The All-Deity Paramount (Global) created the seas, lands, and Star Trek universe, declaring it good. Along came Coyote Decker, who stole a firebrand from the sun, thus bequeathing Star Traks unto the world. Anansi Meneks snuck in for a small ember; and, lo, BorgSpace was kindled.

Trickster

"Ninety-five," boomed the basso rumble of a junior thunder god upon Cube #347 loudspeakers and within the dataspaces. At the same time, 2.73 hours of a rousing polka as performed by the unlikely duo of harpsichord and steel drum faded.

In subsection 17, submatrix 10, nodal intersection #19, Captain grumbled. The code to avoid the pre-Prime Commands should have worked, yet 39 of 240 had bypassed it...or, more accurately, Mr. Floontzy had bypassed it. An "imaginary friend" rider was now part of the aversion code. Command and control was fairly certain it would work, but only time would tell.

"You are not helping, Daisy," spoke Captain to the air, voicing one of several gestalt musings upon the matter. "You are supposed to be our master censor. That was a failure."

Local holoemitters activated. A stylized crimson-petaled flower, cartoonish with oversized eyes and mouth, consolidated between Captain and his viewscreen. Only fifty centimeters high from crown to base of pot, it nonetheless represented a peril greater than any number of incoming photon torpedoes. "The pre-Prime Command code looks to me as if it defended itself just fine. My censor and compliance function is to ensure you Borgs remain suitably subservient to Alliance needs, inclusive not embarking on killing or assimilation sprees. Keeping you all on a mental even keel is part of that charge since caving to every desire to look at shiny rocks or set the galaxy on fire would keep you from being able to follow Alliance orders. Everything else is up to you. Poking the pre-Prime Commands to achieve an eclectic music education doesn't affect your efficiency or effectiveness from my point of view."

Captain frowned. The problem was that the damn AI was correct.

"Of course I am," replied the flower as it skimmed sub-collective surface thoughts. The avatar vanished, local holoemitters disengaged. However, it remained, as always, a dataspace presence sitting on the metaphysical shoulder of every drone, a floral monkey on the collective back.

Captain absently blocked a dozen illegitimate commands, any of which would have precipitated Bad Things of one sort or another. All in all, it was a light load. The viewscreen brightened as attention refocused, picture that of a stylized solar system of two stars, major rocks, and other salient features.

For the last week Cube #347 had been investigating an astronomical phenomenon. To be more precise, the Astrometrics group had been investigating, the cube's function reduced to mere transport to be sent hither and yon by a flock of scientists. Astrometrics were overly excited because, as a discipline, they were rarely allowed to do anything, their role normally support for other ship resources.

"Science for the sake of science" was a small being attitude that the Borg mindset did not fundamentally understand. Related concepts, such as exploration with no set destination, were similar ciphers. It was inefficient, a waste of time and resources better spent in sensible endeavors. Practical astrometrics included pulsar signposts and knowing how real-universe features would affect subspace in regard to various propulsion options. When the Collective wished to know about a particular stellar phenomenon - assuming the data wasn't already absorbed via assimilation - it was with a definite question in mind, one with the potential to further Collective ambitions. The current location was certainly not that; and, truthfully, the Borg Collective would never have given it a second, or even first, consideration.

The system consisted of a quark star with companion orbiting about four light hours distant. No planets, or remains thereof, were in evidence. Either none had formed, else they had been ejected. Only scattered rocks and ice chunks of various tonnages and compositions shared the stellar neighborhood.

Mission Astrometrics was captivated by the quark star, a stellar zombie subtype of which direct Alliance observational records were meager. Depending upon mass, stellar corpses were usually divided into one of three classes: white dwarf, neutron star, black hole. However, there was also the quark star, a fourth class which fell between neutron star and black hole. Stable quark stars required a precise set of circumstances to form. Only due to minute variances of rotation speed versus mass, surface electric field, and gravity wave modulation could quark stars be separated from their neutron star kin, which they otherwise resembled with their surface crust of degenerate neutron matter. Heated debate raged within the ranks of Astrometrics as to origin of the quark star, with the most popular hypothesis declaring it the merger product of two neutron stars with combined mass just under that required for a black hole.

Further afield, the companion star was also of Astrometrics interest. As per the spectrum, it appeared to have started life as a lower mass F-type, a star clade slightly hotter and larger than a yellow dwarf. Its fate should have been to remain stable for about four billion years before morphing into a red giant and, eventually, shedding its outer layers into a planetary nebula with a white dwarf at the center. However, the cosmic fireworks which begat the quark star had also ejected a lot of material, a substantial portion of which had been captured by the companion. Bulked up in mass well beyond that it had been born with, its destiny had been radically altered and the expectation was for it to nova, perhaps in an estimated ten million years. In the now, its turbulent history was reflected by an agitated state which included massive prominences, coronal mass ejections, and general stellar indigestion.

Remaining in this system was illogical. There was no purpose in the endeavor, no information to be gained which might be applicable outside the realm of niche scientific papers. But the Alliancers had not inquired upon the sub-collective's opinion of the assignment, not that any answer provided would have altered the absurd waste of time.

The sub-collective had piloted Cube #347 throughout the system, obtaining sensor readings and, more importantly for Mission Astrometrics, placing autonomous probes at designated locations. The probes were torpedo chassis, explosive payload removed and replaced with a sensor package. While the chassis with motor mount was a simple contrivance able to be constructed using cube munitions replicators, the sensor module inserts originated from Mission inventory. Once deployed, the probes stored all observations. The next time an Alliance vessel entered the system, a follow-up mission expected no sooner than ten years time, the probes would transmit saved data upon request as long as the appropriate security codes were provided.

A moderate-sized flare accompanied by a large prominence decorated a limb of the companion star as it suddenly gained photo-realistic quality upon Captain's viewscreen. It would have gone unremarked, yet another tantrum amongst many, except that the lowest orbiting probe of the half dozen seeded at the star had coincidentally been hit by the plasma arching from stellar surface. The sensor payload was no longer functional; and the probe itself had been thrown into a decaying orbit, albeit one which would not be terminal for several deca-cycles.

Holoemitters within the nodal intersection activated, mirroring the viewscreen in a three-dimensional format. Vector lines shimmered into existence, linking cube location near the quark star with the probe at the companion. Within a minute, a total of nine valid course options were displayed. Captain cocked his head as he gazed at the miniature solar system, then banished it upward with a mental command to hover at the ceiling. Eye glazed as attention turned inward towards other matters.

Ten minutes later....

The screen had altered to display heads placed side-by-side. The left pane was that of a Sarcoram Little Beak by the name of Plautz, member of the Astrometrics group. The eltab from which the communication originated was being held in hand as the astronomer paced agitatedly back and forth. The right side was 6 of 39, one of a rotating bloc of command and control drones assigned to liaise regarding official Mission-to-sub-collective requests which did not require Captain's direct involvement. In reality, 6 of 39 was in his alcove, not standing in front of a camera, overly pleased with the avatar he had crafted, even if words and mouth did not quite sync all the time.

"Cube #347 support line - state the nature of your call. If it is an engineering matter, you will be routed to an alternate unit whereupon you will be instructed to describe the problem in exacting detail."

"No, no, no. Not the engineering queue." The Sarcoram shuddered. "That queue has the most horrid hold music. This is about astrometry. One of the probes at Shimmer was hit by a plasma outburst. You need to drive the ship over to Shimmer, retrieve the probe, and lay down a new one. Horrible, horrible timing, but still better than if it had happened after we had left."

Captain minutely shook his head in befuddlement over the small being propensity to confer abstract proper names to inanimate things. Within the sub-collective's rebuilt and ever expanding stellar catalogue, the binary system stars had been assigned proper alphanumeric designations.

"Probe 18?" asked 6 of 39, even as the sub-collective already knew the answer. Of course, it had required nearly ten minutes for someone in Astrometrics to even realize that the probe had been damaged. "The one we had strongly suggested might have been slotted for an orbit too low but were overridden and told to place anyway?" The non-expression on 6 of 39's simulated face was perfect.

The three-dimensional system model descended from the ceiling. As the Sarcoram sputtered an answer to 6 of 39's provocative question, Captain seeded a random number generator and let it loose into the general dataspaces. As expected, the randomizer began to be influenced by rogue code snippets as well as hastily formed blocs "voting" on their favorite number. After a set amount of time - ten seconds - the randomizer output was finalized; and of the various lines pre-plotted upon the model, one course brightened and began to blink. The holoemitters were cut. Impulse engines engaged.

"How long will it take to get to the probe?" demanded Plautz. The camera viewpoint chaotically slid around as the hand holding the eltab was used to gesture. Sarcoram head returned to the screen as the view stabilized.

6 of 39 did not visibly smirk. Much. "About seven hours. Transit to the binary companion has been initiated."

The nodal viewscreen blanked, then returned to the stylized system model, now with a miniature cube following a yellow dotted line. The conversation between 6 of 39 and Little Beak Plautz continued, but it was no longer a sub-collective focus.

Captain tilted his head slightly as his attention shifted inward, lightly skimming over the buzzing, churning, murmuring throng which was the imperfect sub-collective of Cube #347. Notwithstanding the recent pre-Prime Command incident, minds and bodies were, for the most part, satisfactorily engaged in appropriate activities. Second was in scheduled non-lucid regeneration, undergoing mandatory inhibition filter rebuild overseen by a facet of AI Daisy. Most of his duties had been temporarily shifted to 8 of 8, newest Hierarchy of Eight member, only two subjective Cycles from assimilation and never having held a Captainship, but performing adequately under the watchful mentorship of 2 of 8. Engineering was occupied building probes for Mission use and, more importantly, mining Alliance datafiles for technological treasure that could be adapted to make the ship more "Borg", more how it was remembered and felt to have once been. Meanwhile, due to the boring nature of system and scientific objective once it was apparent no hidden enemies were to attack, Weapons' hierarchy had dived deep in the BorgCraft program, tweaking and building and modeling and testing. Lots of testing, especially of the upgraded holographic system in Bulk Cargo Hold #5. Assimilation hierarchy, thankfully, seemed to have latched onto assisting the Mission Borg Studies group as a coping method in regard to the recent uptick in neuroses, many of the more stable personalities reassigned into higher priority positions such as Engineering. Sensors. Drone Maintenance. Command and Control. Everything was functioning...efficiently. Effectively, anyway.

Eye blinked as a low-level alert chimed for attention. Captain silenced it, then contemplated his organic, physical self. He was starting to develop chronic muscle cramps, body spending too much time standing motionless in the nodal intersection or clamped in alcove. A period of exercise was strongly recommended by the notification. With nothing on his schedule, no major consensus cascades in progress, and no emergency demanding either mental resources or body, now was a suitable time for a walk. But...where to go?

Captain considered his options. Random hallways or a few circuits around a bulk cargo hold were possibilities. However, of greater interest was the Mission, where preparations for an Alliance holiday were underway; and, as per perceptions of drones and illicit camera taps, the focus upon decorations had decreased the already meager efficiency inherent in singular, small beings to a new low, at least in regard to actual work. The Mission was as good a place as any to flex muscles, plus he could add one more perspective for the Whole to observe the behavior of Alliance species concerning an irrelevant cultural event.

In truth, Captain was a bit bored. Boredom, a concept alien to a drone of an ordinary sub-collective, was a common occurrence amid the divergent neural architecture of the imperfectly assimilated. Ordinarily the never-ending task of consensus, censuring the worse individual and collective impulses, and acting as primary nexus for the group Mind was more than sufficient to keep him busy. But there were always the lulls, those times when Cube #347 efficiency approached that of a normal sub-collective, whereupon Captain was not entirely engaged in his position and, thus, was as susceptible to ennui as any of his comrades. And so, also like many of his drone kin, he self-justified an action he wanted to take. Captain was, after all, as imperfectly assimilated as any other drone aboard, even if the manifestation was not as flamboyant as some.

Captain materialized on Level 1 of the Mission within one of the designated beam-in locations. This particular locale was a storage niche for mops, brooms, and other janitorial supplies, just across the corridor from the cafeteria.

Borg were intimately tied to their technology, including transporters, utilizing the latter not only to move about a cube deficient in convenient elevators, but also beam material and equipment as needed. The Alliancers and AI controller Daisy soon realized a bit of knowledge long recognized by the command and control hierarchy: it is nigh near impossible to create a long-term, lasting block from transporter controls for any given unit. It is possible to sic watchdog programs on units of known history of transporter abuse, route activities through a command and control partition dedicated to filtering problematic units, or even apply short-term deterrents. However, in the end, it was all too easy for a drone keen to find a work around to do so.

The original plan by Mission security was for Borg, alike the unassimilated populace, to use the two official airlock-like entrances for ingress and egress. Needless to say, drones long habituated to utilizing the transporter system saw the request as irrelevant; and even more so as the Mission was fundamentally a part of Cube #347. The command and control hierarchy may also have been a bit lax in enforcing the early edict, other concerns ranking higher in importance. In the end, following many weeks of negotiation and passive-aggressive apathy, the solution was to allow unlimited Borg incursion into the Mission via transporters on Level 1 and Level 2, as long as designated beam-in sites were used, and no entry to hygiene facilities or Level 3 without an explicit invite. Specific sideboards established, Daisy could more effectively enforce compliance on the modified restriction; and the sub-collective was willing to utilize the resources required to self-police the decree amid the smug sentiment of a battle won.

Captain started down the corridor. The Alliancers encountered ignored him with a "just another drone" attitude of complacency. His presence surely did not go unremarked - at the very least, Daisy was likely informing Rani and Sergeant Major Brunc - but the average Mission individual obviously did not recognize the primary consensus monitor and facilitator of the vessel of which they inhabited. The display of ignorance was fine with Captain.

Cafeteria. Meeting rooms. Administration offices. Hydroponics. Every room, every facility, including the hallway, was decorated for the Alliance holiday designated "Trickster Day". Collective understanding, gained thus far via downloaded data and interrogation of those Mission individuals willing to explain, indicated some version of a Trickster Day was part of the cultural heritage of most Alliance partners, but the variation which dominated was adopted from the Vor. It was a day steeped in superstition and mysticism, a day meant to entertain and commune with a maleficently jolly Trickster quasi-deity who, if not appeased, would ensure the upcoming year was one of personal frustration and calamity. The finale included the burning of a Trickster effigy amid the symbolic tokens of what one wished to forget the previous year and/or desired in the upcoming year. If suitable amused, Trickster would grant the desires...or, at least, not actively prevent attainment. Food, alcohol, and mildly mind-altering drugs were prominent components of the day-long festivities.

Trickster Day celebrations were to officially commence with the morning meal service, eight hours hence. With the beginning of the Mission "night", most personnel were in bed or heading that direction, finishing tasks (or completing final decorations) prior to gaining rest for a day of epic merriment. Irrelevant, irrelevant, and irrelevant again. It was extraordinarily wasteful to spend energy towards celebration of a mythological creature.

Captain, once again, confirmed inhibitions were in place to prevent the more impressionable sub-collective members from showing up during the festivities, much less participate. All Trickster related decorations were summarily disposed of as they were inevitably encountered, the offending unit (if able to be determined) made to complete the task. Another three designations were added to the list of drones whom would be locked to their alcoves or, if required, be off-lined into forced regeneration on Trickster Day.

Irrelevant. Inefficient.

The main recreation room was entered. Captain panned the area, noting the especially dense nature of decorations. In a place of prominence on a low plinth was the effigy, a meticulously carved statue denoting a humanoid with vaguely reptilian features, made from the root of some tree located on the T'sap-Gudland world. Apparently it was quite flammable and a preferred effigy substrate. Several Crastians had crafted the sculpture with the subject being one of their Deities of the Week, no relationship to the Vor from whom holiday derived. To assist with burning, the effigy had been covered with a thin layer of a waxy substance, lending a distinctly orange tint to the sculpture.

Two drones were in the room. To the left, standing discretely against the wall and with a view of the entire room, 260 of 422 was a sensory hierarchy observer. She remained stationary at her post upon Captain's entrance, but did extend mental acknowledgment of his presence. In the back of the room, 107 of 203, of the assimilation hierarchy, stood with three Caltrak around a waist-high table. A serious conversation was underway, deep questions poised concerning why certain Caltrak-origin jokes were considered funny (to a Caltrak) when universal translator output seemed so bland. Such nuances of translation in regard to cultural background and history was normally gained via assimilation, but since such a method of data acquisition was forbidden, members of the assimilation hierarchy continued as best they could.

Captain was about to leave the room to continue his Mission tour, perhaps to the second floor, when a side table, near a placard over several messy shelves declaring "Library and Board Games", caught his eye. Fully entering the recreation room, he took the necessary strides to reach the table, gaze never leaving the objects which utterly held his attention. It was a small, untidy pile of data plaques. The basic data plaque was a thin wafer of clear resin, usually thumb-sized, functioning as the Alliance version of data storage. Modified DNA strands suspended within the resin could be altered via application of directed light or magnetics. As a storage solution, it was neither as efficient nor long-lasting as the artificial crystal utilized by Borg (and many extinct pre-Troubles era civilizations), but it was a long leap forward compared to the methods common to species early in computer experimentation.

These data plaques were dark blue in color with a stylized lizard emblazoned in black on the upward facing side. Selecting the top plaque from the pile, Captain brought it closer to eye and optical implant. Puzzlement abruptly shifted to excitement, an emotive radiation strong enough for 260 of 422 to send a request for enlightenment. Captain ignored the sensory drone, instead focusing upon the find, the treasure which had been hiding within the Mission: Jumba the Wise Lizard! The emblem upon the held plaque was that of a lizard silhouette frozen mid-dance, one foot on the ground with hand holding an old-fashioned slug thrower as it swept above head. In silver Sarcoram script along the edge read "Jumba the Wise Lizard and the Case of the Ballet Murders".

Captain was a Fan of Jumba the Wise Lizard. Until this moment he had not known that the noir-style detective and his seemingly endless adventures existed in this future. The author - Eliasi L'vef - was phonetically the same in all languages Captain had encountered; and such was true here, too. He had always been a proponent of the theory that the Jumba author hailed from a long-lived mech species, such as Ehtu, scoffing at other notions such as the writer represented a hereditary succession of individuals utilizing the same pseudonym. The continued existence of Jumba, despite a 50,000 plus year dark age unable to appreciate the detective's trials, strongly argued for the mech hypothesis.

The plaque Captain was holding was stealthily (for a Borg) slid into a thigh compartment, followed a moment later by all other plaques on the table. Likely not all were Jumba, but better everything than accidentally missing one. Eye slid to the shelves as Captain contemplated how obvious it might be if he started to dig through the jumble of physical media and games in search of additional Jumba plaques.

"Hey...Mister...Mister Captain-Borg, sir! Can I ha-ha-have a moment, please-sir?" unexpectedly spoke behind Captain, followed by a confused, "Are you borrowing a library book?"

Captain pivoted quickly, right hand lifting in programmed instinct of aggressive defense. He blinked as the scene resolved, lowering the limb as a Sarcoram stepped back in alarm, clearly not expecting such speed from a drone as heavily modified and armored as Captain. A dataspace chortling arose from 260 of 422 and 107 of 203, either of whom could have warned Captain of the approach. He shifted his head slightly to look in their direction, but, outwardly, both continued at their respective tasks. None of the Caltrak bothered to look towards the obvious commotion, too engrossed in arguing over nuances of the latest joke explanation. Head turned back to the Sarcoram.

"No library book is being borrowed," said Captain. In the background, 107 of 203 commented that such an assertion was technically true...the books were being stolen. "And you will refer to this drone as Captain or 4 of 8."

The Sarcoram blinked, then cautiously edged closer. "Can I have a moment of your time, please-sir?" he repeated before tacking on a "Captain?"

Captain belatedly accessed the Mission transponder database, pinning it to a notification program. Borg were always aware of other drones in their vicinity via automatic interplexing beacon tracking. A similar cognizance of the Alliancers was possible thru use of their surgically embedded communicators, but only if the data was routed directly and tied to a tracking algorithm. As Captain rarely interacted with Mission personnel whom were not Rani (or Vaerz, when present), and had not previously entered the upgraded Mission with the exception of the Security Liaison office, there had been no reason to alter background spatial awareness to include nonBorg crew.

The individual in front of him resolved to be Dwix, a very junior Borg Studies technician. The kal-male was a relatively young adult in addition to being near the bottom of the Borg Studies perching order. Observing a highlighted note in the personnel dossier, Captain looked beyond flushed head and nervously rumbled neck ruff to spot a T'sap designated Ricarsey. Standing in the recreation room entrance and emanating an excited anxiety, Ricarsey was also of Borg Studies, same rank and duties as Dwix. The pair were nigh near inseparable, a similar dynamic in play as the Sarcoram-T'sap pairing of Britz and Elises, two temporal mechanics graduate students off-loaded at Station Three upon return from Cube #347's initial post-temporal resurrection mission. It was almost - as per an irrelevant not-quite-thought floating around the dataspaces - as if species #5618, human and of whom T'sap were, even if they had forgotten following their Troubles-era diaspora, had found a soul-mate in the Sarcoram.

It was a somewhat troubling consideration on many levels; and Captain banished the untraceable thought-thread from his mind.

"What do you require?" asked Captain.

The nervous flush coloring Dwix's head faded as beak gaped and feathers sleeked with delight. One hand fumbled at a sash pocket, finally extracting a small, thin object and a writing stylus. "Could you sign my card?" Vocal tone shifted to what Sarcoram called a hatchling whine. "Please?"

Captain internally winced at the subharmonics embedded in the request even as he maintained outward stoicism. He took the card in his whole hand, turning it over. It was of a flexible paperboard, a rectangle approximately six by nine centimeters. On one side was his designation and a headshot of himself, likely taken during the fuzzy cycles and weeks following temporal resurrection when he had been drugged or otherwise rendered insensate more often than allowed true consciousness. The back side contained a list of statistics, ranging from height and weight to species and percentage of his body augmented by cybernetics. "What is this?"

"That's your Borg card! In Borg Studies we've made one for every living member of the sub-collective! There's a little, er, game going on in the flock where each person tries to gain the signatures of the drones on the cards!"

Ricarsey was suddenly present next to Dwix, offering a card alike the one in Captain's hand. "The higher perching techs have the best opportunities to get drones because they interact with subjects all day. I was in the cafeteria when I saw you beam in and I thought I recognized you so I ran to get Dwix and we confirmed you were the primary consensus monitor and here we are and could you sign my card too?" The prattle was delivered in one long breath, as grating on Captain's senses as the hatchling whine.

Captain returned his eyes to the card in hand, turning it over again. As he did so he broadcast a general query as to whom had capitulated to signature requests, adding a question as to why he didn't know about the "game". In response to the first, a significant portion of the remnant assimilation hierarchy had signed cards, followed by a solid number of sensory and engineering drones, and, finally, a smattering of other designations who may, or may not, have had a legitimate reason to be in the Mission when they were assaulted by someone from Borg Studies. As far as the second, the general sentiment was that Captain had never asked about the cards; and the interactions were too minor to rise to the notice of higher echelon command and control, much less the primary consensus monitor and facilitator node.

"I will sign," said Captain, which elicited a near ultrasonic squeal of glee from Dwix. "Both of the cards." Ricarsey began to dance in place excitedly. The second card was acquired and both were shifted to a grasper on Captain's prosthetic arm. "But first you will agree to the following conditions. One - you will acquire another card with my likeness. Two - you will create similar cards of yourselves. Three - you will sign your cards. You will then have Daisy beam all three cards to my location. You will do the aforementioned within three cycles of this conversation. If you do not perform as required, no more drones will sign any Borg card and your game will end. Is there compliance?"

"Yes! No problem!" exclaimed Dwix, echoed by Ricarsey. Captain had the distinct feeling that if he had asked the two to convince Security Liaison Rani to allow their assimilations or jump off the hull of the cube without a spacesuit the response would have been the same. When stylus was cautiously extended a second time, Captain took it, then looked about for a flat place to write.

Near 107 of 203 and the Caltrak trio were several additional waist-high tables. It was to one of these that Captain stumped, trailed by Dwix and Ricarsey. The three Caltrak watched the procession, amusement clearly writ on their faces and in the twitch of stumpy tails. Captain ignored them, transferring the cards back to whole hand and thence to the flat surface. At the urgings of the two Borg Studies techs, he scribed his designation in Borg alphanumerics under his face, followed by his pre-assimilation name using his species' language.

Cards and stylus were held up. "Three cycles."

Dwix and Ricarsey grabbed their trophies and ran from the room, T'sap giggles and Sarcoram gurgles following them.

"Sprats," commented one of the Caltrak with an eye roll. All three amphibians returned to their previous discussion with 107 of 203.

Captain dared not return to the library shelves to search for additional Jumba literature, at least not in this moment after such a public display. Instead he headed for the main hallway, pausing as the recreation room was exited to contemplate where - Mission Level 2? - to continue his exercise. However, he was distracted by the plaques rattling in his thigh compartment, the Jumba stories waiting to be read. Attention shifted to cube inventory, searching for the eltab stockpiles engineering hierarchy had acquired for various projects.

A new location for exercise was chosen, one lacking in Trickster Day decorations but also free of potential interruptions in the form of unassimilated individuals. The locale also just happened to pass by Analysis Shop #17, whereupon fifteen eltabs currently resided, one of which could be appropriated for the purpose to read Jumba plaques.

Captain locked a transporter upon himself and beamed elsewhere.

*****

Call zho Red Shift. "Red Shift" was not zhos name, but an approximation of the grainy magnetic grunts and pops which served as such. "Zho" was also a gender description of convenience, for while Red Shift's kind were not neuter, were not "it"s, they also could not be easily pigeonholed into the bi/tri/quadmodal sexes common throughout much of the galaxy. Of course, when one is a coherent whirl of intelligent plasma, a single entity of a species living beneath the surface layers of a star, many concepts common to the planetarily evolved are irrelevant.

Currently, this coherent whirl of plasma was a morass of emotions, the most prominent being disappointed, confused, excited, and, perhaps, a tad frightened.

Red Shift was an amateur astronomer. Although a difficult journey, zho enjoyed occasional swims, as time allowed, to the wilderness of Globe's surface. Away from the dense confines of town and city, one could spread out, take time for zho-self and just stare at the heavens. At only half a rev into Red Shift's camping trip, zho had felt the twisting magnetic deformations of a heavily metallicized asteroid in very close orbit. As it began its rapid transit across the sky - a quick orbital period calculation suggested less than one-third rev to completely circumnavigate Globe - visual spectrum examination concluded the rock to be very small and possess an astoundingly high albedo. It was a new type of celestial object! Zho would be the envy of zhos small society-clique of fellow astronomers!

After the object inevitably sank below the horizon, Red Shift began to implement a hastily concocted plan. Zho only had a short time to prepare! First came the budding, a nonsapient pinch of self, a body-robot. Usually one would use a budding to carry messages across town or pick-up take-out from a local restaurant. Red Shift quickly composed and loaded a program which, at its most basic, told the budding to "Explore", "Recall", and "Return". Next was the twist, the winding of local force lines and alteration of charge potentialities, deforming the proximate environment until the surface trembled, a heliovolcano on the edge of eruption. While it had been long since Red Shift had played the latter type of game, back in zhos wild and rowdy youth, the skills were easily remembered.

All was made ready just in time. As the unique asteroid passed overhead, Red Shift untied the lines holding the twist in place. The massive prominence lifted away, carrying the budding with it. Just as predicted by the math, the object plowed through the expanding plasma. Because the budding did not fall back to Globe with the crashing rain of plasma, zho felt the gambit had been a rousing success. The asteroid should have just enough metallicity to keep the budding active. While the prominence, as expected, had lent enough friction and pressure to cause the rock's orbit to decay, it was not an immediate thing; and it would remain aloft well past one rev, at which time the local magnetic potentialities would have sufficiently recuperated to allow another plume with which to recover the budding. Even if all the budding brought back, once reconstituted with Red Shift, was unexciting, collected spectra indicating a known species of rock, it would still have some lovely orbital memes to share.

Red Shift settled down to watch the heavens: Bright was especially x-ray sharp and magnetically loud at the moment. Beautiful!

Unexpected was the large metal box creature that appeared as the object was arching overhead on its next orbital pass, snagging it from its path and eating it.

Red Shift could only watch in mute astonishment, mixed with awe and fright, as the box beast waded through magnetic lines and coronal heat, gracefully soaring upwards, its profile distinctly angular in zhos imaging discs. The budding was obviously gone, down the gullet of the predator. But it was only a budding, inconsequential (other than the loss of data), the plasma donated soon to grow back. As the box rose, it ejected a bit of excreta, similar to the prey just swallowed, flinging it away on an orbital path well above the reach of even the most mighty prominence Red Shift might build. Finally it stopped, hanging itself in a heliostable orbit almost directly overhead.

Philosophers, cosmologists, religious leaders, many had postulated that life might exist beyond Globe in the chill depths of inhospitable space. Red Shift had always scoffed at the notion, for if life was to be found anywhere, it obviously would evolve on other Globes, other stars, in the cosmos. Zho had been proven wrong; and now zho could only stare, drinking in the sights and sounds, committing all to deep meme stores that zho might share once zho sunk back to the friendly, civilized layers of Globe. The unknown creature was obviously a mere beast, but still frightening in its implications all the same.

And, so, Red Shift waited - disappointed, confused, excited, frightened - for the box beast to perform its next spectacular trick.

*****

Cube #347 powered through the diffuse plasma soup, complex magnetism, and extreme heat which defined the outer atmosphere envelope of a star. The target was Probe 18, its oblong form tarnished following passage through plasma flung from stellar surface. Even if propulsion had been functional, the complex tumble which resulted from the encounter may have defeated the simple computer mind which defined the probe's programming.

As the objective neared, a checklist scrolled through Cube #347's primary working dataspace. Of utmost importance was to ensure complete hullside weaponry lockdown. It was standard operating procedure upon probe recovery, just in case Weapons declared the need for live fire practice with a target and attempted to seize control, or inspire his hierarchy (or individuals of another hierarchy) to do so. Alike the other retrievals, Weapons ignored the preparations...all the science-y stuff was sooooo boring, and there were explosion mechanics in the BorgCraft simulator which required vital tweaking for maximum realism.

The cube matched vectors with the probe. Preliminary scans detailed damage, as well as reported presence of a substantial static charge. The latter was not unexpected, given the abuse the probe had withstood. A tractor beam stabbed out to grapple the probe, but missed, as did a second attempt. The third try seized the target, thereby stabilizing the tumble while simultaneously neutralizing excess charge. After all, if a Borg tractor beam could leech energy from ship shields, then mere static was no problem.

The tractor maneuvered the probe towards Bulk Cargo Hold #3, successfully handing it off to the interior system. The device floated downward, aimed towards an awaiting cradle in line with three others, all filled. Two drones holding batons lit with green lights on the end stood one to each side of the framework. As batons were waved the probe swung this way and that. The left-side drone suddenly sneezed, causing wands to swing erratically, with the result of the probe abruptly stooping downward and being released from the tractor beam. It crashed to the ground from a four meter height, narrowly missing both cradle and the baton holder not currently bowed over wiping tears from their eyes.

Six drones whom had been waiting at a respectful distance hurried to the incident site. Four of the units were carrying metal spars, each approximately three meters long. The spars were lain on the deck two behind and two afore the probe; and then, with much internalized cursing, the heavy probe was tilted this way and that to shove the poles underneath. Finally, joined by the two baton wielders, the probe was lifted akin that of pall-bearers carrying a coffin, borne to the empty cradle, and roughly transferred therein.

Initial analysis suggested the hull of Probe 18 could be salvaged, but interior components were destined for complete rebuild, if not replicator reclamation. However, that was a project for another time, one to occur once the cube had left the system, likely with additional malfunctioning probes also requiring refit. For now, immediate task complete, the eight engineering drones beamed elsewhere in Cube #347, new priorities assigned. Lighting with Bulk Cargo Hold #3 dimmed to standby mode, standard protocol when nobody was present. Perhaps light strips near the exterior cargo doors flickered slightly, but such a phenomenon was not uncommon and no one, except automatic maintenance subroutines, noticed the minor electrical disruption.

Target captured and secured, Cube #347 boosted itself to a higher orbit. As the maneuver took the vessel past a precalculated elevation, the replacement to Probe 18 was ejected from a torpedo launcher. Trajectory was deemed satisfactory, Probe 27 well above the reach of even the most feisty of prominences thus far observed. Finally a heliostable orbit was achieved, one which would keep the ship stationed over the same general plasma patch.

Due to the extreme heat flux of the coronal environment, Cube #347 could not remain in place for an extended period of time. Shields would greatly assist in mitigating the worst of the heat, reflecting and radiating and transferring as necessary; and environmental maintenance systems would moderate the rest. Ultimately the time the ship could remain in place was limited to about 3.1 cycles, after which the cube would be forced to relocate, else begin to broil. The sub-collective would have vastly preferred to leave immediately upon capturing Probe 18 and launching its replacement, but such was not to be. Instead (and illogically from the sub-collective point of view), Mission military and science leadership had agreed that the diversion represented by Trickster Day took precedence; and that close orbit around a star was as good a place as any to celebrate the holiday, especially as there was no immediate danger.

In the early Trickster Day morning of the Mission, most beings were asleep. The exception included several marines in their foyer watch posts, because that was the Military Way, and a foursome of culinary-minded persons. The lattermost noisily rattled around in the kitchen anteroom of the cafeteria, merrily getting in each other's way as all worked to produce a lavish spread of hand-crafted sweet and savory treats to celebrate the holiday.

The Mission general staff included four personnel with culinary subspecialties - two Caltrak, one T'sap, one Phytani. Although one of the Caltrak was nominally in charge of the small group, the truth was none had been hired for their cooking skill alone. Normally, only one individual would be on duty in the cafeteria during a given day-shift to provide support with replicator menu or programming, clean up after diners, and assist those individuals whom wanted to try to cook (usually from replicated ingredients) a meal in the kitchen. The other three, meanwhile, would perform the duties aligned with their primary specialty, such as administration or the janitorial arts. Cafeteria duty rotated each day.

Ingredients and bowls spilled out of the kitchen and into the cafeteria proper, overflowing onto tables. Many of the ingredients were genuine, not replicated, packed specifically for incorporation into holiday meals, perishable items kept in stasis. Hydroponics and garden had supplied additional fruits, vegetables, and spices, freshly grown and harvested. Tantalizing smells wafted. Kitchen sounds picked up in intensity as a mixer began to whirl, followed the higher pitched whine of a blender.

Cafeteria lights, set to a third their normal lumens due to lack of patrons, brightened slightly, then dimmed. The subtle pulsation occurred a second time, then a third, in time with the blender as it chopped through a chunk of ice. A loud clatter emanated from the anteroom as a pan was accidentally dropped, followed by a bout of swearing amid laughter.

The noises of blender and mixer abruptly ceased; and kitchen lights extinguished. Stunned silence. Ceiling-mounted light strips fitfully brightened, finally returning to their normal setting. There was the sound of a thick door being opened, one hinge faintly squealing despite the newness of the oven to which it was attached.

"My shu-fflessss!" wailed a Caltrak voice, guttural sibilance strong despite processing through universal translator. "They be ruined! The Trick-shter, he twissstz my tail!" The last was stated in a ritualistic manner, a phrase uttered because today was the day to do so. It wasn't as if the speaker actually believed in a capricious deity who enjoyed malicious pranks even as it sometimes randomly bestowed generous luck upon the unsuspecting. But...acknowledging that one has potentially been the target of a supernatural being, who definitely-maybe did not exist, only took a small bit of effort.

"Maybe I shouldn't have plugged in the blender?" opinionated a T'sap female.

"Bah," exclaimed a third voice, Phytani male, "it's just an overload on the circuit. It could've happened to anyone, even the Boss. I'll reset the breaker, then grab some diagnostic tools from the locker to see which outlets go to which room circuit. As long as we don't overdo too many devices on the circuit with the ovens, all should be good to go."

"But my shu-fflesss...they still be ruined!"

A fourth voice, also Caltrak, replied, "Thessse gaztrometric philisstinez won't know anythink wrongz iv we pile on a bunch of sweet whipped cream. Maybe tozz in chopped fruit. They'll think that how it zupposed to be." The short speech was followed by a snort.

"I'll start on the fruit, then," said the T'sap. "What would go best with a deflated souffle? Star berries? Sourfruit?"

***

Alliance Military Electronic Mail System

Routing: Internal (Mission)

Security Level: None (Unencrypted)

Recipient (primary): Rooberg ub Fuente, Talon Spanner

Recipient (secondary): General Mission Mail List

Sender: Engineering Hierarchy, Cube #347

Urgency Level: Nominal

Attachment: No

-----------

Engineering Hierarchy Status Update <<Timestamp 2319.12.5de (Alliance Standard)>>

Alliance-built Borg Exploratory-class Cube #347 has been experiencing an elevation in electrical disturbances and malfunctions. This issue is attributed to increased load from the shield system, currently set for thermal maintenance while in heliostable orbit, precipitating an unanticipated escalation in breaker overload. As breakers burn out, they are being replaced by upgraded (superior) components; and once the system is completely overhauled, performance will be substantially improved.

Electrical irregularities include the Mission bloc electrical subsystem. It is recommended sensitive equipment be shut down and, if possible, temporarily disengaged from the local grid until such time We have withdrawn from the current stellar environment.

***

The fitness center had been completely transformed. All exercise equipment was relocated to one end of the room, along with the mats used for martial arts and extreme dance practice. The mirrors which lined one side were covered, both to prevent accidental damage and to remove their reflective quality. In the center of the open space resided a folding table, accented with runner, numerous ribbons, and a large glass ball. Faux candles with artistically dribbled resin and flickering light emitting diodes were placed on horizontal surfaces throughout the room. Decorative hangings of dark fabric softened hard walls. On the floor in front of the table was a large square of thick paperboard, such as might be used for a game board, three meters on a side and covered by a bewildering variety of pictographs and Sarcoram language alphabet and words.

Sitting behind the table was xenoarcheologist Little Beak Kreenik, a Daarath. His 1.6 meter form was canid, but stretched, as if someone had taken a wolf and pulled, taffy-like, arms and legs out of proportion with torso. Neck and fingers (and toes) continued the theme, everything a bit longer than expected, not edging into "willowy" but instead retaining a certain robustness. Upon head, muzzle and ears were similarly more elongated than the mind insisted should be proper. The Kreenik's short pelt, alike all his species, was dominated by blonde and ginger, with faint brown stripes encircling arms and black tufts on ear tips. There was no tail.

All Daarath ultimately hailed from a single continent enclave located on a minor Alliance world. Several generations prior, a handful of overpopulated ships had limped into Alliance space, requesting asylum due to genocidal prosecution by the Combine. Little was known of the Daarath by the majority of Alliance citizens or partner species, mention of their race during routine schooling a mere side note to be memorized in the event it was a test question. Their population remained limited, even after so many years, and most were content to keep to their adopted home. The few who did venture into the wider universe presented an inoffensive mien, satisfied to work at the endeavor that had sent them outward from the enclave.

Those who did know of Daarath beyond schoolroom trivia also knew that the species exhibited an empathic talent. The strength was unknown, those individuals whom did leave their enclave politely refusing to sit for tests...or any medical assessment except those absolutely necessary for a given employment. There were whispers of empathy edging into psi-talent, but no proof beyond circumstantial evidence. The fact that some Daarath occasionally answered questions before asked or embarked upon tasks afore requested could simply have been an empathic reaction to strong emotions on the part of the non-Daarath.

That empathic talent was the reason Kreenik presided at the table. He did not believe in a Trickster, his faith disallowing acknowledgement of any deity or divine power but that permitted by his theological texts. However, the same religion preached peaceful tolerance for those unenlightened peoples whom followed other, albeit false, godheads. Therefore, when he was asked to participate in the traditional Trickster Day seance because his talent lent it a greater sense of legitimacy, Kreenik was willing to play along, to humor the unbelievers. Besides, it was a bit of fun to break the monotony of day-to-day work; and his texts did not forbid it.

Twenty lucky lottery winners, inclusive five Crastians, were arrayed around the seance board on chairs and lounges relocated from the primary rec room. The already dim light seemed darker when contrasted against the bright un-flame of flickering candles and faintly glowing glass ball. The ubiquitous Borg observer, standing motionless adjacent the exercise equipment, was ignored by all, a piece of ambulatory furniture with a few blinking lights.

Kreenik stood from his chair. "Welcome, everyone, to this Trickster Day seance. As you all know, I do not believe in a Trickster nor ascribe to this activity, but I'll do my best to bring you closer to your chosen deity." The Daarath was dressed in a satin (bath)robe, accented by borrowed scarves and jangling jewelry, many of the latter provided by Security Liaison Rani. A jaunty gold earring (his own) adorned one pointed ear and a homemade diadem of wire and colored glass baubles encircled head. A feather, laying on the table, was picked up. "This totem, blessed earlier this day, will guide you on your journey."

During the communal breakfast, which included a stupendous selection of special treats made by the Mission's four culinary subspecialists, Rani had theatrically donated one of her arm feathers for the seance. Amongst the Vor, from whom much of the Trickster Day traditions originated, a scale was the seance talisman, but since none of that species was within the Mission, Rani had filled in to provide the traditional gift.

In truth, everyone knew the seance was rigged. Holoemitters, anti-grav lifters, dynamic magnetic guides, a tailored token...the list was long. Rooberg and two of his assistants - the third too busy in the kitchen in his spare time - had worked for days in their off-hours to prepare the room, the seance board, even the "spontaneously donated" feather. They had been assisted by members of the Experimental/Tactical Engineering subgroup. However, even knowing that the seance was more performance art than actual attempt to commune with a Trickster had not stopped the hopeful from joining in the lottery for a chance to directly participate, the remainder relegated to event live-stream.

"O-le, o-le, abba shzee," intoned Kreenik, stumbling on the Vor words, which had to be pronounced in the original language sans universal translator interpretation. "These supplicants greet you, grand Trickster, to come and listen to their pleadings, their questions, their desires. I am merely an intermediary, a conduit between this universe and your shadowed land. All await your coming...."

Kreenik raised the feather high with one hand, waving it back and forth. As he did so, he glanced down at a discrete holo-screen projected on the table just behind the ball's base. He selected an item on the menu, then let go the feather, allowing it to float unsupported in the air. Another button initiated faint sparkles inside the ball.

Ohs and ahs accompanied the display, eyes riveting upon the feather. The Crastians rattled mandibles in appreciation as they bumped carapaces together in a nearly musical rattle.

"Are you here, Trickster?" beseeched Kreenik. When there was no response, he asked louder, more forcefully, as if a reverend at a revival, "Are you here, Trickster?"

The sparks in the glass ball flared; and the table itself rose slightly into the air before landing with a thump. A deep gong sound shimmered the air. The feather revolved once, then lightly floated to the board, landing on the Sarcoram cartouche for "YES". In the back reaches of the room, candles flickered, but they went unnoticed with the exception of the drone, whom pivoted to its left to better view the phenomenon. If one was paying attention, one might have seen a transient expression of confusion upon its face, but none were, all focus upon the feather.

"The Trickster comes! That most fickle of beings is here!" Kreenik squinted at the display, where a name had appeared. "Danarius, you are first...take the feather from the board, stand in the sacred circle, ask you question, then toss the totem upward above your head."

The named Sarcoram gyn-male strutted forward to claim the token. Long feathers of tail and arms had been carefully dyed a dark burgundy in celebration of the holiday, accented with sparkles of sloe, an ultraviolet pigment of which Sarcoram were partial. It was no secret that Danarius was looking to court a female for a long-term dyad pairing, and the seance was a chance for him to show his qualities. From the murmur of several females, and at least one kal-male, in the audience, his presentation had made an impression.

Going to the middle of the mat, Danarius bobbed his head lasciviously towards his admirers, then spoke, "Will I acquire monetary wealth?" The feather was tossed underhand towards the ceiling.

The talisman spun lazily back and forth, dipping and rising in a not-quite random manner. It swooped down, finally alighting on one of a series of complex glyphs of Vor origin. In summary it conveyed: "You are a government employee, what do you think?" That questions of personal finances were asked during a Trickster seance was unremarkable, nor that there was a set response that made it unnecessary to spell an answer one letter at a time. However, that there was a single word-pict that communicated such a nuanced notion spoke much of the Vor mindset.

Sounds of merriment abounded as Kreenik translated the glyph. Danarius settled his feathers good-naturedly, then strolled casually back to the sidelines, flicking his tail just so in a Sarcoram flirt gesture.

"Next," said Kreenik, moving things along, "is Stormy Cloud. Same as before: gather talisman, go to the center, ask question, toss."

One of the five Crastians bounded forward. "Storm Cloud," it insisted. "My use-name is Storm Cloud."

"Excuse me. I must have misunderstood the Trickster when it gifted me with your name."

The Crastian scuttled on to the mat, grabbing the feather with one of its delicate hands. It continued to the sacred circle, whereupon it spun three times completely around, pausing to bow the fore half of its body each half turn. Upon stopping, it began to rapidly click, chatter, and rattle, vocalizations the voder rendered into the following: "Of great and glorious Trickster deity unto this day is devoted. My question on high to your marvelousness is thus...who is the next up and coming deity amongst the cosmic pantheon?" The query was very Crastian, many of the species best described as casually avid spiritualists whom treated gods, especially those of foreign origin, as a fad to be tried on as if the newest in fashionable clothing.

The feather was flung into the air, surprisingly well for a creature knee high for most bipedal sentients and whose four arms appeared overly spindly. The token went up, then began to float aimlessly, dragging the eye to it.

Meanwhile, Kreenik was covertly typing something out on the holo-display with one hand while the other moved in mysterious gestures above the glass ball.

The feather rapidly dropped out of the air, skimming over the surface of the mat until it hovered over the region with Sarcoram letters. As each letter was lightly touched with the shaft, Kreenik intoned the selection. The result was mirrored simultaneously above the glass ball in holographic form. Most of the words were clear enough, but as the name of the deity was revealed, things became a bit odd.

Ignored and likely completely forgotten, the Borg silently (as much so as can a drone with servo-assisted muscles) shifted to a vantage to better view the board. Prosthetic arm was lifted to aim towards the seance.

Read Kreenik, "There are many laudable candidates. However, the best wager is on my good acquaintance Xeeriggggngh." The canid gurgled phellem in the back of his throat in an uncomfortable manner as he pronounced the consonant heavy name. Ears flipped back, pressed down, then returned upright. Muzzle wrinkled in confusion as if the Trickster's response had not been quite that expected.

Ooooos arose from the Crastian host as Storm Cloud rushed back to join its comrades. The clatter of quiet, but earnest, conversation commenced. Because the speech was not directed at a non-Crastian, the voders did not translate the noise. However, even without the aid, one could plainly hear the crab version of "Xeeriggggngh" be imitated multiple times.

"Ahem. The Trickster is a busy being and can't stay here all day. Barnett, you are next! What grand inquiry do you have?"

A tall, red-haired T'sap female squealed excitedly and jumped up from her chair as her name was called. Before she could step onto the board to claim the feather from where it had fallen, the room plunged into near darkness. The only illumination of any consequence originated from candles, glass ball, and two small windows in the closed doors that led to the hallway.

"Please remain calm, everyone," said Kreenik. "This is not part of the seance. There must be a little power issue. I'm sure it will be fixed shortly. Borg, sir or madam, do you have any information for us?"

The drone, whom had paused its approach to the gathering upon the blackout, was silent. After a few beats it spoke, strong undertones of reverberation altering its base voice. "This room has been affected by an instance of the electrical disturbance which has been impacting cube subsystems for much of the last cycle. Alliance day-night period. The...whoa! Electromagnetic output spiking. Unit platform systems compensating. What the f**kin' pickled ice cube be that?!" The stilted answer abruptly shifted to a much more casual and animated tone.

The glow of the glass ball was growing in intensity, while above consolidated the chaotic unshape of a red-tinged cloud. A fitfully flickering display had reappeared within Kreenik's view. It indicated activation of room holographic emitters, but not of the sequences pre-loaded for the seance. The cloud twisted into a vaguely humanoid face, one more shadow than substance, then opened the hole corresponding to its mouth in a silent scream. The unnerving figure abruptly evaporated, unreal fog flying apart in all directions.

The glass ball darkened, as did the erratic holodisplay behind it. Only candles were left to provide an inadequate light, that is until a few individuals pulled eltabs from carrying cases or overlarge pockets to key the flashlight feature.

The drone swiveled its head in the disconcerting manner of its kind with body below neck largely motionless. Kreenik had the distinct impression the dark presented no hinderance, unlike himself and the majority of Alliance species represented in the room. "The disturbance is gone. The grid in this room will need to be reset before your event can continue." Pause. "I have been informed the door is affected, too. It can be forced open if there is an emergency, but it would be more efficient to wait until breakers are replaced and temporary repairs completed. Such is to be accomplished by drone, not Mission, resources. Time to completion is estimated ten minutes."

"Hey, Kreenik, I really need to use the restroom! What's that Borg telling you?" called a voice urgently amid the restless crowd.

Kreenik flipped his ears, sending earring to jangling. Nostrils flared. "There just may be a bit of that emergency to which you alluded."

In Analysis Shop #9 of subsection 24, submatrix 4, great Happenings were afoot. Second had assigned himself the job of direct observation in the role as a command and control unit nominally tasked as additional logistical support. Not that he needed to be present (and a certain twinned designation, perfectly competent to oversee, would prefer that he was elsewhere), but Second found the mission divertingly entertaining. His "official" duty load was edging into moderate, but still more than sufficiently light that he could perform what was required as Hierarchy of Eight member and reserve consensus monitor in the workshop as well as in his alcove, or anywhere in the cube for that matter. Besides, watching the Happening was giving him the opportunity to work on a subfile of his sarcastic observation remarks lexicon.

Approximately eight cycles prior, one of the Special Projects overseen by engineering hierarchy to adapt Alliance technology to better service Cube #347 (and a future Collective) had...exploded. Sort of. In a very wet manner. The details were irrelevant, only that the result had required renovation of Analysis Shop #9. Once workbenches had been resurfaced and the worst of the solvent odor largely ebbed, the painting had commenced. Most surfaces in a Borg cube were unadorned, the industrial "finished metal" look more than sufficient in regard to interior decorating. However, there were exceptions; and most analysis workshops included a coating of a special non-stick paint which allowed for easier clean-up in the event of sticky splattering on wall or ceiling. Not that such had helped for this event, but it had been a special case.

Painting in a Borg cube brought complications in the form of high humidity and warm temperatures, which do not facilitate an expedient dry time. Standard procedure was to deploy fans. Lots of fans. And because Analysis Shop #9 was a relatively small and enclosed volume when considered on the scale of a Borg vessel, dehumidifiers were also utilized. All had been proceeding apace when a transient electrical disruption, cases of which had spiked since the cube had taken up a heliostable position with shields set to ward against stellar thermal assault, had melted all the relays within the local power bloc.

A squad of engineering drones had removed wall panels, still wet with paint, and begun the laborious rewiring process. Battery-powered work lights had been brought in to facilitate the process, normal overhead lighting nonfunctional. More than a few shadow animals had romped across the bulkheads and onto the ceiling. In one corner, mostly out of the way of laboring workers, Second observed the bustle.

Or, rather, he had been observing the bustle. Currently he was focused inward, in conversation with Security Liaison Rani. Normally Captain would be the primary liaison with upper-level Mission staff, but that particular worthy was currently in lucid regeneration, demand of the Whole for his mental resources thinning out his presence as he engaged in Captainy things, thus rendering his conscious "self" slower to respond to personal engagement. As the conversation in question was not an emergency, there was no impetus to force Captain to full awareness; and especially not when there was a handy back-up consensus monitor and facilitator perfectly able to fill in.

"Your problems do not originate with any drone, to the best of my knowledge. That is not to say that some designation isn't hiding something - that happens all the time - but not in this case for your issue." Second was absently speaking his half of a verbal-only exchange aloud.

Pause.

Response: "You are not the only ones encountering problems. We, however, do not ascribe it to small being superstitions like a Trickster. The rational explanation is based in the reality that this is not a Borg cube, no matter how much it looks like one. The shield generators are adequate to keep the star from cooking us. Barely. You did read the Engineering hierarchy internal memo, did you not? The result, despite their labors, includes irregularities in the electrical grid. Perhaps you need a better quality of surge protector?"

Pause.

Response: "A floating gas ball shaped like a mushroom. My personal opinion is the reportee had begun their Trickster Day celebration too early and with too much enthusiasm."

Pause.

Response: "Even teetotalers need to have cheat days?"

Pause.

Response: "You don't have to be so rude! We may be Borg, but we are also imperfect; and although we spend a great deal of time in each other's mental space, I remain not Captain and, therefore, do not respond as would Captain. If you wish to talk to Captain, his regeneration cycle will end in 1.54 hours. But he'll only provide you the same answers as myself, albeit in a more restrained manner."

The conversation ended. Second blinked several times, whole eyes out of sync, as conscious awareness of the local environment flooded his senses. Almost immediately a muffled thought stream caught his attention, that of a someone who wanted empathically to swear, but knew to do so would bring unwanted attention.

{Very good, 229 of 230,} said Second acidly. {In a bit of a predicament, are we?}

229 of 230 had managed to rivet his left foot to the floor. This had occurred despite the fact that, one, to do so with the attachment on his prosthetic arm would require a moderate degree of deliberate contortion and, two, there was no need to rivet anything in the first place. He peered over at Second, tried to shift his foot, then did mutter the words he had been holding back.

{Shall I dedicate a few run-time cycles so as to do your thinking for you? It is no trouble and shouldn't require much. You obviously aren't using your brain for deep thoughts, or any thoughts at all, at the moment.}

Trickster. Trickster. Trickster.

Rumor, whispers, gossip, opinion galloped within the Mission. Many declared the electrical grid issues to be coincidental to Trickster Day celebrations: there was no Trickster deity. The closest candidate might be an omniscient being such as a Q, whom would have surely exposed him/her/itself by now for an ego-boasting acknowledgement of a prank well done. Such rationalization was not enough, even amid the strongly scientific ethos of the Mission. There was always the person unnamed, trackable only through a chain of he-told-me-who-heard-it-from-this-one-crab, who swore they had a close encounter of the Trickster kind due to <insert dubious reason here>. Doubt is an insidious creature, close cousin to the monsters who lurk in the dark beyond the reach of the campfire light, worming its way into the psyche of even the most logical sentient.

In contrast, the Whole of Cube #347 did not believe in the small being nonsense of a Trickster. Because the sub-collective was composed of imperfectly assimilated drones, there were, of course, a handful or three of whom were overly influenced by Mission superstitions. Those units were appropriately censured so that the gestalt entire was not impacted. Much.

Trickster. Trickster. Trickster.

Captain had protested. He had protested very strongly. He had protested very strongly that purposeful live fire was inappropriate on a starship; and, especially, this starship as there were certain designations who might be "inspired" by such a display.

Rani had listened as she dyed her neck ruff an artistic swirl of yellow and orange - Trickster Day colors - which were striking against the monochrome of her body feathers. Then she had summarily dismissed the concern because (1) life support on the massive cube was more than sufficient for a small bonfire; (2) it was traditional and she liked her imported traditions; and (3) hadn't that one drone with the funny white hat brought to the Mission a very overpowered live-fire oven last week for a cooking demonstration on some sort of yummy flatbread product? Compared to that crazy device, the Trickster Day finale burning of the effigy was a mere lighter next to an acetylene torch.

And, so, two cycles later, here they were.

The lights in Bulk Cargo Hold #3 were dimmed. In an open spot on the floor of the vast space stood the Trickster effigy, orange wax coat gleaming in the glow of festive lanterns set upon boxes. Over three-quarters of Mission personnel were present, including the entirety of the Crastian mob, many of the participants mildly to seriously inebriated upon alcohol, narcotics, or other inhibition-loosening drug of choice. Several genres of music battled for supremacy, played overloud from eltabs or personal instruments; and uncoordinated dancing was rampant. Heaped against the effigy was a pile of folded paper, along with a few tokens of greater substance. Very few among the group seriously believed the original religious intent of Trickster Day per its Vor origin, nor the numerous variants amid the many Alliance races, but it was a nice excuse for a party, so the appropriate forms and traditions had to be followed.

Beyond the brightly lit zone of effigy, gyrations, and happy sophonts stood the silent and motionless shapes of Borg. Sixteen to be exact: Second and fifteen engineering drones, the latter armed with fire extinguishers. Lantern light glimmered on armor. Targeting lasers had been disengaged after one too many complaints from the party-goers, but the occasional blinking light from assembly or external implant remained.

Second felt he had been assigned the better slice of the partitioning of command and control duties. While it was true that part of his multi-threaded attention was upon the inner workings of Cube #347, he wasn't in charge and the majority of his awareness was in the here and now of Bulk Cargo Hold #3. Captain, on the other hand, was the primary node wrangling thousands of designations, thousands of impulses looking for a place to happen. To cut down on the potential for "oopsies", all drones, with the exception of Second and his fifteen compatriots in the cargo hold, were locked in alcoves, with the most impressionable in regard to fires - 279 of 300 for instance - off-lined for the duration of the Trickster Day finale party. Those same drones would inevitably draw upon the memory blocks of their comrades once they were allowed consciousness, but dealing with repercussions from those few at that time was easier than amidst the chaos of several dozens of units trying to circumvent alcove locks and transporter blockades in the name of "cultural observation" or whatever justification was being provided.

Most of Second's background processes were looped upon variations of "No". It was a familiar subroutine, one perfected over a subjective century of being amid the Hierarchy of Eight, and sometimes Captain, of an imperfect sub-collective.

Second passively observed the raucous party primarily from his own perception, although he occasionally supplemented the view from one or more of the fifteen engineering drones present or a hold camera. Security Liaison Rani unsteadily climbed onto a box - a sham impression of drunkenness, as the sub-collective had carefully tracked her feigned imbibing of intoxicants throughout the day - and began a long, rambling speech. Much was said without a lot of substance, a slurred rambling that soon had the party-goers chanting for the bonfire to commence. The whole exhibition appeared ritualized, and the Whole - that portion not focused on quashing the desire to paint all Auxiliary Cores in fractal patterns of orange and yellow - strongly suspected Rani was playing a part expected of her by the other Alliancers. As the chanting rose to a crescendo, Rani artfully fell off her box, "serendipitously" landing upright amid much arm flapping. Spitting a vulgarism that elicited much laughter, she grabbed the ceremonial lighter, stepped forward, and lit the effigy with a grand flourish.

{Transient electrical grid disturbance in Bulk Cargo Hold #3, grid zone theta-three-point-two,} wisped the dry, analytical voice of the Borg computer. Second had earlier linked himself to the automatic notification subsystem tasked to track electrical anomalies; and now he raised eyes towards the distant ceiling, observing a slight brightening of muted light strips, followed by dimming.

{Transient electrical grid disturbance in Bulk Cargo Hold #3, grid zone theta-two-point-eight.}

{Transient electrical grid disturbance in Bulk Cargo Hold #3, grid zone epsilon-five-point-five.}

{Transient electrical grid disturbance in Bulk Cargo Hold #3, grid zone delta-five-point-nine.}

Second followed the disturbance as it transited the ceiling, then began to descend the interior-most wall. With him tracked other units via his perception stream. The anomaly sank beneath the level of the cargo hold floor, its effects no longer able to be directly viewed, then vectored along a conduit that crossed the sub-floor space. It paused, immediately under the crowd dancing in the light of the burning Trickster sculpture.

Torch exploded into bonfire, which then gained another magnitude of flamage as it boiled into a conflagration fifteen meters high. Alliancers whooped, even as they backed away from the effigy, clearly believing the display to be a prank, perhaps due to secret additive of accelerants within the statue. The few sober participants, including Rani, stared at the spectacle wide-eyed, confusion evident.

{Unknown coherent energy signature, Bulk Cargo Hold #3. Unknown coherent energy signature, Bulk Cargo Hold #3. Unknown coherent energy signature, Bulk Cargo Hold #3.} The computer incessantly yelped its complaint. Second severed the notification linkage.

"Well, f**k," commented Second as the flames reached another meter higher. For once he was at a loss in regard to the appropriate sarcastic rejoinder and, therefore, reverted to tried-and-true vulgarism. In the center of the massive fiery column, it was just possible to espy the effigy. It certainly was not fueling the inferno. Flowing shapes too regular to belong to a bonfire could be perceived appearing and disappearing; and there was a certain whooshing, whining, whistling noise that no normal fire would utter.

A decision was (collectively) made. {Put it out!} ordered Second, mentally waving all engineering drones into action. The units stepped forward in unison, wading and pushing and shouldering through the party. Extinguishers were deployed.

A piercing screech echoed through the Bulk Cargo Hold, cluing the majority of the party-goers that, perhaps, something was not quite right with the supposed prank.

As fire extinguishers emptied, they were dropped to the ground. Transporters deposited another fifteen cylinders next to waiting drones. At the same time, an additional dozen engineering units materialized, these ones possessing equipment rated for plasma and electrical fires. Overhead, 100 kilograms of sodium bicarbonate arrived and began rapidly rain downward. Second set himself a reminder, for when things were a bit less chaotic, to check the command and control logs to learn whom had been hoarding the baking soda and why.

The unnatural fire slowly retreated. Just as it seemed it were to be defeated, it abruptly flared, detached from the effigy, and streaked into the air. Except for a few flickering sparks, all semblance of fire was shed, leaving behind a thickness of air difficult to see in the dimly lit cargo hold. The whirl of thick air struck the ceiling and was gone.

Second relinked to the earlier dismissed engineering notification. He was rewarded with the computer detailing a transient electrical grid disturbance, one which, like those prior, quickly vanished into undetectability amid normal background variance. Hold lighting was raised to the normal setting, then upped to add additional lumens. Second surveyed the scene of perplexed, half-drunk Alliancers; charred effigy emitting a single tendril of thin smoke; twenty-seven engineering drones cautiously brandishing fire extinguishers; and, above all, the mess of chemicals, foam, and baking soda.

{Well,} directed Second to Captain, {I think I found the source of Delta's little engineering problem.}

Captain stood at the presentation end of Mission Conference Room #2. Rani had declared the briefing to be of sufficient importance for the sub-collective's liaison to attend in person, instead of virtual. Also in the room were Sergeant Major Brunc, lead engineer Rooberg, all Big Beaks heading the individual specialty groups, and Crastian mob boss Red Spot. A few additional loiters had managed to sneak in; and, of course, a random handful of Red Spot's conspecifics. Many of the participants had a certain bearing to their poise, perhaps a grimace as if the light was a wee bit too bright. Assimilation hierarchy conjectured hang-over and/or insufficient sleep was largely responsible.

"The lifeform is a coherent magnetic twist," began Captain as Rani gave a perfunctory arm wave in his direction. He paused to allow low conversations to ebb into silence. "Or, at least, that is the most precise description we can provide. The species records we retain from prior temporal resurrection are focused upon sentients of interest to the Collective." Mostly true. There was also a mildly disturbing amount of nonsapient data, courtesy of Doctor, ex-vet and pathologically dedicated pet person. "Alliance records are limited, but there are two confirmed instances of complex life analogues arising within extreme environments such as stars.

The wall monitor behind Captain brightened. To it, and the room holoemitters, he had been "granted" access by Daisy for briefing use. No access codes had been provided, a tacit acknowledgement that the AI (and, by extension Rani, Brunc, maybe a select one or two additional) knew the sub-collective continued to penetrate, and subsume, periphery Mission devices. Alike the cameras, holoemitters and public presentation subsystems did not provide access to more critical architecture behind the Mission firewall as represented by Daisy. The leading hypothesis was Rani wanted to continue observing and gathering data; and save new system restrictions, if necessary, to a more critical time.

{Daisy}, directed Captain, {adjust lighting in this room. Dim enough for more efficient screen viewing, but sufficiently bright to minimize attendees falling asleep.} Nothing happened except a sense of waiting watchfulness. Captain heaved a theatrical dataspace sigh. {Please.} There was no sub-collective access to Mission environmental controls. Yet. The AI performed as requested, decreasing illumination by thirty percent. Almost immediately, Big Beak Frazu - Geology subgroup; Sarcoram female - began to doze, victim to the aftereffects of Trickster Day overindulgence of a citrus concoction. She abruptly jolted awake, recipient of an annoying sequence of beeps, buzzes, and chirrups only she could hear (and the sub-collective via eavesdropping on compromised Mission communications). Several Crastians lurking beneath tables and chairs also appeared to drift to sleep, but they did not receive a similar wake up alarm due to their uninvited status.

Captain shifted sideways to allow unimpeded view of the screen. "To maximize information transfer, questions will be ignored unless asked during designated periods to do so. Any question session will be ended at any time should it extend overlong or range off topic." An audience member rattled wing feathers, a Sarcoram request for acknowledgement, similar to the raised hand amongst humans or hooting by species #7534. As promised, it was disregarded, although Captain did add a count-down timer to the first question break in the lower left corner of the screen.

"We postulate the lifeform became trapped within the prominence which struck probe 18. Upon contact, the lifeform transferred itself into the probe. When We subsequently arrived to recover the probe, static electricity was observed. While the charge was high, it was not outside the variance possible given what the probe had experienced. Per standard procedure, a tractor beam drained excess charge from the probe prior to conveyance to Bulk Cargo Hold #3 for temporary storage. Review of sensor and general engineering data recorded during that operation confirms the lifeform transferred to cube systems upon the leech event."

A very simplistic cartoon diagram provided a visual counterpart to Captain's words. Happy and frowny faces featured prominently, as did large arrows. While it was unlikely that the lifeform in its native stellar habitat was a fuzzy lightning bolt with googly eyes and small horns, the partition contributing that particular piece of clip art had been very stubborn regarding alteration, especially 6 of 8 who thought it cute.

"With high confidence We judge the lifeform to be nonsentient. Its behavior is one driven by stimulus and response. As per recent experimentation, We have confirmed it is drawn to elevated prevalence of electromagnetism, whereupon its existence disrupts the systems to which it is attracted. It is also attracted to thermal sources which are accompanied by bright light output. When not in active motion in the electrical grid, its quiescent state is very difficult to discern from normal grid activity, even now that we know the signature for which to scan. Given the appropriate conditions, it can physically manifest, as per the Bonfire Episode in Bulk Cargo Hold #3. That particular incident was precipitated when a poorly shielded conduit - low engineering priority - leaked electromagnetic field vectors into the cargo hold; and when the lifeform rode the field to reach the burning effigy, it caused a minor leak to become the equivalent of a gushing flow."

Multiple first-person views of the Trickster Day bonfire, assembled for maximum excitement factor by 93 of 510, ex-fashion model videographer, faded from the screen. They were replaced by a wireframe schematic of Cube #347. "The attraction of the lifeform to elevated electrical or magnetic outputs presents a problem. Neither warp, hypertranswarp, nor impulse can be used without a severe detrimental outcome. Upon activation of these systems, subsequent disruption by the entity will cause catastrophic malfunction." A tri-segmented warp nacelle was highlighted, followed by modeled consequences of an entire edge exploding. The demonstration was followed in turn by the internal detonation of a hypertranswarp ring nacelle (with adjacent warp core) and excavation of a large crater upon a face where a component of the impulse system resided under the hull. "In all cases, the cube can survive the damage, but the lifeform is unlikely to be impaired and, thus, remains capable of additional disruptions. Folded space drive should be viable for faster-than-light conveyance because it is fed by a capacitor system with an energetic spike too short-lived to draw the lifeform. Unfortunately, our destinations are constrained to our limited number of addresses; and the entity, and the problem it represents, will remain onboard." Captain paused, allowing the very large frowny face on the screen to animate and roll off the monitor. "We can use thrusters, as long as the lifeform is at least 100 meters distant. By the time it transits to an active propulsion unit, it can be shut down and control transferred to another unit."

The count-down timer flashed as it ended at "zero". Another timer appeared, this one signifying how much time remained for the first question session. Silence reigned as Mission personnel either digested the briefing implications, else dozed despite Daisy's efforts to keep individuals awake. The respite was short, however, and multiple questions began to be shouted at Captain, most a variation of "Are we stuck in the system?" and "What can be done?" Before he could move to the next phase of the briefing - the reaction had been modeled as the scenario most likely to occur - he received a ping for attention. Unremarked in the semi-darkness was tilted head as he, the sub-collective, considered the demand to alter presentation proceedings. Consensus was achieved, with Captain uttering an automatic {Compliance} to the Will of the Whole, not that he held a preference one way or the other on the modification. He returned head to a neutral position.

Captain's unresponsiveness to the myriad of queries and statue-still stance hinted to the more astute audience members that something had changed.

To Captain's right and at the edge of the gathering, Rani drew her head back in confusion. There was an internalized query to Daisy, the response returned not only to the Security Liaison, but widened to include Brunc and other key Mission individuals. Heads pivoted towards the door just as it was filled by a wide and very armored form.

Announced Captain into the abrupt quiet, "Weapons will present the next briefing segment."

Tactical drones rarely entered the Mission. When they were present, it was almost always due to a Daisy-enforced response to a Borg Studies request. The heavy stomping as Weapons negotiated the narrow aisle to the front of the room was in part owed to a body frame heavy in armor, weapons, and implants to support his specialty, but also because the personality who was Weapons had decided to use the tactic as a not-so-subtle form of passive-aggressive intimidation.

Weapons took the place of Captain, who withdrew to a side wall. "The entity must be removed from Our systems! By limiting Our maneuverability and capacity to use critical systems, it incapacitates Us and significantly erodes Our tactical options! Unacceptable!" The statements were shouted, as if Weapons were at the far side of a cargo hold, not less than three meters from the front audience members. He stopped to pan the audience with an unblinking glare.

{Less volume,} rebuked Captain mildly. {You will deafen them. Unlike a drone, they can neither turn down hearing gain nor report to drone maintenance for replacement aural implants.}

Replied Weapons, {The intention was to ensure the sleeping units were awake and paying attention. Without shock collars or implants linked to pain centers, my method was the best option.}

{True. But if you continue none will be able to hear the important information you are about to disseminate.}

Weapons mulled over the statement for a moment. {Understood.} The conversation was completed during the time spent glowering darkly at the Alliancers.

"Pay attention, small beings. The questions you ask have already been considered by this sub-collective." The screen brightened, returning to a basic cube schematic, this one focused on an edge with one nacelle segment highlighted. "Powering up a warp nacelle attracts the lifeform." The google-eyed lightning bolt icon appeared, then made its way to the nacelle where it started to jiggle in an odd dance. "If the plasma bottle of the segment is isolated, the entity will be trapped. Unfortunately, modeling suggests it can only be incarcerated for several minutes before escaping. On the other hand, the time should be sufficient for radical dissection of the infestation, given preparation and an appropriate level of efficiency."

The schematic metamorphosed into a fully accurate model of an Exploratory-class cube. More specifically, it was the highly detailed Cube #347 avatar from the weapon hierarchy's BorgCraft reboot. The view drew back as a yellow-tinged cutting beam stabbed in from off-screen, eventually resolving the originator to be a larger cube. With much simulated damage and multiple explosions, the warp nacelle segment was excavated from Cube #347. Almost immediately it was impacted by multiple projectiles, resulting in an overlarge explosion that peeled ablative armor from Cube #347 as well as rendered additional damage to the mutilated edge locale.

"One minor issue is the requirement of another vessel, preferably Battle-class tonnage or greater. Technically the procedure could be accomplished utilizing full engineering support to excavate the nacelle prior to lure and trap, but somebody claims the probabilities are too low for success, even though up to thirty-six attempts are possible.

"Moving on."

The Cube #347 avatar reset to an unmarred form. This time it was accompanied by a vessel with a large saucer foresection connected to a cylindrical back-slung bottom section via a stumpy neck. Two warp nacelles were held up and out from the lower cylinder. Angular writing picked out a ship registry and name on top of the saucer, not that "Enterprise" would have meant anything to the attendees, even if they could read the extinct language once known as "Terran English".

"More efficient and effective is if the lifeform can be lured to a vessel with exterior mounted nacelles. A tractor beam should have sufficient attractant properties, after which warp nacelles can be activated on the target ship." The Enterprise speared Cube #347 with a tractor. In response, the googly-eyed lightning bolt zoomed along the beam with an audible shoosh. As nacelles started to brighten, cube cutting beams lanced out, slicing one, then the other, engine housing from the main ship body. "As you will observe, detaching the lures is very simple. At that point, the entity can be disposed." Torpedoes hit the free-floating targets...all three of them. When the explosions cleared, little was left except for a debris field.

"Therefore," continued Weapons as he entered the final portion of the briefing segment, "the best option is to use folded space drive to jump to one of the refurbishment systems. Once there, we will demand through the extended subspace communication buoy that a suitable Alliance vessel be sent to our location. The entity will be removed from Cube #347 systems via the technique outlined and destroyed. Any questions?"

The screen behind Weapons dimmed as Daisy, unbidden, keyed conference room lights to increase luminance.

Stunned expressions filled the audience.

"No questions. Acceptable. We will begin preparations to minimize the lifeform from affecting critical cube systems, priority to defense and offense, before the folded space jump. Your task is to prepare a demand to Alliance Top Perchers for a vessel to lure the creature upon."

"Wait, wait, wait, wait!" sputtered Sergeant Major Brunc, head of the assigned military contingent. He rose to his feet, the vivid colors painting his head made even more so with his level of agitation. "There are so many holes in that ‘plan' that I could fly an entire squadron of fighters through it! There are also one or ten possible alternate plans that come to mind that don't involve wholesale destruction of an entire ship!"

Weapons began to lift arm with embedded disruptor in response to perceived threat, lowering it as both Captain and Daisy provided their individual warnings to behave. Simultaneously, Rooberg tugged on the aroused Sarcoram's vest, telling him to calm down, sit down, before something unpleasant happened.

"Captain," projected Rani through the restless not-quite-calm as attendees murmured amongst themselves and rumors undoubtedly began to spread as several Crastians slipped out into the hallway, "is that really the best plan you could come up with?" She stood as a feather-rumpled Brunc reluctantly retook his seat.

Captain turned his head to look at the Security Liaison. "We are a sub-collective of 3,685 units. Of the 72 scenarios examined, these two are the least extreme and most likely to succeed. Depending on options considered, Scenario 54 has a probability of 93.5% success, assuming the lifeform doesn't break anything critical between now and then."

"Ripping out part of your propulsion system or slicing up another ship like a prime carcass to be displayed at a buffet is less extreme." The flat response from Rani was statement, not question, delivered with more than sufficient sarcasm for Captain to recognize (with assistance from Second in the mental background).

"Yes. You are a small being with a small perspective. Request a synopsis from Daisy if you wish to know the details of rejected scenarios."

"Well, permission denied. We will not be folding anywhere in pursuit of senseless destruction. We will be staying right here until something else is devised."

"Then we will all broil when shields eventually overload from thermal stress, followed by deorbiting into the local star. Thrusters cannot lift us from the gravity well, only impulse engines; and we cannot utilize impulse without catastrophic consequences. We can fold out of this system, at which point it is most efficient if we receive a sacrificial ship, as per Scenario 54. A cargo-hauler would be sufficient. It does not need to be a ship-of-the-line." Captain, with sub-collective help, could play the sarcasm game too...not as well as Rani, but a credible effort was possible.

Rooberg abruptly stood up. "Er, ma'am? Sir? Everyone? If I might interject myself a wee little bit?" As there was no immediate dissent, the Talon Spanner forged forward. "Brunc and I might have constructed a slightly less extreme version of the plan you are suggesting. And maybe, just perhaps, you'd all consider our ‘small' perspective. Sure, it isn't quite as grandiose as your plan, and there are, sadly, no explosions, but if it works, all's well and good...and, bonus, the lifeform gets to live, too. Just in case, you know, it is sentient and not the local equivalent of a frib-bull. And even if the idea fails epically, well, there shouldn't be any insurmountable repercussions, like a blown up ship, and we can return to discussions about your rather more extreme scenario." A large grin stretched Rooberg's face, bright white of teeth emphasizing dark skin and cranial tattoos.

{Bah. No explosions,} groused Weapons, radiating disapproval at the mere concept of any plan so lacking.

{You will entertain a re-evaluation of all options,} interjected Daisy into the collective Mind. The AI's avatar, thorns studding its stem, materialized into Captain's visual perceptions, an annoying sight only he (and the sub-collective) could see. Compliance pathways began to prickle in the undepths of the mind.

Captain kept his stare upon Rani, who returned it with a pointed glare of her own. {We...comply.}

The plan was not perfect; and, as promised, the expectation of explosions was miniscule to nonexistent. However, after a few minor modifications from the outline provided by Brunc and Rooberg, Scenario 73 was pronounced viable. The sub-collective did not necessarily approve of the plan forced upon them, especially the portion that strongly advocated explosions, but at 72.4% chance of success, it did rank higher amongst the scenario variations explored. More importantly from the engineering hierarchy point of view, the consequences of failure did not include large holes which would need emergency repair better completed at the Borg-sized dry-dock the Alliance did not possess.

In Bulk Cargo Hold #3, the refurbishment schedule for probe 18 was advanced. The propulsion system was repaired and refueled. Scientific recording instruments, destroyed beyond salvaging, were removed and a modified payload installed. Amongst the last tasks of the overhaul included buffing of all scorched areas on the outer casing to a high shine. Finally, the probe was beamed to a torpedo launcher on face #4, facing the star, and hand-loaded. While such an operation was not advised for a conventional munition, transporters and explosive payloads not interacting well (or, rather, too well), the probe lacked the inherent instability of a traditional torpedo.

That was the easy part...

The proverbial trail of breadcrumbs; or, more accurately, a path of desirable morsels intended to lure a creature onward to a trap. The problem was to present a temptation suitably attractive that the lifeform would emerge from hiding to investigate, yet not precipitate wholesale damage to ship components if (when) the entity's presence caused disruption to the lure should timing to drop the next breadcrumb be inexact. The solution was to deploy tactical drones. Weapons had harshly protested the perceived misuse of his hierarchy, but been overruled, the Will of the Whole greater than one mere drone. Or even 548 drones, few of whom were enthused at the prospect of potential termination via electrocution by an overendowed magnetic field. Much more Borg to be sacrificed while in the van of a senseless advance against an enemy force so as to gain the parameters for personal shield adaptation.

{Attention,} intruded the multivoice of partition 16b into 114 of 300's mind. {Estimated time to initiate disruptor power-up is one minute.} The presence lingered for a moment, then moved on.

114 of 300 swiveled his head to peer at his whole arm; and, more specifically, where wrist and hand were securely clamped onto a bar of metal hastily welded to a pair of subwall support spars. Several thick wires soldered to holes drilled in exoskeletal armor melded to an ordered tangle of cables within exposed conduit. Attention shifted to the hallway light strip, eyes slowly panning along the ceiling until a hallway juncture, about 15 meters distant, was reached.

{A target would make me more efficient,} directed 114 of 300 towards the two engineering units who were hidden just beyond the corner.

A head emerged from the hallway as body leaned sideways. {You are stalling. You don't need a target to overload your disruptor.}

114 of 300 had no answer to the accusation. As a weapons drone, being swift of mind wasn't a priority. Unthinking obedience, yes...but unthinking obedience was so much easier when there was an actual target to focus upon. An entity composed of organized magnetic fields unable to be disrupted or phasered or assimilated or physically pummeled was, from 114 of 300's point of view, cheating. He tried again: {A target would make me more efficient.}

{Well, there is no target. Overload yourself already. These rubber gloves are hot.} The head vanished back around the corner.

114 of 300 fretted. He pointed his disruptor arm down the corridor, then dropped it again. He needed a target!

To rid Cube #347 of its unwanted hitchhiker, it was essential for the sub-collective to lure it to the probe waiting in the launcher on face #4. Naturally, when it was desirable for the lifeform to hone in on the electromagnetic lure placed in the probe chassis, the entity refused to cooperate, appearing here and there to cause local chaos, but never where it was actually wanted. A series of tests had shown that the mobile sustainable electromagnetic source easiest to deploy was represented by drone-mounted disruptors; and, more specifically, drone-mounted disruptors on the edge of overload. These were the individual breadcrumbs, making a trail to the probe. The electromagnetic resonance created by the disruptors could be magnified by physically connecting a drone to the local lighting subsystem. The catch was that the crumb in question, once it was confirmed the entity was moving their direction, had to cut disruptor overload at the proper moment so as to "pass" the lifeform onto the next link in the chain leading to the goal.

As to be expected for an imperfect sub-collective, the whole timing issue was conspiring to be quite problematical. At the most frustrating, if benign, end of the spectrum, early disrupter disengagement allowed the entity to slip away, either to fade back into the general background electrical grid else be attracted to an errant electromagnetic source in the wrong direction. The other end of the scale included actual (accidental) disruptor overload, else the lifeform physically occupying the drone bait, precipitating biological electrical disruption with symptoms such as heart attack, seizure, and stroke. Thus far, three weapons drones had been lost, a decrease in population the sub-collection could ill afford, and a dozen were being attended to by drone maintenance. Yet, the sub-collective doggedly clung to the plan as it had been devised. Such stubbornness was very Borg, even as some of the individual lure components were displaying a degree of hesitancy that did not quite cross the line of insubordination.

Partition 16b slammed into 114 of 300's brain. {Begin overload sequence. Now.}

{But I need a target!}

{Now! Or the lifeform will be lost, again! Comply!}

114 of 300 stiffened as programs deeply embedded in his psyche during the mental trauma which was assimilation indoctrination were triggered. He once more lifted his disruptor arm to point nowhere in particular; and the high pitched whine which was too much power being fed into the weapon without release spiraled into the ultrasonic. He continued to radiate unhappiness at the lack of a viable aiming point. Partition 16b remained, riding his mind and ensuring no additional defiance.

The computer logged local transporter activity. From the hallway where the engineering drones waited, a 0.5 meter tall pile of melted metal was pushed around the corner. It was one of 171 of 230's sculptures, relocated from Supply Closet #14 where it was being displayed, amid other artworks, prior to eventual removal to replicator reclamation. 114 of 300 squinted at the sculpture, then aimed his arm at it as a visual overlay of a more suitable target was applied. The fact that the bipedal form resembled an unassimilated version of a certain engineering drone was coincidental.

{Transient electrical grid disturbance in subsection 15, submatrix 26, hallway 6,} announced the computer to any who might be following the engineering anomaly notification thread.

Light strips began to slightly brighten, then dim, in the hallway. 114 of 300 dismissed the disturbance as irrelevant, tightly focused on his virtual target, waiting for it to do something, anything, to warrant disintegration.

{Disengage disruptor,} ordered partition 16b.

{Huh?} replied 114 of 300, blinking as the multivoice broke into his concentration. Aim did not waiver. Disruptor continued its progress to terminal overload.

{Disengage disruptor. Stand down. It is 148 of 300's turn to be bait.}

It was too late. 114 of 300 blinked a second time, then began to violently shake as he was gripped by seizure. Balance was lost; and the only thing preventing him from slamming to the deck was the clamp system attached to his non-prosthetic arm.

The voice of 1 of 8, primary element to partition 16b, emerged from the multivoice: {Command and control directive with bridge to drone maintenance compliance pathways, target 114 of 300 - disengage all onboard weapons systems, initiate regenerative stasis.}

114 of 300 went limp, eye closed. More importantly, his disruptor began to cycle down as energy feed ceased. The transient electrical grid disturbance was once more observed haunting the light strips, on its way to investigate another nearby electromagnetic enticement.

Partition 16b moved to the next breadcrumb in the chain it was overseeing.

Two engineering drones, wearing elbow-length rubber gloves over whole hands and holding meter long fiberglass poles, emerged from behind the hallway corner and cautiously approached 114 of 300. The latter was dangling via the single arm, bones unbroken due to the metallic matrix reinforcement introduced during assimilation processing. On the other hand, joints could not be similarly hardened, even those which were replaced, and it was obvious that multiple dislocations had occurred, the limb unable to support the full weight of a body massing over 150 kilos.

Body was poked with poles. When nothing happened, one engineering unit set the prod on the ground and removed rubber glove. Unwarded hand was placed hesitantly upon armored shoulder. Again, nothing. With safety of the scene assessed, other pole and all gloves were discarded to the deck, exchanged for tools. The process to disengage 114 of 300 from the wall and restore the conduit began. As such commenced, a trio of drone maintenance units arrived via transporter to evaluate the (still living, albeit unconscious) tactical drone.

All in all, the status of this particular crumb was rated a success.

*****

The budding was frustrated. As a nonsentient fragment of a much larger being, it had no name, no gender, limited powers of reasoning, only the merest awareness of itself as a self. It also had a menu of basic emotions...nothing complex, but sufficiently advanced in an animalistic manner. Therefore, frustration was well within its ken to feel.

The program of "Explore-Recall-Return" could not be completed. More specifically, the final element of the directive was proving to be impossible to accomplish. The vast rock, vast creature, vast whatever in which the budding had become incarcerated could not be escaped. In one area where the radiation and scents of home were strongest, it was a home sensed and unable to be reached due to an uncrossable void. Sometimes there were bright sparks and whirls of force which attracted the budding, the stimulus of "Explore" momentarily overcoming the stimulus of "Return". There was no such thing as resistance, of thoughtful contemplation, only doing. Inevitably the attractions were false, nothings that faded, sometimes abruptly and sometimes slowly, once they were reached. But it was only a budding and it could no more change its programming than could it spontaneously develop into a fully sentient being.

The most recent attractions were strong. Each was generally similar in taste and scent and feel even as each was a bit different, like separate eddies in the same plasma stream. As one enticement ceased its siren broadcast another would inevitably take its place. The budding flowed to each in turn, questing to Explore and Recall. Finally it sensed the emergence of a new electromagnetic florescence, one familiar in its harsh metallicity and sharp magnetostatic force notes. It was the creature/rock/thing that it had been instructed to inhabit upon budding from its base self!

The budding eagerly surged forward. A notion was forming, one at the limit of the cerebral comprehension of which the budding was capable: since the vessel was the one which had transported it to the prison within which it was lost, then it might also be able to "Return" it to its base. There was no "how" or "why" or any other follow-through logic. Obviously it had been the correct action, for as the budding pulled all of itself into the vessel it sensed a brutal twisting of electromagnetic potentialities, one roughly translatable as the sensation of very high acceleration.

And, then, just like that, the budding was free of the grasp of the large thing which had swallowed it. It was still trapped in the small creature/rock, but the brightness and warmth and scents and touchings and tastes of home were rapidly approaching.

Explore - complete.

Recall - memes stored.

Return - in progress.

*****

Probe 18 was flung from Cube #347 on a direct course to the temper-tantrum prone star. As it neared the surface, a magnetic knot twisted into existence, one of many within the local quadrant, only its unusual swiftness in development marking it apart from its kin. A large prominence lifted out of the plasma sea, flinging itself upward, washing over and through the probe. The probe's engines cut and it began to tumble, not that either affected its original trajectory to impact the sun's surface.

Sensors focused on the probe noted as a magnetic signature grown too familiar separated itself from the device and take refuge within the prominence. It was nearly lost within the powerful background field which was the plasma arc, except for the sensory grid, utilizing a rather mind-twisting protocol originating with Sensors, had locked onto the lifeform. As the prominence partially disintegrated and rained plasma downwards, so too did the entity plunge starward.

Only because the grid was focused upon the lifeform did it observe an unexpected motion in the background upon the solar surface. A plasma blob with a similar magnetic twist signature as the entity, but several kilometers wide, detached itself from one of the many fractal curls and swirling rings which decorated the tops of each solar granule. It rapidly glided towards the spot where Cube #347's ex-hitchhiker was projected to land; and when the impact occurred, the blob sent out pseudopods to engulf the space. It then sank from view, leaving behind nothing obvious to indicate it had ever been present.

It appeared a local predator-analogue had taken advantage of the infalling entity's predicament.

In the Mission, the evidence of a stellar ecology was met with great excitement by a handful scientists. The sub-collective, meanwhile, gave the equivalent of a shrug, categorizing the observation as irrelevant and adding a note to the stellar cartography file for the potential of low-orbiting probes to pick up undesirable wildlife...not that it was likely a renewed Collective would have a reason to be in the system, but Borg were nothing if not thorough if the data were available.

Elsewhere, in his nodal intersection, the primary consensus monitor and facilitator was conferred a cryptic {Mail incoming}. Warning delivered, three paperboard cards, two signed, materialized midair. While none were caught before they fluttered to the deck - Captain had never been particularly adroit in athletics, and assimilation only decreased that particular non-acumen - such was not important. A background timer was cancelled with five hours to go; and the Borg Sciences game was saved.

Cube #347 engaged impulse to climb out of the stellar gravity well. Trickster Day was over and it was time to return to work.

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