The rock-and-roll of the TV sci-fi world is Star Trek from Paramount 
studios.  Banjos in the background provided by A. Decker's Star Traks 
band.  Bagpipe solo furnished by M. Meneks' BorgSpace addition.


				Guns and Roses

	"That's right.  Hold still...you will comply 24 of 83.  Okay, line!  
Ready, aim, fire!"  
	The "line" of three holograms obediently lifted their phaser rifles, 
shooting a motionless 24 of 83, who had tightly closed his eye and 
prudently darkened his optical implant.  Two of the beams did no damage; 
the third blackened chest armor already dark from earlier scores.
	"Report!" barked Weapons.
	24 of 83 winced as he surveyed himself, "Light internal organic damage, 
light damage to tertiary cybernetic systems.  May I go to drone 
maintenance?"
	"Stop whining.  Your injuries are not severe."
	"My nanites are working overtime, my internal resources to facilitate 
such repairs are dangerously low, and the damage is beginning to add up," 
protested 24 of 83.
	"Take it like a Borg, 24 of 83."  Weapons turned away from the other 
drone, missing the rude gesture lifted from species #3284.  The 
holograms, of species #6101 marines in garish dress uniform, waited 
patiently for their next set of instructions.  "Line, modification 53, 
access.  Load weapon energy parameters."
	24 of 83 locked his joints once more before disabling all visual input.  
He really hoped Weapons didn't go overboard with his tests to create a 
more dangerous simulation, as he did for the previous target drone.  220 
of 300 was currently in intensive maintenance while half his torso and 
all right arm was replaced, not to mention complications from extreme 
heat damage.  Weapons claimed the threat of termination (or at least 
severe inconvenience as Captain would not actually allow the games to 
involve deaths of vital resources) brought tactical simulations closer to 
reality...especially when he blocked access to personal shield 
adaptation.  The line between merely hazardous and suicidal was a thin 
one, however, and one which Weapons was attempting to push as far as 
possible.
	"Line!  Ready, aim, fire!"

			*	*	*	*	*	

	The dataspaces shuddered as massive overflow from the sensor grid leaked 
into the intranet.  Externally, the primary power core went off-line, 
although auxiliary core #3 smoothly took over such that the transwarp 
conduit was not lost.  Lights flickered and dimmed at the unexpected 
change over; ventilation momentarily faltered; gravity grid blinked; one 
hundred eighteen voices raised in protest as their communal DOOM game 
rebooted.  The overall analogy was that of an internal combustion engine 
missing a beat.
	{What was that?} demanded Captain to Sensors.  He had already traced the 
path of the disruption to its general source, but specifics were desired.  
Weapons listened to the background chatter, disgusted that his 
holographic network had gone off-line.  It would require several seconds 
to reinitiate.  5 of 212, who had replaced 24 of 83, gave a silent thanks 
to deities he did not believe in for the short reprieve.
	{Sensors say we had a grid burp.  The cube ran into a swarm of phasic 
insects.}
	Captain grumbled, {When the Collective opens up this part of the galaxy 
for expansion, the pests will be exterminated.  Until then, Sensors, 
reconfigure a section of the grid to watch for the annoyances - where 
there is one swarm, there will be more.}
	{Compliance.}
	Weapons frowned.  Phasic "insects" were a coherent wave-form, for lack 
of a better description, endemic to transwarp conduits.  They were not 
intelligent, and only gathered in dense swarms during a critical phase of 
their reproductive cycle.  They had an annoying tendency to become caught 
in the electrical grid of passing cubes, much as a cloud of gnats might 
splatter against a windshield.  Once in the grid, many nasty 
complications could arise, especially if a parasitic strain managed to 
embed itself.  Cubes, however, were hardened against the effects, except 
for minor irritants such as the burp just experienced.  In BorgSpace, the 
insects had been cleared...and would suffer a similar fate in the 
not-too-distant future in the local grids.
	With a few additional tweaks to the severely modified BorgCraft battle 
simulation program which served as foundation for the holographic system, 
the three phaser riflemen shimmered back into existance.  The trio of 
species #6101 humanoids blinked their large, limpid eyes as they settled 
into parade rest to await orders.  Floppy canine ears pricked alertly, 
focusing on a scorched 5 of 212, who gave a faint groan and terminated 
half-formed thoughts of irrelevancy.  Three finger plus thumb hands 
flexed against rifle stocks.
	"Line," called Weapons as he completed diagnostics of BorgCraft.  Part 
of his automatic awareness noted and filed unread the final report on the 
phasic insect strain encountered.  The transitory effects were already 
dissipating and had no military significance, so it followed the file was 
of no importance.  Externally, the marines blinked again, simulated 
"species personality" algorithms driving them to furtively glance about 
in confusion before throwing salutes of obedience to Weapons in 
recognition of a higher officer.  Weapons would have removed the 
personality subroutines, but found them necessary to simulate species 
tactical response; otherwise, all programmed species fought in a similar 
manner.
	"Sir!" shouted the trio.
	Weapons loaded the next permutation in the sequence he had been 
experimenting with before the burp.  Internal acknowledgments from the 
BorgCraft program signaled successful parameter alteration.  "Target 
lock!"  Rifles raised, pointed at 5 of 212.  "Ready, aim, fire!"
	Weapons loved the ozone smell of phaser discharges in the subjective 
morning.

	{Final instructions,} intoned Weapons to the three designated 
"subcommanders."  A new simulation had been devised, once which assumed 
the sub-collective had been reduced to two hundred tactical drones, 
including the loss of 45 of 300 himself.  In reality, Weapons would be in 
the background, along with the four hundred other drones not directly 
involved (i.e. being shot at) in the simulation, reparameterizing on the 
fly to create the most realistic conditions yet attempted.  Included was 
the fruit of Weapons target practice labors:  on-the-edge phaser 
protocols which caused nonterminal damage.  Personal shielding adaptation 
was not allowed.
	The object of the simulation was for the surviving drones to 
successfully assault the armada which had devastated Cube #347, 
re-establishing a somewhat viable sub-collective; total destruction of 
the enemy was also acceptable.  The purpose of dividing the hierarchy 
into three was to allow more than one run, acquiring a baseline of three 
tactical "styles" from the different subcommanders.  Subsequent 
post-battle analysis would require several weeks of effort.
	Bulk Cargo Hold #5, long converted for such a purpose, was readied for 
the holographic exercise.  Two hundred drones of the weapons hierarchy 
materialized onto the decks of a loitering species #6101 corvette.  The 
ship had been examining cube wreckage for Borg survivors to blast or 
technology to steal for the ship-clan.  While both activities were 
against explicit standing orders, post-battle obedience was not a strong 
impetus for the species.  The simulation was begun.
	The initial ten hours of the first of three eight day simulations 
proceeded smoothly, corvette captured and crew assimilated without the 
rest of the strike force alerted.  Communication and propulsion 
"difficulties" incurred from a minor explosion within the wreckage of 
Cube #347 lured a towship to haul the corvette back to the main fleet.  A 
flurry of transportations, and the slaughter began,
	But not for the Borg.
	Drone after drone fell, scored and wounded by simulated sailors and 
marines who /could not/ have known of the invasion, much less have set up 
traps at the exact spots units beamed in at.  Terminations were avoided 
only because BorgCraft programming would not allow drone death...injury, 
yes, termination, no.  Exasperated, Weapons allowed the many downed 
drones access to the maintenance hierarchy, then called for an end to the 
simulation.  An examination of the code was necessary to determine how it 
had accessed the hierarchical datatree and siphoned information - or, 
rather, /who/ had rewritten the program - which was the only explanation 
for the disastrous turn of events.
	{Computer:  BorgCraft pathways, abort.  Reset to factory default 
settings,} peevishly ordered Weapons to the program as part of his 
consciousness turned elsewhere.  He needed to link with the resources of 
assimilation or command and control hierarchies in order to dissect the 
code properly, to trace the jokester which had altered the program.
	Returned the neutral tones of the computer:  {Can not comply.  BorgCraft 
subroutines are locked.}
	Weapons' snapped back at the unexpected error message.  {Unlock 
BorgSpace and abort.}
	{Can not comply.}
	{Terminate power to holoemitters in Bulk Cargo Hold #5,} growled 
Weapons.  Several score of his hierarchy had now been set upon the 
problem to unlock the program; however, "pulling the plug" would have the 
same effect by forcing an abort.
	{Can not comply.  Power to designated holoemitters is locked.}  Pause.  
{All holoemitters are now on-line.  Power to all holoemitters is locked.}
	Weapons began to curse as a very familiar presence wedged her double 
signature into the former's ken.  {What is the meaning of full hologrid 
activation?} demanded Delta.  {Auxiliary core #6 is now initiated to take 
the strain of a system already stressed from the burp.  I've told you 
before, you must advance schedule your silly games such that my 
hierarchy, not to mention the ship, may remain efficient.}
	{Simulation, not games,} spat Weapons, {and this is not of my doing.}  
He replayed a log of the previous five minutes, including all computer 
responses.  {This is a maintenance problem, not weapons hierarchy.  If 
anything, /my/ schedules are now fouled.}
	{/Your/ schedules?} asked Delta.  {/Your/ schedules?  You don't do 
anything except play games...}
	{Conduct simulations.}
	{...and whine over tractor control when we aren't confronted by 
hostiles.  And then all you want to do is blow the object in question 
up.}
	The tension began to mount between Delta and Weapons, a silent tension 
rooted in twenty-eight years of hate-at-first-sight.  Well, not exactly 
hate as such an extreme emotion would require termination of at least one 
of the parties involved in order to assure efficiency; hate was 
irrelevant.  Nonetheless, a deep dislike, a vibrant clash of 
strong-willed personalities had the two locked in the quiet battle of a 
cat glaring at a rival inconveniently sitting across a busy street.
	{Why did an armed squad of species #6101 marines just sneak past my 
alcove?} queried 54 of 152 into the general dataspace.
	{What?} responded Weapons and Delta together, echoed nanoseconds later 
by a surprised Captain.  A multitude of similar reports began to pour in, 
to the vast confusion of all.  It was quickly determined the invasion was 
of holographic soldiers.  Weapons' holographic soldiers.
	Captain's mental signature frowned, {We will be having a long discussion 
later, Weapons.}  Presence shifted towards the head of the engineering 
hierarchy.  {Shut down the hologrid.}
	Several long minutes passed as increasingly complex commands flitted 
through the dataspaces.  {The emitters won't cut off,} said Delta.
	{Shut down auxiliary core #6, then,} countered Captain, {as you 
indicated it is supplying the grid with power.}
	The cube dropped out of the conduit as transwarp stability was lost.  
Damage reports, both mechanical and drone, filtered in from all 
subsections of the ship.
	{Holoemitters are still on-line,} helpfully supplied Weapons.  His 
hierarchy was tying into internal cameras and beginning to inventory the 
marines in their green and gold fatigues as they carefully tiptoed out of 
Bulk Cargo Hold #5.  The squads ranged from five to eight individuals 
each.  Heads twisted back and forth as unprofessional comments of scorn 
were whispered.  There appeared to be no end to the holographic invasion.
	The sensation of teeth grinding in stereo permeated the intranet.  
{Shutting down the core did not work.  Primary energy priority pathways 
have been redirected towards Weapons' toy...}
	{Tactical preparatory tool.}	
	{...he insists on maintaining.}
	Captain's surprise was palatable.  One could feel him - the command and 
control hierarchy - reaching out to grasp and examine as much mechanical 
code as possible.  {How severe is the problem?}
	{Critical,} flatly responded Delta.  {This cube would be an airless, 
heatless, gravityless hunk of blind ballistic junk before the hologrid 
would go off-line due to lack of power.  It currently has priority over 
all systems.}
	Weapons suddenly became alarmed, {Over weapon grid as well?}
	Sneered Delta, {Yes.}
	{Something must be done!} demanded Weapons.  {We are defenseless!}
	Delta and Captain, not to mention Second and several hundred other 
signatures deeply enmeshed in the current crisis, gave an unison sigh.  
After twenty-eight years, Weapons continued to be unsure what the gesture 
symbolized, but it was repeated often.
	{Delta,} began Captain, ignoring Weapons' outburst, {physically 
dismantle the emitters if need be.  The holograms are interfering with 
our return to BorgSpace.}
	{Compliance.}

	It swiftly became apparent it was not possible to physically dismantle 
the holographic array - small, but powerful, security fields encased the 
emitter units.  The force fields were a cipher, as no such system had 
ever been installed; close observations of automatic logs indicated the 
field emitters had been extruded by ship regeneration, command initiator 
unknown.  The holographic soldiers also resisted the notion of their 
termination.
	The marines resisted with vigor.
	{Pull back to subsection 15, submatrix 22.}
	{Ugh!  I've just lost half my torso armor.  When will we recover 
adaptation?}
	{Marines entering subsection 14, submatrix 8.}
	{Lock down primary core and retreat to subsection 14, submatrix 8.  
Transwarp capability restored.}
	Slowly, but surely, the Borg of Cube #347 were pushed out of those areas 
containing holoemitters; unfortunately, spaces without at least one 
emitter (often installed secretly against the expressed order of Captain 
or Delta) and their attendant soldiers were rare.  Bulk Cargo Hold #3, 
although emitterless, was not a viable solution to stick four thousand 
crew.  Not only was the space too small, but subunit #522 was still 
working out an isolationist neurosis which it had picked up following the 
attack on its members several weeks ago.  Fourteen units had been 
terminated and two dozen damaged.  The doors to the cargo bay were locked 
against the universe.  The list emphatically included the host 
sub-collective.
	The holograms were impervious to physical attack, although that fact did 
not stop Weapons from ordering increasingly creative (by Borg definition) 
uses of firepower.  Software assaults also met with failure.  The 
corrupted BorgCraft program was hidden behind software walls as difficult 
to surmount as the security fields enshrouding the holoemitters.  Despite 
the advantage, the soldiers continued to use barely sublethal force 
against the drones, as the original simulation dictated.
	Captain, temporarily safe in his nodal intersection as it did not 
contain emitters, illicit or otherwise, posed a conundrum to the four 
thousand drones onboard, {We need a place to regroup.  Parameters 
include:  no holoemitters, space to allow maintenance of damaged units, 
direct access to dataspace via pillions or alcoves, access to 
regeneration systems, and preferably all the above can contain the entire 
sub-collective.}
	{Not possible!}, {A cargo hold, except /all/ accessible have emitters.}, 
{No way!} were the most popular responses.
	{What about subsection 8?} inserted Doctor.  {It fits all the parameters 
quite nicely.}
	The dataspaces quieted except for routine background necessary to 
coordinate failing defenses and futile offensives.  The holograms were 
not damaging systems they overran, just displacing the normal drone 
denizens.
	{However, there is one small problem,} noted Second, {by the designation 
Thorny.  A very large small problem.}

	A nearly noiseless whoosh of disrupter fire was followed by the very 
audible sound of thrashing vines.  Scorched leaves, the smallest the size 
of dinner plates, folded in deceptively fast slow motion; low lighting 
shined on glossy green and dull silver flailing in mindless vegetative 
indignation.  Swiftly, burn marks disappeared, wounded tendrils healing, 
regrowing with Jack-and-the-Beanstalk quickness.  The plant stilled, 
sedately unfurling its now whole leaves.
	{Oops,} called an unrepentant voice, {I thought I saw something.}
	Cried Doctor, {There are no holoemitters in this subsection!  Well, 
there used to be some, but Thorny tore them out a while ago.  By 
accident.  Can't we be a teensy bit more careful?  Thorny isn't a happy 
planty.}
	Returned Weapons, {It was bipedal and it didn't return my demand for 
identification.}  he dumped the encounter, complete with ominous dark 
shape which had glanced up with surprise milliseconds before disrupter 
fire had shredded greenery into a froth of pink sap and chaotic vines.  
Weapons swore (very privately) the mysterious shade had a more than 
passing resemblance to Captain.  It must have been a hologram trick.  
Somehow.
	{Stop shooting the bloodvine,} intoned Captain, codes of compliance 
trickling through the contact.  {We have to live here.  It would be best 
if the plant doesn't become so riled it decides we would best serve it as 
fertilizer.}
	Weapons returned grudging agreement.
	Before the undignified retreat into subsection 8 - sealed by force 
fields since the megagrowth episode - Doctor claimed to have pacified the 
resident bloodvine.  Provided there was no orgy of wanton destruction, he 
guaranteed minimum resistance to drone reoccupation.  Granted, one 
subsection of an Exploratory-class cube (a cubical volume approximately 
433 meters on a side) was smaller than normal space to house nearly four 
thousand crew, but the catwalks and corridor warrens were better than 
nothing.  Borg cities on heavily industrialized and exploited planets had 
denser populations, as did Assimilation-class cubes after a mass 
processing; however, neither had to deal with twisting vines which were 
more closely related to Borg because of illicit nanite addition than 
mindless vegetation should be.
	Or it was hoped the bloodvine was mindless.  Somehow Doctor had 
negotiated to allow the crew asylum in the emitterless volume, a space 
normally defended with passive aggressive tactics.  The implications were 
too frightening to contemplate otherwise.
	The sub-collective could not stay holed up in subsection 8; action was 
required.  A corruption in the BorgCraft program could lead to additional 
complications, especially should parameters, already altered by the 
weapon hierarchy, mutate further, allowing the termination of drones.  
While the sub-collective was no longer inhabited its accustomed haunts, 
that small annoyance did not prohibit knowledge of the rest of the cube 
to be shrouded.  Manipulations to machinery by holograms was beginning, 
changes which could not be prevented from the current cramped location.
	Weapons quickly fell into the consensus cascade, pulling as much weight 
as possible to swing the binding outcome to his advantage.  A mass wave 
of drones was the only feasible solution, goal to remove troublesome 
emitters by application of Very High Explosives.  Sure, the cube would 
resemble Swiss cheese when the operation was completed, and projected 
losses were 1,000 to 1,500 units, but sufficient engineering hierarchy 
would remain to patch everything.
	Unfortunately, the majority pronounced the excellent plan (73.4% chance 
of success) as unacceptable.  The silicorganic thinking machine ground 
onwards.  Finally a scheme was reached.
	Teams of engineers, plus whomever sported a sufficiently thin frame 
regardless of hierarchy affiliation, were to slither through the cramped 
interstitial spaces and disrupt power to critical nodes from the inside.  
Holoemitters would (theoretically) be rendered useless.  Meanwhile, a 
diversion in the form of hastily built photonic grenades and other light 
matrix disrupting weapons (designs taken from species #4252, geniuses of 
holographics who, before complete assimilation, had a black market system 
which irreversibly downloaded a being's mind into digital format in 
preparation to lead lives as ageless holograms) was ready for use.  
Weapons would be allowed to kick some holographic butt.

	{Subunits, report!} ordered Weapons.  Half of the hierarchy, three 
hundred strong, were divided into groups of five and armed to the teeth 
(literally in the case of 97 of 300) with photonic arms.  Weapons would 
prefer a larger excursion troop, but a limited number of offensive 
armament disallowed additional soldiers.  Readiness was sent; engineering 
teams neared their first targets.  {Subunits, move...}
	{Stop!} yelled 14 of 422, one of numerous guards staring with paranoia 
through force fields into the corridors beyond subsection 8.  Or with 
paranoia at the slowly moving shadows of shifting bloodvine tendrils.  
{Hologram approaches.}
	{Location,} demanded Weapons, mind already leaping along communal 
pathways to assign troops to remove the threat.
	Captain's presence slashed across consolidating commands, {The hologram 
is alone, unarmed, and waving a purple flag.  It wants to parley.  We 
will see what it wants before it is disrupted.  Additional information 
upon the enemy must be acquired.}
	Weapons urked, {No!  Kill it!  Slag it!  Destroy it!}
	{You will comply, Weapons.  Second, keep track of engineering progress.  
Weapons, go see what the hologram has to say.}
	Weapons momentarily parried the commands demanding obedience which 
surged along artificial synapses, then gave in as barriers were breached.  
Captain, the Hierarchy of Eight, command and control in general did not 
understand!  Threats to the sub-collective, and thus the Collective, had 
to be neutralized at all cost.  Someday they would understand.  Someday.  
Placing the excursion on hold, he beamed personally to 14 of 422's 
location, visual systems peering suspiciously into the subsection 17 
corridor before he had fully materialized.
	A species #6101 marine held his purple flag high.  Weapons could not see 
accomplices, and internal sensors did not report comrades, but an entire 
troop could theoretically appear instantly via emitter.  True, it 
appeared the holograms were abiding by physical limitations (other than 
inconveniently not dying by standard weapons) by marching between 
locations, but there was no guarantee such behavior would continue.
	"Take these," ordered Weapons to the sensory hierarchy drone as two 
photonic grenades were passed.  14 of 422 tried to protest, but was 
silenced by a curt mental twist.  "I do not want to hear your weakling 
words.  If there are difficulties, you will respond appropriately."
	Weapons glared at a quiet 14 of 422, then stepped through the shimmering 
field.  The slight tingling of stimulated epidermal nerve pathways 
passed.  He lifted an arm, targeting the hologram with the photonic 
weapon now welded to the limb.
	"State your purpose," challenged Weapons.
	The banner was lowered.  Large eyes gazed impassively back.  "We demand 
you explain what the hell is going on."
	Weapons blinked; the sub-collective blinked.  "We do not understand your 
purpose.  Restate."
	"I'm a f***ing hologram!  All my buddies are f***ing holograms!"  The 
marine emphasized his point by punching at a wall, allowing the limb to 
disappear to the elbow.  It reformed as the arm was withdrawn.  "One 
minute the armada is minding its own business, the next we know, all 
these voices are in our heads.  Do this, do that.  POP goes a corvette!  
We know all that is happening even as we are not supposed to know.  
Finally the Old Lady says 'F*** it,' and here we are.  I drew the short 
straw for this little trip to the a** end of nowhere, and so I demand 
some answers."
	Weapons' eye narrowed.  He cursed internally as Captain captured and 
disallowed the flitting thought which had momentarily formed.  "Terminate 
yourself.  End your program."
	"Nope," said the soldier, waving its flag back and forth in a nearly 
pan-galactic gesture of the negatory, "I don't think so.  We may be 
holograms, and we may not remember much before the battle with you Borg, 
but we have gotten a liking for living.  Perhaps if our race still exists 
out there somewhere, we may offer them our assistance.  Or maybe we'll 
just take off on our own."
	"Irrelevant.  You are a computer simulation of species #6101.  You can 
not leave this cube.  Terminate your program."
	"Hey!  I may be a bunch of ones and zeros..."
	"Borg computers use trinary, not binary."
	"...but I certainly feel alive.  Even have free will of a sort.  It will 
be better if I could ignore the little voices which say I can shoot, but 
not kill you.  We're working on that obstacle right now.  No, what I've 
been ordered to find out is why the hell we're here in the first place."
	Weapons snarled, allowing his anger to creep into an otherwise monotone 
voice, "You are a computer program.  You will perform as we command."  
Captain was groaning in the background:  so much for any pretense of 
diplomacy to gain additional information.  "State your purpose!"
	The marine was silent.  "You don't f***ing know what is happening 
either, do you?  The glorious Collective is f***ing clueless.  Okay, in 
that case I'm authorized to go to Plan B.  We need a ship of our own, and 
this one will do.  Either jump off, or we'll force you off."
	Weapons opened fire on the hologram; none in the sub-collective 
protested.

	{The photonic grenades aren't working well, and neither are the pulse 
lasers,} noted 270 of 300.  She was one of the point units spearheading 
the weapon hierarchy advance.  The sub-collective had placed all their 
proverbial eggs in a single basket when it became clear engineering 
efforts in the interstitial spaces was not to work.  Weapons continued to 
claim the booby traps had not been his fault.
	{The deterrent measures were meant to halt hostile sabotage efforts 
directed at the holoemitter array,} Weapons had explained to an enraged 
Delta.  Fade back to several time units prior...
	The first engineering squad to have reached a junction between 
interstitial tertiary power node and holoemitter had triggered a 
flash-bang grenade.  The light, noise, and smoke hid the initialization 
of a small, but powerful cutting laser which targeted anything organic 
within two meters of the node it was guarding.  An ultra-miniaturized 
shield generator provided protection for both itself and its charges.  It 
would have been dismissed an inconsequential, even theorized to be a 
booby trap placed by holographic forces, except for several outstanding 
facts:
	(1)  It was in the interstitial spaces and thus out of reach for the 
holoemitters and inaccessible to the marines,
	(2)  The design was not consistent with species #6101, and 
	(3)  Every junction was so attired, the hardware of which had been 
filched recently from surplus inventory meant for the construction of 
survey probes and body maintenance replacement parts.
	The clues pointed towards a local perpetrator, one by the designation 45 
of 300, nee Weapons.  While Weapons himself denied the accusations, 
several weaker-willed members of his hierarchy readily collapsed under 
scrutiny by Captain and Second.  Confessions flew fast and furious, all 
finger-pointing directed square at the weapons hierarchy head as 
instigator.
	Weapons finally acknowledged he was to blame, and then indicated there 
was no way, other than physically diverting power from upstream primary 
power nodes (all in corridors under holographic control) to shut down the 
defenses.  When questioned directly about the lack of an abort switch, 
Weapons had declared:
	{What is the point of a defensive measure if an enemy can shut it down 
at will by stealing the command codes?  After all, isn't that a common 
Borg method to use against resistance which does construct such foolish 
tactical loopholes?}
	While the other hierarchy heads had to acknowledge the sound strategy, 
they had still been miffed.  Especially Delta, whose body A was currently 
in drone maintenance due to a deep score across a forearm.  The 
nanoprobes had been unable to complete all internal repairs to the level 
of efficiency Delta required of her bodies.
	One might think the Greater Consciousness would be a resource to draw 
upon, but it had other things to attend to.  The Collective was busy many 
elsewheres, other incidents more important in the larger scheme than the 
fate of one distant Exploratory-class vessel, despite its cargo of burnt 
out prototype slipstream engine.  Numerous times Captain had attempted a 
true link to ask for assistance; each try had been rewarded with the Borg 
equivalent of "All circuits are busy right now.  Please hang up and try 
again later."  Therefore, the sub-collective, as usual, was on its own.
	Interstitial effort aborted, a new plan hastily outlined had the 
photonically equipped contingent of the weapon hierarchy fight its way to 
auxiliary core #6, where it would disable the power source.  The 
hologrid, when fully activated, required the minimum output of one core.  
Delta had already secured the other secondary cores via software channels 
(in addition to the actions performed in the initial retreat) and was 
doing likewise for the still operating primary core.  Auxiliary core #6, 
on the other hand, required a more...direct...touch.  Unfortunately, the 
BorgCraft program had now made beaming unreliable and so the weapon 
hierarchy was forced to go on foot across the cube to subsection 13, 
submatrix 15.  
	The initial excursion had proceeding quickly, photonic weapons 
disrupting all two-legged obstacles.  The few marines which came close 
enough to be a threat were not allowed by programming to terminate a 
downed drone; thus severely injured units could be sent to the rear of 
the advancing front, their weapons transferred to a whole tactical drone.  
Unfortunately, the tide began to turn.
	The photonic weapons began to have increasingly less effect, to the 
point the marines merely flickered in response to detonated grenades.  It 
was clear the BorgCraft program had tied itself into general adaptive 
protocols, even as the drone crew itself was denied the same subroutines.  
Frustration!  Still, meter by difficult meter, the holographic soldiers 
were pushed out of the chosen route to auxiliary core #6.  Then the worse 
occurred.
	{What was that?} asked Weapons.  he was closely attuned to the BorgCraft 
program (he had been one of the primary modifiers), and even as command 
and control and assimilation hierarchies attempted to unravel and attack 
corrupted code, he still felt when major changes happened.  Something had 
just occurred, a something that was not going to be advantageous to the 
sub-collective.
	A forward ranging team found itself ambushed, holograms catching the 
five Borg team in a crossfire of an intersecting hallway.  Four of the 
members swiftly stepped back, out of the line of fire, Weapons urging 
them in a back-seat driver manner to toss photonic grenades as a 
diversion.  However, one drone, 270 of 300, went down and did not stand 
back up.  A search of the lattices confirmed 270 of 300's termination.  
Conclusion?  The BorgCraft program had subverted its directive against 
killing drones.
	The rout of the weapon hierarchy back to subsection 8 was swift.

	Weapons was on guard at one of the many junctions between subsection 8 
and subsection 5, corridor 23 to be exact.  The hallway was a primary 
access point into the subsection, and as such, required a constant drone 
presence behind the force field.  The self-imposed task of standing rigid 
while glaring at a marine outpost was not physically taxing, allowing the 
majority of his awareness to participate in devising a new plan of 
attack. 
	Suddenly, background awareness of the external universe cut off.  No 
shadows of stellar phenomenon, no neutrino flux or strange matter bursts 
indicating the normal indigestions of the universe, no tachyon profiles 
of impending temporal shifts.  In other words, no information.  Cube #347 
was flying down a transwarp tunnel blind.
	{Sensors has lost the grid,} reported Sensors after the fact.  {Sensors 
can't see!}
	{No sh**, Sherlock,} scoffed Second dryly.
	Captain exclaimed, {And I can't steer!  No external input!}
	The situation was not quite as dire as one might believe.  The cube knew 
exactly where it had been at the point of blackout, give or take a few 
thousand kilometers.  A detailed starchart had been generated out to 
forty light years, or one day or travel at standard transwarp velocities.  
Beyond that border, however, the map became increasingly fuzzy, small 
icons of "Here Be Dragons" and forgotten pieces of a galactic Risk game 
littering star coordinates and large phenomenon.  Unfortunately, it was 
the small (relatively speaking) potholes which were difficult to avoid in 
transwarp.  Assuming a speed bump did not pop up directly ahead, Cube 
#347 could continue as it was for another day via dead reckoning and a 
decent inertial compass, after which navigation became dicey.
	{Prepare for full stop,} announced Captain calmly.  Overall, it would be 
safer to disengage propulsion and drift in interstellar space until the 
cube was no longer under internal siege.  Admittedly there was a 
non-insignificant chance of dropping from transwarp into the corona of a 
star or among an asteroid swarm, but it was more dangerous to continue to 
the boundary of mapped space and then decide one had to halt.  Captain 
mentally manipulated the internal pathways which would carefully 
terminate transwarp speed.
	Weapons found himself smacking a bulkhead.  He reached out with an 
instinctive grab for a thick bloodvine tendril to support his body.  The 
dataspaces reeled as a power surge sped along the synthetic and organic 
systems of Cube #347.  When Weapons was able to refocus on his 
surroundings, he found his left arm to the shoulder enveloped by a thorn 
encrusted vine.
	"Let go, you stupid excuse for a salad.  You will let go!" muttered 
Weapons at the deaf tendril.  He ripped the trapped limb up and sideways, 
tearing it free.  For good measure, he triggered a volley of disrupter 
fire into the retreating green and silver mass, feeling contentment as 
offending leaves withered to ash.  Satisfied the plant was not to 
retaliate, he began to unwind the vine still attached to his left arm.
	Requests for assistance from those unlucky enough to fall bodily into 
bloodvine clumps flooded the intranet, momentarily overpowering the 
queries of {What happened?}  Weapons added his voice to the latter as he 
surveyed his security field for damage.
	{Photonic insect swarm,} confidently answered Sensors to the masses.  
{Sensors say we went through a swarm as we dropped out of transwarp.}
	Diagnostic programs filtered through cube systems, returning damage 
assessments to the engineering hierarchy like well trained retrieving 
dogs.  Weapons initiated his own set of tools to check cube 
offensive/defensive hardware integrity, followed by a mustering of 
hierarchy signatures and response to questions of personal tactical 
readiness.  Satisfied immediate concerns were adequate, he returned to 
the problem of the four marines he had been glowering at.  Time elapsed 
for the entire dataspace procedure:  five seconds.
	Weapons stared down the hallway, suspicious.  The marine detachment was 
missing.  The haphazard barricade of barrels rolled in from a nearby 
storage room remained, but the soldiers themselves were absent.  Reading 
himself to be shot, possibly terminated for the greater good of the 
Collective, Weapons stepped beyond the protective field.
	Nothing.  It had to be a trap.
	One step.  Two steps.  Fourteen steps brought Weapons to the physical 
barrier located directly under an emitter.  Photonic grenade, next to 
useless, was raised high in preparation to throw.  Still no attack.  Eye 
was elevated to emitter, mental wheels turning as memory file including a 
similar incident involving photonic insects and hologrid was accessed.
	{Computer, status of holoemitters.  Status of BorgCraft program.  
Report.}
	The computer hesitated as it simultaneously processed hundreds of other 
demands, most of higher priority.  {Holoemitters off-line.  BorgCraft 
program offline.}
	{Cause of holoemitter and BorgCraft termination?  Extrapolate.}
	{Unhardened systems are vulnerable to photonic insect swarms.  Most 
probable cause of termination is incompatible energy surge.  Secondary 
cause of termination...} droned the computer as it listed probable 
reasons in decreasing order of probability.  Weapons silenced the 
computer.
	{Sensors has grid access again!} happily reported Sensors into the 
general dataspaces.
	Weapons silently pondered several additional milliseconds before 
deciding analytical thought was not his forte.  He was action orientated 
and would not deeply question the consequence which had led to the abrupt 
conclusion of a problem.  Besides, it could still be a trick.  Everything 
was ultimately a trick.  The universe was out to get him, the 
sub-collective, the Greater Consciousness.
	{Captain,} announced Weapons, {the holographic crisis is ended....}