Dealing the Star Trek deck is Paramount (Global). Playing at the high stakes Star Traks table is Decker. Watching amidst the spectators with her BorgSpace fan cards is Meneks.

Double Deal

In the moderate light of a nodal intersection, a finger tapped the screen of an eltab. In response, a digital page turned, bringing forth the next chapter of the captivating tale "Jumba the Wise Lizard and the Case of the Hidden Spies". It was Captain's me-time, at least as much as was allowed when one was a member of a Borg sub-collective that consisted of imperfectly assimilated quasi-individuals.

{I still think that is a rather asinine title for your book.}

Captain ignored the comment from Second, just as he had ignored the ones that had come before. Given the breadth of the Jumba the Wise Lizard serials, it was inevitable there would be one or three titles less imaginative than usual.

Cube #347 currently floated amid the scattered rubble of the system designated Resupply Three. One of several similar preset addresses which were part of the Xenig (trainer) folded-space drive package, it was a locale consisting of rocks of varied composition. There were no planets, not even a lone gas giant. The purpose of the address was to supply the cube with sufficient raw material that a return to inhabited space (with its non-drone population) was delayed as long as prudent. In fact, an asteroid fragment was currently undergoing processing in Bulk Cargo Hold #8, bits and pieces transported to Bulk Cargo Hold #1 as they became available to feed into a modified Factory Mark III-beta. The Factory subtype had been tweaked to be the most efficient variant (thus far) to replicate feedstock bars, which would then be used with the three Factory Mark IVs to create items.

As productive as the asteroid processing was, it was make-work, not the reason Cube #347 was at Resupply Three. Captain, the sub-collective, wasn't entirely sure the "why" behind their current locale, only that they were waiting for the arrival of a Xenig courier.

Three cycles prior, Rani had ordered the sub-collective to bookmark their location and fold to Resupply One. It was a familiar directive, albeit one thus far deemed random as no schedule had been determined by the partition tasked to log the occurrences. At Resupply One, Cube #347 linked to the subspace booster placed there, as at all the resupply systems, none of which were located within the official-claimed boundary of the Alliance or its friendly partner races. Data had begun to flow, electronic mail missives to and from the Mission the greatest bulk of the transfer, but also communiques, sub-collective daemons returning from missions to acquire certain nuggets of data, entertainment documents, and so forth and so on.

As usual, the sub-collective snooped. Most of the data were encrypted, a rotating quantum cypher of Vor origin applied to many of the packets and impossible for the sub-collective to break: it would require the dedicated run-time of tens of thousands of cerebrally enhanced drones to pick apart. Therefore, the sub-collective did not bother to try. However, there were always messages and missives of low security which were encrypted with the equivalent of a simple single-letter substitution cypher, if encrypted at all.

Rani's mail drew great attention. Multiple large packages unable to be pried open were recorded, as were eight freely readable e-cards wishing the Security Liaison a Happy Thirty-Second Hatch-Day. A perfunctory attempt was made to detect if the well-wishes were a clever espionage trick...but if so, it was beyond the resources of the sub-collective to determine.

Data collected and sent, Cube #347 returned to its last energetic address to continue along its previous course.

Half a cycle later, Rani directed the sub-collective to fold to Resupply Three and wait for a Xenig courier bringing special cargo. With a virtual shrug, the order had been followed. Which brought the situation to this now, systems nominal and censure load light with most tasks delegated to other command and control units, allowing Captain the opportunity to read one of the Jumba novels pilfered from the Mission library during the Trickster Day pre-celebrations over a month prior.

Digital page turned again, and again. Captain blissfully lost himself in the novel, backmind automatically dealing with routine matters with little need for input from the primary consciousness.

The hail, when it came, was a distraction...Jumba was about to dramatically reveal the first of three hidden spies! Yet the Xenig wished to talk to him!

"Xenig," said Captain absently, his singular voice echoing within his nodal intersection even as it was transmitted to the courier, multivoice engaged, "we tracked your arrival and approach. There is no need to commune with the primary consensus monitor and facilitator. Other command and control units will coordinate your cargo transfer requirements, else you may converse with the Alliance AI or Security Liaison." Although the Xenig offered a visual component to its transmission, it was ignored and only audio sent in return. It was a sentient machine, after all; and given the attitudes of Xenig thus far encountered whom were employed by the Alliance, the visual was likely something demeaning, derogatory, or both, in regards to Borg.

Another tap to the eltab, Captain's eyes never lifting from the device.

"Zhong may have no need to talk to you, Captain, but I do," replied a familiar, and unexpected, voice. "Daisy, assuming Captain is in a camera-accessible location, could you give me a feed on his cheerful face? And if he is in that intersection he calls his aerie-nest when he's not in his alcove, put me on his viewscreen."

Captain transferred the eltab to his whole hand, and thence to a thigh compartment for temporary storage, as he felt the Alliance AI manipulate code in the dataspace. The previously ignored visual feed was routed to the nodal intersection monitor, blossoming into the image of a mildly rumpled Sarcoram kal-male, beak agape in a nasty grin.

"Vaerz," spoke Captain, monotone declaration conveying more than any other tone might. He did not bother to censure the expression of disdain upon his face. "You are the courier's cargo?"

"One cargo of several. Don't worry, I will be leaving once my tasks here are complete. Your Security Liaison bestest friend on-location will remain Rani. E-Tac has a mission, of which you-all will be assisting; and the results will be returning with me under my wing as they are too important to broadcast through subspace, no matter how encrypted. There's even an extra-special delivery for you...the sub-collective 'you', not you personally, Captain."

Within the intranets, conversation picked up as to the nature of the unexpected "delivery". A scan was attempted of the Xenig, which not only provided no additional information – the chassis was heavily shielded – but also a warning on a sub-channel from Zhong.

Continued Vaerz: "More information will be forthcoming, but for now lower your shields: Zhong will be transporting cargos where they need to go and as they need to go there. He could do it with your shields up, but why make it more difficult than it needs to be? I predict I'll be talking to you – this time the 'you' is Captain – in a day or so, after E-Tac cries their squawks and begins planning their first trials. Your engineering flock will be needed, by the way, for that part."

Captain heaved an overly dramatic sigh. "We comply." Vaerz snapped his beak with satisfaction, then cut the transmission. In the intranet background, Weapons was offering his customary fuss concerning shields, but Captain delegated the issue to Second.

Eltab was retrieved from thigh compartment. A tap activated the screen. Captain knew that his me-time was rapidly drawing to a close, but before then the theatrical reveal of the first, very obvious spy was about to commence. On the other hand, the remaining two spies would be much more difficult to suss out...and, thus, the real story was only starting.

*****

Vaerz's eye slid sideways to the tall jar with a slowly churning orange substance, displayed on a pedestal and backlit by a soft white glow with subtle blue highlights. "Interesting art piece you installed since the last I was here."

"Isn't it?" responded Rani brightly. "You have surely read all the sordid details about its acquisition? I had some local help getting it set up."

"It seems somewhat on the dubiously ethical side, if you ask me."

"Well, I did not. The alternative was to shove it into a closet somewhere, like that horrid blanket of felted gingal wool Auntie Umna gifted upon me two years ago. This way it has the stimulation of seeing me work my tail off for hours at a time in front of a computer terminal. Sometimes there is even music. I concede it may not be the greatest show, but still preferrable than a dark nothing."

Vaerz spent a few moments watching the play of light upon oily liquid as the latter slowly stirred. "I guess I've done more than my fair share of dubiously ethical actions, the most recent bringing me here today, so I can't really call you out on it."

"Nope. You cannot. So, tell me about this imminent ethical lapse of yours. Something to do with the five individuals still parked on the GPS courier, I presume?"

"Perhaps. But first, a few other aerie clutter cleaning tasks. Number one," Vaerz held up a finger in emphasis, "how compromised are the systems here?"

Rani moved to her desk, sitting down upon the chair. She motioned for Vaerz to join via the matching chair on the other side. "In here? Or the Mission in general?"

"Either. Both."

"Oh, the sensors are completely compromised. Visual, audio, all of it. They still keep the drone spies about, probably as a back-up, but also to try deeper hacks. Red Spot's crew has been keeping the space clean of unfamiliar hardware so far, but it is only a matter of time until the Borg move from passive observation to active control of environmental and other systems."

Vaerz bobbed his head as he peered around the room. "You are speaking rather openly right now...?"

Rani giggled. "I've a scrambler deployed. It's one of my one-offs and the sub-collective will undoubtedly untangle the interference before too long, but Daisy says it is giving them a conniption right now. The Sensors bug drone is especially miffed. Daisy'll relay if they are on the edge of adaption, but I figure whatever we talk about will be done before such happens. Still, I suggest nothing too frank. So, no deep, dark Alliance secrets."

"What about Top Percher Decon's first..."

"Choo-sauce with mulberry and aged glinc." Rani rolled her eyes. "I dug that one up as a second-year under-spook. Kinky, but to each his own." Pause. "As interested as I am in your five packages, what I really want to know is...hatch-day cards?"

"Because you had a hatch-day? And certain relatives of yours tracked me down when they heard I was near home, then pulled my tail until I promised to include them with the next dropbox transmission?" Vaerz managed to look bewildered at the implied accusation.

Rani was not buying what Vaerz was trying to sell. "You know I dislike the whole hatch-day thing," she muttered. "One is another year older. So what? What makes the day before so much different than the hatch-day itself, or the day after?"

Vaerz shook his head. "You obsession with hatch-day – your own hatch-day – is silly."

Grumbled Rani, "You could have at least encrypted the cards. You know the sub-collective reads all the incoming mail it can. Undoubtedly some drone with no filter invited to Borg Studies said something to one of the techs; and the next thing I know, I am being wished 'Happy Hatch-Day'. There was even a party sprung on me two days ago. And I had to act all surprised about it. As much as I love a party, it was all I could do to play the game."

Vaerz's delighted grin deepened all the more as Rani complained. "Poor, wee fledge. Moving on..." A pause to shift topics. One hand reached into a kilt pocket to retrieve a transparent blue plaque. "As per the briefing you received, I am here to deliver testing information to E-Tac. Zhong has transferred the hardware to the Mission hold space. This plaque has the protocols associated with the hardware and specific test specs to explore. Truthfully, all engineering gobble-squawk to me. It'll probably take at least a week to set up and complete all the tests, perhaps a bit longer. Once all the data is acquired, or the end-date to do so is passed, I'll courier it back to the Warmasters in charge of the project.

"Please set up a meeting with E-Tac in, oh, two hours from now. A Borg spokesperson each from engineering, weapons, and sensor hierarchies will also need to be present. It doesn't have to be the respective Top Perchers, but I strongly suspect Delta will be the engineering representative...which means Weapons will likely be there as well. Given how well those two personalities get along, emphasize to Captain that someone needs to be riding flock on them, just in case, in the background."

Rani snorted and fluffed her neck ruff. "Puh-leese, old timer, don't tell me how to brood eggs. At least not these eggs."

"Don't get too cocky, fledge. If I think I would have a problem keeping these Borg flying in formation, I know you will have problems. The bastards are scary, to put it mildly." Pause. "As far as the special guests currently parked in Zhong..."

*****

In Bulk Cargo Hold #3, about midway up the Mission's stack of supplies, Rooberg tinkered with a spacesuit. During the salvage of the Trouble-era ship not too long ago, three different Sarcoram had complained of a heat issue affecting the lower torso segment, about the junction with tail sheath. Only the Sarcoram-specific suits had logged the issue and he was trying to troubleshoot the problem, as he had been attempting on and off as he found time in his schedule. Thus far this session, like the ones before, nothing wrong had been discovered.

Rooberg felt his thigh vibrate. More precisely, he felt the eltab in a thigh pocket vibrate. He automatically retrieved it, unfolding the device as he did so. Some Mission staff would use the communication implant, but many eschewed it. Instead of an impatient Big Beak or lab tech who had circumvented the Mission service and repair status docket to demand a personal update, Rooberg was confronted by a Borg visage. He blinked, mind abruptly blank, as he shifted gears.

"No engineering alterations have occurred to the best of my knowledge outside of Mission-approved areas," blurted Rooberg. "If the Crastian mob has constructed anything, it is without my authorization."

A hint of a smile touched the Borg's lips. "That is not the purpose of my social call. If unauthorized engineering modifications had been detected, you would be discussing it with one or both Delta. Probably both, in stereo, and face-to-faces."

Rooberg gathered his wits. The tool he grasped in his left hand was laid upon the portable workbench, alongside one of the offending spacesuits. The drone's most obvious feature was four eyes, half of which were obscured by ocular prosthetics. It had to be the one called "Second", whom Rooberg knew of but had never interacted with. As he was making the conclusion, words grew into visibility at the bottom of the screen: "Designation – 3 of 8; nee, Second".

"I thought Borg didn't do 'social calls'. Too small or irrelevant or the like," replied Rooberg.

"It is not a normal interaction, no. Why engage in the irrelevancies of politeness with an unassimilated individual destined to be One with Us? But in this case, an exception is necessary. Do you like...games?"

The non-sequitur dropped into an already confusing conversation again caught Rooberg off guard. He quickly regained composure, reminding himself that Borg did jump from subject to subject, the abruptness common due to lack of patience for small talk. "Depends?"

"Games of strategy. Not the blow-everything-up atrocities Weapons claims are 'tactical models', but games more subtle. Variants of chess, poker, gai-lowe, and similar. Myself and a subset of like-minded units have been exploring the offerings of this future-now. Many of the games of Vor-origin are especially intriguing." The smile which lay on Second's face upon had grown more distinct upon conclusion of the speech.

A sense of caution, with a dollop of distrust, intruded into Rooberg's cognizance. "Vor are also intrepid gamblers when it comes to their games."

The grin grew once more, capturing cheek muscles, but not engaging anything else. Rooberg felt the display more than a little disturbing. The expression could have been fully natural to the unknown species to which Second belonged; a consequence due to Second's Borg nature; or, as Rooberg strongly suspected, one being utilized under full control to manipulate this here and now. "True," said Second. "However, money is irrelevant for me and Us. Any game involving wagers will utilize markers. Within my little game group, designations will shuffle up or down upon a virtual board, depending on outcome. If you win," Second shrugged, "you get bragging rights. Nothing more. It is just a friendly game I offer."

"Why to me do you extend your offer?"

"Because you intrigue me. Because your personal dossier indicates your partake of strategy games. Because you seem to be a gambling T'sap."

"What is the game?"

"Vor poker, Ysadin-clan variant. Four opponents, no alliances."

Rooberg frowned. He liked Vor card games, but the named one could be vicious. "Is cheating allowed? Edged weapons?" Such were valid questions in regard to Vor games of any sort, much less high-stakes poker.

Second's grin had reached what could only be called predatory proportions.  The merest tips of teeth were visible behind not quite closed mouth. "No weapons. If anything, you will have an advantage. Do you know how hard it is to keep other minds out of one's perception stream? Defend against rogue impulses? All the while trying to hack the firewall of the opposition to gain advantage? You are a small, individual being; and, as such, you remain outside our intranets and dataspace. Your thoughts are your own at all times."

The non-answer was, in its own way, an answer. It was very...Vor, as befitting the game offered. "So, it isn't cheating unless one is caught." Rooberg pursed his lips in thought, coming to a conclusion that was probably not for the best, but would definitely make for an interesting story down the road, if nothing else. "I'm in. When and where?"

The smile on Second's face was abruptly erased, returning the expression to one of typical drone neutrality. "As this will be an in-person session, not virtual, the 'where' will be Bulk Cargo Hold #3. The when is tentatively five Alliance day-cycles from now. You will receive an official invite in your inbox. If the date and time does not suit your schedule, you may propose something different."

The eltab abruptly darkened: the "social call" was clearly done.

Rooberg thoughtfully replaced the eltab back into the pocket it usually inhabited, then picked up the diagnostic tool he had sat down earlier. For the now, he still had the task of troubleshooting the suit. However, he also had some deep thinking to do before the game. As Second had said, Vor poker was a game of strategy.

*****

Captain materialized in Bulk Cargo Hold #3. A few seconds later, the transporter deposited Assimilation. Vaerz had requested the presence of the latter when he had contacted Captain concerning meet time and place. The reason for the meeting had not been relayed; and it remained unclear as only Vaerz was present when the two arrived.

"Greetings, feather brother," said Vaerz, back to the drones and beak pointed upwards. He was gazing at the half-stack which served as the Mission garage and general supply cache. "I always seem to forget how damn big this ship is. The Mission aerie, even the general corridors, one might think one is in a normal ship or station, disregarding the horrid environmental conditions when outside the nest-space. Then I see this" an arm was waved, rustling primaries "and get the real perspective. And then I recall this bastard of a cube was the smallest your empire built." Vaerz turned to regard Captain and Assimilation. "It gives me the frizzle-feathers all over, let me tell you; and once again I find myself wishing I had the authority to point you at a black hole. But, alas, that power has not been granted to me."

Captain did not reply. Vaerz would get to the point, or not. To rise to the obvious bait would not be Borg; and although he was imperfectly assimilated, there remained standards to which (to try) to adhere. He knew from experience that the Sarcoram was immune to the silent stare that would unnerve other individuals, or at least was very good at not reacting to it.

Adjacent, Assimilation had idly engaged a visual filter to consider what Vaerz might look like given several alternative assimilation processing options. As of late, Borg Studies had been inquiring how a newly assimilated drone was assigned a function; and, thusly, his hierarchy had been complying by providing appropriately modified visuals of various persons within the Mission as example subjects. The Borg Studies nest, from Big Beak to lowliest tech, seemed to find the "game" hilarious. In this case, Assimilation was virtually applying Basic Sensory Suite #3, tentative assignment to sensory hierarchy appropriate given Vaerz's espionage occupation.

"Well then," drawled Vaerz as it became apparent neither drone would verbally respond, "as much as I find your presence upon the galactic stage distasteful, being the good civil servant that I am, I have forwarded all your complaints, requests, and whines. They have been heard, deliberations made, arguments for and against presented, and, finally, a decision I do not agree with made. Consequently, in addition to couriering an E-Tac assignment, I have brought...(sigh)...not a gift, but an experiment that may lead the Alliance down a road that even I find too dark."

Internally - ::Daisy, please inform Zhong I am ready to take delivery at my location.:: The exchange on the Mission-dedicated communication frequency was eavesdropped upon, the protocols long hacked. It was suspected that certain parties - Security Liaison Rani, Sargeant Major Brunc, Daisy - were aware of the covert snooping, but had not responded to the intrusion so as to reserve countermeasure deployment for an emergency. By extension, Vaerz would also know of the breach and be watchful of his language.

Five Xenig transporter signatures registered in Bulk Cargo Hold #3. When the brief flash of blue-white light cleared, five figures were revealed, positioned in a line shoulder-to-shoulder facing Vaerz, Captain, and Assimilation. Vaerz remained silent, providing the two Borg opportunity to absorb the situation. The fivesome, meanwhile, were trying, and largely failing, to show a similar nonchalance, heads swiveling as they took in the scenery, gazes inevitably returning to either Vaerz or the Borg pair.

While Captain kept his attention squarely on Vaerz, Assimilation turned to better examine the new arrivals. The assimilation hierarchy, through their hierarchy head, immediately began to classify each sophont. Of the five, all humanoids, three were species not previously encountered.

Vaerz grandly wave an arm, sending primary feathers swinging. "I'd like you to meet SnalBee, Dalkid, Gant, Tlank-all, and Auron. The misguided Aeriemasters on high have yielded to your request for...bodies. These five volunteers wish to join the nonMission component of the Borg Project, potentially representing the first group of more to come, should the experiment prove successful." Vaerz's tone dripped distaste.

Captain felt the assimilation hierarchy abruptly sharpen their interest. Assimilation's normal miasma of depression evaporated, swept away by the unanimity of those he represented. In its place arose a predatory perception best described as eagerness. Desire. Hunger.

Furthest from Vaerz was SnalBee, one of the unknown sentients. Nearly two meters tall, it had a robust frame and musculature reminiscent of species #5008 (Klingon). Wearing a long-sleeved pale blue coverall, the contrast with the creature's dark burgundy skin constituted a visual assault upon the senses. Scale-like structures were visible upon epidermis; and brown cranial hair of tonsure, moustache, and ear was twisted into intricate braids. Crests of bone adorned neck and jawline.

Second in line was a known species, the canid-like Daarath. Unfortunately, the Mission contingent only had one specimen; and without more complete records, it was unclear if Dalkid represented male, female, or another sex. It appeared comparable in size to the known Daarath, although pelt coloration was lighter. Also wearing a coverall, albeit one a neutral tan, the Daarath was unprepared for the heat and humidity of a Borg vessel. Opening its mouth, it began to pant as unobtrusively as possible.

Gant, the third volunteer, was best described as the quintessence of wrinkles. Hairless, sooty grey skin hung heavily as folds upon folds obscuring detail of the species' frame. It was unclear if clothes were worn, any garment lost amid the fleshy mass. Head and face, other than massive jowls, were wrinkle free, as were hands beyond the wrist. Dark brown eyes darted this way and that as the scene was absorbed, accompanied by flaring of nostrils and flicking of small external ears.

Fourth was another recognized race – Gessili. One was attached to the Mission, a technical assistant within the Planetary Exploration nest. At only a meter tall, Tlank-all stood waist high to its comrades. In addition to being notably smaller, the sophont was also lithe and thin, with sharp, reptilian facial features. As with the Daarath, the sub-collective knew little of the Gessili other than what could be observed. This particular Gessili wore flip-flops, shorts, and a torn shirt; and there was an indefinable aura of grunginess emanating from it.

As the final member of the five, Auron was built on the standard humanoid mold. The 1.4 meter tall frame was stocky in a manner suggesting evolution on a high-gravity world. Light beige skin, sparsely furred, small chevron-shaped forehead ridges of bone or horn, there were no outstanding features. Even the grey coverall was boring. The only unusual attribute was the hair...or, rather, lack of it. Instead, a thick thatch of black tendrils ranging from two to four centimeters writhed and curled upon Auron's head. Assimilation hierarchy tentatively tagged it as either a sensory organ or a parasite.

Notably, none of the five volunteers represented Alliance-affiliated members. The Daarath were technically refugees; and the Gessili a sovereign trade partner. Presumably the other three also hailed from planets or civilizations nominally independent from the Alliance.

"Volunteers..." uttered Captain slowly. He shifted his focus away from Vaerz to regard the five individuals directly. The pre-Prime Commands which had been forcefully entrenched into every drone psyche faintly tingled. Assimilations were not allowed except under very specific circumstances. "Do they understand?" Volume of voice was raised. "Do they understand assimilation will be permanent? If we are to accept them, it must be permanent, not a short-term body loan. There will be pain, physical and mental: it is unavoidable. Alterations to body and mind will occur. The individuals who stand here will cease to be." Attention returned to Vaerz. Assimilation's unwavering point-of-view observed as all except Gant flinched at the words. "This is an imperfect sub-collective, aberrant. It is very likely one, two, possibly all drones-to-be will be unable to adapt to Us. Those who fail will not be returned. Euthanasia in the event of failure is likely, else neurological pithing to retain the body as an organic computational node at the expense of personality centers. Do they understand, Vaerz, what they have 'volunteered' for? We must have them, but the pre-Prime Commands also must be satisfied."

Vaerz shifted slightly at the force of Captain's speech. Nervousness? Vaerz uncertain? The moment of possible self-doubt vanished as if it had never been, replaced by the Security Liaison's standard bravado. "They have been informed. All have listened to the very graphic, nausea-inducing descriptions garnered from various drones interrogated on the assimilation process. All have reasons for their decision. All have signed the waivers. All have been declared legally dead by their home world or colony...there is no going back."

Captain panned the row of volunteers, formless suspicions churning in his mind, origination both himself and the communal sub-collective subconsciousness. "So be it. Accepted."

Five assimilation hierarchy units, winners of a hastily run lottery, materialized behind the five individuals. Heads swiveled back and forth in startlement, accompanied by involuntarily verbalized protests, as they were roughly seized and arms pinned to sides. Those same heads were captured, then twisted to expose necks. 2 of 46 complained loudly that the wrinkled folds of skin which defined Gant made garnering a secure hold difficult; and 103 of 203 was momentarily stymied by the difference in height between himself and the Gessili, finally resorting to an awkward kneel. Victims secure, all five drones froze.

Vaerz watched the display, still and dispassionately disconnected from events.

{Assimilate our "volunteers",} directed Captain. His personal attention never wavered from the Sarcoram.

Five fists plunged down towards five necks. Predictably, last minute, albeit futile, struggles commenced. Dalkid whined that its mind had changed; and Tlank-all managed to extract an arm to rake clawed fingers against the armored limb which held it. The protests were ignored and four units made successful contact with assimilation tubules, delivering their nanite cocktails. 2 of 46, thwarted by the excess of wrinkles, was unsuccessful; and became flustered as Gant began to struggle. Assimilation abruptly strode forward to slam his own hand onto Gant, ignoring neck to inject nanites to the body core – the process was usually slower and less efficient than delivery to a major blood vessel, but the end result would be the same.

One by one the victims stilled, then slumped limply in the arms of the Borg holding them. The time from injection to pliable fugue state was closely monitored by the assimilation hierarchy, the first data points (of many?) written into species dossiers. The Daarath was notably delayed compared to the humanoid average, and the head-tendril specimen faster. Even now, organic neural transceivers were being built by nanites; and the first whispers of welcome would be hissing into receptive minds.

Through it all, Captain scrutinized Vaerz. The Sarcoram maintained his air of detached observation.

The transporter system activated, whisking away Assimilation and his five hierarchy-mates, along with the newest members of the sub-collective, to the nearest assimilation workshop. Drones were rapidly preparing the facility for its unexpected guests. Given that processing of new drones had appeared to be a very low possibility in this far-flung future, readiness of the facility had not been a priority. To say the dust had been gathering would have been an understatement; and appropriate cleaning and polishing supplies required replication.

Captain was left alone with Vaerz.

Vaerz blinked, then bobbed his head. "That was it? All is over?"

"Processing has just begun. Surgery for the hardware neural transceiver is the priority. After that...all species are unfamiliar and there are no guiding documents for processing." Captain allowed himself a shrug. "Integration will take longer than usual."

Vaerz glanced at Captain. "How long is 'usual'?"

"If there is no need for rapid reformatting of the psyche, which produces a low quality drone suitably solely for front-line phaser fodder, then one to three Alliance equivalent days. Assimilation is estimating at least a week, if not longer, for these specimens." Given the suspicion percolating within the sub-collective mental depths, much focus would be spent in mental examination, trying to determine the real why behind these gifts from the Alliance, and Vaerz. Indoctrination to a Borg mindset would also be extended. It raised the potential for integration failure, but better loss of all five "volunteers" than suffer a spy or Trojan Horse with access into the innermost workings of the sub-collective, where even Daisy could neither penetrate nor understand.

"I want to observe, directly, as much of the process as I can. I'm sure Daisy will have insights upon the internal happenings."

Captain suppressed a smile. "As you will."

*****

Vaerz was appalled. He had read the reports, of course, which detailed Borg explanations of the assimilation process; watched the source interrogations; even observed the surgeries the Borg performed on each other as a component of their personal maintenance. By the aerie founders, over his long years and in his position he had been involved with acts, in the name of the Alliance, which would make the feathers of the average Sarcoram stand on end...even Rani might find her stomach twist. Yet none of it had prepared Vaerz for this moment, or the next, or the one after. At least the Borg Studies nest was insulated from the action, hidden behind the cameras and dry, jargon-laden commentary which the Borg voiced to describe proceedings. Conversely, he was here in the inadequate lighting and oppressive humidity of Assimilation Workshop #7, observing directly, listening to the sounds, smelling the odors.

Vaerz considered it punishment for his sins...and he had a lot of them. Not just the Borg Project, but throughout his career. For the most recent transgression he bore a great deal of the burden. He had conceived the experiment, helped brood it to term and hatch. He had conducted the interviews, sorted the prospects, and ultimately hand-selected and approved the finalists. He had gotten to know each of the five who now shared this hell with him, albeit in a less intimate manner.

The truth of it was, unfortunately, as horrible as the circumstances were, he would do it again. And again. And again. More sacrifices might (would!) be necessary in the long flight, true innocents unlike the five volunteers Vaerz had couriered to their doom. The sub-collective, as much as he squawked his protests and played his expected part, needed to expand to full strength. He didn't want it to, would prefer it was immolated in a star, but he had no choice.

He had seen the maybe-futures, seen the silent, sterile nothingness which awaited the galaxy. It was bigger than him, five individuals, even (maybe) the Alliance. Those what-ifs were not a given, but one of the principal paths to stop it lay though this sub-collective, this moment, this butchery of assimilation, this sin. Vaerz desperately hoped the temporal soothsayers might one day find a different course to pursue.

Only a single table, the one closest to Vaerz, was currently occupied. On it lay SnalBee. His companions stood motionless in the alcoves that lined the room circumference, eyes closed, breathing even. In contrast, SnalBee's eyes were wide open to sights only he could see, breath ragged pants. Limbs were securely bound to the table. His abdomen was splayed open as two drones at his side dug around inside. Due to SnalBee's unfamiliar race, samples of organs were required for detailed analysis in regards to metabolic, endocrine, and other biological functions, simple scans insufficient. The exploration would inform which of several applicable internal implants and appliances would be installed. One of the drones rambled a continuous dialogue of its actions, a narrative Vaerz did his best to shut out.

SnalBee heaved a sobbing gasp and attempted to writhe. The action elicited the barest glance from the non-speaking drone. SnalBee abruptly stilled, eyes sliding shut as breathing faded to regular inhalations excepting a few sporadic hiccups.

More than a few tranquillizers would be needed tonight to keep the nightmares at bay. Until then, all Vaerz could do was remain stoic; refuse to allow himself to react to the gruesome scene; and remind himself that for the sins he had committed and would do in the future, this was but a small fragment of the penance he deserved.

*****

Rooberg idly checked his Mission inbox. A morning cup of coffee was at hand, mug next to the pile of specialized diagnostic equipment which littered the workbench which also functioned as a desk and dominated one wall of the Talon Spanner office. Amid the normal administrative messages and maintenance requests, a note caught his attention. He tapped his eltab to expand it, then absently nodded his head. A sip of coffee was taken.

"Daisy," called Rooberg to the empty air, "I have a message for you to deliver." A pleasant tone indicated the AI was actively listening and ready to proceed. "Please tell Second that I accept the game time of evening four days from now, but I will want to see the setting, and the cards, before festivities commence."

The last of a handful of routine messages had been answered when a tri-tone chord gently sounded. "Yes, Daisy?" spoke Rooberg as he set down his eltab.

"A response from Second in regards to your message. Verbal recording."

"Play it."

A voice with synthetic reverberations began to speak: "Your suspicions are misplaced." Gusty, theatrical sigh. "Neither myself, nor any drone of my acquaintance, would ever stoop to something so small as to mark cards. It is not Borg. But, if you so insist, you may examine the cards and anything else you feel is necessary before the game session begins. The table and other accruements required for Ysadin-clan Vor poker will be assembled in Bulk Cargo Hold #3 approximately two hours prior to the official start time. Or, at least I hope they will be. 54 of 240 – who has no interest in the game, only universal harmonics – will be arranging the furniture to exacting feng shi requirements. What those requirements are or will be, I do not know. It apparently necessitates four-dimensional spatial calculus and an overly dense datablock that gives me a headache. If you don't like the placements, you can argue with him."

"Thank you, Daisy," said Rooberg as the message concluded. He stared thoughtfully at a wall and the blinking lights thereof, contemplating the response. It was notable what wasn't said; and, undoubtedly, the decks would have been rigged if he had not overtly suggested the possibility, regardless of how small or unBorg such might be. The Talon Spanner smiled...the game was already becoming interesting and only the opening maneuvers had been played.

Rooberg made a few mental notes to himself regarding the game, amidst other concerns. He needed to talk to Red Spot sometime today, probably after the Crastians' first-shift chants. As did anyone who hired or worked closely with Crastian mobs, Rooberg kept track of the latest in crab religious fads. Apparently some sort of spoken word deity was ascendent this week and except for a major emergency, and possibly not even then, the devotional would not be halted for mere employment-related conversation.

Dismissing poker game, mob, and routine administration whines from his mind, Rooberg swiveled his stool to face a viewscreen hanging on the wall opposite his workbench. His primary duty this shift, and for the next few following, would involve wrangling the E-Tac nest. The engineers and technicians assigned to E-Tac, short for Experimental/Tactical Engineering, were top-notch, able to rearrange alien crystals with the best of them when it came to (accidentally) creating a civilization-devouring black hole device. However, all of them seemed near blind and useless when it came to following basic wiring diagrams. As the Sarcoram said, "When flying in the clouds, don't forget the mud below." E-Tac, amid their lofty discussions, seemed to not only forget the mud, but also the ground and everything else but the clouds.

E-Tac had received a Special Assignment from the High Perchers That Be. Rooberg was far from naive: while this little jaunt in a massive cube-shaped ship may purportedly be mostly "civilian", the funders included the military and they wanted a return on their overlarge investment. The Assignment revolved around a device code-named "Veil" that distorted the sensor signature of the object upon which it was mounted. Therefore, if the device was bolted to a shuttle, one might spoof another ship, a rock, or some other item. It was not a cloak – that technology was undoubtedly under research – but, rather, perhaps, one of the steps necessary to attain such a lofty goal.

Where Rooberg entered the picture was, yes, the aforementioned wiring diagrams. In a fit of paranoia, the physical templates – meant to be reproduced on board using cube (and Borg) resources – and accompanying blueprints had been sent via the courier as incomplete. Encrypted diagrams had also been delivered; and upon decryption, E-Tac had been faced with blueprints to alter the physical templates. Panicking, E-Tac had reached out and acquired permission to let Rooberg, as Talon Spanner, into their playground. And only Rooberg...none of his assistants were permitted to help.

Rooberg didn't quite understand the paranoia. As soon as the Borg were given the template to duplicate and bolt onto a probe or shuttle or whatever the actual test platform, they would have the technology...assuming they did not have it already. In the same vein, if there were any spies within the Mission, it wasn't too hard to wander into the E-Tac nest and initiate a conversation that would end with being gifted the seeds of universal destruction.

A glance to the antique analogue clock hung over the viewscreen. It was a gift from a Sarcoram colleague, a treasure acquired at an aerie sale or from an uncle's attic or such. It, frankly, was about the ugliest thing Rooberg had ever laid eyes upon, but that alone gave it charm. The clock suggested the Crastian chants should be about done; and after that particular errand was complete, it would be best for Rooberg to hie off to E-Tac to provide a wiring diagram primer.

*****

He awoke to pain. Agony. Anguish. He should not have awoke at all, not until the trigger was received, but the reason for his early activation was unimportant. The importance lay in the now, in the torture he could not block from the shared neurology with his body-host.

He needed to writhe, to pant, to scream. But he could not. The shared body was locked to the natal psyche; and until and unless that psyche was stilled, was put to a true and deep sleep, there would be no usurpation of control. While the natal mind no longer seemed to react, much, to the pains of invasive surgery without anesthetic, held within the comparative peace of many voices, he had no such recourse.

But worse than the violation of flesh, the sundering of the natal psyche into shards to be rebuilt and re-educated to an alien mindset, was the indignity of taboo. Elbows AND knees were bare for the universe to see, not hidden as proper behind drapings of cloth. Although he remembered a time when he had not been so prudish, that sense of self seemed distant. For the now, focus upon the nakedness of joints was all that kept him sane.

A noise, a hiss, the smell of cauterized flesh...an arm was lost. All he could concentrate on was relief that the torturers had cut above the elbow: one less sacred joint would be exposed to the gods.

*****

Captain glanced at his viewscreen. A hypothetical observer, one unassimilated and not privy to the inner workings of the communal sub-collective intranets, might classify Captain's expression, such as it was, as dispassionate observation. Or, perhaps, constipation, except Borg did not possess a functional digestion system and, thus, could not be constipated. Conversely, another drone would be very cognizant of the emotive radiation of exasperated resignation; and would decide now was not the time to attract the attention of the primary consensus monitor and facilitator concerning minor matters such as an illicit remote controlled spider-bot construction kit with flying harness add-on experiment gone, er, missing.

The viewscreen within Captain's nodal intersection was split into four quadrants. One pane was filled with the head and shoulders of the very annoyed Caltrak E-Tac Big Beak Tu-li-uk. The other windows featured Weapons, Delta, and Sensors. The visages of Weapons and Delta (body A) were digital avatars set against a dark blue background, the actual drones either in their alcove or physically busy with various tasks, respectively. On the other hand, Sensors was a camera feed, albeit a boring one as she was currently locked in her alcove, the usual abode of a sensory drone. The view occasionally jiggled, strongly suggesting it did not originate from a sensor built into a bulkhead wall. In fact, Sensors had somehow convinced several adoring Crastians to be her personal camera crew. Unlike the first mob which had inhabited Cube #347, this one was much more restrained (and quiet) in their idolization of the insectoid hierarchy head.

"That's the third test platform you exploded!" accused Tu-li-uk. A hand swept into view, three fingers raised in emphasis. "Three!"

Answered Weapons, not one to back down from confrontation, "It was a threat."

"It was half the size of a torpedo and no threat!"

"It might have been a miniature singularity torp, swapped by a Q for the test platform while in the launcher and modified to mask its true signature."

Interrupted Delta, "And what is the probability of such occurring?"

Captain automatically diverted the relevant datathread, following it back to its source amid the increasingly complex (and messy) code which defined the BorgCraft model functions under construction. He was utterly unsurprised to hear the sullen answer of "Zero point zero zero five percent" being uttered.

"But it isn't my fault, not really," protested Weapons. "We saw the threat and were forced to respond!"

{With five quantum torpedoes, but let's not go there, of course,} whispered Second in the background, spectator and commentator of the dispute.

"Forced?" exclaimed Delta, unamused. "Forced? The wiring diagram of the template is tricky...and now we need to build at least three more platforms. That will take nearly half a cycle to complete!"

Accused Weapons, "It is all the sensor hierarchy's fault! If it had remained a rock or a comet or something not obviously a miniature singularity torpedo and therefore unthreatening, there would have been no reason to blow it up."

Second: {And since when does Weapons need a reason to prod his hierarchy into overkill?}

Captain's eye flicked to Sensors' pane.

Within her alcove, Sensors stomped both front walking legs, bringing forth a sharp double staccato. "This hierarchy becomes [anxious] when [muffled]: there is something to [see], but we are not allowed." The voice did not emanate from Sensors' alcove-bound body, but was instead synthesized; and, as usual, the universal translator hesitated on certain word choices, substituting as best the algorithm could. "We had to...peek. Sensors had to peek."

Weapons radiated smug victory. On the screen, a distinct smile crossed virtual face.

"That was your excuse the last two times!" exclaimed the Big Beak. He shifted his attention to a window Captain knew held his artificially propagated visage. "Can't you control your people? Aren't you supposed to be the Aeriemaster of all the Borgs on this ship?"

Captain sighed. The unassimilated just did not understand how a Borg sub-collective worked, not really; and certainly not this one, aberrant and imperfect as it was. Aloud (which also conveyed the same via the appropriate intranet venue): "Sensors, stay with the E-Tac methodology to mimic Alliance, Combine, and other sensory protocols...do not use protocols adapted for Our use, nor personal settings. Weapons, the command and control partition assigned to coordinate the tests is being loaded with additional resources for support of your hierarchy processes; and if you, as hierarchy head, cannot control yourself or your hierarchy, even if 'provoked' by sensor grid slips, you will all be sent into deep regeneration for the extent of this E-Tac exercise. Given our current location, the risk of tactical delay due to a downtimed weapons hierarchy is deemed minimal. Delta, build more test platforms...six of them, just in case. Tu-li-uk, is the solution provided sufficient?"

"Barely," huffed the Caltrak.

As it swiftly became evident that the meeting was not over – Tu-li-uk began listing a litany of additional complaints, many of a technical engineering or sensory protocol bent – Captain delegated Second take over as liaison and referee.

{Why?} asked Second even as he substituted his own avatar for that of Captain's, albeit one with an irrelevant straw boater atop his head.

{Because your background comments were distracting; and because I can. I also have other things to attend for Us, more important than E-Tac bickering. Try to keep the cube in one piece.}

Perfectly aware of what subject was refocusing sub-collective attention, thus requiring realignment of the primary nexus point, Second sent the intranet equivalent of an indifferent shrug before shifting focus to E-Tac.

Captain's viewscreen abruptly altered, reflecting the new datathread. Five windows stacked on the left edge of the screen, each populated with one of the five new drones to the sub-collective and their respective temporary designation. The remainder of the screen was dark, expectant. The delicate tracery of Borg script began to populate the void, silver syllables appearing word by word: "One obvious spy to find now; one hidden to find later; a third never to find at all." It was the promo tagline for the Jumba the Wise Lizard novel Captain was currently reading - "Jumba the Wise Lizard and the Case of the Hidden Spies".

The words slowly transmuted to a dark red tint, then faded from the screen, leaving behind the blank expanse once more.

A light breeze caressed exposed skin of face and neck; and a slight pressure was registered atop head. It was ignored: minor environmental faults had been registered within the local submatrix, subsection. There were more important things to attend.

{Status update,} said Captain to Assimilation.

The remote presence which defined Assimilation was sliding back to his baseline depression now that the excitement of assimilation and initial processing was complete. Very soon, unless the Alliance decided to release more "volunteers", else the sub-collective broke the Xenig-built chains which kept them from reconstructing the Collective, he and his hierarchy would have little to do. While furthering the misplaced ambitions of Borg Studies was amusing, it could not make up for not being allowed to fulfill one's reason for existence within the remnant Whole.

Captain tore himself out of Assimilation's stream of background consciousness before it entangled him into suicidal depression.

{Status update – compliance,} responded Assimilation. {After initial resistance, all new drones are responding to indoctrination. Unfortunately, there are early indications at least two – Drone 3 and Drone 4 – appear to sense wrongness in regards to their reprogramming and psyche reconstruction. My hierarchy will continue to work with them to determine if they can be stabilized and salvaged, but the probability of at least one, if not more, failures was already modeled to be near certain. Otherwise, all drones have been assigned functions. Common assemblies and implants are installed; and surgeries to support specialization are underway.}

On the screen, the topmost drone profile was highlighted. With a temporary designation of Drone 1, the file for the individual once known as SnalBee was opened for scrutiny. With his musculature, bone density, natural armor, and highly redundant organ systems, it was unsurprising that Drone 1 had been tagged for conversion to a tactical function. The most recent surgery was preparation of a limb to receive a disruptor. The armament had not been installed yet, but was scheduled soon, after further biopower upgrades to support said weaponry had been fitted within the torso. The file showed occasional odd neurological activity, but it was unclear if it was a function of doubled neurology, or common to the species itself. Either way, the drone was responding adequately to indoctrination, so it was deemed unimportant.

Drone 2, the Daarath, was selected, replacing Drone 1. Like all species with significant hair or feather coverage, its inevitable loss upon assimilation made the individual appear smaller compared to the pre-assimilation form. {The assimilatory nanite suite will need significant optimization for this species: initial assessment and observation show a high degree of natural resistance. It was irrelevant for this subject, but has the potential to affect the resistance quotient, especially if able to be genetically or technologically enhanced. Of note, the species has a moderately developed psi-capability. The supporting brain centers of such have been excised, as per normal processing procedure.} Drone 2 was slotted for engineering.

Both Drone 3 and Drone 4 were the pair noted to be exhibiting incipient mental breakdown due to rejection of the imperfectly assimilated sub-collective. Drone 4, the Gessili, was tagged for assimilation hierarchy. Although other hierarchies could use the body, the drone also had the worst case of emergent neuroses and the greater focus of the hierarchy was necessary for potential salvage. Conversely, Drone 3 was fated to drone maintenance. Said Assimilation, {The wrinkles...they are very annoying. Extensive cosmetic surgery was necessary just to allow an acceptable fit for the underlying body suit. Minimal exoskeletal armor is required for a drone maintenance unit; and, perhaps, the hierarchy can experiment on their new member to determine the best configuration to deal with the epidermal issue for future assimilative processing.}

The last subject – Drone 5 – took the central focus. The species appeared to be one of the semi-rare types which could be molded to fit most any specialty. In this case, it was easiest to assign her to weapons hierarchy. While not as tailor-fit as Drone 1, the dense musculature and light sub-epidermal armoring lent itself well to a tactical unit. The odd cranial tendrils were deemed to be an unknown type of sensory system. Their removal had been required for processing the drone. While the degree of innervation had led to the excruciating pain for the subject, she had survived to become the most deeply indoctrinated of the five. The loss of the tendrils did not appear to hamper the drone for use as a tactical unit.

Continued Assimilation as the final dossier was closed, {None of the subjects will be optimally configured. Beyond the fact we have never assimilated these particular species before, our supply of prosthetics, assemblies, and implants is limited to the salvage stockpile and what the Factory Mark IV is able to produce.} The "stockpile" represented hardware harvested from deceased units. {New species dossiers are established or, in the case of the Daarath and Gessili, being expanded upon with notes input to ensure the next opportunity to assimilate and process will be more efficient.} Pause. {Assuming we have that opportunity.} Longer pause. {My hierarchy requests inquiry as to the possibility of cadavers to be supplied for dissection?} A tone of hopefulness accompanied the question.

Captain dashed the hope, {No inquiry will be made. If basic medical texts are among proscribed data, then cadavers will certainly not be approved. Thus far all the search daemons we have inserted into the Alliance datasphere to search for medical-related information have been neutralized; and until we can access Mission computers, that avenue of data is also unavailable.}

Assimilation sighed. {Assuming processing continues at current pace, the drones will be ready for release to their respective hierarchies in two to three cycles.} The unsaid sentiment was that, except for trying to stabilize Drone 3 and Drone 4, the purpose of the hierarchy would be fulfilled and it would be back to cultivating neuroses, counting nanite vat densities, and cooperating with Borg Studies.

Captain acknowledged the summarized report, allowing one slice of his split awareness to absorb the various facets of the more detailed files being consolidated by multiple command and control partitions. Eyes lingered on the five windows with their visual thumbnails, then shifted to the main area where the Jumba the Wise Lizard tagline was again displayed.

{It's a fictional narrative which follows the exploits of a noir detective stereotype. The use of a spy-caricature plot line as a model on how to uncover espionage seems a bit weak.} Second had calmed the E-Tac situation sufficiently to allow greater engagement with the consideration of the new drones. {I'm all for being a suspicious bastard – and our five not-really volunteers are more than a wee bit suspect – but there has to be a better model to use to uncover what Vaerz gave us.}

Countered Captain as he assumed advocacy for one side of a shared debate, embodying the act of the sub-collective arguing with itself, a deviance no normal Borg sub-collective would ever engage in, {And what other source do we use? Temporal resurrection crippled us concerning access to potentially pertinent data, either locally or within Collective archives; we have minimal personal experience in regards to espionage to draw upon; and there is no Greater Consciousness to do our thinking for us. Furthermore, neither Vaerz nor Rani is begging us to assimilate them to learn their secrets. But we are Borg and we will adapt to use what is available to Us.}

Second radiated impatience. {Yes, yes. A pretty speech. The root question is what would Vaerz hope to gain with spies, assuming the notion isn't a figment of our communal imagination? Especially the part of us which favors spy novels that feature reptiloids? We all endured extensive interrogation upon our resurrection to this epoch. Even now we have AI Daisy observing both individual units and Us, trolling minds for any instability which might, among other things, allow bypass of the pre-Prime Commands.}

It was a very good, very pointed question. What would Vaerz and, therefore, the Alliance, hope to achieve by inserting spies? Assuming such was even possible given the extensive physical and neurological processing required to generate a drone more valuable than phaser fodder.

In addition to the pre-Prime Commands, Daisy was the primary shackle enslaving the sub-collective to the Alliance. As Second had commented, the computer was a general censor, but also encompassed other roles such as ensuring individual drones maintained a nuerophysical baseline within a preset tolerance; enforced Alliance orders; and eavesdropped upon the myriad of individual and communal thoughtstreams which pervaded the intranets. The Alliance principle of "Freedom of Mind" meant drones (and the sub-collective Whole) were allowed their own thoughts, including seditious plotting against Alliance constraint, as long as it did not progress to actual actions thereof. Daisy skimmed those surface and mid-level thoughtstreams, keeping its masters appraised of the strategizing and Projects (and other, more frivolous matters) that flitted through the dataspaces. What the computer could not do was articulately translate the deepest levels of the communal Self where the multi-dimensional calculations of consensus was constructed and where lay the hindMind subconscious.

Vaerz obviously feared that Daisy and the pre-Prime Commands would, ultimately, be inadequate. It was not a given that the Cube #347 sub-collective would escape enslavement – they were imperfect after all – but there was always a possibility such would occur...hopefully before the cube imploded due to asinine accident. One or more of the five volunteers for assimilation were (at 93.7% probability) likely an infiltrator. Perhaps their function was passive, gathering information from the deeper layers of collective consciousness inaccessible by Daisy. More ominous was the potential to insert a sleeper agent, one able to read and influence consensus; able to provide tracking of an escaped sub-collective; able to be a failsafe to destroy an emergent Greater Consciousness; able to be a Trojan Horse to reshackle a new Collective back to the Alliance. In all, perhaps it was best to destroy the five new drones and refuse any future "gifts", thereby preventing the "what-if" escalation. On the other hand, Cube #347 needed the bodies, needed to know the species of this galactic era; and each poisoned chalice successfully drank allowed adaptation against future attempts by Vaerz (or others) to infiltrate agents.

{It is unknown what specific advantage Vaerz would attain,} admitted Captain to Second after a lengthy delay of nearly two minutes as multivariate consensus trees withered due to lack of data, {except that there would certainly be a gain. Until further data is acquired, we will continue to process the drones. All five will be monitored; none will be allowed access to key cube and sub-collective functions; and unexplained irregularities will be met with lethal response.}

Second's presence within Captain's mindspace abruptly groaned as a minor disagreement between E-Tac and Delta threatened to explode into epic proportions. {Since you appear to be in no hurry to disengage yourself from your current tasks, and escalation has yet to reach criticality, my liaison duty calls. Oh...nice hat, by the way.}

Captain blinked at the comment. He tossed a wordless request for clarification at his backup consensus monitor, but the latter had already erected a personal firewall against low-level queries to better focus his attention on the budding conflict. The cheeky message directing Captain to voice mail was ignored.

Hat...?

Captain fully recentered himself into his body. He could feel a slight of pressure at four points upon his cranium; and there was the whisper of an erratic breeze he had earlier dismissed as a symptom of a local environmental system fault. Rolling organic eye upward revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Captain started to reach a hand upward, then stopped, berating himself for thinking like a small being. The datastream of one of the visual sensors embedded within the nodal intersection was accessed.

The view was Captain's backside. While most nonBorg sophonts would find it highly disorientating to perceive oneself from an alternate point of view while also maintaining one's personal perception, such was routine for a Borg drone. No need for a mirror when another drone or camera was nearby. Balanced atop Captain's head was a squat, eight-legged robot with a backpack sporting a pair of ornithopter wings bodged to its topside. Only the rear four legs touched their perch, the remaining limbs lifted as if an insect waiting for prey to pass. Sensory bands smoldering with a pulsating red glow provided a full three-hundred-sixty degree field of vision.

Captain experimentally lifted his whole hand, angling for the nearest leg. With a faint thrum, the robot abruptly lifted off, dragonfly wings rapidly fanning. Legs dangling beneath, the machine pivoted and drifted out of the nodal intersection, heading into the adjacent subshaft, destination unknown.

Temporarily abandoning his original notion to search his Jumba the Wise Lizard novels for additional insight upon espionage and undercover agents, Captain instead cast out within the dataspaces, looking for information concerning the robot...especially the owner. After the last episode concerning remote controlled devices, a string of increasingly muddled events cumulating in a destruction derby for which the ringleaders were still cleaning up after and completing repairs, a ban on the machines had been instigated. There were a handful of exceptions in regards to engineering and tactical uses, but the thing that had been atop Captain was not on the robotic whitelist.

The last thing Alliance Exploratory-class Cube #347 needed at this time was an eruption of rogue robots; and it fell to the primary consensus monitor and facilitator to coordinate an end to it.

*****

A finger twitched.

In the twilight semi-darkness, B nodded to himself. His body followed suit, a slight, nearly abortive gesture of nerve impulses translating thought into motion. The natal personality was, finally, in a sufficiently deep sleep so as to allow B to usurp body control without consent of the primary host. It was a forced sleep, an artificial sleep, but the semantics were unimportant. All which counted was He to be unconscious.

B could not recall what His name was, the name of the natal personality. It was troublesome in a remote and dreamy sort of way. Similarly, B could not recall his own name. The syllable "B" was all which came to him, with no context as to if it represented anything of the name which remained out of reach, or was simply a pleasing sound his broken psyche had latched upon. In the end, it, too, was as unimportant as the reason for the host's somnolence. All which mattered were knees and elbows naked to the universe for all to see.

B experimentally curled his remaining, singular hand into a loose fist as he fuzzily contemplated what he might do next.

In many ways, the BoKaa – B's species – were far from unique. They were upright quadrupeds, a four-legged animal risen upon its two hind feet during the course of evolution, thereby freeing the front appendages to eventually form dexterous hands. To say they were a live-bearing mammalian analogue would not be incorrect, although there were other aspects of biology which might argue for saurian or crustacean. Even the imposing degree of natural armor and biological redundancy of organs, neurology, and other body systems was not outside the bell curve of sentience variability found within the galaxy of past, now, and future.

Focus on the BoKaa brain. Within a given species, variability is both common and expected. The formation of a parallel neurological system might range from minimal redundancy to a sufficiently dense neuron mass that it appeared as if two brains were superimposed on each other in the same skull. For the BoKaa species, the latter was an apt analogy. In a few, very rare cases, a second, fully-fledged personality would emerge from the twinned brain neurology.

Non-natal personalities were legally recognized to be their own selves. Each mind-twin duo negotiated the complex logistics of life, social activities, and so on; and, needless to say, there were times "arguing with oneself" had a quite literal meaning. As expected, the BoKaa society maintained a long tradition of stories oral, print, television, and holo which examined the dramatic possibilities for a mind-twin duo. However, as engrossing as were fictional dramas, mind-twins were actually uncommon – 1 in 1.3 million persons – and most lived the normal, boring life of others of their race, albeit upon a body time-share basis.

Amongst the BoKaa entertainments, the most enduring employment of a mind-twin duo was for political, military, or corporate espionage. However, the reality was that such was rarely successful – mind-twins were rare, but not unknown; and there were ways low-tech and high to uncover them. Also because of that rarity, it was much easier for one entity to snoop upon another via traditional ways of technology, double agents, informants, and the like. It was just too inefficient to wait for a competent and willing mind-twin to answer a spy-based job outreach.

Beyond the small and strategically unimportant volume of space BoKaa called their own, the high dramas of the dashing mind-twin duo fictions were largely unknown. Similarly, the mere idea that an individual may encompass two fully developed psyches, while not representing a case of mental instability or be the manifestation of an intelligent parasite or symbiote, was preposterous to the average person. The exception, naturally, were the spy agencies of the sector governments, but such institutions were paid to be paranoid. Those handful of traders, academics, sightseers, and employment hopefuls whom ventured out of BoKaa-claimed space were tracked and covertly checked for potential double-identities, but to date no nefarious plots involving mind-twin espionage had been uncovered.

The Borg, as represented by the Cube #347 sub-collective, were oblivious to the potential of the BoKaa mind-twin. The spontaneous emergence of a second personality as a result of overly redundant neurology was unknown; and even had the sub-collective possessed the many BoKaa fictions which followed mind-twin duo exploits, it would have been consigned as irrelevant fantasy. Therefore, upon processing of Drone 1, while the odd duality of neural pathways had been noted, it had been categorized as a quirk of the species, with focus placed upon the active and responsive network for indoctrination. The other network, beyond observing an occasional burst of activity, had been ignored.

That network was now fully active.

B flexed his hand again as he stared into the dark torture chamber. The mechanical men whom had bustled so much here and there were gone for the nonce. He could hear the sound of the other victims breathing, as well as a myriad of quiet beeps and whirs. This coffin-thing held Him when His body was not being violated, with clamps only able to be deactivated by one of the torturers when they came to release Him for surgeries.

With a sigh, B lifted his remaining whole arm to rub his now mostly-metal scalp in a fit of frustration. B blinked...the arm was not secured? He leaned forward and tentatively extended one leg to step, fully expecting to be held in place. Therefore, it was with great surprise that he stumbled out of the coffin, barely saving himself (and His body) from falling in an ungraceful sprawl. An umbilical attached to his back snapped, flopping back into the coffin with a dull thunk.

B pivoted to look into the coffin with an incredulous confusion. However, the device was a perplexing unknown; and B turned away, unclear amid the shadows and blinking lights and glint of metal what may be the reason for his release.

Ultimately, it was not important anyway.

Knees and elbows were exposed! B vaguely remembered He to have been the moderately religious one, while himself had never paid much attention to traditional doctrine. Those traditions felt more relevant now, comforting in a manner previously disdained. A quick pan of the room did not show any cloak, any robe, any bit of cloth which might be used to hide his major joints from the gaze of Outsiders. The instruments of torture, the other slumbering victims in various state of processing were dismissed from consideration.

Of sole importance was a door; or, at least, an opening that led out of the room. Four, to be precise. Selecting one at random, B forced His (and his) shared, mangled body into motion. Somewhere a bit of cloth, even a mere handkerchief, had to be found!

*****

Rooberg fanned the deck of cards on the table, decorative backs upright. Near at hand was a line of small devices. He picked up the first item – a small ultraviolet flashlight – and shone it upon the cards. Nothing out of the ordinary. The next device, one keyed to pick up slight metallic inclusions, was wielded. Once again, naught.

"They are standard paperboard playing cards. Your AI confirmed the replicator recipe."

Rooberg ignored the voice with its slight reverberation. The third device in the row was chosen, a detector which induced fluorescence on a variety of common frequencies, none of which were visible to the normal, unmodified T'sap eye.

At Rooberg's feet, under the table, emitted a series of not-quite-regular beeps.

"And the poker chips your pet Crastian is testing one at a time are regulation resin. Why would...no, let me begin again.... How would I be expected to cheat using poker chips?"

Rooberg paused, hand hovering over the fourth (of five) diagnostic tools. "You chose Vor poker; and I agreed. As far as poker chips, there is the infamous Game Three of the Fifth-Seventh Grand Vor Poker Extravaganza. And the Ysadin-clan variant is especially faithful to the mantra 'It isn't cheating if it isn't caught". I, frankly, do not know you, Second, nor the bounds you, or your poker buddies, might go to in regards to winning a game. From the hints I've received in the form of cryptic advice from multiple drone crew, I have come to the firm conclusion that you are a bastard and I absolutely cannot trust you to play a clean game. Of any kind."

There was a long silence, then, "In the game you refer to, the poker chips had been doped with a contact poison specifically formulated for G'ch'up<chirp>. Multiple bribes had been extended as well. It was a scandal months in the making."

Despite himself, Rooberg was impressed at the proper pronunciation of the Vor name. He had never heard any but a Vor or a computer-controlled voder accurately spit out the intricate trills, pops, and whistles that comprised Vor language. The Borg vocal synthesizer was obviously versatile. "Didn't say it was a perfect analogy," said Rooberg, "only that there are many ways to cheat, some more apparent than others. I'm just looking for the most obvious."

Under the unblinking gaze of Second, Rooberg finished testing the deck. He put the cards back in their box, then selected the next of the four remaining decks. The box was opened and the process began anew. He knew that neither deck nor poker chips, nor other accruements of the game would exhibit signs of meddling. That was not the point with this little exercise...and both Rooberg and Second knew it. But forms and customs had to be followed. Of greater importance were the various sensors and cameras embedded within the bounds of Bulk Cargo Hold #3; and Daisy had already confirmed those able to be used to spy upon Rooberg or his cards were temporarily off or pointed in a harmless direction. Daisy would ensure they stayed such throughout the game. Of the unofficial sensors undoubtedly present, there was nothing able to be done beyond hope normal protections like breasting cards would suffice.

Asked Second, sarcasm thick in his partially synthetic voice, "Is the furniture okay, at least? Because if it isn't, you will need to speak to 54 of 240 about it. And be sure your vocabulary includes both nth dimensional calculus and room-based chi theory." A mostly artificial arm waved, taking in the whole of the cargo hold.

Rooberg halted his actions, taking a moment to turn in place. He took in the playing table (no chairs); a pair of secondary tables which would hold accessories such as chips and ritual daggers; the looming stores of Mission equipment; several piles of crates pushed against one wall; three vases placed upon said crates; and a dozen (unlit) candles flanking one of the hold egresses. Somewhere – Rooberg wasn't sure where – wafted the occasional musical tinkle of a windchime. How it was activated in this windless volume, he was clueless.

"The furniture is fine. Relay that I love the vases." Rooberg returned to his task.

From beneath the table, beeping ceased. The Crastian emerged, banging its body against Second's shins to gain the Borg's attention. Once head tilted down to eyeball the crustacean, the Crastian's voder engaged, "What deity did bestow this 54 of 240 with the gift of pleasing visual harmonics? Is there a sacred text?"

As Second's two whole eyes narrowed in obvious annoyance, Rooberg kicked the Crastian. "Dust Bucket," he hissed, "later. Job now."

The crab rattled his mandibles in a mild Crastian oath, then returned under the table. Beeping resumed.

Eventually Rooberg completed his needless task. And he still had no idea how Second, or his compatriots, planned to cheat. To not cheat at Ysadin-clan variant Vor poker, to play a clean game, never crossed his mind.

"Anything else?" asked Second.

"Two things," responded Rooberg. "First, with the sensors redirected or suspended in this room, it would be nice to give people in the Mission a way to view the action. There is interest."

"Irrelevant."

"Not so."

"Then what is your 'suggestion'?"

"A mission camera bot. One of the small ones. It can be programmed to hover above the table ten meters or so with belly cam constrained to the table top. It won't be perfect, but as long as no one is stupid enough to show cards in its view, you can't use the feed to cheat. And not being a cyborg linked to a communal dataspace, neither can I. Daisy can drive it."

Second peered at Rooberg in obvious suspicion. After a few beats he came to a decision. "We will allow it, but we will select which device." Pluralities had replaced the previous singular, but if it represented Second and the other two Borg game participants, a greater multitude, or signified something else altogether, it was unknown. "And your second 'request'?"

"Select away. Number two, my comrade Dust Bucket will remain here through the entire game. With an appropriate selection of surveillance gear. I can't do anything about certain aspects of your embedded technologies, but I would like to safeguard against its use, as well as anything external, taking advantage of poor, small me."

A deadpan stare was Rooberg's answer. He really wished to know if the Borg was pissed, amused, or whatever filled in for those emotions. Usually he could grasp the emotional gist of those he conversed with, but the Borg (like all Borg) was a cypher. "I don't like it. We don't like it."

"Then I'm open to modifying the already agreed upon rules to allow you to have an observer watching my observer, as long as your observer doesn't position itself to facilitate any cheating on your end."

"Fine. We concede to the Crastian's presence as long as it stays where it cannot help you." The acquiesce was, perhaps, a bit too swift.

Camera, Dust Bucket, both were exactly as advertised. They were also red herrings to draw the attention of the Borg, diversions to hide the strategy Rooberg had devised for his advantage. The game would begin in less than an hour. Even as he and Dust Bucket played their respective roles, a team of four Crastians were working their way to predetermined vantage points within the cargo hold walls. The destinations already had spyholes drilled through the insanely thick bulkhead plating, a clandestine operation completed the day before. Once at their positions, the crabs would spy on the cards, mannerisms, anything which might give Rooberg even a slight advantage. Any info gleaned would be tight-beamed via a line-of-sight transmitter to a passive receiver worn by Rooberg. "Worn" was perhaps not quite the correct term, so much as "applied". Who knew that a cheating system from his bygone university days would come in handy? Not that he had ever employed such, of course. Disguised as part of his elaborate tattoos, the receiver circuit had been painted onto a special sticker and then attached adjacent his implanted comm unit. The result was one-way and had horrible sound quality, but it would (hopefully) get the job done.

As long as the Borg did not check for out-of-place Crastian comm unit signatures, or dismissed any found as the normal scuttling of the mob out of Mission bounds.

As long as the transmissions were not picked up by the Borg.

As long as the circuit continued to work...it was sensitive to moisture, and it was both humid and warm in the Bulk Cargo Hold.

As long as...the list of possible failure was long. Rooberg pushed it from his mind. What would be would be.

"Done, boss!" chirp-rattled Dust Bucket. He skittered out from under the table, chips held high in one manipulator limb.

"Anything else?" inquired Second in a monotone voice that nonetheless held an edge of impatience.

Rooberg shook his head. "I'm good. It all seems clean."

"The we will go to floor five of the Mission stacks and select the camera bot."

"And Dust Bucket stays here. He's not a great one for heights...and he can watch the integrity of the poker implements." Rooberg was not surprised that the sub-collective and, thus, Second had a complete inventory of Mission supplies. It was probably more up to date than that on his eltab.

"If you so insist, then 186 of 300-" as Second pronounced the designation of one of the other two poker competitors, the named appeared in a transporter "-will also be present. An observer for the observer."

Rooberg eyed the new drone, one arm replaced with weaponry and body bulky with armor, then shrugged. "Fair enough."

And so the warm up dance continued.

*****

B stumbled through a never-ending maze of hallways. The slightly discolored squares at chest height, usually at a hallway junction, suggested many somethings had been removed not too long ago, leaving behind the residue of an adhesive substance which had never fully dissolved or burnished off. However, B did not notice the tarnished swatches; and, similarly, the occasional bucket or dustmop or pile of discarded conduit were mere obstacles to avoid, as were the few mechanical men toiling at unknowable tasks. The men ignored B as he ignored them, cognizant of his presence on the most basic level, but otherwise concentrating on their tasks while dismissing him as relevant.

Into another door B careened. As the ones before, it opened automatically, albeit a bit slow in its response. Given his erratic, uncertain progress, the door sensor's hesitancy was not unexpected. B lurched into a new room, a room unlike those encountered previously.

Many of the rooms B had entered had been bare boxes often coated with dust. When not empty, the items in residence were prosaic: crates, barrels, cleaning supplies, conduit, tools. Admittedly, the room of random rocks strewn upon the ground had been a bit odd, even for B in his current state, as had been the one with florescent abstract designs painted on walls and ceiling. However, the uniting factor in all the localities was the lack of the merest scrap of cloth. The new room might be a significant contrast to all previous...but it remained to be seen if it also would be summarily lumped with the others for a singular deficiency.

At twenty meters across, thirty meters deep, and five meters in height, it was the largest room B had thus far encountered. To B's right, a long counter ran the length of the far wall; and a multitude of stationary and mobile work benches were positioned throughout the central floor area. The wall to B's left was a solid mass of floor to ceiling bins. Each bin sported a small sticker with a vertically arranged line of flowing, yet angular script. Randomly pulling open one bin revealed multiple smaller bins inside, each full of a different sized ceramic washer. A bin adjacent held diodes; and a third possessed manual screwdrivers massive to minute.

B pivoted, eyes sweeping across the (maybe) workroom. A handful of stations exhibited equipment in different stages of disassembly. Everything looked recently abandoned, but neat, as if workers had been called away, yet still given sufficient time to clean up. B felt a tug of kinship to the room, but was uncertain at its origination. Had he (or He) been an engineer at one time? Or just enjoyed tinkering as a hobby?

B drifted to the nearest bench. Upon it was a vaguely spherical device, fully assembled, of the size to be grasped by a hand with fingers spread. Alongside was a second specimen, this one half-stripped with tools aligned tidily nearby. B picked up the whole device, seeing the obvious, if odd, addition of three heavy-duty carabiners, as well as a strip of white and yellow lights. A pale orange button was noted and pushed. Nothing happened: no hum (or lack thereof), no change in the pattern of the slowly twinkling diodes. B moved to set the device back on the table top, but in doing so accidentally caught one of the carabiners on the hoses which looped out of his side. He tugged twice on the latched device, then let go with a sigh. The thing thumped against his right hip.

Then, from across the room, a treasure caught his eye.

A three meter length of pipe, bent into a rough "W" shape, was propped upright upon a section of wall-adjacent counter. It had been plated in a silvery metal. About a third of it was in the process of being polished to a high shine. A bottle of polish paste was nearby, along with a pile of dirty rags. However, it was the unused cloths on the other side - bright yellow with the faint fuzzy quality of microfibers - which had captured B's attention.

B lurched to the pile of rags. Minutes later, exuberance had shifted to annoyance and frustration as he discovered that he lacked the dexterity (and the second hand) necessary to securely tie a cloth around either knee, much less the elbow.

Assistance. He needed assistance. B's thoughts raced. The assistance could not be one of the mechanical men for they were the ones whom had wickedly made his joints visible. There had to be one normal entity somewhere, wherever he was, a someone with at least two manipulatory limbs and who did not have mechanical bits grafted upon themself.

Plucking a handful of rags from the bench, B cradled the prize against his chest. He then stumbled towards one of the door leading back to the hallway and, hopefully, to someone who could help him.

*****

{What do you mean Drone 1 has been lost?} Until several minutes ago, Captain had been deep in the depths of non-lucid regeneration, consciousness stilled as body systems were rejuvenated, free computational resources utilized by the Whole. Then an emergency had arisen, one which the sub-collective had deemed sufficiently important to fully reactivate its primary consensus monitor and facilitator. Said primary consensus monitor and facilitator was still more than a little groggy as he strived to recenter self into body. Said primary consensus monitor and facilitator was also unclear why his normally dependable backup, or others of the Hierarchy of Eight for that matter, was not dealing with what seemed not to be the scale of emergency requiring arousal. It was not a trivial matter, true, what Assimilation was relaying, but neither was it "Surprise attack by technologically superior alien" nor "174 of 480's latest attempt to build a dimensional portal from cereal box-top mail order instructions 50,000-plus Cycles old and only partially recalled worked, but not as desired" categories.

Responded Assimilation dully, {All the new units had been set into regeneration prior to final processing and evaluation. 6 of 203 forgot something in the workshop and went to retrieve it. She is the one that found Drone 1 to be gone.}

{The units are locked in alcoves and have no access to manipulate the functions. It isn't like Drone 1 could go for a walk.} Silence. {Drone 1 went for a walk.} It was statement, not question.

{Yes?}

Captain sighed. In his alcove, he opened his eyes and looked across to the tiers on the far side of the shaft. Glowsticks decorated several levels, their green, red, and blue colors forming an abstract design. Eyes closed again to black out the distraction.

A ping was sent towards Second, to determine why he had not responded to this urgent-but-not-an-emergency situation. Poker tournament. That worthy had isolated himself in a virtual cocoon, personal firewalls thick and attention laser-focused as only a Borg could be, albeit on poker. As far as the other Hierarchy of Eight...Captain squinted at the tangle of code which had shunted the dilemma to him, waking him despite his regenerative status. He would launch an obviously overdue code-cleaning campaign in the near future, but for now....

{2 of 8, determine who set the glowsticks in subshaft #3.g2, opposite my tier; and also ascertain if it has a vulgar component. Then get it cleaned up.} 2 of 8 produced a token grumble, then began assembling a partition to comply. Captain ignored the protest: the vast proportion of the deflection code exhibited the other's style, not to mention her literal signature. {Assimilation, start at the beginning.}

The beginning was approximately forty-five minutes prior when 6 of 203 had returned to Assimilation Workshop #7 to search for a magnetic body ornament which had fallen off. It was she whom had espied the empty alcove; and it was she whom had noticed the disappearance of its occupant had not been the result of broken clamps. That minor mystery was quicky solved as 156 of 203, one of the team assigned storage of the almost-finished drones, confessed upon command and control interrogation that he had not secured any of the new units because (1) he hadn't seen the need and (2) it took several seconds to do so, seconds better spent engaged in cataloguing his post-resurrection natural fiber collection.

Upon finding Drone 1 had absconded on an apparent walkabout, the transceiver for the unit had been pinged, accompanied by an order to return to Assimilation Workshop #7. Complications had arisen immediately. No specific location could be resolved, the best able to be determined being that the drone remained on Cube #347. More disturbing, the drone's status insisted he was in regeneration and unresponsive to arousal commands. In effect, Drone 1 seemed to be sleep-walking, an action that should have been impossible.

Shifting focus, a query to internal sensor records followed the slow, roundabout progress of Drone 1 after his escape. He had, in fact, been seen by several engineering details, but been tagged irrelevant and ignored. For the same reason alien tourists had a tendency to be dismissed because of Borg single-mindedness, so too had Drone 1 been categorized as Not-An-Engineering-Problem-So-Not-My-Problem by the drones engaged in maintenance. While there was clearly no destination in mind as per Drone 1's movements, there still seemed to be purpose in his erratic drifting. He had even accidentally hitched a ride several levels via a cargo elevator being employed by 31 of 230, tasked to move neurogel barrels and whom had decided he needed more "steps" and so eschewed transporter for grav-sled. Drone 1's signature had thence entered Analysis Shop #12 and subsequently vanished.

{Oh-oh,} interrupted Delta into the assessment. The simple, stereo utterance was not one to inspire confidence. With the integration of engineering drones memes in consideration of Drone 1's trajectory, Delta had also become incidentally engaged.

Captain's primary focus centered on Delta even as his partitioned mind continued leading an increasingly detailed review of the missing drone's travels. {Explain "oh-oh",} demanded Captain. The sub-collective Self required enlightenment.

{Analysis Shop #12 is the closest to Bulk Cargo Hold #3. As Alliance technology is conveyed to Us, primarily via the Mission, the initial appraisal is usually that workshop before being transferred to other localities on the cube.} Delta's – engineering hierarchy's – somewhat convoluted, if logical, flowchart for sorting acquired hardware was provided as a sub-thread, along with destination tracking labels for all the bits and bobs thus far squirreled away. {Most recently, Analysis Shop #12 received a pair of the Alliance "Veil" devices. With the blueprints decrypted and officially released to Us to build additional Veil templates for Mission field tests, it was logical to construct several for ourSelves. One of the duo in the shop is whole and...mostly unmodified. The other is partially disassembled for deeper preliminary analysis and comparison to similar devices that we retain info on within our abbreviated database.}

{There is no need for the in-depth background, Delta. It also does not explain the "oh-oh".}

Delta sighed her doubled sigh, or at least provided the intranet equivalent, pairing it with a faintly sheepish emotive radiance. {30 of 42 found that if the device is active, the bearer effectively vanishes from drone and internal sensor perceptions. The bearer is not affected. One can stare at the drone all day, know it is there, yet not perceive anything. It appears to be an unintentional side-effect of the tech. Prohibitions have been set on using the Veil outside of purposeful tests because...well...certain units would surely....} Delta trailed off.

Captain groaned. {I/we understand.} Delta had also very studiously kept the knowledge of the device's "extra feature" firewalled to a select, responsible few. And, now, the very act of Self-appraisal would spread the knowledge. 5 of 8 was summarily diverted to collect a working partition to catalogue the numerous units whom might feel it a "good idea" to appropriate the Veil or attempt to build their own version so as to further personal neuroses, a first step in the onerous task to create prohibitions against such occurring. Meanwhile, 7 of 8 was sicced upon Weapons, who understandably was both very interested and very vocal about the device and all the inherent issues concerning internal security, as well as the existential offensive possibilities against cybernetic Color threats long turned to dust. The Veil had already begun incorporation into BorgCraft upon its original release by E-Tac; and this new knowledge added to the dimensions of possible scenarios.

Less than half the Hierarchy of Eight was now directly supporting Captain in the primary task of finding Drone 1, but the reassignments were worthwhile. Captain tried, once again, to break Second's firewall and thereby force his redirection to support the Whole, but was rebuffed by a vulgar automated message. Captain did not have the time to construct the code to force the matter. The overall issue, unfortunately, had yet to rise to the level of urgency to trigger forced reintegration, for example an alien attack, eminent plunge into a neutron star, or massive souffle event. Instead, he posted multiple high urgency notes to Second for his perusal upon poker tournament conclusion to ensure the unintended Veil side-effect was kept hidden from casual discovery by Mission personnel, their pet AI, and, most importantly, Vaerz.

Back to Drone 1.

Cube sensors could pierce the Veil's distortive camouflage effect. That was the underlying reason of beratement to Sensors to use the supplied Alliance, Combine, and other common protocols during the field tests. The problem was that these particular sensor elements were outward looking. Perhaps the original Borg version of an Exploratory-class cube might be quickly modified for at least a cursorial inward gander. However, this Exploratory-class cube was an Alliance adaptation with, ultimately, Alliance hardware in Alliance configurations, even as the engineering hierarchy slowly slogged to bring said hardware to something that "felt" more Borg.

Captain assigned yet another Hierarchy of Eight unit and associated support partition to oversee the wrangling of Delta and Sensors, with their respective hierarchies, to (1) try to realign exterior grid sensors to gain a coarse-scale resolution of where Drone 1 was located and (2) bodge together something portable to allow the misplaced drone to be perceived by searchers. Following a positive consensus cascade, drone maintenance was included as that something was likely to be a modified sensor drone or fifty. After more Self-introspection, Captain tentatively folded Weapons into the campaign, along with 7 of 8 to continue to babysit, given the obvious tactical priority of finding Drone 1.

After nearly thirty minutes of inward focus, the sub-collective Whole released its nexus sufficiently to allow said nexus to surface personal external awareness. Eye blinking, Captain focused across the subshaft where 2 of 8 was chivvying a group of three units to dismantle their glowstick masterpiece. Awaiting Captain, for when he cared to examine it, was a link to a report as to identification of the instigators, as well as the rather complex and salaciously graphical nature of their exploit.

Captain stepped from his alcove, pivoted left, then headed for his nodal intersection and, more importantly, the viewscreen thereof. The link would wait, as would a number of other lower priority items. For the nonce, the sub-collective was striding along adequately, trying to find a solution to its latest problem. In the mind-blindness common to Borg, neither Captain nor the Whole considered the simple solution of asking Mission personnel to assist finding the lost drone, unassimilated individuals not struck by the selective impaired perception caused by the Veil. Instead, Captain let his personal thoughts wander, then focus, as only an imperfectly assimilated drone could do, on a tangential thread, one which was thence whispered aloud:

"One obvious spy to find now; one hidden to find later; a third never to find at all."

The conundrum with Drone 1 could have been coincidence. However, the trouble supported a high likelihood probability to confirm that the Alliance volunteers represented a scheme originated by Vaerz, although perhaps one not going quite according to whatever devious plan the Sarcoram had hatched. Assimilation was now tasked to intensively review Drone 1's biological and psychological profile, to search for a plausible reason for the automated systems of the unit to return status-request pings indicative of unresponsive unconsciousness even as the body was clearly moving about the cube. With a species sample size of "1", deviations from the average individual could not be assessed, but surely with the thousands of other species on the cube, not to mention species profiles retained and rebuilt since temporal resurrection, there might be the hint of an answer.

"One obvious spy to find now; one hidden to find later; a third never to find at all," said Captain to himself once more as he arrived at his destination.

*****

Rooberg glanced the cards as they were dealt to him, then laid them face-down on the table. To his left and right, Second and 186 of 300, respectively, were doing likewise. The latter was the current dealer and could only look at the cards once, after the hand had been dealt. There was no delay in play, however, because 101 of 152, across from Rooberg, had the annoying practice of compulsively arranging and rearranging her cards before finally breasting them, only to rearrange them again.  Rooberg was unsure if it was a purposeful habit, one cultured to annoy others and, thus, gain a small edge, or if it was some sort of nervous tic. It didn't seem to overly affect her play, whatever the reason, for she had the second largest pile of chips, after Second. Rooberg was holding his own in a close third. Conversely, 186 of 300 was a hand or two from being forced to drop out.

Movement at one of the sentient-sized doorways to the corridors outside Bulk Cargo Hold #3 caught his eye. Into the hold stumbled a drone. It seemed disorientated and, maybe, injured? Deformed? Rooberg's eyes squinted in confusion. 101 of 152, still sorting cards, did not notice him looking past her shoulder.

::Daisy, how many Borg are in this hold with me?:: By the agreed rules, only the three drone principles were to be present. Any spectators were a possible vector for cheating.

There was a short hesitation, then Daisy replied, ::Internal sensors, correlated with transceivers, show three drones – Second, 186 of 300, and 101 of 152. Is there a problem?::

::No. All okay. Thank you.::

The intruder had paused, head swiveling as it took in the scenery. Then, sighting upon the table with four individuals standing around it, lurched into motion, destination clear. As it neared, Rooberg saw it had only a single arm and looked...unfinished or ill or both. Such was preposterous, but that was his impression. It also felt to be a vaguely familiar species under the hardware, but given the literal thousands of races represented by the sub-collective, that was a well-known feeling. There were even a handful that looked like T'sap, although upon the interrogation Rooberg had done one day to such a doppelganger, it had insisted its species was #5618, also called "human". Obviously different, but uncanny and unnerving all the same.

Second had noticed Rooberg's attention not to be fully upon the game. He turned his head to peer blankly in the direction of Rooberg's gaze; and clearly perceiving nothing amiss returned attention to the table.

"What are you looking at?" demanded Second.

Replied Rooberg, "That drone over there. It looks sick, or drunk, or both."

Eyes narrowed in suspicion as Second looked again. 186 of 300 pivoted his head. In unison, both turned back. Meanwhile, 101 of 152 continued to fuss with her cards.

"Will you stop that?" said Second, note of irritation clear in his voice. 101 of 152 ceased fidgeting, holding cards against her chest armor. "And you, Rooberg, your poor attempt to distract me, or any of us, will not work."

Rooberg sighed, then waited for the dealer to turn the first (of three) community cards. 101 of 152 flipped a seven of stony blades, a middling card at best. Tokens of various denomination were tossed into the central pile. The intruder continued to draw near.

Finally the unknown drone, after having swung overly wide around the table, was about four meters away on Rooberg's right side. It raised its singular arm, clutching a handful of fluttering yellow fabrics, and proceeded to urgently beckon him over. A metallic globe the size of a ball common to many games swayed at its side, caught amidst a tangle of hoses. Yellow lights slowly cycled on and off.

With a sigh, Rooberg plucked a ritual dagger from the silver platter to his left and placed it upon his cards. "I need a break," he said.

101 of 152 squinted over the cards held overly closer to her face. "A biological necessity break? Again? How much liquid did you consume before the game?" The implicit 'what a small being' insult was left unvoiced.

Rooberg glanced to his right at the one-armed drone as it continued to wave. How did it not be noticed by the three Borg poker players? "I need to, um, stretch?" Ignoring the obvious expression of exasperated disbelief that crossed Second's normally neutral face, Rooberg directed his next words downward, "Dust Bucket! Watch my cards to make sure nothing...problematic happens to them when I'm not paying attention."

As a rattle of mandibles resonated from under the table, 101 of 152 rolled her eye. Meanwhile 186 of 300 informed, "You have five minutes. Not a nanosecond more unless you desire to pay a penalty to the pot and forfeit access to one of the community cards."

"Yeah, yeah," muttered Rooberg as he waved assent. Five minutes would be more than sufficient to see what was up in regards to the intruder. As Rooberg stepped away from the table, an extendible periscope rose from below: without a convenient chair or crate to climb, the Crastian had come prepared with gadgets appropriate for any number of scenarios.

Rooberg approached the odd drone. As he did so, he made a big show of stretching an arm above his head. "I'll bite – what do you want?" he hissed at the unit. Up close, the thing seemed even more unfinished or ill than his initial impression. It was also clearly having trouble focusing upon him, its eye – the other a cringingly exposed, albeit dry, socket – wandering about.

Finally it croaked: "Coverings." The rags were thrust at Rooberg as the eye finally locked gaze with his own. Yes, the drone was definitely a few diodes short of a full circuit board. If this was an attempt to cheat, it was both elaborate and baffling.

Rooberg took the offered cloths. They looked like something he might use to polish metal for an extra shine. "Coverings," he repeated, unsure to what he was agreeing.

The intruder jerkily pointed down towards a leg. "Cover. Knee. From gaze of. The Evil. Ones." The words were delivered hesitantly, as if the speaker was unsure of its vocabulary...or how to use its own vocal apparatus.

"You want me to tie one of these over your knees?" asked Rooberg carefully to ensure he understood the request.

"Yessssss," hissed the Borg.

Rooberg cautiously knelt and wrapped the yellow rags around the joints, fastening each in a perky bow. When an elbow was thrust in his face, he dutifully repeated the action.

As if the final knot was a cue, the drone's eye drifted off, looking at sights only it could see. Without a word, it lurched away, heading in a not-so-straight line towards the door used to enter the hold. Rooberg shrugged, stood up, stretched both arms over his head while arching his back, then returned to the table.

"Less than five minutes," informed Rooberg as he regained his position. The dagger was removed and restored to the platter. Under the table, Dust Bucket noisily compressed his periscope.

Huffed Second, "What was with the kneeling and miming in the air. Some type of cultural 'stretch'?"
            Rooberg ignored the challenging tone. Had Second truly not seen the odd drone? At that moment, said drone noisily careened off the doorway as it plunged into the hallway, but elicited not a glance in its direction. Perhaps his opponents really had not perceived it. "Yes. I stretched. It was very cultural. Let's play poker."

101 of 152 began to shuffle her cards again, only to stop as a well-placed metal-encased foot smacked against an equally armored shin.

"Yes, let's play poker. Without any more breaks or other small being antics."

*****

The hunt was on!

Upon the virtual realm, hunter-seekers dug through the deep dataspaces as they sniffed out blocs of dubious code, goaded on by Weapons and his hierarchy. While leashed and muzzled to ensure important code was left unmolested, it was inevitable that projects important to someone would be disrupted. Complaints were flung towards command and control as illegitimate code and, occasionally, poorly composed permissible script was tagged before being sundered by unreal fangs. In the case of the former, the response was such code wasn't allowed anyway; and for the latter, the accuser was informed that if their work was sloppy enough to be mistaken for viral spoor, then perhaps a primer or perusal of the help files was suggested.

In the hallways of Cube #347, amid the corridors and rooms near Bulk Cargo Hold #3, sensory hierarchy drones stumbled. Viewing the universe via perceptions alien to native physiology was not new, raw sensor grid data processed through radically upgraded and altered neurology. However, the adjustments to sensorium required to perceive Drone 1 through the Veil's shroud did not lend well to simultaneous use of limbs in a coordinated manner.

From the nexus point of his nodal intersection, Captain watched (and coordinated) the machinations of the hunt for the mislaid drone. One very large part of him strongly desired Second to be lending his assistance. Despite the very capable minds of the other Hierarchy of Eight members, as well as multiple key drone resources high in the command and control echelon, Second had a certain flair in ensuring efficiency. Unfortunately, he remained engaged in his poker game. On the upside, both Borg competitors were out of the tournament, leaving behind the Alliancer; and without need to maintain his firewall against probes from cybernetic opponents, Second was now cognizant of the Drone 1 issue and was lending spare runtime cycles. Alas, he also refused to completely engage because (1) the situation wasn't a true emergency to force his reintegration and (2) he would be done in an hour or so. Second could not win too fast, else Rooberg would be more suspicious than he already clearly was.

Captain grumbled to himself, unaware as the frustration was unconsciously vocalized. On the viewscreen, sweeps by the sensor drones were clearing cube volume as lacking Drone 1, symbolized as an increasing amount of blue tint in the space around Bulk Cargo Hold #3. Then again, even a small (faux) Borg vessel such as an Exploratory-class was immense and it was taking time for the hunters to careen their way through the search grid.

As he felt Daisy's feather-light presence sweep through his surface thoughts, Captain knew he was playing a dangerous game. Perhaps not "dangerous", per se, but certainly one with consequences should he be caught. Like any Borg drone, he had the capability to multitask; and as a high echelon command and control unit, that ability was well developed. He was also imperfectly assimilated. The Ven diagram intersection of multitasking and the state of imperfect assimilation occasionally resulted in the former being utilized for disingenuous purposes. For instance, the disguising cognitive threads, often centered about an individual neuroses, beneath a shell of normal mental activity. Doctor was an exemplary example of the technique in action, very good at hiding his pet collections until one of the critters inevitably did something that brought its existence to the attention of the sub-collective. Captain rarely bothered to exercise the ability, the relevant examples of usage found in the far past when he tried to hide illicit viewscreens from Collective notice. However, he employed it now, shrouding certain intentions from Daisy, who had no experience with Captain having utilized this particular gambit previously.

Captain maintained the surface illusion of focus to find Drone 1. It was not a lie...not precisely, for finding Drone 1 was vital for multiple reasons. The inability of internal sensors (and unaltered unit perceptions) to see Drone 1 was not overtly obscured as the result of the active prototype Veil currently glommed to the half-processed unit, but neither was it broadcast. An early consensus cascade seeded to suggest additional possible causes as to the sensor malfunction had insinuated a minor virus triggering the issue as a side-effect of its existence. While of low probability at less than 0.5%, Captain had utilized his position to amplify that output and weight consensus, so much so that Weapons was allowed to go virus hunting. The dataspace mess-in-progress by the hunter-seekers was worth it as a diversion for Daisy, even as it was false. That duplicity was what Captain hid from Daisy beneath the surface veneer of coordination; and he also hid how the Veil could scramble drone perceptions and internal sensors. It seemed to be working because, thus far, Daisy had classified the fervor around Drone 1 to be an internal affair. As long as it retained that classification, Daisy would not be triggered  for closer scrutiny of sub-collective machinations around the Veil.

Technically, the Veil's side-effect was already divulged given Delta's earlier reaction while the Whole had been retracing the track of Drone 1. However, but one could only hope that the creative editing presently underway by trustworthy command and control units under the covering chaos of the virus hunt, along with minimization of the when and true why of Drone 1's loss after the visit to Analysis Shop #12, would be sufficient to allay suspicion. Computers were fallible be they fully sentient Personalities, barely self-aware AIs like Daisy, or fancy electronic abacuses; and information overload was one of the ways to sow confusion, degrade computer efficiency to link data points, else associate them in a manner to draw an erroneous conclusion.

Captain's attention shifted to 34 of 510 as it entered Supply Closet #28. The cube wireframe model on the viewscreen zoomed into the unit's position; and a picture-in-picture window was added to mirror the drone's visual perceptions. The fuzzy, false color image was ignored. Captain instead focused inward, unseeing of the stream-of-collective-consciousness pictorial reflection: 34 of 510 had found Drone 1.

The walls of Supply Closet #28 were draped in a multitude of quilts. Colorful pennants attached to ropes crisscrossed the space just above head level. In the back left corner of the closet was a tidy niche which included a sewing machine suitable for a user for whom sitting was uncomfortable. Baskets of colorful fabric swatches were piled on each other; and a quilt design was tacked to the wall. The "owner" of the space would be tracked down later. Much more important in this now was Drone 1 peering with obvious bewilderment at the absurdly complex sewing machine, a beast only tamable by the most accomplished of quilters.

34 of 510 approached Drone 1, perspective drunkenly swaying as not-quite-compatible bodged on hardware interfered with balance. In an anticlimactic finale to the long chase, 34 of 510 fell against the quarry while flailing at the Veil's housing, knocking both into the adjacent wall. The Veil's button was depressed; the device disengaged; Drone 1's transceiver abruptly became visible to conventional internal sensors; a quilt detached from the wall, fluttering down to cover the pair.

{Hurrah,} dully proclaimed 34 of 510. {Could I be transported to drone maintenance and have this crap ripped out of my head? I'd almost rather be processing sensor grid data from Sensors' delta-three settings. I might be at risk to sustain a fourth brain hemorrhage in ten cycles, but at least I'd be secure in my alcove while doing so.}

The in-depth re-examination of Drone 1 provided new information for both individual and species dossiers. As a result of the near complete twinning of key neurological features, the subject expressed what was tentatively classified as a parasitic personality. It was unclear if the manifestation was a one-off pertinent only to the individual, or a common occurrence for the species. Additional subjects were required for a conclusive determination. While future investigations would inform assimilation and processing details for the BoKaa, it did nothing to enlighten the current situation. The psychological and physical controls installed to harness Drone 1 were ineffective in regards to the parasite psyche; and because only a single neural transceiver could be installed per drone, the parasite could not be appropriately attuned to the Will of the Whole. It wasn't that secondary personalities were unknown, but the biological condition represented by Drone 1 was unique and would require experimentation designed by a Collective Mind with trillions to determine an appropriate solution. Without that resource, Drone 1 was best classified as uncontrollable – a rogue unit – which was an unacceptable situation.

The consensus had finally fully tilted to the conclusion of Drone 1 to be an Alliance (Vaerz) plant. (Echoed in the dataspace background: "One obvious spy to find now....") The question of the parasite's orders, how it would send observations and information to Vaerz, were unknown; and given the apparent insanity expressed by the parasite when cortical inhibitor was removed whilst suppressing Drone 1's primary personality, those answers would never be gained.

The first impulse of the sub-collective was to euthanize the failed drone, to remove Vaerz's spy, to eliminate the rogue. Before that solution could be acted upon, a point of derision was inserted into the consensus process, the sketch of a plan initiated by Captain, Second (returned from a successful poker game), and others of a conniving mindset whom had a liking for the political spy-thriller entertainment genre. The offering was considered by the Whole, mulled upon, and finally accepted. Drone 1 would be removed from Cube #347; and while the solution would not be immediately fatal to the subject, the potential for death remained elevated. If the long-shot gambit was successful, great; and if not, nothing would be lost. At the very least, it was a fitting response given Vaerz's attempt to insert a spy in the first place.

The next priority was to determine which of the remaining not-so-innocent volunteers was a hidden spy to be found later, else never to be unearthed at all.

*****

Rooberg yawned. Pulling an all-nighter was nothing new for any halfway competent engineer. Normally, however, such a campaign would be to support a time-sensitive endeavor like troubleshooting (and fixing) communal bathroom facilities to take the pressure off the single working commode before day shift woke up. A poker game against time-displaced cybernetic beings who were undoubtedly calculating how a certain Talon Spanner might best fit within their little society whilst simultaneously flourishing a quad of overlords had been both exhilarating and tiring, the latter physically and mentally. And now he had to prepare for what he expected to be the final E-Tac nest sing-a-long before Vaerz collected the output of the Veil testing and decamped to a secret Alliance research base.

On the upside, unlike his prior positions, here he was the Mission Talon Spanner. Even more importantly, he had three more-than-competent individuals under him. For routine maintenance matters, even minor emergencies, his staff could function quite well without his constant presence looming like a brooding Sarcoram parent. Therefore, he was more than happy to delegate the remainder of the day shift while he took time to sleep and recover.

Another yawn. Of course, he still needed to survive the E-Tac meeting. A stimulant was unadvisable, not unless he wished to spend half his downtime afterwards staring at the ceiling of his quarters, unable to sleep. It was better to persevere, even if his mental facilities were not at their best as he skimmed too many dry reports with spreadsheets filled with arcane E-Tac formulas and outputs. The personalities who gravitated towards E-Tac never seemed to understand a simple graph would go further than a bullet point text block in providing a succent summarization.

Thoughts inevitably slipped to the recently concluded poker game.

Following the confusing episode with the maybe-ill drone demanding rags to be tied about its elbow and knees, 186 of 300 had been forced to declare insolvency. It had been expected, neither play nor cheating acumen sufficient to keep him in the game. What form that cheating had entailed – to not try to gain an advantage at Ysadin-clan variant Vor poker was unthinkable – was something Rooberg did not know. Perhaps it had all been upon the virtual battleground the Borg waged with each other; perhaps the precautions Rooberg had taken had nullified 186 of 300's planned gambits against his T'sap adversary. Whatever the reality, the result was 186 of 300 folding with a sigh, stepping away from the table, and vanishing via transporter with nary a word of leave-taking.

186 of 300's final contribution to the pot had gone to Second when he won the hand.

Next to fall had been 101 of 152.

It was upon 101 of 152's turn at dealer that Rooberg had espied the slightest of fumbles as a card was dealt from the bottom of the deck. Rooberg knew the drone belonged to drone maintenance; and, as such, she not only retained both hands, but also displayed a high degree of dexterity with them. She had flamboyantly shuffled and dealt when it was her turn to handle the deck, but Rooberg had not noticed the more malicious side of the showboat card tricks until the bogus deal. Not to say such hijinks had not been happening all along, just no obvious mistakes had been made until that point.

Rooberg had not said anything, content to watch as the hand had continued, 101 of 152 obsessively reordering her cards as usual. It was only when the deck had circled the trio another two times, and Rooberg's chip pile had begun to shrink at an alarming rate with many of the pots going to 101 of 152, that the next indication of cheating had arose.

"Boss!" had hissed Dust Bucket from below the table. "Boss!"

"What?" Rooberg had replied distractedly, focus on trying to discern his opponents' likely hands as the second community card – eleven of devil spawn – had initiated a flurry of discards, buying of new cards, and bet raising by both Second and 101 of 152.

"The old cards...they ain't right."

Rooberg's eyes had flicked to the auxiliary table where the recently retired deck, having finished its regulation ten rounds of play, was stacked neatly next to similar ones also discarded. He sensed, more than saw, Second pause to look towards the cards, followed several long seconds later by 101 of 152.

"How so? Something show up on the scanner?"

"No, not that way, boss. Scanner thinks they are clean. It's just...they smell wrong. You be all scent blind, boss, everyone not Crastian. Your weird fleshy noses just don't stand a chance next to antennae, no offense. The cards stink, but not in the right stinky way." It had been obvious the crab was attempting to explain a concept that wasn't being correctly rendered through the universal translator. "They smell like the Borg across from you."

Rooberg had lifted his eyes to gaze directly at 101 of 152, who in turn stared placidly back. Second had also shifted attention to the drone. No longer did Rooberg attempt to hold a side conversation, "101 of 152 has been holding the cards. The should smell like her, as well as myself and Second."

Dust Bucket had rocked back and forth, unseen under the table except for when he heavily bumped into Rooberg's shins. Legs clattered against each other. "Yes and no. The stink is...too strategic? Too coordinated? Too unique? Too <untranslatable>." A click-squeal of native language had passed the translator, signifying a word without translation, nor even a close concept, in Sarcoram or Tyee-colony T'sap. "It just isn't right."

"Maybe, then, I should invoke my right to challenge the discarded pack?" There were serious consequences to the action Rooberg had suggested should the accusation be proved false. Such was to discourage a losing player from frivolous claims of cheating which might lead to game delay.

101 of 152 had provided no response, cards held completely motionless against breast for once, not even a flutter of finger. Out of the corner of his eye, Rooberg had caught a faint frown and tensing of facial muscles by Second. Both unaltered eyes and, presumably, optic assembly had become tightly focused on 101 of 152.

"Hell, why not? I have a tattoo I never liked if I lose the challenge." To lose was to have a five square centimeter of epidermis flensed. "101 of 152, I think I'll have Dust Bucket take a closer look at that old deck. Or, rather, sniff."

Dust Bucket had scuttled out from beneath the table to approach the table with the suspect deck. An extendible plastic pincher apparatus, such as might be used to pick up something better left untouched by bare hands, had risen into sight, accompanied by the periscope. Adroitly utilized in tandem, the card deck under discussion had been collected.

Spoke Dust Bucket a few moments later, "Boss, these cards definitely ain't right. There be weird scent concentrations." Pause. "And some of the edges look...ragged?"

As one, Rooberg and Second had shared a glance, followed by a redirection to 101 of 152's neatly trimmed claws. One did not need to have technological-bestowed mind reading to know the thoughts of the other. Second put his cards down on the table, placing the ceremonial dagger atop. "Display your hands, now." The voice was one of absolute command; and 101 of 152 had shuddered slightly before slowly complying.

101 of 152 had finally admitted her cheating scheme. In addition to duplicitous dealing techniques, possible amongst the drone players because she was the only one with whole hands and the appropriate degree of dexterity, she had employed natural scent markings from finger glands and carefully shredded card edges with her claws. The latter two components to her deception had occurred during her seeming irrelevant, if annoying, card fidgeting. In fact, she had not started the marking until well into the game, in the event her excessive shuffling garnered early suspicion. 101 of 152 had obviously felt the low-tech cheating method to be viable, especially given the fact none of her opponents had sensitive olfactory organs. And it would have worked, too, except for Dust Bucket's presence as Rooberg's observer.

The traditional punishment for being caught at cheating in Vor poker, any style, was to use a ceremonial dirk to mark the face. The historical purpose of such was to create a scar and, thus, show everyone that an individual hadn't been sneaky enough to not be caught. 101 of 152 had rolled her eye as she had dutifully slid the knife along her face, the cut healing nearly as fast as it was made, with no scar. Task complete, she had transported from the hold.

In the end, Second had won.

As the inevitable had crept closer and the pots, especially the larger ones, were claimed most often by Second, Rooberg had wondered how the other was doing it. True, the drone could have just been a superior poker player, could just have been relying on his technological grafts to read Rooberg's carefully schooled body reactions, but such an explanation seemed too neat. And then there also had been the slightest of grins which colored the Borg's face, one which seemed tailored to twinge T'sap nerves even as Second was clearly an alien species with presumably alien body language. It was a grin which only became more evident as the game drew on.

From his hidden spy network, Rooberg had gained no advantage. The one-way transmission meant he could not ask his spies to look for anomalies, but he also knew that if anything obvious had been happening that he would have been so informed. Also, whereas the vantages had gained occasional useful information for the cards held by 186 of 300 and 101 of 152, such had never been equally true in regards to Second. In fact, the entire game had seen the drone holding his cards, when they were potentially visible, just so...and always just so such that all vantages were obstructed. The grin had grown fractionally larger during the occasional relay to Rooberg, as if the drone could hear the unidirectional transmission, but no accusation had ever been voiced. More than one query to Daisy had confirmed that she saw no challenge to the measures Rooberg had insisted pre-game to prevent Borg sensor hanky-panky.

The last hand had finally been played; and the pot had gone to Second. It wasn't even a dominant final hand, Rooberg's cards good, but overall unimpressive; and Second's hand just sufficient to beat it. That, in itself, had been somewhat suspicious. However, Rooberg had also recognized it very well could have been happenchance, the luck of the cards.

"All done," had said Second. "Interesting game. We should do it again."

Rooberg had narrowed his eyes. By his feet, Dust Bucket had been noisily grooming arms and antennae. "But not Vor poker."

"Agreed. Not Vor poker. It is too simple. I have sent your inbox a primer on Andorian battlechess. If you like what you see, I will provide a link to the dataspace address for additional information."

"I'll take a look when I have time."

"Good. If it piques your interest, and you feel sufficiently confident after several months of training games, perhaps we might even discuss wagers of something more interesting and substantial than resin chips and bragging rights. And as diverting as this game has been, I do have duties to attend." Second had thence summarily vanished amid the green-tinged visual effects Rooberg had first noticed several weeks prior, dissimilar from the Alliance standard.

Rooberg had peered down at Dust Bucket. "Ready to go back to the Mission?" The Crastian had voiced his assent, as well as a desire to take a nap; and upon request to Daisy, the AI had transported both out of Bulk Cargo Hold #3.

Which brought Rooberg back to his office in this now of yawns and boring reports. Back in the Talon Spanner office, he had learned of the shifting schedule as E-Tac declared the Veil testing complete and readiness to close out the campaign. Either that, or Vaerz had decided for them because the agent was finished flying his course here and was ready to soar back to the home-aerie with the test outputs. The latter was the more likely scenario as E-Tac, given permission, could gleefully concoct new variants upon the pre-designated tests until the heat death of the universe.

A particularly dry segment describing the results of Veil coherency – i.e., the target object maintaining its disguise – under different sub-scenarios of sensor polarization utilizing Combine protocols found Rooberg beginning to nod off. This would not do, not at all. Despite his earlier resolution to forego stimulants, his will was wavering. Rooberg tapped his eltab to bring forth the file summaries, noting the current report was (maybe) one of the more stimulating. While the abstract detailing issues encountered during testing, most of them involving torpedoes or energy weapons of various flavors, might actually be a good read, the rest were mind-numbing at best. It seemed coffee would be the only thing between him going to the E-Tac meeting in an upright stance as a thinking entity, or rudely snoring through the whole thing. As diverting as the latter thought might be, perhaps he could limit himself to a half-strength cup? Rooberg glanced through the summaries again...nope, full strength it had to be.

*****

The alarm woke Vaerz from a shallow, troubled sleep. The gentle beeping was not an emergency klaxon, only the notification that he needed to get up and start another overly long day. One stretch, two. Already the blurry dream of dimly lit hallways, pursuing shapes, whirs and clanks, and whispers on the edge of comprehension was fading. Self-medication was the downfall of many in his profession; and Vaerz tried his best to minimize it. However, some duties, even when self-assigned, were worse than others...and he wondered if another half pill might be warranted, at least to chase away some of the nightmares. Heedless of Vaerz's musings, the alarm continued its insistent beep, and would until he actually got out of his nest-bed. The computer was under strict orders not to change the setting, no matter how much he complained.

Upright with both feet on the floor, the noise ceased.

"Sir," spoke Daisy's voice, "I have a message for you from Captain."

Vaerz allowed himself a groan. In the privacy of his borrowed quarters, certain gadgets ensured cybernetic peeping-toms could not intrude. Just what he didn't need immediately in the subjective morning, at least not until he had acquired a cup of T'sap coffee or other mild (and legal) stimulant. "What is it?"

"Captain asks for you to meet him at your convenience in Assimilation Workshop #7."

Another grumble. That particular location was the purgatory he had spent too much time in over the last week, watching the hellish transformation of individuals into Borg peons. The graphic, albeit dry, descriptions harvested from assimilation hierarchy drones during inquisition sessions as to the process had not waved a feather at the reality of the experience. Except for a few final additions and tweaks, he had thought the torture, at least the part he could comprehend, was done.

"Any notion what is up, Daisy?" Coffee would not be a sufficiently fast-acting drug. A wake-me-up was required. He hated those things. Too much use led to addiction, which in turn necessitated a trip to a very discrete physician who could chemically disrupt the dependency. The unfortunate and not-so-minor side-effect of the injection was a massive days-long migraine paired with nausea no Sarcoram, a creature of scavenger descent and known for their neutronium-lined stomach when it came to foods of questionable quality, should expect to tolerate.

Thus far in his career, Vaerz had needed the procedure on three occasions.

There was a short pause by the AI, probably because it was socially expected, not because the computer had suddenly slowed its thought processes to biological speeds. "Unclear, sir. A big feather-squawk arose about seven hour ago, shortly after you went to bed. It seemed to be an internal affair, such as the sub-collective is prone to, and unlikely to spill out to impact the Mission. Therefore, I monitored, but did not wake either you or Rani. It all died down about two hours ago; and an hour later Captain sent his request. As Captain did not label it an 'emergency', it seemed prudent to allow your rest to continue. You don't get enough of it as it is. Shall I inform Rani?"

Vaerz waved a talon-tipped hand in the air in a dismissive gesture. "Is Rani awake or abed?"

"Bed."

Sigh. No one in his, or Rani's, position ever got sufficient sleep. "Wake her. Tell her I'll be at her office in twenty minutes. Also tell Captain that I'll be at the workshop in an hour from now. Since it isn't an 'emergency', I'll take my sweet time going there."

"As you wish, sir."

"And look a bit more into the squawk...I want an initial incident summary available when I meet with Rani." Pause. "And who won the poker game, anyway? It was well underway when I took my downtime."

"Yes, sir. And Second did, sir."

"Rooberg obviously didn't cheat well enough," muttered Vaerz to himself as he turned towards the travel duffel with its meds and semi-clean clothing.

Vaerz stared at the naked body which lay quiescent on the metal slab of a workbench. He carefully maintained his composure, aware of the scrutiny of unblinking Borg gazes. One eye was missing; the right arm was truncated between elbow and shoulder; and a metal plate covered the top of the skull. The BoKaa's thick, leathery skin with its covering of scales was laced with the crisscrossing track of scars of the type left behind by a cellular welder applied with no consideration of the cosmetic result. The scars were especially dense upon chest and abdomen, but also tracing the limbs. So, so many scars! As an incongruous afterthought, three bits of yellow cloth were tied around both knees and remaining elbow.

Only the glacially slow rise and fall of the chest indicated the sentient to be alive. Even his skin, as viewed through semi-transparent scales, was a pallid grey more fitting for a corpse...or a Borg. A device Vaerz recognized as a cortical inhibitor was clamped to the side of the body's neck.

"You were adamant when I delivered the volunteers that insurmountable problems would result in lethal disposal. Why is this one still alive? Or did you bring me here just to show me the dispatch?" Vaerz kept his tone level.

Said Captain, "If this failure was to be recycled, it would already have been done. We came to a different conclusion in this instance." No further justification or explanation was offered.

The other drone present – Assimilation – stepped forward to gesture at the body. "Neurological...incompatibilities emerged during final processing. It is unclear if the condition is inherent in the species or a quirk of the specimen. Without more samples – a minimum of several thousand is recommended – we cannot be sure." There was a slight pause. "Nanites are denatured and flushed from this specimen. As much supporting hardware as possible is removed. Some metabolic implants had to remain, but are expected to be rejected or become redundant in time as normal body processes rebalance." The terse summary was delivered in the monotone voice of someone enumerating the contents of a box containing five years of hardcopy tax returns. Only by purposefully programming a computer voice could a less enthused tone be produced, and even then it would be a challenge.

Vaerz raised his eyes from the body to stare at Captain. "Anything else I should know?"

"He is expected to be a bit...psychologically disconnected when he is allowed to waken from the artificial coma. There will also be pain. It is strongly suggested you do not remove the inhibitor until you have appropriate support facilities." Pause. "The rags should also be left in place."

"Does Borg Studies know about this...failure?"

"No."

"Then he'll be transferred directly to Zhong when I am ready to leave. E-Tac's hatchling play time is done and I expect I'll be heading home in the next day or so. What circumstance led to this outcome?"

As usual, Captain, as a Borg, was not offput by the abrupt change in topics. "It is too inefficient to explain verbally. Since you are a rather limited small being unable to directly incorporate multi-dimensional memes into your mental space, a report will be provided. The report is in the process of finalization and will be delivered to you via a secured eltab within the hour."

Vaerz grunted and fought the inclination to roll his eyes. He settled for sardonically gaping his beak and briefly flaring neck ruff. "There better be pictures and words of three syllables or less for this rather limited small being. Large print and audio clips would be helpful, too."

::Daisy, is there an update from your earlier briefing to myself and Rani on what did happen?::

::Nothing significant. The sub-collective is now aware, after the fact, that SnalBee harbored a fully developed non-natal personality. Secondary, even tertiary, personalities are apparently a known condition, both natural and artificially induced; and assimilation hierarchy has tentatively linked SnalBee's species dossier to several extant entries, refinement pending research, vivisection, and additional assimilations.:: Vaerz actively suppressed the shudder of revulsion that threatened to raise his ruff. ::SnalBee's mind-twin emerged – internal conjecture is focused upon assimilation trauma causing the psychosis – and took control of the body, then vacated the workshop. He wandered around before vanishing from internal sensors and drone perceptions. Because I rely on those same inputs for my external awareness, I also could not sense SnalBee. The speculation floating to the surface of consensus is a virus picked up who-knows-where. The virus was untargeted, just a malicious code snippet that serendipitously modified the wrong thing. A campaign to eliminate suspicious code is recently completed; and it seems to have worked, returning all perceptions to normal, although there are a number of individual protests that personal projects were disrupted. I have scanned myself thoroughly for contamination, but found nothing within my firewalls or Mission dataspaces. The Borg report will have details from their perspective; and I will update my earlier briefing with new developments.::

::You think of everything, Daisy. Thank you.::

Throughout the short exchange, Captain's expression remained a relaxed deadpan. That in itself was a tell because the other's face was typically more animated unless he was purposefully suppressing facial muscular movements. Rani had already conferred to Vaerz that the sub-collective had hacked encrypted exchanges between Mission personnel. There were back-up ciphers, of course, but they would only be initiated in an emergency. Therefore and for now, one just had to assume Captain, the sub-collective, had heard everything during his exchanges with Daisy and act accordingly.

And also assume he knew that they knew, ad nauseum. One would also assume the particular fiction that neither knew the other was aware would continue until reason presented for otherwise.

Asked Vaerz, "Are we done here? I've an E-Tac meeting to attend in less than an hour. The mental preparation alone to deal with the personalities involved is taxing."

Sighed Captain, face once more reflecting some component of his inner self, "I heartily agree. We have consensus on that topic."

*****

Vaerz...relaxed. The passenger accommodations maintained by Zhong were simple, but Vaerz had traveled in much worse over the course of his career. By comparison, these quarters felt luxurious. Even more luxurious was the wind-blessed quiet. Zhong was a perceptive host, quite willing to let a frazzled spy have his me-time without chatter; and the other passenger back to Alliance-controlled space was in no condition to talk. Vaerz was thus in the rare position to sit back, let feathers and tail droop, and just take it easy.

Naturally, decades of habitual paranoia made thoughts flutter out of the restful high sky to roost like so many chittering rock-hoppers.

The Veil testing had progressed adequately. Even though not all bullet points in the master list had been completed, the tech-heads at Base Eighteen would be pleased. The next step in the secret program undoubtedly included esoteric tweaks, followed by much fun assessing the real-life acumen of rival government espionage platforms in the Base Eighteen system to see through the technology. However, to stay longer on Cube #347 and finish all experiments, to let the mismatch of personalities go from simmer to boil, was not required, at least not at this time. Vaerz had acquired a good feeling of the dynamics at play. There would be long thoughts and much discussion with Borg Studies and intra-species psychologists back at Home Nest, but he nonetheless anticipated a smoother process for future E-Tac Special Assignments.

And, as far as the other project, only time would tell. The poor bastard(s) comatose in the small medical bay Zhong included as part of his passenger accommodation space was proof that Vaerz had underestimated the Borg and the sheer brutality of assimilation. He daren't remove the cortical inhibitor (or the odd fabrics), trusting that the warning provided by Captain was accurate and, perhaps, even an understatement. SnalBee, or what was left of him and his mind-twin, would vanish into the quarantine spaces of Base Three where the sub-collective had been first housed and processed. Vaerz was of the personal thought that it might be best to dispatch the fellow(s) and lie through his beak about an unfortunate accident, but a tentative query via an expensive add-on service supplied by Zhong had provided direction to deliver SnalBee to his fate. One could only hope that stupid mistakes would not be made. Unfortunately, Vaerz's capacity for that particular subcategory of hope had been lost long ago.

The chittering rock-hoppers scattered, allowing Vaerz to rustle his feathers and refocus on the book which was held in one hand.

Vaerz had recently fallen into a new (for him) genre of seemingly endless serial novels, a hard-boiled noir detective fantasy world which bore little resemblance to reality. He loved it and looked forward to the moments of escapism when he could find it. The books, while widely distributed on electronic format media, were of a type best appreciated with a physical version, one purposefully replicated with a cheap, mass-produced, third-talon bookstore feeling. Vaerz thusly leaned back in his chair, turning the page to the next chapter of "Jumba the Wise Lizard and the Case of the Hidden Spies," eager to see what adventure the detective would tackle next.

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