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			The Only Certainty in Life is Borg and Taxes

	Second glared around at the ruins. Old metal crumbled as he watched, rust weakened 
struts falling before the relentless onslaught of constant winds. Reddish dust blown by the gale 
piled up around the Borg's shins, making it difficult to walk.
	{This is a waste of time, Captain. All the ruins on this dirtball we've had the misfortune 
to investigate look alike. We'll have better luck with the structures on this planet's moon, if there 
is anything to find at all. And since I'm getting annoying bits of dust in my implants and under 
my body armor, I'm returning to the cube.}
	Small scouting parties around the planet gave similar sentiments, especially concerning 
the ubiquitous dust. Captain sighed, collected the survey drones, and directed the engines to push 
the cube into a higher orbit to intersect with the moon's gravity well.
	Cube #347 was an Exploratory-class Borg cube with a four thousand drone crew, but it 
was unlike any other sub-collective within the Greater Collective. Due to a glitch in the 
assimilation process, most of the cube's members had not had their former individuality 
completely severed, although they were perfectly functional in all other ways. The remaining 
drones had various quirks, mental deviations, and other problems which tended to negatively 
affect the efficiency of any cube to which they were assigned. Seeing an opportunity to put all its 
eggs in one basket (and hoping it might eventually be dropped), the Greater Consciousness had 
filled the cube with its problems and sent the resulting sub-collective on its way. Menial tasks 
tended to keep it far from the main body of the Collective.
	Against all probability, Cube #347 continued to survive. Part of its survival was owed to 
the unique collective hierarchy which in random (and not-so-random) manner one drone was put 
in charge of different "hierarchies" for the length of an assignment. Those drones were the 
figurative head for a body of quasi-individuals who might otherwise manage to crash into a 
planet as orbit it if a significant number of the sub-collective was concentrating on something 
else.
	The current assignment by the Greater Consciousness to keep Cube #347 busy was to 
ascertain the home system(s) of a previously unknown species, now designated #8511, of which 
a derelict craft had been intercepted a month prior.
	A great majority of the sub-collective was busily mulling over what little information had 
been gathered in the ruins, coming up with the probability that the structures belonged not to 
species #8511 (the metal had been tempered in a manner completely different from that of the 
ship), but to some extinct, and therefore irrelevant, race. The drones not involved in data-
crunching were doing routine maintenance on the cube, or vacuuming dust from their bodies.
	Captain, also known as 4 of 8 when he did not have the misfortune to be commanding, to 
use the term loosely, had partitioned his mind. On one level he was participating in the 
discussion on what actions to take next, while a second part of his brain was concentrating on the 
command codes responsible for putting the cube in orbit around the satellite. A third section of 
his awareness was happily engrossed in reading a novel entitled "Jumba the Wise Lizard Goes to 
Harly-Barly". Captain had covertly sifted it from the vast trove of data collected from species 
#430, prior to their complete assimilation, two duty rotations ago when he had merely been 4 of 
8.
	Jumba the wise lizard was just about to enter the Trelana casino in Harly-Barly when the 
gurgling stutter that was a Borg proximity alarm startled Captain into collapsing that partition. 
The cube continued to make the transition into lunar orbit, but ship-wide discussions had ceased.
	{Sensors,} called Captain over the cube's intranet, {what is the alarm for? Perhaps 
something constructed by species #8511 is in this system after all?} Captain nurtured a hope for 
the latter, if only to rid himself of the hateful burden of command; the bubble, however, was 
swiftly burst.
	{Sensors say that it is a scout ship of an appropriate configuration and [fuzzy navels] to 
be species #6699.} Sensors, or 1 of 3 as she was also designated, swiftly flipped the 
configuration of the cube's external sensors to reflect the visual input most of the crew used. 
With one prosthetic limb of six total currently plugged into a data outlet, Sensors saw the 
universe in a significantly different manner, one which was of great use to her, if useless to 
anyone else. That world-view disappeared as Captain rerouted his awareness into the sensor grid.
	Captain didn't like raw sensor data, but the alternative was to have computers clean-up 
the information and display it on one of the idiotic circular screens distributed all over the ship. 
He had the theory that the viewscreen configuration might be a hold-over from the original Borg 
species, but he wasn't going to go digging in Collective archives to find out. Such interest in 
irrelevant Borg past would be too much for the Greater Consciousness to tolerate even among 
the imperfectly assimilated sub-collective of Cube #347, which would thusly lead to termination. 
Captain was still enough of an individual to dislike the concept of termination, or at least the 
concept of termination which did not benefit the Whole.
	The scout ship in question was fifteen meters long in an atmospheric-friendly delta-wing 
configuration with one warp nacelle on the underside running the length of the craft. Data 
brought into active memory reported a crew compliment of one; and also suggested the ship was 
quite far from the region of space the species normally occupied.
	{Sensors, has it...} began Captain, then was interrupted by a hail coming /from/ the scout 
ship. Captain immediately switched the visual output to a stereotypical view of catwalks and 
alcoves, overcoming a momentary urge to use a camera in his subsection, then go out on the 
walkways to make rude gestures from a distance. He traced the impulse to a drone by the 
designation of 89 of 310, assigning her to exterior hull maintenance.
	"Borg cube, this is Orinus of the Seculy people." A view of Orinus was rerouted to those 
Borg watching the communications. He, for it was a male, as verified by the colorful crest of 
feathers rising above his forehead, stared into his camera. The two black true-eyes took in the 
sight of the interior of the cube with scarcely a blink. The single lidless, white fake-eye centered 
between the true-eyes reacted to changes in light polarizations, and was generally only used 
when species #6699 was on a planet and needed to determine an ordinal direction under cloudy 
conditions. "Please assimilate me! I beg of you!"
	Captain was taken back in surprise, as was the rest of the cube. Species ran away from 
the Borg. Despite the Borg litany, very few species put their affairs in order and meekly allowed 
their demise as individuals. Paranoid thoughts of trap ran over the net, but detailed scanning by 
Sensors did not detect any foul play.
	Weapons offered his suggestion, {I say we kill him. Can't be too sure.} Weapons, 45 of 
300, was extremely fixated on one thought, one outcome, which made him difficult to control at 
times. His demented passion to be in charge of weaponry also guaranteed he had been Weapons 
since he had first been assigned to Cube #347, no matter the outcome of the weapon lottery, 
often to the pain of the actual winner.
	{No, we will do ask the being asks. We will assimilate him. Assimilation, prepare to 
board the ship and take the being. Delta of Engineering, examine the ship and determine what 
might be useful as salvage. Oh, and if there are any large viewscreens, be sure to grab one.} 
Captain now turned attention back to the scout ship and the pleading Seculy, "We are Borg. You 
will be assimilated. Lower your shields and prepare to be boarded."
	Shields were lowered and Assimilation's team beamed over.

	Captain had installed the very nonBorgStandard viewscreen in the nodal intersection 
nearest his alcove. Second was watching as Captain made the final connections to the computer 
system, then sent a command code to test the screen. A large, full-color picture of the moon over 
which the cube was orbiting appeared. Although the colors were slightly off, perhaps owing to 
the sensor frequencies Sensors was employing at the moment, Captain was immensely pleased.
	"When the Greater Consciousness finds out about that screen, it will make you space it, 
you know."
	"Stop being such a voice of reality, Second. For once I would like to have a decent 
viewscreen. I absolutely hate tying directly into the sensor grid. I figure if I can sufficiently 
manage to partition this sub-collective, I may even be able to hide its presence for a month or 
two. Longer if we stay out of the Greater Collective's notice."
	"And the Federation will open all borders and invite us to assimilate them. It is not going 
to happen."
	"I'm allowed personal delusions at times. It is part of the quirk of the imperfectly 
assimilated."
	"Whatever."
	The proximity alert gave a series of alarms. Captain frowned, "Next thing I'm going to do 
is alter that noise. It sounds like a dying animal." He let his mind sink to the portion of the net 
Sensors resided in, {What is it?}
	{Sensors reports that two more [ramparts] of species #6699 have entered the system. 
They are crash decelerating on a [yellow line] to intersect us.}
	Giving Second a superior smirk, Captain commanded the Borg computers to give a 
schematic of the path of the approaching ships, coupled with a display of time-to-intercept. 
"There, what do you think? Much easier on the brain than trying to do that mentally."
	"Yes, but then again, a proper sub-collective wouldn't need a Sensors, or a Weapons, or a 
Captain. And certainly not a Second. It would be one vast being."
	"But we are not a proper sub-collective, now, are we? Well, I'm going to do my 
damnedest to keep this screen."
	A hail came from the scout ships, and the conversation went much as before, with the 
pilots demanding, begging, to be assimilated. And, as before, Cube #347 took in the pilots, then 
proceeded to render down the ships for acceptable scrap, gasses, and other material.
	Captain felt odd about the occurrences. It just wasn't natural. Sure, the Borg would like 
for there to be no resistance, but it always happened. He sent a thought to Assimilation, {How is 
the assimilation process coming?}
	Assimilation gave a long, regretful sigh, {As it should. Life is boring once more; there is 
no purpose it seems. A simple task, and it is back to staring at the walls and growing nanites.} 
Captain resisted the urge to make his way across the cube and shove the eternally depressed 
Assimilation out an airlock. Instead, he posted a note to the Hierarchy of Eight, from which 
Captains were drawn each assignment, to never allow 13 of 20 to serve in command positions 
again.
	{So, nothing of interest to report?}
	{Nothing, Captain. None of the three appears to have suffered from imperfect 
assimilation, so I've sedated the bodies and put them into long-term regeneration stasis, as per 
standing instructions from the Greater Consciousness. That slows down the post-Assimilation 
process, but neural rewiring is going well, universal implants have been inserted, and memory 
crystals are part-way secreted. We won't be adding specialized prosthesis', as we don't know 
where these drones will be assigned.}
	{Keep me posted if there is any change in status.}
	{These three to-be drones are quiescent in alcoves. They can't move and they can't get on 
our net.}
	The whining complaints continued on, but Captain allowed his awareness to slip 
elsewhere. On the surface of the moon, more structures were being examined, but they were 
clearly related to those found on the planet. The few computers that were salvageable had 
memories degraded from time into meaningless static of bits and bytes. The sub-collective had 
just decided to travel on to another likely candidate star fifteen light years distant when 
proximity alarms went off for the third time in sixteen hours.
	{Sensors reports more ships of species #6699 configuration.}
	Captain replied, {More scouts looking to join the Collective?}
	{Not exactly. Let Sensors say now that Sensors hopes the [armada] aren't looking to [fly 
away] their missing comrades back.}
	Attempting to sort through the odd syntax, Captain sighed and moved down the catwalk 
to his newly installed viewscreen. A few manipulations of the data stream brought up a view of a 
ship. Then more ships. Then a lot more ships. Too many ships for even the large screen the 
engineering drones had salvaged. Clamping down on the panic which was beginning to filter 
through the cube's net, Captain forcefully dipped into the raw data to read the incoming 
information.
	One hundred and six ships of various types, ranging from one-person scouts to a colony 
ship able to hold over ten thousand beings dropped out of warp at the edge of the system, then 
began to stream in towards the Borg cube. Life signs indicated an excess of thirty thousand of 
species #6699, and that was at the edge of sensor resolution. Whereas a normal cube would not 
have much problem with the many, but relatively poorly armed, ships, this imperfect collection 
of pseudo-individuals might (and would) very well give conflicting demands, which would 
degenerate into chaos, leaving the cube a sitting duck. Eventually the dominant minds would sort 
the bickering mess, but until then, the cube would be a large target. Captain began the sequence 
of command codes which would slide the cube to the backside of the moon in preparation for a 
quick getaway, but it was already too late.
	"Borg cube, answer us! You must assimilate us, you must! Our culture is your culture! 
Our technology is your technology! We will not resist! You must assimilate us!"
	Arguments broke out in the net, some pulling for escape, others calling to stay. Paranoia 
of traps was voiced yet again. Captain knew there was no way for an Exploratory-class cube to 
assimilate that many beings. Two thousand tops was the max they could add to their crew 
without overloading the regeneration systems, and even then alcove use would have to alternate 
by shifts. Only an Assimilation-class cube, able to covert and transport up to one hundred 
thousand drones would be able to accede to the demands species #6699 was screaming on the 
subspace radio. The want for escape warred with the Borg imperative of perfection through 
assimilation, towards which species #6699 made a superior drone for planetary assaults.
	In order to stall for time, Captain finally returned the hail, "Species #6699, you will go 
into orbit around the fourth planet of this star system. You will prepare yourselves. You will not 
raise shields or power weapons, or you will be destroyed. You will not resist." In almost eager, 
and frightening, anticipation, the armada of ships altered their heading for an intersection with 
the stated planet.
	"That does it," decided Captain as he begun the process to force a consensus out of the 
internal chaos. "Second, the scout ship records are next to useless. Go to Assimilation's 
subsection and find out from the new drones /why/ species #6699 desires oblivion so badly. A 
phrase which comes to mind concerns the stink of rotting fish."
	Second grumbled, then activated a transporter beam to take him to subsection 5 as it 
would take much too long to actually navigate the physical environment. As the beam wavered 
into nonexistence, Assimilation looked away from the bulkhead at which he was staring. Borg 
were not supposed to demonstrate any expression on their faces, and normal Borg did not. On the 
other hand, the Borg on Cube #347 tended towards a rare show of surprise, malevolent smile, 
grimace, and so on every once in a while. Assimilation looked as if his face had frozen long ago 
into one of hopeless depression. Soundlessly he turned and pointed at the three alcoves holding 
the new drones.
	Unlike the finished Borg that inhabited the ship, the trio of new drones were not 
"complete." The mottled gray skin was apparent, as were a few tubes, external implants, and 
pieces of black body suit, but the face was still largely free of any technological augments and no 
limbs had been altered yet. The crests of the two males were rapidly molting and a pile of 
feathers had been kicked to one side.
	Second came to a halt before the first pilot who had demanded to be assimilated. 
Carefully he dropped into the net and began to examine the connections the drone was making 
the general Collective. Second began to erect firewalls and code barriers, isolating the new drone 
from the chaotic thoughts of Cube #347's sub-collective, yet at the same time allowing the sense 
of belonging to continue. Deciding finally that the drone wouldn't be too traumatized, Second 
began the process to bring him out of regenerative stasis. The drone's eyes opened.
	{Listen to Us,} crooned Second on the net and into the drone's mind. {This drone is 3 of 
8. You will have time to acclimate to the Collective, but We need information from your former 
existence, from before your assimilation. Tell Us, show Us, why you wanted to merge with Us 
and assist in the evolution towards perfection.}
	With increasing horror, Second, and much of the cube which had hitched a ride on his 
personal neural net to observe, watched the unfolding truth. As soon as the nameless drone's 
mind had been emptied of relevant data, he was swiftly sent back to the oblivion of stasis.
	<< WHAT DO WE DO?? >> wailed Cube #347, for once in perfect unity. << WHAT 
COURSE OF ACTION CAN WE TAKE? >>
	Four thousand bodies stopped what they were doing; those that had been mobile made 
their way back to their alcoves, plugging their minds into the net. Four thousand Borg discarded 
plan after plan, scenario after scenario, until a conclusion was reached...they would have to 
contact the Greater Consciousness. As Captain reached out across the light years, following the 
trail of the cube vinculum transceiver back to the main Collective, he regretted that he would 
have his new viewscreen for a shorter time than he had originally planned.
	The Greater Consciousness responded warily, putting up barriers to wall out possible 
individuality from spreading among the Overnets. However, as the information from Cube #347 
was analyzed, the Consciousness became increasingly alarmed. There was major trouble 
brewing.
	First a billion, then tens of billions, then hundreds of billions, and finally trillions of Borg 
halted in their duties to give thought to the problem. Cubes coasted in space while besieged 
species watched in anticipation as would-be assimilators stopped in mid-step; for nearly five 
minutes, the entire Collective was concentrated on finding the solution to one minuscule 
problem. Consensus reached, the Greater Consciousness gave instructions to Cube #347, then 
swiftly drew away, as if to put as much distance between itself and the actions to come.
	Captain opened his eyes and stared blankly, collecting the shredded tendrils of his mind. 
The first concrete thought which emerged was relief that the Greater Collective had been in such 
horror over seeing the problem, he had not been ordered to space his viewscreen. The second 
coherent thought was that if the plan decided upon did not work, the cube was probably toast.

	The plan began when Cube #347 left the relative safety of the distant moon and moved 
into a high orbit about the fourth planet. Carefully placed phaser discharges disabled engine after 
engine, nacelle after nacelle, until the entire convoy was unable to go to warp. Weapons, for 
once, did not argue, and not even the smallest scout ship was destroyed.
	Over the next twelve hours, Borg crews transported to the exterior of the ships and began 
to physically remove nacelles, guaranteeing warp capacity could not be regained through repair. 
In several cases Borg had to transport inside ships to disable key power systems. Phasers did not 
greet the intruders, but members of species #6699 did obstruct work by begging to be 
assimilated. Captain participated on the teams, and more than once found himself peeling 
refugees off leg or arm.
	Deep within the Borg cube, Assimilation and Doctor, also known as 27 of 27, began the 
rarely used process of de-assimilation on the three scout ship pilots. Under heavy sedation, the 
newly forged link to the Collective was severed, then implants removed. A special combination 
of computer commands and chemicals caused nanites in the bodies to denature. Finally, the 
newly de-assimilated trio of species #6699, drugged into an artificial coma, were hastily beamed 
to the large colony ship.
	There was little the Borg feared. The encounter with species #8472 had been a setback, 
but in the end, even that foe had been defeated. However, there was a type of being the Borg did 
fear, a being which was ruthless, relentless, heartless, and overall, unstoppable (even more so 
than the Borg). There was no pleading with this type of being; and it had been shown that 
resistance was extremely futile.
	The faceless creatures of the Stellar Revenue Service cometh; and they had the tax 
evaders of species #6699 in their sights.
	A saying in the Gamma quadrant among space-faring civilizations went, "The only 
certainties in life are Borg and taxes." The Borg PR department encouraged that particular view, 
in part because of the hopeless nature of the idiom. Reality was slightly different.
	A stalemate had evolved between the SRS and the Borg. The former did not collect taxes 
from the Borg, and the latter did not hinder the SRS from stalking their prey. The mindset of 
SRS beings did not lend to assimilation, not to mention the fact of a seemingly spontaneous 
generation of new agents; and the Borg had long since discarded any pretense of money or trade, 
and were tenaciously willing to defend their rightfully assimilated acquisitions. Provocation of 
either side more than likely would lead to the destruction of the provoker, so Borg and SRS 
tiptoed carefully around one another.
	A colony of species #6699 had been keeping double books, pulling a vast scam which 
cost the SRS lost revenue in the tens of billions of credit units. No scam can go on forever, so 
when discovered, the colony attempted to find shelter under the vast umbrella of the Borg. The 
Borg, however, had decided to forgo the coup of thirty thousand excellent assault drones for a 
war with the SRS. Which side would be in the right was uncertain, but the Greater 
Consciousness had resolved to err on the side of caution.
	Ignoring the frantic subspace radio pleas of the helpless ships, Cube #347 sped away, 
stopping at the edge of the system just long enough to release a beacon informing the SRS of the 
location of their wayward tax evaders.
	Nervously and with a feeling of being watched, Captain sent an acknowledgment to the 
Greater Consciousness of task accomplished. That done, the next likely candidate star for the 
search of species #8511 was targeted, and Cube #347 sped away in high transwarp.