Grand chef Paramount (Global) created the original Star Trek seven-course meal. Meanwhile, short-order cook Decker laid out a Star Traks family-style meal. Meneks is too busy to bother with cooking, and so ordered BorgSpace take-out from the dodgy noodle house down the street.

Hail to the Chef

"Eighty-two!"

Captain heaved a relieved sigh as the last of the atonal power chords faded from loudspeaker and internal perception. The sub-collective was largely united in echoing his sentiment, thousands of quasi-individuals glad for the aural torture to cease. Unlike the seventeen previous proddings of the Xenig code knot which armored the pre-Prime Commands, the most recent composition had been recognized.

Consensus: a cover instrumental of "We're Going To Borg You Up", written and first performed by First Person Plural.

So many questions....

First Person Plural was a very defunct band - terminology loosely applied - once upon a time comprised of five drones originating from the same sub-collective which now crewed Alliance-built Cube #347. The band had been broken following a misadventure better left forgotten; and of the original members, only three survived, with one having terminated well before Cube #347's tragic final moments and another not recovering from the stressful aftermath of temporal resurrection. By all rights, First Person Plural should have been consigned to the forgotten annals of history, not even warranting a footnote in the most niche of niche sub-subspecialty retrospectives where ten prints or views would be considered a rousing success.

Yet, after over fifty thousand Cycles and a Galactic Dark Age whereupon entire civilizations had progressed from rock tools to warp-capable spaceships, the mutated, yet still recognizable, strains of a First Person Plural song had assaulted the very sub-collective which had birthed it.

The Xenig who had crafted the pre-Prime Commands, and the code which guarded it, was probably laughing its metallic ass off given the irony.

Which, unfortunately, still did not answer the underlying unknown of how a First Person Plural song had survived and, more frighteningly, beget the question if the remainder of the catalogue was still out there. Was more First Person Plural loaded as special "surprises" should the sub-collective not be able to curtail nudging the protective code? And who or what had the bad taste to keep the music alive in the first place?

Captain grabbed at the thread and shredded it. Such an action never completely halted all introspection, but it at least would dismiss it from the primary communal consciousness. The sub-collective had its efficiency challenges as it was; and such contemplations were distracting at the best and paralytic at worst.

A command and control partition was gathered, once again, to determine how the prohibitions against jabbing the pre-Prime Command code protections had been compromised; and, once again, add to or recraft those prohibitions to ensure that "Eighty-one!" was never heard.

Approximately ten cycles prior, Cube #347 sensors had registered the recent wake of an early generation warp drive. As per standing protocol, the wake had been tracked to a nearby star, whereupon a small, yet bustling, mining colony had been found. The overawed governor - the second-favored offspring of a moderately important sub-clan family leader - had (eventually) provided coordinates to the home system, professing the entire time the honor of making initial contact with the first alien its species had ever encountered. Rani had been the polite face representing Cube #347, which was for the best because while the Borg method of extracting the same data was faster, it was also much more aggressive and not the way to make new friends.

In truth, the coordinates had not been necessary to locate the race's home system. Borg-retuned sensors, more accurate than the hardware originally installed, albeit still an order of magnitude from desired acuity, were quite able to scan for additional warp wakes. A second option was a brute-force search of systems most likely to contain life-bearing terrestrial planets within a designated volume centered on the mining colony. But the coordinates had been acquired; and to the coordinates Cube #347 went.

After several cycles of lurking at the edge of the target system, gathering what could be learnt from afar, Cube #347 had been directed to openly proceed inward towards the verdant world which was the ultimate goal. It also transpired to be a planet grappling with an overabundance of satellites, active and nonfunctional, and abandoned trash, especially at the equator and in geosynchronous orbits. Therefore, Cube #347 had settled into a distantly looping polar orbit which avoided most of the debris.

Thence had begun the courtship dance of discussions, negotiations, and general conversation between the Mission and the Graid government.

The Alliance neither subscribed to a "Prime Directive" equivalent nor prohibited contact with pre-warp civilizations. That said, the Alliance also preferred to interact with peoples whom had broken the FTL barrier, they much more likely to offer potential trade opportunities beyond artisanal crafts and the latest in buggy whip or sword technology. One of the primary objectives of the Mission was to meet new races and civilizations beyond the current ken of the Alliance, to introduce the Alliance as a benevolent entity open to trade. Trade and other exchanges thus paved the way to military installations such as listening posts or small support bases, and maybe eventual membership into the Alliance, thereby extending the Alliance's formal influence and reach. The Mission embedded on Cube #347 was not authorized to negotiate trade alliances, but could gage willingness and set the stage for a follow-up mission which could arrive a year (or a decade) from the now.

The sub-collective had classified the Graid civilization to have recently attained warp capability and, therefore, unlikely to offer unique technology to further the Whole. Due to inability (prohibition) to acquire "samples" and thereby confirm lack of biological or technological uniqueness, the sub-collective had declared the Alliance machinations as irrelevant. The normal course of Borg standard operating procedure would have been to return every decade or so to check civilization progress, but to not expect anything worthwhile for at least a century, likely two. Thence into this dismissive boredom had ensued the latest attempt to penetrate the pre-Prime Command code armor.

"Captain, have you been listening?" Rani's voice interrupted Captain's focus on how a 'Double-Targ-Dare-You' game had spiraled out of control, thereby causing the most recent Incident. He briefly contemplated ignoring the question, but a warning prickle from Daisy suggested to do such was not prudent.

"We are always listening," replied Captain. Currently ensconced in his nodal intersection, he blinked and focused on the viewscreen. A picture-in-picture view of Rani expanded to fill half the screen. Captain twisted his head back and forth, then swung right arm, followed by lifting one foot, then the other. Diagnostics grumbled in regards to the time Captain had spent overly still outside of an alcove, recommending more vigorous stretching.

Rani clicked her beak in consternation. "No, not the capital You, but you, the individual."

In fact, Captain had not been listening to the exchanges between Mission and Graid government. There was no reason and he had no personal interest, other items of higher priority clamboring for his attention. The discussions, had, of course, been monitored by a subset of the sub-collective Self-assigned to do so, but as there had been no need to directly include the consensus monitor and facilitator in the task, all had happened in Captain's backmind. Far in his backmind. If there had been something requiring the decision-making leverage of higher echelon command processes, then he would have become involved.

"No," brusquely said Captain.

Rani's neck ruff lifted, then settled, in irritation. "Representatives of the Mission have been invited to the surface to take part in a welcome ceremony hosted by the Graid monarch. The position seems to be ceremonial - actual governance is a parliament of major and many minor clans - but obviously important all the same."

Captain stared at Rani's image, unclear how such an invitation involved him. And thus he said so in a few stilted words as a sped-up summary of Mission-Graid exchanges was uploaded into his working memory.

"Because the Master of Protocols was clear that the heads of all 'major clans, subclans, departments, or however you order your house and facility' should be present at the upcoming Banquet. I am building a list so the Master of Protocols knows who to expect. I will be representing the Mission and, by extension, the Alliance. With me will be Brunc as security head and Rooberg for general Mission staff. I'm still trying to decide which of the egos should represent the science nests, but I'm leaning towards Xenoarch Big Beak Julv. An executive decision has been made to not take any of the Crastians because that is a disaster waiting to happen. That leaves you to stand in for the Borg crew who actually chauffeur us around."

The meaning of the words sank in. "No," said Captain. "I have too much to do and you are Alliance. We are Borg."

"You are also Alliance. This ship, no matter how much you all contrive to mutilate it, is still Alliance. You were resurrected by Alliance science. You are Alliance."

"No."

"And, as I'm well aware, Mister gehr-Captain, you can consensus monitor perfectly well on the surface of the planet as you can while standing in your coffin or that nest room you haunt."

Captain knew it was an argument he would lose, but he was imperfectly assimilated and, thus, certain impulses were not quite filtered. "No."

"Yes, and that is the way it is going to be. Details will be released as soon as the Master of Protocols provides an outline of ceremonial expectations, or you can eavesdrop on the communications yourself."

"I cannot do what you demand. It is not physically possible. If this body eats anything, it will egest it. I do not have a functional digestive system. There are only a very few races, once assimilated, which retain the ability to digest food; and none of them are represented by the species in this sub-collective." The Graid Master of Protocols had sent the list of requirements for the grand welcome ceremony; and it was then that Captain had fully realized that the participants, including all alien Alliancers (and Borg), would be expected to eat at a banquet. Captain was in Rani's office, lodging his protest in person.

Rani made a perplexed face, the expression subtle given the general immobility inherent in a beaked creature sporting a bare head, the skin of which molded to the skull beneath. "Why 'egest'? That sounds so...medical. Science-medical, not medical-medical. Like something Borg Studies might spit out. Why not say 'barf' or 'vomit' or 'upchuck,' maybe even 'throw a slimer'?" Pause. Giggle. "That last one is Zhurma-colony T'sap. They have the bestest phrases for body functions. I don't even know what half actually mean given how the universal translator never quite converts the original correctly."

Captain refused to be diverted as Rani began to edge into the bubbly, affable Aeriemistress persona she presented much of the time to the Mission staff. "As I cannot eat, you must logically dismiss me from attending the banquet. To...barf...on the host's table will undoubtedly not reflect well on your small being aims to further Alliance influence."

"Unless it is one of those parties where one eats, pukes, and eats some more," replied Rani mildly. "In primary fledge school I was forced to read the history of various so-and-so cultures. I don't remember the Aerieland name, but that part stuck with me. Obviously it didn't catch on more generally because of the wasteful nature to throw up perfectly good food. That said, no, I don't get the impression the banquet will include ceremonial cookie tossing."

"Then I do not need to attend," stated Captain.

Rani clapped her beak. "I didn't say that. You will attend." An arm was waved. "I'm sure there is some disgusting body mod I'm better off not knowing about you - the plural you - can devise to allow you - the Captain you - to keep down food for at least a day or so. That would cover the banquet, ceremonial speeches, and anything else our Graid hosts deign appropriate."

Captain fumed, but refused to allow the emotion to show on his face.

"Great! From the sullen look in your eye, the one that can't decide to break my neck if given the chance, or assimilate me, I see we have agreement. And the agreement is that you will comply." Taloned hands clapped together. "We'll all be leaving for the surface via shuttle at 8th-hour ascent a day and a half from now, so plenty of time to figure out all the necessary adaptations for the banquet." Pause. "You still here? Well, transporter your tailless, metallic butt elsewhere because I have more important things to attend. Big Beak Frazu is complaining, again, about the hygiene facilities closest to the Planetary Exploration nest lab being closed as inopportune times. And I need to explain, again, that it isn't my problem to fix; and that there is always another facility open somewhere, even if it means going for a walk. Janitors are the first egg-cousins to engineers in vindictiveness and ability to make life miserable if one gets in their way...so I never question how often hygiene facilities are closed for cleaning. And if Frazu wishes to keep her feathers sleek, she won't either."

*****

Excerpt from "All Things Borg: A Primer (Version 2.1)" by Alliance Borg Studies. Reports compiled and abridged. Recommended reading material for all entities assigned to interact with Borg either directly or indirectly. Topic: gastrointestinal system.

-----

An interspecies commonality across Borg is the inability to eat. The physical act can be accomplished, but whatever solid or liquid consumed is egested (see experimental series 3.2). Even drones who profess to belong to a species with no or weak ability to regurgitate exhibit this universal reflex, indicating it to be "programmed" at some point during assimilation processing. As to be expected, there is individual tolerance to food and liquid, and some drones can consciously suppress the reflex for a time, but the end result is inevitable. Average time to egestion is 1.5 minutes, with solid items expelled faster than liquids. Plain water is tolerated the best.

Why the unusual response to eating and drinking? It is a side-effect of assimilation. When the assimilatory nanite load is introduced into a victim, a subset of the contents seek cells with a high turnover rate. Across species, these cells are most often found amid gastrointestinal, epidermal, and hematopoietic systems (i.e., digestive, skin, and blood/immune systems). These cells are preferentially colonized and converted into factories to make more nanites, thereby sustaining the initial assimilatory event. Adjustments made in the latter portion of assimilation processing usually focus self-production of nanites necessary to support drone health - 5' nanoprobes - to the gastrointestinal system, typically the portion of the bowel involved with nutrient absorption, although other early-colonized body system will continue to produce a meaningful number of the machines. Because the gastrointestinal cells are now devoting metabolic energy to constructing nanites, in addition to the normal replication/death cycle of high turnover, they are essentially nonfunctioning in regards to nutrient intake; and anything ingested will not be digested. Hence, the vomiting reflex to prevent accidentally (or purposefully) consumed foods and liquids from building up and decomposing, thereby leading to sepsis or other serious issue.

*****

Captain stood to the side of the surgical table he had recently occupied. His whole hand strayed to a segment of torso armor overlaying chest and upper abdomen, not that there was anything visually or tactilely different post-operation versus pre.

The double-click of incisors bade Captain to drop his hand and focus attention on Doctor, head of drone maintenance.

The oversized rodent held up his left hand, palm up. Onto it materialized a paper plate and, more importantly, a cube of pale brown cake-like substance. An odor of caramel and roasted nuts wafted from the object, overpowering the sharp, medicinal smells of Maintenance Bay #5. Right hand rose to mirror the left. On to this platform arrived a flat, hard-looking biscuit in the shape of a stylized bone. There was no obvious odor associated with this object.

"This-" left arm waggled "-is a fresh pastry donated by 120 of 203."

{Spice cake,} informed the ex-baker 120 of 203, {from an interesting Caltrak recipe. I've been experimenting with adding T'sap culinary spices to build a fusion cuisine. Mission personnel have thus far enjoyed most creations, although not the chicita pepper version. Only the Crastians liked that one, although they universally said that the heat factor could be raised by at least a magnitude to be properly appreciated.} Prior to resurrection, only a handful of units had regularly volunteered to partake of his baking. Most drones, however, did not enjoy the upchucking of consumed substances. Captain was amid this majority population.

Doctor brandished his right arm. "And this is a special puppy treat. Of the twenty-two pet treat replicator recipes which survived temporal resurrection intact, or mostly so, this one was always a favorite." Realization dawned on face and intranet presence that, perhaps, something might not have been relayed correctly. Or too much revealed. Verbal backpedaling commenced, "Not that there are any cute creatures aboard right now. Nope. Nothing at all. Nothing at all to try my treats. Very, very sad."

Captain narrowed his eye as he peered at Doctor. Unfortunately, now was not the time to follow up on suspicions. Theoretically there had been no opportunity for Doctor to indulge in the pet hoarding pursuit which formed the kernel of his assimilation imperfection manifestation, but he had proven to be very resourceful over the Cycles.

Doctor hurriedly thrust arms at Captain. "Chose one. Eat! I suggest the biscuit as the most yummy!"

Eyeballing the pet treat, Captain instead selected the plate with its cake cube. Doubtfully, he transferred the plate to a grasping pincher of his prosthetic arm, picked up the square with his right hand, then took a bite.

"Eat all of it! Down the hatch!" Doctor's ears were pricked forward. His emotive status clearly showed that he felt Captain had not chosen correctly, but was willing to let it pass.

Captain took a second bite. Then a third. He carefully chewed - not an action he was familiar with, purposeful eating abandoned deciCycles in the past - and swallowed.

{What did it taste like? Was it nutty? Maybe a hint of smoke amid the caramel?} eagerly asked 120 of 203.

{I wasn't paying attention to such irrelevancies,} replied Captain, focus inward to a certain portion of his anatomy.

120 of 203 huffed in disbelief and disappointment, then withdrew.

Captain did not puke. He continued to not puke. There was no sensation of burgeoning rejection. It was a novel sensation, and more than a bit disturbing for a being who honestly could not recall the act of eating despite having spent twenty-three Moytite-standard years of his pre-assimilation life having done so.

A drone - 59 of 203, assimilation hierarchy - stepped forward. He gently pushed Doctor (and his biscuit) out of the way to take center stage in front of Captain. Present throughout surgery and current post-op examination, his demeanor was much less forward than that of Doctor.

Captain received a wordless command. He acquiesced to the directive, lifting chin up and slightly to the side, thus bearing his neck. 59 of 203 placed a hand upon Captain's collarbone; and upon triggering assimilation tubules, he felt a small prick on his neck as they burrowed through body suit and into skin, rapidly worming through flesh to make connection with a subset of the artificial nerves that threaded through his spinal column. After a minute or so, 59 of 203 stepped back, distancing himself from Captain.

"The deconstructors are working as intended," informed 59 of 203. The simple pronouncement was accompanied by a moderately dense datastream detailing output of the status check he had performed. Captain largely ignored the datablock even as Doctor grabbed at it, glanced through the outputs, then appended it to Captain's personal maintenance file.

"I continue to dislike the idea of deconstructors," stated Captain.

Doctor clicked his teeth. "If you'ums can come up with a different feasible plan to allow you to yum-yum up the banquet, let us hear it! There was limited time to develop a solution and this is what consensus settled upon."

Grumbled Captain: "I know. I still don't like it. I don't have to like it."

59 of 203 rolled his eyes. "You, every drone, always have deconstructors in your body. They are sentinels, tasked to search and destroy obvious pathogens, as well as alert for additional immune response."

Captain muttered, "That is different. There are only a few tens of thousands of them so programmed at any time and they are aligned with my body systems. I now have an additional half billion devices which originate from the nanite growth vats, reprogrammed to allow me to display the semblance of eating." Pause. "What if they escape?"

Another eye roll of exasperation. "What if? Assimilation may impart a degree of suicidal depression upon my hierarchy, but we are competent. The nanites are programmed to deconstruct to a precursor slurry any organic substance you swallow, as they did for the spice cake. It is a variation of similar programming when in the vat environment. They will not attack the silicopolymer sack currently lining your stomach. And even if the sack somehow ruptured, the nanites have a base program to ignore organics with a Borg signature. If such wasn't so, then none from my hierarchy could stick a limb into a comet slurry or reclamation vat to check nanite balance because it would be dissolved. You are perfectly safe. And if you do feel concern, you can always transmit a signal to suspend the deconstructors."

All drones could communicate with their nanites, to send instructions or review status outputs. However, some were more facile than others. Assimilation hierarchy members, by dint of their assigned occupation, routinely communed with nanomachines. That said, there were other units that were very adroit at the connection, such as 144 of 203 whom regularly injected noxious substances into his body to force "speed-adaption". But most were like Captain, never needing nor desiring to perform more than the basics, as per the suite of artificial instincts programmed into each drone upon assimilation.

So, why Captain's trepidation? The tinge of worry, even as he was assured nothing could go wrong? A degression....

Nanites, like many advanced technologies, could be employed for both vastly beneficial or highly destructive purposes. The Borg were undisputed masters of nanite technology. Nanites were employed for assimilation, drone maintenance, and ship regeneration after massive damage, among a few of their many uses. The Borg were also highly cognizant of all the ways nanites could go grievously, theoretical-expanding-goo-forever wrong and had taken measures to minimize such a potentiality.

There were five basic types of Borg nanomachines. The 1', 2', and 3' were exclusively utilized in the assimilation of biological entities; 4' directed pacification of hostile computer systems (and, theoretically, mech intellegences, although such had never been attempted); and 5' provided support for most everything not directly associated with assimilation. All nanomachines were capable of being manufactured by the living machinery of drone cells, with the assimilatory suite exclusively so. Outside the confines of a drone body, both 4' and 5' could make other nanites, although the 4' were limited to production of a specialized 5', the latter of which could only make more 4' and 5' as directed by the 4'. Otherwise, the standard 5' nanite was primarly propigated via self-production because the number of drones required to continuously build and feed the many Borg systems which required the nanite type would be prohibitive. Once 5' nanite amounts were optimal within the vat or other environment, self-construction then maintained desired levels as individual machines reached their end-of-lifespan usefulness and self-denatured to provide material to make more nanites.

Amid the Borg nanite suite, the 5' nanoprobe was the workhorse. The 5' had many roles, specifics dependent upon programming, although the basic function was best described as "assemble" or "disassemble". On the macro level, nanites were rarely used for assembly, traditional crafting methods or replicators more efficient. As per ship-wide regeneration, nanites could be used to (re)build large structures, but the cost in terms of power was astounding, so much so that such was delegated for use only in emergencies. Scaling down to the micro, nanites were most effective with tasks such as repairing drone injuries or in vats to construct bulk chemical rerserves. Nanites were also very efficient at tearing things apart, actions taken at the molecular level rapidly propagating to be viewable at the macro. In a drone body, nanites were a critical component of the artificial immune system, disassembling pathogens; and in vats, the small machines broke large compounds into the simpler precursors needed for chemical synthesis.

The ability to deconstruct almost anything had obvious engineering and military application. And that is where the expanding-goo-forever problem came in. If a nanite mass was allowed to disassemble whatever substrate it happened to be upon, and was unable to be stopped once started, then, theoretically, all which would remain would be a stable goo of simple compounds, a goo which would expand as long as more matter was available to be dissolved. Such a scenario was undesirable because not only would the target the nanites had been sicced upon be destroyed, but all around it until everything was unusable.

To prevent such a detrimental outcome, the Borg had built multiple checks into their nanomachines. First, individual nanites had a finite lifespan, from days to weeks, dependent upon type and activity level. Nanites within a drone or external facility were always being renewed, while nanite infestations outside approved systems were destined to eventual dissolution. Second, full deconstructor mode was required to be loaded into nanites from an external source...it was not code embedded into a nanite, which otherwise only had a finite number of base programs able to be run sans purposeful reprogramming. Finally, and most importantly, a nanite swarm set to full deconstruct could not build new nanites because while 5' nanites recognized their conspecifics as the only thing to not disassemble, any nanites-in-production would not be acknowledged and, thus, be sundered before full assembly.

Despite knowledge of the intricacies of nanites, both innate and as available via dataspaces, Captain's sense of personal foreboding could not be allayed. He just wasn't convinced, no matter the soothing remarks from 59 of 203. But that was a personal opinion; and he truly didn't have any say in the matter. He had to represent the Borg contingent of Cube #347 at a culturally irrelevant event; and to do so appropriately, he had to provide the semblance of eating. An elastic sack of deconstructors temporarily grafted into his gastrointestinal system was the only valid solution with the time given. What could go wrong?

Doctor edged forward. "Treat?" he asked hopefully, holding out the biscuit. "You've been a sufficiently good puppy for a yummy reward!"

Captain materialized just inside the doorway of the Mission hydroponics and garden space. The location was not one of the official transporter arrival points for visiting drones, but Captain was in a less than stellar mood and did not care. Daisy hovored in his mental background, but the AI obviously knew not to chide Captain over the minor infraction, not when more substantial challenges to his Alliance leash may be forthcoming in the near future. A large bowl of white plastic was held in the bend of his prosthetic arm.

Following surgery to install the temporary stomach with its unwelcome cargo, Captain had spent an hour in an abbreviated regeneration to permit full post-op recovery. Then he had begun banquet preparations.

A long list of expectations had been provided by the Graid Master of Protocols. For the banquet, each participant was expected to bring a "Taste" dish of sufficient size to allow all the principal diners at least one bite, forkful, spoonful, or whatever was appropriate. The dish was not to be replicated: the Graid had developed early-generation replicator technology, but held a religious abhorrence to its application in regards to food. The Taste dish also had to be personally presented at the banquet; and, like replicators, there was an aversion to transporter use. A note appended to the prohibition list stated the Graid to possess the appropriate technology to ascertain if a Taste dish was replicated, as well as if it had ever been through a transporter buffer.

Naturally, Captain had deemed the prohibitions irrelevant. However, upon a trip to a Replicator Chamber to create one of the many dishes which sub-collective members were suggesting and had replicator recipes for, Captain discovered Daisy (as per orders from Rani) held an alternative view concerning relevancy. The AI blocked the replication of potential banquet dishes. Captain was not amused, but no amount of argument with the pernicious AI could lift the ban.

Faced with a deadline to meet in Bulk Cargo Hold #3 to take one of the Mission shuttles to the planet (so as to not break the proscription about transporters and food), consensus had provided Captain a plan. The only location on the cube where edible organics were grown was Mission hydroponics. There was a stockpile of non-replicated food ingredients for the production of special dishes by the culinary inclined, such as those made on Trickster Day and other special holidays, but Captain had no clue how to cook. While there were a handful of drones who did possess that skill, it wasn't a type of expertise amiable to be downloaded and shared to a naive unit...one had to practice the skill to know how to do it. And since Captain wasn't going to learn to do much more than boil water within the next few hours, a dish of raw organics - a fruit salad - was the most (and only) viable solution.

Captain stared for a long moment at the long troughs with their complex plumbing and support infrastructure. Lush foliage sprawled from trellises. Espying some yellow spheroids amid a tangled mass of greenery, he advanced.

"Er, can I help you?"

The timid voice was ignored. Captain plucked four of the yellow things and dropped them into his bowl. An adjacent plant had purple-hued vines with orange-red berries studding the stem. Several of the berries disintegrated as Captain carelessly plucked them, but sufficient survived to join the yellow fruits.

Again: "Can I help you? Er...Captain?"

Captain paused as he heard his subdesignation appended. He checked Mission transponders, determining the voice as belonging to Aereena, a T'sap member of the administrative staff who was also the primary caretaker of hydroponics and the garden. The AI had likely imparted his identity. "No," he replied.

A second bush with yellow spheres, these ones more plump than the first ones gathered. Then...green pods, each about twenty centimeters long and thickly clustered on another carefully cultivated vine, this one sporting bright emerald leaves.

"T'sap. Attend. Are these things fruits?" Captain waved a hand at the pods. He had not yet turned to actually look at the garden tender.

Ventured Aereena, "Um, technically, yes? But they aren't sweet, and are usually..."

Whatever else the T'sap had to say was ignored as Captain captured a double handful of the pods and tossed them into the bowl. So it continued as the primary consensus monitor and facilitator trundled down one aisle, then the next, gathering anything that looked vaguely fruitlike and occasionally asking a brusque question to confirm fruit-ness.

"Wait!" said the voice, urgency replacing soft timidity. Captain paused, hand hovering over a greenish star-shaped object with a pitted rind. "That one isn't even close to ripe! It needs another two weeks, at best."

"Is it toxic in its current state?" inquired Captain.

"No, not to any Alliance species, but the taste is extremely sour until..."

Once again, Captain dismissed the concern as irrelevant. Taste did not matter, only that the object fall within the fruit category. Finally his bowl was full of produce. As the concept of fruit salad generally required the components to be cut into bite-sized pieces, he now needed to do so. Captain finally turned to confront the T'sap whom had been anxiously shadowing him during his fruit-picking rampage.

The T'sap was of Zhurma colony. Specimens of the planet were of moderate stature, but striking due to their epidermal pigmentation. Most Zhurma-colony T'sap were incomplete leucistic. Complexion consisted of vast swathes of very pale, verging on ivory, epidermis interspaced with irregular patches of dark brown. Hair was typically black, often with locks of blonde or white; and while eyes were usually darker colors as well, the two irises of an individual often did not match. This particular T'sap had her hair pulled back into a braided queue, ribbons plaited within; and her eyes were one green and one hazel. She also had a worried expression and was anxiously wringing the rag held in her hands.

"I require a knife and a cutting surface."

The administrative assistant-cum-gardener sub-specialist wordlessly pointed to the back of the room. Captain turned and stumped his way in the direction indicated, finding a pair of sturdy workbenches. He approached one, sweeping unneeded items to the side where some, but not all, remained balanced atop, albeit in a disorganized and precarious heap. A large, sharp-looking knife, appropriate to wrangling vegetation, and a cutting board were revealed. A tray adjacent served to receive the bowl of fruits. Captain picked up the knife then began to roughly chop the fruits, transferring the product of his effort back into the now empty bowl.

"Er, um, the yerbas...the yellow ones...they are usually peeled?"

Captain was irritated how most of the T'sap's statements had the quality of a question. Without stopping his endeavor, he asked, "Is the rind toxic?"

"Um, no, but it doesn't taste good. Even the Crastians don't like it? And for some individuals, it gives them, er, barking backside? Um, diarrhea?"

Captain looked at the asymmetrically ragged wedges leaking pale orange juice onto the cutting surface. The thick rind was a pithy pale yellow, a contrast to the rich orange jewel tones of the pulp in the center. "Irrelevant," he added as the latest output was dispensed into the bowl.

The handful of red berries was transferred with only a few squashed into a seedy paste.

The final fruit in the tray, a smooth-skinned purple globe, stymied Captain. Upon pricking one with the knife, it summarily deflated, an iridescent indigo squirting out to form a small puddle. Frowning, Captain took the next fruit and held it over the bowl, crushing it in his hand. Juice ran onto the other fruits, followed by the deflated skin. Two more of the purple globes followed suit. Captain declared his salad complete...and also found himself the owner of a blue-stained hand. A sticky blue-stained hand.

"Is there a location to clean this appendage?" demanded Captain as he waved his hand.

Said Aereena, "Er, pluplat juice doesn't come off very well? One use is as a temporary tattoo ink or for body art?"

Captain turned a glare onto the speaker. Unlike Rani or Vaerz, whom he usually dealt with, the Alliancer swiftly wilted and pointed to a sink with faucet.

Grabbing his fruit salad bowl, Captain stomped to the washing facility. Several annoying minutes later, he finally had to admit the juice stain would not be washed off by mere application of water, soap, and nylon scrub brush. In the intranet background, multiple conversations had begun, the potential uses of pluplat juice prominent. He ignored them except for tagging several designations to be investigated should unrequested Henna tattoos be discovered when drones woke from regeneration.

With an internal sigh, Captain locked a transporter to himself. There were still a number of hours until his presence was required in Bulk Cargo Hold #3; and some decompression time in his nodal intersection perusing a Jumba the Wise Lizard novel was warranted.

{Nope,} echoed Daisy's voice into Captain's mental space. The lock was aborted.

Shocked, Captain replied with a wordless inquiry best described as {Huh?}

{Reread the list sent by the Graid. In summary, it is not allowed for any food brought to the banquet to go through a matter transporter. Your fruit salad must be physically carried to the shuttle for transport to the planet's surface.}

Many swear words of variable origin - the profanity lexigraphy maintained by the sub-collective was deep - were flung impotently to the intranets. Captain recentered himself with a reminder that tantrums were unBorg, then reviewed the paths he could take with Bulk Cargo #3 as the destination. At best pace and assuming no diversions, he would arrive just before the scheduled departure. At least a few of the oaths must have been unconsciously vocalized because the piebald T'sap was quick to jump out of Captain's way as he abruptly started for the exit doorway. She also made no protest as a trough began to messily drain when an inadvertent foot snagged against a hose, dislodging it.

Borg vessels are onerous to move around on via foot. The standard method for drones (and equipment and material) to transit from Point A to Point B is the transporter. However, there are occasional cargoes for which matter transmission is not advised; and, so, elevators between levels are necessary. On the other hand, although the Alliance, upon construction of the current version of Cube #347 had added additional elevators, they were still relatively few and far between considering the vast volume of the ship.

Nearly two hours and 2.3 kilometers later, Captain (and a warm fruit salad) arrived to Bulk Cargo Hold #3. One of the small vessels onloaded by the Alliance had been moved from its normal location berth high in the half-stack and brought to the floor. The purpose of the Mission shuttle fleet was to increase operational flexibility, particularly when the cube was required to be elsewhere and unable to directly support an away mission. All the shuttles were of a particular type: boxy with underslung nacelles - the equivalent of a bus or cargo van; and there was no warp drive, only impulse.

The ride down from orbit did little to repair Captain's irritated and annoyed demeanor; and nor did irrelevant inquiries as to the blue hand. Unwilling to endure sitting, he had been secured with bungie cords in one of the niches bodged into the vehicle for the purpose of transporting Borg. The Graid knew of and did use transporters, but not in regards to themselves, live animals, plants, food or its components, certain artworks, nor anything else which might express a "soul". Philosophical debate raged if the intangible soul could be moved intact during a process that broke down and reassembled matter, even if that matter was indistinguishable on the quantum level from the original. And until the species' ethicists, religious leaders, and engineers came to consensus - not expected anytime soon - shuttles and similar conveyances were the primary way to move persons and a significant bulk of material between orbit and ground, including one Borg and his fruit salad.

The shuttle was directed to a compact building complex surrounded by forest, meadows, and picturesque water features. Multiple hangers with open roofs were ready to receive vessels; and into one of these the Alliance shuttle settled. Three Sarcoram, one T'sap, and one sullen Borg drone lined up at the shuttle's cargo access door, each holding their respective banquet dish. Six Alliance marines, dressed in armor, but carrying no obvious weapons, were the protocol-allowed honor escort. Four more marines, and their phaser rifles, would remain with the shuttle to guard it, discretely onboard and out of immediate sight.

The cargo hatch opened. Ramp extended.

Rani put on her most open and welcoming expression. "Let's go, my little fledges! Be polite. Everyone smile! Even you, Captain."

At the back of the procession, Captain ignored the comment.

On the hanger floor, several meters from the bottom of the ramp, awaited a poised gathering of Graids. The Graid form was that of a humanoid biped of which a reptile-analogue appeared to be the evolutionary progenitor. Individuals in the crowd ranged from 1.3 to 1.5 meters in height. Heavy scaling covered much of the body, giving way to leathery skin of hands and head. Coloration was a dusky blue-grey, only the most subtle of hues differentiating individuals. However, when Captain initiated an ultraviolet filter, strong patterns unique to each blazed into existence. Hands were a three-fingers-one-thumb configuration; and feet had four toes plus a dew-claw. A stubby tail about twenty centimeters long was present. Large eyes were uniformly dark in color.

The degree of physical appraisal was possible because the general lack of clothing strongly suggested minimal or no nudity taboo. Where attire was worn, it consisted of flared shoulder epithets held in place by a chest harness of nearly transparent straps; and from the epithets descended a colored cape of heavy fabric of varying lengths, all except one ending above the hips. The exception sported a cape long enough to puddle on the floor between heels, split into twain the lower half to accommodate tail. Belts with depending pouches were also in evidence, worn by all, including those without shoulder pads and capes, although quality varied wildly. Textiles may have been restricted to the fashion accent role, but jewelry was very much in evidence. Anklets, bracelets, bracers, hip hoops and cords, finger and toe rings, necklaces, and body piercings were on display, material a wide range of metals, with some offerings plain and others crusted in precious and semi-precious stones. And while the personages directly in front of the ramp sported the most bling, even ceremonially armored individuals (soldiers?) and others lurking on the crowd edges (servants?) exhibited a number of accruements.

The individual at the group forefront took a half step forward and bowed. There was an undefinable "fussiness" to the being, an emanation so strong that it crossed the interspecies barrier of a race never encountered before. Its cape, the shortest of all those so attired, was the only one stitched with an intricate gold and tarnished copper filigree border. "Welcome strange creatures from beyond the stars we know. I, your lowly servant, Master of Protocols, greet you." Pause. "Does your 'universal translator' technology faithfully convey my words?"

Translator technology was a new concept to the Graid, whom had a uniform language across their species with only a few regional dialects. The translator database had begun training at the Graid mining colony upon initial contact, then grew to present maturity while in the species' home system. While there were undoubtedly nuances which would be missed without extensive examination of current pop culture, historic written literature, and assimilated individuals, such was not to be for varying reasons.

From the shuttle at the top of the ramp, Rani opened her arms to flare glitter-sprinkled feathers while bobbing her body up and down. "Very much, kind sir! May myself and the other representatives of my ship step upon your native soil?" The response was one crafted for the occasion by the Master of Protocols, a variation of ceremonial words uttered upon receiving a visiting clan dignitary of highest status.

"You may. Step upon our land and be welcome. May your visit be peaceful; and may you not leave hungry from our hospitality."

Rani minced down the ramp at the van of the Alliance representatives, oversized shoulder bag carrying her appetizer swinging back and forth.

Captain deigned the welcoming ceremony pompous, boring, irrelevant. The posturing of small beings. These Graid clearly had nothing of worth for the Alliance...continuous observation by Cube #347 in its orbit only strengthened that conviction. And if there was nothing which would further the Alliance, then such was doubly true for the Borg, as represented by the cube's sub-collective crew. Following that line of reasoning to its logical end, there was no reason for any Alliancer, or drone, including Captain, to be wasting time in this system, much less be on the surface of the Graid homeworld whilst holding a fruit salad.

Yet, here Captain was.

After ritualized exchanges, followed by introductions of the ceremonial Graid king and multiple clan heads or representatives thereof, all had taken a roundabout tour, ending at the banquet facility. The opulent room bespoke of a more primitive time, an era of grand fireplaces, rushes strewn upon a floor, and lighting solely produced by flame. In this contemporary now, the fireplaces had been replaced by holograms; the lighting technological and artfully indirect, although a few token candles remained; and the floor was covered in a sandy substrate raked into complex patterns and easily cleaned by a fleet of dedicated robots. Tapestries on the walls depicted grand tales. A long trestle in the middle of the room signified where the king, designated clan representatives, and honored guests were to sup, with lesser tables scattered about for other invitees, albeit not as high. There were no chairs or benches; and from the height of the tables, participants were clearly expected to eat while standing. Servants (and guards) lined the periphery of the room, decorations in and of themselves with cloth-of-gold harnesses crossing torsos in a complex manner which meant nothing to Captain.

The Master of Protocols led the procession towards a pair of special tables, both large rectangles one meter deep by three meters long. One of the heavy beasts was loaded to the point of groaning by a mass of food presented in all manner of dishware. The other table was empty. The latter table sported seven lines of a metallic gold substance inlaid to the glossy wood, dividing the top into eight equal sections. More embedded metal was crafted into highly stylized script at the front side of the table, a single word per section. Adjacent the table waited a Graid, perhaps not as poised at the Master of Protocols, maybe with a cape a finger width shorter and border not as rich, but nonetheless emitting the same quality of aggressive bureaucracy.

"The Banquet Master awaits the Taste dishes," grandly said the Master of Protocols. "King Fabuli will, of course, be first. Then the representatives alphabetical by clan name. Finally will be our honored guests."

From the semi-circle arc which faced unto the empty table, King Fabuli stepped forward. At a snap of talons, a servant rushed forward bringing a platter, cloche obscuring what was underneath. It was passed to the king.

Said the king, "Banquet Master. As king of the Graid Confederacy and host of this Banquet, I present unto the Table a bilberry pie." The cloche was raised, allowing all to see...a pie. It was a very nice pie, crust artfully scalloped and top crisscrossed with pastry strips. It was still just a pie. "This pie shall be a dessert for the Table."

"A bilberry pie! Very nice, sire!" exclaimed the Banquet Master. The platter with pie was received. It was thence transferred to the table, set in the section to the furthest right.

One by one, sixteen clan lords or representatives thereof submitted their dishes in a ceremonial and stilted manner alike their monarch. Most of the Tastes were declared to be one of three appetizer classes. The exception was a slyly presented fish dish, which brought a number of gasps and murmured conversation from the audience of retainers (and a few servants). With each, the Banquet Master gravely complimented the item and had it appropriately positioned upon the table within one of the eight divisions. Finally it was time for the Alliance guests.

Rani stepped forward. She flipped open the large satchel draped over one shoulder and across body, then fished out an opaque plastic bag bulging with lumps. Holding up the bag with one hand, fingers talons painted a near-fluorescent orange, she said, "Banquet Master. I am Rani, Aeriemistress of the Alliance Mission hosted upon Exploratory-class Cube #347. I present unto the table cultured meat pastries. These pastries shall be, um, a savory pastry appetizer for the table." She paused. "And I am so sorry...I didn't know that one had to bring one's own dishware. That wasn't listed among the banquet requirements."

The Banquet Master audibly sniffed. "It is of no consequence. Guests shall be accommodated." A clicking noise was made with tongue upon teeth; and a servant leapt into action. The meat pastries were swiftly arranged on a silver platter and set within the third division from table left. "You pastries are...an interesting shape. Very cultural." Given they were lumps of dough inexpertly formed, the compliment was very generous.

One at a time the other Alliancers stepped forth.

Brunc identified as Sargeant Major for the Mission, delivering plain crackers with an odoriferous pate. The offering was replated onto an appropriate platter, inclusion a small transparent cloche over the pate to mute its scent. It was placed in the first segment where appetizers of a bread or cracker-focused persuasion awaited.

Rooberg jauntily proclaimed himself Talon Spanner; and from the blank stares of the Graid, the concept had not translated. His quick pickles, created by the acid-assisted fermentation of a variety of hydroponics vegetables, were well received by the Banquet Master and rapidly conveyed to the space for fermented appetizers.

After haughtily describing himself as representative for the science and engineering component of the Mission, Xenoarcheologist Big Beak Julv opened a plastic container filled with scrambled faux-egg wrapped with thin algal sheets. A clearly baffled Banquet Master had stared at the offering for several long beats before adding it to the same locale as Rani's pastries. While the wraps were not a "savory pastry", it was a closer appetizer category match than "breads and crackers" or "fermented items".

Finally, it was Captain's turn.

"Our designation is 4 of 8, subdesignation Captain," announced Captain, unaware of his use of plurals. "We are primary consensus monitor and facilitator for the Borg crew of Alliance Exploratory-class Cube #347. This is a fruit salad. It is classified as a dessert." The bowl, with its roughly chopped and increasingly mushy contents, was thrust forward. There had been a minor internal debate as to where "fruit salad" fit amongst the banquet options provided by the Master of Protocols, with consensus landing upon the final course to be the most apt.

Murmurs and gasps filled the room, much more so than upon presentation of the fish dish. Inane, small beings...it was only a fruit salad, a chaotic mess of edible botanicals that lacked even the minimal sophistication of a light and tangy dressing. The Banquet Master's eyes widened and nostril slits flared as the bowl was automatically accepted. "S-sir," came the stammer, "a fruit salad. A dessert." A glance downward. "The colors are, um, pleasing to the senses."

Captain stepped back, his part concluded. Eye and optical implant panned over the crowd, ultraviolet filter engaged so at to better track individuals. The action was automatic, that of a drone scout providing information to the Whole. The king, amongst his cluster of retainers, was one of the few not holding a whispered conversation with a neighbor. Captain - the sub-collective - did not have a good grasp of Graid expressions or body language as of yet; and, frankly, did not find it very relevant. Therefore, the monarch's glower, slightly faded skin tone, and stiff posture was merely rated as one datum amongst many.

Hopefully the next phase of the banquet would not take too long.

Before the first morsal of food was presented to the awaiting guests, a series of performances commenced. For over thirty minutes - Captain was sure a temporal anomaly had engulfed the room - a series of Graid sang, recited, tumbled, scampered, and otherwise entertained the audience. Rani and the other Alliancers appeared entranced, heartily calling accolades and engaging in Sarcoram or T'sap gestures of appreciation. The alien guests had been assigned standing space amid the High Table, split so as to provide each with multiple Graid conversational partners. Rani, clearly perceived to be of highest importance, had been placed at the head of the table, next to the king. By contrast, Captain was near the opposite end; and his elbow-mates had quickly discovered the Borg to lack any desire to engage in irrelevant small talk.

Finally, as the last bard finished a rollicking tune praising the Graid Confederacy, the feast began.

Or, at least, it began for those not at the High Table.

From the overcrowded buffet table, heaped platters of "bread and cracker" appetizers were delivered to each of the smaller circular or oval retainer tables. Banqueteers helped themselves to favored delicacies, transferring morsels to small ceramic plates of intricate decoration. Conversations abounded, volume rising even more as servants decanted beverages into the crystal goblets present at each diner's spot.

Conversely, plates no more than a handspan across were individually placed in front of the High Table diners. These plates held portions of the ceremoniously presented starter appetizers. Glancing up the table, Captain observed the minute tells of Sarcoram confusion which wrinkled Rani's cranial epidermis and affected the lay of ruff feathers. The other two Sarcoram and T'sap were much more obvious in their personal perplexion. The tankards of an alcoholic fare which had awaited at the elbow of each High Table spectator during the entertainment were swiftly swapped for goblets of water.

At the head of the table, the king dramatically selected a Taste appetizer. It was popped into his mouth, chewed, then swallowed. The performance was obviously a cue, for the other Graid at the table followed suit, some more enthusiastically and flamboyantly than others.

Captain looked down at his small plate. He carefully picked up one of Brunc's crackers smeared with a dab of faux pate. It was so odoriferous that Captain, relatively nose blind as his species was, could smell it. With trepidation, he put the cracker into his mouth, performed the alien task of chewing, then swallowed.

Bleh! The appetizer tasted as bad as the smell had promised. There was no reason for a Borg to retain a sense of taste! Why hadn't assimilation taken it from him? Why?

In his mental background, a significant number of sub-collective mentalities riding his perception stream had begun a discussion, complete with opinion polls, as to what to compare the pate to, focusing on dimly remembered memories of foods eaten long ago. Captain did his best to tune them out. It was probably for the best that he was currently incapable of throwing up given the putrid descriptions being invoked.

Captain mechanically ate each bread-y and cracker-y appetizer on his plate. He ignored the water. A query of the vat nanites inhabiting his stomach returned nominal status: they were breaking down incoming organics, as programmed, and not escaping into his body. Win, win...except for the pate taste which refused to dissipate.

The Graid to Captain's left, an individual with several unusually chunky silver chains amid the jewelry around his neck, tried to engage, once again, in irrelevant small talk. The subject was a question upon Captain's blue-stained hand and its cultural meaning. The Graid stuttered to a halt under Captain's withering stare. A flash of movement seen from the edge of his peripheral vision bade him to swivel his head right. The Graid across the table had stepped away from his plate. Behind hovered a servant holding a silver bucket.

"Oh, dear. As good and generous as this food is, I feel a bit sick. Oh me, oh my." The pronouncement was stilted, ritualistic. The Graid then picked up one of the multitude of utensils at each place-setting, a decorative brass-colored two-pronged fork with blunt tips, and shoved it into his nostril slits. Withdrawing it, he then turned and noisily retched into the bucket. No one reacted to the performance, either at the High Table or the scattered retainer tables about the hall. The servant offered a wet towelette when the Graid was done vomiting. After wiping his mouth, he tossed the small towel into the bucket, then turned back to the table to resume conversation as if never interrupted. The servant scuttled off, taking the bucket away.

Motion to Captain's right rewarded him with a repeat performance, this time immediately adjacent. Again, no overt acknowledgement of the action from any quarter. A third individual, again on the other side of the High Table, uttered the same ritual words. Only, instead of throwing up, the servant carefully positioned the bucket beneath an upturned tail. The utensil...was wielded in a manner by the diner which looked awkward, yet had clearly been performed many times before. This time the moist towelette was applied by the servant as a second servant spritzed the air with something flowery from a small crystalline spray bottle. This last evacuation seemed to spark a momentary interest from the non-High Table diners, but the buzz of intensified conversation quickly faded back to its previous level.

Captain redirected his attention higher upon the table. None of the Alliancers seemed to have noticed the activity at his end of the trestle. Next to the king, Rani giggled in a manner Captain recognized as false, even as those around obviously assumed genuine amusement.

After ten more minutes (and one more vomiting), servants swept in to remove empty Taste plates. The offerings at the communal buffet had been replaced with pickled foods appropriate for the second course. As with the previous course, diners at the lower tables fed upon this fare from a central platter. Unlike before, individual plates from the public table were also provided to the High Table diners who had proclaimed illness only a short time ago. They fell to these appetizers with obvious gusto. Meanwhile, everyone else was presented with small plates of brined and/or vinegary Tastes from the Taste Table.

*****

In orbit above the Graid homeworld, the Cube #347 sub-collective had not been given any specific task by its Alliance masters. Therefore, the Exploratory-class cube defaulted to its most basic program - gather information. In this case, the information gathered was as related to the Graid. Broadcast transmissions of all types were passively intercepted; and those of an encrypted nature were swiftly decoded. Unlike the Alliance and its Vor-based quantum encoding, the Graid utilized primitive cyphers easily broken. More aggressive active data collection methods were also employed, electronic warfare tactics utilized to worm into the Graid datasphere to search for interesting data. The information acquired further re-enforced the notion that the species was not acceptable for assimilation at this time, nothing exceptional neither biological nor technological. Still, those data found was dutifully categorized and placed into the appropriate bins, the species dossier built so as to be available to a future Collective to make the decision as to when to subsume the Graid to the Whole.

Amongst the busy drones was 11 of 480. A mid-level correlator within the command and control hierarchy, her primary function was to coordinate separate sub-partitions working on a variety of modeling and consensus cascade assignments, append a weighted probability calculation, then send the results on for parallel consideration by higher echelon hierarchy elements. The duty was extremely simplistic, utilizing only a fraction of 11 of 480's onboard computational power; and was mostly performed in the background on her tertiary multiplex processor. Which was fine by 11 of 480, for she had other, much more engaging interests requiring her attention.

11 of 480 was the only drone in recent (subjective) sub-collective history to hold the distinction to have been processed upon assimilation to be a cognitive unit. Hailing from one of a handful of races the Greater Consciousness had deemed highly desirable for their cerebral excellence, it had been a foregone conclusion that 11 of 480 would end up with a cranium highly distorted from the amount of hardware installed, additions and support equipment thereof which also intruded into the body cavity, leaving little space for the other implants and modules required to maintain a functional drone. 11 of 480 had been (and continued to be) well integrated into the Borg mindset...except for one wee issue.

Cognitive drones were utilized for many purposes. One major use was to sift through the yottabytes of information acquired following the assimilation of an entire race. While a species may have sealed its fate by coming to the notice of the Collective with a distinct technological or biological trait able to further the Whole towards Perfection, there were inevitably other advantageous additions buried amongst the detritus of the absorbed civilization. To find those bright nuggets of desirability, time and vast processing power were required to sift through the dross. Frequently it was to that task vast batteries of cognitive drones were assigned.

It was while categorizing antiquity records of recently assimilated species #7801 that 11 of 480 (then designated 11580 of 18000) had become overly fixated upon cultural history subject matter. Episodes of mono-focus by cognitive drones upon irrelevant topics was not common, but neither was it rare; and downtiming a so-infected unit into unscheduled regeneration usually cleared the problem. And so it was for 11 of 480...for a while. Unfortunately, she kept slipping back to compilation of some triviality - for example, the history a favored species #7801 sport - becoming increasingly obsessed and active in following the irrelevant datathreads while ignoring the actual task assigned. It was when 11 of 480 not only became unresponsive to multiple reboot attempts, but began to "recruit" other, nonaffected units to assist with her latest endeavor that the fragment of a fragment of the Whole managing the situation came to a decision; and off to Cube #347 was a comatose 11 of 480 shipped, awakening to a new designation and a new existence amid the imperfectly assimilated of whom she had also been labeled.

Upon Cube #347, 11 of 480 had been assigned her current role. None concerned themselves with her personal fixations; and compared to some, obsessively compiling the definitive history of an esoteric subject was very tame. As long as 11 of 480 satisfactorily performed her correlator function, and did not attempt to conscript any other unit into her preoccupation, the larger sub-collective Mind was content. It was as the sub-collective shifted to gathering information that 11 of 480 had also altered her current focus, temporarily pausing her consideration of Sarcoram kilt patterns in relation to aeries of the early Aerie-state Era to concentrate on building the authoritative history of the Graid Banquet.

It became obvious very quickly that what should have been a deep dive into an irrelevant facet of Graid culinary culture also had a political component, one which was very relevant.

*****

A ping intruded upon Captain's mental space. It was the second appetizer course and Captain was considering which of the several pickled and fermented offerings which graced his plate to eat first. The dilemma was if to select the safe choice and consume one of Rooberg's quick pickles, else bolt the small fish - whole, ungutted, probably with a horrid taste waiting to assault his palette - staring at him and get it out of the way.

{If the cube isn't about to fall out of orbit, it isn't important. And if it is, my location, be it here or upon the ship, would be irrelevant. You are my backup, have been primary many times, including before my assimilation, and are perfectly able to handle any issues. My focus is currently on this irrelevant banquet.}

Second sent the ping again, just because...the Borg equivalent of a impudent smirk. {Cube faring well, thank you for asking. We are 98.5% sure this single vessel could decimate the entirety of Graid space assets, down to the least shuttle. The final 1.5% for full certainty has been a bugger to track down, let me tell you; and to not account for it leads to some rather spectacularly catastrophic failures. Boom!}

Captain decided upon the Alliance-origin pickle. It provided a crunch and an acidic, vinegar burn in his mouth. {Why?}

The single-syllable inquiry could have been interpreted a multitude of ways, a gestalt packed with many questions. There was a hesitancy whereupon Second was clearly, as per uncensored surface-level thoughts, considering a cheeky response, but chose instead to answer the actual question asked. {It began as a routine censor block, 11 of 480 attempting to ping you directly so as to impart "vital" information. She's a cognitive unit, and you know how mono-focused they can be. Great for solving nth-dimension calculations, lousy when required to acknowledge the reality that muscles have gone too long without moving until sprawled on the deck when alcove clamps disengage. So she promptly attempts to bypass the censor code - Daisy was no help, the AI declaring it to be an internal problem and not detrimental to the Mission - but was finally corralled by 1 of 8. Who passed it on to me. Who is now passing it on to you.}

{What is being passed on to me?} asked Captain in exasperation. While there were several other appetizers on the plate, the fish remained the one of greatest challenge. It would require at least two, maybe three, bites to get it down. On the other hand, the Graid were tossing the creature into their mouths and swallowing it whole. A glance down the table saw one of the Sarcoram doing likewise, physiology allowing such, while Rooberg eyeballed his fish with the same distrustful distaste as Captain.

{The history and meaning of the Banquet,} said Second. {As usual, 11 of 480 did an excellent job, considering the limited data available, in constructing her treatise. She even made a nicely illustrated cover that should look good if printed on glossy paper as a book cover.}

Captain noted the emphasis placed upon "banquet", elevating it from a simple noun to a concept much more complex. He paused, head canted to the side and hand halted mid-reach for the fish, as the data collected by 11 of 480 upon the topic of the Graid Banquet washed through his mind.

As carefully explained by one of the Master of Protocol's underlings, shortly after initial homeworld contact, the position of "king" was ceremonial while legislative actions were the providence of a multi-clan parliament. Therefore, should Alliance representatives return in the future seeking treaties or other formal understandings, they would work as required with the legislature. On the other hand, the official welcome by the Graid Confederacy to the Alliance was most appropriately regarded as a State Event and, thus, a banquet with the king was proper.

Such was not to say that the king was a mere figurehead. Cursory examination of material gathered by cube eavesdropping had shown the king to be wealthy. Very wealthy. Likely the most wealthy individual within the Graid sphere of influence, surpassed only by legal entities such as clans and a handful of corporations. In many respects, that wealth was required: the position did not receive a public allowance and, therefore, needed to be self-supporting through its multitudes of investments and properties in order to throw the requisite extravaganzas obligatory to the noble position. However, as in many civilizations, wealth meant power; and the king wielded his wealth shamelessly. While the king was supposedly an individual representing all clans, yet be of no clan, the truth was his wealth was often used to advance those agendas which best benefitted the clan of which the king originated, else those closely aligned; and, sometimes, fancies of the king himself. Bribes were distributed, legislative votes outright bought. There were political gossip portals within the Graid datasphere which did nothing except obsess over the latest machinations by the king.

The kingship was theoretically inherited from father to son. Yet, a scan of historical records dryly recanting a list of kings showed such descent was rare, the position shifting to an unrelated individual on a rounded average of eighteen Graid years. The assumption of mantle (and positional wealth) by a new personage was only rarely accompanied by obvious unrest or strife...it just happened. The grand galas and banquets continued apace under the new king, as did the bribes, albeit in support of a different subset of clans. The sub-collective had catalogued that particular bit of political theater as "irrelevant", dropping it into the appropriate bin and moving on in search for more interesting datums.

Research by 11 of 480 linking disparate facets of Graid cuisine culture had unearthed the true meaning of the Banquet. Not banquet, lower-case noun, but Banquet with a capital "B". While knowledge of Banquet culture was undoubtedly amid the Graid, it also appeared to be one of those self-evident knowings which was never explicitly discussed because everyone knew it. And if there wasn't the equivalent of a "Cultural References for Alien Dummies" document available somewhere in a digital repository for Borg electronic feelers to find, then it wasn't going to be known by the sub-collective (nor Mission personnel, should any inquire).

The Graid viewed food to be a subject of immense cultural and artistic importance. From the raising of food animals and plants to meal preparation and presentation, all aspects of food was celebrated. Dinner parties were grand affairs by which hosts and guests could flaunt their favorite recipes; and famous chefs were amongst the grandest of Grand People. Amid the most rarified of festivities was the Banquet, whereupon food culture and politics were tightly intertwined. Clans held Banquets, as did corporations and other similar entities...and so did the king.

At a Royal Banquet, political watchers closely scrutinized not only those whom accepted an invitation to the High Table, but the offerings each brought for the Taste courses. Most kept to the three appetizers, dishes representative of the latest jostling of rank amongst the clans. Occasionally the Banquet Master would receive a savory salad or fish presentation, maybe even (*gasp*) an entree, should a clan wish to distinguish itself in some manner, perhaps bring to notice an legislative proposal for kingly favor, or attempt to one-up a rival. Only the king brought a dessert...unless a challenge was on the table for the monarchy.

The conduct of the High Table diners was as important as the Taste dish given to the Banquet Master. While guests not of the High Table were served off the communal trestle and plied with a variety of beverage options, High Table participants had to solely eat of the Tastes and sip plain water. Only once a High Table guest ritually bowed out could they receive the common fare. The "when" of surrender was as important as the dish brought to the Banquet. Most conceded during one of the three appetizer courses. However, those who brought an offering for courses deeper in the Banquet had to continue consuming only the Tastes; and when there was no dish for a specific Taste table course, then the host kitchen provided a suitable substitute. Only once the course a Taste had been presented for concluded could the supplicant gracefully withdraw. The consequence of yielding sooner was to lose face, to lose points in whatever political gain the contender was attempting to win from the king. As soon as the field was cleared of non-dessert courses, the king was also allowed to switch to the much more varied foods of the communal trestle.

All well and good...11 of 480 had increased the breadth of sub-collective knowledge of irrelevant cultural subject matter, an action aligned to the in-depth enquiry of which she usually engaged. It was a particular nuance of the Banquet which was of interest and which had prompted her to try to contact Captain. Specifically, Banquet Taste dishes were adulterated with a wide variety of inedible substances, including toxins and inorganic abrasives. Contaminants which prompted vomiting or bowel evacuation were mainstays; and if one ingested enough Tastes or received an unfortunately reactive combination, death was a possibility. Graid whom participated in Banquets built tolerance to a wide range of poisons. That said, purposeful purging was generally the norm, a ritualized way to end active High Table participation and minimize the risk of losing political face via uncontrollable release of body fluids, neural incapacitation, or public death. Of note, the individual whom was king (or clan head or corporate lord) not only had to be an exquisite cook and poisoner, but also highly resistant to the regular ingestion of toxic substances. Inevitably there were individuals (clans) whom aspired to the throne (and wealth) of the kingship; and the only way to resist was to be better than a challenger at surviving to (and through) the dessert course.

Captain was, apparently and accidentally, that challenger.

Hand still hovering over his plate, unseeing of the curious looks directed his way from Graid and Alliancers alike, Captain turned inward to his systems. He queried the vat nanites infesting the polymer lined sack tacked into his biological stomach, ordering an in-depth status report. Unlike his personal nanite suite, the introduced machines did not provide the automated reports that were part of the normal background murmur of his diagnostic systems. Their reprogramming had been, frankly, hasty in order to meet the deadline demanded by Rani; and regardless of what assimilation hierarchy might purport, he did not trust that something had not been overlooked, the consequences of which would be messy. And potentially terminal. The apprehension of a single drone was, of course, irrelevant, even as that single drone would prefer not to terminate in such an inglorious manner as partial dissolution by nanites because such would certainly not further the sub-collective's goal to re-establish the Borg Greater Consciousness.

The response by the vat nanites made Captain flinch. One inorganic acid was amid the sludge remnants of the food thus far processed, as well as a zinc phosphide compound and a finely pulverized mineral beyond the ken of the nanites to identify. If there had been any organic-based toxins, they had, at least, been degraded by the nanites as per their basic direction to deconstruct any organic substance that entered their purview. As long as the polymer sack remained intact, it would shield Captain from the nasty brew building within. Theoretically Captain's own nanite suite could detoxify the mess, if there was a leak...maybe. Or at least could stem the damage long enough for retrieval to Cube #347 and an emergency appointment with drone maintenance.

::Are you okay, Captain?:: intruded Rani's voice into Captain's self-contemplation via the Alliance communication channel.

Captain allowed his hand to drop to the plate. Head returned to a normal orientation. The fish was grasped. *Crunch*Crunch* It tasted as horrible, if not more so, than he had imagined. Captain idly wondered, had his automated egestion reflex been operational, if it would have been as bad coming back up as going down.

Responded Captain as he searched for the previously ignored napkin adjacent his plate, ::All the Taste dishes are poisoned or otherwise tainted in some manner. It is very cultural. The mix of toxins catalogued thus far, with the first appetizers, is interesting...and likely fatal to unaugmented biologicals, such as yourself, should you continue to consume the Tastes. Oh, and I seem to have challenged King Fabuli for the Graid monarchy. Unless my stomach implodes due to badly programmed vat nanites or otherwise leaks into my abdominal cavity, you will have a diplomatic incident on your hands when I inevitably survive intact through the dessert course.::

Simultaneously, Captain acknowledged 11 of 480's Banquet research to Second, adding, {You bastard. Ensure Daisy, and the Mission, receive the data. And if the vat nanites deconstruct me or I am terminally poisoned, don't forget you will be primary consensus monitor and facilitator. You will get the joy of liaising with Rani, Vaerz, and all the rest.}

{You won't die,} said Second blandly, {and you are overly paranoid about the vat nanites. Unless a certain AI interferes, you will be beamed back to the cube before your remnant organ systems collapse and sepsis is irreversible.} Supplementary code started to stream on a secondary multiplexing channel, commands from a mixed partition of assimilation and drone maintenance hierarchies to Captain's nanite suite to prime it to degrade the non-organic substances thus far reported by the vat nanites. The fact that the vat nanites had not been the target of the programming, when they were the most logical ones to attend to the toxins, was not reassuring.

As Captain wiped the pickled fish juice off his face, he heard a loud retching. Unlike the polite spews of the Graid diners, which could almost be likened to an overly deep cough, this noise was that of a T'sap convulsively losing everything in his stomach, and then some. Glancing along the High Table, Captain saw Rooberg's face deep into a bucket held by a helpful servant. Meanwhile, a second servant was efficiently cleaning up vomit which had missed the receptacle. From the bits of fermented fish, including a half-chewed head, it was apparent the challenge presented by the appetizer had been too much for the Talon Spanner. The surrounding diners politely ignored the spectacle.

At the head of the table, Rani beckoned to the king, then began an obviously urgent discussion. Captain turned his head to regard the pair, but could not discern the exchange over the obscuring buzz of conversation, clatter of dishware, and clink of glasses. Perhaps a sensory drone with its specialty hardware could have separated the verbal chaff, but Captain did to possess such a suite.

Rani snapped her beak closed in familiar Sarcoram body language connoting decisive action and understanding. She swiveled her head to take in how Brunc and Julv were getting along, pausing at Rooberg as the latter was vigorously swooshing water around his mouth and spitting it into a (clean) bucket, much to the amusement of nearby Graid. She ended her perusal on Captain, who levelly returned her gaze. Eyes were averted, returning to the empty Taste plate at her setting. Beak clacked twice, ground together, ruff raised and lowered...Rani seemed to have unknowingly lost control of her carefully schooled Security Liaison poise.

::Well, my fledges, there seems to be a cultural misunderstanding,:: informed Rani over the comm channel. Captain automatically checked a secondary datastream, noting the recipients were all planetside Alliancers, and himself. ::Several misunderstandings, actually, but the one that flies fastest needs to be dealt with first. I've confirmed with our lovely host that every Taste dish is laced with poison. It isn't personal...every High Table Graid invitee has eaten it as well.:: There was a pause. ::One can only hope that the poison from what has been consumed thus far is tolerable until such time we can return to the ship. To politely extract ourselves from the situation, and avoid any additional unwanted seasonings or creating a diplomatic squawk of hurt cultural feelings which will negatively affect future Alliance contact, we are expected to, well, puke. Or poo, if one prefers, but I, for one, will take the puke route. Oh, and you're good already, Rooberg.::

::Great,:: was the weak reply.

The Graid were surely wondering why the four Alliancers at the High Table were peering at each other, silent when before they had been holding conversations with their elbow-mates nearby. Captain mentally shook his head at the limited ability of most unaugmented biologicals to properly multitask, including engagement in multithreaded dialogues. To think he had once been so lacking prior to his assimilation! Meanwhile, Captain had turned away from Rani, returning attention to his now empty plate and wondering what assault would confront his gut for the next course.

Upon an unheard cue, the empty plate was efficiently swept away, only to be replaced by a new dish. The final of the three appetizers was savory pastry. In addition to Rani's pastries and Julv's wraps, a generous handful of additional items filled the latest plate. The course appeared to be very popular in regards to High Table Banquet participants.

For all their infamous taste in foods well beyond the best-by date, Sarcoram did, on occasion, eat something that had sat a little too long. In contemporary times of replicators, refrigeration, and bacteria testing, stomach aches and "gut issues" were generally the providence of young lads and lasses daring each other to eat purposefully "prepared" items better buried in a compost heap. Therefore, as should behoove any scavenger, even one whose nonsentient antecedents were millions of years in the past, the ability to regurgitate on demand was an indispensable skill.

 One at a time, Brunc and Julv took a bite of the Alliance-supplied appetizer, called over a bucket-wielding servant, then dutifully upchucked in a business-like manner into the receptacle. Big Beak Julv seemed truly despondent that he was unable to enjoy the faux-egg wrap he had spent considerable time constructing. Brunc just looked peeved...then again, the big kal-male always radiated a sense that the universe in general irked him.

Unlike her two Sarcoram companions, Rani consumed half her plate before drama commenced. Also unlike her two companions, she uttered the ritualistic statement of "Oh, dear. As good and generous as this food is, I feel a bit sick." From afar, Rani's acting was excellent as the colors painting her head paled and she gaped her beak and began to pant. One might truly think she was ill; else, perhaps, she actually was feeling the additive effects of the poisons and was allowing that sentiment to be displayed. With a final "Oh, my", Rani turned away from the table, arched her neck, and shoved beak deep into the offered bucket. After a pair of deep heaves, she straightened up and accepted a wet wipe to swab away a stream of drool. Task complete, she pivoted back to the table where another servant was already removing the half-eaten Taste dish.

::Done,:: said Rani into the communal comm link.

Captain wished he was done; and wished it would be as easy to extract himself from this irrelevant, small being ritual. Instead, he picked up a meat-filled pastry, edges sloppily pinched together, thus allowing a red sauce to leak out that smelled vaguely of almonds. It was perfunctorily chewed, swallowed. A query upon the vat nanites indicated sodium cyanide, adding to the existing load already present. Cyanide compounds seemed to be a very popular culinary Banquet additive.

The torture had to end. Eventually. One could only hope that it wouldn't be due to terminal gut rupture.

Captain stared at the fist-sized hunk of semi-transparent meat(?), a red-tinged gravy pooled atop and dribbling down the sides. It was cold. As an entree, it seemed a bit...sparse. The other diners at the High Table and elsewhere had greater and definitely more appetizing portions. Of course, only he and King Fabuli were still partaking of the Taste dishes. Only one other Graid had continued significantly past the appetizers, finally and spectacularly vomiting during the fish course. The display had been met with much appreciation as per the cacophony of yips: one could only conjecture the achievement had made a positive impression. As with the other courses which had no associated dishes on the Taste table, the kitchen offering undoubtedly contained an assortment of special spices not present in the common fare. As he contemplated how best to wield fork in a pincher of his prosthetic limb so as to free his more dexterous right hand to manage steak knife, an urgent status message originating from his body nanite suite demanded attention.

Foreign substances were reported in blood and abdomen. The polymer sack squatting in his midsection had degraded sufficiently to begin to leak. His nanites were decomposing the toxins and sequestering byproducts, with other components of his surveillance system recommending an alcove regeneration session to offload the noxious substances. The nattering subroutine was silenced. Undoubtedly some of the vat nanites were in general circulation as well, although nothing untoward was being relayed. Yet.

Captain came to a decision: it was safer to deactivate the vat nanites than risk the consequence of the deconstructors being less well behaved than insisted upon by assimilation hierarchy. His normal nanites could deal with the products of the minor leakage; and he was enough advanced in the Banquet that ingested foods left intact should not be of sufficient quantity to risk overloading his faux stomach.

{You are over-reacting,} stated Second from the security of orbit.

Captain ignored the commentary. Four attempts were required before the hibernation command was acknowledged by the vat nanites, followed by a quiescence signal.

Inelegantly sawing at the meat with knife, a ragged slice was cut from the entree. Fork returned to right hand; and morsal was deposited in mouth. Captain chewed twice, paused, then hastily swallowed the barely masticated bite. He involuntarily frowned, half-closing his whole eye in disgust: it had been as if he had bitten into a piece of salty metal foil. Unlike the other Taste dishes thus far, the adulteration element was obvious. Either the poisoner in the kitchen whom has composed the Taste was incompetent, else the Graid were oblivious to that particular "seasoning".

Hovering prosthetic limb over the entree, Captain invoked a module rarely used. He had originally been processed to serve the Collective in an engineering capacity, but been diverted into the command and control hierarchy upon his transfer to the imperfect sub-collective of Cube #347. Most engineering-related modules had been removed over the Cycles, swapped for elements better supportive of his command and control function. However, a few remained, such as the one now deployed.

A cadmium salt. Joy. Another heavy metal to join the noxious brew already onboard, and one particularly toxic to his species. How did any Graid, an unaugmented biological, ever survive these Banquet rituals? Perhaps there was a biological uniqueness to the species after all, except that without being allowed to abduct and closely examine specimens, circumstantial conjecture was a poor support to the tentative hypothesis.

Sighing, Captain choked down the rest of the entree, doing his best to ignore the harsh metallic overtone followed by a bitter aftertaste no amount of water could wash away.

As the dishes were cleared away in preparation for the dessert course, comedic tumblers ran into the hall. They jumped and rolled and prat-fell to the delight of the diners, many of whom were well inebriated. At the head of the table, Rani clacked her beak and rattled feathers in approval. However, the act did not prevent her from subvocalizing a demand towards Captain: ::Yield. Surrender. Bow out of the Banquet.::

Captain disinterestedly gazed at the irrelevant entertainment. He responded to Rani via the comm implant, ::If I could so easily remove myself from this farce, it would already be accomplished. Unfortunately, my egestion reflex is disconnected at the moment; and I physically cannot evacuate my bowels...no drone is so able.::

::Are there any other secretions you might be able to manage?:: The sarcasm relayed itself through the comm.

Returned Captain, equally sarcastic, ::I could cut myself with a knife and bleed.::

The tumblers exited the room amid drunken yips of Graid appreciation. Servants bustled forward, bringing forth the communal platters from the common trestle to serve the lower tables and individual plates for the High Table diners. Presumed sweets and other end-of-meal tidbits were piled high.

::No, no, no!:: interrupted Doctor into the comm channel. ::Ouchies heal too fast.:: (Captain directed the intranet equivalent of an eye roll at the head of drone maintenance.) ::Also, not allowed! Bad!::

An appendix from 11 of 480's work, one dryly detailing all the ways recorded through Graid history of Banquet surrender, including statistical analyses, was directed towards Captain from Doctor. Rani, of course, could not receive the dataspace portion of the conversation, addendums of such a normal component of intradrone communication.

Continued Doctor, ::It must be involuntary, or manually stimulated involuntary, body secretions. Bleeding from ear canals after cerebral hemorrhage is okey-doke, as is bleeding from pores or other orifices. No good is purposeful ouchies.:: Pause. An appendix entry was emphasized with the dataspace equivilant of sketched arrows. ::Actually, there is record of a self-mutilation from a very, very, very, very sharp fish knife, but it was ruled an allowable exception because the diner was having a seizure at the time. Very fascinating read, 11 of 480's treatise on Banquet culture history!::

::Not useful,:: said Captain. He blocked the extraneous datastream.

Concurred Rani, ::Yes, not useful.::

Doctor was not deterred. ::As an aside, species #2553 does present with a rather heavy nasal secretion as a symptom of damage or maladjustment of the subganglial-beta-three regulator.::

::Species number what?:: Rani was obviously confused.

::Species #2553 - Moytite. The base species of 4 of 8.::

Meanwhile, Captain was fending off another aggressive datastream originating from Doctor. Linked to his personal maintenance dossier, the data was a diagram of his body systems, focus upon an exploded view of his skull whereupon an implant deep in the center of his brain was highlighted. Several blinking arrows also ensured that the subganglial-beta-three regulator could not be missed. Captain finally gained control of the datastream, terminating it. {Stop providing me with unnecessary data, Doctor.}

::Then Captain would have an epic runny nose if the do-dad was broken?::

::The implant is in the middle of my brain, Rani:: inserted Captain, ::and isn't exactly accessible outside of a maintenance bay. Even if I repeatedly rammed my head against one of these useless decorative rock walls, I'd exhibit other detrimental issues long before the implant was affected. And, as already noted, no purposeful ouches allowed.::

Added Doctor brightly, ::Purposeful ouchy-ing the subganglial-beta-three regulator is not advised. Once the nasal secretion symptom starts, termination usually occurs in half a cycle. Or less. Assuming the implant is functional, just misadjusted, then it needs to be rebooted manually, which is really, really, REALLY hard to do.::

Captain rejected a datalink to a drone maintenance file which detailed the described procedure. The protocols tended to be in-depth, highly technical, and very graphic. He briefly contemplated redirecting it to Rani's Alliance email box, then quashed the impulse.

Rani pressed, ::Can you jigger the thing remotely? Yes or no.::

Hesitation, then a guarded ::Yes?::

::Then do so. The current diplomatic incident is bad enough as it is; and it will only grow that much worse should Captain "win".::

Captain felt any remnant control he might have on the situation swiftly being lost. ::Don't I get a say? It is my brain and my implant, as well as my usefulness at risk for both the sub-collective and the Alliance should I terminate.::

A whisper from Second: {Nope.}

Rani unknowingly repeated Second's statement, ::No. And Doctor clearly said you have half a cycle, which I know very well translates to about half an Alliance day. There will be more than sufficient time, once you lose this whole Banquet fiasco, to offer apologies and get your metal ass off the planet and back to the ship. Daisy, if Doctor, or whomever, doesn't remotely misprogram that implant within the next thirty seconds, you will extract the appropriate command and do it yourself.::

::We comply,:: said Doctor hurriedly, uncharacteristically slipping into the third person. Captain felt the drone maintenance override thread through his system, but did not feel anything immediately different.

A plate was set down in front of Captain, jolting him from his temporary fugue state of staring into thin air. He turned his attention downward to see a tasteful presentation of an overlarge pie slice, purple berries and juice spilling from beneath perfect crust, paired with the very "rustic" knifework of his fruit salad. Gaze slid sideways to the head of the table to see King Fabuli with a similar dish at his place. The Graid was glaring intently at Captain in what was undoubtedly a species-specific display of dominance declaration and challenge.

Silence in the Banquet hall. Blunt snouts pointed at the king, eyes of a hundred diners, servants, and retainers wide. Entertainers and kitchen staff edged in from adjacent rooms and hallways, heads craned to catch the history-making Banquet finale.

With fork wielded as if a sword on a battlefield, King Fabuli stabbed a bite of pie and brought it to his mouth. Exaggerated, deliberate chewing was followed by exaggerated, deliberate swallowing.

Snouts swiveled as one towards Captain.

Captain looked down at his plate. As visually attractive as the pie might be, it also contained an additive of unknown quality that he preferred to avoid as long as possible given the noxious brew already sloshing in his midsection. Captain finally decided to spear a piece of the hydroponic fruit salad, selecting a yellow chunk at random. The bit of roughly cut ovoid was transferred to mouth, whereupon he discovered that the bite actually tasted quite pleasant.

Snouts once again pivoted, this time back to the king.

King Fabuli adroitly cut another morsel of pie, ensuring that the large, purple berries and flaky crust were prominently displayed. It was consumed with a theatric flourish.

Twist. Attention riveted upon Captain.

Again randomly selecting a fruit, Captain downed a star-shaped green slice. As soon as the piece touched mouth, he knew a mistake had been made. As deliciously refreshing as the yellow chunk had been, this green fruit was sour...astringently, puckering sour. Captain knew he had slipped in regards to his facial expression, an involuntary cringe as whole eye half closed and mouth drew into a rigid grimace. He automatically worked his jaw in a chewing motion, then swallowed. The entire inside of his mouth felt dry, rough, tight.

Silence but for the subtle chink of jewelry knocking against other jewelry, uniform motion as watchers turned back to their monarch.

The king exhibited a self-satisfied expression, the smug countenance of one who knows points have been scored in his favor. Scanning the dessert plate, he drove tines into a green pod. A flash of uncertainty as the Graid's mouth closed around the technically-a-fruit, likely due to the dull starch taste not the sweetness expected. Still, the king diligently masticated the pod before allowing it to rattle down his throat.

Focus returned again to the drone challenger.

::Eat the pie,:: demanded Rani.

Captain's hand hesitated, fork hovering over the plate. ::Why? It has toxins I'd rather avoid.::

::Because it is obviously expected for you to eat the pie.::

::Expectations are irrelevant. This whole small being ritual is irrelevant.::

::Then it is an irrelevant ritual in which you will properly engage. Do it.:: During the conversation, Rani maintained a pleasant, interested, and absorbed manner to her demeanor, at odds to the urgent demands she made over the comm.

Captain altered the trajectory of his utensil. As he stabbed for pie, he felt something trickled wetly from his nostrils. He automatically put down the fork, dessert temporarily abandoned for the cloth napkin beside his plate. The napkin was picked up and swiped across face. It came away with a yellow-green fluid lightly tinged with red. Another faint tickling...and then the stream really picked up. Captain engaged in more wiping.

At the head of the table, King Fabuli jauntily stuck his utensil into several hunks of fruit, one of which had two ragged points and, under a coating of purple juice, was light green in color. As spectators watched, the fork was triumphantly waved before arriving into a confidently awaiting mouth. The king's jaw slid sideways as he began to chew. He abruptly paused. Another half-chew. Another pause. The king's eyes widened; and neck arched as he turned snout towards the tabletop, increasingly loud huffing noises emitting from clenched jaws.

The silence of the room, except for half-suppressed dry heaves, was palatable.

A servant ran forward, silver bucket at the ready. The king sucked in a deep, nasally breath, then made an audible attempt to swallow the morsal in his mouth, but it was too late. Turning away, he stuck his face into the proffered bucket; and with near projectile intensity, noisily vomited.

The Banquet erupted into chaos.

In Maintenance Bay #5, Captain was undergoing surgery. For a Borg drone, invasive surgery, sans anesthesia, was a normal event. In this case, Captain had been positioned on his back, head turned ninety degrees to the right side. The expected drone maintenance command had then paralyzed voluntary muscles, with the exception of blinking, to prevent inadvertent motion. Unusual had been an addition to the override of the muscle groups involved with breathing, but given the operation planned for his torso, the addendum was sensible. Lack of breathing for a short time would not be bothersome, the module which supplied auxiliary oxygen when a drone was in a harsh, anoxic environment more than capable of providing support.

Uncomfortable was the snot which dribbled continuously from nostrils, pooling beneath right cheek. It had not abated since the Banquet dessert course, now approaching a worrying half-cycle in the past. It did not seem possible a body could produce that much mucus, not without experiencing dehydration or some other malady. However, system status checks returned nominal health...well, nominal considering the purposeful maladjustment of a deep cranial implant critical for metabolic well-being was the reason for the snot.

On the surface of the Graid homeworld, many hours prior, the Banquet Master had ultimately declared the current king would continue his reign. Captain had been praised for his fortitude, but his unceasing nasal discharge had begun prior to the king's involuntary puking. Also, the retching display had been much more dramatic and noteworthy than an extremely (boring) runny nose, which also, somehow, played into the Banquet Master's decision. Apparently 11 of 480 had not uncovered all the nuances regarding Banquet culture, although undoubtedly a revision was already underway. Gossip Captain had overheard after the pronouncement could generally be categorized as "relieved" as many had been worried on how to accommodate an alien monarch. Furthermore, an emergency legislative session was to be scheduled, whereupon a law would be passed forbidding non-Graid to present a Banquet dessert course.

After several additional hours of entertainment, speeches, and other irrelevant cultural post-Banquet observances, Captain had finally been allowed (by Rani) to take his leave. He strongly suspected the display of unceasing mucus secretion no amount of wiping could staunch was a major factor. Whereas the Alliancers, and their marine guard, would follow local customs and politely return to the cube via shuttle, Captain had abruptly left via transporter. His destination had been this maintenance bay and the drone maintenance units awaiting their patient.

Captain focused his primary awareness upon the drone assigned to resetting his subganglial-beta-three regulator. A section of cranial armor had been removed and 75 of 133 was probing deep into Captain's brain which what was essentially a twenty centimeter long copper chopstick. For reasons literally lost to history, rebooting the implant required a small button to be manually pressed. To reach (or dig) directly to the implant was not advised due to the overburden of neural tissue and various implants of which it was difficult to reposition. Thus, the chopstick protocol.

{There's a better angle if you tried a bit to the right.}

{No. That would bring me too close to that flappy bit. Trust me, your species needs that flappy bit.}

{How about-}

{Gah! You are distracting me! Stop adding arrows and other alterations to your cranial diagram - they are in the way of my visualization! This is hard enough without you figuratively breathing down my neck!} 75 of 133 withdrew the chopstick, sucked in a big breath, exhaled it, then centered herself before carefully reinserting the probe into Captain's exposed brain. Meanwhile, the primary consensus monitor and facilitator of the only remaining Borg sub-collective, a quasi-individual the agent for (almost) All and whom kept the likes of Vaerz and Rani up at night with the existential threat of a renewed Collective...Captain was reduced to twaddling his figurative thumbs while snot puddled under his head and mucosy bubbles burst on his face. The loss of situational control made for a twitchy mind; and even more so because Second retained most consensus monitor duties until such time the implant was rebooted and it was clear Captain wasn't to terminate from a metabolic imbalance. Even pruning routine decision tree matrices of nonsensical branches or explaining to Weapons, yet again, why he couldn't lob torpedoes at Graid ships would have been a distraction.

The squishy sounds of the surgery concurrently occurring at Captain's midsection was ignored. Although he could have easily split his awareness to accept multiple datastreams, he did not bother, preferring to focus on the threading of chopstick, once again, towards the regulator implant.

In a Borg sub-collective, even one not imperfect, drones did not "listen" to all the myriad of exchanges which may be in progress at any one time. Conversations and data exchanges between units, or groups of units, was partitioned. To hold a running stream of consciousness conversation featuring logistical coordination to fix a hull plate (or, in the case of Cube #347, competitive connect-the-micrometeoroid-dots to create the most complex imagery) for all to hear was considered inefficient. Naturally, there was leakage, as to be expected when one was connected into a technological web of fluid consciousness; and while an imperfect drone had a greater sense of "self" compared to a normal Borg, that being one of the hallmarks of deviancy, the barrier between "me" and "not-me" still remained thin and susceptible to collapse.

{...good thing we got it out in time before...}

The fragment of overheard intradrone conversation captured Captain's attention; and even more so because it originated from the trio of drones attending to his abdomen. Splitting his foreground cognizance to include the surgery at his midsection, he added their perception streams to his active awareness, as well as a camera in the maintenance bay for an overall view. He found the two drone maintenance units busily (and utilizing the minimum of necessary exchanges to ensure coordination) wielding cell regenerators to repair his remnant gastrointestinal tract, as well as reposition organs and torso assemblies which had been shifted for the rushed stomach bodge job. Meanwhile, and much more disturbingly, the assimilation unit was holding a metal bucket into which the extracted polymer sack with its noxious cocktail of vat nanites, toxins and acids, and undigested food had been placed.

It was a polymer sack which was swiftly disintegrating, releasing a syrupy black liquid into the bucket.

Carrying the bucket with a thick glove, 27 of 203 carefully placed her cargo into an insulated barrel. With the appearance of an overlarge thermos bottles, it was a piece of equipment more suited for an engineering function. In other words, it was not a typical maintenance bay accoutrement. With bucket safely stowed in barrel, 27 of 203 began to take several smaller insulated bottles staged nearby on an empty work table, flipping open the top of each in turn and pouring liquid nitrogen into the larger vessel. A cold, white vapor billowed. Once all the nitrogen had been poured, 27 of 203 hoisted a hefty hunk of metal which turned out to be the barrel's lid. The lid was slid into place and secured.

{You told me there was nothing to worry about!} exclaimed Captain to 27 of 203, the plural "you" encompassing the whole of the assimilation hierarchy.

{Er,} replied 27 of 203 as she swiveled to face Captain's direction, {there wasn't anything to worry about, at least not much...until you shut down the vat nanites. Except, um, there may have been a few cross-code errors that arose as a result of the hasty reprogramming. But they didn't manifest until the abort command because the nanites didn't actually go quiescent, just hibernated a bit until rebooting. And, er, upon reboot they may sort of reverted to a "dissolve everything" program.}

{But vat nanites don't dissolve everything! They stay in their vats, after all, and...}

{There may have been a wee, tiny problem...maybe they didn't quite revert to vat programming, but perhaps activated full deconstruction code. That was accidentally onloaded in the first place.} 27 of 203's muddled explanation trailed off. While a Borg could not look embarrassed - 27 of 203 retained an appropriately proper neutral expression as viewed through the camera Captain was accessing - the sentiment was clearly present in her emotive radiation. Finally continued 27 of 203, {The cold and viscosity of the liquid nitrogen has slowed them down for now. My hierarchy strongly advises we swing by this system's star on our way out and transport them into it.}

{You are of assimilation hierarchy! Cannot you just turn them off? Force self-denaturing?} There was, perhaps, a note of concern in Captain's mental voice.

{Er...they aren't really listening right now, at least not on the standard frequencies. We think the reboot may have exposed another hack fault, one not caught until, well, now. And unless I am compelled for the good of All, I'm not sticking my arm in that mess to foster a more direct link, not when there is a perfectly good star nearby. Alternately, we could transfer the buggers to a new barrel when needed and keep them smothered in nitrogen for the next thirty of so cycles, until they self-denature on their own.}

Captain was going to add another query when the fragment of himself still observing the action within his skull caught a {Got it!} by 75 of 133. All went abruptly blank as unconsciousness descended. Captain awoke about forty seconds later, self-status reporting a seizure, one which had bypassed the drone maintenance nerve block to trigger muscle contractions. One nostril was also now completely blocked with dried snot, forcing the majority of the continuous, and increased, trickle through the remaining appature.

13 of 152, at Captain's midsection, was swearing as he fished around blind in Captain's abdomen, searching for a dropped cellular regenerator. Meanwhile, 39 of 152 was rubbing her jaw where she had been inadvertantly punched.

{Didn't get it,} informed 75 of 133. {Whoops.}

{Whoops?!} a note of unBorg almost-hysteria crept into Captain's mental tone.

{I pushed the wrong button. It happens.}

{There is more than one button on that implant?}

{Four, actually.} Captain was assaulted with a datastream detailing the regulator skematics. {I did get the one right next to the button I actually need, so making progress! Almost there! I think I have a good entry line now, even with the repositioning of your head.}

Meanwhile, Captain was also (simultaneously) grilling 27 of 203, resuming where he had left off before the black-out. {And what about the vat deconstructors in my body, the ones that leaked out? Am I soon to be sprouting holes, making the brain and gut surgeries irrelevant? Will I be dropped into nitrogen too, with recommendation for stellar immolation?} Sarcasm joined the almost-hysteria.

{Geesh,} replied 27 of 203. {You are still here, yes? No extra holes yet. Let me check.} The assimilation unit approached the bench next to 13 of 152, who had found his tool, thrusting her hand at Captain's exposed and snot-encrusted neck. Less than a minute later she retreated, yielding the space back to 13 of 152. {They are all gone. The code patch uploaded earlier, while you were on the planetary surface, included a just-in-case provision should your body nanites encounter rogue vat nanites. It worked. The multiple tens of thousands of vat nanites that made it into your system were identified and destroyed. Any damage accrued before eradication was minor.} There was an undefinable feeling that the drone, that assimilation hierarchy and maybe drone maintenance, was leaving something out. However, Captain decided it best to let it be. For now.

A third partition of Captain's multitasking self registered a sub-collective-wide consensus had been initiated (by Second) and resolved in the short time of unconsciousness. The unusually quick communal decision agreed with assimilation hierarchy to off-load the overly dangerous vat nanites which had, until a short time ago, resided in Captain. As 8 of 8 was currently tasked to coordinate the driving partition, the task of a close pass by the sun had already been appended to her to-do list upon departure.

Doctor pinged, then inserted himself into Captain's various datastreams, capturing his primary attention. {Good news! Research into the pluplat juice staining your hand is complete! It can be washed completely away upon application of an easily replicated solvent!} Specifications of an extremely caustic substance was provided on a secondary data channel. {However, there may be a wee, tiny, teeny problem. Use of solvent is only advised for the following species in this sub-collective - #6251, #6766, #7001, #7109. There may be small, bitsy complications for other species, but I am confident that it would be nothing that cannot be fixed.} Pause. {Not fixed, as in fixed, but put back together. A suitable substitute found, anyway.} There was the emotive impression of expectant waiting.

Captain blinked (the only voluntary motion available to him) as he reviewed the four species designations. {All four of those have exoskeletons! The chemical burn from your solvent solution will cause semi-liquification necrosis of my remaining hand.}

{It won't kill you! And the stain will be gone, as requested! There is surely an acceptable prosthetic in the stockpile to graft, else you can try one of the Factory prototypes.} Doctor, and drone maintenance in general, had been overly eager for the appropriate event to occur to allow testing of the newest Factory Mark IV products.

{I'll keep my hand as is. The stain is annoying, but will eventually wear off.} As per 158 of 203's rebuilt tattoo database, temporary body art utilizing pluplat juice usually faded in fifty cycles, more or less.

Doctor radiated disappointment. {Okay. But if you change your mind, just place yourself on the maintenance roster for elective procedure and follow-up surgery! There'll even be a special toy and treat in it for you!}

A *click* heard more in the mind than with the ears echoed through Captain's mindspace. Vision briefly dimmed, followed by waves of heat and chill running through his body. "Definitely got it that time," said 75 of 133 aloud, the voice shockingly loud amid the buzzes and hums and beeps of Maintenance Bay #5. {The snot should stop in a few minutes as the regulator restabilizes the affected metabolic pathways. Unfortunately, there will be some "crusting" as a side-effect, but nothing a small rotary sander can't open up and clean out. I'll start that once I have your cranial plate replaced.}

At Captain's mid-section, abdomen armor was being tacked back into place after successful completion of the gut surgery. The action suddenly stopped, then was reversed. Upon routine inventory of the various tools which had been used in the surgery, 39 of 152 had noted a laser scalpel to be missing; and since it wasn't obviously residing on the deck under or near the bench, there was only one other logical place to search before resorting to moving the machines which resided at the periphery of the room to check underneath.

Captain heaved an internal sigh. As per the last status update from the surface, at least another hour was required for the overlong welcome ceremony to conclude and the Alliancers to depart via shuttle for the cube. By then Captain would be in his alcove undergoing postoperative regeneration, with preference for non-lucidity, if only to put off the inevitable after-action review Rani would demand. Second would complain about the delay of his demotion to backup - he was currently tracking Captain's surface thoughts while emoting disapproval - but too bad...Captain had had a long, not-so-great cycle and desired as much downtime as he could get.

{I am starting a new food review blog,} abruptly inserted 17 of 19 into Captain's undirected musings, {and thought a retrospective on Graid Banquet cuisine would be a brilliant first article. Since you currently have the time and a very light computational load, I'd like you to rank on a scale of one to three yummy faces, neutral, or one to three yucky faces the following items you consumed...}

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