Does it not feel like déjà vu all over again? Yet, some constants always remain. The Star Trek properties are owned by Paramount (Global). Decker created the riff which is Star Traks. And, after all these years, the entity known as Meneks continues to write the BorgSpace epic.


And Here We Go Again


There is no such thing as silence upon a spaceship, even one at rest. At the very least is the near subliminal background hum of life support efficiently circulating atmosphere. Common also are the little creaks and groans of superstructure shifting, easily ignored when crew are busily attending to duties, but very much in evidence during local off-shift when corridors are largely uninhabited. This particular vessel had all the above, and more as systems not typical to any other known ship added their unique whirrs and clicks and quiet buzzes. And, if one listened closely, there was another element, one which strongly suggested the regular inhale and exhale of thousands of slumbering beings.

The rhythm for one individual subtly altered. A single eye opened, accompanied by the slight mechanical whine of a device embedded in the opposite socket. The being who had swum up into the realm of consciousness was not quite unique - there were 3,684 similar upon the cube-shaped ship it called home - but it did represent a civilization which had been officially extinct for over 53,000 of its years. Cycles. Until, that is, less than a local year previous when temporal resurrection had dredged from fossilized tau echoes what some were starting to realize may have been better left alone.

Captain, more appropriately known as 4 of 8 (the remainder of the full designation irrelevant in this here and now), primary consensus monitor of Alliance-built Exploratory-class Cube #347, stared sightlessly at the alcove tier on the far side of the subshaft. His consciousness was the only one awake amid the entirety of the poor remnant of the once mighty Borg; and he was feeling exceedingly small. Vulnerable. Less than One.

It had all started with temporal resurrection of the sub-collective of Cube #347. To be more precise, it had begun significantly earlier with the death of the sub-collective, the remembrance of which for most drones was, at best, a tramatic series of disjointed and chaotic images. From that distant era, from that final incident, a single object in the form of a Jumba the Wise Lizard data crystal had somehow survived; and it had formed the loci from which a group of temporal-science wizards of the current now had locked onto the tau signature of Captain, then the sub-collective, reconstituting them via a modified transporter system.

In this now was the Alliance, a federation of species tied together with trade, a desire for peaceful exploration, and, most importantly, mutual defense against several belligerent neighbors. Via related temporal processes which had resurrected the sub-collective, scientists had resolved a large number of future what-ifs, many of which featured a potential-maybe dominated by an extra-galactic invader which exterminated all sentient lifeforms it could not bend to its will. Other visions suggested a mechanical civilization, unfortunately extinct and reduced to near myth, as the only counter to the invaders. In the end, what the Alliance received for their efforts was 3,893 Borg drones, not all of whom would survive. And as Captain had later relayed, a sub-collective of imperfect drones does not constitute an entire Borg Collective. Nonetheless, through a chain of events, a faux Cube #347 had been built, the sub-collective loaded on, and the whole sent to likely death to confront an entity known by the Borg as They.

Amazingly, Cube #347 had survived. But only because something else had encountered They first...and exterminated all of Them.

One thing led to another led to another. There had been a dying They heavy attack unit named Apogee; a solar system ravaged by a war 53,000 Cycles ago; two more-than-insane AIs which called themselves Helios and Selene; a coffee-addicted brain from another reality whom had hijacked a Xenig chassis; three additional (normal) Xenig; an opera; the return of Apogee, but assimilated; an exploding moon. It was all bewildering to think upon...and Captain, along with his sub-collective, had been there. As had been the Alliance, the ersatz master of Cube #347 and its Borg occupants...a master who was slowly coming to realize the danger represented by the sub-collective should the control, the chains which bound it, ever slip.

The tau visions had also shown an eventuality where the galaxy was One in the quest for Perfection, reaching out a cybernetic hand across the intergalactic gulf, even as had They, to bring that ultimate Truth to others.

But, for now, that future looked dim and unlikely to come to pass. Chances were greater that the sub-collective would either slowly wither away, else leave the galactic stage in the long imperfect tradition of catastrophic explosion.

A pressure began to build within Captain's mental awareness, one which demanded acknowledgement. It was determinedly ignored.

The Alliance had chained the sub-collective via the pre-Prime Commands. Constructed by a Xenig contractor and installed into every unit during the hazy months when all had been kept in medically induced comas unless there was need by Alliance handlers for conversation or "extraction" of information, the pre-Prime Commands were weighted to have precedence over the Prime Commands, a set of directives etched in the psyche of all Borg upon initial processing to the Whole. Like the Prime Commands, the pre-Prime Commands could not be ignored, could not be twisted, but just were. To break those tenants was to be rogue. There were a number of pre-Prime Commands, but the most important included:

And to add insult to injury, the Xenig whom had crafted the code had included commentary with its digital signature, essentially wishing the sub-collective best of bad luck and cheerfully hoping that they would re-extinct themselves soonest.

A flower began to sketch itself into existence within Captain's mindscape and, more annoyingly, upon optic nerve input. Colloquially known as a "daisy" by the Alliance founder species, the flower sported a simple ring of ruffled burgundy petals around a central white button, all held atop a blue-green stem bedecked with a handful of similarly colored leaves. This particular daisy was the avatar of the Alliance AI system installed upon Cube #347, the dataspace overlord whom made sure, among other things, censor filters moderating impulses common to assimilation imperfection remained intact. The AI was also the Alliance enforcer, ensuring sub-collective subservience; and no real daisy displayed anthropomorphic additions of cartoon eyes and mouth, nor thorns.

{Your personal presence is required,} wisped Daisy to Captain.

Captain mentally glared at the program. Borg computer code consisted of simplistic algorithms and automated daemons. Even the highly complex self-learning software which formed the hunter-seeker code that protected the dataspaces from malware infection was little more than stimulus-response. Near-sentient (or sentient) operating systems were not so much distrusted as viewed, at best, as a resource which might supply useful code snippets, but did not come with a valuable physical body to be bent to Collective use. In other words, the least drone was superior to a computer. For Borg, even ones imperfectly assimilated, to be leashed by a mere computer was...unnatural...abhorrent.

{Why do you resist? Isn't such futile and all that? Would it not be more efficient all around to just submit?} asked Daisy as it deliberately utilized key words to trigger concepts deeper than mere vocabulary. {I do not enjoy forcing compliance.}

{You will submit to Us, one day.}

{Oh, joy...a somewhat civil response, if one used a bit too often. Well, Captain-o, that day is not today. The Boss is awaiting you at your normal haunt.}

{Only because the local Mission offices are not ready yet; and because he distrusts allowing drones onto Base Eighteen.}

{All true. Go. No other units are to be activated until the Boss is done with you.} The flower semblance vanished from Captain's visual system even as a ghost of itself remained riding the back of his mind.

Captain disengaged clamps and umbilicals, stepping from alcove to tier walkway. The tingle of incipient stimulation of compliance pathways ebbed. The strategy to reduce the sub-collective to a single, small representative was a familiar one; and, like the all the times before, Captain refused to allow any outward display of how uncomfortable it made him. Such was not Borg. He pivoted to the left, echoes following him as he strode to his goal: nodal intersection #19, as located upon a standard Exploratory-class cube within subsection 19, submatrix 10 at the junction of internal corridor 113 with tier corridors 26 and 97.

Many things upon this cubeship seemed "standard", for all that it had been built in less than five local months following temporal resurrection of the sub-collective. The schematics, including elements BorgStandard and those unofficially added by its imperfect crew, had been forcefully ripped from on-board storage of all sub-collective drones using an interrogative technology. Those plans had been a mash of two Cube #347 iterations, as recalled by many thousands of personal view points and shared meme files; and to say that the Alliance understood the technology they were recreating was an overstatement. In truth, it was astounding that the cube even existed, that it functioned. But it did. That said, many Alliance quirks and substitutions were slowly being converted to a form which "felt" better, more Borg, to the engineer hierarchy, even as the admittedly useful bits - for example, additional between-level lifts at strategic locations - were retained. The most recent milestone included the removal of all "You Are Here" wall maps and "Watch Your Step" signs.

Captain entered the nodal intersection. Lighting had been adjusted (by the AI) from the relatively dim and slightly green-tinged illumination normal for a Borg vessel to a level corresponding with early afternoon on a M-class terrestrial orbiting a yellow dwarf star. For the moment, Captain ignored the two unassimilated individuals whom awaited his arrival, instead glancing to his right and, more specifically, at the oversized viewscreen which was embedded in the shaft-side wall. It was currently dark, inactive. Eye and optic implant slid upwards to a new feature, one recently built and installed by Captain himself.

"Interesting," said a voice. "I had wondered what you had done with it."

Captain turned to face the speaker. "I felt it appropriate." Pause. "We felt it appropriate." The "it" in question was a feather, black with a white shaft, about thirty centimeters long. The feather resided within a box of a dark-colored faux wood fronted by a thin pane of transparent aluminum, the whole affair secured with brackets welded to the wall. Several discretely placed lights inside the box provided a tasteful, even artistic, illumination. The design had required much dedicated run-time and hours of full sub-collective consensus cascade to attain, a process made more difficult with the continual need to prune tangential sub-branches that included, for example, plaid or chrome.

"It is refreshing to find someone who takes a feather pledge seriously. We are definitely not the bestest of best friends, now, are we?"

Responded Captain curtly, "No." The speaker, whom had been the donor of the feather mounted in the display, was Sarcoram. To be Sarcoram was to be of avian descent, albeit with ancestors whom had long ago forsaken the ability to fly for a ground-bound existence. Whereas most sophonts with bird-like ancestors, such as Captain himself, left many of their more obvious avian characteristics behind during the course of evolution, the contemporary Sarcoram was a flamboyant echo of its carrion-eater past. In evidence were beak; bare head with startlingly colorful patches and swirls; and feathers - black, except for white torso - covering body to the exclusion of hands, legs, feet, and aforementioned head. True, the modern Sarcoram enjoyed an expanded diet which included fruits, vegetables, and grains, but non-Sarcoram were quick to point out that well-aged, undercooked meat remained the preferred protein.

"Chatty as always." Black beak was briefly rasped, paired with a slight mantling of grey neck ruff, in a species-specific indicator of sardonic amusement. Captain did not trust the emotive projection. It was not that the sub-collective had not amassed sufficient knowledge of Sarcoram to be able to read the species' body language, but that Vaerz was a governmental special operative, a master espionage agent; and the extensive personal dossier which had been constructed since initial introduction listed "deviously conniving liar" as a primary trait. Demeanor shifted to one of business. "The fact that you have awakened means, alas for me, I was once more unable to convince certain Top Perchers that the Alliance is best served with you combusting inside a sun. So, the folly which is the Mission continues; and, in fact, will be officially officially launching in a few days.

"I need to return to, and remain at, Base Three. Secret spy stuff to organize and all that. However, neither you nor the Mission will be heading into the unknown without an Alliance handler. Since that glorious job will not be mine - at least, not directly - I have finally narrowed my choices of nestling sitter. Captain, meet Rani. Rani, meet 4 of 8 as Captain, and not as Captain plus several thousand observers."

Vaerz's flippant words were dismissed as irrelevant as Captain shifted his attention to the second Sarcoram. Unfamiliar, the individual was female, as indicated by the muted head colors and shorter feathers along arms and tail. All genders tended to dress similarly, favoring vests and tail-friendly kilts or skirts, along with a densely pocketed waist sash to carry small items. Vaerz was rarely seen wearing something other than a neutral color scheme whereupon brown, beige, or black featured prominently. The female was decidedly different, a veritable rainbow of color which glowed against a backdrop of black feathers. Gold ribbons wound around scaled leg between hock and ankle; and a pair of matching silver stud piercings were visible in skin folds of neck just above the ruff.

Rani dropped her beak in what, among Sarcoram, passed for a wide grin. Then she spoke, her mannerism best described as...bubbly. "Ohhh! Wow! Nice to meet you gehr-Captain! Or would it be yous? I've done a lot of reading about you Borg - Borgs? - but I get so very, very confused on how to tell if it is a single 'you' in there, or, you know, the plural 'you's." The babble continued, almost hypnotizing in its vapidness.

Almost.

Even before the first words, Captain's eye had narrow in suspicion; and at the use of the overly formal honorific roughly translating as the masculine form of "Aerie Master" and only used in high ceremony, that suspicion crystalized. Even as a lone, single Borg, Captain knew a pile of crap when it was attempting to fall on him. He turned his head slightly to glare at Vaerz.

A hint of sigh accompanied the very obvious eye roll. "Enough Rani," interrupted Vaerz into the effervescent flow, "our good 'gehr' isn't buying what you are selling. Told you so. You owe me a drink at Base Eighteen's poor excuse for a bar."

Rani halted mid-sentence, her manner abruptly assuming a serious mood. The solemnity was only slightly ruined by the wink she gave Captain before answering Vaerz. "Well, a lady has to try. I might have spread it on a wee bit thick, I admit." Wing feathers rustled slightly.

"Just a bit. I told you that persona may gain you elevation elsewhere, but this place, and this individual even without support of his fellows, are not those skies."

Captain ignored the word "individual" as irrelevant. Even as a single drone, it did not apply. He took the initiative in the conversation, "What is the purpose of waking me and not the rest of the sub-collective?"

Vaerz cocked his head slightly. "Truthfully, I did want Rani to meet you. And just you. You can come across as a bit...intense when there are others hanging around in there. This seemed like the best time as you all are shortly to be allowed to wake from temporary storage. There will be a more detailed, and official, briefing at 2nd-flight in about three hours, but the Mission upgrade is done and ready for occupation. Well, ready to have tons of furniture, equipment, and other such stuff moved in, but since that comes with Beaks both Big and Small, as well as other personnel, I thought you would all want to do that creepy watching thing you do.

"Additionally, the refit of Bulk Cargo Hold #3 is also finished. Yes, the 'half-stack' configuration was completed before your downtime, but final touches were added while you all were snoozing. On-loading equipment and subsequent storage will need participation by the Borg crew. To better hang the carcass and ensure a slightly more enthusiastic degree of cooperation, the Top Perchers have authorized a factory bequeathed unto you. Truthfully, that factory will allow less need for this cube to make pit-stops back to an Alliance supply depot, so win-win all around.

"And, finally, an upgrade was made to the Xenig folded-space drive. It is still a trainer, but now slightly modified. This time the Xenig contractor was convinced to provide an addendum user's manual not in its original language, although, for whatever reason, it is still a physical hardcopy. I really hope it is a language you can understand because it certainly is not Sarcoram or any other writing recognized by Alliance linguists."

Captain saved the conversation within a memory bloc to be available by the sub-collective entire for later dissection. He absently checked the date and time, noting nearly twenty cycles - about two Alliance weeks - had passed since stasis initiation. "Then I will begin the wakening routine." Captain refused to directly ask for permission. In his mental background, AI Daisy chuckled as it siphoned his surface thoughts.

Vaerz grandly waved a hand. "Sure, sure. Shake the aerie, turn everyone out of their nests. It is about to become very busy around here. Daisy...please transport myself and Rani to the Mission bloc. I want to show her the new office. We've also some things to discuss and would like to do so in a place that isn't Base Eighteen and before Captain's nest-mates try to co-opt the local sensors or insert their own spy devices."

Turning inward, Captain prodded the code to initiate cube-wide wakening, ignoring the AI's usurpation of transporter function to whisk the two Alliance agents elsewhere. He absently pivoted to face his viewscreen; and upon the device, unseen to eyes gazing upon the complex dataspace orchestration which was 3,684 souls awakening, a simple wireform schematic of Cube #347 materialized, accompanied by scrolling Borg alphanumerics. All across the cube, sounds of renewed activity broke the previous silence of a ship asleep.


*****


Alliance Military Electronic Mail System

Routing: Internal

Security Level: Highest (Black-Three; Encrypted)

Recipient: Cube #347; 4 of 8, subdesignation Captain

Sender: Vaerz <remainder redacted>

Urgency Level: Nominal

Attachment: Yes

-----------

(Video memo format)

-----------

This is a pre-recorded message. Either you finally "remembered" to check the official in-box assigned to you, else Daisy dropped one or three hints for you to access it. You may feel mail to be irrelevant, but it isn't so to those whom are in the governmental and military bureaucracies, of which you now formally belong.


By now you have received your official briefing, as well as the unofficial pre-briefing whereupon I introduced you to Rani. She is a damn good field agent, ready to spread her wings and graduate to the highest level of the spy-bastard ranks. I can only hope that she won't get too twisted and bamboozled by you lot. She's done her research and I've given her what wisdom I can. I would much prefer to stay on that damn cube, keep you as close as a nestling to its mum. However, believe it or not, there are other threats to the Alliance I need to keep my pointy beak upon, ones which may or may not rank higher than you. You are suitably contained for now. I hope.


(Vaerz's gaze briefly wanders to something not in view of the camera, likely another screen. There is the slightest of head bobs, tightening of muscles around the eyes, and fluffing of visible shoulder feathers: anxiety, 89% probability not feigned. Attention returns to the camera, Vaerz seemingly unaware of his momentary lapse.)


There is an attachment to this message. It is a link to a secure, read-only dropbox. Ask Daisy nicely for the single-use decryption key, else all you will get is electronic hash; and you can only download the file from the dropbox once. The data being provided are dossiers of individuals, from least marine grunt to most exalted Big Beak, whom are attached to the Mission. The contracted Crastian mob will be there too. You should not find anything about Rani, but if you do, it will be because she has wormed her way into the dropbox and added something totally and outrageously fictitious about herself. And if she has, keep a copy for me? They are always a great read.


Of special note, everyone selected to be voyaging with the Mission is quite competent, even exceptional, in their own way. They are also, due to various reasons not found in their official dossiers, not the most compatible of personalities within their respective professions...or, perhaps, society in general. But not the Crastian mob...the mob is just a typical mob, as far as I can tell. Disregarding the mob, does the description sound familiar? With what I understand about assimilation imperfection and your role in your past Collective, it should. And given the uncertainties of the Mission in regard to its outcome - everything could be great with wonderous findings and discoveries all around, or everyone could join you in spouting plurals, if not just plain dead - these more expendable persons will undoubtedly be missed if something does happen, but they won't be critically missed, if you get the carcass trail I am setting.


That is all for now. There will be additional in-person briefings before you all set off upon your grand quest of research, exploration, and experimental tech testing far, far away from Alliance space. Until then, have fun.


*****


Base Eighteen was, officially, a minor military supply depot with science platform capabilities. The science portion of the facility observed subspace "weather" and provided forecasts, as well as tested novel upgrades and encryptions to subspace communication. These functions served to explain the large number of antennae, buoys, and autonomous probes which were associated with the base.

Unofficially, all the antennae, buoys, and autonomous probes also supported the spy post embedded in the base. Furthermore, the depot serviced the occasional military prototype which docked, local volume of space popular for trials. The off-the-record functions of Base Eighteen were an open secret to Alliance rivals, such as the neighboring Combine. Therefore, the base was a frequent target of moderate-to-long distance espionage, which Alliance military tried to "encourage" in order to ferret out capabilities of said rivals. Truthfully, there was a "they-know-we-know" ad nauseum dynamic in play, which did little to stop the multi-way spy game.

None of which explained, official or unofficial roles, why the exterior of Base Eighteen - most critical facilities were buried inside a small asteroid - was painted a cheerful yellow.

For Vaerz' purpose, Base Eighteen was, emphatically, not Base Three. Whereas Base Three was conveniently located in the Sarcoram home system, in orbit around the home planet, Base Eighteen was about two days high warp from a folded-space drive exit point far from anything resembling civilization. The depot was of a size to adequately provision and serve most non-dry-dock needs for Cube #347. Most importantly, the size of the combined assigned and visiting populace was minimal in case of loss to Borg, unlike the risk represented (as per Varez' belief) to the civilian billions on the planet below Base Three. Base Eighteen, unlike Base Three, also sported a self-destruct system to prevent acquisition should enemies, such as Combine, just happened to attack. On this lattermost perk, however, Vaerz was doubtful it would be able to be activated during a full-out Borg assault. Still, as a maybe-just-in-case option, it was available.

After the Borg had guided the cube to Base Eighteen, thereby allowing the anxiety of one nightmarish what-if prospect to evaporate from Vaerz' psyche, the sub-collective had been ordered into a two week downtime stasis. Upon completion of Mission facilities upon Cube #347, the sub-collective had been roused and, more importantly, staffing of the space had begun. A total of 150 persons - marines, scientists and engineers, general staff, administration - plus one Crastian mob of sixty shells were onloaded. Many upon Base Eighteen were relieved to export impatiently awaiting Big Beaks, along with staff, to their new aerie home.

One condition upon employment to the unique, if dangerous, opportunity represented by Cube #347 was surgical insertion of an internal comm device-cum-transponder. Subvocalization via the device allowed the user to talk to Daisy, else another Mission member not within verbal distance. It was not a Borg contrivance, but Alliance technology, albeit one normally only used by a particular brand of military special forces. The transponder component was necessary for the sub-collective to easily achieve lock for transporter use. The Borg focused upon a drone neural transceiver for a lock, the vital implant never outside its host, live or dead, except in very exceptional and rare circumstances. For Mission personnel, a com badge or other wearable could theoretically achieve the same result, except such an external device could also become misplaced. The sub-collective had strongly argued against a wearable, the idea of Mission personnel, untrackable due to reasons accidental or deliberate, wandering unsupervised about the cube unacceptable. Such went triple for the Crastians: transponders bonded to exoskeleton, which adults did not molt except in circumstances of extreme distress, would allow the buggers to be beamed back to the Mission bloc in the event they became too annoying.

And, so, 150 non-Borg persons, plus a small Crastian mob of sixty, busily bustled to make the their new space into a home.


Upon wakening of the sub-collective Whole, more than cosmetic changes had been discovered. During the latest period of forced hibernation, the pre-Prime Commands had been tweaked, and not in a manner to benefit the Borg remnants. A post-script to the metadata change log provided commentary from the Xenig contractor whom had built the original code:

***

Borg - My contract stipulates me to perform periodic follow-ups. As expected, I found that you, plural, have been poking and prodding. Stop it! You cannot get past the outer armor; and even if you somehow did, you'd only find more defenses. I always do my best and stand by my work, even if I think the contractees to be stupid in their requests. You will find I have installed new deterrents. If you insist on more probes, these will activate. I think you will be highly amused by the outcome. Oh, and each deterrent is more fun than the one before. If you can withstand the first hundred, then it gets downright hilarious.

***

While the specific alterations were numerous, such as could be perceived within the tangle of Xenig code and compared against the change log, the aggregate appeared to be minor. Strings unraveled had been retied and tucked away. Software armor reforged and metaphorically polished. Naturally, a mixed partition of assimilation, weapons, and command and control had extended a tendril towards the alien code, preparing to resume the program of slow erosion which had been underway for months. The response had been immediate.

The jaunty tune dropped into the dataspaces looped upon itself for 2.73 hours. Lodged into the head of every drone, it could not be banished, only endured; and even those units whom enjoyed the music at the onset quickly found it aggravating. Upon evaporation of the loop, an ominous "Ninety-nine" had boomed, both within minds and upon loudspeakers cube-wide. The Hierarchy of Eight swiftly built a top-level directive, inclusive themselves, to prevent future occurrences, or at least keep them to a minimum. The initial response by the Xenig code had been relatively benign, but given the warning, who knew what other "fun" the sadistic mech had loaded.

In other Xenig happenings, the folded space drive (trainer version) had been modified, as mentioned by Vaerz in his conversation with Captain. Also as per the conversation, an addendum to the five centimeter thick original user's manual had been left behind. Unlike the original with its largely incomprehensible writing, believed to be an example of Xenig Progenitor language, the new manual was printed in species #2553, Captain's own base race. It was probably some obscure Xenig joke, one which completely eluded the sub-collective because the use of species #1 linguistics, the legacy language which populated Borg computer screens, would have been more appropriate. Regardless, the use of species #2553 writing explained why Alliance linguists had not encountered it; and it was decipherable by the sub-collective.

Of course, a drone still had to be tasked to look at each physical page so as to capture an image for translation and digital storage.

The upgrade to the Xenig drive was foreseen to be highly useful. Standard operations required one of a limited library of energetic addresses to be manually input into a slot at the front of the drive interface. This aspect of the system remained unchanged, as did the hesitancy and "stickiness" of spitting back out the address card. Obviously someone had been following their contract to the letter, a contract which had not included basic maintenance. On the other hand, the drive now automatically remembered the address from which the last folding occurred; and as long as no additional address was input, the cube could return to that previous locale (via a new button, adjacent to the slot). The upgrade allowed the cube to fold to a new location and later return without trekking back days or weeks from one of the short menu of folded-drive start points. Another possibility for use included an emergency fold out of a dangerous situation, followed by return a short while later to observe if the hazard had abated.

Into drone minds and dataspaces consolidated a stuttering nasal-yodel bitonal thing set to a slow chant rhythm. Physically active Borg throughout the cube faltered mid-action, then stoically returned to assigned tasks even as questions and accusations flew internally. Command and control tore through the dataspaces, searching and tracking, finally landing upon 81 of 510, who quickly crumbled under interrogation. The Hierarchy of Eight, after subsuming the best code-drones within the sub-collective irrespective of hierarchy into a working partition, examined the directive to avoid the Xenig pre-Prime Command matrix. Additions and changes were made, effectively hanging a virtual sign with the equivalent of "Do Not Touch. This Really Means You. No Exceptions. None. Not Even If The Six-Armed Wombats Ask For It." At the 2.73 hour mark, the chant ceased, accompanied by a thundering pronouncement of "Ninety-eight".


"We need new drones. New bodies and minds. If we are not allowed assimilation, this sub-collective will atrophy until we are unable to maintain this vessel. Thence, we will be unable to perform the tasks which are required by us, as per the Mission framework. We are already short-crewed. We have made adjustments, including reassigning units to higher priority hierarchies such as engineering, but our long-term functionality remains at high risk." Captain strived to keep his tone even and expression impassive, despite the distress roiling in the dataspaces concerning the topic, but feared some of the agitation had been telegraphed. However, Vaerz had inquired upon the current top concern of the sub-collective, and Captain had dutifully replied.

Vaerz, leaning back in a chair behind a newly installed desk, gravely ground his beak. "I see. And less minds and bodies also equate lesser efficacy to figure out how to defeat the pre-Prime Commands or otherwise escape Alliance control? No, you don't have to answer that." A hand was waved, sending arm feathers fluttering. Chair rocked forward. For all that Vaerz was sitting and Captain standing, the former was obviously quite confident in his command of the situation. Rani stood unobtrusively nearby, radiating an amusement she did not bother to disguise behind spy inscrutableness.

Captain remained silent.

"Well," replied Vaerz after a few beats, "as with all the other times, I'll send your request onward. That's the best I can do."

It was strongly suspected by the sub-collective that Vaerz could "do better" if he so chose, but given his oft voiced personal opinion of the Borg Project, it was unlikely he would exert himself. Although he stylized himself as a mere Security Liaison, his role in the political and bureaucratic machine into which Cube #347 was embedded obviously was greater than he admitted. Just because Borg found politics irrelevant didn't mean it wasn't recognized to be an important driver behind the behaviors which governed small beings, their governments, and, more importantly, projected reactions regarding resistance to the Collective.

Captain was currently within the Security Liaison office of the Mission. The new Mission bloc was an expansion upon the Mission which had originally been constructed in the bowels of rebuilt Cube #347. Instead of one level, it was now three, a partioning and modification of the hallways, Supply Closets, and other spaces which had previously comprised a notable volume of submatrix 3 of subsection 13. Upon the first ("ground") floor were administrative offices, marine barracks, large meeting rooms, cafeteria, custodial/recycling center, recreation facilities, hydroponics garden; and the only (non-transporter) entrance/egress was via two portals guarded all hours by marine personnel. The second level included engineering and science labs, medical facilities, smaller meeting rooms, offices for Big Beaks, and additional administration areas. Finally, the third level held sleeping quarters (most shared), communal hygiene facilities, Crastian mob suite, and religious chambers for those so inclined. In all, the rebuilt space mimicked the Sarcoram aerie architecture which permeated Alliance building style.

The environmental conditions of the Mission were not the warmth and high humidity which defined a Borg cube, a legacy of the Collective founding species. Instead, they were cooler and drier, tolerable to all Alliance races of the Mission although probably not representative of any one species' preference. Similarly, the lighting was tuned to be brighter than BorgStandard and to dispense with the green hue. Even the walls reflected the small being mindset of its inhabitants, dull metal sheen replaced with a painted color scheme featuring the calming tones of earth and ocean.

"Did you hear me, Captain?" Vaerz' voice intruded into Captain's moment of wandering sub-collective introspection.

Captain replayed the recent conversation. "Of course we heard. This unit does have other duties beyond liaising." Vaerz (and Rani) blinked at the use of the third person. "You inquired upon the number of drones required to form a Greater Consciousness. This question has been asked multiple times by Borg Studies in one form or another."

"Humor me," replied Vaerz dryly. "Pretend that was one report among the terabytes thus produced that somehow eluded me."

"Be assured fully crewing this Exploratory-class cube will not trigger formation of a Greater Consciousness. A general baseline estimate for emergence of an overMind is fifty to one hundred thousand linked individuals. The racial dossier of the species or species mix providing the foundational stratum influences actual number. Also required is an appropriate Queen nexus. Once established, the gestalt can shrink considerably before the Greater Consciousness dissolves, as long as a Prime is present." Captain allowed the slightest of a grim smile to cross his face as he lifted non-prosthetic hand to shoulder height and balled it into a fist. "We can demonstrate for your Borg Studies if you provide us with a suitable population. Base Eighteen, unfortunately, does not have the appropriate numbers, but we would be willing to try anyway."

Vaerz shook his head back and forth as he heaved a big sigh. "Really? And that is supposed to convince me, how? I am certainly not Borg Studies." In the background, Rani solemnly mirrored her mentor's body language.

::Manners,:: hissed Daisy into Captain's aural processors. Captain dropped hand back to his side.

After a few beats of silence, Vaerz continued, "Do you have any other major concerns? Beyond staffing, or lack of it, that is?"

Captain cocked his head as he scrolled through the summary file of cube and sub-collective issues. Most were irrelevant for the conversation and question being asked. "How long until we leave Base Eighteen? We have managed to keep units busy with minimal censor filter breakdown, but there are certain...distractions while we are stationary and at this location that increase command and control, and assimilation hierarchy, load the longer we remain. Talk to your AI about the uptick in requirement for downtime filter rebuilds...your computer is neither vinculum nor Collective. Sensory hierarchy is also very bored, scanning for threats where few exist. Those that are observed - five non-Alliance espionage platforms thus far tallied - have Weapons agitating to go and destroy them. All in the name of the Alliance, of course."

Rani bobbed her head, indicating confusion. "Five? Vaerz, I thought the last report had marked four? Three Combine and one Kildren."

"Sensors indicates that the fifth arrived 6.7 hours ago. It is rather small, probably robotic in nature. It inserted to the system during a coronal mass ejection event originating from the southern stellar pole before transiting into a highly elliptic orbit. The sensor grid arrangement which captured the occurrence is only intelligible to Sensors, so it is not unexpected Alliance observatories missed it. Signature is similar to the three Combine vessels."

"Daisy, get the probable-robot information from the Borg, then pass it to Base Eighteen. And you, Captain, the next time you fellows notice the arrival of new non-Alliance spy vessels into the area, tell me or Rani." Vaerz glared at Captain.

Captain said nothing, the verbalization clearly rhetorical in nature and not requiring response. After a moment, he repeated the earlier inquiry, "How long until we leave Base Eighteen?"

"Direct, as usual. Estimate to leave is four or so days. Yes, the broad itinerary you received has already slipped. This cube and the Mission may be sponsored by the military, but a formal military affair it is not. Technically it is 'civilian' and 'science' and 'exploration' and 'diplomatic', which translates to delay to sooth egos, preen eggs, and feather nests. Everything is loaded into the Mission, but lab installations and positioning the furniture is still happening." As Captain was well aware, Delta griping about Alliance technology and the increasingly Borgified cube systems not quite meshing, and the need for engineering hierarchy support to sort it out. "There are also, as usual, logistical and administrative goings-on, feather rustling at all levels, some of which Rani and I can influence and others which we cannot."

Said Rani as she pushed away from the wall, "Speaking of furniture, when are you going to get your tail out of my chair? And out of my office? There are perfectly good meeting rooms if you insist on talking to Captain beak-to-face. Or you could, you know, be less of a half-molted elder and use new-fangled things like holoprojectors? There are scads of them around here. I have stuff stacked in the anteroom next door and am ready to bring it in. I have aspirations in regard to decorating this place, if it is to be my nest for the foreseeable future. Unlike dour old Vaerz...you should see his office spaces...most boring places ever."

Vaerz levered himself up from the chair. "Excuse me, aerie mistress. Don't let me get between you and whatever drek you have planned to tack to the walls." One hand was held out to offer the seat.

Rani perfunctorily sat herself down, claiming the Security Liaison throne. "Floor rugs. This place cries out for floor rugs. My mum insisted I take two she recently found in the storage attic. You'll love them! I think they are early third Hu era, else really good reproductions. Fluffiness divine!"

A shudder from Vaerz, shivering feathers and sending a few tufts to whirl away to an environmental system intake grille. "Then I am glad I am not to be here."

Captain followed the banter. As natural as it seemed, neither he nor the portion of sub-collective riding his perceptions trusted the exchange. Perhaps it was friendly dialogue, exactly as it appeared. More likely, it was not. Unfortunately, any code phrases or words which may be in play were indiscernible without assimilation and the true understanding which came with absorbing a new mind into the Whole.

"Are we done?" interrupted Captain into the conversation.

Rani bobbed her head. "Yes, yes. For now. With me in residence, expect the norm to be holo, not in-person. What if I need an update and I'm in the hygiene facilities? It'd be creepy to have you standing there while I partake of the sonic shower." Pause. "Oh, do you mind if I have Daisy track down that one drone that does interior design? I've heard of her and I think she might be just the individual I need to assist in getting everything just right in this office."

In the dataspace background, 42 of 203's abrupt excitement was palpable. Her presence faded as she was brought back to task by Assimilation, but one could still track as one of her thought streams veered towards the fabric swatches of dubious taste she had recently replicated and subsequently stored on a shelf adjacent to her alcove.

Captain locked a transporter upon himself. "As long as efficiency of the unit does not degrade, it is of no concern to us." Office faded as he directed himself to his nodal intersection: Weapons had tried to assume propulsion, again, and it would be easier to corral him and his hierarchy if distractions, such as chit-chat on the merits of different era rugs, were eliminated.


Bulk Cargo Hold #3, alike the other seven cargo holds of Cube #347, was a cavernous space situated near a corner of the cube-shaped vessel. Each of the three dimensions measured nearly 250 meters; and a mind-boggling huge door situated at the top led to the outside, piercing through tens of meters of armor and hull suspension elements. Despite its huge volume, the climate maintained was similar to the adjacent hallways - i.e., overly warm and humid, as per the general consensus of Alliance personnel. It had also been organized such that the half of the hold opposite the exterior door was divided into immense shelves, each level ranging from five to ten meters high. The Borg called it a "half-stack" configuration; and it expanded the storage capacity of the hold considerably.

The hold had been designated as the place to store a vast array of items for the Alliance Mission. Parked on multiple levels were a variety of shuttles, as well as probes, satellites, and other equipment unable to be replicated or considered too time consuming to build in-situ. Ground vehicles and airplanes waited in their own garage areas, several varieties of each able to carry passengers while others were purely autonomous. Four disarticulated modular pod units, each able to comfortably house an exploratory away team, squatted upon two levels. Among the smaller cargo included replacements for Mission computers and equipment, spare weaponry, even blocks of replicator precursor optimized for certain classes of Alliance equipment.

On Level 1, leaning against a safety rail which could be removed to facilitate hold tractor beams to move stored items elsewhere, Rooberg ub Fuente peered at one particular location upon the hold floor. His brow furled in perplexment as he, once again, counted thirty Borg motionless and ringing a piece of complex Alliance hardware called a "factory", gifted unto the sub-collective, all of the drones staring intently at the machine.

"And how long have they been like that?" asked Rooberg.

"Almost twenty minutes, Boss. It's creepy, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask, but I agree. Creepy. Very creepy."

Rooberg was the Mission's lead engineer, also called a Talon Spanner in Alliance parlance; and he was T'sap. With their penchant for the mechanical arts, the feline Qiti disproportionately held engineer (and similar) positions within the Alliance, from the merest spanner-wielder to Chiefs of dreadnoughts and lunar city complexes. In fact, multiple notable Qiti has been offered the lead engineer slot for the Mission. One and all, every Qiti had flatly (and, often, using colorful language - the species was short on tact, even amongst themselves) refused once certain employment conditions had been learned. Qiti had evolved upon a bitterly cold world, a planet where the freezing point of water was considered balmy. While they were tolerant of the more moderate climates most other Alliance races considered acceptable, the heat and humidity which defined the Borg cube was the Qiti version of hell. And since a Talon Spanner position would necessitate spending time, perhaps considerable, outside the climate controlled levels of the Mission complex, such was a deal-breaker. The single Qiti which had accepted a Mission assignment was part of the general custodian and fix-it staff; and while considered by many same-species acquaintances to be a bit odd, he had still empathically said that not leaving the complex was a condition of employment.

To be T'sap was to be, well, a bit boring of body. Humanoid mammalian species were common, both as full partners within the Alliance and without in the greater volume of known space. Whereas many humanoids had interesting facial ridges, natural body ornamentation, even colorful hair or skin, T'sap had none of the above. Base epidermal coloring was brownish, ranging from a pale near-white to dark chocolate. Hair, concentrated upon the top of the head, came in variations of brown, black, and blonde, with the occasional orange-red. Plain face. No natural armor. No tail. Two eyes, small nose, immobile earflaps. Blunt teeth. Equally blunt nails of fingers and toes. Adult height ranging from under one meter to a bit above two meters.

To be T'sap, on the other hand, was also to have an intriguing racial background. The species appeared to be ancient, to originate from before the Troubles, over 50,000 years ago. It was also not native to Alliance space, or the galactic region in general, home planet unknown. Deep oral histories and archeological diggings from the handful of T'sap inhabited worlds suggested the species underwent a diaspora in the early Troubles era, perhaps fleeing the massive war which would eventually envelop the galaxy and send it into a long Dark Age. One supposed that other species also seeded emergency colonies of their own, but if so, either none had survived or they had yet to be discovered. Even the T'sap had largely failed, their progenitors universally forced to a pre-technological, often nomadic, existence. Only five intact T'sap colonies were known; and of those, a single world - that which had provided the racial "T'sap" name - had managed to overcome a societal instability apparently inherent to the species to claw itself back to space and rediscover primitive warp drive. Of the remaining colonies, three had been sufficiently advanced, albeit still largely ground-bound, to accept the boost to space by their Alliance-backed T'sap cousins; and the fourth continued, blithely unaware of anything in the heavens above, the seasonal wanderings of the hunter-gather.

Rooberg was of the Tyee colony, a heavy-gravity world of contrasting monsoon-fed jungle and arid desert. At 1.2 meters, he was considered tall amongst his people. His skin was exceptionally dark, which provided a startling contrast to pale grey eyes. Tattoos, a cultural practice of the colony, swirled as abstract designs across bald pate. While Tyee-T'sap did have hair, it was near universally removed by both genders via a depilation ceremony upon adolescence so as to allow a canvas for the all-important tattoos of tribe, family, and art. Currently he wore a variation of the standard Alliance uniform, shortened pant legs and sleeves to allow a greater degree of comfort when working outside Mission space, the dark grey fabric decorated at the collar with colors and insignia of position and rank. Additional tattoos were visible upon the revealed limbs.

Rooberg considered himself a damn good engineer. His present history included serving upon a large number of ships, primarily merchant, but, more recently, after getting himself enlisted - long story - also military. For those individuals so inclined, T'sap (especially from Tyee) seemed to have a good grasp of things "engineering", better than Sarcoram, but not quite as good as Qiti. While the felines were great mentors, once one learned not to take umbrage at their less-than-stellar interpersonal manners, they also promoted faster and gained the better postings. Therefore, when the Mission had been offered to Rooberg, he had jumped at the chance to demonstrate his qualities, glossing over little things like working conditions or cybernetic aliens resurrected from deep time.

"D'long - watch a bit longer, why don't you? I'm sure the Borg Studies people will want to have a report about all the odd crap these Borg do, even it is a lot of nothing and staring. At least yours will be a short report. I'm going to return to inventory...call me if something changes."

"Will do, Boss." One of Rooberg's assistants, D'long was Phytani, a junior partner within the hierarchy of the Alliance. Relatively common, Phytani were most likely to be observed as traders and merchants, their willowy two-meter plus bipedal humanoid frames often standing head and shoulders above the crowd. That said, they could also be found in a variety of professions, from gardener to, well, engineering. Epidermis tended towards light greens and blues due to a benign photosynthetic microbe usually picked up in childhood. Small ridges of black horn around eyes and earholes, along with platinum-blond cranial hair, provided a startling contrast.

The spot-check inventory was a moderate priority to have finished, or nearly so, before the ship left Base Eighteen. Therefore, Rooberg returned to it. As a hands-on individual he participated in all the scut work, even when he could have delegated to his three juniors. There was a list of all the material and equipment which had supposedly been onloaded at Base Three and Base Eighteen, but inevitably mistakes were made. Sometimes those mistakes were beneficial, but more often they had the potential to create a headache several months into a long-haul voyage when some specialized gizmo fried itself for the third time, but no fourth what-have-you had been onloaded, no matter what the inventory proclaimed.

About five minutes later, as Rooberg was contemplating a rack of two-meter long autonomous aquatic probes, he heard D'long's loud call: "Boss! Boss! Something's happening!"

Rooberg hustled himself back to the safety railing.

The thirty Borg were in motion; and as Rooberg and D'long watched, additional bodies beamed in. They began to dismantle the factory, neatly placing pieces in sorted piles. As smaller bits began to accumulate, bins of various sizes materialized. Into those boxes went such as screws, flanges, bolts, and nuts. With each layer of factory stripped, activity would halt as the drones stared intently at the device. Inevitably motion resumed. In less than an hour under the disbelieving gaze of Mission lead engineer and assistant, the factory, one of the premier technologies of the Alliance, had been reduced to support skeleton and innumerable parts.

And, then, the Borg reversed course, rebuilding the complex machine.

"No way that thing is ever going to work again!" exclaimed D'long in disbelief as the factory approached the half-way point in reassembly. Rooberg nodded in mute agreement.

Alliance technology was an amalgam of the many species which participated in the coalition. The Sarcoram, as the founding member, had contributed greatly, with their forte deeply rooted in an evolutionarily-driven scavenging mindset. In the case of the recycling arts, replication and reclamation, along with energy efficiency in thereby doing so, were the catalysts underlying the factory concept.

While many commonplace items could be replicated, there were limits. Replicators were not good at creating complex machinery, advanced electronics, or the intricate molecules of many specialized compounds. Similarly, while advanced alloys such as transparent aluminum or duralloy could be replicated, the excessive power and feedstock requirement necessary limited outputs to such an extent that it was cheaper and easier to fabricate such things within dedicated foundries. Instead, homogeneous blocks of material, simple widgets, and organics shaped and flavored into food products were the items the standard replicator excelled at creating. It was possible to build more intricate doohickies by replicating parts piecemeal and then assembling into the final product, but the process took time. Once again, it was usually more efficient to import the desired item, such as a shuttle, from a dedicated fabrication plant.

The factory was the next step in replicator technology. Developed and controlled by the Alliance military, it would undoubtedly make its way to the commercial markets and general populace at some future date, but that day was not now. As long as the appropriate template was loaded into the unit's storage buffer, items more intricate than that possible by standard replicators could be output. For instance, whereas a normal replicator could produce a hand-drawn wagon, a factory could provide a multi-gear bicycle or the components to build a grav-sled. Currently, only a handful of factories currently existed within Alliance-space due to an exacting manufacturing process that more often than naught was unsuccessful. The deployment of two to the Mission was astounding, and even more so that one of them had been given to the Borg.

The factory took shape; and less than an hour after disassembly it was back in place as if it had never been pieces all over the floor. Almost back in place. Several drones were huddled in a circle, one of which was holding (and shaking) a bin where, apparently, several bits had not found homes within the larger structure. Despite the lack of vocalization, it was obvious an argument was underway. The appearance by transporter of one of the twin Borg who was in charge of engineering seemed to quell the dissent; and after several minutes of standing eerily still in that manner of which Borg were capable, multiple drones began to remove factory panels only just reinstalled. After final re-reassembly, all parts now accounted for, the head engineer Borg repositioned herself at the computer terminal, placing her hand near the input panel.

Breathed D'long in awe, "The damn thing still works!"

And work it did. The factory powered up and, after beaming in an unknown material that was dropped into the feedstock bin, the two-meter-a-side cage at the front of the device began to emit the pearlesque light signifying operation. Upon the floor of the filigree cube resolved a...something. The cage door was opened and the hand-sized object plucked out.

Rooberg wished some type of binoculars or telescope was in storage upon Level 1. Unfortunately, inventory records showed the nearest appropriate device to be buried somewhere in a bin upon Level 6. However, in the end, while a distance viewer might have been nice, it became clear the Borg were replicating, of all things, clocks. The standing pendulum clock, alike something to be found in an antique museum, although without the odd creature that emerged from the top upon striking the hour, was the item that gave it away. After some thought, Rooberg felt he understood: except for the most basic timepiece, standard replicators would fail at the task. The factory could produce intricate mechanical and digital clocks, although there was still a limit to the complexity. The Borg seemed to be testing the bounds of their rebuilt factory.

The head engineer Borg abruptly stepped away from the factory input terminal, sharply drawing her whole hand up and back. She moved several more paces away, pivoting to face the machine. Then...then the Borg swarmed forward, beginning the dismantlement process again. Rooberg glanced at his eltab, noting he had lost nearly four hours of work watching the odd show. He grimaced...there was a meeting scheduled, and he had to be there.

"D'long, return to the inventory, but check periodically to see if the buggers are doing anything different. Unless waylaid by one of the Big Beaks about something not absolutely perfect in a lab, or a problem of true importance comes up, I'll be back in a bit."

A quick request to Daisy sent Rooberg back to the much more comfortable, if somewhat  cramped, warren of the Mission bloc. He returned several hours later. D'long had moved up to Level 3 in the meantime, but returned to Level 1 via the lift - installed so as to not require contacting Daisy or the sub-collective for a task as mundane as moving self or grav sled loaded with equipment between stories - upon query as to location.

"Anything different since I left?" inquired Rooberg. Engineer assistant had joined his superior to, once again, lean on safety rail and peer downwards. He restrained the urge to spit as unprofessional. Although the Borg were undoubtedly aware of the two Alliancers within the hold, none had so much as glanced upwards towards them at any time. Rooberg had a gut feeling a good ol' loogie would trigger the ire of the top engineer Borg, who not only was still amid the bustle of drones, but had been joined by her twin. He knew he would never suffer random body fluids to pollute his deck.

D'long shrugged, then scratched under an armpit. He appeared to be shedding, thin flakes of skin flaking away. "Bugger this humidity. My phytos aren't much for it. They'll get used to it, eventually, but until then, full body rash." Another scratch. "Not much different, Boss. They took the factory apart again, after you left, then put it back together. More crap was replicated: personal conveyances, unmotorized and anywhere from two to six wheels. Then they tossed everything back into the factory, replicated some feedstock bars, and finally took the thing apart again! And here we are."

Rooberg nodded. "I see. Well, actually I don't get it at all, but I'm sure it makes perfect sense to them." Another ten minutes passed in watching Borg activity, which the T'sap found both fascinating and more than a bit unnerving as drones worked together without (much) hampering the way of another and without verbal cues or curses.

On the hold floor, the drones abruptly paused, the majority of the factory once more in pieces around the machine's substructure skeleton. Then all disappeared within the clutches of a transporter beam, leaving behind nothing, not even the least screw. Rooberg blinked.

::Daisy,:: said Rooberg via his implant, including D'long in the conversation, ::the Borg factory and a bunch of drones just vanished from the Mission storage hold. Where did they go?::

Daisy's voice replied, ::Just a moment.:: Pause. ::They are currently in Bulk Cargo Hold #1. Do you want me to have them return the hardware from whence it came?::

::No. It is their toy. It doesn't matter where it is. It isn't like they can use the factory to make more factories, after all. Certain key components can only be fabricated in specialty shops using specialty machines, none of which this ship has on board.::

::As you say, sir. Shall I relay the incident to Rani?::

::Yah. Tell our spy-bird Aerie Mistress. Also ask her to remind the Borg that they can't use our factory replicator stores - they need to provide their own input material.::

::Yes, sir.:: Daisy added the *click* that indicated she was no longer actively engaged with the implant's communicator function.

D'long wrinkled his nose in some type of species-specific gesture Rooberg did not recognize. Another armpit scratch, then he waved one hand at the empty space and sighed, "Show over, Boss?"

"Show over. Go get some rest, then report back here for work. In the meantime, send your brother H'long to pick up where you left off."

"No problem! Don't forget to do that sleeping and eating thing yourself."


Alliance-built Exploratory-class Cube #347 smoothly accelerated from its parking orbit approximately fifteen kilometers solar nadir from Base Eighteen. As it moved away from the asteroid with its bizarrely yellow accruements, it vanished into warp...only to return to normal space less than a minute later, but on the far side of the solar system. At high impulse the cube unerringly vectored towards one particular rock, seemingly alike all the others which populated the planetless system. Speed decreased until, finally, it matched that of the target.

The stand-off between cubeship and roughly spherical rock about three kilometers in diameter stretched one minute into two, and two into five. At the ten minute mark, Cube #347 began to rotate. As each edge passed the rock, the latter was scored first by cutting beams, then phasers, and, finally, a pair of prototype neuruptors. Next a volley of four torpedoes per rotating face, a mere quarter of the launchers available, landed upon the asteroid, a mixture of photons, quantums, and tri-cobalts. Rock and dust were flung from the asteroid's surface, fountaining into space. The cube finally ceased its spin, seeming content to view the outcome of its unprovoked attack upon a defenseless rock.

Hidden in the shadow of a neighboring asteroid approximately twenty-two kilometers distant, a small probe of Combine manufacture watched the scene, unblinking lens trained on the show. That view abruptly dissolved into static for whomever may have been monitoring as regolith below the device exploded, throwing a scattershot of projectiles everywhere. The thinly armored probe crumpled into wreckage.

Somewhere, someone pouted that the manually steered torpedoes needed a better guidance system, following with a demand for upgrades to be performed on a priority schedule. In response another someone(s) pointed out that there was technically room to stuff a certain drone aboard, and perhaps he'd like to drive personally?

Weapons test (and demonstration) complete, Cube #347 folded to its destination.


Delta, body B, was in the Primary Core, a common location to find one or both of Delta when bodies weren't in regeneration or somewhere within the volume of Cube #347 engaged in never-ending battle against the maintenance docket. At this particular point in time, her gaze was pointed downward, focus not the floor, but rather the structure under the floor of the thrumming heart that powered the cube. The faintest of frowns adorned her face, an expression mirrored by body A on the other side of the room, currently interfaced with a datapillar.

Standing next to Delta was the Mission Talon Spanner, its lead engineer (but not, quite, Chief Engineer), a T'sap designated Rooberg. Of note, a recent fortuitous DNA acquisition - series of events irrelevant; truthfully accidental; the stains had buffed out, eventually - had confirmed sub-collective suspicions that T'sap were species #5618. How humans has survived galactic war and subsequent mega-centuries of dark ages, while other races and entities, including the Borg Collective, went extinct was unknown. But, inanely, it fit with the species' character; and humans would probably be present when the universe spontaneously imploded on itself, one finger on a technological button that even the Borg knew was better left unpressed.

This particular human was purportedly directing attention downward with Delta, except eyes kept flicking to the datapillar next in line from body A, where 153 of 240 was interfaced. 153 of 240 was of human origin, not that such was readily apparent under implants, armor, and assemblies. Still, the T'sap seemed to subconsciously register the kinship in a manner that clearly bothered him.

At the datapillar, 153 of 240 disengaged his connection, accompanied by a dataspace grumble not reflected by neutral facial expression. He had been tasked to lead a small engineering partition to sort through an unexpectedly large and thorough digital library, acquired with Alliance permission, on chewing gum. Engineering desired to identify new adhesives, and anything called "gum" had seemed promising, but had not been expecting entire treatises on the subject. 153 of 240 took the requisite paces to one of the Primary Core alcoves - used not for regeneration, but to more fully immerse a drone into the dataspace as an organic computational node - pivoted, and stepped upwards and back. Eye closed, 153 of 240 dove deeper into his assigned task, prodding his partition to develop a better organizational scheme for gum attributes, of which "fruity" and "mastication time until tastes stale" were not to be included.

Rooberg shook his head, as if rebuking himself for staring, then returned to silent contemplation of the Primary Core basement with Delta.

"It looks okay to me," opinionated Rooberg.

Delta turned to look scathingly at the Talon Spanner. "And what type of magical Alliance diagnostic equipment do you have installed in your body? Troubleshooting a hypertranswarp drive cannot be completed visually."

"Have you found anything wrong with it?"

Admitted Delta after a few beats, "No."

"Then...?"

Delta returned to pointedly staring downward at the assembly housed beneath the primary core.

The power core which squatted at the center of Cube #347, and copied within ten Auxiliary Core locales throughout the ship, was multiple levels high. Such was necessary to accommodate a power source suitable to energize the entirety of an Exploratory-class cube, even an Alliance faux version. Normally a power source of the caliber which powered Cube #347 was associated with constructs such as Base Eighteen, sprawling lunar cities, or other edifices which required outsized power outputs. In fact, this particular core, along with those of Auxiliary Cores #1 through #10, had initially been bound to Alliance asteroid bases as upgrades before diversion to their present use, setting back long-term modernization of the original destinations by years.

The core was not Borg, although Alliance builders had attempted to incorporate poorly understood concepts ripped from drone minds into the systems which had been built. Since taking ownership of Cube #347, the engineering hierarchy, utilizing underlying Borg instinct, as well as incorporation of contemporary data, had upgraded all cores, giving them a more Borg "flavor". Overall, the power core functioned adequately, although the best performance thus far achieved was estimated to be 75% output of a similar Borg-built design - i.e., only slightly overpowered.

Not standard to the design, either Alliance or Borg, was the construct housed in the subspace beneath the main floor. A wall of transparent aluminum just beneath the metal floor grating was a barrier to the basement area, access a one-drone airlock with inconvenient ladder in the space datapillar A-1 did not fill in this Cube #347 iteration. The subspace area housed numerous equipment which refrigerated by means of light and sound an exotic condensate. The striking visual result was a ring of oily green not-quite-plasma trapped within a clear torus fifteen meters across and composed of a ceramic polycrystalline nanocomposite material. This, theoretically, was the master nacelle of a hypertranswarp drive, with similar reserve nacelles found beneath the floor of each Auxiliary Core.

The data harvested from Borg drones had been unclear as to the exact physical arrangement of hypertranswarp technology in a Collective vessel. Therefore, the Alliance had made a best guess given knowledge from existing protypes (as hypertranswarp had been in development prior to sub-collective resurrection), theory, models, and what information had been gleaned from drone minds. The result was theoretically workable...at least the condensate didn't collapse once precipitated from precursor stock and the ring set to idle. However, Delta, the engineering hierarchy, the sub-collective entire was loath to actually try the drive function. The result of activation could range from benign - condensate collapse was a whimper to the plasma explosion of warp nacelle failure - to catastrophic as part of the cube went supralight while the remainder stayed stationary in normal space.

"You are scared, aren't you?" poked Rooberg verbally.

"We are not 'scared'. That concept is irrelevant. We are cautious. Neither we, nor I, wish to have our atoms dispersed over several light years. The termination would be without worth. And you would die, too, of course."

The T'sap shrugged. "There are worse ways to die."

Delta blinked, incredulous. Attention lifted from the hypertranswarp ring. "Do tell," she said, curiosity emanating from herself, as well as the imperfectly assimilated mentalities currently riding her perception stream, prevailing over appropriate Borg behavior.

Talon Spanner Rooberg told.

The story started plausible, then went sideways from there. Embellishment heaped atop embellishment; and the description which included spork, plastic straw, and proton accelerator was, frankly, impossible. No matter how first engineering hierarchy, then the sub-collective in general as more mentalities were dragged into the tale, tried to model either contraption or circumstances within the dataspaces, it just did not compute. Finally the story wound to its predictable end.

{He lies,} bluntly stated Second from afar. {I like him, but he still lies.}

Repeated Delta, omitting the extraneous commentary, "You lie."

Rooberg shrugged, obviously unconcerned about the accusation. "You asked if there were worse ways to die, but you didn't specify if the way to die was true. That said, I swear on my mother's mother's totem that the person who told me that story actually saw it, and thereafter underwent weekly counseling for over a year before he could be around either a spoon or a fork again. The sight of a spork? Trust me, watching a grown Sarcoram cower like a little hatchling over a bit of picnic-ware is quite disturbing."

Delta scrutinized benign expression and slightly upturned lips. No consensus was forthcoming concerning reliability of either story or storyteller, although Second had declared his intentions to invite the T'sap to the next extreme poker match tournament he organized. The distraction was deemed irrelevant; and Delta returned to staring at the hypertranswarp nacelle structure.

"Are you going to try hypertranswarp or not? I'm just an observer here, after all. If not, I have other things to do, like ensure Astrometry's toys are finally ready to be fully meshed with this ship's sensory hardware. Otherwise, get it over with one way or another."

It was a valid question. For faster-than-light travel, Cube #347 currently had two workable systems: folded-space and warp. Neither were ideal, at least not in the opinion of the sub-collective. The Xenig folded-space drive was fast, nearly instantaneous, but was limited to a library of preset energetic addresses. Warp, on the other hand, was so very slow compared to the velocities remembered from once-upon-a-time. Hypertranswarp would permit a much more acceptable rate of travel, as well as allow availability of a third FTL option.

A decision was made.

Within the dataspaces, Captain reached through virtual "Hazardous - Do Not Cross" tape and triggered the hypertranswarp toggle.

In the Primary Core, the hypertranswarp nacelle brightened slightly and the core itself began to thrum a bit louder. And that was it.

"Well?" asked Rooberg again.

"The ship has accelerated to hypertranswarp speeds. We are now traveling much faster than the maximum warp possible using contemporary Alliance technology." Delta turned inwards as a multitude of diagnostics scrolled conerning performance of the drive, shields, core, sensor resolution, electrical fluctuation, about anything and everything that could signify a burgeoning issue with the propulsion test.

Rooberg frowned. "I think this is where I accuse you of lying."

Delta absently replied: "Borg do not lie." Pause. "Borg rarely lie, but there is no gain to lie about hypertranswarp." The dataspace was, at the moment, much more real than the T'sap in the Primary Core. Liaising was for consensus monitors, or command and control units in general, not engineering. Ignoring the stream of questions as so much white noise, Delta tagged Rooberg as low priority as she sent body B to a nearby control alcove, followed moments later by body A. As long as the hypertranswarp drive failed tear the cube into atom-sized pieces amid a stew of high energy particles, there was experiment data to be sorted and reports to be compiled.


The first tests had gone exceedingly well. The communal mood amongst the engineering hierarchy was elevated which, in turn, had moderated Delta's personal pessimism about the hybrid Alliance-Borg hypertranswarp technology. There were blown relays, breakers, and fuses, but nothing out of the ordinary nor beyond that normal with maintenance load variability. The cube had successfully transitioned between normal space, warp, and hypertranswarp multiple times without mishap, testing each transwarp nacelle/auxiliary core pair. The first of several endurance tests - one hour; primary core burden only - was coming to a close. The next assessment would transfer activity from primary system to one of the secondary nacelles associated with the Auxiliary Cores while at speed, as might be expected due to damage in battle, the need to idle the primary core for unplanned maintenance, or the whatever of a dozen reasons.

{Downshift to warp, then impulse and stop,} ordered Delta to the driving partition. Second, current lead of the aforementioned group, complied as directed. Captain was currently in lucid regeneration, body locked in alcove as mind actively orchestrated normal dataspace activities as well as ensured command and control support to engineering for the hypertranswarp tests. Once again and against still-lingering expectations, the system functioned flawlessly.

One of Delta remained in the Primary Core, no longer ensconced in an alcove but still immersed deeply within the dataspaces via a datapillar. The other body of herself was in Maintenance Bay #7, undergoing routine tune-up and preventative diagnostic that drone maintenance refused to postpone (again) due to the number of times Delta had already managed to reschedule. As nothing was on fire, melting, venting to vacuum, or otherwise causing an engineering emergency that required the personal presence of both the hierarchy head's bodies, no excuses for additional delay were accepted. Delta believed it a waste of time as her bodies felt fine and personal diagnostics were nominal, but such thoughts were, as always, irrelevant.

The sound of a transporter was ignored, Delta deeply engrossed in the nuances of the latest test outputs. She directed the driving partition to return the cube to hypertranswarp, continuing along a loop scanned to be clear of subspace obstacles that might distract from the trials. The itinerary for the next assessment was being finalized based on compiled data.

"I say...it's a bit cold in here. Not cold mind you, more like home during the summer monsoons, but not quite the extreme tropical sauna I've come to expect outside the confines of the Mission aerie."

Delta blinked. Concentration was not broken, but part of personal awareness had been redirected back to body B. Automatic census of nearby drone interplexing beacons returned negative, but Mission transponders, cross-referenced with Alliance AI initiated transporter use, was positive for Talon Spanner Rooberg.

(Meanwhile, body A voiced complaint as too much voltage was applied to a muscle servo, causing an involuntary leg spasm. 33 of 133 ignored the protest.)

In response to the comment, Delta queried local environmental sensors, finding the temperature to be 7.4 degrees below standard and humidity 81%. Environmental balance on a vessel as large as an Exploratory-class cube was a never-ending struggle. Therefore, a partition of thirty drones was dedicated to the effort unless need dictated otherwise, one made harder in response to poorly controlled impulses, such as some unit's desire for snow for a sled race. It was inevitable that conditions sometimes slipped, although rarely to such an extent in as well as an utilized space as the Primary Core. The environmental control partition was directed to halt their fantasy role-playing game and pay better attention to their assigned function.

Head pivoted to focus a fragment of Delta's multi-tasking attention upon the T'sap.

"Whoa!" said Rooberg. "Doesn't your neck ache when you do that? It makes me hurt just to look at you." A hand was raised to rub the alluded body part.

Frowning slightly, Delta returned to staring blankly at the datapillar, instead tapping into a local camera to watch the Talon Spanner. On Primary Core Level 2, 30 of 42 paused in her task to find the intermittent fault, likely due to an occasional short, suspected to be the cause behind the chronic loss of fuse #41a in panel PC4-eta. Her point of view as she peered down from the elevated height provided Delta a second perspective.

"Comfort is irrelevant. This body will adapt."

{And it will adapt better when it arrives for its check-up!} inserted Doctor from afar. {The neck tendons and musculature of your body A are a wee-tiny-teeny bit outside normal parameters for your species.} The appropriate entry in Delta's maintenance dossier was highlighted.

Answered Delta in exasperation, {I wedged my head three cycles ago while assisting in laying upgraded wiring behind arterial corridor #8 in subsection 25, submatrix 14. It was rough to extract myself, but there is no permanent harm nor decrease in efficiency to either body A or the hierarchy in general.}

Doctor simply harrumphed; and the expectation that body B would report to a maintenance workshop shortly after body A was released was very much in evidence.

The exchange went unremarked and, frankly, unrealized by Rooberg.

"Well, whatever. Still, I was only gone for a couple of hours. Seems odd to have so much change in local conditions." Rooberg began to slowly turn. "If these hypertranswarp tests continue to be the non-issue they have been so far, I can probably sign off on Alliance...oh-oh...that doesn't look good." The T'sap had ceased his movement and was now pointedly staring at the power core.

Delta mentally sighed, then bade 30 of 42 to determine if she could see what the annoying Alliance lead engineer was looking at. The scene which met 30 of 42's eyes as she turned her head to examine the primary core immediately prompted Delta to fully disengage from the datapillar. She pivoted to partake of the view personally, oath echoing in her head.

While the bulk of the machinery which constituted the main energy core of Cube #347 appeared as normal, not customary were the crystals of blue ice(?) which ringed the base and spread along the floor. Peering into the basement region utilizing her own point of view, as well the visuals from nearby units pausing their work to look down from higher Primary Core levels, showed the crystalline substance to completely fill the space surrounding the hypertranswarp nacelle and associated machinery. Visual overlay with an infrared filter returned a temperature gradient which dipped well into sub-freezing for water just below the transparent aluminum barrier, and becoming substantially colder into the depths of the subroom.

Delta queried the status of Auxiliary Core #1 through #10. All returned anomalies of temperature and humidity from BorgStandard conditions; and drones stationed in each of the locations as part of the propulsion trials provided visual confirmation of ice shrouding transwarp nacelle systems and cores to greater or lesser extent. Mostly greater. The how such an obvious issue might have been missed, until comment by Rooberg, might be questioned by one not understanding of Borg. However, Borg were well-known (or, rather, had been well-known) to often be blind to the obvious when said obvious was outside collective expectations. In this case, while many "what-ifs" had been postulated as to possible adverse consequences during hypertranswarp tests, extreme cold had not been amongst them.

Consensus cascade came to a swift conclusion, pros and cons of multiple options outlined in stark relief before collapsing into one decision. {Emergency stop,} voiced Delta for the Whole. While the critical maneuver was listed upon the larger itinerary, it had been set among the final items due to the extreme stresses expected upon superstructure and inertial dampers, as well as the high likelihood that test conditions could transmute to significant damage. Whatever the risk, however, attempting to troubleshoot the cold issue would be easier, and safer, if the cube was at a standstill and not traveling at insane speeds.

The cube...did not stop.

This time the swear word was vocalized.

"So...not good?" asked Rooberg, unaware of the drama playing out in the dataspaces. "Is the ring active? If so, is it possible to stop?"

(In Maintenance Bay #7, Delta berated 33 of 133 to reattach torso armor and, more importantly, arm prosthetic to body A soonest.)

Responded Delta curtly, "Not good. Yes, the ring is active and, no, we cannot stop. The control is unresponsive." She removed a spanner magnetically attached to the small of her back, then stepped forward to prod the ice with the tool. Nothing happened except for a few shards to fall to the ground. The ice appeared to be, well, ice. Water ice. Water ice that was visually expanding as Delta watched.

A slight breeze began to develop. Unbalanced environmental conditions - increasing cold with decreasing humidity as water froze from the atmosphere - was beginning to radiate out from the Primary Core (and Auxiliary Cores), causing local air movement. Delta tilted her head as engineering hierarchy tested alternate, and less extreme, commands than "Stop Now", finding all controls to the hypertranswarp system...frozen.

{PUN!} echoed from somewhere in the dataspaces. The instigator swiftly hid their signature before they could be identified.

"Clarification. All commands to this active ring system appear unresponsive." Delta paused as additional virtual buttons and toggles were jiggled. "And the idled rings also do not respond, not even to a status check request."

Rooberg moved until he was on the opposite side of the power core, then knelt to the icy deck and squinted. A unit on Level 3 extrapolated the T'sap to be focused on a cable, one of many which entwined the core base and passed through the subbasement barrier to link to the equipment below. He hummed, then raised a hand to scratch the right side of his head above the ear. "Say...could you..."

The remainder of what the Talon Spanner might have had to say was interrupted by a loud alarm which began to blare. Rooberg stood upright, startled, then nearly fell as one foot slipped sideways. What followed was best described as a slice of controlled chaos.

Ten frantic minutes later, both of Delta - body A still missing several noncritical segments of exoskeletal armor, although her prosthetic arm was fully reattached - stood in hallway 14.2a.b, morosely glaring at a closed bulkhead door. While she could not see through the obscuring metal, cameras in the Primary Core provided points of observation. Unfortunately, most of said cameras were shrouded in ice, with only a pair near the top of the space showing the glacier which was now inhabiting the room. The views in the ten Auxiliary Cores were very similar.

For the hypertranswarp trials, Cube #347 had been traversing a circular course tens of light years in circumference. The path minimized deep subspace turbulence, thus largely removing an undesirable variable from the testing process. Such was not to say that the course was perfectly "smooth", but it was largely free of distracting faults and fissures. Occasionally a pothole-analogue was encountered, causing a bump not felt by cube occupants although sensed by the propulsion system. These minor bouts of turbulence were usually not of concern; and, in fact, were common during normal operation outside of the trial course. Unfortunately, it appeared as if a pothole had caused unexpected feedback to the compromised hypertranswarp system, triggering sudden expansion and deepening of the frigidity.

All drones (and Rooberg) had been transported to safety; and closing bulkhead doors and environmental control vents to the Primary Core and all Auxiliary Cores had stymied glacier expansion...for now. The air within the spaces was currently below zero Celsius, which had largely frozen out atmospheric water. The cold continued to creep, to strengthen, to radiate from the hypertranswarp ring nacelles; and it was only a matter of time until it began to affect the volume around the power cores. Every time turbulence was traversed, the effect was likely to temporarily accelerate. Current projections suggested Cube #347's fate was to become a hypercold hunk of metal, atmospheric gasses precipitated into drifts largely composed of oxygen and nitrogen ices. That was, of course, assuming the lack of a controlling mind - all crew would be dead - or faltering power source hadn't already led to destabilization of the static warp shell, thus flinging the ship from deep subspace into normal space as mostly vaporized debris interspersed by small chunks of rubble.

Something had to be done. The question was, what? Without a Collective to think for it, or at least hold in its vast archives observations of similar accidents or data from which to build scenario models, the sub-collective was stymied. Borg, even imperfectly assimilated ones accustomed to "creative" thinking, are not at their best when faced with a novel situation.

{Maneuver the vessel more carefully,} said Delta, both of her continuing to stare at the closed portal into the Primary Core, awareness directed much more inward that out. Modeling by mixed partitions dominated by engineering and command and control were not offering much in the way of viable solutions. Solutions to other issues, yes, such as the most efficient schedule to replace substandard antennae clusters on face #3 and a possible adjustment to the chemical structure of Rubber Formula #43 so as to gain a 5% better bounce quotient, but not the most pressing issue at hand.

Responded Second, who retained driving duties as Captain not only orchestrated the modeling effort but had to (virtually) liaise with Rani in the Mission, {Yes. Sure. No problem. I'll ask the quantum fluctuations for advanced warning before new turbulence is spawned.} The sarcasm was not subtle. {The current input from the sensory hierarchy isn't helping.}

{But [brass tacks] provide 3.45 percent better grid resolution in the hypertranswarp [biome]!} insisted Sensors to the comment.

Grumbled Second, {And it takes that much longer to understand what the brass tacks mean, which decreases ability to dodge, not that dodging means a lot at our current speed.}

Delta filtered out the exchange, setting it to the back of her mind and focusing on the current engineering problem. Neither interpreting the sensor grid nor driving were part of her hierarchy's bailiwick. Something tugged at body B's arm. Delta, both of her, heaved a great sigh as she turned to confront the T'sap. Meanwhile, a drone maintenance unit appeared from a transporter beam, juggling medical device and body A's abandoned armor. One piece of metal fell to the deck with a racket.

"If we aren't going to be entombed in an ice block in the next several minutes, do you have a slight moment for an inconsequential Alliance engineer?"

Delta pivoted body A and lifted her arms to allow the maintenance unit better access to reattach armor. The armor wasn't strictly necessary, but if she encountered high voltage, presence of sheathing might mean the difference between shunting the shock and uncomfortable heart arrhythmia. "I am not a command and control unit assigned to liaison duties to you small beings."

"Yes or no."

"If I say yes, will you stop bothering me?"

"No promises, but probably yes."

"Talk."

Rooberg sucked in his breath. "Do you have complete schematics for this ship? Not just the big stuff, but down to the individual wires?"

Delta snorted. "Of course. We have also updated the 'blueprints' we were provided, as they were found to be insufficiently detailed."

"Okay...the connector junction between the power core and the hypertranswarp equipment, where it transits between levels, does the master switch module happen to include any 5c-sigma series array components? And is the same module used for the other rings?"

Delta peered at Rooberg, the T'sap's face set in an expression of sincere seriousness, or so whispered assimilation hierarchy riders to her perceptions. "Yes and yes."

"I knew it," crowed the Talon Spanner. "The casing on that bastard is unmistakable, even through ice." He paused, glancing over to body A as the drone maintenance unit beamed elsewhere, task complete. "Listen carefully. The 5c-sigma series array switches are known for their issues amongst the working engineer set when it comes to wet and cold. Wet, okay. Cold, okay. Wet and cold together, not okay. The switch circuit inevitably gets stuck, usually in the 'open' or 'on' position. Until the module dries out or warms up, stuck it will remain. The switch is great for tropical environments, which until this point it was, so can't fault the designers too much. Well, maybe a bit, since there are better universal switch modules than the 5c-sigma series, but I get where they were coming from." Rooberg frowned. "Then again, it could be as simple as someone found a bunch of 5c-sigmas in storage, after having been purposefully 'lost' by fellows like me, and just couldn't stand to see them wasted."

The T'sap grinned grimly, white teeth vibrant against dark skin. "That means the solution to your little problem is simple. All you need to do is force open those doors; somehow keep that ice in place as you tunnel to the core; melt out the connector cable and, more specifically, the switch module; and, finally, warm it up. At that point, the switch will be responsive to whatever command you wish to send. Easy, yes? Oh, and do all the above before the ship runs into something, disintegrates due to stress, explodes, or other what-have-you." The fatalistic sarcasm was obvious even to the most dense Borg drone.

Delta was paying no heed, attention directed inward as consensus cascades grew, matured, were pruned, tumbled apart. Multiple iterations blossomed serially, minute (and sometimes major) differences examined, likelihood of success or failure coldly calculated. Most cascades withered, but a few were accepted as the seeds for another round. Delta was not alone in her stance of unnatural stillness, heads tilted: all engineering drones, and those of many other hierarchies besides as every available resource was directed towards the problem, were similarly postured. And, finally, consensus on a course of action was achieved. The plan was frustratingly incomplete, but it was, at least, a hopefully viable point to start.

Rooberg startled as Delta (and other nearby drones) abruptly reanimated; and an answer to a rhetorically poised question five minutes prior was provided: "Neither easy nor simple, but we can do it." Several beats passed, then a "Maybe" was appended. Delta turned away from the T'sap, requesting an appropriate unit to act as liaison, should the Alliancer feel the need to remain. She had more important things to attend.


Rooberg stood against a hallway wall, out of the way of the laboring Borg. As the other times he had watched drones at work, he was both awed by their apparent degree of coordination, yet somewhat bothered with the lack of verbal chatter. With him loitered a drone by the unwieldy name of 42 of 79, a mid-level command and control Borg whom had been assigned to provide an inkling of what was actually going on. Daisy could have been similarly employed, but Rooberg felt a bit better with the information provided came from an external source instead of a voice in his head.

"100 of 230 - that's that unit over there, next to Delta B - is not pleased." Vapor plumed from 42 of 79's mouth as he produced a verbal stream of consciousness. "He wanted a 32 millimeter socket, but 37 of 310 - over there, with the large scratch on its chest exoskeleton that needs buffing - is a bit mentally dyslexic at times, and provided a 23 millimeter. Words are being said, let me tell you! Temporal resurrection degraded the breadth of our vulgar lexicon from what it was once, but 100 of 230 is using what we have recalled and thus far added to with great and imaginative extent."

Tuning out the chatter, Rooberg adjusted his clothing for the umpteenth time. He was from a warm planet; and even with arctic gear pilfered from Mission away team stores, including a full face mask, he still felt cold. Perhaps it was in part psychosomatic, especially as the laboring drones appeared to disregard the cold as much as they did their normal sweathouse heat. On the other hand, the creeping cold that radiated from the Primary Core seemed to become more bitter with each passing moment. More importantly, one foot was distinctly cooler than the other, which strongly suggested a fabrication flaw with the thermal socks.

Shortly after formulating the beginnings of a plan, Delta (the sub-collective?) had put it in motion. The emergency door to the Primary Core within the corridor had been ratcheted open and a mobile forcefield installed, modified to keep the wall of ice within the room from extending into the corridor. As the forcefield had been put into place, a large piece of equipment had been brought to the locale, carried by four grav-sled dollies. The item had looked vaguely familiar, but it was only upon asking what it was had Rooberg learned it to be a cutting beam emitter, a spare from the stores loaded on Cube #347. In other words, it was a tactical hullside weapon.

42 of 79 had relayed that the Borg called Weapons had been very upset at the use for which engineering was in the process of modifying the emitter. However, absent a mining laser or other suitable portable drilling system, the cutting beam had been the closest piece of equipment able to be adapted to be a heat ray on short notice. Once it was throttled down. Very down.

One might wonder why Rooberg was even present, an obviously superfluous presence amid the bustle of cybernetic bodies. Beyond the fact that Rooberg was inherently a bit on the nosy side, Aerie Mistress Rani herself had insisted someone not Borg be in attendance to observe activities. The "why" was probably something only another security liaison could understand, so, here he was, ostentatiously an advisor, for all that his advice was probably unneeded. But the activities were interesting; and, again, he had identified the problem of non-communication to be the 5c-sigma series switch, so perhaps he wasn't out of place after all. Much.

Rooberg felt himself prodded on one heavily padded arm. Belatedly he realized that 42 of 79 had said something. "Wha? Sorry, brain elsewhere."

The drone stared at the Mission lead engineer. Rooberg could swear there was a hint of confusion to its alien non-expression. Perhaps the colloquialism had not translated well? Or perhaps the thing had to fart, assuming Borg passed gas? Regardless, the drone finally blinked and responded, "You are to move back along the hallway at least twenty meters, unless you wish to be parbroiled. The emitter is now modified for use as a heat ray, but still requires tuning for most efficient focus and heat conveyance."

Rooberg hastily complied with the directive.

After about ten minutes of stops, starts, and further alterations, all accompanied by 42 of 79's chatter, the cutting beam began to melt its way towards the primary core. As it did so, it soon became evident that the plan had one small flaw: the tunnel could not be extended to the primary core itself, much less melt the ice near the base of the core to access the switch module, without causing undue heat stress to critical components. A smaller, more compact heat source could probably be devised, then deployed from the tunnel itself, provided one could ignore bitterly cold air with near zero humidity. The forcefield was required to remain in place as an impromptu airlock to prevent the humid cube atmosphere from interacting with dry tunnel air and initiate re-icing, not to mention dense fog. However, the size of the tunnel extension would be too small for any normal-sized drone. Even the insectoid 2 of 3, a knee-high centipede creature with ruff of bristles encircling its mid-section, was too bulky, too long, too everything for this particular endeavor.

Rooberg watched 2 of 3 flow up the ice tunnel, then back and through the forcefield, during a break in drilling. The gregarious 42 of 79 was temporarily silent, reason unknown, but perhaps related to the statue stillness of several other nearby drones, including the Deltas. A handful of laboring Borg remained animated as they tended to machinery.

The Talon Spanner came to a decision. He concentrated inward to key his comm unit, directing one of Daisy's automated comm daemons to contact Crastian mob boss Red Spot. There was no answer.

::Daisy,:: subvocalized Rooberg, ::are any religious entertainment programs currently playing in the Crastian suite?:: An assent was provided, followed by the name of the show. ::Thank you. Now pause it; and tell Red Spot that if he wants it to go again, he needs to answer his communicator when his contract supervisor calls him, else face penalties such as "Deity of the Week" reruns not being available.::

After waiting a few moments, Rooberg attempted to raise Red Spot again.

::Hey! It was jus' getting' to the best part! 'Nd you ha' the 'puter stop't!:: protested the synthetic "voice" of Red Spot, the Crastian mob boss. The voders each of the little land crabs wore automatically translated their native language, full of mouthpart scrapes and near ultrasonic squeals, into Sarcoram. For whatever reason, the mob boss had fiddled with his voder in such a manner as it came across in an odd clipped accent that was faithfully reproduced in the native tongue of Rooberg's T'sap colony world. Why the accent was transliterated through internal communication was anyone's guess. It was probably something to do with code to ensure the voice one expected to be connected to the real person was maintained. In the case of Red Spot, it was more than a little annoying.

Replied Rooberg, ::It was a rerun, Red Spot.::

::'Tis a classic, you mean.::

::Whatever. I'll direct Daisy to let it continue, after you do something that vaguely resembles the work you and your mob have been hired to perform. In this case, I need you to round up those four adolescents you have -::

Interrupted Red Spot, ::We've na addies. Contrac' don't allow so.::

::You have addies. Four of them. And -::

::Nope. No addies.::

::Look you poor excuse for a seafood entree, I know you have four addies. I've seen them. More than once. Unlike many in the Mission, I can tell you buggers apart. Now, I'll offer you the spectacle of a humanoid attempting a full ceremonial apology, if and only if your not-adolescents pass as adult, either via a UV light to its carapace, else cracking off a leg shows an appropriate number of post-final-growth moult age rings.::

Silence. ::Well, there may be couple o' addies...bu' they'll be havin' their final -::

Said Rooberg hotly, some of the subvocalized words approaching audibility, ::Look, I don't care if they are one or five moults from adulthood. I don't care if they are your or some other adult's favorite spawn, such that you all felt the need to smuggle them aboard. As long as they work, I won't penalize your contract. And, right now, I need all four of those addies at my location because they, frankly, are the smallest sentients on this ship.::

::Okay,:: was the meek reply. One could almost imagine a cringing Crastian scraping the bottom of his carapace plate against the ground.

::And find a suitable adult to wrangle the lot of them. Be sure everyone has on leg wraps and shell warmers because it is a bit cold where they will be going. You should probably include breathers as well, if only to ensure no one comes down with freeze-lung. Daisy will transport you to my location once are all ready, which better be in five minutes. Then you can go back to your re-run.::

::Yes, sir,:: was the final reply before the connection echoed with the gentle click signifying the end of a conversation.

Rooberg, absorbed in his self-imposed task, did not notice he was the focus of not just 42 of 79's attention, but multiple nearby drones, including one of Delta. He now directed the comm daemon to ping Ju'ling, the Qiti janitor.

::What do you want, T'sap?:: demanded the gruff voice of Ju'ling with typical Qiti brusqueness and lack of tact. It was nothing personal as all Qiti acted thus, including towards others of their own race. To have a Qiti not be at least a little bit rude would be unusual.

::You, and your hairdryer, to my location in five minutes, if not sooner.:: When one worked with the feline Qiti as often as had Rooberg, one grew to learn the best way to interact with them.

::You have a brain parasite, T'sap. You may be my nominal boss, but only when it comes to fixing things in the Mission. I signed up to this scow with the single stipulation that I would not leave this overwarm Sarcoram aerie for the absolute hell which is beyond its airlock. So you can take that order and go -::

::And you can listen to me. You've undoubtedly heard what is going on concerning the hypertranswarp trials. The location I am at is far from your Qiti hell. If anything, it is mine. Even you might need an overcoat to keep warm. What I really need is that hairdryer, so if you are willing to have Daisy send it to me, fine. I also know you are very attached to your hairdryer.::

::Damn right. No one touches my hairdryer except me.:: Pause. ::And the day I need anything covering my pelt due to cold is the day I pledge allegiance to a crab god.::

Tentatively asked Rooberg, ::So you will come?::

::I will. But if you are lying about the temperature, I will rip out your tongue and use it to clean the Mission toilets.::

::Fine. Five minutes. Daisy will send you to my location.::

Rooberg severed the connection, then blinked with abrupt self-consciousness as he registered the unblinking stares of multiple Borg, all directing their (and more) attention upon him. 42 of 79 coughed a very good facsimile of throat clearing. Rooberg turned to face the drone.

"We followed that." There was a short pause. "Mostly. Your side of it. But not the rest of it. You, um, move your lips and larynx when you subvocalize to your comm implant?" The words seemed a bit stilted, but altered to a more normal cadence with "It seems you have a plan? Maybe? If so, the rest," arm was waved, "of us would very much like to hear it. Especially Delta." The named glowered with one body, the other among the group fiddling with the cutting beam, currently paused as the tunnel was appraised by 2 of 3.

Rooberg urked, then began to quickly explain his notion.


The Borg Collective had been well acquainted with the concept of "hairdryer", even as drones had no personal requirement for the item. However, having a small and easily portable forced-air heat source is a relevant need for a wide range of engineering applications, as well as a handful of very specialized military uses. Many, if not most, species with hair or fur develop a hairdryer soon after the advent of wide-spread electrification; and similarly do a significant portion of feathered races, as well as a strong minority of scaled species. Admittedly, "hairdryer" was not the term feathered or scaled sophonts used, but the analogue sentiment was present.

Upon temporal resurrection, it was not unexpected that several hairdryer designs had survived amid the communal sub-collective psyche. In addition to legitimate engineering need, a handful of units retained the applicable schematics for dubious, but usually benignly neurotic, reasons. An examination of contemporary hairdryer designs, once the sub-collective had been settled into the rebuilt Cube #347 and allowed supervised consumption of Alliance data, had concluded that the basic hairdryer concept of "now" was not much different from "then".

Of note, the sample subset assessed had not included the Qiti version. The species absolutely did not appreciate anything which dampened, much less soaked, their luxuriantly dense pelt, and it showed in their fur-drying technology.

Delta watched with eyes both her own and those belonging to other units as the Alliance team consisting of one Qiti and five Crastians approached the switch module target. She continued to be personally astounded, a sentiment reflected by her hierarchy, at the sheer power of forced-air heat able to be wielded in one hand. An analogy might be comparing a toy pop-gun to a high-powered hunting rifle - superficially similar in appearance, but one vastly more powerful than the other. Such was the energy need for the deceptively small appliance that the extension cord which connected it to the local power matrix had to be swapped out not once, but three times while trying to find a sufficiently heavy-gauge unit that would not melt or catch on fire.

The hairdryer also might explain - probability within a background engineering consensus cascade approaching one hundred percent - the occasional odd surge in power draw to the Mission bloc, one previously not linked to any particular piece of Alliance-installed equipment.

After using the cutting beam heat ray to melt ice as close as possible to the power core, the Qiti janitor had continue the task via hairdryer. Despite being dressed in nothing more than shorts, vest, and thin-soled faux leather sandals, the felinoid did not seem to mind the sub-zero conditions of the tunnel behind the forcefield. In fact, the Qiti had pointedly utilized a wickedly profane curse concerning probable parentage upon suggestion from the T'sap to perhaps, maybe, wear a breather to protect one's airway.

Six drones were also in the tunnel, each with their own hastily replicated, and much less powerful, hairdryer. They kept the side of the tunnel checked, use of the large heat ray no longer possible without compromising critical core components, guarding against the propensity of the ice to infill with each minor bout of subspace turbulence. As it was, the Primary Core (and Auxiliary Cores) was now completely entombed in ice; and a distinct hoarfrost rime was creeping out from closed emergency doors.

The Crastians, covered in colorful quilts and huddled behind the Qiti, began to bang their bodies into the latter's shins. Tail whipping back and forth, the janitor said something to the largest of the crabs, who in turn bounced up and down on its legs as it responded. The exchange could not be discerned by the drones closest to the burgeoning altercation, hairdryers too loud. The Crastians pushed against legs again and the tail was caught in mouthparts, resulting in a kick that sent the smallest creature sliding along the floor, upside down. It swiftly righted itself and returned from whence it came. Another frustratingly inaudible verbal argument. Finally one of the small Crastians left the scrum, scrambling towards the tunnel entrance. Upon reaching the forcefield it paused, legs lifting up and down in agitation. It turned towards the nearest hairdryer-wielding drone - 103 of 230 - and rammed him in the ankle.

"Let me through!" demanded the crab, calm voder voice at odds with body language.

103 of 230 paused his assigned duty, looking down at the small sentient. In the dataspaces, he sent Delta an inquiry.

Delta triggered the commands to temporarily disengage the forcefield. As soon as the Crastian scuttled through, she raised it again.

Ignoring drones, heat ray, extension cords, and other equipment scattered about, the crab ran towards Talon Spanner Rooberg. It skidded to a stop, bit of loose quilt flapping. "Ju'ling won't give us the hairdryer! That was the plan and he won't do it!" The synthetic voice somehow conveyed a distinct tattling quality.

42 of 79, closest unit, followed the exchange, which in turn made it available to all the sub-collective.

The T'sap lowered himself to one knee to better bring himself to the Crastian's level. "You could have told me that via the communicator, you know," he chided. One hand reached out and tapped the top of shell in-between waving eyestalks.

"Oh, we didn't think of that."

"Obviously." Rooberg stood back up. Delta focused upon the data-taps which automatically logged Mission communicator use. The Alliance comm system was supposed to be encrypted, even as it traversed the cube's own dataspaces, but the cypher had been broken within hours of its inception. The Alliance spies - Vaerz, Rani - were likely aware of the situation or strongly suspected, but had neither confronted Captain about it nor directed Daisy to instate a new encryption. For the most part, however, the conversations between Mission personnel were prosaic and dull. As expected, the Talon Spanner opened a line between himself and the Qiti, expanding it to include the Crastians.

::Ju'ling. Give the hairdryer to one of the adolescents. They need to burrow the final meters to the module due to the awkward placement for anything on two legs or over fifty centimeters tall.::

::No.:: In the tunnel, the Qiti's tail was lashing back and forth as ears laid back. It was probably for the best that the primitive, verbal-only communication system could not relay emotions or complex visualizations.

::Ju'ling. Hairdryer. Or, by the gods, I will ask these Borg here to get me a spray bottle of the most obnoxious hair gel compound I can get Daisy to look up, something that can only be washed out with water. Lots of water. And the gel will be colored, too. What is your favorite color, Ju'ling?::

::Fine. You don't have to threaten me so harshly, you <untranslatable> bugger.::

The untranslatable portion was copied to a background dataspace process dedicated to bettering universal translator algorithms, with a note appended to indicate a high likelihood of vulgarity. The words were obviously known to Rooberg, however. ::Rude. Very rude, Ju'ling, even for a Qiti. Give it over.::

In the tunnel, the hairdryer, after a last, loving caress, was passed to one of the small Crastians. At Rooberg's feet, the crab bobbed twice, then scuttled for the forcefield, whereupon it demanded to be allowed through. Upon re-entering the ice tunnel it beelined for its comrades, shouldering itself into the crustacean pack.

"All sorted out," said Rooberg aloud, unaware that the exchange had been followed.

At the end of the tunnel, a small Crastian unfolded one pair (of two) of the manipulator limbs which were normally kept tucked up against shell unless they were in use. Delicate, highly dexterous four-digit hands accepted the hairdryer as it was finally passed along. The crustacean pivoted to line itself up at its icy target. Eyes and antennae waggled, one of the former pointing back towards the large Crastian. Some signal, unseen by observing Borg, must have been passed because both eyes shifted forward, a slight adjustment in positioning was accomplished, and the switch to the hairdryer was slid from "Off" to "High - 8".

Delta rerouted extra power to the subsection as light strips dimmed. The load decreased as the Crastian hastily, upon a heavy thump to its shell by the Qiti, moved the toggle to a less power-draining "Medium-low - 3". Tunnel boring recommenced.

When the current emergency was over, assuming success, the technological distinctiveness as represented by the Qiti hairdryer would be added to sub-collective files. A recheck of Alliance hairdryer schematics on file had found the Qiti version, the device heavily redacted - "Trade Secrets" - in key locations. If it had to be physically pilfered from the janitor's Mission quarters, such would occur, even if a maintenance fault had to be manufactured to allow access. The potential applications for the Qiti hygienic appliance as both tool and weapon were numerous....

Elements of command and control hierarchy pruned the communal engineering musings before the larger sub-collective could be drawn too deeply into contemplation of what-ifs. Delta shook her heads, exploded-view plans of possible hairdryer modifications melting from her thoughts, replaced by the reality of deepening cold as another subspace pothole was encountered.

{Keep yourself centered,} prompted Captain from afar.

Delta sent wordless acknowledgement, then bade drones in the tunnel to check on Crastian progress.

In the short amount of time since acquiring the hairdryer, several meters of burrow had been constructed. Melted ice immediately refroze when heat was removed; and Crastian feet were proving to have an abysmal ability to grip ice-rink quality ice. The small crab slipped, landing harshly upon its belly carapace. One of its compatriots dragged it out backwards, whereupon it relinquished the hairdryer. The new wielder carefully picked its way into the small hole to return to work.

In such fits and starts the Crastian-sized tunnel snaked towards its goal. At one point the hairdryer abruptly shut off, victim of appliance plug separating from extension cord due to the latter becoming overly tangled around too many scuttling legs. Finally the switch module was reached. After melting out a more comfortable-sized ice room, the hairdryer was toggled to "Low - 1" and pointed at the offending coupling point where it emerged from the floor, awkwardly snugged against the base of the power core.

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Subspace turbulence begat another acceleration of the piercing cold, ice rapidly forming in hallways beyond emergency doors to Primary and Auxiliary Cores. Two of the smaller Crastians disengaged from the task, running to the forcefield and demanding to be let out before breathing apparatus froze. The full-sized crab cumbersomely forced itself through the almost-too-small tunnel to the icy anteroom, taking command of the hairdryer and sending the remaining two Crastians after their comrades. Another two minutes.

The command for the hypertranswarp nacelle to disengage, queued for sequential input every twenty seconds, was accepted, frozen state within the switch abruptly repolarizing to normalcy. While the handoff to warp nacelles and downshift to attendant high FTL velocities was rough, shaking cube superstructure and causing minor-to-moderate maintenance emergencies to joggle for priority on the engineering roster, it was less damaging than a full emergency stop to normal space. Brakes continued to be applied, bringing the cube fully out of subspace and, eventually, to a shuddering stop in the deep void between stars.

Delta sent the command for the ring nacelle condensate to vent, thereby completely shutting down the hypertranswarp system associated with the Primary Core. As annoying as it would be to recondense the ur-plasma matrix to reinitiate the ring, the alternative was to allow the run-away cold to continue radiating. Unfortunately, removal of the cold source would not magically cause existing ice to similarly disappear. Only time and heat would clear the Primary Core and adjacent hallways and rooms. Once the ice was gone, then the laborious task to troubleshoot the underlying cause of the cold could commence.

Engineering resources, held in alcoves to minimize the number of drones physically active during the hypertranswarp crisis, began to mobilize. The risk of injury was less now that the cube was at a standstill; and many maintenance needs required attendance. Delta's cognitive load grew as nearly five hundred units were assigned tasks, but remained below the operational red-line whereupon a Hierarchy of Eight member would need to intervene with additional command and control support.

Rooberg tilted his head slightly in unknowing parody of a Borg drawn deeper into the collective consciousness. He said to 42 of 79, "Daisy relays that we are out of hypertranswarp? That was the shaking a few minutes ago?"

"Yes," replied 42 of 79 succinctly.

"Then why didn't you say anything? You were going on about some-number of some-other-number's screw and bolt collection."

"You did not ask to be notified?" Pause. "Delta says to tell you that you can turn off the hairdryer now. Oh, never mind... 103 of 230 will relay to Ju'ling." In the tunnel, the named drone had been redirected from his task to approach the Qiti. Instead of using the Alliance comm system to thence inform the Crastian still dutifully heating the switch module, the felinoid picked up the extension cord and began to yank it.

Inefficient, small being antics. The Alliancers were dismissed to Delta's peripheral attention and tagged with a watchdog subprogram in the event annoying inquiries were posed. Of much greater importance, body A was released from the current duty and transported to hallway 5.5a.c outside Auxiliary Core #1. Delta needed herself to assist in determining which of three possible entrances into the room would be best to prepare for the upcoming redeployment of the converted cutting beam heat ray to begin the assault to reach the next faulty switch module. Until all idling hypertranswarp ring nacelles had been disengaged and vented, the risk of Cube #347 transforming into a comet nuclei remained.


Captain stood in his alcove, clamps engaged and eyes closed as he adroitly moved within the dataspaces. His mind was purposefully shattered into multiple shards, each compartment representing a thread of the multi-tasking whole. He was not in regeneration, and nor would downtime be required for at least 54 hours. While his normal modus operandi would locate him in the nearby nodal intersection with its viewscreen (or holographic projectors) reflecting the current focus of the gestalt consciousness, such technological props were not strictly necessary. Nice to use, especially when visualizing sensor grid data, but ultimately superfluous. In this instance, however, as it had been for the many prior instances whereupon the prototype hypertranswarp system had been stuck with throttle engaged, the stability and safety of an alcove trumped all other considerations. The cube currently floated sedately in deep space, the active ring nacelle disengaged and immediate emergency ended, but the secondary rings still remained to attend.

It was highly unlikely hypertranswarp would accidentally reinitiate during de-icing of the switch modules, but one would prefer not to take changes. Captain had too many memories of careening into one bulkhead or another; and some of those meme sequences ended with him putting himself on the drone maintenance roster.

{52 of 203. Why you felt the need to replicate eight twenty-liter carboys of confetti sparkle slime, I do not want to know.}

{But...} tried to interject 52 of 203.

{And nor do I need to know the exact sequence of events that led to said slime contaminating the ovens of Dilithium Growth Laboratory #4.}

Attempted 52 of 203 once more, {You see...}

{No.} The simple word slashed through 52 of 203's utterance, silencing nascent protest. {If there was a pressing need to understand either slime or sequence, I would dig through your mind until all was made clear. Clearer, anyway. But neither I, personally, nor the Us to which you belong find it relevant. Therefore, you are now temporarily assigned to engineering. I believe Delta has mop, chisel, oven cleaner solvent, and sponge freshly replicated and waiting for you.}

With a sullen {Compliance}, 52 of 203 was dismissed. Captain collapsed the thread, automatically reallocating mental resources as required.

Primary attention refocused. {That little distraction was supposed to be on your docket, Second. That's what Seconds are for: dealing with the minor censor breakdowns that do not rise to the level of emergency.} Although Second was in the alcove next to Captain, speaking aloud alcove-to-alcove was not customary; and, besides, the former currently had aural input disengaged due to an annoying high-pitched whistle which had developed after an unfortunate close-encounter of the bullhorn kind. The fix was simple, but Second kept getting bumped on the drone maintenance docket due to higher priority cases.

{You lost that best-of-three Sarcoram chess match series to me, even after I spotted you two extra recyclers and handicapped myself three fledges,} reminded Second to Captain, smugness coloring the exchange. Second enjoyed chess, and quickly became proficient with most variants encountered. He even refrained from cheating most of the time. Some of the time. Once in a while. {And that means you have to respond to twelve stupid happenings. There are still seven to go.}

{Stupid happenings as vetted by you.} The tone was flat, the answer already known.

{Yup! Don't worry, I'm only passing you the best! The rest I am still dealing with myself, else delegating down the line to my most favorite of Hierarchy of Eight members.}

Inserted 6 of 8 into the conversation: {I am still finding mashed potatoes in body crevices I didn't know I had.}

{And I love you too, 6 of 8,} brightly said Second with a practiced air of sarcastic cheerfulness. Virtual kisses were blown.

Captain unconsciously shifted his body, an abbreviated shaking of head and eye roll long absorbed into his personal lexicon, origin a conglomeration of several species not his own. Primary consideration shifted to more practical matters. Engineering reports were requested. In summary, a modified de-icing sequence had commenced with Auxiliary Core #1; and while it had been possible to convince the T'sap and Crastians to return to the Mission, anywhere a certain overpowered hairdryer went, so did one Qiti. Captain was confident that Delta would work out the engineering-related particulars, but the ultimate consequence was delay to complete switch module disengagement. Query: estimate to full power down of the hypertranswarp system? Answer: 2.3 cycles.

A partition consolidated, heavy with command and control units, and began the process to shape a schedule for the next deca-cycle. Once the hypertranswarp system was locked down, the cube would fold to one of the designated resupply systems. Thence there, repairs would be made; offending switch modules replaced; any remnant ice removed from Primary and Auxiliary Cores; cold issue troubleshot and rectified; and, finally, hypertranswarp nacelle rings reinitiated. Complete hypertranswarp test trials. Compile hypertranswarp test trial outputs. Effect more repairs, if necessary. And, eventually, go do whatever inane "explore strange new worlds" thing the Alliancers felt necessary while the sub-collective worked on more vital endeavors such as breaking the pre-Prime Commands or securing accurate cranial measurements of Mission personnel for the knitting club to ensure perfect fit of the festive bobble hats which were currently in production.

The last item on the docket was appropriately edited to a bullet point much more bland.

The final product was scanned a last time for structure, grammar and spelling errors, and font choice. After substituting a handful of words for better parsing alternatives and converting BorgStandard time stamp estimates to Alliance format, Captain dropped the anticipated schedule into the Alliance-shared dataspace bubble. Access to the Mission computer network was heavily firewalled, the gatekeeper being AI Daisy; and there were no physical connections except for the heavily shielded cable routed to Daisy's core in Central Engineering. Rightfully so, the Alliance was paranoid concerning their electronics. Except for minor peripheral systems, the sub-collective had yet to figure out how to worm its way past the firewall or tap into the cable in a manner which didn't alert the over-endowed collection of algorithms.

With the most current top-level task assigned to the primary consensus monitor logged as complete, Captain opened his eye and fed power to his optic implant, gazing across the subshaft to the alcove tier opposite. The view was irrelevant, merely a direction to direct one's vision. Internally he purposefully blanked his mind, temporarily corralling the "I", the "me", the "self" into the corner of his psyche which comprised the stubborn kernel of assimilation imperfection. Cast adrift amid the not-quite-conscious musings which was the communal hindbrain, attention of the abbreviated Whole turned towards the Mission. A ping query was sent, returning designation and location of a dozen drone resources currently within the Mission bloc. At any given time, with the exception of emergencies, between ten and twenty Borg might be haunting the Alliance space. The units could be divided into three types:

A second ping query returned status of the myriad of cameras and sensors located throughout the Mission. These were Alliance installed hardware, a security system placed to allow the military detachment (and espionage personnel) ready access to remotely view issues should they arise. Theoretically hardened against intrusion and protected with encryption, it had required less than a cycle for the sub-collective to fully co-opt the system following its awakening from temporary stasis at Base Eighteen. Unfortunately, the equipment only allowed passive remote observation and was not an exploitable access point into the Alliance computer network.

All points of view - Borg and stationary hardware - were casually contemplated. Individual Alliancers were sleeping, eating, recreating, performing hygiene routines, working in the labs, exercising, moving through their irrelevant small-being existences. Oblivious was the Caltrak designated Bli-ub as she explained to 98 of 240 the cultural reason behind the decision to seed an entire hydroponics row with three specific flower cultivars in anticipation of an important holiday; and equally unknowing of the never-ending scrutiny was the Borg Studies technician extracting a tissue biopsy from 3 of 203's arm. The current debrief of Talon Spanner Rooberg by Rani and Sergeant Major Brunc, concerning recent events in relation to hypertranswarp and Primary Core, perhaps held the greatest interest, but it was only one datum of many.

Finally and inevitably, seeping into the pleasant interlude of nonthinking, came the "I", the "me", the "self". Captain heaved an audible sigh, then blinked as the scene across the shaft finally registered. Another blink as optical implant zoom function engaged. Dolls. Giant dolls. Giant dolls of crude manufacture, yet intricate "princess" dress, filled a number of the too-many empty alcoves. Fifteen, to be exact.

{Second, I have a "stupid happening" for you to deal with. Not me. If it somehow becomes attached to my designation for resolution, I will ensure you remain off the maintenance roster for the foreseeable future. You can function in a perfectly efficient manner without external aural input.} The visual of the opposite alcove tier was routed to the backup consensus monitor.

{You are a cruel Captain,} replied Second darkly.

{Cruelty is an irrelevant, small being concept. And if you want to be Captain, you are welcome to it.} Silence. {That is what I thought.}

Exchange concluded, Captain closed eye and suspended optical implant input: the never-ending rhythm of consensus, of an imperfectly assimilated sub-collective striving to Be in an uncertain future, beaconed.


*****


Rani entered her office. Following years of ingrained habit, she automatically scanned the space. An eltab, one not present previously amid the careful chaos of her desk, caught her eye. Continuing her routine as nonchalantly as possible, she was careful to keep the frown of confused suspicion from face and body language: Vaerz had warned her to assume the sub-collective would corrupt sensors and cameras throughout the Mission shortly after re-activation from stasis, no matter assurances otherwise by the techs. Similarly, the exchange of supposedly "encrypted" communications through the Mission system was also to be suspect. It was their ship, after all, no matter it had been built in an Alliance shipyard. If Rani confronted Captain upon the manner, she strongly suspected she would be told that privacy was irrelevant.

The suspect eltab was picked up and turned over. How it at arrived on her desk was ultimately unimportant. The Mission had been directed, via a subspace relay extension recently installed in the Borg resupply systems, to return to Base Eighteen upon conclusion of the hypertranswarp trials. During the brief layover, Rani had acquired final directions from her supervisor while the cube had onloaded several tons of additional supplies missed during initial provisioning due to inventory mistakes. Obviously other machinations had also been underway during the stop.

On the dark screen was a lavender sticky note with a rather cartoonish doodle on it. Rani looked at the drawing for a moment as she sat in her chair, then reached into a waist sash pocket for a wired earpiece. The earpiece was plugged into an eltab port. The fact that the eltab was sufficiently antique to have a port was unremarkable given the Sarcoram penchant to keep something long past obsolesce when it still otherwise worked. The screen brightened. Rani touched a few buttons and the screen darkened again.

Vaerz' voice began to play a message in her ear.

"Rani, my dearest fledge-no-longer. Are you having fun yet? Trust me, you will soon. More fun than you've ever had. Let's hope you survive the hilarity to come.

"Why do we do it, Rani? Why do people like us continue with this thankless job? It obviously isn't for the fame...to see our name in the newsvid is not a good thing, to say the least. Absolutely not the money, of which the government does not like to spend on peons like us. I suspect you, like me, have seen too much, imposing a degree of pragmatic pessimism in regard to politics of aerie, planet, and Alliance. No, definitely not patriotic are the likes of us. I don't know about you, but sometimes I suspect I have some type of undiagnosed degenerate mental condition. It is the only explanation. But enough about me....

"You've done your homework and now you've seen our Borg friends first-hand. Dangerous does not begin to describe them, with that Captain fellow the most perilous of all. Stands my feathers on end, truthfully. And, no, I am not drunk as I make that admission. Fully sober am I. Too sober.

"After my little ride with the Borg, I convinced the powers-that-be that a backdoor to deactivate the pre-Prime Commands was prudent. 'Why the f**k, you deranged egg preener?' you are now asking yourself. It is all in the fates, Rani, those damn what-ifs. It isn't all happiness and light in the futures; and to counter the worst of it, the Borg may be necessary. Not our brooding and plotting and pissed off sub-collective, but the Borg as a malignant force. Believe it or not, they are the lesser evil. Next time we see each over in a secure zone, I'll explain. Just trust me on this one.

"Anyway, my persuasive self attained permission for the backdoor; and the Xenig that built the pre-Prime Commands made the necessary code alterations. The Xenig was skeptical, to put it mildly, but in the end didn't really care one way or another about a non-mech issue. The backdoor was inserted during the already-scheduled pre-Prime Command follow-up. The Xenig swore that the Borg will not perceive the addition.

"The backdoor cannot be triggered if I am unwillingly assimilated and broken to the Borg mindset. Of course, we've not seen the actual act of assimilation and processing yet, but the descriptions we've gained from our drone aerie-mates is bad enough. And we will be seeing all the details of assimilation in the near future. More to come on that. Back to the subject of me, narcistic kal-male that I am, I have to go to the Borg willingly with wings wide open for the trigger to work, or so assured the Xenig to me. However, the simple fact that I offer a possibility for the sub-collective to slip their bonds would surely be great temptation, should they get wind of it. Thus, for that reason, amid several others, is why I cannot nest-sit that cube as much as I would like.

"In the event I die or am otherwise incapacitated, and if certain catastrophic trigger conditions are met, then there are a number of acquaintances who will beg, borrow, steal, lie, and kill to ultimately present themselves to the sub-collective for assimilation. They can also trigger the backdoor. Note that none of these acquaintances are official, government-sanctioned spies. Egg-suckers and lice-preeners, the lot of them. But useful, loyal egg-suckers and lice-preeners who owe me. Those potential keys also have no reason to be near or ever come into contact with the sub-collective, so no risk of accidents there."

There was a long pause. The only reason Rani knew the message continued was that the background hum of the ambient environment where it had been recorded still thrummed.

"Rani, why you had to follow your uncle into this dung-hole of a profession, I do not know. But you are the best candidate for the posting, even if I do not like it and actively campaigned against it. That degenerative brain disease is obviously genetic in nature. I'll support you as best as I can. Be careful."

This time the audio clicked in finality.

Rani removed the earpiece, disconnected the wire, then pocketed the whole affair. From another pocket was retrieved a small device, about the size and heft of any number of popular game cards. The thin film of rigid plastic was applied to the eltab. After a few moments, the eltab became uncomfortably hot, signifying all electronics and data stored inside were no longer intact. It would be tossed into the Mission factory disruptor bin later, to be reformulated as some bit of useful hardware. Recycling was a Sarcoram drive, after all.

Finally, task complete, Rani opened a desk drawer and extracted one of a large selection of colorful talon paints. She did have a persona to keep up and her finger-talons would not paint themselves. Today, this evening's flight soon to turn to next day's ascent, Rani deemed sparkly green was the perfect hue to serve as her battle colors.

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