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

					Trickster

	"Ninety-five," boomed the basso rumble of a junior thunder god upon Cube #347 
loudspeakers and within the dataspaces. At the same time, 2.73 hours of a rousing polka as 
performed by the unlikely duo of harpsichord and steel drum faded.
	In subsection 17, submatrix 10, nodal intersection #19, Captain grumbled. The code to 
avoid the pre-Prime Commands should have worked, yet 39 of 240 had bypassed it...or, more 
accurately, Mr. Floontzy had bypassed it. An "imaginary friend" rider was now part of the 
aversion code. Command and control was fairly certain it would work, but only time would tell.
	"You are not helping, Daisy," spoke Captain to the air, voicing one of several gestalt 
musings upon the matter. "You are supposed to be our master censor. That was a failure."
	Local holoemitters activated. A stylized crimson-petaled flower, cartoonish with 
oversized eyes and mouth, consolidated between Captain and his viewscreen. Only fifty 
centimeters high from crown to base of pot, it nonetheless represented a peril greater than any 
number of incoming photon torpedoes. "The pre-Prime Command code looks to me as if it 
defended itself just fine. My censor and compliance function is to ensure you Borgs remain 
suitably subservient to Alliance needs, inclusive not embarking on killing or assimilation sprees. 
Keeping you all on a mental even keel is part of that charge since caving to every desire to look 
at shiny rocks or set the galaxy on fire would keep you from being able to follow Alliance orders. 
Everything else is up to you. Poking the pre-Prime Commands to achieve an eclectic music 
education doesn't affect your efficiency or effectiveness from my point of view."
	Captain frowned. The problem was that the damn AI was correct.
	"Of course I am," replied the flower as it skimmed sub-collective surface thoughts. The 
avatar vanished, local holoemitters disengaged. However, it remained, as always, a dataspace 
presence sitting on the metaphysical shoulder of every drone, a floral monkey on the collective 
back.
	Captain absently blocked a dozen illegitimate commands, any of which would have 
precipitated Bad Things of one sort or another. All in all, it was a light load. The viewscreen 
brightened as attention refocused, picture that of a stylized solar system of two stars, major 
rocks, and other salient features.
	For the last week Cube #347 had been investigating an astronomical phenomenon. To be 
more precise, the Astrometrics group had been investigating, the cube's function reduced to mere 
transport to be sent hither and yon by a flock of scientists. Astrometrics were overly excited 
because, as a discipline, they were rarely allowed to /do/ anything, their role normally support for 
other ship resources.
	"Science for the sake of science" was a small being attitude that the Borg mindset did not 
fundamentally understand. Related concepts, such as exploration with no set destination, were 
similar ciphers. It was inefficient, a waste of time and resources better spent in sensible 
endeavors. /Practical/ astrometrics included pulsar signposts and knowing how real-universe 
features would affect subspace in regard to various propulsion options. When the Collective 
wished to know about a particular stellar phenomenon - assuming the data wasn't already 
absorbed via assimilation - it was with a definite question in mind, one with the potential to 
further Collective ambitions. The current location was certainly not that; and, truthfully, the Borg 
Collective would never have given it a second, or even first, consideration.
	The system consisted of a quark star with companion orbiting about four light hours 
distant. No planets, or remains thereof, were in evidence. Either none had formed, else they had 
been ejected. Only scattered rocks and ice chunks of various tonnages and compositions shared 
the stellar neighborhood.
	Mission Astrometrics was captivated by the quark star, a stellar zombie subtype of which 
direct Alliance observational records were meager. Depending upon mass, stellar corpses were 
usually divided into one of three classes: white dwarf, neutron star, black hole. However, there 
was also the quark star, a fourth class which fell between neutron star and black hole. Stable 
quark stars required a precise set of circumstances to form. Only due to minute variances of 
rotation speed versus mass, surface electric field, and gravity wave modulation could quark stars 
be separated from their neutron star kin, which they otherwise resembled with their surface crust 
of degenerate neutron matter. Heated debate raged within the ranks of Astrometrics as to origin 
of the quark star, with the most popular hypothesis declaring it the merger product of two 
neutron stars with combined mass /just/ under that required for a black hole.
	Further afield, the companion star was also of Astrometrics interest. As per the spectrum, 
it appeared to have started life as a lower mass F-type, a star clade slightly hotter and larger than 
a yellow dwarf. Its fate should have been to remain stable for about four billion years before 
morphing into a red giant and, eventually, shedding its outer layers into a planetary nebula with a 
white dwarf at the center. However, the cosmic fireworks which begat the quark star had also 
ejected a lot of material, a substantial portion of which had been captured by the companion. 
Bulked up in mass well beyond that it had been born with, its destiny had been radically altered 
and the expectation was for it to nova, perhaps in an estimated ten million years. In the now, its 
turbulent history was reflected by an agitated state which included massive prominences, coronal 
mass ejections, and general stellar indigestion.
	Remaining in this system was illogical. There was no purpose in the endeavor, no 
information to be gained which might be applicable outside the realm of niche scientific papers. 
But the Alliancers had not inquired upon the sub-collective's opinion of the assignment, not that 
any answer provided would have altered the absurd waste of time.
	The sub-collective had piloted Cube #347 throughout the system, obtaining sensor 
readings and, more importantly for Mission Astrometrics, placing autonomous probes at 
designated locations. The probes were torpedo chassis, explosive payload removed and replaced 
with a sensor package. While the chassis with motor mount was a simple contrivance able to be 
constructed using cube munitions replicators, the sensor module inserts originated from Mission 
inventory. Once deployed, the probes stored all observations. The next time an Alliance vessel 
entered the system, a follow-up mission expected no sooner than ten years time, the probes 
would transmit saved data upon request as long as the appropriate security codes were provided.
	A moderate-sized flare accompanied by a large prominence decorated a limb of the 
companion star as it suddenly gained photo-realistic quality upon Captain's viewscreen. It would 
have gone unremarked, yet another tantrum amongst many, except that the lowest orbiting probe 
of the half dozen seeded at the star had coincidentally been hit by the plasma arching from stellar 
surface. The sensor payload was no longer functional; and the probe itself had been thrown into a 
decaying orbit, albeit one which would not be terminal for several deca-cycles. 
	Holoemitters within the nodal intersection activated, mirroring the viewscreen in a three-
dimensional format. Vector lines shimmered into existence, linking cube location near the quark 
star with the probe at the companion. Within a minute, a total of nine valid course options were 
displayed. Captain cocked his head as he gazed at the miniature solar system, then banished it 
upward with a mental command to hover at the ceiling. Eye glazed as attention turned inward 
towards other matters.
	Ten minutes later....
	The screen had altered to display heads placed side-by-side. The left pane was that of a 
Sarcoram Little Beak by the name of Plautz, member of the Astrometrics group. The eltab from 
which the communication originated was being held in hand as the astronomer paced agitatedly 
back and forth. The right side was 6 of 39, one of a rotating bloc of command and control drones 
assigned to liaise regarding official Mission-to-sub-collective requests which did not require 
Captain's direct involvement. In reality, 6 of 39 was in his alcove, not standing in front of a 
camera, overly pleased with the avatar he had crafted, even if words and mouth did not quite 
sync all the time.
	"Cube #347 support line - state the nature of your call. If it is an engineering matter, you 
will be routed to an alternate unit whereupon you will be instructed to describe the problem in 
exacting detail."
	"No, no, no. Not the engineering queue." The Sarcoram shuddered. "That queue has the 
most horrid hold music. This is about astrometry. One of the probes at Shimmer was hit by a 
plasma outburst. You need to drive the ship over to Shimmer, retrieve the probe, and lay down a 
new one. Horrible, horrible timing, but still better than if it had happened after we had left."
	Captain minutely shook his head in befuddlement over the small being propensity to 
confer abstract proper names to inanimate things. Within the sub-collective's rebuilt and ever 
expanding stellar catalogue, the binary system stars had been assigned proper alphanumeric 
designations.
	"Probe 18?" asked 6 of 39, even as the sub-collective already knew the answer. Of 
course, it /had/ required nearly ten minutes for someone in Astrometrics to even realize that the 
probe had been damaged. "The one we had strongly suggested might have been slotted for an 
orbit too low but were overridden and told to place anyway?" The non-expression on 6 of 39's 
simulated face was perfect.
	The three-dimensional system model descended from the ceiling. As the Sarcoram 
sputtered an answer to 6 of 39's provocative question, Captain seeded a random number 
generator and let it loose into the general dataspaces. As expected, the randomizer began to be 
influenced by rogue code snippets as well as hastily formed blocs "voting" on their favorite 
number. After a set amount of time - ten seconds - the randomizer output was finalized; and of 
the various lines pre-plotted upon the model, one course brightened and began to blink. The 
holoemitters were cut. Impulse engines engaged.
	"How long will it take to get to the probe?" demanded Plautz. The camera viewpoint 
chaotically slid around as the hand holding the eltab was used to gesture. Sarcoram head returned 
to the screen as the view stabilized.
	6 of 39 did not visibly smirk. Much. "About seven hours. Transit to the binary companion 
has been initiated."
	The nodal viewscreen blanked, then returned to the stylized system model, now with a 
miniature cube following a yellow dotted line. The conversation between 6 of 39 and Little Beak 
Plautz continued, but it was no longer a sub-collective focus.
	Captain tilted his head slightly as his attention shifted inward, lightly skimming over the 
buzzing, churning, murmuring throng which was the imperfect sub-collective of Cube #347. 
Notwithstanding the recent pre-Prime Command incident, minds and bodies were, for the most 
part, satisfactorily engaged in appropriate activities. Second was in scheduled non-lucid 
regeneration, undergoing mandatory inhibition filter rebuild overseen by a facet of AI Daisy. 
Most of his duties had been temporarily shifted to 8 of 8, newest Hierarchy of Eight member, 
only two subjective Cycles from assimilation and never having held a Captainship, but 
performing adequately under the watchful mentorship of 2 of 8. Engineering was occupied 
building probes for Mission use and, more importantly, mining Alliance datafiles for 
technological treasure that could be adapted to make the ship more "Borg", more how it was 
remembered and felt to have once been. Meanwhile, due to the boring nature of system and 
scientific objective once it was apparent no hidden enemies were to attack, Weapons' hierarchy 
had dived deep in the BorgCraft program, tweaking and building and modeling and testing. Lots 
of testing, especially of the upgraded holographic system in Bulk Cargo Hold #5. Assimilation 
hierarchy, thankfully, seemed to have latched onto assisting the Mission Borg Studies group as a 
coping method in regard to the recent uptick in neuroses, many of the more stable personalities 
reassigned into higher priority positions such as Engineering. Sensors. Drone Maintenance. 
Command and Control. Everything was functioning...efficiently. Effectively, anyway.
	Eye blinked as a low-level alert chimed for attention. Captain silenced it, then 
contemplated his organic, physical self. He was starting to develop chronic muscle cramps, body 
spending too much time standing motionless in the nodal intersection or clamped in alcove. A 
period of exercise was strongly recommended by the notification. With nothing on his schedule, 
no major consensus cascades in progress, and no emergency demanding either mental resources 
or body, now was a suitable time for a walk. But...where to go?
	Captain considered his options. Random hallways or a few circuits around a bulk cargo 
hold were possibilities. However, of greater interest was the Mission, where preparations for an 
Alliance holiday were underway; and, as per perceptions of drones and illicit camera taps, the 
focus upon decorations had decreased the already meager efficiency inherent in singular, small 
beings to a new low, at least in regard to actual work. The Mission was as good a place as any to 
flex muscles, plus he could add one more perspective for the Whole to observe the behavior of 
Alliance species concerning an irrelevant cultural event.
	In truth, Captain was a bit bored. Boredom, a concept alien to a drone of an ordinary sub-
collective, was a common occurrence amid the divergent neural architecture of the imperfectly 
assimilated. Ordinarily the never-ending task of consensus, censuring the worse individual and 
collective impulses, and acting as primary nexus for the group Mind was more than sufficient to 
keep him busy. But there were always the lulls, those times when Cube #347 efficiency 
approached that of a normal sub-collective, whereupon Captain was not entirely engaged in his 
position and, thus, was as susceptible to ennui as any of his comrades. And so, also like many of 
his drone kin, he self-justified an action he wanted to take. Captain was, after all, as imperfectly 
assimilated as any other drone aboard, even if the manifestation was not as flamboyant as some.

	Captain materialized on Level 1 of the Mission within one of the designated beam-in 
locations. This particular locale was a storage niche for mops, brooms, and other janitorial 
supplies, just across the corridor from the cafeteria. 
	Borg were intimately tied to their technology, including transporters, utilizing the latter 
not only to move about a cube deficient in convenient elevators, but also beam material and 
equipment as needed. The Alliancers and AI controller Daisy soon realized a bit of knowledge 
long recognized by the command and control hierarchy: it is nigh near impossible to create a 
long-term, lasting block from transporter controls for any given unit. It is possible to sic 
watchdog programs on units of known history of transporter abuse, route activities through a 
command and control partition dedicated to filtering problematic units, or even apply short-term 
deterrents. However, in the end, it was all too easy for a drone keen to find a work around to do 
so.
	The original plan by Mission security was for Borg, alike the unassimilated populace, to 
use the two official airlock-like entrances for ingress and egress. Needless to say, drones long 
habituated to utilizing the transporter system saw the request as irrelevant; and even more so as 
the Mission was fundamentally a part of Cube #347. The command and control hierarchy may 
also have been a bit lax in enforcing the early edict, other concerns ranking higher in importance. 
In the end, following many weeks of negotiation and passive-aggressive apathy, the solution was 
to allow unlimited Borg incursion into the Mission via transporters on Level 1 and Level 2, as 
long as designated beam-in sites were used, and no entry to hygiene facilities or Level 3 without 
an explicit invite. Specific sideboards established, Daisy could more effectively enforce 
compliance on the modified restriction; and the sub-collective was willing to utilize the resources 
required to self-police the decree amid the smug sentiment of a battle won.
	Captain started down the corridor. The Alliancers encountered ignored him with a "just 
another drone" attitude of complacency. His presence surely did not go unremarked - at the very 
least, Daisy was likely informing Rani and Sergeant Major Brunc - but the average Mission 
individual obviously did not recognize the primary consensus monitor and facilitator of the 
vessel of which they inhabited. The display of ignorance was fine with Captain.
	Cafeteria. Meeting rooms. Administration offices. Hydroponics. Every room, every 
facility, including the hallway, was decorated for the Alliance holiday designated "Trickster 
Day". Collective understanding, gained thus far via downloaded data and interrogation of those 
Mission individuals willing to explain, indicated some version of a Trickster Day was part of the 
cultural heritage of most Alliance partners, but the variation which dominated was adopted from 
the Vor. It was a day steeped in superstition and mysticism, a day meant to entertain and 
commune with a maleficently jolly Trickster quasi-deity who, if not appeased, would ensure the 
upcoming year was one of personal frustration and calamity. The finale included the burning of a 
Trickster effigy amid the symbolic tokens of what one wished to forget the previous year and/or 
desired in the upcoming year. If suitable amused, Trickster would grant the desires...or, at least, 
not actively prevent attainment. Food, alcohol, and mildly mind-altering drugs were prominent 
components of the day-long festivities.
	Trickster Day celebrations were to officially commence with the morning meal service, 
eight hours hence. With the beginning of the Mission "night", most personnel were in bed or 
heading that direction, finishing tasks (or completing final decorations) prior to gaining rest for a 
day of epic merriment. Irrelevant, irrelevant, and irrelevant again. It was extraordinarily wasteful 
to spend energy towards celebration of a mythological creature.
	Captain, once again, confirmed inhibitions were in place to prevent the more 
impressionable sub-collective members from showing up during the festivities, much less 
participate. All Trickster related decorations were summarily disposed of as they were inevitably 
encountered, the offending unit (if able to be determined) made to complete the task. Another 
three designations were added to the list of drones whom would be locked to their alcoves or, if 
required, be off-lined into forced regeneration on Trickster Day.
	Irrelevant. Inefficient.
	The main recreation room was entered. Captain panned the area, noting the especially 
dense nature of decorations. In a place of prominence on a low plinth was the effigy, a 
meticulously carved statue denoting a humanoid with vaguely reptilian features, made from the 
root of some tree located on the T'sap-Gudland world. Apparently it was quite flammable and a 
preferred effigy substrate. Several Crastians had crafted the sculpture with the subject being one 
of their Deities of the Week, no relationship to the Vor from whom holiday derived. To assist 
with burning, the effigy had been covered with a thin layer of a waxy substance, lending a 
distinctly orange tint to the sculpture.
	Two drones were in the room. To the left, standing discretely against the wall and with a 
view of the entire room, 260 of 422 was a sensory hierarchy observer. She remained stationary at 
her post upon Captain's entrance, but did extend mental acknowledgment of his presence. In the 
back of the room, 107 of 203, of the assimilation hierarchy, stood with three Caltrak around a 
waist-high table. A serious conversation was underway, deep questions poised concerning why 
certain Caltrak-origin jokes were considered funny (to a Caltrak) when universal translator 
output seemed so bland. Such nuances of translation in regard to cultural background and history 
was normally gained via assimilation, but since such a method of data acquisition was forbidden, 
members of the assimilation hierarchy continued as best they could.
	Captain was about to leave the room to continue his Mission tour, perhaps to the second 
floor, when a side table, near a placard over several messy shelves declaring "Library and Board 
Games", caught his eye. Fully entering the recreation room, he took the necessary strides to 
reach the table, gaze never leaving the objects which utterly held his attention. It was a small, 
untidy pile of data plaques. The basic data plaque was a thin wafer of clear resin, usually thumb-
sized, functioning as the Alliance version of data storage. Modified DNA strands suspended 
within the resin could be altered via application of directed light or magnetics. As a storage 
solution, it was neither as efficient nor long-lasting as the artificial crystal utilized by Borg (and 
many extinct pre-Troubles era civilizations), but it was a long leap forward compared to the 
methods common to species early in computer experimentation.
	These data plaques were dark blue in color with a stylized lizard emblazoned in black on 
the upward facing side. Selecting the top plaque from the pile, Captain brought it closer to eye 
and optical implant. Puzzlement abruptly shifted to excitement, an emotive radiation strong 
enough for 260 of 422 to send a request for enlightenment. Captain ignored the sensory drone, 
instead focusing upon the find, the /treasure/ which had been hiding within the Mission: Jumba 
the Wise Lizard! The emblem upon the held plaque was that of a lizard silhouette frozen mid-
dance, one foot on the ground with hand holding an old-fashioned slug thrower as it swept above 
head. In silver Sarcoram script along the edge read "Jumba the Wise Lizard and the Case of the 
Ballet Murders".
	Captain was a Fan of Jumba the Wise Lizard. Until this moment he had not known that 
the noir-style detective and his seemingly endless adventures existed in this future. The author - 
Eliasi L'vef - was phonetically the same in all languages Captain had encountered; and such was 
true here, too. He had always been a proponent of the theory that the Jumba author hailed from a 
long-lived mech species, such as Ehtu, scoffing at other notions such as the writer represented a 
hereditary succession of individuals utilizing the same pseudonym. The continued existence of 
Jumba, despite a 50,000 plus year dark age unable to appreciate the detective's trials, strongly 
argued for the mech hypothesis.
	The plaque Captain was holding was stealthily (for a Borg) slid into a thigh compartment, 
followed a moment later by all other plaques on the table. Likely not all were Jumba, but better 
everything than accidentally missing one. Eye slid to the shelves as Captain contemplated how 
obvious it might be if he started to dig through the jumble of physical media and games in search 
of additional Jumba plaques.
	"Hey...Mister...Mister Captain-Borg, sir! Can I ha-ha-have a moment, please-sir?" 
unexpectedly spoke behind Captain, followed by a confused, "Are you borrowing a library 
book?"
	Captain pivoted quickly, right hand lifting in programmed instinct of aggressive defense. 
He blinked as the scene resolved, lowering the limb as a Sarcoram stepped back in alarm, clearly 
not expecting such speed from a drone as heavily modified and armored as Captain. A dataspace 
chortling arose from 260 of 422 and 107 of 203, either of whom could have warned Captain of 
the approach. He shifted his head slightly to look in their direction, but, outwardly, both 
continued at their respective tasks. None of the Caltrak bothered to look towards the obvious 
commotion, too engrossed in arguing over nuances of the latest joke explanation. Head turned 
back to the Sarcoram.
	"No library book is being borrowed," said Captain. In the background, 107 of 203 
commented that such an assertion was technically true...the books were being stolen. "And you 
will refer to this drone as Captain or 4 of 8."
	The Sarcoram blinked, then cautiously edged closer. "Can I have a moment of your time, 
please-sir?" he repeated before tacking on a "Captain?"
	Captain belatedly accessed the Mission transponder database, pinning it to a notification 
program. Borg were always aware of other drones in their vicinity via automatic interplexing 
beacon tracking. A similar cognizance of the Alliancers was possible thru use of their surgically 
embedded communicators, but only if the data was routed directly and tied to a tracking 
algorithm. As Captain rarely interacted with Mission personnel whom were not Rani (or Vaerz, 
when present), and had not previously entered the upgraded Mission with the exception of the 
Security Liaison office, there had been no reason to alter background spatial awareness to 
include nonBorg crew.
	The individual in front of him resolved to be Dwix, a very junior Borg Studies technician. 
The kal-male was a relatively young adult in addition to being near the bottom of the Borg 
Studies perching order. Observing a highlighted note in the personnel dossier, Captain looked 
beyond flushed head and nervously rumbled neck ruff to spot a T'sap designated Ricarsey. 
Standing in the recreation room entrance and emanating an excited anxiety, Ricarsey was also of 
Borg Studies, same rank and duties as Dwix. The pair were nigh near inseparable, a similar 
dynamic in play as the Sarcoram-T'sap pairing of Britz and Elises, two temporal mechanics 
graduate students off-loaded at Station Three upon return from Cube #347's initial post-temporal 
resurrection mission. It was almost - as per an irrelevant not-quite-thought floating around the 
dataspaces - as if species #5618, human and of whom T'sap were, even if they had forgotten 
following their Troubles-era diaspora, had found a soul-mate in the Sarcoram.
	It was a somewhat troubling consideration on many levels; and Captain banished the 
untraceable thought-thread from his mind.
	"What do you require?" asked Captain.
	The nervous flush coloring Dwix's head faded as beak gaped and feathers sleeked with 
delight. One hand fumbled at a sash pocket, finally extracting a small, thin object and a writing 
stylus. "Could you sign my card?" Vocal tone shifted to what Sarcoram called a hatchling whine. 
"Please?"
	Captain internally winced at the subharmonics embedded in the request even as he 
maintained outward stoicism. He took the card in his whole hand, turning it over. It was of a 
flexible paperboard, a rectangle approximately six by nine centimeters. On one side was his 
designation and a headshot of himself, likely taken during the fuzzy cycles and weeks following 
temporal resurrection when he had been drugged or otherwise rendered insensate more often 
than allowed true consciousness. The back side contained a list of statistics, ranging from height 
and weight to species and percentage of his body augmented by cybernetics. "What is this?"
	"That's your Borg card! In Borg Studies we've made one for /every/ living member of the 
sub-collective! There's a little, er, game going on in the flock where each person tries to gain the 
signatures of the drones on the cards!"
	Ricarsey was suddenly present next to Dwix, offering a card alike the one in Captain's 
hand. "The higher perching techs have the best opportunities to get drones because they interact 
with subjects all day. I was in the cafeteria when I saw you beam in and I thought I recognized 
you so I ran to get Dwix and we confirmed you were the primary consensus monitor and here we 
are and could you sign my card too?" The prattle was delivered in one long breath, as grating on 
Captain's senses as the hatchling whine.
	Captain returned his eyes to the card in hand, turning it over again. As he did so he 
broadcast a general query as to whom had capitulated to signature requests, adding a question as 
to why he didn't know about the "game". In response to the first, a significant portion of the 
remnant assimilation hierarchy had signed cards, followed by a solid number of sensory and 
engineering drones, and, finally, a smattering of other designations who may, or may not, have 
had a legitimate reason to be in the Mission when they were assaulted by someone from Borg 
Studies. As far as the second, the general sentiment was that Captain had never asked about the 
cards; and the interactions were too minor to rise to the notice of higher echelon command and 
control, much less the primary consensus monitor and facilitator node.
	"I will sign," said Captain, which elicited a near ultrasonic squeal of glee from Dwix. 
"Both of the cards." Ricarsey began to dance in place excitedly. The second card was acquired 
and both were shifted to a grasper on Captain's prosthetic arm. "But first you will agree to the 
following conditions. One - you will acquire another card with my likeness. Two - you will 
create similar cards of yourselves. Three - you will sign your cards. You will then have Daisy 
beam all three cards to my location. You will do the aforementioned within three cycles of this 
conversation. If you do not perform as required, /no/ more drones will sign any Borg card and 
your game will end. Is there compliance?"
	"Yes! No problem!" exclaimed Dwix, echoed by Ricarsey. Captain had the distinct 
feeling that if he had asked the two to convince Security Liaison Rani to allow their assimilations 
or jump off the hull of the cube without a spacesuit the response would have been the same. 
When stylus was cautiously extended a second time, Captain took it, then looked about for a flat 
place to write.
	Near 107 of 203 and the Caltrak trio were several additional waist-high tables. It was to 
one of these that Captain stumped, trailed by Dwix and Ricarsey. The three Caltrak watched the 
procession, amusement clearly writ on their faces and in the twitch of stumpy tails. Captain 
ignored them, transferring the cards back to whole hand and thence to the flat surface. At the 
urgings of the two Borg Studies techs, he scribed his designation in Borg alphanumerics under 
his face, followed by his pre-assimilation name using his species' language.
	Cards and stylus were held up. "Three cycles."
	Dwix and Ricarsey grabbed their trophies and ran from the room, T'sap giggles and 
Sarcoram gurgles following them.
	"Sprats," commented one of the Caltrak with an eye roll. All three amphibians returned to 
their previous discussion with 107 of 203.
	Captain dared not return to the library shelves to search for additional Jumba literature, at 
least not in this moment after such a public display. Instead he headed for the main hallway, 
pausing as the recreation room was exited to contemplate where - Mission Level 2? - to continue 
his exercise. However, he was distracted by the plaques rattling in his thigh compartment, the 
Jumba stories waiting to be read. Attention shifted to cube inventory, searching for the eltab 
stockpiles engineering hierarchy had acquired for various projects.
	A new location for exercise was chosen, one lacking in Trickster Day decorations but also 
free of potential interruptions in the form of unassimilated individuals. The locale also just 
happened to pass by Analysis Shop #17, whereupon fifteen eltabs currently resided, one of which 
could be appropriated for the purpose to read Jumba plaques.
	Captain locked a transporter upon himself and beamed elsewhere.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Call zho Red Shift. "Red Shift" was not zhos name, but an approximation of the grainy 
magnetic grunts and pops which served as such. "Zho" was also a gender description of 
convenience, for while Red Shift's kind were not neuter, were not "it"s, they also could not be 
easily pigeonholed into the bi/tri/quadmodal sexes common throughout much of the galaxy. Of 
course, when one is a coherent whirl of intelligent plasma, a single entity of a species living 
beneath the surface layers of a star, many concepts common to the planetarily evolved are 
irrelevant.
	Currently, this coherent whirl of plasma was a morass of emotions, the most prominent 
being disappointed, confused, excited, and, perhaps, a tad frightened.
	Red Shift was an amateur astronomer. Although a difficult journey, zho enjoyed 
occasional swims, as time allowed, to the wilderness of Globe's surface. Away from the dense 
confines of town and city, one could spread out, take time for zho-self and just stare at the 
heavens. At only half a rev into Red Shift's camping trip, zho had felt the twisting magnetic 
deformations of a heavily metallicized asteroid in very close orbit. As it began its rapid transit 
across the sky - a quick orbital period calculation suggested less than one-third rev to completely 
circumnavigate Globe - visual spectrum examination concluded the rock to be very small and 
possess an astoundingly high albedo. It was a new type of celestial object! Zho would be the 
envy of zhos small society-clique of fellow astronomers!
	After the object inevitably sank below the horizon, Red Shift began to implement a 
hastily concocted plan. Zho only had a short time to prepare! First came the budding, a 
nonsapient pinch of self, a body-robot. Usually one would use a budding to carry messages 
across town or pick-up take-out from a local restaurant. Red Shift quickly composed and loaded 
a program which, at its most basic, told the budding to "Explore", "Recall", and "Return". Next 
was the twist, the winding of local force lines and alteration of charge potentialities, deforming 
the proximate environment until the surface trembled, a heliovolcano on the edge of eruption. 
While it had been long since Red Shift had played the latter type of game, back in zhos wild and 
rowdy youth, the skills were easily remembered.
	All was made ready just in time. As the unique asteroid passed overhead, Red Shift 
untied the lines holding the twist in place. The massive prominence lifted away, carrying the 
budding with it. Just as predicted by the math, the object plowed through the expanding plasma. 
Because the budding did not fall back to Globe with the crashing rain of plasma, zho felt the 
gambit had been a rousing success. The asteroid should have just enough metallicity to keep the 
budding active. While the prominence, as expected, had lent enough friction and pressure to 
cause the rock's orbit to decay, it was not an immediate thing; and it would remain aloft well past 
one rev, at which time the local magnetic potentialities would have sufficiently recuperated to 
allow another plume with which to recover the budding. Even if all the budding brought back, 
once reconstituted with Red Shift, was unexciting, collected spectra indicating a known species 
of rock, it would still have some lovely orbital memes to share.
	Red Shift settled down to watch the heavens: Bright was especially x-ray sharp and 
magnetically loud at the moment. Beautiful!
	Unexpected was the large metal box creature that appeared as the object was arching 
overhead on its next orbital pass, snagging it from its path and /eating/ it.
	Red Shift could only watch in mute astonishment, mixed with awe and fright, as the box 
beast waded through magnetic lines and coronal heat, gracefully soaring upwards, its profile 
distinctly angular in zhos imaging discs. The budding was obviously gone, down the gullet of the 
predator. But it was only a budding, inconsequential (other than the loss of data), the plasma 
donated soon to grow back. As the box rose, it ejected a bit of excreta, similar to the prey just 
swallowed, flinging it away on an orbital path well above the reach of even the most mighty 
prominence Red Shift might build. Finally it stopped, hanging itself in a heliostable orbit almost 
directly overhead.
	Philosophers, cosmologists, religious leaders, many had postulated that life might exist 
beyond Globe in the chill depths of inhospitable space. Red Shift had always scoffed at the 
notion, for if life was to be found anywhere, it obviously would evolve on other Globes, other 
stars, in the cosmos. Zho had been proven wrong; and now zho could only stare, drinking in the 
sights and sounds, committing all to deep meme stores that zho might share once zho sunk back 
to the friendly, civilized layers of Globe. The unknown creature was obviously a mere beast, but 
still frightening in its implications all the same.
	And, so, Red Shift waited - disappointed, confused, excited, frightened - for the box beast 
to perform its next spectacular trick.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Cube #347 powered through the diffuse plasma soup, complex magnetism, and extreme 
heat which defined the outer atmosphere envelope of a star. The target was Probe 18, its oblong 
form tarnished following passage through plasma flung from stellar surface. Even if propulsion 
had been functional, the complex tumble which resulted from the encounter may have defeated 
the simple computer mind which defined the probe's programming.
	As the objective neared, a checklist scrolled through Cube #347's primary working 
dataspace. Of utmost importance was to ensure complete hullside weaponry lockdown. It was 
standard operating procedure upon probe recovery, just in case Weapons declared the need for 
live fire practice with a target and attempted to seize control, or inspire his hierarchy (or 
individuals of another hierarchy) to do so. Alike the other retrievals, Weapons ignored the 
preparations...all the science-y stuff was sooooo boring, and there were explosion mechanics in 
the BorgCraft simulator which required vital tweaking for maximum realism.
	The cube matched vectors with the probe. Preliminary scans detailed damage, as well as 
reported presence of a substantial static charge. The latter was not unexpected, given the abuse 
the probe had withstood. A tractor beam stabbed out to grapple the probe, but missed, as did a 
second attempt. The third try seized the target, thereby stabilizing the tumble while 
simultaneously neutralizing excess charge. After all, if a Borg tractor beam could leech energy 
from ship shields, then mere static was no problem.
	The tractor maneuvered the probe towards Bulk Cargo Hold #3, successfully handing it 
off to the interior system. The device floated downward, aimed towards an awaiting cradle in line 
with three others, all filled. Two drones holding batons lit with green lights on the end stood one 
to each side of the framework. As batons were waved the probe swung this way and that. The 
left-side drone suddenly sneezed, causing wands to swing erratically, with the result of the probe 
abruptly stooping downward and being released from the tractor beam. It crashed to the ground 
from a four meter height, narrowly missing both cradle and the baton holder not currently bowed 
over wiping tears from their eyes.
	Six drones whom had been waiting at a respectful distance hurried to the incident site. 
Four of the units were carrying metal spars, each approximately three meters long. The spars 
were lain on the deck two behind and two afore the probe; and then, with much internalized 
cursing, the heavy probe was tilted this way and that to shove the poles underneath. Finally, 
joined by the two baton wielders, the probe was lifted akin that of pall-bearers carrying a coffin, 
borne to the empty cradle, and roughly transferred therein.
	Initial analysis suggested the hull of Probe 18 could be salvaged, but interior components 
were destined for complete rebuild, if not replicator reclamation. However, that was a project for 
another time, one to occur once the cube had left the system, likely with additional 
malfunctioning probes also requiring refit. For now, immediate task complete, the eight 
engineering drones beamed elsewhere in Cube #347, new priorities assigned. Lighting with Bulk 
Cargo Hold #3 dimmed to standby mode, standard protocol when nobody was present. Perhaps 
light strips near the exterior cargo doors flickered slightly, but such a phenomenon was not 
uncommon and no one, except automatic maintenance subroutines, noticed the minor electrical 
disruption.
	Target captured and secured, Cube #347 boosted itself to a higher orbit. As the maneuver 
took the vessel past a precalculated elevation, the replacement to Probe 18 was ejected from a 
torpedo launcher. Trajectory was deemed satisfactory, Probe 27 well above the reach of even the 
most feisty of prominences thus far observed. Finally a heliostable orbit was achieved, one which 
would keep the ship stationed over the same general plasma patch.
	Due to the extreme heat flux of the coronal environment, Cube #347 could not remain in 
place for an extended period of time. Shields would greatly assist in mitigating the worst of the 
heat, reflecting and radiating and transferring as necessary; and environmental maintenance 
systems would moderate the rest. Ultimately the time the ship could remain in place was limited 
to about 3.1 cycles, after which the cube would be forced to relocate, else begin to broil. The 
sub-collective would have vastly preferred to leave immediately upon capturing Probe 18 and 
launching its replacement, but such was not to be. Instead (and illogically from the sub-collective 
point of view), Mission military and science leadership had agreed that the diversion represented 
by Trickster Day took precedence; and that close orbit around a star was as good a place as any 
to celebrate the holiday, especially as there was no immediate danger. 

	In the early Trickster Day morning of the Mission, most beings were asleep. The 
exception included several marines in their foyer watch posts, because that was the Military Way, 
and a foursome of culinary-minded persons. The lattermost noisily rattled around in the kitchen 
anteroom of the cafeteria, merrily getting in each other's way as all worked to produce a lavish 
spread of hand-crafted sweet and savory treats to celebrate the holiday.
	The Mission general staff included four personnel with culinary subspecialties - two 
Caltrak, one T'sap, one Phytani. Although one of the Caltrak was nominally in charge of the 
small group, the truth was none had been hired for their cooking skill alone. Normally, only one 
individual would be on duty in the cafeteria during a given day-shift to provide support with 
replicator menu or programming, clean up after diners, and assist those individuals whom 
wanted to try to cook (usually from replicated ingredients) a meal in the kitchen. The other three, 
meanwhile, would perform the duties aligned with their primary specialty, such as administration 
or the janitorial arts. Cafeteria duty rotated each day.
	Ingredients and bowls spilled out of the kitchen and into the cafeteria proper, overflowing 
onto tables. Many of the ingredients were genuine, not replicated, packed specifically for 
incorporation into holiday meals, perishable items kept in stasis. Hydroponics and garden had 
supplied additional fruits, vegetables, and spices, freshly grown and harvested. Tantalizing smells 
wafted. Kitchen sounds picked up in intensity as a mixer began to whirl, followed the higher 
pitched whine of a blender.
	Cafeteria lights, set to a third their normal lumens due to lack of patrons, brightened 
slightly, then dimmed. The subtle pulsation occurred a second time, then a third, in time with the 
blender as it chopped through a chunk of ice. A loud clatter emanated from the anteroom as a pan 
was accidentally dropped, followed by a bout of swearing amid laughter.
	The noises of blender and mixer abruptly ceased; and kitchen lights extinguished. 
Stunned silence. Ceiling-mounted light strips fitfully brightened, finally returning to their normal 
setting. There was the sound of a thick door being opened, one hinge faintly squealing despite 
the newness of the oven to which it was attached.
	"My shu-fflessss!" wailed a Caltrak voice, guttural sibilance strong despite processing 
through universal translator. "They be /ruined/! The Trick-shter, he twissstz my tail!" The last 
was stated in a ritualistic manner, a phrase uttered because today was the day to do so. It wasn't 
as if the speaker actually /believed/ in a capricious deity who enjoyed malicious pranks even as it 
sometimes randomly bestowed generous luck upon the unsuspecting. But...acknowledging that 
one has potentially been the target of a supernatural being, who definitely-maybe did not exist, 
only took a small bit of effort.
	"Maybe I shouldn't have plugged in the blender?" opinionated a T'sap female.
	"Bah," exclaimed a third voice, Phytani male, "it's just an overload on the circuit. It 
could've happened to anyone, even the Boss. I'll reset the breaker, then grab some diagnostic 
tools from the locker to see which outlets go to which room circuit. As long as we don't overdo 
too many devices on the circuit with the ovens, all should be good to go."
	"But my shu-fflesss...they still be ruined!"
	A fourth voice, also Caltrak, replied, "Thessse gaztrometric philisstinez won't know 
anythink wrongz iv we pile on a bunch of sweet whipped cream. Maybe tozz in chopped fruit. 
They'll think that how it zupposed to be." The short speech was followed by a snort.
	"I'll start on the fruit, then," said the T'sap. "What would go best with a deflated souffle? 
Star berries? Sourfruit?"

***
Alliance Military Electronic Mail System
Routing: Internal (Mission)
Security Level: None (Unencrypted)
Recipient (primary): Rooberg ub Fuente, Talon Spanner
Recipient (secondary): General Mission Mail List
Sender: Engineering Hierarchy, Cube #347 
Urgency Level: Nominal
Attachment: No

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

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

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

	The fitness center had been completely transformed. All exercise equipment was 
relocated to one end of the room, along with the mats used for martial arts and extreme dance 
practice. The mirrors which lined one side were covered, both to prevent accidental damage and 
to remove their reflective quality. In the center of the open space resided a folding table, accented 
with runner, numerous ribbons, and a large glass ball. Faux candles with artistically dribbled 
resin and flickering light emitting diodes were placed on horizontal surfaces throughout the 
room. Decorative hangings of dark fabric softened hard walls. On the floor in front of the table 
was a large square of thick paperboard, such as might be used for a game board, three meters on 
a side and covered by a bewildering variety of pictographs and Sarcoram language alphabet and 
words.
	Sitting behind the table was xenoarcheologist Little Beak Kreenik, a Daarath. His 1.6 
meter form was canid, but stretched, as if someone had taken a wolf and pulled, taffy-like, arms 
and legs out of proportion with torso. Neck and fingers (and toes) continued the theme, 
everything a bit longer than expected, not edging into "willowy" but instead retaining a certain 
robustness. Upon head, muzzle and ears were similarly more elongated than the mind insisted 
should be proper. The Kreenik's short pelt, alike all his species, was dominated by blonde and 
ginger, with faint brown stripes encircling arms and black tufts on ear tips. There was no tail.
	All Daarath ultimately hailed from a single continent enclave located on a minor Alliance 
world. Several generations prior, a handful of overpopulated ships had limped into Alliance 
space, requesting asylum due to genocidal prosecution by the Combine. Little was known of the 
Daarath by the majority of Alliance citizens or partner species, mention of their race during 
routine schooling a mere side note to be memorized in the event it was a test question. Their 
population remained limited, even after so many years, and most were content to keep to their 
adopted home. The few who did venture into the wider universe presented an inoffensive mien, 
satisfied to work at the endeavor that had sent them outward from the enclave.
	Those who did know of Daarath beyond schoolroom trivia also knew that the species 
exhibited an empathic talent. The strength was unknown, those individuals whom did leave their 
enclave politely refusing to sit for tests...or any medical assessment except those absolutely 
necessary for a given employment. There were whispers of empathy edging into psi-talent, but 
no proof beyond circumstantial evidence. The fact that some Daarath occasionally answered 
questions before asked or embarked upon tasks afore requested could simply have been an 
empathic reaction to strong emotions on the part of the non-Daarath.
	That empathic talent was the reason Kreenik presided at the table. He did not believe in a 
Trickster, his faith disallowing acknowledgement of any deity or divine power but that permitted 
by his theological texts. However, the same religion preached peaceful tolerance for those 
unenlightened peoples whom followed other, albeit false, godheads. Therefore, when he was 
asked to participate in the traditional Trickster Day seance because his talent lent it a greater 
sense of legitimacy, Kreenik was willing to play along, to humor the unbelievers. Besides, it was 
a bit of fun to break the monotony of day-to-day work; and his texts did not forbid it.
	Twenty lucky lottery winners, inclusive five Crastians, were arrayed around the seance 
board on chairs and lounges relocated from the primary rec room. The already dim light seemed 
darker when contrasted against the bright un-flame of flickering candles and faintly glowing 
glass ball. The ubiquitous Borg observer, standing motionless adjacent the exercise equipment, 
was ignored by all, a piece of ambulatory furniture with a few blinking lights.
	Kreenik stood from his chair. "Welcome, everyone, to this Trickster Day seance. As you 
all know, I do not believe in a Trickster nor ascribe to this activity, but I'll do my best to bring 
you closer to your chosen deity." The Daarath was dressed in a satin (bath)robe, accented by 
borrowed scarves and jangling jewelry, many of the latter provided by Security Liaison Rani. A 
jaunty gold earring (his own) adorned one pointed ear and a homemade diadem of wire and 
colored glass baubles encircled head. A feather, laying on the table, was picked up. "This totem, 
blessed earlier this day, will guide you on your journey."
	During the communal breakfast, which included a stupendous selection of special treats 
made by the Mission's four culinary subspecialists, Rani had theatrically donated one of her arm 
feathers for the seance. Amongst the Vor, from whom much of the Trickster Day traditions 
originated, a scale was the seance talisman, but since none of that species was within the 
Mission, Rani had filled in to provide the traditional gift.
	In truth, /everyone/ knew the seance was rigged. Holoemitters, anti-grav lifters, dynamic 
magnetic guides, a tailored token...the list was long. Rooberg and two of his assistants - the third 
too busy in the kitchen in his spare time - had worked for days in their off-hours to prepare the 
room, the seance board, even the "spontaneously donated" feather. They had been assisted by 
members of the Experimental/Tactical Engineering subgroup. However, even knowing that the 
seance was more performance art than actual attempt to commune with a Trickster had not 
stopped the hopeful from joining in the lottery for a chance to directly participate, the remainder 
relegated to event live-stream.
	"O-le, o-le, abba shzee," intoned Kreenik, stumbling on the Vor words, which had to be 
pronounced in the original language sans universal translator interpretation. "These supplicants 
greet you, grand Trickster, to come and listen to their pleadings, their questions, their desires. I 
am merely an intermediary, a conduit between this universe and your shadowed land. All await 
your coming...." 
	Kreenik raised the feather high with one hand, waving it back and forth. As he did so, he 
glanced down at a discrete holo-screen projected on the table just behind the ball's base. He 
selected an item on the menu, then let go the feather, allowing it to float unsupported in the air. 
Another button initiated faint sparkles inside the ball.
	Ohs and ahs accompanied the display, eyes riveting upon the feather. The Crastians 
rattled mandibles in appreciation as they bumped carapaces together in a nearly musical rattle.
	"Are you here, Trickster?" beseeched Kreenik. When there was no response, he asked 
louder, more forcefully, as if a reverend at a revival, "Are you here, Trickster?"
	The sparks in the glass ball flared; and the table itself rose slightly into the air before 
landing with a thump. A deep gong sound shimmered the air. The feather revolved once, then 
lightly floated to the board, landing on the Sarcoram cartouche for "YES". In the back reaches of 
the room, candles flickered, but they went unnoticed with the exception of the drone, whom 
pivoted to its left to better view the phenomenon. If one was paying attention, one might have 
seen a transient expression of confusion upon its face, but none were, all focus upon the feather.
	"The Trickster comes! That most fickle of beings is here!" Kreenik squinted at the 
display, where a name had appeared. "Danarius, you are first...take the feather from the board, 
stand in the sacred circle, ask you question, then toss the totem upward above your head."
	The named Sarcoram gyn-male strutted forward to claim the token. Long feathers of tail 
and arms had been carefully dyed a dark burgundy in celebration of the holiday, accented with 
sparkles of sloe, an ultraviolet pigment of which Sarcoram were partial. It was no secret that 
Danarius was looking to court a female for a long-term dyad pairing, and the seance was a 
chance for him to show his qualities. From the murmur of several females, and at least one kal-
male, in the audience, his presentation had made an impression.
	Going to the middle of the mat, Danarius bobbed his head lasciviously towards his 
admirers, then spoke, "Will I acquire monetary wealth?" The feather was tossed underhand 
towards the ceiling.
	The talisman spun lazily back and forth, dipping and rising in a not-quite random manner. 
It swooped down, finally alighting on one of a series of complex glyphs of Vor origin. In 
summary it conveyed: "You are a government employee, what do you think?" That questions of 
personal finances were asked during a Trickster seance was unremarkable, nor that there was a 
set response that made it unnecessary to spell an answer one letter at a time. However, that there 
was a single word-pict that communicated such a nuanced notion spoke much of the Vor 
mindset.
	Sounds of merriment abounded as Kreenik translated the glyph. Danarius settled his 
feathers good-naturedly, then strolled casually back to the sidelines, flicking his tail just so in a 
Sarcoram flirt gesture.
	"Next," said Kreenik, moving things along, "is Stormy Cloud. Same as before: gather 
talisman, go to the center, ask question, toss."
	One of the five Crastians bounded forward. "/Storm/ Cloud," it insisted. "My use-name is 
Storm Cloud."
	"Excuse me. I must have misunderstood the Trickster when it gifted me with your name."
	The Crastian scuttled on to the mat, grabbing the feather with one of its delicate hands. It 
continued to the sacred circle, whereupon it spun three times completely around, pausing to bow 
the fore half of its body each half turn. Upon stopping, it began to rapidly click, chatter, and 
rattle, vocalizations the voder rendered into the following: "Of great and glorious Trickster deity 
unto this day is devoted. My question on high to your marvelousness is thus...who is the next up 
and coming deity amongst the cosmic pantheon?" The query was very Crastian, many of the 
species best described as casually avid spiritualists whom treated gods, especially those of 
foreign origin, as a fad to be tried on as if the newest in fashionable clothing.
	The feather was flung into the air, surprisingly well for a creature knee high for most 
bipedal sentients and whose four arms appeared overly spindly. The token went up, then began to 
float aimlessly, dragging the eye to it.
	Meanwhile, Kreenik was covertly typing something out on the holo-display with one 
hand while the other moved in mysterious gestures above the glass ball.
	The feather rapidly dropped out of the air, skimming over the surface of the mat until it 
hovered over the region with Sarcoram letters. As each letter was lightly touched with the shaft, 
Kreenik intoned the selection. The result was mirrored simultaneously above the glass ball in 
holographic form. Most of the words were clear enough, but as the name of the deity was 
revealed, things became a bit odd.
	Ignored and likely completely forgotten, the Borg silently (as much so as can a drone 
with servo-assisted muscles) shifted to a vantage to better view the board. Prosthetic arm was 
lifted to aim towards the seance.
	Read Kreenik, "There are many laudable candidates. However, the best wager is on my 
good acquaintance Xeeriggggngh." The canid gurgled phellem in the back of his throat in an 
uncomfortable manner as he pronounced the consonant heavy name. Ears flipped back, pressed 
down, then returned upright. Muzzle wrinkled in confusion as if the Trickster's response had not 
been quite that expected.
	Ooooos arose from the Crastian host as Storm Cloud rushed back to join its comrades. 
The clatter of quiet, but earnest, conversation commenced. Because the speech was not directed 
at a non-Crastian, the voders did not translate the noise. However, even without the aid, one 
could plainly hear the crab version of "Xeeriggggngh" be imitated multiple times.
	"Ahem. The Trickster is a busy being and can't stay here all day. Barnett, you are next! 
What grand inquiry do you have?"
	A tall, red-haired T'sap female squealed excitedly and jumped up from her chair as her 
name was called. Before she could step onto the board to claim the feather from where it had 
fallen, the room plunged into near darkness. The only illumination of any consequence originated 
from candles, glass ball, and two small windows in the closed doors that led to the hallway.
	"Please remain calm, everyone," said Kreenik. "This is /not/ part of the seance. There 
must be a little power issue. I'm sure it will be fixed shortly. Borg, sir or madam, do you have 
any information for us?"
	The drone, whom had paused its approach to the gathering upon the blackout, was silent. 
After a few beats it spoke, strong undertones of reverberation altering its base voice. "This room 
has been affected by an instance of the electrical disturbance which has been impacting cube 
subsystems for much of the last cycle. Alliance day-night period. The...whoa! Electromagnetic 
output spiking. Unit platform systems compensating. What the f**kin' pickled ice cube be 
that?!" The stilted answer abruptly shifted to a /much/ more casual and animated tone.
	The glow of the glass ball was growing in intensity, while above consolidated the chaotic 
unshape of a red-tinged cloud. A fitfully flickering display had reappeared within Kreenik's view. 
It indicated activation of room holographic emitters, but not of the sequences pre-loaded for the 
seance. The cloud twisted into a vaguely humanoid face, one more shadow than substance, then 
opened the hole corresponding to its mouth in a silent scream. The unnerving figure abruptly 
evaporated, unreal fog flying apart in all directions.
	The glass ball darkened, as did the erratic holodisplay behind it. Only candles were left to 
provide an inadequate light, that is until a few individuals pulled eltabs from carrying cases or 
overlarge pockets to key the flashlight feature.
	The drone swiveled its head in the disconcerting manner of its kind with body below 
neck largely motionless. Kreenik had the distinct impression the dark presented no hinderance, 
unlike himself and the majority of Alliance species represented in the room. "The disturbance is 
gone. The grid in this room will need to be reset before your event can continue." Pause. "I have 
been informed the door is affected, too. It can be forced open if there is an emergency, but it 
would be more efficient to wait until breakers are replaced and temporary repairs completed. 
Such is to be accomplished by drone, not Mission, resources. Time to completion is estimated ten 
minutes."
	"Hey, Kreenik, I really need to use the restroom! What's that Borg telling you?" called a 
voice urgently amid the restless crowd.
	Kreenik flipped his ears, sending earring to jangling. Nostrils flared. "There just may be a 
bit of that emergency to which you alluded."

	In Analysis Shop #9 of subsection 24, submatrix 4, great Happenings were afoot. Second 
had assigned himself the job of direct observation in the role as a command and control unit 
nominally tasked as additional logistical support. Not that he needed to be present (and a certain 
twinned designation, perfectly competent to oversee, would prefer that he was elsewhere), but 
Second found the mission divertingly entertaining. His "official" duty load was edging into 
moderate, but still more than sufficiently light that he could perform what was required as 
Hierarchy of Eight member and reserve consensus monitor in the workshop as well as in his 
alcove, or anywhere in the cube for that matter. Besides, watching the Happening was giving him 
the opportunity to work on a subfile of his sarcastic observation remarks lexicon.
	Approximately eight cycles prior, one of the Special Projects overseen by engineering 
hierarchy to adapt Alliance technology to better service Cube #347 (and a future Collective) 
had...exploded. Sort of. In a very wet manner. The details were irrelevant, only that the result had 
required renovation of Analysis Shop #9. Once workbenches had been resurfaced and the worst 
of the solvent odor largely ebbed, the painting had commenced. Most surfaces in a Borg cube 
were unadorned, the industrial "finished metal" look more than sufficient in regard to interior 
decorating. However, there were exceptions; and most analysis workshops included a coating of 
a special non-stick paint which allowed for easier clean-up in the event of sticky splattering on 
wall or ceiling. Not that such had helped for /this/ event, but it had been a special case.
	Painting in a Borg cube brought complications in the form of high humidity and warm 
temperatures, which do not facilitate an expedient dry time. Standard procedure was to deploy 
fans. Lots of fans. And because Analysis Shop #9 was a relatively small and enclosed volume 
when considered on the scale of a Borg vessel, dehumidifiers were also utilized. All had been 
proceeding apace when a transient electrical disruption, cases of which had spiked since the cube 
had taken up a heliostable position with shields set to ward against stellar thermal assault, had 
melted all the relays within the local power bloc.
	A squad of engineering drones had removed wall panels, still wet with paint, and begun 
the laborious rewiring process. Battery-powered work lights had been brought in to facilitate the 
process, normal overhead lighting nonfunctional. More than a few shadow animals had romped 
across the bulkheads and onto the ceiling. In one corner, mostly out of the way of laboring 
workers, Second observed the bustle.
	Or, rather, he /had/ been observing the bustle. Currently he was focused inward, in 
conversation with Security Liaison Rani. Normally Captain would be the primary liaison with 
upper-level Mission staff, but that particular worthy was currently in lucid regeneration, demand 
of the Whole for his mental resources thinning out his presence as he engaged in Captainy things, 
thus rendering his conscious "self" slower to respond to personal engagement. As the 
conversation in question was not an emergency, there was no impetus to force Captain to full 
awareness; and especially not when there was a handy back-up consensus monitor and facilitator 
perfectly able to fill in.
	"Your problems do not originate with any drone, to the best of my knowledge. That is not 
to say that some designation isn't hiding something - that happens all the time - but not in this 
case for your issue." Second was absently speaking his half of a verbal-only exchange aloud.
	Pause.
	Response: "You are not the only ones encountering problems. We, however, do not 
ascribe it to small being superstitions like a Trickster. The rational explanation is based in the 
reality that /this/ is not a Borg cube, no matter how much it looks like one. The shield generators 
are adequate to keep the star from cooking us. Barely. You did read the Engineering hierarchy 
internal memo, did you not? The result, despite their labors, includes irregularities in the 
electrical grid. Perhaps you need a better quality of surge protector?"
	Pause.
	Response: "A floating gas ball shaped like a mushroom. My personal opinion is the 
reportee had begun their Trickster Day celebration too early and with too much enthusiasm."
	Pause.
	Response: "Even teetotalers need to have cheat days?"
	Pause.
	Response: "You don't have to be so rude! We may be Borg, but we are also imperfect; 
and although we spend a great deal of time in each other's mental space, I remain not Captain 
and, therefore, do not respond as would Captain. If you wish to talk to Captain, his regeneration 
cycle will end in 1.54 hours. But he'll only provide you the same answers as myself, albeit in a 
more restrained manner."
	The conversation ended. Second blinked several times, whole eyes out of sync, as 
conscious awareness of the local environment flooded his senses. Almost immediately a muffled 
thought stream caught his attention, that of a someone who wanted empathically to swear, but 
knew to do so would bring unwanted attention.
	{Very good, 229 of 230,} said Second acidly. {In a bit of a predicament, are we?}
	229 of 230 had managed to rivet his left foot to the floor. This had occurred despite the 
fact that, one, to do so with the attachment on his prosthetic arm would require a moderate 
degree of deliberate contortion and, two, there was no need to rivet anything in the first place. He 
peered over at Second, tried to shift his foot, then did mutter the words he had been holding 
back.
	{Shall I dedicate a few run-time cycles so as to do your thinking for you? It is no trouble 
and shouldn't require much. You obviously aren't using your brain for deep thoughts, or any 
thoughts at all, at the moment.}

	Trickster. Trickster. Trickster.
	Rumor, whispers, gossip, opinion galloped within the Mission. Many declared the 
electrical grid issues to be coincidental to Trickster Day celebrations: there was no Trickster 
deity. The closest candidate might be an omniscient being such as a Q, whom would have surely 
exposed him/her/itself by now for an ego-boasting acknowledgement of a prank well done. Such 
rationalization was not enough, even amid the strongly scientific ethos of the Mission. There was 
always the person unnamed, trackable only through a chain of he-told-me-who-heard-it-from-
this-one-crab, who swore they had a close encounter of the Trickster kind due to <insert dubious 
reason here>. Doubt is an insidious creature, close cousin to the monsters who lurk in the dark 
beyond the reach of the campfire light, worming its way into the psyche of even the most logical 
sentient.
	In contrast, the Whole of Cube #347 did not believe in the small being nonsense of a 
Trickster. Because the sub-collective was composed of imperfectly assimilated drones, there 
were, of course, a handful or three of whom were overly influenced by Mission superstitions. 
Those units were appropriately censured so that the gestalt entire was not impacted. Much.
	Trickster. Trickster. Trickster.

	Captain had protested. He had protested very strongly. He had protested very strongly 
that purposeful live fire was inappropriate on a starship; and, especially, this starship as there 
were certain designations who might be "inspired" by such a display.
	Rani had listened as she dyed her neck ruff an artistic swirl of yellow and orange - 
Trickster Day colors - which were striking against the monochrome of her body feathers. Then 
she had summarily dismissed the concern because (1) life support on the massive cube was more 
than sufficient for a small bonfire; (2) it was traditional and she liked her imported traditions; and 
(3) hadn't that one drone with the funny white hat brought to the Mission a very overpowered 
live-fire oven last week for a cooking demonstration on some sort of yummy flatbread product? 
Compared to that crazy device, the Trickster Day finale burning of the effigy was a mere lighter 
next to an acetylene torch.
	And, so, two cycles later, here they were.
	The lights in Bulk Cargo Hold #3 were dimmed. In an open spot on the floor of the vast 
space stood the Trickster effigy, orange wax coat gleaming in the glow of festive lanterns set 
upon boxes. Over three-quarters of Mission personnel were present, including the entirety of the 
Crastian mob, many of the participants mildly to seriously inebriated upon alcohol, narcotics, or 
other inhibition-loosening drug of choice. Several genres of music battled for supremacy, played 
overloud from eltabs or personal instruments; and uncoordinated dancing was rampant. Heaped 
against the effigy was a pile of folded paper, along with a few tokens of greater substance. Very 
few among the group seriously believed the original religious intent of Trickster Day per its Vor 
origin, nor the numerous variants amid the many Alliance races, but it was a nice excuse for a 
party, so the appropriate forms and traditions had to be followed.
	Beyond the brightly lit zone of effigy, gyrations, and happy sophonts stood the silent and 
motionless shapes of Borg. Sixteen to be exact: Second and fifteen engineering drones, the latter 
armed with fire extinguishers. Lantern light glimmered on armor. Targeting lasers had been 
disengaged after one too many complaints from the party-goers, but the occasional blinking light 
from assembly or external implant remained.
	Second felt he had been assigned the better slice of the partitioning of command and 
control duties. While it was true that part of his multi-threaded attention was upon the inner 
workings of Cube #347, he wasn't /in charge/ and the majority of his awareness was in the here 
and now of Bulk Cargo Hold #3. Captain, on the other hand, was the primary node wrangling 
thousands of designations, thousands of impulses looking for a place to happen. To cut down on 
the potential for "oopsies", all drones, with the exception of Second and his fifteen compatriots 
in the cargo hold, were locked in alcoves, with the most impressionable in regard to fires - 279 of 
300 for instance - off-lined for the duration of the Trickster Day finale party. Those same drones 
would inevitably draw upon the memory blocks of their comrades once they were allowed 
consciousness, but dealing with repercussions from those few at that time was easier than amidst 
the chaos of several dozens of units trying to circumvent alcove locks and transporter blockades 
in the name of "cultural observation" or whatever justification was being provided.
	Most of Second's background processes were looped upon variations of "No". It was a 
familiar subroutine, one perfected over a subjective century of being amid the Hierarchy of 
Eight, and sometimes Captain, of an imperfect sub-collective.
	Second passively observed the raucous party primarily from his own perception, although 
he occasionally supplemented the view from one or more of the fifteen engineering drones 
present or a hold camera. Security Liaison Rani unsteadily climbed onto a box - a sham 
impression of drunkenness, as the sub-collective had carefully tracked her feigned imbibing of 
intoxicants throughout the day - and began a long, rambling speech. Much was said without a lot 
of substance, a slurred rambling that soon had the party-goers chanting for the bonfire to 
commence. The whole exhibition appeared ritualized, and the Whole - that portion not focused 
on quashing the desire to paint all Auxiliary Cores in fractal patterns of orange and yellow - 
strongly suspected Rani was playing a part expected of her by the other Alliancers. As the 
chanting rose to a crescendo, Rani artfully fell off her box, "serendipitously" landing upright 
amid much arm flapping. Spitting a vulgarism that elicited much laughter, she grabbed the 
ceremonial lighter, stepped forward, and lit the effigy with a grand flourish.
	{Transient electrical grid disturbance in Bulk Cargo Hold #3, grid zone theta-three-point-
two,} wisped the dry, analytical voice of the Borg computer. Second had earlier linked himself to 
the automatic notification subsystem tasked to track electrical anomalies; and now he raised eyes 
towards the distant ceiling, observing a slight brightening of muted light strips, followed by 
dimming.
	{Transient electrical grid disturbance in Bulk Cargo Hold #3, grid zone theta-two-point-
eight.}
	{Transient electrical grid disturbance in Bulk Cargo Hold #3, grid zone epsilon-five-
point-five.}
	{Transient electrical grid disturbance in Bulk Cargo Hold #3, grid zone delta-five-point-
nine.}
	Second followed the disturbance as it transited the ceiling, then began to descend the 
interior-most wall. With him tracked other units via his perception stream. The anomaly sank 
beneath the level of the cargo hold floor, its effects no longer able to be directly viewed, then 
vectored along a conduit that crossed the sub-floor space. It paused, immediately under the 
crowd dancing in the light of the burning Trickster sculpture.
	Torch exploded into bonfire, which then gained another magnitude of flamage as it boiled 
into a conflagration fifteen meters high. Alliancers whooped, even as they backed away from the 
effigy, clearly believing the display to be a prank, perhaps due to secret additive of accelerants 
within the statue. The few sober participants, including Rani, stared at the spectacle wide-eyed, 
confusion evident.
	{Unknown coherent energy signature, Bulk Cargo Hold #3. Unknown coherent energy 
signature, Bulk Cargo Hold #3. Unknown coherent energy signature, Bulk Cargo Hold #3.} The 
computer incessantly yelped its complaint. Second severed the notification linkage. 
	"Well, f**k," commented Second as the flames reached another meter higher. For once 
he was at a loss in regard to the appropriate sarcastic rejoinder and, therefore, reverted to tried-
and-true vulgarism. In the center of the massive fiery column, it was just possible to espy the 
effigy. It certainly was not fueling the inferno. Flowing shapes too regular to belong to a bonfire 
could be perceived appearing and disappearing; and there was a certain whooshing, whining, 
whistling noise that no normal fire would utter.
	A decision was (collectively) made. {Put it out!} ordered Second, mentally waving all 
engineering drones into action. The units stepped forward in unison, wading and pushing and 
shouldering through the party. Extinguishers were deployed.
	A piercing screech echoed through the Bulk Cargo Hold, cluing the majority of the party-
goers that, perhaps, something was not quite right with the supposed prank.
	As fire extinguishers emptied, they were dropped to the ground. Transporters deposited 
another fifteen cylinders next to waiting drones. At the same time, an additional dozen 
engineering units materialized, these ones possessing equipment rated for plasma and electrical 
fires. Overhead, 100 kilograms of sodium bicarbonate arrived and began rapidly rain downward. 
Second set himself a reminder, for when things were a bit less chaotic, to check the command 
and control logs to learn whom had been hoarding the baking soda and why.
	The unnatural fire slowly retreated. Just as it seemed it were to be defeated, it abruptly 
flared, detached from the effigy, and streaked into the air. Except for a few flickering sparks, all 
semblance of fire was shed, leaving behind a thickness of air difficult to see in the dimly lit cargo 
hold. The whirl of thick air struck the ceiling and was gone.
	Second relinked to the earlier dismissed engineering notification. He was rewarded with 
the computer detailing a transient electrical grid disturbance, one which, like those prior, quickly 
vanished into undetectability amid normal background variance. Hold lighting was raised to the 
normal setting, then upped to add additional lumens. Second surveyed the scene of perplexed, 
half-drunk Alliancers; charred effigy emitting a single tendril of thin smoke; twenty-seven 
engineering drones cautiously brandishing fire extinguishers; and, above all, the mess of 
chemicals, foam, and baking soda.
	{Well,} directed Second to Captain, {I think I found the source of Delta's little 
engineering problem.}

	Captain stood at the presentation end of Mission Conference Room #2. Rani had declared 
the briefing to be of sufficient importance for the sub-collective's liaison to attend in person, 
instead of virtual. Also in the room were Sergeant Major Brunc, lead engineer Rooberg, all Big 
Beaks heading the individual specialty groups, and Crastian mob boss Red Spot. A few 
additional loiters had managed to sneak in; and, of course, a random handful of Red Spot's 
conspecifics. Many of the participants had a certain bearing to their poise, perhaps a grimace as 
if the light was a wee bit too bright. Assimilation hierarchy conjectured hang-over and/or 
insufficient sleep was largely responsible.
	"The lifeform is a coherent magnetic twist," began Captain as Rani gave a perfunctory 
arm wave in his direction. He paused to allow low conversations to ebb into silence. "Or, at least, 
that is the most precise description we can provide. The species records we retain from prior 
temporal resurrection are focused upon sentients of interest to the Collective." Mostly true. There 
was also a mildly disturbing amount of nonsapient data, courtesy of Doctor, ex-vet and 
pathologically dedicated pet person. "Alliance records are limited, but there are two confirmed 
instances of complex life analogues arising within extreme environments such as stars.
	The wall monitor behind Captain brightened. To it, and the room holoemitters, he had 
been "granted" access by Daisy for briefing use. No access codes had been provided, a tacit 
acknowledgement that the AI (and, by extension Rani, Brunc, maybe a select one or two 
additional) knew the sub-collective continued to penetrate, and subsume, periphery Mission 
devices. Alike the cameras, holoemitters and public presentation subsystems did not provide 
access to more critical architecture behind the Mission firewall as represented by Daisy. The 
leading hypothesis was Rani wanted to continue observing and gathering data; and save new 
system restrictions, if necessary, to a more critical time.
	{Daisy}, directed Captain, {adjust lighting in this room. Dim enough for more efficient 
screen viewing, but sufficiently bright to minimize attendees falling asleep.} Nothing happened 
except a sense of waiting watchfulness. Captain heaved a theatrical dataspace sigh. {Please.} 
There was no sub-collective access to Mission environmental controls. Yet. The AI performed as 
requested, decreasing illumination by thirty percent. Almost immediately, Big Beak Frazu - 
Geology subgroup; Sarcoram female - began to doze, victim to the aftereffects of Trickster Day 
overindulgence of a citrus concoction. She abruptly jolted awake, recipient of an annoying 
sequence of beeps, buzzes, and chirrups only she could hear (and the sub-collective via 
eavesdropping on compromised Mission communications). Several Crastians lurking beneath 
tables and chairs also appeared to drift to sleep, but they did not receive a similar wake up alarm 
due to their uninvited status.
	Captain shifted sideways to allow unimpeded view of the screen. "To maximize 
information transfer, questions will be ignored unless asked during designated periods to do so. 
Any question session will be ended at any time should it extend overlong or range off topic." An 
audience member rattled wing feathers, a Sarcoram request for acknowledgement, similar to the 
raised hand amongst humans or hooting by species #7534. As promised, it was disregarded, 
although Captain did add a count-down timer to the first question break in the lower left corner 
of the screen.
	"We postulate the lifeform became trapped within the prominence which struck probe 18. 
Upon contact, the lifeform transferred itself into the probe. When We subsequently arrived to 
recover the probe, static electricity was observed. While the charge was high, it was not outside 
the variance possible given what the probe had experienced. Per standard procedure, a tractor 
beam drained excess charge from the probe prior to conveyance to Bulk Cargo Hold #3 for 
temporary storage. Review of sensor and general engineering data recorded during that operation 
confirms the lifeform transferred to cube systems upon the leech event."
	A very simplistic cartoon diagram provided a visual counterpart to Captain's words. 
Happy and frowny faces featured prominently, as did large arrows. While it was unlikely that the 
lifeform in its native stellar habitat was a fuzzy lightning bolt with googly eyes and small horns, 
the partition contributing that particular piece of clip art had been very stubborn regarding 
alteration, especially 6 of 8 who thought it cute.
	"With high confidence We judge the lifeform to be nonsentient. Its behavior is one driven 
by stimulus and response. As per recent experimentation, We have confirmed it is drawn to 
elevated prevalence of electromagnetism, whereupon its existence disrupts the systems to which 
it is attracted. It is also attracted to thermal sources which are accompanied by bright light 
output. When not in active motion in the electrical grid, its quiescent state is very difficult to 
discern from normal grid activity, even now that we know the signature for which to scan. Given 
the appropriate conditions, it can physically manifest, as per the Bonfire Episode in Bulk Cargo 
Hold #3. That particular incident was precipitated when a poorly shielded conduit - low 
engineering priority - leaked electromagnetic field vectors into the cargo hold; and when the 
lifeform rode the field to reach the burning effigy, it caused a minor leak to become the 
equivalent of a gushing flow."
	Multiple first-person views of the Trickster Day bonfire, assembled for maximum 
excitement factor by 93 of 510, ex-fashion model videographer, faded from the screen. They 
were replaced by a wireframe schematic of Cube #347. "The attraction of the lifeform to 
elevated electrical or magnetic outputs presents a problem. Neither warp, hypertranswarp, nor 
impulse can be used without a severe detrimental outcome. Upon activation of these systems, 
subsequent disruption by the entity will cause catastrophic malfunction." A tri-segmented warp 
nacelle was highlighted, followed by modeled consequences of an entire edge exploding. The 
demonstration was followed in turn by the internal detonation of a hypertranswarp ring nacelle 
(with adjacent warp core) and excavation of a large crater upon a face where a component of the 
impulse system resided under the hull. "In all cases, the cube can survive the damage, but the 
lifeform is unlikely to be impaired and, thus, remains capable of additional disruptions. Folded 
space drive should be viable for faster-than-light conveyance because it is fed by a capacitor 
system with an energetic spike too short-lived to draw the lifeform. Unfortunately, our 
destinations are constrained to our limited number of addresses; and the entity, and the problem it 
represents, will remain onboard." Captain paused, allowing the very large frowny face on the 
screen to animate and roll off the monitor. "We can use thrusters, as long as the lifeform is at 
least 100 meters distant. By the time it transits to an active propulsion unit, it can be shut down 
and control transferred to another unit."
	The count-down timer flashed as it ended at "zero". Another timer appeared, this one 
signifying how much time remained for the first question session. Silence reigned as Mission 
personnel either digested the briefing implications, else dozed despite Daisy's efforts to keep 
individuals awake. The respite was short, however, and multiple questions began to be shouted at 
Captain, most a variation of "Are we stuck in the system?" and "What can be done?" Before he 
could move to the next phase of the briefing - the reaction had been modeled as the scenario 
most likely to occur - he received a ping for attention. Unremarked in the semi-darkness was 
tilted head as he, the sub-collective, considered the demand to alter presentation proceedings. 
Consensus was achieved, with Captain uttering an automatic {Compliance} to the Will of the 
Whole, not that he held a preference one way or the other on the modification. He returned head 
to a neutral position.
	Captain's unresponsiveness to the myriad of queries and statue-still stance hinted to the 
more astute audience members that something had changed. 
	To Captain's right and at the edge of the gathering, Rani drew her head back in confusion. 
There was an internalized query to Daisy, the response returned not only to the Security Liaison, 
but widened to include Brunc and other key Mission individuals. Heads pivoted towards the door 
just as it was filled by a wide and very armored form.
	Announced Captain into the abrupt quiet, "Weapons will present the next briefing 
segment."
	Tactical drones rarely entered the Mission. When they were present, it was almost always 
due to a Daisy-enforced response to a Borg Studies request. The heavy stomping as Weapons 
negotiated the narrow aisle to the front of the room was in part owed to a body frame heavy in 
armor, weapons, and implants to support his specialty, but also because the personality who was 
Weapons had decided to use the tactic as a not-so-subtle form of passive-aggressive intimidation.
	Weapons took the place of Captain, who withdrew to a side wall. "The entity must be 
removed from Our systems! By limiting Our maneuverability and capacity to use critical 
systems, it incapacitates Us and significantly erodes Our tactical options! Unacceptable!" The 
statements were shouted, as if Weapons were at the far side of a cargo hold, not less than three 
meters from the front audience members. He stopped to pan the audience with an unblinking 
glare. 
	{Less volume,} rebuked Captain mildly. {You will deafen them. Unlike a drone, they can 
neither turn down hearing gain nor report to drone maintenance for replacement aural implants.}
	Replied Weapons, {The intention was to ensure the sleeping units were awake and paying 
attention. Without shock collars or implants linked to pain centers, my method was the best 
option.}
	{True. But if you continue none will be able to hear the important information you are 
about to disseminate.}
	Weapons mulled over the statement for a moment. {Understood.} The conversation was 
completed during the time spent glowering darkly at the Alliancers.
	"Pay attention, small beings. The questions you ask have already been considered by this 
sub-collective." The screen brightened, returning to a basic cube schematic, this one focused on 
an edge with one nacelle segment highlighted. "Powering up a warp nacelle attracts the 
lifeform." The google-eyed lightning bolt icon appeared, then made its way to the nacelle where 
it started to jiggle in an odd dance. "If the plasma bottle of the segment is isolated, the entity will 
be trapped. Unfortunately, modeling suggests it can only be incarcerated for several minutes 
before escaping. On the other hand, the time should be sufficient for radical dissection of the 
infestation, given preparation and an appropriate level of efficiency."
	The schematic metamorphosed into a fully accurate model of an Exploratory-class cube. 
More specifically, it was the highly detailed Cube #347 avatar from the weapon hierarchy's 
BorgCraft reboot. The view drew back as a yellow-tinged cutting beam stabbed in from off-
screen, eventually resolving the originator to be a larger cube. With much simulated damage and 
multiple explosions, the warp nacelle segment was excavated from Cube #347. Almost 
immediately it was impacted by multiple projectiles, resulting in an overlarge explosion that 
peeled ablative armor from Cube #347 as well as rendered additional damage to the mutilated 
edge locale.
	"One minor issue is the requirement of another vessel, preferably Battle-class tonnage or 
greater. Technically the procedure could be accomplished utilizing full engineering support to 
excavate the nacelle prior to lure and trap, but /somebody/ claims the probabilities are too low 
for success, even though up to thirty-six attempts are possible.
	"Moving on."
	The Cube #347 avatar reset to an unmarred form. This time it was accompanied by a 
vessel with a large saucer foresection connected to a cylindrical back-slung bottom section via a 
stumpy neck. Two warp nacelles were held up and out from the lower cylinder. Angular writing 
picked out a ship registry and name on top of the saucer, not that "Enterprise" would have meant 
anything to the attendees, even if they could read the extinct language once known as "Terran 
English".
	"More efficient and effective is if the lifeform can be lured to a vessel with exterior 
mounted nacelles. A tractor beam should have sufficient attractant properties, after which warp 
nacelles can be activated on the target ship." The Enterprise speared Cube #347 with a tractor. In 
response, the googly-eyed lightning bolt zoomed along the beam with an audible shoosh. As 
nacelles started to brighten, cube cutting beams lanced out, slicing one, then the other, engine 
housing from the main ship body. "As you will observe, detaching the lures is very simple. At 
that point, the entity can be disposed." Torpedoes hit the free-floating targets...all three of them. 
When the explosions cleared, little was left except for a debris field.
	"Therefore," continued Weapons as he entered the final portion of the briefing segment, 
"the best option is to use folded space drive to jump to one of the refurbishment systems. Once 
there, we will demand through the extended subspace communication buoy that a suitable 
Alliance vessel be sent to our location. The entity will be removed from Cube #347 systems via 
the technique outlined and destroyed. Any questions?"
	The screen behind Weapons dimmed as Daisy, unbidden, keyed conference room lights to 
increase luminance. 
	Stunned expressions filled the audience.
	"No questions. Acceptable. We will begin preparations to minimize the lifeform from 
affecting critical cube systems, priority to defense and offense, before the folded space jump. 
Your task is to prepare a demand to Alliance Top Perchers for a vessel to lure the creature upon."
	"Wait, wait, wait, wait!" sputtered Sergeant Major Brunc, head of the assigned military 
contingent. He rose to his feet, the vivid colors painting his head made even more so with his 
level of agitation. "There are /so/ many holes in that Ôplan' that I could fly an entire squadron of 
fighters through it! There are also one or ten possible alternate plans that come to mind that 
/don't/ involve wholesale destruction of an entire ship!"
	Weapons began to lift arm with embedded disruptor in response to perceived threat, 
lowering it as both Captain and Daisy provided their individual warnings to behave. 
Simultaneously, Rooberg tugged on the aroused Sarcoram's vest, telling him to calm down, sit 
down, before something unpleasant happened.
	"Captain," projected Rani through the restless not-quite-calm as attendees murmured 
amongst themselves and rumors undoubtedly began to spread as several Crastians slipped out 
into the hallway, "is that /really/ the best plan you could come up with?" She stood as a feather-
rumpled Brunc reluctantly retook his seat.
	Captain turned his head to look at the Security Liaison. "We are a sub-collective of 3,685 
units. Of the 72 scenarios examined, these two are the least extreme and most likely to succeed. 
Depending on options considered, Scenario 54 has a probability of 93.5% success, assuming the 
lifeform doesn't break anything critical between now and then."
	"Ripping out part of your propulsion system or slicing up another ship like a prime 
carcass to be displayed at a buffet is less extreme." The flat response from Rani was statement, 
not question, delivered with more than sufficient sarcasm for Captain to recognize (with 
assistance from Second in the mental background).
	"Yes. You are a small being with a small perspective. Request a synopsis from Daisy if 
you wish to know the details of rejected scenarios."
	"Well, permission denied. /We/ will not be folding anywhere in pursuit of senseless 
destruction. /We/ will be staying right here until something else is devised."
	"Then /we/ will all broil when shields eventually overload from thermal stress, followed 
by deorbiting into the local star. Thrusters cannot lift us from the gravity well, only impulse 
engines; and we cannot utilize impulse without catastrophic consequences. /We can/ fold out of 
this system, at which point it is most efficient if /we/ receive a sacrificial ship, as per Scenario 
54. A cargo-hauler would be sufficient. It does not need to be a ship-of-the-line." Captain, with 
sub-collective help, could play the sarcasm game too...not as well as Rani, but a credible effort 
was possible.
	Rooberg abruptly stood up. "Er, ma'am? Sir? Everyone? If I might interject myself a wee 
little bit?" As there was no immediate dissent, the Talon Spanner forged forward. "Brunc and I 
might have constructed a /slightly/ less extreme version of the plan you are suggesting. And 
maybe, just perhaps, you'd all consider our Ôsmall' perspective. Sure, it isn't /quite/ as grandiose 
as your plan, and there are, sadly, no explosions, but if it works, all's well and good...and, bonus, 
the lifeform gets to live, too. Just in case, you know, it /is/ sentient and not the local equivalent of 
a frib-bull. And even if the idea fails epically, well, there shouldn't be any insurmountable 
repercussions, like a blown up ship, and we can return to discussions about your rather more 
extreme scenario." A large grin stretched Rooberg's face, bright white of teeth emphasizing dark 
skin and cranial tattoos.
	{Bah. No explosions,} groused Weapons, radiating disapproval at the mere concept of 
any plan so lacking.
	{You will entertain a re-evaluation of /all/ options,} interjected Daisy into the collective 
Mind. The AI's avatar, thorns studding its stem, materialized into Captain's visual perceptions, 
an annoying sight only he (and the sub-collective) could see. Compliance pathways began to 
prickle in the undepths of the mind.
	Captain kept his stare upon Rani, who returned it with a pointed glare of her own. 
{We...comply.}

	The plan was not perfect; and, as promised, the expectation of explosions was miniscule 
to nonexistent. However, after a few minor modifications from the outline provided by Brunc 
and Rooberg, Scenario 73 was pronounced viable. The sub-collective did not necessarily approve 
of the plan forced upon them, especially the portion that strongly advocated explosions, but at 
72.4% chance of success, it did rank higher amongst the scenario variations explored. More 
importantly from the engineering hierarchy point of view, the consequences of failure did not 
include large holes which would need emergency repair better completed at the Borg-sized dry-
dock the Alliance did not possess.
	In Bulk Cargo Hold #3, the refurbishment schedule for probe 18 was advanced. The 
propulsion system was repaired and refueled. Scientific recording instruments, destroyed beyond 
salvaging, were removed and a modified payload installed. Amongst the last tasks of the 
overhaul included buffing of all scorched areas on the outer casing to a high shine. Finally, the 
probe was beamed to a torpedo launcher on face #4, facing the star, and hand-loaded. While such 
an operation was /not/ advised for a conventional munition, transporters and explosive payloads 
not interacting well (or, rather, too well), the probe lacked the inherent instability of a traditional 
torpedo.
	That was the easy part...
	The proverbial trail of breadcrumbs; or, more accurately, a path of desirable morsels 
intended to lure a creature onward to a trap. The problem was to present a temptation suitably 
attractive that the lifeform would emerge from hiding to investigate, yet not precipitate wholesale 
damage to ship components if (when) the entity's presence caused disruption to the lure should 
timing to drop the next breadcrumb be inexact. The solution was to deploy tactical drones. 
Weapons had harshly protested the perceived misuse of his hierarchy, but been overruled, the 
Will of the Whole greater than one mere drone. Or even 548 drones, few of whom were enthused 
at the prospect of potential termination via electrocution by an overendowed magnetic field. 
Much more Borg to be sacrificed while in the van of a senseless advance against an enemy force 
so as to gain the parameters for personal shield adaptation.
	{Attention,} intruded the multivoice of partition 16b into 114 of 300's mind. {Estimated 
time to initiate disruptor power-up is one minute.} The presence lingered for a moment, then 
moved on.
	114 of 300 swiveled his head to peer at his whole arm; and, more specifically, where 
wrist and hand were securely clamped onto a bar of metal hastily welded to a pair of subwall 
support spars. Several thick wires soldered to holes drilled in exoskeletal armor melded to an 
ordered tangle of cables within exposed conduit. Attention shifted to the hallway light strip, eyes 
slowly panning along the ceiling until a hallway juncture, about 15 meters distant, was reached.
	{A target would make me more efficient,} directed 114 of 300 towards the two 
engineering units who were hidden just beyond the corner.
	A head emerged from the hallway as body leaned sideways. {You are stalling. You don't 
need a target to overload your disruptor.}
	114 of 300 had no answer to the accusation. As a weapons drone, being swift of mind 
wasn't a priority. Unthinking obedience, yes...but unthinking obedience was so much easier 
when there was an actual target to focus upon. An entity composed of organized magnetic fields 
unable to be disrupted or phasered or assimilated or physically pummeled was, from 114 of 300's 
point of view, cheating. He tried again: {A target would make me more efficient.}
	{Well, there is no target. Overload yourself already. These rubber gloves are hot.} The 
head vanished back around the corner.
	114 of 300 fretted. He pointed his disruptor arm down the corridor, then dropped it again. 
He /needed/ a target!
	To rid Cube #347 of its unwanted hitchhiker, it was essential for the sub-collective to lure 
it to the probe waiting in the launcher on face #4. Naturally, when it was desirable for the 
lifeform to hone in on the electromagnetic lure placed in the probe chassis, the entity refused to 
cooperate, appearing here and there to cause local chaos, but never where it was actually wanted. 
A series of tests had shown that the mobile sustainable electromagnetic source easiest to deploy 
was represented by drone-mounted disruptors; and, more specifically, drone-mounted disruptors 
on the edge of overload. These were the individual breadcrumbs, making a trail to the probe. The 
electromagnetic resonance created by the disruptors could be magnified by physically connecting 
a drone to the local lighting subsystem. The catch was that the crumb in question, once it was 
confirmed the entity was moving their direction, had to cut disruptor overload at the proper 
moment so as to "pass" the lifeform onto the next link in the chain leading to the goal.
	As to be expected for an imperfect sub-collective, the whole timing issue was conspiring 
to be quite problematical. At the most frustrating, if benign, end of the spectrum, early disrupter 
disengagement allowed the entity to slip away, either to fade back into the general background 
electrical grid else be attracted to an errant electromagnetic source in the wrong direction. The 
other end of the scale included actual (accidental) disruptor overload, else the lifeform physically 
occupying the drone bait, precipitating biological electrical disruption with symptoms such as 
heart attack, seizure, and stroke. Thus far, three weapons drones had been lost, a decrease in 
population the sub-collection could ill afford, and a dozen were being attended to by drone 
maintenance. Yet, the sub-collective doggedly clung to the plan as it had been devised. Such 
stubbornness was very Borg, even as some of the individual lure components were displaying a 
degree of hesitancy that did not quite cross the line of insubordination.
	Partition 16b slammed into 114 of 300's brain. {Begin overload sequence. Now.}
	{But I need a target!}
	{Now! Or the lifeform will be lost, again! Comply!} 
	114 of 300 stiffened as programs deeply embedded in his psyche during the mental 
trauma which was assimilation indoctrination were triggered. He once more lifted his disruptor 
arm to point nowhere in particular; and the high pitched whine which was too much power being 
fed into the weapon without release spiraled into the ultrasonic. He continued to radiate 
unhappiness at the lack of a viable aiming point. Partition 16b remained, riding his mind and 
ensuring no additional defiance.
	The computer logged local transporter activity. From the hallway where the engineering 
drones waited, a 0.5 meter tall pile of melted metal was pushed around the corner. It was one of 
171 of 230's sculptures, relocated from Supply Closet #14 where it was being displayed, amid 
other artworks, prior to eventual removal to replicator reclamation. 114 of 300 squinted at the 
sculpture, then aimed his arm at it as a visual overlay of a more suitable target was applied. The 
fact that the bipedal form resembled an unassimilated version of a certain engineering drone was 
coincidental.
	{Transient electrical grid disturbance in subsection 15, submatrix 26, hallway 6,} 
announced the computer to any who might be following the engineering anomaly notification 
thread.
	Light strips began to slightly brighten, then dim, in the hallway. 114 of 300 dismissed the 
disturbance as irrelevant, tightly focused on his virtual target, waiting for it to do something, 
anything, to warrant disintegration.
	{Disengage disruptor,} ordered partition 16b.
	{Huh?} replied 114 of 300, blinking as the multivoice broke into his concentration. Aim 
did not waiver. Disruptor continued its progress to terminal overload.
	{Disengage disruptor. Stand down. It is 148 of 300's turn to be bait.}
	It was too late. 114 of 300 blinked a second time, then began to violently shake as he was 
gripped by seizure. Balance was lost; and the only thing preventing him from slamming to the 
deck was the clamp system attached to his non-prosthetic arm.
	The voice of 1 of 8, primary element to partition 16b, emerged from the multivoice: 
{Command and control directive with bridge to drone maintenance compliance pathways, target 
114 of 300 - disengage all onboard weapons systems, initiate regenerative stasis.}
	114 of 300 went limp, eye closed. More importantly, his disruptor began to cycle down as 
energy feed ceased. The transient electrical grid disturbance was once more observed haunting 
the light strips, on its way to investigate another nearby electromagnetic enticement. 
	Partition 16b moved to the next breadcrumb in the chain it was overseeing.
	Two engineering drones, wearing elbow-length rubber gloves over whole hands and 
holding meter long fiberglass poles, emerged from behind the hallway corner and cautiously 
approached 114 of 300. The latter was dangling via the single arm, bones unbroken due to the 
metallic matrix reinforcement introduced during assimilation processing. On the other hand, 
joints could not be similarly hardened, even those which were replaced, and it was obvious that 
multiple dislocations had occurred, the limb unable to support the full weight of a body massing 
over 150 kilos.
	Body was poked with poles. When nothing happened, one engineering unit set the prod 
on the ground and removed rubber glove. Unwarded hand was placed hesitantly upon armored 
shoulder. Again, nothing. With safety of the scene assessed, other pole and all gloves were 
discarded to the deck, exchanged for tools. The process to disengage 114 of 300 from the wall 
and restore the conduit began. As such commenced, a trio of drone maintenance units arrived via 
transporter to evaluate the (still living, albeit unconscious) tactical drone.
	All in all, the status of this particular crumb was rated a success.

			*	*	*	*	*

	The budding was frustrated. As a nonsentient fragment of a much larger being, it had no 
name, no gender, limited powers of reasoning, only the merest awareness of itself as a self. It 
also had a menu of basic emotions...nothing complex, but sufficiently advanced in an animalistic 
manner. Therefore, frustration was well within its ken to feel.
	The program of "Explore-Recall-Return" could not be completed. More specifically, the 
final element of the directive was proving to be impossible to accomplish. The vast rock, vast 
creature, vast whatever in which the budding had become incarcerated could not be escaped. In 
one area where the radiation and scents of home were strongest, it was a home sensed and unable 
to be reached due to an uncrossable void. Sometimes there were bright sparks and whirls of force 
which attracted the budding, the stimulus of "Explore" momentarily overcoming the stimulus of 
"Return". There was no such thing as resistance, of thoughtful contemplation, only doing. 
Inevitably the attractions were false, nothings that faded, sometimes abruptly and sometimes 
slowly, once they were reached. But it was only a budding and it could no more change its 
programming than could it spontaneously develop into a fully sentient being.
	The most recent attractions were strong. Each was generally similar in taste and scent and 
feel even as each was a bit different, like separate eddies in the same plasma stream. As one 
enticement ceased its siren broadcast another would inevitably take its place. The budding 
flowed to each in turn, questing to Explore and Recall. Finally it sensed the emergence of a new 
electromagnetic florescence, one familiar in its harsh metallicity and sharp magnetostatic force 
notes. It was the creature/rock/thing that it had been instructed to inhabit upon budding from its 
base self!
	The budding eagerly surged forward. A notion was forming, one at the limit of the 
cerebral comprehension of which the budding was capable: since the vessel was the one which 
had transported it to the prison within which it was lost, then it might also be able to "Return" it 
to its base. There was no "how" or "why" or any other follow-through logic. Obviously it had 
been the correct action, for as the budding pulled all of itself into the vessel it sensed a brutal 
twisting of electromagnetic potentialities, one roughly translatable as the sensation of very high 
acceleration.
	And, then, just like that, the budding was free of the grasp of the large thing which had 
swallowed it. It was still trapped in the small creature/rock, but the brightness and warmth and 
scents and touchings and tastes of home were rapidly approaching.
	Explore - complete.
	Recall - memes stored.
	Return - in progress.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Probe 18 was flung from Cube #347 on a direct course to the temper-tantrum prone star. 
As it neared the surface, a magnetic knot twisted into existence, one of many within the local 
quadrant, only its unusual swiftness in development marking it apart from its kin. A large 
prominence lifted out of the plasma sea, flinging itself upward, washing over and through the 
probe. The probe's engines cut and it began to tumble, not that either affected its original 
trajectory to impact the sun's surface.
	Sensors focused on the probe noted as a magnetic signature grown too familiar separated 
itself from the device and take refuge within the prominence. It was nearly lost within the 
powerful background field which was the plasma arc, except for the sensory grid, utilizing a 
rather mind-twisting protocol originating with Sensors, had locked onto the lifeform. As the 
prominence partially disintegrated and rained plasma downwards, so too did the entity plunge 
starward.
	Only because the grid was focused upon the lifeform did it observe an unexpected motion 
in the background upon the solar surface. A plasma blob with a similar magnetic twist signature 
as the entity, but several kilometers wide, detached itself from one of the many fractal curls and 
swirling rings which decorated the tops of each solar granule. It rapidly glided towards the spot 
where Cube #347's ex-hitchhiker was projected to land; and when the impact occurred, the blob 
sent out pseudopods to engulf the space. It then sank from view, leaving behind nothing obvious 
to indicate it had ever been present. 
	It appeared a local predator-analogue had taken advantage of the infalling entity's 
predicament.
	In the Mission, the evidence of a stellar ecology was met with great excitement by a 
handful scientists. The sub-collective, meanwhile, gave the equivalent of a shrug, categorizing 
the observation as irrelevant and adding a note to the stellar cartography file for the potential of 
low-orbiting probes to pick up undesirable wildlife...not that it was likely a renewed Collective 
would have a reason to be in the system, but Borg were nothing if not thorough if the data were 
available.
	Elsewhere, in his nodal intersection, the primary consensus monitor and facilitator was 
conferred a cryptic {Mail incoming}. Warning delivered, three paperboard cards, two signed, 
materialized midair. While none were caught before they fluttered to the deck - Captain had 
never been particularly adroit in athletics, and assimilation only decreased that particular non-
acumen - such was not important. A background timer was cancelled with five hours to go; and 
the Borg Sciences game was saved.
	Cube #347 engaged impulse to climb out of the stellar gravity well. Trickster Day was 
over and it was time to return to work.