The road to Star Trek leads past Paramount. Decker is at the end of the Star Traks cart path. And the trail to BorgSpace passes near Meneks.

Paved With Good Intentions

I only wanted to help.

The humans have a saying: "The road to Hell is paved with good intentions." My own species - Gedar - has a similar adage, although not expressed nearly so elegantly; and I am sure that all the myriad of civilizations that have flourished through history have developed comparable sentiments.

When I first encountered DAPT-

[Inaudible murmuring]

DAPT? It means Drones Are People Too. It's an organization that campaigns for the rights of the assimilated and nanomachine-challenged. You would not believe how biased it can be for people with an implant or two and for whom proper de-assimilation is not an option. Or, even worse, for the poor drone who has managed to escape his Color and-

[More murmurs]

Oh, you want to know how I became involved in DAPT! Well, you see, it all started when I was at Wilmoni University....

*****

"Trakiki! Oy! Trakiki!"

Stopping, book bag heavy on my shoulder, I turned towards the sound of my name. Not unexpectedly, it was Begigi, running across the lawn fronting the Wilmoni University student union building. As she pelted towards me, clutching a single (and rather thin) book, she waved her free hand excitedly...just in case I had not seen her, I guess.

"Trakiki!" exclaimed Begigi as she slowed to a stop. She seemed willing to continue, but could not due to lack of breath. Like myself, Begigi was a Gedar; and except for the rare individual, Gedar were not especially well known for their athletic ability.

Typical humanoid in form, the primary distinguishing feature which set Gedar apart from the many similar species in the sector was an intricate series of nose and chin ornamentation. Current fashion was to individually paint each bone plate so as to form a colorful abstract mosaic that swept across the jaw to terminate at low-set ears. It was almost predictable that Begigi would have perfected the technique, but then again, anyone, even non-Gedar, could see that she was a beauty destined for modeling greatness. Why she felt the need to be at University, I did not know. I, on the other hand, felt it a good day when I had the time to apply a basic two-tone pattern: my dual major of logistical engineering and computer systems was a harsh mistress.

I had no idea why a creature such as Begigi was willing to be my friend, not that I was ungrateful. After all, without Begigi urging me to accompany her to one party or another, my social life would have consisted solely of the words scribed upon books and PADDs.

"What is it, Begigi?" I patiently asked once I saw the other had caught her breath. This pause in my trek across campus would make me late for my next class, but I was not worried. As I was currently running a score of 105% - the extra-credit assignment had received top marks - I could afford to miss a few minutes of lecture. Boring lecture, too...the professor was infamous for a dully droning cadence that could put even the most stimulant-juiced kwonzi-bird to sleep.

Begigi grinned, showing off her perfect teeth. "Did you hear? The Club president has decided on our next campaign! I've been told to tell everyone!"

Now I was definitely interested. Begigi had been the one to introduce me to the "Cause of the Month" club, a campus organization dedicated to searching out worthy causes. Once a month, a new cause was chosen and all members - assuming it didn't conflict with class/work schedules, or parties, or sporting events, or favorite triV programs - would gather together in order to demonstrate our support. I know many people at the University rolled their eyes or twirled their antennae and called Club members flighty, but I felt it selfish to devote all one's time to a single cause when there were so many of them out there.

"What is it?" I asked eagerly.

Begigi pursed her lips in a disapproving expression. "Remember a couple of months ago when the registrar denied admission to that ex-Purple drone?"

I nodded. "It didn't really seem very fair. It wasn't his fault that he had that mechanical arm. You see worse all the time if you go down to the trauma ward at the University research hospital."

"Exactly. And his skin was barely gray at all. A friend" - Begigi had friends everywhere - "heard that the fellow only wanted to earn a waste/recycling engineer degree, but the deans were afraid that he'd, like, go all Borgy and start assimilating everyone."

"That hardly happens at all, outside the movies or the vid-tabloids," I scoffed. The library bells were ringing their hourly chime; and although that meant I was now officially late to class, I was no longer in anything resembling a hurry.

Begigi nodded in agreement. "Anyway, there's to be a DAPT rally to protest the decision in three days on the steps of the union building. If everyone shows up, then there will be twice as many people speaking out for the cause. And handing out leaflets."

As the Club only had ten people, that meant DAPT, who or whatever it was, was therefore quite small and, by definition, a cause worth helping out. But first, "What is DAPT?"

"Drones Are People Too, or at least that is what Cyndi told me." Cyndi was the Club's president. "She wasn't quite sure she could make it - Amberstom Hall is having a Terran-import kung-fu fest - but if one of the movies seemed to be lacking fu, then she said she could probably put in an hour or two of Assisting a Worthy Cause." When she wanted, Begigi could verbally capitalize words.

"Sounds good! I-"

*****

[Murmuring]

I apologize, but you should have been more specific. However, that was when I first encountered DAPT.

What netzine is this interview for, again? I'm willing to talk all day, but I'd like to tailor myself, and DAPT, to your audience. Or is this a police investigation? I forget.

[A dismissive murmur]

Not relevant. If you say so. Just remember that you can only accomplish so much via editing. Tone and how the words flow count as well.

[A quiet question]

What happened? Well, Begigi and I were the only ones that showed up at the rally. Everyone else in the Club was very busy, you see. The protest barely lasted three hours, but its organizer told me all about the injustices heaped upon ex-drones and others of an aggressive-nanite-challenged nature. I decided then and there that DAPT was the only cause for me. I resigned from the Cause of the Month club and focused on DAPT exclusively. When I could, of course...I was double majoring at the time and Begigi always had a party or another that she wanted me to attend.

[Multiple murmurs, as if several voices discussing something, then another question]

Yes, I finished my degrees. With logistical engineering and computer systems on my resume - oh, and a minor in AI psychology - I had companies lined up to offer me jobs. I thought it over for quite a while, but in the end I decided to work for DAPT. The pay was only a fraction of what the big companies were offering, but the work was not about money. At most of the companies, well, you may not be assimilated, but you are still a drone. With DAPT, I was making a difference.

[A questioning tone, just on the edge of audibility]

What did I do? I wasn't in the front lines at DAPT, if that is what you are trying to get at! I did background research, prepared logistical frameworks, that sort of thing, for the Lobby Wing. That's the branch that petitions governments, holds rallies, fundraises, recruits new members, and so forth.

As time went on and I because increasingly trusted within the organization, I was assigned greater challenges. Mostly I inserted messages into anti-DAPT computer systems or crafted virii that tracked the movements of certain persons whom the Lobby Wing was stalking. However, when I showed interest in more action-oriented projects, several people in the Active-Politics began to mentor me in the more aggressive tactics necessary to participate in that wing.

Before you ask - I can feel the question coming - I never used any of the devices the wing occasionally has need to resort to. Jamine did, or one of his field operatives. As head of the Active-Politics Wing, he not only dictated when and where coercive persuasion would be employed, but, in order to show he was willing to lead from the front, often detonated them himself. When I expressed worries about how bombs - both the literal devices, as well as the digital ones I crafted - were being deployed, even hurting people, Jamine talked to me personally. Many times. He assured me that the methods of the Active-Politics Wing were last resort measures, only engaged when it was clear that Lobby Wing discussions had failed. Most importantly, Jamine told me that if those who were hurt, be it physically, monetarily, or by reputation, were not such anti-drone bigots, then there would be no need for the Active-Politics Wing at all. It was their fault.

It all seemed very logical; and I pride myself on my logic. I may not be one of those Vulcan people I've heard about, but I like to carefully look at a problem and understand it fully.

Sometimes I heard on the news or from my friends of bystanders, even ex-drones, impacted due my actions. For example, one of my virii might inadvertently escape from the system it was meant to compromise and cause secondary damage to non-targets. That bothered me, both then and now. However, when such things happen, I have to remember what Jamine-

[Interruption for a query]

I don't know too much about Jamie. Nobody does, to tell the truth. I do admit a certain attraction, but he's not my species and it wouldn't work. Cross-species relationships rarely do. Then again, I think every female, and probably some of the males, maybe even neuters, feel the same way I do, so my admiration isn't exactly shocking. But Jamie *sigh* doesn't seem to realize he sparks those sort of feelings in his DAPT colleagues...he's all professional, all the time. Some, usually derogatory news-vids, call him fanatical, but I know it is just deep dedication to the cause.

Let me tell you about the first time I met him.

*****

"You are Trakiki, correct?"

I was in my cubicle, leaning back in my chair with eyes half-closed as I interfaced with the computer through my c-jack. I was in the process of building a new sniffer program: DAPT's top lobbyists were trying to secure promises from a key senator from some backwater colony, and they needed more leverage. Unfortunately, the electronic defenses surrounding the target had thus far proven to be stronger than normal, so I had been tasked to tweak a sniffer to wriggle into the desired files. Maybe there was nothing to see, but considering the prowling hunter-seeker pack protecting the senator's personal system, I was expecting to unearth a skeleton or two from his closet.

"Trakiki?"

When I dive into the digital realm via c-jack, it can be difficult to rouse me. Because of the software beasties I work with, I maintain a system physically separate from the larger DAPT headquarters network. While some work is possible with standard terminal and verbal interface, for delicate operations nothing beats cybernetic jacking. Control over the code is much more precise. It can be dangerous - c-jacks are hardware that allow direct connection between computer and neural wetware - because if virii decide to turn on their masters, well, the brain for most species, Gedar included, has difficulty separating real and simulated input. Stroke, even death, is not unheard of as the mind translates a virtual attack into real-world consequences. However, in this case the code I had isolated was a harmless sniffer.

A hand against my shoulder. Gentle shaking. The physical touch registered as my name had not, and I issued the commands to pull my attention away from the digital landscapes.

"Huh?" I must admit, I'm not at my best when I exit a c-jack session, my brain struggling to readjust to real-world input. Among other things, I tend to drool.

"You are Trakiki? That is what the name says on the outside of your cubicle."

The soft-spoken voice did not fit with the figure looking down at me. The person making the inquiry was Qua'tohf, which meant a humanoid half a head taller than me, pointy ears, high cheekbones, perfect hair, lithe frame, and pale skin with a just-on-the-edge-of-perception iridescent quality. I've always thought the race looked like something out of a fairy tale, except Qua'tohf were very real, not myths. This particular Qua'tohf had an inexplicable intensity to his dark eyes, his manner, as if he held great reserves of hidden energy barely controlled.

I squinted up at the intruder to my realm. There were few Qua'tohf upon the DAPT staff, but the organization was sufficiently large, not to mention including a plethora of field-going personnel and volunteers, that one would be hard-pressed to know all but those individuals regularly encountered.

"Can I" - pause to wipe the unseemly saliva trickling down my chin - "help you?"

"You are Trakiki?"

"Yes." My assent was cautious. Had someone sent me a new intern without informing me first?

"I am Jamine."

My understanding of the situation abruptly changed. As a member of the Lobby Wing, my interactions with the Active-Political side of DAPT was limited. Oh, I had done a few projects for them - mined information - but my energies were primarily focused upon behind-the-scenes support for the fundraisers and lobbyists. It was a satisfying job, albeit lacking in glamour. However, despite my disconnect from Active-Politics, I would have had to have been in a c-jack coma to have not heard of Jamine.

"Jamine?" I squeaked, not my best response. I hastily ripped the c-jack cord out of the spinal port on the back of my neck and stood up. "Um...chair...chair...do you want a chair?" My cubicle was a mess, the lone chair to be seen my own. "Or maybe, er, something to eat?" Again, the only thing I had to offer was a half-consumed bag of sweet-snacks.

Jamine raised one hand and gently waved it back and forth. "No, no. Do not trouble yourself. I only stopped by because I heard you were the best, and I have a special request for Active-Politics. It seemed most polite to ask in person, as well as meet this extraordinary Gedar I've been hearing about."

There is a certain charisma to Jamie that makes it difficult to say 'no' to his requests; and although, to that point, I had never met him personally, I was immediately enthralled by his quiet confidence. "Anything. Yes."

"Do you not even wish to hear my application? You /may/ find it distasteful, I admit, but sometimes the methods my Wing uses can seem a bit harsh to the outsider. It is all to further DAPT and drone rights, of course, but I will understand if you might wish to pass on the project." Sincerity...it is the rare individual who can evoke such a sensation.

"I'll...." I paused before I could unilaterally agree. Obviously Jamine wanted to test me, to determine my commitment to DAPT. "What is the project, sir?"

Jamie's face stretched into the radiant smile for which he was famous. "Thank you for hearing me out. It has come to my attention that there is an individual whom is about to sign an agreement with the Purple Collective to clean up a lunar waste dump. The drones are to be specially assimilated for the project, originating as prisoners from this individual's own jail system. Ethical considerations aside - how a race treats its criminals is not DAPT's interest - I have been told by those close to the situation that the signatory has stipulated that the assimilated prisoners must be given the most dangerous tasks, even if other drones are better suited. This despicable act is supposed to send a threatening message of deterrence to the rest of the prison populace.

"Purple will agree - the Collective has been desiring to clear the dump, but not wanting to commit resources under a militaristic option because of dedication of its war-cubes to higher environmental priorities elsewhere. However, it is not Purple's fault...it is only following its Path to Perfection. The individual, on the other hand, who is authorizing this blatant drone abuse must be shown the error of his ways."

I nodded. "I completely understand and agree. What do you need me to do?"

"I need information," said Jamie. "Specifically, I need information concerning the individual's daily routine...I need to know exactly where he is, or will be, on a given day. I have a special DAPT gift to give the man." The Qua'tohf...giggled.

Now I was confused, for the request was not overly unusual. The Lobby Wing needed such data all the time, and surely there were specialists within the arm of DAPT Jamine oversaw that could provide similar information. "Why me?"

"The target is well protected. I've been told you are making quite a name for yourself by ferreting out certain nuggets of information...and even turning off protections when need be."

I smiled, feeling proud that my efforts had not gone unnoticed. Sometimes DAPT lobbyists needed a few moments alone with their subjects sans electronic spies or recording devices. Obviously Jamine required a similar black-out period to deliver his gift. "I can do that. Any bodyguards or physical protection-"

"Let me worry about that," assured Jamie, winking as he did so.

"No problem, then. May I have the details?"

Jamie nodded. "Not right now. You will receive them within a day or two through one of my lieutenants. You obviously were very busy with your current work, and I would not want my project to delay another vital DAPT endeavor." And with that, Jamie turned and left my cubicle.

I was provided the specifics of my assignment the next day.

A week later, the news was reporting upon the assassination of the vice-president of Polian IV. And his entourage. Via a pocket thermonuclear device. No one else was killed; and the hospital treating residual radiation contamination of bystanders received an anonymous donation to defray costs.

Jamie subsequently congratulated me personally, telling me that only because of my efforts had the operation run so smoothly. I felt proud at helping DAPT in a more direct manner, then returned to my normal Lobby Wing job.

Three weeks later, I was given another 'special' assignment.

After a year, I was transferred to the Active-Political Wing to provide dedicated logistical support.

*****

[Murmurs - several individuals talking (arguing?) amongst themselves before one overpowered the others with a question]

Yes, I was responsible for tracking down the Borg cube. It was the hardest task I had ever been assigned.

[A sharp, one word demand]

Of course I can elaborate! I am very proud of what I accomplished! Well, not what came later, but in the beginning it seemed like the ultimate challenge. First, however, I should provide a bit of background so everything makes sense.

DAPT has been trying for a long time to have individual drones within Collectives declared sentient beings. Right now, most governments, if the issue is considered at all, proclaim the Color to be a 'person' and its drones little more than the equivalent of 'body parts'. This is despite the fact that if a drone, excepting the purpose-grown creche clones, is successfully excised from its Collective, then it becomes obvious it is a person, not a 'skin cell' or a bit of 'hair'. Governments, especially the biggies like the Alpha Quadrant Second Federation, do not want to declare personhood for Color drones because to do so would mean the poor creatures would have to be labeled enslaved. Slavery is supposed to be illegal, excepting very specific cultural or religious reasons of which the Colors do not qualify. To harbor slavers, to do business with them or allow business to be conducted within territorial borders, is technically banned. However, business is done with Colors, and as many Colors wield some degree of financial and/or military power, it is politically distasteful for governments to pass the drone personhood laws that are morally demanded.

And, of course, such discrimination inevitably trickles down to all segments of society, leading to the rampant prejudice expressed towards the ex-drone and rouge communities. DAPT has successfully passed local drone-tolerance laws, but, in reality, that only treats the symptoms, not the cause.

About six months ago...excuse me, but, and this is silly, I cannot seem to remember your name. Nor do I recall you contacting me for an interview. Was it a spur of the moment thing?

[A brusque response]

Blow to the head. So, this is taking place in a hospital? That would explain the-

[An interruption indicates desire to return to topic]

Investigative reporter allowed limited access. Gotcha. This is the lull between surgeries. I do not /feel/ messed up, but considering how the Borg cube thing ended....

Back to topic, yes and yes.

About six months ago, Jamine came to me with a special project. He was convinced that if individualism could be indisputably demonstrated among original Borg drones - ones still linked to their Collective - than the various arguments used by legislators and Colors alike to dismiss accusations of slavery would fall apart. A grand campaign focusing upon the horrors of drone slavery, using suitable testimonials and graphic pictorial segments, would sway public support to DAPT and force lasting change. First, however, the appropriate drones had to be found.

That was my task: find the subjects and prepare the expedition. If you know where to listen, there have always been whispered stories concerning the existence of an 'imperfect' sub-collective within the Borg Collective. If there was even a small kernel of truth to the rumor, then that alone strongly suggested that there was more individualism among the Borg than any Collective, Color or original, would dare admit. Drones were persons, neither cogs nor cells, their minds and bodies chained against their will.

It took much time, effort, and credits to confirm existence of the Borg Collective vessel Lugger-class Cube #238. At times I spent days c-jacked into the GalacNet, fed via an intravenous drip like I was a modded game addict. However, some of the data I had to acquire was locked behind heavily secured firewalls requiring the intelligence and reflexes of an actual mind to be present...sniffers and similar tools were insufficient.

The project became a vast jigsaw puzzle, with me trying to fit all the pieces together. Even after Cube #238's authenticity had been established, there came the difficulty of finding, tracking, and, eventually, making an expedition to a single vessel deep within BorgSpace. In the end, I had to resort to contracting a reputable Xenig. The coffers of DAPT lightened a bit with that particular expense, but not too much because I was able to siphon the accounts of several anti-drone legislators. Once I might have considered it stealing, but...I targeted persons with a long history of discriminatory law-making; and even then, I insisted only taking from those accounts built via drone exploitation.

Jamine loved the irony when I explained it to him.

Originally, behind-the-scenes office work and logistical planning was to be the extent of my involvement. Then Jamine suggested, since I had shown such dedication, that I follow the project to its conclusion, which meant going into the field. That way I could see how things were accomplished by he and his agents, which in turn would provide me a better understanding back in the office to ensure smooth coordination of all aspects of a mission. Naturally, I was flattered at the request!

I did express personal doubts, given my lack of field experience. Jamine assured me that my job would be purely support: I would run cameras and observe. Anything that needed to be done would be accomplished by himself and the crew he was assembling. The hard part of the project - finding the target and preparing for the mission - was complete. All Jamine needed to do was interview a few drones and acquire some video in order to establish the fact that the Collective was a cruel enslaver of individuals.

Easy.

*****

"Do you want to change the contract?"

"You know DAPT doesn't have that sort of cash."

"Then," said the warmly tenor voice of the Xenig within whose chassis I was presently residing, "the only service you get is transport to and from your objective: a dozen organics and gear shuttled to the middle of nowhere, and a dozen organics and gear shuttled back to civilization. During the in-between, I hold station nearby - did you know that my GalacNet reception is horrid out here? And I did not bring nearly enough sims to keep me amused. I am going to be bored out of my mind."

"Then you are being paid good money to be bored, Lagh!" I snapped. The AI psychology courses I had taken at University had skipped the topic of mechs, focusing instead upon non-sentient systems. "Are we at least allowed to beam back and forth between the target and these quarters?" The Xenig's hold was adequate, if cramped, space for myself, Jamine, and his field team.

"I don't care. However, the beam-out point has to be the established beachhead. I'm not about to make the effort to fish out any of you organics if you get into trouble, so don't come squealing to me if it all goes bad on you. And it will, mark my words. Unless, of course, you want to change the contract to include a rescue clause."

"No."

"Your funeral, then. But, yes, I will beam you in and out of the beachhead. That falls under the 'transport' heading, sub-bullet five to be exact." There was a pause. "And, as I've said before, no pets. You will not bring aboard any of those disgusting creatures that infest the objective. I will put up with squishy organics, but not the half organic-half mech things on that cube."

Who would have guessed a Xenig could hold a prejudice? "They are Borg, and we are here to prove that they are simply misunderstood, enslaved individuals."

Lagh chortled. The expression of dark amusement sounded perfectly natural for all that it was emanating from a speaker grill embedded into the wall next to a small entertainment center. "Have you ever actually talked to a Borg drone? And I don't mean an ex-drone or a rogue. You can't imprison someone who doesn't believe they are enslaved in the first place! A drone unit is more a slave than...than, um, a Po. You do know what a Po is, yes?"

I had once seen a Po. A typical individual was comprised of five or six subunits, with a dozen subunits the maximum. The subunits - resembling a large caterpillar, but mammalian - on their own were smart, but subsentient. A critical number of subunits was required to create a true consciousness, a true 'self'; and that self would dissolve if subunits strayed too far from each other, suggesting interconnectivity was maintained by a specialized form of telepathy or empathy. The Po themselves, I had heard, discouraged outsiders access to the pertinent medical records for religious reasons. Regardless, the Po represented a fascinating example of a naturally evolved biological collective.

"It is not the same," I argued. "A Po subunit is /not/ a true individual. It is born to be part of a larger body. A Borg drone was a sentient individual to start with. Well, unless it was a creche clone, but that is totally different."

"And assimilated drones have been reborn to be less than individuals. Most cannot function alone; and to remove one from the Whole is like catching up a Po subunit and locking it away from its self. As a Po subunit, if you ask it, only wants to belong to its self, so does a Borg drone. Rogues are psychotic aberrants. Ex-drones and the poor bastards with black-market nanite infections are, well, pitiful. Those are the individuals you DAPTer organics should be focusing upon, if I understand your organization charter correctly, not trying to get rights for Collective Borg."

The Active-Political Wing of DAPT pushed the boundaries of drone rights a bit further than the Lobby side. It was very progressive, looking ahead to where DAPT as a whole eventually needed to go. "And how would you know this? Have you talked to Borg? Original or Color?"

Silence.

"That's what I thought." As much as I liked a good debate, I needed to catch up with Jamine and his crew. They and the bulk of the gear had already been beamed to the beachhead, leaving me behind to try to modify the contract (without cost) and ready the cameras. As I had already done the latter, and the former was obviously not to happen, it seemed nothing more was to be accomplished within Lagh's hold.

"Well," said Lagh, "I can tell you that there has been no reaction to your intrusion. When the Hive realigned itself back to Collective, it seemed to have lost a number of protocols developed to deal with interloping non-Borg. I do not know how long that will last; and considering the target you DAPTers have chosen, I strongly suspect adaptations by the sub-collective will quickly take place. Are you absolutely sure you do not want to alter your contract to include an rescue-"

"I am sure."

"Whatever." The tone indicated dismissal. We were organics, and Lagh was a mech. From his point of view, we ranked of no great importance, tolerated only because our credit would eventually be deposited in the Xenig Transcendence Fund. "I suppose I can get some amusement value from this. The sub-collective is making every effort to ignore me, even when I ping them for hail requests or swoop low over their hull. They probably think I'm some random mech trying to annoy them. If their engines weren't all bollixed up - they'll be stuck in normal space the entire week you've paid me to hold here, mark my words - I bet they'd be driving themselves faster and faster, trying to get away from me. It might be fun to see how far I can push this 'Ignore the mech' silent treatment."

I was aghast. "Don't compromise our mission!"

The speaker emitted a raspberry. "Piffle. Fine, I'll stare at my non-existent belly button, maybe play a sim or two. As much as it has been a distraction talking to you, are you ready to be sent to the cube? A dozen individuals has been taxing to my environmental systems, and I would like to clean my hold. That would be easier if there were no organics shedding skin cells and hair and stuff."

Lagh was definitely lacking tact. Then again, I bet that if he was sufficiently compensated, he could be polite enough. I went over to stand next to the camera crate, checking the output on a small screen to confirm the machines inside were in good health. All seemed ready. Rations and my personal gear had already been beamed over; and the communicator necessary to talk to Lagh from the cube was pinned to my tunic. "I'm ready."

"See you later, then. Maybe." The transporter initialized.

"Trakiki!" The individual calling my name as I rematerialized had been one I had thought left in my past, a friend lost as is wont to happen as life-paths merge and part. Therefore, it had come as a great surprise when Jamine had initially introduced his hand-picked field crew to me, a team that had included Begigi.

Despite my heavy academic load, I had graduated before Begigi, who had seemed content to forever remain a student pursuing a comparative literature degree in-between those times she was not attending parties or Club activities. Begigi had eventually grown bored with her lifestyle, opting to drop out of college and accept a short-term body rental with Orange Borg. The experience had apparently changed her.

During the trip to our Borg cube target, Begigi had related in great detail her two year contract. Orange Borg were known as perky and prone to parties, which was very appealing to the younger crowd; and the 'try before you buy' contracts were also attractive. Being a wholly volunteer Collective - no conscripts, no creche clones - meant that Orange had to aggressively market itself. It was very successful, and a good proportion of its short-term rentals eventually returned for either long-term or permanent contracts.

The Orange Collective had decided that 'special effects' was the role best suited for Begigi. The euphemism translating into a job whereupon Begigi had at first assisted, then directed, as aptitude and enthusiasm became apparent, the setting of lights and pyrotechnic displays for Orange parties. Of course, to understand the best way to not blow things up was to intimately know how to blow things up. Downloaded knowledge only went so far; and personal experience and experimentation was highly desirable.

At the expiration of her contract, Begigi had been fully de-assimilated. Orange was a meticulous Color when it came to deBorging its volunteers, including extras such as muscle toning and skin/body conditioning. Volunteers, including Begigi, left Orange in better health and more beautiful than when they had begun their tenure. Naturally, Orange did not bestow 'parting gifts' magnanimously, but as a component of its larger self-marketing plan: satisfied customers were much more likely to recommend the Color to their friends, as well as return in the future.

Orange was not a Color DAPT had its attention upon. As Begigi was quite happy to relate, everyone in the Collective strove together to find Perfection through parties, but no one was forced to cooperate. The Whole worked to find a position for each drone in its volunteer workforce; and if a place seemed lacking, or the drone in question just did not want to assist, then he/she/it would be terminated (figuratively, not literally) from their contract early.

After her release, Begigi had tried to find a job. In light of her new skills - all specialized knowledge had been retained, another Orange 'gift' - she had attempted to enter the field of construction demolition. Unfortunately, she had been dismissed out of hand as "too pretty" or "too delicate", never mind an ability to construct over a dozen deadly devices using nothing more than a tricorder, chewing gum, and the contents of the average kitchen junk drawer. Finally Begigi had encountered a DAPT recruiter, who had immediately recognized the advantages she would bring to the Active-Politics Wing.

Jamine had found Begigi to be neither "too pretty" nor "too delicate"; and, in fact, her looks and disarming innocence were an asset, allowing her to gain access to places otherwise barred to DAPT.

Through all her adventures, the one thing about Begigi which had not changed was her personality. She was as perky and happy as I remembered from Wilmoni University, be she recounting the latest bone plate paint fashion, describing a particularly wild Orange party, or adroitly wiring a remote-detonated bomb. Her eventual goal, once she had seen a bit more of the galaxy - a DAPT benefit - was to return to Orange permanently.

Apparently, Orange had a future plan which involved exploding stars, and Begigi really wanted to be present when the big red button was pushed.

"Hello, Begigi," I responded before turning to check the camera crate. It had transported fine.

The Cube #238 beachhead was located 2.7 kilometers(!) beneath the ship's outer hull, within the central cube superstructure. Specifically, it was a storage room, empty except for a few dusty boxes of broken devices and blown isolinear crystals. The space was more than large enough for a dozen people and the large heap of supplies Jamine had deemed necessary to complete his mission. The single door to the room was closed, but I knew from an earlier visit to the beachhead that it opened to a corridor of enormous dimensions. Why a hallway was required to be large enough to fly a shuttle through, I was unsure, but obviously the Borg Collective had sufficient reason to build so.

"Did you have a nice talk to Lagh? He's quite an interesting mech. So many stories to tell!" Begigi was able to get along with anyone, even a tactless Xenig.

"So-so. He won't change the contract, at least not without a lot of credit we do not have."

Begigi frowned. "Poo." A dismissive shrug. "Oh, well. Those your cameras?"

I nodded, then began to unlatch one side of the box. "Yes they are, and I need to make sure they are ready to go as soon as possible. Has Jamine decided upon a schedule yet?"

"Yup! Stuff's being sorted now and three people are out scouting. We should be ready to proceed in an hour or so. Can I help you?"

Orange Borg may have nurtured Begigi's prowess concerning anything that went boom, but she remained hopeless when it came to complex electronics (that were not part of a detonation device). "I'm fine. Could you tell Jamine that camera support will be ready any time his is?"

"Okie-dokie!" Begigi bounced away.

I returned to uncrating my cameras.

The first two targets were located by scouts several hundred meters from the beachhead, amid a complex corridor maze. By necessity - nothing resembling an elevator had yet to be found - the targets were on the same level. Happily, the hallways in question were sized for normal humanoids, not giants, although that plus was more than offset by the lack of landmarks. Trailing behind the DAPT column with my cameras, my nervousness must have caught Jamine's attention for he personally assured me that several of his team had perfect spatial memories. In other words, no one, not even the logistics specialist and camera jockey, would be lost.

It was then that I saw my first Borg drones 'in the wild'.

As a DAPT employee, I had encountered many beings who had been the victims of assimilation, either accidentally or otherwise. However, I had rarely had occasion to interact with drones linked with their Collective, much less units unaware they were under observation. And unaware succinctly described the pair. Despite our noise and visual presence - no attempt was made at stealth - the two drones continued at their task. With a nod from Jamine, I ordered one of my cameras forward to better document DAPT team actions, leaving the second hovering behind and above me as a reserve.

Metal panels stacked on a grav sled, the drones appeared to be in the midst of maintenance. While there were two drones, one was primarily toiling away around the corner, leaving sled and its compatriot visible to the team. The drone on view was slowly sliding its prosthetic arm over the hallway wall, taking a step forward only when everything within reach had been, presumably, scanned. Twice while we observed, it stopped to face its work area. Several swift taps popped a panel, outwardly no different from its neighbors, from the bulkhead. The discarded panel would subsequently vanish in a transporter beam, leaving the drone free to select a replacement from the sled. New panel set in place, the slow, repetitive chore would continue.

From Lagh, I knew that that the cube was experiencing technical difficulties involving both propulsion and shields, rendering FTL temporarily impossible. However, I suppose, engine issues aside, on a vessel the size of Cube #238 there were always low-ranking tasks of one sort or another to accomplish. This one seemed particularly pointless in my estimation.

Jamine reached into a pouch belted to his waist. From it he drew forth a dull metal globe half the size of a clenched fist. Motioning for silence, he pointed at three DAPT team members to accompany him as he moved forward towards the first drone target.

The assault, such as it was, proved anticlimactic.

What Jamine held was called a jammer. Anyone who has been part of a Color Collective, be it as a volunteer or conscript, knew about the device. Jammers could either selectively, or completely, block the fractal frequencies which linked Borg to each other. They were most commonly employed when a Color encountered a spy from a rival Collective - an interrogative technique. There were rumors, however, that rogues, recaptured or nascent, were also subjected to the devices during the horrible process by which the unit was 'reformatted'. Even darker anecdotes suggested jammers were key in 'repurposing', a process by which detained enemy units were 'mentally realigned' to the worldview of the capturing Collective.

In this case, Jamine did not have anything nearly so cruel in mind. He merely wanted to separate the drone from the overMind in order to interview it, to allow it to relate in an uncensored manner the condition of its enslavement. Simple.

Or, perhaps not.

The jammer was easily emplaced on the back of the drone's neck. The moment that it activated, it blinked thrice, appeared to notice the DAPT team for the first time, then promptly collapsed.

"Well, damn," said Jamine matter-of-factly, surprise on his face. The drone had just missed landing on his feet.

"36 of 260? Answer me! You and your pranks are the reason we are in this corridor in the first place," complained a voice, heavy on the reverberation, from around the corner. The disconnect of the target may not have gone unnoticed, but the /reaction/ was unexpected. This was the first proof that these drones, the members of this 'imperfectly assimilated' sub-collective, were indeed individuals.

As heavy footsteps approached the corner, Jamine waved additional team members forward to drag the collapsed (unconscious?) drone out of the way. Begigi was among the hands eager to assist. Meanwhile, uncaring of the potential danger, the leader of DAPT's Active-Politics Wing removed another jammer from his pouch and took a position next to the grav sled. I relocated the cameras.

"36 of 260, where are you? This is not funny." The second drone stepped around the corner, head swiveling back and forth as it panned the hallway. It was odd to see eyes and ocular implant slide across the motionless DAPT team, yet not register our presence. I had been told about the phenomenon, but had not believed it to be real: the drone, the sub-collective, did not expect intruders to be present, therefore when intruders were seen, they were dismissed as impossible. Even the jammed drone had joined the ranks of the pseudo-invisible, for disconnected from the Whole it no longer existed. "If you keep this up, you will be visiting Assimilation."

Jamine moved to set the second jammer.

Some aspect of the situation must have finally registered to the drone, for it turned towards the grav sled even as Jamine's hand found his mark. By then, it was too late. The jammer immediately activated, extruding multiple pairs of legs so as to better secure itself to its victim. Unlike the first drone, this second one did not drop to the deck. Instead it sucked in a deep breath, focused squarely upon Jamine, and announced, "Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated." The words were much more mechanical than the conversational tone used prior.

Jamine avoided the hand which swept at him with malice intent. He then continued to scramble backwards as the drone pursued.

"I only want to talk to you," implored Jamine, his expression sincere.

"Resistance is futile."

"Ask a few questions."

"You will be assimilated."

"Allow you to tell-"

"You will be assimilated."

Jamine's expression darkened; and while it likely went unheard by anyone else, via a camera microphone I heard "Ungrateful bastard" uttered. The following command was pitched towards the field team, "Take this thing down!"

Several taser darts flew through the air - discharge of conventional weapons was one of the items which would capture the attention of the local sub-collective, even as the physical presence of intruders was dismissed - to strike skin unconcealed by armor. The burnt meat smell as electricity was applied sickened me, and I was aghast at the effort necessary to render the Borg to unconsciousness.

"It's for the drone's own good," murmured Begigi in my ear. I turned to face my fellow Gedar. "It is the sudden shock of disconnection, you see." As an ex-Orange, it was expected that my old college associate might have a personal insight to the matter. "Some units are so deeply entwined with their Collective that they just...go blank when the link is gone. Sometimes a drone become catatonic, like the first fellow. Or gal. Whatever. Other times, deep programming takes over."

I stared. "How do you know this?"

Begigi's serious expression vanished as a wide smile of remembrance replaced it. She shrugged. "Well, when I was with Orange, you see, a bunch of us would gather together to have double-dog-dare contests. Jamming or other forms of disconnect were very popular dares. The results could be absolutely hilarious!"

Nodding in vague understanding, I glanced towards Jamine. Still at the grav sled, he was ordering the two drones be placed on the contraption and readied for transport back to the beachhead. Noticing my attention, Jamine said, "We are returning to base. Once there, we'll discuss what to do next. I've a few ideas."

Jamine always had another idea. That was why the DAPT Active-Politics Wing was so successful.

"I'm not so sure about this," said I to Jamine. Half a dozen room panels had been removed before uncovering the subnode. Little more than a thickening of the ubiquitous wire bundles common in the bulkhead walls, the subnode routed data packets from point A to point B. Theoretically, the subnode was also a valid entry point for any hacker foolish enough a physical linkage to vessel systems. In this here, in this now, I was that unwise individual, holding a cable in one hand, the other end spliced into the subnode. Frankly, I was scared, unknowing what digital dragon lay in ambush should I plug the lead into the c-jack port at the base of my skull.

"It is okay," soothed Jamine. "We already discussed our options, and this is the best and only one available. Since the Xenig won't help us out without payment of an obscene number of credits, we need to gain access to the local transporters. All you have to do is find the controls and beam myself and my team to one of the alcove tiers. We'll do the rest."

He made it sound so easy. "But-"

"You are not actually doing anything. The field team will acquire and secure the target, you will just be...facilitating. Once we have returned to the room, you'll be running cameras again."

I sighed. Nascent shivers were nearly sending my hand to shaking. "No, that isn't my worry. Not really. I understand and trust you. I just don't know if I can find the controls. I do not want to fail you or the mission. This is not a mere firewall I'm trying to breach. There is a better than even chance I'll immediately be recognized as an intruder; and then there will be consequences, both to myself and the entire team."

"It will be okay. All will be fine. You will do well. DAPT will succeed." Jamine stared deeply into my eyes as he offered calming words. I could feel his conviction filling my inner being.

Hand clenched tighter around the cable. "If you say so."

"I do. You are the only one here who can do it."

Closing my eyes, I slid the lead into my port, then initiated the c-jack commands.

A new world sprang to life, digital signal converted by my c-jack interface device into impulses my organic brain could interpret. I was standing in a cramped hallway, an easily avoided obstacle to the bright-winged insects - data packets - that occasionally flitted by. As the data was all flowing in one direction, I would follow.

The hallway intersected with a bigger corridor, which in turn connected to yet a larger artery. More insects joined the growing swarm, the great majority continuing to stream one way. A bright light signaled the end of the pipe; and I entered unto a vast open-air plaza.

I needed to gain my bearings, determine where I was in the system so that I might navigate to the transporter controls. Although it felt as if I had spent nearly an hour to reach this data node, I knew that in real-world time mere seconds had ticked by. The less time I stayed connected to the system, the less chance I would be discovered. Yet, haste itself could be an enemy, a factor which could precipitate error, so I paused to scrutinize my new surroundings.

The plaza was not empty. In fact, it appeared I had been dumped into a primary node structure. Above me buzzed swarms of data packets, fanciful insect forms creating a scintillating display. Moving upon the plaza itself were Borg forms, agile in a manner completely at odds with reality. Despite the potential threat represented by the drones, it was not they which had my full attention, but rather the hunter-seekers that were system security. Rarely had I encountered such potential lethality.

Meandering among their drone masters, pausing at random to test the digital air or sniff a unit, I imaged the hunter-seekers as powerful feline creatures. However, where an organic animal would have a head, these digital constructs sported a fearsome assembly of steel shears, multiple gnashing jaws, and sharp-clawed arms. If a file, or an avatar, did not pass muster, it was obvious that the hunter-seekers were more than adequately equipped to pass summary judgment and execution.

As one hunter-seeker wended its way in my direction, I braced myself. My disguise would work, else I was about to contract a serious case of brain burn.

I-

*****

[A sharp demand from a new voice, a gruff voice]

Well, all Borg drones have this chip accessible-

[Mutter]

Indeed, identification tag is the correct term! How did you know that? I suppose an investigative reporter - police detective? - learns many things. Anyway, the identification tag includes the unit's designation, sub-collective assignment, current and recent duty list, and similar information. It also has a dynamic memory function, storing a running index of recently performed actions and memes. It is the same concept as the black box on a commercial shuttle, although it holds only five minutes worth of meme data. Therefore, if a drone is killed and the body cannot be recovered, every effort is made by the Collective to at least retrieve the identification chip with its data files.

It was easy to remove the chip from one of the catatonic captives and clone it. Truthfully, the security was a joke - VisaConsortium credit implants have stronger measures embedded to dissuade theft. Copying the pertinent identifiers from the chip and applying them to my c-jack avatar, I became, from the computer's perspective, the drone. The disguise would not withstand close scrutiny, but I figured - prayed to the Directors - it was enough to survive a cursory inspection by hunter-seekers and other elements of the digital immune system. If security had been at higher alert than what I saw when I entered the data node, the spoof would have never worked.

Wait a moment...that thing the doctor is about to...it looks just like an identification-

[A different voice offering a quiet comment]

A subepidermal transponder to monitor patient status. Is that normal procedure at this hospital?

[Murmuring]

If you say so. And yes, I can continue.

*****

I held completely still as the feline monstrosity approached. It paused next to me, blades lazily snapping and clacking as it tasted my digital signature. For a long, tail-lashing moment I thought the disguise had failed, and I braced myself to run. Then the hunter-seeker glided onward, sedately padding across the plaza towards a new quarry.

I quickly began to edge my way along the periphery of the plaza, avoiding drone forms. While the minds behind the designations appeared to be largely focused upon their own tasks, any interaction with a sub-collective crewmember might bring unwanted scrutiny of a Mind with deductive abilities much greater than a hunter-seeker security program.

The transporter controls I needed to access were easy to discern, represented as vendor stalls scattered about the plaza. Unfortunately, they were also busy portals, nexus points under constant use as drones in the real-world transported themselves or material from one point to another within the cube. What I needed was a back door; and it took several subjective hours, and additional hunter-seeker scrutiny, to find the alley.

I do not know the why nor the how behind its presence, but the blind corridor budding from the primary data node was an elegant hack. Impossible to perceive until I literally stumbled through a 'brick wall' while trying to avoid a drone moving in my direction, it was a cubby hole stacked with portals to multiple systems. Nothing critical, like weapons or propulsion, was available, but in addition to the desired transporter access, I noted, among other things, a module that eavesdropped upon external communications.

For the moment, I only needed transporter control; and after a quick scrutiny, I was confident I could use the portal with minimal risk. Again, whomever had constructed this hidden subnode had desired utmost secrecy. I hoped that he, she, or it would not come a'visiting, at least not while I was present.

I opened my eyes. Maintaining an active c-jack session while interacting in a meaningful manner with the real-world is not something everyone can accomplish, but it was a skill I had nurtured. I checked the chronometer function embedded in the c-jack software, noting less than five minutes had passed.

"Got it," I slurred.

Jamine was immediately at my side. "You have transporter access?"

"Yes."

"You can beam us anywhere on the cube? And bring us back here?"

I half-lidded my eyes to better focus on my connection with the cube computer. "Not everywhere. Central Engineering, Primary Core, and Auxiliary Cores are restricted."

"But you can send us to an alcove tier," persisted Jamine. "And return us and a guest to our base?"

Transporter control necessitated low-level access to the internal sensor array. Within a three-dimensional sketch of Cube #238, drones were thousands of beige points, both stationary and in motion. In contrast, when I focused upon the frequency of the communicator each DAPT team member had pinned to clothing, us dozen resolved into a dense cluster of blue dots. "Yes."

"Then we are ready. Beam us to an alcove tier."

Nodding - maintaining a doubled perception is like being really drunk - I closed my eyes to banish real-world input, focusing once more wholly upon my c-jack avatar. The command was sent; and eleven sapphire signatures were translocated to one of the locales containing motionless beige specks arrayed in a long row.

Time in the digital realm subjectively speeds along at a much greater clip than the universe as defined by biological processes. Therefore, to pass the time, I patched DAPT frequencies through the communications module that shared virtual space in the alley. With that task completed, I could remain fully submerged in the computer, not needing to maintain a real-world ear to listen to the communicator.

Then there was nothing to do but wait. The DAPT field team was (slowly) moving along the tier: I knew Jamine had reprogrammed hand-held scanners to look for something, but I was unsure what, nor how long it would take. Happily, the owner of the hacked subnode had included a game module with a vast collection of solitaire variants.

{Trakiki, beam us to base. Include the drone closest to Begigi.} Jamine's voice, translated through the communication module, caught my attention. I put away virtual cards, input the appropriate transporter commands, then allowed my avatar to dissipate.

As I opened my eyes, the eleven field team members materialized in the room. Begigi was hugging a drone.

That explained her entanglement with the target signature.

The oddly intimate scene dissolved as Begigi backed away from her new cybernetic friend. From my side-on vantage, I could see a jammer had been attached to the back of the Borg's neck where skull and spine met.

The reaction was immediate.

The drone's whole eye popped open and high-pitched shriek was uttered. Arms - whole and prosthetic - began to frantically flail. However, a combination of armor, lack of flexibility, and device placement conspired to keep the jammer just out of reach. Unafraid, Begigi tried to verbally calm the Borg, and just missed being smacked across the head for her efforts.

"Restrain it, but don't put it out unless it attempts assimilation!" ordered Jamine. Ropes and other restraints swiftly appeared in the hands of stone-faced team members. Satisfied all was soon to be under control, Jamine pushed his way towards me. "I need to know the designation and assignment of that drone."

Cable still plugged into my c-jack port, I nodded even as I reinitiated the link. I regained digital awareness within the hidden alley. Before I could fully orient myself and consider how to slither my way into the drone designation database, the external communicator module activated.

{Return our unit. You will comply.} It was the sub-collective with a subspace demand directed at...

=I don't have your unit, just like I don't have the other two you accused me of stealing. No nanite-ridden half-organic freak of un-nature will cross the threshold to my chassis.= The response originated from Lagh, accelerated to digital-realm speeds. Unlike interactions with his organic-brain cargo, there was no need for the Xenig to slow his processes when communicating with Cube #238.

{You are preventing our scans from perceiving the signatures of the drones we know you have.}

=I am not.=

{The same shield has severed the link of our units from ourself.}

=I /do not/ have such a device nor contraption. I /do not/ have your stupid units.=

{Return the following units: 5 of 5, 36 of 260, and 200 of 215. You will comply.}

=And if I don't? Will you attack me? Well?=

Silence.

=That's what I thought. Like I told you before, I will allow no Borg product of unnatural selection to touch my hull. Don't blame me for you losing your drones.= The connection was broken. Apparently Lagh was as forthright concerning his Borg bigotry when talking to the Borg as when discussing the subject with me.

I knew that the designations of the two drones captured in the hallway were 36 of 260 and 200 of 215. By process of elimination, that meant the new unit was 5 of 5. To request a designation dossier was a very low-level, routine query, and the computer did not bat a digital eye as I performed it. Into my avatar's hands materialized a thick manila file. I flipped it open and swiftly began to read.

"The drone you brought back is 5 of 5, subdesignation Reserve. It...he is the backup consensus monitor and facilitator of this cube, a unit very high in the local command structure; and the sub-collective really would like him back. Right now Lagh is accused of stealing him, but if a decision is made to change the search parameters to include an intensive internal scan for misplaced drone signatures, we will be in trouble. The jammer cannot hide a unit from a purposeful search." I snapped my awareness back to the real-world to relay the information, a tumble of words. While I had been submerged in the computer, the drone - Reserve - had been secured.

Jamine only seemed to hear the first part of my revelation. "A consensus monitor. I see." The DAPT field leader scratched an ear in self-satisfaction. "A command node was exactly what I was hoping to find. Surely if any drone of this special sub-collective would demonstrate a sense of individuality and be able to relate to us the horror of existence within the slave-machine which is any Collective, a command node will. I just did not expect to capture such an upper echelon command node."

"It is a good plan," I agreed, "but I don't think it will work in this instance."

Arms and legs tightly bound, Reserve was laying on the ground in the center of the room. Despite the bodies hovering over and around him, he did not appear to be registering the presence of DAPT intruders. Instead, wide eyes focused upon sights only he could see as a nonstop string of pitiful pleading was uttered: "This drone cannot hear the voices...let this drone hear the voices. This drone wants to belong. Let this drone belong. This drone must belong...must belong...must belong. This drone will do anything the unit is told to be One."

I continued, "Jamine, the file for that poor fellow says that he was repurposed from Gray into what, at the time, would have been the Hive. In other words, his Greater Consciousness coerced a change in allegiance. I do not know all which might be involved in such an act, but I've heard mention that jammers are a part of the process." I paused. "I think your 'command node' is having flashbacks. Horrible ones, at that."

Reserve screamed once more, then began to thrash. Spittle was foaming around his mouth as he renewed his begging to a non-present Collective.

Jamine sighed. "You may be right." Voice was raised. "Sedate the drone and stack him with the other two."

Although the sedation method was brutal, I was relieved when the drone was finally unconscious. "You know, Jamine, the jammers I acquired for this mission are deluxe models."

"Yes? You have a notion?"

"Well...." I picked my words carefully, not quite sure how much weight my words would carry. After all, I was an office worker acting the role of observer (and facilitator), not an experienced field operative. "Why not alter the polarity of the jammers? Let the drone maintain an incoming link, but not be able to send any outgoing data." I thought back at how Begigi had said that some drones became so deeply entwined in the collective consciousness that when the link was broken it was an insurmountable mental shock. "Perhaps the drone will be comforted by the fact that it can still hear all its buddies, even as it won't be able to tell them about us. That might lend a bit more coherency than...." I indicated the corner of the room where Reserve was joining his compatriots.

Jamine nodded. "That is an excellent idea. You are definitely contributing to the eventual success of our mission."

The praise left me with a warm and fuzzy feeling inside.

The room looked like a cross between a shuttle repair facility and the movie set for a high-tech inquisitor. All the surfaces were sanitary, gleaming, as one might expect in a hospital. However, if one kept one's focus at any one place for any length of time, one would begin to notice devices and tools more at home in a garage (or a torturer's kit). About half the work benches - definitely not beds - were filled, individuals undergoing procedures of an often stomach-turning nature.

The only reason I knew it was not a torture facility was because I was becoming more adept at manipulating the modules in the virtual alleyway alcove. The transporter control, slaved to internal sensors, labeled the room as Maintenance Bay #2.

*****

I dislike to interrupt the interview, but I just noticed something odd: this hospital room has an extraordinary resemblance to that Borg maintenance bay. There are differences, but-

[Sharp rebuke, followed by an even sharper order]

Irrelevant. I don't understand, but if you say so. I suppose, when you found me or Lagh dropped me off - how did I get here? I do not remember - there wasn't time to bring me to a facility more pleasing to Gedarian sensibilities. Still.... Yes, yes, I continue.

*****

I was not physically present, the reality which was my body slumped against a wall at the base. However, through the technological magic of the hacked subnode, I was able to join Jamine and three of his field crew via the camera platform. Very careful trial and error had allowed me to piggyback the camera's broadcast and control signals into the alcove's communication subroutine. With the simple addition of a communicator to the camera, I could converse with Jamine or his three member subteam without the need to duplex my mind. The second camera was left at base, also active, so that I might observe what was occurring around my body.

The main problem is while I was operating at the clock speed set by the Borg computer, camera input remained in real-world time. Therefore, I was able to peruse many hands of solitaire whilst waiting upon my flesh-and-blood DAPT comrades.

{Trakiki, are any of these drones command rated?} It was Jamine, his voice speaking directly into my mind, bypassing the ears.

I peered through my camera eye, absorbing the scene. Borg on tables and other Borg moving amongst them wielding devices of unknown (except for the cutting implements) function. All were ignoring the four DAPTers peering into the room from a hallway, as well as the camera floating overhead.

A particular attention-grabber was a pair of multi-legged creatures - the species was unfamiliar to me - in a work area set slightly apart from the other activities. One octopod sat upon a stool, main body secured to a pair of flanking metal rods. A large, stiff fabric hood hung from the ceiling above the contraption connected to the latter by a series of pulleys. The second Borg stood facing the first, two of its many limbs waving in complex figures while another pair cradled a PADD-like device. Upon issuance of an unheard command, the hood would descend over the seated drone, stopping once the body-sac was fully enveloped. Several minutes of nothing; and, finally, there would be motion - increasingly violent limb twitches - from the trussed Borg. At the point whereupon it seemed the trapped unit had entered a seizure, perhaps even vocalized a muffled screech, the hood would raise. After several minutes of renewed arm waving, the hood would once again drop.

As much as the ability to eavesdrop on intradrone communications would be a boon, in this instance I was glad to not know what was happening.

Jamine's request was simple to process. As I had done each time the team had encountered a concentration of drones, I dove into the sensory submodule attached to transporter control. Entwined within the data was a simple tag for each lifeform the internal grid could resolve. Perception, of course, was a completely different matter, for if the sub-collective had been actively cognizant of the intruders in its midst then our sapphire presence would have already been transformed into beige markers. I gathered together the designations associated with each unit in the Maintenance Bay, then queried for the appropriate dossiers. Each was swiftly parsed.

Jamine was searching for a specific subset of the larger drone populace - command and control hierarchy. The belief was that those units tasked to perform a coordinating function would, by necessity, have greater mental freedom than a designation who solely processed grid data or welded brackets. The initial captures had been of the lattermost group; and while Reserve lay within the desired subset, there were obviously personal issues present that precluded fitness. Jamine had originally planned to scan alcove-bound drones one by one, searching for a particular tag signature that signified hierarchy status. However, once he had learned that I could identify drones via the alleyway modules and directly view their dossiers, he had felt a change in plans to be more efficient.

I concentrated, sending my thought-words through the camera: {There is a command and control drone present, but she is undergoing cranial surgery. Um, third bench to your left, the patient with half her skull removed.} Four heads shifted to peer at the indicated table. Jamine's expression suggested intent interest. I, on the other hand, was glad my digital self had no stomach contents to lose.

{Nothing else?} asked Jamine.

{Well, the unfettered octopod} - I now knew from the dossier that the species name was Dromela, a race well-removed from the Alpha-Gamma Quadrant border area of which I was familiar - {is listed as drone maintenance hierarchy head. Designation is 3 of 13, with a subdesignation of Doctor. He is not command and control, but he does function as a primary coordination node.}

Jamine's response was immediate: {Transport him.}

{Are you sure? He /is/ awake. There is a distinct chance that he will alert the sub-collective of our presence before-}

{My team knows what to do.} Jamine broke off speaking to me to inform, via communicator, that a subject was incoming. I distantly heard the order echoed through my real-world ears. {Transport him, then us.}

{Okay.} The worry I felt was not translated through the communicator interface. Locking on the transporter, I beamed the target to base, followed a beat behind by the camera and DAPT subteam.

At the base, through the second camera, I watched as Doctor was immediately beset by a combination of taser and blanket, the latter employed to temporarily blind the target and increase confusion. Disregarding their own danger, team members leapt upon the drone, multiple hands striving to attach multiple jammers as quickly as possible. Within the sub-collective's digital-scape, the response was also immediate, but not to raise an alarm against intruders.

{You took that particular drone on purpose! Return him!} The module that eavesdropped upon external communications was active, the sub-collective once again leaping to the errant conclusion that Lagh had filched one of its units.

A stretched silence as the Xenig ignored the accusation, then, =I felt that target lock. If those weapons solutions are finalized, if I receive one scratch on my hull, the Borg Collective will be recovering your remains atom by atom.=

{Return our-}

=For the /last time/, read my non-existent lips: I. Do. Not. Have. Your. Ruddy. Drone. The end. Now let me count stars in peace.=

Lagh continued to tell the truth; and the sub-collective continued to disbelieve it. While the impasse would not last forever, hopefully it would last long enough.

Forcing stiff muscles to respond, I reached towards my neck and yanked c-jack cable out of the socket. I was not a game modder: I was not comfortable spending long hours, even days, in the digital realm...and especially not a nerve-wracking one which might erupt with hunter-seeker hostilities should I bump the wrong datastream. I needed to escape to the real-world.

While the stalking of an appropriate command node drone had been occurring, I had idly watched through the base camera several of the field team, including Begigi, unpack and assemble a framework of metal and straps. During preparation for the mission, the various parts had been among the long list of supplies requested by Jamine. Unknown, and uncaring, at the time of what the materials represented - just one more item to be acquired - I had ordered them from a building hardware company. Now it was to this scaffolding the trussed drone was secured. The blanket was torn away.

A Dromela looks like something which should be more at home in the ocean than on land. Eight limbs, four thicker and stockier than the other two pair, emerge from a large body-sac; and while it is obvious the species is evolved for life out of water, the impression of sea-creature remains. There are four eyes, one well-developed pair facing a presumed forward, and a less-developed pair looking rearward. Except for an ocular implant replacing one forward eye, the drone appeared to be minimally cybernized. I suppose even the Borg Collective has its limits when constructing artificial replacements and trying to fit body armor to non-standard forms.

Doctor blinked his whole eye twice, then twisted his body as best he could to look at his captors. Either this drone was of sterner stuff than the first three detained, else my suggestion to modify jammer polarization to permit incoming data was allowing the retention of sanity. Several limbs pulled against bindings, testing their competency. When no give was found, the arms (legs?) relaxed.

"Interesting," commented Doctor, voice emerging from an orafice hidden by complex limb girdle, "I seem to have four...no, five interplexing beacon jammers attached to me. The static interface pattern suggests they are Model 5Z, a Maroon Borg product. The device is rated superb, able to be deployed effectively against a diverse array of races, including species #6766. Due to divergent neural architecture, there are a few species for which it is ineffective, but overall an excellent open market choice for a non-assimilated being looking to isolate a Borg or Color drone from its Collective.

"Oh, yes...lest I forget: release this drone and submit for assimilation. Resistance is futile." The stilted, ritualistic words were delivered as if an afterthought.

If Jamine was discomforted by Doctor's calmly analytical demeanor, he did not show it. Instead he barked out a series of orders. Less than two minutes later, I had both cameras positioned to video the proceedings, and framework with Borg attached had been pivoted to face the corner of the room where his three comrades lay unconscious. Several tools of an unfamiliar sort - I had not ordered them - but with an unsavory resemblance to the equipment in the Maintenance Bay had also appeared from an unmarked crate and arrayed upon its top. Disturbingly, the DAPT field team, Begigi among them, seemed to be quite familiar with the course of action, even as I remained clueless.

Satisfied that all was in order, Jamine reached into a side drawer the same box which had disgorged the unknown tools, bringing forth a short baton. Swift hand gestures in my direction indicated final camera placement.

"You," said Jamine to Doctor, "are probably wondering why I have brought you here today."

Replied Doctor, "It is apparent the Xenig was not lying when he denied stealing 5 of 5, 36 of 260, and 200 of 215. Professional to professional, how are you keeping them sedated? The jammer explains why we could not perceive their presence, but any chemical restraint should be quickly neutralized by nanites." The drone paused as his ocular implant made a quiet whirling noise. "Ah! Cortical inhibitors! You are inducing an artificial coma by interrupting critical neuroendocrinological functions! Dangerous to the subject should the inhibitor not be set correctly, but effective." The last was delivered with a knowledgeable air.

A dark expression crossed Jamine's face, one I had never seen before. He looked...annoyed. Baton smacked against framework, near Doctor's whole eye. The Borg did not flinch. I did. "Listen to /me/ and look at /me/! Again, you are probably wondering why I have brought you here today."

"Not really. You are a small being and will eventually inform me of the answer to your question. Or not. My curiosity is irrelevant." Doctor shifted attention away from his shipmates and towards Jamine.

"My name is Jamine, and I am a representative of DAPT - Drones Are People Too-"

Interrupted Doctor, "This device to which I am strapped, very effective. Binding of the subject, yet providing excellent access to non-distal body mass. I have used similar in the past. Is it modeled after the livestock butcher frame of species #2551? That would be Shutov. Professional to professional, you understand."

"Quiet!" Baton smacked metal again. "As I was saying, I am a representative of DAPT - Drones Are People Too. It is the mission of my organization to fight for the rights of all assimilated or quasi-assimilated beings. Everyone is an individual, and should be treated as such!"

I had always thought the purpose of DAPT was to end the bigotry shown towards the assimilated disadvantaged, be they an escaped rogue attempting to start a new life, an ex-Color experiencing a partial 'relapse', or a gamer who had acquired the wrong black-market mod. It was a subtle, but real, difference from what Jemine was espousing. But then again, I had been assisting the Active-Politics Wing for a relatively short while, and it was not unexpected that their official objective might vary somewhat from the Lobby Wing.

"By any means necessary will oppression be fought. All you have to do is answer a few questions. Nothing more. Simple." Jamine's moment of heightened fervor had moderated.

"We understand. Perfectly." Eye swiveled slightly to focus upon one of the cameras. "And if the answers provided are not what you desire?"

Jamine ignored the query, instead responding with one of his own: "You are termed 'imperfectly assimilated'?"

"Yes."

"You are an individual?"

"No."

The ring of baton on metal. "You, the person to whom I am speaking, is an individual, distinct from all others." Statement, not question.

"I am Borg."

"Hah! 'I' denotes an individual! A Borg cannot use the singular!"

"Incorrect. Any drone may use the singular, but it is not comfortable. It suggests a...mental space where none exists. The imperfect assimilated are abnormal, are held apart from the central Whole, and each other, whereupon the singular regains relevancy. But, we - I - still strive towards the same Perfection. Our goals are One. This drone may be mildly neurotic and prone towards unBorg thoughts and deeds, but he is not psychotic."

"Individual."

"Not."

"Individual."

"A cog within the Whole. Currently unable to communicate with that Whole, but still a cog."

The interview was not going the way Jamine (or myself) had imagined. Abruptly the DAPT field leader smacked the butt of the baton against his thigh. In response, the formerly inert stick began to glow at the tip. "Do you know what this is?"

Around the circle of field members, knowing smirks and elbow jabs were exchanged. I felt entirely left out.

"The model, no. The general equipment, yes. It is a stun stick. 89 of 150 and 101 of 150 dueled with them last week for reasons only understandable to another weapons drone. The voltage was turned up too high: 89 of 150 will be twitching for weeks." Pause. "Professional to professional, how-"

To my horror, Jamine shoved the glowing end of the stick against Doctor's body-sac, causing the drone to convulse.

"Stop lying! You are an individual and a slave to the Borg Collective!"

Stun stick removed from flesh, Doctor ceased writhing. After a few seconds, limb tips still trembling in residual response to the jolt, a rebuttal was delivered: "Why lie to a small being?"

Jamine leaned over to peer directly into Doctor's large eye, his tone gentle as he said, "I do not wish to hurt you, my good Borg. All I want to do is help your fellow cyborgs, particularly those enslaved and forced to execute demeaning, degrading, and dangerous tasks. We all know that that coercion is used, that if a drone rebels, tries to refuse an assignment, that 'attitudes are adjusted'." Pause. "All you have to do is say that you are an individual, that the Borg Collective - any Collective - robs the free-will from its drones and compels them to actions of which any individual would decline if asked to perform. Your Collective will never know: if you do as I request, then I will take you away to start a new life, free...."

I blinked. Lagh had expressedly forbid a Borg presence within his hull. Jamine was not ignorant of this fact - the Xenig had declared it more than once during the journey to Cube #238. A lie was being told to Doctor.

Then again...better a lie than the stun stick.

Doctor was silent.

"You agree?"

"This drone is not an individual. This drone is not a slave. All drones strive towards the same goal of Perfection in Oneness, even the imperfectly assimilated. The Greater Consciousness is a reflection of our Will, even as the Will directs us. I refuse to lie. I refuse to say anything at all."

"You are a slave!"

Doctor's demeanor abruptly changed. There was a subtle glazing of his eye and relaxing of muscles formerly tensed. He - Doctor - was no longer...present.

I was not the only one who had noticed the transformation.

"Slave!" Silence. "Individual!" Silence. "Talk to me! You will not ignore me! You will not ignore the needs of DAPT to free you and your brethren! It is for your own good!" Silence.

It was then that Jamine totally lost an resemblance of self-control.

The energized end of the baton was shoved against flesh; and when that elicited no more response than might be expected of involuntary muscles contraction, the stun stick was applied again. And again. And again. And again. Fists and feet came into play, with Doctor's body playing the part of punching bag, each strike an organically meaty thump. At one point, I heard an audible *crack* as something inside the drone broke. A yellowish-pink ichor began to leak from somewhere, suggesting the near mythological ability of Borg nanites to repair damage was unable to keep pace with the abuse being heaped upon Doctor's body.

Worst of all was the enrapt expression upon Jamine's face. Assuming I was not misreading Qua'tohf body language, he was actually enjoying himself.

I looked around the circle, but none, not even Begigi, seemed inclined to stop Jamine, to suggest he might have taken what was supposed to be a simple interrogation a step too far. If anything, the reactions implied that Jamine's display was...normal. Expected. Too intimidated to step forward, I quietly whispered to myself that I was only an observer, only a camera technician, only a facilitator. This was a DAPT field mission, and it was not my place to protest. Surely more was happening here than what appeared on the surface, and I did not want to be the one to foul standard operating procedure.

But, still, it was a Borg, and the purpose of DAPT was to help drones, not beat the sh** out of them.

Finally, after several small eternities, Jamine paused, panting.

Doctor re-emerged from whatever mental closet within which he had been hiding. "Diagnosticssss report damagessss. Not debilitating. Nanitessss swill repair. Several implantsss would benefitsss from replacement." The voice was a hissing slur with 'h' sounds hollowly aspirated. "If yousss sment to persuade me to lie to yoursss camerassss to escape pain, your attempt issss futile. Pain is irrelevant. And I know pain. Yous sare an amateur."

The words seemed to infuriate Jamine, and he raised the stun stick once more.

"Wait!" I shouted, unable to control myself. My outburst caused Jamine to turn and stare. He was not the only one - everyone, even the drone, focused attention upon me, the dreamy unreality of the moment shattered. "Wait." A quieter protest. I swallowed heavily, then continued, addressing not Jamine, but the bruised victim of his attack. "Doctor, can't you tell us something? I...we only want to help, to understand."

Doctor slowly blinked his large eye. "I hasss been telling truthssss. I wills snot lie. Yous snot listening."

"Your understanding of the truth."

"Yes."

"But you are not an individual."

"No."

"But this is an imperfectly assimilated sub-collective. Surely there must be someone here that is...individualistic. At least more than you."

"No...." began Doctor. His protest trailed off. The ichor had finally stopped flowing; and somewhere deep within the drone's body came the raspy sound of tooth-grinding. An unsecured portion of limb tip twitched. "Youss are small and snot believe me. Per'aps you believe consensus monitor and facilitator. Prime - 2 of 5 - speaks for all."

Jamine's eyes lit up. To my relief, he thumbed off the power to the stun stick. "That is exactly who I want to talk to. Surely if anyone around here would be able to provide us with the answers we need, this 'Prime' is it. And if not...." There was a pause as I was critically eyed.

I ducked my head.

"Trakiki, excellent work." I had not expected the praise, given my actions. "With your computer savvy, I bet you have the appropriate skills to splice together video, assuming you have enough material to work with. All we would have to do is acquire that material...and without this, er, mess. Not particularly photogenic, no?" Jamine was constructing an idea, and I was unsure of little except that I figured prominently.

Suddenly, the door to the hallway and room slid open, allowing a Borg to enter. It stepped over the threshold, then paused, head swiveling as it panned the interior left to right. Everyone in the room froze...everyone except Doctor, that is.

"'ere! Over 'ere," Doctor slurred, not quite in control of either organic or artificial portions of his vocal apparatus. He attempted to rock his body back and forth, but did little except to cause the scaffolding to creak slightly.

The drone stared for several long beats directly at Doctor, the merest hint of confusion upon its face. It was apparent that the Borg knew something was out of kilter, but could not perceive what, exactly, was wrong. Then the whole eye slid sideways to fall upon the grav sled that had been used to haul the first two captives to the base.

"There you are," muttered the drone as it advanced upon the sled. It began speaking absently to itself, an unconscious running commentary. "Poor baby! I've been looking all over for you! The Xenig must have moved you when it stole 36 of 260 and 200 of 215."

Begigi was forced to take a step out of the way as the drone threatened to run her over in the quest to achieve its goal.

The Borg grabbed a sled handle, then paused to again scan the room. "Engineer - Supply Closet #75 is empty, more or less. It would be an excellent place to store the materials for refurbishing maintenance of this portion of artery hallway 12." Head tilted as an unheard response was received. "Understood. Grav sled to be parked after delivering its cargo to work detail #34." Another pause was followed by a mutter, the drone once more clearly speaking solely to itself: "Come on, sled 5, let's go meet the work detail and then go to the garage. Uncle 90 of 175 is gonna give you a nice check up and see if the mean ol' Xenig did anything to you."

"'ere!" croaked Doctor a final time. The effort was futile, grav sled and drone vanishing through the door with nary an acknowledgement.

Silence, except for the high-pitched whine of an internal implant or assembly knocked out of alignment in the course of Doctor's persuasion session. All eyes, including mine, were upon Jamine.

"It appears we need to relocate," said Jamine in a conversational tone. Handing his baton to a nearby DAPT field member, he turned in my direction. "Trakiki, if you please, do your logistical magic and see about getting everything moved to, um, the room across the hallway. Everyone, do as Trakiki tells you. And, as far as you, my fine, if largely uncooperative, Borg medical practitioner," attention shifted to Doctor, who glared defiantly in return, "this would have been much easier if you would have just answered my few questions. No matter. Put him out and stack him with the others. We will be taking all our friends with us to the new base."

The move was implemented just in time: less than five minutes after the beachhead base had been vacated, it was once again occupied, but this time by over a dozen Borg stacking hundreds of metal plates. There would have been no avoiding the drones. I watched their activity for a time from the relative safety of the new base's entryway, ignored the entire while. Then it was time for a nap because stimulants could only carry a body so far.

When I awoke, the first order of business was to re-enter the computer. The new base largely resembled the old base, excepting it was a few square meters larger. Then again, a room is a room; and interior decorating is not a priority upon a Borg cube. While I had been asleep, several bulkhead plates had been removed and another subnode access point uncovered. I c-jacked my way back to the alcove hack, no more perceived to be a threat by the local immune-analogue subroutines than my initial entry. Then I went to work locating the sub-collective's consensus monitor and facilitator. It was not difficult, and I found her in the Primary Core trekking along a painted oval. It was when I read her dossier that I realized that acquiring her might pose a difficulty.

"She's a Flarn," I informed Jamine when I surfaced into the real-world to offer my report. "I've never heard of the species, but she is quite a bit larger than anyone here. And stronger, I would bet, even without Borg upgrades. I don't think it will work to simply beam her here and expect to ensnare her like Doctor."

Jemine nodded in understanding. "I've encountered Flarn before, and you are correct in your assessment. However, there are other methods than brute force. Jeenz!" A shout was made for another member of the field team.

Jeenz quickly complied. Lamooti, he was a specialist in applied chemical engineering. I knew he had been a bartender before joining DAPT, but within the organization he had honed his species' exquisite sense of mixology to develop recipes for a wide range of complex toxins and explosives able to be derived from innocuous household substances.

"Do you know anything that will take down a Flarn?" inquired Jamine. "Not lethally. Just long enough to attach a jammer, transport it here, and secure it without getting our heads caved in should disagreement arise."

Jeenz chewed the insides of his cheeks, a species-specific gesture of thoughtful consideration. While motioning with one of his four arms, he replied, "Flarn can be a bit tricky. Nervous systems are a bit...off compared to you or I. When I was 'tending, the occasional Flarn would drop by the bar. Drink the hardest alcohols all night without trouble, then fall over if given even a whiff of lemonade. If I scrounge ingredients from ration packs and spice the mix up with a few secret components from my stash, I may have just the thing."

"Can it be delivered through a blow dart?"

"A liquid is what I have in mind. There is that pseudo-exoskeleton, you know."

"Let me deal with that."

"Whatever you say, boss." Jeenz strode away, purpose guiding his step.

Jamine turned back to me. "Watch the target. Tell me if she either goes off by herself or returns to her alcove. Any place where it appears she will be alone."

I fingered the c-jack at my neck. "Yes, sir." Back into the virtual world I dove.

*****

[Murmur]

What was in the mixture? I do not know. I do know it was green, but only because I saw Jeenz pour it into the darts when they were being prepared.

[Mutter]

Terran limes. I really don't know. Does it make a difference?

[Mutter, very low]

Now I am really confused. I do not see how a hangover headache affects your investigation. Or was it an interview? It's hard to think, but now that I consider-

[A sharp retort]

I comply to drop the subject and continue.

*****

Secured to a more robust version of the scaffolding which had held Doctor, Prime was a Borg showing every symptom I associated with the day following a too-intense celebration. She was conscious, sort of, trapped in that hazy place between sleep and awake. Any noise, loud or not, caused her to flinch as much as she could considering her bindings.

A Flarn has no eyelids to cover compound eyes; and Prime groaned as a spotlight was repositioned. One could not tell if it was her own voice, artificial vocal cords, or a hybrid thereof.

I nervously stood next to the framework, too-aware of the Borg who was literally head and shoulders taller than me and probably at least twice, if not more, my mass. One arm, should fetters fail, could probably send me flying across the room. Unfortunately, my presence near Prime was required. The c-jack cable, formerly my link to the cube computer, was now plugged into the Borg.

I held the loose terminus. If my treks into a digital realm filled with mutant hunter-seekers had frightened me, the mere thought of what I was expected to accomplish now was the fodder of nightmares.

"I...don't know. You've explained it, but it still seems cruel." Jamine was next to me, was the only one who could hear my weak protest. "I joined DAPT to help exploited drones and ex-drones, not abuse one myself."

"Trust me, this will be kinder. Do you want me to beat this one?" Jamine saw me cringe. He sighed. "Bad joke. As I told you in utmost confidence, I have a drug problem. I've been trying to combat it, but the medicines and therapies sometimes slip and...things happen."

I swallowed and nodded my head. Jamine had quietly confessed to me, during a lull in moving the base across the hallway, of his shame. The horrors of what he'd seen as a DAPT field agent, the things he had been forced to do in the name of equality, had driven him to overindulge upon substances both legal and illegal. Very few others - and none on the field team - knew of the addictions. He was undergoing treatment, but there were side-effects. It seemed logical, and I wanted to believe.

Except I remembered the jubilant expression as the stun stick had hit Doctor.

And the silent attitudes of the team members that strongly implied the outburst not to be an isolated occurrence.

Still, I was only Gedar. Jamine was a personal hero, a handsome idol. I was willing to accept the account, even as a small voice at the back of my skull warned me it was too neat an explanation to be true.

It was a very small voice, easily ignored.

Jamine swept a hand at the cameras. Someone else - Begigi - was controlling them this time. "You have the c-jack mods and you have the know-how. You are the only one who can accomplish this. If you do so, DAPT will owe you. I will owe you. All enslaved drones and assimilated-challenged persons everywhere will owe you. All you have to do is prod a few neurons, convince the Borg to tell us what we already know to be true."

I was expected to link with the Flarn consensus monitor and facilitator as if she were just another computer. Like Doctor, she was jammed, able to hear her sub-collective, but not able to respond. With that anchor, she would be coherent. Once Jeenz's concoction wore off, I would guide the drone from an internal venue. And if she could not, or was unwilling, to answer in a suitable manner, I was to ensure such happened anyway, even if it meant pulling virtual strings to make it so.

I had progressed from observer, to facilitator, to participant.

Prime groaned again. She was coming around. I was not sure what to expect - I had never c-jacked into another living creature before - but it would probably be best if I was embedded before the Flarn was fully conscious. Or rebooted. I was not quite sure what terminology was the most applicable.

"Can you do it?" Jamine's voice, his eyes, bored into my soul. "Can you do it for all enslaved drones? For me?"

"Yes," I whispered.

Jamine leaned in close and harshly said, "Then do it."

I did it. Closing my eyes, I slid the c-jack into my spinal socket.

Darkness. As my virtual eyes adjusted to the gloom, I found that I was standing at the top of an amphitheater. To each side of me arced chairs; and descending downward were stairs. Ribbons of muted light flashed overhead, but did not offer illumination. The venue was not my normal virtual-space imagery, but then again, I had never attempted to hack into another sentient's brain. Prime was surely influencing the setting.

I began to descend to the arena floor. With each step, a sourceless spotlight increased intensity by a few lumens. It was centered on a heap that lay crumpled upon the ground. It did not require great imagination to know that the figure was that of Prime, her avatar mirroring the vulnerable state of her mind. My supposition was confirmed as I stepped off the stairs to stride upon firmly packed sand. The symbolism was clear - I was no longer a spectator, an observer sitting in the stands, but a participant in whatever spectacle was to commence.

Several items were present in addition to my and Prime's avatars. None particularly 'fit' the setting, but the mind is not a particularly organized place. At the opposite end of the field from my locale hung a curtain of heavy blue velvet, unsupported by rod or frame. Unsure of its purpose or symbology, I instead focused upon the other object, a table. Thereupon, I found many items, including lengths of thin rope and a...stun stick. Carefully avoiding the latter, I selected an armful of the former. I doubted I had much time.

Puppet. Jamine wanted me to be a puppetmaster, should need arise, with Prime as my puppet. The classic puppet image of my species, and that of many others I suspected, was the marionette. Therefore, I attached the ropes to Prime, touching the end of each cable in turn to the avatar's exoskeleton to weld it in place. Ropes were placed upon ankle and wrist, limbs and head, representing my actions as I burrowed into Prime's psyche, forging vital linkages to her neurological processes. Finally there came a point where I could hear a hollow whispering in my own mind, a running tally of dry diagnostics woven together by the hum of a confused and sleepy voice - I had tapped into Prime's stream-of-consciousness.

I was ready. Engaging the c-jack's duality function, I forced my body to inform Jamine of my status. Task accomplished, I fully returned self-awareness to the virtual mindscape, my only connection to the outside a silver cord vanishing into the darkness, back to myself should I have need to hastily disengage. From overhead descended one of the colorful ribbons, transforming itself into a triV base as it landed upon the sands. I was now tapping into Prime's senses, seeing and hearing the real-world from her point of view.

Time to wait, but not long.

Jeenz's cocktail must have been nearly cleared from Prime's system because before I could fiddle too much with the triV's controls, to try to tune in upon the whispers echoing in my mental background, her avatar was struggling to stand. Concurrently, the head of her body self was slowly panning her captors' faces, intently staring at each. I must say, Borg recover quickly, for within a very short period of time, she was alert, had determined her Collective link had been reduced to incoming data only, and was making demands.

Whatever she was perceiving, she did not seem to realize that virtual bindings had been placed upon her avatar, analogous to her real-world bands.

"You will release us! Do you know who we are?" Prime's avatar stood at the center of the arena, defiant. From the triV emerged her voice. Unlike Doctor, she appeared to be attempting to present a semblance of multiplicity where in reality there was only one.

Jamine answered, "You are this sub-collective's consensus monitor and facilitator. It's captain, or whatever is the proper Borg term." His face was oddly distorted and colors muted, faithfully reflecting the Flarn's real-world perception. As with Doctor, Jamine swiftly explained what DAPT represented and the purpose of the detainment.

"A...conversation? We" - there as a pause, and I could feel as Prime's mental gears shifted - "I think you are foolish. Will you release me when this ridiculous charade is complete?"

Jamine extended his offer to take the drone back to civilization where she could be free of the Borg overmind. Through the speech, Prime's avatar was shaking its head, and I distinctly heard {Liar} emerge from the stream-of-consciousness. Or, at least I thought I did. An echo also seemed to emanate from the curtain. Dismissing the incongruity, I focused instead upon the triV window.

"I will not leave. I will stay here."

Jamine shrugged. "Maybe you'll change your mind during our chat. After all, it is one thing to answer my questions, but something else entirely to tell others your viewpoint and experiences directly."

The words had been directed at me, not Prime. Ignoring the whole Lagh-I-will-have-no-Borg-on-my-deck issue, did Jamine expect me to alter the drone's mind? Like the Borg did to their own units? Of course, if it transpired Prime really wanted to speak out against the Collective, but could not because of coercive programming, then it would only be right that I remove the chains.

"Ask," rumbled Prime. "Let us get this farce over with."

"Are you an individual?"

"No."

"Do you have your own thoughts?" Jamine had apparently reflected upon his session with Doctor and altered his line of questioning accordingly.

"Yes."

"Are you a sentient being?"

"Yes."

"Are you an individual?"

"No."

"Explain how you can be a sentient with your own thoughts, yet not be an individual."

"You are a small being, not part of a grander Purpose. You cannot understand until you Become. Release me, or remove the jammer, and I can assist you in your comprehension."

"Are you a slave of the Collective?"

Dismissive snort. "No."

"So you serve the Collective of you own free-will. Whatever is asked...nah, demanded of you, you perform it without reservation, even if your own thoughts tell you another method would be better. Even if it might lead to a purposeless death."

"There are," admitted Prime without actually answering the question asked, "disagreements."

"Do these disagreements change the outcome?"

"No."

"So, you are forced to do the bidding of the Collective, perhaps even die in a most futile manner, despite not wanting to. That sounds like a slave to me."

Silence, then, "You do not understand. Consider a young child. A child must follow the will of the parents. A child may want to touch a flame, only knowing that it is pretty. The parents will disallow it, aware that injury would be the result. The child may disagree, may even throw a tantrum, but the child will comply. Is the child-parent relationship one of slavery? No. The parent has seen more and understands the universe better than the child. So does too the Greater Consciousness have a greater understanding of how Perfection should be attained, while a mere drone only perceives the smallest part."

Jamine's expression darkened. "A child and parent is completely different. /You/ are a slave to the Collective, as are all drones!"

"No."

"Yes!"

"No."

"Trakiki...maybe you can convince our guest otherwise."

Prime's avatar abruptly went to high alert. The Flarn may have been large and she may have been partially disconnected from her sub-collective, but she was not stupid. Jamine's order had obviously been directed at someone.

I tugged lightly on the strings to my unsuspecting puppet, then a bit harder.

{What the Terran hells? Who the giverbub are you?}

I did not recognize the term, but the image evoked in my linked mind was not pretty. In fact, it was probably one of the most improbably vulgar things I had ever seen. Anatomically impossible at the very least, I would have thought. Prime struggled against her bindings.

{I only want to talk. To help, just like Jamine says,} I pleaded.

{You can go stick your "help"-}

Another unlikely image, even more graphic than the one before. If anything proved that Prime was not just a Borg automaton, that was it. Regrettably, to offer the 'proof' as evidence was to court very long prison sentences within much of the civilized galaxy.

The struggle commenced. Although I preferred subtlety in my digital invasions, sometimes mistakes occur, forcing direct confrontation with a defending security system. However, this battle was nothing like my previous experiences. This was a /mind/, not a sophisticated computer. To my horror, at sometime in the contest of wills I had grabbed hold of the virtual stun stick...and used it. It was necessary, I told myself repeatedly even as I utilized the weapon again and again. It was self-defense.

Sure...self-defense by the attacker.

Finally, I had Prime fully under my control. Mostly. Body control, certainly. A sliver of her mind, probably that part from which the imperfect label derived, remained unfettered. And she freely utilized it.

{Slavery. The irony is a bit heavy, yes?} Prime's avatar stiffly stood as the criticism was delivered. A distinct echo wafted over the arena, origination the curtain.

{It is for your own good. And the good of all your brethren.}

{As if I care about rogues and Colors and small beings with a rampant nanite infection. They will eventually all be One with Us.}

{You should care...and you will. I know, somehow, that you do care. You have to, even if you don't know it. After this is done, I'll figure out how the Collective warped your attitude and fix it.} Jamine was right: this Borg had to come with us. I bet, given enough money, Lagh would agree to allow the drone aboard.

{That Xenig belongs to you?}

I ignored the comment. Given the entwined nature of our psyches at the moment, it was inevitable that Prime would catch my thoughts even as I eavesdropped on her stream-of-consciousness.

"I have. Control." I forced the Flarn vocal apparatus to respond. Synchronized via c-jack connector, my real-world body echoed the words.

Jamine clapped his hands. "Excellent! Can we unbind you? The video would look better if the scaffold wasn't present."

I considered the glower from Prime's avatar. "I. Don't think. That to be. A good. Idea."

Jamine scratched one pointed ear. "If you say so." A grin. "See? This is much better than the previous drone." A breath was sucked in. "Let's begin anew. You are the consensus monitor and facilitator for this cube?"

It was I who responded: "Yes."

"You are an individual?"

"Yes."

"Very good! Now if you would tell me-"

Internally, a different conversation was occurring.

{The Xenig,} pressured Prime, {how would it react if something happened to one of you?}

Within the intimacy of linked mentalscapes, I could not lie. I might have resisted answering, but there was a heaviness at the back of my mind which urged me to respond. {Lagh would probably not care. He's only in it for the money.}

{What is the contract?}

{Locate Borg Lugger-class Cube #238; transport twelve organics, plus gear; stay nearby for seven days; provide transport back to the embarkment point.}

{That is all.}

{Nothing less; and unless more credits are provided, definitely nothing more. He doesn't even pretend to be enthused at the task. An amiable attitude is not in the contract, after all.}

{We see.}

In the real-world, Jamine had requested I detail how the Collective was an enslaver of individuals, using examples. I could not simply concoct a reply, at least not without a kernel of truth to expand upon. I needed a meme upon which to build. Confident my marionette could not break her strings, I sent a query into her cybernetic hardware for the data.

There was no response.

I tried again.

Once more, no answer. It was as if I was high upon a mountain peak, shouting to the valleys below, expecting an echo but receiving dead silence.

The avatar continued to glare at me. However, now that I examined her more closely, Prime's form was not as substantial as I had initially assumed. Additionally, there was the thinnest of threads, a nearly invisible umbilical, leading away from the avatar towards the curtain. Into the curtain. Behind the curtain.

"Trakiki? Did you hear me?"

"Just a moment. Data acquisition."

Heavy fabric before me, I once again considered possible symbology. Perhaps, during the fight, some integral part of Prime had retreated, similar as Doctor when Jamine had beat him. The curtain could be the visualization of the hidden Prime-self.

{The species #5252 sociopath thrashed 3 of 13.} It was Prime's voice, origination definitely the curtain. The background whispers were also stronger.

{Jamine is not a sociopath!} I protested. {He is a valuable DAPT asset-}

{Who is also a sociopath. And a pathological liar. Species #5252 has a tendency towards mental instability. We have been assembling and reviewing backlogs and...sh**.}

Reviewing? We? I swept the curtain aside. On the other side stood...Prime. Confused, I glanced behind myself, just in time to see the Flarn avatar dissolve and the puppet's bindings fall to the ground. My control was lost...assuming I ever had it in the first place. I turned back towards the new Prime image.

{Jammers do not work well on my species,} said Prime with a mental shrug. A hand was tapped against side of head. {Divergent neural architecture. Requires special equipment to block my interplexing beacon. Besides, you didn't really believe subduing a consensus monitor and facilitator would be so easy, did you? You are only a small being. A single small being.}

I hastily backed away from the curtain, arms defensively before me. Ominously, the background whispers had unified into a single hiss. And embedded within that hiss a voice - Prime's voice - was declaring consensus to be acceptable, that the Xenig would not interfere, that it was time to remove the intruders from relevancy.

Like a broken rubber band, I snapped back into my body and ripped the c-jack from my neck. "Trap!" I croaked. "Trap! The jammer does not work on Flarns!" I was the center of eleven confused stares.

"Too late," rumbled Prime, her head pivoted as much as her bindings allowed to bring me into her peripheral vision.

Multiple heavily armored bodies materialized within the room; and, simultaneously, the door to the hallway slid open to admit yet more Borg. Chaos ensued. While the DAPTers may have embarked upon a mission of enlightenment, that did not mean they were unarmed nor incapable of using their weapons.

I stood at the center of the battle, a calm eddy amid bedlam, petrified. Suddenly I remembered my communicator. "Lagh! Beam us out of here!" I screamed into the pin.

"Borg finally caught on and bit you in the ass, did they?" replied the Xenig's calm tenor.

I watched in horror as Jeenz was engulfed in a bear hug by a Borg. Nanotubules deployed and the drone's victim collapsed to the deck. Capture, not termination, was the goal. "Just beam us out!"

"No can do. You denied the rescue clause, remember?"

"But we are at base!"

"Correction, you are at your new base. I only beam you in and out of your original base. It is all in the contract."

"We...I am less than thirty meters from the beachhead!" Begigi, my old University friend, joined Jeenz upon the ground. Meanwhile, Jamine was swinging stun stick and a phaser rifle, fiercely grinning all the while as he held off a ring of five Borg attackers.

"No rescue clause. Once again I remind you that if you want a beam out that you should make your way to the beachhead. That'll probably be faster than trying to renegotiate the contract to include an rescue clause."

Groaning, I looked around myself. I was still being ignored. Perhaps my lack of weapons placed me lower in the threat ranking than the field team. It was everybody for themselves. Seeing an opening in the action, I took it.

Out the door I sprinted. I was no more athletic than when at University, and perhaps less so, but abject terror can provide the impetus for extraordinary feats. I leapt around one drone, then dodged another. My goal was directly in front of me...right ahead of me....

I bounced off the door to the old beachhead base. It had not opened upon my approach. Twenty-nine meters to my back, the noise of skirmish was dying away.

"Lagh," I whimpered into the communicator.

"So close! If you can go another fifty centimeters or so, I'll consider you to have reached the beam out point."

I heard the sound of transporters behind me.

"Lagh!"

"Of course, if I do rescue you from where you are now, I'll only have to run life-support for one, not a dozen...it'll be a bargain."

I sensed hands reaching towards me. "Lagh!"

"But, technically, I would then have broken the contract, and the Xenig Contracting Board frowns upon broken contracts. Bad for business."

A heavy limb landed upon my shoulder. "Lagh!!" I willed the door to open.

"Let me think outloud.... If I lose my payload, that might be viewable as an 'unsatisfactory' rating for the contract. However, the contract /was/ pre-paid, so I am likely to win any argument DAPT might raise concerning partial recompensation. On the other hand, if I rescue the organic, there may be a bonus. She also may be grateful enough to overlook the contract breach and not report it."

"Anything! As big a bonus you like! Blind and deaf I am! An 'excellent' rating!"

"Decisions, decisions, decisions...."

*****

And that was when.... And that was when.... [Pause.] That was when Lagh rescued me, yes? Or, um, someone else in the neighborhood grabbed me in the nick of time? Right? Right?!

Wait a moment. Why...why aren't I me? How am I talking to you? Without talking. This isn't a hospital...and this is not an interview! I...I know you. You are-

{Shut her down,} ordered Prime. {And, yes, this is an investigation, just not the one you thought.}

In Assimilation Workshop #6, eleven newly assimilated drones were in varying degrees of initial processing. The twelfth invader - Jamine - had been deemed too mentally instable upon evaluation and been subsequently euthanized. Very soon, all would be placed in deep regenerative stasis to minimize the chance of contracting assimilation imperfection; and then all would be off-loaded at Cube #238's next port-of-call. Until then, Assimilation and her hierarchy were busy engaging in the duties they were rarely called upon to perform.

Drone 5, a species #7103 female formerly known as Trakiki, slumped in her workshop alcove as the command for deactivation of her higher consciousness was processed.

Prime reached up with both hands to rub her temples. Having a stiff pseudo-exoskeleton with little tactile sensation, the gesture did little to assuage the residual headache that refused to vanish. It was a phantom pain, or so insisted both on-board diagnostics and drone maintenance, yet Prime swore she could still feel it. Why did the dart have to include Terran limes in it? Prime remembered being able to toss down the grapefruit juice will enough, and had, eventually, developed a tolerance for lemon and orange based concoctions. But limes...limes had always given her the worst headaches. Evidentially that propensity had carried over through assimilation.

{Stop whining, you Flarn baby.} Doctor was not in a good mood, his signature radiating emotional turbulence. As a symptom of his annoyance, he wasn't even offering Prime a dubious headache cure suitable, perhaps, for species #8888, but highly experimental for a Flarn. The only reason he had thus far avoided an adjustment session with assimilation hierarchy was because the latter was too enthralled with their eleven new charges. {I had the ichor literally beat out of me, including a punctured gill-lung. /And/ the surgery I underwent to mend the organ was so invasive that I will be stuck in regeneration for three cycles.}

{We were in stasis lock,} said 36 of 260 and 200 of 215 in unison.

Continued 200 of 215 alone, {I would have terminated given another 13.7 hours.}

Prime fixated on Reserve. {Have you nothing to add to this one-upmanship?}

Safely ensconced in his alcove, now modified with sensor patches linked to a subroutine to alert him should a non-Borg entity linger too long before it, Reserve offered a mental shrug. {I was good. There was the flashback loop of my repurposing, but once the cortical inhibitor was attached, I was out. Diagnostics say I was okay for several more cycles before stasis lock threat. If anything, it was a vacation. I am now mentally recharged and ready to be useful.}

{Good,} Prime selected several datastreams to target towards Reserve, {then you can coordinate analysis of transporter logs for the last six cycles. From Drone 5, we know there is an illegal hack at datanode address 25c.e, but no unit has admitted ownership and it is too well disguised to be found. Backtracking the logs while cross-referencing them with unit kidnappings may uncover the rogue processes, which then can be traced to the hack.}

{Hooray!} exclaimed Reserve.

Prime rubbed her temples again, then dismissed Reserve's insincere enthusiasm. Served him right, being so falsely chipper. And loud.

Assimilation sidled up to Prime. It was she who had facilitated the interrogation. Newly assimilated drones were rarely allowed any but minimal awareness of their surroundings, so as better focus the mind upon accepting Borg reprogramming. The less external input, the better. However, in this case the Greater Consciousness had demanded to know if the intruders, so audacious in their actions, were alone or the spearhead of a larger assault. With her c-jack and wetware mods, Drone 5 had been the logical subject to interview, the other new drones unsuitable for deep interrogation (except, perhaps, Drone 2 - Begigi - due to residual quiescent Orange cranial implants) until further processed. And that degree of processing was not something Cube #238 would be allowed to undertake. Still, the potential threat had been serious enough for the Greater Consciousness to authorize Cube #238 to perform a basic interrogation.

As was obvious now, the threat was neutralized. The DAPT organization would bear watching, but the Whole had calculated it to be highly doubtful another raid would occur.

"Drone 5 status?" requested Prime.

Assimilation shrugged. "Likely to affect her processing in some manner. Too early to tell if it will be sufficiently serious to warrant assimilation imperfection status. That is for the Whole to decide. For now...should her right or left arm be amputated? She has tentatively been tagged for an assimilation specialty, given her hacking skills and the way she tried to scramble your brain. Assignment as a command and control node is another possibility. Regardless, the Will of the Whole is to remove a limb and graft a general purpose prosthetic."

Prime stared at Drone 5. Command and control possibility. Assimilation imperfection possibility. Trakiki's path may have led her to the gates of what many species considered hell, but her trek would further the Borg question for Perfection, whatever her ultimate personal fate. It was too much to think about when one had a migraine that wasn't really there. "Left."

"Left it is!" said Assimilation with enthusiasm. A bone saw was heft.

Prime eyed the device, then hastily beamed herself to the peace and quiet of her alcove.

---

Return to the Cube #238 MiniSeries page