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 II

	Awake.  Awake.  Awake.  Awake.  Awake.
	Captain came to awareness staring at an unfamiliar ceiling.  It was 
cream with a hint of lavender, bright full spectrum light strips embedded 
in the texture-painted metal.  The clank of metal on metal rang near one 
ear; light clicks and occasional hisses surrounded Captain.  None of it 
registered.
	There was a hole in Captain's head, white noise of the Collective 
missing, multiple conversations of the sub-collective gone.
	Feeling the first stages of catatonia descending, Captain closed his eye 
and deliberately powered down his optical implant.  One thing at a time.  
One very small thing at a time.  Drones could survive severance from the 
Collective, even those who were not imperfectly assimilated.  However, 
that external stimulus which was not immediately important had to be 
eliminated.  One thing at a time.
	Captain momentarily ignored the many presence he could feel moving 
around him, carefully attempting to move his limbs.  His last memories at 
a time index of twenty hours earlier were clear, as were the resultant 
implications.  Legs, arms, and torso were strapped down, held immobile in 
an efficient, if low tech, manner.  Did the binding on the left wrist 
feel looser than the others?
	Captain abruptly ripped his right arm straight up, putting the force of 
muscle servos behind the effort.  The band of fabric over a single weave 
of light metal tore.  Captain blindly reached for fetters crossing torso 
and prosthetic limb, fingers splitting the restraints.  An outcry of 
hisses and soft barks arose.
	Visual input was allowed to return, priorities mentally outlined.  First 
requirement was freedom, followed by determining cause of severance from 
the Collective.  Captain's planning suddenly ground to a halt as the 
first thing his eyes alighted upon as he prepared to straighten into a 
sitting position was a piece of familiar technology.  A piece of 
technology which had no cause to be outside his body.  With a sinking 
feeling, Captain realized without performing an implant self-diagnostic 
that he was gazing upon his neural transceiver.
	Where external transceivers have been described as a spider or tick with 
flesh-grasping legs and nanofiliments prepared to delve deep into body to 
link to the appropriate cerebral areas, the internal component is a metal 
oblong the size of a hazelnut.  At least it is thus shaped for species 
#2553 and several hundred others with relatively similar brain design and 
functioning.  Captain knew the device belonged in the third transverse 
fold between the first and second lobes of his brain, a position roughly 
above the left ear canal and two centimeters beneath skull armor.  It did 
not belong on a metal table amid flecks of dried blood and laser 
scalpels, unbroken microfiliments emerging from one end demonstrating the 
professional matter in which it had been removed.  Days, if not weeks, 
might be required for nanites to rebuild it, assuming they could scavenge 
the appropriate rare elements from other assemblies.
	Captain awkwardly reached with unaltered right hand to feel the left 
side of his skull.  A section of armor had indeed been removed and 
replaced, slight ridge indicating it had not been reseated quite 
correctly.  While the section of cranium would not fall off, it was also 
not of the level of maintenance Borg employed.  Of course, a neural 
transceiver would also not be removed until one was terminated and 
recycled for salvageable parts.
	"You are awake.  Awake.  Awake you are.  Awake.  Awake.  Awake."  Pause.  
"Functional.  Mine.  You are mine.  Awake and mine.  Mine."  Voices, all 
pitched the same and with the precise artificiality only a second-rate 
electronic voder can provide, echoed in stereo.  Several belling barks 
accompanied the words.  Captain tore his eyes away from his neural 
transceiver to take in his surroundings.
	He was in a sick bay of unknown design, but familiar in the way of 
space-faring humanoids needing medical assistance.  Perhaps if he wasn't 
severed from the Collective, Captain would have been able to extrapolate 
the original owners for it certainly was not built by the dozen vysts in 
attendance.  He himself was still half-strapped to a low work table, a 
twin to the other four biobeds in the room until base was hacked to a 
height more comfortable for beasts waist high.  Blankets and mattresses 
may have once graced the beds, but where long since removed to expose 
metal surfaces.  Captain swiftly catalogued the group of 
more-than-animals into four categories:  five small tool-bearers, 
including one holding a tricorder-like apparatus; five size large of the 
type which had assaulted him in the cube, all training the business ends 
of weapons on him; a tall skinny one with grossly enlarged cranium and 
expanded torso standing aloof near a wall; and a singleton squatting on 
an intact bed above the others, tail stretched behind her, four arms 
dangling over the edge.
	"You are awake," said the elevated vyst.  Her mouth remained closed, 
words emanating from a mechanical device wrapped around her neck.  "I 
will release you.  You will stand.  You will not hurt I, these selves; 
you will not do stupid action.  Or else I hurt you real bad.  You will 
comply."
	Captain took a closer look at the weapons.  Where on the cube he 
remembered primitive projectiles, these were a lightweight disrupter 
rifle capable of punching a substantial hole through a bulkhead, not to 
mention a single drone.  He assumed the rifles were set at a level well 
above tickle or stun; he would not be given the chance to adapt.
	Two vysts of the smaller type stepped forward, quadruped gait mincing 
the bodies forward.  Well formed hands, which Captain knew were not 
present during Cube #347's previous encounter with Luplup, undid 
remaining restraint catches.  Task complete, the pair returned to the 
encircling ring.
	"You will stand," repeated Luplup's speaker.  Captain noted that 
particular "self" did not sport modifications to her upper limbs.
	Captain swung his legs off the table, discovering he was 40 centimeters 
from the ground.  As he stood, the edge of the table abutted the back of 
his lower thighs, just above the knee joint.  Two weapon porters - 
soldiers, decided Captain to himself - leapt onto the table, claws of 
feet clicking against smooth metal; their rifles pointed unerringly at 
his head.  A smaller beast - worker? - also joined her larger brethren, 
grace less than perfect as one leg slipped.
	"You have taken this drone from the Collective," said Captain.  "You 
will explain.  Then you will return the drone in question to the place it 
was stolen from."
	A short chopping bark was Captain's answer.  It sounded suspiciously 
like amused laughter.  "You are mine.  Mine.  Bad-Mans hurt Luplup, hurt 
me, kill many living selves and unborn selves, make me small.  I will use 
you to hurt Bad-Mans, make /them/ small.  First ship of Bad-Mans where I 
awoke from the nest, then all of Bad-Mans.  This called irony.  I learn, 
I absorb irony recently from word-book.  I will absorb, assimilate many 
learnings, much power, from Bad-Mans before I kill all to make 
galaxy-nest safe for little I's.  You will comply."  The sentences were 
disjointed and halting as if Luplup were carefully searching for each 
word, checking definitions for correctness.  Lousy sentence structure 
aside, the idea of what the communal vyst was planning was clear - 
destruction of the Borg, beginning with Cube #347.
	"I will not comply," snarled Captain, previous semi-automatic plurality 
dropped.
	The worker on the table Captain had mentally dismissed suddenly lunged.  
He felt the discharge of a hypospray against his neck in tandem with the 
device's hiss.  Captain automatically swung an arm back, catching the 
vyst high in the chest.  She squealed as ribs caved in with a satisfying 
crack.  Soldiers growled as they lifted weapon muzzles high, sharp teeth 
bared.  All paused as the breath of the moment was held.  The spell broke 
as the soldiers shuffled half a step back; a pair of whimpering workers 
leapt forward to drag their conspecific to the other side of the room.  
The one on the table remained quiet and unmoving through the ordeal.
	"You have no choice.  Follow this unit-self of I."  The vyst rose from 
her relaxed position and jumped with arthritic carefulness to the floor, 
heading towards the door without a backwards glance.  Then again, it had 
been well confirmed all the Luplup vysts were one mentality, one genetic 
clone, so Captain knew he had never left her sight.  A soldier prodded 
him with a weapon.  Captain followed.

		*	*	*	*	*

	When the worker unit was hit, a small skirmish broke out in the confines 
of Luplup's mind.  The soldier part of self wanted to tear Captain to 
pieces, to scatter the flesh of the anti-Owner to the cosmic winds.  The 
worker part, that subself which had been injured, did not desire 
retribution, but rather to pull back and reexamine the situation.  The 
barker part was unmoved; however, the very specialized barker rarely 
produced input, was satisfied to watch and relay.  The first part, on the 
other hand, actively fought the soldier self to reaffirm the plan.
	Many psychiatrists on many worlds would recognize the beginnings of a 
psychotic episode which would eventually, although not necessarily 
immediately, end in a state of mental schism.  Those of the universe not 
versed in psycho-babble would call the emergent neurosis multiple 
personality disorder.
	For Luplup, the episode was not the first.
	The root of the problem was two-fold.  First, Luplup had grown beyond 
the ability of a single unit to contain all of Self.  Information had to 
be housed in multiple units, often in multiple copies so that the loss of 
a single unit would not lead to a lessening of the overall I.  Luplup had 
discovered the virtue of computers to store data, but unlike the Borg was 
not yet able to seamlessly merge Self with a machine; and would not be 
able to until the power of the vinculum and transtellar instantaneous 
fractual communication was absorbed.  Second, and most serious, the core 
Luplup units were no longer true clones of each other.
	Genetic manipulation to produce the three clades in addition to the 
(mostly) genetically static first had come as an outgrowth of making 
hands.  True hands and fingers were the first goal, a necessary step 
towards efficient manipulation of tools.  While computer and medical 
facilities on the Not Born Of Self ships had done the bulk of the work, 
many promising alterations had been lost between gene machine and egg due 
to clumsy half-hands dropping hyposprays.  Once new units had been born, 
however, Luplup began to further experiment on Self.
	The manipulations had thus far led to soldier, worker, and barker.  The 
solder duty was to protect Self and nest, so it seemed most efficient to 
store data pertaining to weaponry and tactics in those selves.  Hormone 
alterations to produce a larger unit had a side-effect of increased 
aggressiveness.  The dedicated worker, once a position held by young 
units between hatching and full size maturation, had agile bodies with 
higher neural density in the brain; Luplup stored much technology 
knowledge there.  Barkers, the most recent clade, were little more than 
mobile neural transceivers; dissections of terminated units confirmed 
what implant surgery hinted:  the cognitive parts of the brain were 
largely given over to passing incoming/outgoing Self thoughts.  In other 
words, if barkers were not a part of Self, they would have considerably 
less intelligence than the ancestral yoole.
	Over all were the first, in which Luplup kept personal memories, general 
data, and the nebulous quality which made Self.  The slight differences 
in outlook between the clades - initially fostered by Luplup herself - 
meant increasing disagreement in action to take.  Worker self was most 
content to build, to experiment on self, to assimilate new data; soldier 
self looked to create a safe nest for I, no matter what the cost; barker 
self...did not care; first self struggled to hold all together as One.
	First self snarled at soldier self:  Comply!  I must have Captain to 
make galaxy safe for I!  I must have Captain to kill Bad-Mans!
	Soldier self growled in return.  Captain hurts me!  There are more 
Bad-Mans to steal!  I will rend him!
	Squeals first self in rage, No!  I forbid mySelf!  I must be logical.  I 
can no longer sneak onto the cube to take another Bad-Man.  I must work 
with what I have.
	Soldier self reluctantly backs down.  I agree.
	Luplup is abruptly of One mind again.  Soldiers back off; workers rush 
forward to retrieve the injured unit.  "You have no choice.  Follow this 
unit-self of I," says Luplup through the first-brooder in the sick bay.  
The first brooder subsequently jumps to the floor and heads to the door.  
Luplup momentarily contemplates, once again, terminating the unit; and 
Luplup, once again, shies from the action, unknowing why she cannot 
complete the impulse.
	Luplup watches Captain reluctantly trail herSelf. 

		*	*	*	*	*

	Captain was on a tour, his guide a diminutive Borgified animal which was 
disturbingly familiar in a personal sense.  Most tours, however, did not 
have silent shadows keeping pace, deadly rifles always on target.
	"This is deck 8 of the ship-nest Brooder," said Luplup as Captain and 
his escorts moved down the hallway and away from the sick bay.  She 
seemed to have decided to use the single aged vyst as her mouthpiece to 
him.  "The Brooder is of Not Born Of Self make, was one named Cosmic 
Wind.  It was a..."  Luplup paused as if in search for an unfamiliar 
term.  She continued after several paces, electronic box stilted in 
obvious recitation, "...multi-clan vessel, a commons community commodity 
outfitted for the task of resource distribution of shared services such 
as medical, education, and so on."
	They were now at an elevator.  After several minutes of silent waiting 
the doors opened, disgorging six workers.  The vysts sauntered down the 
corridor, joining the ranks of other conspecifics engaged in unknown 
tasks.  Captain had many questions he dared not ask; foremost was the 
extent of the vyst population, and how Luplup could grow so many of 
herself so fast.
	The lift was entered.  The car began to rapidly descend, no visible 
means of communication given to the computer which controlled the device.  
It opened to a new level.  Captain stared.
	"This is deck 15.  Formerly the 'ancestral biosphere and garden 
complex.'  It is my central nest for Brooder, although I have several 
auxiliary nests elsewhere on this ship.  You will come.  This is the 
shortest path to a required elevator terminating on the cargo decks."
	The Borg knew some ships, especially those which either spent a great 
proportion of time in deep space or were built by planetless races, 
sported park areas.  Plants were always a component, with insect and 
animals often added for a complete, if artificial, ecosystem.  The reason 
for the waste of space, as the Borg saw it, was obviously psychological, 
as machines were more efficient for atmospheric gas balance, food, and 
other biological necessities.  Some species sculpted jungles, others 
leaned towards deserts; the original owners of Brooder had built a 
grassland savanna.
	If fauna had ever been part of the landscape, the animals were long 
eradicated.  Vysts sprawled in the trampled grasses, many curled around 
mounds of cream ovoid objects.  The nearest clutches held between three 
and eight eggs.  Ranks of soldiers patrolled among the nests, weapons of 
many types held ready for action, no matter how unlikely.  Smaller 
workers scampered everywhere, occasionally pausing to lay a hypospray 
against shell.  Several depressions in the mid distance had hatchlings 
standing on wobbling legs, small bodies lining up to follow a grown 
worker unit elsewhere.
	With laser range finder, Captain measured the far wall of the artificial 
savanna to be 500 meters distant; the ceiling rose fifteen meters, 
although appeared much further due to holographic projection of sky and 
sun.  The intermittent columns of "basalt rock" provided additional 
irrelevant support; space and tunable gravity fields allowed the building 
of structures which would collapse in a standard terrestrial gravity 
well.  Captain estimated 125 clutches, with attendant auxiliaries 
bringing the immediate vyst population to 510.  And there was a lot of 
room to expand in the large savanna environment, especially for one 
unconcerned by density.
	Captain now had his two questions partially answered.  One, Luplup's 
population was large, particularly if this was one of several active 
nests; and if this was only one of several ships, which seemed likely as 
the "implosion" of Luplup's fleet witnessed by the Borg strike force 
included at least a dozen vessels.  Two, high fecundity produced an 
estimated growth quotient which put rabbits to shame.
	"Not through!  Around nests we go.  If your feet crush eggs, crush 
little me's, I will very badly hurt you."  A pair of escort soldiers set 
off in front, showing the path for Captain to follow.  The dying grass 
underfoot crunched.  Captain wondered if the die-off was a natural 
seasonal variation, or the result of tampering with environmental 
controls.
	Where Captain remained quiet, Luplup was in an expansive mood.  Perhaps 
her talkative nature was related to the fact she had rarely (if ever) 
spoken to another entity.  Of course, last time a part of Luplup had 
tangled with Cube #347, she had not progressed beyond barks, grunts, and 
hisses.  For all the superficial similarity of assimilated nature, Luplup 
was a chatty counterpart to her silent drone captive.
	"This is the primary brooding area for worker and soldier clades on 
Brooder.  There is much physical room for I to expand, but limited 
resources force mySelf to become larger slowly.  Where once I allowed 
units to quickly progress from hatchling to maturity and eventually 
brooder, I must allow the pre-brooder unit inventory to swell.  When 
older brooder unit of a clade dies, I allow younger unit to begin 
producing eggs.
	"First and barker clades are currently hatched elsewhere.
	"I continue to improve mySelf."  A worker with hypospray barked once to 
draw Captain's attention, then pointedly injected an egg.  "Generation 
five soldier units are undergoing production as older versions are phased 
out.  Prototypes demonstrate 5% greater muscle mass density; and 
modifications to visual cortex allow more efficient integration of optic 
implants."
	Captain did not comment, was not expected to comment.  He briefly 
contemplated the chaos which might result it he set the grass on fire; 
and swiftly dropped the notion.  In one respect he was hampered by the 
lack of input to form a consensus, or even a decent plan.  In another 
respect, if the fire repression system was functional, such an endeavor 
would end unsuccessfully.  He had to remain alive and functional enough 
to return word to the Collective concerning Luplup's survival and plans.
	A door on the approaching wall opened.  Captain and escort had crossed 
the savannascape, Luplup talking the entire time.  No new information was 
forthcoming.  Luplup had begun to detail her genetic program for her 
soldier and worker selves up to the present generation.  The egress held 
to another lift.
	The elevator closed and began to descend.  Minute shifts of inertia 
hinted at sideways motion taking the car deep into the bowels of Brooder.  
Captain desired an exterior view of the ship, his mental map blank to 
such general knowledge as overall ship dimensions or shape.  Finally the 
lift slowed to a halt, doors whooshing open.
	"This is deck 31, cargo deck alpha.  Regeneration cradles for units are 
here.  Follow.  I have made an alcove for you.  You will regenerate now.  
You will become part of Me.  Mine.  You will comply."
	In front of Captain were ranks of "regeneration cradles."  Unlike the 
upright coffin which was the standard for assimilated humanoids in the 
Collective, those which Luplup employed resembled the model utilized by 
Sensors and other quadrupedal/hexapedal species.  The main apparatus 
looked roughly like a miniature bathtub flipped upside down, the ends 
removed to accommodate neck and tail.  One side was affixed to a metal 
wall, which in turn was one of many long barriers dividing what had once 
been a large cargo hold.  To enter a cradle, a vyst merely ducked under 
the tub, aligned her back to the enfolding device, and straightened up.
	Stacked ranks stretched in the direction of the hold's longitudinal 
axis, periodically broken to allow access to deeper rows.  A great 
proportion of the visible cradles were occupied; and as one vyst unit 
left her space, another took her place.  Lights on the cargo deck were 
dimmer in comparison to the rest of the ship, especially in contrast to 
the noon-time savanna sun many decks above.
	Twenty meters along the parody of an alcove tier, several cradles had 
been torn out.  In its place was an alcove meant for someone of humanoid 
proportion.  All of the Luplup escort were looking expectantly up at him.  
What she desired was obvious.
	"I don't think so," stated Captain.  "I will not comply."
	Luplup's mouthpiece snorted.  "You will not be allowed to leave this 
place, else you will be hurt, be terminated.  Eventually you will need to 
regenerate.  I can wait for you."
	"And what do you hope to accomplish?  You cannot assimilate me."
	"No.  I cannot.  Your little blood machines will not let me.  However, I 
have put into you part of mySelf blood machines.  Neither will bother the 
other, I think.  If I am wrong, I can experiment on you.  If I am right, 
mySelf blood machines have special program.
	"At regeneration, new minerals and nutrients will let your blood 
machines to build a new...neural transceiver.  Alcove has been prepared 
with perfect mixture to do so.  My blood machines will alter the far 
speaking part of youself to function on my frequency.  You will be part 
of I.  You will be mine.  I will learn all of you."
	The ludicrous plan unfortunately sounded feasible.  If he could be 
locked in regeneration with the appropriate materials to speed 
construction of a new neural transceiver - a current nanite priority, one 
hard-wired such that it was impossible to supersede - which was then 
retuned, Captain was in trouble.  He had no clue how he would fare in a 
mental battle of wills with Luplup.  He was Borg, experienced in the 
trials and tribulations of harmonizing an imperfect sub-collective into a 
functioning whole; Luplup, on the other hand, appeared to be very large, 
many brains available to create shear overwhelming power much greater 
than any single vyst.
	All Captain could do was stall, a prospect which would eventually lead 
to the helplessness of stasis lock if Cube #347 had to abandon one lone 
drone to his fate.  The Greater Consciousness would dictate a search to 
recover its drone, but Captain had doubts the cube would be able to find 
Luplup's fleet.
	"I will not comply," repeated Captain.
	"We shall see," replied Luplup.  The mouthpiece went to an unoccupied 
cradle, plugging herself in and closing her eyes.  Soldiers trained 
rifles on a motionless Captain, Luplup content to wait for the 
inevitable.

		*	*	*	*	*

	Luplup could afford to wait.  Not all of herSelf was placid, though:  
the soldier part wanted action now, to punish the Bad-Mans now.  However, 
the schism was easily healed, logic dictating the necessity of Self 
control.  Luplup instinctively knew the prey did not always play by the 
rules, that sometimes one had to wait for hunt conditions to improve.  
Now was one of those times.
	The delay was not wasted.  Units on the bridges of Luplup's fleet 
tracked the target.  The cube was a red splotch ten light years from 
Luplup's position, direction of travel denoted by length and thickness of 
a yellow line associated with the splotch.  White words and numbers 
shared the screens, but were ignored in favor of the simple picture.  
Directly querying the computer gained the same results, allowed Luplup to 
extend her senses by using that of the ships'.
	Cube #347 had not returned to transwarp, but was instead moving through 
space at low warp.  Displays indicated it was actively scanning for 
something, most likely Luplup's securely cloaked fleet.  Specks of orange 
- small probes - were occasionally shot by the cube.
	The actions of the prey confused Luplup.  It never occurred to her that 
the Greater Consciousness would demand Cube #347 sub-collective to search 
for Captain; under similar circumstances, Luplup would consider her unit 
expendable and either run or search for a suitable location to make a 
stand.  As it was, the cube was traveling in the wrong direction, forcing 
the vyst fleet to match course and speed in order to remain in prime 
ambush distance.
	Luplup focused her immediate attention on cargo deck alpha, more 
specifically Captain.  It had been many hours since the drone prey had 
been taken from his alcove, and he was surely feeling the uncomfortable 
weakness units experienced when a long time had passed without 
regeneration.  Despite the folded space drive, Slash had required a while 
to rejoin the primary fleet; four times Luplup had been forced to inject 
Captain with additional soporific.  The budded Luplup only knew 
approximately where Brooder and her sisters were located, the group 
always drifting in a bubble of electromagnetic silence so as to be a 
harder target to find.  Slash had made many short fold hops.  Finally 
budded self had come within the 12 AU minimum barker distance, enfolding 
herself back into the larger Self.
	A quick examination of Captain by a nearby worker and her scan device 
showed fatigue syndrome spreading throughout the Borg's body.  Nutrients 
and minerals were dropping; waste products were rising; neural activity 
was becoming sluggish.  Very soon Captain would enter a protective stasis 
lock, followed by termination in the moderate future if regeneration was 
not forthcoming.
	Luplup had won.  Captain just did not know it yet.

		*	*	*	*	*

	A faint "shunk" sounded from the direction of the cradle utilized by 
Luplup's speaker.  Captain halted the morbidly fascinating contemplation 
of his slowly deteriorating body systems to reinstate visual input.  He 
looked down to the sight of the unit in question; he continued to ignore 
the soldiers, which were several times replacements, the originals and 
their successors long since dispatched to regeneration or other tasks.
	Luplup spoke, "You must regenerate.  You will comply."
	"I will not comply," replied Captain.
	"You will enter stasis lock soon.  When you do, I will place your body 
in alcove anyway.  Your resistance is futile.  Pointless.  Comply."
	"I will not comply."
	The expression, or lack thereof, Captain received was expected.  
However, he could almost sense a hint of a shrug, an almost voice saying 
'Your choice, your funeral.'
	The latest diagnostic returned dismal news.  However, he would not enter 
that alcove under his own power, not at the whim of an animal, an 
abomination.
	A problem had been nagging the back of Captain's mind, one which was 
allowed to ferment without the inhibiting censure filters built into the 
general programming of Cube #347's sub-collective.  Normally the question 
would either have been dismissed as irrelevant, or files instantly 
accessed to determine validity of concept.  As it was, Captain was using 
pure conjecture, a discordant feeling to one reprogrammed to Borg thought 
patterns.  
	"You are Luplup," said Captain.  The words were both question and 
statement.
	Replied the vyst, "I am Luplup."
	"No," pressed Captain, "you...the unit I am speaking with.  She is 
Luplup.  The original Luplup."
	Pause.  "Yes, this unit is the original Luplup.  She is the genetic 
template for all of mySelf."
	"Why has she not been terminated?  Surely she is of no more use to you.  
She does not even have hands."
	A longer pause was the answer.  The pause stretched to a point where 
Captain knew there was to be no answer at all, which, in a perverse way, 
was his answer.
	"She is your queen, isn't she?"
	"I am Luplup.  All units are equal, all are of mySelf."
	"But there has to be a queen.  Some are more equal than others.  In an 
organic, all cells are equal, except some, like the neurons, 'tell' 
others, such as voluntary muscles, when to function.  In the Collective, 
all drones are equal, but some are more equal than others.  Some races 
are better fit to act as heavy labor, others to parse data, and yet 
others to coordinate.  Above all is the coordinator of the coordinators, 
the queen.  Luplup must surely have some parts of her which tell the 
others how and when to work; there must be a queen, or else Luplup would 
not be able to function."
	Captain's answer was again no answer, and it spoke silent volumes.
	Satisfied, Captain returned to his diagnostics.

	Captain felt his joints lock, observed input dim until it felt as if he 
were locked in a padded box with the noisy universe far away.  Stasis 
lock.  In his life as a Borg drone, he had only personally experienced 
the situation thrice, and each included uncomfortable memories which he 
had largely purged from himself as irrelevant, distracting.  The 
hardwired protective measure allowed successful salvaging of drones in 
situations where "rescue" had been dispatched, but was too distant to 
arrive during nominal on-line time.  Stasis extended functionality by 
shutting down all but the most important systems, concentrating 
resources.
	It also delineated a time limit on rogue drones who regained 
individuality and attempted to escape the grasp of the Collective.  
	And right now, it was a damn inconvenience.
	Helpless, Captain could only watch as a far away observer as the vysts 
sprung into action.  He was tipped over and allowed to fall to the deck, 
then picked up by a team and transported to the dreaded alcove.  A few 
false tries balanced him upright on his feet once more, followed by a tap 
which pushed him into the alcove proper.  Clamps automatically steadied 
his humanoid body.  The regeneration cycle began.
	Captain felt a hypospray discharge against his lower right arm, that 
being the most conveniently located non-armored locale the shorter vysts 
could reach.  Another soporific.  Captain would not even be given the 
chance to attempt resistance, at least not at this point.  Mind would be 
put to sleep while the nanites rebuilt the neural transceiver, while the 
alien nanoprobes inserted their insidious directives for retuning.  
	The scene of cargo deck wall and intently staring vysts disappeared 
under waves of suffocating blackness.

		*	*	*	*	*

	Be of me.  You are mine.  You are Luplup.  I am your queen.  You are I.

		*	*	*	*	*

	To say the Cube #347 sub-collective was shocked when Captain was stolen 
by vysts would be an understatement.  It was as if the dearly departed 
had returned from the dead insisting he/she/it was feeling much better; 
or a sluggish frog had thrown on a top hat and began to sing ragtime show 
tunes while dancing in high flung steps.  An assault by Borgified 
animals, supposedly very deceased by way of a Borg strike force, to steal 
a particular drone?  It just did not happen!
	But it had.  
	Confusion reigned.  
	Seconds after a transporter had beamed Captain and his attackers away, 
the beacon signature associated with 4 of 8 stopped transmitting.  An 
integral part of a Borg neural transceiver, the beacon provided an 
identification designation for its host.  It also was the signal a 
vinculum focused upon, allowing the tracking of misplaced, stranded, 
kidnapped, or rogue drones; closer, the beacon acted as a "target" 
through which the vinculum linked a neural transceiver to the Greater 
Consciousness.
	Only two things were known to halt a beacon signature; and death wasn't 
one of them as long as power reserves remained in the drone.   One method 
involved much crushing of the head, or whatever part of the body the 
brain, and hence the neural transceiver, was located.  Severely flattened 
devices rarely worked if they were not originally designed in such a 
fashion.  The second practice was the initiation of an interference 
field.
	Of the two choices, the latter seemed most likely.  It was illogical to 
steal a particular drone, only to immediately terminate it via crushing.  
However, the motives driving the vysts were unknown, and the absurd may 
be seen as perfectly reasonable.  On the other hand, severe spindling 
usually occurred over a protracted period of several minutes, the 
transceiver wavering between coherence and static as it attempted to 
counter increasing damage.  An interference field, conversely, was 
characterized by its sharp severance of the drone in question.
	Through the initial confusion, the Greater Consciousness was not 
oblivious.  While the Collective purposefully distanced itself from its 
wayward imperfect sub-collective (the other option a program of intensive 
micromanaging), it was not unaware of what occurred.  Normally subunit 
#522 provided a conduit to the situation, but the same subunit was 
increasingly erratic in its actions; and the Greater Consciousness had 
pushed those drones away in suspect of incipient assimilation 
imperfection.  However, when the littlest toe has a large weight dropped 
upon it, the rest of the body tends to listen.
	Both the stealing of a drone and the evidence of Luplup non-extinction 
were serious, the latter of greater concern than the former.  Luplup had 
last been seen in procession of species #56 ships, suspected, but not 
proven, to have folded space drive.  With suspicion edging towards 
confirmation, three exploratory-class cubes were dispatched to system 
6355ae.4 to sift debris from battle in a hopefully nonfutile attempt to 
gain secrets of Xenig-style transportation.  Meanwhile, another small bit 
of the overall Collective determined the likelihood of the survival of 
one 4 of 8 of Exploratory-class Cube #347, declaring his recovery would 
coincidentally uncover the location of Luplup's (probably cloaked) fleet.
	From that if/then decision branch forward, the possibilities multiplied.  
Among the most important of potential outcomes was destroying the 
Borgified vysts and securing a folded space drive.  Oh yes, and one of 
the Collective's drones would be salvaged.
	The entire decision tree cascade, from beginning to end conclusions 
including all the myriad of likelihoods in between, required mere 
milliseconds and only a minute fraction of the Greater Consciousness' 
cognitive power.  Therefore, as Cube #347 entered the first stages of 
panic, vessel still spinning from the earlier accident, the Collective 
gave its orders.
	<< Locate drone unit 4 of 8 [string of base sixteen numbers denoting 
full interplexing beacon signature].  Further instructions forthcoming 
when task is complete.  Comply. >>
	And that, as they say, was that.

	The first order of business was to dampen the residual unwanted 
rotation.  Second swiftly fostered that task off to a partition of 
command and control; engineering continued repairs on the hull.  And now, 
Second had to deal with a requirement he was not looking forward to...
	{I am now primary facilitator.  We need a new back-up.  However, I will 
still be referred to as "Second."  This instatement is...temporary,} 
Second's words sounded hollow, even to himself.  However, he was not 
ready to admit defeat, even if a negative outcome was likely.
	The six remaining members of the Hierarchy of Eight were silent.  Very 
silent.  Finally 2 of 8 ventured, {You are delusional.  Maybe you should 
have a mental realignment?}
	A loud bell rang through the corridors of the dataspaces.  {And we have 
a winner!  Thank you for playing, 2 of 8, or shall I now say, Third?  You 
win the top prize of second-in-command.  Lovely parting gifts will be 
given to all our other contestants.}
	2 of 8 sputtered, {And if you are terminated, will 6 of 8 be Fourth?  8 
of 8 Fifth?}
	{Hey,} protested both 6 of 8 and 8 of 8, {leave us out of the 
discussion.}
	Third ughed as Second linked her signature with the cube's command 
codes.  He ignored 2 of 8's irrelevant questions.  {Done.  And before you 
verbalize that incipient thought, you may still not embark upon a program 
to brighten up the ship's interior, or its drones.  Not even glittery 
nail polish.}
	The now Third sighed as she aborted her examination of inventory lists 
for the eight 50 liter containers of the aforementioned cosmetic product.  
On the up side, one of the pros of not traveling through BorgSpace was 
the higher probability of seeing an AVON representative.  As long as any 
hypothetical ship was not part of a larger convoy, chance were good she 
could lean consensus her way for an attack.  Stocks of Day-Glo body paint 
and Colored Sparkles For All Occasions were running low. 
	Second, meanwhile, began coordinating the search.  Assuming the vyst 
fleet was cloaked, the attempt would probably futile at best.  Only the 
most primitive cloaking devices were detectable beyond half a light year 
by a point source scan; more sophisticated technology required a linked 
series of beacons continuously searching for tell-tale virtual particle 
emission profiles.  Considering Cube #347's famous luck (however 
irrelevant the concept was, the twin Mistresses of Luck and Fate seemed 
to cultivate more than a passing interest in a single Borg cube, thought 
Second sourly), the cloak utilized was likely an advanced type.  AND, 
with folding space drive in possession, Luplup could comfortably remain 
well outside Cube #347's effective search radius, yet be able to jump in 
to cause havoc at a moments notice.
	Not that the Greater Consciousness cared for excuses.  Do it! meant Do 
it!  Failure was not a discussible option; hell, discussion of the 
realities surrounding one imperfect sub-collective was not a discussible 
option.
	An hour later the unwanted spin was gone.  A few engineering squads 
continued to tinker on inoperable thrusters, but on the whole, Delta was 
concentrating on a more permanent solution to the jury-rigged fix.  
Second was advised not to use the thrusters more than necessary, else the 
entire system die and leave Cube #347 without any means of fine 
maneuvering in planetary orbit.  As any planets were distant, Second put 
Delta's concern on the back burner:  it was time to commence the search.
	{Sensors, do you have any idea which way to go?} asked Second.  An 
examination of the sensor envelope gave no clues.
	Sensors, more or less recovered from the grid abuse which had been 
heaped upon her earlier, replied, {Sensors says no.  The only unusual 
thing in Sensors' sight is the anomaly.}  The appropriate region of space 
27 light years distant was highlighted.  {Sensors now thinks it is more 
temporal in nature than spatial, but it is too distant and too old to 
resolve well.}
	Second sighed, then directed a course which would intersect with the 
anomaly.  {Well, that direction is as good as any.}
	Cube #347 bumbled off at warp 3.

	Several days of sedate travel towards the anomaly brought Cube #347 no 
closer to success.  Automated probes tossed to the ether and programmed 
to act as a net for tachyons, quarks, positrons, and excessive virtual 
particles reported nothing above expected background levels.  As far as 
the sub-collective knew, Luplup and her prize were half-way across the 
galaxy...or one hundred meters from the cube's own hull.
	The anomaly towards which the cube was aimed was now less than half a 
light year distant.  Grid arrays focused on the phenomenon confirmed it 
was temporal in origin, using the term loosely.  More precisely, it was 
an ancient rip into an alternate reality, one which was similar in many 
respects to the current one, yet different in other ways; at that point, 
the mathematics slipped into equations of quantum mechanics, 
n-dimensional matrices, unreal numbers, and other things that did not 
exist except as chalkboard scribbles by a deranged chicken smoking 
hallucinogens.  Suffice to say, the rip was the space-time equivalent of 
a scab over a very slowly healing wound, the other side of which led to a 
reality phased approximately 3.4 taus from the subjective time line.
	Of much higher interest than the ancient anomaly were the three zeta 
particle discrepancies located two million kilometers along the path of 
travel.  Only three things were known to produce the highly rare zeta 
particle:  a big bang event, spatial phenomenon catalogue number #76, and 
a specific family of cloaking devices.  The zeta particle count was too 
high to be a relic of the most recent creation event, a normal density of 
which was one particle per one million cubic light years; and spatial 
phenomenon number #76 included several forms of deadly radiation, as well 
as the auditory hallucination of a harmonica playing "Dixieland."  
Therefore, process of elimination stated the objects to be a trio of 
cloaked vessels.  The zeta particle profile was strongly matching to 
species #56, which in turn corresponded to the ship type encountered by 
Borg strike force during the unsuccessful elimination of assimilated 
vysts.
	As Cube #347 continued along its vector, the trio held position.  No 
reaction.  Sub-collective assumption assumed that the enemy assumed that 
the cube could not see them.
	Of course, the Luplup might also be assuming that the sub-collective 
assumed...
	Second terminated that circular line of reasoning before it spilled into 
unending levels of complexity.  It had happened before, a sub-collective 
specific memory of several centuries prior just after the conversion of 
Exploratory-class Cube #347 from ship of the line to ship of the damned.  
The embarrassment involved the escape of the last enclave of species 
#5111, which had sedately disappeared into the galactic wilds while the 
then sub-collective had built a tottering house of cards with logic and 
counterlogic. 
	A list of options was drawn up, including flight, attack, ignoring, and 
so on.  What won out, surprisingly, was a plan for subtlety.  Or at least 
as close to subtlety as Borg could come.
	{Cloak disrupter charges, Weapons, not anti-matter bomblets.  I know 
what you are trying to do, so don't do it,} warned Second dryly.  {If you 
don't comply, I'll sic Third on you.  She has a stash of glitter nail 
polish in inventory.  Or there are the plans she has to "spruce up" the 
cube interior; she could demonstrate her plan to the sub-collective for 
consensus using your alcove as a visual aid.}  Captain's management style 
was direct; Second tended towards threats where compliance was the 
preferable alternative.
	Ultimatum delivered, the weapon hierarchy quickly deinstalled 
anti-matter warheads from probes, replacing them with the desired cloak 
disrupters.  At the next scheduled probe release, most would be of the 
standard design, programmed to search for Captain's nonexistent signature 
and/or cloaked vessels.  Those of the flock to be lobbed in the direction 
of the zeta particle discrepancies would mount a package to explode when 
the probe was approximately two hundred thousand kilometers from the 
target trio.  The resultant sleeting of zeta particle inhibitors would 
collapse cloaks and reveal the lurking spies.
	At least that was the strategy. 
	The probes flew without a hitch, weapons hierarchy chanting the distance 
to "boom" for the small impulse driven vehicles. 
	{One million kilometers.  Seven hundred thousand kilometers.  Five 
hundred thousand kilometers.  Four hundred thousand kilometers.  Three 
hundred thousand kilometers.  Two hundred thousand kilometers....}
	The probes' demise was anticlimactic, more of a fizzle than a momentous 
detonation.  The important portion of the package, cloak inhibitor, 
quickly engulfed the targets within an expanding blast radius.  Stalkers 
were revealed!  Unfortunately, several hundred other objects also ghosted 
into view.  To be more precise, two hundred eighty-eight mines, three of 
which continued to emit the siren song profile of ships under a leaky 
cloaking device.
	AMBUSH!
	Either the mines were an ambush, or a racial government had claimed the 
anomaly and set a barrier to keep tourists at a distance without 
hampering the view.  The latter, while probable in the sense odds were a 
non-zero number, was highly unlikely.  Second slowed the cube to a crawl 
and vectored away from the revealed obstacles, allowing Weapons to power 
up armaments.  No attack...no attack.  Consensus quickly came to the 
decision to arm several additional probes and torpedoes with cloak 
inhibitors in order to gain a better appreciation of mine field size and 
cube location in relation to it.
	<< Oh, sh**, >> swore nearly four thousand minds as One.  Second engaged 
the currently forward facing thrusters, stressing the abused system in an 
effort to bring the cube to a full stop.
	The cloak disrupter uncovered hundreds of additional mines.  Field size:  
large.  Location:  somewhere in the middle.  To all sides floated the 
relatively small bundles of destruction, one or two of which would barely 
impact shields, but together quite capable of turning the cube into a 
pile of twisted metal.  A wall of the dangerous objects lay directly 
ahead face #6 (and to the sides), mines much too close to attempt 
maneuvering between without setting off five or six, if not more.
	{Sensors,} called Second as the cube ground to a halt less than a 
hundred meters from the nearest mine, {we successfully made it this far 
without hitting one of those things.  Therefore there is a path up to 
this point.  Highlight our course to leave the field.}
	{Sensors say that isn't possible.}
	{We made it here in one piece, you big bug,} reminded Second.  The 
increasing nervousness the weapons hierarchy was spilling out to 
contaminate the rest of the sub-collective; and Delta was not helping 
matters as she sourly complained over the new damage accrued to ionic 
thrusters.  {There is a path.  Find it.}
	{Sensors can not do that.  There was a path, but it is no more,} came 
the exasperated reply.  A real-time three-dimensional mosaic from the 
grid was created, several similar views at different configurations 
overlaid to form one picture.  Exploratory-class Cube #347 was a yellow 
cube at the center of pulsating blue and green striped spheres, ship 
course over the last fifteen minutes a red line.  
Bicolored...beachballs...were moving to intersect the red line - mines 
cutting off escape, obscuring the tunnel to freedom.
	A paranoid thought leaked from weapons hierarchy to infect the general 
sub-collective, one which Second could find no fault.  It seemed as if 
Luplup (the obvious enemy) had known exactly where to lay her mines, 
known precisely how the sub-collective would respond.  The conjectures 
which sprung from the initial notion like vines from a manure pile were 
not good.
	And reality had an uncomfortable record in the case of Cube #347 to be 
worse that the most extreme paranoid speculation.
	On the exterior bounds of the mine field, off face #4, three ships 
smoothly decloaked.  An enormous vessel was flanked by two smaller 
conspecifics; the proper description would be to say Little Twins were 
shaded by Big Momma, although no suns were located within four light 
years distance to cast shadows.  The trio remained just beyond effective 
weapon range...not effective range of an Exploratory-class cube, but 
rather effective range of the hierarchy controlling weaponry of said 
ship.
	The largest vessel of the group was a monster larger than an 
Exploratory-class cube.  The central fuselage was a two kilometer long 
dorsal-ventrally flattened octagonal shaft, beam 550 meters with y-axis 
dimension 100 meters.  Both ends tapered to a blunt nose.  Located fore, 
midbody, and aft were three clusters of stubby wings acting as anchors 
for the shielding system; each group was composed of eight units, one 
wing per fuselage face.  A kilometer worth of strip nacelles in a triple 
row configuration was centered on the ventral surface, interrupted by the 
midbody wing.  The entire ship was painted in a faced design of orange 
and baby blue longitudinal stripes.  Files indicated it as a species #56 
creche-class ship, a central coordinator of the clan ships comprising the 
a convoy as well as provider of access to common-owned facilities and 
supplies.  Despite its size, records indicated limited weaponry, a status 
confirmed by active scans.
	The two smaller ships of the trio were recognized as species #56 
cutters, virtually identical to records dating before the Bumixian clans 
had abandoned their home system.  A pair of 150 meter long octagonal 
shafts were joined along one face, each component of the double fuselage 
having an interior diameter of 30 meters.  Unlike the massive 
creche-class vessel, aft terminated as a flat plate, the other end 
tapering to a pair of sharp noses.  Six stubby wings extended midbody, 
one unit per face for the six outward faces.  Dorsal strip nacelles were 
hidden in the wide crevice where the shafts joined.  Of color schemes, 
one cutter was a patchwork of mauve and pine squares, while the other 
sported bands of olive and powder blue.  The duo were light warships and 
thus sported more firepower than their larger comrade; ignoring the 
problem faced by the mines and standard inefficiencies of assimilation 
imperfection, Cube #347 would be able to overcome opposition nonetheless.
	A subspace hail tickled Cube #347's communication arrays.  It came from 
the creche-class ship, an insistent tattoo unable to be ignored.  Second 
opened visual and audio channels.
	On the other end was Captain.
	"Captain!" exclaimed Second, not bothering with Catwalk Cam nor 
Collective Voice.  The return feed was that of Second in a nodal 
intersection, although none who knew the Borg would be fooled into 
believing lack of the multivoice was an indication the rest of the 
sub-collective was not involved in the conversation.  "You dispatched the 
vysts?  If not, how shall we give efficient assistance; and why are we 
unable to hear your signature?"
	Captain's gaze was decidedly vacant, as if he were focusing on an image 
behind the camera.  The view drew back, revealing body entire, as well as 
the presence of several familiar mottled gray animals.  Waist high 
reptilian heads stared into the lens.
	"I am Luplup," said Captain, voice a flat monotone.  Vysts added a 
hissing counterpoint which quickly quieted.  "The Bad-Man you refer to as 
'Captain' has been absorbed by mySelf and is now another unit of mySelf.  
I now know what Captain-unit knows.  Captain-unit assistance allowed Me 
to set this ambush.  I will exploit your Bad-Mans ship weaknesses to 
destroy you.  I will absorb whatever units and knowledge is left from the 
debris and destroy all Bad-Mans."
	Captain paused as the vysts at his feet barked a sharp staccato 
exclamation point.  "You can make it easy on yourself if you surrender to 
Me now.  I will dispatch you swiftly.  Not much hurt.  Resistance is 
futile."
	In the eight thousand year history of the Collective, Borg cubes had 
encountered swearing, defiance, disbelief, groveling, attempts at dealing 
and double-crossing, capitulation, obedience, apathy, and threats.  An 
enemy throwing the famous phrase of assimilation back at Cube #347 was 
not only humiliating, but probably violated trademark protection.  Of 
course, the Greater Consciousness did not employ patent lawyers, legions 
of drones perfectly capable of dealing with infringement proceedings.  
However, as the aforesaid legions were at best twenty thousand light 
years and many months at transwarp velocities distant, Cube #347 was on 
its own.  Again.
	Immediate consensus, weighted heavily by Weapons and his hierarchy, was 
to fight.  "Resistance is futile" applied to other species, not the Borg.  
Besides, Luplup's fleet appeared to consist of three insignificant ships 
unable to back up bluff with bite.
	The first order of business was disposal of the mines.  The density in 
the direction of the targets was greater than the rest of the field.  At 
first glance, one might consider such an observation bad; on the other 
hand, it meant the region was more prone to a chain reaction as the 
extrapolated blast radius of each mine would set off its nearest 
neighbors.  Obviously Luplup was not as perfect as she thought she was in 
the realm of tactics.
	"We will not comply," returned Second to Captain and his ring of vysts.  
The subspace link was terminated.
	A half dozen quantum torpedoes were fired, each sporting an excessive 
isoton yield, but Second uncaring at this point what the weapon hierarchy 
did as long as a path was cleared.  Success was the red and orange bursts 
of light as explosive compounds in each mine reacted with vigor, large 
chunks of shrapnel and subspace concussion perpetuating the chain 
reaction.  Very shortly the targets were no longer hiding behind a 
protective wall, vulnerable hull inviting to Borg weaponry.  Cube #347 
pivoted around an axis to bring face #2 to the fore and slowly advanced.
	Almost immediately additional ships began to uncloak in a pattern of 
englobement.  One, two, five, eight, fourteen additional vessels, ranging 
from a 70 meter species #56 scout to a 300 meter heavy frigate bristling 
with weaponry.  Any one or three ships alone were no match for an 
Exploratory-class cube of Cube #347's not-so-great prowess.  Sixteen 
combat vessels of various tonnages working in complete concert plus the 
giant creche-class, mixed with the limited maneuvering room the 
unexploded portion of the mine field afforded, tilted odds sharply 
against the lone sub-collective.
	Another hail was received.  It was Captain (Luplup) once more.
	"Second," blink, "Cube #347 sub-collective...Borg Collective.  You were 
offered an easy way, and you refused.  You will now be destroyed."  
Pause.  "Your back is to the anomaly; you will be slashed by mySelf; 
there is no escape."  A very long pause.  "Have a nice day."  The 
connection terminated.
	Have a nice day? echoed in the dataspaces.  Have a nice day?
	Incongruous comment aside, the sixteen warships were advancing through 
the mine field, creche-class vessel remaining stationary.  An 
identification transponder was obviously in effect to keep the mines from 
exploding against vyst shields, but Cube #347 did not have the time to 
search for the key frequency.  As one, the warships fired.
	Species #56 offensive weaponry consisted of a standard disrupter 
technology, energy beam acting to dissolve the bonds between atoms.  In 
comparison to the very advanced drive which was at the core of each 
vessel, disrupters were very primitive; whomever had bestowed the secret 
of folded space to the Bumixian race had neglected to reveal the more 
devastating side-effects which Xenig occasionally used against the 
annoying organics of the multiverses.  Either species #56 had thence 
never felt the urge to poke and prod at their gift, or had decided 
running from trouble was better than standing toe to toe with it, but the 
end result was a fairly weak attack for any given warship.  Of course, 
sixteen ships aiming in cooperation with each other at the same targets 
was another matter.
	Disrupter technology was nothing new, and the Borg had many templates 
concerning adaptation to the weapon type.  Unfortunately, none of it was 
working, beams slipping through the shield as if it were not there.  
Weapons was shaken, but not beaten.  Never beaten.  He directed a portion 
of his hierarchy to begin modulating shield frequencies, while another 
part spun the cube such that disrupters were unable to focus on any given 
portion of the hull for too long.  Several torpedoes were flung in 
counterattack (aiming phasers, never the easiest action to accomplish 
outside of simulation, was much harder when under rotation).
	The torpedoes...bounced, for lack of a better word.  No damage was done 
to the attackers.  Ominously, disrupters abruptly matched the 
pseudorandom modulation algorithm weapons hierarchy was using; shields 
were once again penetrated, beams striking against hull.  A new algorithm 
was generated...and adapted to within seconds.
	It was as if Luplup knew exactly how the sub-collective was to respond 
to a given stimulus, knew exactly what protocols and contingencies were 
mapped.
	And with Captain in Luplup's grasp, that scenario was precisely what was 
occurring.
	The primary energy node for subsection 3 exploded in a fountain of 
plasma.  Due to the large volume of the bulk cargo holds located in the 
corner subsections, one of an Exploratory-class' primary weakness was 
that critical power conduits were forced to be routed near the surface in 
the respective areas.  As one part of a cube looked much the same as 
another, it was rare for a conduit to be hit, not to mention its location 
in the inner hull layers beneath twenty meters of armor; nonetheless, 
surgical precision disrupters had drilled to the conduit, breaching it.  
Secondary systems in the subsection compensated; and exterior sensors 
noted a similar operation was in effect against the hull of subsection 
25. 
	Cube #347 was slowly being carved up like a turkey, and one which wasn't 
even decently cooked yet!  Fight edged to flight, even Weapons forced to 
acknowledge the need for a temporary retreat.  But where to go?
	{Sensors would like to point out the anomaly.  See the pretty [red 
zinger zippers]?  [Taste] sensation, fruity smooth,} spoke Sensors.
	{We don't have time for appreciating your grid hallucinations, Sensors,} 
growled Second.  He winced as the conduit blew in subsection 25, deep 
linkage with the ship manifesting itself as phantom pain sensations.  
Disrupters changed focus to subsection 1, a succession of beams holding 
steady in rotation against hull armor despite the cube's defensive spin.  
Shield modulations were useless.
	Sensors replied, exasperation in her voice at having to explain the 
perfectly obvious, {Captain said our back is to the anomaly.  It is, 
metaphorically speaking.  The mines rippled [silk and polyester fabric] 
enough to open the anomaly.  [Red zipper zingers] come out.  They taste 
of 3.4 tau phase shift.  Sensors knows she can [smell/taste/feel] her way 
along the trail.  We can [rollercoaster light] to an alternate reality.}
	Responded Second, {So if we can get to the anomaly in the first place, 
we can theoretically pass through.  What is to stop Luplup from 
following?}
	Sensors gave a disdainful sniff gestalt (it was actually a species 
specific gesture which included several off-key whispers, slow mandible 
grinding, and a particular antennae wave), {Luplup does not have Sensors.  
Only Sensors can [swallow] the [red zipper zingers].}
	A general groan filled the dataspace from those not currently 
preoccupied with keeping the cube in one piece.  Sensors meant the grid 
would be required in a certain esoteric configuration only she could 
efficiently decipher.  A debate began over the merits of dying here, or 
slowly scrambling one's synapses.
	{Enough!} shouted Second as he rashly broke up the inappropriate 
discussions.  Swift consensus had already been made by those trying to 
duct tape the cube back together:  flight.  {We go for the anomaly.  
Weapons, clear us a path.  Now.}
	{Compliance,} crowed Weapons.  {Okay, you sissy excuses for tactical 
drones, let's make a big hole!}
	As yet another plasma flower bloomed over subsection 1, Weapons stopped 
Cube #347's rotation.  A bank of recently repaired ionic thrusters 
melted, much to Delta's disgust.  Ignoring the virtual skunk-eye tossed 
his way, Weapons sent three waves of torpedoes towards the anomaly, 
purpose to clear a path through the mine field.  Ranks of mines exploded.  
Cube #347 surged forward, utilizing the debris as opportune chaff.
	Sixteen ships does not a true englobement make, and during the course of 
playing "pop the cube" several of Luplup's fleet had drifted out of 
formation.  One of the holes happened to be in the direction of the 
anomaly, the exact vector the sub-collective desired.  With the very real 
paranoia of a third ambush layered upon the two already revealed, the 
cube charged forward at high impulse.  Luplup's fleet swiveled as one, 
entering into the stern chase.
	The hunt was on.  If Second had bothered to answer the hail sent by the 
creche-class Bumixian ship recently rechristened Brooder, he would have 
heard the barking cry of pursuit.  Primitive emotions overwhelmed the 
intellectual realization that a short jump via folded space would render 
escape impossible.
	Cube #347 entered the anomaly, hurried onward by the good-bye tickle of 
a well-aimed disrupter attenuated by distance and distortion.  A 
confusing impression of "what if's?" potentialities swirled around the 
cube, threatening the eddy of calm delineated by deflectors.  What if 
this quark actually had a different spin?  What if this group of photons 
had been red-shifted by an additional 3%?  7%?  10%?  What if a certain 
species on a certain world had never encountered a time-flung cube?  What 
if the universe had zigged instead of zagged?
	If this was the possibility storm of the phenomenon in grizzled 
geezerhood, what had the rip been like as a robust youth?
	Through the vortex Sensors led, faithfully following her bread crumb 
trail of [red zipper zingers].  The particles where photons phased 3.4 
tau, destined to evaporate quickly once they entered the cube's reality.  
In the anomaly, they retained coherence as steady as the other resident 
screaming phantasms of quantum mechanics.  Except for an abused sensory 
hierarchy, most of the sub-collective drones distanced themselves as far 
as possible from the grid,  preferring the comfortable cocoon of navel 
contemplation.
	Quantum banshees screamed of industrial accidents in phased tau 2.83 
through 2.97, bringing about the premature collapse of the universe into 
a never-ending Big Crunch.  Those infinite realities would never expand 
again, necessary primordial energy lost to another span of multiverses as 
a deadly epidemic of white holes.
	Suddenly the chaos evaporated, replaced by the calm of an alternate 
universe.  The anomaly ejected the cube.
	{[Orange zipper zingers] now,} commented Sensors.  {Sensors thinks that 
was fun.  Sensors recalls an amusement park ride she once rode, although 
this experience wasn't quite as intense.  Interesting themes, though, 
especially the [fractual gobble fish].}
	{Orange zipper zingers?} faintly repeated Second as he dared to allow 
himself access to the grid again.  {What are those, Sensors?  And explain 
it so one not of species #6766 can understand, else I'll have Delta do 
something nasty to your alcove next time you regenerate.}
	{3.4 tau phased particles from our reality.  [Orange zipper zingers] 
will lead us back.}
	Argument broke out, factions forming as quickly as individual minds 
recovered.  {Back?  Why should we do that?}  {I don't hear the Collective 
out there, of course we need to go back.}  {Kill that Luplup!  I just 
need a second chance to show her who's in charge!}
	Second blocked out the sounds of bickering, of engineering beginning the 
on-going task to resurrect the cube into a semblance of efficiency and 
functionality.  Pushing the cube sedately from the boundaries of the 
anomaly, scans of the immediate vicinity were incoming, picture of this 
alternate universe created.  Approximately half a light year distant, a 
certain familiar box floated.
	Cube #347.
	A plan began to consolidate.  Controversy trailed off.
	{Are you thinking what I am thinking?} unnecessarily asked Second to his 
fellow drones.

		*	*	*	*	*

	Cube #347 was within one AU of the anomaly's borders, assuming an object 
as nebulous as a patch on the space-time continuum could be said to have 
a border.  The sub-collective had been cajoled by an ever vigilant 
subunit #522 to examine the phenomenon, demanding obedience to the letter 
of the root command compulsion placed by the Greater Consciousness many, 
many cycles ago.  At the rate of speed the cube had been poking through 
the cosmos, BorgSpace was still a long way off.
	4 of 8 gathered the most recent information datastreams, winding them 
into a coherent bundle before passing the packet on to a command and 
control partition to summarize.  {1 of 3:  update on anomaly status.}
	{Sensors has noted an upswing in phased tachyons in the past minute.  
Three orders of magnitude difference than that originally scanned.  
Unknown if action is phenomenon's normal behavior as Sensors has no 
baseline for comparison.  However, files of similar anomalies suggest the 
flux is unusual.}
	4 of 8 shook his head.  He did not like the use of subdesignations such 
as "Engineer" or "Weapons" and thus discouraged their utilization during 
his turns at captaincy.  The normal drone designation was fine for him, 
even if the rest of the Hierarchy of Eight employed subdesignations.  
Nevertheless, 1 of 3 continued to use her position of "Sensors" as her 
current name, a habit as impossible to break as her insistence upon using 
the third person.  4 of 8 had long since given up trying to force a 
semblance of appropriate order upon her.
	Examining the offered gestalt file, 4 of 8 (or rather his hierarchy) had 
nothing constructive to add.  1 of 3 was thorough in cataloguing.  
{Danger assessment on this cube,} he demanded.
	1 of 3 gave a mental shrug, or at least that was the best translation 4 
of 8's mind had ever come up with for the gesture.  {Unknown.  Not enough 
data.}
	{Command and control partitions alpha through epsilon, initiate decision 
cascade...}
	{Whoa!} interrupted 1 of 3 as she forced sub-collection attention upon 
sensor grid input.  The anomaly had abruptly exploded into an 
electromagnetic scramble with multitudes of unreal colors assigned to 
particles which had never been part of the extended light spectrum.  In 
the midst of the phased temporal chaos emerged a Borg cube.
	Or at least Cube #347 assumed it was a Borg cube.  It sailed from the 
maelstrom of the anomaly, altering its initial course to intersect with 
the sub-collective's stationary position.  As it drew closer, Cube #347 
actively scanned the alien cube, noting eerie similarities and confirming 
status of being Borg.  Initial attempts at contact failed; a swift 
canvass of fractual subspace showed emanation of identification beacon 
and carrier wave with a slight difference in frequency modulation from 
the standard channel.
	The other cube's flag labeled it also as Cube #347.
	An alternate universe Collective?
	The silent ship closed on Cube #347's location, slowing to a halt as it 
came within two hundred thousand kilometers.  It continued to ignore 
increasingly stringent demands to allow communication, both on its own 
modulation and the standard frequencies.  After fifteen minutes of 
stalemate, a hail was received on subspace /radio/, audio only.
	What the hell?  Was the alien cube experiencing severe problems with 
vinculum function, damage which was not seen by Cube #347's own grid?  
Cube #347 knew the other's active scanners were working nominally, as the 
alternate universe cube had been extensively utilizing them. 
	"Tau-phased Cube #347, our designation is also Cube #347.  We have 
received battle damage and were forced to retreat into this anomaly.  
Respond."
	The transmission had been sent on Collective Voice, which 4 of 8 
responded in kind, "We confirm designation of Cube #347.  Prepare to 
accept transport of drones with appropriate equipment to act as frequency 
modulators between your neural transceivers and our vinculum.  
Communication efficiency will be raised."
	Silence was the answer.  Then, "Negative.  We must return to our own 
time line promptly.  First, however, we have a short shopping list."
	Shopping list? was the confused question in 4 of 8's mind, echoing 
similar impressions of the rest of the sub-collective.
	Following the nonsensical pronouncement, a ping query was introduced 
into Cube #347's dataspaces.  The invasion was immediately traced to the 
alternate Cube #347, an action which could not have occurred without a 
fully functional vinculum retuned to standard fractual frequencies.  The 
snippet of command, unfortunately, was already speeding through the 
automated computer systems, finding its quarry at the same time 
conclusions were drawn concerning functionality of alternate Cube #347.
	The interplexing beacon in 4 of 8's brain involuntary returned the ping.
	{Transporter signatures detected in subsection 10, submatrix 
17...location centered on unit 4 of 8,} announced 1 of 3 rapidly.
	"What the hell?" vocalized 4 of 8 as three drones materialized around 
his position in his nodal intersection.  Two, one to each side, seized 
his arms.  The third, familiar in a deja vu manner, spoke, "We need to 
borrow this sub-collective's Captain for a couple of days.  We'll bring 
him back when we are done with him.  At least we will if we survive."
	And with that, 4 of 8 watched his surroundings disappear in the shimmer 
of a transporter beam.

		*	*	*	*	*

	Second did not bother to turn around as the quartet materialized in the 
nodal intersection.  After all, he knew (had been there! in a matter of 
speaking) exactly what had occurred.  He was already giving the command 
for the cube to head at top possible sub-light speed towards the anomaly; 
diving in any faster would have the same result as someone attempting 
reentry into a planetary atmosphere where the surface, should the 
daredevil get so far, was composed entirely of concrete.
	{We got him,} said Third unnecessarily.
	{Really?} replied Second with heavy sarcasm.  {I thought it may have 
been another drone who just happened to look exactly like Captain and had 
the same primary designation associated with his beacon.}  Silence.  
{Third:  take yourself elsewhere.  You too, 50 of 83.  89 of 212, stay in 
case this alternate universe Captain gets a little...frisky when we tell 
him what is to occur.}  Acknowledgments came as Third and 50 of 83 beamed 
to other locales in the cube; 89 of 212 let go of his charge's arm, 
stepping back to stand next to a box recently placed in the nodal 
intersection.
	Second spoke outloud without turning around:  the visual input from 89 
of 212 was good enough.  The large screen had a split view, one an image 
of the approaching anomaly, the other of alternate Cube #347 rapidly 
diminishing with distance.  However, Second's attention in that respect 
was instead focused inward at the grid output (suitably translated by 
sensory hierarchy) he preferred.  "I recommend you pick a wall and stand 
against it.  We will have time to adjust your neural transceiver to our 
own frequency after we return to our own universe.  I know you can not 
hear your own version of the Collective, nor your sub-collective; this is 
due to the jammer near 89 of 212.  I also recommend you not attempt to 
fiddle with the machinery, as we would be forced to take you temporarily 
off-line."
	The addressed drone sputtered, "This drone is 4 of 8 of 
Exploratory-class Cube #347..."
	"Spare me the introduction, Captain," said Second as he rolled his eyes.  
Now he did turn around to face squarely the familiar, yet unfamiliar, 
figure.  "I know who you are, and you know who you are.  Except for 
minute differences in our time lines, both you and the Captain I 
personally know are going to be very similar.  Assimilation imperfection 
and all.  Our Captain was...stolen from us, and we desperately need 
another Captain to assist us at recovering our own version.  At some 
future point you will either be destroyed, along with the rest on this 
cube, or returned to your own tau vector.  However, I do not have the 
time to explain it all now, especially if I must use an inefficient 
verbal means of communication."
	As Second began to defocus his eyes and once more concentrate fully upon 
duties of navigation, tactics, and baby-sitting, alternate Captain spoke, 
"I am 4 of 8, not Captain.  I will not be called by a silly 
subdesignation when I have a standard and appropriate one associated with 
this body."
	Second blinked, then mentally shook his head and replied, "Fine.  That 
will at least lessen the confusion, because /our/ Captain prefers the 
subdesignation...or at least he does not actively disapprove of it.  4 of 
8 you shall be referred.  Now excuse us as we try to keep our hull 
intact.  If you bug us again before we reach the other side of the 
anomaly, we will have Doctor force you off-line."
	4 of 8 frowned, peered around the nodal intersection, then went to stand 
against a wall near 89 of 212.
	Cube #347 dove into the phenomenon, following a thin stream of particles 
which had a tau phase variation alike to the sub-collective's native 
universe.  Actually, the action was more akin to tasting one's way home 
along a trail of honey-lemon flavored coughdrops, as Sensors had retuned 
the grid to a more optimal configuration based upon the original 
experience.  The maelstrom around the cube was a chaos of temporal 
fluctuations and exotic radiation; an accidental misstep could cause the 
vessel to leave the path, thus entering the unether between realities.
	In the very distorted rear view mirror, the local Cube #347 had 
straightened out its priorities, likely receiving directives from their 
Collective to retrieve the kidnapped drone.
	{Weapons,} said Second, {your turn.  Subspace charges.}
	A pair of subspace charges tumbled aft, waited a long minute, then 
exploded.  The spectacular blast set off a chain reaction, interacting 
with the surroundings to temporarily obscure the safe trail under a flood 
of fragmenting phased temporal particles.  The sub-collective had not 
known precisely what would happen when the charges were released; a rip 
in the fabric of space-time leading to the destruction of the universe 
had registered as a 7% probability.  At any rate, phased Cube #347 would 
not be able to pursue for at least a week according to decay functions.  
On the other hand, local Cube #347's emergency escape hatch from Luplup 
(and Captain!) was no longer usable.
	Second yelled at Weapons, {The isoton yield was three times the 
necessary amount!  Were you /trying/ to initiate the termination of our 
reality?}
	Responded Weapons, {It worked, did it not?}
	Second had no time to berate Weapons, none of command and control did.  
Reality had just been reentered - a cube-shaped cork popping from a 
bottle.  A silent beat passed, then hell broke loose as the fleet waiting 
like patient sharks attacked.  A dozen cloaked mines shook Cube #347's 
superstructure as the ship followed the sole exit vector the anomaly 
allowed.  A volley of disrupters splashed against shields fluctuating 
under a new algorithm, stressing distribution nodes weak from the 
previous skirmish.
	Cube #347 bullied through, taking heavy punishment, damage minor as of 
yet.  However, with shields shortly to be rendered irrelevent once again, 
minor damage would very quickly become major, especially with the 
Captain's knowledge directing Luplup to the targets best able to cripple 
the cube.  The sub-collective had to retreat.
	Against the vocal protests of Weapons, who was certain his hierarchy 
could destroy as many as three enemy vessels before overwhelming odds 
brought down the hammer of termination, transwarp was initiated.  Another 
handful of cloaked mines exploded as the cube leapt forward, causing 
surges along the primary shield node network.  Secondary systems smoothly 
compensated; engineering moved to repair nonfunctional equipment.
	Luplup was not following the cube into transwarp, destination a random 
draw for coordinates.  A temporary reprieve had been gained.
	Satisfied immediate destruction was not forthcoming, Second linked to 
Third and prepared to delegate duties.  {Third:  yell at Weapons for a 
bit, not that it will help.  Also oversee damage assessment and control.  
Doctor, presence of drone maintenance is required at my location to 
retune 4 of 8's neural hardware to mesh with our own.}
	Ignoring Third's {Yah, whatever} and Doctor's {Just an itsey bitsey 
minute, okadie-dokadie,} Second focused his attention of 4 of 8.  While 
part of himself nodded in appreciation as he listened to 2 of 8 threaten 
to color torpedoes, and a certain drone, passionate pink with a certain 
paint requiring a wash in highly corrosive acid to remove (much to 
Weapons' horror), most of awareness regarded the sullenly glaring 
alter-Captain.
	"So," began Second, "I bet you are wondering why we brought you here 
today."

		*	*	*	*	*

	Here ends, part two of "A Dish Served Cold."  Okay, maybe the plot 
sounds a tiny bit familiar, but the author has plenty of time to seek out 
new tangents, new twists, to boldly stumble where too many have stumbled 
before.  Tune in next story to find out if 2 of 8 is actually allowed to 
practice interior design upon Weapons' alcove.  
	Oh yes, the whole vyst problem will be resolved as well.