Come, all ye mortals, and listen to the proclamations of the spirits!  
Paramount is owner of Star Trek.  A. Decker created Star Traks.  M. 
Meneks developed BorgSpace.  This is CrystalVision, signing off.


			Beyond the Grave

	The hallucinations, the ghosts, the echoes from another page of the 
multiverse, the whatever were becoming worse.  The incidents had not 
reached plague proportion, and would not soon assuming rate of increase 
remained constant, but the fact they were happening at all was 
troublesome.
	The cause of the events continued to be an unknown.  Both Doctor and 
Assimilation insisted blame could not be placed on implants or 
hardware/organic interfaces.  Sensors maintained no exterior influence 
was visiting the cube; and Delta claimed interior sensors did not capture 
manifestations.  Days would pass without sighting a single "imaginary" 
drone, then a rash of mystery Borg would surface.  When queried for their 
uptake on the matter, subunit #522 sullenly refused to answer, plunging 
itself ever deeper into its neurotic self-imposed isolation.
	Delta repeatedly dismissed the sightings until she herself had 
experienced a close encounter.  Body A had been moving down a corridor in 
subsection 10, responding to a mild fluctuation in the primary plasma 
coupling between warp nacelle segment 1a and segment 1b.  Of a thousand 
engineering drones, only a tenth were qualified (i.e. responsible) to 
service coupling joints between the tri-segmented warp nacelles.  The 
segmentation allowed one fully functional nacelle to seamlessly pass 
transport duties to the next segment in line as it became fatigued, thus 
allowing indefinite ability to speed around the galaxy at warp factors a 
shade under the magic ten mark.  One invading thought, though, one 
misplaced impulse to see what happens when the blue wire is switched with 
the yellow one, and a quarter of Cube #347 would be vaporized, if not 
more.  At the juncture in question, Delta paused:  she had seen herself.
	Delta seeing herself was not unusual, not when one mind was shared 
between two bodies.  Technically, Delta saw herself everyday.  However, 
she did not typically see both bodies industriously dismantling an unseen 
object, the consequence of which was the minor fluctuation.
	When both bodies of Delta were in close proximity, single mind deeply 
concentrating on diagnostic input or other such task, sentences were 
often passed between the two in a running commentary, alternate body 
picking up train of thought midword.  Delta, body A, saw Delta, body B 
AND body A, engaged in such a silent conversation.  Both were obviously 
having self-discourse, but no words were audible.  Before Delta could 
interrupt the other Delta, the latter noticed their observer, hastily 
grabbed the piece of equipment they had been working upon, and 
disappeared through a solid bulkhead. 
	After that incident and the resultant maintenance check she demanded for 
both herself, Delta was a believer.  However, she still declared internal 
sensor sweeps showed nothing.
	The most recent occasion involved 56 of 133.  56 of 133 had been on tier 
18 of subsection 5, submatrix 14, heading towards her alcove for 
regeneration when movement across central shaft #1 drew her attention.  
Pelting - well, pelting was too extreme a term, but rather quickly 
nonetheless - down the opposite tier was a drone.  As it turned a corner 
and vanished down a hallway, three additional figures appeared in full 
gallop, literally in one case.  Each apparition was outlined in a nimbus, 
materializing out of shadows without benefit of a transporter beam.
	The unmistakable form of Sensors was tilting along in rare display of a 
six-legged gait.  Sensors seldom resorted to a hexapod stance although 
her species was physiologically capable of it, even after Borg leg 
replacements.  Undignified the posture may be, six legs also allowed a 
surer footing in unpredictable situations.
	Following closely behind Sensors came the equally unforgettable shapes 
of the other two insectoids in the sub-collective.  2 of 3 was a flowing 
specter, dimly perceived antennae ruff steering him along a straight 
line.  3 of 3, species #7109 - Sleetul(pop), appeared in a similar 
configuration, except an armored millipede to 2 of 3's woolly centipede.
	3 of 3 was lagging behind the other two.  Of his several dozen legs, 
approximately a quarter were artificial, and they did not always mesh 
smoothly with their organic counterparts.  Misplaced legs were a common 
sight on the floor near 3 of 3's alcove, which did not endear the 
insectoid to either engineering (pick up the lost prosthetics) or drone 
maintenance (reattaching them).  One by one, the three insectoids rounded 
the same corner as the bipedal drone, also disappearing into the depths 
of the dark corridor.
	The main riddle with the entire scene, discounting eerie glow and the 
fact the three nonhumanoids did not have reason to interact with each 
other, was that none of the trio had actually been on walkway 45, 
subsection 5, submatrix 14.  56 of 133 startled quest for location 
information placed the insectoids at disparage places on the cube, and 
most certainly not in hot pursuit of another Borg.
	Something had to be done.  Thirty-eight crew had outright abandoned 
their normal tasks and taken to haunting the sighting locales, 
thirty-eight who had not been firsthand witnesses to the incidents and 
ached to be.  Their personalities in preassimilation had been akin to 
rabid UFO enthusiasts who craved abduction; and the quirk had 
unfortunately carried over as a facet of assimilation imperfection 
disposition.  Other drones refused to disengage from their alcoves when 
required, except under extreme duress.  Although the overall loss of 
efficiency was minimal, Captain worried the psychosis would spread.
	And then, to top it off, there was 127 of 152.  Madame 127 of 152, as 
she insisted on being designated.
	{127 of 152,} stated Captain as he opened eye at the end of his 
regeneration cycle.  The named was patiently standing an armspan in front 
of his alcove.  {The answer is still "no."  The answer will remain "no."  
No.}
	127 of 152 was of species #1818, a typical humanoid in appearance, 
ornamental horn along jawline and deep epidermal creases on neck 
distinguishing features.  The species was one of the half dozen notorious 
gypsy races, nomadic members of which were prone to stealing children 
(not necessarily their own race), stealing money, and simply stealing 
anything not under lock, key, and day-night surveillance by ten stanch 
guards.  The gypsy contingent of the species - a case of a small minority 
ruining the reputation of an otherwise below average mostly planet-bound 
civilization - were swindlers, con artists who preyed on victims through 
the medium of spiritual channeling the deceased.  Unfortunately, 127 of 
152 had been one of the /very/ few who believed her own patter (most of 
the time), a conviction which had not been purged during assimilation.
	Along with her psychological baggage, 127 of 152 insisted on retaining 
some of the accessories which were a vital component to her former 
existence.  Currently, a scarf of iridescent purple-blue graced her 
skull, and a second fabric of sparkling green tied around her throat in 
an intricate knot.  Beads of all sorts hung from under the neck wrap, 
gently rattling with each body gesture or movement.  Even without 
checking drone transponder locales, few had trouble knowing when 127 of 
152 approached.
	"Lad, the only way to appease the spirits is to find out why they haunt 
us."
	"My chronological age is greater than your own:  I am no lad."  Captain 
disengaged from his alcove and stepped to the walkway, barely missing his 
persistent supplicant.  127 of 152 took half a pace backwards to allow 
Captain a seeming of space, then immediately set to tail him to his nodal 
intersection, clicking beads counterpoint to her muscle servos.
	"The spirits demand it!" insisted 127 of 152.  "I can hear them all 
around us!"
	Captain pointedly ignored 127 of 152, ignored her urgings both spoken 
and nonverbal.  As they entered the intersection, Captain espied Second, 
who was playing an elaborate game of quad-dimensional fractual chess on 
the large viewscreen.  A quick check of the intranets showed a coalition 
of 18 of 480, 19 of 480, and 21 of 480 as his opponents.  Second seemed 
to be winning, although the particular version of chess on the screen was 
not one of Captain's stronger games.  The action paused.
	"Don't dare 'lad' me," warned Second.  "I am not only older than you, 
but I was a drone when 4 of 8's /parents/ were born.  Sorry, technically 
hatched according to species #2553 dossier."  He paused, warning in his 
mental signature.  "But the fact remains I am not a lad."
	127 of 152 gazed at Second as if her were a mildly interesting bug, then 
returned her attention to her quarry.  "The seance will be held the next 
time cycle at this hour.  The location is to be Replication Chamber #6, 
as that is the nexus of the apparitions," pronounced 127 of 152.  "I have 
enough participants for a successful seance, although it would be most 
conducive if our primary facilitator were there to act as a focus for the 
sub-collective's questing will."  Second sent a shred of amusement 
towards Captain.  "OR, if nothing else, at least our secondary 
facilitator.  I have recruited 1 of 3, but I fear her...alternate view 
upon the world will only confuse the spirits."
	"Confuse yourself, you mean," muttered Second, attention returning to 
his paused chess game.
	127 of 152 held her head high with disdainful indignity.  "I may even," 
dramatic pause, "bring the Ouija board."  With this final advertisement, 
127 of 152 triggered the transporter system and beamed elsewhere in the 
cube.  Captain caught an echo of thought centered upon recruiting 
additional bodies, strong contemplation towards trying to gain Delta's 
assistance.
	Captain connected an unobtrusive thread of consciousness to that of 
Delta's input streams.  He wanted to see that encounter when it occurred.

	"So," began Second, "want to play a little chess?  I'll even handicap 
myself two pawns, a mechanoid, and a fractional equation."

		*	*	*	*	*

	The next day found Captain in the vicinity of Replication Chamber #6, 
more out of boredom than anything else.  Boredom was the bane of the 
sub-collective's existence, the primary contributing factor towards 
censoring Captain continually engaged to prevent wandering ideas from 
becoming dysfunctional reality in a system designed to mesh thought and 
action.  Currently, however, random impulses were at an ebb, and no 
exterior dangers threatened; and Captain had finished his Jumba the Wise 
Lizard collection and had no wish to read the novels again so soon.
	The activities occurring in Replication Chamber #6 were difficult to 
ascertain.  Internal sensors could be found all over the cube, but most 
were of the simple type dedicated to environmental support - temperature, 
atmospheric mixture, and so on.  Devices meant to sense radiation and 
gravimetric fluctuations tended to be clustered near power cores, 
transwarp coils, nacelles, and munitions bays.  Equipment which resolved 
usable pictures - ultraviolet through infrared - were much less common, 
located in cargo holds, engineering areas, and other large spaces; the 
primary method of remote viewing among the Borg utilized individual 
drones as mobile sensor units.  However, while Replication Chamber #6 did 
have several cameras, the common denominator of such equipment was a 
lens, which in turn was very susceptible to sabotage by application of 
spray paint.  As far as the drones involved in 127 of 152's seance, they 
were highly uncooperative, actively blocking Captain's tap into visual 
and aural input pathways as quick as he could establish them.  Except for 
Sensors, and Captain was not /that/ desperate yet.
	Captain walked through the doorway to Replication Chamber #6.  The large 
area was a manufactory for parts utilized in cube maintenance, or for 
creation of stock to be held in storage inventory.  A half dozen 
industrial-sized replicator units supplied the Borg equivalent of a 
working metal shop.  Normally Delta would bar any activities not 
associated with upkeep or widget adaptation from a replication chamber, 
but in this case, the room was empty due to a call for low priority 
maintenance.  130 of 310 had fried all six replicators while attempting 
to fabricate a functional set of Motari brand racing shuttles.  130 of 
310 was currently involved in a multi-year task swapping out every light 
strip and bulb on the cube.
	"Lad, we require incense, yes?" demanded 127 of 152 the moment Captain 
entered Replication Chamber #6.  A sharp wave of one hand indicated 
several censers stacked on a half-assembled Lightspeed shuttle chassis.  
Captain noticed 127 of 152's head scarf was a brilliant gold, off-setting 
the blood red fabric wrapped around her neck.
	"No, no, no!" snapped the melodic clicking of Sensors, one forward 
walking leg stamping the floor.  "You have an alcove near Sensors, and 
you know incense causes undue respiratory distress to her.  Sensors will 
not hold her breath for the time required by this seance, not when 
acceptable air is available."  Sensors had drawn herself to her full 
species #6766 height (head about Captain's shoulder), short antennae 
rigidly held against her skull as a visual counterpoint to the annoyed 
emotions emanating from her.  A slender prosthetic limb was waved in 
Captain's direction, "Sensors demands a consensus on this matter!  No 
incense!"
	{I told you not to disturb that irrelevant seance,} sent Second from the 
lethargic depths of regeneration.  Captain deemed not to respond.  Even 
with assistance from ten additional command and control drones, Captain 
had lost five quad-dimensional chess games in a row to Second.
	Sensors stamped her foot again.  "We need consensus!  Comply!"  
	More in an effort to appease the demanding insectoid than in compulsion, 
Captain gathered a subset of his hierarchy to examine the issue of 
incense.  Consequences were quickly weighed, pros and cons shifting 
rapidly.  The outcome was not surprising given the inefficiencies which 
arose if a certain hierarchy head was sent into a sulk.
	"Consensus complete," intoned Captain as the details of the decision 
cascade was made available to all.  "We concur with Sensors:  no 
incense."
	127 of 152 blinked.  "Well," she conceded, "incense is not strictly 
necessary, although it can serve as a concentration aid as well as a 
spirit attractor.  No matter."  Her voice was raised, "Gather around the 
table, lads and lasses.  We will now begin."
	The other dozen drones in Replication Chamber #6 shuffled towards a 
large round table set in the center of the room.  It was waist high in 
concession to the fact none of the participants would use a chair.  The 
table was draped in a heavy white cloth and had a head-sized crystal ball 
upon it.  Two tall tapers of black wax completed the scene.
	Captain held back to observe, positioning himself near a defunct 
replicator unit.  As the drones encircled the table, leaving a suspicious 
hole, 127 of 152 took a mundane match from her person.  She struck it 
once along her armored upper arm, then quickly lit the candles.  Captain 
felt the simple commands which caused ambient light to drop below the low 
setting which was Borg standard.  "Come, come, Captain lad, we have left 
a place for you.  The spirits told me you would attend, no matter your 
spoken conviction."
	A hollow sensation of mild amusement impinged upon Captain's mind.  
Unsurprisingly, the origination was again from Second.  {"Madame" 127 of 
152 has been manipulating you.  Very subtle.  Do you see the code line?}
	{I see it,} muttered Captain as he erased the insidious 
sub-sub-sub-sub-subpriority clause lodged along a compliance pathway 
which should only be triggered in the event of a Collective directive.  
Despite her outwardly Borg unprofessional appearance, 127 of 152 remained 
of the sly gypsy stock she had been assimilated from.  'There is always a 
way, be it through the spirits of the other world or yourself' was an 
oft-quoted proverb.  It was roughly equivalent to a less eloquent 'There 
is more than one way to skin a cat'...or a mark.
	The damage had already been done, however, and Captain found himself 
joining the others at the table, opposite 127 of 152.  Tact was not a 
Borg strong point, so leaving the gathering would not be rude; rudeness 
was irrelevant.  Captain decided to remain, more to annoy Second than any 
other reason.  Causing mild aggravation was also irrelevant, but Captain 
was imperfectly assimilated and enjoyed the occasional moment of 
irrelevancy to interrupt an otherwise endless existence of semi-isolated 
boredom.
	"Let us all join hands," murmured 127 of 152, "and call upon the spirit 
world.  Come spirits, come ghosts, come shades, come to us.  Come to us 
and show..."  127 of 152 suddenly paused.  "Captain, if you do not join 
the circle, the summoning will not work.  Our psychic energies must be as 
One to persuade our fleeting guests to visit us."
	{Being One, that would be a first,} came the inevitable comment from the 
peanut gallery.  Captain's reply was to grasp the hand of the drone to 
his right; sensors in his left prosthetic registered pressure as the 
drone on that side latched on below the elbow joint.
	Began 127 of 152 once more, "Come spirits, come ghosts, come shades, 
come to us.  Come to us and show us yourself.  You are from beyond the 
grave, beyond our mortal perceptions, beyond our ken and thus know much 
of what is hidden from us.  Come to us and share your insights, your 
wisdom."  The chanting of 127 of 152 continued in a similar vein for ten 
solid minutes, variations upon a common theme of summoning.  
	Captain's mind wandered to other activities, primarily those involving 
his position of consensus monitor.  A very minor course correction was 
made.  Six potential threats to Cube #347's integrity were averted, the 
responsible drones forced to listen to the automatic chiding algorithm.  
After long debate of 87 seconds, Weapons was given permission to modify 
two torpedoes to the standard necessary to destroy a species #8999 
dreadnought...not that such a ship was likely to be seen unless the cube 
embarked upon a thirty-eight thousand light year detour.
	Captain abruptly realized 127 of 152 had stopped.  Pressing silence 
echoed with ever-present background hum of a working cube.
	"They are here, can you not feel it?" addressed 127 of 152 to her seance 
audience.  "They have been drawn to me, Madame 127 of 152, curious as to 
why we have called upon them."
	Spoke up 271 of 510, who had been swiveling his head back and forth, 
"Um, Madame 127 of 152, I do not see anything."
	A chorus of agreement followed, cumulating with, "Sensors is head of 
sensory hierarchy, and Sensors sees nothing either."
	"Silence!" bellowed 127 of 152.  "They do not wish to be seen by mere 
mortals, by the /few/," pointed remark, "among us who do not really 
believe.  We have to earn that right.  One must reach with one's inner 
eye and feel the spirits."  127 of 152's tone changed to one befitting a 
snake oil salesman attempting to woo his wary marks, "Spirits, oh 
spirits, if you are here, give us a sign.  I implore you, give us a 
palpable sign of your presence."  Light strips ten meters above 
flickered.  An audible gasp escaped the body to Captain's right.
	{Minor power fluctuation, subsection 6, Replication Chamber #6, quadrant 
grid 19.e.  Transient phenomenon,} quietly muttered the computer as it 
completed its latest cycle of internal diagnostics.  The three 
diagnostics per second cycle occurred in the background at all times, 
listened to primarily by the engineering hierarchy, which then formulated 
maintenance schedules and assigned priorities to fix what was broken.  
Numerous faults happened every day on the complex piece of machinery 
which was Cube #347.  Either the flicker had been consequence, or 127 of 
152 had inserted more than one hidden trigger into the vast software web 
in which the sub-collective functioned.
	Called 127 of 152, "The spirits, they have spoken!  But we require 
something yet more tangible.  You spirits are strong to enter our poor 
plane of existence.  Surely you are strong enough to move a candle."  A 
black candle and its holder wiggled slightly, then slowly rose off the 
table.
	{Delta:  report incidents of gravimetric disturbance in Replication 
Chamber #6,} ordered Captain.
	The reply was rapid, {Unable to comply.  /Someone/ has off-lined more 
equipment than cameras.  Spray paint is not the culprit, and if sensors 
are irrevocably damaged, /someone/ will pay.  I can see what you see, but 
if an anti-gravity device is in effect, it is a pinpoint source and 
unable to be sensed by the next nearest suitable internal sensor 
cluster.}
	Captain did not have the necessary technology implanted in himself to 
read gravimetric disturbances.  A quick inventory of the designations 
present revealed only 127 of 152 and Sensors were appropriately 
outfitted.  In the former case, 127 of 152 was not to divulge her secrets 
without serious pressure, possibly enough to require mental reformatting.  
The latter case was too entranced with the floating candle to acknowledge 
Captain's pings.
	The taper settled back on the table cloth.  "Thank you, oh mighty 
spirits.  You are strong and powerful.  Now, manifest yourself!  I, 
Madame 127 of 152, command you!  Comply!  We must know what we have done 
which requires the haunting this cube has experienced.  How may be make 
reparations?  You must appear and tell us!"  127 of 152's voice rose in 
command to the empty air.
	Captain fully expected nothing to occur, and was thus vastly surprised 
when a halo of white began weakly to glow over the table.  The apparition 
became increasingly distinct, a hovering biped of bulk and angular limbs 
standing on nothing.  The shape fluidly solidified until the seance 
participants saw...the form and face of Captain, highlighted in a soft 
pearl radiance, holding several lengths of chain.
	Clank.  Clank.  "I am a ghost, a ghoooost I tell you!  The ghost of 4 of 
8 future.  Whooooo!  Whooooooo!  A ghoooooooost come to haunt you!"  
Clank.  Clank.  Clank.  Clunk.  "Oops, my arm seems to have fallen off, 
but I can still scaaaaaaare you!  Whooooo!"  Clank.  Clank.
	Captain groaned.  {Second, desist at once.  Comply.}  The pseudo-Captain 
picked up his arm, bowed, then shimmered into nonexistence as the local 
holoemitter was switched off.  {That was not amusing.}
	A sarcastic snicker, {Depends on where viewed.  The expressions, 
emotional emanations, and thoughts were entertaining, yours included.  
For a moment you actually thought 127 of 152 was right!}  Captain was 
barraged with a sample of the multiple drone input feeds Second had been 
maintaining.
	{Allow 127 of 152 to fail solving the "ghost" problem on her own,} 
warned Captain.
	"If you two lads are done?" bitingly asked 127 of 152.  "And I am 
/Madame/ 127 of 152, and I will not fail.  We must continue.  I knew the 
entire time the manifestation was nothing more than a hoax, a hologram.  
It could not be one of the specters, not when the spirit in question is 
standing over there.  He's been watching us for several minutes."  
	127 of 152 broke the circle, stabbing an accusing finger towards the 
half finished cockpit of a Shooting Star shuttle.  She left the table, 
marching toward the quite empty space, waving her hands.  "I can see you 
perfectly fine, so don't gesture at me like that.  No, I won't shush.  
I've been seeing you around the cube for several months, so you better 
explain yourself.  Now.  Comply."
	Captain sighed.  127 of 152 had obviously lost what little grip on 
sanity she retained.  As he began crafting the command which would send 
the former gypsy back to her alcove in preparation for mind wipe or 
deactivation, he noticed the nearly transparent outline fuzzily obscuring 
the racing shuttle.  The sensation of watching the blurred nonform unfade 
into sight was akin to attempting to cross one's eyes in order to see the 
back of one's head.
	A quick check at power pathways showed the holoemitters in Replication 
Chamber #6 were not on-line.  Scrolling down the list of habitual 
jokesters, Second included in this case, resulted in firm denials of 
involvement.  Delta insisted the only bodies present in the room were 
Borg drones, according to sensors.
	The unimage condensed into a rough parody of a humanoid.  Four limbs 
attached to a central torso, on top of which sat a protrusion able to be 
called a head only by its location.  No features adorned the face, 
assuming the side facing the assembly of drones was its front.  The 
general shape was very indistinct, fuzzy with that quality which 
indicated the being in question perhaps existed slightly out of phase 
with the rest of the universe.  Translucency persisted, one which allowed 
the shuttle background to be seen through the entity.
	Unsettling, no matter how many filter combinations or spectral shifts 
Captain attempted, the being was only visible under standard visual 
frequencies.
	"There you are!" trumpeted 127 of 152.  "I've seen you skulking around 
the cube, you and the rest of your kind.  We require an explanation."
	A voice, penetrating in the manner a whisper should not be, answered, 
"Blotho blek plhthoo...mring llota klev...testing one, two, three.  This 
tongue shall suffice; your translator can handle it.  My name is...is not 
pronounceable in the languages of those assembled in the Borg Collective, 
although the species of the insectoid designated Sensors might come 
closest to comprehension.  You may therefore call me Principal.  My 
people are best described by what Madame 127 of 152 called us - Ghosts.  
I am the head school instructor of a community your ship passed through a 
while ago.  I apologize for the children, but adolescents can be...trying 
at times."
	Rapid processing occurred as Principal introduced itself.  The sightings 
could no longer be placed in the rather large file of "unknown 
phenomenon."  Instead, the heading "noncorporeal entity plaything" seemed 
more relevant.  The proceedings of the seance were no longer a 
distraction to heckle in the background bustle of normal tasks, but were 
now very important to the survival of the cube.  The sub-collective 
focused upon the events in Replication Chamber #6.  After Standard 
Warning 8 - {Next time you will inform us when invisible aliens are in 
the cube} - to 127 of 152, Captain pushed forward through the gathering 
and took charge.
	"Describe your species.  Describe your intentions upon this cube."
	"Oh boy.  You are the one named Captain, correct?  Anyway, my race, as I 
said, should be called Ghosts.  It is difficult to describe /what/ we 
are, except to say we do and do not have physical bodies.  Our natural 
state is one out of phase with your perception of the universe; or, 
conversely, you are out of phase with ours.  We can, however, temporarily 
manifest ourselves to you, although the process is not perfect and 
requires much energy.
	"As to intentions...I must confess that when your cube passed near my 
community it was decided to take the schools on a little picnic and 
science exploration day trip.  Our region of space is empty, and to keep 
xenophobia and isolationism at bay in the younger generations, the few 
ships which come near are subject to similar treatment.  Your Borg cube, 
with all its fascinating species, was a bonus for the young ones.
	"Unfortunately, it also quickly became a hot destination for some of the 
older children.  And the community elders made the mistake of declaring 
it off-limits, which only increased attraction to go on illicit treks.  
Your cube has become a popular destination for pranks, phasing practice, 
games, and making out.  The other teaches and I have slowly been catching 
the scoundrels and sending them home, but the going is slow.  Your cube 
is also among the /largest/ sentient-made object our schools have had a 
field trip to; and if there is anything our children are good at, it is 
multiphasic hide-and-seek."
	Even without features, even with a voice which did not vary from its 
initial hoarse whisper, Principal conveyed an apologetic attitude.  
Gestures were limited to a wave of blurry arm, to a possible slump of 
shoulders.  Standard body language able to be read from thousands of 
species did not apply in this instance.
	"Your progeny lack discipline.  They interfere with our efficiency.  You 
will remove them, or we will terminate them."
	If Principal had eyes, they would have rolled.  "Puleeeeeeze.  The other 
instructors and I have been on this cube long enough to know it isn't the 
typical type.  And while I'm unsure how nanoprobes would interact with my 
race's physiology, you would have to catch a subject first for 
experimentation.  Excuse me if the threat is not taken seriously.  I may 
be wrong, but you Borg do not possess the appropriate technology to 
perform controlled matter phase shifts.  Don't push me too much, or I'll 
recommend leaving the children loose...maybe encourage some paranoid 
parents to visit.
	"My agenda is simple:  to retrieve the youngsters and send them home.  
Each child caught has restrictions placed upon it which physically forbid 
return to your cube."
	A threat.  Typical.  Unfortunately, it was a very valid warning because 
while Borg technology could look into a variety of phase shifts and even 
manipulate them in a limited manner, it was a very clumsy process next to 
the natural abilities demonstrated by the Ghost.  Biological capability 
for phase shifting.  The Greater Consciousness would be highly interested 
if Captain brought current events to awareness at this juncture; and then 
Cube #347 would find itself in the middle of a one-sided war zone with 
entities only 127 of 152 could see.  No...consensus was clear...the 
Greater Consciousness would learn all the details at the next scheduled 
report upload, hopefully after Principal had finished de-childing the 
cube.
	Captain replied, "Acceptable.  Removal of the juveniles will increase 
our efficiency."
	"Good!  Well, if that is cleared up," Principal brought its hands 
together in a soundless clap, "then I must get back to work."  The Ghost 
faded as it had appeared:  the dissolving of a dream given substance 
beyond the subconscious.  Very quickly, the last visage of Principal was 
gone.
	"Do you still see it, 127 of 152?" snapped Captain.
	Answered 127 of 152, "/Madame/ 127 of 152, lad.  And yes, I do see our 
sprite.  It is waving, and there it goes.  Right through the wall behind 
the shuttle."  Gold scarf shimmered in the low light as head turned to 
follow the movements of an entity unseen to anyone else.
	A crash sounded directly behind as 20 of 230, infamous accident prone, 
upset the table.  Lit candles crashed to the ground, wicks instantly 
extinguishing; table cloth fluttered into a heap.  The crystal ball 
rolled away unharmed, vanishing under a pile of miscellaneous shuttle 
components.
	20 of 230 stooped to pick up a flat piece of technology which had 
tumbled from under the table.  Accident prone though he was, 20 of 230's 
also processed a very efficient brain.  All saw what 20 of 230 saw, all 
grasped the meaning of the device - a miniature gravity manipulator - at 
the same time.
	{Well, how'd that get under there?} sent 127 of 152 as she vanished in 
the clutches of a transporter beam.  A vaguely uneasy feeling settled 
upon the assembled company, one which prompted a drone to make sure all 
implants were accounted.  Initial response was followed by confusion and 
anger within the datanets, to which 127 of 152 did not respond.  A gypsy 
to her core still, 127 of 152 knew when the time was right to find a deep 
bolt hole and not emerge for, say, several years.