Mix one part Paramount to one part Star Trek. Add a generous spoonful of Star Traks a la Decker. Sprinkle in a dash of Meneks' BorgSpace spice. Bake at 375 degrees for 45 minutes. Enjoy.

-Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself

("King Henry VIII" by William Shakespeare)

*****

A Dish Served Cold, Part III

"So," began the alternate universe Second, "I bet you are wondering why we brought you here today."

4 of 8 narrowed his eyes slightly, then glanced sideways at the drone standing next to what was recognized as a transceiver repressor, a jammer of fractual subspace. The drone, 89 of 212, abruptly broke from his stationary pose, stooped to pick up the knee high cube, and disappeared via transporter beam.

"At least something works around here," muttered Second.

4 of 8 knew this cube and its occupants came from an alternate universe, one shifted 3.4 taus from his own. The time line was obviously different in some respects, yet at the same time similar; the fact he was looking into a mirror image of the 3 of 8 who functioned as secondary facilitator on the proper Cube #347 was proof. Of course, 3.4 taus distant did not include what appeared to be a minor war.

"I am sure you will tell me," responded 4 of 8 to Second's stated question, "and then you will return me to my sub-collective."

Second stared at 4 of 8, then grunted in annoyance, "Forgot you couldn't hear me. Suffice to say that if you were linked to us, you would have heard me give you a firm no to your request. Doctor will be here shortly, but I can begin verbally."

4 of 8 wasn't quite as isolated as might be supposed. True, with the fractual nature of the subspace frequencies employed by the Borg, and with subspace slightly different in each continuum, the Collective of this 3.4 tau shift did not utilize the same channels as did 4 of 8. On the other hand, the frequency was close, affording a mild leak, such as one might experience tuning an analogue radio when classical elevator music is intruding in the final seconds of a hotly contested basketball game. 4 of 8 could hear the sub-collective of Cube #347, but it was as if one was attempting to pick out a quiet conversation in a party which was occurring on the other side of a very thick wall. The subtle nuances of digital "mind reading" and the flow and ebb of information in the dataspaces was lacking.

Taking 4 of 8's stubborn silence for assent (or simply not caring, if this drone was anything alike to the one 4 of 8 knew), Second asked, "Provide us with data: did you ever encounter the animal known as a vyst? More specifically, an assimilated version accidentally created by 12 of 19, subdesignated Doctor."

4 of 8 took a moment to riffle through his stored memories. He did not have access to stored files, naturally, but he kept an extensive set of his own experiences within the confines of his own brain. Keyword "vyst" brought up a short entry. "Affirmative. Three weeks after leaving post-assimilation planetary inventory of species #7190, engineering hierarchy responded to an incident of extreme odor near Maintenance Bay #5. A decomposing corpse was found, identified as a post-metamorphosis stage of a species #7190 pet known as a yoole-vyst. The vyst had died due to an incompatibility of nanoprobes with the changing host." 4 of 8 paused. "12 of 19 was deemed responsible and subsequently punished. Additional information concerning the minor incident is not available from this drone."

Second sighed, "I wish we could have had your luck in that manner. But we didn't. Our vyst, Luplup is her designation, did not die. She survived and thrived as a moderately intelligent animal. An assimilated animal. The details will have to wait until you are plugged into this sub-collective, but they are unimportant to the immediate discussion. Luplup has secured a fleet of species #56 ships, folded-space drive capable although the weapon systems seem to be less than the hellish possibilities the more paranoid of the sub-collective have simulated. She has also secured our primary facilitator and consensus monitor, our Captain."

At that moment a bipedal rodent materialized in the nodal intersection. In one hand it carried a device designed to perform subtle adjustments to various cranial and body implants without resorting to cracking the skull and prodding neural matter. 4 of 8 immediately recognized it as 12 of 19, his current drone maintenance hierarchy head. The hairless rat momentarily turned its gaze upon Second, then fixated upon 4 of 8. 4 of 8 hoped this 12 of 19 analogue would be as competent as the drone he knew, as well spoken and efficient, ignoring the small quirk of obsessive pet collection. The second of the three traits was disproved as Doctor spoke.

"Be a nice wittle boy, a nice pup. There may be a tiny bitty bit of tingling, but it will be aaaaalllllll better soon. Hold head straight. No wiggling, else I'll have to take you to the office and immobilize you. Slap you on the nose with a rolled up newspaper. This will be a very, very, very simple task." Doctor stepped to the side of 4 of 8, just out of peripheral vision. A subliminal humming began just above his left ear as the device was pressed against cranium. He sincerely hoped Doctor was at least competent and efficient.

Meanwhile, Second continued to speak, "Our use of the anomaly was originally to escape an ambush set by Luplup, evidently after Captain was absorbed into her mind. After emergence as we began initial consensus proceedings to determine what action to take next, we noted the presence of your Cube #347. Our plans altered."

The noise next to 4 of 8's ear rose slightly; the distant party was now on the opposite side of an ever thinner wall.

"A shift of 3.4 taus is very slight, enough such that there should be very few differences between our Captain and you. Captain can anticipate our reactions, as he has intimate knowledge of us; however, Luplup now shares this information, but her alien mind set provides her with the advantage. We can not adequately simulate all the nuances of Captain's mind to the degree to predict what Luplup's own actions will be. Therefore, we require that you outthink yourself."

With those words, 4 of 8 entered the party of Cube #347. Head bangers in one corner of the multidimensional room shared space with a string quartet. A trumpet duet blared Caribbean soul music. Through it all blended the harmonizing back beat of the dataspaces and command and control hierarchy (led by two subdesignations of Second and Third). The eternal Collective created a distant framework for the sub-collective to build upon.

The chaos 4 of 8 found was staggering.

"Wha?" gasped 4 of 8. "What is wrong with your sub-collective? Answer."

Second mentally frowned even as his face remained passive. "What do you mean? You are imperfectly assimilated, we know this."

"Yes...but not to this extreme. My sub-collective is a little out of synch with the Greater Consciousness. Occasionally one of us is pronounced cured and reassigned to standard duties in a normal sub-collective, one which can steady the personality. This...this mess is impossible!" 4 of 8's voice uncharacteristically rose he absorbed the internalized scene.

"Irrelevant," uttered Second. "We now have what we need in the form of a mental template to base our simulations. You will survive."

4 of 8 blinked. He wasn't so sure of Second's statement.

*****

*Let mySelf start again,* said Captain-unit patiently. He created two detailed pictures, one of a box and the other one of Luplup's fleet; Captain-unit was much better at mental drawing than most of Luplup. *I have two ships, one is Bad-Mans Cube #347 and the other is my scout ship Runner. Runner is attacking Cube #347. What will Cube #347 do?*

Luplup watched as the hypothetical scout lashed the cube with a disrupter. While Captain-unit was definitely a part of the larger Me, he had still brought in a...distance...with internal conversations which was different than that experienced before. It felt akin to the sensation when parts of Luplup disagreed with other parts, only more so. The new mode of conversation required a new mode of talking to oneSelf. *Fight. That is what I would do.*

Captain-unit gave one of his unfamiliar gestures, one which Luplup knew to interpret as a sigh. *What have I told mySelf over and over? I cannot only think of I. I must also think of they. What would they do? How would they react if I performed such an action? This is called simulation, imagination, abstraction. Observe as I demonstrate to mySelf once more.*

The cube and scout split into three similar scenes. In the first, Cube #347 responded to the provocation with its own counterattack; second view showed the Bad-Mans running away; third cube simply ignored Runner as the scout's disrupter impacted on intact shields. Underneath each depiction were numbers.

*The percentages are not truly reflective of reality, but included to emphasize my point to mySelf. Cube #347 has three options: fight, flee, or ignoring. At its most basic, if the Bad-Mans ship were not damaged and not expecting (I put mySelf into their place!) enemy reinforcements, the best option would be to respond with weapons. If heavily damaged and/or suspecting an ambush, the sub-collective might decide to escape. If Cube #347 was busy performing other tasks and knew Runner to be of no immediate threat, the scout would be ignored.* Captain-unit superimposed a complex weave of lines "beneath" each looping scene, the strings of which converged at the numbers. *Simulation of the "what-if's" leading to each outcome provides the probability of occurrence, which in turn,* Captain-unit added more webbing diverging "above", *allows various reactions to be prepared to counteract Bad-Mans response. Additionally, the degree of response can also be simulated and odds calculated.* The countering cube was highlighted and replicated several times; the subsequent frames spanned from a casual phaser burst to an explosive flurry of full munitions striking Runner.

The great majority of Luplup grumbled. She knew how to count, could say with certainty that six units of herSelf was in the small room with Captain-unit, that the most recent first-brooder clutch contained four eggs, or that her fleet had seventeen ships. Multiplication, division, algebra, trigonometry, matrices, and the many other forms of mathematics were known, were a method to keep track of numbers. But those numbers Luplup used also related to real world things. Some of the things were concrete, like population of worker units; others were more nebulous, like radiation levels, photons hitting the sensor grid, subspace frequencies, and other items unable to be grasped by claw, but measurable nonetheless. Probabilities dealt with "could-be's," denoting that 70 times out of 100 Cube #347 would respond to an attack by fighting Runner; however, the real universe was one of yes-no, black-white...either the Bad-Mans tried to swat Runner or they would not. They did not have the ability to 70% try hurt Runner no more than Luplup could have a unit 70% clutch-heavy.

Captain-unit accessed those files which Luplup had found to be unimportant. Titles such as "Wave Theory" and "Quantum Mechanics" were boggling; after initial absorbing of Not Born Of Self data, she had removed from Self those bits not immediately relevant concerning fleet maintenance, genetic manipulation, or other applications. Having knowledge is not the same as understanding; a child may be told fire is hot, but until he or she sticks a hand in the flame, the learning is abstract. And Luplup had already demonstrated a less than firm grasp of the abstract.

*The multiverses are not binary, at least not at the level of the sentient participant. A sentient sees gray, and that gradient is best described in percentages.* Equations from the "Quantum Probability Theory" file flashed by at high speed. *One can imagine different outcomes, then apply known data to gauge how likely it will be to happen. The Bad-Mans do this through a process called simulation, linking what-if's together into a whole. MySelf here can do it as well, have demonstrated the ability in the initial attack on Cube #347 after stealing Captain-unit. It only requires that I split mySelf into partitions, each of which has the task of examining a limited set of what-if situations. The final analysis is a product of consensus by the controlling partition or unit(s).* 

*But I captured Captain-unit without this complication,* wailed Luplup to herSelf. Her units near Captain whined unhappily.

Said Captain-unit, *But I also had no contingency plans. I simply decided to capture Captain-unit, then went from there. Any problems, any divergence from the expected would have required on-the-fly response. If I had simulated possibilities, I would have given the budded unit an appropriate range of predetermined responses, protocols, to initiate in each what-if. Only in the case of very low probability would I have had to resort to pure reaction.*

Luplup gave up to herSelf. Captain-unit did add to herSelf, but sometimes what Captain-unit contributed was at odds to what she wanted to do. However, Captain-unit had also been a Bad-Man with nesting territory spread through a quarter of the galaxy. Nesting territory was power, and Luplup required power to grow into a giant Luplup. As the Bad-Mans were obviously successful, it was logical for Luplup to use proven methods in her endeavor, which in turn was only accomplishable through adopting Bad-Mans techniques.

If only those techniques weren't so hard to grasp!

Luplup examined tracking data from Cube #347. Captain-unit had insisted the placement of cloaked mines along the sole trajectory possible when the prey emerged from the anomaly. The mines had acted as a diversion, one to hide the small devices now embedded on the prey's hull. The cube was traveling rapidly in transwarp; Luplup occasionally folded space to a location near the target, figuratively speaking. The game of cosmic leap-frog was necessary to keep Cube #347 within the sensor envelope of Luplup's fleet, watching for the Borg ship to emerge from transwarp into normal space and the waiting grasp of tritanium claw.

By nature, the vyst was a cunning hunter, able to kill by deception as easily as forthright attack; the Borg, on the other hand, lacked subtlety, but were renown for brutal, amoral efficiency. On her own, Luplup would have battered at Cube #347 in a toe-to-talon contest of might, deciding sixteen ships to one represented sure victory. The influence of Captain-unit brought forth the sly side of her, one now endowed to a limited degree with the ability to plan engagements and create contingency plans, one with an insider's knowledge of enemy tactics.

One which was now insisting Luplup once more split herSelf into subSelves in order to simulate, imagine, conjecture the prey's next move, countermove, and so on through the dizzying levels of circular what-if thinking.

*Fine,* sulked Luplup, *I will do this to mySelf again, but I must remind mySelf that such activity is detrimental to my thinking. However, I have swayed mySelf via Captain-unit and my new knowledge of Bad-Mans thought patterns that I must learn mySelf the proper way to plan, to be civilized. Eventually I will be a giant Luplup.*

Captain-unit began to detail the number of required partitions, optimum size/clade composition of each, and build the seed scenarios for each group to simulate.

The ends of Captain's mouth turned ever so slightly upwards in a stiff smile.  

*****

The boxes were confining. 4 of 8's dataspace visualization of the constructs was of eight black boxes joined by narrow covered walkways. Within the purposefully isolated segment of the sub-collective, half of command and control hierarchy - 350 members - were arranged in subgroups of 50 drones each. Copies of all data associated with Luplup or species #56 hardware was also resident in the boxes. Six subunits played the part of Luplup in a particular situation (the seventh always had the role Cube #347) deemed likely to occur. 4 of 8's role was to be a kidnapped and integrated Captain, knowledge modifying Luplup's action. Once the scenario was played to conclusion, he was sent to another box, subunit left to examine the what-if and pass on a skeleton sub-collective response to 100 weapon drones in the eighth box for fleshing. The final outcome was a series of ploys Luplup might attempt, with tactics which had a reasonable chance of countering.

{Break time,} declared Second's mental voice with false brightness. {Calibration is complete. Simulated vyst mind reactions match tactics observed thus far. A little reshuffling is required in the command and control boxes, 39 of 79 is complaining 201 of 480 is poking him again, and so forth down the standard accusation. Once all is rearranged, I will get back to you.}

4 of 8 opened his eye as he stepped from the alcove he was forced to call home. The alcove 4 of 8 was assigned belonged to the kidnapped 4 of 8, resident sub-collective seeing no reason to assign alternate timeline drone to a different alcove as long as its normal, same designation occupant was not available.

"My neural excellence and obvious qualifications should place me as a member of the Hierarchy of Eight," muttered 4 of 8, "and not used as a mind slave. It is my right as Borg to at least participate in consensus," 4 of 8 had been denied even the basic allowance to assist in the decision making process, which all in the sub-collective, even 120 of 300 of dull-witted species #4102, partook.

{I heard that. My body is not /that/ oblivious,} responded Second. {You are fundamentally alien to our tau. If one of this sub-collective had landed on your cube, would your sub-collective allow full integration? The answer is no. We operate no differently.}

4 of 8 continued to verbally address a motionless Second, "The Hierarchy of Eight is currently operating at less than full efficiency. You troubles are great and you require complete effectiveness, which I can adequately provide. More than adequately, for my sub-collective has obviously not slipped as far from Borg unity and perfection as this one."

Second said, {You will serve us best as a "mind slave." Reorganization of simulation block drone components will be completed in ten minutes. Be back in the alcove by that time.}

4 of 8 glared at Second's body as the latter took his mind elsewhere to attend other concerns. The temporary primary consensus monitor and facilitator was correct in his assessment of what would occur if positions were reversed. The disagreement was an abbreviated one held many times since 4 of 8 learned of his role in this universe's version of Cube #347. Setting an internal chronometer, he went for a walk.

The very short stroll terminated in the nearest nodal intersection, the one with a large viewscreen hung in it. 4 of 8's footfalls vibrated the deck sufficiently for darkened monitor to lighten into a screen-saver featuring a three dimensional graph charting minute fractions of the radio spectrum. A logo in the corner read "SETI"; along the bottom of the display Borg alphanumerics listed "Origin: Terra -*- Temporal feed: 2000 AD (local calendar)" then went on to thank user "Borg347" for donating idle computer time towards the search for extraterrestrial intelligence.

{4 of 8...are you listening?} shouted Second.

4 of 8 tore his gaze away from the mesmerizing march of multicolored charting surfaces. {What? Er, um...state your purpose.} Wandering mind was brought under firm control.  

Second did not respond for several milliseconds. {I said we are ready to begin simulations. Return to the alcove. With your call for efficiency, I am amazed you did not bug me when the time I stated passed.}

In alarm 4 of 8 checked his internal chronometer. Sure enough, Second was tardy by five minutes, forty-three seconds. 4 of 8 replied grandly as optics drifted towards screen-saver, {Your established inefficiency demonstrates to this drone not to expect punctuality. Therefore, I deemed it inappropriate to interrupt your tasks, less you fall further behind.}

Second's tone was very dry. {Riiiiight. Now return to Captain's alcove.}

{I comply,} said 4 of 8. He reluctantly turned his back on the viewscreen and moved himself towards the ordered location.

{What was that?} asked 4 of 8. Second automatically noted the location of the alternate tau drone to be near subsection 8. A two hour cessation of simulations had been decreed to allow the weapon black box to catch up on their tasks; the drones had fallen behind due to an illicit game of 4D Tetris. Temporarily released from his labors, 4 of 8 was on a self-guided tour to catalogue the differences between Cube #347s...and note inefficiencies in a haughty, depreciative manner. The most recent quest was to view Thorny, which was confined to a pot in the 3.4 tau distance, not overgrown an entire subsection.

{What was what?} returned Second. He was distracted by the rolling consensus concerning remaining in transwarp versus return to normal space. The cube was several days and 150 light years from the ambush site, and the increasing need to perform exterior repairs highly detrimental to drone functionality while in a conduit. Ship regeneration had been initiated, but the engineering hierarchy could provide assistance to speed the process. An unpleasant thought of uncertain origin impinged upon Second. He voiced it, {Has the plant adapted to the forcefields? Is it now beyond the borders of subsection 8?}

{I have yet to see the plant with my own visual systems. No, I just saw you in subsection 5, submatrix 16, corridor 47. Then you walked through a wall. You were carrying an unknown object.} 4 of 8 provided Second with a copy of the incident. It was followed by the drone querying the computer for Second's current location and a log of movement over the past five minutes. Confusion: {But...but it cannot be you.}

Second sighed, routinely checked the status of the local holoprojectors (off) and tallied another mark on a particular virtual bulletin board. {We have Ghosts,} explained Second, quietly reveling in the cruelty of the ambiguous answer. 4 of 8 impinged upon the realm of Type A personality to Captain's more relaxed, and just as efficient, air. {We are haunted.}

{That is not logical!} said 4 of 8.

{Who ever said Cube #347 and its sub-collective was logical? I didn't,} was Second's sarcastic rejoinder. He returned his attention to the consensus process.

*****

*The sensation is normal,* soothed Captain-unit. *The alternate points of view are necessary to finish the task I set for mySelf. I can not do anything except follow until the Bad-Mans exit transwarp, therefore I must use time efficiently by completing as many simulations as possible, build as many responses as possible.*

Luplup reflexively dug into Captain-unit's mind, extracting those parts of the unit which agreed with what he was saying. Captain-unit could not lie to Luplup, could not lie to his own Self, but the pure vyst part of Self could not help but to wince at the ugly feeling of purposeful splitting.

*What does this part of mySelf...* began Luplup.

Interjected Captain-unit in reminder of how the Bad-Mans ordered self, *Partition 18c.*

Luplup continued, *What does partition 18c of Self conclude?*

Partition 18c of Self, as with several other divisions of Self, was heavy in soldier units, including eight soldier-brooders. Soldier units were required for expertise in tactical analysis; and brooders in general acted as coordination nexus. And as with several other parts of Self, partition 18c was hesitant about rejoining the larger Self.

*What does partition 18c of Self conclude?* pressed Luplup. She resorted to her larger collection of first-brooders and integrated soldier-brooders to force herSelf into compliance. Reluctantly, partition 18c once more became a full part of Self.

Not a good scenario, said that which used to be partition 18c and was now only Luplup. She resorted to the mental shorthand she had utilized before the introduction of Captain-unit. 1.03% chance of success should the opportunity arise. 86.5% chance for loss of entire fleet. Other degrees of probability are...

Luplup absorbed the numbers unto herSelf, ordering them. The plan partition 18c examined from seed was not feasible, at least not to the level required by Luplup. It would be shelved with other similar outcomes.

Luplup mentally glanced towards the calm Captain-unit, who was assembling more seed simulations for partitions. *The sensations are normal. We will become used to them. We must, for this is how Bad-Mans operate, and look at how much power they have! How much nesting territory!*

With a grumble of suppressed annoyance, of suppressed confusion, of suppressed something which was and was not exasperation, Luplup continued her queries. *What does partition 19a of Self conclude?*

*****

184 light years from Luplup's ambush at the anomaly, Cube #347 shifted gears from improbable to merely insane to bat out of hell and finally to high impulse. Several large holes drilled through armor over the great expanses of cargo holds, terminating twenty meters into duralloy and ablative layers at the ruins of plasma conduits. Over four days of regeneration, systems had scavenged globules of now cooled metal and reached into stores of back-up material, rebuilding integrity atom by rapid atom. The task, however, was momentous.

Over a thousand drones labored on and inside the hull, mostly engineering with a generous proportion of drone maintenance, assimilation, and command and control represented as well. The conduit was fixed, restoring nominal power flow in the affected subsections. New plates covered surface damage; however, the protection was as of yet only meters deep, a thin rind protecting easily bruised flesh beneath.

Weapon and sensor hierarchies remained at alert, the latter peering into the depths of interstellar space for traces of forthcoming attack. On the one hand, hiding in plain sight was a common tactic, empty expanse affable to the sensor grid; and the sheer volume of searchable area regulating the cube to the status of microscopic needle in a solar system sized haystack. On the other hand, lack of debris meant no convenient object to hide behind.

Melding 4 of 8's mind into extrapolations of Luplup's thinking patterns returned a high probability the Borgified vyst knew exactly where the cube was located.

The thought was not comforting.

Second disengaged from the most recent simulation output, whirlpool of possibilities requiring integration into the overall structure of response-counterresponse pathways. The simulations were unavoidably flawed, both by the use of a Captain which was not a perfect mirror of this universe original and by the incomplete nature of knowing how Luplup thought. Some records of Luplup did exist from her two excursions into Cube #347 dataspaces, as well as rough psychological extrapolations possible from the Collective strike force sent to exterminate the vyst. Still, despite careful calibration, the margin of error was an enormous plus or minus ten percent.

And why wasn't the Greater Consciousness actively assisting their wayward sub-collective?

An insight into the nature of the coveted omega particle had been gleaned by the assimilation of a species #7777 outpost. The Collective was now preparing for an assault to completely absorb the species, mulling over the new information, and developing plans for scientific inquiry which would eventually lead to the loss of a million drones. And of course there was a new line of perfume, Assimilate Me, which required the intense concentration of the Borg PR and marketing departments, a collection of species gathered for their cerebral excellence and total amorality in an entity with very little ethics (at least from the outsider point of view) in the first place.

There was a party going on, and Cube #347 was not invited.

Second compartmentalized his mind, splitting his consciousness into a configuration appropriate for multitasking. One part of himself oversaw the end product of simulation; a second section was involved in linguistic research to accurately illustrate 4 of 8's uptight, perfectionist attitude; a third slice, similarly engaged, targeted adjectives to describe the task of captaincy; the forth sliver gained Third's attention.

{Third: data dump of repair efforts.} Pause. {You are painting your finger nails.}

{Only a little bit, defended Third.} The lime green motif nicely highlighted her pale complexion and black armor. {Link to summary is at address 567.3b.}

In a state of heightened anxiety and bustle, Cube #347 continued its normal activities.

*****

The prey has left transwarp, whispered Luplup to herSelf. Captain-unit had encouraged a closer bonding with the computer, a closer melding with fleet sensors. The Bad-Mans were intimately entwined with their machines to the point of supplanting basic organic instincts with hardwired responses. Luplup herSelf knew the advantages of using the computer to sift for information from Not Born Of Self databases, of enhancing units with surgical implants. However, until now she had not felt the need to foster extreme familiarity with her plundered devices.

Luplup's cloaked fleet rested fifteen light years from Cube #347, an insignificant distance to be covered by folded space drive. Despite the closeness, despite the calling by parts of Self to immediately dive upon the weakened target, Luplup restrained herSelf. Without mines or other assisting weapons, partitions of Luplup had estimated a 96% chance the sub-collective would simply disengage and flee, with a 54% likelihood at least one of the sixteen strong fleet would be destroyed; and with each loss, odds increasingly favored Cube #347.

Therefore, the logical response was to immobilize the prey, to halt its ability to run such that Luplup could rend it at leisure and relative safety. How then to proceed? Over the course of the four day stalking stern chase, Luplup had conceived her plan. Where the Borg, even Cube #347, would have required less than ten minutes contemplation, Luplup struggled through each simulation and consensus cycle. Always encouraging herSelf was Captain-unit.

Luplup carefully built her scheme, detailing increasingly complex contingencies until a sketched representation resembled a genealogical tree with a lone child to the top (i.e. the original plan) underlain by an elaborate snarl of relatives giving an impression the forebears were of a species with many more than two genders. Assuming all went perfectly, and there was no reason to think Luplup was anything but perfect with Captain-unit's assistance, the fleet would fold in to attack Cube #347 once the prey exited transwarp, first allowing time for quarry to relax in the belief of successful escape. Next Luplup would disable transwarp and restrict warp before permitting prey to bolt. Captain-unit assured Luplup she would not be able to destroy Cube #347, nor completely disable all propulsion, from the outside due to the relative weakness of Not Born Of Self weaponry and Borg propensity towards noncentralized, heavily redundant subsystems. The former was remedied given time and dry-dock support; the latter able to be overcome if Cube #347 could be persuaded to hold still while Luplup's fleet carved it up. Neither prospect was likely to occur in the immediate future, which was where personal phase-cloak technology came in.

Captain-unit, with his greater understanding of the abstract, had been given the task to examine Not Born Of Self files discarded by Luplup as irrelevant to her immediate concerns. The information tagged interesting by Captain-unit detailed experiments by the late Not Born Of Self into phase technology as a method to supplement ship cloaks. While the Bumixian had never actually attempted the complicated chore of retrofitting their multi-clan fleet with the devices, they had managed to create prototype personal phase-cloaks. Luplup's low interest in physical sciences had contributed to her initial rejection of the technology as militaristically relevant.

Phase-cloaks are somewhat different from standard cloaking devices, shifting the bearer slightly out of synch with the surrounding universe. Depending on the degree, direction, and magnitude of the shift, the object under protection essentially becomes invisible to those scanning at standard frequencies; tune carefully, and atoms have the ability to "slide" through each other, allowing two objects to paradoxically occupy the same space - which is not as much as a paradox as one might assume, as a great deal of "air" exists between all but the densest neutron-packed matter.

A phase-cloak analogy can be demonstrated by contemplating a creature which can only see red shades. As the being regards a holographic work of art, a co-sentient manipulates the spectrum such that colors begin to drift towards the blue. At first the patron can view the artwork, a task which becomes increasingly difficult through the orange. Finally the light has progressed beyond what the being can see, the hologram evaporating. If the patron now donned special red-shifting glasses, the hologram would become visible again. The trick, unfortunately, is knowing what particular degree of shifting is required for resolution.

The analogy was exceedingly weak, for the purpose of the personal Not Born Of Self phase-cloak was not perform parlor tricks with light, but to phase-shift matter. One of the most important data Luplup learned was if she utilized the device, selves would not be able to manipulate surrounding items unless they were similarly phase-shifted; on the positive side, units would be able to walk through walls and machinery, and an inherent interaction between personal cloak and gravity grid disallowed selves from sinking through the floor. On the down side, the necessity of a link with Self through barkers prohibited tuning phase-cloaks to a variance where units vanished from standard drone optics; as it stood, fractual subspace communication frequencies would be difficult to resolve with the minimum phase-shifting required to pass through bulkheads.

The master plan called for a boarding party outfitted with phase-cloaks to sneak aboard Cube #347. Conventional cloaked vessels had already demonstrated to be undetectable even at close range to Borg sensor grid. Therefore Runner, the smallest of Luplup's fleet, would hitch a ride within the escaping prey's static warp shell, unseen. After a suitable length of time, the assault group would beam aboard, travel to a tri-segmented warp nacelle joint, and to plant a phase-cloaked bomb. The phase-cloak disguised the explosives from any internal sensor sweeps, forcing a suspicious sub-collective to physically inspect the myriad of potential targets personally. Thence, at the correct moment, a subspace signal sent to detonator would cause phase-cloak to collapse and bomb to explode. The subsequent large rent in the cube's side was predicted to not only render all FTL drive systems inoperational and deliver Cube #347 Bad-Mans a devastating shock, but also allow an incontestable avenue of fire to the heart of the prey.

Luplup graphically visualized the instant of destruction. Primal emotions linked images not with the sterile reality of space battle, but instead provided unsubtle undertones of bloody hunts with hamstrung victim writhing beneath jungle canopy. The pictures actually came from numerous Not Born Of Self child nature videos and were very divergent to vyst life (wild and domesticated) on the species #56 homeworld Luplup remembered only as fuzzy yoole memories of Owner and a favorite ball.

Fifteen light years distant, Bad-Mans attempted to fix their ship-nest; Luplup passed an otherwise intolerable period of waiting in daydream.

Luplup stooped to the attack, fourteen lithe falcons pricking at their lumbering prey with fiery talons, majestic matriarch aloof from the fray with eyes overseeing airless battlefield; a hidden singleton awaited off-stage for the cue. Thousands of vyst bodies (and a few remaining Not Born Of Self long stripped of any notion of individuality) serviced mobile nests, duralloy bodies, the One mind coordinating tactics, repair, piloting, as well as continuation of mundane tasks of genetic research, implant installation into units, integrating the soon-born into the I. A new mind, powerful yet subservient, now assisted Luplup, shared the throne of fluid consciousness: a King for the Queen.

The attack, despite its ultimate intent of diversion, was furious. Goals were required to be attained before the primary part of the trap could close, but if the battle led to victory without subterfuge, then that outcome was acceptable as well. Within Luplup's mind and echoed on various displays throughout the fleet, a detailed wireframe schematic of Cube #347 rotated. Deep damage dealt in the anomaly minefield pulsed bloody red; golden yellow outlined targets; sky blue splashes delineated the fall of each disrupter beam. In one place red, yellow, and blue commingled, crayon scribbles mixing into brown blah.

Recently repaired hull plating, covering deep punctures like a scab encrusting a wound, disintegrated when disrupters sliced through shields. Injury blossomed plasma as the severed energy artery bled cube lifeblood. The gush quickly arrested; the cube tried to rotate its hurt away from the brunt of attack.

The actions were all so predictable!

Stimulus and response. Cause and effect. Attack and counterattack. Luplup now understood the tactics of Bad-Mans was largely a product of assimilating enemies and adding their expertise to the whole. The Bad-Mans were old: they had a very large what-if library to draw upon, could quickly substitute or adapt a new module if the current one did not fit. However, when confronted with an adversary which did not conform to the known, the Bad-Mans had difficulty finding appropriate responses until enemy individuals and computer files were assimilated. Luplup had absorbed a Bad-Man first; and while the drone did not possess the direct tactical knowledge Luplup hungered for, he did know the artificial instincts driving the sub-collective, knew the method for Luplup to create her own what-if modules. Luplup, with the assistance of her newest toy, functioned as enigmas in the eye of the prey.

The shifting of Cube #347 to protect a perceived vulnerability brought a new face into prominence. The cube wireframe glowed yellow, aura highlighting the entire face, and more specifically the many deflector dishes populating the hull. Luplup's aim was to disable all transwarp coils, an impossible feat given her resources if she tried to bore directly to each one. Captain-unit, and thus Luplup, knew another way did exist, a closely guarded flaw in Bad-Mans cube design.

Brooder regally moved from her initial position one million kilometers from battle to a mere 20,000 kilometers. The spot was uncomfortably close considering the ship's near lack of weaponry, but necessary nonetheless. The flat bow of the two kilometer long vessel hid a large deflector dish behind thin sheets of metal. The protection was invisible to the normal emanations of the dish, standard job to avert disaster in the form of dust particles, charged ions, and other erosive cosmic materials. The covering was now gone, removed by vacuum adapted workers and soldiers. A more offensive use was planned.

Luplup felt/saw through her fleet's sensors the pulsating signature which was an idling transwarp drive. The cube face turning flat to Brooder's exposed bow was the current "front," the face which would rip a conduit when full transwarp power activated. Thus, the Bad-Mans deflectors on the face were primed to emit the particle sequences to initiate transwarp; they were also, by extension, open flumes leading back to drive coils.

The ships between cube and Brooder adroitly scuttled away, opening a clear line of fire. A diffuse beam shot from deflector, bathing the face in a nimbus of purple-tinged white energies. Aboard Cube #347 electronic backwash spread, polarities momentarily reversing along the path between surface and idling transwarp coils. Abruptly the cube's primary FTL system collapsed, incipient transwarp field dissipating amid the bellow of emergency alarms and sparks showering from overheated breakers. While not catastrophic, equipment repair and transwarp field reinitialization would require between one and two hours, assuming the system accrued no further damage.

Luplup units barked in triumph. Vulnerable Brooder backed from the fray, seeking a safer locale. At the same time, those vessels which had dodged to avoid Brooder's contribution retook their positions. Crippled prey fought on, just as Luplup expected. Captain-unit assured Luplup the Bad-Mans drone designated Weapons would continue to dominate cube actions until an avenue of escape presented itself.

"Escape" would come shortly, but first Cube #347's conventional warp drive needed to be restricted. Puncturing primary power conduits of all corner subsections was the simplest method, stressing energy distribution to subsurface nacelles. In turn, the prey would have to limp along at less than warp 5.1, else face damaging consequences.

Disrupters and ships unified under one mind worked in perfect synchrony, planned scenario unfolding perfectly. Bang! Bang! Two more plasma flowers joined the faded blossom already liberated. The three previously damaged targets were the easiest to rend. Only five more subsections to rupture, to tear, to rip, to bite deeply with disrupter fangs.

Vexingly, the prey suddenly refused to cooperate.

As if in impossible anticipation, Cube #347 disallowed disrupters the chance to excavate armor to critical depth. Movement was no longer a predictable defensive rotation or the static stance of a direwolf at bay. Instead, corners were rolled away along randomized vectors, a stressful act of desperation which stressed structural integrity to the maximum and beyond. However, Luplup for all her scenarios had not foreseen this particular reality.

How should I proceed? asked Luplup of herSelf, fleet struggling to implement a now defunct plan in the face of adaptation. Shall I disengage? Shall I kill? Shall I abort the overall scheme?

Adapt, intoned Captain-unit. I can salvage this if I adapt the plan. Perhaps if I... Captain-unit swiftly chose those scenarios which were closest to reality, reinserting them into partitions of Self. New parameters were programmed with the ultimate goal of sneaking cloaked scout into warp slipstream of escaping cube.

Remember, said Captain-unit, when egress is permitted, Weapons-drone Bad-Man will be overridden by the sub-collective. Survival is driving instinct; and survival at this moment dictates fighting until final unit is rendered nonfunctional. Priority will change to flight if chance is seen. However, suspicion of additional ambush will result if escape is too easy.

Luplup, with assistance of Captain-unit, examined her modified options. 1-1: too likely to arouse skepticism. 1-2 through 1-5: probability of success too low to be considered feasible. 1-6: outcome distasteful, but parameters operationally met. It would have to do.

The englobing fleet quit trying to target corner primary power nodes, ships shifting formation as if preparing a new venue of attack. Brooder began a conspicuous advance to close within one hundred thousand kilometers of battle, diverting power from massive cores to deflector dish. The pose was bluff - Brooder could do nothing - but Cube #347 need not know Luplup held only high cards in her hand.

I do not understand, said Luplup.

Replied Captain-unit, Reference not relevant.

Stimulus and response. Cause and effect. Cube #347 once more followed the script Luplup anticipated. Faced with a known danger in the form of Brooder, one could almost see mental gears assessing risk, overriding weapon hierarchy desire to fight to the bitter end, deciding temporary transwarp loss was enough punishment at this time. Cube #347 shifted stance towards escape.

Luplup purposefully arrayed all active ships except one either in positions of mutual defense or aggressive screening for rapidly approaching Brooder. The single deviation was one of her three cutters, this particular one named Stripe due to surprisingly tasteful black and white striations. Stripe was a relatively isolated barrier between the cube and freedom.

Cube #347 took the bait.

Charging towards perceived liberty, the Bad-Mans vessel let loose with a full barrage of phasers and cutting beams. Even a pair of quantum torpedoes joined the attack although the short distance was not appropriate for that class of long-range weapon. Stripe returned fire with its own disrupters; Brooder slued to track the cube as Luplup's thirteen other ships attempted with splendidly planned futility to counter Cube #347's charge.

Stripe exploded, concentrated weaponry easily overwhelming pitiful defense. The larger remains were scattered as the cube leapt through the englobement rift. Faced with no additional detriments to flight, the cube vanished at the highest sustainable warp factor given stresses to its power grid.

Success! trumpeted Luplup even as she grieved the lessening of Self lost through Stripe's demise.

The next series of events necessitated swiftness. Within a space of seconds, Luplup shifted from a module of attack to mode of pursuit. A cloaked Runner was already under the warp shadow of Cube #347, hovering less than three meters above hull armor. Runner was also already out of 12 AU barker distance; and while budded self was able to complete Luplup's ploy, she preferred to try to keep herSelf as whole as possible through the complicated actions to come.

Luplup checked the tracking device still implanted on Cube #347's hull, noting direction and speed. Several prepared beacons were beamed to space, their purpose to noisily simulate a confused fleet, one which was not pursuing, one which was dispirited by loss of Self. If anything, Luplup was highly confident. With cloaks raised on remaining ships, Luplup vaulted to warp.

*****

{Transwarp disabled,} said the computer in dull digital language of zeros and ones.

Rumbled Delta, {No kidding, you ignorant piece of sh**. Now tell us something we don't know.} The image of a wrench smashing a primitive computer case was an elegant, if irrelevant, picture of impotent wrath. The computer could no more recognize a threat to its "person" than a drone feel fear in termination for the good of the Collective.

The sub-collective had been expecting the attack, every moment in normal space spent towards vital repairs which could not be performed adequately in transwarp. Anticipating ambush and responding to it were not the same. When Luplup finally did sweep in, her tactics remained unknowable; and unknowable for unimaginative Borg meant unadaptable. Finally the whammy had come in the form of a deflector pulse rendering all transwarp coils temporarily nonfunctional.

Fuming, affected by the alarming prospect of termination infecting one drone after another in standard domino fashion, Second turned towards the special isolated partitions cluster containing 4 of 8. He mentally rattled the eight boxes, then winced as the recently fixed power node in subsection 1 was drilled. {Hurry it up in there. We need something, and we need something now.}

Always something, thought 4 of 8 to himself. Efficiency could not be pulled out of a hat on command, but rather nurtured to fruition. As it was, the moronic battle simulations Second insisted upon were little more than an exercise in futility, a preparation which would eventually either be deemed irrelevant and purged, or buried in archives to never be used. And now, given a copy of reality, he was expected to dash from beginning to probable ends AND provide a recommendation for consensus cascade on the best tactic to pursue.

4 of 8 allowed an illicit thought to leak from the part of his consciousness not fully submerged in the roll of vyst thrall, {Perfection is a process of slow amalgamation, of assimilation and pruning. The quest to perfection is the only relevant art form, for it transcends art as small beings think.}

{Very poetic nonsense. Collective brainwashing propaganda at its finest is the same no matter what the tau shift, obviously. Produce. Now,} cajoled Second. Another explosions shook the superstructure as primary power conduit in subsection 25 was compromised. The tactic of Luplup's attack was clear: she was systematically reducing cube mobility. With transwarp disabled, warp remained as basic faster-than-light propulsion. However, each pinprick to the power grid affected overall supply to nacelles; warp remained available even if Luplup drilled all the corner subsections, but top speed would not be very high.

A virtual chime rung, indicating the most recent simulation had drawn to a conclusion. The very small part of awareness which had been split from the whole was akin to a subprogram running as part of a larger algorithm. In this case it monitored real-time changes outside of the simulation boxes and had the limited ability to draw upon mental resources in order to remind the host sub-collective of the Borgness they so obviously lacked, especially in comparison to his native tau line. Unfortunately, his captors did not listen to his words.

4 of 8 aligned disparate parts, integrating watcher program into his entire psyche. A possible solution was now in hasty post-processing; the most promising counter to Luplup's attempt to damage near-surface power conduits was not /too/ risky, and had an impressive 57.82% chance for survival. In fact, success rate to foil coordinated disrupters, assuming Luplup did not immediately adapt her tactics, was 88.9%; however, the discrepancy between success and survival was associated to structural stresses and if Cube #347 could withstand major abuses to inertial dampers without said equipment melting, exploding, vanishing into an alternate dimension, or otherwise rendered nonfunctional. Without dampers, Cube #347 would swiftly tear itself apart.

The final proposal for action was spat out of the tactical drone partition - all POed they were not manning weapons of mass destruction, as well as denied access to 4D Tetris - and swiftly snatched by Second. Consensus was short; leaping at the pace of computerized thought had the side-effect of subjectively slowing the sidereal universe to glacial velocity. Still, apparent speed aside, enemy disrupters were excavating a deep hole in subsection 7 after having finished lancing subsection 3, the third of the initially compromised corners. Approval to implement counter returned positive; no time was available to refine or alter it, so it went into play as is.

Chewed corner subsection was thrust away, motion directly along a randomly chosen vector before Luplup could refocus her weapons. Useless shield dropped, energy funneled into internal forcefields and structural stability. Deft touches of dangerous impulse engines (the Exploratory-class cube owner's manual clearly stated all warranties void if impulse was utilized without releasing the emergency brake, thus "spinning the wheels" to coin a Terrestrial phrase) assisted thrusters as Cube #347 was put through the paces of an epileptic whirling dervish.

4 of 8 observed Luplup pull back slightly, disrupters halting as if baffled by Cube #347's gyrations. The impression was false; the vyst was merely rearranging her pieces so that her chessboard queen might be brought up in safety to wreck additional devastation. The large species #56 creche ship moved near, energy signatures from revealed deflector dish spiking.

Within the dataspaces, defense turned towards deliberations of escape. Weapons, insanely by 4 of 8's thoughts, demanded attack, a notion squashed by sensible parties. Sensors noted one ship out of position from its mates; risk assessment declared it an open avenue to flight; Weapons was told to remove any obstructions.

Escape was a total success, freedom gained and Luplup smote. Cube #347 jumped into warp and pushed speed to the maximum allowed given wounds; engineering priorities turned from keeping the vessel in one piece amid forces with the opposite goal to the task of (once again) rebuilding. A large segment of the hierarchy worried about depleted duct tape supplies. Sensor grid caught the spoor of Luplup's fleet milling (in confusion?) over the spot of sister ship termination.

4 of 8 considered the situation, part of his mentality still functioning in the vyst mode. He made an observation, {Flight was too easy.}

Second noted 4 of 8's dataspace location. {We all earn our keep here, one way or another. Back in your boxes, 4 of 8. Luplup retains sufficient vessels to damage us and we require modifications of earlier scenarios to account for her lesser forces as well as the addition of the creche ship in the equation. Get to it. Comply.}

{I will comply} automatically spouted 4 of 8 as familiar compliance pathways were triggered. The ease of escape remained a troubling fact.

*****

Thirty minutes passed with Runner lying undetected within the static warp bubble thrown by Cube #347. Declaring the initial part of her ploy successful, Luplup beamed units into the place marked Bulk Cargo Hold #3, knowledge gleaned both from Captain-unit and from schematics taken during earlier encounters with Cube #347. The attack group consisted of six soldiers, six workers, a barker, and Captain-unit; the latter was necessary in case the primary part of Luplup moved beyond the 12 AU limit, forcing Runner to act as an independent bud. Enough firsts and first-brooders were on the scout to assure the budded Luplup mind would not be crippled, but the complex facts held in Captain-unit's Borg-modified brain had thus far not been susceptible to efficient copy and distribution to appropriate units. Therefore, whenever Luplup required Bad-Mans learnings, she dipped into the well of Captain-unit's mind. That expert knowledge was shown via every simulation to be a required component to successful task completion, and so Captain-unit was included.

The area materialized into was one of near darkness, lights dimmed well below BorgStandard levels in a bid for efficiency and energy conservation. Stacks of supplies were heaped against the wall, closest boxes of bright red and labeled in Borg alphanumerics "asteroid mining supplies" followed by a bewildering atomic structure descriptor. To the other side of the assault group were rows of open shelves reaching towards a distant ceiling. Most of the nearest metallic ledges were full of miscellaneous welding supplies, although a stash of outlandish hats from many races occupied a position three meters above the ground, stretching into darkness. Vyst and humanoid hands flipped phase-cloak toggles, turning them on.

As Luplup began organizing her selves and equipment, Captain-unit advanced beyond sheltering shadow. He gazed to the bustle of Bad-Mans in the lighted portion of the cargo hold; Luplup observed with her Captain-unit eyes, passed questions to her linked Captain-unit mind.

Bad-Mans activity centered on an area of tools, tables, parts, and raw material set apart from regeneration alcoves. Forty drones were at work, busy assembling devices which Captain-unit could not identify due to distance and obscuring bodies. He could and did, like a model unit, submissively name familiar machines: plasma welder, replicator, a partially dismantled utility laser four meters in length, organics synthesizer, dilithium powered reactor. Another double clawful of Bad-Mans strung wire unrolled from a large spool between power source and an unseen object. The remaining numbers stood ridged in their alcoves. None paid attention to their visitors at the middle reaches of the cavernous bay.

Subunit #522 will not pay attention to I, affirmed Luplup as she drew upon Captain-unit resources. I do not know what the Bad-Mans toil to accomplish, but it will not impact my plan. I will proceed.

With intimate knowledge extracted from Captain-unit, Luplup had chosen Bulk Cargo Hold #3 as her beam in point. Captain-unit knew subunit #522 had disabled internal sensor and recording devices within the hold, rendering possible detection less likely than elsewhere. Success, measured by reaching a nacelle joint and setting phase-cloaked bombs, was 15.4% higher than starting in any other cargo bay, and 10.21% greater than a direct transportation to site. Both were significant differences; the plan as being executed had an overall achievement probability of 91.92%.

The sensation is odd, commented Luplup to herSelf as she sent one of her units to inspect a bulkhead. She suppressed a wince of expectation - flesh against cold metal - as a soldier placed her lower right arm into the wall and waved it. It felt as if she were dragging her limb through water.

Sensation is irrelevant, reminded Captain-unit.

Abruptly the greater Luplup vanished, forcing Runner to bud, Self leaving mere self, a shadow of the whole. A shadow with purpose, however. The main fleet had lagged more than 12 AU distance. No matter. The bulk of decision making smoothly shifted from a diffuse network of selves dominated by first-brooders to a self relying heavily on the command pathways of an ex-Borg unit accustomed to coordinating 4000 quasi-individualistic drones. The goal remained constant.

Captain-unit withdrew from observing Bad-Mans, eyes passing cursorily over the mining explosives. Attention returned to the boxes of incineration devices; the mind in the ex-drone considered.

I must split those selves on Runner into the following partitions, said Luplup/Captain, and test the following simulations. A list of eight seed scenarios were planted. The results returned swiftly.

Conclusions, mused Luplup/Captain, is no difference will be made if we succeed. However, in the event of possible failure to achieve objective, subplan contemplated may allow for failure to convert into success. I will proceed.

An assault group worker detached a bomb from a comrade's backpack-vest, carefully lifting the device from its cradle of straps. As long as it remained in the workers' phase field, it was amiable to physical manipulation. The worker holding the bomb carried it to the mining charges, placing it on the floor next to several crates. A depressed button activated the munition's own phase-cloak, allowing the device to remain securely phased when the unit removed her claws. The explosive would be unable to be disarmed by those of natural phase variance. 

Luplup/Captain was satisfied. Let I go, she ordered her selves.

One by one the units of the assault party plunged into the watery resistance of solid objects. With a final glance towards unaware subunit #522, Captain-unit dutifully followed.

*****

{It itches! It itches! It itches!}

{For the twenty-first time in the last hour,} Sensors was advertising her impossible itch to the general sub-collective.

{It itches! On Sensors' brain, in her throat, in her lungs, on the underside of her exoskeleton, all itches!}

{Then scratch it,} Second told Sensors dryly.

Sensors ignored the temporary primary consensus monitor and facilitator. {Oh, it itches, itches, itches! A million [BonBon] bugs are crawling over Sensors' insides!}

Second sighed, and demanded for the twenty-first time, {Whomever is teasing Sensors by tweaking the grid, desist. It is not humorous. I will find you - that is what I unfortunately do.} Second paused, then directed Third to join him in Captain's nodal intersection. A minute passed before Third arrived via transporter.

"Any luck?" Verbalization was the only method which allowed privacy...or at least gave the greatest semblance of privacy in a reality were everyone lived in the heads of four thousand neighbors. And of course there was always the truly intimate setting which included trillions of mental peeping-Toms when the Greater Consciousness was so inclined to interrogate its wayward imperfect drones.

Third replied, "Nothing. The jokester has scrambled damning thoughts well. I suspect the drone is running a multistream of consciousness to foil detection. If command and control was not diverting resources towards 4 of 8, prankster-boy would already be caught." Lighting caught glittering highlights from the silver-plated studs Third had recently installed in her cranium armor in imitation of skull piercing required by the multiracial religious sect Avatars for Free Body Design.

"I know," said Second; and he did too, for what was the discussion with Third but an outward manifestation of Cube #347 talking to itself?

{There is another possibility, low but of significant probability,} interrupted 4 of 8.

Second rolled his two remaining eyes at the perfect mental enunciation, {Get back in your box, 4 of 8. You are tasked to prepare us for the next Luplup encounter.}

{The previous encounter is not complete.}

{Say what?} asked Third incredulously.

{What,} came 4 of 8's confused response.

Third: {Repeat?}

4 of 8: {What.}

Third: {Say again?}

4 of 8: {Again.}

Second: {Stop playing with 4 of 8's too-literal-at-times mind, Third.} Third gave a mental smirk as she beamed her body elsewhere, her physical presence no longer required. {4 of 8,} commanded Second, {expand.}

{Escape was too easy.}

{We did remove an attacker from relevancy,} reminded Second.

{By accident.} In the not-so-distance, a certain weapon hierarchy head sputtered in protest, but was ignored. The enemy did not anticipate this cube might have retrieved an asset - myself - at the anomaly termini. The asset - me - assisted in accurately foreseeing tactics employed in disabling warp drive and was able to lend weight in providing an adequate response. That response cumulated in the destruction of one vessel. How, I am unable to comment upon, as not even my /proper/ sub-collective has ever displayed such a lack of targeting competence and poor control.}

{Get to the point, 4 of 8,} urged Second. Weapons' grumblings were becoming louder, backed by an increasing portion of his hierarchy. Second preferred to not have Weapons' perform the rash act on the edge of visualization; 4 of 8's attempt to behave in a manner consistent with 3.4 tau version of the Collective may have him be a pompous a** at times, but that particular pompous a** was necessary to Cube #347's ultimate survival.

{I am locked into these vyst simulations, with myself as a component of Luplup. One clear outcome of the most recent scenarios, other than the need for my brain to be realigned, is Luplup did not adequately push her advantage. She was hesitant in action, slow to respond, and inefficiently deployed her forces, all traits opposite of those observed in the pre-anomaly encounter. Thus, another answer is needed.}

Two streams of data were presented. The first detailed the sixteen ships identified to belong to Luplup's fleet; and the second focused upon signature traces received of the stationary fleet after Cube #347 escaped from the most recent spanking. {Only fifteen of sixteen vessels noted in attack.} Pause. {Sensor readings indicate fleet beacons /still/ located at assault point, a probability too low to be deemed a reflection of reality.}

4 of 8 swiftly summed simulation output, {Conclusion: If I were trying to hunt this cube - not a sporting quarry - and I had shown myself to be in possession of advanced technologies and a propensity for elaborate ambushes, I would attempt to sneak a cloaked ship into the target's warp bubble. Once I was sure I had evaded detection, I would transport my drones onto Cube #347. At that point, many goals of sabotage are available [very long list inserted as a substream to continuing dialogue], but to avoid negative reaction I would tend to keep to areas unpopulated by resident crew.}

Second was stunned, the sub-collective was stunned. The Borg did not (except in very rare circumstances) employ wheels-within-wheels deception. Forward through the Brick Walls of Life charged the Collective, method attaining greater efficiency of time and resources in a long-range view encompassing centuries. Factoring guile into standard understanding of a species prior to assimilation or extermination usually required sacrifice of several cubes before the Greater Consciousness adapted. In this case, one chance was all there was.

{Itch, itch, itch,} complained Sensors for the twenty-second time. {Yes, a cloaked vessel located nearby may cause Sensors' discomfort, especially as the nuances and [burping paisley] advances of species #56 are poorly documented. And it is stolen species #56 ships Luplup controls.} Sensors paused in concentration. Where was the itching worse? If she adjusted the grid such, did the sensation lessen? Grow? {Face #2,} muttered Sensors, {is [seed cucumber green]. Itch, itch, [BonBon] bug itch!}

{A single vessel of Luplup here?} demanded Weapons, vivid images of mayhem shifting from one centering on 4 of 8 to that of a vyst representing the collective animal. For Weapons, and by extension the entire tactical hierarchy, the promise of an enemy was as relevant as confirmation of said enemy. Especially an enemy which was unlikely to bestow the negative PR retreats ("Tactical reorganization," insisted Weapons during moments of rationalization) thus far experienced.

Repeated Sensors, {Itching [BonBon] bugs off face #2.}

Interpreting the ambiguous statement as a "yes," Weapons immediately powered cutting beams along the appropriate edges and began firing, sweeping the lines of green fire in a search pattern. Eventually a hidden ship would interrupt the beam, assuming one was near. The confirmed enemy would then feel the full brunt of phasers utilized at point-blank distances. Of course, discharging any weapon at warp velocities was not a tactically sound plan, static warp bubbly highly susceptible to damaging electromagnetic- and plasma-induced distortions when origination was from the interior vessel. The consequences for the computer (or in this case, engineering hierarchy as all labors abruptly dropped to attend the current emergency) unable to modify deflectors and compensate for insults ranged from mild punishment of warp bubble collapse to disintegration into component atoms and a puff of radiation.

Weapons ignored the consequences: an enemy awaited!

*****

Low powered cutting beams blindly sliced again, weapon used as a prod to find Runner and provide a lit target for phasers. With each pass the area to search became a bit less, vyst margin of security smaller. It was only a matter of time and luck before Cube #347 found the hidden barrel and began shooting fish.

Captain-unit and workers swiftly set explosives, phase-cloaks lifted in order to better manipulate charges and wires. The region near nacelle joint segment 9a and 9b in subsection 20 was deserted of Bad-Mans, drones elsewhere as the plasma coupling machinery remained perfectly functional in a cube where many other subsystems were not. The actual joint was immense, dense neutron-packed tritanium alloys and permanent magnetic fields sheathing nacelle segments. The nacelles themselves remained unseen, bulk of 400 meter lengths hidden within armored near-vacuum thermoses. The true target was the delicate equipment controlling plasma distribution, explosive destruction of which would lead to catastrophic consequences for the Bad-Mans ship.

Berated Luplup/Captain to her workers, Be more efficient! She contemplated utilizing her soldier guards, but dismissed the notion as the clade's hands did not possess sufficient nimbleness.

Captain-unit stood back to survey Luplup/Captain's work, eyeing leads to make sure all was set. As a worker pushed the button on the main detonator and engaged phase-cloak, a cutting beam finally penetrated Runner's disguise. It was past time to transport units back to the ship. The fourteen member assault group, mission successful, disappeared amid pale red-purple sparkles.

Runner rocked as a more powerful phaser kissed hull plates, leaving behind a cosmetic scar of molten metal. Obviously Cube #347 had not quite pinpointed Runner, for when the vyst ship began to move towards the fluctuating boundary of static warp bubble, two additional phasers punched through the area just abandoned. Knowing prey could not have escaped far, phasers stabbed from all four face edges, weaving a deadly fabric of destruction.

Another impact, this time amidships just forward of the wing array, shivered shields. Inside Runner workers scurried back and forth, fixing abused equipment as swiftly as possible. Captain/Luplup powered engines as she turned herself into a target impossible to miss by extending her own warp shell. It was time to leave.  

The Einstein universe was reentered, Cube #347 in hot pursuit. Luplup became one with budded selves, absorbing the units on Runner back into Self; she quickly consolidated her differing experiences, that of cunning assault and that of pursuit. Runner folded back to Luplup's fleet, Captain-unit transferred to Brooder and sent to regenerate.

What to do? What to do? What to do? Many contingency plans detailed this exact moment when bombs had been set and the prey open to attack. Luplup was dissolving into partitions against her greater will, subSelf voices switching to distant mode in order to promote one plan or another, to detail nuances and applicability of a certain scheme. She had never had such trouble making up her mind before! One vision was clear in the increasingly chaotic situation: Luplup's best chance was to advance now before Cube #347 returned to a warp environment, or worse, repaired transwarp drive.

Luplup folded her fleet into the area, englobing the cube prey. Simulation 1e was currently best with 98.22% probability of success; however, simulations 18a and 22b stood at 98.19%, the former rising to 98.23% success rate as Cube #347 took up a defensive spin opposite galactic rotation. Suddenly simulation 62-1 leapt into prominence as the other scenarios wavered: the Bad-Mans had powered up phasers along only ten edges instead of all twelve. Indecision coloring her actions (and estimated to lower all successful scenarios by 37.22%), Luplup entered into combat with fluctuating priorities not all of Self agreed with, the outcome of which manifested itself as a less than coordinated charge.

Aboard Brooder's bridge, Luplup's eldest first-brooder stood next to a console upon which was a recently installed red button of large proportions. The button was the trigger to send a subspace blip to the detonator, causing phase-cloak to drop and explosives to, well, explode. The button was not necessary except in the abstract theatrical sense since Luplup could as easily directly told the computer to radio the detonation sequence. However, in the quest to learn the abstract, the button just felt right.

Luplup wanted to press the shiny button, first-brooder's upper left paw hovering over the console, eyes glinting. The scenarios did not quite agree on timing, but the moment would come soon. Not yet...not yet...not yet.

*****

Subunit #522 covertly watched the intruders disappear through a bulkhead. The subunit was far from stupid, and knew the troubles of Cube #347; it is difficult to mask the fact one is on the losing side of a battle when sparks are flying and inertial dampers are not dampening, not that the host sub-collective had anything to hide. The appearance of (this universe) 4 of 8 and a squad of enemy assimilated animals had not gone unnoticed by the paranoid subunit.

The withholding of information to Cube #347 sub-collective or the Greater Consciousness concerning the incident was a study in deliberate logic utilizing a view of a perceived problem much larger than one cube.

The subunit dispatched five of its members to inspect a device next to a stack of mining charges. Subunit #522 had already determined the intruder's phase shift by a simple series of optical filters; the object displayed the same variance. While unfamiliar in design, function of apparatus was immediately obvious as the drone squad entered accurate visual range - a bomb.

A bomb has one function: to explode in vigorous endothermic activity; shrapnel, radiation, and other additions are optional. Therefore, all bombs can be simplified into part A and part B, the former a detonator and the latter the section to go boom. Bells and whistles in the form of timers, booby traps, and so on are no more than decoration.

Subunit #522 gazed impassively at the potentially dangerous device, scanning it minutely. The rest of itself continued important tasks. In its phased state, the bomb could not be directly manipulated. However, the miniaturized phase-cloak itself - an efficient technology not currently within vast Borg archives - was battery powered. Waving an electrical disrupter unit, a standard tool mounted on engineering-specialized drones like 1436 of 199321, near the bomb sufficiently depolarized the battery, dropping the phase-cloak. A few snips of wire latter and the bomb was no longer a threat.

While carrying the prize of phase-cloak unit back to the main work area in Bulk Cargo Hold #3 (explosives had been discarded next to the mining charges), the detonator in 33191 of 99312's hands gave a small "bzzzt" noise.

It was not relevant.

The detonator gave a small "bzzzt" noise. Four thousand drones sighed in collective relief. Delta attempted to match to Borg files the design of the small phase-cloak device body A held; body B and 171 of 310 carefully examined the huge plasma coupling machinery joining nacelle segments for additional unwanted presents.  

{I can not find anything similar so miniaturized, so efficient,} reported Delta, {although there are elements superficially alike to species #82 and #5483, as well as expected species #56. My hierarchy will dissect the phase-cloak under guidance of the Greater Consciousness to determine...}

The cube rocked, inertial dampers blinking off-line, enough to rattle implants, but not enough to turn crew into thin smears of organic goo laced with tritanium chunks. Phasers lashed out in return, bestowing little damage. Shield generators audibly hummed as Weapons' hierarchy modulated output yet again. The bomb had only been the highest priority peril of many dangers to structural integrity, a slot swiftly replaced as the uncoordinated attacking fleet tried to bore through shields and hull.

{Delta, we have other things to worry about. Are nacelles secured or not?}

In the scant minute between retreat of Luplup-controlled ship and assault by fleet, sensor hierarchy had traced the anomalous energy profile of a transporter beam. Origination had been in the vicinity of nacelle segment 9a-9b in subsection 20, submatrix 3. Careful examination revealed an earlier beaming into Bulk Cargo Hold #3, but subunit #522 claimed to have seen nothing of importance during the specified time period.  

With sub-collective flagging sabotage as high priority, Delta had dispatched herself and several drones she could trust to not push pretty buttons, no matter how tempting. Violent destruction and plasma release from buried warp nacelles could lead to a good chunk of the cube vaporizing. The cluster of bombs had been obvious, as had been their phased nature when Delta first tried to disarm them. Because of the phase shift, the devices were essentially invisible to remote attempts to perform internal diagnostic scans; the only hint as to their existence had been the beam signatures. Subsequent depolarization of battery to disrupt phase-cloak and removal of detonator from explosive was swift.

Answered Delta to Second, {Secured. Summarized status report follows.} Delta triggered to computer to provide Second with current damage log, tacking on an addendum concerning loss of primary shield nodes in subsection 18.

{Any good news, Delta?}

{We have repaired transwarp. Did command and control hierarchy not see it? Item 37, subparagraph theta, bullet 3a.}

{Yes, so obvious,} was the dry reply.

The cube shuddered again as Luplup's fleet finally fired disrupters together, the first such incident of true cooperation since the vyst had attacked in ragged formation. Abruptly all enemy vessels powered down weapons and began to drift.

{Die!} crowed Weapons into the intranet. {Kill 'em all!}

{No!} spat Second as conclusions concerning damage status - not good - were determined. Individually the ships were not a danger; together they were devastating. And output from continual 4 of 8 simulation partitions placed a high probability on another trap. {We retreat. Third, rein in Weapons, if necessary. It won't be necessary, will it Weapons?}

Second ignored weapon hierarchy howl of impotent disappointment as their toys were snatched from eager grasp. Random course inputted, Cube #347 fled into maximum transwarp.

*****

Luplup snarled at herSelf, at her enemy, at the universe in general. She was frustrated. She was confused. She was triumphant. She was scared. She was enraged. She was many emotions, none consistent, as parts of Self bombarded the whole.

Too many possibilities, too many what-if's boiled in Luplup's mind. If the scenario seemed likely given current reality, the original creating partition loudly advocated its use, reaching out to assume control of local resources if the greater Luplup refused to enact the desired protocol. And many scenarios had been completed which were similar, but never exact, to the reality presented.

I am Luplup! trumpeted Luplup.

*Simulation 5d has a 97.65% chance of success if initiated now,* reported partition 4c, a mixture of soldiers and firsts united by a brooder from each of the two represented clades. The division had responded in the recently learned distant mode, not proper intimacy appropriate for talking to oneSelf.

Hotly contested partition 16a, *Simulation 10e has a 97.68% chance of success if initiated now.* The soldier-only collection heavy with soldier-brooders assumed temporary control of three ships, a move Luplup countered by submerging the partition fully into Self by force.

I am Luplup, whispered Luplup.

Not unified by one vision, but instead split by many possible battle plans differing from each other in ways a seasoned commander would deem trivial, the fleet of Luplup fought raggedly. Response to shield shifts by Cube #347 was slow in comparison to earlier lightning thought processes; fourteen engaging ships focused on three separate targets, not a single goal. Luplup drew a large portion of her arguing parts into Self, enough to allow a chance to determine at least one reason for her lax reflexes: Captain-unit was not assisting.

*Captain-unit* barked Luplup in sharp rebuke to the presence hiding behind a partition enclosing one Bad-Mans' mind, *attend me!* The unit's physical location was the workroom he had gone to after his supposed dispatch to regeneration. Currently he was assisting five workers in building external neural transceivers for use on future absorbed sentients. The task was low priority, but Luplup had never told her selves to concentrate on any other duty, and so the units continued toiling like the organic golems they were.

Unified in other respects, Luplup chose one of the myriad of competing battle plans, firing her fleet in unison. Once Captain-unit was placed back into his position of battle responsibility, the cube's shields would become as armoring as air.

*No,* was Captain-unit's simple reply. He lifted a completed neural transceiver in inspection, ignoring Luplup's threatening posture as she surrounded the recalcitrant Bad-Mans unit with her five worker selves. She had also dispatched more heavily armed soldiers overseen by a first-brooder - the original Luplup self - to the locale; however, estimated arrival time was at least two minutes. Luplup vaguely wondered why she had sent that particular part of herSelf as the units were several decks away, and not the many closer selves. Just as swiftly, the internalized question was erased.

*You will assist me!*

Eye lifted from transceiver, calmly regarding encircling vysts as if seeing them for the first time. Luplup felt what she could best describe as a twisting behind the partition barricade, followed by a snap as Captain-unit tore away from Self, splintering, fragmenting the whole.

"I will not comply," stated Captain-unit verbally. Suddenly her eyes in the form of the five workers vanished.

Luplup screamed in rage, throats of selves howling. Captain-unit had not only defied her, but had taken part of herSelf as well! The action could not be tolerated! Ironically, although she knew it not, the reaction was akin, if more emotion-driven, to that of the Greater Consciousness when drones were stolen.

Captain-unit's fate at that point could have been predicted with high accuracy, a future involving strips of frozen flesh and detached limbs floating amid the dust motes of interstellar space, but another destiny intruded. Fractures present in Self long before the addition of Captain-unit widened; dark breaks in the psyche surfaced. A partition consisting of eighteen soldiers, five workers, and two each brooders from four clades rose up in challenge:

*Partition 7a insists use of simulation 26-18, which has a 93.11% chance of success.* Pause. *I am Luplup. I will use simulation...* Pause. *I am Luplup!* roared the partition, echoing within the mental pathways of Luplup's noncentralized personality. *I am Luplup!*

All of Luplup halted in shock of the revelation; the exchange from unison firing through Captain-unit defection and now partition 7a proclamation had required mere seconds. The fleet drifted in silence, at least in outward respects. Internally, chaos descended. Cube #347's departure into transwarp was not noticed.

*****

As Cube #347 sprinted away in transwarp, plans were being sequentially concocted and discarded concerning how to circle back to the battle site. The sub-collective needed to confirm Luplup had not used beacons to create a false fleet signature, and do so without falling into yet another ambush. First, however, a hidden tracking device had to be found and removed from the hull. Until then, Cube #347 was to stay in transwarp unless exigency dictated otherwise...no matter how many of his hierarchy Weapons rallied to send a certain mangled, spindled, and battered Exploratory-class cube into an extended brawl.

*****

Captain-unit walked down the hallway, his objective nearing; his five worker units formed a protective circle orbiting around their new master. Luplup knew Captain-unit's goal, for while the barrier to his mind was dense, it still leaked slightly. One of the tidbits visualized was the sickbay where the Bad-Man had awoken on Brooder; the image (deliberately released?) had been tinged with undertones of irony.

Of the units originally sent to confine Captain-unit only the first-brooder remained; and by a set of noncoinsidences she was the same first-brooder Captain had once called "Queen." The soldiers were now elsewhere in Brooder, split among two minor partitions claiming to be Luplup, both temporarily of no concern as they tried to absorb each other into a size sufficient to challenge the reigning Self. Luplup had more immediate worries regarding the sequential put-down of splinters large enough to give threat; and to contain those parts of Self which were tottering on the edge of schism.

"Return to I! Comply!" spoke Luplup through the first-brooder.

"No," came the monotone response. One of the workers glanced at the ordering Luplup unit and growled.

Luplup returned the warning with a sharp bark, showing the aged brooder's sharp teeth, raising her torso high in instinctual dominance display.

"Comply!"

"No. I will not comply."

Sixsome plus a trailing one stepped around motionless vysts, limbs and tails twitching, mirroring intensification of an unseen skirmish swiftly devolving into war. A few workers wandered here and there, gait made drunken by forces demanding unit allegiance to the body Luplup, programmed minds attempting to fulfill the many miscellaneous tasks required to keep vessel and controlling entity functional. Occasionally one of the mobile vysts would shuffle to a stop, mental resources demanded by one or another Luplup wannabe; inevitably, another worker would start in clockwork stiffness, picking up where compatriot left off. Seeming blind to the struggle around, oblivious barkers rose high above their half-squatting comrades, facial expressions, an impossible anthropomorphication as vysts did not possess the necessary army of small muscles, set in the blissful emptiness of simplistic idiocy.

Captain-unit stopped before a closed door. Not Born Of Self words stenciled to the side of the entrance identified it as one of several light surgical bays located on the deck. The goal of the Captain-unit was reached.

"Comply!" pleaded Luplup once more, a whining timbre from brooder's throat accompanying synthetic voder.

"I will not comply with you again, my Queen," murmured Captain-unit. A button to the side of the door was depressed. Sixsome plus a trailing one entered the sickbay.

Luplup was fragmenting:

*This I is Luplup!*

*Luplup is this collection of selves!*

*I am Luplup!*

*I am Luplup!*

*I am Luplup!*

Luplup, at least the largest splinter which held the original Luplup brooder unit, struggled to hold herSelf together. Unfortunately, as soon as one partition was reabsorbed into the whole, another would split. The greatest incident of schism was among the soldier clade, although worker groups did exhibit their own wish to secede. While most firsts stayed with the first among first-brooders, some defected. Barkers tended to passively follow whatever partition they were immediately associated with, allied both to all and none.

Each twist of psyche hurt Luplup much more than any phaser, any disrupter. Much of her tactical and mechanical knowledge was tied into the clades of soldier and worker, respectively; and each defection shaved off a curl of data, a nugget of learning. Worst was fragmenting of the first clade, for that was the literal dissolution of Luplup herSelf, of the part which made Luplup /Luplup/. A religious culture might describe the vyst as soul-shattered; a psychiatrist would say she was in the final traumatic state of true multiple personality disorder.

*I am Luplup!*

*I am Luplup!*

*I am Luplup!*

The first among first-brooders shuddered as the cutter Slash abruptly folded space, forcefully tearing Self from Self. The vessel reappeared a quarter light year distant, within sensor envelope of Brooder, but well outside the 12 AU barker reach. Luplup allowed the unit to open her eyes, not surprised by the sight she beheld.

Captain-unit lay upon the low sickbay bed, section of skull over left ear removed. Luplup watched one of the converted workers carefully dislodge a small rounded chunk of dull metal from the humanoid braincase. The scene was reminiscent to the neural transceiver extraction she had supervised only a short week earlier. As the bloody object was dropped to the floor and cranial armor replaced, Luplup vaguely wondered how Captain-unit maintained his dominance over her sundered units. An unfamiliar blinking light at the juncture of neck and shoulder provided the answer: exterior neural transceiver.

The aged first-brooder exhaled an untranslatable groan as her frigate Rend mimicked the tactic of Slash. It reappeared half a light year to the galactic north, out of barker range of both Slash and the diminished fleet. Runner folded away, then immediately returned, reabsorbed part of Self on the scout once more in control.

Captain-unit awkwardly reached his nonprosthetic limb across body to feel the side of his head. Satisfied all was in place, he swung legs off table and stood. Luplup dejectedly craned her local unit's head upwards to keep eye contact, Captain now commanding a height advantage over the biobed sitting vyst. The five assisting worker units scrambled away, shivering to a statue standstill against the nearest wall.

Unable (and not expecting) to reach Captain-unit with nonverbal methods, Luplup spoke, "You tricked I, tricked Luplup. You cause me to fragment, to lose bits of Self to other bits of Self proclaiming to be a true Self, not a partition or bud."

Captain-unit regarded the first-brooder unit for a long minute before replying, "The seeds were already planted, Queen. I felt the fractures when you absorbed this drone into yourSelf. You did not take into account I am imperfectly assimilated; the irony - you remember your words to me? - is that if you had kidnapped any other drone from any other sub-collective, you would have been successful. Instead, you stole me. I was a part of Luplup, but I also retained individuality, a corruption even the powerful Greater Consciousness has been unable to purge. When you desired to learn how Borg thought and were organized, I complied...with methods unique to Cube #347. The Collective works in a similar manner, but more subtle, more flowing, as befits a proper collective consciousness.

"Borg methods would never have worked for you, Queen. Never. You were originally of One mind. The use of partitions only sped fragmentation beyond the bounds for you to control."

"Why did you not warn I?" snarled Luplup.

Captain - no longer Captain-unit - shrugged, "You did not ask, Queen, and I am a very good drone at following literal orders. I must now find a shuttle, assimilate it, and return to my proper sub-collective."

Luplup could only watch in impotent rage as Captain left the sickbay, trailed by his quintet of workers. The first-brooders of Runner were trying to secede again, and /physical/ fights had broken out between opposing soldier partitions. The first among first-brooders closed her eyes, unit fully giving her mental resources to domination.

*****

Captain strode down the corridors of Brooder, ignoring the chaos around him. Vysts squatted in the center of the hallway, legs ridged and arms dangling, unseeing as perhaps a dozen sisters engaged in vicious tooth-and-claw combat only meters away. At two separate, yet interlocking, planes a civil war raged. A gooey pile of egg yolk and half-formed embryos blocked a door from closing, revealing the glimpse of a shattered nesting area in what had once been a formal dining room.

The five vysts following Captain were nothing more than automatons, central nervous system slaved to the Borg's superior neural complex. They had no more ambition, no more will than a barker, severance from Luplup and clade brooders leaving behind an organic machine lacking "soul." Captain used his quintet as he would any useful device, then leaving it forgotten until needful once more. Those rival Luplup factions which advanced on their supposed conspecifics swiftly turned away in confusion, targets unresponsive to conversion attempts.

An elevator ride to Brooder's lowest deck was uneventful, doors opening to an expanse large enough to fit several species #56 scouts like Runner side-by-side with enough room left over for servicing equipment. The cavern was chill, sporadically lit with flickering light strips, and empty except for a trio of desired warp-capable intership cargo shuttles. The ships were neatly parked within the confines of painted stalls next to a distant bulkhead, likely a position occupied since last used by long dead pilots.

Captain stopped, turning to regard his vysts. Swiftly he tore what little knowledge they had concerning shuttle specifications from their minds, then sent the quintet scampering towards a control kiosk. While the vysts began to push buttons under Captain's specific instructions, the drone himself completed the trek to a transport, opened a hatch, and entered the cockpit. Captain laid a hand on the primary navigation console, activating assimilation tubules to jack himself into the ship's processor.

As bay doors rose in response to vyst success, it became readily apparent no forcefield acted as a barrier to the vacuum of space. The omission had been a deliberate action by Captain: he neither needed nor wanted his tag-alongs, and this was the swiftest disposal method; and the collapse of a few bulkheads might sow additional chaos for Luplup, increasing escape odds. The vysts passively flew into the darkness of interstellar space, five dots among a hurricane of unsecured dry-dock dross.

An exterior observer might call Captain's dispassionate action cruel. The observer would be wrong. Borg are not cruel; the emotion is primitive, irrelevant. What had been accomplished was through the cold numbers of logic as best calculated by an imperfect sub-collective of one.

Captain took his stolen shuttle from the confines of the bay and set a random course at warp 7.53, the ship's maximum sustainable speed. Next, a noisy distress signal was set, a message requesting recovery by the Collective of a drone. Cube #347 would eventually find their primary consensus monitor and facilitator.

*****

It was dislike at first sight, irrelevant as the phrase was.

After less than ten hours travel, a battered Cube #347 exited from transwarp, homing in on a Borg distress call. The shuttle was expediently tractored into a cargo hold even as Captain was beamed to maintenance. A substitution of the vyst-built and vyst-orientated external transceiver for a proper Borg model allowed Captain to return on-line. Now all that was necessary for complete repair was introduction of 5' nanoprobes specifically programmed to disassemble their vyst counterparts, and finally wait for a new internal transceiver to grow.

It was when Captain beamed back to his alcove for regeneration - a cycle which would included not only internal repair, but intimate access for the Collective to properly pick the brain of their recovered drone - that he found it already occupied. With his double.

{Second, what is this unit, I mean drone, doing in my alcove? And why does it look like me?} 

Second had been somewhat dodgy upon Captain's return once the latter had regained dataspace access. Uncharacteristically, Second had insisted Captain be fully functional before restoration of command codes, claiming it was for the best interest of the sub-collective if himself and 2 of 8 temporarily retained their assumed duties. Captain did not argue, loathe to return to baby-sitting four thousand Borg, but was extremely curious over the departure from Second's normal attitude concerning captaincy.

A certain face was peering out a certain distant nodal intersection towards a certain alcove.

{4 of 8...I told you to go elsewhere,} said Second. The words were directed to the drone in Captain's alcove.

The eye of Captain's twin remained closed; face was absolutely expressionless. {You required I go to an empty alcove located in subsection 14, submatrix 3, a place currently in the midst of a malfunctioning holographic system which includes banshee-screaming razorbeasts and an unpleasant purple goo. There is also a local epidemic of "hallucinatory" drone sightings. Unacceptable. I will remain here.} Pause. {And as far as what I am doing, I am standing motionless.} The voice was similar, yet slightly different from Captain's own mental signature. It sounded...prissy, with a by-the-book quality more extreme than any in the Hierarchy of Eight employed, Captain included.

{Don't talk as if I'm not here!} shouted Captain, causing drones all over the cube to wince, and Delta to glare in annoyance as the next diagnostic cycle reported lighting strips in subsection 2, submatrix 17 nonfunctional. {I have had a very, very bad week. Now, who is this drone with /my/ designation, and why is he in my assigned alcove?} Even as the question was voiced, pertinent information was automatically accessed. The resultant display flashed at high speed, summarizing events since Captain's kidnapping. It was data Captain had purposefully neglected accessing until he was in the comfortable and boring security of his alcove.

"Bad week?" repeated 4 of 8, eye opening to regard Captain. "At least you remained in your native timeline."

Captain replied in kind, "I've been a cog in a Collectivesque entity primarily populated by Borgified pre-sentient animals."

"And I've been likewise, in a virtual sense. A mind slave to this sub-collective, locked in isolation boxes." 4 of 8 stepped from the alcove to go belly-to-belly, psuedonose-to-psuedonose with his opposite.

"You've had it easy with standard regeneration alcoves and mixtures."

"And you've not had to endure the gross operational inefficiencies of this cube."

Second ducked back into the nodal intersection. The accusations were becoming louder and increasingly creative, soon to plummet into insults. It would be best if the cube proceeded as quickly as possible to the anomaly and returned 4 of 8. Admittedly the floor show was entertaining and the bets bandied within the intranet interesting, but eventually it would wind to a conclusion. The subsequent blossoming of an ugly relationship would cause the gross inefficiencies 4 of 8 attributed to Cube #347, incompetence which the Greater Consciousness could not broker even in its imperfectly assimilated members. The immediate solution the Greater Consciousness would demand and receive would include terminating the pair...which in turn would leave 3 of 8 not with temporary captaincy, but as Captain.

3 of 8 despised the position of Captain.

With Luplup's fleet apparently scattered according to the sensor grid, the anomaly - six limping days of travel hence - was Cube #347's destination. Next stop: 3.4 taus shifted universe to try to explain to an irate Collective why their drone had been borrowed. Second hoped the consensus cascade he would shortly initiate would agree to simply lob 4 of 8 towards his cube via an old captured shuttle, then dive immediately back into the phenomenon.

*****

Shortly after Captain's "liberated" shuttle had sped from the conflict at high warp, the civil war drew to a close. At its center was Brooder and five other ships firmly under the control of the largest Luplup fragment, inclusive the original unit. The remains of four additional vessels, one gutted corpse and three debris fields, silently drifted. More ships and units had been lost in Self discord than in battle against Cube #347. Of the remaining six ships, two had folded into the void, paired into a strong Self; and the other four flew in four different directions, each embroiled with internal skirmishes as the Luplup of each vessel continued to fragment.

Luplup watched the sensor echo which was Captain's shuttle recede, the larger vector of a still tagged Cube #347 on an intercept course in transwarp. Captain-unit had left her with the legacy of the Bad-Mans way of thought, a useless gift in an of itself. However, the concept of percentages, simulations, triggered responses, and other previous abstractions were now concrete; and that which was concrete was adaptable into Self.

But first...

But first Luplup had to retreat, had to lick her wounds. Other Luplups (impostors, believed the original, a similar sentiment held by each of the fragments) now existed, selves which would directly compete for resources. They had to be dispatched, else they gain advantage and take the ultimate prize of destroying the Bad-Mans, of absorbing all knowledge, all power.

Satisfied she was not to fall immediately apart, Luplup codified her grasp of Self, brutally terminating those units which demonstrated the slightest hint of schism. Unnatural self selection. What did not kill, made strong. The Borg, Cube #347, Captain, would have to wait until another day.

And when the vectors of Captain-shuttle and Cube #347 intersected, the latter turning ominously towards Luplup's truncated fleet, folded space drives were initiated.

The cosmic hunt continued.

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