Star Trek is the fault of Paramount.  Concerning Star Traks, Decker is the one to blame.  
And BorgSpace?  Don't look at Meneks!  Okay, look, but just a little.

				Sins of the Fathers

"For the sins of your fathers you, though guiltless, must suffer."
	-Horace, Odes 111, 6:1

*****

	*Click*
	Reserve was undergoing lucid regeneration.  As his body received its regular 
upkeep in the form of nutrients and nanite maintenance, his mind was actively 
performing backup consensus monitor and facilitator duties.  While managing driving of 
the cube was easy - Lugger-class Cube #238 was in hypertranswarp cruise mode along a 
well traveled route - other tasks were not so simple.  For instance, it was becoming 
increasingly obvious that keeping to the normal starchart courses would regain little of 
the time lost thus far this duty cycle, even if the cube was pushed to its speed limit.  
There were several major (and countless minor) options as to what could, or should, be 
done to remedy the scheduling issue; and Reserve, along with the other Hierarchy of Five 
members, were attempting to coordinate the sub-collective into the semblance of a 
coherent consensus cascade.
	*Click*
	A small, but very important, subroutine pinged for Reserve's attention.  He first 
split a slice of his awareness from himself to examine the program's output, then abruptly 
directed all of his mental resources except a few background processes towards his body.  
Some things were very important, much more so than driving or determining the 
immediate future of the cube and its drone populace.
	*Click*
	{Regeneration incomplete,} inanely chirped the computer.
	Reserve opened his eyes, just in time to be temporarily blinded by a bright flash 
accompanying a *click*.  Visual input swapped for that of his assailant, the backup 
consensus monitor disengaged the clamps restricting movement of his left hand and 
reached forward.  Hand closed around a small, plastic box, ripping it from the hand of its 
owner.
	"Hey!" protested 122 of 185.
	Vision returning, Reserve squinted through rapidly fading purple blotches to 
examine his booty.  It was a camera, some antique device, species and era unknown and 
irrelevant.  The fact that it was a camera was the only thing which mattered.
	Reserve did not like cameras.  Any piece of equipment (other than drones) able to 
resolve a picture and which could be pointed in the direction of Reserve's alcove was 
terminally disabled.  Or painted over.  Or permanently aligned to face a bulkhead.  Over 
the nine Cycles since his repurposing from Gray and subsequent assignment to Cube 
#238, Engineers had come to realize that challenging Reserve over the topic of cameras 
was a futile endeavor.  As quickly as they could be repaired, they would be broken again.  
While Reserve was content to limit his camera depredation to those near his alcove, he 
also maintained several complex subroutines that automatically censored his image as he 
moved around the cube, an activity he engaged in as little as possible.
	Reserve's attitude towards cameras was dismissed as an aspect of his assimilation 
imperfection, as in all other ways (excepting nonplural speech patterns and 'freedom' of 
thought) he functioned as a model Borg drone.
	To have a camera, even one as insignificant as a primitive hand-held model, 
taking photos was unacceptable.
	Fully disengaging himself from his alcove, Reserve stepped to the tier walkway.  
Right limb was lifted, claw assembly at the end of the prosthetic adroitly capturing the 
strong magnet which materialized above it.  Camera in one hand, magnet in the other, 
Reserve waved the latter all around the former.  Whatever sort of storage media may be 
in the camera, inclusive mini-neurogel packs or crystals, it would shortly be scrambled.
	"You can't just-" began 122 of 185.
	Growled Reserve, "Yes I can.  And I have."  The magnet was returned to storage 
and the camera handed back to its owner.  Satisfied at mission accomplished, Reserve 
stepped back and up into his alcove.  Clamps re-engaged with an audible clank.  "No 
more pictures of me, else next time I'll send your camera directly to replicator 
reclamation."
	"But-"
	Reserve blocked out the objection and pointedly closed his eyes.  {Computer, 
reinitiate regeneration.}  He had duties to attend.
	"But," doggedly repeated 122 of 185 with complete knowledge that Reserve was 
not listening, "this is a /film/ camera.  Magnets won't erase the...bugger that.  Oh, well."  
With a shrug, 122 of 185 beamed himself to another alcove tier well away from the 
backup consensus monitor.  He still had five more pictures to take on the roll before he 
could develop it, and he did not want to waste them.
	*Click*

	In the darkroom which had been converted from Supply Closet #22, 122 of 185 
critically examined his latest set of hand-developed photos as they hung on the drying 
line.  The red light necessary to stop premature film exposure was not a hindrance:  122 
of 185 represented one of the few high-tech species whose natal planet circled a red 
dwarf star.  If anything, the darkroom was a cozy place reminiscent of a home now 
assimilated.
	He was ready to publish...almost.  Before such could occur, however, he needed 
to decide upon a final picture.
	122 of 185 was a semi-regular contributor to "Pre-Warp", an eclectic and 
extremely obscure netzine dedicated to the research and recreation of pre-warp 
technologies.  Although the 'zine only authorized publication of peer reviewed articles 
written by the giants of the little known field, it also maintained a 'sandbox' for all wanna-
bes, like 122 of 185, whom had delusions of transforming a hobby into a respectable 
pursuit.  Or at least have something to point towards when it came to justifying why one 
had just spent six years of one's life learning the craft of taxidermy.  Every year a very 
few sandbox articles, which anyone could view once submitted, were deemed by the 
publishers of Pre-Warp to have merit, and were thusly elevated to the virtual pages of the 
official 'zine.
	For eight years - his species' years, not the Borg equivalent, which were 3.5 times 
the length of a Cycle - 122 of 185 had been attempting to dig his way out of the sandbox.  
Shortly after volunteering to become a Hiver (for reasons no longer relevant), he had 
fixated upon the 'zine; and that obsession had been the element pushing him from the 
ranks of normal drones to the purgatory of the imperfectly assimilated.  Following the 
fiascos of pottery and woodworking and glassmaking, 122 of 185 had finally settled upon 
the subject of pre-digital photography.
	Well over a Cycle had been spent researching the definitive history of cameras, 
carefully digging through dusty Collective archives for nuggets of information absorbed, 
but subsequently tossed aside due to their inapplicability to a high-tech civilization.  It 
was the Borg equivalent of the boxes hidden in attic or garage, items never discarded just 
in case a future use might be found.  Obviously 122 of 185 could not devote his full 
attention to the project, his wetware required as a computational node for the sensory 
grid.  However, when the demand upon his processing contribution was minimal, such as 
when the vessel was cruising hypertranswarp along well mapped travel lanes, he found 
time to pursue his publishing goal.
	Compared to other drones on Cube #238, 122 of 185's brand of obsession was 
mild and easily overlooked.
	The trajectory of evolution for pre-digital photography for each species was 
different, yet oddly similar.  For the project, 122 of 185 had hand-built a wide range 
cameras, from daguerreotype through pinhole boxes to sophisticated devices sporting a 
bewildering array of lenses.  He had synthesized petrochemical-based films and burnt 
himself with copper-etching acids.  He had ever learned to apply ancient development 
processes to transfer images to cellulose paper.  
	All that 122 of 185 required to complete his treatise on comparative photographic 
technologies amongst eight selected Beta Quadrant races was an example picture taken 
using a recreated camera typical to early-Data Age species #8911.  Examining the drying 
photos, one in particular stood out.
	The subject was a drone in an alcove.  Species #891, color-blind, had never 
developed color photograph.  However, the technology to bring out the best in black and 
white film, prior to the wide-scale conversion to digital format, was acknowledged to 
have reached a pinnacle unequalled amongst species with polychromatic vision.  The 
oblique angle and slightly skewed slant lent a disquieting composition to the final picture.  
However, 122 of 185 did not see the inherent artistry, but rather fixated upon the ability 
of the camera to bring out facial detail and fine gradations of the gray palette despite a 
low-light ambient environment.
	Perfect.
	122 of 185 quietly chuffed in self-satisfaction, a sharp inhale-exhale through his 
nose which was the species equivalent of a Terran nod.  Yes, the picture of Reserve 
would nicely finish his camera article and surely win the sandbox piece a prestigious 
place in the pages of Pre-Warp itself.

	Lugger-class Cube #238 was about 22 cycles from its next port of call.  Behind, 
by an equal amount of time, lay the ruins of Research Platform #579, but the excitement 
of thwarted invasion had long since devolved into the routine and monotony associated 
with cargo transit.  The concept of boredom for a normal sub-collective was absurd, those 
drones not directly engaged with ship or crew maintenance submerged in the tides of the 
Whole, lending their computational resources to the betterment of the Collective.  The 
Greater Consciousness, however, banned immersion by units deemed imperfectly 
assimilated, wary - not without reason - of the disorder which might be precipitated by 
sometimes chaotic mental patterns.  Therefore, Cube #238, like its predecessors, was left 
to its own devices, a sub-collective of quasi-individuals, some with highly erratic 
personalities, forced to remain aware through the duration of its duty cycle.
	It was a potential recipe for calamity or, at the very least, the Borg equivalent of 
fidgeting and 'Are We There Yet?'.
	Of all the hierarchies, engineering was the busiest.  In addition to normal ship 
maintenance, there were mini-emergencies with which to contend, like a maliciously 
programmed replicator spewing pistachio pudding or the two-tier power outage caused 
by blown relays.  Cleaning was also a never-ending chore, both within the cube and on 
the hull.  Cargo upkeep.  The largest task currently occupying the hierarchy's time was 
the modification of Bulk Cargo Hold #6 to 'stack' configuration - placing temporary struts 
and deck plating to convert empty volume into a megawarehouse with a total floorspace 
measured in the thousands of square kilometers.
	Meanwhile, Weapons had fully engaged his hierarchy's attention with tactical 
sims.  Although the scenarios were largely played out within the dataspace, some utilized 
holograms and the opportunities afforded by an otherwise vacant Interior Cargo Hold.  
As usual, the majority of the fifty-drone assimilation hierarchy had joined Weapons' 
crew:  if not kept mentally stimulated, the hierarchy, ranked as the most useless on a 
Lugger-class, was prone to instability.  Besides, Assimilation was an avid gamer; and as 
she was not (officially) allowed to pursue her obsession on the GalacNet, she had to be 
satisfied with the next best thing.
	The fact that Weapons consistently beat Assimilation when the two went head-to-
head on a scenario was less important than the fact she was doing something other than 
watching paint dry or nanites construct themselves in vats.
	Of the remaining Cube #238 hierarchies - drone maintenance, sensory, and 
command and control - the lattermost conceivably had the most difficult job:  
maintaining order during the long dark between ports.  Incidence of neuroticism vastly 
increased, idle drones not allowed to submit to instinctively craved communion with the 
Collective, to be /useful/ to the Whole, instead turning inward to prod censure filters.  For 
the majority of imperfectly assimilated drones, 'insanity' was mild:  a propensity towards 
the "I" that no amount of mental reformatting could erase; a desire to cook or collect 
pressed flowers or pursue some other personal fixation; a willingness to express an 
opinion.  For a select few, however, to allow a unit to surrender, as an example, to his 
fascination with highly energetic chemical reactions was not only undesirable, but 
potentially catastrophic for Cube #238 as a whole.  Therefore, command and control had 
to continually patrol for contrary thought patterns, in addition to coordinate the decision 
cascades, both major and minor, that defined the hierarchy's existence.
	{These three segments are similar to the buffer overflow loop 44 of 550 corrupted 
to fracture his second tier censure program,} said Reserve as he reviewed a knot of code 
in the dataspaces.  A small partition consisting three drones - two assimilation and one 
command and control - observed.  {He is controlled for now, but those segments need to 
be shored so we don't need to have a unit assigned to him every moment of every cycle to 
ensure he behaves.}
	44 of 550 had the aforementioned fascination with highly energetic chemical 
reactions.  When demolition work was required, such was useful.  On the other hand, 
outside of a select menu of situations, 44 of 550's craving to watch things go boom (or 
catch on fire, or melt, or simply disintegrate) after mixing together a stew of chemicals 
was detrimental.  Therefore, a set of censors were locked onto his personality gestalt, 
electronic watchdogs ever scrutinizing their ward's thoughts and actions; and, when 
necessary, 'reminding' their charge when he strayed beyond his allowed bounds.  
Unfortunately, the censor programs were not perfect, eroding over time (or application of 
adverse code).
	It was fortunate that command and control had been reviewing recent transporter 
activity in regards to a subset of drones with a history of waywardness.  Neither bleach 
nor iodine were innocent substances, at least not when in the capable hands of 44 of 550.
	{But if the segments are altered thusly,} replied 2 of 18, highlighting the proposed 
fix, {then there will be a cascade downline to the quaternary resolution nexus, creating an 
especially brittle architecture.}
	Reserve growled, {Well, it can't remain as it is right now.  Engineer has scheduled 
the shifting of several tons of explosive substance over the next several cycles, and, for 
all his faults, 44 of 550 is the preferred unit to direct the operation.  Work on the problem 
and be prepared to submit potential solutions in....}  The backup consensus monitor and 
facilitator paused.  Something was not right...unspecified feelings were irrelevant, yet he 
nonetheless /knew/ it.
*****
	Interior Cargo Hold #3 was currently devoid of cargo, which made it perfect for 
Weapons and his hierarchy to use as a shooting gallery against holographic targets.  For 
all the advantages of running tactical simulations within the dataspaces, Weapons was of 
the opinion that (almost) live practice was invaluable to refine skills.  Joining him was 
Assimilation and thirty of her hierarchy; and while assimilation-specialized drones did 
not sport chassis-mounted weaponry except in special circumstances, nothing prohibited 
them from utilizing hand-held phaser rifles.
	{Did you have to use the disco setting?} complained Assimilation.  {It is next to 
impossible to see the targets!  And the racket is vibrating my cranial implants!}  Loud 
thumping and screeching, simulating the noise expected to be encountered in a heavy 
industrial setting, transforming the hold into absolute chaos.
	Weapons rolled his whole eye, exuding a sense of exasperation.  {That is the 
point.  We are supposed to be securing a planet-side foundry from a small resistance 
group.}  An arm swept outward, indicating the holographic scenery.
	Assimilation abruptly raised her rifle as a shadow leapt from behind a pipe wall, 
jostling Weapons as she did so.  She shot at the bipedal target thrice before it vanished, 
unscathed, behind the cover afforded by a stack of boxes.  {This is /impossible/.}
	{I thought you liked games,} needled Weapons.
	Assimilation snorted, the noise lost amid the rattle of a nearby foundry robot 
trundling through its programming, oblivious to the maneuverings of cyborgs and their 
holographic opponents.  "I like them better when there is a chance of me winning," she 
muttered aloud.
	{What?}  Weapons had heard the comment perfectly well.
	{Oh, shut up.  Hah!  Got that one!}  Lowering her rifle, Assimilation added the 
kill to the communal scoreboard, then turned to checking how the other hunter-killer 
teams were doing.  She had only skimmed a few designations in the roster when she 
registered an impact to her neck.  {What the...?  Weapons, I thought you disabled the 
ability of the targets to damage us.}
	Confused, Weapons turned to regard teammate and fellow hierarchy head.  {I did.  
And that is a dart, not the projectile type the guerillas would be using.}  As he reached 
out with his whole hand to pluck the barb stuck in Assimilation's neck, a twin to the first 
heavily thunked into his shoulder armor.  Both he and Assimilation automatically tracked 
the flight back to its most probable origin, but nothing was discernable through the 
holographic bedlam.  {Computer, end simulation.}
	The cargo hold abruptly returned to its empty state, unveiling the locations of all 
drones present.  Weapons was already lifting his disruptor limb.
	{That's not-} began Assimilation, her words cut mid-sentence.
*****
	Reserve's vague sense of amiss abruptly crystallized into certainty.
	One at a time, Sensors, Engineer, Prime, and Doctor found themselves darted; 
and, one at a time, each of their signatures abruptly disappeared from the ken of the sub-
collective.  In his alcove, Reserve was suddenly finding himself to be the nexus of an 
increasingly confused Cube #238, command prerogative slow to shift to those units 
tagged as backup heads of the various hierarchies.  The sub-collective could handle the 
loss of one or two of the leadership cadre, but not all of them simultaneously.  To remove 
at least one factor from the building chaos, Reserve braked the cube from hypertranswarp 
to normal space in an emergency stop.
	The sound of metal against metal, the distinctive scrape of armored foot on 
walkway, prompted the backup consensus monitor to open his eyes.
	Directly in front of Reserve loomed a large shape.  An automatic query to the 
computer revealed that no drone - no /Collective/ drone - transponders were located on 
the tier adjacent his alcove.  The fact that the form had the distinctive half-hunch of a 
Flarn used to living in an environ meant for smaller beings only confirmed Reserve's 
immediate conclusion of invader, for Cube #238 only included one species #6251.
	"Gotcha," rumbled the Flarn, synthetic reverberation underlying the single word.  
Arm lifted, brandishing a projectile gun of unfamiliar type.  There was the soft *poof* of 
compressed air.
	Reserve looked down to where a dart with orange feathering had suddenly 
sprouted from his mid-section.  Then came the tingling sensation of a transporter lock.
	"Be seeing you real soon," said the intruder just before everything vanished into 
the darkness of compulsory unconsciousness.

	Reserve returned to awareness.  He was prone on his back, confirmation in the 
form of the ceiling which dominated the portion of his field of view not filled with 
Doctor's countenance.  One part of himself was surprised that he had awoken at all, and 
doubly stunned that his sub-collective link was registering nominal status.
	"You are obviously back to the land of the living, such as it is," commented 
Doctor.  "Your species fares poorly when subjected to a neural scrambler, so you are the 
last to regain consciousness.  Now, stand up and tell me /why/ I was kidnapped in the 
middle of tendon replacement surgery."
	{Why should I know?} asked Reserve.  He was loath to speak outloud, jaw 
aching for unknown reason.  However, from the poise of expectant waiting and the way 
the words echoed in his head, Reserve abruptly knew something was wrong, a something 
not reflected in the 'nominal status' diagnostic of his intranet connection.  "Why should I 
know?  Did-"
	"No one heard what you said," grumbled Prime, anticipating the second question.  
She stepped into Reserve's sight, reaching down to grasp one of his arms.  Without 
obvious effort, she easily pulled him to his feet despite the weight of armor and 
prosthetics.  "Not in a legible manner, anyway.  Our transceiver frequency signals have 
been polarized just sufficiently to prevent intradrone communication and data transfer 
without disrupting the base carrier wave."  In translation, while Reserve (and any other 
drone) was registering as 'alive' to the Collective, inefficient /vocalizations/ was required 
to exchange even the simplest concept to a cube-mate.  "As far as why we all believe you 
are the key to what is happening...."
	Prime spun Reserve to face a wall.  As he was Flarn-handled, he noticed the other 
members of Cube #238's leadership cadre were present, not just Doctor and Prime, as 
well as catch the subtle glow and hear the quiet hum of a security forcefield.  Those 
considerations immediately faded, however, as he saw what was taped to an otherwise 
bare bulkhead.
	It was a picture.  It was a picture of Reserve.  It was an exquisitely rendered 
grayscale picture of Reserve in his alcove, perspective artfully askew.  Next to the first 
photograph was a second, somewhat blurry but indisputably also of Reserve, albeit with 
different implants and armor type than his current configuration.  The final Reserve of the 
triptych was a Reserve without Borg hardware, smooth skinned face sporting the faintly 
dazed expression common to driver's licenses and employee identification cards the 
universe over, no matter the species.
At the lower right of each photograph was a stylized crown, three points, colored 
royal blue with a white outline.
	Reserve stared at the symbol; and, as he did so, something *clicked* deep in his 
mind.  "KingCola," he whispered as a torrent of data began to upload into his brain.
	"KingCola?" exclaimed Prime as she peered at her backup consensus monitor.  
"What the blazes is KingCola?"
	"Only the best beverage in the cosmos," opinioned Assimilation.  She elbowed 
her way forward to stand next to Prime.  "There is KingCola, of course, as well as the 
SimuTea line and several non-colas and flavored water products.  However, the best, 
assuming you are a gamer or a university student cramming for midterm, is MegaFiend."  
Assimilation sighed.  "If I tried to drink it now, I'd just barf it up, but there was a time 
when I literally /lived/ on that stuff for /days/."
	Doctor, three arms waving, crowded into Reserve's view, blocking the photos.  It 
was not important, the internal data flood occupying the near whole of his attention.  Said 
Doctor, "MegaFiend?  That...drink, if the term can loosely be applied, is banned on the 
Dromelan homeworld, as well as all her colonies.  To have it in possession is an instant 
death sentence.  In addition to containing enough sugars to rot one's insides if one should 
so much as /look/ at the can, there is a stew of stimulants and hallucinogens.  And it is 
addicting."
	Sighed Assimilation again in fond remembrance, "Yes, isn't it wonderful?  A 
different formulation for each consumer species.  Banned not only on planets filled with 
cannibalistic squids, but by nearly every civilized race.  It is /sooooo/ hard to acquire.  
And expensive.  I heard once that KingCola actually desires it illegal, despite protesting 
otherwise to various governments, so that it can charge black market premiums on the 
MegaFiend product."
	"Disgusting, that you actually drank it.  Voluntarily," griped Doctor, emphasizing 
his revulsion by grinding hidden beak.  "There are other uses for it than dissolving one's 
innards, after all.  For example, there was this one client I had once, a rather overweight 
Psugan male, and as an experiment to remedy a, um, delicate problem, I employed a can 
of MegaFiend as lubricant to...."
	"Doctor - quiet," ordered Prime before the story could continue.  The inability to 
show images was a good thing in this instance.
	By the chronometer, it had been a mere thirty seconds since recognition of the 
KingCola label.  Subjectively, Reserve felt as if hours had passed.  The data torrent was 
beginning to taper, but it would require hours to rearrange the download into semblance 
of order.  However, certain truths, previously hidden from himself...by himself...were 
becoming quite clear.
	"I am screwed," said Reserve in a monotone.  "Correction, /we/ are screwed."  His 
past was about to catch up with him; and all would likely suffer for certain pre-
assimilation transgressions.
	Silence at the proclamation.
	Grabbing one leg and physically pulling a protesting Doctor out of the way, 
Weapons took the Dromelan's place front and center to Reserve.  After pointing to the 
PADD he wore around his neck, the weapons hierarchy head jacked into the device via 
nanotubules.  The action was a familiar one:  due to ongoing issues with his artificial 
voice box as a result of complications following initial resistance, Weapons did not 
verbalize unless absolutely required.  However, a large-screen PADD was an adequate 
substitute to convey a written message.  ~Explain the situation.~
	"The 'situation' is that we are guests of KingCola or one of its subsidiaries."
	"What can a company do to us?  We are Borg.  KingCola is irrelevant," hissed 
Prime as she also read Weapons' words.
	"I'd listen to the fellow.  He knows what he is talking about.  His understanding of 
the 'situation' is probably most accurate," said an unfamiliar voice.  Except Reserve, the 
leadership cadre pivoted towards the new threat:  all attention upon Reserve, none had 
been watching their surroundings.  Weapons lifted his disruptor limb.
	With an internal sigh, Reserve belatedly faced the direction of his compatriots.  
Without a fully functional intradrone link, he could not borrow visual input.  On the other 
hand, a vicarious viewpoint was not necessary to confirm his suspicions.  He did not 
bother to censor his words, despite unBorg content.  "Beyond screwed.  F***ed over."
	"While swearing is uncalled for, you are, in the whole, quite right," replied the 
voice mildly.

	"You are Color.  We demand you release these units promptly and submit your 
drones to reprocessing or termination by the Borg Collective," ordered Prime as she 
immediately stepped into the role as speaker-of-all for Cube #238.  While she had 
introduced the appropriate pluralization, the speech would have been much more 
intimidating if a full connection to sub-collective (and Collective) had been present.  The 
object of the challenge seemed very much aware of Prime's deficiency.
	On the other side of the security forcefield which halved the small room, penning 
Cube #238's leadership cadre into a makeshift brig, stood a Borg, although Color 
affiliation was not readily apparent.  The drone was human, or mostly so, features half-
hidden under cranial armor and facial implants.  His - it was male - left arm had been 
replaced with a disruptor prosthesis, presenting the argument that the unit primarily 
served a tactical role.  Despite initial impressions, however, the smirk on the drone's face 
suggested all was not as it appeared.
	Uncharacteristic for a drone, clothes were in evidence.  Specifically, he wore 
khaki shorts paired with a bandoleer fashioned from an exotic blue leather.  Small tools, 
including a knife, were holstered upon the bandoleer; and pinned near the right shoulder 
was a badge exhibiting a silver 5' nanobot upon a black background.
	"I do not represent a Color," said the drone, smirk still firmly in place, "although 
once I was Green.  But I, um, resigned from my Collective quite a while ago.  'Rogue' is 
probably the best term, at least I'm sure that is what Green labeled my decampment, but 
that is neither here nor there.  At the moment, I represent myself.  Or, to be more 
accurate, I represent my mercenary company, the Black Cyborgs.  You may call me One.  
It is not my actual name, or designation, if you prefer, but it will do for the short time that 
we will be acquaintances.
	"As Mr. re-Farlu has so astutely recognized, my current employer is indeed 
KingCola."
	"Our designation is 5 of 5," muttered Reserve.  "The entity previously known as 
re-Farlu terminated 15.4 Cycles ago."
	One shrugged, "As you wish.  Your current name or designation or whatever is 
unimportant."
	Waving his PADD to catch One's attention, Weapons turned the device around so 
it faced the mercenary.  Disruptor arm never wavered from its aim.
	Brow furrowing, One stepped as close to the forcefield as he could without 
actually touching it.  His end of the brig was as devoid of decoration as the warded side 
(disregarding photographs), with the primary difference being the presence of a door.  
"'Who or what the f**k are the Black Cyborgs'?  I was unaware that the Borg language 
retained such vulgarisms," said One, squinting at the alphanumerics Weapons had written 
upon the PADD.  "Live and learn something every day.  None of you have heard of the 
Black Cyborgs?  Really?"  Sharp eye glanced about at his captives as a step was taken 
away from humming forcefield.  "Not even you, Mr. 5 of 5?"
	"Only 5 of 5," said Reserve in a low voice, not answering the question asked.  In 
fact, Reserve /did/ know of the mercenary company, it one of the datums of the 
information tsunami sloshing within his brain.
	"I am sure my Black Cyborgs are known to someone-" Chin was pointedly thrust 
in Reserve's direction. "-but, dear me, are we perhaps finding conversation a bit difficult 
at the moment?  Sort of scrambled?  Not to worry, that will clear up shortly, but only 
after a few realities are made clear.  Although I am disappointed my reputation has not 
proceeded me, neither is it surprising that the Black Cyborgs are not in your on-board 
memory.  On the other hand, I am sure an extensive dossier is buried in your cube 
archives.  Since I so dislike suspense, not to mention customers who have no clue with 
whom they are dealing, let me provide you the abbreviated resume.
	"The Black Cyborgs are a group of ex-Borg, primarily Colors, although a few 
former Hivers are among my membership.  Because Hive and Borg Collective are 
essentially the same entity, albeit with differing modus operandi, I allowed my ex-Hiver 
employees to opt out of this caper:  they did not need the stress of the past whispering in 
their brain.  And I did not need to be watching for spontaneous readjustment of 
allegiance, a distinct possibility considering the fact very few of us have removed our 
cybernetic hardware.
	"To prevent any misconceptions, neither I nor the others of my merry band of 
troublemakers are linked to each other.  We are individuals.  In our own ways, we came 
to the conclusion that our former Colors did not represent the lifestyle we wanted, and so 
we broke with the Mind and left.  The process is a lot more traumatic than it sounds, 
probably as much so as when a Collective drone goes rogue.  Colors can be just as 
possessive of their drones as the original Greater Consciousness.
	"For me, let's just say that involuntary servitude just because I couldn't pay a few 
million credit gambling debt was a harsh penalty.  It took me almost eight years and a 
fortuitous circumstance for me to recover my sense of, well, me; and, trust me, I am /not/ 
going back.
	"So, what was a creditless, ex-Green tactical drone on the run and with no hope of 
de-assimilation supposed to do?  Found a mercenary company, naturally.  I sought other, 
likeminded members of the rogue-in-hiding ex-Color community, and together we 
formed the Black Cyborgs.  It was little jobs at first, some guarding, a few gun-running 
operations, but our fame grew, at least within a certain circle of personages.  Now, well, 
we are reasonably well-off - I /do/ come from a Green background, after all, and never 
could shake that money-hoarding thing - and tolerated by Colors as long as, one, a 
discount is provided when a Mind hires us for 'special' jobs and, above all, two, never 
link to form a rival sub-collective.
	"As if!  All the /good/ colors are taken; and I refuse to be labeled something frou-
frou like cinnamon or burgundy."  One ceased his oration, looking at his captive audience 
in expectation.  "Any questions?"
	Doctor waved an arm.  "A brain tissue sample would be instructive in furthering 
research concerning neurological changes which occur in rogue units.  We have been 
compiling a slide series detailing variations in normal and imperfectly assimilated, and to 
include a rogue patho-"
	"Shut up," hissed Prime as she elbowed Doctor in the body-sac.
	Weapons had let go his PADD and was now touching the side of his head with his 
free arm.  Of the drones present, he visited drone maintenance most often, usually for 
issues related to his vocal apparatus.  Half-turning from the forcefield, Weapons shot 
Doctor an expression of questioning accusation.
	One heaved a theatrical sigh.  "You can drop the plurals and third person bullsh*t.  
I know exactly what you represent.  If you /weren't/ imperfectly assimilated, I would 
have a brig full of confused detainees, half of you semi-catatonic with the remainder 
spouting Borg cliches like 'Resistance is futile' and 'You will be assimilated'.  And, to 
answer your question my little octopi, no, I will not be providing you with any samples."
	"A member of your crew whom is functioning below expectation, then?"
	"/Doctor/!" exclaimed Prime again, frustration coloring her voice.  Without a true 
link, she could not enforce her previous order.
	"Tempting in a few cases, but no."  One shook his head to emphasize the denial.  
Changing the subject, the mercenary leader's tone chilled, "I am shortly going to ask my 
ship's Personality to lift the frequency polarizer.  When she does so, you /will/ ensure that 
your sub-collective behaves.  Thus far they have cooperated, but certain notions might 
arise once reintegration occurs.  Now, I am sure you are all asking yourselves 'why 
cooperate with the rogue?'  Let me show you.  Julie?  Light show."
	In fact, Reserve was not asking himself any questions, but rather coming to grips 
with the new reality his hidden data had compelled him to accept.  He forced himself to 
appear mildly attentive as a holographic display consolidated on One's side of the room.
	"This schematic is of your cube.  Specifically, it is your cube with my ship - this 
ship - within one of your Bulk Cargo Holds squatting just above a major support spar to 
subsection 14.  If you look closely you shall see a small hole has been drilled through 
bulkhead armor to the spar.  Through that hole I have introduced two things:  nanobots 
and a wire.  The wire has initiated what I've been told is a 'quantum resonance' within the 
metal of the spar - all the little atoms of the alloy are vibrating slightly out of tune 
compared to the surroundings.  The nanobots are deconstructors...very fast deconstructors 
attracted to the quantum resonance in the spar.  If the resonance were to abruptly stop, the 
nanites would immediately attack anything with the 'flavor' of the fading echo.  The spar 
wouldn't dissolve into goo, but within seconds it would acquire the consistency of 
styrofoam; and packing material cannot withstand the stresses of supporting a Lugger-
class cube.  I've seen the demos, and what follows can be best described as a slow-motion 
implosion."
	The cube schematic gained substance, changing from wireframe model to 
photorealistic vessel.  Point of view pulled back until the entire ship was in the virtual 
camera's lens.  Then the Lugger-class cube began to crumple in on itself, explosions 
rattling the ship as interior spaces collapsed and power cores, warp nacelles, and plasma 
conduits were compromised.  The display faded before the final fate of the cube was 
revealed, but it did not take a great deal of imagination to know the outcome.
	"Now, the fellows who designed the nanobot and its delivery system say it is a 
one-shot...once a Mind experiences it, the counter is fairly easy to ascertain.  The key 
word is 'once'.  The process has to run to its conclusion before the defense can be devised.  
This is a novel situation for the Borg Collective.  This cube would be the necessary 
sacrifice, and for some odd reason I do not think your Greater Consciousness would 
hesitate if it meant garnering such important data.
	"I've already divulged the situation to your cube, and thusly the Borg Collective.  
However, as I'm sure you've noticed, you are still here."  The tone of voice was not lost 
upon the seven captives, despite the fact that irony usually went unnoticed by a Borg, 
even the imperfectly assimilated.  "So far, the cost of losing this cube, whatever cargo it 
carries, even its less-than-desirable crew outweighs the benefit of adaptation to a novel 
attack.
	"The potential danger is something I wanted to make clear to you, all of you, 
personally.  Thus, your kidnapping.  You are the primary control nodes, hierarchy heads, 
whatever the appropriate term.  I /could/ have killed you all, but that would have lead to a 
whole 'nother level of complexity in an already complex problem for which the Black 
Cyborgs are getting a sh**-load of credit. You-" A finger was pointed at Weapons "- 
muteboy, definitely pay attention.  If there is any attempt to dislodge this ship by force, 
take it apart piecemeal or overrun it in any way, spar resonance will halt.  Then there will 
be a big sucking sound as this entire cube folds in upon itself.  Don't worry, I am 
confident myself and my crew will escape while you are futilely trying to deal with the 
inevitable.
	"However, if we all play nice, and I get what I was contracted by KingCola to 
retrieve, then the Black Cyborgs will depart in a polite manner.  When we do leave, a 
device will be left behind to gradually retune the quantum resonance to normal; and, as a 
bonus, I will even bequeath the adaptation protocol.  When I relay KingCola's demand, 
you will understand why I had to go to such lengths as holding an entire cube and its sub-
collective hostage.  Until then...Julie!  Turn off the polarizer and let the drones talk to 
each other."
	Reserve blinked, then turned inward as the opaque window to the rest of the sub-
collective abruptly turned transparent.  On the other side awaited the Cube #238, as well 
the presence of the Greater Consciousness, closer and more attentive than normal.  The 
reins of command were resumed by the various heads, with Prime affirming her normal 
position of primacy.  The process only took seconds, although subjectively it felt like 
hours.  It was inevitable that collective attention would eventually focus upon Reserve.  It 
/was/ his picture displayed inside the brig, after all.  He was ready.
	{Lower the firewall, Reserve.  You /will/ tell us what is happening.  I/we can feel 
the data behind the barrier, information which was not present in your before.  Comply,} 
demanded Prime.
	Reserve shuddered, then closed his eyes and bowed his head.  {I...this drone will 
not comply.}  The wordless pressure which was ire at his refusal built.  Reserve hardened 
the firewall.  He could not persevere - not a single drone set against Prime and sub-
collective, against Greater Consciousness - but to fail would be to lose everything.  He 
knew why Black Cyborg was here; and, truthfully, their task was irrelevant when /all/ the 
information released into his mind was considered.  {There is an explanation.  I /will/ tell 
all, but the firewall must remain.  It will be more coherent if I stay...whole.}  Whole of 
body, whole of mind, whole of soul, assuming a drone retained the last.
	Obviously guessing that internal conflict was occurring, One called loudly, 
"Gentledrones!  Can I have your attention?  Man with the dangerous nanites wants to 
speak!"
	{This is not over,} growled Prime as her attention shifted partially towards One, 
partially towards the weapons hierarchy (which was already considering potential assault 
scenarios), and partially towards restraining those drones of a more neurotic nature who 
had exploited the communication blackout encompassing two-fifths of the Hierarchy of 
Five.
	Reserve breathed a mental sigh of relief as pressure against the firewall lightened, 
although it did not completely disappear.  He opened his eyes, only to see the Black 
Cyborg leader staring directly at him.
	"We are listening," said Prime.
	"Good.  I expect you, plural, are all wondering why Black Cyborg is here and 
what it has to do with mister 5 of 5 and KingCola."  One's mouth stretched in a half grin 
as he deliberately inserted the irrelevant title.  "Well, let me tell-"
	The door behind One slid open, interrupting the mercenary leader and permitting 
entrance to a cybernized Flarn.  Reserve recognized the arrival as the ex-drone who had 
darted him in his alcove.  As before, the Flarn held himself in a distinctive stooped 
posture, a necessary precaution to prevent head from banging into the top of a door not 
designed with species #6251 in mind.  Like One, the Flarn wore a blue leather bandoleer 
with badge and tools.  Unlike One, the newest arrival to the party did not have a limb-
mounted disruptor, a deficiency more than adequately resolved considering the presence 
of a belt about the Flarn's waist, upon which was holstered half a dozen oversized 
weapons of various sort.
	"Sir?" said the Flarn.  "Vid call."
	One sighed, rolled his whole eye in exasperation, then turned to face the intruder.  
"Damnit, Two!  I said I didn't want to be interrupted...for anything.  I'm /busy/!"
	Two gave the Flarn equivalent of a shrug.  "Sorry, sir.  It's your wife.  You do not 
pay me enough to put up with the shrill voice and profanities she employs when she is 
annoyed."
	The entirety of the leadership cadre glanced at each other.  Wife?  Although their 
transceiver link had been unscrambled, for some things no words were needed.
	With his back to the forcefield, One did not see the response his predicament had 
garnered.  "Annoyed?  How annoyed?"
	"Annoyed, soon to verge upon royally pissed off," replied Two.  "She says that if 
you brush off her call one more time, she is not going to help you play 'Where's The 
Implant' next time you are home."
	A long silence as the threat was digested.  Meanwhile, well over half the Cube 
#238 sub-collective had diverted attention away from the situation at hand to consider 
potential innuendos associated with the 'game'.  Weapons in particular had temporarily 
distanced himself from his hierarchy's machinations and was appraising the mercenary 
leader, eyes narrowed - the other hailed from his own human species.  Finally muttered 
One, "That is not a fun pastime to play alone, you know."
	"If you say so, sir.  I wouldn't know.  As each assimilation is different, 
personalized to the individual, so do each of us respond to existence outside our Color in 
our own manner.  I have my coping mechanism; and you, and your wife, have yours."
The innuendos were increasingly tilting towards certain...activities in which Borg 
did not (could not) engage, finally prompting Prime to prune thoughtstreams and bully 
individuals back to their appropriate tasks.  Reserve ignored the demand for him to assist 
the Hierarchy of Five in the chore, gaze instead locked upon One.  He could almost feel 
another door deep in his mind wanting to open, a door which had yet to receive the 
appropriate key.
	One grumbled, "Well then...."  As his voice trailed off, he turned to consider his 
captives, eye lingering longest upon Reserve.  "It seems an unexpected appointment has 
popped up on my schedule.  I will be right back.  Soon.  Maybe.  In the meanwhile, you 
seven are not going anywhere, although I am sure you are devising plans as I speak.  
Futile.  I, or one of my crew, or the Personality of this ship, will be watching you...all of 
you, plural."  One pivoted again, this time briskly stepping forward to squeeze past Two 
and into the corridor beyond.
	"Told you I'd be seeing you again," said Two in passing, directing his words at 
Reserve.  Then, with a parting wave, the Flarn hunched his shoulders, ducked his head as 
low as possible given his armor and the inherently nonflexible nature of his body, and 
followed his leader.  The door slid shut behind, audibly locking.

	{How did these mercenaries invade this cube?} inquired Prime of Sensors.  The 
Flarn pivoted her head to bring the head of the sensory hierarchy into peripheral vision.  
Intradrone link re-established, conversations were all internalized.
	Piggybacking the visual feed from one of the several weapons drones tasked to 
watch the Black Cyborg ship, Reserve idly scrutinized it.  Outwardly, the ship was 
nothing extraordinaire, a commercial version of the Second Federation Starfleet Esox-
class fast attack craft.  Thirty-five meters long and twenty meters at its widest point, its 
shape was roughly that of a broadhead arrow.  Both commercial and military models had 
an extremely high acceleration curve in warp and hypertranswarp FTL modes; and were 
very nimble at sublight speeds.  The duralloy hull (only the Starfleet version supported 
bioarmor) was sufficient to withstand several indirect hits, although a single vessel 
attempting to go head-to-head against a frigate or better warship would quickly find itself 
scrap.  For offensive weaponry, neuruptor banks were emphasized over torpedoes, as 
appropriate for a vessel whose best tactic was strafe-and-dodge.  This particular ship was 
limpeted to the inner bulkhead wall of Bulk Cargo Hold #5, directly atop the primary 
support spar of subsection 14.
	Near the bow, yellow script, contrasting with (predictably) black hull paint, 
indicated the name of the mercenary vessel to be 'Crown Jewel'.
	{I do not know,} was Sensors answer to the question asked.  {Logs for the last 
three cycles show nothing unusual.}
	{Then go back further,} demanded Prime.
	{We are working on it.  My hierarchy only has 250 members, a number of which 
have to continue to monitor grid input.}  Sensors' eyes glazed as she turned inward, 
attention to external stimuli reduced to minimal awareness levels.
	Reserve blinked, banishing his examination of the vessel which held him captive 
as he felt the eyes (virtual and real) of his comrades settle upon him.  {What?}
	{Do not give us that,} said Prime, invoking the collective plural to indicate that 
she was speaking for more than just herself.  As if Reserve was deaf and blind to the 
communal scrutiny.  {The firewall.  What are you hiding, 5 of 5?  It comes down /now/, 
else Assimilation will pry the data from your brain, with the assistance of command and 
control.}
	{But I'm a Hierarchy of Five member?} attempted Reserve, knowing quite well 
that the plea was irrelevant.
	{So?  You are also a noncompliant drone.  If you resist, the likelihood is high 
your mind will be damaged.  If severe enough, you will be euthanized and body 
salvaged.}  There was no threat, only laying out of cold fact.
	Reserve sucked in a large breath, held it for several beats, then exhaled it through 
his nostril slits.  All drones, except Sensors, had moved to surround the backup consensus 
monitor.  An uninformed external observer would see unblinking stares, placid 
expressions, and statue-still postures, not knowing of the unfolding inner tumult.  Reserve 
carefully picked his words.  {I do not seek to hide the truth of this situation.  The photos 
and the KingCola icon juxtaposed triggered a...data dump.  Everything was jumbled.  Is 
jumbled.  I have begun to clean up the files and memes, but what is sufficiently organized 
for me may not be so for others...including the Greater Consciousness.  I do not wish to 
have my brain scrambled through an indiscriminant information trawl.  It would be faster 
and more efficient for me to select the relevant facts and summarize them.}  All true.  As 
a drone intimately linked to others, it was impossible to lie.
It /was/ possible to shade the truth, for a given value of truth.  If one was 
imperfectly assimilated.
	{You will provide a full access to the data behind the firewall, unedited and 
unabridged, when it is sorted?} inquired Prime.
	{Yes.  Everything concerning KingCola and myself.}
	There were several long beats, seconds stretching into a dataspace eternity.  This 
was not Prime deciding upon Reserve's fate, nor even Cube #238.  Reserve, a single, 
imperfect drone, had garnered the attention of the Greater Consciousness itself, albeit a 
minor slice.  It was billions of drones weighing the future of Reserve:  shall he be allowed 
to divulge the information on his terms, or shall the firewall be forcibly shattered, mind 
broken, unit discarded?
	The Mind of the Borg Collective rendered its decision:  Reserve would continue 
to function as is, given a satisfactory summarization and eventual full data disclosure.  He 
fulfilled a vital function in the command structure of Lugger-class Cube #238; and, 
except in this single instance, was a well adjusted drone, for one imperfectly assimilated.  
Directive provided, the Greater Consciousness distanced itself from the Cube #238 sub-
collective, returning to its normal passive role.
	Said Prime, {Well, then, summarize away.  And do not take all day.  The 
mercenaries may return any minute, and we would like to know our options.}
	Reserve accessed his maintenance dossier and began with a schematic of his 
body, highlighting the brain.  {Pre-assimilation, I was a data courier.  High-priced.  
Specialized.  I had undergone extremely expensive and invasive modifications; and for 
my clients I carried very important data from point A to point B.  It could be encoded in 
these data crystals-}  A trio of crystals, as well as associated non-Borg brainware, was 
circled.  {-or, for a premium, within my genome.}  In the brig, Reserve used limb 
prosthetic to tap the flesh of his forearm in emphasis.
	{That, my birth name, and a few random memories, was the sum total of what I 
knew of my pre-assimilation self.  The courier hardware and gene mods were not 
considered anathema to my initial assimilation by Gray; and when the Hive repurposed 
me, a similar conclusion was made and all modifications left in place.  That repurposing 
was very thorough, my psyche broken, my allegiance reprogrammed.  The process was 
undergone by all Gray drones deemed suitable to be added to the Hive Collective; and 
one of the major side-effects was the loss of many of my Gray and remnant pre-
assimilation memories.
	{Or so I thought.}  Reserve paused for a moment, then continued.
	{Apparently, before I was captured and severed from a shattered Gray Mind, I 
utilized courier hardware and software protocols to copy files relevant to KingCola to my 
memory crystals, then encoded the data.  A subprogram was set to watch for a specific set 
of circumstances; and when the trigger was satisfied, dump the information back into my 
conscious mind.  Such is a common data courier service, although usually it is the client 
who sets the key to ensure that only the recipient will receive the package.  After all, if a 
courier doesn't know what is in his head nor knows how to get it out, it makes little sense 
for a rival to attack the messenger.  At least that is the theory.  Anyway, the only 
reminder I left for myself concerning KingCola was a dislike of any media which might 
result in my likeness entering the GalacNet, whereupon it would be available for 
corporate spider-bots to find.}
	Prompted Prime, {You still have not said why a soft drink company is involved in 
the first place.}
	{I'm getting to that,} protested Reserve.  {I had to set the proper narrative 
background, first!}  He discarded his body schematic, substituting it for a can of 
KingCola, the flagship product of the same-named corporation.  {I seem to have lost 
many specific memories, but at one time I was a reliable courier contracted by KingCola 
to ferry confidential memos, notes, and sample formulas between research departments 
located in disparate locations.  The company did not trust transmittal through normal 
electronic means due to the possibility of interception.  For the KingCola contract, the 
package was encoded to my genome as an added layer of security.}
	A new graphic joined the soft drink, the blueprint for a complex, yet compact, 
piece of equipment.  The attention of both Prime and Engineer sharpened.  {For clients 
whom wished to employ my gene mods, I utilized a genetic transcription and splice 
device.  A gene hacker.}  Wireframe was substituted for a simplified model, general form 
that of a thick PADD with multiple slots and connector ports.  A data crystal was added 
to the picture and the scene animated.
	{The message or data to be couriered is inserted into the gene hacker, which I 
provided as part of my service, encoding it into a jumble of DNA bases.  Those bases are 
assembled into segments indistinguishable from junk DNA codons, then ferried via 
specialized nanites to target bone marrow stem cells.  Those stem cells mature to produce 
a variety of blood cell types; and while within twenty hours most of my blood cells 
include the hidden message, it is not readable unless one has the gene hacker that inserted 
the data in the first place.  As additional security, the hacker itself is impressed with a 
gene-lock, whereupon only the recipient or recipients with the correct DNA sequences 
can cause the device to decode the artificial codons, writing whatever was in the genes 
back into a format recordable upon a crystal.  And, finally, nanites reverse the 
engineering in the target stem cells, erasing the message.  As the courier, myself, is never 
given knowledge of the gene-lock, the information cannot be retrieved by any except the 
proper recipient.}
	The gene hacker image was removed, leaving behind only soda and symbol.
	{My job contract for KingCola was routine.  At the scheduled time, I arrived at 
the appropriate company megacomplex and was shown to a waiting room.  Typical 
research and development branch lab:  a white and beige color scheme, technicians in lab 
coats, cameras in every ceiling corner and security with phaser rifles to ensure secrets 
remained proprietary.}  A meme was selected, this one among those unveiled during the 
data dump.  Reserve carefully negotiated it through the firewall, ensuring that the barrier 
remained in place.
	{I...do not recall the face or the species or the title of the female who came to the 
room to provide KingCola data for the gene hacker.  I do remember the sense of 
annoyance, as if the task were beneath her, a menial task assigned by a vindictive 
superior.  Therefore, she was probably not a mere lab technician.  I as well recollect a 
smell...a faint, acrid odor that could have been natural scent or a perfume, but one I also 
associate with fear.  It was not my concern.  I had been contracted to courier research 
data, a memo, something to a sister lab about fifteen days away by commercial transport, 
and I wanted to get started.
	{After a routine encryption and genome implantation, I left the megacomplex.  
Seven days and two stations into my trip to the KingCola destination, I was attacked.}  
Reserve offered a memory meme, one of the few semi-coherent sequences he had 
retained through both his original assimilation and later Hive repurposing.  Aliens much 
taller and wider than Reserve were targeting him with a combination of stunners and 
tranquillizer darts.  Although several of the shots were true, it seemed that someone had 
not done their homework:  a courier of Reserve's caliber (and cost) would be amiss if he 
had not procured the appropriate semi-legal body-mods to withstand a degree of non-
lethal assault.  The chaos of light and sound, accompanied by the painful tingle of three 
phaser hits, faded as the meme ended.  {Obviously, I escaped my pursuers.}
	{They were not, um, the brightest fish in the school and had obviously 
underestimated the effort necessary to net a Lapolin.  I was not the fishboy fresh off the 
kelp farm they seemed to have expected.  While shadowing them from the stinking 
maintenance space under the station's walkway grates, one of the thugs mentioned how 
Boxi-Soxi wasn't going to be happy.}
	A face engraved in Reserve's memory, one which not even assimilation and the 
trauma of repurposing could shatter.  It was that of a Burical, species #9509 - a short-
statured humanoid big on bureaucracy.  Hair style was a status indicator within the 
culture, larger and more elaborate coifs indicating higher personal/professional rank.  To 
be without hair was to be a criminal or to have a horribly disfiguring disease.  This 
particular Burical was bald...on purpose.  Such was the sign of a sociopath; and the odd 
glint within the subject's eyes, as if all other entities in the universe were but insects to be 
squished once their amusement factor waned, was enough to give even the hardiest soul 
nightmares.
	{Boxi-Soxi.  The name was unfortunately familiar.  For any courier who had 
taken a contract to move QueenSoda data, Boxi-Soxi personally vetted the individual 
during the initial genome implant.  The Burical was the security chief for the second 
largest soft drink company in the galaxy, and KingCola's biggest rival.
	{It was time to know what, exactly, was branded in my cells.}
	Face, can, and KingCola symbol were erased, leaving the velvet beige Reserve 
associated with 'empty' dataspace waiting to be filled.  He left it blank.
	{A successful data courier must be 'gray', must be comfortable traversing the 
realms of legal and illegal.  Into the underworld I vanished, my goal an acquaintance 
whom had the equipment to read what had been implanted in my cells.  QueenSoda 
would not try to scoop a courier just for an interdepartmental memo.  True, there was no 
way to extract the data from my genome and reassemble it properly without the 
recipient's DNA key, but, given enough money and the proper devices, there were ways 
to peek.
	{I peeked.  Within my genome then, and now, lies the formula for original 
KingCola.}
	Assimilation audibly gasped.  Heads swiveled to regard the interruption, 
accompanied by wordless queries.  {That's like...big!  Huge!} replied Assimilation 
defensively with the knowledge of an ex-sugar-and-stimulant addict.  {Original KingCola 
is the number one non-alcoholic beverage in the galaxy.  The formula has never been 
reverse engineered!  It is the basis of the KingCola empire!}
	{If you say so,} replied Prime.  KingCola and Flarn physiology did not get along:  
an individual, usually a university student on a dare, only had to try it once to gain a keen 
understanding of the animosity.  After the headache and the vomiting and bowel issues 
subsided, that was.
	{It is true,} continued Reserve.  Attention returned to him.  {I suspect that the 
KingCola employee who used my gene hacker the implant a 'memo' was actually an 
espionage agent for QueenSoda whom had somehow managed to acquire the KingCola 
formula.  Given the safeguards the company maintains, it was probably the work of 
years, if not decades, even multiple generations of effort...and I had been caught in the 
middle.  It was obvious that I was supposed to disappear en route to my destination like a 
bit of lost mail.
	{The ethical, and safe, thing to do at that point was to return to KingCola.  It 
would be painful, but there were ways to eradicate the genome message from my body; 
and to have KingCola representatives witness the erasure would ensure the company's 
good graces and continued patronage of my courier services.  There was even the strong 
possibility of a bonus.  However, at that point I was looking beyond mere gratuity:  I 
wanted to retire.  What I carried was worth countless billions of credits.  Sold to the 
highest bidder, I could disappear.  Data converted to credit - it would be up to the 
winning bidder to figure out how to extract the formula - I planned to send KingCola a 
notice of my retirement from the courier business, including a notarized certificate of the 
erasure of the information in question from my genome.  I did not expect the company to 
pursue, since pointless revenge cost money.  The scheme was dangerous, but perfect.
	{And it did not work.}  Reserve sighed.
	{The data had been sold and I was on my way to meet the bidder for extraction.  
The winner could have been QueenSoda or KingCola for all I knew.  I did not care, only 
that the money was in escrow pending successful transfer of a cellular sample, erasure of 
my copy of the data, and verified retirement.  The very specialized lawyers I had hired 
were expensive, but they would ensure there would be no double-crosses, as long as I 
made the rendezvous.  I did not make it.  Somehow Gray learned that something of high 
value was upon my transport.  The Color attacked, assimilated everyone on board, then 
proceeded to tear the ship and its computer apart looking for the item, never knowing, at 
least at that time, that I was it.
	{Thus I became a member of the Gray Collective.
	{It was only years later that Gray finally understood the value of myself beyond 
my position in the Collective command architecture; and that occurred only after an 
audacious and likely very expensive attempt by KingCola failed to extract me from the 
Color.  The Gray Mind reconstructed many of the memories it had shattered upon my 
assimilation, memes which were later locked away in my data crystals.  Using that 
information, a scheme was devised to blackmail KingCola.  The first demands for money 
had just been sent when a different plan backfired.  Trying to extort the Hive for 
'protection' when crossing Gray-claimed sectors had not been the best of ideas.
	{Blackmailing KingCola was forgotten when other things, like survival, became 
much more important to the Gray Mind.  While a queen and a few units did escape, for 
all practical purposes the Hive eradicated the Color and captured the great majority of its 
drones.  As I relayed previously, one of the last actions I performed as a Gray unit was to 
use my courier hardware to bury the KingCola episode within my data crystals, then set 
the locks.  I left myself a phobia against having my picture taken.  Until now, I did not 
know why I so disliked cameras, but now it is obvious that it was to protect myself 
against future attention by KingCola or other agents.  Self-preservation, I guess...and 
maybe a sign of nascent assimilation imperfection.  If I could not 'retire' as a Gray drone, 
then the Hive Collective would do.
	{But against all odds, the key for the lock I set was triggered; and here we are.}  
Reserve ended his recitation.
	Silence, or at least as much silence as one could expect within a working sub-
collective.  In the distant intranet background, Reserve noted the Collective to have 
considered altering course of Exploratory-class Cube #9011, the nearest Borg asset, to 
assist Cube #238.  However, the vessel was six hours distant, and by the time it arrived, 
the current dilemma would be solved one way or another.  Therefore, Cube #9011 
continued its original task, leaving Cube #238 on its own.
	{And here we are,} repeated Prime.  The Flarn bent over slightly to bring her 
compound eyes directly in line with those of Reserve.  {Is that all?  All this trouble is due 
to a company worried about a /soft drink/ formula?  We are blameless in the matter, yet 
we are suffering due to a single incident in your past?}  A dubious tone colored her 
query, reflecting the disbelief of the sub-collective, not to mention the Collective itself.
	Said Reserve, carefully phrasing his answer, {There is a reason why KingCola has 
been the leading non-alcoholic beverage company for nearly five centuries.  The formula 
lodged in my genome is why KingCola hired these mercenaries.}  Lying was not possible 
for beings connected as intimately as those bound within the hive mind of the Collective.  
One could be evasive, however.
	Knowing that her backup consensus monitor was withholding something, but at a 
loss to know what, nor even what question to ask to garner an answer, Prime changed 
tactics.  {Your story offered much explanation.  However, why is your firewall still up?  
A direct meme and data transfer would have been much more efficient.  This method 
required 9.7 minutes.}
	{Because I know someone in this sub-collective will want to root around; and I 
prefer to keep my mind intact until I can finish sorting and labeling everything.  I 
received many terabytes of data in a manner of seconds.  As I have already asserted, 
when the process is complete, I will comply to lower the firewall and submit to whatever 
level of inspection is deemed appropriate.}  Reserve mentally held his breath.  Either his 
offer would be accepted, or not.  If not, well, he already knew what it felt to have the 
barriers to one's self shattered.  It was not a pleasant experience, the violation, the rape.  
For the sake of what the data had revealed, however, he would resist as long as possible, 
even if it meant his death, hoping he could....
	<<We have more important tasks to oversee.  The unit will remain intact,>> 
pronounced the Voice of the Whole.  Left unsaid was the 'for now' caveat, should 
Reserve and the Cube #238 sub-collective escape the Black Cyborgs unscathed.  Leeway 
would not be given should the backup consensus monitor balk in the future when data 
was once more demanded.
	{We comply,} automatically replied Prime, echoed by all, including Reserve.
	Reserve exhaled a breath he had been unaware to have been holding.
	There was the sound of a door sliding open, followed by a voice, "Dissent among 
the ranks?  I so hope not, for that would be...unBorg."

	As the door shut behind One, the mercenary leader flashed a half-smile, a cold 
expression that was restricted to stretching a few cheek muscles.  "I would apologize for 
the interruption, but that would be 'small' of me.  So, with irrelevant small talk out of the 
way, let's get down to business.  I believe I was about to tell you why Black Cyborg was 
here on behalf of KingCola, and how it involved mister 5 of 5."
	There was consensus.  It was Reserve who was the central pivot to this mess, and 
it would be Reserve who would speak for all.  He shuffled forward several steps, lifting 
his head to stare squarely at the mercenary.  "We know.  You are here in regards to 
proprietary information belonging to KingCola.  Specifically, the recipe for KingCola 
that is encoded within this unit's genes."
	"Back to plurals, are we?" mocked One.  He sighed overdramatically.  "Yes, you 
and the formula you carry are the key line items of the Black Cyborg contract."
	"Then why did you not steal this drone-" Reserve paused "-me in the first place.  
Why all this theater?"  An arm was waved.
	"I had to get your, plural, attention.  It is the whole 'think big' mindset.  And a 
viable threat to implode a Lugger-class cube, not to mention kidnapping every command 
node for this sub-collective, did the job, don't you think?"
	Out of the his peripheral vision, Reserve saw various nods, or their equivalents, 
from his fellow detainees, except Sensors.  Sensors remained so deeply enmeshed in the 
dataspaces nothing short of an explosion next to her head would have registered.  "You 
gained our attention, but that still does not answer why you did not just take me.  You 
berthed a commercial production model of a Second Federation Starfleet fast attack craft 
within a cargo hold without our knowledge...vanishing with me would not have been that 
difficult."
	One waved his prosthetic arm, eliciting the sound of servos.  "Ah, that bring me to 
the crux of the problem.  You.  If I had simply swooped in and grabbed you, as KingCola 
tried against Gray oh-so-many years ago, well, Collectives, original Borg or Color, tend 
to get a wee bit tetchy when their toys are stolen.  The moment your link was severed and 
it was apparent that you were not aboard your ship, there would be an armada of fifty 
warships on my tail.  Somehow it made more sense when I was part of Green, the whole 
sacrificing tens of thousands of drones to reclaim one, alive or dead or in pieces, thing.  
Such a mindset seems ludicrous now."
	Said Weapons, {He does have a point, tactically speaking.}  Censor subroutines 
began to beep a warning in the intranet background.  While the imperfectly assimilated 
were provided some leeway when it came to retaining a personal viewpoint, certain 
thought patterns were not tolerated.  Weapons hastily amended his opinion.  
{Philosophically, however, it is different.  A precedent must never be set whereupon a 
non-omnipotent entity can appropriate a drone without consequence.  The Borg image 
must be maintained at all costs.}  Satisfied, the censor program returned to quiescence.
	"You are small," commented Prime.  "We could re-expand your horizons for 
yourself and your crew.  Disengage the deconstructor nanites and lower this forcefield."
	One stared at Prime for a long minute, tilting his head back to look up at the 
Flarn.  Then he burst out laughing.  "Funny!  I did not think any drone, even one with 
your 'imperfect' condition, could make a joke."  Chuckling, the mercenary wiped tears 
from his unaltered eye.  "Oh, I know you were serious, but really...I guess you have to be 
'small' to understand the humor.  Anyway....
	"Anyway, I have your attention.  Now you know my concerns and it is time for 
my counter-offer.  All you have to do is turn over a drone...a single drone.  Voluntarily.  
Then forget all about that drone.  He never existed and is therefore not worth sending an 
fleet after.  The Black Cyborgs will then disengage the deconstructor nanites and leave, 
with an ex-5 of 5; and, as a bonus, the Collective will be provided with instructions on 
how to prevent a similar assault in the future, all without having to sacrifice on the altar 
of adaptation this cube, its crew, and whatever it is carrying.
	"On the other hand, I can leave, with mister 5 of 5 and without disengaging the 
nanites.  Things implode and there are metaphorical tears all around.  This cube will be 
destroyed; and I know there are no resources nearby to track what direction I will have 
fled with my prize.  While I am sure an Exploratory-class cube or ten will eventually 
untangle the spoor of my cold trail, the question is if the Collective can really do anything 
about it.  I am fairly confident I can deliver the package to my client before I am caught, 
thus making the problem of Collective ire one belonging to KingCola.  However, I refuse 
to underestimate this Collective:  there is always the possibility the plan will not work, 
which is why I opted for this seemingly complex kidnapping and nanite scheme.
	"In the short-term, however, I win either way.  The question is, should the Borg 
Collective win as well?  Your decision."
	The resulting decision cascade was larger than the sub-collective alone...much 
larger.  Such an important judgment could not be left to the imperfectly assimilated.  The 
problem is that there were two choices, neither of which were appealing nor give 
advantage to the Collective.  
	One - if Reserve was yielded so as to gain adaptation to novel tech without 
sacrificing the resource represented by Lugger-class Cube #238, a precedent would be 
set.  The Collective was over eight millennia old, and in that time drones had been 
successfully stolen.  Despite One's dire characterization of the situation with his 
incomplete, and small, understanding, the Greater Consciousness could mitigate for theft.  
As long as an /attempt/ was made to recover the unit, face and reputation would be saved.  
Truthfully, if the Black Cyborg mercenaries had stolen Reserve without resorting 
to their elaborate scheme, they very well could have escaped.  Sometimes the simplest 
solutions were the best.
	The real issue with Choice #1 was the concept of bargaining.  Bargaining and 
commerce was for Colors, not true Borg with a true understanding of how Perfection was 
to be attained.  If the unassimilated of the galaxy thought they could delay the inevitable 
through negotiation, then they might attain a sense of hope; and hope, although a 
irrelevant emotion, did have the unfortunate consequence of occasionally boosting a 
resistance quotient.  Admittedly, it was a large jump between trading away one faulty 
drone and stiffening resistance of an entire race, but the link, however, tenuous, was 
present.
	There was always the double-cross if Choice #1 was chosen, but that sub-option 
brought up its own difficulties.
	Two - to not yield Reserve would result in the unit's forceful loss, leading to a 
potentially futile pursuit that nonetheless had to be undertaken; and while there would be 
compensation via adaptation to the nanite deconstructor threat, it would occur via the loss 
of Lugger-class Cube #238 and all (focus upon cargo, not drones) it was carrying.  
Choice #2 was more straightforward and simple than Choice #1, but it was no more 
appealing.
	Decisions, decisions, decisions.
	Into the growing consensus cascade an increasing number of computational 
resources were drawn and a larger percentage of the Whole focused concerning the fate 
of a single drone assigned to an insignificant Lugger-class cube.  The production of 
dozens of manufactories ground to a halt, the extraction of resources from ores and 
assimilated civilizations alike was temporarily suspended, and the reluctant guerrillas of a 
species #10009 colony waved eyestalks in confusion as an overwhelming Borg assault 
force staggered to a stop.
	Needless to say, Cube #238's contribution to the final decision was neither desired 
nor wanted, leaving the drones of the Lugger-class to figuratively (and literally, in a few 
cases) twaddle thumbs while watching the process from the dataspace sidelines.
	Whatever the outcome, Reserve knew it would mean the loss of himself.  While 
he was not adverse to giving up his existence so as to further the Whole, this was not the 
time, not the place, not the scenario.  The data dump had included missing memes 
concerning the KingCola situation, but such had not been the sum total of the 
information.  Gray - a bottom-feeding Color at best despite its mob aspirations - had 
uncovered...things...and ensured those things would continue to exist even as the Color 
itself fell.  Should certain if's and might-be's come to pass - never a given in a universe 
built upon the fundamental uncertainty of the quantum - then what was within Reserve's 
brain would be vital to Borg survival.  Unfortunately, he could not simply download the 
data for storage within the archives of the Whole, for if the could-be's /did not/ happen, 
then that same knowledge would cause certain Collective downfall.
	Attached to the KingCola files were several nuggets of data upon which a Choice 
#3 could be built.  It was a poor potential solution since, by necessity, it had been devised 
through the actions of an individual, not robust consensus.  On the other hand, /if/ it 
worked, not only would Reserve not embark upon a terminal visit to a KingCola lab, 
Cube #238 would remain whole /and/ the Collective would gain the adaptation protocol.
	Into the still-building decision cascade - inclining towards Choice #2 - Reserve 
was a very small voice:  {There may be a Choice #3.}  He was ignored.  As Prime turned 
her head to focus upon her backup consensus monitor, as individuals within the Lugger-
class Cube #238 sub-collective began to ping queries, Reserved tried again.  {Choice #3?  
Hello?  The unit who is in a lose-lose dilemma has assembled a third option.  Maybe.}  
Continued disregarded.  {Prime?  A little help here?}
	Prime held out a virtual hand, palm upright.  {What is it?}
	Reserve returned a negative.  {I...cannot.  Trust me.}
	Consideration, heads tilted slightly.  Cube #238 was holding a decision cascade of 
its own.  {Fine,} said Prime.  {I am not liking the way the Collective is leaning, anyway.}  
At the moment, Choice #2, wherein the cube was sacrificed to save the reputation of the 
Whole, was gaining weight.  {Okay, boys and girls and neuters, all together now....}
	The sub-collective of Lugger-class Cube #238 pinged, in unison (more or less), 
the Greater Consciousness.  The wordless shout for recognition was minute given the size 
of the Whole, but it was just enough to shock the Greater Consciousness, to temporarily 
suspend the cascade.  Attention was turned towards the cube, an irritated query sent.
	Prime mentally prodded Reserve to the forefront.  {There you go.}
	{There may be a Choice #3,} attempted Reserve, once again.
	The comment was digested.  <<Explain.>>
	Reserve shuddered, mentally and physically, before the compulsion.  He wanted 
to comply, but he could not, must not.  {I...this drone.../I/ cannot.  The data upon which 
Choice #3 is based is behind my firewall, and must remain there for success.  I must 
converse with the mercenary leader.  Alone.  At least as alone as I am allowed.  My 
transceiver has to be narrowed to a wellness signal only.}  He paused, wordlessly 
enumerated the gains to the Collective if he was successful, then added, {If I...this unit 
fails, then there still remains the original choices.  Choices dictated by a self-proclaimed 
rogue drone.  He may have been Green, but still he is rogue.}
	The Collective contemplated several long, long moments, then gave Reserve 
doubt-laden permission to attempt Choice #3.
	Reserve allowed himself to focus on the universe outside his own body.  On the 
other side of the forcefield, One had clearly observed by the alterations in his captives' 
postures that a decision had been made.
	"Well, what is it to be?" asked One.
	Reserve stepped forward until he was less than a handbreadth from the pulsating 
energies of the forcefield.  "/I/ have an offer for you which you cannot refuse...."

	{That would explain the massive neutrino flux 29.2 hours ago,} said Sensors.  
{Partition #17a categorized it as a deep subspace echo of a type IV stellar nova.  Who 
would have thought to consider cargo technology could be applied in such a manner?}
	Species #6153 had developed the ability to phase objects to allow two (or more) 
items to co-exist in the same space.  As one of the primary reasons for their assimilation, 
the Borg had quickly discovered the limits of the technology.  While "multi-stacking" 
was excellent for use in the highly profitable and competitive overnight mail delivery 
market upon a planetary scale where every millimeter of hold counted, one had to 
unstack cargo within 12.2115 hours of phasing else risk a massive explosion.  The denser 
object would literally expel the atoms of the lighter in a highly exothermal reaction, 
obliterating both items (and the surrounding medium).  Eventually determined to have a 
moderately useful application to a particular class of delayed penetrator mines, the 
technology had been deemed useless for cargo or anything else.
	It seemed the Borg Collective had been hasty in its dismissal.
	Someone - KingCola labs?  Another entity? - had managed to apply phasing 
technology to a vessel and all the complex machinery and organics with its hull.  There 
were undoubtedly limitations that restricted its use, but in the less than five minutes it had 
been in operation, Crown Jewel demonstrated an ability to slide through the thick armor 
of Bulk Cargo Hold #5.  The only signature of its passage had been the neutrino burst 
impacting the local sensor grid as it phased through the hull. 
	{All gone.  Case closed,} continued Sensors as Crown Jewel re-phased, hastily 
cloaked, then dropped into hypertranswarp.  The cloak was classified as a variant rarely 
included in routine sensor sweeps because, while effective, it was extremely finicky to 
maintain on any vessel larger than the Crown Jewel.  The mercenary vessel's trajectory 
was automatically logged and passed to the Greater Consciousness, but Cube #238 made 
no attempt to follow:  the acceleration curve on a fast attack craft was much greater than 
a Lugger-class.  
	In the distant dataspaces of the Collective, the Greater Consciousness was mulling 
the advantages to intercepting Crown Jewel.  While the novel use of phasing was 
intriguing, it was not critical.  Research plans were already being formulated to re-
examine species #6153 cargo technologies.  In the end, the Crown Jewel and Black 
Cyborgs were dismissed from immediate relevance, not due to any perceived bargain, but 
because if the mercenaries did not report to their client, KingCola might send another 
infiltration team.
	"So, what did you offer?" inquired Prime to Reserve.  Following release by the 
mercenaries, the latter had paid a necessary visit to a drone maintenance workshop for leg 
reconstruction before returning to his alcove.  Prime had eventually sought out her 
backup, and now stood on the alcove tier in front of his alcove, the Flarn half-hunched in 
her species' standard posture when talking to a shorter being.
	Reserve automatically fended off a drone seeking to breach his firewall.  {Stop 
that, 6 of 32.  I will lower the barrier within the hour:  you can wait, like everyone else.}  
Refocusing his eyes unto Prime, he answered her question aloud, "The data dump 
contained information on the Black Cyborgs, including One.  Although the mercenaries 
were not involved in the initial KingCola attempt to steal me from Gray, the Color 
believed it likely they, or a similar outfit, would be hired for a second try.
	"One - his Green designation was 17651 of 22050, but he has reverted to his pre-
assimilation name of Gregory Hunter - has a neurological deficiency.  He forgets things.  
Assimilation by Green actually fixed the defect, but the implant in question was rejected 
before the rogue could stabilize his cybernetic systems after he fled his Color.  Having a 
faulty memory is not the image one wants to project when one is supposed to be a 
ruthless mercenary.  A few on his staff know his problem, but they are trusted.  
	"I merely suggested that, perhaps, an accommodation could be reached.  The 
Black Cyborgs would return to KingCola with a hunk of my leg, including bone and 
marrow, as well as a nice recording of a Lugger-class cube imploding; and I would 
ensure the package I had built concerning One's secret, and a few more besides, would 
not be broadcast upon my severance from the Collective.  I stressed this offer came not 
from the Borg Collective, but rather myself.  From KingCola's point of view, the 
mercenaries had screwed up, resistance had occurred, and, as a result, I was dead.  
However, with the 'proof' of my, and the sub-collective's, demise, the Black Cyborgs 
would still get paid.  As long as my photo is not featured in future editions of Pre-Warp, 
or any other netzine, KingCola - or QueenSoda or any other rival - will have no reason to 
believe I, and the formula in my genes, am not a smear of interstellar dust.
	Prime cocked her head slightly.  Her compound eyes reflected the green-tinged 
ambient light.  "That explains your request to the Greater Consciousness for footage of 
the singularity mine test upon decommissioned Lugger-class Cube #1613.  And why you 
had Doctor hack you thigh open.  Still, to yield to such blackmail seems small.  Weak."
	"You are species #6251," reminded Reserve of Prime.  "You think everyone is 
small and weak.  However, One /is/ small and weak.  Even as a member of Green, he was 
a part of an entity greater than himself, but now he is just an individual, with all the 
resultant self-fears.  Gray may not have had Peach's acumen in gathering intelligence, but 
it definitely knew how to lever what it did acquire."
	"And you still have that firewall erected," said Prime.  The change in topic was 
not as abrupt as it outwardly appeared.  Prime was merely voicing what was on the sub-
collective's communal mind, a significant number of thoughtstreams dwelling upon the 
contents of Reserve's head.
	"As I keep on reminding everyone, it will dissolve in 0.95 hours.  I have a 
countdown timer running.  If I let one designation in, all will want to join the party; and 
the next thing I know, Assimilation is reconstructing my psyche."
	Prime shrugged.  "You are being too paranoid."  She paused, biting off her next 
statement, then groaned.  "2 of 215 and 19 of 260 have been building battle robots again.  
With artificial intelligence, this time.  The robots seemed to have teamed up to escape 
their cage match and have taken their builders hostage.  I need to see this for myself, 
personally, before Weapons commences target practice."  The Flarn vanished within the 
sparkle of a transporter beam.
	Outward distraction gone, Reserve turned inward to check progress behind his 
firewall.  Automated subroutines had nearly completed sorting KingCola data, the 
remainder of the information concurrently being packed back into the data crystals.  Just 
before the barrier was dropped, specialized courier programs would wipe all recollection 
of everything non-KingCola from wetware and hardware alike.  Hopefully - with as much 
hope as a Borg drone was allowed - he would go to his disassembly in the far future 
without ever having encountered the trigger to reopen the lock securing his personal 
Pandora's box.
	If it was thought the KingCola episode was inconvenient, it would be best if the 
rest of what was in his head never came to light, or to pass.
	A ping from Engineer indicated cube diagnostics were reporting all systems to be 
optimally functional.  Or close enough, anyway.  It was past time to return to 
hypertranswarp and continue to Cube #238's next port-of-call.
	The greatest part of Reserve's attention turned towards coordinating the partitions 
involved in driving.  Other slices of himself were engaged in his normal backup 
consensus monitor and facilitator duties; and at least a minor segment of his focus was 
ogling the audacity of the battle robots, whom had managed to add a trio of tactical 
drones to their hostage collection.  However, the remainder of his split self continued to 
critically note activity behind the firewall.
	Shortly it would be time to regenerate; and when he awoke, he would once again 
be innocent, blissfully unaware of the darkness hidden in his brain.

	*Click*
	"Give me that.  Now."  Without waiting for 122 of 185 to comply, Reserve 
stepped from the corridor where he had been lurking and into the hallway intersection, 
ripping the camera from the other drone's hand.  "I told you, /no/ photographs."
	"Hey!" protested 122 of 185.  "I wasn't even...."  The objection died as the camera 
was reduced to cracked plastic, bent metal, and, worst of all, exposed film.  "That model 
took me /weeks/ to hand-build.  I had to carve the moulds for the housing, not to mention 
the fine detail required to recreate the company logo.  And the leather...do you know how 
hard it is to acquire jubaka hide, not to mention tan it to just the right suppleness for the 
neck strap?"
	"You were within the submatrix where my alcove resides," accused Reserve.
	122 of 185 peered at his assailant, cocked his head in contemplation, then blinked.  
"By only half a meter!  Isn't that a bit strict?"
	"You have been warned:  no camera, digital /or/ film, is allowed anywhere near 
my vicinity.  Ever.  There will be /no/ repeat of the KingCola episode."  Ultimatum 
delivered, Reserve glared one final time at 122 of 185, then was swept away by the 
transporter.
	Sighing, 122 of 185 peered down at the debris which had been a camera, then 
materialized a broom and pan to his location:  Engineer liked the hallways to be kept 
clean.  No digital or film cameras?  Well, there /was/ this one very peculiar design by 
troglodytic species #7315 that 122 of 185 had been considering to recreate, one which 
stored a highly detailed /scent/ image using on-board chemicals synthesis.  Best of all, it 
didn't even look like a traditional camera....