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

			The Day the Cube Stood Still

	{I don't like it,} muttered Prime stubbornly.
	Said Reserve, {Liking is irrelevant.}
	Reiterated Prime after a few moments of silence, {Preferences may be irrelevant, 
but I still do not like it.  Is there no other way?}
	{There are always other ways.  The question is:  are those other ways any better 
than this way?}  The sub-collective of Lugger-class Cube #238 was arguing amongst 
itself; and the position advocated by its consensus monitor and facilitator was losing.
	Prime stood in the middle of the virtual holotheater symbolizing her visualization 
of the dataspaces.  With her were the avatars of Reserve, Engineer, and Sensors, the 
primary designations taking part in the discussion.  Such was not to say that the 
remainder of the sub-collective was oblivious to the exchange; in fact, Prime's theater 
periphery was alive with flickering semi-shadows, numbers in constant fluctuation as 
attention of individual units ebbed and flowed.  The named drones, however, represented 
the hub around which the seed for consensus was being built.
	Consensus.  Not agreement.  Not dictatorship.  Even a primary consensus monitor 
and facilitator could be overruled if the majority agreed that logical calculations favored 
one action over another.
	At the center of Prime's construct was a simple wooden table; and upon that table 
lay a map.  To be precise, it was a file within the vast navigational archives maintained 
by the sensory hierarchy, but to Prime's dataspace eyes it was rendered as a mariners' 
chart, as might be found upon an ancient sailing vessel.  Unlike those static sheets of 
paper and ink and fancifully drawn sea monsters guarding the edge of the known world, 
this one was a real-time depiction of the galactic volume surrounding Cube #238 to a 
distance of fifty light years.  Contrary to its flat appearance, the map encompassed full 
dimensionality of height, length, and breadth.  The cube itself was a line vector traveling 
hypertranswarp speeds, one end pointing towards....
	{The "conduit" is from a species #6766 starchart.  A /Bug/ map.  Does it even 
/exist/?} questioned Prime.
	{Scan sweeps have confirmed existence,} murmured Sensors.  She quieted as 
Prime glanced in her direction.
	Cube #238 had recently left its second port-of-call, Manufactory Nexus #201.  At 
the location, the cube had off-loaded part of its load - primarily those items acquired at 
Research Platform #579, as well as most of the contents of Bulk Cargo Hold #1.  In 
return, both Interior Cargo Hold #2 and Bulk Cargo Hold #6, the latter converted to stack 
configuration, had been completely filled with materials to be delivered to later ports.
	Imagine a warehouse, a large box.  Expand that volume until it is just under 3.8 
/kilometers/ long and wide...and tall.  That equates a lot of wasted space, assuming only 
the floor is used to store widgets.  However, by subdividing the overhead, by installing 
temporary decking every three meters, a warehouse with over 1200 stories and  /17,000 
square kilometers/ of floor space (including partial and full decks - subsection 14 intrudes 
into part of a Bulk Cargo Hold's volume) is the result.  At first such a number is 
meaningless, until one realizes that it approaches the land area of New Jersey or 
Massachusetts, member states of the long defunct Terran country of the United States of 
America.
	That is a very big warehouse to accommodate an awful lot of widgets.
	Or, in this case, a great amount of product from Manufactory Nexus #201.
	In truth, many of the goods were intermediaries - chemicals, metals, alloys, 
gasses, and similar - fabricated from precursors and fated to undergo further refinement 
elsewhere.  A Manufactory Nexus was an enormous structure with many mobile parts, 
tasked to harvest the bounty of the galaxy.  In this case, the nexus was slowly, inexorably, 
dismantling a gas giant and its moons, a motherlode rich with exotic ores and trace 
elements.  At its current rate of consumption, the planet (and its mini-system) would be 
reduced to nothing in less than two centuries.
	Of special interest within Bulk Cargo Hold #6 of the Lugger-class cube was 
several million liters of a substance labeled on the manifest as Organic Precursor #4.
	Organic Precursor #4.  The name was dry, boring; and a search through Borg 
datafiles would uncover the scaffolding of an extraordinarily complex organic chemical.  
It was a very important compound, vital in the composition of a class of exotic plastics.  
It was also, unfortunately, instable:  Organic Precursor #4, if not stored within a precisely 
tuned electromagnetic field, would decay to a useless goo.  While the equipment for 
proper storage necessitated power in excess of that able to be provided by transport 
vessels, 30.7 cycles outside the field was required before manifestation of instability.
	Return to the map.  Cube #238 was scheduled to dock at its next port in 25.4 
cycles, well within the tolerance of its time-dependent cargo.  Theoretically, the off-load 
point was closer than 25.4 cycles, assuming one measured straight-line between Point A 
and Point B.  The difficulty in taking the shortest route was the intervening space.  On 
Borg charts the region was labeled Spatial Anomaly #141; and while the cartographers of 
other civilizations had bestowed the region a large, and less numerical, variety of names, 
one of the most descriptive was Treacle Zone.
	Within the Treacle Zone, navigation of space-time was...erratic, at best.  Passage 
was not unsafe, but it was inconsistent.  'Thin' spots in the warp and woof of the universe, 
not-quite fractures, transient distortions, all these factors combined to render FTL 
technologies unpredictable.  Passage through Spatial Anomaly #141 could be uneventful, 
but more often than not a vessel would be caught in one of the 'slow' zones, stuck like an 
insect in amber (or treacle).  Perhaps the effect would dissipate, or perhaps not.  The 
Collective had identified several thousand derelict vessels floating within the anomaly, 
crew presumed long dead; and even Xenig avoided the area.  The origination of the 
Treacle Zone was unknown, but information assimilated by the Collective favored a 
hypothesis whereupon it was the fossilized space-time remnant of an industrial accident 
that had occurred at least a quarter galactic revolution prior.
	Several corridors through Spatial Anomaly #141 existed; and it was towards one 
Cube #238 was currently routed.  The operative word was 'currently'.  From Prime's point 
of view it was still possible to return to the original course.  Sensors, her hierarchy tasked 
to search for short-cuts by which the sub-collective might make up time thus far lost this 
duty cycle, had tagged a prospect within the Borg stellar catalogue.  The timestamp for 
data acquisition was 67 Cycles prior, and at first one might wonder why the Greater 
Consciousness had not explored the possibility of shortening transit time between ports.  
However, as soon as one noted the origin of the data to be from species #6766, much 
became clear.  Or unclear, as was more likely the case.
	It was no wonder the corridor had been ignored by the Greater Consciousness.
	{Still,} persisted Prime, {it is a /Bug/ map.}  The protests were a bit too vehement 
to be attributable to simply arguing a sub-collective point-of-view.  This was personal.
	The chart on the Prime's virtual table gained an overlay.  Burrowing through 
Spatial Anomaly #141 at a narrow pinch point was a tunnel.  Although exact dimensions 
were unclear, the path averaged several thousand kilometers wide and remaining within 
its bounds was a nonissue.  The corridor intersected a star system at its midpoint.
	Several glyphs accompanied the overlay.  Mirroring its spoken language, species 
#6766 writing was a gestalt.  Concept was superimposed atop of concept; and in the most 
extreme cases, one 'word' might require several pages of exposition by a non-Bug 
language to capture meaning.  Unsurprisingly, single syllable poetry was a popular art 
form among species #6766, although one not exportable to the general galactic populace.  
While the chart glyphs did not approach the intricacy of even the most minor of Bug 
poets, it nonetheless was sufficiently complex to confuse universal translators.
	Prime highlighted a trio of symbols.  They rose into the air above table and map, 
acquiring three-dimensionality as they were set to slowly rotate.  The Flarn gestured at 
the first of the translucent blue glyphs.  {This one has a known meaning:  warning, fourth 
degree.  There is danger to the passage, although not enough to affect integrity of vessel 
or crew.}
	Countered Reserve, {So what?}  A succession of starcharts, hybridized versions 
of Borg and species #6766, temporarily obscurred the tabletop.  All included the same 
warning sign.  The maps faded.  {Species #6766 cartographers employ that sigil in many 
places.  The perpetual traffic jam of Cardonis III has been given a "warning, fourth 
degree".  Several eateries of dubious quality are similarly marked.}
	Forging forward, Prime moved to the next gestalt word, this one very simple, the 
base character almost unadorned.  {Warp only.}
	{That would be in agreement with initial deep subspace scans.  We are too distant 
for a Lugger-class grid to directly sample the tunnel region, but my hierarchy has 
extrapolated gradients from data thus far acquired,} said Sensors.  
Overhead, the sensory datastream resolved into a colored map representing 
minute differences in subspace density.  The deeper one delved into subspace, the faster 
the real-universe velocities achieved.  Unfortunately, caveats relating to power-to-mass 
ratio required for acceleration meant that a behemoth such as a Lugger-class cube would 
always be slower than an Exploratory-class with its (relatively speaking) oversized 
engines.  Because information and data were without mass, they could be tunneled to the 
subspace abyss, allowing near instantaneous FTL communication between most locales 
in the Milky Way galaxy.  As Prime, as the sub-collective, browsed Sensors' data 
analysis, it was noted that as the region near the tunnel mouth was approached, deep 
subspace became progressively denser, and that density began to creep upward into the 
'higher' layers.  Dense subspace was not easily traversed due to an exponential escalation 
in energy requirements.  It would be like swimming through, um, treacle.
	Continued Sensors, {Hypertranswarp is unavailable.  Warp layers remain 
transparent, however.  The passage would be warp-only, just like the symbol indicates.}
	{You have more to divulge,} said Prime darkly.  The number of presences in the 
shadow-audience increased as the sub-collective's attention sharpened.
	{With full certainty we will lose all FTL communication, including our link to the 
Collective, for the duration of the passage,} admitted Sensors.
	That was a problem.  Not terminal - the imperfect sub-collective could function 
without a connection to the Greater Consciousness - but it still raised questions 
concerning prudence of attempting an unexplored route when other options existed.  In 
the scenario that difficulties arose, a decision deemed sensible by a lone Cube #238 might 
be vastly different than that made with the moderating, if distant, influence of the Whole.  
Such supposition was not hypothesis, but sub-collective experience.
	Prime dispatched a wordless ping towards Engineer for input by his hierarchy.
	 {Given 'r current loadin', maximum speed it'll be warp 8, 'r thereaboots,} replied 
Engineer.  The warp nacelle configuration of a Lugger-class was substantially different 
than other Borg ship types.  Although nacelles remained located under edges, they did not 
fully span corner to corner:  such a configuration, including the plasma required, would 
necessitate a prohibitive amount of energy to maintain.  Instead, 500 meter long nacelle 
segments radiated outward from each corner (for a total of 24 segments), paltry when 
considered on the scale of a Lugger-class, but sufficient to push the vessel along when 
hypertranswarp was unavailable.  {A' tha' speed, we'll still clear the tunnel in 15.3 cycles.  
Plenty o' time f'r delivery o' the number four goo.  Even takin' in account unloadin' 'n' 
loading' operations at 'r destination, we'll cuum oot ahead an estimated 13 cycles by the 
time we leave f'r the next port.  We'll still be behind, but not nearly as behind.}
	Recovering time translated into a strong recommendation to use the Bug pathway.  
That left the final glyph, a confusing abstract of curlicues, arcs, and jagged lines.  To 
make matters worse, it linked to a secondary file attached to the species #6766 starchart.  
The file was best described as a giant multi-dimensional spreadsheet, a matrix which 
included elements of time, spatial coordinates, and incomprehensible Bug language, all 
encompassed by a healthy dollop of chaos theory.  For a species #6766 mariner, it was 
probably perfectly obvious.  However, Cube #238 did not number that species among its 
roster; and even if it had, chances were very high that the universal translator would 
render even the most helpful Bug into a verbal mishmash of [coffee] and [furballs].
	Prime brought the final symbol forward, raising it to primary consideration within 
the sub-collective awareness.  {Partition #1a - report,} she ordered, invoking the small 
collection of drones whom had either been linguists or had pursued language-oriented 
hobbies prior to their assimilation.  The partition had been researching possible meanings 
of the glyph:  while individual elements had known translations, the juxtaposition of 
those meanings was novel to the Borg databases.
	7 of 53 stepped forward from the ring of shadow presences, his avatar gaining 
substantiality.  As speaker for Partition #1a, it was his task to disseminate what had been 
learned.  {The glyph has three bases,} he said.  The symbol was exploded to reveal a trio 
of simplified scribblings.  {One is time, the second is waves-striking-the-shore, and the 
third a generalized moon.  The third element appears to modify the second, which in turn 
amends the first.  Unfortunately, there are some odd sub-linkages and additional second- 
and third-level gestalt transformations which may or may not adjust the overall meaning; 
and the [Herm]-factor, always problematic, has been invoked as well.}  He paused as it 
became clear Prime did not desire a scholarly lecture, but rather the final result.  7 of 53 
hastily edited himself.  {We /think/ the best translation is "ebb-time".  What that 
/actually/ means, we have no clue.}
	{Joy,} sighed Prime.  {That could be the name of the cartographer, passage 
designation, or even a doodle.}  She paused as a thought, a notion, floated up from the 
sub-collective's subconscious.  {Sensors, is there any indication of temporal anomalies to 
be coupled with the conduit?  Time paradoxes can be so...messy.}  As a Chief Engineer, 
Prime had disliked it when the scientists aboard her ship-charges had mucked around 
with time; and she still distrusted anything which affected the orderly flow of tau.
	Sensors' response was interpreted as a shrug.  {Inconclusive.  The Treacle Zone, 
er, Spatial Anomaly #141 is already known to display minor temporal irregularities.  It is 
inherent with the phenomenon.  However, all oddities thus far registered in datafile 
archives have been transient, likely not appreciably adding to the underlying, um, 
treacleness of subspace.}  Pause.  Eyes glazed as recent scans were examined.  {Nope, 
nothing anomalous - no unexpected tachyon bursts, no unreal particle concentrations.  
Maybe when we are closer to the tunnel the grid will have better resolution.}
	Prime dismissed 7 of 53, who faded as he returned to the ranks of the shadow 
audience.  The three species #6766 glyphs vanished and the associated subfile was left 
closed.  {Okay, everyone, our choices are as follows:  one, take a /Bug/ charted route 
with unknown, but probably minor, dangers in order to make up a few cycles; or, two, 
return to a safe and familiar route, which will get us to our destination, albeit without 
shortening our behind-schedule status.  These are the /only/ choices seeding the decision 
tree, so do not try to insert additional options.  The point of no return is upcoming, after 
which we will be committed.  To backtrack to the original course will mean not arriving 
to our next port before the sell-by date on the Organic Precursor #4.}  A consensus 
cascade was initiated.
	The cascade concluded.  Prime found herself within the minority.
{Traitor,} muttered Prime towards Reserve.
	Reserve snorted.  {The outcome was logical.  We need to shorten our transit time 
between ports; and with our efficiency standard already at the lowest it has ever been, a 
few minor risks are necessary.}
	{/Bugs/.  Never trust a Bug.  They want to be helpful, but it never seems to work 
out.}
	{One cannot let a few instances in one's life dictate decisions for the whole.  The 
purpose of a consensus cascade, after all, is to lessen the impact of an individual.}
	{I still reserve the right of an "I told you so" if this all goes pear-shaped, as one of 
my long-ago Terran colleagues with a fondness for archaic idioms once said.}
	The impression of eye rolling from Reserve was strong, even as his avatar 
remained motionless.  {Fine.  Whatever.  Do your primary consensus duty and inform the 
Greater Consciousness of our course correction.  Perhaps you'll get lucky and consensus 
will be overruled.}
	{Luck is irrelevant,} muttered Prime.  Glancing about her virtual environment, 
she banished audience and key crew and map table, switching her primary awareness to a 
new venue.  The setting was simple, her bodiless self at the center of a black sphere, the 
multiple datathreads comprising the sub-collective's conscious and unconscious actions 
bright ribbons of light cutting through periphery darkness.
	Prime widened the Collective link beyond its normal dimensions, then uploaded 
Cube #238's new course, as well as justification for the change and an ancillary notation 
that scans indicated the sub-collective would be severed from the Whole during the 
passage.  The notification was standard operating procedure, vessel-based sub-collectives 
generally given a high degree of autonomy concerning course adjustments based upon 
local conditions.  The Greater Consciousness digested the information for several 
seconds, then returned acknowledgment.  
	In addition to the approval, Cube #238 was tasked to assess the corridor for use by 
other Collective vessels.  While an Exploratory-class cube would usually be assigned to 
such a duty, the unique qualities of the imperfectly assimilated meant an ability to 
continue functioning more or less as normal, even when separated from the Whole.  A 
Lugger-class sensor grid was not the best survey tool, but it was adequate; and if Cube 
#238 did not emerge unscathed (or at all) at the other side, well, the cargo loss would be 
unfortunate, but well-adjusted drones would not have been sacrificed.  Given success, 
any future utilization of the conduit by Collective resources would be by fully automated 
vessels, else with crews sent into deep regeneration for the crossing.
	{We comply,} said Prime.  The change in ribbon patterns to her non-eyes 
indicated commitment of the cube to its new course, as well as preparations to shift the 
sensor grid into survey configuration.
	Reserve's voice intruded into Prime's consciousness, {Away we go.}
	{I comply with the Will of the sub-collective and the Whole, but until and unless I 
am forced to undergo an attitude adjustment, I still continue not to like it.}

	Sensors was stringing aluminum foil ropes in Bulk Cargo Hold #3.  To be precise, 
she (and a number of assistants from her hierarchy) had erected half a deck in the 
otherwise empty hold, temporary plating and spars situated about three meters below the 
hull-side 'ceiling'.  The enormous cargo bay doors, each just large enough to admit an 
Exploratory-class cube, remained clear to the possible loading, or ejecting, of material.  It 
was upon that half-deck the complex webwork was growing.
	At the initiation of each new duty cycle, Sensors, be she hierarchy head or just 
another rank-and-file designation, assembled her observatory.  Requiring from several 
cycles to several weeks to build, dependent upon the duty requirements of herself and her 
helpers, the final product was a labyrinth of (mostly) aluminum foil ropes woven into a 
complex weave.  There were usually embellishments in the form of wadded aluminum 
balls, copper rods, and metal clothes hangers, but they were for fine-tuning.  And the 
purpose of the effort?  To allow Sensors to scan for exotic minerals to add to her 
collection.
	The observatory, both its building and operation, was tolerated by consensus 
monitors as long as it did not interfere with cargo or sensory hierarchy function.  For the 
most part, its presence vastly decreased the likelihood that Sensors would hijack part or 
all of the grid to pursue her obsession.  Trained as a geologist since birth, her fascination 
of minerals and ores had transferred to her imperfect Borg existence.  In the interstitial 
space behind her alcove resided stacks of boxes subdivided into small wells four 
centimeters a side; and within those wells were rock specimens, each neatly labeled as to 
type and location acquired.  As was unavoidable that the collection would be a casualty to 
the occasional cleansing ordered by a Greater Consciousness attempting to maintain the 
level of clutter about its imperfect sub-collective to a minimum, Sensors was forever 
trying to replace rare mineralogical treasures lost to replicator reclamation.  Or acquire 
brand-new finds.
	The use of aluminum foil in the effort, however, was dubious, at best.
	Wherever both aluminum foil and broadcast television developed simultaneously 
within the same culture, it was inevitable that the former would be utilized to increase the 
reception of the latter.  From such humble beginnings developed the mythos and pseudo-
science of aluminum foil.  Even in an enlightened era of hypertranswarp and galaxy-wide 
communication, designs for the perfect foil hat (preventing intrusion by government 
mind-control rays) persisted on the GalacWeb.  Sensors had long-ago found blueprints 
for an observatory that 'focused on the unique quantum ether signature emitted by each 
rock species'.
	And against all expectations, it actually seemed to work.  Not that the Collective 
was contemplating redesign of its sensor grid anytime soon (or ever) to incorporate 
aluminum foil.
	Sensors was pleased with her latest effort.  The observatory she was building this 
duty cycle was the most elaborate to date.  It included numerous modifications to the 
original design, efficiency-boosting alterations that Sensors had tried at one time or 
another during pervious duty cycles, but never all at once.  For instance, who would have 
thought that the addition of a tub of rubber ducks at the secondary screen nexus would so 
greatly increase resolution of the polarized rho-kappa crystallization band?  Especially in 
conjunction with the forty-seven clothes hangers at the primary zeta signal booster array?  
It was because of these changes that the observatory had taken so long to construct; and it 
was now nearly complete, the finishing touches being applied prior to Cube #238's 
entrance to the passageway.
	Who knew what unique rocks might be encountered deep within a unexplored 
area of the Treacle Zone?
	Suddenly, all work halted.  To a drone Sensors and her crew paused, frozen with 
heads slightly tilted.  The deepest subspace layers had become too dense to allow 
meaningful FTL communication, thusly severing the sub-collective's link to the Whole.  
The loss had been expected, but even so it required several long minutes for the sub-
collective to realign itself, for command and control to ensure the majority of units would 
remain functioning at an acceptable level.  Then, as abruptly as it had ceased, motion 
resumed.
	Ten minutes later, Cube #238 downshifted to normal space from hypertranswarp.  
After Sensors confirmed that the grid was reporting nothing anomalous and higher 
subspace layers retained normal transparency, warp drive was initiated.  The conduit 
proper through Spatial Anomaly #141 was entered.
	A short time after and with great satisfaction, Sensors pronounced the observatory 
complete.

	*Clack*clank*clank*clank*
	The metronomic quality of Prime's footsteps as she jogged around her path was 
only one of the many sounds contributing to the ambience of the Primary Core.  
Underlying all was the deep thrum of the power plant, the three story structure which was 
the heart of Cube #238.  Of course, there were the beeps and whirs and clangs for which 
there seemed to be neither reason nor origination, whose only purpose was to add an 
ominous atmosphere.  Elevators occasionally whooshed drones between decks, 
transporter beams impractical for movement over such short distances.  Somewhere on 
high (the Primary Core was seven stories) echoed the rhythmic banging of hammer 
against metal as divots were beaten out of paneling; and elsewhere a surprised yelp 
pierced the air as a careless limb brushed against a live wire.
	Through it all moved engineering drones, trudging between tasks with efficiency 
and a seemingly robotic single-mindedness.  That which would strike an outside observer 
the most was the silence:  for all the noise of the Primary Core, the chatter of crew was 
not present.  The drones were mute (yelp aside), be they interfacing with data columns or 
working side-by-side in a complicated dance to weld metal and fabricate devices.  In 
reality, conversation was a constant, individual units engaged in a wide range of 
discussions, from task-related dialogues to discourses which had absolutely nothing to do 
with engineering.  However, one had to have the ability to eavesdrop upon the local 
intranets to hear this particular counterpart to the Primary Core.
	Prime was aware of her surroundings only peripherally.  Her body was on 
autopilot, automatically tracking the yellow line which was both pathway and warning, as 
her mind leapt through the dataspaces with an agility unmatched by her physical self.  As 
always, there were problems to deal with, cube processes to oversee, routine consensus to 
guide.  Although there had been a slight uptick in the first category since the cube's 
severance from the Whole, no major incidents had occurred.  Greater diligence on the 
part of command and control, backed by assimilation hierarchy, ensured minor issues did 
not grow out of proportion and that all units rewove their censor filters with each 
regeneration.  Thus far, the trip through the conduit had been entirely non-momentous, 
even boring.
	{131 of 160 and 10 of 32:  what have you been told in the past?} roughly inquired 
Prime.
	{But he /touched/ me!} complained 10 of 32.
	Protested 131 of 160, {I did no such thing.  I have not been near you.}
	{He /touched/ me!  When I was in regeneration!  I have the camera footage to 
prove it!  He deliberately touched me!}
	{Did not.}
	{Did too.}
	{Did not.}
	{Did too.}
	{Did-}
	Using an air horn equivalent, Prime broke the budding argument.  Silence.  {Don't 
make me visit each of you in person,} she warned.  {Now, what have you been told?  10 
of 32?}
	{Looking at someone is not the same as touching them,} recited 10 of 32 dully.
	Prime shifted her attention.  {131 of 160?  What have /you/ been told?}
	{To stop provoking 10 of 32.}  Pause.  {But-}
	Prime sounded the air horn again.  {I do not want to hear it.  10 of 32, you will 
shift your alcove to submatrix 9; and 131 of 160, you will shift your alcove to submatrix 
19.}  The specific locations highlighted remained in subsection 14, the only subsection 
with alcove facilities.  {Additionally, you will each make certain that you will not come 
within line-of-sight of each other during your revised duty schedule.  You are now 
temporarily assigned to engineering for the next month.}  She placed a note each of their 
dossiers for their respective hierarchy heads and Engineer concerning the arrangement.
	{But-} attempted 10 of 32.
	Echoed 131 of 160, {But-}
	{But /what/?} rumbled Prime.
	131 of 160 was the first to complete his objection, {But there are no alcoves at 
those locations.  And engineering will get my hands /dirty/ and /calloused/.  I'm /drone 
maintenance/.}
	{Then I suggest you - both of you - better transport a spare one to the locale and 
wire it in.  I also suggest you finish the job before you require regeneration, because your 
regular alcoves will not accept you until your temporary assignments are complete.  As 
far as dirty hands...}  Prime snorted.  As an ex-engineer, grime had been just another 
aspect of the job.  Even if the spectrum of emotions allowed to her as a drone had 
included sympathy, such would not have been directed at 131 of 160.  {Get used to it.}  
Mental voice hardened.  {Comply.}
	Muted compliances were received.
	Another minor issue dealt with.  On to the next.
	Cube #238 was making excellent time.  The vessel had even been averaging a 
faster velocity - warp 8.2 - than originally expected due to slightly lesser-than-normal 
subspace density in the warp layers.  The difference was not much, but it would allow the 
cube to spend an entire cycle within the midpoint star system performing scan surveys, 
instead of the two or three hours initially scheduled.
	Despite the lack of complications thus far, Prime was still keeping her "I told you 
so" option open.
	{Leaving warp,} announced Reserve to the sub-collective entire.  {We have 
arrived at our midway destination.  Ensure all tray tables and seats are in their upright and 
locked position.  This is not a smoking break, so if you have them, you may not light 
them.}
	Irrelevancies aside, the scene which greeted cube sensors was that of a normal star 
system.  The few obvious discrepancies could be attributed to the surrounding medium of 
Spatial Anomaly #141.
	The conduit at the midpoint locale ballooned into a bubble 150 AU across.  Such 
was sufficient to encompass the system to its heliopause, the point where stellar winds 
were no longer strong enough to repel the galactic gales.  Whereas most heliopause 
sheathes were shaped similar to the coma of a comet due to the pressure of the interstellar 
winds, this one was nearly spherical.  The 'why' was unknown and, ultimately, irrelevant, 
for hypothesizing upon stellar phenomenon was not the mission of Cube #238.  Larger 
questions would be for the Greater Consciousness to ruminate upon, or not, once survey 
data was uploaded.
	Spectrum and elemental composition indicated the yellow dwarf anchoring the 
system to be the stellar equivalent of a young adult, a mere three billion years old.  A 
mid-sized gas giant dominated the traditional life zone, its gravity ensuring all 
competitors had either been ejected or assimilated into its bulk early in the system's 
development.  A second giant, a monster capped with blue-tinged clouds of methane and 
ammonia, was positioned well into the local Kuiper belt.  Four terrestrials were also 
present - a half-molten world nearly skimming the plasma atmosphere of its parent star, 
and three worlds of ice and frozen desert plying the available orbits between their giant 
siblings.  Other than the six planets, the standard assortment of asteroids and comet nuclei 
completed the system.
	If life had developed on the worlds or their respective moons, it was not obvious 
to initial scans.  Microbes were a distinct possibility; and Joves like the inner gas giant 
were known to occasionally spawn complex ecosystems, even sentience.  However and 
unless life developed to the point of offering distinctive biological, technological, or 
cultural opportunities to exploit, it was of no interest to the Borg.
	Cube #238 checked the "no biological" box in the survey form, then switched 
scanning protocols to assess the system for other utilizable qualities.  A cycle would not 
be sufficient to fully characterize the potential of the system, but it would provide data to 
the Collective from which future decisions concerning passageway use would be made.
	Locked in her alcove so as to best maintain an intimate connection to the 
computer, Sensors performed her duties as sensory hierarchy head.  The sub-collective 
was not often tasked to perform initial surveys, most places a Lugger-class cube visited 
long charted.  There was much to see, each sensor sweep returning new data to compile 
into a building whole.  In short, Sensors (and her hierarchy) were having 'fun', or 
experiencing an approximate facsimile thereof; and, at the very least, there was the deep 
sense of satisfaction at being of use to the Collective.
	Despite her personal enjoyment, Sensors was not neglecting her observatory, 
checking its buffer every fifteen minutes or so.  The observatory was a passive system, 
listening to the cosmos beyond the hull.  As such, it was limited, although Sensors had 
done her best to modify the original blueprints for maximal range.  She was hopeful that 
it would catch the signature of an unusual ore or mineral; and, just maybe, she might have 
the opportunity to filch a rock via transporter beam to add to her collection.  On this last 
she was not overly optimistic given the greater diligence of command and control to 
prevent undesirable behavior following loss of the Collective link, but one never knew.
	There was a break in scanning as the grid shifted focus to the inner asteroid belt.  
Sensors took advantage of the pause to check the most recent data captured by her 
observatory.  A reoccurring theme finally caught her attention, causing her to mentally 
blink in surprise.
	Geologists divide their personal universe into four groups.  The first category is 
not-a-rock, and importance of this information to the individual is highly dependent upon 
the situation.  Rock type dominate the remaining three classes:  (1) igneous (i.e., of 
volcanic origin); (2) sedimentary (i.e., particles deposited by erosional events or 
precipitated out of solution); or (3) metamorphic (i.e., formed through the transformative 
processes of heat and pressure, with the originator rock igneous, sedimentary, or another 
metamorph).  The great majority of rocks were formed via a metamorphic pathway, and 
often included mineral ores and crystals.
	Stellar geologists went one step further than their terrestrial counterparts, adding a 
host of extreme sub-classes to the metamorphic genre.  For instance, there were the 
quantiads, rocks which had undergone transformation due to interaction with subspace or, 
more rarely, a quantum fissure.  Given the proper environment, gravimorphs could be 
quite common, especially in the vicinity of black holes, neutron stars, and supernovas, all 
locales subject to massive gravitational fluctuation.  Finally, there was the extraordinarily 
unusual and ever mysterious unobtanium, of which origination was hotly debated by 
astro-geologists and for which no real use had ever been found.
	Among the rarest of the rare in the annuls of the geologic bestiary was the 
chroniatic sub-class, rock which have been subjected to sufficient temporal shear to 
display tau warping.  It was a subtle variation, and much prized among collectors.  If 
taken on a galactic scale, one could expect an average of 0.0001% of particles to show 
some degree of chroniaticism.  However, as most of those particles were microscopic 
grains of dust, they were of no interest to a serious rockhound.  To have chroniatic 
metamorph of a gram in weight would be a treasure; and the discovery of a fist-sized rock 
might be a once-in-a-century occurrence.  However, here, in this system, Sensors' 
aluminum foil observatory was recording 100% chroniaticism.  Every single particle had 
the signature of tau warping.  Impossible.  Something was seriously out of kilter with the 
observatory.
	Sensors abruptly shifted the grid protocol for one face - troubleshooting the 
observatory, discovering the frequency causing the impossibility, would be a manner of 
seconds.  The survey effort would not be greatly impact.  A constellation of sparkles was 
the result, Sensors' datasenses reading nothing but chroniatic metamorphs.  The filter was 
applied to a second face, then a third, and finally all six.  Not possible!  /Everything/ in 
the system, as far as the grid could read, was displaying temporal shear.
	The action did not go unnoticed by command and control hierarchy.  {The survey 
has been interrupted.  Explain,} demanded Prime.  {And there better not be any rocks 
involved.}
	{The...the ratio of chroniaticism is unprecedented,} breathed Sensors in awe.  
Even the planets - entire /terrestrials/ and the hidden cores of the /gas giants/ - were 
beacons of tau warping.
	Prime was unimpressed, not understanding the forces necessary to cause the 
geologic impossibility.  {So?  Change the grid back to its former configuration and 
continue the survey.  We have limited time.}
	{Time....}  Sensors mentally shook herself, then instructed body systems to inject 
a mild stimulant into her bloodstream.  {There may be a problem.  Chroniatic 
metamorphs occur when a rock is subjected to a very strong temporal flux, else a series 
of smaller fluxes over a long period.  It is not unexpected to see one grain of dust in a 
hundred million to be impacted by temporal currents, but /every single one/?  Additional 
scans are warranted.}
	{Temporal flux?} queried Prime, her distaste of situations involving the tau 
vector imparting a distinct sour note to her intranet presence.
	A ping demanded Sensors' attention.  It was 76 of 185, urgency coloring the 
request for his hierarchy head to turn her primary focus upon him.  {What?} asked 
Sensors, her tone more curt than usual.
	{Y-y-you know th-th-the rep-port you w-w-want-ted?}  76 of 185 stuttered, both 
verbally and in the intranets.
	Sensors' tone turned dark.  {You were tasked to fine-tune our position in the 
galaxy using pulsars.  We already know where the cube is located, but to increase that 
accuracy to hundreds, even tens, of kilometers from thousands is always desirable.  It is a 
low-level report, and it can wait.}
	{N-n-no.  It can-not-t wait,} disagreed 76 of 185.  {There is a p-p-p-problem.}  
The word was finally spat out.  {I f-first thought th-the grid set-t-tings h-had af-fect-ted 
th-the ab-bility to res-solve pulsars-}
	{Ridiculous,} muttered Sensors.
	{-but-t I fin-nally f-f-found them.  Th-they are not-t-t right.  Not-t-t right at all.}  
Frustrated at his inability to convey the issue, 76 of 185 thrust a datathread at Sensors.
	Sensors examined the file, then went {Oh-oh.  Not good.}
	{What is not good?} demanded Prime.  Before the sensory data could be 
proffered, she acquired the thread for herself, then said, {Oh.}  After a moment, and 
before the remainder of the sub-collective could fully absorb the new information and 
what it meant, Prime directed four simple words towards Reserve, {I told you so.}
	Reserve did not reply.
	Pulsars are the signposts of the cosmos, a natural global (galactic) positioning 
system.  Each rapidly rotating neutron star 'pulses' a unique electromagnetic fingerprint at 
regular intervals.  By calculating distances to multiple pulsars, it was possible for a vessel 
to very accurately determine its location via an advanced version of triangulation.
	The pulsars 76 of 185 had selected to evaluate a revised location for Cube #238 
were displaying odd behavior.  Specifically, they were flashing too slow, with rotational 
speeds normally measured in the milliseconds decreased to a single revolution every 
several minutes.  As it was exceedingly unlikely that every pulsar would spontaneously 
slow by the same factor, the only possible explanation was that the cube was caught in a 
temporal anomaly.
	To the sub-collective, it seemed as if the greater universe was caught in molasses, 
even as subjective time continued apace.  Conversely, an observer outside the 
phenomenon would find the actions of Cube #238 and its crew to be manic, as if a video 
toggled for extreme fast-forward.
	How had this come to be?  Temporal anomalies always emitted a tell-tale stew of 
particles.  Cube #238's grid had recorded none of the warning signs; and it continued to 
insist nothing was wrong, evidence of a system of chroniatic metamorphs aside.  The 
only answer, hypothesis bolstered by a poorly translated species #6766 glyph whereupon 
'temporal tides' might have been a better rendition than 'ebb-time', was that the temporal 
phenomenon was episodic.
	Continuing the nautical metaphor, Cube #238 had approached and entered the 
conduit at slack, or the still point between the tidal exchange.  Time had not been in flux; 
and, so, there had been nothing to indicate the danger.  A temporal current had thence 
initiated at some point once the cube had begun to traverse the Treacle Zone passageway.  
However, as the vessel  was now embedded within the phenomenon's time frame, from 
the sensor grid point of view all retained normalcy.  To realize that there was a problem, 
one had to be /outside/ the anomaly to observe it.
	The sub-collective's first instinct, upon realization it was stuck within a temporal 
anomaly, was to abort the system survey and immediately return to warp.  It was not 
panic - Borg do not panic...at least, not usually - but it was akin to a hasty retreat.  Or, 
rather, hasty advance.  As warp speeds appeared unaffected, there was no reason not to 
continue on the original course towards the next port.  It was not prudent to remain in a 
system so universally impacted by temporal oddities, even if all seemed relatively benign 
at the moment.
	Perhaps the phenomenon could be advantageous to Cube #238.  Subjective transit 
time through the passage would constitute the initially estimated number of cycles.  
However, due to the differences in temporal flow inside and outside the anomaly, it 
would seem as if the cube had crossed much faster.  Cube #238 would have made up a 
great deal of its previously lost time!
	Despite the sub-collective's positive spin upon the situation, Prime, personally, 
remained ever distrustful of all things whereupon tau was twisted.  She was also, as 
before, in the minority.  {I continue to protest our course of action; and I also retain my-} 
she began.
	{Yes, yes,} replied Reserve as he finalized preparations to leave the system at 
high warp, {you retain the right of "I told you so".}

	Approximately one cycle after lumbering into warp, Cube #238 returned to the 
normal universe to confirm progress and check temporal dilation.  Unfortunately, it 
immediately became clear that it would be a wee bit harder to escape the trap than it had 
been to become mired in it in the first place.
	Cube #238 remained in the unnamed tau-impacted system.  The vessel was 
balanced upon the heliopause at the point the corridor narrowed prior to resumption 
through Spatial Anomaly #141.  While all programs associated with propulsion insisted 
that the cube should have been well along towards its destination, the grid provided 
evidence to the contrary.
	Pulsar signposts continued to rotate abnormally slow, indicating the temporal 
anomaly to remain in effect.
	The sub-collective contemplated its choices, then did as any good Borg would do:  
attempt to use overwhelming brute force as the solution.  Cube #238 returned to warp.
	Several hours later, the ship dropped out of warp and found itself precisely where 
it had begun.  Sensor sweeps confirmed lack of movement:  the few rocks and icy comet 
nuclei which inhabited the neighborhood were the same ones prior to the escape attempt.
	A slower speed - warp 6 - was attempted.  It did not work.
	An abysmally sluggish warp 2 was tried.  Nothing.
	Engines were pushed to their maximum to achieve warp 8.5 and induce a threat to 
structural integrity.  Nada.
	The utilization of impulse engines at first seemed promising.  As proof-of-concept 
that the cube was not literally stuck like a fly in amber, ten AU were traversed by impulse 
alone.  Obviously, one could not expect to cross the entire corridor at such a slow speed, 
at least not if the sub-collective desired to exit the Treacle Zone before drones began to 
terminate from old age.  Operating under the assumption that Cube #238 had successfully 
escaped whatever local phenomenon had been holding it in place, warp was initiated.
	Three hours later, the cube was back to where it had begun, staring at rocks grown 
too familiar and the small distance gained now erased.
	One of the primary faults of the Borg, be it original Collective or one of its 
Colored offshoots, is a propensity towards what some might call persistence, and others 
obstinacy.  Such an attitude can be advantageous, as when exhaustively researching how 
silly-string or pet-fur-removal technology might be adapted for use by Whole.  However, 
it can also lead to situations whereupon, like a dog with a well-chewed stick, a notion is 
not let go long after it is obvious to any external observer that it would be best to use 
another tack to approach the problem in question.
	With barely a pause, a random warp setting was selected; and the cube once more 
tried to flee the system.

	Sensors narrowed her whole eye as she tilted her head back to peer at the star-
speckled darkness above.  What she was searching for could not be perceived directly, 
not even by a sensory-specialized drone with the latest in ocular lenses.  However, she 
had assistance both cube grid and her aluminum foil observatory.
	Ah-ha!  There it was!  There was the rock!
	Cube #238 has temporarily paused its attempt to leave the system.  The various 
efforts, some more erratic than others, had finally, and inevitably, overwhelmed the 
inertial dampers.  While the dampers on a Lugger-class were more robust than other Borg 
ship classes due to the necessity to protect sometimes delicate cargo from the strains of 
acceleration or deceleration, they were not flawless.  Imperfectly assimilated Engineers 
both past and present had speculated (quietly, of course) about the Collective's difficulties 
in perfecting damper technology, but their conclusions were not pertinent at the moment.  
All that was important was that a partial failure had created a moderate mess amid the 
cargo holds, one which had to be set to right before Cube #238 could continue its 
endeavor.
	Most crew had been drafted to aid engineering hierarchy, a not unfamiliar task 
given all units assisted during cargo on- and off-loading at ports-of-call.  The exceptions 
were selected members of drone maintenance and all of sensory hierarchy.  The former 
was necessary given the expectation of injury during cargo shifting proceedings, and the 
latter was standard operating procedure for continual monitoring of the cube's environ in 
potentially hostile surroundings.
	It was during an upsurge in transporter use that Sensors had beamed herself to the 
hull above her observatory.
	Unless a drone was upon a watchlist, individual units were rarely monitored as to 
locale.  After all, if information upon a designation's physical location was needed, the 
computer could be queried.  As long as Sensors continued to efficiently coordinate her 
hierarchy, and self-censor her 'public' thought streams, there would be nothing to draw 
attention to herself.  Of course, if command and control became suspicious, her excursion 
would be cancelled, but that particular hierarchy was currently very busy ensuring the 
more volatile members of the crew remained on task whilst retaining a mental even keel.
	Since discovering the bounty of chroniatic metamorphs present in the system, 
Sensors had been longing to add a rock - just a small one, mind you - to her collection of 
geologic specimens.  Well aware of Sensors' history and what she might attempt to fulfill 
her personal obsession, elements of command and control had been watching her for 
misappropriate of cube resources...until now.  Higher priorities beckoned than a 
rockhound.
	Sensors had first observed her quarry-to-be shortly after it had become apparent 
that the cube was returning to (or never leaving) its locale on the edge of the heliopause.  
While rocky debris so far from the system primary were sparse, they were present.  The 
sensory hierarchy had dutifully recorded the coordinates of each particle out to several 
million kilometers, from building-sized boulders to small pebbles on the edge of sensor 
resolution, standard operating procedure in the categorization of potential threats to cube 
integrity.  One rock in particular had captured Sensors' fancy; and while she had 
subsequently built personal what-if scenarios within the depths of her mind, she had 
honestly not thought she would be given the chance to act upon any of them.
	Wait for it...wait for it....
	A surge in transporter use as numerous drones were moved to the next cargo 
disaster area on engineering's list was Sensors' cue.  She quickly established a transporter 
lock of her own and reached forth into the darkness overhead.
	For a moment it seemed as if the target's chroniaticism would make transport 
impossible, the rock in a slightly accelerated tau vector compared to that of the cube.  
Sensors attempted to compensate, internally wincing as the rarely used command 
sequences could be interpreted within the dataspaces as a light-flashing-and-cymbal-
bashing extravaganza by roving command and control units.  Finally the target 
materialized upon the hull.  Sensors waited several long minutes, but there was no 
reaction to her transgression.
	A pent up sigh was released...figuratively, of course, since the ex-geologist /was/ 
standing upon the hull in vacuum.  Attention was turned to the prize.
	The asteroid was small by cosmic standards, a mere two meters long and a little 
less than a third that in height and width.  In appearance it was roughly box-shaped with a 
rough exterior of gray speckled by a dark brown mineral.  Standard-G weight was 
approximately 500 kilograms, moderately heavy, but not unusually so.
	Despite the seeming disinterest by command and control, Sensors was unsure if 
the capture had been flagged for later examination.  She could not even scan the 
appropriate logs, else risk triggering the very investigation she was trying to avoid.  It 
would be best to wait for a more opportune time to select a specimen from the parent 
rock, preferably after the cube had escaped the temporal trap and the incident no longer 
held relevancy.
	Besides, with a re-established link to the GalacWeb, she could show off her prize 
to the Galactic Rockhound Guild, a loose-knit community of professional and amateur 
geologists ever trying to one-up each other in the acquisition of exotic rocks, minerals, 
and gems.  It was somewhat like an extreme birding club, except items on the lifelist 
tended to be a wee more sedentary, with the exception of a few unusual specimens.
	At the next surge in transporter signatures, Sensors beamed to herself a can of 
vacuum cement.  Liberally spraying the substance, Sensors secured the rock to the hull.  
Satisfied her trophy would not be lost no matter what gyrations the cube might undergo, 
the head of the sensory hierarchy left the hull and returned to her alcove.

	Following the cargo fiasco, the sub-collective decided to pursue a more 
methodical approach to escape.
	Beginning with warp 1, engines were engaged for approximately two minutes, 
then the ship returned to the Einsteinian universe to check for progress.  If the cube 
remained at its start point, then warp 1.1 was tried, followed by warp 1.2, and so forth at 
tenth unit increments.  Interference, a static white-noise that blurred readings, limited the 
usefulness of the sensor grid in assisting the effort.  Therefore, the endeavor was a 
tedious undertaking, perhaps gaining no further improvement in the situation, but it was 
also more methodical than blindly selecting a warp factor.  If no movement had occurred 
once the limit of the cube's warp engines had been reached, then both problem and 
possible solutions would be re-evaluated.  Until then...
	At warp 3.5, it was with great surprise that the sensor hierarchy announced the 
cube /not/ where it had begun, that had actually moved into the conduit and away from 
the system.  Satisfied a way out had finally been discovered, Cube #238 plunged back 
into warp.  An hour later, progress in the real world was once again confirmed; and the 
sub-collective resigned itself to a less than speedy transverse of the passage.

	{Bugger!} exclaimed Prime.  She continued her intranet tirade, using much 
harsher, and more explicit, profanities.  It had been several hours since verification of 
forward progress, and in a fit of paranoia, the most recent consensus cascade had 
collectively decided that additional confirmation was prudent.  Greeting the sensor grid 
upon emergence from subspace had been an all too familiar scene.
	{I do not believe that is anatomically possible for species #6251,} noted Reserve 
as the primary consensus monitor and facilitator finally paused.  In the intranet, Prime did 
not need to catch her breath.  However, she had greatly diminished her personal store of 
invectives, necessitating a dive into the extensive collection of vulgarisms the Borg had 
accumulated over the millennia.  {But I/we know how you feel.  And that is quite a 
dent.}
	Prime stared at the large divot in the panel which had had the misfortune to be 
next to her when the sensory hierarchy had relayed the bad news.  She had been roaming 
the hallways of subsection 14, submatrix 6, visually inspecting recent maintenance 
following an ill-advised experiment by several engineering units seeking to increase 
efficiency of dust mopping.  The 'research' had included magnets, silly putty, high-tensile 
fishing line, and a potato cannon.  The sequence of logic which linked it with cleaning 
was tenuous, at best.  Although the consequences had played out over fifteen cycles prior, 
what could only be described as 'total destruction' had been mended just before the cube 
had initially entered the unnamed system.
	{It is nothing a plasma torch and some hammering can't fix,} muttered Prime.  
She centered herself, feeling calm spread as the frustrations impacting the sub-collective 
were siphoned away by censor filters.  {Reserve, prepare the driving partitions.  I'll 
coordinate the search algorithms if warp 3.5 does not work.}
	In fact, it was found that warp 3.5 did allow Cube #238 to make progress; and it 
was also discovered, via paranoid downshifts to normal space every five minutes, that at 
the 2.3 hour mark all forward momentum stalled.  To continue beyond resulted in the 
cube being inexorably dragged back to the system at the equivalent of warp 8.2.  There 
was no counter.
	It required three unwelcome rides for this new development on whatever twisted 
rules governed the conduit to sink in.  Finally, with attempt number four, Cube #238 
found itself balanced on the cusp as far as it could go, holding place in normal space as it 
contemplated its next action.
	And, once again, 'brute force' methodology won.  Virtual dice were rolled; and the 
Lugger-class cube vanished into subspace at warp 6.7.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Darkness.
	A faint patch of light.
	A bright whirlpool of stars - the Milky Way Galaxy.
	Falling through darkness into the diffuse radiance of billions of stars:  a surreal 
perspective for a disembodied point of view.  Like a dream, or maybe a nightmare, far 
soon becomes near, individual stars streaking past at impossible speeds.
	Something is missing.
	With an unthought, the journey is paused.
	What is missing?  Unknown.  However, it is with a certainty possible only in 
dreams it is unequivocally recognized that wrongness is nigh.  A sixth (seventh?  tenth?) 
sense says it to be, a dream-feeling that cannot be dismissed.
	The journey continues.
	Another star, a yellow dwarf, is passed, this one harboring a family of planets.  
The star, in no way outstanding among the other flaming balls of churning plasma, is 
oddly familiar.  A particular planet is focused upon; and the scene abruptly jumps to a 
viewpoint of one standing upon the surface.
	Rocky.  Barren.  Sky orange-tinged, not blue.  Waves sluggishly crash upon the 
cliff base.  Wrong, wrong, wrong.  Where is the buzz of insects?  The call of birds?  The 
distant hum of vehicles and the laughter of families on holiday?
	Where is the /life/?
	The planet is abandoned for the cool depths of space.  Perspective blurs, fast-
forwarding to another star, another planet, another empty vista.
	And another.
	And another.
	And another.
	And another...not exactly infinity, but one at a time (or simultaneously, following 
logic applicable only to dreams) all life-supporting worlds in the galaxy are visited.
	All are found to be devoid of animals, of greenery, of microbes and bacteria and 
fungi.  The gulf between the stars is silent; and even the mechs, non-biological lifeforms 
both sentient and not, are vanished.
	Nightmare, it is decided - the galaxy has been sterilized.

			*	*	*	*	*

	{What was /that/?} demanded Prime, a single voice amid the babble of thousands.  
While there were a dozen or so units permanently lost in their personal world-views, 
replete with visions much more compelling than a mere nightmare ride through an empty 
galaxy, most designations were asking a variation upon the question voiced by their 
consensus monitor.
	The sub-collective's paranoia already elevated, a not unexpected state considering 
the lengths thus far undergone, Cube #238 was brought to a full halt.  Except for the still-
too-slow rotation of guide pulsars, the sensor hierarchy confirmed the ship to have moved 
the expected distance given the short time at warp.
	The problem, assuming one existed at all, was contemplated.
	Warp abruptly resumed...and was ceased minutes later.
	Like a mechanic troubleshooting a shuttle with an intermittent fault and no clear 
instigator, the engineering hierarchy tried to recreate the incident.  The cube cycled to 
warp several times in a row, stuttering in and out of the normal universe.  All diagnostics 
returned nominal.  The vision, the hallucination, the whatever did not repeat.  Had it been 
a one-time occurrence?  Or was it merely the first symptom of mental instability induced 
by the anomaly?
	Or, just perhaps, had it been a sign that a critical juncture had been passed in the 
endeavor to leave the unnamed system behind?
	With Cube #238 hanging motionless halfway between nowhere and somewhere, a 
decision cascade was underway.  At the center of the process was Prime.  From the 
middle of her holotheater she critically eyed each potential decision node in turn, 
actualized as a line of brightly colored spheres hovering at chest height.  Rarely used 
archives were being searched - a background flash of black-and-white still images - to 
locate a situation that bore vague resemblance to the one within which the cube was 
mired.  Unfortunately, without the much more extensive histories and experiences of the 
Collective Whole, very few matches were being found.  Instead, the sub-collective was 
reduced to fuzzy math, poor what-if trees, and, worst of all, wild speculation.
	One by one the spheres faded in intensity as the actions they represented were 
eliminated.  Finally a single ball of electric blue remained.
	Prime reached out a virtual hand to grasp the sphere.  A decision had been made.  
Consensus was complete.
	The Assumption (capitalization deliberate) was that a barrier or zone of influence 
extended from the unnamed system.  Like a forcefield, it was transparent to specific 
frequencies; and, by traveling at warp 3.5 for 2.3 hours the edge of the 'bubble' had been 
reached.  From that point, any significantly energetic effort was sufficient to break 
through the final barrier.  The shared vision had simply been a symptom of the passage, a 
mental hiccup caused by the interaction of quasi-fractal pseudo frequencies and cube 
computational hardware reflected upon the wetware of its drones.  It signified nothing.  
Now that the cube had escaped the zone, all warp speeds were available, not just 6.7.  
After all, what was the chance of choosing just the right speed if this section of the 
conduit was as selective as the first 2.3 hours?
	Admittedly, the decision, and train of logic to arrive at it, was a stretch, but it was 
the most coherent among all rival alternatives.  And if there was something Borg excelled 
at, be it an imperfect sub-collective or the entire Greater Consciousness, it was creating 
justification for an otherwise ridiculous notion such that it /sounded/ like the correct 
course to pursue.  Insert enough technobabble and anything sounds plausible.  All which 
was necessary was to ignore inconvenient exceptions or blatant lack of data.
	{As fast as we can go, then,} said Prime.  {Engineer?}
	{We c'n sustain warp 7.7 a' this time.}
	{Only 7.7?  I know this vessel is capable of faster speeds.}
	{Then ye c'n get oot 'n' push.}
	Prime tilted her head slightly,  {You need a better comeback.  And throw in a bit 
obscure engineering lingo.  It makes the bridge officer feel better if he can nod agreement 
even though he has no clue what you are talking about.}
	{Tha' would work 'ow?} inquired Engineering incredulously  {We all be linked t' 
each other 'n' engineering datastreams be available f'r lockin' at.}
	Prime rolled her eyes, or at least produced the appropriate sentiment, this being 
the digital realm and herself physically unable to perform the action.  {Just providing you 
with a few pointers, a bit of advice.  Moving on....}
	{Ye c'n stick yer advice where-}
	{Reserve?} called Prime, drowning out Engineer's comment.
	{Warp 7.7 it is.}  The virtual accelerator was depressed.  {You know, the Flarn 
anatomical charts do not show an orifice of the type that-}
	{Very funny.  Ha-ha.  Now is not the time to work on cultivating what little sense 
of humor assimilation and repurposing left you.  Just drive, else I will take the yoke.}
	The ghost of a smirk was the response to Prime.
	Several seconds later, a distant {Ah-ha!} reverberated at the edges of Prime's 
intranet awareness.  She ignored it, as she ignored most random outbursts, classifying 
them as the equivalent of mental white noise.  Then the owner of the voice pinged for the 
consensus monitor's attention; and as it was a hierarchy head, she had to respond.
	{I have vital information to share,} said Sensors.  Her avatar materialized in 
Prime's theater.
	Replied Prime, {If you are about to admit to the rock you cemented to the hull, I 
already know about it.}
	A flash of surprise.  {Really?}
	{You may not be directly tied to engine functions, but even you must be aware 
that every kilo must be accounted for to accurately gauge power consumption.  The 
propulsion partition reported a slight increase in power needed to warp following the 
cargo shifting.  From there it was easy to backtrack to find the cause.}
	Silence.  Accusation:  {You...do not quite lie.  But you also do not tell the truth.  
We did not notice a hitchhiker like that mercenary ship last month, yet a /rock/ is found?}
	Prime relented.  {It is theoretically possible.  However, I still know about the 
asteroid.  Next time you cement something to the hull, do not do so over an exhaust 
vent.}  The rock in question, as viewed through the eyes of a drone, was displayed in a 
floating holowindow.  {The blockage was flagged as a malfunction by the engineering 
hierarchy; and although very low priority, it was investigated.  The block was found, and 
from there it was not difficult to sift out the log of your illicit transporter use.  How many 
designations, after all, would try to smuggle a rock?  As we have had other things on our 
mind, your reprimand was ranked extremely low on the to-do list.}
	{Um...I did not request your attention to tell you of my, er, specimen acquisition.  
Well, er, actually I did, but not in this manner,} semi-confessed Sensors.
	{Then what?}
	{We are no longer making headway.  In fact, we are being dragged back to the 
unnamed system at warp 8.2.}
	Prime blinked.  {You have determined a grid configuration that cuts through the 
interference?}  She reached for sensory datathreads, but found them as unhelpful as ever.  
A wordless query for additional information was sent.
	{The rock told me so.  The one cemented on the hull,} announced Sensors with 
conviction.  An after-the-fact realization of what the statement sounded like was 
translated into a sheepish duck of the avatar's head.
	{Hearing things that aren't there is usually due to a faulty aural implant, else you 
caught whatever it is that 68 of 150 has,} said Prime dryly, invoking the designation of a 
weapons drone infamous for conducting long conversations with entities it insisted were 
'just beyond the veil'.
	Sensors sighed, {Not in that way.}  Her avatar held a hand out, palm flat and 
facing upward.  Upon it materialized a small datafile, one unlinked to the larger dataspace 
and therefore originating from Sensors herself.  The file was offered.  {Since the rock is 
known, then it is also known that it is directly over my observatory.  From the time of 
acquisition, the observatory has been recording the tau polarization of the rock during our 
translations, but only now have I looked at the collected data.  The pattern the 
observatory captured is quite clear; and it indicates that we are even now returning to our 
start point.}
	Prime accepted the datafile and opened it, displaying its contents as a series of 
simple graphs.  As the charts assembled into a grid formation, as the data was absorbed 
and incorporated into the working consciousness of the sub-collective, the number of 
virtual eyes directed at Prime's theater node increased.  None of the presences were 
inclined to create an avatar, but the action indicated that the sub-collective's attention had 
definitely shifted.
	Consider time.  Time, at least in the universe of Borg and Federation and warp 
drive and transporters, is malleable.  Under the right circumstances, it can be decoupled 
from the universal 'tick' and forced into a configuration some have portrayed as a current 
traveling at a different speed than the surrounding medium.  Any thing or any entity 
caught within assumes that current's temporality, which may be faster or slower than (or 
ever opposite to) ambient time.  Because time and space are intimately linked, in the most 
extreme cases, temporal movement can result in spatial relocation.
	Within Spatial Anomaly #141 - Treacle Zone - time was twisted.  How it came to 
pass, be it natural calamity or artificial happenstance, was unimportant.  The very 
quantum underlying the fabric of reality was deformed, constraining and constricting 
temporality within the passageway.  Tidal forces sloshed time back and forth like water 
in a bucket.  As neither ocean nor river is not a single solid block, but rather a collection 
of many currents twined into a whole, so too were the forces rushing through the passage, 
each one of differing duration and tick.
	The chroniatic metamorph cemented to Cube #238's hull was a compass from 
which the correct path through the temporal currents could be ascertained.  Of course, if 
the sub-collective had realized the file attached to the Bug map was an easy-to-use tide 
table, then the fate of the cube might have been different.  Then again, there was the not 
insignificant task of translation and the fact that a single misinterpretation could send the 
cube straight into a temporal tidal bore, with much worse consequences than a riptide 
dragging the ship back to its start point.  The rock, on the other hand, shifted the 
polarization of its tau warping in a predictable manner when exposed to a temporal 
current.  When the warping of the rock converged with the neutral tau condition of the 
cube, that meant the current was capable of being utilized.  From there, it was a simple 
measure of testing subspace density and conductivity to determine the appropriate warp 
factor.
	{Refinements are necessary,} said Sensors.  {Part of the grid could be 
reconfigured to complement my observatory.  The other option is to add approximately 
25 kilometers of aluminum foil cables and a gross of coat hangers to the existing 
construction.  Theoretically in either case, sensitivity would be sufficiently boosted to 
resolve minor variations in the rock's polarization interference pattern.  Tau leakage from 
the desired current will flavor the shadow waves in a particular manner, a unique sparkly 
sound hidden among the greater hum-buzz.}  Sensors was trying to translate how she 
perceived the sensor grid, a unique experience for each sensory drone, but the 
explanation was turning into verbal synesthesia.  {The taste spoor can then be locked 
upon to follow it to its source.}  Sensors paused, finally realizing she had lost her 
audience.  {Um, the appropriate upgrades will allow us to discern the next current 
without lots of warp translations.  The compass rock will also provide warning before we 
run out of current, without the need to keep jumping back to normal space.}
	{And the vision?  Does the rock have any words about that?}
	Sensors looked puzzled.  {My rock is a chroniatic metamorph with a pronounced 
tau warping equating to 18.6 points on the chenton polarization scale.  What does 
geology have to do with-} a hand was waved about {-head stuff?  That is for command 
and control, assimilation, or drone maintenance hierarchies to deal with.}
	{True,} opinionated Reserve, his voice emerging from the background.
	Several dully pulsating spheres materialized, a decision cascade awaiting a seed to 
begin.  {We reflect upon this new information.  If we are indeed being dragged back - 
again - to the system, then a new consensus is in order.}
	A new consensus was in order.

			*	*	*	*	*

	He was a drone, perhaps a bit more heavily cybernized than most, but nonetheless 
just another cog in the Borg Collective.  Although nameless - and liable to remain so 
considering the illogical logic inherent in the dream-realm - there was a suggestion of 
familiarity with the unit, a peculiar connection that transcended actual familial or racial 
relationship.
	The drone was shoulder high to the observer, had the observer possessed a 
physical form rather than a disembodied point of view.  While there were undoubtedly 
many salient features which identified the drone, made him unique, the one detail which 
caught the observer's attention was his unaltered eye, an unusual blue among the 
normalcy of grey.
	That eye - appraising, coldly calculating, yet somehow (dare it be said?) 
conveying a sense of...imperfection - focused upon the observer; and it was that eye, or at 
least the perception of it, which was the last to fade as the velvet blackness of the 
background swallowed all.

			*	*	*	*	*

	What did the visions mean?  Sometimes they were vague, and other times 
exquisitely detailed.  For each transition to a new temporal current, an unreal, and oft 
time surreal, mental journey commenced.  A drone might individually experience 
his/her/its own hallucination, else the sub-collective entire could share a dream, or 
nightmare, or whatever it should be classified.
	Given the probability the visions were intrinsically entwined with the temporal 
currents through which Cube #238 struggled, the term 'time-hallucination' was adopted.  
The expression was an approximate translation for a glyph, overlooked until now, 
scrawled in the digital margin of the species #6766 starchart which had led the sub-
collective to the conduit in the first place.  A past Bug captain or navigator had jotted 
down a short list of 'potential inconvenience' associated with the passage, including 
[dragons], [backward popsicles], and time-hallucinations.
	Even if the translation was wrong, it still sounded applicable to the situation.
	Were the time-hallucinations will-be's or could-be's?  Were those experienced by 
an individual applicable to that single unit only, whilst shared visions were a hint of what 
could/might/would affect the sub-collective as a whole?
	As noted afore, Prime disliked temporal disorder.  It was nonsensical.  Messy.  
Time should have a single predicable vector (past to future) in which the underlying 
universal tick which defined time itself always equated a tick.  The propensity of time to 
be malleable, given the right circumstances, such as a space-time rip or entities throwing 
around tachyons, was disquieting on a personal level.  For one thing, it was an indication 
that no /engineer/ had designed the universe, assuming existence of a Supreme Being, 
because temporal untidiness was anathema to the true engineering soul.
	Sensors finally announced that the grid had sorted through compass rock 
permutations and locked onto a new temporal current.  Warp 5.9 was the appropriate 
speed.
	{Enough!} roared Prime, quieting sub-collective introspection...for the moment.  
It would undoubtedly restart following the translation-to-come, the sub-collective talking 
amongst itself in an attempt to come to an understanding.  Even Prime's opinion that it 
was best to ignore the time-hallucinations was a valid opinion within the whole, albeit 
one in the minority.
	It seemed Prime had been very much in the minority recently.
	Said Prime, {Let us move on, Reserve.  The rock hath spoken.}
	Cube #238 lurched back into subspace, same heading, new warp factor.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Darkness.
	A faint patch of light.
	A bright whirlpool of stars - the Milky Way Galaxy.
	Falling through darkness into the diffuse radiance of billions of stars:  a surreal 
perspective for a disembodied point of view.  Like a dream, or maybe a nightmare, far 
soon becomes near, individual stars streaking past at impossible speeds.
	Something is missing.
	With an unthought, the journey is paused.
	What is missing?  Unknown.  However, it is with a certainty possible only in 
dreams it is unequivocally recognized that wrongness is nigh.  A sixth (seventh?  tenth?) 
sense says it to be, a dream-feeling that cannot be dismissed.
	The journey continues.
	Another star, a yellow dwarf, is passed, this one harboring a family of planets.  
The star, in no way outstanding among the other flaming balls of churning plasma, is 
oddly familiar.  A particular planet is focused upon; and the scene abruptly jumps to a 
viewpoint of one standing upon the surface.
	Creatures.  Beasts.  Familiar, yet utterly alien.  Caricatures of species known, 
bodies and features grotesquely altered out of remembered proportions.  The wind still 
blows and the sun continues to shine, yet these beings doggedly toil at their unknown 
tasks, eyes half-lidded and expressions rapt as they listen to something unheard to the 
exclusion of all else.
	Wrong, wrong, wrong.
	The planet is abandoned for the cool depths of space.  Perspective blurs, fast-
forwarding to another star, another planet, another distorted vista.
	And another.
	And another.
	And another.
	And another...not exactly infinity, but one at a time (or simultaneously, following 
logic applicable only to dreams) all life-supporting worlds in the galaxy are visited.
	Finally the dreamwalker stops to float among the stars and just listen....
	A song can be discerned, a chorus of harmony weaving all the planets into one 
vast organism.  It is a melody oddly familiar, yet inverted, a wholly organic melding 
where one expects the harsher notes of structured mechanization.
	Horror dawns, understanding emerging out of nothingness - a dream epiphany.
	They.  The galaxy has been colonized, overrun by They, an organic Borg-
equivalent seeking a twisted form of perfection of oneness.  Individuals are not accepted 
into the Whole as they are, assimilated into the function that best fits species and 
temperament, but rather /forced/ into new roles through the black magic of genetic 
engineering.
	Nightmare, it is decided.

			*	*	*	*	*

	One element of the sensor grid was reporting pulsar signposts to be rotating 
nearly twice as fast as the norm, abrupt flashes of distant energies winking hyperactively.  
The universe outside the temporal anomaly was rushing past at an accelerated tempo 
even as a subjective observer would perceive Cube #238 as moving with sluggish intent.
	Were the temporal tides in flux?  Was the sub-collective to be completely thrown 
out of its native epoch?  Would the cube eventually emerge from the Treacle Zone 
hundreds or thousands of Cycles in the future like a cybernetic version of Rip Van 
Winkle?
	All those worries, and more, swept through the consciousness of the Cube #238 
sub-collective.  As fast as Prime, as Reserve, as the Hierarchy of Five, as command and 
control could derail one anxiety, another three would arise.
	It was, perhaps, not surprising that a mistake would be made.
	Yelped Sensors, {No, no!  I said warp 5.4, not 4.5!  The compass rock clearly 
indicated the clearest currents to be warp 5.4!}
	It was too late.  Engines had already engaged; and once committed, there was no 
turning back.  For a moment propulsion indicated warp 4.5 to be the true speed, until 
engines were throttled back to the minimum required to keep the cube submerged in 
subspace.  At that point, compass rock polarization indicated the ship's true velocity to be 
warp 8.2, presumably in the direction opposite that desired.
	{Whoops,} said Reserve.  He had been juggling too many priorities 
simultaneously, and the datastream which had suffered had been that associated with 
warp drive commands
	Pronounced Prime, {Next time, Reserve, you will disengage from all duties prior 
to the translation; and then you will be certain your actions /before/ the throttle is 
applied.}
	{Compliance,} said Reserve.  240 of 242 from one of the primary navigational 
partitions was assigned to double-check future input.

	Cube #238 floated at the edge of unnamed system.  The pulsars had resumed their 
laggard tempo, and, if possible, seemed to be exhibiting their slowest pace yet.  
Meanwhile, the sub-collective was computing and recomputing the timeline since leaving 
Manufactory Nexus #201:
	*Three cycles to arrive at the Spatial Anomaly #141 conduit.
	*About seven cycles to reach the unnamed system.
	*Half a cycle of survey.
	*Approximately two cycles lost to initial escape attempts, inclusive securing 
shifted cargo.
	*One cycle, more or less, spent learning how to navigate the temporal currents 
once their existence had been ascertained.
	*Five cycles of effort vanished due to a few seconds of mental dyslexia.
	No matter how the problem was manipulated, no matter how the timeline was 
reconstructed, the cold answer was always the same:  Cube #238 had 11.2 cycles to finish 
traversing the conduit and arrive at the next port-of-call.  To take an hour, a minute, a 
second too long was to risk spoilage of the Organic Precursor #4.  Even worse, /another/ 
black mark against the sub-collective's record would join the too-many already garnered 
thus far this duty cycle.
	And, then, the sub-collective would be regulated to bottom tier duties, like 
hauling garbage or serving as a temporary repository for fermented polyjuice.
	Again.
	With confirmation from Sensors' compass rock that the first temporal current 
remained steady, engines were engaged at warp factor 3.5.

			*	*	*	*	*

	The Borg home system.  Tens of trillions of drones.  Dozens of shipyards.  
Countless manufactories and industrial complexes.  A research facility with attention 
focused upon a captured superstring.  Moons and planets undergoing dismantlement, and 
even the star itself harnessed to provide energy to the Borg, all to further the quest for 
Perfection.  The system is the busiest and most densely populated of the Borg empire.
	It is also under attack.
	A spatial phenomenon squats between the orbits of planet #3 and planet #4, 
invisible in the visual spectrum yet completely obvious to the eyes of the dream-watcher.  
It is a monstrosity, a swirling beast of space-time warping the very fabric of the universe 
within its bounds.  Englobing the afflicted volume is a fleet of over a hundred enormous 
cubes and spheres, weapons aimed at the anomaly and drone crews displaying the 
preternatural calm possible only by units well integrated into the Greater Consciousness.
	The phenomenon flares into the true visibility, disgorging a tsunami of tachyons 
as it does so.  Attention focuses upon the stormy center where a dark form takes shape, as 
wavering and unresolvable, even to the observer's non-eyes, as a mirage hovering over 
desert sands.  The feeling of collective anticipation by the Whole is palpable.
	Abruptly the anomaly snaps closed, disappearing as if it had never existed.  Left 
behind is a geometric form, akin to the cubes numbered among the fleet, but much 
smaller, its hull showing signs of great abuse.
	Dread expectation grips the unseen watcher.
	The universe holds its breath.
	"Hello?" calls a desynchronized Multivoice into the ether.  "We've been told we 
would meet the Collective here?  I think we've found the right spot.  So, could we have a 
tow to the nearest unimatrix complex?  We seem to have lost propulsion, armaments, 
navigational control, and there is a very overgrown weed we'd like to have removed as 
well."

			*	*	*	*	*

	Fast.
	*Snap*
	Slow.
	*Snap*
	Light caught in amber.
	*Snap*
	Nearly normal, only off by a few beats a second.
	*Snap*
	Blue-shifted starlight flashing fast-fast-fast-fast.
	*Snap*
	All sense of time was lost.  The chronometer was useless.  Was the universe 
leaving Lugger-class Cube #238 and its crew behind?  Had the Collective long ago 
dismissed its imperfect sub-collective as another casualty of Spatial Anomaly #141?  Or 
would the cube leave the conduit seconds after it had entered?  Possibly even before, 
given the contortions time was enduring?
	*Snap*
	With each transition, the sense of urgency grew greater, the belief that the sub-
collective would be caught forever in a temporal limbo.
	*Snap*

			*	*	*	*	*

	Darkness.
	A faint patch of light.
	A bright whirlpool of stars - the Milky Way Galaxy.
	Falling through darkness into the diffuse radiance of billions of stars:  a surreal 
perspective for a disembodied point of view.  Like a dream, or maybe a nightmare, far 
soon becomes near, individual stars streaking past at impossible speeds.
	Something is missing.
	With an unthought, the journey is paused.
	What is missing?  Unknown.  However, it is with a certainty possible only in 
dreams it is unequivocally recognized that wrongness is nigh.  A sixth (seventh?  tenth?) 
sense says it to be, a dream-feeling that cannot be dismissed.
	The journey continues.
	Another star, a yellow dwarf, is passed, this one harboring a family of planets.  
The star, in no way outstanding among the other flaming balls of churning plasma, is 
oddly familiar.  A particular planet is focused upon; and the scene abruptly jumps to a 
viewpoint of one standing upon the surface.
	An ordinary day, replete with the buzz of insects and the call of birds.  Waves 
joyfully crash against the base of cliffs draped with thick greenery and clinging flowers.  
Far away comes the distant hum of vehicles and laughter of families on holiday.
	Despite the restful scene, so unlike that encountered twice previously, the feeling 
of wrongness persists.  The planet is abandoned for the cool depths of space.  Perspective 
blurs, fast-forwarding to another star, another planet, another too-normal vista.
	And another.
	And another.
	And another.
	And another...not exactly infinity, but one at a time (or simultaneously, following 
logic applicable only to dreams) all life-supporting worlds in the galaxy are visited.
	While species and technologies encountered are unfamiliar, every place is found 
to be ordinary, even mundane, concerning the day-to-day affairs of the locals.  Wherever, 
whenever, this is, these times are prosperous, peaceful.
	Finally the dreamwalker stops to float among the stars and just listen....
	A song can be heard, a chorus of harmony weaving together its parts into one vast 
organism.  It is a melody oddly familiar, yet inverted, a wholly organic melding where 
one expects the harsher notes of structured mechanization.
	Horror dawns, understanding emerging out of nothingness - a dream epiphany.
	Focus shifts, finding the cancer which is They beginning to nibble at the star 
systems of the outer galactic rim.  They are cautious - They have had Their plans derailed 
before - and have not progressed far, yet They have also established a toehold upon Their 
future conquest.
	Yet and still, something remains missing; and again the dreamwalker intently 
listens to the infinite darkness.  There...there it is....
	It is the song of the Borg, extraordinarily faint.  It is a collective voice without a 
Collective, calling for a Greater Consciousness which no longer exists, is extinct.  A 
sense of urgency pervades the dream, a need to find the source of the Borg-song.  Yet 
even as the goal is approached, an outside force pulls the searcher away.  The dream is 
soon to end.
	Even as the vision dissolves, torn into streamers to blow upon the cosmic 
unwinds, a glimpse is made of the originator.  It is a Borg Exploratory-class cube.  Alone.  
Single.  Defiant even as it recognizes the futility of its actions-to-come.
	Is it a nightmare?  A dream?
	Prophecy?

			*	*	*	*	*

	Lugger-class Cube #238 raggedly transitioned to normal space.
	{Are we there yet?} asked Reserve rhetorically even as he directed the partitions 
he oversaw into the too-familiar routine of anchoring the cube and prepping for the next 
dive into the temporal currents.  Several units had to be coerced into performing their 
assigned duty:  intranet speculation and analysis of the most recent shared time-
hallucination /were not/ more important than ship safety.  After almost 11 cycles of 
feeling out the correct path through the conduit, to return to the center of the labyrinth 
was highly undesirable.
	A few minutes later, Sensors answered Reserve's query.  {Actually, I think we 
are.  The compass rock is no longer responding; pulsar rotational speeds are as expected; 
and the grid registers tachyon drift originating behind us.  Subspace density readings 
suggest that the deepest layers will become transparent to Collective fractal frequencies 
in an estimated 2.1 light years.}  Sensors offered both raw and compiled grid data to the 
sub-collective for digestion.
	The consensus cascade as to the next action to take was very short and 
uncharacteristically unanimous.  Prime limited herself to a single {I told you so}.
	Cube #238 plunged into the highest warp factor it could manage.

	The final time-hallucination was impacting Prime's efficiency, dataspace 
reverberations of the vision a background datathread unable to be purged.  Although she 
was loath to admit it to herself, she, personally, had been highly disturbed by the 
temporal dream, especially when considered along with the other shared hallucinations.  
She did not know what it all meant; and, frankly, did not want to...she only wanted and 
desired to be a useful unit to the Collective Whole.
	Leave it to others, preferably those far away, to be pawns in Grand Destiny.  They 
could have it.  She, her sub-collective, had cargo to deliver.
	Prime once again registered her need for mental adjustment.  Unfortunately, 
assimilation hierarchy was more than a little busy dealing with those designations with 
issues of more pressing urgency.  Until and unless Prime had a psyche meltdown - 
unlikely as Hierarchy of Five drones, and command and control units in general, were 
chosen for their mental fortitude - she was classified as low priority.
	In her dataspace holotheater, Prime was alerted as the communication array 
finally registered a Borg carrier wave upon the appropriate fractal frequencies.  A link 
was re-established with the Greater Consciousness.
	{What is the time?  We urgently require chronometer synchronization,} was the 
first communique Prime sent to the Whole, running roughshod over a reciprocal request-
demand for all data related to the passageway.  {We need to know the time.  Now!}
	Taken aback at the insistence of what was normally regulated to an automatic 
background function, Cube #238's chronometer was updated.
	{We were only in there 4.8 cycles,} said Prime, echoing the astonishment of the 
sub-collective entire.  The implications of the temporal dilation, along with the comfort 
of linkage with the Whole, however distantly the imperfect sub-collective was held from 
the center, allowed her disquiet over the time-hallucinations to fade.
	The Greater Consciousness was unwilling to further indulge its imperfect sub-
collective; and while it was pleased at the speed the cube had crossed Spatial Anomaly 
#141, it wanted all data pertinent to the passage.  Now.  Prime complied, beginning the 
download of tagged files and memes.
	And, then, a too-cheerful *bing!* echoed through the dataspaces.  A particular 
countdown timer had just reached zero.
	While it had been a mere 7.8 cycles from the Collective's point-of-view since 
Cube #238 had left Manufactory Nexus #201 (3 cycles to the passage, plus 4.8 cycle 
crossing time), from the sub-collective's subjective experience a bit over 30 cycles had 
passed.
	Specifically, it was 30.7 cycles since several million liters of Organic Precursor 
#4 had been removed from the electromagnetic field which stabilized its molecular 
structure.
	Ironically, Cube #238 /had/ made up some of the cycles thus far lost this duty 
cycle, only to simultaneously fail a critical time-dependent subtask.
	{Warning!} chirped the computer.  {Internal sensors for Bulk Cargo Hold #6 are 
detecting an increase in the following volatiles:  [list of molecular compounds].}
	When Organic Precursor #4 destabilized, it did so in an impressive manner.  
During the first hour, the substance was exceedingly caustic, easily able to eat through 
both its storage barrels and duralloy deck plating.  The caustic stage also released a 
noxious stew of toxic and flammable fumes, the latter of which threatened wide scale 
immolation if the least spark was introduced.  Very viscous, stage one rotten Organic 
Precursor #4 quickly spread, making (or eating) its way into every crack or crevice, 
thusly setting itself up for the next phase of its spoilage.
	After an hour, stage two initiated whereupon spoilt Organic Precursor #4 abruptly 
solidified.  Resembling a transparent green jello, all items touched or engulfed were 
trapped in the goo.  Slightly rubbery to the tough, it subsequently became very, very 
difficult to remove by conventional (and unconventional) means, resistant to - extremes 
of heat and cold; water, acids, and most solvents; physical battering by hammers or 
cutting by saws/lasers; and application of electricity.
	{We be havin' 'n emergency,} announced Engineer into the intranets.  {We be 
needin' every available body t' begin a'movin' cargo away from th' number four goo.  Nah 
dwaddlin' allowed 'n' no excuses.  Ye 'ave all been drafted.  We also be unidlin' auxiliary 
cores 'n' directin' backup power to transporters.  /Try/ t' keep track o' where ya beam 
things.}  The cube decelerated to normal space, then halted, propulsion not considered a 
critical system to which to supply power.
	Despite an extensive library of vulgarisms, despite the dictionaries available to 
her in the event personal knowledge was insufficient, Prime had no words, polite or 
otherwise, for the situation.  The primary consensus monitor and facilitator was required 
by her sub-collective, her body to move pallets of cargo and her mind to keep the crew 
acting in a semi-coordinated fashion.
	Meanwhile, the Greater Consciousness was demanding an update to accompany 
the ongoing data download, suspicious that something likely to contribute in a negative 
manner to the imperfect sub-collective's efficiency rankings had just occurred.
	Prime randomly selected an instrumental from 23 of 175's muzak collection, a file 
with a comment describing the contents as 'a fusion of Klingon-Andorian warrior ballads 
with a strong modern Kreen influence'.  Whatever it was, it would have to do for hold 
music.  As a final action before reporting to her duty station in Bulk Cargo Hold #6, she 
constricted the cube's recently renewed Collective link as narrow as possible without 
actually severing it and turned on the voice messaging system.
	<<We are sorry, but Lugger-class Cube #238-3152.b is unavailable at the moment 
due to one or more of the following:  rampaging cargo, spatial anomaly, Q or other 
omnipotent being, malfunction, and/or incompetence.  At the beep, please leave name, 
subspace number or GalacWeb address you can be reached, and a short message.  We 
will return your call as soon as we can.  Unless this is a solicitation, in which case we will 
hunt you down and terminate you, for solicitators are unfit to be assimilated.  
*BEEEEP*>>