear', or whatever equivalent creature might be within the speaker's lexicon, are occasionally invoked, despite the fact that no hair has ever graced a Flarn hide. Most do agree that Flarn are 'big' and 'strong', and that terms such as 'beautiful' should only be utilized with a strong dose of irony.

Flarn are often considered to be an amalgam of insectoid and reptilian characteristics. For most people, the initial impression upon meeting a Flarn for the first time is one of height: adults average 2.5 meters, with some individuals on record to be pushing the 3 meter mark. In other words, a Flarn towers over most of the galaxy's bipeds. The next focus of attention is often the large, multifaceted eyes dominating the face. For species equipped with a more conventional ocular structure, conversing with a Flarn is somewhat unsettling because none of the traditional eye-orientated cues are present. Finally, one cannot but help not notice the epidermis. Typically dark in color, the pseudo-exoskeleton that encases a Flarn is a light-weight chitin, less robust than that possessed by true insectoids, but tougher than mammalian skin or reptilian scales. Because of limitations imposed by the exoskeleton, Flarn mood is rarely conveyed via facial expressions, instead minute variations in body posture performing that role. A traditional calcium-based skeleton is present - it has to be, anchoring the extremely powerful musculature required to carry the natural armor.

With a physiology that mixes the attributes from several traditional clades, all attempts by purveyors of the systematic sciences to place Flarns in one biological bucket or another have long been stymied. Perhaps if the Flarn homeplanet, with its distinct fauna, had been available for study, those scientists who agonize where each creature should be pigeonholed in the grand tree of life might be less defensive when the question of systematics arose. However, the majority of species upon the homeplanet were lost in the First Federation era following invasion by the Borg, an intense exploitation that left the surface hostile to non-drone lifeforms larger than a bacteria.

On the other hand, descriptions of an angry Flarn are much more unified in content. All are agreed that 'somewhere else, preferably far, far away' is the best place to be.

"You have damaged me!" protested the Peach drone. It was holding its non-cybernized limb close to its abdomen, the sharp bend in the forearm where no joint was present attesting to a severe injury. Head was craned back to focus upon the face of its attacker, although the whole eye kept rolling sideways and down towards the object of assault.

Janzki glared down at the Borg, wishing she had permission to boot it, and its buddies, out the nearest airlock. Despite many vid calls and much pulling of strings from those who owed her favors, she had been unsuccessful in banning Doctor Austis's Colored backers from placing representatives upon her ship. Ten of the hated things - seven Ultraviolet and three Peach - along with their alcoves, transceiver booster, and other equipment, had been allowed to board, regardless of Janzki's warnings. The psychologists claimed her attitude to be based upon an 'extreme racial shock translating to an unfounded xenophobia against vectors similar to, but fundamentally unlike, the founding trauma'. Hah! That was one way to spin psycho-babble to say that Janzki's race had been subject to assimilation by the Borg. But once a Borg, always a Borg...Colors were just another flavor of Borg waiting to happen.

The concession Janzki had obtained was that the Borg were to be confined to a pair of storage rooms and the lab where Eugene was undertaking his experiments. Movement in the hallways between the two destinations was to be kept to a minimum. Additionally, the Borg were not to infiltrate the Newton's systems. A small and heavily firewalled dataspace had been set aside to allow the drones limited comm function to maintain connection with their respective Minds. Via Figgy, Newton's Personality, Janzki had been obsessively monitoring that temporary dataspace, convinced it was only a matter of time until the Borg, and the espionage-specialized Peach in particular, attempted to sneak into the main systems. She had not been disappointed.

In the last hour of second-shift on the fourth day of the tour, when Janzki was in her quarters considering the merits of a couple of hours of sleep, Figgy had alerted her of the intrusion on deck six-forward. The lab deck in question was well outside of where the Borg were allowed to roam. Janzki had left her room at a heavy-footed jog, too peeved to even think to call for one of the four crew who served at Newton's security department.

"You are damned lucky I did not smack you in the head," growled Janzki in response to the Borg's complaint. In one hand she was holding what some might call an adjustable crescent head wrench, but most an ungodly huge spanner. The traditional weapon of an engineer defending his or her turf, notwithstanding the usual function of the tool, it was fundamentally a length of heavy metal. This particular spanner was normally utilized to tighten hullside bolts. Janzki felt it to be a fine Borg-basher.

When Janzki had found the Peach interfacing an access port, the spanner had made a nice meaty-metal-crunch sound hitting the Borg's arm.

Two of Newton's security guards came skidding around a corner. They slowed as they took in the scene. While Figgy had obviously alerted the pair of the impending confrontation, neither was stupid enough to actually intervene between the Chief Engineer and the object of her loathing.

"We had permission," objected the Peach drone, invoking the plural. "We will soon be initiating the first stage of the Fractulator experiment; and to ensure success, we required additional information concerning-"

"I don't care if you had a revelation from the Directors themselves," interrupted Janzki. "You dare to touch my systems without my permission, you risk my displeasure."

A third figure had joined that of the loitering security guards. It was Ricky. He grimaced as he took in the scene, then loudly cleared his throat. "Um, Janzki...we need to talk."

The Chief Engineer shifted her attention towards the command staffer, although her grip upon the spanner never relaxed. "Not now, Ricky. I've got a Borg to deal with. I figure if I beat it to death, that will keep the others in line."

"Er, this is sort of official, Janzki. Command to engineering, and so forth. The captain was going to talk to you tomorrow morning at the start of first-shift, but it seems the Colors must have decided to jump ahead of schedule."

"You mean this was sanctioned?" Janzki was aghast. She waved the spanner in the general direction of the Peach. The Borg was forced to duck to avoid being beaned on the head.

"Yes, and no. It is complicated, which is what the conference in the morning was supposed to cover. Until then, er, Peach whatever your designation is, go back to your quarters. These two-" the security detail was indicated "-will see you there. Janzki, by now the captain is awake and waiting in her office on the command deck. Accompany me. Please." The polite request barely masked the fact that the instruction was an order.

Janzki snorted, then sheathed the spanner in a specially sewn pocket on the back of her vest using an over-the-shoulder motion. "I await explanation of this travesty," she said.

*****

ATTENTION - SECRET - ATTENTION

To: Captain Alice Merkowski, URV Newton

From: Director Thad Hertz, Black Ops, Research Division, Second Federation Starfleet

Subject: Fractulator - Doctor Eugene Austis

Greetings Captain Merkowski,

The purpose of this memo is to introduce myself, director of Black Ops, Research Division. For the record, Black Ops does not actually exist. And if you see fit to try to use this letter to expose us in an effort to prove otherwise, we will ensure that you will never have existed as well.

I hope you forgive me for the thinly veiled threats, but they are necessary. Now that the preliminaries are out of the way, we can move on to business.

It is understood that your chief engineer is one Janzki Taren-y'tel-galoni, from the Flarn enclave on Toleti III. It is further understood, via reports this office has received from field personnel, that your chief engineer has been less than cooperative in matters related to Doctor Austis' lab, particularly where the Colored Borg are involved. Please impress upon the Flarn the imperative that the Fractulator research move forward. Not all backers to the project are as visible as Peach and Ultraviolet.

To this end, should Ms. Taren-y'tel-galoni continue to show reluctance in assisting Doctor Austis, or, even worse, attempt to deliberately sabotage the Fractulator, we have been authorized to...

*****

In lab #7c-aft, Janzki was double-checking the power cables leading to the Fractulator. It was a menial job, and something normally beneath that expected from a Chief Engineer. In fact, there were a dozen pending tasks Janzki could think of that were of greater priority. However, her desires and wants were irrelevant, as might say the damned Borg.

During the hastily convened midnight conference between herself and Captain Merkowski, the Flarn had been handed a PADD displaying a letter. Purported to originate from the mysterious SecFed Black Ops - the sender was obviously a pseudonym, and one that made sense only if verbalized in Terran - it demanded Janzki assist with whatever Eugene and his merry band of Colored Borg required. Personally. Success of the Fractulator was a priority of the SecFed's skunk squad, with unspecified consequences should the civilian not understand that she had been summarily drafted for the duration of Newton's tour.

Later, when Janzki had returned to her quarters, she had found a second note on the subject of Color cooperation, this one scribed on actual paper. Unlike the Black Ops communique, this one had been short and to the point...and addressed directly unto Janzki. In summary, it had told her to play nice and help with the Fractulator experiment. No signature had been provided beyond the symbol of the Brotherhood of the Spanner - a stylized eye with a horizontally set double-ended crescent wrench in place of the pupil. Unlike the Black Ops memo, Janzki was inclined to follow the wishes of the Chief Engineer secret society.

That had been two days ago. At least both letters had diplomatically failed to require a cheery attitude. Perhaps if the unceremonious reassignment a la Black Ops had come with hazard pay, Janzki might have at least pretended an iota of exuberance. Instead, the Chief Engineer was not-so-quietly seething; the Colored drones present in the lab carefully remained out of 'accidental spanner slip' range.

The Directors-damn-it-all part of the whole situation was that, except for the presence of Borg, the theory behind the Fractulator was extraordinarily fascinating. The experiment spotlighted the linkage which bound the drones of Colors and Hive into a functional collective mind via the improbable convergence of the vastly disparate sciences of aquatic animal communication and the Mandelbrot set.

Characteristics normally associated with world-spanning oceans and large lakes were improbably applicable to certain aspects of subspace. Consider the thermocline, an abrupt change in water temperature somewhere in the depths of a water body. In the aquatic environment, the boundary layers above and below a thermocline have a slightly different density than the thermocline itself; and sound can become 'trapped' in the thermocline, reflecting off those layers and traveling further than otherwise possible. Another way to visualize the process is to consider a long strip of metal embedded in an equal length of wood: a distant listener is much more likely to hear a message tapped on the conductive metal than the wood. Where far-ranging aquatic animals evolve, sound is the preferred medium of information exchange; and by crooning or clicking or screaming into a thermocline, messages can be dispersed to conspecifics hundreds, if not thousands, of kilometers distant.

Before the ocean environment is linked to that of subspace, it is necessary to understand specific properties of the latter. One key concept is that the deeper in subspace one probes, the denser it becomes. Real-world physical objects diving into the subspace seas require an increasing amount of energy per unit mass to achieve a given 'depth'. Warp, transwarp, hypertranswarp, slip-drive, folded-space drive, all methods devised to side-step the real-world faster-than-light-speed limit are, at the heart, solutions to the same problem. It is just that some approaches are more brute force than others. The reward for the intrepid stellar mariner upon reaching subspace is speed: the deeper a vessel can be pushed, the faster the real-world velocities achieved.

Thermoclines possess a subspace counterpart. Buried deep in the subspace environment is what researchers who study the medium simply refer to as the 'cline'. An abrupt change in an unreal property only describable via complex mathematics, the consequence was a sharp density differential of much greater transparency than the surrounding layers. If a ship could reach the cline, it was theoretically possible for it to travel at unbelievable real-world velocities. However, for an object with mass to pass the dense subspace layers and enter the cline required an amount of energy better expressed as the total output of the average yellow dwarf star over its entire billions-year life. Needless to say, such was beyond the ability of portable power sources.

Although the deep subspace is not accessible by vessels, massless packets - i.e., information - can be boosted to the cline. Like an aquatic creature using the thermocline to call to a relative on the other side of a planet, the subspace cline can be used to transport data across the galaxy. Due to its subspace depth, lag time is nearly non-existent, at least when making local calls, although delays are increasingly noticeable once distances pass the 5,000 light year mark. As a bonus, one critical when contemplating empires encompassing significant galactic volumes, the subspace cline is stable (or, at least, has been throughout recorded history), unlike an aquatic thermocline which may form and dissolve according to season and current.

The entirety of the cline can be used to transmit a message, but such is not desirable. Visualize the process as trying to hold a conversation with a person on the far side of a crowded auditorium: everyone, including the conversees, can hear. Not only is privacy lacking, but a lot of energy is inefficiency expended in shouting. The solution is to carve the cline into channels.

The cline covers a fairly broad expanse of deep subspace, but transparency within the region is not uniform. There are discrete subareas, or channels, where data moves a bit freer, a bit faster, a bit further than others. By modulating transmission frequency, it is possible to utilize a specific channel, with the advantage that less power is required to broadcast. Thus, the auditorium has become a small, albeit still crowded, room. Technological tricks can thence be used to narrow the channel even more, but the methods have severe limitations and tradeoffs. Various flavors of packet branding and encryption add additional layers of privacy; and, for most, this is sufficient for interstellar communication.

The Borg, be it Color or Hive, do not fit in among 'the most' category. This is where the Mandelbrot set concept enters.

The Mandelbrot set, along with variants such as the Julia set and Fatoe set, is a mathematical set of points in a complex plane, the boundary of which forms a fractal. It is a relatively simple function, assuming one is mathematically inclined, that deliver an astounding visual complexity when mapped. Continuing, fractals are fragmented shapes that can be split into smaller parts, each of which is a reduced-size approximate of the whole. Beyond mathematics, fractals are found in the natural world in extraordinarily diverse locales such as fjords, ferns, and frost crystals. And subspace.

Despite its simplistic beauty, the Mandelbrot set has little real-world application. There are exceptions amongst cryptologists hunting for the unbreakable cipher, as well as entrepreneurs producing pretty pictures for a niche art market, but on the whole Mandelbrot and its relatives belong solely to the realm of pure math upon which a small subset of mathematicians obsess. On the other hand, the Lloyd set predicts the fractal structure of cline subspace with a frighteningly uncanny accuracy.

The Lloyd set has been found, described, lost, and rediscovered many times in the annals of mathematics. What entity can claim to have charted it first is unknown, and unknowable. The Lloyd set is simply the equation's most recent name.

The Lloyd set shows that the major cline channels are merely the first, and most accessible, layer of a much richer construct. With each successive set iteration, increasingly complex structure develops, eventually unveiling nodes of hypertransparency. However, unlike the larger cline-region, the nodes are not necessarily stable; and the deeper one moves in the equation, the greater the uncertainty. Due to interactions with the quantum foam - call it 'weather' for lack of another term - a Lloyd set node may be slightly shifted in unspace, may be more or less transparent than predicted, or may not even be present. While there are islands of stability where fractal subspace geometry rarely changes, there are also vast oceans of ambiguity.

Borg, defined as Color and Hive, utilize the cline-nodes to maintain the cohesiveness of the Greater Consciousness, connecting disparate parts into a functioning Whole. It is an inherent property of what defines Borg. It is unknown why non-Borg entities cannot utilize cline-nodes deeper than the top 'channel' layer. Some have theorized that the mere act of being a dispersed collective mind imparts the ability to use the nodes, that feedback between drones permits the dynamic modulation required to maintain data transmission within an environment subject to quantum stresses. Such a view is supported by study of the Po, individuals of whom are comprised of five to twelve caterpillar-like subunits, whereupon research suggests possible evolution of a biologically derived, if short-range, connectivity utilizing fractal nodes.

Each Collective uses a different node, or fractal frequency. Shifts are continually made not only to avoid the vagaries of subspace weather, but, more importantly, to minimize the possibility of eavesdropping by other Minds or non-Borg entities. Dense layers of encryption, challenge-response protocols, and 'watermarking' data with a digital fingerprint unique to a Collective further ensure communication security.

All Collectives maintain a stable of backup nodes, should it be necessary to move the Whole to a new fractal frequency. Using the Lloyd set to find the approximate unreal address of a suitable node, pings would be generated within a frequency range until an adequately transparent band was found. The greater the transparency, the greater the bandwidth, with a certain minimal bandwidth required to support linkage of drones into a workable Mind. The process has been described akin to turning the knob of an analogue radio to find the strongest signal amid a sea of static. However, it might be more accurate to visualize a Collective as trying to find a ball floating in a swimming pool by flailing at the water until the object was contacted. Regardless of the analogy, it was a brute force method, slow to produce results given the near infinite space of the cline realm when shattered by the Lloyd set equation. Most Greater Consciousness kept a maximum selection of a dozen alternate frequencies, pinging them at regular intervals to confirm existence, location, and transparency.

And when a node shift occurred, the complex process happened in mere seconds. The initiation cue might be belief that communications had been compromised or instability due to quantum weather, but was more likely to be the result of background algorithms which ensured that a Mind did not remain embedded in any one node for too long. Beyond automatic, the process was autonomic, embedded in the virtual genes of the Borg communal psyche. Once initiated, it proceeded in the unthinking manner of cellular metabolism or neurons firing. And when it was complete, the Collective, if it had been under observation, was once more a lost ghost whispering to itself amid the complexities of the deep subspace fractal frequencies.

As aforementioned, cline-nodes were inaccessible to non-Borg, but they were not invisible: one could 'see' or 'here' them with the appropriate technology, even if 'touching' remained an impossibility. Enter the Fractulator.

The Fractulator was best described as a glorified weather prediction device. Using the Lloyd set as a start point, myriad sensors focused on the quantum foam in the vicinity, searching for disturbances, distortions, and other phenomenon that might radically shift a node's location. Proprietary algorithms combined data sets to further refine node address; and, then, it simply listened. Whereas a Collective might flail semi-randomly at the water's surface, the Fractulator found the floating ball by observing the shadow-ripples cast upon the bottom of the pool. Without a ping, the Fractulator used echoes already existent within the ambient subspace environment to map minute pressure differentials, identifying fractal frequencies suitably transparent for Collective use. The device required mere seconds to tag a node, and then could simultaneously track a subset of them, amount limited only by computer processing speed. The Fractulator could furthermore predict long-term stability of a given node, commenting upon probable drift vectors from the Lloyd set value.

Such was, of course, an approximation of the process. Real-world language rarely translates well to the unreal environment of subspace.

The Fractulator was the apex of the career of a brilliant man. It was novel. It was finesse. And if finding and tracking cline-nodes was all the device accomplished, it would still be hailed as a major advance in the science of subspace communication, perhaps the initial step to non-Borg use of the fractal frequencies. However, the Fractulator included additional features. Theoretically. It was those elements that Doctor Austis and his Colored backers were upon the Newton to test, determining if application was possible outside the controlled environment of a planet-bound lab.

By its very nature, the Fractulator was extremely sensitive to subspace harmonics and vibration. If given a specific modulation for which to search - for instance, the unique digital fingerprint watermarking a Collective's data transmission - the device could identify its presence among all the nodes under observation. A fractal frequency supporting active use would present as a veritable earthquake, the conduit ringing like a bell as data packets careened off the boundary pressure differentials. By contrast, a node tagged for future use would periodically resonate with sharp test pings by the target Mind. Finally, fossil resonance would indicate a node employed in the recent past, exact time-frame subject to entropy, the echoes decaying and eventually lost to the background noise.

One would have to be blind (and stupid) to not immediately understand the potential applications of the Fractulator. While the involvement of Ultraviolet was explained because the Color sought Perfection through scientific understanding all aspects of the universe, Peach (and SecFed Black Ops) had a much more prosaic interest - espionage. The conventional process of one Greater Consciousness spying upon another involved a lot of noise to find an active conduit; and even if the target somehow missed the fact that it was being stalked, inserting the equivalent of a wire tap was a highly intrusive act in and of itself. At best, the spying Mind might gather a few seconds of (heavy encrypted) data before its prey escaped to a new cline-node. If, on the other hand, a pattern of preference could be discerned by passively examining current and past node utilization by a Collective, then it might be possible to extrapolate which tagged fractal frequency the Mind was likely to shift Itself to next. To embed a tap prior to a node's use - pinging only confirmed presence, not alteration, of a frequency - was to erect a listening post unlikely to be discovered until hours, or even days, had passed following node initiation. The data packets would still be encrypted, but the act of finding an active node and the subsequent tap insertion had always been the most challenging aspect of the war between Collectives to spy upon each other.

The Colors (and Hive) were competitors, each vying to achieve Perfection. The methods might be different, but the goal was the same. When the endgame arrived, only one Collective would survive, the others either absorbed into the Whole, else destroyed. Each Greater Consciousness strove to be that One; and each Greater Consciousness strove to find an advantage over the other. The Fractulator could be a game-changing advantage for Peach.

And Second Federation Black Ops? Perhaps some had considered what might occur to the free peoples of the galaxy should a single Collective gain primacy, coming to the conclusion that massive assimilations would soon follow given the logical interest of the surviving Whole to include all the universe in Perfection. It was unlikely Black Ops included such lofty goals as saving the galaxy from the Borg. Like a nosy next-door neighbor, Black Ops sought secret information for the sake of secret information, filing it away against the day it became useful fodder in the scrum of interdepartmental (or intergovernmental) rivalries.

Janzki grunted that the power coupling issue was confirmed to be fixed. All was ready to go, assuming certain lead-footed imbeciles refrained from accidentally shuffling through cords. The Flarn's not-so-subtle opinion was ignored as one of the four Ultraviolet drones present seconded readiness, followed by the leader of the obligatory graduate student gaggle. The single Peach, standing in a corner, continued to do nothing. Sitting at the control board, Eugene nodded. A button was pushed.

Unlike some experiments Janzki had witnessed (or applied fire extinguishers to) during her years aboard the Newton, there was nothing overly ostentatious about the Fractulator. It was simply a convoluted tangle of devices connected together with a snarl of cables that ultimately converged at the doctor's workstation. There were few flashing lights, no whirling gizmos, no colored smoke. What there was included apparatuses such as 'forced waveform oscillatory' and 'quantum runtime tunneling nanoscope', off-the-shelf contraptions that normally assisted practitioners of communication or medicine. Overall, the Fractulator had the trappings of a machine that had undergone an organic-like growth, new additions bodged into the whole as it became apparent they were needed to boost this function or augment that task. If the Fractulator was deemed a success, it was destined to follow an evolutionary track well-trod by those that which had gone before, shedding weight and combining doohickeys together until the final product was a fraction the size of its ancestor and bore little visual resemblance.

But, for now, the Fractulator was a technological Frankenstein that had entered the Newton in no less than twenty-three boxes of varying sizes. And to set the monstrosity in motion, all that was required from Eugene was to click on a very small, not-even-red button.

After five minutes of silence with everybody in the room aimlessly staring at each other, the ceiling, the floor, or a workbench, a *ding* sounded.

One of the graduate students opened a small sterilization microwave to retrieve a cylindrical something swathed in paper towels. He froze as Eugene barked "As I've already told you, no eating in the lab!" Further admonishment was lost as a rapid churrup began demanding attention.

Eugene blinked, mentally adjusting priorities away from illicit burrito, then began to clap his hands together in excitement, "Good, good! Let's see what we have!"

On a workbench in the center of the lab, a holodisplay began to glow. The portable base unit was a high-end model, one much admired by holoconnoisseurs such as Janzki and quite out of her price range given her salary. Perhaps there were (slight) perks to having financial backing from Borg. Above the base, a three-dimensional array of vertical strings materialized, one thousand to be exact, arranged in a ten by ten by ten field. Each string was vibrating slightly, as if it were a disembodied oscilloscope output.

"The pre-selected test array is live," said Eugene. With a command from the researcher, the strings, each representing a node under Fractulator observation, rotated within the holodisplay. One output, featuring a large question mark, was magnified. A number was printed beneath it. "Node 93 appears to be null at the moment. The Fractulator is reporting a quantum front moving through that segment of Lloyd set space, but it should not affect the other nodes."

The Fractulator could find nodes: that function had been confirmed and refined at the university. Eugene's purpose aboard Newton was to perform controlled field tests under real-universe conditions to determine if the device could locate Borg-like digital fingerprints. The first scenario was 'at rest - deep space', with subsequent tests to be attempted at warp, hypertranswarp, near gravimetric disturbances, and so forth. During the tour, Newton was scheduled to visit a diverse array of locales in support of experiments running on the lab decks, more so than normal; and, probably not-so-coincidentally, Fractulator trials would take advantage of the opportunities presented. Finally, as required by any decent science experiment, multiple replicates would occur under each test condition.

The digital fingerprint to be used was an artificial construct. Peach was not about to provide a copy of its watermark; and while Ultraviolet was often perceived as oblivious to anything but the quest of scientific excellence, its Greater Consciousness was not entirely unmindful to security concerns. In order to deploy the construct in a manner to best mock a Borg network, Ultraviolet had segregated a part of Itself to function as a parallel linkage, very similar to the process which begun a Mind's shift to a new fractal frequency. One of Collective's drones on the Newton would be the anchor broadcasting the artificial fingerprint, while the unseen Body elsewhere received. Without Eugene knowing which of the 999 test nodes Ultraviolet might use, it was up to the Fractulator to find the watermark.

"Network established," reported one of Ultraviolet drones. They had designations, but Janzki could not be bothered to put forth the effort to remember a bunch of numbers. That might be interpreted as civility or politeness, neither of which Borg deserved. The Chief Engineer did notice that the unit selected to be the broadcaster had a glazed look to its eye.

Eugene nodded, then tapped something on the workstation that served as a hub to the Fractulator sprawl. Then came more waiting, more staring, except in the corner where the graduate student threesome huddled together for a whispered conversation. Janzki contented herself with looming in a menacing manner while mentally contemplating what tasks needed her immediate attention once she escaped the hell of lab #7c-aft.

After approximately seven minutes, the holodisplay flickered thrice, accompanied by a *clang* from the workstation.

Crowed Eugene, "Success!" The array of nodes rotated, then unfolded itself to uncover an output buried beneath the outer layer of the cube. Vibrations were visible, the oscillations regularly pulsating as if an unseen musician were plucking the string in a measured cadence. "Node 814?" The question was clearly directed towards the Borg.

"Affirmative," answered the drone who apparently been tasked to perform the bulk of the speaking.

"Stupendous!" beamed Eugene. In the corner, the graduate students had dispersed back to their assigned stations; and the Borg did whatever it was Ultraviolet Borg did. Janzki pretended she was more than a non-essential decoration. "43 of 780, if you could arrange to vary the amplitude, I'd like to observe the results. Then try another node: the Fractulator should be able to capture the broadcast faster, but that may require adjustments of the..." The scientist trailed off, a look of confusion crossing his features. "What just happened?"

What just happened, indeed? Janzki's wandering attention abruptly refocused. The Chief Engineer had been idly staring at the drone anchoring the mini-network - one of the advantages of possessing multifaceted eyes was that non-Flarn could rarely tell where her gaze was directed - when the creature had abruptly cringed, as if it had been slapped. Hard. Its comrades immediately moved to surround it, the speaker drone extending a hand, but not in comfort. Nanotubules deployed, burrowing into the afflicted unit, who slumped into the arms of two other Ultraviolets like a marionette with cut strings.

Janzki shifted her primary focal point to the holodisplay. Node 814 was gone, replaced by a flashing question mark.

"124 of 780 lost connection. It was a...shock," said 43 of 780. Even through the monotone, one could tell that the actual explanation was much more complex, but that an unassimilated being could not truly understand. The coldly analytical analysis - what else would one expect from Ultraviolet? - continued. "124 of 780 was not expecting severance, and therefore was unprepared. She has been reconnected to the Whole, but will require a regeneration cycle of psychological evaluation and repair before she will be certified as fully functional."

"Lost connection," murmured Eugene. He glanced at his graduate students, one of which returned his wordless question with a shrug. Eyes returned to workstation. A command was tapped on the keyboard screen. "Node 814 seems to have shattered. It is gone." Pause. "No, wait a moment..." The node pictograph within the holodisplay wavered into existence, but whereas before the string had been robustly thick, now it was little more than a dashed line. "The fractal frequency is still open, but at a vastly reduced bandwidth."

Throughout the drama, the Peach drone never moved from its observation point, merely tilting its head when it presumably was drawn deeper into Collective communion.

Continued Eugene, now talking mostly to himself, "How odd." He read something from the workstation monitor, visible only to himself. "The Fractulator captured a bloom of disorganization in the local quantum. A shift in the weather? It was not predicted, but then again, it is the quantum." He looked across the room at the cluster of Ultraviolet drones. "Probably just coincidence."

The speaker drone's expression wrinkled into a slight frown at the proclamation. Obviously it, or its Collective, was offended at the lack-of-explanation. To be without firm rationalization was the antithesis to all which was Ultraviolet.

"Unacceptable," replied 43 of 780. "We will extract data from 124 of 780, as well as those afflicted units at the other end of the test network. Along with information captured from the Fractulator, we will run an analysis to determine if other conclusions can be drawn." The plural indicated an expansion beyond the drones on the ship to include the entirety of the Ultraviolet Greater Consciousness.

Eugene shrugged. He keyed another series of commands, dismissing all but Node 814 from the holodisplay. "Just don't overanalyze the problem. The quantum is inherently chaotic. Sometimes random things really do just happen. Plenty of time was scheduled in the tour to run all the necessary trials, but not if you get hung up on the problem." The tone suggested that Ultraviolet had delayed the doctor's work before by carrying an analysis long past its sell-by date. Sighing, Eugene waved a hand in Janzki's general direction, "It seems we are done for today, at least in anything, well, hands-on that you might be able to help out with."

Janzki nodded, pointedly ignoring the critique that a Chief Engineer's role in the universe was solely one of manual labor. She exited the room, relieved to be away from the Borg and the temptation to smack one of them with her spanner, particularly the Peach. Although the lattermost Color had performed a credible statue impersonation throughout, Janzki could not shake the feeling that the thing had been figuratively grinning a know-it-all smirk the entire time.

As Janzki trekked down the hallway towards the nearest elevator, she turned her thoughts towards contemplation of what she had just observed. Her office was her ultimate destination, following a side-trip or three to personally check the status of her roving engineering crews. However, maybe she should go to her sanctuary in Main Engineering first. Her crews, after all, were more than competent, and would call if a task required insight (or heavy lifting) from their Flarn boss.

At the far end of the hallway, a Borg turned into the corridor. One arm was distinctly dented: flesh and bone may have been straightened, but body armor required additional repair. Upon seeing the Flarn, the Borg abruptly halted its forward motion and diplomatically backed out of sight.

Decision crystallizing, Janzki nodded to herself. Office first to initiate a few contingencies, then the engineering crews. And maybe, just maybe, there would be time in the evening for yo-yo practice.

The Fractulator tests were a case-study in failure. To the increasing frustration of Eugene, the watermark recognition trials refused to perform as hypothesized, no matter how the device was tweaked and reconfigured and troubleshot. It did not matter if Newton was at rest or sprinting at extraluminal velocities, if it was far from radiation sources or closely orbiting a neutron star hell. Ultraviolet was similarly irked because no fault could be found despite all the modeling performed by the Color. Success seemed to be just out of reach, each trial ending with a mentally whiplashed drone and a fractal frequency diminished in pipe size.

Then had come the DFS incident. Eugene and company began to proclaim the Disharmonizing Forcefield System that shielded lab #7-aft to be the cause behind the Fractulator's failures. It was insisted that the DFS to be disengaged. Janzki had refused, wary of the side-effects and wrathfully threatening grievous bodily harm to anybody or anything which might attempt to circumvent the safety system. Shortly thereafter, a memo had appeared in the Chief Engineer's inbox, a direct communique from Black Ops. Using not-so-veiled language, consequences were spelled out should a certain Flarn not comply. From the memo's timing, it was obvious a Black Ops spy was somewhere aboard the Newton, but Janzki had no time to deal with the implications. Instead, snarling at the order - Janzki could dismiss personal risk, but that of her extended family? - she had disengaged lab #7-aft DFS, following up by issuance of a directive to the researcher populace that no labwork or experimentation was allowed for the duration of unshielded Fractulator trials. To put it mildly, the instruction caused an outcry. Happily, it only took a few tests for Eugene to declare the DFS to not be interfering with the Fractulator, during which the Newton did not implode, explode, molecularly disintegrate, or exhibit the other consequences feared by Janzki. While happenstance of any one thing going wrong without an active DFS was minimal, when all risks were added together and considered on the cumulative scale, it was inevitable that something disastrous (and beyond the ability of a Chief Engineer to fix) would occur.

Next it was proposed that either the synthetic watermarks or the artificiality of the mini-network itself were to blame. The how was unclear, but by that point the Fractulator team, both Eugene and Colors, were grasping at straws. Therefore, the set-up was modified to create a scenario mimicking a real-world 'what-if' as closely as possible.

The central pivot of the plan included the temporary severance of a shipside Ultraviolet drone from its Greater Consciousness. When a unit loses connection from its Collective, it automatically broadcasts a reintegration request on the fractal frequency it was dropped from. The actual content of the request is little more than the equivalent of a pet tag, but pitched so that only the owner can hear - "We are lost. This drone belongs to [Color/Hive]." If, within a set amount of time, no response is forthcoming, it starts to cycle through a short list of frequencies most recently utilized. The truly desperate drone that manages to scavenge the materials to build an alcove and avoid stasis lock will next attempt to construct a broadcast device, one that will scream with sufficient power the unit's plight upon the major subspace channels such that any Collective within range can take notice.

By utilizing the automatic severance response, the scene was set for deployment of an actual watermark by an actual drone. The only adjustment was locking the broadcast frequency to one of the test nodes under Fractulator observation. The risk to the drone was minimal: units retained much of their individuality due to the Ultraviolet practice of building its numbers through short- and long-term body rentals. While individuality was suppressed during the rental period, it had to be retained to allow a safe disconnect once the contract expired. Therefore, a drone could be severed without major repercussions, as long as the unit was ready for it.

At first, Ultraviolet was exceedingly wary about committing to the test. While it might be the most likely of the diminished options to produce a positive result, it also would reveal the Color's watermark to close scrutiny. Then Peach had revealed that it already had a detailed map of the other Color's fingerprint. While further discussions undoubtedly occurred, they were not heard by the non-assimilated aboard the Newton. The end result was the donation of up to five of Ultraviolet's drone resources for the pursuit of science.

Modification of the Fractulator experiment did not lead to success. To the Janzki's vast amusement, the outcome appeared to cause extreme pain to the severed drones, even more so than prior trials due to the greater entwinement of subject with broadcast. There was even the occasional bout of screams and sparks; and the one time a drone caught fire, the Flarn was, perhaps, a bit slower in deploying hand-held extinguisher than strictly proper. However, the flames from the thing had been on the cusp of triggering the deck fire suppression system, which would have created a major mess in the adjacent labs.

Overall, the Fractulator continued to observe the same node shattering; and the trials morphed from trying to determine why the device was not working as advertised to one of exploration of the unforeseen effect. The power level of the reintegration request broadcast was modified, as was the number of drones involved in the effort. All the individual elements which could be adjusted were dissected out of the process for closer scrutiny.

And, through it all, Janzki was secretly copying data outputs for her own use. Although the data taps themselves were simple, extensive skullduggery had been necessary prior to the actual installation. However, Janzki was a Chief Engineer, and she had been quite willing to attempt the challenge.

The personal covert operation had begun during one of the innumerable Fractulator sessions Janzki was forced to attend. She started by leaving behind several small doodads of her own invention that caused one-time localized power 'burps' before self-disintegrating. When neither Eugene, his students, nor the Colors could troubleshoot the annoyingly intermittent issue, Janzki, as resident head engineer, was demanded to provide a second opinion. She diagnosed the 'problem' as a transient incompatibility between ship and Fractulator, a verdict that went uncontested due to the bodged together nature of the experimental device. In the process of 'fixing' the issue, Janzki had gained access to the Fractulator's central workstation. The irony was that the data tap had been accepted as a critical component of a fictional 'electrical step-down and realignment' system; and the fact that she had installed it under the watchful gaze of two Colors, both demanding she increase the efficiency of her repairs, was even more amusing.

With the clandestine actions complete, collection of stored data was easy. All Janzki needed was to be within one meter of the Fractulator workstation. A few nonchalant taps upon a PADD, and the information was released in a low-power burst transmission to be captured by said PADD. Theoretically, Janzki could be further from the workstation, even in the hallway or an adjacent lab, thus lessening the risk of discovery. However, the sole time she had attempted a remote download - from the far side of lab #7-aft while nominally examining functionality of a distal Fractulator component - the always-present Peach observer had acted as if it had felt something. The drone had not been able to track down exactly what the disturbance was nor where it had originated, but after that incident Janzki had opted for the in-close data transfer.

Thus, Fractulator testing (and secret data collection) continued for nearly a month, or half the scheduled tour.

Janzki was in her office, sitting in her Flarn-sized chair at her Flarn-sized desk, staring at a computer screen. The computer in question was special: it was physically isolated from the ship systems and the Personality which ruled that digital space. Although there was no connection, which made for an annoying time lag when transferring large files between the two via an intermediary PADD, the set-up excelled when scrutinizing dodgy code and potentially virus-laden files, bench-testing experimental equipment, or hiding information from virtual eavesdroppers. In this case, the Chief Engineer was studying models constructed based on data output stolen from Fractulator tests.

If Eugene or the Colors had known what she was doing, they likely would have had targs. And kittens. Janzki wasn't quite sure what a kitten was, but given the Terran idiom, birthing it was likely painful. Nevertheless, she had been very careful to cultivate the appearance that she was a big Flarn that just happened to be good with her hands. For some reason, the 'smart' people (and Greater Consciousnesses) in lab #7c-aft had not quite put two and two together to realize that a high degree of intelligence was required to be head of engineering aboard a research vessel. By all the hells, she openly displayed the degrees on her office wall as proof of her excellence! However, as the hard-working 'grease-bug' moniker insured none too closely scrutinized her actions near the Fractulator, she was content to perpetuate the stereotype. For now.

The outputs were interesting. Very interesting. Implications abounded.

A melodic series of beeps interrupted Janzki's concentration.

"That's a new one," commented the Flarn. "What's up, Figgy?"

"Do you like it?" asked the Personality in a pleasant tenor. "I've been watching the proceedings in lab #6-forward, and it is most fascinating. The PI for the experiment is Pugli. The species is very aural-orientated. Instead of translating raw data inputs into a visual interpretation, like you or a human might use, everything comes out of his astrometry system as tones. Sometimes it strings together as the most awful screeching, but other times it is beautiful music. I've substituted the attention alert for a short segment of two gravitonic wavefronts merging."

Janzki sighed. Figgy usually tended towards the introverted end of the computer personality spectrum. However, when he did feel chatty, particularly on a music-oriented subject, the Personality could talk for hours. "Yes, I like it and why the alert?"

"Sorry. Notification that non-engineering personnel have entered Main Engineering. The entities are Captain Merkowski, Executive Officer McFadden, Doctor Austis, Ultraviolet representative 43 of 780, and Peach representative 9 of 235. They are heading towards your office."

Like Chief Engineers (and other persons living in the trenches of work) the universe over, Janzki employed multiple strategies to increase the appearance of personal efficiency. In truth, many of the subroutines had been programmed by her predecessors to the Newton, but she had never found reason to delete them; and, in fact, had added to them for those Chief Engineers destined to follow. This particular subroutine simply notified her when anyone not of engineering department intruded upon the heart of her domain. Janzki had found it immensely useful over the years, affording her with a short time in which to tidy her space in the expectation of visitors. At the very least, it provided her with the all-important air of engineer-omniscience, as if nothing happened upon Newton without her knowledge.

By the time Captain Alice and company arrived to Janzki's office, it looked as if the Flarn was engrossed with inspecting shipwide power distribution and load on the schematic board. Of her clandestine work, there was no sign.

Newton's captain paused at the threshold of the Chief Engineer's office. Due to the excellent peripheral vision afforded by her multifaceted eyes, Janzki was able to observe her visitors without being obvious about doing so. Ricky looked to be less than crisp, but then again, such was not unexpected: in addition to his chronic insomnia, it was mid-way through first-shift, a time corresponding to the man's scheduled sleep period when Newton was actively touring. The captain raised one hand, curled it in a fist, and moved to rap her knuckles against the door frame.

"No need," rumbled Janzki, still facing the ship schematic. She pivoted towards the doorway. "Always a pleasure, ma'am. However, if would be even more so if those cybernetic creatures with you were not polluting Main Engineering with their presence."

Captain Alice Merkowski was a small-framed human female sporting black hair fashioned into a straight, no-nonsense haircut. While short in stature, she was big on personality, a necessity when dealing with the more-than-occasional researcher touting an ego that could qualify as its own solar system. Her hobby was hand-to-hand combat in a multitude of styles, which meant, among other things, she was stronger than she looked. It was easy to underestimate her.

Alice sighed and shook her head. One hand kneaded forehead for several long seconds. "We really need to have a long talk about your attitude, Janzki, but now is neither the time nor the place. Instead, there is another discussion that I've been informed-" the hand gestured towards the drones, indicating the source of the information "-of, a few things relevant to the immediate future of the Newton. More is to be disclosed, but not only do you need to be involved, but there was the demand for a modicum of privacy. This was the most secure place I could think of. At the very least, I know none of your staff will get close enough to eavesdrop on pain of spending all third-shift adjusting the makeshift Bolian facilities required by Doctor Hardin's student."

Janzki's facial features were not flexible enough to allow a frown, at least not so a soft-skin would be able to discern. However, another Flarn would have easily seen the mixture of concern and curiosity in her body language. Janzki stepped away from the schematic board while lifting one limb in an exaggerated beckoning wave. "Fine, fine. Come on in, the lot of you. Chairs in the corner if you want them." All elected to stand, fanning out in an arc in front of the desk. The Colors seemed to know instinctively to take the point as far from the Chief Engineer as possible.

While looming over the Borg would have been satisfying, Janzki decided to take her chair (on her side of the desk) so as to bring her head down to the same level as the soft-skins. A command was entered on the tabletop-embedded touchboard. The door shimmered with the hum of a forcefield; and it and the window dimmed as an opaquing filter was applied. "There. The office is secure from casual listeners," said Janzki.

The Peach's head swiveled, turning right, left, up and down, servos in its neck faintly humming, as it scrutinized something only it could perceive. "Astounding," finally said the drone, note of surprise coloring its faintly reverberant voice. "The EM shielding rooted in the surrounding walls are of better than military grade. I believe even we would have trouble receiving transmissions from a remote listening device if one was emplaced here."

Sneered Janzki, "Good. And you'd better not be leaving any presents behind after you've said what you've come to say."

Alice obviously knew that now was not the time to inquire as to the extent of the Chief Engineer's modifications to her office. Opposite her in the arc, Ricky stifled a yawn. The captain moved to return the conversation to its original track. "Okay, 43 of 780 and 9 of 235, we are here. Also Doctor Austis. If everything is to your approval, start over at the beginning to fill in Janzki, then move on to the remainder of what you had to say."

The Peach drone began to speak without further preamble, "I have been appointed as speaker-for-all, both for my own Color and Ultraviolet, in these proceedings." Once begun, 9 of 235 began to elaborate upon the fruits of the Fractulator research, telling the tale of a tree expected to bear apples, but was providing an unexpected crop of oranges instead.

The explanation confirmed the bulk of Janzki's models.

The Fractulator's mistrials were couched in terms of an EMP - electromagnetic pulse - weapon. The effect of an EMP in space tended to be limited, temporarily disrupting radio spectrum communications. There was the potential to cause electrical damage, but given that all electrical and computer equipment required shielding against cosmic rays and other radiation, such was rare excepting in the case of an overpowered specialty military munition. On a planet, alternatively, an EMP weapon could be devastating, the most severe instances recorded to be the cause of destruction for entire civilizations. The initial blast was contained and reflected by a combination of atmosphere and magnetic field, thus propagating it much farther than an equivalent space deployment. Subsequent atmospheric ionization, if heavy enough, would prevent meaningful communication planet-wide for years. Additionally, planetary electronics were rarely hardened, making them particularly vulnerable to terminal malfunction.

Apparently, an EMP-like effect, if translated into the subspace microcline, was like an atmospheric detonation, but even more so.

The Fractulator did not technically precipitate an EMP. The actual result could only be described using equations that employed letters lifted from dead languages, then inverted to become imaginary (or, at least, obtuse) to mere mortals without several degrees in higher-order mathematics. In layman's terms using short words, when the Fractulator locked onto a fractal frequency supporting active use, the node subsequently imploded. Due to the very slight density differentials that defined transparency, the effect reflected along the target frequency like light transmitted down an optical cable, disrupting the entire. The result was superficially akin to atmospheric ionization. From the user point of view, the experience was abrupt opacity, a complete transmission black-out.

Theoretically, there was no pathway for the Fractulator to interact with subspace. It only observed ripples cast upon the bottom of the pool, not touched the water, after all. Well, mostly observed, confided Eugene. The Fractulator was not as 'clean' a system as it was envisioned to eventually become. While it could pinpoint a node without 'touching' the subspace quantum medium, the use determination - if and who - required establishing an interference echo. An input fingerprint was lightly pinged in the denser cline layers adjacent a target node; and if a 'reinforced echo' was perceived, then the objective was known to be present. The more energetic the ping, the more powerful (and quick) the response. Future calibration and experimentation would remove even that small interaction of Fractulator with the cline, but the purpose of the Newton tour was proof-of-concept, not final product.

For reasons unknown, the ping and its feedback were over-resonating, reinforcing each other, until the node collapsed in a burst of slowly dissipating white noise.

Severity of node failure was governed by multiple factors. Most important appeared to be quantity of data exchange. If a single drone was utilizing a fractal frequency, such as the scenario in early Fractulator testing, opacity was temporary, with the node regaining full bandwidth potential within a few hours of its stressing. However, more data - more drones joined in the network - created conditions producing greater impact; and, assuming models were correct, it was possible to disrupt a frequency such that recovery time was best expressed in terms that encompassed billions of Cycles. For all practical purposes, a node so afflicted was no longer usable by any Collective.

"Our models are correct," haughtily interrupted the Ultraviolet drone. "Furthermore, the threshold of data transmission appears to be less than the number of drones required to maintain a functional Greater Consciousness."

Janzki mentally filed away that highly interesting datum.

The potential impact to the communication bands utilized by Colors and Hive was greater than the mere black-out of a single node. Testing had uncovered the subtle sign of sympathetic resonance. Whereas a small disruption would only impact the target node, a greater degree of feedback would bleed to those frequencies being utilized by the same fingerprint, including bands under ping observation and others recently abandoned. There was an element of 'nearness' involved, with the caveat that proximity within the cline as described by the Lloyd set had absolutely nothing in common with the real-world concept of spatial vicinity.

Expanded Ultraviolet during a pause in 9 of 235's recitation, "Equations suggest damage of wholesale Fractulator disruption of a small Color, like mine or Peach, would be limited to that Mind. However, targeting of a mid-sized Mind, Orange for instance, has a high probability to precipitate to 'sister' Collectives, those most closely related in regard to watermark variance. If the node utilized by a sufficiently large, basally-sited Collective - Green or Hive - was disrupted, all Minds may be fatally affected. The exact limits of each threshold are fuzzy."

At the elucidation, the Peach drone's head turned slightly to regard its counterpart. Its whole eye narrowed into a glare. It was obvious that the detailed account was not something desirable to be exposed. Words must have passed between Collectives because 43 of 780's minimal expression abruptly transformed to slack deadpan, allowing Peach to continue.

Certain key variables not only remained unknowns, but would continue to be so in the immediate future. For instance, the abbreviated dataset thus far gathered indicated that the larger the drone network, the stronger the ping required to elicit lethal feedback. Regrettably, the critical thresholds were indefinite and appeared to follow a complex multi-dimensional quadratic equation, not a simple linear regression function. Given the potential negative (and fatal) consequences of experimentation, even Ultraviolet, normally eager to explore scientific principles without regard to real-world consequences, was loath to proceed. It might be possible to fine-tune Fractulator ping energetics to avoid node disruption, thus restoring it to its original espionage-related purpose, but such might prove to be very, very difficult. Fortunately, the Fractulator did not have sufficient power to do more than temporarily disrupt the small drone test networks Ultraviolet had been fielding, but even that had been sufficient to spook the two Colors.

Hypothetically, an incapacitated Collective could reform its Greater Consciousness on a virgin frequency. Nodes with the appropriate properties for use might not be infinite in number, but the Lloyd set guaranteed a very large supply. The difficulty was that reconnection had to occur within seconds to prevent Mind dissolution, and all far-flung distal parts had to do so at the same time, else risk truncation or fragmentation of Self. The action represented a leap of faith; and neither Hive nor Colors believed in religion. Much more likely was the extinction of Collective...or Collectives.

"The Fractulator technology is too dangerous for you small beings, and therefore we are canceling the project," concluded the Peach. Janzki refocused part of her vision on Alice and Ricky, the Flarn equivalent of a glance. Neither expression shifted: they had been briefed on the pronouncement. Eugene, on the other hand, was a different matter.

"What?!" exclaimed the scientist.

Ignoring Eugene's sputtering, 9 of 235 continued, "Exploratory-class cubes, one each Peach and Ultraviolet, will rendezvous with Newton in two cycles. Day periods. By that time, everything associated with the Fractulator will be removed. This includes dismantling and crating the device for off-loading, as well as erasure of all pertinent data stored in the computer system designated 'Figgy'. Finally, Doctor Eugene Austis and his students will be assimilated."

Stunned silence greeted the remark. Eugene's eyes were huge and a dumbfounded expression was plastered across his face. He looked as if he wanted to collapse in the chair which was not present. Alice was the first to recover.

"Wait just a minute," protested Newton's captain as she pivoted to place herself squarely in front of the Colored representatives. "You did not say anything about this! All you told Ricky and myself was that you were ending the project and picking up the pieces mid-tour!"

Replied Peach mildly, "And so we are. all of, as you phrase it, the pieces. The contract signed with Doctor Austis to accept backing from our Colors clearly spells out the consequences if certain triggers are tripped. And so they have been. It is perfectly legal. Doctor Austis bargained himself and, specifically, the algorithms in his head, for Our assistance. As lead backer for the project, the originator of those algorithms - Doctor Austis - now belong to Ultraviolet. By the time the algorithms are fully extracted, it is highly unlikely the doctor will be in a suitable mental shape to function outside a Collective." Pause. "As far as the data share concerning the Fractulator project between Peach and Ultraviolet, there is no need for Us to elaborate."

Added the Ultraviolet drone, "The students will be returned, eventually, to the university. Unless there is desire to remain within our Collective. Although it is doubtful they hold data of high relevance in their minds in regards to the Fractulator, they must be interrogated."

"Rendezvous and transfer of drones and equipment is estimated to require no more than one hour, assuming preparations to do so are complete by that time. There will be no harm to the Newton: impact to the tour schedule will be minimal." The Peach drone finished its dispassionate recitation.

Eugene implored Newton's captain, "Do something! I...I can't be assimilated!"

Alice looked over her shoulder at Ricky, a question in her eyes. Ricky nodded, partially to himself, but also in absent acknowledgement to whatever Figgy was whispering in the aural implant that allowed a Personality to converse silently with its biological crew. "There is a contract. Figgy just scanned the fine print. All of it. As the Color claims, it is legal. And binding. Figgy is also highly unamused about the comment concerning what he presumes will be a forceful erasure of data stored within his systems. He demands a more expansive explanation."

Said the Ultraviolet representative, "97 of 780 is providing details now."

Janzki pushed herself to her feet. From the reactions, it seemed all parties had somehow momentarily forgotten in whose office they were standing. "This is all well and good," pointedly rumbled the Chief Engineer, "but what is my role in this? And, by the way, if you Borg try any hanky-panky with Figgy, I will be quite apologetic to your respective cubes when they arrive and do not find your bodies among the cargo to be transported."

The Peach drone lifted an arm and nudged Alice out of the way. Head tilted as Flarn was considered. Janzki felt as if the Borg were determining the best way to assimilate her, but was damned if she would react to what was likely a deliberate provocation. "You will provide resources to crate the Fractulator. You will also assist in tracking data stored in the ship computer system and certifying its erasure."

If Janzki had been physically capable of smiling in a manner perceptible to soft-skins, she would have. It probably would have been interpreted as a humorless baring of teeth, however. "I would be happy to give you fine, upstanding Borgs any and all aid the engineering department can offer. The faster it gets you off my ship, the better, in my opinion."

A sigh from Ricky's direction indicated that the heavily ironic and completely undiplomatic commentary had not been overlooked.

"Acceptable," said the Ultraviolet drone. Nonprosthetic limb was lifted and placed on Eugene's shoulder, very close to the neck. The researcher jumped at the touch, head whipping around with astonishing speed to stare in horror at the hand. "We will start securing Our resources forthright-"

Reaching behind her back, Janzki unholstered the Very Large Spanner she habitually kept near at most times...and always since the Borg had boarded Newton. "Assimilations will not take place in my office, nor anywhere near Main Engineering. I absolutely forbid it." One did not need to be conversant in Flarn body language to recognize the glower she was directing at the drones.

Hand was removed from shoulder, repositioning to grasp Eugene's arm just above the elbow.

Without shifting her primary attention from the two Borgs, Janzki flicked a button on her desk keyboard. The office egress forcefield shimmered out of existence. The window remained opaque; and if the Peach was continuing its observances, it would know that all jamming measures remained operational. The action was Janzki's not-so-subtle indication that the meeting was adjourned.

The drones were the first to leave, Ultraviolet steering a whimpering Eugene along.

Janzki tilted her head slightly to regard her remaining visitors. "Well?"

Alice frowned. She was not amused. "This is not right. And if you say anything that resembles 'I told you so', Janzki, I'll recommend docking your pay this tour. Or program in a route that ensures Newton doesn't make it back to the university in time for the yo-yo contest."

Janzki hissed at the threat, momentarily slipping to her native tongue. "Youss be cruel. Very, very cruel."

"Ricky," snapped Alice, ignoring the Flarn's comment, "come with me. I doubt you'll be able to get back to sleep, anyway. I have calls to make concerning the debacle that just happened here, and you are going to assist me. Perhaps if we shake enough trees, something will fall out. At the very least, that damned we-do-not-exist Black Ops will have to take notice that their Fractulator is about to disappear into the aether. Perhaps if they make a stink, something will come of it."

Alice stalked out of the office, muttering darkly to herself. With an apologetic shrug, Ricky followed. Janzki reinitiated the forcefield door as soon as both had crossed the threshold.

And then she stifled the desire to dance a little jig of joy. Even though the only possible observer was Figgy, the action would not be...Flarn. Nor Chief Engineer. At least not within the reputation cultivated by this Chief Engineer.

Soon...soon the hated Borg would be gone, and all would return to normal, however such might be defined upon a ship that regularly toggled the switches of the universe. The loss of Doctor Austis was regrettable, assimilation a fate she would normally not wish upon anyone, even one as unlikable as the annoying scientist. But...if truth must be faced, Eugene was only a soft-skin, not a Flarn.

Of much greater consequence, it was obvious that the Borg had no clue that Janzki had been stealing Fractulator data. If suspicion had been present, the demand would have included erasure of all information, not just that stored among Figgy's computational architecture. Janzki, of course, felt no need to enlighten the Borg. For now, she would continue to scrutinize the models she had built. Eventually, after a suitable interval of time, she would pass Fractulator theory and plans into the appropriate hands among her own people. Maybe, one joyous day, all Borg - Colors and Hive - would be extinct.

Revenge would be secured.

And the Flarn race would finally be able to retake their rightful place in the galaxy of soft-skins.

Until then....

"Figgy," called Janzki to Newton's Personality, "tell all first-shifters to assemble in Main Engineering in, oh, thirty minutes. Also include off-duty third-shifters. I'll let the second-shifters sleep for now and talk to them when they come on-line." A temporary change in schedule was required. There would be complaints from the various lead scientists upon the tour, all of whom sincerely believed their research took top priority. However, the faster that the Fractulator was disassembled and boxed, the less delay in getting the Borg off Newton.

"Message being relayed," said Figgy. There was a pause. "I really do not like the idea of the Colors messing around in my systems. Well, technically Newton's systems, but what if something is lost from me. Or they leave something behind. On purpose."

"Don't worry, Figgy. I'll be a suitably suspicious bastard for both of us."

It was the alarm klaxon which woke Janzki from her third-shift sleep period. She did not need a lot of sleep, but when she was in down-time, it could be very difficult (and dangerous) to awaken her.

Janzki automatically rolled off her bed platform, banging heavily into a wall as her brain haltingly shifted from slumber to wakefulness. One foot slipped on something metallic and round, nearly sending the Chief Engineer to the ground. She caught herself by clinging to the table one hip bumped against as arms windmilled for balance. The red emergency light did not help in regards to her disorientation.

"Cease! Haltss!" croaked Janzki in her native language, followed by "Lightsss!" She bent over to hastily unwind the bedsheet which had twisted itself around her legs, a threat to additional movement. Visions of fire, of explosive decompression, of engine failure, of the many things that could go wrong flitted rapidly through the Flarn's brain, chasing away the last vestiges of sleep. With a long list of volatile experiments occurring upon Newton's lab decks each tour, nearly anything (literally) was possible. "Figgy, ssituation report! Now! Ssswhatss iss the emergency?"

"Six Borg vessels are incoming," replied the Personality's calm voice.

Janzki was a more than a bit muzzy and was obviously missing something important. However.... "Figgy, the damned Borg are supposed to be leaving today." The red lights had given way to normal lighting. Janzki focused on the wall display currently set to clock mode. "Yes, today. In twelve hours. Second-shift. There should be Borg ships incoming." She had woken sufficiently to regain mastery of Terran Standard.

"Not Colored vessels. Hivers!" persisted Figgy. The Personality's voice sounded uncharacteristically strained.

Six Hive ships, not two Colored cubes? Things were becoming increasingly clear, and Janzki did not like the implications forming in her mind. She would have preferred the chaos of an impending core breach or furious transdimensional entity. Clarification was needed. "All Collective? Hive Collective?"

"One Peach cube, maximum speed. It will be here in less than thirty minutes. Right behind are five Hive vessels. Relay from Alice: meeting in five minutes on the command deck. All department heads to attend. There will be no waiting for stragglers to arrive."

Janzki swore as she cast about her room to determine where uniform and vest might have been mislaid in the confusion of waking. "As the humans say - 'Well, sh**'. Tell the captain I'm on my way."

"You are at least partially to blame for the mess coming Newton's way at high velocity! What are you going to do about it?" Alice's question was a variation of one asked several times over the course of the meeting, only much more blunt.

And the answer from the Peach drone was equally forthright and unchanged. "Nothing."

In the small conference room on Newton's command deck, an emergency meeting was underway. It was attended by five ship crewmembers (six, if Figgy's insubstantial presence was included) and the two Colors who were the primary speakers for their respective Collective. Among the non-assimilated, Alice and Ricky represented Newton's small command staff; Janzki embodied engineering; Morty, a dark-haired Klingon-human, headed the four-entity security section; and the ancient Bajoran Kial, head janitor, had been elected to stand for the other ship specialists whom otherwise only had one or two people per traditional department. Despite the handful of people present, the meeting was not being held in isolation: broadcast upon all onboard entertainment and information channels allowed the remainder of crew and passengers to follow developments in their fate.

The Colors believed their shadowing of Newton had triggered Hive interest. Mostly Ultraviolet's tailing, insisted Peach with the assertion that it was highly improbably its vessel - the word 'cloak' was never used, albeit implied - had drawn the unwanted attention. The other Collective had only mildly objected to the finger-pointing. Regardless of where blame actually lied, it was agreed that the reaction was one to Colored presence in Hive territory, not the Fractulator; and the Hive had somehow tactically linked Newton to Ultraviolet and/or Peach. In turn, that conjecture had shifted the inoffensive university ship, a vessel which often traversed short portions of Hive-claimed space during its tours, to a category of potential threat. It had perhaps been inevitable that within a few minutes of convening the emergency meeting Figgy had finally received a one-way announcement from the Hive indicating that all property trespassing its territory was to be seized.

Unfortunately for those aboard, the Borg notion of property did not differentiate between hardware and people.

Captain Alice had immediately sent a protest addressed to Hive, Second Federation authorities, and university officials. Unfortunately, in a universe where possession was 9/10th the law, no SecFed resources were suitably close to back-up her objection to imminent seizure, at least not against five Hive vessels.

"I've received another Hive communique," said Figgy. Without waiting for an order, the Personality played it.

Intoned a multivoice, "Attention Newton small beings. Your objection had been noted and declared irrelevant. With the confirmation of Colored Collective presence not Us, the Newton represents a potential espionage platform. Probing Our territory will not be tolerated. Computers will be examined and entities assimilated for interrogation. If protest is lodged with Us through the appropriate diplomatic channels and no evidence of Colored influence is found, all property will be repatriated." The message abruptly ended.

"We are screwed," darkly declared Janzki to the assembly. "I never have trusted that whole 'We are Hive, not Borg. We do not assimilated beings against their will' drivel. No sane Flarn has. Trust me, if the Hive gets hold of us, there will be 'delays' and 'unforeseen difficulties'. I warned you that Colored Borg aboard the Newton was a bad idea."

"That's enough, Janzki," snapped Alice. "You are not helping the situation."

Janzki simply folded her arms across the front of her vest and glowered.

Alice shifted her attention back to the Peach drone. "9 of 235, Figgy says that your cube is keeping ahead of the Hive force. The Newton is surely small enough to fit into one of your holds. You could take us with you."

9 of 235 tilted his head slightly. "No, we cannot. If we slow to in-dock this vessel, the Hive fleet will overtake and terminate us. The Ultraviolet cube has already been destroyed. We have just sufficiently better sensors and enough of a lead to remain ahead...if we do not slow down. We will translate to normal space barely long enough to transport all drones, inclusive our current Colored ally and newest recruits, equipment, and Fractulator crates that have been tagged with transponders. This is estimated to require less than ten seconds. It will command too much time to lock upon non-transponder items." Pause. "You will survive. Because we originally anticipated more time to confirm data erasure from computer files, we have been forced to upload a virus into ship systems. It should only remove Fractulator data, but due to time constraints, we had to be more liberal in our data targets than normal. In the end, we will have removed all of our presence from this vessel, as demanded by the Hive. This assertion will be upheld during interrogation."

Left unspoken was the no-so-subtle derision 'And what are you going to do about it, small beings?'

"A virus?" exclaimed Figgy, followed by invective possible only when one is a Personality with instantaneous access to a wide selection of languages and dictionaries.

Silence was the answer to the Peach's speech.

"We are within long-distance transporter range," said 9 of 235. The Ultraviolet drone lifted a hand to give a perfunctory wave; and then both units vanished amid a swirl of sparkly special effects.

"Figgy?" asked Alice.

"Blast this...the virus is not very specific, not at all," replied Figgy. "I think I've corralled it, but do not expect the entertainment files to be usable anytime soon."

Ricky raised his voice, "Not the virus, Figgy. Status on the Colors."

"They are all gone, along with the Fractulator boxes and the ex-Doctor Austis and his graduate students. Hive vessels are incoming in five minutes. Crap...excuse me...viral fragments are attempting to re-assemble amid the replicator recipes."

Janzki levered herself from her reinforced chair. Eyes shifted in her direction. Rumbled the Chief Engineer, "Alice, I strongly suggest we run. It'll only give us a few more minutes in the end, but that is all I need. I've been working on a little something in engineering which just may be the difference between life and assimilated life."

Countered Ricky, "Won't resistance just confirm the Hive's suspicions that we are in cahoots with a Color? I say we give up. If we let them board peacefully and show we have nothing to hide, why bother with assimilation?"

The Flarn huffed a disdainful snort. "Because they are Borg. I do not care if the Collective calls itself 'Hive', it is still Borg. And we will be assimilated because that is most efficient. I refuse to be assimilated. Whatever is decided up here, I have my own plans." With that pronouncement, Janzki ordered Figgy to provide emergency transport to Main Engineering: while the soft-skins dithered among themselves, a certain Flarn would save the day...and her own carapace.

At the workbench in her office, Janzki worked feverishly. Attention was primarily focused upon finishing the project, adroit fingers flying with a dexterity unexpected by an observer who ascribed to the visual stereotype suggested by the hulking Flarn body type. Unfortunately, concentration was not as sharp as the Chief Engineer desired: her head swiveled every few minutes to bring the ship schematic, and its camera views, at the opposite side of the room into peripheral vision; and the sporadic scream from Main Engineering inevitably elicited a cringing flinch.

Within a too short amount of time, the noises of resistance outside Janzki's office stopped.

In the end, the Newton had attempted to run. Even with assurances that assimilation would not be permanent, the prospect of five Hive vessels had been viewed in much the same manner as a deer deciding upon the advantages of standing still before a pack of charging wolves. The Hiver fleet had given chase, abandoning pursuit of the Peach cube for easier prey.

Upon the unavoidable capture, drones had swarmed unto the Newton. Main Engineering had been one of the first areas secured, although progress had been stymied by a self-contained level-10 forcefield warding the office of a pissed off Flarn. Following a probing attack (foiled), the Flarn situation had obviously been placed low on the to-do list. After all, what could Janzki do to halt the inevitable? With the core secured, options for resistance were severely limited. Newton, as a science vessel, did not include a self-destruct, not that such a handicap would necessarily hamper a sufficiently imaginative Chief Engineer. However, even that radical option was denied.

Janzki deftly soldered one more connection in place, ignoring the acquisition of yet another burn. The thin chitin of hands and fingers showed the multiple marks of haste. "Figgy," she rumbled, "give me an update on Borg progress on the lab decks." Pause. "Figgy? You still there?"

The Chief Engineer swiveled her head to regard one particular read-out on the bottom right of the schematic board. The normally steady green icon was flashing red. The Personality's housing unit had been physically disconnected from the ship's systems.

Attention returned to the mostly completed device. "Sh**." The scatological comment, although an inadequate descriptor of the situation, was certainly succinct. As satisfying as it would be to swing a spanner at Borg heads, what she was attempting was the best, and only, way to win. Or so Janzki kept reminding herself.

The warning buzz of the forcefield alerted Janzki that visitors were at her door.

"Look up the Terran game 'baseball'. Force your way in here, and this'll be my bat." Without barely a pause in her work, Janzki reached out a hand to grasp the spanner from its location of readiness on the workbench. "You can decide what will be my ball. I may not survive, but by the hells, I'll make taking me expensive."

"This is illogical, Flarn. You are the last unsecured entity on this vessel. Submit to us."

At the reverberant words, Janzki pivoted her head to look towards Main Engineering. It was a view she had been deliberately avoiding. Half a dozen heavily armored drones - three with obvious armaments, three without - arrayed themselves in an arc just beyond the Flarn-sized egress. More of the creatures lined up along the forcefield protected office window. Glancing down at her device, then back to her opponents, the Chief Engineer's body posture shifted into the Flarn equivalent of a nasty grin. The Borg were too late.

"You should submit to me," retorted Janzki.

"Illogical," repeated the voice. The speaker was one of the armor-no-disruptor types. Pointy ears and sharp features suggested a Vulcan origination, which may have factored into its word choice. Or maybe not.

Janzki turned to face her cybernetic opponents, aggressive menace coloring every movement. In one hand she clutched her oversized spanner; and in the other a simple box featuring a single button. From the box snaked two cables. The first thumb-thick wire curled along the floor, disappearing into an opening in the deck created via the removal of a panel. The other lead connected to a disjointed and complicated contraption covering two-thirds of the office workbench. "I am not 'illogical'. I am genius. And I have this!" She brandished the box.

None of the drones staring into Janzki's office appeared to be impressed. Then again, nonexpression was a hallmark of Borg, be they Hive or Colored.

"Borg. Do you know what a Fractulator is?"

"We are not Borg. He are Hive."

"As the Terran saying goes, you say potato, I say potato." The differences in the 'a' vowel were carefully enunciated. "You did not answer my question: do you know what a Fractulator is?"

Silence, then, "Affirmative. Recent assimilation of several entities aboard this ship have provided us with the knowledge of 'Fractulator'. It is anecdotal, non-technical."

Rumbled Janzki, "Well 'anecdotal' this." The box was flourished again. Several sets of eyes (and ocular devices) followed it, even as others remained steady upon the Flarn. "I have reconstructed a Fractulator."

"You bluff." With a shuffling of feet and shifting of drone resources, it appeared as if a Collective decision had been made. A few heads and limbs might be smashed, but in the end, once the forcefield was overcome, sheer weight of numbers would subdue the Flarn.

"Do I?" purred Janzki, contempt dripping from each syllable. "I am a Chief Engineer. And I'm a sneaky bastard of a Chief Engineer. A sneaky Flarn bastard. I know you cannot confirm, but I stole terabytes of information from the Fractulator experiment. More than enough to reconstruct it, and make it better."

Repeated the accusation, "You bluff."

"Can you afford to believe that? Really? I can be persuaded to gamble, given a sufficiently high stake. I have nothing to lose. You, on the other hand, have your very existence on the line should I press this wee little button." Janzki's voice turned hard. "My terms are fairly simple. One, unassimilate everyone you abducted and return them to the Newton. Two, return the Personality. Three, allow the Newton to leave, undamaged. One and two can be completed in either order. There is no room for negotiation. I give you five minutes to think it over." Pause. "And if you try any funny stuff, like burning through a bulkhead to reach me, you'd damn well better be quicker than my finger."

The very faint sound of metal protesting the onslaught of intense heat faded.

Truthfully, Janzki was unsure how much of her posturing was bluff and how much was fact. Likely more the former than the latter. The hideously ugly mess on her workbench - she preferred a sleek, well-designed apparatus - was indeed a hastily recreated Fractulator. For power, she had connected it to the self-contained mini-fusion generator, an emergency back-up to forcefield and office electronics in the event of a core problem, beneath her office. Highly extrapolative equations built with very few datapoints suggested it had just enough power to implode the Hive node; and only if all energy was diverted to the Fractulator, which necessitated dropping the forcefield. Of course, even before such an attack could occur, there was the little matter of the digital fingerprint.

Janzki did not have the fingerprint. Undoubtedly the spy-o-centric Peach knew what it was, but if so, the Color had not seen fit to store it in a location accessible to a filching Chief Engineer. How inconsiderate. Janzki was fairly certain that she could use the Fractulator to scan blocks of nodes, one hundred at a time, for the faint vibrations indicating use. The theory was sound, although proof-of-concept was lacking. She would not be able to identify the Collective using the node, but the larger the vibration, the larger the data exchange, the larger the mind. The noisiest fractal frequency should indicate Hive.

Of course, there was the leap of faith that any Fractulator, particularly one bodged together using parts found in office and Main Engineering, was sensitive enough to passively discern coherent vibration through the quantum white noise permeating all of cline subspace.

Once the digital fingerprint was passively extracted (hope for the best!), it could be input for the deadly active search that precipitated nodal implosion. As a bonus, elimination of the Hive should create sufficient sympathetic resonance to destroy all Borg, all Colors.

So many things could go wrong, which is why Janzki's gambit was more sham than threat. In addition to vibration sensitivity and power issues, there was the wee matter of time. The search was blind. The Lloyd set may prove that the number of Collective-usable nodes was finite, but it also indicated that there were a damn lot of them. A search that scrutinized a mere hundred frequencies at once was highly unlikely to pinpoint the target in a reasonable amount of time unless a large degree of luck was present.

In other words, if the Hive called bluff, Janzki was probably going to lose.

No matter. As long as there was the possibility, no matter how slight, of eradicating the Borg pestilence upon the universe, she would take it. Hell, she might push the button even if the Hive conceded to her demands.

One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. The Newton must have become stuck in a temporal phenomenon because time moved both too fast and too slow. Four minutes. The drones outside Janzki's office were motionless statues. A count-down timer on the schematic board, just at the edge of peripheral vision, swiftly discarded seconds on its way to the five minute mark. Box was raised, finger poised....

Activity among the drones. Several stepped aside as a new unit materialized just beyond the forcefield warded door. The creature was not the same as the others. Notably, it lacked heavy armoring. However, much more eye-catching, at least to Janzki, was the presence of tools. Devices both identifiable and unknown festooned the drone; and a harness strapped over shoulders and around torso carried yet more gear.

The new drone stepped forward as the deadline passed. "Surrender, brother." The request was...unexpectedly personal. Polite. And unacceptable.

Janzki chuckled darkly. "What is this? I am obviously too 'small' to understand this tactic."

"No trickery, brother. Surrender to the Hive. Comply. It is for the best."

"Do I look like your brother? I am Flarn! You are, or were, a soft-skin. Enough of this drivel. Obviously you Borg want to do this the hard way. I-"

The drone took half a pace forward, placing itself as close to the shimmering forcefield as it could be without touching. "We are brothers, under the skin. Not Hive-we, but you-and-I-we. I, too, am a Chief Engineer. Note the present tense. Also the singular tense: I have been given allowance to speak to you as myself, not as one of the All. I am a volunteer to the Hive. My reasons in joining are unimportant. However, it has left me in a unique position in this here and this now. The order to surrender comes not from the Hive, but from the Brotherhood."

The Brotherhood of the Spanner. The secret society of Chief Engineers. Janzki reeled. "Lie! That is a Borg lie!" she spat.

"The Hive has no need of lies. That is a small being deficiency."

"If not a lie, then a trick! You fear the Fractulator!"

Silence. "Actually, the Hive does not fear the Fractulator. Calculations suggest the likelihood of success are miniscule. Admittedly, the model outputs are highly speculative due to lack of hard data, but there are many factors difficult to overcome in the environment of your workshop." Pause. "Because you are a Chief Engineer, the probability of success is significantly higher than otherwise, but still very, very small. No, the Hive pauses in finalizing securement of this vessel, and you, not because of your threat, but due to a somewhat unusual request via other channels."

"A trick," repeated Janzki. There was a sinking feeling in the depth of her soul: her bluff had been called, and dismissed. Poised finger moved fractionally, to toggle the button and take the chance that the Hive Collective was wrong.

The drone sighed. "I told the Greater Consciousness this is how you would respond. I was not alone in my analysis. Many Chief Engineers within the All agreed. It is how I might react, particularly if the Borg of the past had assimilated my race. To this end, I was provided with this to show. It arrived via temporal division GPS just prior to my transportation here." The 'this' resolved into a piece of paper, drawn from a pocket set on the inside surface of harness. It was carefully unfolded - the drone retained both its hands, and, thus, a degree of manual dexterity - and held it up to the forcefield.

Flarn eyesight is excellent, and Janzki had no need to move from her location to read the note. Upon it was a message, directed specifically to Janzki and written in her native language. With few words and terse sentence structure, it directed her to refrain from using the Fractulator, to submit to the Hive for assimilation. At the bottom of the page was the Brotherhood sigil.

Whispered Janzki, the word barely audible even to herself: "Trick...."

"There is no trick," assured the drone. "The Hive has no knowledge of why the Brotherhood of the Spanner would desire your compliance. Logically and strategically, it is in your best interest to use the Fractulator, although likelihood of success before we disable it is near zero. The Hive acknowledges this truth. Luck and happenstance is, regrettably, not irrelevant. I, as the sole unit with Brotherhood association upon this fleet, merely relay the message."

Janzki slumped, shifting her focus to her hands. Within one she held the box, and the other her spanner. Useless. The universe conspired against her. Even if the Hive Collective eventually did return the crew of the Newton to the university, undoubtedly the time frame would be such that the yo-yo contest would be missed. Quietly (for a Flarn) Janzki said, "I will do what the Brotherhood requests, not you Borg, but only under one condition."

"We do not accede to conditions." The plural was returned. A glance at the drone revealed a subtle difference, perhaps a stiffness in posture, indicating that whomever the unit might have once been, it was again submerged in the Whole.

"You will here." Janzki glared, raising her spanner in defiance to point at the speaker. "That one will assimilate me. The Chief Engineer drone."

Multiple units on the other side of the forcefield barrier fidgeted, a few even daring to look sideways at a neighbor. Then stillness pervaded Main Engineering once more. Said the tool-festooned drone, "Irrelevant. While any drone may perform assimilations, it is most efficient to use one specialized to do so. This drone is of engineering, not assimilation."

"You will allow me my moment of irrelevancy, as that is the only thing I appear to have left. And if I do not get it, Brotherhood letter or no Brotherhood letter, I will push this button and see what happens. Maybe I'll get lucky."

Silence. The quiet stretched for several minutes. It was difficult to believe that such a simple request was requiring prolonged internal deliberation. Finally, "We comply. This drone will perform the initial assimilation. Put down the control. Drop the forcefield."

Janzki shuffled sideways, setting the bebuttoned box on the desk. However, she refused to relinquish her spanner. She was too much a Chief Engineer. With a few swift prods of the desk keyboard, the near subliminal hum of the forcefield vanished. Her office was now open to whatever treachery the Borg may attempt.

Except there was no betrayal. Only the engineer drone stepped across the threshold to approach the Flarn. The other Borg remained outside in Main Engineering. A hand was lifted, extended forward, slowly curled into a fist. For once, Janzki wished she had the soft-skin ability to close her eyes.

"I am sorry brother, but this is how it has to be. I wish I knew what the Brotherhood plans, that such an excellent individual as yourself must be sacrificed." Janzki felt a prick as the exoskeleton of her left arm near a large vein was compromised. "There will, eventually, be excruciating pain. Welcome to the Hive. Welcome to Us."

*****

To: Black Ops, Second Federation Starfleet

From: Hive Collective

Subject: Second Federation spies and Colored collusion will not be tolerated

At timestamp 3819328.12, we observed trespass of two Colored vessels in sector 418a.1a - Exploratory-class cubes, one each Peach and Ultraviolet. The Ultraviolet vessel was destroyed. The Peach vessel escaped, but not before pausing its flight to recover cargo and drones from a vessel designated URV Newton. The research ship is known to Us: it submits travel plans when traversing Hive territory is anticipated. Due to Colored involvement, we detained the Newton.

Interrogation of entities secured from the Newton is incomplete at this time. Several individuals have resisted examination and require further processing. However, we have uncovered preliminary evidence of Black Ops presence. A device designated 'Fractulator' appears to be key to both Color and Black Ops participation.

Attached are ship file dossiers and images of beings detained from the Newton. You will assist us by identifying Black Ops agents, as well as relaying your involvement with the two Colors. Individuals without knowledge of your operation, or whom participated under duress, will be returned to the Second Federation, but only if you comply with our demand.

*****

To: Hive Collective

From: Chief Donna X. Est, Black Ops, Liaison Division, Second Federation Starfleet

Subject: URV Newton and crew

Dear Hive Collective,

Black Ops and Starfleet offer sincere condolences at learning that your territory was trespassed by Colored intruders. However, we are at a loss to understand how this pertains to us. We have checked into the registry of the URV Newton and have not found it to exist. To be more precise, Tanatus II University did, at one time, field a research vessel matching the description you provided, but it was lost during a recent tour. Post-incident analysis ruled it an accident due to an experiment precipitating a rogue spatial anomaly. We can provide a copy of the report if you so request.

Perhaps this 'Newton' you apprehended is actually in the employ of pirates or other nefarious persons attempting to take advantage of the university's loss?

Additionally, concerning the 'Fractulator' you mention, we are unaware of any technology pending or in development by this label in Second Federation jurisdiction.

As a government-to-government courtesy, we ask that you keep us appraised of any developments. Although we are unsure how the Second Federation, Starfleet, or Black Ops will be able to help, we do express a high level of concern over the apparent heinous identity theft of an entire starship.

*****

To: Black Ops, Second Federation Starfleet

From: Hive Collective

Subject: Second Federation spies and Colored collusion will not be tolerated

Evasion of the topic of Black Ops and Colored conspiracy is characteristic of the primitive politics of small beings. We are not to be diverted. We are Hive.

At this time, we have conclusively identified two Black Ops personnel. Due to the methods required for deep interrogation of these individuals, they will not be returned. The Commonwealth Treaty of 2513 outlines the repatriation process for beings assimilated against their will in the course of Hive activities. Under this agreement, the Newton crew, as well as researchers and their respective entourages, are obliged to be deassimilated and returned to the Second Federation...if a request to do so is made through the appropriate channels. We await this request. If it is not received in thirty cycles, the period mandated in the treaty, we will continue assimilation and subsuming of detainees to Us.

*****

To: Hive Collective

From: Chief Donna X. Est, Black Ops, Liaison Division, Second Federation Starfleet

Subject: Newton incident - a mistake?

Dear Hive Collective,

While Black Ops is hesitant to question your conclusions, the consensus among our top analysts that you have somehow made a mistake. It is understood that such may be difficult to comprehend, but someone, perhaps elements of Peach and/or Ultraviolet, has you duped. Peach in particular, it is believed, maintains a stable of non-assimilated employees that are willing to undergo deep hypnosis conditioning so as to create a more credible persona.

For your convenience, the previously mentioned report concerning the Newton's demise has been attached. Authenticated duplicates were posted to the appropriate databases over six months ago. The Newton was lost with all hands aboard. Metallic and biologic residues, inclusive DNA traces, were recovered at the accident site, confirming the loss.

Whomever those poor people you assimilated, they are not the Newton's crew. It is highly unlikely that the pirates, whoever they may represent, will be filing a repatriation request. However, Black Ops and Starfleet does implore you to wait the entire thirty day period in case we are in error.

*****

To: Family of Janzki Taren-y'tel-galoni, Toleti III Flarn enclave

From: Harley Newham, Director of Public Affairs, Second Federation Starfleet

Dear Mr. and/or Mrs. Taren-y'tel-galoni and/or other appropriate relation,

We offer our condolences and regret to inform you of an accident upon the URV Newton that triggered a rouge spatial anomaly, costing the life of chief engineer Janzki. On stardate...

---

Return to the Assimilations page