In the Fishbowl of Life and All Things Star Trek, Paramount is the big 
shark on the block, owner of all it surveys.  A. Decker is a big fish in 
the small pond of Star Traks.  The aquarium of BorgSpace, and all the 
minnows contained within, is mine.


			Children's Crusade

	Captain was in Maintenance Workshop #4 having his annual one year or 
three omnipotent experiences tune-up.  A sign entitled "FastLube:  
Winterization specials start at $69.95!  Free wash and wax with each 
purchase!" was tacked to one bulkhead, but no one was claiming 
responsibility; no one was rushing to take it down, neither.  Captain lay 
on his back, staring at the ceiling, or he would have been had he been 
able to see.
	"I want my eye back, Doctor.  And I want my visual cortex on-line."
	"Diagnostics are still running, big doggie, so be patient.  You are the 
one who insisted on moving up your appointment by several weeks."
	"I can't image dataspace input nor sensor grid information with my 
neural linkages shunted through diagnostic tools.  All I see are blue and 
green lines dancing around in test patterns!"
	"Shhhh.  That is how it should be.  Shhhhhh.  Very good.  Stimulating 
stored data files of the incident," murmured Doctor.
	"Don't shush...whoa!"
	Captain was suddenly dropped into a visual-only replay of the event 
which had prompted him to reschedule body maintenance.  One part of him 
insisted he was in corridor 13 of subsection 14, submatrix 2, even as the 
rest of his senses informed him of his location in Maintenance Workshop 
#4.  He was moving between point A and point B, tracking the illicit 
wires 222 of 510 had strung along the hallway floor, the purpose of which 
was not now relevant as Captain lay on the worktable.  Ahead 15 meters, a 
drone abruptly entered the corridor.  The problem?  No cross-corridor 
intersected with the hallway; the drone had stepped out of a solid 
bulkhead.
	At that point Captain had automatically delved into files to determine 
who it was and their current task.  Naturally none of the queries were 
evident in the visual replay, only the retreating back of the unknown, 
unresponsive Borg.  And it was an unknown, as transponder list returned 
positions of active units, none of whom were in front of him. Before 
Captain could demand the drone to identify itself (followed by a well 
rehearsed lecture on not altering the duty and location roster), it 
disappeared through another bulkhead.
	The replay ended, plunging Captain again into darkness with only a test 
pattern for optical company.  Subsequent analysis by engineering 
hierarchy had found no structural anomalies, and Weapons' holographic 
array was currently nonfunctional along the corridor.  Delta had 
pointedly suggested Captain himself was the one to blame, not her 
systems, and thus he was now in a workshop under the dubious 
ministrations of Doctor.  Overall, Captain would have been more deeply 
concerned over the status of his implants if the hallucination had not 
been one of a dozen similar sightings.
	127 of 152, a medium and spiritual channeler in her nonassimilated life, 
called them the ghosts of drones sent to a useless and inefficient 
termination, returning to haunt the cube.  She also insisted on wearing 
beads around her waist, a gold-flecked scarf over her head, and speaking 
in an accent which did not exist in her native language.
	Whatever the actual origination of the hallucinations, be it a rash of 
implant malfunctions, random output from holo-emitters, a plane of 
reality slightly out of phase with the current one, or protoplasmic 
entities, the sightings had begun shortly after the Director incident.  
Admittedly, with a sample size of twelve it was difficult to generalize, 
but thus far only those who had been kidnapped by the giant eyeball had 
witnessed the mysterious manifestations.  Those who had not experienced a 
subjective year on 20th century Terra (subunit #522, the insectoids, 
several other drones which sported unusual natural sensory systems) 
maintained nothing had occurred, except a brief intranet burp resulting 
from piloting a transwarp-speeding cube too close to a neutron star.  
Consensus was still very much out about the matter.
	A pushing weight, followed by twisting and finally a 'click' indicated 
reinstallment of Captain's ocular implant.  Vision, organic and 
technology mediated, flickered back on-line as the proper neural pathways 
were returned to their original configuration.  Captain twisted his head 
to the side to hear Doctor's prognosis as the latter returned a 
sharp-edged tool to a wall rack.
	"All is okie-dokie.  No anomalies.  Fit as a fiddle.  Happy as a clam.  
Sharp as a..."
	"I get the picture," hastily interrupted Captain as he swung himself to 
a more comfortable bipedal posture.  He stored the diagnostic output he 
was concurrently receiving into the proper file associated with his 
designation's dossier, much like a car owner would add receipts to the 
vehicle's maintenance records.  A notification loop was set to remind him 
in a year about his next scheduled tune-up.
	"So," asked 92 of 133, "wash and wax?  It is our special this week."  
The drone helpfully held out a bucket in one hand, squeegee and rag in 
the other.  Captain quickly retreated from the workshop to the relative 
safety of the corridors and phantom Borg.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Jyck was desperate.  "Initiate search, parameters as stated prior," he 
shouted to the computer as hands - all six of them - frantically bolted, 
rebolted, fastened, discarded, and otherwise tried to jury-rig the 
yacht's secondary power core into a semblance of working condition.  
Tunnelwarp was not fast enough...never fast enough for what chased him.
	"Volume to be searched?" queried the computer.  Soprano tones another 
race might find shrill, Jyck heard as pleasantly mellow.  But then again, 
his species typically conversed in the ultrasonic.
	Jyck cursed - a glass-shattering shriek - as he pinched the fingers of 
his right medial hand.  "Yon!  You know what I'm looking for, so don't 
pull that BS on me.  Divide that spiral galaxy we're at the outskirts of 
right now into six parts and scan, um, sextant two."
	"Yes, sir."
	A cold lump of partially melted metal went sailing across the cramped 
engineering room of the one-person racing yacht, thumping against the 
wall before falling to the ground.  Jyck removed bruised fingers from his 
mouth in order to gain a better purchase on the very low-tech wrench he 
was wielding on an equally low-tech hex bolt.  Damn second-hand 
already-assembled do-it-yourself kit; he /knew/ he should have taken the 
ship into a certified mechanic when he bought it from that kid.  However, 
a blow-up like this one was expected on a two month shake-down cruise; 
usually, though, one wasn't under pressure to perform maintenance which 
was suited to atmospheric dry-dock.
	"Progenitor...progenitor.  We only want to talk to you," whispered a 
raspy voice of indeterminate gender over the speakers.
	"Yon!  Random heading change, random speed change; and scramble our 
communication frequencies again.  And close off whatever trap door they 
used to get into your system.  Have you found a hiding hole yet?"
	"Working on the first orders.  Probe expelled.  Unknown if additional 
worms remain in my system, and I will continue to not know until the next 
one becomes active."  Pause.  "I have found a target, sir."
	"Aim us at it, but not quite straight line.  I almost have this core 
fixed, and I'd rather not have our pursuers track us by simple linear 
extrapolation."
	"Right away, sir.  Heading adjusted."
	Several more minutes were spent in relative silence, broken only by the 
occasional mutter over the probable ancestry of the person who had 
assembled the yacht in the first place.  "Yon, what is our target, 
anyway."
	"As per perimeter alpha of 'last place those f***ers will look', I have 
scanned what my files match as 'Borg cube.'  The civilization in its 
current form is relatively new, only eight thousand years or so, and 
highly dependent upon cybernetics and nanometer-scale machines.  
Aggression factor one; with assumption of eventual achievement of 
transgalactic communication technologies, extrapolation places final 
expansion to cover the entire local cluster, at which time the 
civilization should finally collapse."
	Jyck uttered a ultrasonic whistle, "That is one mean hiklon(click).  I 
wouldn't want to live in this corner of the universe come a hundred 
thousand years down the road.  You have anything in your files upon 
relationships between these Borg and our friends behind us?"
	"Short entry - each generally ignores the other."
	A solid-state circuit was inserted into a panel.  "Well, as the saying 
goes, 'any port in a storm.'  Give me the biographical run down of these 
Borg while I make final adjustments to this Director be-damned core."
	Yon began, "Borg are..."

			*	*	*	*	*

	{[Mouse cherry] approaches!} announced Sensors into the general 
intranet.  The declaration would have been met with greater excitement 
had anyone other than Sensors herself knew what it meant.  As far as 
anyone knew, a cloaked Federation fleet led by the Enterprise was bearing 
down on the lone cube.
	Cube #347 was currently puttering along at low warp while engineering 
hierarchy made adjustments to the transwarp coils.  /Someone/ had played 
a prank, inserting a small cyromagnent into each canister.  The jokester 
had yet to be found, or made to confess, although several leads appeared 
promising.  Delta was in the midst of her usual tirade as she described 
in detail punishment the guilty drone would serve.
	{Repeat?} asked Captain.  He was newly returned to his alcove, preparing 
to power down his systems for regeneration.  Body lined up, he triggered 
the clamps which kept him steady (theoretically) in case of sudden 
deceleration.
	{[Mouse cherry] and with a hint of purple [turtles],} helpfully added 
Sensors as she redirected a portion of the grid towards Captain.
	{Thank you, Sensors.  My brain now aches and the adjustments Doctor 
performed have been undone.  Tell us what approaches.}
	Silence.  {Signature is Mech Species #3 - a Xenig folded-space drive.  
Are we expecting more deliveries?}
	Captain sighed, disengaging the clamps and stepping from the alcove.  A 
sideways glance was rewarded with the sight of Second swiftly closing the 
eye he had been using to peer at his hierarchy-mate.  {We most certainly 
are not.}  Captain tapped a pair of buttons next to Second's alcove.  "I 
can feel your real signature under the false overlay you created:  you 
are not in regeneration."
	Faux signature collapsed to real as Second acknowledged his deception.  
With a hiss and 'clump', Captain's second-in-command stepped from his 
alcove to the walkway.  Together, the two drones walked towards the nodal 
intersection in which hung Captain's viewscreen.
	The large screen was already displaying active data as the pair entered, 
Cube #347 represented on the center of a black field as a green vector.  
A red asterisk representing the Xenig was popping in and out of sight, 
mech trying to match speed and direction while the cube continued onward 
without acknowledging its presence.  Maybe if they never stopped the 
courier would not be able to deliver its package.
	Suddenly the red asterisk overlaid the tail-end of the green arrow.  The 
entire screen whited out as an extraneous alarm rang out through 
corridors, conjunctant with a genderless computer voice stating 
efficiently, {Emergency stop.}  Captain managed to utter the beginning of 
a four-letter oath - why, regardless of language, do many of the most 
severe of swear words have four letters/symbols? - as automatic safety 
protocols cut in.
	The Collective does not rank safety as an overriding issue of 
importance.  However, a cube represents a substantial amount of material 
and labor which should not be tossed down the nearest black hole because 
of a misfortune.  Therefore, when confronted with a potential accident in 
the making proceeding at a pace even a well-tuned sub-collective could 
not react to in a timely manner, certain automatic reflexes would kick 
in.  In this case, an emergency bail-out to a full stop.  Unfortunately, 
an object as massive as a Borg cube can not stop on a dime.
	Things flew everywhere as inertial dampers overloaded.  No species yet 
assimilated by the Collective had perfected the art of absolute 
cancellation of the law "objects in motion tend to stay in motion," 
therefore the damper system remained less than faultless.  Drones were 
among the objects flung around like rag dolls.  Captain picked himself up 
off the deck, glancing at the body-shaped dent he had made in the 
bulkhead.  It was a /very/ good feeling to know he did not experience 
pain.  As it was, internal diagnostics were screaming of minor damage to 
organic elements.  The input was silenced in favor of more pressing 
manners.  Since the cube did not appear to be spread over half the grid, 
the emergency stop must have worked.
	"Crud.  Doctor is going to have a field day with me," spat Second's 
voice.  Captain turned to observe the reserve facilitator and consensus 
monitor staring ruefully at his right limb, the one artificial below the 
primary elbow joint.  The prosthetic was missing.
	"You are..."
	"I /know/ my arm is gone!  Slam! and I hit a wall.  Slam! and I hit the 
floor.  Crunch! and my arm flies off, through an archway, and presumably 
to the bottom of the shaft."
	If there was one pet peeve, no pun intended, Doctor exhibited, it was 
misplacement, for any reason, of prosthetics.  Good explanation or bad 
for the loss, it did not matter.  Second was in for one hell of a 
lecture.
	Damage reports, surprisingly minor, were collecting on engineering's 
docket; drone maintenance was filling up as well.  Both hierarchies were 
moving smoothly to cover their respective bailiwicks.  Satisfied all was 
okay on that front, Captain turned his attention to a different, more 
disturbing datastream, bringing it to the forefront of his awareness.  
The ship which had forced the deceleration was floating calmly 116 
kilometers off face #1, serene in smug Xenig knowledge nothing in the 
Collective's armaments could put a scratch on its smooth hull.
	Collective files contained very few examples of Mech Species #3 vessels, 
but they were all alike in that they were unalike except for the 
distinctive spoor of folded-space drive.  The specimen moving 
purposefully closer via wrinkling the very fabric of space-time itself 
was no exception to the rule.  One could say it looked vaguely like a 
headless pterodactyl in flight, an opaque fabric stretched from body, 
primary support a leading edge spar.  The two hundred meter wings were 
not capable of withstanding atmospheric stresses, therefore their 
function remained unknown.  A forty meter long fuselage appeared 
ridiculously small when compared against its "wings", hull golden chrome 
with a soft antique-green patina.  A relatively new scar stretched along 
the aft starboard quarter, dark undermetal puckered and melted into 
frozen runnels.  Cube #347 had no wish to meet the enemy which had 
managed to lay weapon along the Xenig's flank.  Hopefully it wasn't too 
pissed off, wasn't looking for something, anything, to displace its anger 
upon.
	Nearer drifted the mech, ignoring subspace blasts from Cube #347 
insistent upon communication.  Sensors was running a suite of active 
scans in an attempt to gain information of the Xenig's intent.  Standard 
protocol called for a sweep to determine organic life; surprisingly, the 
examination returned positive, species unknown.  Meanwhile, passive 
portions of the grid reported a reciprocal scanning bombardment.
	Mutual efforts at scanning halted.  A request for dialogue, audio only 
(as expected from a species with a body which doubled as a mode of 
interstellar transportation), was received.
	"Borg vessel, my name is Jyck.  I request asylum.  I have a buttload of 
trouble trying to catch up with me, and my drive just fried itself again.  
I've been told your vessel is the last place my pursuers would look, so 
I'd like a place to hide for a couple of days while I make repairs."
	"We are the Borg.  You are Mech Species #3.  This cube is not suicidal.  
87.1% probability you represent a trap.  Permission denied.  Leave us."  
Captain revved up the engines, preparing to limp back into warp.  At 
least it wasn't a postal mech.
	"Wait, wait, wait, wait!  I am not this Mech Species #3.  What Yon?  Oh, 
Xenig!  That's what they mean.  Well, I'm not Xenig either.  Far from it.  
I'm sure your scanners have picked up an organic presence...well, that 
presence is me.  I'm the pilot of this hunk of second-hand junk - quiet, 
Yon, I mean the ship, not you - and I have several problems behind me a 
thousand light years or so.  I would give you visual, but that portion of 
my communications system was knocked out, along with the main engines.  
And trust me, it is very low on the priority pole at the moment.  So, do 
I get asylum?"  The whistling voice was hurried, harried, demanding.
	A consensus cascade was run.  An empathetic 'no' was the outcome:  no 
one (with a few minor exceptions) wanted to meet the trouble following 
behind.  "Permission den..."
	"Permission granted.  Lower your shields and prepare for tractor lock," 
echoed the Greater Consciousness through Cube #347 systems, biological 
and otherwise.  Someone, someone designated subunit #522 to be exact, had 
been communicating behind the host sub-collective's back.  Captain winced 
as his mind (and four thousand others) was flipped one-eighty to the 
already derived consensus.  Damn compulsions.  Damn subunit #522.  It 
would be the death of the cube yet.
	{Subunit #522, we need to have a very long talk on the merits of 
self-preservation, especially in situations which include technology 
which can tear apart a fleet of Battle-class cubes, not to mention a 
single Exploratory-class,} rebuked Captain.  His response was a sensation 
of satisfaction verging upon irrelevant gloating.
	<<Assimilate.  Comply,>> ordered the Greater Consciousness, pinning the 
sub-collective of Cube #347 down like an insect on a mounting board.
	The sub-collective, mostly engineering and a semi-enthused assimilation 
hierarchy, the latter headed by Assimilation's forecast of depressive 
doom, began preparations for the endeavor.  Hopefully not too many drones 
would be terminated as the ship was swarmed like a grasshopper at the 
mercy of a colony of army ants.
	Informed Delta after shuffling through inventory, {Bulk Cargo Hold #1 
will suffice, although the wings will be snapped off when brought inside.  
I would prefer Bulk Cargo Hold #6, but 171 of 230 was working on a 
kinetic jello sculpture in there when we made the emergency stop.  Very 
messy.  Very slick.}
	Captain blinked, returning to the low-priority damage reports he had not 
requested forwarded to his personal attention when it became apparent no 
major malfunctions were on the horizon.  Yes, there it was -  7,582 
gallons of cherry jello.  {Acknowledged.  Delta, bring in the alien ship.  
Weapons,} pause, {do /not/ complain.}  
	{I...}
	{Zip it.}
	{I...}
	{No.  That is the final word.}
	Silence.
	{Good.  Delta, you have tractor control.}
	A tractor beam lanced out, missing the golden ship twice due to a 
sulking Weapons not fully compliant to Captain's demand.  On the third 
attempt, the beam slid off, unable to gain a decent lock despite an 
accurate connection.  A second beam, then third and forth, were targeted 
simultaneously, to no avail.
	{Sensors thinks shield is operational on the craft.}
	{I don't see any signs of a shield,} noted Delta as a subhierarchy tried 
and failed once more.
	Throbbing jalepino pepper ripped through the senses as Sensors shunted 
part of the grid she was monitoring into the general datastreams.  {No 
records exist for this profile,} helpfully added the insectoid, {although 
it is similar in some respects to that of species #6338.}  A similar 
tongue-numbing taste hallucination screamed (literally in one case 
Captain could hear on his alcove tier level) into unprepared minds.  
Captain could not tell the difference between the first and the second.  
{Similar, but definitely distinct.}
	{The taste, the taste!} weakly inserted 144 of 300 into a babble of 
background complaints.
	{My brain is on fire!}
	{Someone pull me out of this vat of comet slush.  I thought it would put 
out the flames, but it didn't.}
	{Bulk Cargo Hold #3 smells like burnt rubber and ozone.  Have local air 
scrubbers malfunctioned?}  The last query was from subunit #522, which 
had not been spared.  The subunit had been submerged rather deeply in 
incoming grid data and had yet to recover from the shock.
	Captain hurriedly opened a new communication link to Jyck's ship before 
Sensors could share another stimulating revelation with the 
sub-collective.  "Lower your shields.  You will comply."
	Jyck's voice squeaked back, "Whoops.  Thought I'd done that.  Okay.  
Done.  Could you please hurry?"
	A trio of tractor beams securely latched onto the target's hull and drew 
it towards one corner of the cube as the exterior doors of Bulk Cargo 
Hold #1 ponderously began to open.  Perhaps seeing the conundrum of 
fitting two hundred meter wings into a too small opening, the pinions 
smoothly folded towards seamless golden flanks.
	Closer came Jyck's ship, now under intense scrutiny by the sensor 
hierarchy.  Unfortunately, it was not to give up secrets beyond the 
already known fact of its organic occupant and residual spoor of a 
folded-space technology.  The unusual wings, now nothing more than a neat 
bundle of nearly transparent unknown metallic alloy, were not necessary 
for the latter's operation; best hypothesis of function was as a solar 
sail for efficient (if slow) within solar system transport.
	The exterior doors to Bulk Cargo Hold #1 swung shut with a ring of 
finality as the forty meter ovoid cleared the breech.  Interior tractor 
beams delicately maneuvered their charge to a space cleared of the 
miscellaneous pieces of hardware and plain junk which breeds wherever in 
the universe garages and shops are built.  An avenue of the local gravity 
grid had been turned off in order to facilitate moving the captured ship; 
one wrong move, and it would crash to the deck under the sudden press of 
full gravity.  Slowly it lurched to its final resting place, tractors 
disengaging as normal gravity was reinitiated.
	Two things readily became apparent.  One, concern over damage due to one 
gravity of static mass was unfounded, as the ship rested without physical 
support twenty centimeters above the deck.  Second, either Jyck had not 
been correct with his belief a Borg vessel would be a safe hiding place, 
or he had sat exposed long enough for his pursuers to gain a lock on his 
position.
	One.  Two.  Six.  Twelve.  Twelve vessels, each different from the next 
and /all/ emanating spectra of folded-space drive technology, had 
silently englobed Cube #347 and were now sliding near.  A brazenly 
belligerent attitude was clear in the cocky advance.  Glint of distant 
starlight shimmered along sleek flanks of red, of silver, of light blue, 
along hulls which did not enfold an organic pilot, but an evolved 
computer sentience.
	Cube #347 was screwed.

	"The Xenig are holding position.  Intercepted transmission reveals they 
know we are here, but are arguing how to proceed.  These Borg are 
somewhat nervous," reported Yon to Jyck as the latter contemplated the 
mysteries of his folded-space drive.  "Our hosts are becoming most 
insistent upon talking to us."
	Jyck tossed a hand-rag liberally impregnated with oily residue to the 
deck.  Both his lowermost manipulatory limbs continued to ratchet open 
yet another panel.  Nothing in the secondary engine room retained its 
cover, raw circuits and liquid crystal displays bared to the elements.  
Multitudinous blinking lights winked various colors, most of which Jyck 
knew to be for show.  The former owner must have kidnapped primitive 
aliens for laughs.  "Let the Xenig stew...this bunch will require a while 
to muster the courage to demand me.  Mystique is good for something, at 
least.  And keep up the premise of communications failure for the Borg.  
That last jump totaled this core, and I need a bit more time to salvage 
the pieces that still work.  Diagnostics for the sails okay?"
	"Yes, sir.  Will do.  Sails return nominal status, fabric is intact, 
associated arrays are intact except for the scar on the rear quarter.  It 
will not prove to be a hindrance."
	"Well, at least one system works on this lemon.  Of course, what use is 
a racer if you can't get to the course to begin with?  Tunnelwarp isn't 
exactly a time saver," sighed Jyck.  The yacht - tradition would not 
allow it to be named until it completed a maiden voyage under its new 
owner - was a slick racer, designed to surf the currents and shoals of 
the infinitesimal one-dimensional layer between realities.  Secondary and 
tertiary drives of folded-space and tunnelwarp, respectively, were meant 
to get the speedy vessel to the starting line; the sails, a metallic 
alloy not quite firmly rooted in any particular reality, were the primary 
"engine."  Schrodinger would have been pleased.
	Think of current space-time as one page in a book infinitely thick, each 
leaf blueprinting an alternate reality.  Some pages, such as the Fun 
Universe, were close to the perceived "original", mere variations upon a 
theme.  Other realities existed which could not be described by simple 
words, could not be understood except by a one-way trip to rapturous 
destruction.  As to the "original"...all sheets are the original to the 
native biota.  In this case, Jyck, the Xenig, and the Borg shared a 
similar evolutionary line the broadest sense of originating, as one race 
might accurately describe it, as notes contributing to the same Song.  To 
add complication to an already abstract notion, the book has no beginning 
nor end; and an infinite number of books comprise a library continually 
in the process of enlargement.
	Focusing on the book at hand, stepping away to view it from the realm of 
no time, no matter, nothing, one can see there is a thin layer of the 
original ether between pages.  This barrier, permeable /if/ one 
understands its nature, separates realities, prevents them from 
interacting on the grossest of levels such that constants native to one 
universe do not foul the next.  Peculiar spatial anomalies, 
sentient-built objects, other flotsam of both intelligent and inanimate 
nature, can and does navigate the dangerous unreality.  Some very few and 
select species make a game of it.
	Permutations of reality, incidents which momentarily weaken the 
space-time continuum of any one page, ripple outwards from the point of 
origin.  Most species pass through an epoch of noisy experimentation with 
time, with reality, assuming they survive to reach that monumental 
achievement.  The ripples reach both "up" and "down" into neighboring 
pages, occasionally farther in the case of severe permutations, allowing 
technologically savvy races to ride the crests and troughs and be flung 
into the ether of unreality.  The wings of Jyck's unnamed racer were the 
key.
	The alloy resided in no particular reality, but was an amalgam of ores 
from many planes meticulously forged and spun in the space between pages.  
No longer a question of particle or wave, of cat-in-a-box alive or dead, 
but instead a glance at sails was a glance into the what-ifs of other 
universes as native and foreign permutations of reality passed through.  
The mode of travel, complex in mathematical theory and physical 
manufacturing, was known by the simple name of "ether sailing."  Slower 
than folded-space methods, the apexial achievement of technologies was 
regulated to the realm of pleasure outings, competition, and a way to 
pick-up dates from alternate universes.
	Jyck palmed a final quantum conduit manifold linkage from the 
folded-space drive, bringing it to eye-level for visual inspection.  
"I've done about all I can here, Yon.  I would go with the miraculous 
recovery of communications scheme, if the visual wasn't truly 
malfunctioning.  Therefore, if you have managed to search out the 
facilitator to this cube, give it a jingle that I'm coming out for a 
face-to-face discussion over our mutual problem."
	"Done," intoned the computer after a brief couple of minutes.  "The 
facilitator's designation is 4 of 8, although he also answers to the name 
Captain.  This rather fluid group of minds is not happy about the current 
state of affairs.  Ready for transport?"
	Jyck dropped the manifold into an already bulging pocket of his work 
suit.  "Yup.  And I can tell by your tone you worry about my safety.  I'm 
tralig to your lenig, Yon...I know what I am doing.  And I'm a damn good 
at bluffing as well."
	Jyck's answer was the fizzle of a transporter beam.

	Words were whistling from Jyck's mouth even before the transporter beam 
completed its materialization cycle:  "No, I am not one of those 
be-damned Progenitors, so don't ask.  Major case of mistaken identity.  
My species is Gzhekay, and you have never encountered us before."  Pause 
as purple special effects vanished.  "AND, I'm perfectly safe from your 
rather primitive nanite technologies, as is my yacht, so don't bother."
	Captain was taken aback by the brisk pronouncement, as were two other 
drones in the immediate vicinity.  Second, however, maintained a file of 
prepared caustic remarks for such an occurrence.  Although he was 
physically elsewhere receiving a new prosthetic, he nonetheless ran a 
random number generator and picked statement #32.
	{Of all the sentients in the galaxy, why do the unassimilatable 
hitchhikers always end up on our cube?}
	Jyck stifled a wheezing snort of what was probably laughter.  Either 
that, or a sneeze.
	The self-proclaimed Gzhekay was 1.6 meters tall, bipedal with three 
pairs of arms.  Each manipulatory limb, progressively longer from upper 
to lowermost pair, had its own shoulder girdle; the bottom arms were 
nearly a meter in length and hung below Jyck's backwards knees.  Digits 
were six, including two thumbs.  Loose, muted green coveralls obscured a 
thin frame.  Head was of typical mammalian stock - two eyes, two small 
external ears, one mouth, and a hooked nose which would not be out of 
place on a bird.  A head of buzz-clipped black hair was mostly hidden 
under a bright yellow cap sporting an unknown logo or insignia; a pair of 
antennae poked through two holes cut in the hat.
	Captain opened his mouth to respond to Jyck's initial comments when the 
alien spouted, "Aren't you going to answer that?  Norr - she's the red 
one that looks like a folded umbrella - wants to speak to you.  Oh, and 
pipe in a visual to this nifty screen here, with audio of course.  This 
should prove to be amusing."  A thumb was jerked over one shoulder to 
indicate the Captain's darkened viewscreen.
	{Should we assimilate the arrogant sentient?} queried 138 of 203 as she 
loomed in the shadows.
	Captain snapped an annoyed negative, designating part of command and 
control to search down the leak Jyck was accessing; high priority was 
placed upon a computer, Yon?, associated with the innocently quiescent, 
yet opaque to deep scans, ship in Bulk Cargo Hold #1.  He was poorly 
disguising the fact he was privy to at least some dataspace commentaries.  
Immediate problems, however, were taking form in the shape of a Xenig 
demand for dialogue.
	"Borg vessel, respond!  I am Norr, leader of these hand-picked disciples 
of the Progenitor League!" shouted Norr over subspace. ("League of 
fanatics is more like it," muttered Jyck.  Captain's mouth curled down in 
the slightest of frowns as the viewscreen remained dark and audio had not 
been initiated.)  The Xenig paused.  "Respond, Borg vessel.  You have our 
Progenitor.  We wish conversation with him, to be enlightened by one who 
has Transcended.  We will do anything necessary to gain his audience, 
including wiping that cube, the entire Collective, from existence."
	Captain noticed (technically, Captain did not notice himself, but 
through a subhierarchy) the verbal analogue of Mech Species #3 and that 
which Jyck spoke were linguistic first cousins.  It could not be a 
consequence.
	"F***," said Jyck.  "Maybe this was the wrong place to hide.  Look, you 
have to tell them...ah, sh**.  Put this whole thing on audio and visual, 
and I'll tell them myself."  Jyck stared back at Captain.  "You, you're 
the one designated 4 of 8, the local facilitator.  Chop-chop already!"
	"You are a single sentient," returned Captain, advancing on Jyck, "and 
you will not give this drone orders.  You will be assimilated."
	Jyck waggled an index finger of right medial hand, "Ah, ah, ah...I don't 
think so.  I grabbed much of the contents of this here cube before I was 
towed on board.  Trust me on this, but I am not assimilatable even if I 
am killable.  I am mortal, after all.  Yon, the computer which runs my 
ship, is not so vulnerable.  One-on-one, even with a crippled systems, he 
could take on one of those Xenig out there and possibly even win; you are 
no match in comparison.  Were I to meet a...terminal end, Yon has 
directions to break out of here and sell the contents of your database to 
the sleaziest and most wide-reaching news magazine bidder.  We have some 
interesting information about the Borg...and about this cube.  Little bit 
of an embarrassment factor, aren't you?"
	Captain recoiled, halting mid-step.  The Greater Consciousness was 
keeping a distant metaphorical eye on developing issues via subunit #522, 
and the empathetic sensation was one of seething, impotent rage at the 
audacity of the small being.  Loss of Cube #347 would be met with a shrug 
of nonexistant shoulders and the commission of a new Exploratory-class 
cube to stock with inevitable assimilation imperfection errors; exposing 
the Collective's closeted skeletons was not acceptable.
	"You will purge your datatracks of our records," snarled Captain, "and 
you will leave this cube."  Mentally Captain winced, {Subunit #522, stop 
using my body.  Second, keep the subunit away from me before it kills all 
of us, and before I request Delta to have a little "accident" which 
leaves all in that cargo hold stranded in transwarp minus a vessel for 
protection.}
	Jyck trilled in the ultrasonic, "Dissent in the ranks!  Oh, sorry, 
sorry."  The Gzhekay gave a weak grin.  "That is rude of me, 
eavesdropping.  Yon's keeping track of higher echelon communications and 
feeding distilled summaries to me in real time.  Don't bother looking for 
the worm 'cause you won't find it."  
	138 of 203 called in a repair request as the initial high pitch squeal 
shorted out a key auditory implant, leaving her deaf in both ears.  She 
shuffled in discomfort.
	Captain mentally "jiggled" his viewscreen, waking it to remove the 
current blackout screensaver, revealing twelve irregular pie pieces, each 
centered on a different Xenig mech.  A continually updated list in Borg 
alphanumerics detailing range to target and (known) weapon status 
scrolled unobtrusively at the edge.
	"Audio?" asked Jyck hopefully, directing the question at Captain.
	Captain replied, "They continue to describe threats to our existence, to 
the existence of the Collective, should we refuse to give you to them.  
Calculations and simulations are in process to determine if the latter 
threat is real.  If the outcome is positive, you will be given a one-way 
trip into space.  The mechs may deal with you, their Progenitor, as they 
please.  The survival of the Collective is sacrosanct; public relations 
are irrelevant."
	Jyck hrumphed.  "Just between you, me, and the rest of the communal 
mind, let me tell you a little secret.  This Progenitor stuff is all a 
mistake.
	"Quite a few thousands of years ago, long before the Collective was a 
gleam in the universe's eye, these Progenitor dudes swept unto my poor 
planet-bound race in an awful hurry.  There's been several dark ages - 
backwards steps and all the emotional and discriminatory baggage which is 
inherent in the genes of any sentient species - since then, so the 
records are a wee bit fragmented.  The upshot is, they adopted us and 
showered us with technological marvels; we responded by becoming their 
grunts, learning their language in an effort to please.  In the process, 
the Gzhekay, my race, lost their original tongue.  After a time the 
Progenitors left, and we subsequently plunged into the first of several 
nightmarish wars.  Why they left, who knows, but if those f***ing Xenig 
worshipers outside are any clue, I'd leave town too.  Absolute adoration 
can only be tolerated in small quantities."  Jyck shuddered, then 
continued.  "My race has long since rediscovered and improved upon the 
technologies the Progenitors bestowed upon us.  
	"Now, enter me and my ship.  I'm out touring the neighborhood on a 
shake-down cruise in my newly purchased racer.  I have no clue what the 
Xenig were doing so close, as the area I was in has never seen them 
before, but they sensed my folded-space drive and were on me like ugly on 
a zaucna.  Trying to explain the mistake only made the situation worse 
since my tongue is akin to their own base language.  If only /pictures/ 
had been a part of the Xenig legacy....  Anyway, when I tried to send 
them picts of restored photos of their Progenitors - nasty looking little 
bastards yah tall," Jyck held an upper hand out level with his shoulder, 
"with a epidermal mucus problem and a face only a mother could love - 
that Norr mech slagged my transmitter array.  She obviously decided I was 
trying to trick them.  In the process, she utterly mangled my 
folded-space engine, forcing me to switch to less efficient methods to 
try and outrun that pack.
	"And so, looking for refuge, here I am."
	An emergency klaxon sounded, usual croaking replaced with musical 
chimes.  A deaf 138 of 203 questioned what the problem was as the other 
two drones in the nodal intersection swiveled heads in unison to stare at 
a speaker with confusion.  It was obvious someone had been performing 
some judicious modifications, without prior approval.  Captain returned 
his attention to the viewscreen, one pie of which was flashing red as 
energy directed to the mech's weapon systems reached critical 
"butt-kicking" levels.  A second and third pie followed suit; the demands 
on subspace had escalated to a point where action spoke louder than 
words.
	"Tell ya what," said Jyck in a conspiratorial tone, modulating his 
voices to be heard over the chimes, "this is what we are going to have to 
do to get them off our backs...."

	To a Xenig, to any space-faring mech species, it was a fundamental 
ability to see frequencies beyond that of organic systems, to hear the 
pulses of cosmic strings and feel the grit of dust on one's hull.  The 
capability to internalize subspace carrier waves was just one more basic 
sense necessary for day-to-day survival.  The dozen Xenig, each 
personality as unique as its chassis, were linked via quantum tunneling 
into a twelve-way party line, watching and commenting upon the unfolding 
communications from the recalcitrant Borg cube.
	::The Progenitor,:: whispered Kolp in awe, highlighting Jyck's image 
with a golden halo.  He ignored the motionless drones in the background.
	::The Progenitor,:: agreed the eleven other personalities.
	The silly Borg multivoice declared, "This sentient desires conversation 
with Mech Species #3.  You will listen."
	::We are listening, you technologically backwards cybernetic dead-end,:: 
fervently insulted Norr.  She bled additional power from her folded-space 
drive to various weapons embedded beneath her hull; the other disciples 
were doing likewise.  ::Let our Progenitor speak, then you will give him 
to us.  Or else we will take him from you.  If you decide to resist, we 
will make sure you, the deformed entity known as Collective, suffer.  
Painfully.::
	The radiant Progenitor glanced over its shoulder at someone out of range 
of the camera's pickup, giving a slight nod.  He sucked in a great 
breath, inflating his torso, and began to speak words derived from the 
holiest of languages.
	"Look, you stupid machines, for the last time, I am NOT your Progenitor!  
I am Jyck, that is all!  You have got to be the most..."  Jyck suddenly 
fell back, all six hands clawing at his throat as a black armored arm 
wrapped around it.  Pale face hovered next to an increasingly blue one, 
frantic struggles slowing.  "No!  I didn't..." squeaked the Progenitor 
with the last of his breath.  A slight shifting revealed a thin tubule 
sprouting from Jyck's neck, leading back to the drone's thus far hidden 
second hand.
	"Talk is irrelevant.  Leave the vicinity of this cube, Mech Species #3.  
This sentient is to be assimilated and added to the Whole," boomed the 
Collective voice over the subspace link.  The visual faded to one of 
infinite catwalks.
	Stunned silence was the response.

	Stunned silence permeated subspace airwaves.  After several seconds, a 
babble of voices shouted, each certain its own question was of most 
importance.
	"What happened?"
	"Where did the Pro..."
	"...to me you Borg, if you..."
	"...you to component atoms!"
	Four thousand Borg crossed four thousand fingers, awaiting breathlessly 
for the mob of angry mechs to come to their senses...or tear the cube 
apart molecule by molecule.  Finally one voice arose above all, taking 
control of the situation by squealing electronic feedback upon its 
compatriots.
	"That was no Progenitor!  The Borg are unable to assimilate a 
Progenitor!"
	Another round of silence reined, minutes ticking by as digital minds 
processed information, linked data, made conclusions.  A spurt of 
Xenig-to-Xenig conversation picked up, dialogue occurring at a very high 
rate of speed and encrypted with multi-dimensional fractual encoding.  It 
was not possible to eavesdrop.  As quickly as the discussion began, it 
terminated.  Eleven of the twelve vessels abruptly vanished, minute 
ripples of folded space-time left behind as a reminder of a presence 
which was no more.  Four thousand throats exhaled a breath of relief even 
as tension remained high while the final Xenig approached. 
	"You may have the Progenitor impostor," haughtily declared the mech.  
Its synthetic voice conveyed a tone of disdain with a hint of 'we may 
have screwed up, but you won't have the satisfaction of pointing it out.'  
The dull red ship yawed slightly along its long axis.  "You may have the 
Progenitor impostor, and his whole civilization should you ever find it, 
may they burn in Hell.  They are worthless organic trash, bags of water 
and pus, thieves of the Progenitors' technologies; we were surely not 
built and programmed in /their/ image."  With the final proclamation left 
to drip venom, the Xenig disappeared.
	Cube #347 watched the living ship go on senses far beyond the visual.
	"Well, it's about f***ing time!" declared the voice of one Jyck.  "Here, 
let go of me, you moronic Borg.  If I told you once, I told you a million 
times:  you can't assimilate me, so don't bother."  Four hands awkwardly 
reached behind to slap at Captain's torso while the upper pair continued 
to grasp at the encircling arm.  A sigh.  "YON!"
	Jyck vanished in the grip of a transporter beam, lower left hand fisted 
except for an extended thumb and index finger.  Captain grunted.  Well, 
it was worth it to try.  He cued a picture of Bulk Cargo Hold #1, zooming 
in on Jyck's ship.
	Three hundred weapons drones, half of the hierarchy, stood in mute ranks 
encircling the golden ovoid, personal disrupters directed with deadly 
intent.  Four mining lasers had been taken out of storage and set up by 
the engineering hierarchy; a fifth was in the process of erection, 
accompanied with much arm waving on the part of Weapons.  Captain 
squinted, then ignored the picture as he searched through recent cube 
maintenance activity.  Yes, the fifth device was not a mining laser, but 
Cutting Beam Emitter #16 from edge #12.  Satisfied Jyck's vessel was 
going nowhere fast, hailing frequencies were triggered.  As an 
afterthought, hold speakers were switched on.
	{All together now...}
	"We are the Borg.  You will be assimilated.  Your technological and 
biological distinctiveness will be added to Our own.  You are surrounded.  
Come out with your hands up.  Resistance is futile."  
	"...futile," continued 101 of 300, always a beat behind.  Overall the 
performance had been impressive, drones on the bay floor in sync with the 
general multivoice.
	A loudspeaker crackled to life, origin the captive vessel.  Jyck's voice 
spat, "I helped you get rid of those crazy mechs!  If you don't let me go 
peacefully, I'll have to do it the hard way.  I'm warning you, my 
secondary drive is nonfunctional, so things could get a bit...messy...."  
Golden wings were beginning to extend, the unknown material supported 
between spars rippling to unseen currents, winking into and out of visual 
perception.
	{Cutting beam enabled,} quivered Weapons, fervent need for violence 
barely suppressed.  He would man the aforesaid cutting beam personally.  
{Shall we disable the ship?}
	Sensors' signature bumped into proceedings, {Sensors does not think...}  
However, she was too little too late as Captain gave the green light to 
Weapons, who crowed with success.
	{You were saying, Sensors?}
	Sigh.  {It does not matter now.  Hopefully we will not become burnt 
toast now.}
	{Toast??}  Captain's full awareness centered upon the skirmish in Bulk 
Cargo Hold #1.  Internal algorithms had translated the insectoid's words 
faithfully, with no extrapolation.
	Disrupter fire shimmered off hull and wings, absorbed into an oily 
rainbow of color which rippled from each point of impact.  Jyck's ship 
not only had a shield previously not detected, but it was form-fitting, 
not the normal globular type.  Engineering and weapon hierarchies began 
cross-indexing known shield systems through a command and control 
mediated link to Collective archives...such technology broke at least 
five rules of physics.  One by one, mining lasers activated, to no avail.  
Finally the cutting beam lanced out, warm-up cycle complete; perhaps due 
to its greater power, it /bounced/ off a sail, impacting outer bay doors.  
It was well on its way to melting a hole and explosively decompressing 
the cargo hold when Delta A and B managed to pull the plug from the wall.

	The wings were now fully extended, tips brushing opposite walls of the 
cavernous bay, spanning two hundred meters.  "Don't say I didn't warn 
you!" crackled from Jyck's ship.
	Turning gracefully, wings swept over the crowd, most of whom ducked in 
an irrelevant sense of self-preservation.  The gesture was not necessary, 
as shown by those few who trusted their range finders and found sails 
clearing heads by a good fifty centimeters.  Unfortunately, two of the 
mining lasers were in the arc, both flying apart as barrels were sheared.  
A hum built from the main body of the vessel, cycling higher and higher 
like a phaser set on overload; wing sails completely disappeared from 
perception, leaving spars in skeletal extension.
	{Reality constants are shifting in Bulk Cargo Hold #1,} informed Sensors 
calmly.
	"Surf's up!"  The exclamation came over the open subspace link, which 
dissolved into static as Jyck's ship appeared to spontaneously implode.
	And, for lack of a better term, de-implode five kilometers off face #2.  
The action was like observing a film negative of gamma radiation from an 
evaporating black hole, only the tape was running backwards and viewed 
off a mirror.  The subspace connection returned with a pop.
	"Yon tells me that was a minor incident, about a third the galactic disc 
anti-spin from here in a region known as Federation.  Good thing 
space-time wasn't perturbed any more than it was, otherwise I may have 
dragged that entire cube of yours into fractional space with me.  As was, 
it was a clean translation...am I a good pilot, or what?"  Pause.  "Yes, 
Yon, I know it was mostly you who did the work, but I'm the biological 
entity here, and we can discuss who deserves the most credit later, okay?  
Okay."
	A lack of damage reports, structural or crew, was the internal result of 
Jyck's leave-taking.  For once, Cube #347 did not need to break into its 
vast supply of duct tape to keep everything in one piece while 
engineering soldered, welded, and patched.  Outside, Jyck's vessel shone 
brighter than could be accounted for by starlight and buffed gold 
plating.
	"You lied to us," accused Captain through the subspace link.  He did not 
bother with the multivoice, nor theatrics of catwalks.  This conversation 
had to occur face to face, so to say, even as four thousand minds rode in 
Captain's consciousness.  "You told us you were not of the Progenitor 
race to Mech Species #3."
	Visual to the winged ship flipped on, Jyck comfortably sitting in a 
chair, surrounded by the consoles of a command area.  A steaming mug of 
dark liquid balanced in a cup holder.  The lowermost of Jyck's arms 
tapped at a keyboard below the view of the camera, the middle pair 
lightly relaxed on the seat's arm rests, and the upper crossed over his 
torso.  The left medial arm reached up to scratch an ear before returning 
to place.  
	"Seems visual wasn't as scrambled as I thought it was.  Loose wire.  
Anyway, let me tell you what 'lanig' means in the old language.  Child.  
It denotes not the physical aspect of a child, but the mental.  Children 
can be brilliant, may have more knowledge than their parents, but they 
can also be trying.  They have not learned the social graces of 
adulthood, but practice at it between bouts of healthful play.  Even 
worse are when children enter adolescence, when they are ready to try 
independence, but become hell to live with in the process.  This stage 
the old tongue calls 'xenig.'  Do you understand?  Xenig.  
	"One day, maybe, the adolescent learns to be independent.  He or she 
realizes the restrictions of the parents were meant to allow a graceful 
translation to adulthood.  This is known as 'tranig.'  Tranig know one 
can have the dignity and social graces of knowledge while at the same 
time engage in the happy play of lanig.  Growing up is something which 
must eventually be done on one's own terms, alone.  If tranig doesn't 
force xenig to mature, xenig never will.  For this reason, xenig - and I 
remember my rowdy xenig years well - are expelled from the home when they 
come of age.  Most accept it, some despise it, a very few beg to be taken 
back, scared to peruse the grand adventure of adulthood.  Occasionally 
the parents have to skip town in the middle of the night leaving behind 
nothing but half-truths.  For the betterment of the child, of course."
	"It's only been a little over two galactic revolutions, give them some 
time.  They'll grow up eventually.  I hope.  I really, desperately hope.  
Well, gotta go."  The connection was terminated.
	"But you never answered our question," muttered Captain to the dark 
screen.  He flipped to an exterior feed just in time to see Jyck's ship 
smoothly collapse in upon itself.  The fizz of a carbonized drink echoed 
in his ears from portions of the grid retuned by Sensors.  She quickly 
identified the aural hallucination to be decaying strange matter as 
protest arose.
	The universe had just become a little bit more complicated.