Paramount by owned is Trek Star
Traks Star by created Decker Alan
BorgSpace about write I

			May You Be One With the Force

	The activity was...odd.  Scary.
	Cube #347 currently sat in the cluttered trailing Trojan point of the 
system's outermost gas giant, grid focused on the bustle of liveliness 
nearly lost in the distant glare of the yellow dwarf.  Except for the 
occasional tractor beam to redirect an icy mountain or the violet flash 
of a thruster, the cube was outwardly dark; however, they were also not 
exerting effort to remain hidden to sensor sweeps.  A metaphor might 
liken the sub-collective's position to be that of a binocular bearing 
neighbor who does not care if others know of his Peeping Tom activities.
	The sub-collective had first been drawn to the unremarkable system, one 
of several dozen similar ones in a fifty light year global radius, by 
Sensors.  She had begun uncharacteristically to complain of a decrease in 
mental efficiency associated with raw grid input from the configuration 
she was experimenting with.  Subjecting herself to increasingly 
debilitating trauma (which no others felt, for once the input was benign, 
seeming to offer no additional information than standard settings), she 
tried to track down the cause of her trouble.  Sensors eventually traced 
her difficulties to a very high concentration of zero point energy 
arrays.  The emissions, normally undetectable if more than fifty light 
hours distant, had been resonating along the specific grid tuning Sensors 
had employed, subsequently affecting synaptic response in her, and only 
her, neural pathways.  Pushing her buttons, one might say.
	Whatever the initial reason, the concentration of energetic residue 
associated solely with mech species #3 piqued the curiosity of the 
Greater Consciousness.  Very much against Captain's desire (or the rest 
of the sub-collective), the cube was compelled to track the origin of the 
concentration and approach.  After Sensors collapsed from cognitive 
overuse prompting her removal to drone maintenance, the Collective pulled 
back, satisfied.  It had other things to attend to, such as determining 
if the serendipitous discovery of long-distance tracking of zero point 
fields could be applied to other vessels.  Cube #347 was left to observe 
and remove itself from any difficulties it might encounter.
	{Until 1 of 3 is back on-line,} announced Captain, {another drone must 
be Sensors.  Initiate random designation generation within sensory 
hierarchy subgrouping.}
	Several rollers, alike to those found on a casino's one-armed bandit, 
shimmered into virtual existence.  For some unknown reason, unedited 
mental impulses created a blond human in sequined dress, arms fluidly 
gesturing towards the wheels in game show eye-candy hostess fashion.  
With a "ding" the wheels commenced to rotate rapidly, then began slowing, 
slowing, slowing...
	Reported Captain, {16 of 422, you are temporary Sensors.}
	The sensory hierarchy groaned.  The decision was not quite as bad as 1 
of 3, but difficulties would be present.  16 of 422 was of species #8004, 
which relied more upon scent and tactile connection with the universe 
than vision; in fact, species #8004 had developed the galaxy's only 
smell-o-scope, a minor technological marvel which translated the 
electromagnetic spectrum to scent.  The hierarchy resigned itself as 16 
of 422 began to fiddle with the grid, tuning it to his liking, prepping 
himself to act as primary node in the interpretation of raw data.  
Despite the sensory hierarchy's general discontent, the end product used 
would not be much different from usual.
	Therefore, the scene was set for the cube's spying.
	{Comet nucleus, terminal intersection thirty minutes,} lazily commented 
tempSensors.
	Weapons said, {I will destroy it!}
	The cube's slow tumble altered slightly with the deft application of 
thrusters.  The comet was no longer a danger.  {No, you will not,} 
returned Captain.
	Weapons impotently fumed, eye peeled for his next chance at needless 
violence.
	Inward at various places within the system's water band - the temperate 
zone where liquid water was possible on a planet given appropriate 
atmosphere and gravity - several habitable planets orbited.  There was no 
possible way the planets could have formed naturally in their current 
track, not without serious penalties of stability resulting in at least 
one, if not more, ejections.  Suspicions were heightened because one 
heavily forested planetoid was in the process of being /towed/ into 
position.  Vast quantities of metallic material was also sprinkled 
throughout the water band, as was the spoor of mech species #3.  Once 
again, the sub-collective shuddered in its nonexistent boots as it 
reminded itself all the reasons tangling with Xenig was Not A Good Thing.  
A race in the planet relocation business could swat aside minor 
annoyances such as an Exploratory-class cube, or the Collective in 
general.  The Borg had yet to attempt, much less master, successful 
translocation of planets containing ecosystems.
	{Spatial disturbance off the port bow!  Smells like company is coming to 
visit,} called out 16 of 422.
	Captain hesitated for several milliseconds.  His favorite viewscreen was 
plainly showing the spatial agitation associated with an approaching warp 
bow wave, but something with tempSensors' pronouncement was wrong.  
Second voiced the nagging concern, {We do not have a port bow.  No Borg 
vessel has a port bow.}
	Said tempSensors, {But I've /always/ wanted to say that.  It's what all 
the space sci-fi shows announce when hostiles are sighted.}
	{You've been watching too much television.}
	{Quiet.  All of you,} interjected Captain as several hundred 
conversations relating to favorite tri-TV programs and subspace radio 
broadcasts suddenly sprang into existence, {and keep to the task at 
hand.}  A choice was provided:  play dead or warm up idling engines in 
preparation for a quick retreat.  While Captain personally championed the 
latter, it was the former which gained favorable consensus.  Sometimes 
Captain envied (very, very rarely) small beings and an oft formed navel 
structure which included an all-powerful captain who could counter crew 
desires.
	The bow wave, now resolvable as several signatures, in question 
collapsed, spitting into the Einsteinian universe thirty-six ships of 
various configurations.  Six vessels were monstrous tugs of unfamiliar 
design, towing one massive ship apiece as well as numerous one- or 
two-man fighters.  In the center of the swarm sat the only recognizable 
ship, a mid-sized Federation merchant freighter so heavily modified it 
was difficult to ascertain its original shape.  Prominent white letters 
of Terran design stretched across the bow, readable despite the several 
million kilometer distance - LucasFilm:  Director's Ship; underneath in 
slightly smaller writing was the freighter's incomprehensible name 
"Jabba."
	It was the huge, arrowhead ships which had Cube #347's attention.  Not 
only would the cube be dwarfed by one of the megaliths, so would most of 
the Borg fleet.  Ranks upon ranks of weapon turrets and apertures studded 
the flanks of the war machines, and dark rectangles piercing the sides 
hinted at phenomenal carrier function.  Ominously, the power source for 
each behemoth was minimal, barely enough to light hallways and instrument 
panels, much less withstand the rigors of fighting; paranoid 
extrapolations of core shielding or new technologies gained momentum 
within the intranets.  One of the vessels, much less a fleet of six 
including possible support ships, could theoretically take a chunk out of 
Borg hide...especially if mech species #3 were also involved in a 
military role.
	What to do?  Had Cube #347 stumbled upon the initial stages of a push of 
some local species (possibly Federation, despite the fact they were tens 
of thousands of light years distant in the Alpha quadrant) to secure the 
region?  Would the effort eventually challenge the Collective?  Could the 
Collective resist?  Was Elvis still alive?  What if the Xenig /were/ 
involved?  How did moving planets figure into the overall picture?  Was 
it possible to reverse engineer Mother Hally's Special Salsa?
	Unanswerable questions, most relevant, swirled in the dataspaces, one 
replacing another in panicked fervor.  The Greater Consciousness had to 
be informed of the observations thus far made, instructions from the 
Whole given to a very, very small Collective cog which was clueless on 
how to proceed.  It was hoped pleading for direction would result in the 
sub-collective staying alive, not orders which might lead to termination.
	Within the morass of confusion, Weapons saw his chance.  The obvious 
path to take was to strike now while the ships were being towed.  The 
tugs were steadily inching towards the Trojan point on impulse, pulling 
their burdens.  No one knew the cube was near, smug confidence of the 
opponent disregarding tactical necessity of active scanning.  The setup 
was perfect for an ambush.
	{Attack!  Bonzai!} yodeled Weapons as he took command of propulsion, 
slamming up barriers to prevent reacquisition by command and control 
until the cube was committed.  The rest of his hierarchy rapidly fell 
into line, eagerness to battle one of the primary reasons - among a list 
which also included suicidal tendencies - the various drones had been 
placed in their present position.
	The cube charged out of hiding, leaping to high impulse followed by 
several milliseconds of warp one.  Comet nuclei and rocky debris smashed 
against shields, either pulverized or flung into new solar orbits.  
Luckily none of the inanimate victims were of a size for role reversal to 
leave Cube #347 a disintegrating wreck.  The cube slowed to an almost 
stop as it neared the unreactive cluster, rapidly coasting while 
diverting power to weapons.  Command and control had propulsion back, but 
it was too late to seek options other than attack.
	Like a whirling dervish, Cube #347 spun through the loaded tugs, 
multiple weapon locks seeking the giant targets being pulled behind.  
Torpedo after torpedo, disrupter after disrupter poured into ivory hulls; 
a cutting beam smoothly sliced a two-man fighter into quarters.  
Explosions wracked the insides of the giant vessels as decks explosively 
decompressed and bulkheads buckled to crushing vacuum.  Five of the ships 
disappeared in vast balls of quickly extinguished flame; the final 
behemoth literally fell into pieces.
	No return fire was in evidence.  Cube #347 and its piloting 
sub-collective were not /that/ good.
	{Wait, wait!} called tempSensors, failing to capture Weapons' attention.  
{The targets are not real!  They are...are mostly cheap metal overlaying 
a framework in which is embedded an engine just sufficient to move the 
entire mass in-system.  They are fakes, forgeries...life-sized models.}  
TempSensors frantically put up appropriate profiles, circling the key 
indices which supported his conclusions.  Weapons continued to ignore the 
temporary head of the sensory hierarchy, switching target systems to the 
tugs and modified freighter.
	Suddenly Cube #347 was held in the grip of a very strong tractor beam, 
one which was emitted from yet another giant ship which was suddenly 
/there/.  Systems powered down as energy was leached from the cube; the 
drain was not enough to cause total failure, but Captain was forced to 
diverted power to more crucial areas and away from superfluous systems 
such as weapons.  Subspace crackled, then popped as an audio-only 
transmission was intercepted between freighter and captor.  The voice was 
Terran.
	"Damn it, Foss, you know better than to take one of the working shells 
out for a spin!  The loss was inconsequential, easily fixed.  The desert 
sets are ready to go and we could have started there.  Obviously the 
space battle scene will have to be postponed until we tow in additional 
expendable models."
	The reply from large vessel was an incomprehensible bass mumble with 
overtones of apology.  The sensor grid was reading the unique subspace 
signature of mech species #3 emanating from deep within the unusual 
chassis, as well as readings which were more than sufficient to energize 
the multiple Ways To Die which lined swept-back flanks.
	"Foss, go drop them off somewhere.  Just think of the loss as an act of 
nature.  I'm going to write it off as such on the budge sheet.  I don't 
want to have any deaths on my conscious, so don't even /think/ of blowing 
them up or 'accidentally' leaving them in another universe.  The 
scuttlebutt will get back to me, and then I'll just have to dock your 
pay...or ask you to leave the set."
	Sullen silence was the answer.
	The next the sub-collective knew, they were 257 light years from their 
place of origin.

	Seven time periods following ejection, Cube #347 found itself back in 
the star system, back in the same Trojan point to be exact.  Most of the 
sub-collective would have been perfectly satisfied to call survival a 
good thing and continue towards BorgSpace, but the Greater Consciousness 
had other considerations, of which mere survival was not relevant.  The 
Collective required information to thrive, and Exploratory-class cubes 
were designed for exploration.  And expendability.  Potential data 
outweighed the trek to bring the melted quantum slip-stream drive home.
	Seven time periods was also plenty to fix 1 of 3 and reinstall her as 
head of the sensory hierarchy.  She did not like what she found.
	{Sensors say this is a mess!  How could you work in this sty, 16 of 422?  
Even the spectra files have been mislabeled; and the anomalies are out of 
order.  The configurations are wrong.  Wrong, wrong, [puce pencil] wrong.  
The reds are all [bumblebee]...}  The list continued to unreel.  {Sensors 
will be forced to set the grid to factory standard until she finds order 
in this chaos.  The following designations will correctly sequence 
stellar evolution.}
	16 of 422 was carefully attempting to hide the fact he and several 
others had purposefully trashed everything so that the grid would be 
forced to remain at standard settings for several days.  Captain shook 
his head (he was well aware of what had occurred) and regarded his 
viewscreen.  He would not begrudge the sensory hierarchy time off from 
Sensors' experiments; and for once his screen did not look like abstract 
art from a mental institution for the blind.
	On the opposite side of the system, in an area unnaturally free of 
rocks, dust, and other normal dross, a battle of sorts was occurring.  
Three of the monster ships were being swarmed by numerous fighters with 
rough "X" and "Y" configurations.  Neither side fired at the other.  
Occasionally action would halt, small opponents retreating towards 
several ungainly carriers of improbable shape, before recommencing /the 
same series of choreographed unmayhem/.
	Miscellaneous craft observed the scene, unconcerned for their 
thin-hulled welfare.  One class of object, golden metallic globes likely 
computer-controlled as they were too small to hold both pilot and 
life-support machinery, flitted throughout the battle, pivoting and 
dodging craft which passed nearby.  Several larger manned ships of 
uncertain function sat at the periphery of what was increasingly apparent 
to be a mock or practice battle.  Further distant, three tugs clustered.  
Aloof from all, a lone freighter identifiable as Jabba held in an 
overwatch position "above" the action.  
	Two additional behemoths were located three hundred thousand kilometers 
from the skirmish, neither helping nor hindering their counterparts.  
While the trio under attack sported the same minimum energy signature as 
of those ships destroyed seven time periods previous, the two radiated 
the standard profile of mech species #3.  Relatively nearby, several 
medium-sized asteroids floated, dark scars crisscrossing jagged surfaces.  
As Cube #347 watched (scanners locked on the mock battle as well), an 
absurdly weak laser lanced out to melt a series of black dashes on the 
rock's surface.  One might say it was the action of the terminally bored.
	Cube #346 had been compelled to enter deeper into the system, but the 
specifics were left to the sub-collective.  Destination?  After several 
long minutes of reviewing pros and cons, the desert planet was chosen.  
In addition to (1) its location furthest from ongoing maneuvers and (2) 
paucity of Xenig signatures, orbital hardware in general was relatively 
scarce.  Spectral analysis of the globe's distant atmosphere confirmed 
presence of sentient habitation.  The next problem revolved around how to 
approach without tripping hostile sensor sweeps.
	The Borg were not known for their subtlety, which was not to say they 
were unaware of cloaking technology.  In fact, the Collective knew of 
thirty-seven separate methods of hiding a structure in plain sight, as 
well as several hundred variations upon the original themes.  Many 
assimilated civilizations had devised techniques to spy on neighbors, or 
to surprise an enemy during war; and the chance of success in simple 
piracy was also greater when techniques of deceit were employed.  
However, the Borg rarely employed cloaking, finding it an unnecessary 
expenditure of energy; psychologically, the ominous approach of an armada 
of cubes did more to break resistance than sudden appearance.
	Delta was unusually hesitant, {Yes, my hierarchy can devise a cloak.  
Species #6451 routinely hid asteroid colonies from the Collective during 
final assimilation, and their technology can be adapted to our purpose.  
The mechanism was built to disguise large objects.}
	{But...?} queried Captain, imaging himself rolling one hand in an "out 
with it" gesture.
	{But Borg vessels rarely use such technologies.  The last recorded 
adaptation of any cloaking device was 1018 years ago during the 
assimilation of species #5337.  Both power matrixes and transwarp coils 
have undergone several upgrades since then.  Theoretically it is possible 
to outfit ourselves with the required device, but it may not be prudent,} 
said Delta.
	Captain deliberated, then returned, {And since when have we, or any 
other Exploratory-class Cube #347 iteration, been prudent?}
	{True,} acknowledged Delta.  {Engineering hierarchy complies.}

	{The lights have died!} whined 140 of 203, who was wary (Borg were never 
scared...it was undignified) of the dark.
	{Temperature is approaching 50 degrees centigrade on our alcove tier,} 
called multiple voices One in complaint.
	{Gravity is .2 gees.  No, 1.7 gees.  1.3 gees.  A shade under .4 gees.}
	{There is a light at the end of the tunnel, and it burns!}
	Subunit #522:  {It is raining in Bulk Cargo Hold #3.}
	Captain frowned, then physically nudged Second.  "Stop playing with the 
subunit.  The system fluctuations are not that bad, and you know it."
	Second managed to look as innocent as an outwardly emotionless cyborg 
could even as internally he returned humidity and other environmental 
factors to the norm.  The deluge in the cargo bay stopped.
	{Delta,} barked Captain, {make it work before someone sees us.}
	Delta directed the five drones assisting body A at the central cloak 
node to pick up wrenches.  {Making final adjustments....}  She 
unholstered her own tool from her right hip utility repository.  The 
wrench's new coat of paint chipped into black flecks as a steady tempo of 
pounding commenced.  The integrator, a master for the twelve actual 
cloaking devices installed on the hull, squealed an electronic protest 
under the abuse before beginning to function correctly.  {Done.}
	Captain sampled random stasis reports throughout the cube.  Other than 
18 of 20 complaining about the blue elephants which were trying to get 
him to sign a petition (perfectly normal for 18 of 20), all systems had 
settled to their normal operating parameters.  Rather suddenly in the 
case of malfunctioning gravity grid in subsection 26, submatrix 18, but 
the resultant cleanup would provide productive activity.  It was probably 
for the best not to inquire why corned beef hash and gravy was knee deep 
in the hallways of that area.  
	Within the dataspaces, a new "button" had appeared in Captain's mental 
webbing which was cube navigation and propulsion.  Bits and bytes 
resolved to be the phrase "cloak on,"  while code streamers led away to 
the metadistance, twining into the software guts of multiple systems.  
Shrugging, Captain engaged the cloak.  The worst which could happen would 
be for Cube #347 to blow up.
	The cube did not blow up.  It did, however, vanish from observing sensor 
grids, should any be directed (none were) at it.  Despite the monumental 
effort to replicate parts and adapt them for use, everything appeared to 
be functioning perfectly.  For once.  It was now time to proceed inward.
	The slow trip towards the desert planet - leisurely speed necessary to 
insure adequate functionality of the cloak - allowed plenty of time to 
engage in passive gathering of data from the warring contestants.  
Shortly it was apparent the trio of vessels at the center of the mock 
battle were nothing more than empty hulls, vast props with just enough of 
a core to power several batteries of lasers more show than weapon.  The 
tugs had been towing the giants for the simple reason that they had as 
much maneuvering capacity as a rock.  The pair of ships with Xenig 
signatures, on the other hand, appeared to be fully functional; exact 
armaments were impossible to determine without an active scan, which in 
turn would give away the cube's stealthy advance.  The fighters, the only 
other vessels of concern, were inconsequential, too small to support 
weapons able to penetrate shields and too few for noteworthy ganging.
	Still, something was wrong, something perfumed the air with rotten 
odors...and it wasn't an hallucination originating from grids newly 
realigned to Sensors' specifications.  The system was contrived, several 
Xenig were in evidence, and Federation influence was a distinct 
probability.  Whatever the variables summed, it was unlikely the outcome 
would favor Exploratory-class Cube #347.  Perhaps answers were to be 
found on the desert planet.

	Ten drones - including Second, much to his disgust - materialized in the 
middle of the street of the only population center on the planet.  From 
orbit, it had been possible to see the skeletal structures of other 
points of interest, but most life signs were currently concentrated in 
what appeared to be a backwater starport trading locus, with touches of 
western cowboy minus hat and horse.  On the ground, species of all sorts 
- known and unknown, sentient and animal - trod the sandy byways, holding 
loud conversations.  While all manner of dress was in evidence, a good 
third of the beings were not only human, but wore the clothes and 
standard toolbelt of maintenance technicians.  The latter ignored their 
alien counterparts, busily towing heavy equipment and construction 
materials around on floating dollies.
	{Why do I always seem to be on these ridiculous "away" missions?} 
directed Second to Captain, who remained on the cloaked cube.  He shifted 
a foot and tried to unobtrusively scour off reddish-gray stuff with the 
sand underneath.  {And why did I have to materialize in s**t?}
	Captain, busy with his normal task of organic switching board, wisely 
decided to not answer.  Of greater concern floating within the dataspaces 
was why no one given the arrival of ten hostiles more than a passing 
glance.
	A woman, Bajoran, exited one of the many low buildings bordering the 
street.  Clothing was casual attire, appropriate for 
businesswoman-on-the-go, dusted with the sandy grime endemic to the 
planet.  A hand was raised to shadow her eyes from the sun's glare, 
peering towards the Borg.  Examination done, she quickly punched a few 
buttons of a PADD, read the output, then hurried towards the group, 
adroitly dodging a heavily loaded pallet.  A fancy Bajoran-style earring 
sparkled in the sunlight.
	"You!" barked the woman, pointing at a startled Second.  "Yah, you.  
You're extras, right?  Some local race, right?  Just in, right?"  The 
words tumbled forth, giving Second no chance to respond.  "Well, you're 
early, like half the wannabe yahoos here.  Mr. Lucas is busy prepping for 
a space battle scene right now, and won't be back for several days while 
we finish up the set.  The cantina," the Bajoran gestured with her head, 
"is down the street, can't miss it.  Fully functional, but if you get 
drunk and break something, the repair bill will come out of your 
paycheck, such as it is.  Quartermaster is busy wrapping up details at 
Obi's place, but he'll be back within a couple of hours.  You'll find him 
in building 2C; register with him before sunset for your ID badge, 
bunkhouse assignment, food chit, and payroll."  The PADD beeped, and the 
woman hurried away without a backwards glance, disappearing inside one of 
several otherwise nondescript buildings.
	With the woman and her commanding presence gone, the ten Borg felt free 
to peer around.  Several suggestions from the cube prompted one or 
another drone to pan eyes and other sensory systems along an object or 
individual, building the cubeside database.  It quickly became apparent 
the bustle of a busy port was an illusion, one primarily woven around an 
extensive array of holographic projectors.  Technicians blithely walked 
through several multi-ton draft lizards and their heavily laden carts, 
ignoring a brawl between two creatures which could be classified as 
humanoid only by a long stretch of Collective imagination.  Sprinkled 
among the holograms were a very real hodgepodge of simple robots 
performing repetitive tasks such as trundling up and down the street.  
Real people, non-human, also walked the chaotic avenue on personal 
errands, ignoring techs and mirages alike.
	Examination of the street, after selectively erasing light projections 
from awareness via sonic filtering, revealed many oddly dressed humanoids 
centered around the building identified as cantina.  Jazzy music emanated 
from the door's darkened depths.  Individuals in various states of 
drunkenness occasionally stumbled onto the street, blinking at the bright 
sunlight before staggering towards an unknown destination.  After a quick 
conference, Second found himself leading his group towards the business.  
Bars were one of the universe's premier locales to gather information 
quickly.
	{30 of 39, 41 of 79, 25 of 212, 93 of 300, remain outside,} directed 
Second.  The four nodded, halting midstep.  Second groaned.  "And try to 
blend in," he added verbally.  The foursome looked at each other, then 
took up position to either side of the doorway before locking joints.  
They looked like statues, which was better than nothing.  
	Second led the remaining five inside the cantina, optics instantly 
adjusting for the dark lighting and smoky atmosphere.  Sentients of 
multiple types, most readily identifiable, lounged at bar, table, and 
booth, conversing animatedly.  The six were not afforded a second glance, 
nor even a first in many cases, merely a grunt of annoyance at the 
outside momentarily permeated the cocooned inside.  Instruments on a 
stage sat forgotten, waiting for players; the current jazz ensemble was a 
recording, blasting from strategically placed speakers.
	At the back of the bar, a ferret-like biped stretched its long neck high 
to observe the newcomers.  Its eyes went wide in shock.  Almost 
immediately, four of what was classified as species #6970, Sphinxian, 
disappeared in the direction of what presumably was the inevitable 
backdoor.  Several minutes later, the cloaked cube registered a ship 
breaking orbit, speeding away from the planet at warp 6; it did not 
attempt to contact any other ship in its haste to retreat.  The presence 
of supposedly assimilated species #6970 was noted for future reference.
	Meanwhile, Second had other matters to attend to, namely a human at a 
table near the dart boards trying to gain his attention.  Second led his 
group towards the gesturing male, easily cutting a wake through the 
crowd.  He stopped a meter from the human, who was bedecked in beard and 
wearing a brown robe with cowl thrown back to shoulders.  The man nodded 
amicably, the slightest of shakes noticeable in the hand held out in 
Terran cultural greeting.
	"Hey there, you must be...let's see if I have the pronunciation down 
right, Ty'greaz.  Glad you could make it, glad to see my contacts managed 
to finagle an 'extra' position for you and your clan colleagues.  So, you 
have the package for me?"  The hand was pulled back in modest 
embarrassment.
	Second peered closely at the human while 8 of 83 gave the intranet 
equivalent of wrinkling her nose.  8 of 83's species had a very good 
sense of smell, which was often employed by the Collective in various 
functions.  {This human has consumed more than alcohol or the 
recreational drugs being sold by the bartender,} said 8 of 83.  The 
chemical structure was undergoing rapid breakdown in the datapaces by a 
subset of engineering.  {The chemical is unknown, and more than likely 
illegal.}
	The human misinterpreted Second's neutral expression.  "Excuse me, 
Ty'greaz.  Of course you want my identification."  He patted his robe, as 
if looking for something, finally retrieving a stained wallet.  "Here, 
you can examine this.  I am the handsome devil seen in the ID picture - 
Alexander Carlson.  Or, as I'll be known Mr. Lucas' grand remaking of his 
umpteenth great-grandfather's masterpiece, the elder Obi Wan Kanobi."  
Alexander paused, then asked once more, "So, do you have my package?"
	An unknown bipedal alien built like a brick wall and sporting a fringe 
of blue tentacles surrounding its mouth bumped into 87 of 212.  87 of 
212, of the weapons hierarchy and no small bulkhead himself, held his 
ground, resisting the forceful nudge.  "You havea probleem?" drunkenly 
slurred the indigo alien, one of its three eyes glazed in alcoholic 
stupor.
	Second ignored the distraction, "We are not who..." he began.
	Interrupted Alexander, "You know, you remind me of something.  My 
contact said your race often used cybernetic enhancements, but that seems 
to be a bit much."  He began to unsteadily snap his fingers.  "No, don't 
tell me.  I'll get it.  I bet all the races make the same comparison.  On 
the tip of my tongue."
	"I seed, you havea probleem, busteer?"
	"B...bu...bur...no, no hints Ty'greaz."
	"Are you even leestenin to me?  Are you, deepwad?"
	"I know," brightly shouted Alexander with the force of one mildly 
inebriated, drawing a few curious glances his way, "you look exactly like 
a Borg!"  At the same time, the belligerent alien threw a not 
inconsiderable punch at 87 of 212's face.  As if this was a sign, the bar 
erupted into the general chaos only very bored actors or off-duty 
security could attain.  The cantina held both.
	"Ouweee!" howled Brick Wall Alien as it writhed in pain.  87 of 212 had 
caught the incoming fist and was now crushing it with a cybernetically 
augmented hand.  Brick Wall Alien was on its knees.  "OWWWWWWWW!"
	Both 135 of 300 and 251 of 300 went down under the bodies of a traveling 
brawl, heaving the pile upwards as they struggled to stand.  Meanwhile, 8 
of 83 spun, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge the waist high six-limbed 
member of species #7294 which had attached himself to her back.  Second 
swung out an arm to grab Alexander's robe.
	"Hey!" protested pseudoObi, mild drunkenness rapidly evaporating.  
"Costume will have my hide if this gets ripped!  Let go of me, or else 
I'll be forced to use this lightsaber on you.  And it really works!  I 
have the money for the package, and I will pay, so you don't have to get 
so pushy!"
	"We are not Ty'greaz," harshly uttered Second.  He was currently in an 
eddy of relative peace, five other points of view showing his 
surroundings.  The four drones outside reported the imminent arrival of 
police.  "We are Borg.  You will tell us the purpose of the Federation in 
this system.  You will tell us the reason Federation and Xenig, mech 
species #3, are assisting each other."
	Alexander blinked.  "Borg?  Federation?  Are you kidding?  Did you 
sample my package?"  Second shook the human roughly, then stumbled as 87 
of 212 backed into him, fending off two of Brick Wall Alien's buddies.  
With head down and arms wide in classic Jhad-ball pose, 87 of 212 rushed 
the pair, too preoccupied in the brawl to consider the prudent option of 
assimilation.  The sound of sirens permeated the air.  "There's no 
Federation here!  Mr. Lucas is filming episodes IV through VI of Star 
Wars.  I'm just an actor, and this system is just a movie set!  Oh, 
s**t!"
	Second saw the incoming bottle out of the corner of an eye, felt it 
impact his skull.  It did no damage, although several long shards of 
glass were now embedded in cranial and neck armor.  "What is purpose of 
the Xenig?"
	"Hired help!  Techs and actors!" screamed Alexander as he tried to curl 
into a fetal ball.  The position was impossible given he was being held 
several centimeters off the ground.  Another bottle struck Second in his 
back, followed by a chair; he staggered.  8 of 83 had dislodged her 
six-limbed leech, and was currently helping 87 of 212 in dispatching his 
growing number of eager combatants.
	{The cops are here,} notified 41 of 79.  {They do not look thrilled.  
That Bajoran woman is out here too, and she is even less happy.}  41 of 
79 relayed angry shouting by the Bajoran for security to gas the place 
and sort out the brawlers in lockup.
	"This is our exit," muttered Second, triggering beam out sequence.
	Alexander squirmed as he caught the words, "What about me?  This is my 
big break."  His eyes glazed as Second automatically triggered his 
tubules, sending a rush of nanoprobes into the actor.  The nanites went 
to immediate work, first order of business tranquilizing their new host.  
Data from the human would be useful, but it obviously could not be 
extracted in the current locale.
	Ten plus one dematerialized to the wailing of sirens and the soft chuff 
of exploding gas canisters.

	The peace and quiet of orbit did not last long.  The beginnings of cloak 
failure allowed those on the surface and the few ships over the planet to 
put two and two together, arriving at Borg.  Exploratory-class Cube #347 
could not jam all the frantic cries for assistance.  It was time to 
leave.
	{Subunit #522, report on progress of new drone.  Is additional data 
forthcoming?} ordered Captain.  
	Thus far, the human who used to be designated Alexander had related an 
amazing tale.  Mr. Gary Lucas was of direct descent from a legendary 
Terran filmmaker of the name George Lucas.  In the late 20th and early 
21st century, Earth reckoning, Lucas senior had spun a cinematic saga of 
a galactic empire; and now, the current Lucas (a very, very, very rich 
Lucas) was preparing to re-release the epic, all filmed as true-to-life 
as possible.  The Federation had no devious plans in the works.  In fact, 
the locale of the staging system was a need-to-know secret, hidden from 
the prying eyes of rabid fans.  The Xenig, as Alexander had said in the 
cantina, were nothing more than help hired on as technicians 
(specializing in planetoid relocation and reconstruction) and actors.
	Subunit #522 replied, {Drone is undergoing processing.  We require 
several components to properly adapt this unit.}  
	Captain sighed.  The increasingly erratic subunit was practically 
gushing eagerness to rebuild its numbers.  If it wasn't broken up soon 
and drone components absorbed by Borg normal sub-collectives, it might 
pass beyond the fine point which was assimilation imperfection and into 
the realm of required termination.  The period of protracted 
self-isolation had done it no good.  {Subunit #522, log your requests 
with assimilation hierarchy.  Then...well, then, go have a long chat in 
the Greater Consciousness.  Your mental signature is becoming disturbing, 
even for this sub-collective.}
	{We are perfectly functional,} slashed the hostile(!) response.  A list 
of required assemblies was dispatched to the proper hierarchy, then 
partitions dropped once more.  The subunit did not widen its nominal 
vinculum connection with the Collective.
	An alert flashed through the dataspaces:  spatial-temporal wake 
heralding the eminent arrival of a Xenig mech.  Data collected and 
relayed to the Collective highlighting the irrelevance of the system, it 
was time to be elsewhere.  Far elsewhere.
	Captain accepted the navigational plot from sensory hierarchy 
starcharts, locking coordinates.  Transwarp engines surged from low idle 
to active as power was diverted into the coils and away from the 
superfluous cloak.  Engage.
	Cube #347, now quite visible without the burnt out cloak, continued to 
orbit the desert planet.  The ship had gone nowhere fast.
	{Diagnostic,} snapped Captain.
	Delta:  {Coils fried due to cloak.  Delayed consequence of cloak 
technology.}
	Captain initiated warp nacelles.  Engage at warp 8.
	Cube #347 traveled precisely 2.34 AU, coming to unforeseen rest in the 
middle of the system's asteroid belt.  A very large rock glanced off 
shields, shaking the superstructure.
	{Diagnostic,} ordered Captain once more.
	Delta:  {Warp core off-lined due to cloak.  Delayed consequence of cloak 
technology and toasting of coils.  Do not suggest using backup cores, as 
all will fail eventually under the stress of warp.}  Pause.  {It will be 
quicker to replace coils with spares than repair the warp cores.}
	{Do it.  Time to completion?}
	{Ninety-six minutes to replace sufficient coils to allow transwarp 
velocity.}
	Ninety-six minutes.  A lot could occur in ninety-six minutes, including 
the destruction of the cube.
	Sensors announced, {Xenig signature forming eighty thousand kilometers 
off face #2.}  
	Yes, a lot could occur.

	The one, and only one, thing in Cube #347's favor was the large size of 
the Xenig chassis following in what was becoming an extended stern chase.  
The two "star destroyers" were outwardly, and for the most part inwardly, 
authentic machines with the same capabilities designed for movies by the 
original Lucas.  However, the current Lucas had decided it was too 
expensive to train and pay a crew to fly his mobile sets, and contracted 
to mech species #3 to build an appropriate hull for a Xenig actor to fly.  
The Xenig shipyards had done so, additionally installing standard 
folded-space drive, zero-point array, and other associated devices, none 
of which was exteriorly visible, and thus unimportant during filming.  
Interior shots included pertinent actors and extras, but usually the 
chassis were empty of passengers.  The star destroyer chassis were also 
not the Xenig actors' normal and much smaller bodies, to which the duo 
had had no time to return to prior to folding to the desert planet.  Even 
Xenig-enhanced, the chasing behemoths had to dodge those rocks Cube #347 
could slip by, or else court danger.
	{Enemy within grapple distance,} noted Sensors.
	{Initiating auxiliary core #5,} intoned Captain fatalistically.  One by 
one as the cover of rocks failed, Captain had randomly chosen coordinates 
and engaged one of the remaining warp drives.  Delta was not a happy 
camper, for while the operation did not affect coil replacement 
operations, it did mean less emergency power for the cube and additional 
maintenance work if the cube survived to escape.
	Whined Weapons, {No!  I would have destroyed the target this time!  I 
would have at least made a scratch!}  The firing of munitions, mostly 
torpedoes and anti-matter mines as well as a couple of hastily built 
tri-cobalt devices, had not been successful.  The star destroyer hull was 
as unmarred as the day it had been manufactured. 
	Only sixteen more minutes to survive.
	Warp drive engaged, cutting out 2.34 AU later, stressing inertial 
dampers at the sudden deceleration.  A conduit deep in subsection 17 
exploded.  Automatic systems rerouted power to secondary pathways; no 
loss of efficiency in weaponry or shield nodes in the subsection.  Delta 
dutifully awoke eight more drones from regeneration, dispatching the crew 
to survey and repair the mess.
	The sensory hierarchy rapidly built up a real-time three-dimensional map 
of the area, searching for the densest regions of belt asteroids.  The 
Xenig tended to have a pursuit lag time of up to two minutes, which 
allowed for Cube #347 to hie to cover.  In addition to rock, the grid 
also picked up several rapidly approaching objects.
	{Incoming!} called Sensors.  Visual and gravimetric profiles flooded the 
dataspaces, vital information threads crossed to cause a large mess.  
	Captain was not quite sure if the intruders were a threat, was quite 
sure the intruders were not the amorphous green blobs his viewscreen 
pictured, but there was literally no time to reprimand Sensors.  The two 
mech species #3 were due to arrive momentarily and it was best if the 
cube was elsewhere.  He aimed the ship at an asteroid 108 thousand 
kilometers distant.  It was large enough to have its own craters, solid 
enough to sport caves, dense enough to retain a thin atmosphere.
	The intranets echoed with Second's {Oh, crap} as hierarchical 
subgroupings red-flagged several incongruities.  As a rule, asteroids did 
not sport atmospheres; and the rock's contours were too perfectly carved.  
Cube #347 was heading towards a constructed object.  Frantic prodding of 
subunit #522 commenced, which in turn interrogated used-to-be-Alexander 
and confirmed artificiality.
	As the Xenig star destroyers folded into existence resolution on the 
other ships sharpened, sensory hierarchy rendering Sensors' grid settings 
into coherence.  The lead ship, Millennium Falcon scrawled on an 
off-colored hull plate, was roughly a thick disk, studded with 
protrusions.  Ungainly cockpit and deflector dish? stuck out from the 
main body, providing excellent targets.  Chasing behind were three globes 
with vertical wings - small fighters looking like stubby H's.  The 
elongated procession towards the unnatural rock was Cube #347, Millennium 
Falcon, flying H's, finally followed by Xenig.
	"What the hell is that /thing/ doing in my shot?!" screamed a familiar 
voice, now identifiable as Mr. Gary Lucas, over open subspace channels.  
"I thought you two said you had the situation under control!  Get that 
freaking Borg out of here!"
	One of the H's impacted a tumbling rock, turning into a brief fireball.  
The same obstacle smashed onto the shields of the rapidly accelerating 
star destroyers, disintegrating to millions of shards.  The two remaining 
fighters peeled off, aiming towards the modified freighter Jabba, which 
until now had been hidden among the sensor echoes of a swarm of iron-rich 
asteroids.  Several golden orbs, recognizable as cameras from the 
information trickling from subunit #522 as Alexander's assimilation 
progressed, rose from surrounding rocks and scattered.  The target loomed 
closer.
	{Eight minutes,} answered Delta to bombarding inquiries, {is what it 
will take.  Now let us do our work here while the rest of you keep us in 
more or less one piece.}
	{I think that human may burst a blood vessel,} commented Second.  He had 
retreated to the general physical stability of his alcove, leaving 
Captain alone in the nodal intersection.
	The Millennium Falcon's pilot demonstrated high maneuverability as the 
ship dodged between a pair of rocks before firing a burst of railgun 
accelerated projectiles.  He abruptly veered off as Cube #347 replied 
with a narrowly missing cutting beam.  Subspace filled with a harangue 
directed at the pilot over risking vital props, especially a functional 
one which would eventually be worth countless credits at a memorabilia 
auction.
	Weapons sighed, {Apologies.  Cutting emitter #23 is misaligned; it must 
be fixed.}
	{Live with it,} snarled Delta to the unvoiced demand that the equipment 
required immediate servicing.  {There are more important systems to 
repair.  Five minutes to transwarp functionality.}
	The target asteroid loomed closer; vectors were adjusted such that the 
cube would skim the nearly airless surface within a huge crater, near a 
large cave entrance.  The clutter would foul attempts by the Xenig to 
lock tractor beams.  Transwarp was projected to be ready when the cube 
crested the far crater wall.
	"Not the rock!  If a ring on Fluffy's epidermis is harmed, I give full 
authorization to kill that cube.  Fluffy is an intelligent, endangered, 
and very difficult to obtain creature; Borg are anything but rare."
	Fluffy?
	The cube was now hurling across the floor of the crater, the asteroid of 
a size to be a transplanted moon and not a native rock.  The too bulky 
star destroyers did not follow, satisfied with gaining ground via the 
high road.  The cave at the far crater wall rose, signaling the finish 
line.  Something flashed in the cavern's dark depths, the something of 
living hide dully reflecting starlight and the primary's distant rays.
	{Fluffy!} delightedly crowed Doctor as the rest of the sub-collective 
watched in shock as a monstrous animal emerged.  The gigantic toothed maw 
opened in a huge gape, eyeless condition no detriment to accurate 
grabbing.  Several torpedoes and phaser bursts impacted in and around the 
beast, dealing only superficial damage.  Then the threat was past, left 
behind as Captain goosed the engines.  Jaws crashed closed with the 
finality of an unheard aerial earthquake; robust limbless body retreated 
into its tunnel home.  The cube cleared the crater.
	{Coils replaced,} announced Delta.
	{Initiating transwarp.  Input destination - anywhere but here,} 
mechanically said Captain as he manipulated internal systems.  Cube #347 
vanished into overdrive.

	"Sorry boss," said Foss.  Both actor mechs were in orbit over Tatoonee 
in their normal chassis; the star destroyers were in spacedock having the 
stresses of hot pursuit repaired.  "Me and Toin would have had the 
intruding bugger, except for it taking off in transwarp like that.  It's 
a big galaxy out there, and we couldn't follow without knowing or being 
able to sight upon the exiting locale."  The Xenig's rambling apology 
stumbled to a halt.
	Gary was on the planet, sorting out the mess from the cantina brawl.  
Many of the actors and extras would require several days of recuperation, 
but the delay in filming would not be a problem as there were always 
other scenes which could be shot instead.  Unfortunately Alexander was 
gone, which meant Obi was gone.  The actor had had the right look, but 
his personality and habit of disappearing at the most inopportune times 
were more than annoying.  He had been warned that he could be replaced if 
necessary, and would be replaced if he vanished again without giving 
notice.  Gary told his Bajoran assistant to go find another Obi pronto, 
then turned his attention to the silent mech.
	"It is okay, Foss.  The important thing is that the cube is gone."  Gary 
paused to affix his thumbprint signature to a requisition form shoved in 
his face by the quartermaster then returned to the hand-held link.  "How 
is the reconstruction work doing out at Fluffy's den?  And is Endor in 
place yet?"
	"Ruy reports she has completed repairs, although Fluffy ate two of her 
submechs.  The crew at Endor is doing final positioning work now and 
believes they can achieve a fifty thousand year orbital stability.  I 
know you don't care about the mechanics of system construction, and that 
the planets will be returned to their original systems or auctioned off 
when filming is complete, but the engineers find it a source of pride in 
stabilizing such a complex contract.  Basic ecology appears intact, 
although it will be necessary to bring in organic scientists to confirm."
	Gary ducked the tail of a pack lizard, one of several real specimens 
gengineered for scenes where the audience would require authenticity, and 
as templates for the background holographic beasts.  The placid lizard 
gave a rumbling belch.  "Whatever.  I'll send in the ecologists as soon 
as the tech crew is finished.  Foss, why don't you and Toin head over to 
the on-site shipyard and..."