Infected by Star Trek?  Call the exterminators at Paramount.  A few Star Traks in the 
walls?  Look up Decker in the Yellow Pages.  Found some BorgSpace growing between 
the bathroom tiles?  Meneks might have a spray for that, but it'll cost you.

				Debugging the System

	Engineer hated livestock.  He hated livestock as much as he was allowed given 
the emotional constraints the Collective maintained over its units.  Nothing good had ever 
come of transporting livestock.
	He was not alone in his sentiment among the drones of Lugger-class Cube #238.
	As always, the opinion of a mere node - particularly when that node was an 
imperfectly assimilated sub-collective - was irrelevant.
	It was while at the scheduled stop at a storage depot orbiting planet #18,220 that 
the sub-collective had received the news of the unwelcome addition to its cargo manifest.  
Following assimilation of its original owners, planet #18,220 - formerly Fatoni - had been 
evaluated as to how it might service the Borg quest for perfection.  Among the potential 
treasures had been two dozen biologicals; and specimens of most floral and faunal 
species had already been transferred to Research Complex #161, the Borg facility 
dedicated to prying apart (often literally) nonsentients to determine how their desired 
quality could be integrated into the Whole.  However, one species, the insectoid millip, 
had poised a conundrum concerning its transport.
	But no longer.  A solution had been devised.
	And none too soon:  the original inventory had also identified multiple rich lodes 
of rare ores, and, very soon, the surface of planet #18,220 would be uninhabitable for 
many native species, millips included.
	If was pure coincidence that Cube #238 had been tapped to haul the millips to 
Research Complex #161.  If the Lugger-class cube had kept to its original schedule, the 
critters in question would not have been ready to transport and another vessel given the 
task.  However, 'ifs' and 'could have beens' were irrelevant:  the millips /were/ ready to be 
relocated, and for Cube #238 to make the minor detour to the research complex would 
add only 6.2 cycles to a timetable already decimated by delays.
	The logic of the situation did little to assuage the worries of Engineer (and others) 
that something was bound to go wrong.  Livestock and Borg just did not mix.
	Particularly when the Collective was 87.2% confident that the solution to the 
millip transport problem was viable.  It was that remaining 12.8% uncertainty which 
would affect the imperfect sub-collective of Cube #238 with 100% probability, 100% 
chaos, and, worst of all, 100% biological secretions.

	"It be a big box," stated Engineer in a monotone.  The intranet subcontext of his 
emotional state was one of disapproval of the general situation, tempered by an admission 
of the elegance of the livestock transport solution.  And it was rare when the word 
'elegant' could be applied to anything of Borg devising.  "It be a big box wi' bugs in't."
	Prime stood next to the engineering hierarchy head, towering over him as she did 
most Cube #238 crew.  However, in this instance, she herself was dwarfed by the 
construct that filled a significant portion of Inner Cargo Hold #7.  "Yes, it is a big box 
with bugs."
	Engineer narrowed his eye, then glanced back (and up) at Prime, not quite sure if 
she was mocking him.  If so, she was hiding it well, not a tremor in her mental signature 
to suggest she was anything but serious.  "And it be a big box, wi' bugs in, that we canno' 
touch.  Do ya'll hear that?  /No/ touchin', except by those authorized /by me/, 'nd only 
when required durin' the feedin' process!"  The latter was directed to the crowd also in the 
cargo hold, both those physically present and others observing remotely.  "Work detail 
gamma-b, set up 'em barricades."
	Compliance was supplied as thirty drones standing next to a dozen strategically 
placed pallets began to assemble sawhorses and unwind yellow and black caution tape.
	"Show's o'er!  Back t' work!  All o' ye!" bellowed Engineer.  In one upraised hand, 
to emphasize his point, be the target of his hierarchy or not, was a spanner.
	Prime would have smirked had she the physical capability to do so.  Although 
there was still a long ways to go, her pet project was maturing nicely.  However, until 
Engineer either became primary consensus monitor or acquired a much larger spanner, 
his order to "Shove off, the lot o' ya!" did not apply to her.  Therefore, she once more 
tilted her head back to scrutinize the Borg solution to transporting millips, supplementing 
her inspection with multiple visual feeds from cameras because a single point-of-view did 
not fully capture the immensity of the structure.
	At five hundred meters - /half a kilometer/ - per edge, the millip detainment 
system definitely fit the inadequate descriptor of a 'big box'.  Consisting of a double-slab 
arrangement of transparent aluminum sandwiching an inner forcefield core, the cage at 
first seemed overbuilt to contain its insectoid detainees.  That was until one peered into 
the box itself to view the millips...and realized there were nearly a million of the creatures 
scuttling about within.
	The general body plan of a millip was of a flattened, hand-sized tick with ten pairs 
of appendages.  As with other species which fell within the catchall 'insectoid' clade, it 
was too large to be considered a true insect:  beyond a certain threshold, a standard 
exoskeleton became an insurmountable burden against gravity, plus inefficient respiration 
was unable to support the body's energetic needs.  In an illustration of convergent 
evolution repeatedly seen throughout the galaxy, the millip species' response was to thin 
the exoskeleton while growing internal flanges to serve as muscle support, as well as 
develop advanced air circulation and pulmonary systems.  While primitive when 
compared to examples such as species #6766 and species #7001, the millip had 
nonetheless successfully made the leap from insect to insectoid.
	Millips lived in colonies.  Within a colony were multiple highly specialized castes 
- female and male reproductives (regents and princes, respectively), nurses, soldiers, 
spinners, gatherers, and workers, to name the major types.  The regents were often, but 
not always, related to some degree, with princes entering the family following their flight 
stage from other colonies.  Non-reproductive individuals could be male or female, but all 
were sterile; and if a catastrophe befell the colony which killed the ruling cabal of 
regents, then the whole would eventually die.
	Of all the castes, it was the spinners which were of greatest interest to the 
Collective.  In the wild, millip colonies caught the great majority of their protein using 
webs constructed of a bucky-filament.  The webwork was so strong that animals the size 
of Terran elephants could be successfully trapped; and if sufficient webbing was strung, it 
was not unheard for entire herds (of smaller critters) to be captured by a large colony.  
Bucky-filament, in and of itself, was known to the Whole, but to create the end-point 
formula used by the millip required extensive, specialized equipment.  Yet, in the millip 
spinner, evolution had equipped an animal with an arsenal of enzymes, catalysts, and 
other features able to weave bucky-filament at low energetic cost at temperatures ranging 
from near freezing to 50 degrees Centigrade.
	Unfortunately for the Borg, to separate a spinner (or any individual) from its 
colony was to ensure swift death; and upon death, the same compounds that were of 
interest in the construction of the bucky-filament destabilized in a dramatic manner, 
turning the corpse into goo.  Therefore, to study a spinner required the transport of an 
entire colony.
	And millip colonies, for all their apparent hardiness and resiliency within their 
natural environment, did not travel well.
	The research and experimentation required to achieve a thriving millip colony 
away from its native biosphere was irrelevant.  As with most things Borg, it was the end 
result that mattered, not the path taken.  While docked at the depot orbiting planet 
#18,220, the Collective had summarily informed Cube #238 of the change to its cargo 
manifest, dispatched the (depot) drones required to build the habitat, hand-carried in 
tranquilized millips, then provided the sub-collective with several thousand barrels of 
millip chow and a list of instructions.
	Most of the file, excluding the topic of feeding, could be distilled to DO NOT 
TOUCH!!!!, with extra emphasis.  Except for food, the box habitat was self-contained 
and required no adjustments, especially by the hands of an imperfect sub-collective.
	Prime felt a tapping upon her arm.  She looked down.
	"M-m-move.  I got-t-ta put t-t-tape here," said 76 of 185, a serial stutterer of a 
sensory drone temporarily assigned to engineering hierarchy for improprieties involving 
pepper and the air circulation system.  "And you n-n-need to b-b-b-be out-t-side the t-
tape.  No except-t-tions."
	Prime stepped backwards several steps to allow the drone to continue his task.  
She felt, rather than saw, Engineer once again join her in peering upward at the giant tank 
with its millips cargo.
	Commented Engineer, "I was a circusmaster f'r a third o' my life, 'nd a member o' 
one traveling' show 'r menagerie whence shortly af'er I be born.  If there be one thing I 
learned, it be critters have the annoyin' habit o' causin' trouble a' the most inopportune 
time.  And I doubt the Greater Consciousness provided 'r livestock wi' their own list o' 
do-nots.  I refuse t' be held responsible f'r whatever havoc the millips cause."
	"A bit overly pessimistic, Engineer?" inquired Prime as she shifted her attention 
away from the box and to the hierarchy head.
	"Pessimistic?  I be an optimist!  Access the meme a' the followin' address."  
Engineer paused as he embedded a pointer to the relevant block of data which had 
escaped the mental reformatting which came with assimilation.  "/That/ be a worst-case 
scenario.  While the high court eventually declared the circus responsible f'r neither forest 
fire nor collapse o' the continental electrical grid, the smell ne'er did wash from my 
favorite vest."

	{Stop that.}  Pause.  {I said stop that!  Don't make me come out there and do 
something you'll regret.}
	A Borg face, blurred by forcefield and two layers of transparent aluminum, rolled 
its eyes before sticking out an extraordinarily long tongue and waggling it.
	{And I know what that means!  Return to your task!  Or I'll tell Engineer!}
	{Geesh, don't have a stroke,} replied 18 of 215 as she turned away from the object 
of her taunting.  An arm was raised in preparation to continue her scan for microfractures 
in the matrix of the outer layer of the millip tank.  {I was...I /am/ bored.  There are no 
defects on the outer sheathe, but I have to concentrate on the lack-of-datastream 
regardless to ensure I do not miss a fault.  Which, in turn, means I cannot do /any/ 
extracurricular dataspace functions, not even solitaire.  You presented an opportunity for 
momentary distraction.}
	Inside the box, 76 of 260 watched 18 of 215 slowly move away, swinging 
prosthetic limb in a scanning motion.
	"A little jumpy, are we?" inquired 14 of 400.
	76 of 260 startled.  "There are several dozen of the big bugs eyeballing us less 
than two meters away.  My use to the Collective would not be best served by becoming 
bug food."
	"So, the fact that 'entomophobia' is listed in your profile has nothing to do with 
your current state of mind, nor that you were assimilated by a species #6766?"
	"All fear of insects was cured by my assimilation," stated 76 of 260 stiffly.  Eyes 
slid sideways as several sets of overlarge mandibles rattled.  "Although it may behoove 
me to schedule a mental check-up with assimilation hierarchy.  Just a brief scan, you 
understand."
	"Of course."  14 of 400 noted to herself the need to acquire several dozen plastic 
insects.  It was highly likely, once the figurative dust settled from her half-devised plan, 
she would subsequently be assigned to micrometeoroid repair duty on the hull, but as a 
long-time member of the Pranksters-R-Us guild, she knew that others in the semi-secret 
club held certain expectations.  But first, there was work to perform.  "Have you outlined 
the affected area?  Are you ready to cut?"
	76 of 260 settled his shoulders as he blocked out distractions and returned 
concentration to his task.  Both limbs - whole arm and artificial - were raised.  "Yes to the 
first, but I need to make a few final adjustments before the second can proceed."  In the 
dataspaces, an irregularly shaped overlay was applied to the wall work area.
	Hours into the voyage to Research Complex #161, the inner wall of the millip box 
had been discovered to be developing unexpected pitting, fracturing, even gouging.  It 
was swiftly determined the livestock was to blame.  For unknown reasons, a small subset 
of the colony was rasping the walls with the millip equivalent of tongues.  While the 
organs themselves were insufficient to damage transparent aluminum, the pseudo-insects' 
saliva-equivalent was a different story.  The base behavior was one unobserved by the 
Collective when experimenting with methods to move an intact colony, and current 
theory by the Whole included a complex hypothesis whereupon subtle subharmonic 
interactions of FTL engines (or subspace) and tank components was triggering the 
undesirable action.  As the transfer was too brief a time to ascertain cause-effect 
relationship and fix it, it was declared more prudent to simply scan the tank on a periodic 
basis and patch compromised sections.
	Which, of course, was a task best suited to engineering hierarchy.
	To prevent the colony from attacking the intruders to its realm - no amount of 
cybernism nor armor was sufficient to prevent overwhelming by thousands of individuals 
- a forcefield cage delineated the work area.  Several meters a side (including a ceiling 
three meters overhead), the volume was sufficient for a two-drone team and required 
tools.  Millips had an extreme aversion to naked forcefields, particularly those tuned to 
certain frequencies.  However, as even that barrier might not be enough to dissuade an 
entire colony from its normal territorial response, the attention of the overlarge bugs had 
been diverted to the far end of the habitat by food.
	The appearance of millip chow - fermented neurogel spiked with a concoction of 
minerals and elements - was ranked by the primitive stimulus-response collective mind of 
the colony to be of higher importance than a pair of Borg intruders.  On the other hand, 
even food was not a complete distraction for the colony, as evidenced by the two dozen 
soldiers staring with black, lidless eyes through the forcefield at the engineering drones.
	The guards looked like any other millip in that they were fist-sized insectoids with 
a mottled-gray exoskeleton and ten legs.  The soldier caste was set apart from their 
brethren by the presence of wickedly sharp hooks at the end of their limbs, not to mention 
mandibles featuring a variety of serrated edges that transformed their owners into 
scuttling cuisenarts.  Soldier subtypes were defined by differing mandible and armor 
configurations; and, in this here and now, three of the five varieties were present.
	Two of the soldiers emitted a series of rattling clicks; and a third charged the 
forcefield, veering off less than a pace from the quietly humming barrier.
	14 of 400 may not have had entomophobia, but even she had to admit the 
uncomfortable nature of being surrounded by hostile bugs.  "More efficiency," she hissed 
at her partner, echoing the words within the intranet.
	{Done,} replied 76 of 260, eyes focused at unreal dataspace vistas.  {Here is the 
final pattern.  I will begin excising the damaged wall portion-}
	"While I cut the patch," finished 14 of 400 outloud.  A sheet of transparent 
aluminum and two specialized cutting torches materialized in the work cage.  "I am 
conversant with the protocol."
Several sets of mandibles rattled in a threat display as the two drones swiftly bent 
to work.

	A tremor shook Cube #238.  In Inner Cargo Hold #7, as throughout the vessel, 
drones paused at their tasks, standing with an eerie immobility while gazing sightlessly at 
a point directly before themselves.  Then, following another ship-quake - /anything/ able 
to shift, much less shake, a Lugger-class cube was serious - all drones abruptly vanished, 
sent by transporter to locales of higher priority than a box full of bugs.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Except for a dozen emergency lightstrips which did little except illuminate the 
area immediately nearby, Inner Cargo Hold #7 was plunged into darkness.  For the 
insectoid inhabitants temporarily abandoned by their caretakers, the lack of light was 
inconsequential:  most millip species, including that of the incarcerated colony, were 
nocturnal, relying on senses other than eyes.  It was the subsonic vibrations associated 
with a Borg vessel plowing through subspace, amplified due to quantum resonance 
caused the physical configuration of the transparent aluminum tank, which was the issue.  
Whatever was affecting the cube was pushing what was normally an annoyance to 
intolerable levels.
	Colony members scuttled back and forth, over and under each other, in a display 
of acute agitation.  Tens of thousands of workers of all types frantically rasped the walls, 
the ceiling, the floor of the habitat.  Whereas before only a few individuals of a few 
subtypes were to blame, now a majority were recruited to the assault.  The action was 
instinctual:  the colony only 'knew' that its distress was linked, somehow, to the near-
invisible barrier which separated it from the rest of the universe, and, thus, it was using 
the tools available in an attempt to alleviate that discomfort.  Because of extreme 
specialization, only workers sported the mouthparts able to successfully rend the 
offending transparent aluminum, although such did not stop soldiers, or other castes, 
from biting at the walls with impotent fury.
	The soundscape, had anyone been present to listen, was best described as an 
unholy combination of dental drills and fingernails-on-chalkboard.
	Within the millip habitat, holes through the inner layer of transparent aluminum 
began to appear.  Those initially small holes were swiftly enlarged to become gaping 
craters and cavities, progress halted on its outward vector only due to the crackling 
energies of the forcefield integrated into the cage.
	A loud gong reverberated through Inner Cargo Hold #7, accompanied by a 
massive ship-quake.  Emergency lightstrips extinguished, along with gravity, the subtle 
thrum of life support...and the habitat forcefield.  While gravity and life support were 
swiftly re-established, less vital systems remained off-line.
	Agitation boosted to a new high, the colony redoubled its attack upon the walls of 
its enclosure.  While thousands of unlucky individuals were torn to pieces by their 
compatriots in the frenzy, the loss of a few to benefit the whole was unimportant.  
Finally, inevitably, a passage was corroded through transparent aluminum to a new, 
expanded world outside the subsonic hell which was the millip habitat.  The conduit was 
not very large, but it was more than sufficient for one, then two, and finally a flood of 
millips to stream forth.
	Quicker than would be thought possible, the box emptied of its millip inhabitants.  
The only pause was a brief one to allow the opening to be adequately enlarged to permit 
egress of the larger-bodied regents and princes.  Once free of the tank, the colony milled 
about, individuals scurrying hither and yon in exploration of the new environment; and, 
then, an entrance to the security represented by the interstitial spaces was discovered by a 
roaming scout.
	Five minutes later, all lightstrips flickered back into life, illuminating the quiet, 
and empty, expanse of Inner Cargo Hold #7.

			*	*	*	*	*

	52 of 175 materialized in Inner Cargo Hold #7.  For the last 12.3 hours, she (and 
much of the engineering hierarchy) had been busy swapping burnt isolinear chips, 
repairing blown relays, and generally keeping Cube #238 in one piece and on schedule.  
The unreal turbulence and gravimetric sheer associated with the area of subspace just 
traversed was akin to cascading rapids passable only by expert kayakers.  A Lugger-class 
cube was not a kayak by any long stretch of a Borg's non-imagination.  Whereas the 
turbulence was rough enough to require smaller vessel types to detour, a Lugger-class 
was /just/ large enough to swamp out the worst of the sheer.
	The time saved by not detouring the disturbance - a decision which, in this case, 
had not been up to the local sub-collective - was between three to four hours.
	The worst of the passage was now behind the cube, and drones were being 
released back to tasks of lesser priority.
	With various engineering-related datums and after-action reports requiring a 
substantial portion of her split attention, 52 of 175 required about a minute to realize the 
significance of the empty millip habitat.  A swift pan of the cargo hold utilizing both her 
own senses and local cameras confirmed disappearance of the colony.
	{Er, Prime,} tentatively said 52 of 175 once her urgent ping for attention was 
acknowledged, {there may be a wee, tiny problem at Inner Cargo Hold #7.  The millips 
are, er, sort of gone....}

	{Well, what did you expect?} groused Weapons when queried for a status update 
by Prime.  {The volume of subsection 14 is nearly that of an entire Battle-class cube, and 
2,716 drones is the current sum of those assigned to the search.}
	Prime, one of those near three thousand units engaged in the millip hunt, would 
have frowned...had her face allowed such an expression.  All drones, except those in 
required regeneration, undergoing critical surgery, performing aforementioned critical 
surgery, or with a truly valid excuse had been diverted from their normal tasks.  Her hunt 
partner, Reserve, sent the equivalent of a nonchalant shrug, but otherwise remained half 
engulfed in an interstitial wall access, listening for the sounds of millips.
	/If/ internal scanners had been working properly, the millip pursuit would have 
been over mere minutes upon the notification of the pseudo-insects' decamping.  
Unfortunately, lingering issues from the rough transit included a fault somewhere within 
the sensor system.  Whereas Borg lifesigns were registering perfectly - allowing use of 
the transporters - nothing else was able to be resolved.  Normally the minor loss of 
functionality would be inconsequential because no other lifeforms should have been 
present upon a Borg vessel.  Alas, this was not one of those times that a small fault could 
be discounted.  Fourteen of the units not directly engaged in the millip hunt were of the 
engineering hierarchy, attempting to set the issue to right.  However, it appeared as if the 
gremlin in the system would need more than a double handful of drones working 
manically in an effort to exorcise it, but that was all which could be committed.
	Without functional internal sensors, cruder methods, like the physical search, had 
been undertaken.  It continued to boggle the mind how a million bugs could be /lost/.  
Logistically led by elements of weapons and command and control, subsection 14, the 
central volume of the Lugger-class and the only one presently maintained with a 
breathable atmosphere, the hunt was proceeding as well as could be expected.  A 
combination of vacuum, forcefields, and cameras delineated searched areas in a bid to 
prevent (or at least detect) millips from occupying locales already inspected.  Regrettably, 
the coverage was acknowledged to be less than perfect.  Three thousand drones could 
only be spread so far, after all.
	When the millip loss had been first discovered, the sub-collective had considered 
letting the critters, wherever they were, remain at large until the destination was reached.  
It would likely be messy, as most things regarding livestock tended to be, but engineering 
hierarchy needed /something/ to occupy the interest of those drones of all hierarchies 
assigned to reprimand duty.  Hopefully any smell, until bleach could be liberally applied, 
would be able to be controlled by boxes of replicated, industrial-strength, pine-tree-
shaped vehicle deodorizers.
	But before the consensus cascade could be finalized, the Cube #238 sub-collective 
had been overruled.
	The Greater Consciousness had declared the need to find and corral the millips a 
priority.  Outside the carefully engineered comfort of the habitat, particularly its specially 
formulated food, the colony might become sick and die, which in turn would result in 
transport failure.  The loss was particularly significant because the Whole was very 
confident (98.2%) that the colony was the sole survivor of its species, the large island of 
its origination razed in preparation for mining shortly after Cube #238 had undocked 
from the storage depot at planet #18,220.  No other millip colony had been successfully 
'tamed'; and there was the very real possibility that the quasi-bugs infesting the cube were 
the only species able to adapt to the rigors of transport.
	A resolution of the problem, naturally, had been lacking, leaving the sub-
collective to devise one itself.  In the end, it was Engineer, drawing upon remnant pre-
assimilation circus memories, too many of which featured 'misplaced' critters, who 
offered a potential solution.
	{Spike millip chow wi' a harmless radioactive tracer an' spread the bait all o'er the 
place.  While we canno' see non-Borg biosigns a' the moment, other sensor functionality 
be normal.  We be a'lettin' the bugs take the bait a'back to the nest, follow 'em via gamma 
particle emissions, an' then gas the lot of 'em with the same concoction used t' capture an' 
move the colony in the first place.  No fuss, no muss.  Millips go a'back int' the box, and 
we complete 'r delivery.}
	The sub-collective mulled the plan, with the final decision cascade pronouncing it 
viable.  Then again, there /were/ no other plans to consider, disregarding the usual 
inappropriate tangents from the more instable members of the imperfect crew.
	{Do it,} said Prime, directing the onus of bait formulization and deployment to 
Engineer.  {At the very least, it cannot make our situation any worse.}
Millip chow was quickly mixed with radioactive tracers, then small tubs of the 
fortified fodder placed at hopefully likely locales within the still-to-be-searched volume.  
Perhaps predictably, when internal sensors began to report isotope movement, it was 
toward locations already declared to be millip-free.
	And, there were /three/ centers of activity.  The colony, for unknown reasons, 
appeared to have split.
	Secured within her alcove, bungee cords stretched across torso as a backup to 
fickle clamps, Prime contemplated the courses of action available to the sub-collective.  
The possible decision tree had many branches, offshoots of which were swiftly being 
pruned in an attempt to reach consensus.  Finally, with the Greater Consciousness 
figuratively breathing down the sub-collective's neck - the Whole did not /want/ to dictate 
what-shall-be to its imperfect drones, given historic likelihood of failure, but would if 
indecision continued - a determination was made.
	The smallest of the three sub-colonies - a mere fifty thousand individuals, give or 
take a few hundred - had lodged itself in Closet #128 and immediate surrounding 
interstitial spaces.  Due to cube configuration, it would be relatively simple to isolate the 
sub-colony with forcefields, utilizing minimal portable emitters.  Then the volume would 
be gassed.  The compound was harmless to Borg, but would send the insectoid squatters 
to a tranquilizing sleep.  At that point, the slumbering millips could be simply picked up, 
stacked in crates, and hand-carried (transporters were prohibited due to 65% mortality) 
through a circuitous path to return to Inner Cargo Hold #7.
	Radioactive tracers suggested the presence of scouts and minor exchange of 
individuals between sub-colonies, but the numbers projected to be outside the forcefield 
trap was negligible.  It was expected that the abandoned singletons would be absorbed by 
the remaining millip sub-colonies; and even if they weren't, the bugs of highest Borg 
interest, particularly the spinners, were found in the main activity center, not wandering 
cube interstitial spaces.  A few random escapees were irrelevant.
	Forcefields were thus emplaced and gas introduced.  To the surprise of the Cube 
#238 sub-collective (and, perhaps, the Collective as a whole), the plan was a complete 
success.  Engineering drones swiftly moved into the isolated volume to dismantle 
bulkheads in order to reach the center of the millip sub-colony.
	200 of 550 wielded a multitool, using it to remove bulkhead fasteners.  Beside 
him, 86 of 215 shoved a crowbar under a stubborn panel, then proceeded to push down 
upon the short length of metal with all his not-inconsiderable weight.  Suddenly the panel 
popped out of the wall; and the crowbar flew through the air, rotating once before striking 
200 of 550 in the side, just below an armpit.  An inadvertent lungful of air was inhaled, 
more from surprise than response to the injury.
	"Hey, watch it!" complained 200 of 550 as 86 of 215 bent over to retrieve the 
escaped tool.  "If you had hit me in the face, I would have had to report to drone 
maintenance.  When I was there last for minor reconstructive surgery on my hand, that 
crazy butcher masquerading as drone maintenance hierarchy head tried to transplant a 
prosthetic meant for species #10009!  /Species #10009/!  All I needed was a 
ceramometallic rod to replace a shattered metacarpal!  Gah...I...I...what /is/ that stink?"
	200 of 550 was of a species with a poor sense of smell.  The fact that he could 
actually identify a faint stench of sulfur was testimony to the strong odor being endured 
by units ranking average on nasal perception abilities.  For those of a better-than-average 
or superior sense of smell, the only solution was to suspend breathing.
	Grunted 86 of 215, who was trying, and failing, to ignore the pervasive rotten egg 
odor, "The millip gas."
	200 of 550's small nostrils flared as he scented the air.  "Well, I guess it isn't too 
bad.  Adds a bit of flavor."  He turned back towards his assigned work area.
	A bit of flavor?  86 of 215 censored the thoughts and images arising within his 
mind, then lowered the limb holding his crowbar.  It wasn't 200 of 550's fault that he 
could not perceive the nasal torture those of greater nose-endowment were enduring.  
However, perhaps a whisper here, a suggestion there, might interest Doctor to attempt 
certain surgeries next time a particular drone was scheduled for routine maintenance.  
With that fantasy occupying minimal runtime in the back of his consciousness, 86 of 215 
began to work on the next obstinate panel - the millips seemed to have coated the 
interstitial side in some type of webbing - while trying to breath as little as possible.

			*	*	*	*	*

	The scout scuttled rapidly through the odd tunnels the colony had taken as its 
territory.  Her Home had been lost, killed, the knowledge etched into her primitive brain 
via the stench of pheromones and sulfur unable to be contained behind the low-level 
forcefield which had blocked her Homeward path.  However, ahead of her was another 
home, soon to become Home when she was absorbed into the sub-colony; and it was to 
soon-Home that she ran, vital information relating to the survival of the whole locked 
within her self.
	Under adverse conditions, a millip colony would split, thus spreading the risk in 
the prospect that at least part of the entire might survive.  While the split occasionally led 
to the formation of two (or more) new colonies, more often the fragments melded back 
into one once adversity had passed.  Until reunification, the different parts would 
maintain a connection with each other, information, food, and other necessities shared via 
specialized scout-runners.  In the sterile passageways which was Cube #238's interstitial 
spaces, the lack of food and overly humid and warm environment had prompted a triplet 
division shortly after the colony's escape from Inner Cargo Hold #7.
	Entering the welcome embrace of bodies and appendages, the scout immediately 
chattered her distress, augmenting her upset with the excretion of a complex pheromone 
signature.  Reacting to the stimulus, activity level of brothers and sisters within now-
Home rapidly increased, chitin rubbing against chitin in agitation.  The scout waved her 
antennae for one particular scent class, then rapidly dashed forward as the target was 
located.
	It was not to the regents nor princes the scout hurried - they were merely the 
reproductive nucleus of the colony - but the spinners with their attendant nurses.
	The particular species represented by the millips captured by the Borg Collective 
were evolved for the hardships inherent with inhabiting the potentially rich, but always 
dangerous, environs of volcanic islands.  Existence was precarious when the ground 
might literally explode, else hot ash and rock fall from the sky.  However, the rewards 
were great, productive soils fueling an explosion of plant life, which in turn fed the 
creatures which were fated to become entangled in millip webbing.  Of all the maybe-
hazards of island life, the greatest, and most insidious, was the prospect of toxic fumes.
	Fortunately for the millip colony, there were behavioral adaptations capable of 
limiting the impact of noxious gasses.
	Spinners were the multitool of the millip colony.  They did not just weave the 
webbing which captured food and built the nest structure, but, given the proper incentive, 
were hardwired to fabricate a wide range of ancillary products.  For a volcano adapted 
millip species, hydrogen sulfide and similar compounds were often associated with toxic 
fumes.  When a trigger level of sulfur was detected by colony members, the information 
was fed to the spinners in the form of 'sulfur-flavored' saliva and pheromones.  At that 
point, most spinners would divert from normal activities, weaving 'gas masks' - blobs of 
special silk infused with nanopore structures, related to the bucky filaments that so 
interested the Borg Collective, which excluded noxious gasses - to be glued over air 
intake spiracles.
	As with anything, there were negatives associated with the behavior.  For 
instance, as long as the spinner caste was devoted to mask production, spinning of 
webbing for food capture was greatly decreased.  Additionally, there was an overall 
reduction in colony activity because while the masks prevented inhalation of most toxic 
gasses, oxygen intake was also limited to less-than-optimal levels.  However, as long as 
the sulfur trigger remained active, the masks would be spun; and the colony as a whole 
was likely to survive until the toxic gas dissipated.
	The scout entered the volume of nest devoted to spinner caste care.  After a brief, 
ritualistic exchange of mandible rattling with several overprotective nurses, the scout 
approached a spinner.  Exuding a sulfur-tinged alarm scent, she regurgitated a packet of 
gelled saliva and fed it to the spinner.  Another spinner was similarly fed, then a third.
	The stimulus thus provided, the expected response commenced:  mask 
construction was initiated.
	The complex colonial reaction was achieved without benefit of thought, of 
intelligence.  For a given problem, there was one of a limited number of solutions.  The 
fact that the millip colony was infesting the interstitial spaces of a spaceship, not the 
rocky crevices of a volcanic island, did not matter, nor that the 'toxic fumes' were actually 
a complex soporific.  All that was important was that a brethren-colony was 'destroyed' 
and that an escapee to the catastrophe had detected a high level of sulfur.  For the 
hardwired reasoning of the millip whole, the situation most resembled volcanic activity, 
and so that was how the entire responded.
	The fact that the bucky filament infused gas masks would be effective against the 
soporific was an unexpected happenstance.  The only reason the Collective had not seen 
the behavior earlier was that the colony had been gassed as a whole, both for initial 
capture and subsequent transport between environs.  By the time the millips had awoken 
from their forced nap, all sulfur compounds had dissipated...thus, no trigger.
	Mission complete, the scout melted into the soothing chaos of her new Home, 
leaving the spinners to their task; and elsewhere in the millip mass, several of her caste 
brothers and sisters were dispatched to the other remnant sub-colony, bringing tidings of 
volcanic eruption.

			*	*	*	*	*

	{This is a cube-wide announcement from the engineering hierarchy:  internal 
sensors have been repaired and non-Borg biosigns can now be perceived.}  Following the 
multivoice pronouncement, a blend of the signatures delegated to the problem, the 
associated datastream was immediately released to the general cube populace.  
/Everyone/ received the information, even if it was unnecessary to the task currently 
assigned.
	The location of the millip infestation was already known due to radioactive tracers 
and refined via physical observation.  While the biosign datastream might usually be 
welcome confirmation, it was not appreciated in the case of Prime while she was in the 
midst of overseeing final set-up for gassing the millip cluster designated sub-colony #2.
	A cube schematic focused upon several submatrices within subsection 14 and 
dotted with scintillating red sparkles rotated in the middle of Prime's virtual workspace.  
She stared at it for a beat, then squelched the intrusive datastream.  The miniature 
firework display faded, leaving behind a series of cool blue and green planes.
	{Containment team #13-a?} inquired Prime.  One of the green rectangles began to 
blink.
	{Ready!} was the reply.  Green shifted to blue.
	{Containment team #13-b?}
	{We comply.}
	Another status confirmation, another color change.  There was more blue than 
green; and a subroutine projected less than five minutes to full readiness...assuming 
nothing unforeseen occurred.
	Which meant, in Prime's estimation, that all would be ready closer to fifteen 
minutes, if not twenty.  Such was the reality in an imperfect sub-collective.  No matter.  
The important consideration was that the forcefield containment structure, with all its 
disparate parts and mobile emitters, would soon be initiated; and, shortly thereafter, 
soporific gas injected and sub-colony #2 sent to the Land of Nod.
	The resumption of fully functioning internal sensors merely confirmed that most 
of the targeted millips, except for a few outliers, were in the expected area.  The 
presumed scouts, both those purposefully transiting between the two remaining colonies 
and the small number wandering far from the central cluster, were unimportant.  The 
singletons could be captured later; or, as they were deemed to be of low worth by the 
Greater Consciousness, might be utilized as live-fire targets for a woefully underutilized 
weapons hierarchy.
	{Containment team #24-c?}
	{A-okay and good-to-go.}
	All was in readiness.  {Initiate,} intoned Prime.  Upon the schematic, blue shifted 
to a pulsating yellow.  Not captured by the virtual construction was the introduction of 
gas into the segregated volume.  After the prescribed 6.7 minutes, and because the actual 
nest was out of view of containment team members and cameras, Prime allowed the 
internal sensor biosign datafeed to reinfect her construct, although she did alter the 
annoying scintillating sparkles to less intrusive dots of steady violet.
	There was motion within sub-colony #2.  It was of greater intensity than sub-
colony #3, as might be expected given an agitation factor, but it was definitely not the 
desired lack-of-movement signifying snoozing millips.
	{The correct gas was used?} inquired Prime to Reserve, who was supervising 
drones involved in the tranquilization.
	Reserve was quick to respond, a slight tremor of self-defensiveness coloring his 
signature, {Yes.  We/I triple-checked the replicator formulation, and it is the same one 
employed for sub-colony #1.  Analysis of chemical structure matches with the original 
download received from the Collective, and there is no sign of file tampering by local 
units.}
	Prime, or, rather, a subset of command and control, considered the implications.  
Perhaps calculations of required gas concentration for mapped volume was incorrect?  
The math was quickly re-analyzed, but no obvious discrepancies discovered.  Hmm....  A 
decision was reached.
	{Inject triple the dose,} directed Prime to Reserve.  {That will undoubtedly work, 
but will remain below the lethal limit.  I think.  The Collective is excellent at many 
things, but including decent material safety data sheets with fabricated chemicals is not 
one of them.}
	Reserve replied with a mental shrug.  Only one with an engineering mindset 
would complain about lack of documentation when utilizing a substance for a task for 
which it was not originally designed.  Case in point was the millip tranquillizer, a sulfur-
rich gas assimilated from a species where it had been used as both perfume and fruit 
ripening agent.
	The elevated gas dosage was introduced to sub-colony #2.  Another subsequent 
increase in millip biosign movement was exactly the opposite of that expected.
	Had the targets become immune to the soporific agent?  There was no notation in 
the millip file of any adaptation ability of the observed magnitude.  A quick experiment 
was warranted.
	{Weapons,} said Prime, {there are four individuals - scout caste - milling about at 
forcefield segment #7-a.  Capture one of the creatures for analysis.}  The foursome in 
question were amongst those detected transiting between sub-colonies, now blocked by 
an obstructing forcefield from completing their unknown millip task.

	"Yehaw!  Ride 'em!  Get along little doggies!  Go ahead, make my day!"
	{111 of 150!  You have been watching too many westerns again!  And too many 
pre-warp-Terran Clint Eastwood movies, as well!  Keep your mind on the task!}
	"String 'em up!  Move 'em out!  Oh...you silly, little bugger...do you feel lucky, 
punk?"
	{The target just slipped by you!  You need to be paying more attention to the task 
than spouting idiotic quotes.}
	"Opinions are like as-"
	{Finish that sentence, and you /will/ be the featured target for the next ten 
shooting range sessions.}  From his position further along the corridor, Weapons glared 
at 111 of 150, his single whole eye glinting dangerously.
	111 of 150 ducked his head in wordless acquiescence.
	{Good.  Everyone else...how hard can it be to capture one bug?}
	Surprisingly, it was extremely difficult.  With forcefields at either end of corridor 
18, four scout caste millips were trapped.  It should have been easy to net one of the 
pseudo-insects.  Theoretically.  The reality was a comedy of errors, too many eager 
drones chasing too few targets, with the former more likely than not to get in the way of 
each other.  As the sub-collective had dictated to itself a live capture, the rodeo - with 
nets - scene had evolved due to the unknowns of potential bad reaction to disruptors set to 
stun.
	Weapons actually vocalized a groan as a millip scuttled through the legs of one of 
the three drones who had cornered it.  Again.  This was ridiculous.
	{32 of 150,} called Weapons, {did you manage to retain any of that silly string 
after I confiscated it from you?}  The named drone, while not directly participating in the 
debacle was nonetheless observing keenly (and offering 'suggestions') from the safety of 
her alcove.
	{Er....} replied 32 of 150, trailing into intranet inaudibility.  The non sequitur to 
the incident in question had occurred over a Cycle ago, whereupon she had decided to 
experiment with restricted data found in the deep tactical archives.  After all, how 
dangerous could 'advanced party technology' be?  Apparently, quite dangerous.  Case in 
point, the silly string analogue was dissolvable only by using a noxious chemical brew 
that tended to cause flesh to smoke if not appropriately applied; and the less said of the 
cherry bombs, the better.
	Weapons was impatient.  {Yes or no.  I will dig through your brain, if need be.}
	{Maybe.}  Pause.  {Yes.  But only one can!  And only as a visual reminder of 
why 'Do Not Enter - This Means You!' data placards should be heeded.}
	{Whatever.  Beam it to me.  Now.}
	{Compliance.}
	A small, silver cylinder, no larger than an index finger, materialized in Weapons' 
awaiting hand.  The silly string had several special properties, the most relevant in this 
matter was its ability to mire anything which came into contact with it.  Watching 
patiently, the head of the tactical hierarchy simply waited for a millip, fleeing from a duo 
of arm-waving drones, to skitter by his position.  As the carapaced critter passed, he 
aimed the cylinder and depressed the single button atop.
	The millip was suddenly sliding along the deck, face first, its ten legs tangled 
beneath it.  After waiting the requisite five seconds for the silly string to dry, Weapons 
stalked over to the struggling target and simply picked it up.
	{This operation is successful.  Where does it go?}  The question was directed 
towards Prime.  Peering at the bug - the rattling mandibles was likely a millip version of 
an unprintable curse - he carefully transferred it from his whole hand to pinchers on his 
prosthetic limb.  {Ugh.  And there is something /sticky/ around its mid-section.  Snot-
like.}
	{I refuse to have it polluting any of the maintenance bays,} interjected Doctor 
disdainfully before Prime could initiate a decision cascade.  {I represent drone 
maintenance.  Not millip maintenance, nor non-sentient-creature maintenance.  /Drone/ 
maintenance.}
	Weapons sighed as the various arguments commenced.  The millip had stopped 
its struggles and was now staring at its captor with presumed bug malice.  Of course, 
given that its small compound eyes did not have eyelids, it could do little except stare.  
Finally a decision was reached.
	{111 of 150, come here.}  The drone approached his hierarchy head.  {Hold out 
your arms.  Here-} The millip was unceremoniously dropped into the raised limbs. {-take 
your new buddy to Analysis Shop #4.  Walking only, as the things do not play well with 
transporters.}
	111 of 150 sighed...the workshop was only 150 meters straight-line distant, but it 
would require at least fifteen minutes to arrive given the transporter prohibition.  
Unfortunately, the wisdom of The Eastwood had nothing to say about this particular 
scenario.

	The unofficial summary from engineering hierarchy was succinct:  the millips had 
gas masks.  The actual analysis went into much greater depth, detailing the fact that the 
'snot' about the captured millip's thorax was a precisely woven matrix of bucky filaments 
that selectively filtered gaseous compounds, with primary focus upon those containing 
sulfur molecules.  Presumably made by the same spinner caste that created the bucky-
webs that had captured Collective interest in the first place, the discovery elevated millip 
importance as a source of novel bio-agents to yet a higher level.
	Which, unfortunately, did nothing to assist the sub-collective of Cube #238 of 
corralling either sub-colony #2 or #3.  If anything, the stricture against harm (or stress) to 
millips, particularly spinner caste individuals, was strengthened.
	Within the dataspaces, Prime was actively monitoring six of the most promising 
maybe-solutions to Cube #238's dilemma.  The complex branching of the decision 
cascades appeared to her perceptions to be sketches of miniature trees, each growing with 
varying degrees of vigor as the whole which was the streaming consciousness of the sub-
collective considered them.  Sometimes branches of the visual constructs intersected; and 
as Prime watched, one option was axed, with select parts grafted to another.
	The process, however fast it might seem to a hypothetical outside observer, was 
painfully slow to the consensus monitor who was actually overseeing it, at least 
compared to other sub-collectives or the Whole.  In the background, lesser solutions 
(often polluted with notions from less stable crew members, such as the usefulness of 
sporks) fought for significance, but universally faded before they could be transplanted 
forward.
	{Ya know hoss, the solution is soooooo obvious,} drawled a voice, shattering 
Prime's intense concentration.  Portions of the five primary decision matrixes either 
sprouted undesired side-shoots, else withered at an unacceptable rate; and two 
secondaries attempted to insert themselves into the foreground.  Prime mentally reeled 
for several milliseconds - an eternity in the dataspaces - before reasserting herself.  A 
segment of her awareness was split to deal with the intrusion.
	{Assimilation!  Control your unit!  21 of 32's /perfect/ timing has set us back by 
/minutes/ and decreased our overall efficiency,} fumed Prime.  When a Flarn fumes, 
everyone feels the heat.  {You weren't focusing on /games/ were you?}
	Assimilation attempted to answer without actually answering, {Er, well, you 
know how 21 of 32 can be, quiet...a model of Borg values for weeks on end, then-}
	{I naw be the troublemaker you tryin' to protray,} interrupted 21 of 32, quite able 
to speak for himself.  Within Prime's personal dataspace perception, the drone's avatar 
materialized.  It was a reflection of his real-universe body, with the addition of overalls 
and broad-brimmed straw hat.  21 of 32's base species was #5455, Andorian, and, as 
such, antennae were poking through holes in the hat.  He was also chewing on what 
appeared to be a grass stem.  {I am jus' a simple drone, a simple gyout rancher.}
	{And...?} prompted Prime, not bothering to hide her impatience.  The faster this 
tangent was concluded, the sooner she could reintegrate her disparate processes to 
concentrate fully upon the millip issue.  While it was quite possible to force 21 of 32 to 
return to his normal duties, for some drones it was better to allow an 'idea' to be 
presented, thus decreasing the likelihood of future interruption.  21 of 32 fell into that 
category.  However, Prime was not obligated to display a high degree of tolerance over 
the prospect.
	21 of 32 made a flipping gesture with one hand, bringing forth a complex 
schematic of subsection 14.  Focus was centered upon the submatrix containing millip 
sub-colony #2, Inner Cargo Hold #7, and the maze of hallways, passages, rooms, and 
conduits between the two locales.  With a twitch of antennae, a pink line snaked its way 
through the blueprint, twisting in on itself in a highly convoluted manner.
	{So simple, hoss!  Usin' a trimodal Euclidian mobius sinoid manifold as the basal 
surface, the solution merely requires application of nth-dimensional pi-harmonics folded 
through a toroid application of the Filliticus principle.  All raised to the second integral, 
as suggested by Rhytiri Flout in his definitive proof of quantum application of imaginary 
sub-harmonic black strings, of course.}  Pause.  {Did ya' get that?}
	Prime blinked, staring at 21 of 32 as if the drone had just sprouted not one, but 
seven extra heads.  Even as a Borg drone, she tried to keep up on the latest in engineering 
and applied physics as assimilated by the Collective, but she had understood not a single 
concept spouted by 21 of 32.  She called for the other unit's dossier and quickly scanned 
it.  His personal history confirmed 'rancher' as lifelong occupation, with no mention of 
'retired theoretical physics professor'.  {Where did /that/ come from, and how the Terran 
/hell/ does it apply here?}
	A wave was made towards the ignored cube schematic.  It morphed into the 
picture of a creature that looked like a cross between a beetle larvae and a pig.  {Gyout's 
can be contrary critters, ya know?  Up to 150 kilograms of pure nastiness; and ifn't their 
meat wasn't in great demand by the Hive big'uns, I suspect they'd be left to their own 
selves.  Ya grow them underground, of course, in big warrens, and movin' them around, 
especially when they don't wanna be wrangled, can be a right ol' challenge.}  Faux grass 
was chewed thoughtfully.  {Ah, those were the days.  The smell o' gyout manure in the 
recycled air in the morn....  At any rate, although I never had time for actual schoolin', I 
bettered myself with lots o' reading of the most fascinating of subjects, then applied it to 
my ranching operation.  Before my colony was assimilated, I had received four awards 
for havin' the smoothest runnin' ranch of any ball o' dirt an Andorian might call home.}
	Advanced theoretical physics as applied to farming livestock?  That was probably 
a first in the annuls of the galaxy, at least to Prime's knowledge.  {As asked previous, it 
applies here how?}
	Assimilation hastily materialized an avatar next to 21 of 32.  {Use /simple/ 
language.  Words in a construction that even I could understand.}
	{But I was jus' a gyout rancher!} protested 21 of 32 to his hierarchy head.  {/You/ 
gained a /college/ degree - and /not/ by orderin' one from the GalacNet - and Prime was a 
Chief Engineer.  You both have more brains than poor ol' me!}
	{Simple language.  The less syllables, the better.}
	{Aye,} replied 21 of 32, clearly not understanding the reason behind the 
restriction.  He continued, focusing upon Prime, speech slowed as he hunted for 
appropriate word and phrase substitutions.  {We be wantin' to get the millips from their 
nest to the box.  This is no different than moving gyouts from the feeding chambers to the 
collection complex in preparation for slaughter.  The key is to always provide an escape 
route, even if that route leads to a place the livestock donna wanna go.}
	The gyout picture was replaced once more with the cube schematic.  This time the 
point of view swooped into the pink line, then slowly began to follow it.
	{Ya line the route with forcefields - millips will not cross forcefields, tha' we 
know.  Among the primary considerations to the final path solution is that it must always 
be large enough for average size humanoid drones, preferably multiple abreast, to walk 
through.  However, instead o' the plywood push-shields my ranch-hands used when it 
was time fer round-up, drones be given mobile forcefield emitters.  These be rolled 
forward /no faster than the slowest millip individual/.  This gives time, without leadin' to 
undue stress levels, for the millips to move along the open escape route.}  21 of 32 
paused, then added as a non sequitur.  {The more stressed a grout is at slaughter, the 
lower quality the final meat product.  It has to do with hormones 'nd glands 'nd stuff.}  
While the drone may have been a self-taught genus in the realm of applied physics, topics 
of a medical nature appeared to be another matter entirely.  {/My/ gyouts /always/ fetched 
top price, all due to my readin'.}
	{Back to topic, 21 of 32,} said Assimilation, obviously familiar with the unit's 
tendency to drift into the world of gyout ranching.
	Continued 21 of 32, {Er, yah.  Another major element which affected 
vectorization of the final solution included the need to move multiple levels within the 
submatrix without use o' elevators and minimal intrusion into interstitial spaces.  Then 
there was the consideration o' sub-harmonic particle frequencies, particularly in the rho-
axis plane to the elliptic, whereupon-}
	{Cease,} rumbled Prime, who had heard enough.  To distill a complex solution 
into the simplest of terms, there was [1] a (complex) forcefield-warded path between 
point A and point B, along which [2] millips were gently herded, using [3] mobile 
forcefield emitters.  The /how/ in devising the solution was unimportant, the idea of the 
end justifying (or eliminating the need to understand) the means a very Borg concept.
	21 of 32's offered solution was added to consideration of the sub-collective; and 
Prime dismissed both he and Assimilation back to their regular duties before reintegrating 
her split stream-of-consciousness.  Less than five minutes later, the plan, due to its sheer 
intricate simplicity, was declared the best of the limited options available.
	Consensus, as much as ever could be expected in an imperfect sub-collective, was 
achieved.

			*	*	*	*	*

	The millip swarm scuttled in an orderly retreat.  At the forefront were multitudes 
of scouts, feeling/tasting/sighting the path ahead for those who followed close behind.  
Next were tens of thousands of soldiers, mandibles agape and/or foot-claws raised, all 
five subtypes ready and willing to die such that the sub-colony as a whole might survive.  
In the main body of the swarm were the spinners, the workers, the reproductives, the 
multitudes of nurses who cared for their charges by various means (including 
predigesting food for those with mouthparts too specialized or underdeveloped to use in 
the act of eating), and the other members of the sub-colony.  Trailing were yet more 
soldiers, as well as the occasional scout.  Rate of movement was no faster than that of the 
slowest individuals:  regents swollen in perpetual pregnancy and larders, an extremely 
specialized caste with grossly distended abdomens, functioning as living pantries.  
Amongst all ranks existed a sense of agitation and anxiety, but no panic.
	A buzzing creature stalked the sub-colony, a flat and slow thing that stung all who 
might try to attack.  Perhaps it was related to the humming walls and floors and ceilings 
that bit any limb placed too close, but such a mental leap of relationship was too great for 
any millip.  The only thing of importance was that there was always an escape path, a 
way to prevent even the slowest nestmate away from falling to the jaws of the sluggish, 
albeit persistent, predator.
	And, then, there was no egress.  The sub-colony scurried en masse into a large 
room bounded completely by hard metal and forcefields.  The scouts could not find an 
exit; and in response, the swarm swiftly formed into a defensive ball, soldiers to the 
outside of the formation, mandibles gnashing.
	At the entrance to the room, the buzzing beast had paused, seemingly unwilling to 
press its advantage.  It then began to emit an odd series of noises, completely different 
from the persistent hum which had characterized its vocalizations to this point.
	"Why did we stop?  Because the bugs are stopped!  If we go into the room, they'll 
get behind us!"
	Several thousand scouts and soldiers disengaged from the main swarm, scuttling 
around the periphery of the trap, searching with antennae and eye for the least suggestion 
of possible escape.  The rapid build up of alarm pheromones was elevating the agitation 
level of all sub-colony members.
	"I will not stop shouting!  I can barely hear us through all the static and the verbal 
dialogue helps!  Sort of!  If you don't want me speaking for all in our task group, you can 
adjust the assignment!  Or you can beam to our location and tell us yourself, assuming 
you do not end up on the hull!  Good luck inputting an order the computer can discern!"
	The knot of millips separated by the main cluster rattled mandibles at each other 
in pseudo-threat, clawed and bit at unyielding metal, and, in general, showed increased 
signs of distress.  Their disordered trajectory was returning them to the vicinity of the 
buzzing predator, who continued to block the only exit from the trap.
	"Hey!  Don't blame us for the problem!  None of us are the ones who decided to 
follow through on their notion to check the functionality of their hairdryer and space 
heater collection!  It was 17 of 18 who blew the fuse bank!"
	The mini-swarm paused just beyond the periphery where the creature would bite.  
The distinctive scent of where-we-have-been could be discerned, wafting on the minute 
breezes which swirled around the buzzing predator.  Before the creature had attacked, 
Home had been a secure nest-place.  Perhaps it could be again...if the slow beast could be 
bypassed.  Soldiers mock charged at each other as anxiety levels continued to spike; and 
scouts, type II, shuttled between the mini-swarm and the defensive fortification in the 
middle of the room.
	"Once the forcefields to the millip habitat are re-established, we will continue!  
Until then, we will stand right here in this doorway!  We are fortunate /this/ room 
remains uncompromised, given the mess elsewhere in the cube!  I...oh, crap!"
Instinct and tension and pheromonal stimulus finally reaching a tipping point, 
soldiers and scouts charged the buzzing beast.  Despite the small size of an individual 
millip, sheer weight of numbers kept the mini-swarm moving forward even as the 
forcefield's sub-harmonic fluctuations and sharp sting repelled those too near (or in 
contact with) it.
	As the 'buzzing beast' was, in reality, half a dozen drones pushing a somewhat 
flimsy pair of contraptions consisting of mobile forcefield emitters bolted to shopping 
cart-esque dollies, they were no match against the combined power of the mini-swarm.  
Emitters and drones were sent tumbling to the ground.
	"Computer!  Forcefield at subsection 14, submatrix 27, junction 72.d!  Now!  
Now!  Now!  Comply!  Yes, reroute the power!  Comply!!"
	A forcefield shimmered into existence.  It joined the other impassible barriers 
already present in the room, cutting the mini-swarm in twain and blocking all possibility 
of those remaining within the trap of escaping to the abandoned Home.  Momentum 
being what it was, several thousand millips, mostly soldiers, slammed against the 
forcefield.  While the majority scuttled backward stung, but unharmed, a handful fell to 
the ground stunned, where they were trampled by their compatriots.
	"Stop them?!"  The voice was incredulous.  "How?!  We are engineering drones, 
not tactical!  And anyway, it is only a few dozen and we - I'm using the collective here, 
by the way - can always recover them later!"
	On the side of the room opposite the now-warded opening, a new exit formed 
with the deactivation of an obstructing forcefield.  Scouts quickly found the egress and 
began to explore it.
	"About time the route to Inner Cargo Hold #7 was re-established!  It was that 
irregularly defective fuse block in junction 167.c, wasn't it?!"
	"You can stop shouting, 90 of 175:  the static is gone."
	"Oh, right."  Pause.  "So, we ready to go?  The mobile emitters functional?  Dolly 
wheels oiled?"  The unheard answer must have been an affirmative, for the response was 
an "Onward, then."  The forcefield flickered thrice, then vanished to reveal the buzzing 
predator...obviously still hungry for all that it must have consumed the colony-mates who 
had attempted to overrun it.
	Scouts finding the escape path viable, the sub-colony warily broke its defensive 
formation to continue its retreat.  With a rumbling buzz, the flat creature followed as the 
last millip exited the room.

	Five scouts and eleven soldiers swiftly tasted/smelled their way back to the locale 
of their previous Home.  After milling aimlessly for several minutes, the scouts took the 
lead, following scent markers which denoted the way, like fading signposts, to the final 
remnant of what had once been a mighty colony.  The message the sixteen survivors 
carried was vital to the survival of the whole:  their Home had been assaulted by a 
dangerous predator.  Although the millips, both individually and as a group, lacked the 
cogitative ability to express instinct as a coherent notion, if such had been possible, then 
the focus would have been upon warning the last sub-colony (now, apparently, the colony 
entire) in time to erect suitable defensive measures against attack.
	Time was of the essence.  Scouts and soldiers scurried rapidly through a hole 
leading to the interstitial spaces.

			*	*	*	*	*

	{Well, that didn't work,} reported 101 of 370 from her location at hallway 42 of 
subsection 14, submatrix 27, just inside the territory claimed by sub-colony #3.  From her 
vantage, one could see several gatherer millips working together to move cubes of 
neurogel bug chow deeper into the nest area.  Several chow baits had been strategically 
placed in the hallway to lead away from sub-colony #3, but except for the two closest to 
101 of 370, none were under investigation by the millips milling around her feet.
	As at the other test sites, the millips appeared unwilling to cooperate with Cube 
#238 sub-collective's scheme of all-follow-the-bait-back-to-the-box.
	And, on top of that, 101 of 370 had been caught in the webwork laid down by 
spinners.  Not only did the webbing define the edge of the sub-colony's territory, such a 
colossal amount had been spun throughout the claimed space that it disrupted all attempts 
to remotely establish a complex of forcefield barriers for herding, a la sub-colony #2.  
Every strand was sufficiently sticky to catch anything which (or who) might only briefly 
brush against it:  a waxy substance exuded by individual millips and spread upon the 
carapace prevented the rogue bugs from being ensnared by their own engineering.
	101 of 370 hissed an intranet sigh.  Except for extremely limited actions, like 
blinking or breathing, the engineering drone was unable to move.  {Some of the bugs are 
climbing on me...and, now they are tugging out the rest of the baits from my bag.  One of 
the creatures is crawling on my face.  Ugh!  It stuck a leg up my nose.  And...and...and it 
smells like...like lemon furniture polish?}
	{Hah!  Another point for me!} crowed 180 of 242.  A tally mark was added to a 
virtual scoreboard.  In contest with several of his comrades in regards to what millips 
smelled like when swathed by their web-defying wax, he was in the lead.  However, the 
backers of 'honey-aloe skin moisturizer' were in a very close second place.
	{That's nice,} retorted 101 of 370 dryly.  She followed her sardonic comment 
with a plea directed towards the tactical hierarchy, {The millips are retreating.  Could 
someone freeze me down and cut me out?}  Thus far, the only practical method of 
removing a stuck unit was to selectively freeze webbing at point of contact with dry ice, 
then saw through the strands with a sharp knife.  While application of fire worked very 
well to melt the webwork, it also tended to be exceedingly hard to extinguish once caught 
ablaze, demonstrating a characteristic similar to naphtha gel, much to the consternation of 
the drone being extracted, and drone maintenance in regards to repairing the subsequently 
charred unit.
	{At least she isn't being "investigated" as to her food potential,} commented 
Weapons in an aside to Prime as he dispatched a squad to rescue 101 of 370.
	Prime sent a mental assent - the bugs of sub-colony #3 were demonstrating 
increased hunger, and while they refused to be lured by the bait ruse, several victims 
caught in the webwork had been 'tasted', leaving behind nasty bites.  Dismissing 
datastreams associated with 101 of 370 and weapons hierarchy to the background, Prime 
refocused the bulk of her attention to scene of controlled chaos which was Inner Cargo 
Hold #7.
	After all, one of her favorite activities - as much as any drone was allowed to 
favor anything - was annoying Engineer.  In the end, the informal quasi-apprenticeship 
whereupon Prime was tutoring Engineer in the mysteries and secrets of Chief Engineer 
could only benefit the latter.  However, the path Prime was forcing Engineer to walk was 
fraught with irritation, much of it deliberately caused by Prime herself.
	In yet another echo of faults still emerging due to the earlier traverse through the 
region of elevated subspace turbulence, a localized malfunction of life support had 
recently developed.  Specifically, the temperature gradient in Inner Cargo Hold #7 had 
become disrupted.   It did not help that the problem had either been precipitated or 
magnified by the fuse episode.  Normally a fault in the malfunctioning system was a 
minor inconvenience, Borg drones able to endure a wide temperature range.  However, in 
this case a Very Important Cargo was impacted; and Engineer's dislike of livestock, or his 
opinion that delivering a dead millip was an improvement over a live one, was irrelevant.  
Therefore, determining cause of the temperature fault and fixing it before the millip 
habitat (and millips within) became irrevocably compromised was a top priority, one 
which Engineer was overseeing personally.
	For Prime, it was an excellent opportunity to leave her alcove, allowing her to not 
only stretch muscles, but also continue her tutelage of Engineer.
	In response to the cold - 5 to 7 degrees Celsius - affecting one end of the habitat, 
the colony had clustered to the opposite side.  While the bugs had shown themselves to 
be adaptable to BorgStandard heat and humidity outside the optimized conditions of their 
box, they were obviously less tolerant to cooler temperatures.  The millips - disposable 
scouts and soldiers - forced to the edge of the colony facing the cold were noticeably 
sluggish.
	"At least the livestock is no longer attacking the habitat walls," commented Prime 
in an effort to distract Engineer, whom she was standing near.
	Engineer, his gaze focused on wiring diagrams, lines of code, and the 
organization of teams within the interstitial spaces eeling their way to heat exchange units 
deeply buried in the bulkheads, grunted a wordless acknowledgement.
	Although she already knew the answer, Prime continued to prod, "Retuning the 
engines worked, did it?"
	Disengaging just enough of his attention to allow intelligible conversation, 
Engineer swiveled his head to directly regard Prime, "Ye know it did.  'Nd we lost 0.6% 
efficiency 'n the propulsion system t' accomplish it.  As soon as the cargo be delivered, 
the retunin' will be reset t' its normal parameters.  Now, go away 'nd find yeself a pickle."
	The order was ignored.  "Well done!"  The congratulation was delivered with 
mock sincerity.  "You are definitely picking up on the Chief Engineer mentality if you 
are worrying about such a miniscule change in engine performance!  Particularly given 
0.6% is within the performance error expected of an imperfect sub-collective assigned to 
a mobile platform.  Chapter 2 of 'Chief Engineering for Dummies' helped, did it not?"
	The invoked chapter of the heavily restricted book - unavailable to the general 
populace of the universe, except Chief Engineers - was 'So You Have No Clue For A 
Diagnostic - Retuning Engines And Other Simple Tricks'.  Supporting multiple layers of 
encryption, file contents, while known to the Collective as a whole, were off limits to 
individual drones except those who had the key.  The complex arrangement was 
necessary, for whereas normal Borg would have no interest in reading the book, the very 
nature of an imperfectly assimilated unit ensured that he, she, or it would inevitably be 
drawn to it as a jackdaw to a shiny object.
	Engineer had a key, linked to his personal code in such a way that no other drone 
could understand the content it unlocked, even given the communal nature of the sub-
collective.  Prime had a similar key, as did all drones, within and without the imperfect 
environment of Cube #238 who had been inducted into the ranks of the universe-
spanning secret society of engineers known as the Brotherhood of the Spanner.  The 
Brotherhood controlled the placement of Chief Engineers (capitalization denoting a 
difference from the mere job title 'chief engineer') to positions of engineering 
responsibility, be it a garbage scow or a continent-wide arcology; and the decision of the 
Collective to install a permanent engineering hierarchy head to Cube #238, instead of 
relying on a system of temporary positions, invoked the right of the Brotherhood to 
meddle.  In the end, the unusual convolution of encryption was necessary:  in return for 
allowing elevation of Engineer to the Chief Engineer status needed to be permanent head 
of Cube #238's engineering division, the Brotherhood would ensure that current levels of 
efficiency would be maintained across the Borg Collective.
	Never underestimate the power of the lowly engineer, for it was they who kept the 
gears of society turning, not mere royalty, dictators, presidents, or parliaments.
	"Perhaps," sullenly admitted Engineer in response to Prime's question.
	"Keep studying the book," admonished Prime.  "It should be committed to deep 
memory, available even in the event of complete cranial implants removal."  The Flarn 
paused.  "And I'll be quizzing you on Chapter 6 - 'Technobabbling Your Way Through A 
Crisis' - at sometime in the near future.  /That/ is a crucial skill that must be mastered."
	A thin film of frost was beginning to form on Prime and Engineer.  Whereas the 
ice merely made Prime's armored carapace glisten slightly, Engineer seemed to becoming 
to be coated in shellac by the dint of his crimson and yellow diamonds paint scheme.
	{Task Force #4, why have ye not reached ye assigned junction box?} inquired 
Engineer, blatantly ignoring the consensus monitor.
	If Prime had had the facial muscles to do so, she would have smirked.  As it was, 
body posture conveyed the same thing, had another Flarn been present to observe.  She 
returned to watching the millips, background processes keeping tabs not only upon 
engineering hierarchy's efforts to correct the life support issue, but all the myriad of 
datathreads that, when woven together, made Cube #238 a (mostly) functional whole.
	Several engineering drones were setting up portable heaters to combat the 
creeping chill; and as the colony clustered around the devices, the gossamer wisps of an 
idea began to whisper within the deep subconscious of the dataspaces.
	As are the great majority of Borg notions, the idea was not novel, but rather the 
adaptation, the amalgam of concepts assimilated from victim species.  Although the 
primary focus of the sub-collective was upon rectifying the temperature fault in Inner 
Cargo Hold #7, other processes had been left to percolate upon the problem represented 
by millip sub-colony #3, to make semi-random connections between disparate thoughts, 
to (put it simply) brainstorm.
	And it was a storm that gusted from the sub-collective hindbrain, many details yet 
to be determined, but a potentially viable concept nonetheless.  The question remained if 
the idea was fated to become a gentle breeze, or a raging hurricane that threatened to turn 
on its inceptors.
	Prime blinked as a virtual bell *dinged* within her personal mindspace.  Unless 
she was inadvertently channeling a cooking enthusiast with a souffle in the oven, a 
subroutine was attempting to gain her attention.  She split a small sliver of herself to 
check the contents of the data package.  Then she smiled...figuratively, of course, given 
Flarn physiology.
	"Well, Engineer, depending on the outcome of the decision cascade we are about 
to initiate, I'd say you are about to become overly familiar with our life support functions. 
I suggest brushing up on Dummies Chapter 4 - 'How To Not Please Everyone:  
Temperature, Gravity, And Other Compromises Among A Multi-Species Crew'."

	{For today, expect gusty conditions throughout the border between submatrix 27 
and surrounding submatrices.  Be especially vigilant in the vicinity of central shaft #1, 
alcove tiers 10 through 18, where updrafts are predicted to reach near hurricane strength.  
Don't forget to employ personal traction magnetics and secure all loose items!  Umbrellas 
are /not/ advised...unless one wishes to take up hang-gliding.}
	119 of 185, ex-meteorologist and now a sensory drone assigned to tasks analyzing 
the vagaries of space weather, continued his cube-wide intranet advisory.  There were 
even pictures embedded in the datastream - a simplified cube featuring two-dimensional 
cartoons in the shapes of smiling suns and frowning rain clouds.
	{In the next several hours, assuming trends hold, a winter weather warning may 
be extended to portions of submatrix 18.  Models suggest snow accumulations possible to 
five centimeters.  Warmer areas are likely to experience rain, or perhaps heavy 
condensation; and fog is assured throughout the temperature intermix zone.}
	It was a rare sight to see /weather/ on a Borg vessel, much less extremes such as 
wind and snow.  Environmental conditions were normally held steady at a specific 
temperature and humidity; and when large-scale fluctuations or failures in life support 
were reported, throughout Borg history it was inevitably an imperfect sub-collective that 
was affected.
	In this case, the occurrence of weather was an incidental response, albeit not 
unexpected, to other actions.  While repairing the life support component failure at Inner 
Cargo Hold #7, an aversion to extremes of cold by the bugs had been observed.  That 
observation had developed into a plan that relied upon manipulation of temperature 
differentials to herd the final sub-colony back to the millip habitat.
	Due to the nature of life support and the size of a Lugger-class (or any) cube, it 
was impossible to alter temperature on a fine scale.  Instead, large areas had to be cooled 
or heated; and because no concurrent attempt to alter humidity was performed, and cold 
air holds less water than warm, moisture in all its myriad forms - fog, rain, snow, ice - 
was the result.  Wind, too, develops in response to the artificial atmospheric lows and 
highs of internal atmospheric manipulation.
	And the millip response?  Faced with an unexpected 'winter', the sub-colony 
decamped its fortified and heavily webbed nest.  Unfortunately, the majority of the 
swarm seemed determined to remain within the interstitial spaces, precluding the use of 
forcefield herding techniques.  Therefore it was necessary to continue the widespread 
temperature manipulation, supplemented by the placement of heating units at key 
junctions, to keep the bugs on the move in the (mostly) right direction.
	{Looking further in the future, the next cycle brings a 75% chance of rain in the 
vicinity of artery hallway 7.  However, with a 34.5% chance the vector-} Within the 
dataspaces, a squint-eyed, scowling millip joined the growing herd of weather-related 
cartoons. {-will diverge from the desired path at junction 47c.g, there is a moderate 
possibility the artery hallway 7 forecast will shift to warm breezes.  The long-range 
forecast predicts a convergence of lows in Inner Cargo Hold #3, bringing with it typhoon 
conditions.  And on to sports, with weather returning at the top of the hour...so, 139 of 
150, what are the results from the tiddlywinks finals last cycle?}

			*	*	*	*	*

	With much jubilation and clattering of mandibles, the millip colony rejoined with 
itself.  Once again, through all the troubles each fragment had endured, it was whole.
	Millips cannot talk.  Individuals can exchange information via pheromones, 
touch, and sound, but the actions of the one and the many are genetically scripted.  There 
are no names; there is no cogitation; there is no reasoning.  There is only stimulus and 
response.  If the reaction of the one or the collective to a novel situation is successful in 
furthering the colony, then all is good.  If, however, the response leads to a failure which 
the colony (or a part thereof) survives, the whole will still respond the same the next time 
a similar stimulus occurs, and the time after that, and the time after that.  If some tool, or 
variation, is not in the toolkit, then there can be no adaptation.
	In many ways the highly technological Borg would be loath to admit, the lowly 
millips were very like the Collective.
	If millips /could/ talk, the final component to reunite with the colony would tell a 
confusing tale of a leg-numbing chill, of an unseasonable winter that chased the swarm 
no matter where it turned.  Sometimes there were gloriously warm suns around which the 
whole would cluster, but inevitably the cold would come, the suns would die, and the 
sub-colony would be forced back to the march.  In the end, the circuitous route had led 
back to the beginning, back to the box (no longer emitting the annoying vibrations) from 
which the colony had originally escaped.
	In the end, all was good.
	Then, in the middle of joyful celebration, of nurses grooming reproductives and 
soldiers mock-fighting amongst themselves, an odd tingling was felt.  First the 
extremities, then the body...all millips paused to consider this new sensation.  
Unfortunately, it was novel, never encountered before, and there was no predetermined 
response.  Millips could only stand, frozen, in the genetically programmed hope that 
whatever was occurring would quickly pass the colony by.
	And, then, the universe disappeared.

			*	*	*	*	*

	After all that hard work, of near 1.5 cycles spent herding an uncooperative sub-
colony #3 to and fro in the interstitial spaces, the response of the Collective the moment 
Cube #238 slowed into a parking orbit off Research Complex #161 (and mere minutes 
after a successful reintegration of the millips), was to /beam/ the entire bug colony to its 
new holding facility.
	While enroute to the research complex, another millip colony - same species as 
that under transport - had been discovered upon a small volcanic island of Planet 
#18,220.  It had been collected; and following the escape of the millips upon Cube #238, 
had been the beneficiary of aggressive experimentation.  The Greater Consciousness had 
determined that millips were not as sensitive to transporters as previously believed:  with 
minor retuning, mortality was reduced to less than 5%, an acceptable rate for a colony 
numbering a million individuals.  Therefore, when Cube #238 had entered transporter 
range of Research Complex #161, all the bugs had been beamed away, lest the sub-
collective somehow screw up the unloading process.
	It was unfair!  It was also, unfortunately, quite Borg.  The fact that the sub-
collective had not been to blame for the initial escape of the colony was irrelevant.
	All of the above was absorbed by the Cube #238 sub-collective at the moment of 
transference.  Throughout the cube, drones paused in their actions, tilting heads or other 
applicable body part, then continued with their assigned task.  It was a classic case of 
need-to-know, with the Whole disseminating information to its parts only when/if such 
was required:  Cube #238 had not been amongst the need to know until the moment of 
beaming.
	As a final postscript, the sub-collective was informed of a lack of cargo to on-
load, thus the vessel was ordered to resume travel to its next scheduled port-of-call.  All 
in all, the visit to Research Complex #161 had resulted in the fastest porting on record for 
Cube #238; and among the annuls of all imperfect sub-collectives going back over eight 
millennia, ranked in the top ten.
	Which was quite fine with Engineer.  He despised livestock, after all, and the 
quicker the bugs were removed from Cube #238, the better in his opinion.  He already 
had engine (re)tuning to normal configuration on the schedule; and dismantling the millip 
habitat was also high on the engineering hierarchy to-do list.
	Except that there seemed to be a bloc of opposition to the lattermost action.
	{Perfect f'r a handball court?  And jai alai?  Wha' the pickle be "jai alai"?}  Pause.  
{Flingin' rubber balls at each other while wearin' wicker baskets duct-taped to ye wrists.  
Yes...a Borg have the agility f'r just a sport.  /Sport/ be irrelevant.}  The bloc remained 
immobile, and too strong for Engineer to overrule.  {Prime?  A wee bit 'f help here....  Ye 
be number one consensus monitor and facilitator, ye know.}  Pause.  {The image o' ye 
with a basket 'n yer arms does not flatter ye.  I did read Chapter 4 o' Dummies, and I be 
fairly certain I could apply the concepts to ye alcove, so do yer job, 'r else.}