Standard disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek; Decker created Star Traks; and Meneks assimilated BorgSpace. Any questions? No? Then go and read the story already! Mess of Portage The red dwarf star dully smoldered. It was old, consolidating early from the molecular clouds of an infant Milky Way galaxy. Like trillions of its class-siblings, it had seen its massive blue giant brothers spew their innards to the interstellar winds; and most of its yellow and orange sisters were now elderly white dwarfs declining into dotage. Of a younger generation of yellows gracing the galactic stage, a mere five billion years old and in their prime, they too would eventually bloat and shrivel and die as the red dwarf continued unchanging. In fact, there was a good chance the star would still be slowly fusing hydrogen to helium trillions of years in the future. The red dwarf did not traverse the aeons alone. A pair of dwarf planets - in their youth, the rocks had harbored just sufficient mass for gravity to pull them into rounded shapes - orbited close to their parent, tidally locked with one hemisphere facing the anemic flames. Both were dead worlds, stillborn, their cold and dry and lifeless surfaces sheathed in the meanest of rarified atmospheres. Still, they were the favored offspring, at least when compared to the scattered asteroids, comets, and other debris left from the star's long-ago birth. Overall, the red dwarf system was typical, one of countless similar littering the galaxy. It was metal-poor, forming as it had early in the universe's evolution when the corpses of the first generation of hypergiants were barely cooled. It was distant from those now middle-aged stars which had spawned the bright specks of life that currently flitted through the ether; and most of those specks had merely glanced at the star from afar, given it an anonymous catalogue number, and subsequently dismissed it from relevance. All specks but one. The Borg Collective was nothing if not meticulous. A planet-bound species extinct thousands of years prior to the birth of the Borg had left behind written records, its astronomers detailing a series of luminosity fluctuations uncharacteristic of a red dwarf. It was the archeological investigations of an educational institute contemporary with a young Collective which had found and translated the records; and it was the institute's research vessel transporting the find, along with a treasure of ancient artwork, which had had the misfortune to encounter a Borg cube. The priceless remnants of artists long turned to dust, of beautifully cut jewels and finely sculpted metalwork, of historic occasions memorialized in gold had been summarily consigned to replicator reclamation. The data, on the other hand, was of mild interest; and an Exploratory-class cube had been dispatched to take stock of the maybe phenomenon...just in case. While the cube sent to survey the red dwarf had encountered nothing of consequence, automated probes left behind eventually captured unusual happenings. Specifically, at irregular intervals, the star would release a massive outflux of energy - /not/ an explosion or flare or other stellar temper tantrum - for a few hours, then return to its former quiescence. The fact that the extinct, pre-warp species had observed the phenomenon was astounding; and that no other race or civilization had made a similar observation understandable: one had to be at the right place at the right time. Fast forward nearly eight millennium. Research Platform #759 held station at the red dwarf star, 1500 drones tasked to observe the phenomenon. Initial studies poking and prodding the fabric of space-time had revealed the star to be located at the nexus point for a webwork of subspace fractures. Perhaps the phenomenon was due to natural instability; or maybe the product of a long-ago scientific experiment; or possibly the consequence of a forgotten weapons test. Ultimately, the answer to such inquiry was irrelevant. What was important were results and practical application. The subspace fracture phenomenon held vast potential, /if/ the erratic outflux could be controlled and /if/ the energy could be channeled. While progress towards the latter had been accomplished - a modified transwarp conduit was in place, ready to funnel energy to an experimental facility 56 light years distant at a neighboring white dwarf - it was the former which continued to stymie the Collective. The fracture eruptions were random, both temporally and spatially: they could literally happen at any place and at any time within the nexus volume. Centuries of experimentation had recently, relatively speaking considering project timeline, begun to yield results, albeit in a limited fashion. True, it was now possible to occasionally crack open a fracture, given the correct conditions, but it was energetically expensive, location of outflux uncontrollable, and energy output a mere fraction of potential. Such did not matter to the Collective, which was satisfied to consider the very long-term outlook. When (not if) the research was successfully concluded and power harnessed, the Borg would acquire a massive source of energy to feed to manufactories and other endeavors. There was even the potential to adapt the system to a military use sufficient to allow challenge of the Xenig. Mech species #3 represented highly desirable technological resources, after all.... Yes, the Collective definitely considered the very long-term outlook. The current facility, Research Platform #759, had been in place for about one century, a Hive-era installation. It was the successor of another platform, which in turn had replaced an even earlier installation, and so forth back to project inception, all victims of the research process. Industrial accidents. Five Cycles prior, a newly reawakened Borg Collective had considered the merits of the platform, ultimately reaffirming its relevancy. Not that the drones assigned to the platform, engrossed in their task, had ever been aware of the deliberation of their fate by the Whole. Like many sub-collectives dedicated to pursuit of esoteric scientific problems, little notice was taken of the Big Picture. In fact, there were some sub-collectives whom had never registered the mind- death of the Hive paradigm and the restoration of the Borg Collective. The Borg equivalent of navel contemplation aside, Research Platform #759 did monitor its needs; and it needed resupply. Supplies necessary for proper drone upkeep, especially of cognitive units, were low. Moreover, new equipment incorporating the latest in assimilated technologies was ready to be transferred to the platform for installation, with obsolete materials removed to a unimatrix for proper recycling and disposal. Due to its out-of-the-way location in the galactic boondocks, resupply generally occurred once a Cycle or so; and this time Lugger-class Cube #238 was scheduled to call upon the platform. {You were informed of the required temperature and atmospheric conditions 37.6 hours ago,} said Prime in exasperation. {That was plenty of time to prepare. We cannot begin off-loading cargo into your holding facility until specifications are met.} {Temperature and atmospheric conditions?} inquired 187 of 2500, the command and control node whom was functioning as liaison between the platform sub-collective and Cube #238. The linkage was purely data, and thus there was no visual component. However, that lack did not stop Prime from imagining a confused expression upon the drone's face in accompaniment to the bewilderment captured by the intranet exchange. Prime offered the appropriate datathread from cube files. {Temperature and atmosphere. The holding facility must be at BorgStandard conditions, the same which we have been maintaining the cargo within Internal Cargo Hold #8. To say your holding facility is too cold would be an understatement.} She, personally, disliked supply runs to research platforms, and especially the more remote ones: the sub-collectives may be comprised of cerebrally excellent units, but they were /always/ preoccupied when it came to subjects that did not mesh directly with their project. Like reality. {The carbon dioxide has frozen out of the air,} complained 253 of 550, one of the engineering drones whom had been dispatched to Research Platform #759 to ensure facility readiness prior to the reception of delicate cargo. {I'm cold. Can I return to the cube yet?} {Engineer, control your drones,} said Prime to Engineer. {Aye-aye,} muttered Engineer distractedly. The hierarchy head was deeply immersed within the dizzying myriad of details required to coordinate cargo transfer, on top of the never-ending needs of cube maintenance. Within the virtual holotheater which was Prime's mental depiction of the dataspaces, she critically examined the two objects representing cube and platform. Lugger-class Cube #238 was, as always, a cube, an eight-kilometer-an-edge behemoth studded with antennae, sensor clusters, and a seemingly endless amount of decoratively menacing crenulations. In contrast, the central nexus of Research Platform #759 was dwarfed by the vessel, a pair of Siamese pyramids joined at the apexes and measuring a mere kilometer in length. One of the Lugger-class' bulk cargo holds would be sufficient to swallow the structure. However, the platform was more than just an oddly shaped homage to modern art: eight bucky-cables, one each per pyramid 'base' corner stretched for ten kilometers, terminating in a vast globe 1.6 kilometers in diameter. Whereas the platform crew, temporary cargo holding facility, workshops, and power cores resided in the central nexus, the globes held large (and dangerous) experimental equipment, sensitive sensor arrays, and materials too bulky to be stored any other place. Overall, Cube #238 may have massed more than Research Platform #759, but the latter occupied a greater volume of space. Meanwhile, the platform sub-collective had finally digested the datathread. Prime redirected her primary attention away from the pictorial. The reply? {Our error. The message was received, but it was incorrectly logged as a nonsensical temporal derivative with an origination traceable to the current experimental cycle. Inquiry was made as to Lugger-class Cube #238's location at the time, but because the vessel was at unimatrix 003 and itinerary yet to be finalized, the message was deemed erroneous. Apparently there was a temporal oscillation within the quantum foam, but instead of the future-vector flux which has been recorded to be a distinctive byproduct of the quark-gluon plasma interaction with the omega baryons emitted from the fracture zone, a past-vector initiated to...} Prime listened with morbid fascination as the explanation exponentially increased in length and complexity, drawing heavily upon theoretical physics for progressively more obscure concepts. It was only when abstract equations began to intrude upon her holotheater and distort perception of the cube's many streams-of-consciousness that she managed to rip herself (and a large percentage of the cube sub-collective which had also fallen for the near hypnotic technobabble) from what was rapidly becoming information overload. Simply ending the initial account with "Our error" would have been sufficient, but this /was/ a research sub-collective. {Enough!} 187 of 2500 sputtered to a stop. {Enough. Your data is irrelevant to our task. We have a schedule to keep and are already behind. Very behind. The unreadiness of this platform to receive its shipment will not help. Will you, or will you not, begin warming your holding facility?} A long pause. The response time from the sub-collective was abysmal, even by Cube #238's admittedly low standards. Perhaps it was nearing time for the Greater Consciousness to perform the equivalent of a mental tune-up upon research platform drones? Finally 187 of 2500 muttered a muffled {Compliance}. {Air circulation has initiated and the dry ice is beginning to sublime near the outlet vents,} noted 25 of 30, the engineering hierarchy drone nominally in charge of the small team which had been beamed to the platform to inspect the holding facility. Engineer, whom had been maintaining observation with a small thread of himself not busy with other tasks, rattled the intranet conversation with a snort. {Hopefully they'll a'member t' keep the warm-up cycle goin'. I'll not be authorizin' cargo transfer until all be ready, else we might be freezing delicate components o' their precious new equipment.} Left unvoiced, but not unsaid, was that it would be the imperfect sub- collective whom would garner the blame for such a fiasco, not the (supposedly) well- adjusted platform drones. At the edge of her holotheater view, corresponding to distal awareness of the sub- collective datasphere, Prime peripherally noted a sensor feed reporting upon the arrival of five probes to the far side of the platform. The probes represented a small subset of the hundreds, if not thousands, of robotic observatories employed by the research sub- collective to monitor the fracture phenomenon. Automated procedure logged the presence of the probes; and Weapons, as required by his hierarchy's tactical protocols, examined the data before summarily dismissing the flying sensor platforms as anything faintly resembling a threat to cube integrity. The probes were irrelevant in regards to Cube #238. But, apparently, not to Research Platform #759. Just as Prime was beginning to relay Engineer's statement concerning the cargo and inquire upon how long it would take to warm the holding facility, she noticed the command and control node seemed to have drifted away. Technically he was still present, still linked to Cube #238's dataspace, but the great bulk of his (the platform's) attention was elsewhere. After pinging the drone thrice, but receiving no acknowledgement, Prime gave up. Obviously whatever data had been brought back by the probes was of much greater importance than the vessel which carried the platform's semi-annual grocery run. At least the holding facility was continuing to warm. Slowly. {Options?} inquired Prime to Engineer, dismissing the platform sub-collective as having anything relevant to contribute to its own resupply. {Bulk Cargo Holds #2 'nd #7 be prepped t' receive loads. Unless the local sub- collective mov'd the material cached at platform node 6 by Cargo-class Cube #1110 'nd neglected t' upload the deed t' the Greater Consciousness, we c'uld start on-loadin' 'nd securin' some o' the bulkier items. Maybe /all/ the items, dependin' on platf'rm priorities. That originally be Phase III o' o'r itinerary, boot...} {But apparently the itinerary has been changed for us,} said Prime, completing the sentence. {Aye,} agreed Engineer. Prime allowed the consensus cascade to run. There were other alternatives, including twiddling thumbs or other appendages while passively waiting for the platform's main holding facility to complete its warming cycle, but none that were an efficient use of time. As there was nothing to contradict the preferential option, it was selected. {I've got the propulsion,} said Reserve hastily as he gathered together the appropriate commands and partitions. By general consent, and past experience, Prime was not allowed to drive except in the most dire of circumstances. It wasn't that she did not have the ability, but rather that she tended to forget that shields did not shed cosmic dross nearly as well as lesser massed drones bounced off her armored carapace. {You can do primary consensus monitor...stuff.} {Thank you, Reserve,} replied Prime dryly. She had other things to attend than driving. Prime momentarily considered informing the platform sub-collective of Cube #238's imminent repositioning to platform node 6, but then dismissed the notion. As long as the cube did not accidentally intrude upon any on-going experiments, chances were high that the movement would never be noticed. After all, it was only reality. The purpose of Cube #238's visit to Research Platform #759 was threefold. One, off-load supplies and equipment necessary to support continued experimentation; two, on-load items no longer locally needed, returning them to Unimatrix 003 for disposal or reassignment; and, three, pick up non-critical cargo cached by Cargo-class Cube #1110 at the platform several months ago following engine issues that required a radical alteration of course. Approximately 1.5 cycles into what had originally been designated Phase III - collect cached cargo - the platform finally informed Cube #238 that the holding facility was ready to receive its shipment. After internal deliberation, an additional 1.7 cycles had been spent to conclude Phase III. The platform never appeared to notice the delay. {Of the 1500 drones on this platform, half are specialized for analytical labor. The great majority of the remainder are engineering, to maintain the platform and its research hardware; and the rest are drone maintenance ensuring the health of the analyticals, with a handful command and control nodes to coordinate the whole,} said 25 of 30 into the intranets, not directing the words towards any particular drone. {With the number of excellent units upon this platform, at least compared to us, /why/ do they seem so /stupid/? You'd think they'd never seen cargo before.} {Well?} questioned Prime to Reserve. {Do you have an opinion?} 25 of 30's complaint was merely one drone voicing a grievance growing increasingly common in the dataspaces. Perhaps it was just a quirk of the platform - the sub-collective had never visited this particular port before - but if so, it was an annoying quirk affecting the cube's efficiency rating. The platform, like many distal sub-collectives, was set on the Borg version of automatic pilot. Unless an unusual occurrence demanded the attention of the Greater Consciousness, it would carry on its assigned task. Routine information requests and status updates would affirm the connection with the Collective, but otherwise have no more significance to the Whole than the regular firing of a nerve in a body. Such was not to say that the platform was neglected, just that under normal circumstances there was no need to micromanage an efficiently running operation. This was a vastly different situation than the occasional disaster which was Cube #238, and from which the Whole purposefully kept its distance. Unloading cargo was not extraordinary happenstance and therefore it should not require the supervision of even a small portion of the Greater Consciousness. Perhaps it would have been better if it had, for a task which should have taken 2.1 cycles at most was now estimated to require over 5.3. {They are...slow. It is like the platform sub-collective is making a full decision cascade as to where to place each item,} replied Reserve. As usual, he was in his alcove, not that such prevented him, or any other drone, from observing the action (or lack thereof) in the holding facility. Prime snorted. {Exactly. And we, of course, are not allowed access into the platform's dataspace to see what is happening.} Such was standard operating procedure, lest digital chaos be strewn or the normal sub-collective somehow be 'infected' with assimilation imperfection. It would be doubly so with a research node, where an error could potentially disrupt Cycles of experimentation. {Have you any personal insight?} Prior to his assignment to Cube #238, Reserve had been a Grey drone. Subscribing to the tenants of 'coercive capitalism', the mobster-like Color had finally annoyed the Hive one too many times. Unlike the Borg Collective that came before and after, the Hive had not assimilated sentients against their will. However, such was not to say that the Hive had been goodness and light and restraint, especially when it was irritated. Ultimately, Gray had been a competitor to Perfection; and it had sealed its fate by having the ill-conceived ambition to demand 'protection money' for cubes traversing a particular sector. In the end, although the last Gray queen had escaped, ten million drones had been captured and the Color, for all practical purposes, broken. Those captured drones had been reprocessed into Hivers; and while not all had survived, it had been largely successful. Of those millions of involuntary conscripts - the prohibition against unwilling assimilation did not pertain when the subject was already a drone - one had been deigned to be of imperfect status. {You know I have few coherent memories of Gray,} protested Reserve. {And the Color did not maintain research platforms.} Prime wordlessly waited for a response to the question. The sub-collective was attempting to gain any insight into the platform's dismal performance; and Reserve potentially represented an alternate viewpoint. Before elements of command or control or assimilation hierarchy could begin actively digging through his memories, Reserve answered, {Grey depots showed a higher performance level than this research platform.} On the far side of the station, half a dozen robotic observatories landed; and another four were launched. {It /is/ a research sub-collective,} said Prime, her opinion coloring the final judgment of the cube sub-collective. {Most of its computational resources are likely focused upon the latest dataset with only a small slice directing. We will continue the best we can. I'll see if I can convince the platform to provide us with a schematic showing where less critical supplies are to be ultimately stored: if we can beam data crystals and neurogel barrels directly to their final locales, not the holding facility, we may be able to speed up off-loading.} {We demand you return to the holding facility.} {There is something wrong here, and I do not mean your lack of cargo handling ability.} {We demand you return to the holding facility.} {The workshops I've observed are clean and neat, but other facilities do not appear to be at the appropriate maintenance levels, at least visually.} {We demand you return to the holding facility.} {And your cognitive drones! I know they probably stay largely in their alcoves, but one would think you would /dust/ them every once in a while.} {We demand you return to the holding facility.} Prime sighed and stiffly turned to glance back at her unwilling escort. The four drones - three engineering specialized and one command and control node - were still present. With no tacticals, the platform would have to field more drones than four to impede her inspection. Something was not /right/ at this platform, and Prime's sub- collective had nominated her, both due to her status as consensus monitor and her physically imposing frame, to bully her way into the station. {We demand you return to the holding facility.} The platform's repetitive chant was being delivered through the very limited dataspace link. Thus far the protests had been merely verbal; and as far as Prime could discern, the local sub-collective had yet to call attention of the Whole concerning Cube #238's transgressions. That non-action in itself was suspicious, standard procedure for normal drones interacting with an imperfect sub-collective to report undesirable behavior. {I think they are becoming a bit peeved,} noted Reserve from afar. Prime stopped to pan up and down another cognitive unit in its alcove. Like most of the others, it was dusty. It was also a species that needed occasional exercise to maintain muscle mass. While the requirement was not as extreme as a Flarn, the state of atrophication was an obvious indicator that it had been awhile since the unit had left its alcove. The datum was filed with the others. Prime moved on. {You think?} she answered sarcastically. {We demand you return to the holding facility.} The platform sub-collective had bluntly refused consideration of Cube #238's request to direct transport less critical supplies to their final destination. Standard operating procedure for cargo delivery was to beam cargo to a holding facility, whereupon it was briefly inspected by local drones before the station/unimatrix moved it elsewhere. 'Brief' was the operative word, as the holding facilities of most research platforms, this one included, could only hold a fraction of a supply load at any one time. Lugger-class Cube #238 was off-loading the equivalent of 1.5 internal cargo holds...which was about the volume of two Cargo-class bulk cargo holds. However, the platform drones were dallying with the inspection, going as far as to open /each/ box and barrel of sundry supplies, as if the local sub-collective was disbelieving the inventory manifest. There was nothing /technically/ wrong with the platform's interpretation of a supply transfer, but it did slow the process to a crawl. And then there were the smiles. Or, rather, parodies of smiles. Most of the drones (other than those locked in their alcoves) thus far encountered by Cube #238 crew had a stiff grin practically welded to their faces. None of the expressions looked natural. In fact, for most units, a 'smile' gave the impression of pain, or, perhaps, perpetual constipation. Prime, her sub-collective, were drawing the conclusion that the platform had gone /way/ too long without a mental tune-up. Even Cube #238 had to undergo periodic introspection by the Greater Consciousness, ensuring behavior and thought patterns remained at least somewhat near to the accepted BorgStandard spectrum. The platform was remote, both spatially and mentally, from the Collective Whole; and it did plumb questions of space-time and quantum, deeply intense mental ruminations which had to have some impact to the non-cognitive members of the sub-collective. Perhaps it was understandable that the platform as a whole had some unusual tics. {We demand you return to the holding facility.} Annoying tics. Prime stopped in the middle of the dark hallway - at least a third of the overhead light strips were non-functional - and turned inward to examine engineering datastreams. The platform sub-collective had begun to inspect each /individual/ data crystal and circuit board, looking for flaws; and estimates to complete off-load had ballooned to nearly 7 cycles. Unacceptable. A consensus cascade was initiated; and a decision made. {We demand you return to the holding facility.} "/Shut up/," rumbled Prime verbally. She successfully resisted the urge to slam one or more of her unwanted escorts against a wall. Tentatively, Cube #238's primary consensus monitor and facilitator reached out through the link maintained with the Collective. The Greater Consciousness was a vast entity of many parts, ever present, although it rarely needed to (or desired) direct supervision over its imperfect sub-collective. The embarrassment which was Cube #238 began to ping, began to shout, began to demand a small part of a small part of the Whole to take notice. A miniscule subMind, a mere million drones working in concert to coordinate a slice of the Entire, shifted a minute part of its attention. A wordless query was sent. Gathering together the file of disturbing observations and possible conjectures, Prime tried to relay the sub-collective's concerns upon the platform sub-collective, as well as justify why the cube was falling increasingly behind schedule. Essentially, Lugger-class Cube #238 was tattling on Research Platform #759. For a moment, a second, an eternity, the Whole shifted its attention from Cube #238 to Research Platform #759. With a furrowing of non-brows, the platform was scanned, queries made, responses received and data compiled. The conclusion? <> {But,} protested Prime, her mental self swaying before the gale which was a small part of a small part of the Whole, {the lack of maintenance, the dust, the slow cargo transfer, the /smiles/.} Only an imperfectly assimilated drone would have the ability to even contemplate argument with the Greater Consciousness, much less voice dissent. <> {But-} {We demand you return to the holding facility.} <> Prime's entire official designation was invoked. <> The 'you' did not pertain to Prime alone, but the Cube #238 sub-collective entire. {Compliance,} said Prime dully, within the intranets and aloud. Her words were echoed by all three thousand of her crewmates. Prime then pivoted and began to retrace her steps to the holding facility. "I thought we were not supposed to leave the holding facility," said 194 of 400. "Where are we going? This load is awkward to carry. Did you know I have a persistent fungal infection on the back of my neck? No worries - it is not contagious and Doctor gave me an ointment for it." {Waaaay too much information,} informed 220 of 370. "Really? In what way? How can there be too much information when we are all connected together?" 17 of 175 snorted. {Because you are volunteering it. If 220 of 370 or I or anyone else wants to know about your 'persistent fungal infection', we will ask you about it directly, else download your maintenance record. Or not.} {Definitely not,} muttered 220 of 370. The gadfly attention span which was 194 of 400 flitted back to the original question. "Hey...122 of 9001, where /are/ we going? If we are to travel much further, I will have to reposition my load. And I thought we were not allowed to leave the holding facility, anyway and again." 122 of 9001 was the platform drone leading the trio of Cube #238 engineering units. While she, like the three who followed behind her, was carrying a box, it was a token burden. 194 of 400, 220 of 370, and 17 of 175, on the other hand, had arms wrapped around awkward and heavy packages. {We should have brought a grav sled,} grumbled 17 of 175, {but nooooo, that would have been too easy.} "We are almost at our destination," verbalized 122 of 9001. Her voice was gravelly with the indication of little use. Even before Prime's excursion into the bowels of the platform, the local sub- collective had refused the offer from Cube #238 to construct a temporary dataspace bubble. Within the bubble, drones from cube and platform could exchange pertinent data and individual units converse while minimizing the imperfect 'contamination' which might result from a more typical linkage. Such was the usual procedure at the ports Cube #238 called upon. However, with the excuse that all risk of corruption to research files had to be minimized, the request had been denied. The subsequent exchange of information via PADDs or, even worse, verbal means was one of the many factors behind the slow cargo transfer. 194 of 400: "Time to destination? I think I've found a better grip on my box, but if I do not rub on the fungus ointment in five minutes, the skin around the infection will start to turn orange." Silence was the answer. {Perhaps we should have informed Engineer of our excursion,} said 220 of 370. {Perhaps we should inform Engineer of our continuing excursion.} 17 of 175 (with 194 of 400 agreeing) dismissed the concern. {Why? We'll be right back, once we drop off these boxes. Besides, if Engineer needs to know where we are, if isn't like we are hiding it.} True. The sub-collective was never not unaware of its drones. However, for activities as route as cargo loading and unloading, it no more specifically tracked individual units than a body would watch the travels of a single blood cell. If a drone brought itself to the attention of the sub-collective or had a 'behavior history', that would be a different matter, but in the case of the trio, none were currently on the watch-list. {And if Engineer knows where we are, then Prime will know; and then we'll have all of command and control breathing down our virtual necks.} 220 of 370 provided her assent as the mini-consensus cascade concluded and attitudes were appropriately realigned. {I understand. And if command and control is hovering in the background, there will be micromanaging. "Lift with your knees, not your back", "Shift crate 218 first, then crate 336" and so forth and so on.} {Exactly,} said 17 of 175. "I think my fungal infection is starting to itch. I need to scratch it. Or put on ointment. Did you know that the recipe to my ointment includes-" 220 of 370 hastily interrupted, {Way too much information, again.} A door on the left side of the hallway slid open, a misaligned gear in the wall rattling noisily. It was yet another example of the general state of ill maintenance rampant upon the research platform. Light strips inside the room were tuned to the red end of the spectrum. "We have arrived," informed 122 of 9001 as she passed through the doorway. {About time,} groused 17 of 175. "About time," echoed 194 of 400 aloud. "Why did you request our assistance in the first place?" It was not the first time the question had been asked by the overly chatty drone. "It isn't like there is anything transporter sensitive in the crates. They could have been beamed here, wherever here is. Oh, I see, platform schematics show us to be in Drone Maintenance Workshop #4. You could have /said/ that was our destination." 17 of 175 said, {Quiet, 194 of 400. This platform has gone mental, and not in a cognitive way, even if the Greater Consciousness refuses to acknowledge it. We have been told to play along and get our work done in whatever way the platform needs. If all goes well, Cube #238 will leave and be far away when the this sub-collective goes critical and starts wearing underwear on its communal head.} "Underwear? Head? I do not get it. Hey, 122 of 9001, where do the boxes go?" Unlike her compatriots, 220 of 370 had panned her surroundings as soon as the trio had entered the workshop. Ignoring 17 of 175's attempt to explain the metaphor to 194 of 400, she had several questions of her own. Directing them at 122 of 9001, she asked: "Why are there a dozen drones in here? And I do not recognize those three capsules against the wall to be standard equipment for this faculty. What are they?" The only answer received to any of the posed queries was a plunge to unconsciousness as hyposprays loaded with sufficient sedatives to overwhelm even Borg systems were driven against necks. Cube #238 sensors registered the docking of 153 probes to the research station; and the concurrent launching of 306 additional observation platforms. Cargo transfer slowed to a crawl as the platform made a decision as to its priorities. Engineer, Prime, the entire sub-collective fretted as estimated time to complete cargo transfer increased once again. {W'ere 'ave ye been?} demanded Engineer of loading partition #13b - 194 of 400, 220 of 370, and 17 of 175. {Rec'rds be indicatin' ye left the holdin' facility f'r forty minutes. Explain.} The reply Engineer received was tripartite, but in summary the trio had been requested by the platform sub-collective to assist in transporting several crates to a drone maintenance workshop. {Did it not occur t' ye t' inform myself, a command and control partition, /anyone/ o' y'r departure? Especially after we be explicitly told by the Greater Consciousness t' not leave the holdin' facility?} {No} was the general assent. Engineer grumbled a {Fine} before making a general announcement: {In the future, if ye be approached t' assist outside the holdin' facility, /tell/ me and command and control. Comply!} All Cube #238 drones, both on and off the ship, paused to absorb the new directive. Individual compliances offered (or, in several cases, coerced), activities resumed. Focusing upon one member of loading partition #13b, Engineer pinged 194 of 400 for her attention. {Ye be required t' aid repairs.} A datastream was directed at the drone, inclusive location upon Cube #238, maintenance to be completed, and other pertinent details. {Transport now.} {Busy. Very busy,} replied 194 of 400. Engineer - engineering hierarchy - contemplated. It was not strictly necessary to utilize 194 of 400, even if she would be the best unit for the task; and she was in the middle of sorting a somewhat precarious stack of boxes. Her designation was substituted with another. {Continue y'r assignment with loadin' partition #13b.} Acknowledgement was sent. An hour later, the progress being made sans 194 of 400 had been re-evaluated. Slow. Improvement was desirable. {194 of 400, ye b'needed in subsection 14, submatrix 14, Supply Closet #19. Transport.} {Busy. Very busy,} was the response. With a mental frown, Engineer checked 194 of 400's status. Overloaded with cans of a concentrated, exotic hydrocarbon used for lubricating some of the specialty equipment assigned to the research platform, the drone was trying to restack a pallet without dropping any of her burden. She needed at least two more arms. {Fine. Ye be busy. Jus' not be tryin' that trick with anythin' explosively instable.} After ten additional minutes, it was becoming very apparent that 194 of 400, or, more specifically, her thin frame and the particular tool suite integral to her chassis, was required in Supply Closet #19. The maintenance task could be completed without her participation, but half the panels on one bulkhead would have to be removed to access the fault. Why struggle in an inefficient manner when the appropriate drone for the job could be used? {194 of 400, ye 'ave been temporarily reassigned t' the repair detail 'n Supply Closet #19. Ye will-} {Busy. Very busy.} {Ye be pushin' a grav sled piled with boxes o' ball bearings. That not be what I call indispensable. 22 of 550, take o'er f'r 194 of 400.} The duty roster realigned. {Initiatin' transporter.} Engineer summarily beamed 194 of 400 to her new work location before she could offer additional protests. A piercing screech cut through the intranet. Drones shuffled to a stop; and some instinctively tried to cover ears with their hands despite that fact that the horrendous noise was entirely internal. The scream ended as abruptly as it had started. {What the hell was that?} demanded Prime, voicing the question suddenly at the sub-collective's forefront. Command and control immediately began reviewing recent cube actions, cross-referencing them with drone designations. Simultaneously, weapons and sensor hierarchies started searching for emergent threats external the cube. {194 of 400, you were in transport at the time of the incident. You have yet to contribute your memes before, during, and after to the investigative partitions. We require that data,} said Reserve to the named drone. He had been tasked to ensure all memes were collected: there were usually a few reluctant units less than forthcoming, unless directly pressed, due to illicit activities. 194 of 400 was not normally among those ranks, but the imperfectly assimilated were well known for spontaneous development of new neuroses or mental tics. In Supply Closet #19, the maintenance detail had resumed its assigned task. Interstitial space access and 194 of 400 were being prepped. The drone may have been thinner than the average unit, but she did sport armor; and armor, by its base nature, was inflexible. Thus, two units of the detail were rubbing her down with lard, just in case. {Data?} {Did you catch obtuseness from the research platform?} Reserve asked in exasperation. {Meme data. Before, during, and after the...scream. You can either give it up nicely, else it will be taken from you.} {Scream? We think it was your imagination. We are busy. You will leave this drone alone to complete our assignment.} Reserve blinked. Something was wrong. Very wrong. 194 of 400 did not have a history of resistance; and she never used plurals or referred to herself in third person except when absolutely required. Reserve borrowed the visual input of the drones larding 194 of 400. {Your neck is orange.} {Irrelevant. This unit remains functional.} The larders paused in their work as they registered the growing disquiet surrounding 194 of 400. The latter seemed to be oblivious to both shifting attitudes and the increased attention she was garnering by sub-collective elements. {Your ointment,} pressed Reserve. 194 of 400 was usually very chatty, and the fact she did not have at least three conversations on-going - one aloud and several in the intranets - was highly uncharacteristic. As of late, ointment and fungal infection had been top topics. {When was the last application of your ointment scheduled?} {Your query is irrelevant to the functionality of this drone.} {So, the fact that your neck is a splotchy orange and that it itches is now irrelevant? Drone maintenance records show it was highly relevant to you two weeks ago.} Within the stereo gaze of the larders, 194 of 400 raised a hand to her neck as if to scratch. The hand paused, then was lowered. {Yes. It is now irrelevant.} Very wrong. All the signs of mental aberration were present. Had something triggered nascent /rogue/ behavior? How, if at all, was the scream connected? With unanswerable questions abounding, Reserve resorted to standard procedure, severing 194 of 400 from the sub-collective and directing drone maintenance to the unit for emergency assessment. If the abrupt disconnect of the Collective link affected 194 of 400, it was not outwardly apparent. All drones, inclusive those imperfectly assimilated, reacted in some manner to the shock of individuality. Those of lower cognitive ability either reverted to their last directive, else stood like a toy soldier awaiting its next order. Drones of higher base intelligence might analyze the reason for their loss before actively trying to reforge a connection to the Collective. To continue as if nothing had happened, to verbally demand the larders complete their assignment, was very, /very/ wrong. Whereas 194 of 400 was not responding as expected, the maintenance detail, to a drone, had abandoned their repair task and were attempting to physically distance themselves as much as possible given the confines of the supply closet. Whatever was wrong, they did not wish to contract it. Doctor materialized in Supply Closet #19. "Are you to finish lubricating this drone?" asked 194 of 400. Other than 56 of 370 - ex-host for a psi-parasite and still being held in long-term regenerative stasis for a transfer to Research Platform #759 that looked less and less likely to occur - Doctor was the only Dromelan on the cube. Even without access to drone designations, 194 of 400 should have recognized whom Doctor was and, more importantly, what hierarchy he represented. Lubrication, except in a few specific cases, was not his bailiwick. "And get all greasy? I think not. Hold still. This will, unfortunately, not hurt a bit," said Doctor as he lifted two of his manipulatory limbs, a scanning device clutched in one foot-hand. "What are you doing?" Doctor did not answer, except to wave the scanner around 194 of 400's head. As he did so, data was funneled to the dataspaces, whereupon it was swiftly compiled and analyzed. {There is a second neural waveform present,} declared Doctor in surprise as his hierarchy came to a diagnosis. {Another psi-parasite?} queried Prime in confusion as the sub-collective attempted to make sense of the proclamation. {I thought those were-} {Psi-parasites are endemic to species #7582,} replied Doctor. {I do not know how it came to be, but 194 of 400 is registering a secondary neural waveform, a /sentient/ neural waveform.} Rarely accessed medical files were opened - neurological pathologies of unassimilated sapients. {It has a similar character to that seen in true multiple personality disorders whereupon one or more full-fledged parasite personalities share mental space with the natal persona. Except 194 of 400 has no record of such a disorder, either before assimilation nor emergent upon diagnosis of assimilation imperfection; and the psychological profile of her species is not conducive to mental schism. Potentially worse, the anomalous pattern appears to be dominant over the primary waveform. {This is /not/ 194 of 400 standing here, but an invader wearing her body.} "Are you done with this drone? You are delaying completion of this unit's assigned task." Without dataspace access, 194 of 400 obviously had no clue of the effect her abnormal behavior had precipitated. Pressed Prime, {How is this connected with the scream?} {I do not know. I'm just a physician. Perhaps you could ask 194 of 400, or, rather, whomever is driving her body?} Doctor backed away from 194 of 400, lowering his manipulatory limbs as he did so. {I think we will do just that,} rumbled Weapons as he and three other tactical drones materialized in an increasingly crowded Supply Closet #19, arm-mounted disruptors pointed at their target. Space was reclaimed as the maintenance detail hastily beamed away. Doctor remained present, although he did crouch down and sensibly scuttle out of the line of fire. Although only five Cycles since his assimilation, the human who was Weapons was very heavily cybernized, a legacy of his resistance to capture. The PADD he wore on a (nearly unbreakable) string around his neck was at first glance very incongruous. However, it was also frequently necessary in the event of a verbalized conversation: Weapons' voicebox was completely artificial and more often than naught malfunctioning in some manner. {143 of 150, repeat after me,} ordered Weapons to the appropriate drone. Asked Doctor, {Voice not working again?} {I currently sound like I've inhaled helium. I refuse to speak aloud if I do not have to. It is just...not right, not when paired with my frame,} was the reply. Weapons brow slightly furrowed and his whole eye quickly flicked downward to indicate his body. He had honed the Borg-allowed facial expression to a fine art. {I could-} started Doctor. {No. I can make the adjustments myself. The last time you touched my neck, you said the experimental nerve rerouting would work. Not only did it fail, but I couldn't turn my head for a week.} {It /is/ experimental, for species #5618. It works fine for several other species with physiologies similar to your own.} Weapons ignored Doctor's comment, {143 of 150...} {Compliance,} said 143 of 150. 194 of 400 may not have been able to hear the exchanges, but she, or her usurper, seemed to have finally caught on to the fact that a conversation was on-going. "Who are you? /What/ are you?" vocalized 143 of 150, repeating the words of her hierarchy head, who, in turn, was channeling the sub-collective entire. 194 of 400 stiffly turned to focus on the questioner. "We are 194 of 400. We are a drone of the Borg Collective." As Weapons shook his head back and forth in a negative, 143 of 150 barked, "Wrong answer! You are using 194 of 400's body and you are /not/ a drone of the Borg Collective. If you lie again, we will shoot non-vital body parts." Three limb-mounted disruptors shifted aim to point at legs or arm, although Weapons' remained trained for a head shot. "Even if you maintain pain control for that body, your mobility will be very much reduced." The entire demeanor of 194 of 400 abruptly changed. Lunging sideways, she reached for Doctor, whom had edged closer than was prudent in an attempt to gain another scan. The amphibious octopoid was easily captured, arm encircling body-sac just above the eyes. As the top of the Dromelan's mantle was chest-high on his captor, that meant the neck-equivalent by which he was secured was about 194 of 400's waist. Although Doctor automatically started to writhe, he (mostly) stopped as his unarmored body-sac was squeezed. "My true name is not pronounceable, at least not by the likes of you lesser creatures. However, I have found 'Maloc' to be pleasing to the tongue and ears, so you may call me that." {The secondary persona has completely subsumed the natal neural waveform. For all practical purposes, 194 of 400 has ceased to exist,} informed Doctor. Despite his precarious situation, he had managed to position a scanner to take readings: it was often difficult for species with a quadruped body/mind-set to track eight limbs. "Maloc," began 143 of 150, "We demand you-" Interrupted Maloc, "You demand nothing. You are a lower lifeform, fit, at best, to be a beast of burden ridden by one of my fellow Zuun." There was a pause for a rough cough. An odd hollow rattle which accompanied the species name did not fit 194 of 400's throat. "It was the transporter, wasn't it? That was how you found me. I went out of sync with my mount during the process, and it required several ryntes to re-establish rein and spurs. I was warned that would occur." "We would have known, regardless. 194 of 400 was not right. If you release that drone, we will provide you with a swift termination. Will you stop squirming, Doctor? The alien is now backed against a bulkhead, preventing encirclement, and we cannot get a decent target lock when you wave your limbs around. 143 of 150, you were not supposed to repeat that aloud." Weapons narrowed his whole eye and glared at his mouthpiece. {Sorry,} muttered 143 of 150. "Doctor? Not a number? Sounds important...I'll definitely keep hold of this creature," said Maloc. "The unit is replaceable," said 143 of 150, once more channeling Weapons' words, albeit on a slight delay to prevent occurrence of another faux pas. Doctor's protesting {Hey! I am an /excellent/ drone maintenance unit and hierarchy head! The sub-collective, the Collective, the /universe/ would be a less perfect place without me.} was ignored. "So," mused Maloc, ignoring 143 of 150's statement, "my mount was 'wrong'. Obviously you ship-based drones are different, perhaps more aware, than the platform ones." ({You have no idea,} commented Prime in an intranet aside.) "As long as the, er, cognitive drones were left alone and research allowed to proceed, the overwatch program that manages the station did not seem to care what we did. Oh, there were some demands necessary to comply with to keep it happy and, thus, prevent it from reporting to your central government, but overall a rather stupid AI, actually." The four Cube #248 drones in Supply Closet #19 stared at each other in astonishment, reflecting the disbelief in the intranets. Program? AI? Despite the taking of a Borg host, did this Maloc (and the comrades it had insinuated to be present) not understand what they had attacked? The developing situation had finally registered with the Greater Consciousness, and a small portion of the Whole was even now hovering in the near background to consider available options (at first, Prime had been put on the Borg equivalent of call- waiting - and now she was censoring herself from any inappropriate "We told you so" moments). Although a small armada of Battle-class cubes and Assault-class spheres had been dispatched, it would not arrive for 17.4 cycles. The sum total of the resources the Collective had on site was one Lugger-class cube of imperfectly assimilated drones and 750 cognitive units who were too deeply immersed in their data to take notice of an alien invasion. More information was required before a course of action could be finalized. {I should be in the supply closet. I am the consensus monitor and facilitator: one of my duties is to speak for all,} bemoaned Prime. Growled Weapons, his intranet utterance reflecting the gravelly tenor of his real voice when the latter was appropriately functional, {This is a tactical situation. Let me do the job for which I am more than adequately qualified, even if I have only 150 drones in my hierarchy. The appearance of a Flarn, while appropriate in some circumstances, might overly intimidate Maloc.} {Intimidation could-} {No,} slashed Weapons through the protest while simultaneously pointing Prime towards a file of just finished tactical simulations. Weapons was a certified genius, even by Collective standards, when it came to reading a tactical situation; and only because of his imperfect status was he not among the handful of drones utilized by the Greater Consciousness as the central pivots for planning and executing military expeditions. Besides, consensus had already made the decision as to how the situation was to be handled...and it was to be handled by weapons hierarchy. Meanwhile, 143 of 150 was demanding, "Where are you from? Why have you attacked us?" As if this were the question Maloc had been waiting for, it embarked into what could only be described as the monologuing of a junior-grade villain desperate to show off an overly complex Evil Plan(tm). "I and my fellow Zuun [cough] hail from another universe. My race has long since tamed the galactic wilds, bending sentient and non-sentient alike to serve at our pleasure. The stars themselves have been mined for resources and planets cracked to gain the precious metals hidden in their cores. My race's history is a glorious one of conquest and growth spanning nearly a million hitans! "Following the first Age of Expansion, we entered the Golden Era, a time of personal narcissism. Our population grew and grew and grew, for there was always enough for all. And then, there wasn't." Maloc's borrowed voice, despite its synthetic reverberations, turned bitter. "The Golden Era became tarnished. The Powers cast about, looking for new territory for us to bring into our mighty empire. Perhaps the dwarf galaxies which orbited our crown jewel; and even though they might provide some amusement and a return to a lesser silver age, in the end such would only last for a few hundred thousand hitans at best. Still, orders were given for the dwarfs to be conquered and our populous empire allowed at least some relief, some taste of the glorious past, even as the Powers contemplated what to be done next. Unfortunately, while telescopes pointed to the heavens showed the bejeweled forms of other galaxies, the Two-God had not been generous when She Who Is Also He had caused our home to be smelted from the cosmic gases. "One galaxy, a few dwarfs...we were alone. The nearest galactic neighbor of any consequence was just too far away, even with our fastest engines. We, the chosen of the Two-God, were locked in a cage. A very big cage, true, but our population was ever- growing and the resources to support it ever-shrinking." Maloc theatrically paused, a grand sigh lifting borrowed shoulders. Before the tale could begin once more, 143 of 150 inserted a question upon the minds of many, "Why did you not control your population?" "Control our population?" echoed Maloc, perplexed. "Why should we do that? Domestic breasts - or creatures to be domesticated, like yourselves - have their breeding controlled. It is the hallmark of a true people to expand and breed how they see fit. Now, where was I? Oh, yes.... "Then, as the histories show, there was an event which shook the empire - a spatial phenomenon! It erupted in the midst of a well-populated sector, strewing death and destruction, but such was of little significance. Even as eager colonists descended upon the unexpected bounty of available property, factors sent from the Powers were evaluating the phenomenon to determine how it could best be harnessed to serve the Zuun [cough] empire. Imagine the surprise when probes made of a fantastic metal - dense-packed neutronium - emerged from the rift! "Contact was made with the aliens on the other side of the fissure. Although direct talk was impossible, messages could be sent via the probes. How frustrated the Powers were, knowing from the exchange of long descriptions, even pictures, of the rich lands present on the other side. /This/ side. To expand through the rift would mean not another Golden Era, but a Diamond Age! To this end, an innocent desire to visit was expressed. However, the Powers were told that such was unfeasible, that only wholly mechanical devices like the probe could navigate the fissure. The phenomenon, which had been accidentally created by the creatures on the far side during a scientific endeavor, traversed a highly energetic region in the quantum ether between 'branes; and any organic which attempted passage would become to a thin, lifeless residue. "If not bodies, why not minds? The creatures on the other side were horrified that such a notion might even contemplated, but after a decade of experimentation, the Powers learned how to remove an intact mind from its body, then reinsert it as a rider upon a new mount. The fact that the original body died was inconsequential. Within the empire, the research opened a new realm of possibility, of colonists abandoning their birth bodies for those of sentient domestics who labored in exotic environments. A new rush began for aquatic and gaseous real-estate; and body speculators offered prime mounts to the highest bidder. "At first the fissure creatures refused to accept that a higher lifeform was required as a donor body, that a non-sentient animal was inadequate because of a less developed neural architecture. In the end, weak-minded creatures that they were, they capitulated, promising several brain-dead, but body-strong, individuals for mounts. As if any Zuun [cough] would want damaged goods! Fortunately, the Powers had anticipated reluctance by the fissure aliens; and during the transference research had developed a device able to 'beam' a mind unto a potential beast of burden. Although there were limitations - short- range and only 5% chance of success - the drawbacks were considered acceptable. Once a bridgehead was established, the plan was to transfer colonists to new bodies using an alternate technology with a near 100% success rate. With much fanfare, the broadcast devices were affixed into the probes, commando volunteers selected, and the assault begun. "It worked perfectly. The technicians who greeted the probes were ridden, their natal personas extinguished. The fissure creatures were as weakly companionate as their messages had made them seem; and they believed the fib the commandos told concerning an unfortunate accident with the devices required to sequester and transfer minds. History shows that the commandoes only required a few kiji to secure the station and cut the fissure creatures' outside communications. Soon the first colonists began arriving to their new, often reluctant, mounts. Despite the danger of being first, there were always many colonists avid for the chance to conquer a universe full of space and resources. "Records tell that overconfidence and brashness were the Zuun [cough-cough] downfall. The fissure creatures seemed weak, yes, but they did have a military. Representatives of that military came and talked, expressing skepticism about the lies they were told; and when commandos and colonists attempted assault to take the vessels, the station was destroyed and the fissure phenomenon destabilized. The empire's chance for a Diamond Age was cruelly taken away. The rift remained, but it could only be opened from the other side. "Time passed, two hundred thousand hitans of it. For most, including myself, it is now the Hungry Times. Molecular clouds, the stellar nurseries themselves, are harvested for their tenacious resources. Comets and asteroids flung from their natal systems into the interstellar voids are systematically hunted. The population grows yet larger, more hungry mouths to feed; and every semi-habitable world holds trillions of people, stacked in dense arcologies. Then, a few hundred hitans ago, the fissure phenomenon began to show the very occasional semblance of control. When the first probes finally emerged last yarin, it was taken as a sign that the Two-God, She Who Is Also He, had finally forgiven the Zuun [coughing fit] for past hubris and was offering another chance at a Diamond Age. "The probes were captured. Analysis showed them to be less advanced and of a different design than those used by the fissure creatures. I know, for I was among the elite who performed the tests, and was thus able to secure a ticket in the lottery to be among the initial colonists to escape the Hungry Times. The first probes were returned to the fissure, simple computer minds - little more than guidance and observation systems - appropriately altered to believe they had only encountered the quantum ur-hell that exists between our two universes. Soon more probes came, as clueless as their brothers; and finally the Powers decided to install mind storage and transference hardware. "The control and finesse of mind transference has greatly increased since the technology's inception. The first mounts were unaware of their new riders, commandos hiding in the personality background, observing. What they found, what /we/ found, were cybernetic creatures, pacific beasts largely controlled by a central computer. The commandos slowly emerged, leading double lives as they learnt their new bodies. "So, tell me, is the station a penal colony? Is the computer using the bodies of brain-burned prisoners to run its experiments? That is the most popular explanation. And it would explain the ease of infiltration." In the intranets, raucous laughter greeted the supposition, not to mention the description of Borg as 'pacific'. It died to echoes as Prime asserted the necessity to maintain a semblance of proper Borg-ness, especially with the Greater Consciousness breathing down the cube's figurative neck. The internal reaction never affected the expressions of the five drones in Supply Closet #19. "The silent treatment, eh?" said Maloc. Arm tightened around Doctor's head-sac, muscle servos whining slightly. "Once the commandoes had done their job, the first lottery-chosen colonists were sent to claim their new mounts. The 700 odd bodies available for use on the station were quickly exhausted, experimentation showing the computer to be very protective of any disturbance to its 'cognitive' drones. The Powers had just begun deliberation upon the next step when your ship fortuitously arrived. "Some of our kind are better actors than others. They are more facile at lightly riding their beasts of burden, more agile at sharing the mind. Those are the ones you have been interacting with. I'm obviously a poor actor, since you claim that I was 'not right'. No matter. None of my people can be evicted from our mounts once we ride them, at least not without death to the beasts. "The plan was to infiltrate this ship slowly, a few bodies here and a few there, delaying cargo transfer until a tipping point was reached. Unfortunately, there was a...bit of mislabeling. A mistake. Instead of commandos, several second-wave lottery winners, like myself, were decanted and transferred. My transportation to this ship was not supposed to occur, at least not until a full assault force had been assembled. Oh, well. You are isolated and alone. The Powers will have made a contingency plan for premature discovery and I am confident that your ship is as good as ours! Even now your sublight communication has been jammed. This ship is only the first stepping stone-" Maloc suddenly exhaled as a hand-foot was jabbed into the side of its stolen body's neck. A true-foot to the back of the knee, hitting a sensitive nerve, elicited a hoarse yelp and a numb leg. Of the three hierarchies required (for different reasons) to have intimate anatomical knowledge - assimilation, drone maintenance, and weapons - it was the units of drone maintenance whom accessed species files on a daily basis. With delicate fingers protected under the horny sheathes that capped the end of his manipulatory limbs, Doctor was an eight-legged punching machine who knew every critical spot upon his opponent. Another limb slammed into a gap in torso armor; and a fourth reached around to smack an elbow joint prone to dislocation in the best of times. Doctor abruptly fell to the deck plates, his captor no longer physically able to hold onto his would-be hostage. A final, precise double blow of true-feet to the belly caused Maloc to bend over, breath driven from lungs. "If you are going to play Jhadball in the professional leagues, you really should know the rules," muttered Doctor as he regained an eight-square stance. {Did anyone see where my scanner went?} {Get out of the way, Doctor,} ordered Weapons. The octopoid exclaimed {There it is!}, snagged his wayward device, then locked a transporter upon himself and beamed away. Four limb-mounted disruptors aimed at their now unobstructed target. Capacitors whined into near inaudibility in preparation to fire. "Wait, wait!" gasped Maloc, one hand raised in supplication as the alien fought to straighten its body. "If you kill me, you kill 194 of 400. Perhaps we can work out a time-share deal for the body?" "Unacceptable. You said yourself that you cannot be removed without termination of the mount," intoned 143 of 150, acting as the sub-collective's mouthpiece, not just Weapons'. "Unassimilated non-Borg entities are not to be tolerated and all alien intruders must be destroyed. Drones are replaceable." Pause. "Besides, I - Weapons over there - cannot stand entities who speak just to hear themselves talk." Weapons rolled his whole eye while making yak-yak-yak gestures with one hand. Attempted Maloc one final time: "Wait! I could help-" How the Zuun might have assisted would be forever unknown because at that moment four disruptors impacted 194 of 400's body. Like a bad effect from a B-rated sci-fi movie, Maloc/194 of 400 flickered a few times before disintegrating to an ash residue and a few pieces of warped armor. Complained Doctor, {Could you not have used a lower setting? Or at least controlled your targeting to leave the head intact? It would have been instructive to dissect 194 of 400's brain and study the physical neurological alteration, if any, caused by the alien invader.} Doctor was ignored. Within the crew roster of Lugger-class Cube #238, the 194 of 400 designation was marked as available for assignment to future imperfectly assimilated conscripts. {Sublight radio?} queried Prime to the sensory hierarchy, almost as an afterthought. If there was a purported disruption, it had not affected the Collective link. Before Sensors could reply, 78 of 175, founder of the Soap Opera Forever club, complained, {Scrambled! And in the middle of "As the Galaxy Turns"! Now we'll never know if Alexie was cheating on D'shay, or if D'shay was really hypnotizing Alexie during their macto sessions in order to take revenge upon his ex-sister-in-law-and-now-current- brother-in-law-and-soon-to-be-third-spouse H'tang. Maybe....} Prime deftly blocked the halfhearted attempt to request the Greater Consciousness divert a subspace feed of the tri-V show to the cube. {You will have to watch the rerun.} {Commonly used frequencies on the FTL subspace spectrum have been jammed for local use. Subspace fractal frequencies unaffected,} reported Sensors. The professional answer was ruined as she added {It is so /not/ sparkly at the moment! The Soap Opera club lost their show; and I /know/ that rOckHound1001 will take advantage of this outage to outbid me for that lovely bismuth specimen on gBay. There was only 5.2 minutes left in the auction, after all.} Prime added Sensors' designation to the command and control watch-list of those drones whom might try to circumnavigate the general subspace communication outage via the Collective link. {The Zuun may be wearing drone bodies, but they obviously do not understand the nature of Borg,} commented Reserve. {That they do not,} agreed Prime. {And especially not the imperfectly assimilated. However, if any sub-collective but this one had docked at the research platform, the aliens very well may have gotten away with their plan.} In the background, the Greater Consciousness disagreed with that opinion. Prime's standing on the matter abruptly changed as attitudes were adjusted. {Alternately, the deception may have been discovered quicker by a normal sub-collective with inherently stronger ties to the Whole.} {Yes,} murmured Reserve, who knew better than to argue; and who had also undergone mind-set alteration. {Moving on....} Most engineering work groups were beginning to report upon gangs of platform drones carrying homemade weapons of unknown design. Orders, backed up by gunpoint, were being barked to some engineering drones regarding relocation to a facility deeper within the bowels of the station. Mentally shaking her head, Prime summarily told the computer to lock onto Cube #238 transponders and return all work parties to the ship. There would undoubtedly be injuries, and possibly terminations, but losses were acceptable. However, the station had yet to raise shields; and now was the time for action before transporter lock was potentially lost. As expected, guns were discharged as the dematerialization process began; and upon rematerialized of units near their respective alcoves, drone maintenance roster experienced an influx of designations. Of much greater importance, however, was the double scream which pierced the intranets. Even as molecules were settling into place, the potential designations to whom the screams may have belonged had been identified. Weapons hierarchy moved, tactical drones dispatched to detain units suspected of harboring alien riders. Very shortly, two more designations - 220 of 370 and 17 of 175 - were declared vacant. Doctor was too busy coordinating his small hierarchy and performing emergency surgeries upon injured engineering drones to protest the lack of a specimen for post- mortem analysis. {The platform has raised shields. Seventy-two repair scooters have launched and all are aimed at us,} said Sensors. Her signature was accompanied by the ghost of a timer counting down the final seconds remaining to her bismuth auction. <> intoned the Greater Consciousness. The proclamation was a death sentence. A simple port-of-call had transformed into a situation requiring a significant slice of the Collective's attention. The Whole was unsurprised that Lugger-class Cube #238 was mired in the middle of the mess: such was a common theme in the history tying together all imperfect sub- collectives, starting with the participation of the most infamous of all, Exploratory-class Cube #347, in the birth of the Borg. In her alcove, Prime recentered herself in her personal holotheather, her visualization of the dataspaces. All of Cube #238's drones were successfully recovered; and other than the three intruders, no other units appeared to have been compromised. Such was yet to be confirmed, but it would occur as soon as the number of units on the drone maintenance roster decreased to a more normal level, allowing the hierarchy to begin individual testing. Self-assessment of cube resources was simultaneous to tactical status. In the center of Prime's virtual world, Research Platform #759 and Cube #238 glowed. It was a familiar scene, one which had changed little since the Lugger-class' arrival. However, now a blue shimmer surrounded the central nexus of the platform, representing its shields - while most races would not bother to install shield generators on their stations, the Collective was of the opinion to be safe rather than sorry. The shields were mildly robust, but nowhere near the potency of their counterpart raised around Cube #238. Lugger-class cubes may be big, slow, and hard to maneuver, but aspects of defense, including shields, were among the strongest in the galaxy. Gold specks glittering around Research Platform #759, small beads strung along silver threads, representing vector data for the 72 vessels converging upon Cube #238. With shields mutually raised, transporters were useless. Theoretically it was possible by either side to match shield harmonics and thereby bypass the protection, but that was unlikely to occur given frequency randomization programs. Therefore, the Zuun had resorted to the crude, but potentially effective, method of shuttle assault. In this case the 'shuttles' were repair scooters - shells with small engines, able to hold one to five drones - utilized by stations and unimatrices to ferry units to peripheral equipment out of transporter range, but the concept was similar. How whomever was in charge of the invasion thought so few assaulters could successfully overwhelm Cube #238 was unknown, but he or she presumably had a plan. Lugger-class Cube #238 would not be present to discover it. Prime triggered the series of orders required to leave. It would require several minutes for the invaders to cross the void between station and cube, While not all supplies had been delivered to Research Platform #759, the load cached by Cargo-class Cube #1110 was stowed. Given the circumstances, garnering a 'mission incomplete' on the duty record for this particular port-of-call, accompanied by a footnote detailing why, would be understandable. It was time to move on and make other deliveries. Prime was hopeful, as much as she was allowed, that the remainder of the cargo run would be the mind-numbing routine that was the norm. The Collective had no objection to Cube #238's imminent withdrawal. The cancer which was the alien-infested sub-collective was missing several key components among research platform inventory to build a functional FTL drive. Therefore, the invaders would still be present when the Borg fleet arrived in a little over seventeen cycles. Plans were already being devised for a replacement platform, perhaps even a research nexus, tasked not only to continue studying the energy generating potential of the fissure, but also consider how to access (and assimilate) the Zuun on the other side of the rift. Several war vessels would be assigned to the new structure to prevent reoccurrence of the current situation. Satisfied all was under control, the Collective began to shift its attention to other enterprises. And, then, Maloc's people demonstrated that they had a better understanding of fissure dynamics and manipulation than the Borg. A segment of the fissure flared, temporarily blinding sensors on the side of Cube #238 facing the rift. As the grid cleared, it was possible to note an increase in sunspot activity on the normally placid surface of the system's red dwarf. However, that datum was merely a peripheral observation, one logged by the incorrigible ex-astronomer whom was 90 of 185. Of much greater significance was the appearance of a vessel where none had been before. The warship - no civilian transport would sport so many turrets and lens apertures - was small by Collective standards. Then again, an Exploratory-class cube, the smallest Borg ship, was 1.3 kilometers an edge, so most vessels were considered undersized by comparison. Still, despite a mere fifty meter length, the energy radiating from idling power core was equivalent to the most advanced Second Federation ship-of-the-line. No external nacelles were present, but perhaps none were needed: Cube #238's sensor grid was tasting permutations to space-time which were close cousin to the Xenig folded- space drive. Scans revealed the Zuun ship to be devoid of biosigns, as expected given the hostility of the rift to pass organic lifeforms. A handful of the repair scooters targeting Cube #238 altered course to intercept the warship, indicating that the lack was soon to be remedied. The Collective, attention re-engaged, was rapidly reassessing the immediate threat represented by the Zuun. Even if Maloc's story had been artfully 'enhanced' in its telling, the civilization on the other side of the fissure had been in existence for millions of Cycles, enough time to not only conquer its home and satellite galaxies, but to deplete resources to such an extent as to be forced to hunt planetoids traveling the interstellar void. The technology developed by such a race was undoubtedly advanced well beyond the Borg. And while technological samples were highly desirable to the Collective, it also had no wish to be on the down-turret side of the martial equation. Suddenly the Greater Consciousness could not afford to wait until its military resources arrived. {But,} protested Prime, {we aren't exactly...we...that is....} Prime fell silent as instructions were given once again, with emphasis, before the Greater Consciousness retreated. The Collective never micromanaged its imperfect sub-collectives, never remained too close in case whatever the yet-to-be-identified contagion that segregated normal from mildly insane infected the Whole (or, at least, other components of Itself). Cube #238 would sink or swim on its own. {We comply. Weapons, you have control.} Taking the reins from command and control, Weapons sent the massive cube into a spin, both for defense and to bring successive weapon apertures more quickly to bear. Lugger-class cubes were not heavily armed by Borg standards, and every advantage which could be gained was vital. The head of the weapons hierarchy had returned to his alcove, the better to marshal the 150 drones which comprised the sum total of tactical resources. With inherent drive and militaristic tendencies honed both by Starfleet training and Borg programming, Weapons had forged his small hierarchy into a (relatively) efficient fighting unit. Considerable empty blocks of time - Lugger-class cubes hauled cargo, after all, only rarely engaging in hostilities - had been a not insignificant impetus to training, if only as a way to relieve boredom. Hopefully the effort would be sufficient to counter the inherent liability of a Lugger-class in combat, not to mention all the ways in which an imperfect sub-collective could stumble. Weapons considered his three challenges: incoming scooters, Zuun warship, and station. A kernel of a plan was already forming, one which, in reality, required only minimal alteration by his own hierarchy and relevant command and control partitions to be considered viable. Such was Weapons' genius, both before and after assimilation, to /see/ the flow of battle, to /know/ what was required to accomplish an objective. It was an inherent ability, one which philosophers of many races had likened to art at its highest level, and one which could not be reduced to lines of code or downloaded into another drone. The Collective as a whole may have lost when Weapons had been diagnosed with assimilation imperfection, inclusive a strong tendency towards rogueness (controllable by neural governors), but the survivability index of Cube #238 had drastically risen. The repair scooters represented the most immediate danger to Cube #238. What so few assaulters were supposed to accomplish, assuming the cube's hull could be breeched, was unknown, but it was better if the dilemma was avoided. A targeted spread of antimatter bomblets was more than sufficient to destroy fragile scooter shells, leaving those few drone mounts who survived to float until oxygen reserves expired. {I/we think the enemy vessel engines are coming on-line,} informed Sensors as she diverted the appropriate grid datastream towards Weapons. {None of the scooters have yet reached the ship.} Warship or station, which was the next greatest threat to cube and Collective integrity? That had been the question hovering in the back of Weapons' mind, but no longer. Attention focused on the warship and the various signs Sensors purported to be engine activity. No lifesigns meant no crew...no organic crew. Robots, androids, an artificial intelligence, there were many variations upon 'crew' which did not require biological input. The capability of the ship was an unknown; and the best way to deal with an unknown was pre-emptive, overwhelming force, preferably before said unknown engaged an unfamiliar shield technology. A Lugger-class cube only had eight torpedo launchers per face, comparable to a Cargo-class, and less than the sixteen of an Exploratory-class (and much less than Borg vessels specifically outfitted for mayhem). The behemoth Lugger-classes were not expected to fight if confronted, but instead hunker behind 200 meters of hull (fifty of which was layers of duralloy and ablative armor) and a massive, multi-layered shield system while waiting for more aggressive Borg forces to arrive. Usually. However, a Lugger-class /was/ a Borg vessel, which meant that it could still deliver an offense, if required, that was more than sufficient to dissuade attack by most of the galaxy's navies. As face #4 rotated into alignment, Weapons gave the final directive for all eight launchers to fling torpedoes at the warship; and another eight missiles streaked away from face #5 as the cube continued its spin. A total of sixteen torpedoes were deployed, maximum isoton yield, a mixture of conventional quantum, tri-cobalt, and strange-matter payloads. For this first volley, the few singularity torps Cube #238 possessed were to be held in reserve in order to gauge hull strength against standard munitions. Somewhere between tritanium and dense-packed neutronium, was the determination. The metal may have been an exotic composite in this universe, but its tensile characteristics were comparable to that used by local navies. If a bioarmor or similar surface regenerant was normally present, it had not survived rift translation. On the other hand, a greater than expected number of ablative armor layers allowed the warship to shrug off six torpedo direct hits. The volley was more than six, however, and sixteen missiles impacting in a line amidships to stern was more than sufficient to crack the vessel open, sending fragments tumbling. As a bonus, the shockwave from the explosion removed remaining scooters from relevance. The resistance quotient of the warship was provisionally evaluated at 7.8 out of a 10 point scale, pending further encounters to refine the rating. The Greater Consciousness was pleased that nearly a third of the bow remained (mostly) intact, a promise of new technologies to further the Borg quest for Perfection. If a station could cower, Research Platform #759 would have done so. A hail was directed at Cube #238. It was ignored. One. Two. Three. A trio of singularity torps were unleashed upon the platform. No counters or decoys accompanied the missiles: station point defenses were nil. Shields withstood the first impact, but as the second singularity evaporated, so did the platform's defense. Just as Weapons had calculated, just as he had /seen/ in his mind's tactical eye, the third torpedo hit the superstructure. A research platform, even one built by the Borg, is not a ship. Armoring is not extensive unless construction occurs in an environment made dangerous due to natural conditions or hostile sentients. Through all its incarnations, no amount of armor on Research Platform #759 would have prevented destruction from cataclysmic fissure eruptions, and it was located too deep in BorgSpace and too far from any worthwhile resources to attract potential marauders. Therefore, platform armor was minimal; an armor that was as butter to an artificial black hole on a trajectory to intersect the primary core. The explosion, when it inevitably happened, was anticlimactic. Weapons captured a still image of the fireball from the sensor grid and stored it in his personal collection. {Operation successful,} said Weapons as he returned control of the cube to Prime and command and control hierarchy. The Collective required a full scan of the tactical situation before Cube #238 would be allowed to leave, but other than that, the imperfect sub-collective had performed admirably...uncharacteristically so, but everyone was allowed to have a good outing every once in a while. Except that this day did not to belong to Cube #238. Not quite yet. As weapons hierarchy turned inward for an after action review, as engineering hierarchy began to rearrange items in Bulk Cargo Hold #2, as command and control compiled sensory reports for uploading to the Greater Consciousness, a massive *CRACK* reverberated through the superstructure. Few things could /shake/ a Lugger- class cube, with the great majority of them classified as celestial objects. {Shields be at 23.3%,} informed Engineer. {I'm not driving,} automatically protested Prime, whom had been jogging her track in Central Engineering. {Sensors, what hit us?} Answered Sensors, {I...we do not know. There are no rocks of any consequence on an intersect course. The fissure phenomenon is quiescent. There is an odd ghost of a signature in the zeta frequencies which cannot quite be resolved, but it does not fit anything known...processing....} The explanation drifted to silence as datafiles were consulted. {Correction. There is a semblance to mech species #3 folded-space drives.} Xenig? Had a GPS mech, having a bad century, decided to take out its frustrations on the nearest Borg cube? A second *CRACK*, no warning, rang the superstructure. Inertial dampers could not quite cancel the unexpected momentum of billions of tons of cube abruptly jumping /sideways/. Spat Engineer, {Nah shields. All buffers be o'erloaded.} Also in Central Engineering, the head of the engineering hierarchy leaned over a second story railing to eyeball the Flarn form which had toppled to the ground upon the last impact. "Secondary 'nd tertiary shields be g'ne, too. We be needin' at least two minutes t' reinitialize buffers. It be strongly suggested we bugger out o' 'ere a'fore we be hit again." {Zeta frequency ghost pinpointed. Origination the...Zuun warship?} said Sensors in confusion. Even as her hierarchy turned inward to examine datapaths, grid elements captured a flickering energy signature indicating the intact bow remnant to be not quite as dead as formerly believed. Vessel redundancies, including a highly dispersed and robust power system. An AI or dedicated computer system sufficiently advanced to 'play dead' and plan for an unexpected offensive. An unknown long-distance weapon able to render useless Lugger- class cube shields in two hits. The resistance quotient for the warship nudged upward from 7.8 to 8.3, a rating occupied by Borg/Color assets and nine (now assimilated) species. Only Xenig, Ehtu, and a handful of other intelligences ranked higher. Prime, the sub-collective of Cube #238, wanted to retreat. The Collective demanded destruction. There was no argument as to whose desire would prevail. Weapons reassumed tactical command. Reviewing the scant data on the Zuun warship, Weapons projected possible armaments. Weapons musings could not truly be said to be imaginative - all the designs were stored in the 'theoretical, but currently impractical' file maintained by the Whole - but they were sufficient to dismiss those designs which were impossible given the situation. Within seconds, the many had been whittled to a few; and among the top contenders was: Exclaimed Prime, her disbelief shared by any drone with even a smattering of engineering knowledge, {A folded-space singularity torp? But the particle accelerator and proton/anti-proton containment apparatus tend to, well, explode if too near the edge of a static warp bubble. Storage deep in a vessel is fine...shoved in a missile housing and accelerated to FTL speeds is very bad. There is a certain resonance interaction between subspace and the bubble that-} {Irrelevant,} gruffly said Weapons as he sliced through the emergent engineering technobabble. {/Theory/ aside, /reality/ suggests a folded-space singularity torp, or something very similar, has destroyed our shields. Appropriately deployed, it could blink from the Zuun vessel to us, leaving no intervening spoor. Reload time must be long, else only a single launcher remains. Regardless, if the time between attack one and two is a guide, a third projectile will shortly be landing on our /bare/ hull.} {Well, what are you going to do about it, then?} asked Prime. {What?} {You and your hierarchy have tactical control,} reminded Prime brusquely. {What. Are. You. Going. To. Do. To. Ensure. Our. Survival?} Weapons mentally blinked. Tactical genius he might be, but he was also imperfectly assimilated. He had been caught by the sheer beauty of the folded-space singularity torp concept, a weapon that even the Xenig (and, by proxy, their Progenitor creators), acclaimed masters of folded-space and zero-point field array, seemed not to have successfully developed. New scenarios flashed through his mindspace. The simplest, the most direct, the most efficient was selected. {Terminate the enemy, of course.} Even as the words were spoken, five torpedoes, one of them a singularity torp, were on their way towards the broken bow. The missiles struck, but the resultant explosion was much, much greater than expected. Perhaps the next 'folded-space singularity torp' (or whatever the actual weapon) had been in a launcher and ready for release. As the fireball expanded to epic proportions, feeding upon remnant atmosphere and other combustibles, a very strong zeta frequency backwash surged against the sensor grid, blinding the cube. The effect was only temporary; and as interference cleared, where the intact bow fragment had been located was now a debris field of fine dust punctuated by the occasional chunk of warped metal. In the sub-collective background, the Greater Consciousness radiated disappointment over the loss. No matter. When the fleet arrived, the larger pieces would be collected for a metallurgical analysis. Threat clearly terminated, the Collective gave Cube #238 the equivalent of a pat on the head and a <>, then turned to other matters, one of which was washing its figurative hand with a strong disinfectant. It was only after a thorough sensor sweep for hidden hostiles that Weapons returned the reins of cube control back to Prime. Body returned her alcove and mind floating amid the holotheater of her networked mind, Prime critically examined the scene. As when the cube had arrived, ancient red dwarf serenely glowed, accompanied in its journey through the aeons by its small planetary entourage. However, several debris fields were now present where once orbited Research Platform #759; and investigation into the fissure phenomenon was temporarily halted. True, the outcome could not /all/ be blamed upon the sub-collective, but they /had/ been present. The fact that the Collective, the /galaxy/ (and beyond), had been saved from invasion by aliens from another universe was a minor detail. It was time for Lugger-class Cube #238 and its imperfect crew to leave, preferably before something else blew up, or at least be far away when such did occur so as to avow all responsibility. Consensus cascade completed and decision made, Prime collapsed her virtual view, refocusing attention to the outside world and, more specifically, the tier across the shaft from her alcove. Compound eyes cannot squint, but if she had been capable, she would have done so. Someone had looped a long string of lights in such a way as to spell out a rather rude species #2651 phrase. Disengaging from her alcove, Prime stepped to the safety railing and leaned forward. Yes, the vulgarism continued well along the tier. {Let's go,} said Prime to Reserve, mentally nudging the latter to initiate the driving commands. Meanwhile, she had to determine whom had erected the light display...in addition to the necessity of removing it, she had to educate the drone responsible as to the concept of correct spelling. If one is going to do something inappropriate, one might as well do it right.