Stalking the plains like a grand lion is Star Trek, held upon the thinnest of leads by Paramount. Elsewhere, Decker's Star Traks sneaks through the alleyways and makes unnecessary noise. Meanwhile, Meneks' BorgSpace stares through the window at small birds, but otherwise cannot be bothered.

The Day the Cube Stood Still

{I don't like it,} muttered Prime stubbornly.

Said Reserve, {Liking is irrelevant.}

Reiterated Prime after a few moments of silence, {Preferences may be irrelevant, but I still do not like it. Is there no other way?}

{There are always other ways. The question is: are those other ways any better than this way?} The sub-collective of Lugger-class Cube #238 was arguing amongst itself; and the position advocated by its consensus monitor and facilitator was losing.

Prime stood in the middle of the virtual holotheater symbolizing her visualization of the dataspaces. With her were the avatars of Reserve, Engineer, and Sensors, the primary designations taking part in the discussion. Such was not to say that the remainder of the sub-collective was oblivious to the exchange; in fact, Prime's theater periphery was alive with flickering semi-shadows, numbers in constant fluctuation as attention of individual units ebbed and flowed. The named drones, however, represented the hub around which the seed for consensus was being built.

Consensus. Not agreement. Not dictatorship. Even a primary consensus monitor and facilitator could be overruled if the majority agreed that logical calculations favored one action over another.

At the center of Prime's construct was a simple wooden table; and upon that table lay a map. To be precise, it was a file within the vast navigational archives maintained by the sensory hierarchy, but to Prime's dataspace eyes it was rendered as a mariners' chart, as might be found upon an ancient sailing vessel. Unlike those static sheets of paper and ink and fancifully drawn sea monsters guarding the edge of the known world, this one was a real-time depiction of the galactic volume surrounding Cube #238 to a distance of fifty light years. Contrary to its flat appearance, the map encompassed full dimensionality of height, length, and breadth. The cube itself was a line vector traveling hypertranswarp speeds, one end pointing towards....

{The "conduit" is from a species #6766 starchart. A Bug map. Does it even exist?} questioned Prime.

{Scan sweeps have confirmed existence,} murmured Sensors. She quieted as Prime glanced in her direction.

Cube #238 had recently left its second port-of-call, Manufactory Nexus #201. At the location, the cube had off-loaded part of its load - primarily those items acquired at Research Platform #579, as well as most of the contents of Bulk Cargo Hold #1. In return, both Interior Cargo Hold #2 and Bulk Cargo Hold #6, the latter converted to stack configuration, had been completely filled with materials to be delivered to later ports.

Imagine a warehouse, a large box. Expand that volume until it is just under 3.8 kilometers long and wide...and tall. That equates a lot of wasted space, assuming only the floor is used to store widgets. However, by subdividing the overhead, by installing temporary decking every three meters, a warehouse with over 1200 stories and 17,000 square kilometers of floor space (including partial and full decks - subsection 14 intrudes into part of a Bulk Cargo Hold's volume) is the result. At first such a number is meaningless, until one realizes that it approaches the land area of New Jersey or Massachusetts, member states of the long defunct Terran country of the United States of America.

That is a very big warehouse to accommodate an awful lot of widgets.

Or, in this case, a great amount of product from Manufactory Nexus #201.

In truth, many of the goods were intermediaries - chemicals, metals, alloys, gasses, and similar - fabricated from precursors and fated to undergo further refinement elsewhere. A Manufactory Nexus was an enormous structure with many mobile parts, tasked to harvest the bounty of the galaxy. In this case, the nexus was slowly, inexorably, dismantling a gas giant and its moons, a motherlode rich with exotic ores and trace elements. At its current rate of consumption, the planet (and its mini-system) would be reduced to nothing in less than two centuries.

Of special interest within Bulk Cargo Hold #6 of the Lugger-class cube was several million liters of a substance labeled on the manifest as Organic Precursor #4.

Organic Precursor #4. The name was dry, boring; and a search through Borg datafiles would uncover the scaffolding of an extraordinarily complex organic chemical. It was a very important compound, vital in the composition of a class of exotic plastics. It was also, unfortunately, instable: Organic Precursor #4, if not stored within a precisely tuned electromagnetic field, would decay to a useless goo. While the equipment for proper storage necessitated power in excess of that able to be provided by transport vessels, 30.7 cycles outside the field was required before manifestation of instability.

Return to the map. Cube #238 was scheduled to dock at its next port in 25.4 cycles, well within the tolerance of its time-dependent cargo. Theoretically, the off-load point was closer than 25.4 cycles, assuming one measured straight-line between Point A and Point B. The difficulty in taking the shortest route was the intervening space. On Borg charts the region was labeled Spatial Anomaly #141; and while the cartographers of other civilizations had bestowed the region a large, and less numerical, variety of names, one of the most descriptive was Treacle Zone.

Within the Treacle Zone, navigation of space-time was...erratic, at best. Passage was not unsafe, but it was inconsistent. 'Thin' spots in the warp and woof of the universe, not-quite fractures, transient distortions, all these factors combined to render FTL technologies unpredictable. Passage through Spatial Anomaly #141 could be uneventful, but more often than not a vessel would be caught in one of the 'slow' zones, stuck like an insect in amber (or treacle). Perhaps the effect would dissipate, or perhaps not. The Collective had identified several thousand derelict vessels floating within the anomaly, crew presumed long dead; and even Xenig avoided the area. The origination of the Treacle Zone was unknown, but information assimilated by the Collective favored a hypothesis whereupon it was the fossilized space-time remnant of an industrial accident that had occurred at least a quarter galactic revolution prior.

Several corridors through Spatial Anomaly #141 existed; and it was towards one Cube #238 was currently routed. The operative word was 'currently'. From Prime's point of view it was still possible to return to the original course. Sensors, her hierarchy tasked to search for short-cuts by which the sub-collective might make up time thus far lost this duty cycle, had tagged a prospect within the Borg stellar catalogue. The timestamp for data acquisition was 67 Cycles prior, and at first one might wonder why the Greater Consciousness had not explored the possibility of shortening transit time between ports. However, as soon as one noted the origin of the data to be from species #6766, much became clear. Or unclear, as was more likely the case.

It was no wonder the corridor had been ignored by the Greater Consciousness.

{Still,} persisted Prime, {it is a Bug map.} The protests were a bit too vehement to be attributable to simply arguing a sub-collective point-of-view. This was personal.

The chart on the Prime's virtual table gained an overlay. Burrowing through Spatial Anomaly #141 at a narrow pinch point was a tunnel. Although exact dimensions were unclear, the path averaged several thousand kilometers wide and remaining within its bounds was a nonissue. The corridor intersected a star system at its midpoint.

Several glyphs accompanied the overlay. Mirroring its spoken language, species #6766 writing was a gestalt. Concept was superimposed atop of concept; and in the most extreme cases, one 'word' might require several pages of exposition by a non-Bug language to capture meaning. Unsurprisingly, single syllable poetry was a popular art form among species #6766, although one not exportable to the general galactic populace. While the chart glyphs did not approach the intricacy of even the most minor of Bug poets, it nonetheless was sufficiently complex to confuse universal translators.

Prime highlighted a trio of symbols. They rose into the air above table and map, acquiring three-dimensionality as they were set to slowly rotate. The Flarn gestured at the first of the translucent blue glyphs. {This one has a known meaning: warning, fourth degree. There is danger to the passage, although not enough to affect integrity of vessel or crew.}

Countered Reserve, {So what?} A succession of starcharts, hybridized versions of Borg and species #6766, temporarily obscurred the tabletop. All included the same warning sign. The maps faded. {Species #6766 cartographers employ that sigil in many places. The perpetual traffic jam of Cardonis III has been given a "warning, fourth degree". Several eateries of dubious quality are similarly marked.}

Forging forward, Prime moved to the next gestalt word, this one very simple, the base character almost unadorned. {Warp only.}

{That would be in agreement with initial deep subspace scans. We are too distant for a Lugger-class grid to directly sample the tunnel region, but my hierarchy has extrapolated gradients from data thus far acquired,} said Sensors.

Overhead, the sensory datastream resolved into a colored map representing minute differences in subspace density. The deeper one delved into subspace, the faster the real-universe velocities achieved. Unfortunately, caveats relating to power-to-mass ratio required for acceleration meant that a behemoth such as a Lugger-class cube would always be slower than an Exploratory-class with its (relatively speaking) oversized engines. Because information and data were without mass, they could be tunneled to the subspace abyss, allowing near instantaneous FTL communication between most locales in the Milky Way galaxy. As Prime, as the sub-collective, browsed Sensors' data analysis, it was noted that as the region near the tunnel mouth was approached, deep subspace became progressively denser, and that density began to creep upward into the 'higher' layers. Dense subspace was not easily traversed due to an exponential escalation in energy requirements. It would be like swimming through, um, treacle.

Continued Sensors, {Hypertranswarp is unavailable. Warp layers remain transparent, however. The passage would be warp-only, just like the symbol indicates.}

{You have more to divulge,} said Prime darkly. The number of presences in the shadow-audience increased as the sub-collective's attention sharpened.

{With full certainty we will lose all FTL communication, including our link to the Collective, for the duration of the passage,} admitted Sensors.

That was a problem. Not terminal - the imperfect sub-collective could function without a connection to the Greater Consciousness - but it still raised questions concerning prudence of attempting an unexplored route when other options existed. In the scenario that difficulties arose, a decision deemed sensible by a lone Cube #238 might be vastly different than that made with the moderating, if distant, influence of the Whole. Such supposition was not hypothesis, but sub-collective experience.

Prime dispatched a wordless ping towards Engineer for input by his hierarchy.

{Given 'r current loadin', maximum speed it'll be warp 8, 'r thereaboots,} replied Engineer. The warp nacelle configuration of a Lugger-class was substantially different than other Borg ship types. Although nacelles remained located under edges, they did not fully span corner to corner: such a configuration, including the plasma required, would necessitate a prohibitive amount of energy to maintain. Instead, 500 meter long nacelle segments radiated outward from each corner (for a total of 24 segments), paltry when considered on the scale of a Lugger-class, but sufficient to push the vessel along when hypertranswarp was unavailable. {A' tha' speed, we'll still clear the tunnel in 15.3 cycles. Plenty o' time f'r delivery o' the number four goo. Even takin' in account unloadin' 'n' loading' operations at 'r destination, we'll cuum oot ahead an estimated 13 cycles by the time we leave f'r the next port. We'll still be behind, but not nearly as behind.}

Recovering time translated into a strong recommendation to use the Bug pathway. That left the final glyph, a confusing abstract of curlicues, arcs, and jagged lines. To make matters worse, it linked to a secondary file attached to the species #6766 starchart. The file was best described as a giant multi-dimensional spreadsheet, a matrix which included elements of time, spatial coordinates, and incomprehensible Bug language, all encompassed by a healthy dollop of chaos theory. For a species #6766 mariner, it was probably perfectly obvious. However, Cube #238 did not number that species among its roster; and even if it had, chances were very high that the universal translator would render even the most helpful Bug into a verbal mishmash of [coffee] and [furballs].

Prime brought the final symbol forward, raising it to primary consideration within the sub-collective awareness. {Partition #1a - report,} she ordered, invoking the small collection of drones whom had either been linguists or had pursued language-oriented hobbies prior to their assimilation. The partition had been researching possible meanings of the glyph: while individual elements had known translations, the juxtaposition of those meanings was novel to the Borg databases.

7 of 53 stepped forward from the ring of shadow presences, his avatar gaining substantiality. As speaker for Partition #1a, it was his task to disseminate what had been learned. {The glyph has three bases,} he said. The symbol was exploded to reveal a trio of simplified scribblings. {One is time, the second is waves-striking-the-shore, and the third a generalized moon. The third element appears to modify the second, which in turn amends the first. Unfortunately, there are some odd sub-linkages and additional second- and third-level gestalt transformations which may or may not adjust the overall meaning; and the [Herm]-factor, always problematic, has been invoked as well.} He paused as it became clear Prime did not desire a scholarly lecture, but rather the final result. 7 of 53 hastily edited himself. {We think the best translation is "ebb-time". What that actually means, we have no clue.}

{Joy,} sighed Prime. {That could be the name of the cartographer, passage designation, or even a doodle.} She paused as a thought, a notion, floated up from the sub-collective's subconscious. {Sensors, is there any indication of temporal anomalies to be coupled with the conduit? Time paradoxes can be so...messy.} As a Chief Engineer, Prime had disliked it when the scientists aboard her ship-charges had mucked around with time; and she still distrusted anything which affected the orderly flow of tau.

Sensors' response was interpreted as a shrug. {Inconclusive. The Treacle Zone, er, Spatial Anomaly #141 is already known to display minor temporal irregularities. It is inherent with the phenomenon. However, all oddities thus far registered in datafile archives have been transient, likely not appreciably adding to the underlying, um, treacleness of subspace.} Pause. Eyes glazed as recent scans were examined. {Nope, nothing anomalous - no unexpected tachyon bursts, no unreal particle concentrations. Maybe when we are closer to the tunnel the grid will have better resolution.}

Prime dismissed 7 of 53, who faded as he returned to the ranks of the shadow audience. The three species #6766 glyphs vanished and the associated subfile was left closed. {Okay, everyone, our choices are as follows: one, take a Bug charted route with unknown, but probably minor, dangers in order to make up a few cycles; or, two, return to a safe and familiar route, which will get us to our destination, albeit without shortening our behind-schedule status. These are the /only/ choices seeding the decision tree, so do not try to insert additional options. The point of no return is upcoming, after which we will be committed. To backtrack to the original course will mean not arriving to our next port before the sell-by date on the Organic Precursor #4.} A consensus cascade was initiated.

The cascade concluded. Prime found herself within the minority.

{Traitor,} muttered Prime towards Reserve.

Reserve snorted. {The outcome was logical. We need to shorten our transit time between ports; and with our efficiency standard already at the lowest it has ever been, a few minor risks are necessary.}

{/Bugs/. Never trust a Bug. They want to be helpful, but it never seems to work out.}

{One cannot let a few instances in one's life dictate decisions for the whole. The purpose of a consensus cascade, after all, is to lessen the impact of an individual.}

{I still reserve the right of an "I told you so" if this all goes pear-shaped, as one of my long-ago Terran colleagues with a fondness for archaic idioms once said.}

The impression of eye rolling from Reserve was strong, even as his avatar remained motionless. {Fine. Whatever. Do your primary consensus duty and inform the Greater Consciousness of our course correction. Perhaps you'll get lucky and consensus will be overruled.}

{Luck is irrelevant,} muttered Prime. Glancing about her virtual environment, she banished audience and key crew and map table, switching her primary awareness to a new venue. The setting was simple, her bodiless self at the center of a black sphere, the multiple datathreads comprising the sub-collective's conscious and unconscious actions bright ribbons of light cutting through periphery darkness.

Prime widened the Collective link beyond its normal dimensions, then uploaded Cube #238's new course, as well as justification for the change and an ancillary notation that scans indicated the sub-collective would be severed from the Whole during the passage. The notification was standard operating procedure, vessel-based sub-collectives generally given a high degree of autonomy concerning course adjustments based upon local conditions. The Greater Consciousness digested the information for several seconds, then returned acknowledgment.

In addition to the approval, Cube #238 was tasked to assess the corridor for use by other Collective vessels. While an Exploratory-class cube would usually be assigned to such a duty, the unique qualities of the imperfectly assimilated meant an ability to continue functioning more or less as normal, even when separated from the Whole. A Lugger-class sensor grid was not the best survey tool, but it was adequate; and if Cube #238 did not emerge unscathed (or at all) at the other side, well, the cargo loss would be unfortunate, but well-adjusted drones would not have been sacrificed. Given success, any future utilization of the conduit by Collective resources would be by fully automated vessels, else with crews sent into deep regeneration for the crossing.

{We comply,} said Prime. The change in ribbon patterns to her non-eyes indicated commitment of the cube to its new course, as well as preparations to shift the sensor grid into survey configuration.

Reserve's voice intruded into Prime's consciousness, {Away we go.}

{I comply with the Will of the sub-collective and the Whole, but until and unless I am forced to undergo an attitude adjustment, I still continue not to like it.}

Sensors was stringing aluminum foil ropes in Bulk Cargo Hold #3. To be precise, she (and a number of assistants from her hierarchy) had erected half a deck in the otherwise empty hold, temporary plating and spars situated about three meters below the hull-side 'ceiling'. The enormous cargo bay doors, each just large enough to admit an Exploratory-class cube, remained clear to the possible loading, or ejecting, of material. It was upon that half-deck the complex webwork was growing.

At the initiation of each new duty cycle, Sensors, be she hierarchy head or just another rank-and-file designation, assembled her observatory. Requiring from several cycles to several weeks to build, dependent upon the duty requirements of herself and her helpers, the final product was a labyrinth of (mostly) aluminum foil ropes woven into a complex weave. There were usually embellishments in the form of wadded aluminum balls, copper rods, and metal clothes hangers, but they were for fine-tuning. And the purpose of the effort? To allow Sensors to scan for exotic minerals to add to her collection.

The observatory, both its building and operation, was tolerated by consensus monitors as long as it did not interfere with cargo or sensory hierarchy function. For the most part, its presence vastly decreased the likelihood that Sensors would hijack part or all of the grid to pursue her obsession. Trained as a geologist since birth, her fascination of minerals and ores had transferred to her imperfect Borg existence. In the interstitial space behind her alcove resided stacks of boxes subdivided into small wells four centimeters a side; and within those wells were rock specimens, each neatly labeled as to type and location acquired. As was unavoidable that the collection would be a casualty to the occasional cleansing ordered by a Greater Consciousness attempting to maintain the level of clutter about its imperfect sub-collective to a minimum, Sensors was forever trying to replace rare mineralogical treasures lost to replicator reclamation. Or acquire brand-new finds.

The use of aluminum foil in the effort, however, was dubious, at best.

Wherever both aluminum foil and broadcast television developed simultaneously within the same culture, it was inevitable that the former would be utilized to increase the reception of the latter. From such humble beginnings developed the mythos and pseudo-science of aluminum foil. Even in an enlightened era of hypertranswarp and galaxy-wide communication, designs for the perfect foil hat (preventing intrusion by government mind-control rays) persisted on the GalacWeb. Sensors had long-ago found blueprints for an observatory that 'focused on the unique quantum ether signature emitted by each rock species'.

And against all expectations, it actually seemed to work. Not that the Collective was contemplating redesign of its sensor grid anytime soon (or ever) to incorporate aluminum foil.

Sensors was pleased with her latest effort. The observatory she was building this duty cycle was the most elaborate to date. It included numerous modifications to the original design, efficiency-boosting alterations that Sensors had tried at one time or another during pervious duty cycles, but never all at once. For instance, who would have thought that the addition of a tub of rubber ducks at the secondary screen nexus would so greatly increase resolution of the polarized rho-kappa crystallization band? Especially in conjunction with the forty-seven clothes hangers at the primary zeta signal booster array? It was because of these changes that the observatory had taken so long to construct; and it was now nearly complete, the finishing touches being applied prior to Cube #238's entrance to the passageway.

Who knew what unique rocks might be encountered deep within a unexplored area of the Treacle Zone?

Suddenly, all work halted. To a drone Sensors and her crew paused, frozen with heads slightly tilted. The deepest subspace layers had become too dense to allow meaningful FTL communication, thusly severing the sub-collective's link to the Whole. The loss had been expected, but even so it required several long minutes for the sub-collective to realign itself, for command and control to ensure the majority of units would remain functioning at an acceptable level. Then, as abruptly as it had ceased, motion resumed.

Ten minutes later, Cube #238 downshifted to normal space from hypertranswarp. After Sensors confirmed that the grid was reporting nothing anomalous and higher subspace layers retained normal transparency, warp drive was initiated. The conduit proper through Spatial Anomaly #141 was entered.

A short time after and with great satisfaction, Sensors pronounced the observatory complete.

*Clack*clank*clank*clank*

The metronomic quality of Prime's footsteps as she jogged around her path was only one of the many sounds contributing to the ambience of the Primary Core. Underlying all was the deep thrum of the power plant, the three story structure which was the heart of Cube #238. Of course, there were the beeps and whirs and clangs for which there seemed to be neither reason nor origination, whose only purpose was to add an ominous atmosphere. Elevators occasionally whooshed drones between decks, transporter beams impractical for movement over such short distances. Somewhere on high (the Primary Core was seven stories) echoed the rhythmic banging of hammer against metal as divots were beaten out of paneling; and elsewhere a surprised yelp pierced the air as a careless limb brushed against a live wire.

Through it all moved engineering drones, trudging between tasks with efficiency and a seemingly robotic single-mindedness. That which would strike an outside observer the most was the silence: for all the noise of the Primary Core, the chatter of crew was not present. The drones were mute (yelp aside), be they interfacing with data columns or working side-by-side in a complicated dance to weld metal and fabricate devices. In reality, conversation was a constant, individual units engaged in a wide range of discussions, from task-related dialogues to discourses which had absolutely nothing to do with engineering. However, one had to have the ability to eavesdrop upon the local intranets to hear this particular counterpart to the Primary Core.

Prime was aware of her surroundings only peripherally. Her body was on autopilot, automatically tracking the yellow line which was both pathway and warning, as her mind leapt through the dataspaces with an agility unmatched by her physical self. As always, there were problems to deal with, cube processes to oversee, routine consensus to guide. Although there had been a slight uptick in the first category since the cube's severance from the Whole, no major incidents had occurred. Greater diligence on the part of command and control, backed by assimilation hierarchy, ensured minor issues did not grow out of proportion and that all units rewove their censor filters with each regeneration. Thus far, the trip through the conduit had been entirely non-momentous, even boring.

{131 of 160 and 10 of 32: what have you been told in the past?} roughly inquired Prime.

{But he touched me!} complained 10 of 32.

Protested 131 of 160, {I did no such thing. I have not been near you.}

{He touched me! When I was in regeneration! I have the camera footage to prove it! He deliberately touched me!}

{Did not.}

{Did too.}

{Did not.}

{Did too.}

{Did-}

Using an air horn equivalent, Prime broke the budding argument. Silence. {Don't make me visit each of you in person,} she warned. {Now, what have you been told? 10 of 32?}

{Looking at someone is not the same as touching them,} recited 10 of 32 dully.

Prime shifted her attention. {131 of 160? What have you been told?}

{To stop provoking 10 of 32.} Pause. {But-}

Prime sounded the air horn again. {I do not want to hear it. 10 of 32, you will shift your alcove to submatrix 9; and 131 of 160, you will shift your alcove to submatrix 19.} The specific locations highlighted remained in subsection 14, the only subsection with alcove facilities. {Additionally, you will each make certain that you will not come within line-of-sight of each other during your revised duty schedule. You are now temporarily assigned to engineering for the next month.} She placed a note each of their dossiers for their respective hierarchy heads and Engineer concerning the arrangement.

{But-} attempted 10 of 32.

Echoed 131 of 160, {But-}

{But /what/?} rumbled Prime.

131 of 160 was the first to complete his objection, {But there are no alcoves at those locations. And engineering will get my hands dirty and calloused. I'm drone maintenance.}

{Then I suggest you - both of you - better transport a spare one to the locale and wire it in. I also suggest you finish the job before you require regeneration, because your regular alcoves will not accept you until your temporary assignments are complete. As far as dirty hands...} Prime snorted. As an ex-engineer, grime had been just another aspect of the job. Even if the spectrum of emotions allowed to her as a drone had included sympathy, such would not have been directed at 131 of 160. {Get used to it.} Mental voice hardened. {Comply.}

Muted compliances were received.

Another minor issue dealt with. On to the next.

Cube #238 was making excellent time. The vessel had even been averaging a faster velocity - warp 8.2 - than originally expected due to slightly lesser-than-normal subspace density in the warp layers. The difference was not much, but it would allow the cube to spend an entire cycle within the midpoint star system performing scan surveys, instead of the two or three hours initially scheduled.

Despite the lack of complications thus far, Prime was still keeping her "I told you so" option open.

{Leaving warp,} announced Reserve to the sub-collective entire. {We have arrived at our midway destination. Ensure all tray tables and seats are in their upright and locked position. This is not a smoking break, so if you have them, you may not light them.}

Irrelevancies aside, the scene which greeted cube sensors was that of a normal star system. The few obvious discrepancies could be attributed to the surrounding medium of Spatial Anomaly #141.

The conduit at the midpoint locale ballooned into a bubble 150 AU across. Such was sufficient to encompass the system to its heliopause, the point where stellar winds were no longer strong enough to repel the galactic gales. Whereas most heliopause sheathes were shaped similar to the coma of a comet due to the pressure of the interstellar winds, this one was nearly spherical. The 'why' was unknown and, ultimately, irrelevant, for hypothesizing upon stellar phenomenon was not the mission of Cube #238. Larger questions would be for the Greater Consciousness to ruminate upon, or not, once survey data was uploaded.

Spectrum and elemental composition indicated the yellow dwarf anchoring the system to be the stellar equivalent of a young adult, a mere three billion years old. A mid-sized gas giant dominated the traditional life zone, its gravity ensuring all competitors had either been ejected or assimilated into its bulk early in the system's development. A second giant, a monster capped with blue-tinged clouds of methane and ammonia, was positioned well into the local Kuiper belt. Four terrestrials were also present - a half-molten world nearly skimming the plasma atmosphere of its parent star, and three worlds of ice and frozen desert plying the available orbits between their giant siblings. Other than the six planets, the standard assortment of asteroids and comet nuclei completed the system.

If life had developed on the worlds or their respective moons, it was not obvious to initial scans. Microbes were a distinct possibility; and Joves like the inner gas giant were known to occasionally spawn complex ecosystems, even sentience. However and unless life developed to the point of offering distinctive biological, technological, or cultural opportunities to exploit, it was of no interest to the Borg.

Cube #238 checked the "no biological" box in the survey form, then switched scanning protocols to assess the system for other utilizable qualities. A cycle would not be sufficient to fully characterize the potential of the system, but it would provide data to the Collective from which future decisions concerning passageway use would be made.

Locked in her alcove so as to best maintain an intimate connection to the computer, Sensors performed her duties as sensory hierarchy head. The sub-collective was not often tasked to perform initial surveys, most places a Lugger-class cube visited long charted. There was much to see, each sensor sweep returning new data to compile into a building whole. In short, Sensors (and her hierarchy) were having 'fun', or experiencing an approximate facsimile thereof; and, at the very least, there was the deep sense of satisfaction at being of use to the Collective.

Despite her personal enjoyment, Sensors was not neglecting her observatory, checking its buffer every fifteen minutes or so. The observatory was a passive system, listening to the cosmos beyond the hull. As such, it was limited, although Sensors had done her best to modify the original blueprints for maximal range. She was hopeful that it would catch the signature of an unusual ore or mineral; and, just maybe, she might have the opportunity to filch a rock via transporter beam to add to her collection. On this last she was not overly optimistic given the greater diligence of command and control to prevent undesirable behavior following loss of the Collective link, but one never knew.

There was a break in scanning as the grid shifted focus to the inner asteroid belt. Sensors took advantage of the pause to check the most recent data captured by her observatory. A reoccurring theme finally caught her attention, causing her to mentally blink in surprise.

Geologists divide their personal universe into four groups. The first category is not-a-rock, and importance of this information to the individual is highly dependent upon the situation. Rock type dominate the remaining three classes: (1) igneous (i.e., of volcanic origin); (2) sedimentary (i.e., particles deposited by erosional events or precipitated out of solution); or (3) metamorphic (i.e., formed through the transformative processes of heat and pressure, with the originator rock igneous, sedimentary, or another metamorph). The great majority of rocks were formed via a metamorphic pathway, and often included mineral ores and crystals.

Stellar geologists went one step further than their terrestrial counterparts, adding a host of extreme sub-classes to the metamorphic genre. For instance, there were the quantiads, rocks which had undergone transformation due to interaction with subspace or, more rarely, a quantum fissure. Given the proper environment, gravimorphs could be quite common, especially in the vicinity of black holes, neutron stars, and supernovas, all locales subject to massive gravitational fluctuation. Finally, there was the extraordinarily unusual and ever mysterious unobtanium, of which origination was hotly debated by astro-geologists and for which no real use had ever been found.

Among the rarest of the rare in the annuls of the geologic bestiary was the chroniatic sub-class, rock which have been subjected to sufficient temporal shear to display tau warping. It was a subtle variation, and much prized among collectors. If taken on a galactic scale, one could expect an average of 0.0001% of particles to show some degree of chroniaticism. However, as most of those particles were microscopic grains of dust, they were of no interest to a serious rockhound. To have chroniatic metamorph of a gram in weight would be a treasure; and the discovery of a fist-sized rock might be a once-in-a-century occurrence. However, here, in this system, Sensors' aluminum foil observatory was recording 100% chroniaticism. Every single particle had the signature of tau warping. Impossible. Something was seriously out of kilter with the observatory.

Sensors abruptly shifted the grid protocol for one face - troubleshooting the observatory, discovering the frequency causing the impossibility, would be a manner of seconds. The survey effort would not be greatly impact. A constellation of sparkles was the result, Sensors' datasenses reading nothing but chroniatic metamorphs. The filter was applied to a second face, then a third, and finally all six. Not possible! Everything in the system, as far as the grid could read, was displaying temporal shear.

The action did not go unnoticed by command and control hierarchy. {The survey has been interrupted. Explain,} demanded Prime. {And there better not be any rocks involved.}

{The...the ratio of chroniaticism is unprecedented,} breathed Sensors in awe. Even the planets - entire terrestrials and the hidden cores of the gas giants - were beacons of tau warping.

Prime was unimpressed, not understanding the forces necessary to cause the geologic impossibility. {So? Change the grid back to its former configuration and continue the survey. We have limited time.}

{Time....} Sensors mentally shook herself, then instructed body systems to inject a mild stimulant into her bloodstream. {There may be a problem. Chroniatic metamorphs occur when a rock is subjected to a very strong temporal flux, else a series of smaller fluxes over a long period. It is not unexpected to see one grain of dust in a hundred million to be impacted by temporal currents, but every single one? Additional scans are warranted.}

{Temporal flux?} queried Prime, her distaste of situations involving the tau vector imparting a distinct sour note to her intranet presence.

A ping demanded Sensors' attention. It was 76 of 185, urgency coloring the request for his hierarchy head to turn her primary focus upon him. {What?} asked Sensors, her tone more curt than usual.

{Y-y-you know th-th-the rep-port you w-w-want-ted?} 76 of 185 stuttered, both verbally and in the intranets.

Sensors' tone turned dark. {You were tasked to fine-tune our position in the galaxy using pulsars. We already know where the cube is located, but to increase that accuracy to hundreds, even tens, of kilometers from thousands is always desirable. It is a low-level report, and it can wait.}

{N-n-no. It can-not-t wait,} disagreed 76 of 185. {There is a p-p-p-problem.} The word was finally spat out. {I f-first thought th-the grid set-t-tings h-had af-fect-ted th-the ab-bility to res-solve pulsars-}

{Ridiculous,} muttered Sensors.

{-but-t I fin-nally f-f-found them. Th-they are not-t-t right. Not-t-t right at all.} Frustrated at his inability to convey the issue, 76 of 185 thrust a datathread at Sensors.

Sensors examined the file, then went {Oh-oh. Not good.}

{What is not good?} demanded Prime. Before the sensory data could be proffered, she acquired the thread for herself, then said, {Oh.} After a moment, and before the remainder of the sub-collective could fully absorb the new information and what it meant, Prime directed four simple words towards Reserve, {I told you so.}

Reserve did not reply.

Pulsars are the signposts of the cosmos, a natural global (galactic) positioning system. Each rapidly rotating neutron star 'pulses' a unique electromagnetic fingerprint at regular intervals. By calculating distances to multiple pulsars, it was possible for a vessel to very accurately determine its location via an advanced version of triangulation.

The pulsars 76 of 185 had selected to evaluate a revised location for Cube #238 were displaying odd behavior. Specifically, they were flashing too slow, with rotational speeds normally measured in the milliseconds decreased to a single revolution every several minutes. As it was exceedingly unlikely that every pulsar would spontaneously slow by the same factor, the only possible explanation was that the cube was caught in a temporal anomaly.

To the sub-collective, it seemed as if the greater universe was caught in molasses, even as subjective time continued apace. Conversely, an observer outside the phenomenon would find the actions of Cube #238 and its crew to be manic, as if a video toggled for extreme fast-forward.

How had this come to be? Temporal anomalies always emitted a tell-tale stew of particles. Cube #238's grid had recorded none of the warning signs; and it continued to insist nothing was wrong, evidence of a system of chroniatic metamorphs aside. The only answer, hypothesis bolstered by a poorly translated species #6766 glyph whereupon 'temporal tides' might have been a better rendition than 'ebb-time', was that the temporal phenomenon was episodic.

Continuing the nautical metaphor, Cube #238 had approached and entered the conduit at slack, or the still point between the tidal exchange. Time had not been in flux; and, so, there had been nothing to indicate the danger. A temporal current had thence initiated at some point once the cube had begun to traverse the Treacle Zone passageway. However, as the vessel was now embedded within the phenomenon's time frame, from the sensor grid point of view all retained normalcy. To realize that there was a problem, one had to be /outside/ the anomaly to observe it.

The sub-collective's first instinct, upon realization it was stuck within a temporal anomaly, was to abort the system survey and immediately return to warp. It was not panic - Borg do not panic...at least, not usually - but it was akin to a hasty retreat. Or, rather, hasty advance. As warp speeds appeared unaffected, there was no reason not to continue on the original course towards the next port. It was not prudent to remain in a system so universally impacted by temporal oddities, even if all seemed relatively benign at the moment.

Perhaps the phenomenon could be advantageous to Cube #238. Subjective transit time through the passage would constitute the initially estimated number of cycles. However, due to the differences in temporal flow inside and outside the anomaly, it would seem as if the cube had crossed much faster. Cube #238 would have made up a great deal of its previously lost time!

Despite the sub-collective's positive spin upon the situation, Prime, personally, remained ever distrustful of all things whereupon tau was twisted. She was also, as before, in the minority. {I continue to protest our course of action; and I also retain my-} she began.

{Yes, yes,} replied Reserve as he finalized preparations to leave the system at high warp, {you retain the right of "I told you so".}

Approximately one cycle after lumbering into warp, Cube #238 returned to the normal universe to confirm progress and check temporal dilation. Unfortunately, it immediately became clear that it would be a wee bit harder to escape the trap than it had been to become mired in it in the first place.

Cube #238 remained in the unnamed tau-impacted system. The vessel was balanced upon the heliopause at the point the corridor narrowed prior to resumption through Spatial Anomaly #141. While all programs associated with propulsion insisted that the cube should have been well along towards its destination, the grid provided evidence to the contrary.

Pulsar signposts continued to rotate abnormally slow, indicating the temporal anomaly to remain in effect.

The sub-collective contemplated its choices, then did as any good Borg would do: attempt to use overwhelming brute force as the solution. Cube #238 returned to warp.

Several hours later, the ship dropped out of warp and found itself precisely where it had begun. Sensor sweeps confirmed lack of movement: the few rocks and icy comet nuclei which inhabited the neighborhood were the same ones prior to the escape attempt.

A slower speed - warp 6 - was attempted. It did not work.

An abysmally sluggish warp 2 was tried. Nothing.

Engines were pushed to their maximum to achieve warp 8.5 and induce a threat to structural integrity. Nada.

The utilization of impulse engines at first seemed promising. As proof-of-concept that the cube was not literally stuck like a fly in amber, ten AU were traversed by impulse alone. Obviously, one could not expect to cross the entire corridor at such a slow speed, at least not if the sub-collective desired to exit the Treacle Zone before drones began to terminate from old age. Operating under the assumption that Cube #238 had successfully escaped whatever local phenomenon had been holding it in place, warp was initiated.

Three hours later, the cube was back to where it had begun, staring at rocks grown too familiar and the small distance gained now erased.

One of the primary faults of the Borg, be it original Collective or one of its Colored offshoots, is a propensity towards what some might call persistence, and others obstinacy. Such an attitude can be advantageous, as when exhaustively researching how silly-string or pet-fur-removal technology might be adapted for use by Whole. However, it can also lead to situations whereupon, like a dog with a well-chewed stick, a notion is not let go long after it is obvious to any external observer that it would be best to use another tack to approach the problem in question.

With barely a pause, a random warp setting was selected; and the cube once more tried to flee the system.

Sensors narrowed her whole eye as she tilted her head back to peer at the star-speckled darkness above. What she was searching for could not be perceived directly, not even by a sensory-specialized drone with the latest in ocular lenses. However, she had assistance both cube grid and her aluminum foil observatory.

Ah-ha! There it was! There was the rock!

Cube #238 has temporarily paused its attempt to leave the system. The various efforts, some more erratic than others, had finally, and inevitably, overwhelmed the inertial dampers. While the dampers on a Lugger-class were more robust than other Borg ship classes due to the necessity to protect sometimes delicate cargo from the strains of acceleration or deceleration, they were not flawless. Imperfectly assimilated Engineers both past and present had speculated (quietly, of course) about the Collective's difficulties in perfecting damper technology, but their conclusions were not pertinent at the moment. All that was important was that a partial failure had created a moderate mess amid the cargo holds, one which had to be set to right before Cube #238 could continue its endeavor.

Most crew had been drafted to aid engineering hierarchy, a not unfamiliar task given all units assisted during cargo on- and off-loading at ports-of-call. The exceptions were selected members of drone maintenance and all of sensory hierarchy. The former was necessary given the expectation of injury during cargo shifting proceedings, and the latter was standard operating procedure for continual monitoring of the cube's environ in potentially hostile surroundings.

It was during an upsurge in transporter use that Sensors had beamed herself to the hull above her observatory.

Unless a drone was upon a watchlist, individual units were rarely monitored as to locale. After all, if information upon a designation's physical location was needed, the computer could be queried. As long as Sensors continued to efficiently coordinate her hierarchy, and self-censor her 'public' thought streams, there would be nothing to draw attention to herself. Of course, if command and control became suspicious, her excursion would be cancelled, but that particular hierarchy was currently very busy ensuring the more volatile members of the crew remained on task whilst retaining a mental even keel.

Since discovering the bounty of chroniatic metamorphs present in the system, Sensors had been longing to add a rock - just a small one, mind you - to her collection of geologic specimens. Well aware of Sensors' history and what she might attempt to fulfill her personal obsession, elements of command and control had been watching her for misappropriate of cube resources...until now. Higher priorities beckoned than a rockhound.

Sensors had first observed her quarry-to-be shortly after it had become apparent that the cube was returning to (or never leaving) its locale on the edge of the heliopause. While rocky debris so far from the system primary were sparse, they were present. The sensory hierarchy had dutifully recorded the coordinates of each particle out to several million kilometers, from building-sized boulders to small pebbles on the edge of sensor resolution, standard operating procedure in the categorization of potential threats to cube integrity. One rock in particular had captured Sensors' fancy; and while she had subsequently built personal what-if scenarios within the depths of her mind, she had honestly not thought she would be given the chance to act upon any of them.

Wait for it...wait for it....

A surge in transporter use as numerous drones were moved to the next cargo disaster area on engineering's list was Sensors' cue. She quickly established a transporter lock of her own and reached forth into the darkness overhead.

For a moment it seemed as if the target's chroniaticism would make transport impossible, the rock in a slightly accelerated tau vector compared to that of the cube. Sensors attempted to compensate, internally wincing as the rarely used command sequences could be interpreted within the dataspaces as a light-flashing-and-cymbal-bashing extravaganza by roving command and control units. Finally the target materialized upon the hull. Sensors waited several long minutes, but there was no reaction to her transgression.

A pent up sigh was released...figuratively, of course, since the ex-geologist was standing upon the hull in vacuum. Attention was turned to the prize.

The asteroid was small by cosmic standards, a mere two meters long and a little less than a third that in height and width. In appearance it was roughly box-shaped with a rough exterior of gray speckled by a dark brown mineral. Standard-G weight was approximately 500 kilograms, moderately heavy, but not unusually so.

Despite the seeming disinterest by command and control, Sensors was unsure if the capture had been flagged for later examination. She could not even scan the appropriate logs, else risk triggering the very investigation she was trying to avoid. It would be best to wait for a more opportune time to select a specimen from the parent rock, preferably after the cube had escaped the temporal trap and the incident no longer held relevancy.

Besides, with a re-established link to the GalacWeb, she could show off her prize to the Galactic Rockhound Guild, a loose-knit community of professional and amateur geologists ever trying to one-up each other in the acquisition of exotic rocks, minerals, and gems. It was somewhat like an extreme birding club, except items on the lifelist tended to be a wee more sedentary, with the exception of a few unusual specimens.

At the next surge in transporter signatures, Sensors beamed to herself a can of vacuum cement. Liberally spraying the substance, Sensors secured the rock to the hull. Satisfied her trophy would not be lost no matter what gyrations the cube might undergo, the head of the sensory hierarchy left the hull and returned to her alcove.

Following the cargo fiasco, the sub-collective decided to pursue a more methodical approach to escape.

Beginning with warp 1, engines were engaged for approximately two minutes, then the ship returned to the Einsteinian universe to check for progress. If the cube remained at its start point, then warp 1.1 was tried, followed by warp 1.2, and so forth at tenth unit increments. Interference, a static white-noise that blurred readings, limited the usefulness of the sensor grid in assisting the effort. Therefore, the endeavor was a tedious undertaking, perhaps gaining no further improvement in the situation, but it was also more methodical than blindly selecting a warp factor. If no movement had occurred once the limit of the cube's warp engines had been reached, then both problem and possible solutions would be re-evaluated. Until then...

At warp 3.5, it was with great surprise that the sensor hierarchy announced the cube not where it had begun, that had actually moved into the conduit and away from the system. Satisfied a way out had finally been discovered, Cube #238 plunged back into warp. An hour later, progress in the real world was once again confirmed; and the sub-collective resigned itself to a less than speedy transverse of the passage.

{Bugger!} exclaimed Prime. She continued her intranet tirade, using much harsher, and more explicit, profanities. It had been several hours since verification of forward progress, and in a fit of paranoia, the most recent consensus cascade had collectively decided that additional confirmation was prudent. Greeting the sensor grid upon emergence from subspace had been an all too familiar scene.

{I do not believe that is anatomically possible for species #6251,} noted Reserve as the primary consensus monitor and facilitator finally paused. In the intranet, Prime did not need to catch her breath. However, she had greatly diminished her personal store of invectives, necessitating a dive into the extensive collection of vulgarisms the Borg had accumulated over the millennia. {But I/we know how you feel. And that is quite a dent.}

Prime stared at the large divot in the panel which had had the misfortune to be next to her when the sensory hierarchy had relayed the bad news. She had been roaming the hallways of subsection 14, submatrix 6, visually inspecting recent maintenance following an ill-advised experiment by several engineering units seeking to increase efficiency of dust mopping. The 'research' had included magnets, silly putty, high-tensile fishing line, and a potato cannon. The sequence of logic which linked it with cleaning was tenuous, at best. Although the consequences had played out over fifteen cycles prior, what could only be described as 'total destruction' had been mended just before the cube had initially entered the unnamed system.

{It is nothing a plasma torch and some hammering can't fix,} muttered Prime. She centered herself, feeling calm spread as the frustrations impacting the sub-collective were siphoned away by censor filters. {Reserve, prepare the driving partitions. I'll coordinate the search algorithms if warp 3.5 does not work.}

In fact, it was found that warp 3.5 did allow Cube #238 to make progress; and it was also discovered, via paranoid downshifts to normal space every five minutes, that at the 2.3 hour mark all forward momentum stalled. To continue beyond resulted in the cube being inexorably dragged back to the system at the equivalent of warp 8.2. There was no counter.

It required three unwelcome rides for this new development on whatever twisted rules governed the conduit to sink in. Finally, with attempt number four, Cube #238 found itself balanced on the cusp as far as it could go, holding place in normal space as it contemplated its next action.

And, once again, 'brute force' methodology won. Virtual dice were rolled; and the Lugger-class cube vanished into subspace at warp 6.7.

*****

Darkness.

A faint patch of light.

A bright whirlpool of stars - the Milky Way Galaxy.

Falling through darkness into the diffuse radiance of billions of stars: a surreal perspective for a disembodied point of view. Like a dream, or maybe a nightmare, far soon becomes near, individual stars streaking past at impossible speeds.

Something is missing.

With an unthought, the journey is paused.

What is missing? Unknown. However, it is with a certainty possible only in dreams it is unequivocally recognized that wrongness is nigh. A sixth (seventh? tenth?) sense says it to be, a dream-feeling that cannot be dismissed.

The journey continues.

Another star, a yellow dwarf, is passed, this one harboring a family of planets. The star, in no way outstanding among the other flaming balls of churning plasma, is oddly familiar. A particular planet is focused upon; and the scene abruptly jumps to a viewpoint of one standing upon the surface.

Rocky. Barren. Sky orange-tinged, not blue. Waves sluggishly crash upon the cliff base. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Where is the buzz of insects? The call of birds? The distant hum of vehicles and the laughter of families on holiday?

Where is the life?

The planet is abandoned for the cool depths of space. Perspective blurs, fast-forwarding to another star, another planet, another empty vista.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another...not exactly infinity, but one at a time (or simultaneously, following logic applicable only to dreams) all life-supporting worlds in the galaxy are visited.

All are found to be devoid of animals, of greenery, of microbes and bacteria and fungi. The gulf between the stars is silent; and even the mechs, non-biological lifeforms both sentient and not, are vanished.

Nightmare, it is decided - the galaxy has been sterilized.

*****

{What was /that/?} demanded Prime, a single voice amid the babble of thousands. While there were a dozen or so units permanently lost in their personal world-views, replete with visions much more compelling than a mere nightmare ride through an empty galaxy, most designations were asking a variation upon the question voiced by their consensus monitor.

The sub-collective's paranoia already elevated, a not unexpected state considering the lengths thus far undergone, Cube #238 was brought to a full halt. Except for the still-too-slow rotation of guide pulsars, the sensor hierarchy confirmed the ship to have moved the expected distance given the short time at warp.

The problem, assuming one existed at all, was contemplated.

Warp abruptly resumed...and was ceased minutes later.

Like a mechanic troubleshooting a shuttle with an intermittent fault and no clear instigator, the engineering hierarchy tried to recreate the incident. The cube cycled to warp several times in a row, stuttering in and out of the normal universe. All diagnostics returned nominal. The vision, the hallucination, the whatever did not repeat. Had it been a one-time occurrence? Or was it merely the first symptom of mental instability induced by the anomaly?

Or, just perhaps, had it been a sign that a critical juncture had been passed in the endeavor to leave the unnamed system behind?

With Cube #238 hanging motionless halfway between nowhere and somewhere, a decision cascade was underway. At the center of the process was Prime. From the middle of her holotheater she critically eyed each potential decision node in turn, actualized as a line of brightly colored spheres hovering at chest height. Rarely used archives were being searched - a background flash of black-and-white still images - to locate a situation that bore vague resemblance to the one within which the cube was mired. Unfortunately, without the much more extensive histories and experiences of the Collective Whole, very few matches were being found. Instead, the sub-collective was reduced to fuzzy math, poor what-if trees, and, worst of all, wild speculation.

One by one the spheres faded in intensity as the actions they represented were eliminated. Finally a single ball of electric blue remained.

Prime reached out a virtual hand to grasp the sphere. A decision had been made. Consensus was complete.

The Assumption (capitalization deliberate) was that a barrier or zone of influence extended from the unnamed system. Like a forcefield, it was transparent to specific frequencies; and, by traveling at warp 3.5 for 2.3 hours the edge of the 'bubble' had been reached. From that point, any significantly energetic effort was sufficient to break through the final barrier. The shared vision had simply been a symptom of the passage, a mental hiccup caused by the interaction of quasi-fractal pseudo frequencies and cube computational hardware reflected upon the wetware of its drones. It signified nothing. Now that the cube had escaped the zone, all warp speeds were available, not just 6.7. After all, what was the chance of choosing just the right speed if this section of the conduit was as selective as the first 2.3 hours?

Admittedly, the decision, and train of logic to arrive at it, was a stretch, but it was the most coherent among all rival alternatives. And if there was something Borg excelled at, be it an imperfect sub-collective or the entire Greater Consciousness, it was creating justification for an otherwise ridiculous notion such that it sounded like the correct course to pursue. Insert enough technobabble and anything sounds plausible. All which was necessary was to ignore inconvenient exceptions or blatant lack of data.

{As fast as we can go, then,} said Prime. {Engineer?}

{We c'n sustain warp 7.7 a' this time.}

{Only 7.7? I know this vessel is capable of faster speeds.}

{Then ye c'n get oot 'n' push.}

Prime tilted her head slightly, {You need a better comeback. And throw in a bit obscure engineering lingo. It makes the bridge officer feel better if he can nod agreement even though he has no clue what you are talking about.}

{Tha' would work 'ow?} inquired Engineering incredulously {We all be linked t' each other 'n' engineering datastreams be available f'r lockin' at.}

Prime rolled her eyes, or at least produced the appropriate sentiment, this being the digital realm and herself physically unable to perform the action. {Just providing you with a few pointers, a bit of advice. Moving on....}

{Ye c'n stick yer advice where-}

{Reserve?} called Prime, drowning out Engineer's comment.

{Warp 7.7 it is.} The virtual accelerator was depressed. {You know, the Flarn anatomical charts do not show an orifice of the type that-}

{Very funny. Ha-ha. Now is not the time to work on cultivating what little sense of humor assimilation and repurposing left you. Just drive, else I will take the yoke.}

The ghost of a smirk was the response to Prime.

Several seconds later, a distant {Ah-ha!} reverberated at the edges of Prime's intranet awareness. She ignored it, as she ignored most random outbursts, classifying them as the equivalent of mental white noise. Then the owner of the voice pinged for the consensus monitor's attention; and as it was a hierarchy head, she had to respond.

{I have vital information to share,} said Sensors. Her avatar materialized in Prime's theater.

Replied Prime, {If you are about to admit to the rock you cemented to the hull, I already know about it.}

A flash of surprise. {Really?}

{You may not be directly tied to engine functions, but even you must be aware that every kilo must be accounted for to accurately gauge power consumption. The propulsion partition reported a slight increase in power needed to warp following the cargo shifting. From there it was easy to backtrack to find the cause.}

Silence. Accusation: {You...do not quite lie. But you also do not tell the truth. We did not notice a hitchhiker like that mercenary ship last month, yet a rock is found?}

Prime relented. {It is theoretically possible. However, I still know about the asteroid. Next time you cement something to the hull, do not do so over an exhaust vent.} The rock in question, as viewed through the eyes of a drone, was displayed in a floating holowindow. {The blockage was flagged as a malfunction by the engineering hierarchy; and although very low priority, it was investigated. The block was found, and from there it was not difficult to sift out the log of your illicit transporter use. How many designations, after all, would try to smuggle a rock? As we have had other things on our mind, your reprimand was ranked extremely low on the to-do list.}

{Um...I did not request your attention to tell you of my, er, specimen acquisition. Well, er, actually I did, but not in this manner,} semi-confessed Sensors.

{Then what?}

{We are no longer making headway. In fact, we are being dragged back to the unnamed system at warp 8.2.}

Prime blinked. {You have determined a grid configuration that cuts through the interference?} She reached for sensory datathreads, but found them as unhelpful as ever. A wordless query for additional information was sent.

{The rock told me so. The one cemented on the hull,} announced Sensors with conviction. An after-the-fact realization of what the statement sounded like was translated into a sheepish duck of the avatar's head.

{Hearing things that aren't there is usually due to a faulty aural implant, else you caught whatever it is that 68 of 150 has,} said Prime dryly, invoking the designation of a weapons drone infamous for conducting long conversations with entities it insisted were 'just beyond the veil'.

Sensors sighed, {Not in that way.} Her avatar held a hand out, palm flat and facing upward. Upon it materialized a small datafile, one unlinked to the larger dataspace and therefore originating from Sensors herself. The file was offered. {Since the rock is known, then it is also known that it is directly over my observatory. From the time of acquisition, the observatory has been recording the tau polarization of the rock during our translations, but only now have I looked at the collected data. The pattern the observatory captured is quite clear; and it indicates that we are even now returning to our start point.}

Prime accepted the datafile and opened it, displaying its contents as a series of simple graphs. As the charts assembled into a grid formation, as the data was absorbed and incorporated into the working consciousness of the sub-collective, the number of virtual eyes directed at Prime's theater node increased. None of the presences were inclined to create an avatar, but the action indicated that the sub-collective's attention had definitely shifted.

Consider time. Time, at least in the universe of Borg and Federation and warp drive and transporters, is malleable. Under the right circumstances, it can be decoupled from the universal 'tick' and forced into a configuration some have portrayed as a current traveling at a different speed than the surrounding medium. Any thing or any entity caught within assumes that current's temporality, which may be faster or slower than (or ever opposite to) ambient time. Because time and space are intimately linked, in the most extreme cases, temporal movement can result in spatial relocation.

Within Spatial Anomaly #141 - Treacle Zone - time was twisted. How it came to pass, be it natural calamity or artificial happenstance, was unimportant. The very quantum underlying the fabric of reality was deformed, constraining and constricting temporality within the passageway. Tidal forces sloshed time back and forth like water in a bucket. As neither ocean nor river is not a single solid block, but rather a collection of many currents twined into a whole, so too were the forces rushing through the passage, each one of differing duration and tick.

The chroniatic metamorph cemented to Cube #238's hull was a compass from which the correct path through the temporal currents could be ascertained. Of course, if the sub-collective had realized the file attached to the Bug map was an easy-to-use tide table, then the fate of the cube might have been different. Then again, there was the not insignificant task of translation and the fact that a single misinterpretation could send the cube straight into a temporal tidal bore, with much worse consequences than a riptide dragging the ship back to its start point. The rock, on the other hand, shifted the polarization of its tau warping in a predictable manner when exposed to a temporal current. When the warping of the rock converged with the neutral tau condition of the cube, that meant the current was capable of being utilized. From there, it was a simple measure of testing subspace density and conductivity to determine the appropriate warp factor.

{Refinements are necessary,} said Sensors. {Part of the grid could be reconfigured to complement my observatory. The other option is to add approximately 25 kilometers of aluminum foil cables and a gross of coat hangers to the existing construction. Theoretically in either case, sensitivity would be sufficiently boosted to resolve minor variations in the rock's polarization interference pattern. Tau leakage from the desired current will flavor the shadow waves in a particular manner, a unique sparkly sound hidden among the greater hum-buzz.} Sensors was trying to translate how she perceived the sensor grid, a unique experience for each sensory drone, but the explanation was turning into verbal synesthesia. {The taste spoor can then be locked upon to follow it to its source.} Sensors paused, finally realizing she had lost her audience. {Um, the appropriate upgrades will allow us to discern the next current without lots of warp translations. The compass rock will also provide warning before we run out of current, without the need to keep jumping back to normal space.}

{And the vision? Does the rock have any words about that?}

Sensors looked puzzled. {My rock is a chroniatic metamorph with a pronounced tau warping equating to 18.6 points on the chenton polarization scale. What does geology have to do with-} a hand was waved about {-head stuff? That is for command and control, assimilation, or drone maintenance hierarchies to deal with.}

{True,} opinionated Reserve, his voice emerging from the background.

Several dully pulsating spheres materialized, a decision cascade awaiting a seed to begin. {We reflect upon this new information. If we are indeed being dragged back - again - to the system, then a new consensus is in order.}

A new consensus was in order.

*****

He was a drone, perhaps a bit more heavily cybernized than most, but nonetheless just another cog in the Borg Collective. Although nameless - and liable to remain so considering the illogical logic inherent in the dream-realm - there was a suggestion of familiarity with the unit, a peculiar connection that transcended actual familial or racial relationship.

The drone was shoulder high to the observer, had the observer possessed a physical form rather than a disembodied point of view. While there were undoubtedly many salient features which identified the drone, made him unique, the one detail which caught the observer's attention was his unaltered eye, an unusual blue among the normalcy of grey.

That eye - appraising, coldly calculating, yet somehow (dare it be said?) conveying a sense of...imperfection - focused upon the observer; and it was that eye, or at least the perception of it, which was the last to fade as the velvet blackness of the background swallowed all.

*****

What did the visions mean? Sometimes they were vague, and other times exquisitely detailed. For each transition to a new temporal current, an unreal, and oft time surreal, mental journey commenced. A drone might individually experience his/her/its own hallucination, else the sub-collective entire could share a dream, or nightmare, or whatever it should be classified.

Given the probability the visions were intrinsically entwined with the temporal currents through which Cube #238 struggled, the term 'time-hallucination' was adopted. The expression was an approximate translation for a glyph, overlooked until now, scrawled in the digital margin of the species #6766 starchart which had led the sub-collective to the conduit in the first place. A past Bug captain or navigator had jotted down a short list of 'potential inconvenience' associated with the passage, including [dragons], [backward popsicles], and time-hallucinations.

Even if the translation was wrong, it still sounded applicable to the situation.

Were the time-hallucinations will-be's or could-be's? Were those experienced by an individual applicable to that single unit only, whilst shared visions were a hint of what could/might/would affect the sub-collective as a whole?

As noted afore, Prime disliked temporal disorder. It was nonsensical. Messy. Time should have a single predicable vector (past to future) in which the underlying universal tick which defined time itself always equated a tick. The propensity of time to be malleable, given the right circumstances, such as a space-time rip or entities throwing around tachyons, was disquieting on a personal level. For one thing, it was an indication that no engineer had designed the universe, assuming existence of a Supreme Being, because temporal untidiness was anathema to the true engineering soul.

Sensors finally announced that the grid had sorted through compass rock permutations and locked onto a new temporal current. Warp 5.9 was the appropriate speed.

{Enough!} roared Prime, quieting sub-collective introspection...for the moment. It would undoubtedly restart following the translation-to-come, the sub-collective talking amongst itself in an attempt to come to an understanding. Even Prime's opinion that it was best to ignore the time-hallucinations was a valid opinion within the whole, albeit one in the minority.

It seemed Prime had been very much in the minority recently.

Said Prime, {Let us move on, Reserve. The rock hath spoken.}

Cube #238 lurched back into subspace, same heading, new warp factor.

*****

Darkness.

A faint patch of light.

A bright whirlpool of stars - the Milky Way Galaxy.

Falling through darkness into the diffuse radiance of billions of stars: a surreal perspective for a disembodied point of view. Like a dream, or maybe a nightmare, far soon becomes near, individual stars streaking past at impossible speeds.

Something is missing.

With an unthought, the journey is paused.

What is missing? Unknown. However, it is with a certainty possible only in dreams it is unequivocally recognized that wrongness is nigh. A sixth (seventh? tenth?) sense says it to be, a dream-feeling that cannot be dismissed.

The journey continues.

Another star, a yellow dwarf, is passed, this one harboring a family of planets. The star, in no way outstanding among the other flaming balls of churning plasma, is oddly familiar. A particular planet is focused upon; and the scene abruptly jumps to a viewpoint of one standing upon the surface.

Creatures. Beasts. Familiar, yet utterly alien. Caricatures of species known, bodies and features grotesquely altered out of remembered proportions. The wind still blows and the sun continues to shine, yet these beings doggedly toil at their unknown tasks, eyes half-lidded and expressions rapt as they listen to something unheard to the exclusion of all else.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The planet is abandoned for the cool depths of space. Perspective blurs, fast-forwarding to another star, another planet, another distorted vista.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another...not exactly infinity, but one at a time (or simultaneously, following logic applicable only to dreams) all life-supporting worlds in the galaxy are visited.

Finally the dreamwalker stops to float among the stars and just listen....

A song can be discerned, a chorus of harmony weaving all the planets into one vast organism. It is a melody oddly familiar, yet inverted, a wholly organic melding where one expects the harsher notes of structured mechanization.

Horror dawns, understanding emerging out of nothingness - a dream epiphany.

They. The galaxy has been colonized, overrun by They, an organic Borg-equivalent seeking a twisted form of perfection of oneness. Individuals are not accepted into the Whole as they are, assimilated into the function that best fits species and temperament, but rather forced into new roles through the black magic of genetic engineering.

Nightmare, it is decided.

*****

One element of the sensor grid was reporting pulsar signposts to be rotating nearly twice as fast as the norm, abrupt flashes of distant energies winking hyperactively. The universe outside the temporal anomaly was rushing past at an accelerated tempo even as a subjective observer would perceive Cube #238 as moving with sluggish intent.

Were the temporal tides in flux? Was the sub-collective to be completely thrown out of its native epoch? Would the cube eventually emerge from the Treacle Zone hundreds or thousands of Cycles in the future like a cybernetic version of Rip Van Winkle?

All those worries, and more, swept through the consciousness of the Cube #238 sub-collective. As fast as Prime, as Reserve, as the Hierarchy of Five, as command and control could derail one anxiety, another three would arise.

It was, perhaps, not surprising that a mistake would be made.

Yelped Sensors, {No, no! I said warp 5.4, not 4.5! The compass rock clearly indicated the clearest currents to be warp 5.4!}

It was too late. Engines had already engaged; and once committed, there was no turning back. For a moment propulsion indicated warp 4.5 to be the true speed, until engines were throttled back to the minimum required to keep the cube submerged in subspace. At that point, compass rock polarization indicated the ship's true velocity to be warp 8.2, presumably in the direction opposite that desired.

{Whoops,} said Reserve. He had been juggling too many priorities simultaneously, and the datastream which had suffered had been that associated with warp drive commands

Pronounced Prime, {Next time, Reserve, you will disengage from all duties prior to the translation; and then you will be certain your actions before the throttle is applied.}

{Compliance,} said Reserve. 240 of 242 from one of the primary navigational partitions was assigned to double-check future input.

Cube #238 floated at the edge of unnamed system. The pulsars had resumed their laggard tempo, and, if possible, seemed to be exhibiting their slowest pace yet. Meanwhile, the sub-collective was computing and recomputing the timeline since leaving Manufactory Nexus #201:

*Three cycles to arrive at the Spatial Anomaly #141 conduit.

*About seven cycles to reach the unnamed system.

*Half a cycle of survey.

*Approximately two cycles lost to initial escape attempts, inclusive securing shifted cargo.

*One cycle, more or less, spent learning how to navigate the temporal currents once their existence had been ascertained.

*Five cycles of effort vanished due to a few seconds of mental dyslexia.

No matter how the problem was manipulated, no matter how the timeline was reconstructed, the cold answer was always the same: Cube #238 had 11.2 cycles to finish traversing the conduit and arrive at the next port-of-call. To take an hour, a minute, a second too long was to risk spoilage of the Organic Precursor #4. Even worse, another black mark against the sub-collective's record would join the too-many already garnered thus far this duty cycle.

And, then, the sub-collective would be regulated to bottom tier duties, like hauling garbage or serving as a temporary repository for fermented polyjuice.

Again.

With confirmation from Sensors' compass rock that the first temporal current remained steady, engines were engaged at warp factor 3.5.

*****

The Borg home system. Tens of trillions of drones. Dozens of shipyards. Countless manufactories and industrial complexes. A research facility with attention focused upon a captured superstring. Moons and planets undergoing dismantlement, and even the star itself harnessed to provide energy to the Borg, all to further the quest for Perfection. The system is the busiest and most densely populated of the Borg empire.

It is also under attack.

A spatial phenomenon squats between the orbits of planet #3 and planet #4, invisible in the visual spectrum yet completely obvious to the eyes of the dream-watcher. It is a monstrosity, a swirling beast of space-time warping the very fabric of the universe within its bounds. Englobing the afflicted volume is a fleet of over a hundred enormous cubes and spheres, weapons aimed at the anomaly and drone crews displaying the preternatural calm possible only by units well integrated into the Greater Consciousness.

The phenomenon flares into the true visibility, disgorging a tsunami of tachyons as it does so. Attention focuses upon the stormy center where a dark form takes shape, as wavering and unresolvable, even to the observer's non-eyes, as a mirage hovering over desert sands. The feeling of collective anticipation by the Whole is palpable.

Abruptly the anomaly snaps closed, disappearing as if it had never existed. Left behind is a geometric form, akin to the cubes numbered among the fleet, but much smaller, its hull showing signs of great abuse.

Dread expectation grips the unseen watcher.

The universe holds its breath.

"Hello?" calls a desynchronized Multivoice into the ether. "We've been told we would meet the Collective here? I think we've found the right spot. So, could we have a tow to the nearest unimatrix complex? We seem to have lost propulsion, armaments, navigational control, and there is a very overgrown weed we'd like to have removed as well."

*****

Fast.

*Snap*

Slow.

*Snap*

Light caught in amber.

*Snap*

Nearly normal, only off by a few beats a second.

*Snap*

Blue-shifted starlight flashing fast-fast-fast-fast.

*Snap*

All sense of time was lost. The chronometer was useless. Was the universe leaving Lugger-class Cube #238 and its crew behind? Had the Collective long ago dismissed its imperfect sub-collective as another casualty of Spatial Anomaly #141? Or would the cube leave the conduit seconds after it had entered? Possibly even before, given the contortions time was enduring?

*Snap*

With each transition, the sense of urgency grew greater, the belief that the sub-collective would be caught forever in a temporal limbo.

*Snap*

*****

Darkness.

A faint patch of light.

A bright whirlpool of stars - the Milky Way Galaxy.

Falling through darkness into the diffuse radiance of billions of stars: a surreal perspective for a disembodied point of view. Like a dream, or maybe a nightmare, far soon becomes near, individual stars streaking past at impossible speeds.

Something is missing.

With an unthought, the journey is paused.

What is missing? Unknown. However, it is with a certainty possible only in dreams it is unequivocally recognized that wrongness is nigh. A sixth (seventh? tenth?) sense says it to be, a dream-feeling that cannot be dismissed.

The journey continues.

Another star, a yellow dwarf, is passed, this one harboring a family of planets. The star, in no way outstanding among the other flaming balls of churning plasma, is oddly familiar. A particular planet is focused upon; and the scene abruptly jumps to a viewpoint of one standing upon the surface.

An ordinary day, replete with the buzz of insects and the call of birds. Waves joyfully crash against the base of cliffs draped with thick greenery and clinging flowers. Far away comes the distant hum of vehicles and laughter of families on holiday.

Despite the restful scene, so unlike that encountered twice previously, the feeling of wrongness persists. The planet is abandoned for the cool depths of space. Perspective blurs, fast-forwarding to another star, another planet, another too-normal vista.

And another.

And another.

And another.

And another...not exactly infinity, but one at a time (or simultaneously, following logic applicable only to dreams) all life-supporting worlds in the galaxy are visited.

While species and technologies encountered are unfamiliar, every place is found to be ordinary, even mundane, concerning the day-to-day affairs of the locals. Wherever, whenever, this is, these times are prosperous, peaceful.

Finally the dreamwalker stops to float among the stars and just listen....

A song can be heard, a chorus of harmony weaving together its parts into one vast organism. It is a melody oddly familiar, yet inverted, a wholly organic melding where one expects the harsher notes of structured mechanization.

Horror dawns, understanding emerging out of nothingness - a dream epiphany.

Focus shifts, finding the cancer which is They beginning to nibble at the star systems of the outer galactic rim. They are cautious - They have had Their plans derailed before - and have not progressed far, yet They have also established a toehold upon Their future conquest.

Yet and still, something remains missing; and again the dreamwalker intently listens to the infinite darkness. There...there it is....

It is the song of the Borg, extraordinarily faint. It is a collective voice without a Collective, calling for a Greater Consciousness which no longer exists, is extinct. A sense of urgency pervades the dream, a need to find the source of the Borg-song. Yet even as the goal is approached, an outside force pulls the searcher away. The dream is soon to end.

Even as the vision dissolves, torn into streamers to blow upon the cosmic unwinds, a glimpse is made of the originator. It is a Borg Exploratory-class cube. Alone. Single. Defiant even as it recognizes the futility of its actions-to-come.

Is it a nightmare? A dream?

Prophecy?

*****

Lugger-class Cube #238 raggedly transitioned to normal space.

{Are we there yet?} asked Reserve rhetorically even as he directed the partitions he oversaw into the too-familiar routine of anchoring the cube and prepping for the next dive into the temporal currents. Several units had to be coerced into performing their assigned duty: intranet speculation and analysis of the most recent shared time-hallucination /were not/ more important than ship safety. After almost 11 cycles of feeling out the correct path through the conduit, to return to the center of the labyrinth was highly undesirable.

A few minutes later, Sensors answered Reserve's query. {Actually, I think we are. The compass rock is no longer responding; pulsar rotational speeds are as expected; and the grid registers tachyon drift originating behind us. Subspace density readings suggest that the deepest layers will become transparent to Collective fractal frequencies in an estimated 2.1 light years.} Sensors offered both raw and compiled grid data to the sub-collective for digestion.

The consensus cascade as to the next action to take was very short and uncharacteristically unanimous. Prime limited herself to a single {I told you so}.

Cube #238 plunged into the highest warp factor it could manage.

The final time-hallucination was impacting Prime's efficiency, dataspace reverberations of the vision a background datathread unable to be purged. Although she was loath to admit it to herself, she, personally, had been highly disturbed by the temporal dream, especially when considered along with the other shared hallucinations. She did not know what it all meant; and, frankly, did not want to...she only wanted and desired to be a useful unit to the Collective Whole.

Leave it to others, preferably those far away, to be pawns in Grand Destiny. They could have it. She, her sub-collective, had cargo to deliver.

Prime once again registered her need for mental adjustment. Unfortunately, assimilation hierarchy was more than a little busy dealing with those designations with issues of more pressing urgency. Until and unless Prime had a psyche meltdown - unlikely as Hierarchy of Five drones, and command and control units in general, were chosen for their mental fortitude - she was classified as low priority.

In her dataspace holotheater, Prime was alerted as the communication array finally registered a Borg carrier wave upon the appropriate fractal frequencies. A link was re-established with the Greater Consciousness.

{What is the time? We urgently require chronometer synchronization,} was the first communique Prime sent to the Whole, running roughshod over a reciprocal request-demand for all data related to the passageway. {We need to know the time. Now!}

Taken aback at the insistence of what was normally regulated to an automatic background function, Cube #238's chronometer was updated.

{We were only in there 4.8 cycles,} said Prime, echoing the astonishment of the sub-collective entire. The implications of the temporal dilation, along with the comfort of linkage with the Whole, however distantly the imperfect sub-collective was held from the center, allowed her disquiet over the time-hallucinations to fade.

The Greater Consciousness was unwilling to further indulge its imperfect sub-collective; and while it was pleased at the speed the cube had crossed Spatial Anomaly #141, it wanted all data pertinent to the passage. Now. Prime complied, beginning the download of tagged files and memes.

And, then, a too-cheerful *bing!* echoed through the dataspaces. A particular countdown timer had just reached zero.

While it had been a mere 7.8 cycles from the Collective's point-of-view since Cube #238 had left Manufactory Nexus #201 (3 cycles to the passage, plus 4.8 cycle crossing time), from the sub-collective's subjective experience a bit over 30 cycles had passed.

Specifically, it was 30.7 cycles since several million liters of Organic Precursor #4 had been removed from the electromagnetic field which stabilized its molecular structure.

Ironically, Cube #238 /had/ made up some of the cycles thus far lost this duty cycle, only to simultaneously fail a critical time-dependent subtask.

{Warning!} chirped the computer. {Internal sensors for Bulk Cargo Hold #6 are detecting an increase in the following volatiles: [list of molecular compounds].}

When Organic Precursor #4 destabilized, it did so in an impressive manner. During the first hour, the substance was exceedingly caustic, easily able to eat through both its storage barrels and duralloy deck plating. The caustic stage also released a noxious stew of toxic and flammable fumes, the latter of which threatened wide scale immolation if the least spark was introduced. Very viscous, stage one rotten Organic Precursor #4 quickly spread, making (or eating) its way into every crack or crevice, thusly setting itself up for the next phase of its spoilage.

After an hour, stage two initiated whereupon spoilt Organic Precursor #4 abruptly solidified. Resembling a transparent green jello, all items touched or engulfed were trapped in the goo. Slightly rubbery to the tough, it subsequently became very, very difficult to remove by conventional (and unconventional) means, resistant to - extremes of heat and cold; water, acids, and most solvents; physical battering by hammers or cutting by saws/lasers; and application of electricity.

{We be havin' 'n emergency,} announced Engineer into the intranets. {We be needin' every available body t' begin a'movin' cargo away from th' number four goo. Nah dwaddlin' allowed 'n' no excuses. Ye 'ave all been drafted. We also be unidlin' auxiliary cores 'n' directin' backup power to transporters. Try t' keep track o' where ya beam things.} The cube decelerated to normal space, then halted, propulsion not considered a critical system to which to supply power.

Despite an extensive library of vulgarisms, despite the dictionaries available to her in the event personal knowledge was insufficient, Prime had no words, polite or otherwise, for the situation. The primary consensus monitor and facilitator was required by her sub-collective, her body to move pallets of cargo and her mind to keep the crew acting in a semi-coordinated fashion.

Meanwhile, the Greater Consciousness was demanding an update to accompany the ongoing data download, suspicious that something likely to contribute in a negative manner to the imperfect sub-collective's efficiency rankings had just occurred.

Prime randomly selected an instrumental from 23 of 175's muzak collection, a file with a comment describing the contents as 'a fusion of Klingon-Andorian warrior ballads with a strong modern Kreen influence'. Whatever it was, it would have to do for hold music. As a final action before reporting to her duty station in Bulk Cargo Hold #6, she constricted the cube's recently renewed Collective link as narrow as possible without actually severing it and turned on the voice messaging system.

<<We are sorry, but Lugger-class Cube #238-3152.b is unavailable at the moment due to one or more of the following: rampaging cargo, spatial anomaly, Q or other omnipotent being, malfunction, and/or incompetence. At the beep, please leave name, subspace number or GalacWeb address you can be reached, and a short message. We will return your call as soon as we can. Unless this is a solicitation, in which case we will hunt you down and terminate you, for solicitators are unfit to be assimilated. *BEEEEP*>>

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