At a place far, far away when eternity was young, Paramount declared ownership to Star Trek. Much later and relatively close by, Decker created Star Traks. Upon waking up one day and deciding the outside was a few steps too far, Meneks began to write BorgSpace.

Is That A Parrot On Your Shoulder, Or Are You Just Wobbly Like That?

Lugger-class Cube #238 was behind schedule. The state of affairs was not surprising. After a disastrous start to its current duty cycle, the imperfect sub-collective crewing the vessel had never caught up. There had been brief moments when it appeared as if some semblance of a timetable might be reforged, but issue or malfunction or self-inflicted damage always intervened to make hash of any nascent agenda realignment.

Such was not to say that the Cube #238 sub-collective had completely relinquished all attempts to trying to mend the schedule. They were Borg, after all; and Borg could be overly tenacious (or single-minded) long past when such was reasonable.

In the course of the wayward cube's failure to keep an agenda, it was inevitable that the Whole would shift priorities in the needs of what items required shipping hither and yon. Thus it was not unexpected when a directive was received to change the order of visitation for a pair of ports. The cargo was irrelevant, as was the fact that the adjustment would require the cube to pass through space nominally controlled by a trio of Colors.

The volume in question had originally been the domain of five small Colors, none possessing more than a few minor systems and a handful of fleet resources. During the Hive era, two of them had annoyed the Collective by attacking passing cubes. In consequence of the transgression, one of the offenders had been absorbed by the All and the other simply eradicated. The restraint of the Hive towards the non-assimilated did not extend towards its lesser Colored brethren with their divergent views of Perfection. The unvoiced message directed towards the remaining trio of Colors was succinct: you exist upon Our sufferance; and the less you do to annoy Us, the longer We will allow you to survive until such time We repurpose or exterminate you.

The return of the Borg paradigm did nothing to alter the original Collective's view of its minor Colored neighbors, except to make it more likely that punitive actions would be taken if the Color called attention upon itself.

Therefore, from Cube #238's point of view, the alteration of agenda, including the requirement to cross remote, non-Borg territory irregularly patrolled by Collective resources, was a small inconvenience amid a duty cycle filled with much greater difficulties. Of much more immediate concern was if the extra cycles added to the schedule to accord for the traverse would be sufficient to repaint a large portion of a wall within Interior Cargo Hold #6, scene of a graffiti contest taken to excessive extremes.

{Regeneration complete.}

18 of 150 automatically opened his eyes, only peripherally registering the dimly lit interior of Supply Closet #18. Regeneration? Why was he in regeneration...or his alcove, for that matter? His last memory was Interior Cargo Hold #3, Weapons in the midst of a post-mission briefing for Assault Scenario #15b, shopping mall variant. To say 18 of 150 was confused would be an understatement. However, he was not allowed more than a few heartbeats to reflect upon the situation.

{Are you functional? Do you possess mobility?} Reserve's questions harshly slashed through nascent introspection.

18 of 150 blinked. {Yes and...} Clamps and umbilical were disengaged, permitting him to step forward and down. {...yes. I am fully functional and free to move.} He was not the only one undergoing interrogation by Cube #238's backup consensus monitor and facilitator: on 18 of 150's right and left, seven additional drones of tactical specialty were similarly exiting their alcoves.

{Acknowledged. Stand by for further instruction.}

Hurry up and wait. The infamous military mantra was just as valid among the Borg as it had been for 18 of 150 when he had been conscripted into his ex-homeworld's resistance forces. High echelon decision cascades were occurring, a process 18 of 150 tended to avoid except where required as a passive computational node. He was not numbered among the ranks of units who compulsively attempted to add an inappropriate personal perspective to the sub-collective decision-making process. Tediousness of waiting aside, the pause did provide 18 of 150 a space in which to orientate himself as to the current situation.

The first question of which - why had Reserve queried his status, not Weapons?

18 of 150's ping to ascertain condition of his hierarchy head only garnered additional confusion: the dataspace presence of Weapons was missing, as was the majority of the weapons hierarchy. And the assimilation hierarchy. And other selected sub-collective units, including Prime. In total, 183 drones of a near 3000 crew compliment were gone....

Not gone, insisted the computer. The alcoves to which the 'missing' drones were assigned remained full; and the drone units therein ensconced were alive. Unfortunately, that was the extent of information the computer could offer.

Personally confused and somewhat adrift, 18 of 150 automatically reached for those datastreams which provided a tactical overview. The enormous Lugger-class was drifting, a little over midway between ports and several cycles distant from the nearest mobile Collective resource. Although weapons had not recorded discharge during the blackout period, nonetheless there was evidence of a skirmish in the form of a slowly dispersing debris cloud over faces #2 and #5. Hull sensors were reading the fading trace of power plant signatures indicating the ex-presence of at least six enemies; individual pieces of wreckage were too small to draw conclusion as to origin. Cube shields were non-functional, but not due to battle damage. In fact, except for the smear of remains gently pinging off hull armor (and the incommunicado crew), one might believe Cube #238 had been the unfortunate victim of a natural phenomenon.

Among cube diagnostic data of lesser tactical significance, the list of functional versus nonfunctional systems was perplexing. Unlike external sensors, most internal sensors, including cameras, were out of order, with the vicinity of Central Engineering/Primary Core a complete blank. Transporters were also unresponsive, but given the inability to 'see' where one was going, even had the system been operational, use would not have been recommended. Life support, gravity, drone regeneration, and replicators were working, but cube regeneration was not. All propulsion, from thrusters to faster-than-light, was kaput. The Collective link retained nominal status.

Queries sent to the Greater Consciousness indicated that the sub-collective had abruptly entered self-imposed regeneration twelve hours prior. Whereas such an unscheduled occurrence might have garnered interest if it had happened to any other cube or platform resource, given the quirks of imperfect sub-collectives over the millennia, such an action barely rated a figurative eyeblink by the Whole. The timing meshed with 18 of 150's onboard clock, whereupon all memories were missing between cargo hold and waking. It did not answer how he had arrived to his alcove, but it was a piece of the overall puzzle.

The greatest, and most disturbing, finding as the sub-collective took stock of itself was the majority of drones appeared to be glued into their alcoves. The material was not immediately recognizable - without free limbs, units with the appropriate chassis-mounted sensor suites were crippled in the amount of data to be gathered. Clear with a gum or tar consistency, the substance fouled joints (mechanical and biological), clamps, and other components. Fingers were welded to fingers; and arms stuck to torsos. Those unlucky enough to have the face coated could open neither eyes nor mouth nor other cranial organ. Not even drones rated high on the strength index could pull free.

Sub-collective self-inspection also clarified the status of the 183 'missing' crew. All were, as the computer insisted, in their alcoves; and status lights on adjacent panels confirmed life. In a few cases, neighboring units reported the sounds of breathing (or swearing) and motion. However, the most pertinent discovery came from those in a position, such as on the opposite side of a tier shaft, to visually assess the stricken drones. All had jammers emplaced under the glue, and many had lapsed to a comatose state due to severance from the Collective link. Tactical units were a clear threat with limb-mounted weaponry, and the remainder all sported heavy armor or were physically imposing. Therefore, it was likely an important drone such as Prime had been disabled not because she was consensus monitor, but because she was Flarn. Perhaps additional drones were to be rendered inoperative, but the presence of hastily discarded satchels suggested the process had been interrupted.

The exception to the general state of affairs were fifty-three drones, all assigned interim alcoves installed elsewhere than the tiers.

Ten cycles prior, a series of disruptive 'incidents' had occurred to the regenerative distribution subsystem for a 100-unit bloc on alcove tiers #19 and #20. Engineer had not been amused, and a trio of his own hierarchy had been compared to a wide assortment of pickled items before indefinite reassignment to the hull to map (and in-fill and buff and repaint) micrometeorite scars. Repairs to the subsystem required the bloc to be off-lined; and, thus, 100 drones smelling of cauliflower, of Brussels sprouts, of rose perfume, of many odors both pleasant and not, had been temporarily moved. Nearly half had been able to be relocated to empty alcoves scattered amid the tiers, but for the remainder it was most efficient to find alcoves amid the cargo manifest and install them into five supply closets backing unto regenerative system conduits.

Therefore, 18 of 150 and his fellow drones in alcove tier exile, were the only units who retained mobility. By happenstance, thirty-nine of the fifty-three were of a weapons specialty, the other fourteen split between the other hierarchies.

{We see something!} interrupted Sensors into the consensus cascade. The decision tree matrix idled in preparation to receive new data.

18 of 150 stifled the urge to fidget: he wanted to do something. To his right, 93 of 150 was idly engaged in a game of laser-dot tag on the facing wall with 75 of 150. Without Weapons' presence to enforce a certain level of professionalism, inappropriate behaviors were surfacing.

"Stop that," hissed 18 of 150 with an elbow to 93 of 150's side. As 75 of 150 was out of reach, she received the intranet equivalent. Both wordlessly grumbled, but lasers were shut off and an appropriate degree of order, such as it was within the abbreviated weapons hierarchy, was re-established.

Internal sensors unreliable, the sensor hierarchy had managed to reconfigure a selection of the hullside mounts to peer inward. It was akin to trying to cross one's eyes to examine one's own facial features: doable, but inefficient and likely to provide a highly distorted view. As expected, the resulting data was imprecise. However, it was sufficiently clear to report the presence of forcefields within the sensor blackhole which was Central Engineering and the Primary Core.

Forcefields were another of the many systems either partially or fully disabled. Therefore, given forcefields could not originate via the cube, the conclusion was irrefutable....

The intruders who had glued and jammed units on the alcove tiers were still present on Cube #248.

And that was a situation tailor-made for an idle weapons drone.

The decision process was reinitiated. As an invader scenario invoked a hardwired response akin to an immune system confronted with a phage, the outcome was inevitable. Only the details were in doubt. Conclusion reached, all mobile drones, be they of weapons hierarchy or not, were given unto 18 of 150 to coordinate in the eviction process. With obvious reluctance, fourteen units spread over five supply closets stepped from their alcoves to join their armed and armored brethren.

Wait a minute...given unto 18 of 150 to coordinate....

{But I'm not the weapons hierarchy head!} protested 18 of 150 to Reserve.

{And neither am I the primary consensus monitor and facilitator. However, until and unless Prime is unstuck and reintegrated into our sub-collective, I have to function as such. Dossiers indicate you are the most qualified weapons drone we have left to act as the coordination node for your hierarchy. Deal with it.}

{But how do I-}

Interrupted Reserve, {It isn't like you will have to do all the thinking on your own. We may not be able to move, but there are several thousand minds to assist you.}

{But you are not the ones who will be shot at,} retorted 18 of 150 darkly. It wasn’t that he desired to avoid combat - he was of a tactical mindset, after all - but that fifty-four drones, not all of whom mounted offensive weaponry, against an unknown number of (likely armed) intruders was not a conducive scenario in which to use the normal Borg tactic of overwhelming odds.

{Deal with it.}

{Weapons is still alive. I can see him. Therefore, this assignment is temporary and, thus, I refuse the 'Weapons' subdesignation.}

{Whatever. Just deal with the intruders.}

While continuing to eye Reserve with suspicion, 18 of 150 reached for transporter controls, then stopped with a mental curse that was echoed among his compatriots. Right...transporters were nonfunctional. It would be necessary to walk to the target, a prospect made difficult due to a dearth of elevators and the sheer size of a Lugger-class - central subsection 14 alone was nearly the volume of a Battle-class cube. Half a cycle and several treks through claustrophobic interstitial spaces would be necessary to reach the Central Engineering/Primary Core complex.

Heaving a long sigh, 18 of 150 turned towards the door of Supply Closet #18, his comrades falling in behind.

18 of 150 disliked the interstitial spaces. The cramped passageways crammed in-between bulkheads offered limited mobility and were a tactical nightmare for a weapons drone. They belonged to the realm of engineering hierarchy and, specifically, thin-bodied species or those with dislocatable joints. At 130 centimeters tall and of proportionate girth, there was little chance 18 of 150 would become stuck, even given the unyielding armor which bulked out his frame. In fact, it was because he was the smallest of Cube #238's mobile tactical assets that he was in his current predicament.

The worst part of it? He had assigned himself the task. It was, unfortunately, only logical.

Ten meters and one bend ahead was the ladder which would take him to the target level.

{Status report,} ordered 18 of 150 as he edged past another projection, one which added yet another scrape to his already well scored torso carapace.

At junction 14.1a, thirty-eight drones awaited. Of the fifty-four units which had begun the trek to the center of Cube #238, thirty-one of the weapons hierarchy plus the fourteen non-weapons had arrived. The remaining tactical drones were still en route, albeit by longer paths because some individuals had been too large or too bulky to accomplish the least-distance traverse from supply closets to rendezvous point. Of the others, 18 of 150 was left with seven units - two command and control, three assimilation, and one each drone maintenance, sensory, and engineering. The missing drones, all engineering, had been reassigned by sub-collective directive to work out how to unstick the alcoves and, thus, were not in the junction at present.

{Two guards. Maybe. I'm fairly certain one of them moved a moment ago, but it might just be a trick of the forcefield. It could all just be a series of fancy hatstands on the other side,} said 17 of 32, an assimilation drone fixated upon furniture able to hold and display hatware.

Junction 14.1a was approximately fifty meters from one of the many forcefields barring access to the hallways ringing the Central Engineering/Primary Core complex that was the literal center of Cube #238. The forcefields themselves provided no clue as to invader identity, the specific technology a common trade commodity. Tuned to be nearly opaque, the barriers presented only vague shadows of the beings on the other side. Via 17 of 32's senses - he had been ordered to stand in open view as an observer due to possessing both an advanced ocular package and decent armor - the uncertain shapes resolved to be blobs suggesting a quadruped stance topped by a torso with at least two manipulatory limbs. Given that the configuration could represent one of hundreds of known species - assuming the guards weren't robots, or hatstands - once again conclusive identification of the invaders was stymied.

Theoretically, a massed Borg force could simply approach the forcefield, scan it, and, eventually, disable it. It was highly likely the early outcome would include the defenders meting out a high rate of casualties and debilitating injuries until personal shielding adaptation occurred (or never, in the case of projectile weaponry). Such a method was very Borg, and one 18 of 150 would normally lean towards in his role as temporary weapons hierarchy head given lack of Weapons' tactical genius. Unfortunately, 18 of 150 had to admit that there were too many uncertainties involved. Sufficient units were present to achieve the forcefield beachhead...it was what came after which was the unknown. Who was the enemy race or races? What was the technological level of their armaments and defenses? And how many of them were waiting on the other side? Those were only a few of the questions 18 of 150, as the primary tactical node, had to consider. The fact that Cube #238 was an imperfect sub-collective did not help.

The lack of critical data had been the ultimate impetus sending 18 of 150 clamoring through the (unwarded) interstitial spaces. His goal was a panel mid-way up the wall, inaccessible from the Primary Core side due to an incident that Engineer still fumed over and which had resulted in the need to replace a third of the catwalk on that level. From the overview point, he (and the sub-collective) would be able to make an appraisal upon whomever currently squatted at the heart of Cube #238.

{I doubt the guards are hatstands,} responded 18 of 150 after he had finished forcing his way past another obstruction. The ladder loomed ahead. {Next-}

{They could be hatstands. Species #703 has seven heads and is well known-}

{-to be extinct,} completed 18 of 150, {due to racial suicide to avoid assimilation. Four thousand years ago. Because the species proved very difficult to propagate via cloning, and added minimal biological distinctiveness to the Whole, it was allowed to expire within the All. The loss was mourned, but the quest for Perfection went on. It is not a hatstand. Next.}

As 18 of 150 climbed the ladder - Borg could climb, but it was not a preferred mode of locomotion for most drones - he received a string of status updates from the units awaiting at junction 14.1a and those still making their way to the rendezvous. The remainder of the Cube #238 sub-collective was background noise, not immediately important to the tactical situation. Reserve was coordinating the other activities of the cube, including attempts to re-engage those systems currently off-lined or unresponsive; and until when and if they became relevant to the small weapons squad, those efforts were mere distractions to 18 of 150.

Ladder. Crabbing sideways. Another ladder. A long, curving aisle. Finally the panel was reached.

{The rankings of the mini-cribbage tournament is not relevant at the moment,} berated 18 of 150 to 30 of 150 even as he studied the pressure catches holding the rectangle of metal in place. To simply force the plate outward would result in it falling several stories to the deck, alerting all within of his presence. {Additional changes in whom is beating whom will be withheld from future status updates.} Finally 18 of 150 was able to selectively disengage the catches, allowing the panel to pivot open and reveal the scene in the Primary Core.

It was 18 of 150's worst nightmare. Squirrels! Squirrels were everywhere! Hundreds of squirrels! Maybe more! In truth, the creatures that greeted 18 of 150's eyes were not squirrels, but they were close enough in the drone's estimation to make no difference.

Start with a classic centaur form, one meter tall from hoof to crown. Remove all equine and most human characteristics, replacing them with features more apt to be associated with a squirrel. What results is a four-legged, two-armed being with a short, grey coat. Stubby claws, not hooves, grace feet. The body is not built for running on the open plains, but rather held with knees and hocks slightly bent, as if ready to leap upon rocky walls amid the ancient lava beds which were the evolutionary homelands. Beady black eyes face forward, as befitting a creature requiring excellent depth perception, but prominent incisors and wiggling, bewhiskered nose are images straight from the rodent lineage. And, of course, there was a bushy tail, two per individual to be exact.

A sibling prank gone horribly wrong had gouged the initial squirrel-shaped scars into 18 of 150's psyche. The resultant nightmares had required years and a platoon of psychiatrists to curb; and an equal amount of time passed before he had stopped screaming when approached at the park by innocent, tree-dwelling furry critters begging for food. Later had come the aborted apprenticeship with a master trader, an incident whereupon a series of misunderstandings with a new bipedal, squirrel-esque client had resulted in six months of intensive therapy and a change in career aspirations. The final straw had occurred when 18 of 150's militia's defensive position had been overrun during the final Borg assault upon his homeworld. His last coherent pre-assimilation memory was the image of several drones, Borgified versions of the beings infesting Cube #238, attempting to hold his thrashing body sufficiently still so as to deploy nanotubules.

The fear of squirrels - sciurophobia - had held even through processing into the Borg Collective, a factor which did much to explain why the otherwise well-adjusted and hard-working tactical drone had eventually been assigned imperfect status.

18 of 150 gulped as he beheld the scene of chattering species #8951 which carpeted every horizontal surface, including catwalks ringing the Primary Core chamber. They did not know he was there...they did not know he was there...they were sentient beings who would eventually become One with the Collective, and he was Borg. The nascent panic attack receded, assisted by liberal mental bolstering by sub-collective elements. 18 of 150 distanced himself from the situation by delving into the species #8951 tactical files.

Species #8951 - Garcon. The racial profile included notations of an excessively high birth rate, an almost slavish devotion of those lower in the social ladder towards the higher, and a complete disregard by those in the upper echelons of government or military or corporation for the less fortunate classes except as resources to be used and discarded. Individuals were no match for a Borg drone. However, Garcon were rarely encountered singly. There was no concept of personal space in the species psyche, and, thus, ships mimicked the clan-house, loading on bodies to the point of life support collapse.

The end result was the likelihood that over one thousand of the centaur squirrels were present upon Cube #238, assuming the majority of crew from the six destroyed vessels had been successfully evacuated to the Lugger-class. Even if the small tactical contingent successfully assaulted one of the forcefields blockades, the species #8951 commanders would not hesitate to direct their crew to repel the Borg at all costs. And the crew would not hesitate to obey, using their bodies as weapons when sidearms and rifles failed. That mindless, massed ferocity was one of several reasons why the Collective had yet to fully assimilate species #8951 despite the usefulness of the resulting drones for various endeavors.

18 of 150 panned the furry mass, selectively blanking out the squirrel features to focus on weaponry. His role of scouting the situation was not yet complete. As expected, there were no surprises. Home manufactured armaments, in the minority, consisted of phasers suited for crowd control. However, there was neither racial nor governmental quandary about buying on the (legal or illegal) interstellar market; and given the hodgepodge of weapons, both energy-based and projectile, attached to body harnesses, that was source of arms for the invaders.

The conclusion was clear: 18 of 150 and his small band of drones were overmatched. A straightforward attack would fail. Other solutions were possible, or at least yielded a success possibility higher than single digit percentages, but it would require time to assemble all the components.

In preparation to leave, 18 of 150 removed a small camera - provided by an engineer prior to the expedition - from a small torso compartment. Since every mobile drone, 18 of 150 inclusive, was vital to the forthcoming eviction effort, none could be assigned to the spyhole to keep direct watch upon the Garcon. The camera would be emplaced on the bulkhead next to the opening; and while it would offer only a limited field of view, it was better than nothing. A monofilament wire unreeled as 18 of 150 made his way back to junction 14.1a would ensure camera output would remain accessible and unaffected by whatever issue was impacting other internal sensors.

{What the hell is that thing in the middle of the Primary Core?} demanded Engineer abruptly, startling 18 of 150 and nearly causing him to drop the camera from his unaltered hand.

{Wha...what thing?} inquired 18 of 150 as he cradled the camera close to his chest. He recast his gaze downward towards the *shudder* squirrel-demons. {All I see are species #8951.}

Engineer highlighted a large metallic object filling a significant portion of the scene. {That thing. Did you not notice the fact that the object does not exactly belong on a Borg vessel, much less in the Primary Core?}

Truthfully, 18 of 150 had not noticed the aberration. As a weapons drone, he had been focused on identifying and cataloguing threats. Such a narrow perspective was very Borg. Squirrel centaurs and their weapons fit into the hazard category. Anything else was superfluous and, thus, effectively invisible.

Taking up near a quarter of the open space of the Primary Core was a species #8951 ship command module. Garcon constructed modular vessels. Depending on specific need, pre-built components were be mated together to create a ship. While the practice saved greatly in time and expense - why develop a new troop carrier when one only had to add a few more barracks modules to an existing framework? - it did mean the final product tended to vent atmosphere from small leaks at the coupling joints and was unable to withstand the stress of velocities greater than warp 6.

Whereas weapons able to be adapted to Garcon hands were easy to find on the galactic armament markets, decent ships that fit the short-stature centaur body form were either rare or extraordinarily expensive. Not only was it cheaper to build in-house to suit species specifications, but it created much needed jobs for an overpopulated civilization with chronically high unemployment. All in all, the advantages of locally produced vessels of modular construction outweighed the disadvantages.

The command module was a sliver twenty meters long, five meters wide, and six meters deep that was normally integrated into the dorsal spine framework of a species #8951 vessel. Somehow it had been transferred into the heart of Cube #238. That somehow was an unknown: the ability to transporter such large items was beyond Borg technology, much less Garcon. Nonetheless, the command module was present, speared nose-first into the deck plating with the stern leaning against the bulkhead, and crushing catwalks, far overhead.

{Lean over,} commanded Reserve. {We need to see the entire scene.}

Protested 18 of 150, {But-}

{Lean over and focus on the base of the structure.}

Three stories below, hundreds of furry Garcon bodies squatted in conversation circles else slept on each other in large piles. It was a personal nightmare for 18 of 150. Any minute, any second, one of the mutant squirrels would look upwards and espy the Borg; and then all hell would break lose. However, against all paranoid expectations, the Garcon continued to be engrossed with their own concerns. 18 of 150 panned to the nose of the command module.

Myriad cables emerged from a hole roughly cut through the module's hull. Some of the thick leads snaked to free-standing replicators, each device spewing out a stream of gruel into large vats for later distribution as individual portions. Of greater concern, other wires mated into connections jury-rigged to Borg hardware.

Species #8951 may have had a list of faults, but one racial strength was an affinity for computers. Borg were not limited to real-universe application of selective blindness whereupon situations were labeled 'too small' or 'irrelevant, cannot occur'. The same phenomenon arose in the dataspaces as well; and now that the sub-collective was alerted to the possibility, a new inspection of malfunctioning or unresponsive subsystems revealed crude, albeit effective, blocks. Hunter-seekers and other software immune agents should have prevented the attack, but they clearly had not. It was just one more mystery bound within a set of circumstances that could not be, but were.

The conclusion was unavoidable: the Garcon were trying to hijack the cube. Something had clearly gone wrong at some point - as with the discarded jammers, dataspace traces indicated hasty abandonment of securing some systems to concentrate upon others - but that set-back had not stopped the endeavor. If anything, it had likely increased effort by the unseen computer technicians within the command module, for full access to cube propulsion, navigation, and sensors was necessary given their original vessels were now debris. The stratagem had been uncovered only because a small number of drones had retained mobility. If the entire crew had been locked in alcoves, recognition of the hijacking may never have occurred until the cube was in motion to a destination of neither Collective nor sub-collective choosing.

Thus far, propulsion and other associated subsystems remained uncompromised. Denying partial or full access to sub-collective elements was an easier proposition than taking active control; and even without an effective hunter-seeker defense, multiple layers of encryption and passive security meant hacking by a team of elite Garcon operatives would not be easy. Now that the sub-collective was aware of the danger, measures could be taken to counter the intrusion...maybe.

The Garcon were very, very good with computers.

18 of 150 lifted his disruptor arm to aim at the cables connecting module to cube. A single shot was the most efficient and direct way to deny the squirrels of their prize.

<<Cease.>> The command, originating from the Greater Consciousness, rolled through 18 of 150's psyche. He froze.

Reserve immediately began to protest the order on behalf of the sub-collective. The counter was something only capable by the imperfect, not that it made a difference.

A Battle-class cube, with more than sufficient units to overwhelm the invaders, had been rerouted. The asset would arrive in an estimated 3.1 cycles. Until then, there were no specific commands for Cube #238, other than to avoid the action 18 of 150 had been preparing to commence.

Species #8951 were good with computers, but like their other homegrown technologies, the machines tended to be just good enough for the situation. In a throw-away society, an attitude pertaining to lives and machines, one could always be assured of acquiring more of what had been discarded. It was not a mind-set to foster overbuilding. Therefore, Garcon computers tended to be susceptible to power surges and localized EM disturbances, both of which would result should the connector cables be severed via disruptor blast.

The Greater Consciousness desired to preserve the command module. Evidence thus far gathered suggested the Garcon to have acquired transporter technology able to move large objects. As there was no possibility the technology had been developed in-house, somewhere in the module's files was a user manual. That data was the Greater Consciousness' goal, and, more specifically, the identity of the race which had engineered the transporter technology. It was unacceptable for the user manual to be accidentally erased.

18 of 150 lowered his disruptor limb. Slowly.

Directive provided, the Greater Consciousness retreated to the mental distance it preferred to keep between itself and its imperfect assets. As usual, the Whole was loath to provide in-depth instruction to the sub-collective because in order to ensure commands were followed correctly would require micromanagement, even direct intervention. Unacceptable. The Greater Consciousness was ever wary that the unidentified contagion that promoted imperfect status might somehow spread to the Whole given an extended, too-close association.

What now?

Lugger-class Cube #238 would resist all attempts by the invaders to hijack it. That meant turning inward to the dataspaces to re-establish linkages to blocked subsystems, as well as physical assault upon the species #8951 nest itself. And if the sub-collective was unsuccessful, then the incoming Battle-class cube would track Cube #238 to its eventual destination. In addition to acquiring new transporter technology, the Collective could not tolerate the public relations disaster which would result if rumor spread that Borg vessels might be stolen by an enterprising raider. Of course, there was also the consideration of the resource represented by a Lugger-class cube and its cargo. And of the drone crew? Irrelevant. More units could be assigned; and, as sure as the stars fused hydrogen, there would always be more imperfect drones.

Except in a peripheral manner, it was not the bailiwick of weapons hierarchy in this instance to engage in the forthcoming dataspace resistance efforts. Instead, 18 of 150 would lead his pitifully small force to annoy the enemy upon the physical realm. Somehow. And without damaging the command module.

Sighing at the task, 18 of 150 unthinkingly attached camera to bulkhead, then swung the panel shut as he prepared to trek the interstitial spaces to junction 14.1a. Crabbing sideways while trailing monofilament line behind, he left the Land of Mutant Squirrels, a great portion of his mind already turned inward to consult within his abbreviated hierarchy as to what course to pursue.

With the identification of the invader, the substance bonding drones to their alcoves was no longer a mystery. Species #8951 anatomy included a set of enormous, posteriorly-located glands. Think Terran skunk, only more so. Dispensing was under voluntary control and amazingly aimable, with the fluid quickly drying to a quasi-rubber consistency inhibiting all movement. One approached a hostile Garcon from the rear at one's own risk; and startling an individual was also not advised. Unfortunately, the knowledge did little to rectify the situation on the alcove tiers.

It was also yet one more reason for 18 of 150 to be wary of anything in the universe sporting a squirrel-like form.

As with most things of organic origination, the end-product material would degrade. Eventually. In BorgStandard conditions of heat and humidity, the crud would become friable in 3.5 to 4 cycles, breaking into small flakes with each movement of the crudee. Weak organic acid hastened the decay process, freeing trapped victims in less than a cycle. The main caveat was the need to liberally apply multiple dekaliters.

Of greater tactical significance, if a drone was pre-soaked in the weak organic acid, the Garcon defensive reaction was rendered irrelevant, sprayed fluids unable to set.

A common weak organic acid was vinegar, easily created in bulk by cube replication facilities. As replicators were a system uncompromised by Garcon dataspace activities, it was deemed high priority by the sub-collective to initiate vinegar production by the fifty liter carboy. When mobile non-tactical resources thence began the arduous task of transporting containers to alcove tiers to wash down units designated highest release priority, 18 of 150 and his band of weapons drones would build a stockpile in preparation of a (likely futile) assault upon the species #8951 stronghold.

Naturally, a wrinkle in the plan was required. In this case, it was swiftly discovered that the replicators refused to produce pure vinegar. The replicator recipe had been corrupted, linking it to vinaigrettes; and there was no time to hunt down the culprit nor rewrite the applicable lines of code. Vinaigrette was a valid substitute, even if all drones it was applied to would subsequently smell of salad dressing.

In Supply Closet #64, near the staging area junction, 18 of 150 was dubiously examining a jury-rigged backpack sprayer. There was a need to quickly and efficiently coat drones in CSL (counter-solidification liquid - 18 of 150 refused to use the terms vinaigrette or salad dressing), both in combat and on the tiers. While the blueprint had been devised by engineering, it had been 156 of 215 of the same hierarchy who had actually assembled it. Unfortunately, 156 of 215 tended to hastiness, which often led to skipping critical steps in an assignment. Although the result to a hypothetical wielder would not be life-threatening in the event of catastrophic sprayer failure, images both messy and odiferous came to mind.

{There may be a problem.} 122 of 150's mental voice intruded into 18 of 150's inspection.

The temporary head of Cube #238's abbreviated weapons hierarchy scrutinized a hose which included a suspicious amount of duct tape. {If you are complaining about your wagon again, I do not want to hear about it. Just because the replicator gave you one which was pink, not red, is no reason-}

Interrupted 122 of 150, {That complaint is not my reason for contact. Although, now that you mention it, pink is not a color culturally suitable for my gender, in particular given the broadness of my shoulders and my overall physique. And then there is the public relations slant which arises should images of a tactical drone pulling a pink wagon ever...} 122 of 150 trailed off as he registered 18 of 150's wordless disproval of the tangent. {Yes. Well then. Er...I was passing Comet Slurry Processing #2 when I heard an unexpected noise. I investigated, thinking it might be one of the invaders. Well, um, see for yourself. I/We need to be told what to do.} A visual datastream, tiered to a short meme file, was offered.

18 of 150 disengaged from sprayer inspection to concentrate on the datafile. 122 of 150 was one of three dozen units currently shifting carboys of CSL from the nearest same-level replicator chamber to local supply closet stockpiles. Red (and pink) wagons had been pressed into service to aid the effort - they were simple enough to be replicated, as grav sleds were not; and as the closest garage for the latter would require a half-cycle expedition to achieve, it was deemed best to utilize the wagon option. From the meme, 122 of 150 had been trudging past Comet Slurry Processing #2 on his way to Replication Chamber #7 for another carboy load, contemplating how long it would take to spray paint his wagon a suitably non-pink color, when he had distinctly heard a voice raised in argument. Dropping wagon handle and charging disruptor arm, he had cautiously entered the large room of vats, expecting to glimpse wayward species #8951.

He had not seen centaur squirrels. Instead, 122 of 150 had encountered something much worse - an Infree male in the grasp of G'floo! withdrawal. Or high. It was very difficult to tell the difference.

Infree, species #6070, were of the typical humanoid design common throughout the Milky Way galaxy. A series of scalloped ridges along the nose bridge and jawline were one of the several minor cosmetic cues that differentiated them from other similar bipedal races. It was the internal modifications, particularly in regard to neurology, from the humanoid norm which distinguished the Infree, likely derived from a very long-term racial addiction to a hallucinogenic substance known as G'floo!. So unpredictable could be species #6070 damaged by G'floo! overdose that all individuals, with no exception, had to be tested as to addiction level prior to assimilation. Too high, and they were deemed an unsuitable addition to the Borg Collective.

In this case, a test was probably not required.

Standing in the middle of the room, the Infree held a clear plastic jar in one hand and a hypospray in the other. From the puddles, the wet footprints, and general mess upon the access ladder, it was obvious that the liquid in the jar had been obtained from vat #4; and it was equally evident that whatever was going on, it had previously transpired on at least six of the ten vats contained within Comet Slurry Processing #2. So engrossed in staring at the jar, the intruder appeared to be completely unaware of the weapons drone in full view near the egress.

"I don't know." Pause. "Do you think so?" Pause. "I still don't understand why the booster would be in one of these giant tubs. It just looks and smells and tastes like dirty water to me." Pause. "You do make a good argument." Pause. "Because it is my turn to control the body." Pause. "Well I like the purple hyraxes and the green hamsters and the way the light wiggles and wombles around." Pause to twitch violently, spilling about half the jar of slurry. "Now look what you made us do...and I don't see you volunteering to climb the ladder again! Nor the parrot. I don't care if the floor is made of rubber and slugs fly!"

The head of the hypospray was abruptly thrust into the half-filled jar, then withdrawn. It was subsequently applied to the side of the Infree's neck. Eyes closed, lips smacked. A look of disgusted disappointment crossed the Infree's face. The next words spoken were the same in tone and timbre as the prior 'discussion', yet somehow gave the impression of belonging to someone else: "Bah...salts and electrolytes and fairy poo. And little, tiny, weenie sparkles. Not booster." Pause, return to speaker #1. "Fine, fine. Another big tub, but only as long as the green hamsters continue to accompany us."

{That's just too weird,} commented 18 of 150. There were much agreement within the sub-collective. There was also a decision as to how to proceed.

Reserve verbalized the consensus, {The Infree must be associated with the species #8951 invaders. Capture it, but do not assimilate. It could be useful if interrogated, even if it does seem to be high, or low, on G'floo!.}

18 of 150 provided acknowledgement on behalf of the weapons hierarchy even as 122 of 150 moved forward to comply with the directive.

As seen via 122 of 150's visual stream, the drone advanced upon the Infree, who had returned to arguing with himself. Slurry splashed upon the floor as the jar was emptied. No notice of the tactical unit, disruptor limb readied, was given. Finally, less than four meters distant, 122 of 150 spoke, "Invader, you will submit to Us. Quietly. Else you will be terminated."

Blinking, as if cognizant of his surroundings for the first time, the Infree peered at 122 of 150 with bloodshot eyes. "Hey, my hallucinations don't usually talk! And they are usually...prettier than that thing. And softer. And have more aura and ribbons." Pause. Brow crinkled. "Reality? Do you really think so? Are you sure?" Pause. "Right, this is supposed to be a Borg or Color or something place."

122 of 150 took another step forward. Then he fell to one knee, slipping in a thin film of comet slurry. Disruptor discharged, scoring the side of a vat with a black streak.

{Hey!} protested Engineer. {Watch where you aim! Disrupted Infree can always be swept away...damage to the vats requires buffing!}

{Capture, not kill,} said Reserve simultaneously. {18 of 150, one of your responsibilities is to confirm tactical resources are set to appropriate energy output levels given the situation. It is very hard to interrogate a corpse, and even more difficult a pile of hot ash.}

Meanwhile, 122 of 150 was confronted with a G'floo!-blasted Infree with what could only be described as an intensely here expression. Said the Infree quietly, "That was not nice. Not nice at all. We think you and your parrot friends should stop bothering us. We are very busy, after all. Yes, you should all stop bothering us. Go away."

A delicate crystal tone pinged.

That was 122 of 150's last view of Comet Slurry Processing #2. The next input upon his visual stream was of a hallway. Pinpointing location to be corridor 178, submatrix 24 of subsection 14, it would require a hike of nearly a cycle to return to the staging area juncture. On the upside, the least-time route would pass a grav sled storage facility. No more pink wagons in his future.

18 of 150 pulled away from 122 of 150's stream-of-consciousness. Something had just happened, and none were sure what that something had been nor what it meant. Well, mostly unsure what it meant. 18 of 150 was certain that it meant trouble for himself and his hierarchy. How much trouble would only become clear once the sub-collective had decided how to respond to the newest threat to Cube #238.

Two was the number of Infree. The number of Infree was two. Two crazy Infree. Crazier than normal, that is, from a race where it was acceptable, if frowned upon as non-professional, for traffic controllers at major airports to direct their charges based upon the advice of a hallucinated eggplant. Of course, the airplane pilot might be utilizing a small tropical fish as a copilot, a rather poor choice given the lack of hands and an inability to breath air should the bowl break. After all, it had been scientifically proven the Infree version of the miniature donkey to be much more useful as a copilot: it could remind the pilot of his or her duties with a few well-placed kicks or bites.

Moving on....

The Infree duo were wandering the corridors and rooms surrounding the Central Engineering/Primary Core complex. They seemed to prefer solo explorations, which was for the best given how obviously instable they were when encountered singly.

Instable? Barking mad! And in a bad mood! It was impossible to tell if the Infree were undergoing G'floo! withdrawal or had reached such an extreme level of body system saturation that they were permanently high. In the end, it made no difference. Overheard from self-conversations, both were obsessed with something called a 'booster'. Unfortunately, the booster was an unknown; and, as a result, the pair were drinking, snorting, injecting, eating, and/or smoking any substance they could find. Testing the contents of Comet Slurry Processing #2 vats was merely the least of observed experimentations.

The Infree were universally unamused by the Borg. Perceived threats were swiftly sorted. While a unit could approach quite closely, the moment a lunge was attempted, a disruptor arm raised, a tranquilizer blow dart readied for use, the drone was, for lack of a better term, 'pinged'.

Always accompanied by an single, elegant tone reminiscent of a windchime, something would happen to the attacker. Most often the drone would be transported to a different place on the cube, usually relatively nearby, but at least one unit was currently engaged upon a several cycle walk to return from the sub-hull. Drones had also found themselves stuck to the wall amid the crackle of static electricity, floating in air, struck unconscious, paralyzed, or staring at (maybe running from) a vision only the pinged one could perceive. The pinging was obviously an application of psi...except species #6070 did not possess even a vestige of higher-order metal talent. If psi had ever been present among the Infree race, it had been burnt out long ago during the tens of thousands of years of G'floo! use.

The most obvious solution was to ignore the Infree, let the pair continue their incomprehensible booster search without molest. Unfortunately, threat perception by the Infree was as stable as their minds. For example, an Infree in a hallway, engrossed in pulverizing an isolinear chip to snortable powder, might allow a vinaigrette carboy-toting drone to pass...and then ping that same drone thirty minutes later when the unit returned the opposite direction for another load. Then there was the cumulative destruction being accrued due to the Infree. The unexpected mental talent was not only used to ping drones, but to rend bulkheads and equipment in the search for booster...or in temper tantrum fits when booster was not found.

It was becoming ever more apparent that the episodes of destructive rage were increasing in intensity and frequency. If the Infree were not stopped, they would literally tear the cube apart. The only question was if the insane Infree would rip Cube #238 to pieces before or after the raiders hijacked it.

As a small consolation, the sub-collective was not the only one stymied by the Infree.

{Entity #2 sighted,} relayed 99 of 150 to the sub-collective from her position in junction 14.1a. She was standing motionless while trying to think inoffensive thoughts. The latter was difficult for a weapons drone.

The Infree in question was female, not that gender made any appreciable difference in either irritation or destructive quotients. She was often found stalking a corridor whilst holding a never-ending argument with herself whereupon chickens or umbrellas or both were focal points. Like the other Infree, she had the ability to teleport to different locales. Because she tended to use the ability more often than her male counterpart, one never knew where she might be encountered.

Entity #2 clearly had a destination in mind. Past 99 of 150 she stomped, a dark expression plastered upon her face. She ignored the drone, pausing briefly to stare at one of the several dozen carboys stacked at the periphery of the juncture before continuing. 99 of 150 sidled sideways as stealthily as a tactical-specialized Borg could, so as to visually follow Entity #2's progression down the hallway leading to the first of several forcefields barring access to the Primary Core.

The Infree passed through the forcefield as if it were not present. The dark shapes on the other side of the barrier, now known to be Garcon guards and not furniture upon which to store hats, crumpled to the ground.

In Supply Closet #64, assisting in final preparations for a probe assault upon the species #8951 stronghold, 18 of 150 seized the datastream from camera he had earlier emplaced.

The squirrel centaurs were in motion, agitation evident. A knot of Garcon nearest the egress leading to junction 14.1a were the most eager to escape somewhere, anywhere. A few individuals were unshipping weapons from harness, but most of the raiders were ensuring with exaggerated caution their hands to be nowhere near sheathed rifles or other armaments.

Abruptly the growing roar of the crowd hushed. A single Infree - Entity #2 - emerged from the corridor into the Primary Core. She towered over the Garcon, the tallest of the mutant squirrels reaching her mid-chest. The camera sensor captured Entity #2's bellow: "Where is the booster! You promised booster here!"

From the command module scurried (or was pushed) a Garcon sporting a fancy jacket and gold-fringed bandoleer-harness. It (he) was of the leadership, albeit not one of the top commanders of the Garcon raider hierarchy. Double tails swished nervously. "Er, Maude...welcome back. Could I interest you-"

"Shut up!" shrilled Maude. "You promised booster! Like all the times before, you said there would be booster! All I've found is chicken! Chicken, chicken, chicken!" Pause. The Infree resumed speaking in a voice with distinctly different accent. "I don't vike the chicken."

On a Primary Core tier, just at the edge of the camera's view, a Garcon raised a weapon. Tactical subroutines automatically classified it as shooting tranquilizer darts. A dozen other individuals elsewhere about the enormous room were likewise taking aim with similar rifles.

"Maude," said the raider subleader desperately, "you know that no one knows for sure which Borg vessel has the booster. As has been explained, many times, the crafty Borg rarely ship booster, which is why it is so difficult to find. Obviously intelligence was wrong, again, concerning this..." The words trailed off. The subleader's ears flicked, the species #8951 body language equivalent of a nervous glance.

Eyes narrowed, Maude was not listening to the excuse. Upon the tiers and within the Garcon crowd, all soldiers aiming tranquilizer rifles abruptly flew into the air, up and out of camera view. For several long moments there was nothing, then with a Dopplerized wail that included an eerie rooster crow component, bodies plummeted to the deck. Most had their falls broken by the dense packing of the raider occupiers. Most. One impacted the command module, then slid to the ground, claws scrabbling uselessly against metal the entire way.

Ignoring the resultant silence, broken only by the groans of the fallen, Maude pivoted to face the multistory power core which dominated the Primary Core. With an imperious wave of the hand, a panel crumpled, fell away. A long knife was unsheathed from a waist holster, then shoved into revealed nest of wire. Maude frowned in concentration. Insulation covering the wires abruptly disintegrated, reforming as a powdered multi-colored mess on the knife's blade. A pinch of the powder was brought to nose and snorted loudly.

"Chicken! Bah!"

In the intranet background, Engineer began to invoke pickled products. Sufficient system control remained for sub-collective elements to perform a localized shut-down and reroute around the injury before fire, or other catastrophe, could result.

"I will keep looking for booster," declared Maude as she dumped the powder off the knife and resheathed it. It was the unaccented voice which made the pronouncement. "If you and your twinkling fish-moustache-dude thing don't come up with booster soon, it will be bad for you." Threat uttered, Maude turned and flounced back the way she had entered.

Shaking, the subleader watched the Infree retreat. Another Garcon, this one with a more ornate jacket and several ribbons wrapped around his tail, emerged from the module. "And that is the stable one, claim what remains of the handler cadre," said the new arrival. What more might have been relayed was lost as the general roar of Garcon conversation reasserted itself.

"Hello? Borg? I really hope I'm not talking to myself! Borg! I think we may have a common problem and, er, maybe we can work together to, um, remedy it?"

In final preparation for the assault, the lightstrips in the hallways around the Primary Core had been extinguished. The darkness did not bother Borg, but it was a tactic which tended to unnerve visual-dependent species like the Garcon. 18 of 150 knew the small force, made even smaller given the several units making their way back to the juncture after being pinged by an insane Infree, needed every advantage possible, even psychological ones.

Unfortunately, the species #8951 profile suggested the nervous forcefield guards were as likely to shoot anything which moved down-range as to run.

"Borg? Hello? Please do not shoot me! Or at least listen before you shoot me! Or assimilate me!"

The eerie bluish glow from the forcefield backlit the Garcon who had skittered through the barrier while it was briefly disengaged. 18 of 150 recognized him as the subleader who had confronted Maude. The fellow was obviously having a very poor day. Of sufficient rank to imply any offer he might make was serious, but not high enough in the hierarchy to avoid the duty in which he was currently engaged, he was a textbook case of expendable. The subleader gulped as red targeting lasers began to play over his body, converging, mostly, at his head. 18 of 150 wanted to terminate the mutant squirrel for general reasons of being a mutant squirrel, and that desire was infecting his hierarchy-mates.

{Hold!} ordered Reserve. Command and control was exerting influence on the situation, a need which was rare. Weapons' iron hold normally kept his hierarchy in line, but due to his alcove location he had yet to be reached by mobile non-tacticals to remove the jammer. {18 of 150, advance and represent Us.}

{Me?} replied 18 of 150 aghast. It was a...squirrel. The mere thought made him twitchy. {Send 17 of 32. He's an assimilation drone. If it is a trick to lure a unit, we will not lose a vital tactical resource. Weapons drones have heavier armor and include chassis-mounted weapons, after all.}

{Hey! Who are you calling non-vital!} complained 17 of 32. Although he did not sport a weapon, he had been participating in the laser show via the range-finder bolted to his skull. That laser now shone into 18 of 150's whole eye as the drone swiveled his head.

18 of 150 elbowed 17 of 32. {You are blinding me!}

Before the confrontation could escalate, Reserve blew the intranet equivalent of an airhorn in both the almost-combatant's virtual ears. Reserve may not have had the style and sheer intimidation power of Prime, but he was one of the Hierarchy of Five for an imperfect sub-collective.

{You will be the speaker-of-all for Us.} Reserve's pronouncement included a twist of compulsion. {As you well know, liaison duty is one of the consequences of being a hierarchy head, even a temporary one. And after the incident in the replicator chamber, whatever the species #8951 has to say may be very relevant.}

Acknowledging his reluctant compliance, 18 of 150 began to stiffly walk towards the subleader. An admonishment was sent to the drones in the junction 14.1a intersection not to shoot him in the back.

The replicators in Replication Chamber #7 were currently nonfunctional. Less than an hour ago, as the final carboys of vinaigrette required for the stronghold assault were being replicated, one of the Infree had arrived. The male encountered in Comet Slurry Processing #2, he had initially been designated Entity #1, until self-conversations revealed his name to be Parrot. Or Raq. Or Parrot Raq. Or Raq Parrot. As with most things having to do with Infree, it was confusing. At any rate, Parrot had nonchalantly strolled in from the corridor and proceeded to imbibe salad dressing decanted from awaiting carboys. When the vinaigrette had failed to produce whatever high or low for which the Infree was searching, the result could best be described as 'temper tantrum'. After Parrot's egress, five engineering drones had immediately begun repair to the replicator bays, but progress had been slow. As the next nearest replication chamber was inconveniently distant (and several levels difference with no elevator), the functionality of Replication Chamber #7 was vital.

That example of damage, and others precipitated by the Infree pair, were beginning to affect Cube #238. The Greater Consciousness was not keen on any alliance consideration, but there was the vague twinge of acknowledgement that perhaps the Garcon knew (1) how the Infree had gained their psi talents and (2) the counter. An army of psi-enhanced, G'floo!-incensed Infree was not a pleasant thought, seriously upping the species #8951 resistant quotient. There were instances where the (pre-Hive) Borg Collective had made temporary alliances in the past. At the conclusion of most truces, the non-Borg coalition member, who had been in exceedingly desperate straits to even suggest a partnership, graphically learnt the danger of working alongside Borg. Several civilizations had been acquired by the Collective in such a manner. Perhaps Lugger-class Cube #238, despite its imperfect character and the fact that most of its drones were stuck in their alcoves, had an opportunity to remedy its situation in an efficient manner?

Or, more likely, perhaps not.

Seeing the suggestion of movement and hearing the clank of feet and whine of servos, the Garcon subleader ceased his implorations. Ears and tails twitched. Body tensed.

18 of 150 reluctantly approached a furry nightmare given life. Even assimilation could not erase the vivid recollection of his trader apprenticeship. It had been a horrible misunderstanding, not that such mattered to the squirrel-shaped scars which riddled his psyche.

"Borg," tremulously said the subleader as 18 of 150 stopped less than a meter away. 18 of 150 did not answer. The subleader quivered at the lack of response, not knowing that the drone was actually working to prevent himself from hyperventilating and was unable to speak. The silence stretched. It was the Garcon who broke first.

"I am First Striker Readi of the Second Matak Corps. I have been tasked to offer an alliance with...with you." There was a long pause, then Readi lowered his belly to the floor in a species #8951 grovel and started to babble. "Sorry, sorry, sorry! We did not know this was a Borg Collective ship when we attacked! We thought it was one of the Colors that usually traverse this space! Really! You must believe me! When the first boarders found it to be Borg Collective, a lot of us - me included! - wanted to immediately leave. But the Prime Admiral was under orders from the Emperor himself (may be live forever) to fill the holds with Borg product. It is the fault of the Prime Admiral! Greedy...too greedy! The Prime Admiral thought we could raid as normal and acquire even better things than usual, all for the glory, and coffers, of the Emperor (he the light of the universe).

"But, then, some of the Brainiacs went mad. Tail-chewing, fur-ripping, spit-driveling mad."

The disjointed recitation continued, punctuated by praises to a ruler far, far away.

'Brainiacs' referred to the Infree; and, more specifically, Infree joined to Trill symbionts. Although the union had proved to be more stable than other non-Trill joinings, in the end psychological and physiological rejection would occur by both host and symbiont. However, that three year limit was rarely reached. The symbionts - undoubtedly illegally acquired given Trill protectiveness of their partners - were purposefully introduced to Infree highly addicted to G'floo!. Once exposed to the G'floo!-saturated environment, an ill-understood metamorphosis occurred whereupon the symbionts' very minor psi-talent, just sufficient to enhance the joining between itself and its native host, was vastly heightened.

The limits in that increase in mental power were not comprehended by the Garcon researchers who had accidentally developed the Brainiacs. Those who actually wielded the weapon did not care about background theory, only that it worked. Deployed one per ship when the Garcon went raiding Colors, the Brainiacs were the key to allowing capture of a highly profitable, but very dangerous, target.

Temporarily overriding local processes, the Brainiacs' role was to send the objective sub-collective into stand-by mode, all drones returning to their alcoves, shields dropped, engines idled. The effect only lasted about twelve hours, a time typically more than sufficient for the raiders to board, search, and remove those transportable items which would fetch highest price upon the black-market. There were many protocols when raiding, including the setting of jammers upon 'nasty-looking' drones, just in case the sub-collective woke early. However, usually all went according to plan, and when the drones re-activated, the controlling Mind was left with a hole in the sub-collective's recollection and a vessel mysteriously missing a number of items.

A predictable side-effect of the Infree-symbiont joining was mental instability. Even without drugs, Infree were not the most well-balanced individuals in the galaxy; and a G'floo!-addled symbiont only able to perceive the universe via the senses of what is not only an alien host, but a G'floo!-stewed alien host prone to hallucinations, is not a recipe for psychological health. Hence, the reason why few Brainiacs made it to their third join-year - terminal mental meltdown.

The raid upon Cube #238 had been proceeding apace, even after it had been discovered that the target was Collective Borg, not Color. Jammers were being attached and initial inventory of purloinable items tallied when a Brainiac had gone critical. In order to cajole Brainiac support during raids, it was necessary to lie, to insist that this will be the ship where the booster - a fictitious enhancer of the G'floo! experience - would be found. Then one of the Brainiacs had declared that Garcon booster-scanners were inefficient and that she would find the substance herself.

Brainiac handlers had missed the early signs of meltdown. The instability had proved to be contagious, subsequently infecting two conspecifics - Maude and Parrot. Given that First Striker Readi of the Second Matak Corps was a middling ranked handler officer whose charge was now running amok, it was perhaps not unexpected as to why he had been chosen to speak to the Borg.

In the end, it was the remaining 'stable' trio of the raiding fleet's Brainiacs which had saved the Garcon. In the throes of meltdown, the instable Brainiacs had begun to self-destruct, which tended to be a terminal experience for all nearby equipment and beings. Using masterful skills equal parts persuasion and outrageous lie, the handlers for the sane(r) Infree-symbiont pairs had convinced their charges to teleport the entire Garcon crew to Cube #238, along with a ship command module, even as fleet vessels were literally disintegrating. The cost to the fleet saviors - handlers and Brainiacs - had been their own lives.

"We all thought the mad Brainiacs had died as well," said Readi. While the subleader was no longer cowering upon the deck, body posture suggested he could return to doing so at a moment's notice. "The Prime Admiral gave orders to svintz all drones into their alcoves while technicians used command module resources to try to take over this ship. A message had been dispatched of our trouble before our vessels fell apart, but it is unknown if it was received. The Prime Admiral decided that the best chance at survival was to steal control of this entire cube, or at least navigation and propulsion, and go home.

"Such a plan was, and is, fraught with difficulties." Readi raised his head to squint at 18 of 150's chest armor - the Garcon was unwilling to look the Borg in the face - before dropping it again. "This was understood by all, but it was also our only choice. Then we discovered that only a single Brainiac had perished, the other two escaping here. They began to plague us, as they are undoubtedly doing to you, with demands for booster. There is no such thing as the booster, but we dare not tell them that. As long as they think there is a booster, they will continue to look for it. And while they are looking for booster, they aren't rampaging. Well, until they implode, that is."

Through the recitation, 18 of 150 had fought an internal battle against his sciurophobia. All he wanted to do was retreat, which was neither allowed by the sub-collective nor would it present the appropriate Borg image. However, 18 of 150 had finally controlled his breathing sufficiently to croak out one word: "Implode?"

Readi immediately collapsed back to his belly. "Forgive me! Or do not! I am unworthy! Just allow me to finish before you kill or assimilate me! The Brainiacs are in an advanced state of instability. They are extraordinarily mind-strong, but they are also mind-brittle. The catharsis of fleet destruction and refocus to personally find the booster only postponed the final meltdown. It will happen. Something will trigger one of the Brainiacs to, well...let's just say it is messy. It is why the Brainiac facility is located on an asteroid well away from population centers."

"This is a Lugger-class cube, not small species #8951 vessel," said 18 of 150, pleased he had actually managed a complete sentence.

Readi curled into a ball. His response was muffled by twin tails. "It will go boom. Maybe not boom, but it will be shredded...to the molecular level. When one Brainiac melts, it causes others nearby to do so as well. This entire sector of space may become, er, not a good place to be."

The sub-collective, the Greater Consciousness, was beginning to realize the true danger represented by the Brainiacs. Pinging drones and temper tantrums that bent duralloy plates were minor demonstrations of what was obviously an extreme psi-talent. Borg distrust mental talents, Colored Collective and Original avoiding (or terminating) them were possible or removing/burning the associated brain structures of otherwise suitable species during post-assimilation processing. The imperative was now growing to learn how Brainiacs could be countered, or destroyed. While relatively harmless, present situation excluded, to the Borg Collective while in the hands of the racially narcissistic Garcon, if other, more ambitious races or governments learnt of the Infree-Trill symbiont concept, a psi-army superweapon might be forged and turned upon the Borg.

Unacceptable.

"Um, you want to know how to stop an implosion, yes?" tentatively asked Readi.

18 of 150 refocused attention to the mutant squirrel...the musings of the Whole had actually distracted him from the furry menace that lay before him! "Yes."

"There is a way to sedate mad Brainiacs before they go boom. It had to be developed, after all, to stop losing so many research facilities. There's always more people to staff 'em, but the Emperor that initiated the project (light of the universe, may the angelic choirs sing forever) didn't like losing all the equipment. Materials are expensive, after all.

"The Brainiacs all have G'floo! implants. It is best for the symbiont if the Infree has a continuous G'floo! supply, with the occasional stronger hit. To be without the drug is to initiate immediate meltdown." Readi paused for a moment, then began to talk again, faster than before. "The Brainiacs still have G'floo!, but the implants are designed to cut back when low. Less G'floo! equals withdrawal, which equals greater instability...but it isn't terminal, not yet! If the Brainiacs can be given a hit of very strong, specially formulated G'floo!, it'll temporarily zone 'em out, allow them to be captured and some neuro-thingies attached to knock 'em unconscious."

Readi shook nervously. "I...I...I've been told to tell you all that, um, not to try to get the special G'floo! from us. The Prime Admiral doesn't think there's enough of you that escaped svintzing to actually succeed, but if it looks like it would happen, he's told the handlers to destroy the drug."

"Why do you require alliance with Us? Why not introduce the drug when a Brainiac visits?" inquired 18 of 150, or, rather, inquired the sub-collective through 18 of 150.

Readi sighed. "The problem is that that instability provides additional, er, resources to the Brainiac. A mad Brainiac is not only stronger, and more paranoid, but becomes better able to read the mind and intentions of those around. Overall inflation of psi-talents. The last time a Brainiac came into camp, we tried to dart her. Our best sharpshooters were issued tranquillizer rifles loaded with the drug. She knew what was happening, and countered.

"The alliance proposes that we provide the drugs, and you the bodies. A dispersed mind, like you Borg, should be able to get close enough to administer the G'floo!. At the research facility, robots handle instable cases. Borg drones are sort of like biological robots, right?"

Obviously the Garcon, or at least Readi, knew little of the Collective mind which made up the Borg, whereupon many acted together as One. A degree of individuality was present, it was just irrelevant and easily subsumed to further the Whole. Except in the case of the imperfectly assimilated. There might be a wee hitch in the Garcon scheme, not that the Collective would reveal its embarrassing secret.

"Once the Brainiacs are secured, we can go back to doing whatever it is our sides are doing at the moment. Um, we're trying to get home and I'm sure you are trying to stop us. So, do we have an alliance? Can we work together?"

Silence.

A decision was made. 18 of 150 heaved a mental sigh of relief as his role was altered. Turning on heel, he started the return trek towards junction 14.1a.

"Wait! Borg! Is there alliance?" shrieked Readi's voice as the Garcon lunged forward, one outstretched, pleading hand brushing across the back of 18 of 150's shin.

The drone spun, disruptor arm leveled at the mutant squirrel. From the position of ears and expression on face, it was obvious Readi had not expected such swift movement from a drone, much less one as heavily armored as a weapons unit. "Do not touch this drone," hissed 18 of 150. In the heavy, dark hush of the hallway, the only sounds to be heard was the hum of forcefield, whine of ready disruptor, and rapid Garcon breathing.

{I believe there is room to work on your liaison skills,} said Reserve dryly. {I'll be sure to mention it to Weapons and Prime when and if they are recovered.}

18 of 150 ignored the comment.

Using the visual streams of weapons drones at junction 14.1a to navigate, 18 of 150 slowly backed away. Weapon remained aimed and ready to fire, and Readi had the sense to stay frozen in place. It was only when the two assimilation units passed on their way to detain the Garcon did 18 of 150 turn away and disengage disruptor. The alliance had been accepted, as Readi, and eavesdroppers on the far side of the forcefield, would shortly learn. The squirrel would not be assimilated, but he was about to undergo a very thorough 'interrogation' before the unseen witnesses to ensure there was no hidden agenda.

With delay of the assault and shift to a new course of action, there was plenty for 18 of 150 to organize amongst his hierarchy. And as long as the squirrels were kept away from him, he was content to comply.

{I still do not like that tablecloth. It doesn't imbue the right mood. The plates and silverware suggest elegance, but the tablecloth cries out "picnic spread",} criticized 56 of 77, ex-food stylist. She was overseeing the project from her alcove. {I need a view of the set-up as if the subject were entering the room.}

18 of 150 assigned the request to a loitering weapons drone before replying to 56 of 77, {The replicators have just been returned to functionality and are dedicated to producing critical items. Therefore we searched nearby Supply Closets, but could only find three pieces of fabric suitable as tablecloths. You rejected both the yellow duckie one and the one covered in multicolored, sparkly snowflakes.}

Sniffed 56 of 77, {Yellow ducks are for children parties and snowflakes should only be employed with winter themed meals or as a background to an ice cream tasting. Red plaid screams picnic, but do I see sandwiches? Do I see baskets? Do I see casual get-together? No, I see a mismatched collection of silver serving utensils, fine obsidian plates, and a garish gold quaffing vessel in the shape of a skull! I can work with it - I've worked with worse - but all the various pieces must meld together to create the whole. And the whole needs an elegant brocade runner done in cream or dark green, not plaid.} Pause. {At least the cuisine is simple.}

18 of 150 grumbled not so subtly as further refinements to the table were made. However, 56 of 77 was the closest Cube #238 had to an expert on the subject of mealtime presentation, and so her directions were followed. It was because the first attempt to neutralize a Brainiac had failed that the sub-collective was employed in its current endeavor.

Following his interrogation, Readi had become the go-between for Borg and Garcon. Glassy-eyed and barely responsive, from 18 of 150's point of view the change had been an improvement: it almost (but not quite) made it tolerable to be near the centaur squirrel, except that he now screamed a near ultrasonic shriek upon seeing the units responsible for his torture. It probably would have been better to assimilate Readi, except that the raiders would not tolerate a drone in their midst; and even the Garcon, with their attitude towards disposability of the lower classes and ranks, were hesitant to spend another body to replace Readi with a liaison of higher functionality.

Therefore, it was Readi who handed over several pints of concentrated G'floo! formulation, along with a monotonic recitation of the deployment options. Mobile engineering and assimilation hierarchy drones had thence huddled together to perform what limited analysis could be accomplished in Analysis Shop #13 given the time constraint. It had been declared that while the substance could eventually be reverse-engineered, such was not possible at the moment. Complex molecules were present; and testing and recipe tweaking, perhaps several months worth, would be required to ensure the digitized product was indiscernible from the original. In summary, plans to capture the Brainiacs would be limited by the amount of G'floo! formulation provided.

Neither 18 of 150 nor his comrades possessed the tactical shrewdness which defined Weapons. Therefore, it was not unexpected that the initial ploy devised was a variation upon the tried-and-true Borg approach of direct assault. Upon location of a target - Parrot - an arsenal of netguns, stunners, and tranquilizer guns loaded with extract were brought to bear. It had not worked.

Parrot had been found in Supply Closet #87. Seated upon a convenient crate, the Brainiac had been focused upon mentally pulverizing thumb-sized heat sinks comprised of ceramic infused with a wide variety of ingredients highly toxic to biologics if ingested. And ingesting them he was, meticulously gathering the powdered fruits of his labor to snort...without obvious repercussion except the occasional comment deriding a lack of potency. At first Parrot had ignored the gathering Borg force, but upon initiation of the assault, he had erected the psi equivalent of a forcefield. Nothing could pass it. Finally, after a parrot-laced commentary which included a notation that all the wobbling was giving him a headache, 18 of 150 and his compatriots were scooped up, whisked towards the door, and unceremoniously dumped into the hallway. For added effect, the door to the supply closet had slammed closed, unable to be subsequently budged.

Perhaps if robots had been employed or drones puppeted, all semblance of self submerged into the Whole, the ploy might have succeeded. Comments uttered by Parrot suggested he had 'heard' thoughts directed against him specific to the units present. Unfortunately, given the nature of assimilation imperfection and the retention of facets of personal identity, remote drone operation was not an option, at least not by a Greater Consciousness unwilling to risk contamination of the Whole to do so. To lose Cube #238 was preferable to potentially spreading imperfection to at-risk, but otherwise adequately functional, units.

Which obliquely led to the current scenario under preparation in Supply Closet #103.

With direct assault out, the alternative was guile. Except the Borg Collective, and hence the Cube #238 sub-collective, were not proficient at deceit. Such was not to say that trickery was not in the repertoire of the Whole, but that it was typically done on grand scale - for instance, the multi-century effort of infiltrating the Alpha Quadrant, including creation of the Dark and a self-lobotomy to create the Hive paradigm. The situation facing Cube #238, in contrast, was...small. And with Weapons still unavailable to add his unique perspective, 18 of 150 was forced to lead the devising of an appropriate plan.

The decision cascade would probably have proceeded better if Garcon cyber-techs had not bumbled into 24 of 400's library of animated shorts targeted at the pre-adolescent audience. Or at least if such had occurred at a less critical juncture. Neither sub-collective nor species #8951 had ceased attempting to take full mastery of cube systems: the alliance only pertained to the Brainiac issue, not the dataspaces. When the Infree-symbiont duo were neutralized, both sides desired to be in the best position to resume open hostilities. Given the non-standard condition of the dataspaces, it was not surprising that the misstep had occurred.

The cartoons were quickly terminated by command and control, but not before some of the more impressionable drones been distracted by the mental equivalent of a shiny object. In turn, the weapons hierarchy planning had been sidetracked; and in the end, well, in the end was the trap currently under construction in Supply Closet #103.

In the hallways and corridors surrounding the Supply Closet were large paper signs upon which were scrawled "Booster Here" in the Infree language, overtopping helpful arrows. The placards, which continued into Supply Closet #103 itself, led to a table, upon which was a red plaid tablecloth underlying an elegant, if eclectic, dinner set. It was somewhat surprising what was stored, often forgotten, upon the cube. Set on the plate was a hypospray which had a "Booster Here!!!!!" sign taped to it. Inside the instrument was G'floo! formulation; and if the Brainiac decided to not self-medicate him/herself, a backup plan in the form of a large crate overhung the table. If necessary, the crate would crash down upon the target, the interior flooding with a G'floo! aerosol.

18 of 150 stepped away from the table as 56 of 77 finally declared the setting acceptable. He glanced upward. No, the giant crate (plastered with "Ignore Me - Not A Trap" posters) suspended by several ropes was not obvious at all...assuming the Brainiac was blind.

Sigh. The scheme had seemed logical during the tactical consensus cascade.

{Brainiac incoming!} warned a sentry several corridors away. A visual datastream was included. {It is Maude.}

Immediately 18 of 150 and the other weapons drones present went to the periphery of the room and tried to think as little as possible.

After several minutes, Maude entered Supply Closet #103. She was speaking to herself...or to her symbiont...or her symbiont was talking to its host. Or, more likely, all the above was happening simultaneously. "This better not be like the last time! The moustaches claimed that it was booster, but it was actually chicken." Pause. "Last time...where those other floaty neon signs were." Pause. "Green and yellow." Pause. "And I'd like soy sauce with that, as long as it isn't more chicken. I am so tired of chicken, the other purple meat."

One could only assume that the conversation made much more sense to the one in the middle of it.

The Brainiac paused to slowly pan the room. Her glassy stare slid over the motionless Borg and bypassed the crate hanging ponderously from the ceiling. Attention abruptly sharpened as Maude focused upon the artfully displayed hypospray and its helpful, multi-exclamation point infused, beautifully calligraphied placard. There was a sharp intake of breath.

"See! The moustaches were right!" crowed the Infree. "Much, much more ready to lend a leg than the nose hairs ever were. And the ear dander...let's not go there. Ungrateful for the chicken jellybeans, the lot of them." Pause. "What Borg? The ones against the wall?" Silence as Maude looked directly at the nearest drone - 18 of 150 - without a hint of recognition reflected in her eyes. "I'm just seeing things again, I am. Stupid hallucinations, trying to be more real than actual reality. Right, Tinkerbelle?" The Brainiac gravely nodded as she held one hand cupped to left ear, as if listening to a very small voice. "I agree."

Controversy settled, Maude made a swift bee-line from door to table.

18 of 150 suspended visual input so as to better concentrate thoughts upon any subject except the Brainiac. Weapons were always a safe topic; and, specifically, which newly developed disruptor submodel would best augment his chassis should he be authorized an upgrade following his next tactical effectiveness review. He was pondering balance and aesthetics of three alternatives whilst simultaneously fitting them to a model of his body when he received the ping.

{Whoops,} said 97 of 185, speaker for the alcove-bound drones who were tasked to watch the scene. Theoretically, remote units should be able to observe Supply Closet #103 via camera without triggering the threat response, then inform the awaiting tactical drones when it was safe to include Brainiacs among their thoughtstreams.

{I didn't mean to think about the crazy Infree...my thoughts just sort of drifted that way....} weakly protested 142 of 150.

18 of 150 opened his eye and reinitiated ocular input.

At the table, Maude was suspiciously peering at 142 of 150, who in turn was hunched in upon herself, whole eye scrunched closed as she attempted to cast her thoughts elsewhere. The hypospray was in hand; and the remote watchers confirmed the Brainiac had been about to dose herself before 142 of 150's slip. Now, Maude's head was turning and bobbing in an abrupt, bird-like motion as she eyeballed each drone as he, or she, or it refocused upon the situation.

"Fe-fi-fo-fum, I smell the stink of a moustache-mun." Maude paused and her forehead wrinkled. "That did not make any sense at all. Oh, well." Hand opened. The hypospray hit the deck with a clatter. "Chicken...all chicken. Bawk. I hate gizzards."

142 of 150 abruptly vanished. Left behind was a whirl of sparkles that slowly wafted upwards and away. The tactical drone did not reappear...anywhere; and her presence within the sub-collective was abruptly cut. Assuming she had not been terminated, 142 of 150 was now located somewhere well beyond the ken of the Borg Collective.

The Brainiac's head swiveled exorcist-style towards 18 of 150.

{Crate!} sputtered 18 of 150. {Crate! Drop the crate!}

The partition charged with crate duty mentally unfroze. The crate crashed downward, encasing Maude. From within emanated a scream of frustration. The volume and intensity quickly diminished until only the hiss of cylinders discharging their contents was audible.

18 of 150 directed two of his hierarchy and an assimilation unit to approach. The latter entered Supply Closet #103 from the hallway as the former cautiously opened the access door built into the crate.

Proclaimed 12 of 18, the assimilation drone, after a swift inspection, "Sleeping like a baby targ. Drooling like one too." Cortical inhibitors were emplaced, followed by several adhesive sensor patches. "She shouldn't wake up now, but if she tries, we'll have sufficient warning to counter consciousness. Or terminate her." Maude was not to be returned to the Garcon, but stored for live-transport until she could be off-loaded at Cube #238's next port (assuming the ship survived). The Greater Consciousness strongly desired to study the Infree-Trill symbiont fusion to determine weaknesses in the event it was ever deployed against the Whole.

For the drones of Cube #238, however, the score was clear: one Brainiac down, one to go. Pessimistic, 18 of 150 did not think the next capture would be as smooth as the first. The universe just did not function that way, at least when it came to the imperfect sub-collective.

"We require more formulation," demanded 18 of 150. He despised these meetings with Readi before the forcefield, and only by staring at a point to the side or over the head of the centaur squirrel could he force himself to talk in an intelligible manner. Fortunately, the Garcon liaison had recently developed a whole-body nervous tic and did not notice the drone's unusual behavior. Instead, Readi would twitch and gaze blankly in a glassy-eyed manner, only to start violently when he perceived movement from the Borg-controlled end of the hallway.

The subleader blinked. "Formulation?" Pause. "Oh, yes, G'floo! juice. Why?"

Because the last batch acquired was gone, not that 18 of 150 was to verbally admit such. After resetting the trap in Supply Closet #103, the other Brainiac, Parrot, had been lured by the promise of booster. Unlike the Maude experience, the trap had not worked. Parrot had focused upon the red plaid tablecloth as inappropriate for the dining mood suggested by tableware. While 56 of 77 matter-of-factly commented that someone upon the cube recognized proper dining ambiance, Parrot had descended into a psi rage that tore the Supply Closet, and adjacent rooms, apart. No drones had been pinged, but only because the Brainiac had focused his anger upon the tablecloth. Unfortunately, by the time Parrot took himself elsewhere, all remaining G'floo! formulation had been destroyed.

Another scheme had since been devised, but it required vast quantities of the formulation reconstituted to gas form.

"You are a small being: you would not understand," replied 18 of 150 to Readi's question. "You will provide Us with more G'floo! material." 18 of 150 attempted to project a 'none of your business' vibe; and even if the addled subleader did not catch it, the Garcon commanders on the other side of the forcefield should understand.

Tails flicked. One ear swiveled. Without a word, Readi turned. The forcefield momentarily dropped, just sufficient time for the Garcon to pass through, before reinitializing. 18 of 150 caught a glimpse of several upper level squirrels, redolent in fancy sashes (with tassels) and well-made harnesses. After five minutes of waiting, Readi returned.

"Where is Maude? You earlier reported successful detainment. Alive. When is she to be transferred?"

18 of 150 ignored the inquiry as irrelevant. Maude was not to be returned to the squirrels, not that they were to receive notification thereof. The base demand was repeated. "We require additional formulation."

Readi twitched, then abruptly leapt sideways. He nearly contacted18 of 150, who had to lock his joints (and jaw) to prevent an unBorg flinch...or scream. As none of the guards at the juncture to 18 of 150's back had moved, it was obvious the Garcon was imagining things.

The forcefield briefly dropped, allowing a small cart with half a dozen liter-sized cylinders within to be pushed through. The trolley bumped against Readi's hindquarters, causing the Garcon to jump again. It required several minutes for the mutant squirrel to settle (allowing 18 of 150 to breath a mental sigh of relief).

Eyes not quite blinking in sync, when they blinked at all, Readi spoke in his now customary monotone, "Here is G'floo! juice. It is all we have left." There was a pause as the subleader seemed to cast his thoughts towards something else he was supposed to relay. Mouth abruptly stretched in rictus of a grin as memory was retrieved, causing 18 of 150 to visibly shudder, not that the Garcon was alert enough to notice. "Remaining Brainiac is overdue to implode. He has already passed all not-yet-imploding records for end-stage meltdown." Message delivered, the subleader retreated to the safety of the forcefield.

18 of 150 stooped to grab the twine tied to one end of the cart, beginning the trek back to the juncture.

The semi-transparent bottle rolled along the walkway, spinning in the direction it had been kicked. A pale yellow liquid dribbled from the open mouth, victim of centrifugal force. It wobbled drunkenly towards the unwarded edge of the scaffolding catwalk.

{Get it! Get it!} ordered 18 of 150 frantically. He hung unsupported in the air, limbs helplessly frozen, only able to watch events unfolding. {Get the formulation, but try not to think too much about doing so!}

Of course, telling someone not to think about something was as good as shining a spotlight upon the item and attaching multicolored sparklers. The figure which was the Infree-symbiont Parrot swiveled his head towards the drone nearest the bottle. An already battered 93 of 150 was abruptly whisked off his feet, slammed several times into the wall, then sent to join 18 of 150 in aerial purgatory.

"I said not to think so loudly," berated 18 of 150 to 93 of 150.

93 of 150's response was to roll his unaltered eye as he bled from nose, mouth, and ears. Nanite were already staunching the flow, but the microscopic machines could not do anything about deformed cranial armor.

The mission to subdue the last Brainiac had begun immediately upon acquiring the G'floo! formulation. At the juncture, drones had descended upon the cart, loading the contents of all except one backup bottle into adapted weapons ranging from darts and flichettes to aerosol-spewing smoke bombs. The plan, such as it was, called for six sacrificial drones to gain Parrot's attention by thinking loud, aggressive thoughts (and firing disruptors) while remaining tacticals used the mental cover to creep close enough to overwhelm the target with the modified G'floo!. The time for subtlety, and setting tables, was over. Of course, it was at that point that the plan hit a snag: Parrot could not be found. With minimal internal sensors and a too-large volume of cube to search, there was a very real possibility that the Brainiac might not be located before he underwent final meltdown.

On the up side, the last hour had seen Prime reconnected to the sub-collective, much to the relief of Reserve. Much earlier, engineering drones had made their way to the consensus monitor and facilitator, liberally dousing her with vinaigrette. However, it was only recently that the organic 'glue' had sufficiently degraded to allow jammer removal. Reassociation to the Whole (or at least the Whole as represented by Cube #238) had thence occurred without hitch.

The main focus of the immobile portion of the sub-collective, bolstered by the addition of Prime, was to crack the Garcon firewall and regain compromised cube systems. Just because there was an alliance in effect did not mean that the two sides were idle in attempting progress towards their respective long-range goals. Neither Borg nor Garcon were naive as to what would occur when (if) the Brainiacs threat was neutralized. The unraveling of a few security subprograms was a minor, and temporary, victory, the compromised sector quickly patched. However, what it had allowed was a flashbulb glimpse of full internal sensor data, including the location of Parrot at (relatively) nearby Interior Cargo Hold #4.

Interior Cargo Hold #4 was not an ideal battleground. Over half the floor of the huge volume was a maze of barrels, crates, and pallets: no matter how careful the loading and transportation process, cargo was always damaged, and it was one of the many duties of engineering hierarchy to sort, recover or repair (if possible), and repackage goods. The interior cargo hold was the current location of the salvage processing center. In addition to the scattered cargo, scaffolding was erected against one wall and portions of two others, denoting the never-ending routine of painting and sub-bulkhead maintenance in effect prior to the Garcon invasion.

The Brainiac, when sighted, was amongst the cargo, a trail of mauled boxes, overturned drums, and rent pallets in his wake. Powders and liquids were the focus item for self-experimentation. Engineer had not been amused at the mess. Making the best of a substandard situation, 18 of 150 had deployed himself and his team.

The Borg had faired as well as when the Garcon had attempted to subdue Maude. The fact that tactical units sported large amounts of armor was the sole reason terminations had not occurred despite the tremendous battering of bodies.

Several darts and at least one G'floo! grenade had scored direct hits upon Parrot. Unfortunately, the Brainiac had not reacted to the doses, except to become extraordinarily irritable. All the drones were apparently large, colorful, and evil birds in his estimation; and that it was his duty to rid the universe of the cracker-obsessed menaces. Even unconsciousness, and the non-thinking state it implied, was not enough to escape Parrot's attentions.

Upon the scaffolding, 75 of 150 made a clumsy dive at the last bottle of concentrated G'floo! formulation, and missed. The thump of heavy body hitting flimsy catwalk was sufficient to send the bottle tumbling over the edge. It did not matter that the container was shatterproof. By the time it hit the deck and bounced, all contents had been lost out the open top.

"Sh**," said 18 of 150, both aloud and broadcast upon the intranets. {Enough is enough. Terminate it.} The temporary head of the weapons hierarchy had never really been enthused about the whole capture idea, particularly not when it was a strategy ultimately spawned from the brain of a six-limbed, two-tailed squirrel.

The tactical contingent was never provided the chance to unleash a single disruptor. With a *ping*, 18 of 150 and his comrades were scattered to the far reaches of Cube #238...and presumably further, for five units were no longer within the ken of the sub-collective.

Sprawled upon the floor on his back, 18 of 150 knew he remained upon the cube. Lacking a complete internal sensor net, it took over a minute to place himself. Shapes and sounds slowly resolved: shiny ropes swaying in a slight breeze, the slosh of water and quiet squeak of rubber against metal, half-seen metal sculptures casting spidery shadows. Cold. Minimal atmosphere. It was Sensors' home-built observation platform, perched on a partial deck high above the floor of Bulk Cargo Hold #3.

Without transporters, there was no way off the platform which did not involve plummeting to a painful death. 18 of 150 had effectively been removed from the game. The majority of the mobile tactical contingent had suffered a similar relocation fate. It was too difficult to form the concept that the Borg had lost...Borg did not 'lose' after all, and thusly it was programmed into all drones upon assimilation. It was much easier to say the Brainiac had (temporarily) won and not dwell too much on the specifics.

From the visual of the lone sensors drone peering into Interior Cargo Hold #4 from the relative safety of a hallway egress, Parrot had not returned to his search for the fictional booster. Instead, the Brainiac was screaming as he telekinetically peeled scaffolding from the wall and twisted it into pretzel shapes. The sub-collective calculated with 78.5% certainty that Parrot was in the initial stages of terminal meltdown; and that, given evidence of the destroyed raiding fleet and verbal depictions presented by Readi, there was a better than even chance a significant portion of the Lugger-class would be destroyed. The inbound Battle-class cube would be left with the task of salvaging cargo.

18 of 150 flailed an arm before finally making contact with a nearby whatchamacallit. He used its sturdy bulk to haul himself to his feet.

{It is a sub-millimeter vorticle discontinuity pre-analytic. It makes sure certain classes of bitty whirly sparkles do not create interference patterns in the output. Otherwise it might be too sparkly.} Sensors paused. {While you are up there, could you check the configuration of rubber duckies in tub #3a? I think they may have drifted out of alignment again.}

Ignoring the request, 18 of 150 found his balance, locked his joints, then turned inward to determine if there was any way to tactically salvage the situation given most of the mobile weapons drones contingent was no longer in a position to attack the Brainiac.

Then, abruptly, multiple datastreams, formerly either dry or a mere trickle, rose to torrent proportions. In reality, the volume of data represented a normal level of digital exchange in a healthy Cube #238, but the Garcon had choked the flow in the attempt to gain systems control. After such drought, the resumption of normalcy was almost too much.

Almost.

{Don't get used to it,} interjected Prime, projecting to all drones with an emphasized focus upon the scattered tacticals. {The threads are already slipping. But we do have enough temporary control to enact Plan 5c. Prepare for initiation.}

Plan 5c was a last-ditch-final-if-all-else-fails ploy. It required sufficient control of transporters and internal sensors to transfer as many mobile drones as possible, regardless of hierarchy, into the species #8951 encampment. Imperfect sub-collectives were normally not allowed to perform mass assimilations, but exceptions could be made. The current situation fell into such a category; and that such an action would break the existing alliance was irrelevant. An estimated minimum of ten drones were required for success. The units were predicted to survive long enough to assimilate an adequate number of Garcon such that when the Borg invaders were inevitably terminated, the new drones would be sufficiently connected to the Whole to continue the assault. Overall casualties would be high, but in the end between 300 and 350 new drones would be available as fodder to deploy against the Brainiac and, most importantly, the command module would be disabled, allowing resumption of full cube systems control.

18 of 150 charged his disruptor limb and checked status of the artificial glands in his whole left hand where assimilatory nanites resided. Although all drones could assimilate foes, Weapons' tactical scenarios tended to focus upon other aspects of combat. 18 of 150 had never actually assimilated a living being; and, in fact, had never deployed assimilation tubules against an opponent except for a very few of the digital or holographic variety. Of course, there was no guarantee he would be whisked to the fray - individual drones could remain in sensor blackout zones, disallowing transporter lock-on - but he would be ready.

{Initiate.}

The familiar tingle of a transporter prickled 18 of 150's skin and insides. When he rematerialized and his vision firmed, the ersatz head of the weapons hierarchy found himself in a room with severely slanted floor. Surrounding him were a gaggle of panicking and unarmed Garcon, tails lashing as individuals trod on their neighbors in the rush to escape. Rank sashes and intricate vests filled with the species #8951 equivalent of pocket protectors and slide rules proclaimed 18 of 150 had hit the egg-head jackpot. To take out these technicians, be it by nanites or disruptors, would more than likely go a long ways towards securing the command module. An assimilation unit - 17 of 32 - who had materialized in front of the only obvious egress was already moving forward aggressively.

18 of 150 stumbled against a bench modified to provide its user a level perch despite the slanting deck, blinked twice as he surveyed the furry chaos, then froze.

Squirrels! 18 of 150 was in the middle of one of his personal nightmares...only it was worse than anything previously conceived. The teeth, the ears, the furry pelts, it was like the misunderstanding as a trader's apprentice so long ago, but multiplied many-fold. Or the time as a young child when an older sibling had sprayed a pheromone on his clothes, then took him to the park during the frantic food gathering days of pre-hibernation. Or the social event where he had been pelted with plush squirrels amid the chaos of flashing lights, mirrored decorations, and loud music. Why had post-assimilation mental reformatting retained all those memories, even polishing them to crystal clarity, while expunging other, more pleasant recollections?

The answer to the rhetorical question was irrelevant. All which was important was that 18 of 150 was drowned by sciurophobia. 17 of 32 had managed to close the exit, locking all soon-to-be victims within while simultaneously providing a few extra minutes of resistance when soldiers inevitably tried to force the door. In response, the technicians were bumping into 18 of 150, even using him as a springboard as each scrambled to stay away from the assimilation unit. Two Garcon were already on the ground behind 17 of 32, discarded to their nanite fate.

Finally, as a tail whipped across his face, a few stray hairs flying up his nose, 18 of 150 could stand it no longer. He screamed, both within the intranet and aloud: "AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

17 of 32 stumbled, then fell, his already precarious balance upon the slanted deck taken from him. The terrified species #8951 suddenly no longer registered as targets to assimilate, but as nightmarish devil-creatures impervious to attack.

Somewhere far, far away, Prime, along with the bulk of command and control an assimilation hierarchies, scrambled to deal with the consequences of 18 of 150's psychological implosion. The sixteen drones who had been transported to the Primary Core to enact Plan 5c had been infected by a debilitating case of sciurophobia. Freezing in place, blubbering for a blanket, shrieking, running blindly into obstacles, none of the emergent behaviors were ones that would foster success. One drone of species #6970 stock - Sphinxian - had caught sight of herself in a mirrored surface; and while she no longer bore much resemblance to her ferret-like race, and nor was that species particularly squirrelish, the drone was nonetheless lurching in a circle as she tried to run away from herself.

As if the situation could not get much worse, an uninvited party crasher was making his way to the Primary Core. The sensor drone who had been left in place to observe Parrot's developing mental temper tantrum was reporting the Brainiac to be on the move. The reason was unimportant, and likely understandable only to Parrot and his symbiont; and while there was no direct route between Interior Cargo Hold #4 and the heart of Cube #238, such was no deterrent. It was Extreme Ship Makeover - Insane Entity Version(tm). The sensor drone may have been left behind, but cube diagnostics were quite adequate to follow the trail of destruction as the Brainiac created his own path.

{Er, um, I hate to bring this up during this so non-sparkly time, but three vessels are incoming. Species #8951 signature. They will be dropping out of warp any moment, right on top of us. I/we really should have seen them earlier - most external sensors are perfectly functional - but there were, er, distractions,} interposed Sensors into the chaos. {Oh, and there they are.}

Off of Cube #238's face #4, a trio of Garcon ships exited warp. The module configuration was heavy to cargo and personnel transport, giving the vessels the vague resemblance of squashed millipedes. Warp nacelles stuck out from the central spine like under-engineered afterthoughts. One of the small fleet trailed a distinct atmosphere leak, while another sported a smoldering plasma fire at the juncture of two cargo modules.

With shield and weaponry commands still blocked - what little control had been temporarily regained to enact Plan 5c was lost once more - Cube #238 was helpless to protest the arrival.

"Hello? Anyone there? The big-heads at Central reported their pet Brainiacs received a yelp for help from your G'floo! juicers. We were the nearest ships. What the hell happened? Sensors show a command module inside that there huge cube and, er, nothing else. Central is gonna be pissed you lost your ships, but....quite a fish you have on the hook! Big'un!" 18 of 150 turned his head slightly to the right and focused upon a console. It was all the motion he could force from his frozen body. The board was slaved to the communication system, allowing a user to listen to incoming and outgoing exchanges. The distraction of eavesdropping was preferable to contemplating the implications of being in a room full of mutant squirrels, particularly given command and control had moments earlier forcefully narrowed 18 of 150's neural transceiver bandwidth to carrier wave status in a bid to recover phobia-infected units and resume the assault.

A gruff and strained voice answered the hail. "Shut up! This is no time for idiocy! We have Borg attacking us - not Color, but Collective Borg - and somewhere on this barge there is at least one Brainiac on the verge of meltdown, assuming it isn't already happening! Look at your damn sensors! Talk to your Brainiac wranglers! And do something about it! Preferably get us, or just me, the hell out of here!"

Silence stretched for several minutes, during which time 17 of 32 recovered both physical and mental balance and began anew the stalk of his quarry. To add a heightened sense of urgency to the situation, the door to the room had begun to ring with the rhythmic boom of a battering ram. It was only a manner of time before ram was abandoned for plasma torches. Through it all, 18 of 150 remained paralyzed, a large portion of his mind either gibbering or worryingly silent. Finally the voice resumed speaking, former jauntiness substituted for a more sober tone. 18 of 150's attention was recaptured.

"You have a class-IV meltdown in progress, the foci point of which is heading in your direction. Quickly. As you appear to be sitting next to a very energetic power source, when the juicer finally implodes, it's going to be a very big fireworks display. And you will be in the middle of it." Pause. "On a related note, there is a Borg signature at the edge of our sensor envelope. Not as big as this bastard, but big enough. It'll be here in a couple of hours."

"Joy. So even if the Brainiac was not approaching to blow up on us, or there was no Borg assault to repel, then we would still be screwed. Get us the hell out of here!"

"Er, were you able to collect any goods to sell to support the glory of light which is our Emperor?"

A withering response followed several heartbeats of silence, "What do you think?"

The comm-board's speakers sizzled with a static-laden sigh. "The Emperor, may he guide us for a thousand years, won't be happy. All of you, from soldiers to Prime Admiral, will be demoted in caste. The expedition will be called a failure."

"But we will still be alive, and without nanies zippin' around our insides. Once again, get us the hell away from here! Now!"

"Fine, fine. If you insist. The tech-brains and big-heads are telling me that the Brainiac will need to be neutralized first: it is close enough to your position to interfere with transporters."

The trapped Garcon, having retreated as far away, and uphill, from 17 of 32 as possible had calmed slightly and regrouped. A bench, hastily torn from the deck, was rolled at the assimilation drone. It barely missed knocking 18 of 150 off his feet; and while 17 of 32 was struck a glancing blow, he did not fall. The already assimilated Garcon, staring dully at sights only they could see as internal voices urged them to their feet via their newly established linkage to the sub-collective Whole, were not so lucky. All tumbled down to land against a door now ominously quiet except for the near subliminal hiss of a cutting torch.

"Whatever," responded the raider speaker, "just do it fast! There is at least one Borg incursion in the module itself, not to mention those outside. I've reports of over a dozen assimilations already!"

Awkwardly climbing against the slant in the deck, 17 of 32 drew abreast with 18 of 150. Another seat bounced past, but missed both drones. Once again, the newly assimilated pair were unlucky. The chair was followed by a flurry hand-thrown projectiles consisting of half-finished juice boxes and electronic tablets. While these items hit their targets, they also failed to stop the one-Borg advance. Blinking fruit-scented liquid from his eye, 17 of 32 hissed surreptitiously to 18 of 150, "I've been told to tell you to stop with the squirrel stuff already. A small bit of mental stability would go a long ways towards settling those you affected. Me included."

A wave of small, round objects came cascading down the floor. If did not matter if they were ball-bearings, or gumballs, or something else. What did matter was that 17 of 32 stepped squarely upon the things, fell to the deck, and ungracefully tumbled back to the bottom of the room where the door was actively spitting sparks from a cutting device.

Unfortunately, 18 of 150 could not 'stop with the squirrel stuff'. Every time he cast thoughts away from the comm-board chatter, the only thing he could fixate on was the furry nightmare in which he was trapped.

A dull boom rang the command module superstructure. Lights flickered. The Garcon technicians moaned in dismay and fear; and one lost his balance, sliding with a screech past 18 of 150 and towards the awaiting presence of 17 of 32. The comm-board connection filled with static before clearing.

"The Brainiac has made it to the camp...I suggest you do something now!" was shouted. "Things are being torn apart and it is only a matter of time before that frickin' huge power generator or whatever thing in the middle of the room is targeted. The Brainiac really wants to talk to its handlers, but, well, Strike Leader Readi isn't really right in the head anymore and most of the rest of 'em seem to be locked in a room with our Borg attackers. Probably all gone by now...and even if'n they weren't, I don't really think our boy out there is really in any mood to talk, if you know what I mean. Tear 'em apart, maybe, but not chit-chat."

The module shook again, this time including an odd motion suggesting it had actually shifted.

"This is all your fault!" hollered 17 of 32, holding tight to a struggling Garcon who did not know that his fate was already decided. For the imperfectly assimilated to speak in such a manner in front of nonBorg was prohibited, but the drone obviously did not care. "I knew I would terminate one day, but my list of 'how' never included 'crushed in a badly made tin can by a G'floo! addict hallucinating giant parrots'! I thought there would at least be hatstands involved!"

Obviously it was quite exciting in the Primary Core, not that 18 of 150 could see given lack of access to individual unit sensory feeds.

An earth temblor struck the Garcon command module, followed by a spat of boulders. Or, at least, that was the impression. The room listed; and it was only because he was thrown in such a way as to become trapped between comm-board and bench that 18 of 150 did not join 17 of 32. The techs were not so lucky, and several slid past, scrabbling futilely for hand- and foot-holds the entire way. At some point in the chaos the plasma cutter had disengaged, leaving behind a black line traced a third of the way around the door.

And then, with a final, tooth-shattering *bang*, the shipquake ceased.

Reported a strained and tinny voice, "The rogue Brainiac is secured. One of our G'floo!-brains is now in the midst of symbiont rejection, and another is comatose, but the meltdown is averted. The rogue has been transported to the fleet lead to be secured. I-"

"I don't care for the entire report, you big-brain! Put your admiral back on so the grown-ups can talk!" There was a pause as speakers shuffled. "You ready to grab us? Most of the portable forcefields are smashed, and it'll only be a matter of time before more Borg attack. And then there is that other Borg ship you say is incoming."

"It is," was the reply, "and it has sped up. Or so the nav-boys tell me. We don't really have good enough sensors to look too deep into subspace where the Borgs do their hypertranswarp-thing. It is all guesswork, really."

"But...?"

"But we can get you. Are you sure you don't have anything Borgy to bring back for the glory, and treasury, of the Emperor, may he-"

"No," was the interruption. "Just transport us, but try to avoid anyone who might be assimilated. It's not like soldiers or techs or such are that important, not when there are so many hopeful replacements waiting at home. Let the Borg have 'em."

"I agree. It'll be a couple of minutes to get everyone."

"As long as I and the big-brass staff are first, I do not care. Oh, and if you can pick out First Striker Readi's signature, leave him too. He's just too creepy to save."

The comm-board flickered, then went silent. A wisp of smoke and the acrid smell of burnt metal suggested the module's abuse had finally caught up to board electronics.

The digestion of what had transpired would have to wait. A muffled swear word was the only announcement 18 of 150 was given before a mutant squirrel centaur spun into his niche. Much screaming ensued. Most of it included a Borg vocal reverberation. It was only when he was smacked across the back of the head with all the augmented strength available to a Borg drone that 18 of 150 returned to himself. The Garcon were gone.

"What a useless weapons hierarchy head you are, at least when it comes to anything that belongs in a park begging for nuts and bread," huffed 17 of 32. "Well, get over it quickly. Prime and Reserve and the rest of command and control require your full connectivity to wrangle the weapons hierarchy, but only if you refrain from giving the rest of us your stupid phobia."

18 of 150 spoke a verbal acknowledgement, then began to breath deeply and think happy, non-squirrel thoughts. Regrettably, it was going to be awhile.

{What did I miss?} were Weapons' first words when he was released by assimilation hierarchy into the general dataspaces upon gaining a bill of mental health. The time spent disconnected from the Whole due to the jammer had not pushed his stability beyond the bounds of 'normal', as considered by those with imperfect assimilation status.

18 of 150, who had been using a cutting torch to free engineering drones tagged too important to cube recovery to wait until vinaigrette had finished degrading species #8951's biological glue, paused. The query was directed specifically to him. 18 of 150 immediately relinquished temporary command of the weapons hierarchy without waiting to be prompted.

Over six hours had come and gone since the Garcon had fled, leaving behind command module, twenty-seven newly assimilated drones, and a gigantic mess. The inbound Battle-class cube, when it had arrived, had barely paused to acquire a sensor spoor before chasing after the fleeing raiders: Lugger-class Cube #238 had adequate resources to make repairs to limp to the next port-of-call, and, thus, it was of greater importance to give chase to show the universe that mistaking a Borg vessel for prey was Not Allowed. It was all to maintain appropriate Collective public relations. To capture additional Brainiacs and their technicians was also desirable, particularly given that the raid had elevated the species #8951 threat level high enough to warrant complete assimilation in the very near future. Preferably before the danger represented by the Infree-symbiont spread beyond the Garcon. It was the post-raid mess Cube #238 was now dealing with, including the tunnel of destruction between Interior Cargo Hold #4 and Primary Core; and for that, engineering drones were required, hence the busywork with the cutter, a chore a tactical unit would normally not be assigned.

{Lots of things,} replied 18 of 150. He wasn't being evasive, not really, but sincerely did not wish to dwell too much on a past that included squirrel-like entities. There was always the potential of triggering another...episode. {I suggest 160 of 185. She has been compiling the events into a multimedia, multi-point-of-view extravaganza for the permanent archives.}

Radiating puzzlement at 18 of 150's less-than-forthrightness, but unwilling to take the time to dig too deeply into the other drone's memes, Weapons, fully restored to hierarchy head, turned his attention towards 160 of 185.

18 of 150 returned focus to the next required cut, positioned in a delicate location adjacent a limb assembly joint. The trapped drone was scrutinizing the process closely and offering less than helpful advice as well as admonishments to speed up. Then he was interrupted again, this time by Assimilation.

{Your designation has been added to our roster,} said the head of the assimilation hierarchy, {for mental readjustment. You will report to Assimilation Workshop #6 following conclusion of your next regeneration cycle. The sciurophobia is a handicap not only to yourself, but to others if you are ever again placed in a position where you might become an infectious vector. Unacceptable. Therefore, seeing how Doctor's re-education of 56 of 370's claustrophobia appears to be working, mostly, we will be attempting aversion therapy. Standard procedures, like cutting and rewiring neurological connections, tend to work poorly for the imperfectly assimilated, so we might as well try something different.} The pause included the suggestion of a shrug.

{As an outline of what to expect, the first several cycles will include a supply closet full of plush squirrels. You will, of course, be bound to a gurney; and the walls will be soundproofed to prevent anyone nearby from being bothered by your screams. It is still under debate if you will be fully, or only mostly, disconnected from the sub-collective during this initial portion of the therapy. Regardless, once you have learned to accept stuffed squirrel toys, we will next move on to....}

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