Here we go again! Back to the basics - Paramount be owner of Star Trek, Decker created Star Traks, and Meneks writes BorgSpace.

Welcome to the Machine

"This injury could have been avoided. How could someone in your position demonstrate such a low intellegence quotient, especially with so many other minds to draw upon? And basic what-if models, too?" Although there was no obvious remonstration to the criticism, the voice quieted. Moments later, there was a loud sucking sound, as if a boot had been tugged from thick mud.

Or as if a semi-flexible segment of chitin, stiffened by armor and a woven nanotechnolgical matrix of quasi-metallic inclusions, had been pulled from flesh.

The voice tch-tched. "You have torn half the tendons in your back; and those that haven't detached look like frayed rope. There was nothing in the crates that would have been hurt if you had just let them fall to the deck, you know. To try to hold all in place while antigrav cranes and block-and-tackle were being fetched was a less than stunning display of wisdom." Pause. "Oh, by the way, a new tendon material was recently assimilated. While it isn't strictly recommended for Flarn, I am confident I could make it work, given a bit of experimentation."

{No,} replied the patient currently face-down on the drone maintenance bay worktable. The nearly 2.5 meter body may have been paralyzed for the minor surgery, but the mind was quite active. {Absolutely not. You /will/ use the tendon replacements stipulated for my species. You may cast question upon my intellect, especially in regards to a nascent cargo avalanche and the potential consequences, but I am more than smart enough to /not/ be talked into any of your "experiments". Now, just /fix/ me so I can return to my duties.}

"You do not have to be present..."

{Fix. Me. Now.}

A deep sigh. One did not argue with a Borgified Flarn, especially one who was currently consensus monitor and facilitator, and especially not if one was (maybe) two-thirds the height and half the mass. And relatively squishy about the head-body region because Dromelan anatomy did not accept armor well. Doctor, the head of drone maintenance for the local sub-collective, bent to work with laser scalpel.

The Flarn on the workbench was, as implied, a consensus monitor and facilitator for a Borg sub-collective. Her official designation was 2 of 5, but when required by her Collective, she grudgingly accepted the subdesignation "Prime" - she disliked the moniker "Captain" or similar titles. And she was imperfectly assimilated, as were all the units on the vessel of which she was currently in charge.

In this era, a mere five T-years after the return of the Borg Collective upon the galactic stage following centuries of the Hive paradigm, the dumping ground of the imperfectly assimilated was Lugger-class Cube #238. A place to cast aside those units with a sufficiently intact personality to not fit within the standard drone mould, yet whom still remained dedicated to the greater vision of Perfection as dictated by the Greater Consciousness, Cube #238 was an enormous cargo vessel. Its never-ending mission was not to explore new worlds and assimilate protesting species, but rather to haul items from point A to point B. In case of attack, a general lack of offensive capability and all the maneuvering ability of a pregnant hippopotamus was more than offset by a defensive system considered to be the strongest in the galaxy. While a Lugger-class cube could be overwhelmed given enough time and firepower, the vessels' defenses ensured that most attackers were not provided enough of the former before an armada of Assault-class spheres and Battle-class cubes touting the latter arrived.

In other words, Lugger-class Cube #238 was an excellent locale to consign the imperfectly assimilated. The assignments were boring, repetitive, and gave little chance for an occasionally instable sub-collective to get itself into trouble.

The 3000 drone complement of Cube #238 was that of a normal Lugger-class; and the unit specialties represented, in order of percentage comprising the whole, were the standard six - engineering, command and control, drone maintenance, sensory, tactical, and assimilation. As befitting the mission of a Lugger-class, two-thirds the total was assigned to engineering, and, more specifically, the care (and occasional feeding) of cargo. Assimilation, in comparison, had a token 50 drones. The remaining hierarchies included between 150 to 300 units.

Once, according to records, sub-collectives of the imperfectly assimilated had assigned their hierarchy heads in a rather complicated manner. Depending upon the era, there had been lotteries, rotations within Groups, choice by command and control or consensus monitor, or some combination thereof. The only commonality was that the Greater Consciousness had kept its mental distance, allowing the Exploratory-classes (and two Cargo-classes and one recycling platform) which had predecessed Cube #238 to "evolve" their internal organization. Such was no longer the case.

During the final decade of the Hive, following an incident in which a dissonant hierarchial head organization had spectacularly ended its tenure by smashing the immediate forerunner of Cube #238 through /three/ unimatrix nodes, the Greater Consciousness had embarked upon a new experiment. At the beginning of each duty period, hierarchy heads were now assigned by the Whole from Groups already winnowed as to suitability for the relevant position. As the minimal length of the duty period was a half Cycle - one Cycle equated a solar year of the original Borg planet, compared to the 28 hour daily cycle - and normally included several delivery missions, sufficient time was provided for the Greater Consciousness to evaluate its choice. Although the resurrected Borg Collective had inherited the more intensive approach to management from the Hive, the methodology had not been altered. The purpose of the Greater Consciousness, then and now, was to discern which combination of drones, or traits among the quasi-personalities which comprised the sub-collective, provided the best measure of efficiency...as such could be applied to a vessel of imperfectly assimilated.

As of late, it seemed the Greater Consciousness was honing in on particular drones it found most satisfactory in certain positions. For instance, 80 of 150 had been tapped as Weapons for the last four duty periods; and Prime herself had worriedly found herself as consensus monitor or backup for the last five of eight spins around the galaxy. Eventually the Greater Consciousness would determine a configuration it found most effective and freeze it until such time one of the primaries became too inefficient, too old, too whatever and require recycling; and then the search for competence would begin anew. Prime did hope, in the corner of her imperfect self which was still allowed to hope, that /she/ was not the one designated as the final consensus monitor and facilitator.

Prime felt her body slide a disconcerting centimeter sideways on the bench as Doctor tugged at a particularly stubborn tendon. She was Flarn, which meant she was a large entity which could best be described as some unholy mating of insectoid and reptiloid characteristics. It also meant that she had the instinctual dislike of any position which was not upright and on her own feet. To be face-down and paralyzed was to be plunged into a personal hell. At least the workbench had a padded hole placed in the appropriate locale to prevent squashing of facial features, although that minimal attempt at comfort did little to offset the fact that ankles and feet at the opposite end of the table were dangling over empty air. Such was the curse of being literally head and shoulders taller than the average Borg humanoid.

To distract herself, Prime cast her mind towards the cargo bay currently being loaded.

The manifest was the normal eclectic mish-mash: electronics and limb assemblies and isolinear chips; nearly two hundred thousand liters of neurogel stored in barrels; three shuttle kits, neatly disassembled and packaged into numbered crates; sufficient dense-packed neutronium hull armor segments and under-hull ablative armor to completely resheathe a Battle-class cube; nineteen cans of teal paint; a box of expired Starfleet battle rations. The list was several terabytes in length, detailing each item Cube #238 would carry, as well as what would be on- and off-loaded at each port-of-call. At least there was no livestock this trip, nor any expected to be loaded at any point. Assuming no additional stops were added to the schedule, the course plotted to visit all sites and return to Unimatrix 003 would require most of a Cycle.

{Engineer,} called Prime as she shifted her attention from manifest to the head of the engineering hierarchy, {provide a status update.}

{Normal mishaps 'nd issues.} A file was appended, detailing each minor incident. {Ye should've let 'em boxes fall: except f'r the time required t' sort the cargo avalanche, nothin' would've suffered.}

The current Engineer, 7 of 30, did not hail from an engineering background and herefore lacked many of the mental "tics" which bound together the brethren of chief engineers, regardless of species. Prime, once upon a time, had been a chief engineer, and could only wince at the cavalier attitude. {So I've already been informed,} she answered dryly. {Continue report.} It was not Prime that asked, but rather command and control organizing information as the Whole was updated.

Engineer responded with a simplified three-dimensional schematic of Cube #238. Several volumes enclosed flashing Borg alphanumerics. {We be in the process o' fillin' two Bulk Cargo Holds and three Internal Cargo Holds f'r the outbound trip. Assuming nah major problems, we will be ready t' bugger off in 3.3 cycles. There will be more than sufficient time f'r ye t' rend another body part, if ye so desire.}

Although an uninformed observer may believe that a Lugger-class cube, at eight kilometers an edge, was simply an oversized version of its smaller Borg fleet counterparts, such was not true. The best way to describe a Lugger-class was "cube within a cube". The eight exterior holds essentially comprised the entire cube volume, with only the central subsection 14 analogue including the standard maze of corridors, tiers, and closets. Separated by hull-rated bulkheads 100 meters thick along the X, Y, and Z axes, each Bulk Cargo Hold was a vast space large enough to comfortably house an /entire/ Exploratory-class cube...with room to spare. Scaffolding and temporary deck modules could transform the holds into an infinite number of configurations suitable to transport any cargo imaginable. However, said cargo typically had to be immune to the rigors imposed by lack of gravity, vacuum, and low temperature: due to the tremendous amount of energy consumed, Bulk Cargo Holds were normally maintained sans pressure and preferably at a temperature similar to that outside.

Cargo unable to withstand the conditions of the Bulk Cargo Holds, or that requiring specific atmospheric or gravity requirements, was ensconced within the Internal Cargo Holds of subsection 14. Itself nearly the size of a Battle-class cube, the 2.2-kilometer-across subsection was of more than sufficient size to house its own compliment of eight cargo holds.

Another major difference separating a Lugger-class from other fleet vessels was the presence of only four auxiliary cores, instead of the standard ten. Albeit massive - each spare core could output three times the energy of a standard core - only two backed up the Primary Core. The other pair were dedicated to cargo maintenance.

Considering the sheer volume of a Lugger-class, the 3000 drones which comprised the crew seemed a mere afterthought. Unlike other vessel types, alcoves were clustered in submatrix 14, subsection 14 on tiers immediately adjacent to the Primary Core and Central Engineering, not dispersed throughout the ship. Similarly, the maintenance bays and other facilities most utilized by the sub-collective were concentrated in the still-massive central volume.

{As long as cargo is stacked correctly, I will avoid additional trips to drone maintenance,} was Prime's acid-laced reply to Engineer.

Responded Engineer, always striving to have the last word, {Hey, don't get y'r hackles up! I just be the ringmaster o' this motley crew, not the lion tamer...I no wanna get bit. If ya have t' toss the blame, look t' node 15a: records confirm the stack which fell on ye was beamed in catawampus.}

Prime snorted, then dismissed both engineering files and Engineer. With the glib tongue he had inherited from his former pre-Borg profession, he could talk rings around Prime. Arguing with, or attempting verbal one-upmanship, was nearly impossible. Of course, such was also not Prime's forte: when something needed to be done, she tended to be very...direct in the gaining of consensus amid dissent. For now, other items required her attention; and one of them had been transported aboard less than fifteen minutes prior.

The new drone, a Dromelan, was already installed into his new alcove on tier 27d of subsection 14, submatrix 14. Consensus cascade had decided, given the standard trials and tribulations of cargo loading, to wait until the cube was outbound from the unimatrix before waking and integrating the new drone into the sub-collective. His file - he had yet to be assigned a new designation - indicated he had been a perfectly adjusted unit since his assimilation five years prior; and, in fact, continued to fit within the spectrum of expected normalcy. However, wherever the drone was assigned, be it ship or platform or node, odd...incidents...occurred. Although no direct linkage had been observed, Cycles of circumstantial evidence implied that the unit was to blame. Loath to dispose of an otherwise perfectly functional cog, the Greater Consciousness had finally decided to shuffle him off to its imperfect sub-collective, the catch-all of square pegs desperately wanting to fit in.

A further impetus to wait was a recent entry appended to the dossier of Cube #238's newest member. Only during deep regenerative stasis, when brain waveforms were essentially flat-lined, would the possibility of "incidents" be guaranteed to be zero.

Scrolling through the remainder of the record, Prime mentally frowned. The incidents in question were missing, ragged holes signifying the places in the file where information had been cut. A query to the Greater Consciousness returned no revelation: the response tersely indicated removed data to be irrelevant, not required for sub-collective integration of the drone.

If Prime's shoulders had not been paralyzed, she would have shrugged in resignation. That particular gesture was non-Flarn, instead borrowed from one of the many mammalian humanoid species which used it. It was also deeply satisfying. Oh well, it would not be the first time, nor the last, the Whole had withheld information it deemed unnecessary to the functioning of its imperfect sub-collective. Pushing the conundrum of the new drone aside, Prime returned her foreground attention to the intricacies of cargo loading.

Or tried to...except for a certain thoughtstream which caught her attention....

{No. I said no and I mean no. You will provide me with /Flarn/ tendon replacements, not experimental biotech meant for a completely different species,} barked Prime.

Doctor, one foot-hand frozen mid-air, attempted an excuse, "I wasn't actually to tack it in. I just wanted to see if it might fit under your carapace, maybe check the elasticity against the tendons I would actually be installing...." The words faded to inaudibility. "Right, then-" the offending tendon vanished in a transporter beam "-I should have you to your alcove for post-op regeneration in thirty minutes."

Prime allowed herself the intranet equivalent of a squint-eyed glare, then set a watchdog program to ensure Doctor complied appropriately. Cargo, and all that could go wrong when quasi-personalities were not supervised, beckoned.

*****

Less than eleven light years from Unimatrix 003, Cube #238 unexpectedly fell out of hypertranswarp. It was not quite an emergency stop, but it was more than abrupt enough to cause the superstructure to audibly groan. Inertia dampers kept most cargo in place, which was more than could be said for certain drones.

Prime opened her eyes. Once again the harness of bungies she had rigged had kept her from being ejected from her alcove. And, once again, Prime submitted a request to a minor sub-mind of the Greater Consciousness for a Flarn-configured alcove with functional clamps. As all previous times, the appeal vanished into an informational black hole, likely never to be seen again.

Resettling herself, Prime dismissed visual input to concentrate on the vistas of dataspace and intranet. {Report, Engineer.}

{Linkage relay series 87a-d failed. And so did the rerouting code. There was a disconnect a'tween propulsion system 'nd computer/command and control.}

For each drone of the Collective, the dataspace realms was a personalized experience shaped by species, brain architecture, and, oddly considering Borg nature, what could only be described as imagination. Vivacity varied, from dull monochromatic numbers ever-scrolling through the mind to grand psychosomatic dreamscapes more real than reality itself. Some drones found immersion into the Whole more difficult than others; and although none were given choice as to participation, it was also not unknown for the occasional drone to require euthanasia because the unit's underlying neurology could not adapt.

While the Flarn species, in general, expressed the occasional integration issue in the course of the Borgification process, such an affliction had not struck Prime during her assimilation. Since awakening to the Borg, she had experienced her internal landscapes as if she were sitting in the middle of a vast holotheater. Bodiless, she could turn and pivot in any direction, bringing into sharp relief any datathread which required her consideration. As Flarn were a sight-orientated species, the experience was primarily keyed to visuals. However, with the inclusion of a surround-sound equivalent of the utmost fidelity, Prime, whom once-upon-a-time had been a holo-connoisseur, had found the ultimate immersion simulation.

A map of Cube #238 demanded Prime's attention. She focused on it, peeling away layers until the relays invoked by Engineer were revealed. Physically, the linkage was near Assimilation Workshop #6, squeezed in the interstitial spaces between several flaking corridors 123 straight-line meters from the Primary Core. As Prime spun the multi-dimensional model (the dataspaces were more than merely height, width, and breadth), command and control, and the sub-collective Whole, integrated the knowledge into their universe-view.

{Any damage - cargo or vessel?} The order of the inquiry was deliberate: the Collective could always replace a ship (or drones). On the other hand, certain cargos might be unique or very expensive in terms of energy and material to manufacture.

Engineer responded mechanically, normal banter and chopped words replaced by the precise verbalization of dry diagnostics, {No damage of importance. The backup code has activated and the relays are now rerouted around. A repair team has been dispatched. Burnt relays will be swapped and the primary linkage re-established in an estimated 43 minutes.}

Prime, the sub-collective, digested the report. Further clarification was needed. {Reason for the failure?}

{Unknown,} said Engineer, customary cadance beginning to reassert itself. {Maybe it be a bad relay batch, maybe we intercepted an especially high energy cosmic ray-}

{Don't think so! The grid did not capture anything remotely that shiny!} interjected Sensors. He was ignored.

{-or other natural interference. Until the blown relays be examined, all which c'n be offered be speculation.}

A small consensus cascade was initiated. {Fine,} said Prime as potential actions the cube could take were whittled to one, {as the backup linkage is functional, we will continue. There is a schedule to keep.} The blown relay was filed under random happenstance. After a nudge to Reserve to reinitiate hypertranswarp engines - for various reasons, Prime did not (and often was not allowed to) drive - Cube #238 continued on its way.

*****

"He doesn't /look/ insane," commented Prime as she peered down at the Borgified Dromelan locked in one of the alcoves ringing Assimilation Workshop #6. She was examining the octopod with more than mere eyes.

Assimilation - nee 18 of 18, or one of a large number of on-line userids when she could circumnavigate the blocks preventing access to GalacWeb gamer sites - waggled her fingers in a species-specific gesture of ambiguous disregard. She was of average height and belonged to one of the large clade of humanoid species whom differed from each other only by cranial ornamentation or similar insignificant detail. For species #9008, that meant eight double-jointed fingers per hand, excessively pointed ears, and a series of warty protrusions over the cheekbones. Biologically, it also meant three genders, but Assimilation had been hormonally locked into female phase upon her, er, adoption by the Collective. One could not precisely say assimilation because the hard-core gamer whom had once been 18 of 18 had managed to accidentally, and irrevocably, Borgify herself in her quest for the perfect mod without any help from Color or Hive-era Collective.

"He isn't," replied Assimilation, "or, at least, not yet. Within a couple of weeks he'll either exhibit a psychotic meltdown and have to be euthanized, or he will begin showing signs of assimilation imperfection. In the case of the latter, he will then be just like everyone other unit. Right now, however" - a hand was flipped in the Dromelan drone's direction - "neurological tests place him right where he should be for a perfectly adjusted drone."

The object of discussion was quite awake, large eyes shifting back and forth nervously between Assimilation, Prime, and the other two assimilation hierarchy units whom were present in the workshop. Quarantined into a miniature network that primarily consisted of the Cube #238 assimilation hierarchy, the yet-to-be-redesignated drone's anxiety was understandable: until the Greater Consciousness had suspended him in deep regeneration, he had been wrapped in a warm mental cocoon consisting of trillions of entities. Awakening to a mere 50 minds, all of them exhibiting a greater or lesser degree of instability, had been a shock. The linkage had since been widened to include the 300 units which comprised command and control, the last step in the evaluation process prior to full sub-collective integration, but it was obviously insufficient to reign in the Dromelan drone's incipient panic. Chemicals were insuring his anxiety remained manageable.

{Who are we?} rasped the drone, fixating upon Prime with instinctual recognition of her consensus monitor position. A nerve block prevented him from verbalizing the words in conjunction with the intranet plea. {Who /are/ we? Provide us with a designation.}

Prime ignored the entreaty, as she had all the ones prior. "Consensus? Recommendation?"

A data packet was provided to command and control, a seed for the final decision cascade. "I cannot find anything wrong with this drone," said Assimilation, speaking for her hierarchy. "He shouldn't be here, with us. He will be utterly ruined."

"The Greater Consciousness is of the obvious opinion he is already damaged goods, even as he retains mental intactness. The question is - shall he continue to be excluded from our sub-collective?"

Assimilation waggled her fingers. "No reason," she admitted.

{Who /are/ we? We need a designation and a purpose!}

The final consensus was predictable. Prime tilted her head to regard the drone in his temporary alcove. {Engineering hierarchy has several slots open. You are now 56 of 370.} The consensus monitor and facilitator locked a transporter upon herself, beaming to Central Engineering: species #6251 was especially susceptible to muscle degeneration, and the Collective required daily exercise for all its active Flarn drones. As she materialized on the line of yellow paint that designated her walking course, Prime sent one final thought to Assimilation, {Begin the final integration process.}

Acknowledgement received, Prime initiated the subroutine which would guide her body along the walking track, turning the bulk of her attention to other duties.

*****

The newly christened 56 of 370 felt a small knot of anxiety unravel as the consensus monitor and facilitator vanished. He had a designation; he had a purpose. There was little worse in the universe than to lack either. He knew because six times since his assimilation the Greater Consciousness had abruptly transferred him to a new sub-collective, each instance a disconcerting period of limbo. Admittedly, throughout those instances, he had never been so thoroughly disconnected from the Whole, trillions of minds ever whispering comforting words.

Now, however, he knew it was the haze of chemicals which kept him from catatonia. The unit 18 of 18 had informed him as such even as she had adjusted the alcove's programming to maximize the effectiveness of the cocktail it was delivering to his system. The Whole had been reduced to the thinnest of threads, replaced by so very few.

A small part of his mind, a kernel of a kernel, vaguely wondered what he had done to merit his transfers, both the six prior and this seventh. The Greater Consciousness, of course, would not inform a mere drone, no more than a craftsman would discuss with a wrench why it was being moved to a new toolbox for storage.

56 of 370's body rocked slightly as something was pulled out of his head. He focused attention to his visual output and was rewarded with the sight of 18 of 18's torso carapace: Dromelan anatomy placed eyes on the body-sac at a height which was a bit over waist-high on most humanoid bipeds. 18 of 18 backed away, one hand grasping the socketed end of a thick cable.

18 of 18's forward-facing eyes - none had been replaced by a prosthetic - scanned 56 of 370 from mantle-top to foot-claw and back to the beginning. At the same time, the Dromelan felt a faint tingling deep within his brain. Unfortunately, the block preventing integration with the local sub-collective remained resolute against his instinctual effort to read 18 of 18's thoughtstream, to examine himself from another point of view, to know what was happening. The only thing the block allowed was speech to a limited number of designations and a knowing that he had not been abandoned to the smallness of his own, singular self.

"Engineering hierarchy, eh? Your dossier says you've been assigned to similar positions three times prior, so no need to modify you...at least not yet. In which case any appropriate assemblies will be installed by Doctor. So much for practicing surgical techniques outside simulations." 18 of 18 paused, tilting her head slightly. 56 of 370 /knew/ instructions were being delivered, but he could not hear them. Frustrating!

{We must be One with the All. Why are we denied?} 56 of 370 asked, throwing his query through the block.

18 of 18 refocused upon 56 of 370, head straightening. "You have no clue where you are." It was a statement. "Your background processes obviously have an inkling - what with the amount of chemicals needed to keep you balanced - but you have not allowed your waking consciousness to acknowledge reality. How very...Borg. Us." A shrug. "Oh well, you are shortly no longer to be my problem, and I will be allowed to return to more productive uses of my time, like the battlechess match with Weapons. Engineering hierarchy is ready to proceed. Welcome to your new home."

56 of 370 did not fully understand this sub-collective, so different and confusing from what he had known before, even as his senses insisted all were as Borg as he. Still, he captured an undertone to the last sentence, whereupon "home" was substituted with "hell". And then all personal thoughts were washed away as the block was abruptly removed, exposing him to his new sub-collective...his new /imperfect/ sub-collective.

Several hours later, 56 of 370 sagged as much as the assimilation workshop alcove allowed. Sometime in the re-integration process muscle control had been returned, although a timestamp search would be required to determine exactly when. Such did not matter. 56 of 370's personal universe had just been turned upside-down and inside-out; and, for now, he welcomed the dark, unthinking blackness of regeneration.

*****

:: Plip. ::

*****

{The problem is definitely the plasma temperature sensors along this conduit segment. They should be swapped out,} said Prime with the all-knowing attitude of an ex-Lord(ess) of the engineering underworld.

Responded Engineer peevishly, {Will ye get out o' there a'fore ya wedge? Last time it took nearly 'n hour and several kilos o' lard t' unstick ya from the interstitial spaces. And engineering be /my/ bailiwick: there c'n only be /one/ ringmaster. /And/ checkin' those sensors be /low/ on the priority list 'cause there be other, more likely troubleshootin' leads.}

Prime felt something poke her backside. A switch in visual inputs found herself riding Engineer's point-of-view, spanner in hand as he used it as a prod. Sampling another thoughtstream revealed the head of the engineering hierarchy looking up data, specifically how many volts would be required from an arc-discharge unit to make an impression through Borg armor layered over Flarn exoskeleton. Prime hurriedly backed out of the confined space and into the relative openness of the hallway.

Prime peered wordless down at a face would could best be described as wrinkles and jowls. A single glinting eye glared back. "It has been many Cycles and more than a few duty periods since your assimilation and initial Engineer assignment. I believe...no, I know...this is the first time you have directly challenged me." Prime paused. "Excellent. Chief Engineers take gruff from no one, not know-it-all ensigns, not captains nor admirals. They are supreme in their domain."

Ignoring the oblique praise, Engineer grunted. "I be not some apprentice fire eater ya have decided t' take under y'r wing. This be /my/ circus, and /you/ are just bein' nosy. As usual."

"That may be," acknowledged Prime mildly, "but the problem is the temperature sensors. If you swap them out, we will regain deflector functionality, and then we can achieve FTL velocity knowing the first dust mote we encounter won't blow a hole in the side of the cube. I once had a similar problem on the Galileo Proxima. It took hours, but those sensors ended up as the correct diagnosis." The consensus monitor offered the appropriate meme sequence to Engineer, whom suspiciously digested the information.

"Maybe..." accepted Engineer. The green-tinged hallway lightstrips darkened the red-blue diamond pattern which comprised his current body paint. "But the consensus o' engineering hierarchy is that other answers be more likely. We will check them first. Now, bugger off. Ye not be o' engineering hierarchy, no matter y'r personal background. And ya dant fit in the interstitial spaces, anyway."

Dismissed, the first among equals, Cube #238's physically largest member, the consensus monitor stood motionless for several long seconds. Then she beamed herself back to her alcove, stepping back and up to set herself in place. The safety bungies would not be necessary until the vessel was once more in motion.

{Told you off, did he?} chuckled Reserve who, of course, already knew the answer.

{I still think a unit with an engineering background would be the most appropriate drone for an Engineer. Not that I have any say in the matter.} Prime momentarily switched her attention to check the recent activities of several of the crew's more instable members, but found nothing anomalous. {And, yes, he did tell me off. He still has more work to do it properly. Ideally, saliva or other bodily fluids should to be included. Someday I'll have turned him into a proper Chief Engineer, a necessity as it seems he is likely to be the drone the Greater Consciousness will settle upon when our organization structure is frozen. Bah...the species #2133 neural structure may be excellent for multi-tasking and 7 of 30 may personally exhibit an excellent grasp of cargo management, but there is /more/ to being a Chief than just raw ability.}

{Like spitting.}

{Exactly.}

The subject abruptly swung to a new track as command and control began to converse amongst itself, Reserve and Prime verbalizing the stream-of-consciousness.

{This is the third failure in ten cycles,} noted Reserve. {The first two times were related to engine control; and this time deflectors. We have set a new personal sub-collective record for being behind schedule.}

Prime's unsight scanned the darkness around the bodiless kernel which was herself, sampling the dataspaces. She studiously ignored the throbbing red line which signified the Greater Consciousness's disapproval at delay. {At least we have no time-dependent cargo on this leg. Nothing that will rot, or ferment, or die, or explode.}

Reserve agreed. {The question becomes - what is the cause? Our maintenance efforts are not /that/ dismal. You ensure that, as a Hierarchy of Five member, whatever the designation of the current Engineer.} A cube schematic was displayed, the slowly revolving wire-model materializing in Prime's dataspace view. {Notice how all the instances are within 100 meters straight-line with our newest drone? And timestamps show that failures occurred only when 56 of 370 was in regeneration.}

{Circumstantial evidence,} sighed Prime. The Greater Consciousness had finally released some of the details not initially included in 56 of 370's original abbreviated dossier. Unfortunately, data continued to be incomplete. {But it is the same type of circumstantial evidence that has been plaguing the Collective in regards to this drone for the last five Cycles. Without conclusive proof-}

{Never before have so many "inconclusive" instances occurred so close together.} Reserve highlighted the appropriate chronologies. A dark humor colored the backup consensus monitor's thoughtstream - the origination was 5 of 5 himself, not the command and control gestalt. {Besides, when have /we/ ever required conclusive proof?}

Options swirled in the dataspaces, one finally consolidating. Agreement.

Said Prime, {True.} Switch of attention to outside the immediate command and control architecture. {Doctor, acquire 56 of 370. Devise the appropriate tests. /Some/ "experimental" procedures are authorized, as long as the drone's usefulness is not compromised. Do not push the envelope when you are interpreting the term "continued usefullness", neither.}

Doctor offered his acknowledgement.

Doctor thoughtfully rasped his mouthparts as he contemplated his patient. He was at a loss as to how to proceed, obvious avenues of investigation thus far futile. There were a few ideas floating around in his head. Unfortunately, all would result in suboptimal functionality on the part of his patient, an outcome already specifically denied by Prime.

After retrieving 56 of 370 and securing him to a workbench, Doctor had minutely scanned his fellow Dromelan for any sign of the brain patterns which would indicate an active psi-center. Dromelans had a very high telekinetic quotient, at least those who originated from the middle and upper class clans of society. In fact, that was the defining characteristic as to whom belonged to what caste, with money, genetic predisposition for certain careers, and political influence defining the fine gradations within classes. The low-born theoretically could exhibit psi-talent, although most did not; and those who did were quickly adopted into a higher class clan with a complimentary genetic profile. And the body-servant caste? It was preposterous to even consider an active psi-talent among body-servants, the various lineages specifically bred, and genetically modified as the technology became available, over thousands of years to be receptive empaths, responding only to whomever bonded them in the creche pools.

As expected given the previous attempts by the Collective to troubleshoot 56 of 370, the psi line of inquiry had revealed nothing. The psi-center neurons were burned out of a species #7582 drone upon assimilation; and like most sentient species, adult Dromelan brains could not spontaneously repair or reassign function of such a highly derived neurological structure. 56 of 370's psi-center was gone, and remained so. Neuro-analysis did not find any other cell groupings which might have somehow acquired the talent.

With the obvious not an option, Doctor had moved 56 of 370 to a support alcove and proceeded to strip the drone down. Working with a team of his fellow maintenance units, assemblies and implants and prosthetics had been sequentially removed from 56 of 370, taken apart, tested for fault, and reinstalled. Nothing.

Intimate probing of 56 of 370's electrostatic field - Dromelans displayed a minor electric aura, similar to certain Terran fish - had been tried. The process had involved much electricity and many calamari-esque odors. There would have been excruciating pain on the part of 56 of 370, had the appropriate neurological messaging chemicals not been blocked. Again, nothing.

For each increasingly invasive and exotic test attempted - nothing, nothing, nothing.

Which left Doctor rasping his mouthparts. He half-lidded two of his three remaining whole eyes as his hierarchy searched for something else to test, something which had not already been tried by the Collective, something which would leave 56 of 370 whole of body (as much as could be applied to a Borg) and mostly sound of mind.

{We return to our tasks?} inquired 56 of 370. He was quite awake and aware of what was being done to him; and, for the most part, familiar with the procedures as he /had/ been the focus of them multiple times prior.

Doctor abruptly froze. Dromelans did not have heads, per se, to tilt in the characteristic pose of a drone receiving instruction or subsumed by the Whole. Although the internal structures were vastly different, the superficial resemblance of a Dromelan to a Terran octopus was strong. As such, body and head were one, a leathery oblong sac balanced atop a very complicated hip girdle supporting eight limbs. To tilt one's head was to invite falling over. Instead, the complimentary Dromelan posture of expectancy was the curling of all four manipulatory arms close to the body, as if in wait to strike at a passing meal.

Which, actually, wasn't too far from the truth, given the rather aggressive carnivory, including towards each other, which had accompanied the Dromelan rise to sapience.

Doctor harrumphed, grinding his mouthparts together one final time, as he lurched back into motion. How annoying. Engineering hierarchy had been preparing Bulk Cargo Hold #7 to receive cargo at the first stop. The chore typically required several cycles, necessitating the moving of trusses and spars and temporary deck plating to the required configuration. One thing had led to another; and assigned "task" had altered into "game", albeit one involving tractor beams and chunks of metal weighing up to a thousand kilos each. It was not too hard to foresee the outcome when the inevitable pile-up occurred. Now there were dozens of injuries, ranging from minor lacerations nanites would repair to a partial decapitation requiring immediate surgery.

On the other foot-hand, there /was/ a technique regarding almost-severances Doctor had never been in the position to undertake. He wasn't even sure it was feasible, given the species of the drone so incapacitated, but he was willing to try. For the sake of saving the unit, of course.

Doctor swiveled eyes and ocular implant to regard 56 of 370. He would keep. {Drone maintenance command pathway to drone unit 56 of 370 - regenerate.}

56 of 370's eyes abruptly glazed over and his body slumped sideways as much as alcove and clamps would allow.

Bodies in various state of disrepair began to materialize in Maintenance Bay #2, accompanied by the drone maintenance units activated to perform the surgeries. Doctor pivoted on his four feet. It was time to get to work...a prospect so much more interesting when the patient could say no, but not truly protest.

*****

:: Plip. ::

It was not a sound, per se, as the originator of the unnoise had no vocal cords, had no breathing apparatus, had no limbs or other organs which might be manipulated to create so much as a hum. In fact, there was barely anything which could be labeled a body, or a brain, the great majority of the cells comprising the creature, the thing, specialized for one of two functions - reproduction and hiding from its host.

The entity was a parasite. The nonsound it made could best, if inadequately, equated to the click of an echolocation-capable animal. However, the medium the parasite exploited was neither air nor water, but rather the psi capability of its host.

:: Plip. ::

The parasite was becoming increasingly desperate, if such a higher order emotion could be applied to something which operated purely by stimulus-response. The drive of all parasites was to reproduce; and so it had long ago, populating its hidden niche with clones of itself. However and unfortunately, a host could ultimately only support one (adult) parasite, and the offspring had grown to the point where they /had/ to be placed in hosts of their own, else die. True, the parent parasite could always birth more progeny, but its drive was to make every attempt to disperse its young before cannibalizing them.

When the appropriate conditions presented, the parasite attempted with increasing vigor to find new hosts for its offspring. It borrowed the psi-ability of its vessel, sending a twanging echo along each cast thread and listened to the response.

:: Plip. :: Pause. :: Gling. ::

A match! Almost. The subharmonics were odd, suggesting a suboptimal host, but the parasite was beyond the point where it could be picky about the conditions which might face an offspring. The eldest of the brood was selected and chemicals secreted to activate temporarily a specific segment of the host's psi-talent. The offspring vanished from the niche.

The search continued.

:: Plip. ::

*****

Deep in 56 of 370's brain was an implant. It squatted within the void created when the psi-center had been removed during the assimilation process. Specific to Dromelans, the implant continuously monitored surrounding cells for activity which could be linked to a psi remnant; and while no species #7582 had ever spontaneously recovered psi-talent following excision of the specialized organ, the Collective was somewhat paranoid in regards to its psi-capable species. One of the several cables which currently violated 56 of 370's head was connected directly to the implant. Over the course of 56 of 370's "evaluation", the implant had recorded several blips exhibiting a psi-like waveform during regeneration cycles. However, due to their transient nature and the fact exterior scanning with much stronger instrumentation had not confirmed psi-activity, Doctor was of the opinion the implant was displaying an intermittent malfunction.

The subroutines monitoring the implant's output noted a very strong signal, a very loud "blip". Alcove scanners observing 56 of 370 simultaneously saw the brief emergence of a distinct psi-signal from the normal brain waveform background expected during regeneration. The computer dutifully informed Doctor of the duel occurrences.

Doctor paused in the midst of a minor surgery to attach stabilization rods to a shattered leg prior to bone fusion (the patient in question was of a species that did not tolerate lower limb replacement well). As he absorbed the computer's notification, he felt a tingling in his brain as /something/ interrupted the normal functioning of deep cranial implants. The Dromelan brain, similar to a majority of species (sentient and not), lacked innervation by receptors which directly registered pain or other tactile stimulus. Therefore, except for that miniscule moment when a subset of implants all chronicled an odd fluctuation in functionality, the instance would have gone unremarked.

Carefully setting down a drill - one never abused one's tools, no matter the urgency - on an adjacent workbench, Doctor turned to a fellow drone maintenance unit assisting in the operation.

"Scan my cranial housing," he ordered 20 of 160. "Use the Hypoxiu 450 on setting E-minus."

20 of 160 obediently picked up the required instrument, pushed several buttons, then proceeded to wave it over Doctor's head-body. "And what am I scanning for?"

"Anything which does not match my physiological base profile, of course," muttered Doctor. 20 of 160 could be a bit slow-of-thinking...but then, of course, Doctor was of the personal opinion, common to his race, that /any/ whom were not amphibious octopods were slow-of-thinking.

The scanning continued for several agonizingly long minutes. On the table, 187 of 400 inquired when her leg would be finished, but was ignored.

"There is a discrepancy in your brain architecture," summarized 20 of 160. Before he could offer the appropriate datastream to Doctor, he found the information summarily hijacked.

Doctor examined the information. A visual summary rotated in the dataspaces, two views of a Dromelan brain. One brain originated from Doctor's dossier and represented what should-be. The second brain was alike the first, except for a knot of foreign matter no larger than a marble now lodged near his inactivated psi-center.

Dismissing the data, Doctor stepped to an empty worktable, climbed atop it, arrange head-body and limbs, then initiated the command to paralyze himself. {By the deities of the dry and frozen netherworlds, what are you waiting for? Remove that offending thing from my brain! Now!}

"It is a psi-parasite," explained Doctor as he held the specimen bottle up to the light with a foot-hand, delicate manipulatory digits extended. "Uncommon. It only infects species #7582, and because it requires psi-energy for growth and reproduction, only members of the middle and high castes can be afflicted."

In the clear plastic bottle, floating within a preservative solution, was what could only be described as a blob of cells. There was no head or tail, no eyes or ears or mouth or tactile limbs, nothing to distinguish it as a creature to the eyes of the external observer. The internal structure was as nearly as degenerate as the outside, primarily consisting of digestive structures, a few hundred cells with a nuerological function, and reproductive organs.

Prime eyed the specimen, then the drone locked into the drone maintenance alcove. "And that thing was inhabiting 56 of 370? How could it cause the problems we've had? And do not simply point us at the psi-parasite file: it is a purely technical document. If I am familiar with anything, it is technobabble. We require the condensed, and understandable, version." The "we" invoked was the sub-collective plural.

"Things," corrected Doctor as he lowered the bottle to eye level. "This is an offspring. It requires several hours for a psi-parasite to embed itself in a new host, during which time they can be surgically removed. It has been confirmed that 56 of 370 is parasitized by one adult and at least eight progeny. He must have been infected prior to assimilation because recent scan data matches initial physiological profile."

"How," growled Prime. Doctor was not answering the question asked, and the Flarn, engineering hierarchy, the sub-collective, was growing impatient.

Doctor set the bottle on a counter and hastened to speak, supporting his explanation with the appropriate dataspace-derived information, "The psi-parasite, when it invades a host, causes a gall to form near the psi-center. While the gall's surface cells retain the signature of the host, the mid-layers and lining are converted to a psi-function. In essence, the host develops a secondary psi-center, albeit one he or she cannot access.

"The psi-parasite grows slowly, absorbing nutrients that diffuse through the gall's wall, as well as psi-energy harvested from the host. To avoid alerting the host of its presence, the latter is only done during deepest sleep. After a time, the parasite reproduces via cloning. However, the reproductive cycle cannot complete until the progeny is dispersed to a new host.

"It is at this point the adult parasite begins to 'psi-walk', to randomly throw 'psi-shadows' to find a new vessel for its offspring. Again, this only happens while the host is sleeping. It is searching for a Dromelan-specific electrostatic aura; and when one is found, it is probed as to suitability. If the vessel is suitable, an offspring is psi-ported to its new host, beginning once more the parasite's life cycle.

"And, before you inquire, psi-porting, psi-walking, and so forth are latent talents for species #7582. The parasite is able to unlock them, but only for itself. Attempts by geneticists and caste breeders to awaken the talents to a normal individual have only led to intolerable mental and physical deformities."

From her greater height, Prime stared down at Doctor. He /still/ had not answered the original, and vitally important, question asked.

Doctor shuddered, as if trying to stand upright in a strong wind. "Er...psi-walking is the key. Check engineering logs. I expect that all the devices or electronics affected produced an electrostatic field, one which is superficially similar to the species #7582 aura. When the psi-parasite probes a field to check a prospective host, an element of telekinesis is involved. It may be sufficient to disrupt functionality and cause errors or failure."

The data search and compilation of the Cube #238 instances required engineering hierarchy less than a minute to signal confirmation. A query to the Collective concerning occurrences elsewhere 56 of 370 had been assigned eventually returned a similar connection between the otherwise disparate events.

Prime shifted her attention to 56 of 370. The drone was awake, had been following his diagnosis. "How is the parasite neutralized?" inquired Prime.

Doctor shrugged, a complicated gesture which involved all eight limbs. "Unless there is some political or genetic gain, else the family or individual possesses sufficient money, euthanizing the host is accepted method to eradicate the parasite. A neurotoxin is injected, one which paralyzes all psi-function...although it does have the unfortunate side-effect of causing extreme pain to the individual. If this isn't done, there is the possibility that the psi-parasite will teleport itself to a new host while the old one is dying. Otherwise, the established cure is difficult, dangerous, costly, and doesn't always work." If the Dromelan species had ever been accused of anything, being overly altruistic or empathetic towards one of their own kind was not it.

56 of 370, whom had been watching Doctor, swiveled his eyes to Prime. A drone could not plead for its life, for what was the worth of a single unit among the interchangable Many? However, if there was no need for a given individual to be terminated, then a drone was allowed a measure of self-preservation. 56 of 370's mind was stilled, expectant, as he waited for his fate to be decided.

<< Unacceptable. >> The Greater Consciousness had made the Decision and spoken.

{Unacceptable,} parroted Prime. Outloud: "No, that will not do. The Whole would like to salvage the drone in a functional state. If it can be recovered successfully and tests indicate it to remain within acceptable, non-imperfect, standards, it will be off-loaded at our first cargo stop."

Doctor, drone maintenance, drew upon both personal knowledge as well as the collective data gathered concerning the psi-parasite. "We lack the necessary resources...we...I would be forced to...experiment." Doctor slowly enunciated the word with relish. "The experimentation may not be effectual."

"Any failure would still contribute to the knowledge of the All," remarked Prime, channeling the Will of the Collective in this particular matter. "In the larger scheme of things, the loss of one drone would not be significant. Proceed."

If a Dromelan had been capable of smiling, a wide grin of anticipation would have stretched across the octopod's face. However, the physical capability was not there, the species #7582 mouthparts largely comprised of ossified chitin and hidden at the base of the mantle behind a ring of limbs. "Compliance," hissed Doctor as he stared at his patient.

56 of 370 returned the gaze, apprehension a prominent quasi-emotion emanating from his intranet node-self.

"This would be /so/ much easier and efficient if another of my species was available," lamented Doctor as he checked the settings of the apparatus which had been recently constructed in Maintenance Bay #2.

Engineer squinted as he watched Doctor poke at the device. His hierarchy had built the contraption under the auspices of the drone maintenance head; and he, personally, was ready to smack the octopod with spanner, or any other handy tool, if Doctor "suggested" any more changes. "Ye could volunteer yourself. That would be efficient."

Doctor swiveled his body to visually focus on Engineer. Within the intranet there was the sense that whatever Doctor had been about to say, it had quickly been self-censored. "Oscar will do." A foot-hand was waved at the pile of bodged together equipment. "This appears adequate. We will not know operationality, or side-effects, until it is actually tried."

"Good," grunted Engineer. He cocked his head slightly as he consulted ship and cargo maintenance rosters. "Then I have other places t' be." The head of the engineering hierarchy vanished in a transporter beam, only slightly lessening the crowding within the maintenance bay.

Dominating a workbench, a tangle of wire and tubes, accented by blinking diodes of various colors, had been assembled over the course of several hours. The product of mashing together technologies of several different race, with an emphasis upon species #7582, the device was an example of Borg adaptation. It was also an example of schematics being altered several times during the build process as Doctor interjected his suggestions to engineering hierarchy; and while the initial proposals for change had been incorporated, towards the end of the fabrication the head of drone maintenance had been increasingly ignored. Not that such pointed disregard had stopped Doctor from continuing to attempt to alter the blueprints to what he /knew/ was the best configuration.

On the Dromelan homeworld or among its colonies, if an individual was discovered to harbor a psi-parasite AND was deemed a suitable candidate for its removal, a treatment was available. Central to the process was a low-caste Dromela with little or no psi-talent, whom would act as a "honey-pot", and whom was of no genetic or political consequence because he or she would not survive the procedure. The honey-pot was fitted with a tunable psi-enhancer, simulating a psi-talent of sufficient strength to attract the parasite. After drugging the patient into a sleep state in order to waken the parasite, the psi-enhancer was turned on, prompting the parasite to teleport an offspring into the honey-pot. Normally the parasite would not send more than one progeny to a single individual, but by retuning the psi-enhancer, to the parasite's psi-shadow senses it seemed as if a parade of suitable individuals was available. Eventually, the psi-parasite ran out of offspring; and the psi-enhancer was adjusted a final time.

Awakened from the drugged sleep, the host was now ready to undergo the dangerous portion of the treatment - simulated death. Unfortunately, there was a better than even chance that simulation could become actuality, especially if the physician(s) involved became a wee bit too enthusiastic. Locked into a vise-like device which was a direct descendant of an ancient Dromelan implement of torture, the host was slowly squeezed. The host had to be awake and aware of the procedure, had to /know/ that the treatment would result in pain and injury, even death. It was necessary for the parasite to taste the chemicals and neurotransmitters which translated into abject panic. Stimulus - imminent host death; response - find a new host. If there was even a suggestion of sham within the stew of neural secretions, the treatment would fail. However, in five of eight attempts, success occurred and the psi-parasite would psi-port itself to any available perceived safety. That safety was the conveniently placed honey-pot.

The remaining three of eight attempts resulted in patient termination. Oh, well. The primary drawback was that the corpse was considered tainted, unfit to consume at the funeral banquet. On the other foot-hand, there was always need for protein to feed body-servant spawnlings in the breeding pools.

Since there was no living honey-pot to place at the center of the contraption - no other Dromelan on board, and Doctor was not allowed to test for suitability of the other 572 races present on the cube - the symbolic nexus of the device was a plush Terran octopus toy.

With a purple mantle and yellow and blue striped legs.

And brown glass eyes.

It was cute.

And, according to 49 of 150, who regarded the toy as a security blanket, its name was Oscar.

"This isn't going to hurt Oscar, is it?" softly inquired 49 of 150 for the 32nd time, whole eye wide and fixed upon Doctor. He was a weapons drone, armor bulking his species' already large frame. Although 49 of 150 stood against a wall of Maintenance Bay #2, he was major contributor to the crowded nature of the room.

{Does he /have/ to be here?} asked Doctor of Weapons. {It is /just/ a toy. He can always replicate another in the event there are...issues.} The drone maintenance head was careful to keep his distance from 49 of 150, for despite his outwardly placid and soft-spoken nature, he was radiating an uncensored thoughtstream centering on the most graphic manner to dispatch a (hypothetical) Dromelan enemy.

Weapons responded with a mental shrug. {49 of 150 has no duties at the moment which cannot be performed equally well at his current location as elsewhere on the cube. The ship is not under attack and tactical scenarios are not scheduled for another 3.2 hours. If he is not in the way - and he is not - I have no concerns with him watching proceedings in person.} The hierarchy head pointed Doctor towards a dossier file. {Besides, 49 of 150 has a history of highest functionality when he is near or in possession of that particular toy. When he is forced to replicate a replacement, it can take /months/ to reachieve the level of efficiency of which he is capable. There is the grieving process, followed by bonding to his new Oscar.}

{But it is just a bit of cotton-stuffed fabric,} protested Doctor. As he reached into the apparatus to poke the colorful octopus, he noticed a minute frown cross 49 of 150's face, accompanied by a shift in body posture preparatory to raising limb-mounted disruptor. {Never mind.} 49 of 150 relaxed, returning to fine-tuning his stream-of-calamari-carnage.

Pointedly ignoring weapons drone and his fixation upon the octopus toy, Doctor pivoted his body to eyeball 56 of 370's preparations. The patient was in regeneration mode, albeit not locked in an alcove at the moment. Instead, a pair of drone maintenance units were performing final checks upon the restraints holding the body in place within a large vise. The torture...er, medical device used by Dromelan physicians for psi-parasite eradication was not among the items normally carried within Cube #238's inventory. However, examination of the cargo manifest had located a substitute in the form of a small-scale industrial metal press in Bulk Cargo Hold #1. That press, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a giant waffle iron, was now ensconced in the maintenance bay.

{We are ready?} inquired Doctor of the drones assigned to the parasite team. After receiving acknowledgements, the drone maintenance head raised a manipulatory limb, curled the end slightly to expose knuckle analogues, then plugged himself directly into the control mechanism of the honey-pot. {Then let us begin.} Mentally scrolling through the honey-pot's short menu, Doctor selected the electrostatic aura activation sequence.

A sensor inserted in 56 of 370's mantle and pressed against the pseudo-psi-center created by the encysted parasite registered a blip of psi-activity. Seconds later, the honey-pot registered a marble-sized mass to have materialized within the containment bottle set in the center of the artificial electrostatic aura. Originally Doctor had wanted to insert the bottle inside the octopus toy, but had been "convinced" by 49 of 150's violently wordless passive protests that such an action would not be conducive to a long existence. The honey-pot was disengaged and Doctor reached into the maze of wires with a limb not connected to the machine. He decoupled the bottle; and as it was retrieved, Doctor was rewarded with a glimpse of spasmodic twitching as the parasite reacted to the hostile environment to which it had been transported. The creature was no longer moving its atrophied muscles once the container was fully freed of the honey-pot. Doctor passed the bottle to a waiting 6 of 77.

{It is terminated,} announced 6 of 77 as she finished waving a tricorder over the container. {All coherent metabolic processes have ceased and what passed for a neural signature is scrambled.}

{"Scrambled" is such a scientific word,} scathingly critiqued Doctor.

6 of 77 rolled her eyes, but otherwise ignored the octopod as she set the bottle on a nearby counter. She then surreptitiously pulled a pack of alcoholic wipes from a torso compartment and began to disinfect her hand despite the fact that (1) the parasite was quite deceased and (2) had never been in physical contact with her flesh. She just did not like dead things.

The procedure to extract parasite progeny continued. Nine times the honey-pot was retuned so as to simulate a new host; and nine times a containment bottle was the recipient of an offspring. Other than experiencing a twinge of disappointment that his scans of 56 of 370 had been slightly off - he had estimated eight young - Doctor was quite satisfied, an allowable Borg emotion, with the ten bottles lined up on the counter. When the honey-pot failed to elicit additional offspring, that was the signal that it was time to switch focus to the adult parasite.

{Drone maintenance command pathway to drone unit 56 of 370 - cancel regeneration,} intoned Doctor.

Trussed within the vise, 56 of 370 opened a glassy eye, then blinked as his mental signature radiated confusion. Normally an awakening drone was upright and clamped in an alcove. Uncertainty was swiftly replaced by confidence in the Whole as the drone accessed both recent personal memories containing the decision upon his fate, as well as local memes of body preparation and status update of parasite eradication. Less than thirty seconds after regaining full consciousness, 56 of 370 signaled his readiness to proceed.

"As if the patient's desires have ever meant anything to a physician," muttered Doctor outloud to himself. He altered the honey-pot to a new electrostatic aura setting. "The doctor /always/ knows best. That's why the doctor is the doctor and the patient is the patient." Eyes and optic implant swiveled to the drone manning vise controls. {Begin.}

With a metallic screech and a subsonic rumble that uncomfortably rattled cranial implants, the vise began to slowly squeeze its occupant. The machine was designed to bend spars of neutronium-plated duralloy into the shapes necessary to build ship and station superstructure: mere flesh would be no impediment. As the supersized iron waffle glacially squeezed 56 of 370's body-sac, the unit reported increasing discomfort.

The sensor monitoring psi-levels in the patient remained quiescent. No adult parasite materialized in the honey-pot containment bottle.

Doctor ground his mouthparts. "Blood chemistry report," he ordered aloud. One of the drone maintenance units at 56 of 370's side lanced a limb, drawing forth several cc's of blood. The liquid was transferred to an analyzer, which in turn swiftly spat forth a ream of information into the dataspaces. Grabbing at the datastream, Doctor, and the drone maintenance hierarchy, read of a concoction consisting of adrenaline-analogues, cortisones, all the various organic chemicals expected from a drone who was slowly being squeezed to death.

But not the blood signature profile indicating fright.

If there was no fright, then there was no impetus for the parasite to flee. After all, the psi-parasite only knew of its host's well-being through chemicals and hormones. If the appropriate stimulus was not present, then the parasite would not respond as desired.

And impending termination was not, could not, be frightening to a drone of the Borg Collective. Concerning, yes, for a dead unit was not a useful unit. However, a Borg drone no more feared death than a hammer feared being discarded. Death-fear was an instinct burned from the psyche of all drones during the assimilation process.

The lack of death-fear was such a basic component to any Borg that it had been completely overlooked by the drone maintenance hierarchy as the honey-pot procedure had been devised.

"Whoops," said Doctor, channeling his hierarchy, the sub-collective entire.

The vise continued its descent.

In Primary Core, Prime jogged around her walking track. Sort of. To call her pace a "jog" would be stretching the truth, when it could be best described as an asymmetrical lope. A Borgified Flarn required regular exercise, else risk unacceptable muscle atrophy. As a Lugger-class cube sported sixteen cargo holds, there was usually quite a bit of open space available. However, Prime preferred the energetic bustle of Primary Core or Central Engineering, the activities of bodies and minds engaged in the never-ending war against malfunctioning equipment providing a background ambience that increased her personal efficiency quotient. Engineers of the past had tried to ban Prime from her chosen exercise venue, to no avail: the well-being of a Hierarchy of Five member outranked the inconvenience of engineering drones.

In deference to busy engineering units, Prime had painted her trackway a bright yellow. She did not require the visual cue to remain upon her path. Unfortunately, when she was engaged in exercise, she also tended to ignore external inputs, mind surfing the dataspaces as her body continued on automatic pilot. A Flarn is large; and a Borgified Flarn, even one assigned to command and control, masses even more. To continue the basic physics equation, mass plus velocity (plus Flarn) equals inertia. The inertia of a jogging Prime created a situation whereupon engineering hierarhcy drones tended to bounce off her carapace if they had the misfortune of being in her unseeing way when she trundled by. Therefore, the yellow track was less a guide for Prime and more a warning for any nearby unit.

Currently, Engineer was taking advantage of Cube #238's status to perform routine maintenance upon Primary Core components best accessed when a vessel was stationary. As a precaution, the cube was not in motion: while shield malfunctions caused by the psi-walking had long been repaired, the sub-collective was wary of what other critical system might be affected during the parasite's removal. Several drones hefting bulky core components patiently waited for Prime to pass before crossing the track. Static electricity, a byproduct of the maintenance procedure, clung to most surfaces, requiring engineering units to stand on rubber mats while they worked. The additional necessity of regular grounding had led to several static electricity fights, with the instigators of the most recent exchange presently under personal supervision by an unamused Engineer.

To be physically remote from a dilemma is irrelevant for a drone linked to the communal consciousness. Prime was avidly following the proceedings in Maintenance Bay #2 even as her body automatically avoided a spanner accidentally kicked off a catwalk ten meters above. A consensus cascade consisting primarily of drone maintenance and command and control hierarchies came to a decision.

Prime triggered the command sequence to completely sever 56 of 370 from Cube #238 sub-collective...and Collective.

The result was a nearly instantaneous alteration of 56 of 370's blood chemistry, the anxiety of disconnection from the Whole of much greater fear to a Borg drone than mere death.

"We are alone! We are small!" wailed 56 of 370 from within the clutches of the vise. Somehow he had partially overrode the drone maintenance muscle paralysis, at least in regard to his voice. "Who are we? Who /are/ we?"

Doctor sighed as yet another blood test failed to produce the desired result. {Wrong profile. Closer, but still wrong. Not enough of the third tier dopamines or norepinephrines variants. The parasite isn't buying it. Wrong type of fear.}

56 of 370 was beginning to experience breathing problems, a liquid bubbling able to be heard under his pleading indicating the puncture of one or more vocal bladders. A clear liquid was also dripping to the ground, which 22 of 77 reported to contain a digestive enzyme.

Prime slowed to a stop, cocking her head slightly as her designation was inserted into the option spectrum under consideration by the sub-collective. Then, with a grumble at her interrupted exercise, she beamed herself to Maintenance Bay #2. She arrived in a crackle of static electricity that caused those units nearest to her to shy away.

{Move,} said Prime to 49 of 150. {There is not enough room in here for two overly large entities.}

{But...} protested the weapons drone.

{Move. Go stand in the corridor if you must, but you will vacate this area before I pick you up and throw you out.}

49 of 150 hung his head as he shuffled out of the maintenance bay. He did not go far, halting his egress just beyond the doorway to hallway 18 such that he could maintain line-of-sight upon his Oscar.

"Asssisssst ussss," hissed the degenerating voice of 56 of 370. Although he could no longer see anything beyond the obscuring vise, he had clearly perceived Prime's arrival and was directing his plea at the consensus monitor.

Prime approached the device, pausing to lift her foot as she stepped in something sticky.

"Digestive and neural fluids mixed together," helpfully said 22 of 77. "Sections of the cranial structure appear to have shattered and there are shards making quite a mess of the bowel network. If I were you, I'd wash off the mixture sooner rather than later. Even assimilated Dromelans retain a measure of sufficiently active digestive fluids able to break down bone, given time. Your pseudo-chitin may become pitted."

"Wonderful," grunted Prime as she carefully set the foot back on the deck. Borg were not known for their balance at the best of times, and a top-heavy Flarn would prefer not to find herself on the floor. She turned her attention to the slowly terminating drone. "56 of 370, you hear me?"

"We have a designation," slurred 56 of 370. "We remain single. We remain alone. Let us be One. Let us be an echo, forever in the Whole."

Prime ignored the request for reintegration being broadcast via the drone's neural transceiver. Her voice was brusque as she began to speak, "No. You are to terminate. Alone. Single. You have failed. There will be no echo. You identity will be purged from the All. You will terminate alone, single, without purpose, without contribution." Prime was describing the Borg version of Hell, if the cybernetic consciousness had ever allowed itself to contemplate personal damnation.

"Single. Alone."

"Yes. Single and alone. No echo. You will be gone, never remembered, never existed."

"Death...." The single word trailed into inaudibility.

"Death," agreed Prime.

{The profile is almost perfect,} noted Doctor as 56 of 370's blood was tested. {Just a bit more.... Bah, never mind. He has entered nuerological shut-down, termination imminent. Oh, well.}

56 of 370's body wheezed as the last air in his vocal bladder escaped through his mouthparts.

Static electricity still dancing over carapace and assemblies, Prime leaned forward to ground herself on the vise. There was a *CRACK!* as a miniature lightning bolt leapt onto the metal gridwork. "That's better. I was experiencing some odd visual and aural hallucinations." She turned her head to gaze at Doctor. "All that effort for naught? The Greater Consciousness will be displeased with us, but it won't be the first time. At least now-"

{Teleportation!} interrupted Doctor, surprise coloring his intranet voice. He continued aloud, "There was a psi-portation signature. The parasite is gone. 56 of 370 may be still be salvageable, if the vise can be halted and body immediately extracted for surgery." The drone maintenance unit at the device controls began to swiftly work to reverse their function.

Prime shifted her attention to the honey-pot. "Are you sure? Bottle sensors are not reporting capture. It could have just been the static electricity I grounded causing fault."

Doctor was firm. "It is gone." The octopod paused as he ran an internal diagnostic, paying particular attention to his psi-talent implant. "It did not psi-port to me, and as species #7582, I am the next, and only, logical host."

Prime grunted, then moved out of the way as a trio of drone maintenance units pushed past her in order to begin unstrapping 56 of 370. The vise was opening at the same glacial pace as it had descended; and there remained the very real possibility of 56 of 370's termination if repairs could not be enacted immediately.

Disconnecting his limb from the honey-pot, Doctor lifted all four manipulatory arms and began to wave them. Slowly walking around the room in a quadruped stance utilizing true-feet, the head of drone maintenance used the multitude of devices and implants embedded in his arms to scan each drone he encountered. As each scan was completed, it was compared to stored profiles; and one-by-one, the units present in the maintenance bay were pronounced clean. With each negative finding, Doctor became increasingly frustrated at the mystery of the missing psi-parasite.

At one side of the room, where she was mostly out of the way, Prime shifted her bulk from one leg to the other. "The is ridiculous," she said as Doctor advanced upon her, the top of his head-sac barely reaching her mid-chest. "Files indicate the parasite is endemic to species #7582, that it cannot accept any other species as a host. And it isn't like Flarn /have/ any of the psi-talents to begin with. You will allow me to leave."

Doctor ignored the protest. Drone maintenance had declared no unit - none, no matter their ranking within the sub-collective - could depart the maintenance bay until declared clean. Sinuous limbs were raised in preparation to scan.

{6 of 77, prepare a table for Prime. We will need the species #6251 neurosurgical tool set,} called Doctor to the named drone.

"What?!" bellowed Prime. There was a momentary pause as drones reacted not to the shout, but rather the mental outburst that radiated through the sub-collective intranets like an earthquake.

Doctor snapped his limbs underneath himself, returning to a comfortable eight-square stance. He backed away half a meter, canting his mantle so as to peer up at the Flarn directly, instead of through a sensor or camera proxy. "The psi-parasite is in your head. It will attempt to encyst itself. While it is unlikely it will be successful, it has the potential to either terminate or seriously incapacitate you in the process. If the latter, you will have to be recycled. No surgery is always an option, and it would be /very/ interesting to see how the psi-parasite attempts to adapt to a nuerological system not its host species, but the best solution would be removal. Now."

Examining the dataspaces, Prime saw the logic presented to her by drone maintenance hierarchy in the cold facts and percentages of which Borg were known. She did not have a choice, not really, for any decrease in her effectiveness caused by the parasite would remove her from the Hierarchy of Five, assuming she remained physically and mentally intact.

"How," Prime muttered. How did she come to be parasitized in the first place? There was no need to voice the entire question.

A ripple of limbs was the Dromelan version of a shrug. "I do not know. Partition #11b-" Doctor invoked a knot of engineering and drone maintenance units "-postulate the burst of static electricity when you grounded yourself may have been sufficient to simulate a species #7582-ish electrostatic aura. With its host near extinction, the parasite moved itself to the nearest and strongest aura it could perceive."

Edging through the doorway, 49 of 150 nonchalantly strolled across the crowded deck of Maintenance Bay #2. He halted his progress at the honey-pot, then abruptly lunged at the device, grabbing for Oscar. Objective achieved, 49 of 150 swiftly transported away. Left behind was torn wire and scattered electronics, honey-pot no longer in a functional state.

A clang of metal signaled the vise to have finally opened enough to allow access to 56 of 370. The drone had been reconnected to the sub-collective; and while he remained unconscious and unaware of his surroundings, it was sufficient for drone maintenance to run internal diagnostic programs. The damage was severe, but repairable. 56 of 370 would gain a considerable degree of cybernization following surgery.

Doctor raised a limb, then uncurled it in the direction of an empty table. A variety of laser scalpels and probes were being set next to the station by 6 of 77. The order, albeit wordless, was clear. Prime may be consensus monitor and facilitator of Lugger-class Cube #238, but in maintenance matters she was completely outranked.

"Fine," grated Prime as she gazed at the despised worktable. She was already anticipating the unpleasant sensation of unsupported legs hanging over the end. Even worse, however, was the consideration of a parasite in her head; and the rather creative what-if's she was receiving from the general sub-collective populace, ranging from permanent palsy to one's head bursting open amid cinematic gouts of gore, were not helping. "Let us get this over with."

*****

Prime floated in the middle of her personal holotheater, gazing with senses grander than mere eyes upon the multitudes of information streams populating the dataspace. Of particular interest was the navigational database, where a thin line denoting Cube #238 was being routed and rerouted across star maps in an attempt to determine the least-time course between ports-of-call. Prime, the sub-collective, was confident wasted time would be found, and shaved, such that by the time the Lugger-class cube completed its mission, returning to Unimatrix 003, it would be on (or nearly so) its original schedule. A few short-cuts would be necessary, taking the ship off the customary routes plied by Borg cubes, but nothing dangerous.

Satisfied navigational coordination was occurring apace, Prime turned part of her multitasking attention towards the dim spark which was 56 of 370. The drone, confirmed to be free of psi-parasite and progeny, was currently in deep stasis. Preliminary testing by assimilation hierarchy indicated that 56 of 370, despite direct exposure to the instabilities which defined the imperfect sub-collective, retained a mental profile suitable for reintegration back to the main Greater Consciousness. Mostly. The vise episode may have initiated an inappropriate claustrophobia incurable by even the most radical mental purging, as evidenced by 56 of 370's screaming and flailing of limbs when forced into an alcove. However, the reactions could also just have been a lingering neurosis that would vanish upon arousal from stasis.

At Cube #238's first stop, 56 of 370 would be off-loaded to the local sub-collective for an in-depth mental evaluation. If the unit was declared sane, he would be assigned to a new designation and a new job. If not, well, Prime knew that the Welcome Committee club was aching to throw a party, complete with confetti and ice-breaker games.

And, knowing the Welcome Committee club, the party would occur with or without a guest of honor. As long as the event did not threaten to place the ship even more behind schedule or disrupt sub-collective efficiencies, such as they were, Prime would allow it. She might even attend for an hour or so: the game involving the timed construction of complex devices which did simple tasks was her favorite.

Temporarily dismissing the dataspaces, or at least setting them to the back of her conscious mind, Prime opened her eyes and gazed upon the vista from her alcove. The view remained unchanged since an hour prior when she had last tested her visual systems. In other words, an unpleasant aura whereupon objects were limned in a seafoam green persisted; and items at the edge of her peripheral vision were doubled or tripled. The psi-parasite, or the surgery to remove the unwanted hitchhiker, had apparently nicked a nerve or damaged a processor. Whatever the ultimate reason, it had become increasingly clear, to the point where even a stubborn consensus monitor had to acknowledge it, that nanites were incapable of fixing the injury.

Prime listed herself on the drone maintenance roster for troubleshooting and repair and/or upgrading of her visual system. The action did not go unnoticed.

{I've a wonderful synthetic nerve analogue just-} began Doctor.

{No,} replied Prime brusquely.

{It should increase reaction-}

{No.}

{Okay, it isn't strictly meant for species #6251 physiology, but I'm sure I can adapt it to-}

{No, no, and no. Just fix me. Sooner better than later. Nothing more. The end.}

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