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

				Paved With Good Intentions

	I only wanted to help.
	The humans have a saying:  "The road to Hell is paved with good intentions."  My 
own species - Gedar - has a similar adage, although not expressed nearly so elegantly; 
and I am sure that all the myriad of civilizations that have flourished through history have 
developed comparable sentiments.
	When I first encountered DAPT-
	[Inaudible murmuring]
	DAPT?  It means Drones Are People Too.  It's an organization that campaigns for 
the rights of the assimilated and nanomachine-challenged.  You would not believe how 
biased it can be for people with an implant or two and for whom proper de-assimilation is 
not an option.  Or, even worse, for the poor drone who has managed to escape his Color 
and-
	[More murmurs]
	Oh, you want to know how I became involved in DAPT!  Well, you see, it all 
started when I was at Wilmoni University....

			*	*	*	*	*

	"Trakiki!  Oy!  Trakiki!"
	Stopping, book bag heavy on my shoulder, I turned towards the sound of my 
name.  Not unexpectedly, it was Begigi, running across the lawn fronting the Wilmoni 
University student union building.  As she pelted towards me, clutching a single (and 
rather thin) book, she waved her free hand excitedly...just in case I had not seen her, I 
guess.
	"Trakiki!" exclaimed Begigi as she slowed to a stop.  She seemed willing to 
continue, but could not due to lack of breath.  Like myself, Begigi was a Gedar; and 
except for the rare individual, Gedar were not especially well known for their athletic 
ability.
	Typical humanoid in form, the primary distinguishing feature which set Gedar 
apart from the many similar species in the sector was an intricate series of nose and chin 
ornamentation.  Current fashion was to individually paint each bone plate so as to form a 
colorful abstract mosaic that swept across the jaw to terminate at low-set ears.  It was 
almost predictable that Begigi would have perfected the technique, but then again, 
anyone, even non-Gedar, could see that she was a beauty destined for modeling 
greatness.  Why she felt the need to be at University, I did not know.  I, on the other 
hand, felt it a good day when I had the time to apply a basic two-tone pattern:  my dual 
major of logistical engineering and computer systems was a harsh mistress.
	I had no idea why a creature such as Begigi was willing to be my friend, not that I 
was ungrateful.  After all, without Begigi urging me to accompany her to one party or 
another, my social life would have consisted solely of the words scribed upon books and 
PADDs.
	"What is it, Begigi?" I patiently asked once I saw the other had caught her breath.  
This pause in my trek across campus would make me late for my next class, but I was not 
worried.  As I was currently running a score of 105% - the extra-credit assignment had 
received top marks - I could afford to miss a few minutes of lecture.  Boring lecture, 
too...the professor was infamous for a dully droning cadence that could put even the most 
stimulant-juiced kwonzi-bird to sleep.
	Begigi grinned, showing off her perfect teeth.  "Did you hear?  The Club 
president has decided on our next campaign!  I've been told to tell /everyone/!"
	Now I was definitely interested.  Begigi had been the one to introduce me to the 
"Cause of the Month" club, a campus organization dedicated to searching out worthy 
causes.  Once a month, a new cause was chosen and all members - assuming it didn't 
conflict with class/work schedules, or parties, or sporting events, or favorite triV 
programs - would gather together in order to demonstrate our support.  I know many 
people at the University rolled their eyes or twirled their antennae and called Club 
members flighty, but I felt it selfish to devote all one's time to a single cause when there 
were /so/ many of them out there.
	"What is it?" I asked eagerly.
	Begigi pursed her lips in a disapproving expression.  "Remember a couple of 
months ago when the registrar denied admission to that ex-Purple drone?"
	I nodded.  "It didn't really seem very fair.  It wasn't his fault that he had that 
mechanical arm.  You see worse all the time if you go down to the trauma ward at the 
University research hospital."
	"Exactly.  And his skin was barely gray at all.  A friend" - Begigi had friends 
everywhere - "heard that the fellow only wanted to earn a waste/recycling engineer 
degree, but the deans were afraid that he'd, like, go all Borgy and start assimilating 
everyone."
	"That hardly happens at all, outside the movies or the vid-tabloids," I scoffed.  
The library bells were ringing their hourly chime; and although that meant I was now 
officially late to class, I was no longer in anything resembling a hurry.
	Begigi nodded in agreement.  "Anyway, there's to be a DAPT rally to protest the 
decision in three days on the steps of the union building.  If everyone shows up, then 
there will be /twice/ as many people speaking out for the cause.  And handing out 
leaflets."
	As the Club only had ten people, that meant DAPT, who or whatever it was, was 
therefore quite small and, by definition, a cause worth helping out.  But first, "What is 
DAPT?"
	"Drones Are People Too, or at least that is what Cyndi told me."  Cyndi was the 
Club's president.  "She wasn't quite sure she could make it - Amberstom Hall is having a 
Terran-import kung-fu fest - but if one of the movies seemed to be lacking fu, then she 
said she could probably put in an hour or two of Assisting a Worthy Cause."  When she 
wanted, Begigi could verbally capitalize words.
	"Sounds good!  I-"

			*	*	*	*	*

	[Murmuring]
	I apologize, but you should have been more specific.  However, that was when I 
first encountered DAPT.
	What netzine is this interview for, again?  I'm willing to talk all day, but I'd like to 
tailor myself, and DAPT, to your audience.  Or is this a police investigation?  I forget.
	[A dismissive murmur]
	Not relevant.  If you say so.  Just remember that you can only accomplish so 
much via editing.  Tone and how the words flow count as well.
	[A quiet question]
	What happened?  Well, Begigi and I were the only ones that showed up at the 
rally.  Everyone else in the Club was very busy, you see.  The protest barely lasted three 
hours, but its organizer told me all about the injustices heaped upon ex-drones and others 
of an aggressive-nanite-challenged nature.  I decided then and there that DAPT was the 
only cause for me.  I resigned from the Cause of the Month club and focused on DAPT 
exclusively.  When I could, of course...I /was/ double majoring at the time and Begigi 
always had a party or another that she wanted me to attend.
	[Multiple murmurs, as if several voices discussing something, then another 
question]
	Yes, I finished my degrees.  With logistical engineering and computer systems on 
my resume - oh, and a minor in AI psychology - I had companies lined up to offer me 
jobs.  I thought it over for quite a while, but in the end I decided to work for DAPT.  The 
pay was only a fraction of what the big companies were offering, but the work was not 
about money.  At most of the companies, well, you may not be assimilated, but you are 
still a drone.  With DAPT, I was making a difference.
	[A questioning tone, just on the edge of audibility]
	What did I do?  I wasn't in the front lines at DAPT, if that is what you are trying 
to get at!  I did background research, prepared logistical frameworks, that sort of thing, 
for the Lobby Wing.  That's the branch that petitions governments, holds rallies, 
fundraises, recruits new members, and so forth.
	As time went on and I because increasingly trusted within the organization, I was 
assigned greater challenges.  Mostly I inserted messages into anti-DAPT computer 
systems or crafted virii that tracked the movements of certain persons whom the Lobby 
Wing was stalking.  However, when I showed interest in more action-oriented projects, 
several people in the Active-Politics began to mentor me in the more aggressive tactics 
necessary to participate in that wing.
	Before you ask - I can feel the question coming - I never used any of the devices 
the wing occasionally has need to resort to.  Jamine did, or one of his field operatives.  As 
head of the Active-Politics Wing, he not only dictated when and where coercive 
persuasion would be employed, but, in order to show he was willing to lead from the 
front, often detonated them himself.  When I expressed worries about how bombs - both 
the literal devices, as well as the digital ones I crafted - were being deployed, even 
hurting people, Jamine talked to me personally.  Many times.  He assured me that the 
methods of the Active-Politics Wing were last resort measures, only engaged when it was 
clear that Lobby Wing discussions had failed.  Most importantly, Jamine told me that if 
those who were hurt, be it physically, monetarily, or by reputation, were not such anti-
drone bigots, then there would be no need for the Active-Politics Wing at all.  It was 
/their/ fault.
	It all seemed very logical; and I pride myself on my logic.  I may not be one of 
those Vulcan people I've heard about, but I like to carefully look at a problem and 
understand it fully.
	Sometimes I heard on the news or from my friends of bystanders, even ex-drones, 
impacted due my actions.  For example, one of my virii might inadvertently escape from 
the system it was meant to compromise and cause secondary damage to non-targets.  That 
bothered me, both then and now.  However, when such things happen, I have to 
remember what Jamine-
	[Interruption for a query]
	I don't know too much about Jamie.  Nobody does, to tell the truth.  I do admit a 
certain attraction, but he's not my species and it wouldn't work.  Cross-species 
relationships rarely do.  Then again, I think /every/ female, and probably some of the 
males, maybe even neuters, feel the same way I do, so my admiration isn't exactly 
shocking.  But Jamie *sigh* doesn't seem to realize he sparks those sort of feelings in his 
DAPT colleagues...he's all professional, all the time.  Some, usually derogatory news-
vids, call him fanatical, but I know it is just deep dedication to the cause.
	Let me tell you about the first time I met him. 

			*	*	*	*	*

	"You are Trakiki, correct?"
	I was in my cubicle, leaning back in my chair with eyes half-closed as I interfaced 
with the computer through my c-jack.  I was in the process of building a new sniffer 
program:  DAPT's top lobbyists were trying to secure promises from a key senator from 
some backwater colony, and they needed more leverage.  Unfortunately, the electronic 
defenses surrounding the target had thus far proven to be stronger than normal, so I had 
been tasked to tweak a sniffer to wriggle into the desired files.  Maybe there was nothing 
to see, but considering the prowling hunter-seeker pack protecting the senator's personal 
system, I was expecting to unearth a skeleton or two from his closet.
	"Trakiki?"
	When I dive into the digital realm via c-jack, it can be difficult to rouse me.  
Because of the software beasties I work with, I maintain a system physically separate 
from the larger DAPT headquarters network.  While some work is possible with standard 
terminal and verbal interface, for delicate operations nothing beats cybernetic jacking.  
Control over the code is much more precise.  It can be dangerous - c-jacks are hardware 
that allow direct connection between computer and neural wetware - because if virii 
decide to turn on their masters, well, the brain for most species, Gedar included, has 
difficulty separating real and simulated input.  Stroke, even death, is not unheard of as the 
mind translates a virtual attack into real-world consequences.  However, in this case the 
code I had isolated was a harmless sniffer.
	A hand against my shoulder.  Gentle shaking.  The physical touch registered as 
my name had not, and I issued the commands to pull my attention away from the digital 
landscapes.
	"Huh?"  I must admit, I'm not at my best when I exit a c-jack session, my brain 
struggling to readjust to real-world input.  Among other things, I tend to drool.
	"You are Trakiki?  That is what the name says on the outside of your cubicle."
	The soft-spoken voice did not fit with the figure looking down at me.  The person 
making the inquiry was Qua'tohf, which meant a humanoid half a head taller than me, 
pointy ears, high cheekbones, perfect hair, lithe frame, and pale skin with a just-on-the-
edge-of-perception iridescent quality.  I've always thought the race looked like something 
out of a fairy tale, except Qua'tohf were very real, not myths.  This particular Qua'tohf 
had an inexplicable intensity to his dark eyes, his manner, as if he held great reserves of 
hidden energy barely controlled.
	I squinted up at the intruder to my realm.  There were few Qua'tohf upon the 
DAPT staff, but the organization was sufficiently large, not to mention including a 
plethora of field-going personnel and volunteers, that one would be hard-pressed to know 
all but those individuals regularly encountered.
	"Can I" - pause to wipe the unseemly saliva trickling down my chin - "help you?"
	"You are Trakiki?"
	"Yes."  My assent was cautious.  Had someone sent me a new intern without 
informing me first?
	"I am Jamine."
	My understanding of the situation abruptly changed.  As a member of the Lobby 
Wing, my interactions with the Active-Political side of DAPT was limited.  Oh, I had 
done a few projects for them - mined information - but my energies were primarily 
focused upon behind-the-scenes support for the fundraisers and lobbyists.  It was a 
satisfying job, albeit lacking in glamour.  However, despite my disconnect from Active-
Politics, I would have had to have been in a c-jack coma to have not heard of Jamine.
	"Jamine?" I squeaked, not my best response.  I hastily ripped the c-jack cord out 
of the spinal port on the back of my neck and stood up.  "Um...chair...chair...do you want 
a chair?"  My cubicle was a mess, the lone chair to be seen my own.  "Or maybe, er, 
something to eat?"  Again, the only thing I had to offer was a half-consumed bag of 
sweet-snacks.
	Jamine raised one hand and gently waved it back and forth.  "No, no.  Do not 
trouble yourself.  I only stopped by because I heard you were the best, and I have a 
special request for Active-Politics.  It seemed most polite to ask in person, as well as 
meet this extraordinary Gedar I've been hearing about."
There is a certain charisma to Jamie that makes it difficult to say 'no' to his 
requests; and although, to that point, I had never met him personally, I was immediately 
enthralled by his quiet confidence.  "Anything.  Yes."
	"Do you not even wish to hear my application?  You /may/ find it distasteful, I 
admit, but sometimes the methods my Wing uses can seem a bit harsh to the outsider.  It 
is all to further DAPT and drone rights, of course, but I will understand if you might wish 
to pass on the project."  Sincerity...it is the rare individual who can evoke such a 
sensation.
	"I'll...."  I paused before I could unilaterally agree.  Obviously Jamine wanted to 
test me, to determine my commitment to DAPT.  "What is the project, sir?"
	Jamie's face stretched into the radiant smile for which he was famous.  "Thank 
you for hearing me out.  It has come to my attention that there is an individual whom is 
about to sign an agreement with the Purple Collective to clean up a lunar waste dump.  
The drones are to be /specially assimilated/ for the project, originating as prisoners from 
this individual's own jail system.  Ethical considerations aside - how a race treats its 
criminals is not DAPT's interest - I have been told by those close to the situation that the 
signatory has stipulated that the assimilated prisoners must be given the most dangerous 
tasks, even if other drones are better suited.  This despicable act is supposed to send a 
threatening message of deterrence to the rest of the prison populace.
	"Purple will agree - the Collective has been desiring to clear the dump, but not 
wanting to commit resources under a militaristic option because of dedication of its war-
cubes to higher environmental priorities elsewhere.  However, it is not Purple's fault...it is 
only following its Path to Perfection.  The individual, on the other hand, who is 
authorizing this blatant drone abuse must be shown the error of his ways."
	I nodded.  "I completely understand and agree.  What do you need me to do?"
	"I need information," said Jamie.  "Specifically, I need information concerning the 
individual's daily routine...I need to know exactly where he is, or will be, on a given day.  
I have a special DAPT gift to give the man."  The Qua'tohf...giggled.
	Now I was confused, for the request was not overly unusual.  The Lobby Wing 
needed such data all the time, and surely there were specialists within the arm of DAPT 
Jamine oversaw that could provide similar information.  "Why me?"
	"The target is well protected.  I've been told you are making quite a name for 
yourself by ferreting out certain nuggets of information...and even turning off protections 
when need be."
	I smiled, feeling proud that my efforts had not gone unnoticed.  Sometimes DAPT 
lobbyists needed a few moments alone with their subjects sans electronic spies or 
recording devices.  Obviously Jamine required a similar black-out period to deliver his 
gift.  "I can do that.  Any bodyguards or physical protection-"
	"Let me worry about that," assured Jamie, winking as he did so.
	"No problem, then.  May I have the details?"
	Jamie nodded.  "Not right now.  You will receive them within a day or two 
through one of my lieutenants.  You obviously were very busy with your current work, 
and I would not want my project to delay another vital DAPT endeavor."  And with that, 
Jamie turned and left my cubicle.
	I was provided the specifics of my assignment the next day.
	A week later, the news was reporting upon the assassination of the vice-president 
of Polian IV.  And his entourage.  Via a pocket thermonuclear device.  No one else was 
killed; and the hospital treating residual radiation contamination of bystanders received 
an anonymous donation to defray costs.
	Jamie subsequently congratulated me personally, telling me that only because of 
my efforts had the operation run so smoothly.  I felt proud at helping DAPT in a more 
direct manner, then returned to my normal Lobby Wing job.
	Three weeks later, I was given another 'special' assignment.
	After a year, I was transferred to the Active-Political Wing to provide dedicated 
logistical support.

			*	*	*	*	*

	[Murmurs - several individuals talking (arguing?) amongst themselves before one 
overpowered the others with a question]
	Yes, I was responsible for tracking down the Borg cube.  It was the hardest task I 
had ever been assigned.
	[A sharp, one word demand]
	Of course I can elaborate!  I am very proud of what I accomplished!  Well, not 
what came later, but in the beginning it seemed like the ultimate challenge.  First, 
however, I should provide a bit of background so everything makes sense.
	DAPT has been trying for a long time to have individual drones within 
Collectives declared sentient beings.  Right now, most governments, if the issue is 
considered at all, proclaim the Color to be a 'person' and its drones little more than the 
equivalent of 'body parts'.  This is despite the fact that if a drone, excepting the purpose-
grown creche clones, is successfully excised from its Collective, then it becomes obvious 
it is a person, not a 'skin cell' or a bit of 'hair'.  Governments, especially the biggies like 
the Alpha Quadrant Second Federation, do not want to declare personhood for Color 
drones because to do so would mean the poor creatures would have to be labeled 
enslaved.  Slavery is /supposed/ to be illegal, excepting very specific cultural or religious 
reasons of which the Colors do not qualify.  To harbor slavers, to do /business/ with them 
or allow business to be conducted within territorial borders, is technically banned.  
However, business /is/ done with Colors, and as many Colors wield some degree of 
financial and/or military power, it is /politically/ distasteful for governments to pass the 
drone personhood laws that are /morally/ demanded.
	And, of course, such discrimination inevitably trickles down to all segments of 
society, leading to the rampant prejudice expressed towards the ex-drone and rouge 
communities.  DAPT has successfully passed local drone-tolerance laws, but, in reality, 
that only treats the symptoms, not the cause.
	About six months ago...excuse me, but, and this is silly, I cannot seem to 
remember your name.  Nor do I recall you contacting me for an interview.  Was it a spur 
of the moment thing?
	[A brusque response]
	Blow to the head.  So, this is taking place in a hospital?  That would explain the-
	[An interruption indicates desire to return to topic]
	Investigative reporter allowed limited access.  Gotcha.  This is the lull between 
surgeries.  I do not /feel/ messed up, but considering how the Borg cube thing ended....
	Back to topic, yes and yes.
	About six months ago, Jamine came to me with a special project.  He was 
convinced that if individualism could be indisputably demonstrated among original Borg 
drones - ones still linked to their Collective - than the various arguments used by 
legislators and Colors alike to dismiss accusations of slavery would fall apart.  A grand 
campaign focusing upon the horrors of drone slavery, using suitable testimonials and 
graphic pictorial segments, would sway public support to DAPT and force lasting change.  
First, however, the appropriate drones had to be found.
	That was my task:  find the subjects and prepare the expedition.  If you know 
where to listen, there have always been whispered stories concerning the existence of an 
'imperfect' sub-collective within the Borg Collective.  If there was even a small kernel of 
truth to the rumor, then that alone strongly suggested that there was more individualism 
among the Borg than any Collective, Color or original, would dare admit.  Drones were 
/persons/, neither cogs nor cells, their minds and bodies chained against their will.
	It took much time, effort, and credits to confirm existence of the Borg Collective 
vessel Lugger-class Cube #238.  At times I spent /days/ c-jacked into the GalacNet, fed 
via an intravenous drip like I was a modded game addict.  However, some of the data I 
had to acquire was locked behind heavily secured firewalls requiring the intelligence and 
reflexes of an actual mind to be present...sniffers and similar tools were insufficient.
	The project became a vast jigsaw puzzle, with me trying to fit all the pieces 
together.  Even after Cube #238's authenticity had been established, there came the 
difficulty of finding, tracking, and, eventually, making an expedition to a single vessel 
deep within BorgSpace.  In the end, I had to resort to contracting a reputable Xenig.  The 
coffers of DAPT lightened a bit with that particular expense, but not too much because I 
was able to siphon the accounts of several anti-drone legislators.  Once I might have 
considered it stealing, but...I targeted persons with a long history of discriminatory law-
making; and even then, I insisted only taking from those accounts built via drone 
exploitation.
	Jamine loved the irony when I explained it to him.
	Originally, behind-the-scenes office work and logistical planning was to be the 
extent of my involvement.  Then Jamine suggested, since I had shown such dedication, 
that I follow the project to its conclusion, which meant going into the field.  That way I 
could see how things were accomplished by he and his agents, which in turn would 
provide me a better understanding back in the office to ensure smooth coordination of all 
aspects of a mission.  Naturally, I was flattered at the request!
	I did express personal doubts, given my lack of field experience.  Jamine assured 
me that my job would be purely support:  I would run cameras and observe.  Anything 
that needed to be /done/ would be accomplished by himself and the crew he was 
assembling.  The /hard/ part of the project - finding the target and preparing for the 
mission - was complete.  All Jamine needed to do was interview a few drones and acquire 
some video in order to establish the fact that the Collective was a cruel enslaver of 
individuals.
	Easy.

			*	*	*	*	*

	"Do you want to change the contract?"
	"You know DAPT doesn't have that sort of cash."
	"Then," said the warmly tenor voice of the Xenig within whose chassis I was 
presently residing, "the only service you get is transport to and from your objective:  a 
dozen organics and gear shuttled to the middle of nowhere, and a dozen organics and gear 
shuttled back to civilization.  During the in-between, I hold station nearby - did you know 
that my GalacNet reception is /horrid/ out here?  And I did not bring nearly enough sims 
to keep me amused.  I am going to be bored out of my mind."
	"Then you are being paid good money to be bored, Lagh!" I snapped.  The AI 
psychology courses I had taken at University had skipped the topic of mechs, focusing 
instead upon non-sentient systems.  "Are we at least allowed to beam back and forth 
between the target and these quarters?"  The Xenig's hold was adequate, if cramped, 
space for myself, Jamine, and his field team.
	"I don't care.  However, the beam-out point has to be the established beachhead.  
I'm not about to make the effort to fish out any of you organics if you get into trouble, so 
don't come squealing to me if it all goes bad on you.  And it will, mark my words.  
Unless, of course, you want to change the contract to include a rescue clause."
	"No."
	"Your funeral, then.  But, yes, I will beam you in and out of the beachhead.  That 
falls under the 'transport' heading, sub-bullet five to be exact."  There was a pause.  "And, 
as I've said before, /no/ pets.  You will /not/ bring aboard any of those disgusting 
creatures that infest the objective.  I will put up with squishy organics, but not the half 
organic-half mech /things/ on that cube."
	Who would have guessed a Xenig could hold a prejudice?  "They are Borg, and 
we are here to prove that they are simply misunderstood, enslaved individuals."
	Lagh chortled.  The expression of dark amusement sounded perfectly natural for 
all that it was emanating from a speaker grill embedded into the wall next to a small 
entertainment center.  "Have you ever actually talked to a Borg drone?  And I don't mean 
an ex-drone or a rogue.  You can't imprison someone who doesn't believe they are 
enslaved in the first place!  A drone unit is more a slave than...than, um, a Po.  You do 
know what a Po is, yes?"
	I had once seen a Po.  A typical individual was comprised of five or six subunits, 
with a dozen subunits the maximum.  The subunits - resembling a large caterpillar, but 
mammalian - on their own were smart, but subsentient.  A critical number of subunits 
was required to create a true consciousness, a true 'self'; and that self would dissolve if 
subunits strayed too far from each other, suggesting interconnectivity was maintained by 
a specialized form of telepathy or empathy.  The Po themselves, I had heard, discouraged 
outsiders access to the pertinent medical records for religious reasons.  Regardless, the Po 
represented a fascinating example of a naturally evolved biological collective.
	"It is not the same," I argued.  "A Po subunit is /not/ a true individual.  It is /born/ 
to be part of a larger body.  A Borg drone was a sentient individual to start with.  Well, 
unless it was a creche clone, but that is totally different."
	"And assimilated drones have been reborn to be less than individuals.  Most 
cannot function alone; and to remove one from the Whole is like catching up a Po subunit 
and locking it away from its self.  As a Po subunit, if you ask it, only wants to belong to 
its self, so does a Borg drone.  Rogues are psychotic aberrants.  Ex-drones and the poor 
bastards with black-market nanite infections are, well, pitiful.  /Those/ are the individuals 
you DAPTer organics should be focusing upon, if I understand your organization charter 
correctly, not trying to get rights for /Collective Borg/."
	The Active-Political Wing of DAPT pushed the boundaries of drone rights a bit 
further than the Lobby side.  It was very progressive, looking ahead to where DAPT as a 
whole eventually needed to go.  "And how would you know this?  Have /you/ talked to 
Borg?  Original or Color?"
	Silence.
	"That's what I thought."  As much as I liked a good debate, I needed to catch up 
with Jamine and his crew.  They and the bulk of the gear had already been beamed to the 
beachhead, leaving me behind to try to modify the contract (without cost) and ready the 
cameras.  As I had already done the latter, and the former was obviously not to happen, it 
seemed nothing more was to be accomplished within Lagh's hold.
	"Well," said Lagh, "I can tell you that there has been no reaction to your intrusion.  
When the Hive realigned itself back to Collective, it seemed to have lost a number of 
protocols developed to deal with interloping non-Borg.  I do not know how long that will 
last; and considering the target you DAPTers have chosen, I strongly suspect adaptations 
by the sub-collective will quickly take place.  Are you absolutely sure you do not want to 
alter your contract to include an rescue-"
	"I am sure."
	"Whatever."  The tone indicated dismissal.  We were organics, and Lagh was a 
mech.  From his point of view, we ranked of no great importance, tolerated only because 
our credit would eventually be deposited in the Xenig Transcendence Fund.  "I suppose I 
can get some amusement value from this.  The sub-collective is making every effort to 
ignore me, even when I ping them for hail requests or swoop low over their hull.  They 
probably think I'm some random mech trying to annoy them.  If their engines weren't all 
bollixed up - they'll be stuck in normal space the entire week you've paid me to hold here, 
mark my words - I bet they'd be driving themselves faster and faster, trying to get away 
from me.  It might be fun to see how far I can push this 'Ignore the mech' silent 
treatment."
	I was aghast.  "Don't compromise our mission!"
	The speaker emitted a raspberry.  "Piffle.  Fine, I'll stare at my non-existent belly 
button, maybe play a sim or two.  As much as it has been a distraction talking to you, are 
you ready to be sent to the cube?  A dozen individuals has been taxing to my 
environmental systems, and I would like to clean my hold.  That would be easier if there 
were no organics shedding skin cells and hair and stuff."
	Lagh was definitely lacking tact.  Then again, I bet that if he was sufficiently 
compensated, he could be polite enough.  I went over to stand next to the camera crate, 
checking the output on a small screen to confirm the machines inside were in good 
health.  All seemed ready.  Rations and my personal gear had already been beamed over; 
and the communicator necessary to talk to Lagh from the cube was pinned to my tunic.  
"I'm ready."
	"See you later, then.  Maybe."  The transporter initialized.
	"Trakiki!"  The individual calling my name as I rematerialized had been one I had 
thought left in my past, a friend lost as is wont to happen as life-paths merge and part.  
Therefore, it had come as a great surprise when Jamine had initially introduced his hand-
picked field crew to me, a team that had included Begigi.
	Despite my heavy academic load, I had graduated before Begigi, who had seemed 
content to forever remain a student pursuing a comparative literature degree in-between 
those times she was not attending parties or Club activities.  Begigi had eventually grown 
bored with her lifestyle, opting to drop out of college and accept a short-term body rental 
with Orange Borg.  The experience had apparently changed her.
	During the trip to our Borg cube target, Begigi had related in great detail her two 
year contract.  Orange Borg were known as perky and prone to parties, which was very 
appealing to the younger crowd; and the 'try before you buy' contracts were also 
attractive.  Being a wholly volunteer Collective - no conscripts, no creche clones - meant 
that Orange had to aggressively market itself.  It was very successful, and a good 
proportion of its short-term rentals eventually returned for either long-term or permanent 
contracts.
	The Orange Collective had decided that 'special effects' was the role best suited 
for Begigi.  The euphemism translating into a job whereupon Begigi had at first assisted, 
then directed, as aptitude and enthusiasm became apparent, the setting of lights and 
pyrotechnic displays for Orange parties.  Of course, to understand the best way to /not/ 
blow things up was to intimately know /how/ to blow things up.  Downloaded knowledge 
only went so far; and personal experience and experimentation was highly desirable.
	At the expiration of her contract, Begigi had been fully de-assimilated.  Orange 
was a meticulous Color when it came to deBorging its volunteers, including extras such 
as muscle toning and skin/body conditioning.  Volunteers, including Begigi, left Orange 
in better health and more beautiful than when they had begun their tenure.  Naturally, 
Orange did not bestow 'parting gifts' magnanimously, but as a component of its larger 
self-marketing plan:  satisfied customers were much more likely to recommend the Color 
to their friends, as well as return in the future.
	Orange was not a Color DAPT had its attention upon.  As Begigi was quite happy 
to relate, everyone in the Collective strove together to find Perfection through parties, but 
no one was /forced/ to cooperate.  The Whole worked to find a position for each drone in 
its volunteer workforce; and if a place seemed lacking, or the drone in question just did 
not want to assist, then he/she/it would be terminated (figuratively, not literally) from 
their contract early.
	After her release, Begigi had tried to find a job.  In light of her new skills - all 
specialized knowledge had been retained, another Orange 'gift' - she had attempted to 
enter the field of construction demolition.  Unfortunately, she had been dismissed out of 
hand as "too pretty" or "too delicate", never mind an ability to construct over a dozen 
deadly devices using nothing more than a tricorder, chewing gum, and the contents of the 
average kitchen junk drawer.  Finally Begigi had encountered a DAPT recruiter, who had 
immediately recognized the advantages she would bring to the Active-Politics Wing.
	Jamine had found Begigi to be neither "too pretty" nor "too delicate"; and, in fact, 
her looks and disarming innocence were an asset, allowing her to gain access to places 
otherwise barred to DAPT.
	Through all her adventures, the one thing about Begigi which had not changed 
was her personality.  She was as perky and happy as I remembered from Wilmoni 
University, be she recounting the latest bone plate paint fashion, describing a particularly 
wild Orange party, or adroitly wiring a remote-detonated bomb.  Her eventual goal, once 
she had seen a bit more of the galaxy - a DAPT benefit - was to return to Orange 
permanently.
	Apparently, Orange had a future plan which involved exploding stars, and Begigi 
really wanted to be present when the big red button was pushed.
	"Hello, Begigi," I responded before turning to check the camera crate.  It had 
transported fine.
	The Cube #238 beachhead was located 2.7 kilometers(!) beneath the ship's outer 
hull, within the central cube superstructure.  Specifically, it was a storage room, empty 
except for a few dusty boxes of broken devices and blown isolinear crystals.  The space 
was more than large enough for a dozen people and the large heap of supplies Jamine had 
deemed necessary to complete his mission.  The single door to the room was closed, but I 
knew from an earlier visit to the beachhead that it opened to a corridor of enormous 
dimensions.  Why a hallway was required to be large enough to fly a shuttle through, I 
was unsure, but obviously the Borg Collective had sufficient reason to build so.
	"Did you have a nice talk to Lagh?  He's quite an interesting mech.  So many 
stories to tell!"  Begigi was able to get along with anyone, even a tactless Xenig.
	"So-so.  He won't change the contract, at least not without a lot of credit we do not 
have."
	Begigi frowned.  "Poo."  A dismissive shrug.  "Oh, well.  Those your cameras?"
	I nodded, then began to unlatch one side of the box.  "Yes they are, and I need to 
make sure they are ready to go as soon as possible.  Has Jamine decided upon a schedule 
yet?"
	"Yup!  Stuff's being sorted now and three people are out scouting.  We should be 
ready to proceed in an hour or so.  Can I help you?"
	Orange Borg may have nurtured Begigi's prowess concerning anything that went 
boom, but she remained hopeless when it came to complex electronics (that were not part 
of a detonation device).  "I'm fine.  Could you tell Jamine that camera support will be 
ready any time his is?"
	"Okie-dokie!"  Begigi bounced away.
	I returned to uncrating my cameras.

	The first two targets were located by scouts several hundred meters from the 
beachhead, amid a complex corridor maze.   By necessity - nothing resembling an 
elevator had yet to be found - the targets were on the same level.  Happily, the hallways 
in question were sized for normal humanoids, not giants, although that plus was more 
than offset by the lack of landmarks.  Trailing behind the DAPT column with my 
cameras, my nervousness must have caught Jamine's attention for he personally assured 
me that several of his team had perfect spatial memories.  In other words, no one, not 
even the logistics specialist and camera jockey, would be lost.
	It was then that I saw my first Borg drones 'in the wild'.
	As a DAPT employee, I had encountered many beings who had been the victims 
of assimilation, either accidentally or otherwise.  However, I had rarely had occasion to 
interact with drones linked with their Collective, much less units unaware they were 
under observation.  And unaware succinctly described the pair.  Despite our noise and 
visual presence - no attempt was made at stealth - the two drones continued at their task.  
With a nod from Jamine, I ordered one of my cameras forward to better document DAPT 
team actions, leaving the second hovering behind and above me as a reserve.
	Metal panels stacked on a grav sled, the drones appeared to be in the midst of 
maintenance.  While there were two drones, one was primarily toiling away around the 
corner, leaving sled and its compatriot visible to the team.  The drone on view was slowly 
sliding its prosthetic arm over the hallway wall, taking a step forward only when 
everything within reach had been, presumably, scanned.  Twice while we observed, it 
stopped to face its work area.  Several swift taps popped a panel, outwardly no different 
from its neighbors, from the bulkhead.  The discarded panel would subsequently vanish 
in a transporter beam, leaving the drone free to select a replacement from the sled.  New 
panel set in place, the slow, repetitive chore would continue.
From Lagh, I knew that that the cube was experiencing technical difficulties 
involving both propulsion and shields, rendering FTL temporarily impossible.  However, 
I suppose, engine issues aside, on a vessel the size of Cube #238 there were always low-
ranking tasks of one sort or another to accomplish.  This one seemed particularly 
pointless in my estimation.
	Jamine reached into a pouch belted to his waist.  From it he drew forth a dull 
metal globe half the size of a clenched fist.  Motioning for silence, he pointed at three 
DAPT team members to accompany him as he moved forward towards the first drone 
target.
	The assault, such as it was, proved anticlimactic.
	What Jamine held was called a jammer.  Anyone who has been part of a Color 
Collective, be it as a volunteer or conscript, knew about the device.  Jammers could either 
selectively, or completely, block the fractal frequencies which linked Borg to each other.  
They were most commonly employed when a Color encountered a spy from a rival 
Collective - an interrogative technique.  There were rumors, however, that rogues, 
recaptured or nascent, were also subjected to the devices during the horrible process by 
which the unit was 'reformatted'.  Even darker anecdotes suggested jammers were key in 
'repurposing', a process by which detained enemy units were 'mentally realigned' to the 
worldview of the capturing Collective.
	In this case, Jamine did not have anything nearly so cruel in mind.  He merely 
wanted to separate the drone from the overMind in order to interview it, to allow it to 
relate in an uncensored manner the condition of its enslavement.  Simple.
	Or, perhaps not.
	The jammer was easily emplaced on the back of the drone's neck.  The moment 
that it activated, it blinked thrice, appeared to notice the DAPT team for the first time, 
then promptly collapsed.
	"Well, damn," said Jamine matter-of-factly, surprise on his face.  The drone had 
just missed landing on his feet.
	"36 of 260?  Answer me!  You and your pranks are the reason we are in this 
corridor in the first place," complained a voice, heavy on the reverberation, from around 
the corner.  The disconnect of the target may not have gone unnoticed, but the /reaction/ 
was unexpected.  This was the first proof that these drones, the members of this 
'imperfectly assimilated' sub-collective, were indeed individuals.
	As heavy footsteps approached the corner, Jamine waved additional team 
members forward to drag the collapsed (unconscious?) drone out of the way.  Begigi was 
among the hands eager to assist.  Meanwhile, uncaring of the potential danger, the leader 
of DAPT's Active-Politics Wing removed another jammer from his pouch and took a 
position next to the grav sled.  I relocated the cameras.
	"36 of 260, where are you?  This is /not/ funny."  The second drone stepped 
around the corner, head swiveling back and forth as it panned the hallway.  It was odd to 
see eyes and ocular implant slide across the motionless DAPT team, yet not register our 
presence.  I had been told about the phenomenon, but had not believed it to be real:  the 
drone, the sub-collective, did not expect intruders to be present, therefore when intruders 
/were/ seen, they were dismissed as impossible.  Even the jammed drone had joined the 
ranks of the pseudo-invisible, for disconnected from the Whole it no longer existed.  "If 
you keep this up, you will be visiting Assimilation."
	Jamine moved to set the second jammer.
	Some aspect of the situation must have finally registered to the drone, for it turned 
towards the grav sled even as Jamine's hand found his mark.  By then, it was too late.  
The jammer immediately activated, extruding multiple pairs of legs so as to better secure 
itself to its victim.  Unlike the first drone, this second one did not drop to the deck.  
Instead it sucked in a deep breath, focused squarely upon Jamine, and announced, 
"Resistance is futile.  You will be assimilated."  The words were much more mechanical 
than the conversational tone used prior.
	Jamine avoided the hand which swept at him with malice intent.  He then 
continued to scramble backwards as the drone pursued.
	"I only want to talk to you," implored Jamine, his expression sincere.
	"Resistance is futile."
	"Ask a few questions."
	"You will be assimilated."
	"Allow you to tell-"
	"You will be assimilated."
	 Jamine's expression darkened; and while it likely went unheard by anyone else, 
via a camera microphone I heard "Ungrateful bastard" uttered.  The following command 
was pitched towards the field team, "Take this thing down!"
	Several taser darts flew through the air - discharge of conventional weapons was 
one of the items which /would/ capture the attention of the local sub-collective, even as 
the physical presence of intruders was dismissed - to strike skin unconcealed by armor.  
The burnt meat smell as electricity was applied sickened me, and I was aghast at the 
effort necessary to render the Borg to unconsciousness.
	"It's for the drone's own good," murmured Begigi in my ear.  I turned to face my 
fellow Gedar.  "It is the sudden shock of disconnection, you see."  As an ex-Orange, it 
was expected that my old college associate might have a personal insight to the matter.  
"Some units are so deeply entwined with their Collective that they just...go blank when 
the link is gone.  Sometimes a drone become catatonic, like the first fellow.  Or gal.  
Whatever.  Other times, deep programming takes over."
	I stared.  "How do you know this?"
	Begigi's serious expression vanished as a wide smile of remembrance replaced it.  
She shrugged.  "Well, when I was with Orange, you see, a bunch of us would gather 
together to have double-dog-dare contests.  Jamming or other forms of disconnect were 
very popular dares.  The results could be absolutely hilarious!"
	Nodding in vague understanding, I glanced towards Jamine.  Still at the grav sled, 
he was ordering the two drones be placed on the contraption and readied for transport 
back to the beachhead.  Noticing my attention, Jamine said, "We are returning to base.  
Once there, we'll discuss what to do next.  I've a few ideas."
	Jamine always had another idea.  That was why the DAPT Active-Politics Wing 
was so successful.

	"I'm not so sure about this," said I to Jamine.  Half a dozen room panels had been 
removed before uncovering the subnode.  Little more than a thickening of the ubiquitous 
wire bundles common in the bulkhead walls, the subnode routed data packets from point 
A to point B.  Theoretically, the subnode was also a valid entry point for any hacker 
foolish enough a physical linkage to vessel systems.  In this here, in this now, I was that 
unwise individual, holding a cable in one hand, the other end spliced into the subnode.  
Frankly, I was scared, unknowing what digital dragon lay in ambush should I plug the 
lead into the c-jack port at the base of my skull.
	"It is okay," soothed Jamine.  "We already discussed our options, and this is the 
best and /only/ one available.  Since the Xenig won't help us out without payment of an 
obscene number of credits, we /need/ to gain access to the local transporters.  All you 
have to do is find the controls and beam myself and my team to one of the alcove tiers.  
We'll do the rest."
	He made it sound so easy.  "But-"
	"You are not actually /doing/ anything.  The field team will acquire and secure the 
target, you will just be...facilitating.  Once we have returned to the room, you'll be 
running cameras again."
	I sighed.  Nascent shivers were nearly sending my hand to shaking.  "No, that isn't 
my worry.  Not really.  I understand and trust you.  I just don't know if I /can/ find the 
controls.  I do not want to fail you or the mission.  This is not a mere firewall I'm trying 
to breach.  There is a better than even chance I'll immediately be recognized as an 
intruder; and then there /will/ be consequences, both to myself and the entire team."
	"It will be okay.  All will be fine.  You will do well.  DAPT will succeed."  
Jamine stared deeply into my eyes as he offered calming words.  I could feel his 
conviction filling my inner being.
	Hand clenched tighter around the cable.  "If you say so."
	"I do.  You are the only one here who /can/ do it."
	Closing my eyes, I slid the lead into my port, then initiated the c-jack commands.
	A new world sprang to life, digital signal converted by my c-jack interface device 
into impulses my organic brain could interpret.  I was standing in a cramped hallway, an 
easily avoided obstacle to the bright-winged insects - data packets - that occasionally 
flitted by.  As the data was all flowing in one direction, I would follow.
	The hallway intersected with a bigger corridor, which in turn connected to yet a 
larger artery.  More insects joined the growing swarm, the great majority continuing to 
stream one way.  A bright light signaled the end of the pipe; and I entered unto a vast 
open-air plaza.
	I needed to gain my bearings, determine where I was in the system so that I might 
navigate to the transporter controls.  Although it felt as if I had spent nearly an hour to 
reach this data node, I knew that in real-world time mere seconds had ticked by.  The less 
time I stayed connected to the system, the less chance I would be discovered.  Yet, haste 
itself could be an enemy, a factor which could precipitate error, so I paused to scrutinize 
my new surroundings.
	The plaza was not empty.  In fact, it appeared I had been dumped into a primary 
node structure.  Above me buzzed swarms of data packets, fanciful insect forms creating 
a scintillating display.  Moving upon the plaza itself were Borg forms, agile in a manner 
completely at odds with reality.  Despite the potential threat represented by the drones, it 
was not they which had my full attention, but rather the hunter-seekers that were system 
security.  Rarely had I encountered such potential lethality.
	Meandering among their drone masters, pausing at random to test the digital air or 
sniff a unit, I imaged the hunter-seekers as powerful feline creatures.  However, where an 
organic animal would have a head, these digital constructs sported a fearsome assembly 
of steel shears, multiple gnashing jaws, and sharp-clawed arms.  If a file, or an avatar, did 
not pass muster, it was obvious that the hunter-seekers were more than adequately 
equipped to pass summary judgment and execution.
	As one hunter-seeker wended its way in my direction, I braced myself.  My 
disguise would work, else I was about to contract a serious case of brain burn.
	I-

			*	*	*	*	*

	[A sharp demand from a new voice, a gruff voice]
	Well, all Borg drones have this chip accessible-
	[Mutter]
	Indeed, identification tag is the correct term!  How did you know that?  I suppose 
an investigative reporter - police detective? - learns many things.  Anyway, the 
identification tag includes the unit's designation, sub-collective assignment, current and 
recent duty list, and similar information.  It also has a dynamic memory function, storing 
a running index of recently performed actions and memes.  It is the same concept as the 
black box on a commercial shuttle, although it holds only five minutes worth of meme 
data.  Therefore, if a drone is killed and the body cannot be recovered, every effort is 
made by the Collective to at least retrieve the identification chip with its data files.
	It was easy to remove the chip from one of the catatonic captives and clone it.  
Truthfully, the security was a joke - VisaConsortium credit implants have stronger 
measures embedded to dissuade theft.  Copying the pertinent identifiers from the chip and 
applying them to my c-jack avatar, I became, from the computer's perspective, the drone.  
The disguise would not withstand close scrutiny, but I figured - prayed to the Directors - 
it was enough to survive a cursory inspection by hunter-seekers and other elements of the 
digital immune system.  If security had been at higher alert than what I saw when I 
entered the data node, the spoof would have never worked.
	Wait a moment...that thing the doctor is about to...it looks /just/ like an 
identification-
	[A different voice offering a quiet comment]
	A subepidermal transponder to monitor patient status.  Is that normal procedure at 
this hospital?
	[Murmuring]
	If you say so.  And yes, I can continue.

			*	*	*	*	*

	I held completely still as the feline monstrosity approached.  It paused next to me, 
blades lazily snapping and clacking as it tasted my digital signature.  For a long, tail-
lashing moment I thought the disguise had failed, and I braced myself to run.  Then the 
hunter-seeker glided onward, sedately padding across the plaza towards a new quarry.
	I quickly began to edge my way along the periphery of the plaza, avoiding drone 
forms.  While the minds behind the designations appeared to be largely focused upon 
their own tasks, any interaction with a sub-collective crewmember might bring unwanted 
scrutiny of a Mind with deductive abilities much greater than a hunter-seeker security 
program.
	The transporter controls I needed to access were easy to discern, represented as 
vendor stalls scattered about the plaza.  Unfortunately, they were also busy portals, nexus 
points under constant use as drones in the real-world transported themselves or material 
from one point to another within the cube.  What I needed was a back door; and it took 
several subjective hours, and additional hunter-seeker scrutiny, to find the alley.
	I do not know the why nor the how behind its presence, but the blind corridor 
budding from the primary data node was an elegant hack.  Impossible to perceive until I 
literally stumbled through a 'brick wall' while trying to avoid a drone moving in my 
direction, it was a cubby hole stacked with portals to multiple systems.  Nothing critical, 
like weapons or propulsion, was available, but in addition to the desired transporter 
access, I noted, among other things, a module that eavesdropped upon external 
communications.
	For the moment, I only needed transporter control; and after a quick scrutiny, I 
was confident I could use the portal with minimal risk.  Again, whomever had 
constructed this hidden subnode had desired utmost secrecy.  I hoped that he, she, or it 
would not come a'visiting, at least not while I was present.
	I opened my eyes.  Maintaining an active c-jack session while interacting in a 
meaningful manner with the real-world is not something everyone can accomplish, but it 
was a skill I had nurtured.  I checked the chronometer function embedded in the c-jack 
software, noting less than five minutes had passed.
"Got it," I slurred.
	Jamine was immediately at my side.  "You have transporter access?"
	"Yes."
	"You can beam us anywhere on the cube?  And bring us back here?"
	I half-lidded my eyes to better focus on my connection with the cube computer.  
"Not everywhere.  Central Engineering, Primary Core, and Auxiliary Cores are 
restricted."
	"But you can send us to an alcove tier," persisted Jamine.  "And return us and a 
guest to our base?"
	Transporter control necessitated low-level access to the internal sensor array.  
Within a three-dimensional sketch of Cube #238, drones were thousands of beige points, 
both stationary and in motion.  In contrast, when I focused upon the frequency of the 
communicator each DAPT team member had pinned to clothing, us dozen resolved into a 
dense cluster of blue dots.  "Yes."
	"Then we are ready.  Beam us to an alcove tier."
	Nodding - maintaining a doubled perception is like being really drunk - I closed 
my eyes to banish real-world input, focusing once more wholly upon my c-jack avatar.  
The command was sent; and eleven sapphire signatures were translocated to one of the 
locales containing motionless beige specks arrayed in a long row.
	Time in the digital realm subjectively speeds along at a much greater clip than the 
universe as defined by biological processes.  Therefore, to pass the time, I patched DAPT 
frequencies through the communications module that shared virtual space in the alley.  
With that task completed, I could remain fully submerged in the computer, not needing to 
maintain a real-world ear to listen to the communicator.
	Then there was nothing to do but wait.  The DAPT field team was (slowly) 
moving along the tier:  I knew Jamine had reprogrammed hand-held scanners to look for 
something, but I was unsure what, nor how long it would take.  Happily, the owner of the 
hacked subnode had included a game module with a vast collection of solitaire variants.
	{Trakiki, beam us to base.  Include the drone closest to Begigi.}  Jamine's voice, 
translated through the communication module, caught my attention.  I put away virtual 
cards, input the appropriate transporter commands, then allowed my avatar to dissipate.
	As I opened my eyes, the eleven field team members materialized in the room.  
Begigi was /hugging/ a drone.
	That explained her entanglement with the target signature.
	The oddly intimate scene dissolved as Begigi backed away from her new 
cybernetic friend.  From my side-on vantage, I could see a jammer had been attached to 
the back of the Borg's neck where skull and spine met.
	The reaction was immediate.
	The drone's whole eye popped open and high-pitched /shriek/ was uttered.  Arms 
- whole and prosthetic - began to frantically flail.  However, a combination of armor, lack 
of flexibility, and device placement conspired to keep the jammer just out of reach.  
Unafraid, Begigi tried to verbally calm the Borg, and just missed being smacked across 
the head for her efforts.
	"Restrain it, but don't put it out unless it attempts assimilation!" ordered Jamine.  
Ropes and other restraints swiftly appeared in the hands of stone-faced team members.  
Satisfied all was soon to be under control, Jamine pushed his way towards me.  "I need to 
know the designation and assignment of that drone."
	Cable still plugged into my c-jack port, I nodded even as I reinitiated the link.  I 
regained digital awareness within the hidden alley.  Before I could fully orient myself and 
consider how to slither my way into the drone designation database, the external 
communicator module activated.
	{Return our unit.  You will comply.}  It was the sub-collective with a subspace 
demand directed at...
	=I don't have your unit, just like I don't have the other two you accused me of 
stealing.  No nanite-ridden half-organic freak of un-nature will cross the threshold to my 
chassis.=  The response originated from Lagh, accelerated to digital-realm speeds.  
Unlike interactions with his organic-brain cargo, there was no need for the Xenig to slow 
his processes when communicating with Cube #238.
	{You are preventing our scans from perceiving the signatures of the drones we 
know you have.}
	=I am not.=
	{The same shield has severed the link of our units from ourself.}
	=I /do not/ have such a device nor contraption.  I /do not/ have your stupid units.=
	{Return the following units:  5 of 5, 36 of 260, and 200 of 215.  You will 
comply.}
	=And if I don't?  Will you attack me?  Well?=
	Silence.
	=That's what I thought.  Like I told you before, I will allow no Borg product of 
unnatural selection to touch my hull.  Don't blame me for /you/ losing your drones.=  The 
connection was broken.  Apparently Lagh was as forthright concerning his Borg bigotry 
when talking to the Borg as when discussing the subject with me.
	I knew that the designations of the two drones captured in the hallway were 36 of 
260 and 200 of 215.  By process of elimination, that meant the new unit was 5 of 5.  To 
request a designation dossier was a very low-level, routine query, and the computer did 
not bat a digital eye as I performed it.  Into my avatar's hands materialized a thick manila 
file.  I flipped it open and swiftly began to read.
	"The drone you brought back is 5 of 5, subdesignation Reserve.  It.../he/ is the 
backup consensus monitor and facilitator of this cube, a unit /very/ high in the local 
command structure; and the sub-collective /really/ would like him back.  Right now Lagh 
is accused of stealing him, but if a decision is made to change the search parameters to 
include an intensive internal scan for misplaced drone signatures, we will be in trouble.  
The jammer cannot hide a unit from a purposeful search."  I snapped my awareness back 
to the real-world to relay the information, a tumble of words.  While I had been 
submerged in the computer, the drone - Reserve - had been secured.
	Jamine only seemed to hear the first part of my revelation.  "A consensus monitor.  
I see."  The DAPT field leader scratched an ear in self-satisfaction.  "A command node 
was exactly what I was hoping to find.  Surely if any drone of this special sub-collective 
would demonstrate a sense of individuality and be able to relate to us the horror of 
existence within the slave-machine which is /any/ Collective, a command node will.  I 
just did not expect to capture such an upper echelon command node."
	"It is a good plan," I agreed, "but I don't think it will work in this instance."
	Arms and legs tightly bound, Reserve was laying on the ground in the center of 
the room.  Despite the bodies hovering over and around him, he did not appear to be 
registering the presence of DAPT intruders.  Instead, wide eyes focused upon sights only 
he could see as a nonstop string of pitiful pleading was uttered:  "This drone cannot hear 
the voices...let this drone hear the voices.  This drone wants to belong.  Let this drone 
belong.  This drone must belong...must belong...must belong.  This drone will do 
anything the unit is told to be One."
	I continued, "Jamine, the file for that poor fellow says that he was repurposed 
from Gray into what, at the time, would have been the Hive.  In other words, his Greater 
Consciousness coerced a change in allegiance.  I do not know all which might be 
involved in such an act, but I've heard mention that jammers are a part of the process."  I 
paused.  "I /think/ your 'command node' is having flashbacks.  Horrible ones, at that."
	Reserve screamed once more, then began to thrash.  Spittle was foaming around 
his mouth as he renewed his begging to a non-present Collective. 
	Jamine sighed.  "You may be right."  Voice was raised.  "Sedate the drone and 
stack him with the other two."
	Although the sedation method was brutal, I was relieved when the drone was 
finally unconscious.  "You know, Jamine, the jammers I acquired for this mission are 
deluxe models."
	"Yes?  You have a notion?"
	"Well...."  I picked my words carefully, not quite sure how much weight my 
words would carry.  After all, I was an office worker acting the role of observer (and 
facilitator), not an experienced field operative.  "Why not alter the polarity of the 
jammers?  Let the drone maintain an /incoming/ link, but not be able to send any 
/outgoing/ data."  I thought back at how Begigi had said that some drones became so 
deeply entwined in the collective consciousness that when the link was broken it was an 
insurmountable mental shock.  "Perhaps the drone will be comforted by the fact that it 
can still hear all its buddies, even as it won't be able to tell them about us.  That might 
lend a bit more coherency than...."  I indicated the corner of the room where Reserve was 
joining his compatriots.
	Jamine nodded.  "That is an /excellent/ idea.  You are definitely contributing to 
the eventual success of our mission."
	The praise left me with a warm and fuzzy feeling inside.

	The room looked like a cross between a shuttle repair facility and the movie set 
for a high-tech inquisitor.  All the surfaces were sanitary, gleaming, as one might expect 
in a hospital.  However, if one kept one's focus at any one place for any length of time, 
one would begin to notice devices and tools more at home in a garage (or a torturer's kit).  
About half the work benches - definitely /not/ beds - were filled, individuals undergoing 
procedures of an often stomach-turning nature.
	The only reason I knew it was not a torture facility was because I was becoming 
more adept at manipulating the modules in the virtual alleyway alcove.  The transporter 
control, slaved to internal sensors, labeled the room as Maintenance Bay #2.

			*	*	*	*	*

	I dislike to interrupt the interview, but I just noticed something odd:  this hospital 
room has an extraordinary resemblance to that Borg maintenance bay.  There are 
differences, but-
	[Sharp rebuke, followed by an even sharper order]
	Irrelevant.  I don't understand, but if you say so.  I suppose, when you found me 
or Lagh dropped me off - how /did/ I get here?  I do not remember - there wasn't time to 
bring me to a facility more pleasing to Gedarian sensibilities.  Still....  Yes, yes, I 
continue.

			*	*	*	*	*

	I was not physically present, the reality which was my body slumped against a 
wall at the base.  However, through the technological magic of the hacked subnode, I was 
able to join Jamine and three of his field crew via the camera platform.  Very careful trial 
and error had allowed me to piggyback the camera's broadcast and control signals into 
the alcove's communication subroutine.  With the simple addition of a communicator to 
the camera, I could converse with Jamine or his three member subteam without the need 
to duplex my mind.  The second camera was left at base, also active, so that I might 
observe what was occurring around my body.
	The main problem is while I was operating at the clock speed set by the Borg 
computer, camera input remained in real-world time.  Therefore, I was able to peruse 
many hands of solitaire whilst waiting upon my flesh-and-blood DAPT comrades.
	{Trakiki, are any of these drones command rated?}  It was Jamine, his voice 
speaking directly into my mind, bypassing the ears.
	I peered through my camera eye, absorbing the scene.  Borg on tables and other 
Borg moving amongst them wielding devices of unknown (except for the cutting 
implements) function.  All were ignoring the four DAPTers peering into the room from a 
hallway, as well as the camera floating overhead.  
	A particular attention-grabber was a pair of multi-legged creatures - the species 
was unfamiliar to me - in a work area set slightly apart from the other activities.  One 
octopod sat upon a stool, main body secured to a pair of flanking metal rods.  A large, 
stiff fabric hood hung from the ceiling above the contraption connected to the latter by a 
series of pulleys.  The second Borg stood facing the first, two of its many limbs waving 
in complex figures while another pair cradled a PADD-like device.  Upon issuance of an 
unheard command, the hood would descend over the seated drone, stopping once the 
body-sac was fully enveloped.  Several minutes of nothing; and, finally, there would be 
motion - increasingly violent limb twitches - from the trussed Borg.  At the point 
whereupon it seemed the trapped unit had entered a seizure, perhaps even vocalized a 
muffled screech, the hood would raise.  After several minutes of renewed arm waving, 
the hood would once again drop.
	As much as the ability to eavesdrop on intradrone communications would be a 
boon, in this instance I was glad to not know what was happening.
	Jamine's request was simple to process.  As I had done each time the team had 
encountered a concentration of drones, I dove into the sensory submodule attached to 
transporter control.  Entwined within the data was a simple tag for each lifeform the 
internal grid could resolve.  Perception, of course, was a completely different matter, for 
if the sub-collective had been actively cognizant of the intruders in its midst then our 
sapphire presence would have already been transformed into beige markers.  I gathered 
together the designations associated with each unit in the Maintenance Bay, then queried 
for the appropriate dossiers.  Each was swiftly parsed.
	Jamine was searching for a specific subset of the larger drone populace - 
command and control hierarchy.  The belief was that those units tasked to perform a 
coordinating function would, by necessity, have greater mental freedom than a 
designation who solely processed grid data or welded brackets.  The initial captures had 
been of the lattermost group; and while Reserve lay within the desired subset, there were 
obviously personal issues present that precluded fitness.  Jamine had originally planned 
to scan alcove-bound drones one by one, searching for a particular tag signature that 
signified hierarchy status.  However, once he had learned that I could identify drones via 
the alleyway modules and directly view their dossiers, he had felt a change in plans to be 
more efficient.
	I concentrated, sending my thought-words through the camera:  {There is a 
command and control drone present, but she is undergoing cranial surgery.  Um, third 
bench to your left, the patient with half her skull removed.}  Four heads shifted to peer at 
the indicated table.  Jamine's expression suggested intent interest.  I, on the other hand, 
was glad my digital self had no stomach contents to lose.
	{Nothing else?} asked Jamine.
	{Well, the unfettered octopod} - I now knew from the dossier that the species 
name was Dromela, a race well-removed from the Alpha-Gamma Quadrant border area 
of which I was familiar - {is listed as drone maintenance hierarchy head.  Designation is 
3 of 13, with a subdesignation of Doctor.  He is not command and control, but he does 
function as a primary coordination node.}
	Jamine's response was immediate:  {Transport him.}
	{Are you sure?  He /is/ awake.  There is a distinct chance that he will alert the 
sub-collective of our presence before-}
	{My team knows what to do.}  Jamine broke off speaking to me to inform, via 
communicator, that a subject was incoming.  I distantly heard the order echoed through 
my real-world ears.  {Transport him, then us.}
	{Okay.}  The worry I felt was not translated through the communicator interface.  
Locking on the transporter, I beamed the target to base, followed a beat behind by the 
camera and DAPT subteam.
	At the base, through the second camera, I watched as Doctor was immediately 
beset by a combination of taser and blanket, the latter employed to temporarily blind the 
target and increase confusion.  Disregarding their own danger, team members leapt upon 
the drone, multiple hands striving to attach multiple jammers as quickly as possible.  
Within the sub-collective's digital-scape, the response was also immediate, but not to 
raise an alarm against intruders.
	{You took that particular drone on purpose!  Return him!}  The module that 
eavesdropped upon external communications was active, the sub-collective once again 
leaping to the errant conclusion that Lagh had filched one of its units.
	A stretched silence as the Xenig ignored the accusation, then, =I felt that target 
lock.  If those weapons solutions are finalized, if I receive one scratch on my hull, the 
Borg Collective will be recovering your remains atom by atom.=
	{Return our-}
	=For the /last time/, read my non-existent lips:  I.  Do.  Not.  Have.  Your.  Ruddy.  
Drone.  The end.  Now let me count stars in peace.=
	Lagh continued to tell the truth; and the sub-collective continued to disbelieve it.  
While the impasse would not last forever, hopefully it would last long enough.
	Forcing stiff muscles to respond, I reached towards my neck and yanked c-jack 
cable out of the socket.  I was not a game modder:  I was not comfortable spending long 
hours, even days, in the digital realm...and especially not a nerve-wracking one which 
might erupt with hunter-seeker hostilities should I bump the wrong datastream.  I needed 
to escape to the real-world.
	While the stalking of an appropriate command node drone had been occurring, I 
had idly watched through the base camera several of the field team, including Begigi, 
unpack and assemble a framework of metal and straps.  During preparation for the 
mission, the various parts had been among the long list of supplies requested by Jamine.  
Unknown, and uncaring, at the time of what the materials represented - just one more 
item to be acquired - I had ordered them from a building hardware company.  Now it was 
to this scaffolding the trussed drone was secured.  The blanket was torn away.
	A Dromela looks like something which should be more at home in the ocean than 
on land.  Eight limbs, four thicker and stockier than the other two pair, emerge from a 
large body-sac; and while it is obvious the species is evolved for life out of water, the 
impression of sea-creature remains.  There are four eyes, one well-developed pair facing 
a presumed forward, and a less-developed pair looking rearward.  Except for an ocular 
implant replacing one forward eye, the drone appeared to be minimally cybernized.  I 
suppose even the Borg Collective has its limits when constructing artificial replacements 
and trying to fit body armor to non-standard forms.
	Doctor blinked his whole eye twice, then twisted his body as best he could to look 
at his captors.  Either this drone was of sterner stuff than the first three detained, else my 
suggestion to modify jammer polarization to permit incoming data was allowing the 
retention of sanity.  Several limbs pulled against bindings, testing their competency.  
When no give was found, the arms (legs?) relaxed.
	"Interesting," commented Doctor, voice emerging from an orafice hidden by 
complex limb girdle, "I seem to have four...no, five interplexing beacon jammers attached 
to me.  The static interface pattern suggests they are Model 5Z, a Maroon Borg product.  
The device is rated superb, able to be deployed effectively against a diverse array of 
races, including species #6766.  Due to divergent neural architecture, there are a /few/ 
species for which it is ineffective, but overall an excellent open market choice for a non-
assimilated being looking to isolate a Borg or Color drone from its Collective.
	"Oh, yes...lest I forget:  release this drone and submit for assimilation.  Resistance 
is futile."  The stilted, ritualistic words were delivered as if an afterthought.
	If Jamine was discomforted by Doctor's calmly analytical demeanor, he did not 
show it.  Instead he barked out a series of orders.  Less than two minutes later, I had both 
cameras positioned to video the proceedings, and framework with Borg attached had 
been pivoted to face the corner of the room where his three comrades lay unconscious.  
Several tools of an unfamiliar sort - I had /not/ ordered them - but with an unsavory 
resemblance to the equipment in the Maintenance Bay had also appeared from an 
unmarked crate and arrayed upon its top.  Disturbingly, the DAPT field team, Begigi 
among them, seemed to be quite familiar with the course of action, even as I remained 
clueless.
	Satisfied that all was in order, Jamine reached into a side drawer the same box 
which had disgorged the unknown tools, bringing forth a short baton.  Swift hand 
gestures in my direction indicated final camera placement.
	"You," said Jamine to Doctor, "are probably wondering why I have brought you 
here today."
	Replied Doctor, "It is apparent the Xenig was not lying when he denied stealing 5 
of 5, 36 of 260, and 200 of 215.  Professional to professional, how are you keeping them 
sedated?  The jammer explains why we could not perceive their presence, but any 
chemical restraint should be quickly neutralized by nanites."  The drone paused as his 
ocular implant made a quiet whirling noise.  "Ah!  Cortical inhibitors!  You are inducing 
an artificial coma by interrupting critical neuroendocrinological functions!  Dangerous to 
the subject should the inhibitor not be set correctly, but effective."  The last was delivered 
with a knowledgeable air.
	A dark expression crossed Jamine's face, one I had never seen before.  He 
looked...annoyed.  Baton smacked against framework, near Doctor's whole eye.  The 
Borg did not flinch.  I did.  "Listen to /me/ and look at /me/!  Again, you are probably 
wondering why I have brought you here today."
	"Not really.  You are a small being and will eventually inform me of the answer to 
your question.  Or not.  My curiosity is irrelevant."  Doctor shifted attention away from 
his shipmates and towards Jamine.
	"My name is Jamine, and I am a representative of DAPT - Drones Are People 
Too-"
	Interrupted Doctor, "This device to which I am strapped, very effective.  Binding 
of the subject, yet providing excellent access to non-distal body mass.  I have used 
similar in the past.  Is it modeled after the livestock butcher frame of species #2551?  
That would be Shutov.  Professional to professional, you understand."
	"Quiet!"  Baton smacked metal again.  "As I was saying, I am a representative of 
DAPT - Drones Are People Too.  It is the mission of my organization to fight for the 
rights of all assimilated or quasi-assimilated beings.  /Everyone/ is an individual, and 
should be treated as such!"
	I had always thought the purpose of DAPT was to end the bigotry shown towards 
the assimilated disadvantaged, be they an escaped rogue attempting to start a new life, an 
ex-Color experiencing a partial 'relapse', or a gamer who had acquired the wrong black-
market mod.  It was a subtle, but real, difference from what Jemine was espousing.  But 
then again, I had been assisting the Active-Politics Wing for a relatively short while, and 
it was not unexpected that their official objective might vary somewhat from the Lobby 
Wing.
	"By /any/ means necessary will oppression be fought.  All you have to do is 
answer a few questions.  Nothing more.  Simple."  Jamine's moment of heightened fervor 
had moderated.
	"We understand.  Perfectly."  Eye swiveled slightly to focus upon one of the 
cameras.  "And if the answers provided are not what you desire?"
	Jamine ignored the query, instead responding with one of his own:  "You are 
termed 'imperfectly assimilated'?"
	"Yes."
	"You are an individual?"
	"No."
	The ring of baton on metal.  "You, the person to whom I am speaking, is an 
individual, distinct from all others."  Statement, not question.
	"I am Borg."
	"Hah!  'I' denotes an individual!  A Borg cannot use the singular!"
	"Incorrect.  Any drone may use the singular, but it is not comfortable.  It suggests 
a...mental space where none exists.  The imperfect assimilated are abnormal, are held 
apart from the central Whole, and each other, whereupon the singular regains relevancy.  
/But/, we - I - still strive towards the same Perfection.  Our goals are One.  /This drone/ 
may be mildly neurotic and prone towards unBorg thoughts and deeds, but he is not 
psychotic."
	"Individual."
	"Not."
	"Individual."
	"A cog within the Whole.  Currently unable to communicate with that Whole, but 
still a cog."
	The interview was not going the way Jamine (or myself) had imagined.  Abruptly 
the DAPT field leader smacked the butt of the baton against his thigh.  In response, the 
formerly inert stick began to glow at the tip.  "Do you know what this is?"
	Around the circle of field members, knowing smirks and elbow jabs were 
exchanged.  I felt entirely left out.
	"The model, no.  The general equipment, yes.  It is a stun stick.  89 of 150 and 
101 of 150 dueled with them last week for reasons only understandable to another 
weapons drone.  The voltage was turned up too high:  89 of 150 will be twitching for 
weeks."  Pause.  "Professional to professional, how-"
	To my horror, Jamine shoved the glowing end of the stick against Doctor's body-
sac, causing the drone to convulse.
	"Stop lying!  You are an individual and a slave to the Borg Collective!"
	Stun stick removed from flesh, Doctor ceased writhing.  After a few seconds, limb 
tips still trembling in residual response to the jolt, a rebuttal was delivered:  "Why lie to a 
small being?"
	Jamine leaned over to peer directly into Doctor's large eye, his tone gentle as he 
said, "I do not wish to hurt you, my good Borg.  All I want to do is help your fellow 
cyborgs, particularly those enslaved and forced to execute demeaning, degrading, and 
dangerous tasks.  We /all/ know that that coercion is used, that if a drone rebels, tries to 
refuse an assignment, that 'attitudes are adjusted'."  Pause.  "All /you/ have to do is say 
that /you/ are an /individual/, that the Borg Collective - /any/ Collective - robs the free-
will from its drones and compels them to actions of which any /individual/ would decline 
if asked to perform.  Your Collective will never know:  if you do as I /request/, then I will 
take you away to start a new life, free...."
	I blinked.  Lagh had expressedly forbid a Borg presence within his hull.  Jamine 
was not ignorant of this fact - the Xenig had declared it more than once during the 
journey to Cube #238.  A lie was being told to Doctor.
	Then again...better a lie than the stun stick.
	Doctor was silent.
	"You agree?"
	"This drone is not an individual.  This drone is not a slave.  All drones strive 
towards the same goal of Perfection in Oneness, even the imperfectly assimilated.  The 
Greater Consciousness is a reflection of our Will, even as the Will directs us.  I refuse to 
/lie/.  I refuse to say anything at all."
	"You are a slave!"
	Doctor's demeanor abruptly changed.  There was a subtle glazing of his eye and 
relaxing of muscles formerly tensed.  He - Doctor - was no longer...present.
	I was not the only one who had noticed the transformation.
	"Slave!"  Silence.  "Individual!"  Silence.  "Talk to me!  You will not ignore me!  
You will not ignore the needs of DAPT to free you and your brethren!  It is for your own 
good!"  Silence.
	It was then that Jamine totally lost an resemblance of self-control.
	The energized end of the baton was shoved against flesh; and when that elicited 
no more response than might be expected of involuntary muscles contraction, the stun 
stick was applied again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  Fists and feet came into 
play, with Doctor's body playing the part of punching bag, each strike an organically 
meaty thump.  At one point, I heard an audible *crack* as something inside the drone 
broke.  A yellowish-pink ichor began to leak from somewhere, suggesting the near 
mythological ability of Borg nanites to repair damage was unable to keep pace with the 
abuse being heaped upon Doctor's body.
	Worst of all was the enrapt expression upon Jamine's face.  Assuming I was not 
misreading Qua'tohf body language, he was actually /enjoying/ himself.
	I looked around the circle, but none, not even Begigi, seemed inclined to stop 
Jamine, to suggest he might have taken what was supposed to be a simple interrogation a 
step too far.  If anything, the reactions implied that Jamine's display was...normal.  
Expected.  Too intimidated to step forward, I quietly whispered to myself that I was only 
an observer, only a camera technician, only a facilitator.  This was a DAPT field mission, 
and it was not my place to protest.  Surely more was happening here than what appeared 
on the surface, and I did not want to be the one to foul standard operating procedure.
	But, still, it was a /Borg/, and the purpose of DAPT was to help drones, not beat 
the sh** out of them.
	Finally, after several small eternities, Jamine paused, panting.
	Doctor re-emerged from whatever mental closet within which he had been hiding.  
"Diagnosticssss report damagessss.  Not debilitating.  Nanitessss swill repair.  Several 
implantsss would benefitsss from replacement."  The voice was a hissing slur with 'h' 
sounds hollowly aspirated.  "If yousss sment to persuade me to lie to yoursss camerassss 
to escape pain, your attempt issss futile.  Pain is irrelevant.  And I know pain.  Yous sare 
an amateur."
	The words seemed to infuriate Jamine, and he raised the stun stick once more.
	"Wait!" I shouted, unable to control myself.  My outburst caused Jamine to turn 
and stare.  He was not the only one - everyone, even the drone, focused attention upon 
me, the dreamy unreality of the moment shattered.  "Wait."  A quieter protest.  I 
swallowed heavily, then continued, addressing not Jamine, but the bruised victim of his 
attack.  "Doctor, can't you tell us /something/?  I.../we/ only want to help, to understand."
	Doctor slowly blinked his large eye.  "I hasss been telling truthssss.  I wills snot 
lie.  Yous snot listening."
	"Your understanding of the truth."
	"Yes."
	"But you are not an individual."
	"No."
	"But this is an imperfectly assimilated sub-collective.  Surely there must be 
someone here that is...individualistic.  At least more than you."
	"No...." began Doctor.  His protest trailed off.  The ichor had finally stopped 
flowing; and somewhere deep within the drone's body came the raspy sound of tooth-
grinding.  An unsecured portion of limb tip twitched.  "Youss are small and snot believe 
me.  Per'aps you believe consensus monitor and facilitator.  Prime - 2 of 5 - speaks for 
all."
	Jamine's eyes lit up.  To my relief, he thumbed off the power to the stun stick.  
"That is /exactly/ who I want to talk to.  Surely if anyone around here would be able to 
provide us with the answers we need, this 'Prime' is it.  And if not...."  There was a pause 
as I was critically eyed.
	I ducked my head.
	"Trakiki, excellent work."  I had not expected the praise, given my actions.  "With 
your computer savvy, I bet you have the appropriate skills to splice together video, 
assuming you have enough material to work with.  All we would have to do is acquire 
that material...and without this, er, mess.  Not particularly photogenic, no?"  Jamine was 
constructing an idea, and I was unsure of little except that I figured prominently.
	Suddenly, the door to the hallway and room slid open, allowing a Borg to enter.  
It stepped over the threshold, then paused, head swiveling as it panned the interior left to 
right.  Everyone in the room froze...everyone except Doctor, that is.
	"'ere!  Over 'ere," Doctor slurred, not quite in control of either organic or artificial 
portions of his vocal apparatus.  He attempted to rock his body back and forth, but did 
little except to cause the scaffolding to creak slightly.
	The drone stared for several long beats directly at Doctor, the merest hint of 
confusion upon its face.  It was apparent that the Borg knew /something/ was out of 
kilter, but could not perceive what, exactly, was wrong.  Then the whole eye slid 
sideways to fall upon the grav sled that had been used to haul the first two captives to the 
base.
	"There you are," muttered the drone as it advanced upon the sled.  It began 
speaking absently to itself, an unconscious running commentary.  "Poor baby!  I've been 
looking all over for you!  The Xenig must have moved you when it stole 36 of 260 and 
200 of 215."
	Begigi was forced to take a step out of the way as the drone threatened to run her 
over in the quest to achieve its goal.
	The Borg grabbed a sled handle, then paused to again scan the room.  "Engineer - 
Supply Closet #75 is empty, more or less.  It would be an excellent place to store the 
materials for refurbishing maintenance of this portion of artery hallway 12."  Head tilted 
as an unheard response was received.  "Understood.  Grav sled to be parked after 
delivering its cargo to work detail #34."  Another pause was followed by a mutter, the 
drone once more clearly speaking solely to itself:  "Come on, sled 5, let's go meet the 
work detail and then go to the garage.  Uncle 90 of 175 is gonna give you a nice check up 
and see if the mean ol' Xenig did anything to you."
	"'ere!" croaked Doctor a final time.  The effort was futile, grav sled and drone 
vanishing through the door with nary an acknowledgement.
	Silence, except for the high-pitched whine of an internal implant or assembly 
knocked out of alignment in the course of Doctor's persuasion session.  All eyes, 
including mine, were upon Jamine.
	"It appears we need to relocate," said Jamine in a conversational tone.  Handing 
his baton to a nearby DAPT field member, he turned in my direction.  "Trakiki, if you 
please, do your logistical magic and see about getting everything moved to, um, the room 
across the hallway.  Everyone, do as Trakiki tells you.  And, as far as you, my fine, if 
largely uncooperative, Borg medical practitioner," attention shifted to Doctor, who glared 
defiantly in return, "this would have been much easier if you would have just answered 
my few questions.  No matter.  Put him out and stack him with the others.  We will be 
taking all our friends with us to the new base."

	The move was implemented just in time:  less than five minutes after the 
beachhead base had been vacated, it was once again occupied, but this time by over a 
dozen Borg stacking hundreds of metal plates.  There would have been no avoiding the 
drones.  I watched their activity for a time from the relative safety of the new base's 
entryway, ignored the entire while.  Then it was time for a nap because stimulants could 
only carry a body so far.
	When I awoke, the first order of business was to re-enter the computer.  The new 
base largely resembled the old base, excepting it was a few square meters larger.  Then 
again, a room is a room; and interior decorating is not a priority upon a Borg cube.  While 
I had been asleep, several bulkhead plates had been removed and another subnode access 
point uncovered.  I c-jacked my way back to the alcove hack, no more perceived to be a 
threat by the local immune-analogue subroutines than my initial entry.  Then I went to 
work locating the sub-collective's consensus monitor and facilitator.  It was not difficult, 
and I found her in the Primary Core trekking along a painted oval.  It was when I read her 
dossier that I realized that acquiring her might pose a difficulty.
	"She's a Flarn," I informed Jamine when I surfaced into the real-world to offer my 
report.  "I've never heard of the species, but she is quite a bit larger than anyone here.  
And stronger, I would bet, even without Borg upgrades.  I don't think it will work to 
simply beam her here and expect to ensnare her like Doctor."
Jemine nodded in understanding.  "I've encountered Flarn before, and you are 
correct in your assessment.  However, there are other methods than brute force.  Jeenz!"  
A shout was made for another member of the field team.
	Jeenz quickly complied.  Lamooti, he was a specialist in applied chemical 
engineering.  I knew he had been a bartender before joining DAPT, but within the 
organization he had honed his species' exquisite sense of mixology to develop recipes for 
a wide range of complex toxins and explosives able to be derived from innocuous 
household substances.
	"Do you know anything that will take down a Flarn?" inquired Jamine.  "Not 
lethally.  Just long enough to attach a jammer, transport it here, and secure it without 
getting our heads caved in should disagreement arise."
	Jeenz chewed the insides of his cheeks, a species-specific gesture of thoughtful 
consideration.  While motioning with one of his four arms, he replied, "Flarn can be a bit 
tricky.  Nervous systems are a bit...off compared to you or I.  When I was 'tending, the 
occasional Flarn would drop by the bar.  Drink the hardest alcohols all night without 
trouble, then fall over if given even a whiff of lemonade.  If I scrounge ingredients from 
ration packs and spice the mix up with a few secret components from my stash, I may 
have just the thing."
	"Can it be delivered through a blow dart?"
	"A liquid is what I have in mind.  There is that pseudo-exoskeleton, you know."
	"Let me deal with that."
	"Whatever you say, boss."  Jeenz strode away, purpose guiding his step.
	Jamine turned back to me.  "Watch the target.  Tell me if she either goes off by 
herself or returns to her alcove.  Any place where it appears she will be alone."
	I fingered the c-jack at my neck.  "Yes, sir."  Back into the virtual world I dove.

			*	*	*	*	*

	[Murmur]
	What was in the mixture?  I do not know.  I do know it was green, but only 
because I saw Jeenz pour it into the darts when they were being prepared.
	[Mutter]
	Terran limes.  I really don't know.  Does it make a difference?
	[Mutter, very low]
	Now I am really confused.  I do not see how a hangover headache affects your 
investigation.  Or was it an interview?  It's hard to think, but now that I consider-
	[A sharp retort]
	I comply to drop the subject and continue.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Secured to a more robust version of the scaffolding which had held Doctor, Prime 
was a Borg showing every symptom I associated with the day following a too-intense 
celebration.  She was conscious, sort of, trapped in that hazy place between sleep and 
awake.  Any noise, loud or not, caused her to flinch as much as she could considering her 
bindings.  
	A Flarn has no eyelids to cover compound eyes; and Prime groaned as a spotlight 
was repositioned.  One could not tell if it was her own voice, artificial vocal cords, or a 
hybrid thereof.
	I nervously stood next to the framework, too-aware of the Borg who was literally 
head and shoulders taller than me and probably at least twice, if not more, my mass.  One 
arm, should fetters fail, could probably send me flying across the room.  Unfortunately, 
my presence near Prime was required.  The c-jack cable, formerly my link to the cube 
computer, was now plugged into the Borg.
	I held the loose terminus.  If my treks into a digital realm filled with mutant 
hunter-seekers had frightened me, the mere thought of what I was expected to accomplish 
now was the fodder of nightmares.
	"I...don't know.  You've explained it, but it still seems cruel."  Jamine was next to 
me, was the only one who could hear my weak protest.  "I joined DAPT to help exploited 
drones and ex-drones, not abuse one myself."
	"Trust me, this will be kinder.  Do you want me to beat this one?"  Jamine saw me 
cringe.  He sighed.  "Bad joke.  As I told you in utmost confidence, I have a drug 
problem.  I've been trying to combat it, but the medicines and therapies sometimes slip 
and...things happen."
	I swallowed and nodded my head.  Jamine had quietly confessed to me, during a 
lull in moving the base across the hallway, of his shame.  The horrors of what he'd seen 
as a DAPT field agent, the things he had been forced to do in the name of equality, had 
driven him to overindulge upon substances both legal and illegal.  Very few others - and 
none on the field team - knew of the addictions.  He was undergoing treatment, but there 
were side-effects.  It /seemed/ logical, and I wanted to believe.
	Except I remembered the jubilant expression as the stun stick had hit Doctor.
	And the silent attitudes of the team members that strongly implied the outburst 
not to be an isolated occurrence.
	Still, I was only Gedar.  Jamine was a personal hero, a handsome idol.  I was 
willing to accept the account, even as a small voice at the back of my skull warned me it 
was too neat an explanation to be true.
	It was a /very/ small voice, easily ignored.
	Jamine swept a hand at the cameras.  Someone else - Begigi - was controlling 
them this time.  "You have the c-jack mods and you have the know-how.  You are the 
/only/ one who can accomplish this.  If you do so, DAPT will owe you.  /I/ will owe you.  
All enslaved drones and assimilated-challenged persons everywhere will owe you.  All 
you have to do is prod a few neurons, convince the Borg to tell us what we already know 
to be true."
	I was expected to link with the Flarn consensus monitor and facilitator as if she 
were just another computer.  Like Doctor, she was jammed, able to hear her sub-
collective, but not able to respond.  With that anchor, she would be coherent.  Once 
Jeenz's concoction wore off, I would guide the drone from an internal venue.  And if she 
could not, or was unwilling, to answer in a suitable manner, I was to ensure such 
happened anyway, even if it meant pulling virtual strings to make it so.
	I had progressed from observer, to facilitator, to participant.
	Prime groaned again.  She was coming around.  I was not sure what to expect - I 
had never c-jacked into another living creature before - but it would probably be best if I 
was embedded before the Flarn was fully conscious.  Or rebooted.  I was not quite sure 
what terminology was the most applicable.
	"Can you do it?"  Jamine's voice, his eyes, bored into my soul.  "Can you do it for 
all enslaved drones?  For me?"
	"Yes," I whispered.
	Jamine leaned in close and harshly said, "Then do it."
	I did it.  Closing my eyes, I slid the c-jack into my spinal socket.
	Darkness.  As my virtual eyes adjusted to the gloom, I found that I was standing 
at the top of an amphitheater.  To each side of me arced chairs; and descending 
downward were stairs.  Ribbons of muted light flashed overhead, but did not offer 
illumination.  The venue was not my normal virtual-space imagery, but then again, I had 
never attempted to hack into another sentient's brain.  Prime was surely influencing the 
setting.
	I began to descend to the arena floor.  With each step, a sourceless spotlight 
increased intensity by a few lumens.  It was centered on a heap that lay crumpled upon 
the ground.  It did not require great imagination to know that the figure was that of Prime, 
her avatar mirroring the vulnerable state of her mind.  My supposition was confirmed as I 
stepped off the stairs to stride upon firmly packed sand.  The symbolism was clear - I was 
no longer a spectator, an observer sitting in the stands, but a participant in whatever 
spectacle was to commence.
	Several items were present in addition to my and Prime's avatars.  None 
particularly 'fit' the setting, but the mind is not a particularly organized place.  At the 
opposite end of the field from my locale hung a curtain of heavy blue velvet, unsupported 
by rod or frame.  Unsure of its purpose or symbology, I instead focused upon the other 
object, a table.  Thereupon, I found many items, including lengths of thin rope and 
a...stun stick.  Carefully avoiding the latter, I selected an armful of the former.  I doubted 
I had much time.
	Puppet.  Jamine wanted me to be a puppetmaster, should need arise, with Prime as 
my puppet.  The classic puppet image of my species, and that of many others I suspected, 
was the marionette.  Therefore, I attached the ropes to Prime, touching the end of each 
cable in turn to the avatar's exoskeleton to weld it in place.  Ropes were placed upon 
ankle and wrist, limbs and head, representing my actions as I burrowed into Prime's 
psyche, forging vital linkages to her neurological processes.  Finally there came a point 
where I could hear a hollow whispering in my own mind, a running tally of dry 
diagnostics woven together by the hum of a confused and sleepy voice - I had tapped into 
Prime's stream-of-consciousness.
	I was ready.  Engaging the c-jack's duality function, I forced my body to inform 
Jamine of my status.  Task accomplished, I fully returned self-awareness to the virtual 
mindscape, my only connection to the outside a silver cord vanishing into the darkness, 
back to myself should I have need to hastily disengage.  From overhead descended one of 
the colorful ribbons, transforming itself into a triV base as it landed upon the sands.  I 
was now tapping into Prime's senses, seeing and hearing the real-world from her point of 
view.
	Time to wait, but not long.
	Jeenz's cocktail must have been nearly cleared from Prime's system because 
before I could fiddle too much with the triV's controls, to try to tune in upon the whispers 
echoing in my mental background, her avatar was struggling to stand.  Concurrently, the 
head of her body self was slowly panning her captors' faces, intently staring at each.  I 
must say, Borg recover quickly, for within a very short period of time, she was alert, had 
determined her Collective link had been reduced to incoming data only, and was making 
demands.
	Whatever she was perceiving, she did not seem to realize that virtual bindings had 
been placed upon her avatar, analogous to her real-world bands.
	"You will release us!  Do you know who we are?"  Prime's avatar stood at the 
center of the arena, defiant.  From the triV emerged her voice.  Unlike Doctor, she 
appeared to be attempting to present a semblance of multiplicity where in reality there 
was only one.
	Jamine answered, "You are this sub-collective's consensus monitor and facilitator.  
It's captain, or whatever is the proper Borg term."  His face was oddly distorted and 
colors muted, faithfully reflecting the Flarn's real-world perception.  As with Doctor, 
Jamine swiftly explained what DAPT represented and the purpose of the detainment.
	"A...conversation?  We" - there as a pause, and I could /feel/ as Prime's mental 
gears shifted - "/I/ think you are foolish.  Will you release me when this ridiculous 
charade is complete?"
	Jamine extended his offer to take the drone back to civilization where she could 
be free of the Borg overmind.  Through the speech, Prime's avatar was shaking its head, 
and I distinctly heard {Liar} emerge from the stream-of-consciousness.  Or, at least I 
thought I did.  An echo also seemed to emanate from the curtain.  Dismissing the 
incongruity, I focused instead upon the triV window.
	"I will not leave.  I will stay here."
	Jamine shrugged.  "Maybe you'll change your mind during our chat.  After all, it 
is one thing to answer my questions, but something else entirely to tell others your 
viewpoint and experiences directly."
	The words had been directed at me, not Prime.  Ignoring the whole Lagh-I-will-
have-no-Borg-on-my-deck issue, did Jamine expect me to alter the drone's mind?  Like 
the Borg did to their own units?  Of course, if it transpired Prime really wanted to speak 
out against the Collective, but could not because of coercive programming, then it would 
only be right that I remove the chains.
	"Ask," rumbled Prime.  "Let us get this farce over with."
	"Are you an individual?"
	"No."
	"Do you have your own thoughts?"  Jamine had apparently reflected upon his 
session with Doctor and altered his line of questioning accordingly.
	"Yes."
	"Are you a sentient being?"
	"Yes."
	"Are you an individual?"
	"No."
	"Explain how you can be a sentient with your own thoughts, yet not be an 
individual."
	"You are a small being, not part of a grander Purpose.  You cannot understand 
until you Become.  Release me, or remove the jammer, and I can assist you in your 
comprehension."
	"Are you a slave of the Collective?"
	Dismissive snort.  "No."
	"So you serve the Collective of you own free-will.  Whatever is asked...nah, 
/demanded/ of you, you perform it without reservation, even if your own /thoughts/ tell 
you another method would be better.  Even if it might lead to a purposeless death."
	"There are," admitted Prime without actually answering the question asked, 
"disagreements."
	"Do these disagreements change the outcome?"
	"No."
	"So, you are forced to do the bidding of the Collective, perhaps even die in a most 
futile manner, despite not wanting to.  That sounds like a slave to me."
	Silence, then, "You do not understand.  Consider a young child.  A child must 
follow the will of the parents.  A child may want to touch a flame, only knowing that it is 
pretty.  The parents will disallow it, aware that injury would be the result.  The child may 
disagree, may even throw a tantrum, but the child will comply.  Is the child-parent 
relationship one of slavery?  No.  The parent has seen more and understands the universe 
better than the child.  So does too the Greater Consciousness have a greater 
understanding of how Perfection should be attained, while a mere drone only perceives 
the smallest part."
	Jamine's expression darkened.  "A child and parent is completely different.  /You/ 
are a slave to the Collective, as are all drones!"
	"No."
	"Yes!"
	"No."
	"Trakiki...maybe you can convince our guest otherwise."
	Prime's avatar abruptly went to high alert.  The Flarn may have been large and she 
may have been partially disconnected from her sub-collective, but she was not stupid.  
Jamine's order had obviously been directed at someone.
	I tugged lightly on the strings to my unsuspecting puppet, then a bit harder.
	{What the Terran hells?  Who the giverbub are you?}
	I did not recognize the term, but the image evoked in my linked mind was not 
pretty.  In fact, it was probably one of the most improbably vulgar things I had ever seen.  
Anatomically impossible at the very least, I would have thought.  Prime struggled against 
her bindings.
	{I only want to talk.  To help, just like Jamine says,} I pleaded.
	{You can go stick your "help"-}
	Another unlikely image, even more graphic than the one before.  If anything 
proved that Prime was not just a Borg automaton, that was it.  Regrettably, to offer the 
'proof' as evidence was to court very long prison sentences within much of the civilized 
galaxy.
	The struggle commenced.  Although I preferred subtlety in my digital invasions, 
sometimes mistakes occur, forcing direct confrontation with a defending security system.  
However, this battle was nothing like my previous experiences.  This was a /mind/, not a 
sophisticated computer.  To my horror, at sometime in the contest of wills I had grabbed 
hold of the virtual stun stick...and used it.  It was necessary, I told myself repeatedly even 
as I utilized the weapon again and again.  It was self-defense.
	Sure...self-defense by the attacker.
	Finally, I had Prime fully under my control.  Mostly.  Body control, certainly.  A 
sliver of her mind, probably that part from which the imperfect label derived, remained 
unfettered.  And she freely utilized it.
	{Slavery.  The irony is a bit heavy, yes?}  Prime's avatar stiffly stood as the 
criticism was delivered.  A distinct echo wafted over the arena, origination the curtain.
	{It is for your own good.  And the good of all your brethren.}
	{As if I care about rogues and Colors and small beings with a rampant nanite 
infection.  They will eventually all be One with Us.}
	{You should care...and you will.  I know, somehow, that you /do/ care.  You have 
to, even if you don't know it.  After this is done, I'll figure out how the Collective warped 
your attitude and fix it.}  Jamine was right:  this Borg /had/ to come with us.  I bet, given 
enough money, Lagh would agree to allow the drone aboard.
	{That Xenig belongs to you?}
	I ignored the comment.  Given the entwined nature of our psyches at the moment, 
it was inevitable that Prime would catch my thoughts even as I eavesdropped on her 
stream-of-consciousness.
	"I have.  Control."  I forced the Flarn vocal apparatus to respond.  Synchronized 
via c-jack connector, my real-world body echoed the words.
	Jamine clapped his hands.  "Excellent!  Can we unbind you?  The video would 
look better if the scaffold wasn't present."
	I considered the glower from Prime's avatar.  "I.  Don't think.  That to be.  A 
good.  Idea."
	Jamine scratched one pointed ear.  "If you say so."  A grin.  "See?  This is much 
better than the previous drone."  A breath was sucked in.  "Let's begin anew.  You are the 
consensus monitor and facilitator for this cube?"
	It was I who responded:  "Yes."
	"You are an individual?"
	"Yes."
	"Very good!  Now if you would tell me-"
	Internally, a different conversation was occurring.
	{The Xenig,} pressured Prime, {how would it react if something happened to one 
of you?}
	Within the intimacy of linked mentalscapes, I could not lie.  I might have resisted 
answering, but there was a heaviness at the back of my mind which urged me to respond.  
{Lagh would probably not care.  He's only in it for the money.}
	{What is the contract?}
	{Locate Borg Lugger-class Cube #238; transport twelve organics, plus gear; stay 
nearby for seven days; provide transport back to the embarkment point.}
	{That is all.}
	{Nothing less; and unless more credits are provided, definitely nothing more.  He 
doesn't even pretend to be enthused at the task.  An amiable attitude is not in the contract, 
after all.}
	{We see.}
	In the real-world, Jamine had requested I detail how the Collective was an 
enslaver of individuals, using examples.  I could not simply concoct a reply, at least not 
without a kernel of truth to expand upon.  I needed a meme upon which to build.  
Confident my marionette could not break her strings, I sent a query into her cybernetic 
hardware for the data.
	There was no response.
	I tried again.
	Once more, no answer.  It was as if I was high upon a mountain peak, shouting to 
the valleys below, expecting an echo but receiving dead silence.
	The avatar continued to glare at me.  However, now that I examined her more 
closely, Prime's form was not as substantial as I had initially assumed.  Additionally, 
there was the thinnest of threads, a nearly invisible umbilical, leading away from the 
avatar towards the curtain.  Into the curtain.  Behind the curtain.
	"Trakiki?  Did you hear me?"
	"Just a moment.  Data acquisition."
	Heavy fabric before me, I once again considered possible symbology.  Perhaps, 
during the fight, some integral part of Prime had retreated, similar as Doctor when Jamine 
had beat him.  The curtain could be the visualization of the hidden Prime-self.
	{The species #5252 sociopath thrashed 3 of 13.}  It was Prime's voice, origination 
definitely the curtain.  The background whispers were also stronger.
	{Jamine is not a sociopath!} I protested.  {He is a valuable DAPT asset-}
	{Who is also a sociopath.  And a pathological liar.  Species #5252 has a tendency 
towards mental instability.  We have been assembling and reviewing backlogs 
and...sh**.}
	Reviewing?  We?  I swept the curtain aside.  On the other side stood...Prime.  
Confused, I glanced behind myself, just in time to see the Flarn avatar dissolve and the 
puppet's bindings fall to the ground.  My control was lost...assuming I ever had it in the 
first place.  I turned back towards the new Prime image.
	{Jammers do not work well on my species,} said Prime with a mental shrug.  A 
hand was tapped against side of head.  {Divergent neural architecture.  Requires special 
equipment to block my interplexing beacon.  Besides, you didn't really believe subduing 
a consensus monitor and facilitator would be so easy, did you?  You are only a small 
being.  A /single/ small being.}
	I hastily backed away from the curtain, arms defensively before me.  Ominously, 
the background whispers had unified into a single hiss.  And embedded within that hiss a 
voice - Prime's voice - was declaring consensus to be acceptable, that the Xenig would 
not interfere, that it was time to remove the intruders from relevancy.
	Like a broken rubber band, I snapped back into my body and ripped the c-jack 
from my neck.  "Trap!" I croaked.  "Trap!  The jammer does not work on Flarns!"  I was 
the center of eleven confused stares.
	"Too late," rumbled Prime, her head pivoted as much as her bindings allowed to 
bring me into her peripheral vision.
	Multiple heavily armored bodies materialized within the room; and, 
simultaneously, the door to the hallway slid open to admit yet more Borg.  Chaos ensued.  
While the DAPTers may have embarked upon a mission of enlightenment, that did not 
mean they were unarmed nor incapable of using their weapons.
	I stood at the center of the battle, a calm eddy amid bedlam, petrified.  Suddenly I 
remembered my communicator.  "Lagh!  Beam us out of here!" I screamed into the pin.
	"Borg finally caught on and bit you in the ass, did they?" replied the Xenig's calm 
tenor.
	I watched in horror as Jeenz was engulfed in a bear hug by a Borg.  Nanotubules 
deployed and the drone's victim collapsed to the deck.  Capture, not termination, was the 
goal.  "Just beam us out!"
	"No can do.  You denied the rescue clause, remember?"
	"But we are at base!"
	"Correction, you are at your /new/ base.  I only beam you in and out of your 
/original/ base.  It is all in the contract."
	"We.../I/ am less than thirty meters from the beachhead!"  Begigi, my old 
University friend, joined Jeenz upon the ground.  Meanwhile, Jamine was swinging stun 
stick and a phaser rifle, fiercely grinning all the while as he held off a ring of five Borg 
attackers.
	"No rescue clause.  Once again I remind you that if you want a beam out that you 
should make your way to the beachhead.  That'll probably be faster than trying to 
renegotiate the contract to include an rescue clause."
	Groaning, I looked around myself.  I was still being ignored.  Perhaps my lack of 
weapons placed me lower in the threat ranking than the field team.  It was everybody for 
themselves.  Seeing an opening in the action, I took it.
	Out the door I sprinted.  I was no more athletic than when at University, and 
perhaps less so, but abject terror can provide the impetus for extraordinary feats.  I leapt 
around one drone, then dodged another.  My goal was directly in front of me...right ahead 
of me....
	I bounced off the door to the old beachhead base.  It had not opened upon my 
approach.  Twenty-nine meters to my back, the noise of skirmish was dying away.
	"Lagh," I whimpered into the communicator.
	"So close!  If you can go another fifty centimeters or so, I'll consider you to have 
reached the beam out point."
	I heard the sound of transporters behind me.
	"Lagh!"
	"Of course, if I do rescue you from where you are now, I'll only have to run life-
support for one, not a dozen...it'll be a bargain."
	I sensed hands reaching towards me.  "Lagh!"
	"But, technically, I would then have broken the contract, and the Xenig 
Contracting Board frowns upon broken contracts.  Bad for business."
	A heavy limb landed upon my shoulder.  "Lagh!!"  I willed the door to open.
	"Let me think outloud....  If I lose my payload, that might be viewable as an 
'unsatisfactory' rating for the contract.  However, the contract /was/ pre-paid, so I am 
likely to win any argument DAPT might raise concerning partial recompensation.  On the 
other hand, if I rescue the organic, there may be a bonus.  She also may be grateful 
enough to overlook the contract breach and not report it."
	"Anything!  As big a bonus you like!  Blind and deaf I am!  An 'excellent' rating!"
	"Decisions, decisions, decisions...."

			*	*	*	*	*

	And that was when....  And that was when....  [Pause.]  That was when Lagh 
rescued me, yes?  Or, um, someone else in the neighborhood grabbed me in the nick of 
time?  Right?  /Right/?!
	Wait a moment.  Why...why aren't I me?  How am I talking to you?  Without 
talking.  This /isn't/ a hospital...and this is not an interview!  I...I /know/ you.  You are-
	{Shut her down,} ordered Prime.  {And, yes, this is an investigation, just not the 
one you thought.}
	In Assimilation Workshop #6, eleven newly assimilated drones were in varying 
degrees of initial processing.  The twelfth invader - Jamine - had been deemed too 
mentally instable upon evaluation and been subsequently euthanized.  Very soon, all 
would be placed in deep regenerative stasis to minimize the chance of contracting 
assimilation imperfection; and then all would be off-loaded at Cube #238's next port-of-
call.  Until then, Assimilation and her hierarchy were busy engaging in the duties they 
were rarely called upon to perform.
	Drone 5, a species #7103 female formerly known as Trakiki, slumped in her 
workshop alcove as the command for deactivation of her higher consciousness was 
processed.
	Prime reached up with both hands to rub her temples.  Having a stiff pseudo-
exoskeleton with little tactile sensation, the gesture did little to assuage the residual 
headache that refused to vanish.  It was a phantom pain, or so insisted both on-board 
diagnostics and drone maintenance, yet Prime swore she could still feel it.  Why did the 
dart have to include Terran /limes/ in it?  Prime remembered being able to toss down the 
grapefruit juice will enough, and had, eventually, developed a tolerance for lemon and 
orange based concoctions.  But limes...limes had always given her the worst headaches.  
Evidentially that propensity had carried over through assimilation.
	{Stop whining, you Flarn baby.}  Doctor was not in a good mood, his signature 
radiating emotional turbulence.  As a symptom of his annoyance, he wasn't even offering 
Prime a dubious headache cure suitable, perhaps, for species #8888, but highly 
experimental for a Flarn.  The only reason he had thus far avoided an adjustment session 
with assimilation hierarchy was because the latter was too enthralled with their eleven 
new charges.  {I had the ichor literally beat out of me, including a punctured gill-lung.  
/And/ the surgery I underwent to mend the organ was so invasive that I will be stuck in 
regeneration for three cycles.}
	{We were in stasis lock,} said 36 of 260 and 200 of 215 in unison.
	Continued 200 of 215 alone, {I would have terminated given another 13.7 hours.}
	Prime fixated on Reserve.  {Have you nothing to add to this one-upmanship?}
	Safely ensconced in his alcove, now modified with sensor patches linked to a 
subroutine to alert him should a non-Borg entity linger too long before it, Reserve offered 
a mental shrug.  {I was good.  There was the flashback loop of my repurposing, but once 
the cortical inhibitor was attached, I was out.  Diagnostics say I was okay for several 
more cycles before stasis lock threat.  If anything, it was a vacation.  I am now mentally 
recharged and ready to be useful.}
	{Good,} Prime selected several datastreams to target towards Reserve, {then you 
can coordinate analysis of transporter logs for the last six cycles.  From Drone 5, we 
know there is an illegal hack at datanode address 25c.e, but no unit has admitted 
ownership and it is too well disguised to be found.  Backtracking the logs while cross-
referencing them with unit kidnappings may uncover the rogue processes, which then can 
be traced to the hack.}
	{Hooray!} exclaimed Reserve.
	Prime rubbed her temples again, then dismissed Reserve's insincere enthusiasm.  
Served him right, being so falsely chipper.  And loud.
	Assimilation sidled up to Prime.  It was she who had facilitated the interrogation.  
Newly assimilated drones were rarely allowed any but minimal awareness of their 
surroundings, so as better focus the mind upon accepting Borg reprogramming.  The less 
external input, the better.  However, in this case the Greater Consciousness had 
demanded to know if the intruders, so audacious in their actions, were alone or the 
spearhead of a larger assault.  With her c-jack and wetware mods, Drone 5 had been the 
logical subject to interview, the other new drones unsuitable for deep interrogation 
(except, perhaps, Drone 2 - Begigi - due to residual quiescent Orange cranial implants) 
until further processed.  And that degree of processing was not something Cube #238 
would be allowed to undertake.  Still, the potential threat had been serious enough for the 
Greater Consciousness to authorize Cube #238 to perform a basic interrogation.
	As was obvious now, the threat was neutralized.  The DAPT organization would 
bear watching, but the Whole had calculated it to be highly doubtful another raid would 
occur.
	"Drone 5 status?" requested Prime.
	Assimilation shrugged.  "Likely to affect her processing in some manner.  Too 
early to tell if it will be sufficiently serious to warrant assimilation imperfection status.  
That is for the Whole to decide.  For now...should her right or left arm be amputated?  
She has tentatively been tagged for an assimilation specialty, given her hacking skills and 
the way she tried to scramble your brain.  Assignment as a command and control node is 
another possibility.  Regardless, the Will of the Whole is to remove a limb and graft a 
general purpose prosthetic."
	Prime stared at Drone 5.  Command and control possibility.  Assimilation 
imperfection possibility.  Trakiki's path may have led her to the gates of what many 
species considered hell, but her trek would further the Borg question for Perfection, 
whatever her ultimate personal fate.  It was too much to think about when one had a 
migraine that wasn't really there.  "Left."
	"Left it is!" said Assimilation with enthusiasm.  A bone saw was heft.
	Prime eyed the device, then hastily beamed herself to the peace and quiet of her 
alcove.