The Evil Death Rays Paramount has aimed at this poor author has prompted her to remind you Star Trek is owned by them, now and forever, a fact which no temporal paradox can undo. Alan Decker, safe beneath his Death-Ray-B-Gone shield, happily created Star Traks. I write BorgSpace; and excuse me while I find some aluminum foil to cower under.

Ghosts in the Machine, Part III

Step 1 - Insert key into slot A, console 3 (Figure 12-5). Turn key counterclockwise 3/4 rotation. If lights on console 2 (Figure 1-3) do not light as per sequence 18 (Appendix D.2), go to troubleshooting section A.

Step 2 - Measure temporal paradox fluctuation. If range of instrument 5, console 4 (Figure 5-1) is above or below 3, temporal insertion may be very hazardous. Potential exists that timeline leading to construction of Out-of-Tempo device is in imminent collapse. See troubleshooting section G on methods to insure appropriate temporal paradox stability.

Step 3 - Set negative insertion phase shift frequency with knobs 3 and 4, console 1 (Figure 1-6). Table A lists...

The complete instructions required eight gigabytes of storage, not including the 1.5 tetrabytes of appendices, figures, tables, and troubleshooting manuals. Subunit #522, being the ultra type-A Borg stereotype it was, had constructed an entire owner's manual to accompany the Odd Contraption - the temporal-phase device.

Or, as the subunit had tentatively decided to market it as, the Out-of-Tempo. One was forced to conclude not only had the subunit flung itself far from the Borg tree within the final months to collapse, but had found a lot of free time to fill as well.

A data node, previously connected to the temporal-phase machine, was now decrypted, defragmented, deloused, dewormed, and de- everything except destroyed. The last had nearly occurred when accident-prone 20 of 230 spilled a potent glass-etching acid cum athlete's foot fungicide (many different species housed within a dank tropical environment makes for the occasional rampant Itch), but was avoided at the last moment when the bubbling liquid ate through the floor before reaching the node. Large holes in the recovered data had been filled by extrapolation...and the foot thick hardcopy next to the Odd Contraption, ignored until a drone on clean-up detail preparing to send it to waste reclamation happened to glance at the garish gold letters emblazoned on jet black cover.

A highly technological society tends to forget information can be stored as printed words, not just electronic ones and zeros or quantum states.

"These coincidences are strung together like a bad B-grade science fiction movie," noted Captain to Second. Most of his awareness was directed elsewhere; specifically, decrypting a second data node while observing engineering efforts to contain fungicide slowly eating through deck plates. Second's response was noncommittal. Captain continued, "The mysterious disappearance, the trail of clues, the data nodes telling exactly how the Odd Contraption works. All which is missing is the diabolical Evil Genius cackling as he relates his plan for universal domination and/or destruction. I expect at least one of the remaining subunit nodes will fulfill that function."

"Mmmm," hummed Second. Silence. Finally, an outburst, interrupting Captain's mediation of a dispute between 36 of 300 and 71 of 203 over responsibility for a taffy explosion (Captain did not inquire too deeply, nor examine certain communally held memories) in the former's alcove, "Tab Z into slot C3? That doesn't make sense! Figure 25-3 shows no such tab or slot! And if neither tab nor slot exist, how does one connect the optional extended chromoton booster kit to the central directional tau unit? How?"

Captain reintegrated his visual input, redirecting primary sensory perception to be local, rather than remote. The viewscreen in front of which Second squarely stood flashed monochrome figure after figure from the Out-of-Tempo technical manual.

"Wait a minute. Here is the slot on this figure and the tab there." An exceedingly complex three-dimensional model appeared on the screen, mentioned components indicated. The wireframe began to distort wildly, "But it is impossible to connect them without employing a ninth-dimensional spatial geometry, which is unstable at the current space-time plane. A very long extension cord could be utilized, one supposes, but such a part is not in the manifest for the optional extended chromoton booster kit!" Second pounded fist against prosthetic arm in disgust.

Captain spoke, "You have not listened to a thing I've said." The words were statement of fact, not question.

"Untrue," absently replied Second as Optional Step 1063 was highlighted from the owner's manual, then subsequently replaced by another dizzying series of figures. "I have heard everything you have said." Captain received a compressed aural sensory stream from Second, all verbalizations captured within the last five minutes.

"Hearing is not the same as listening, 3 of 8," commented Captain. His tone, both verbal and mental, was noticeably chilled.

Second blanked the screen as his designation, not position title, was used. He stiffly turned on his heel. "You want me to listen to you carp about irrelevant circumstances like the comparison of our situation to a bad sci-fi flick?" was the sarcastic response.

"You know what I mean, so don't pretend your link to the sub-collective has suddenly been severed. Listening. You become so obsessed with a project you deflect resources to it, and thus away from your duties as secondary consensus monitor and facilitator. Taffy explosions are not my prerogative, but yours." Captain altered the duty roster. "And now it is, as well as other irrelevancies."

"I can always be replaced," said Second hopefully. A grin attempt crossed his face, disused muscles pulling against skin. Most people, small children, and domesticated animals would call the result a grimace of intense pain, not a pleasantly pleading smile.

Captain gave his second-in-command a withering glare, both outwardly and internally. "That would be a reward, Second. It will not happen. Move." Second stepped out of Captain's way, allowing unobstructed access to the viewscreen. A new set of Odd Contraption figures began to flash by at a high rate of speed.

The 500 drone temporal expedition force awaited in Bulk Cargo Hold #3. Five hundred stationary Borg, plus approximately one hundred additional units dismantling machinery not associated with the Out-of-Tempo, barely filled the relatively small section of the metal cavern where subunit #522 had resided. All was not as calm as it seemed.

{I don't wanna go!} griped 122 of 230.

{Since when does "I" matter for Borg? Random lottery chose your designation, therefore, you go,} replied Second with tone of one who would be remaining behind, far behind.

Grumbled 122 of 230, {All very well for you, not risking your chassis to be flung spatially who-knows-where and temporally who-knows-when.}

{Enough,} intoned Captain. {Final diagnostics, auxiliary equipment check, and preparation. We leave in ten minutes. Mark.} Pause. {Be at least moderately efficient, as those who are tagged will go when the Odd Contraption is primed, ready or not. And 57 of 422, you will leave behind /all/ your cameras, even the miniature 35-mm antique hidden in your thigh.}

Captain was among those on the expedition force, a budding from the greater sub-collective. The force was completely self-sufficient, and thus by definition a subunit. A selection of individual units from each hierarchical specialization was in evidence, engineering and weapons heavy due to the necessity to secure twin objectives of defusing bombs and capturing rogues. Someone from the Hierarchy of Eight was required to accompany the group, along with a cadre of command and control, to inject a semblance of directionality. Of the eight possible designations in the lotto, it was more than mildly suspicious /his/ number was chosen. No foul play could be conclusively ascertained, but the circumstance was eerily akin to his first stint at Captain approximately twenty-nine sidereal years earlier. Although the then newly transferred 4 of 8 was not supposed to be primary consensus monitor and facilitator, well, computer software can be persuaded, especially when seven high-powered minds conspire together.

{It was fair, Captain. You are paranoid,} interrupted Second. Captain heaved a sigh and terminated the line of thought, concentrating instead on completing internal diagnostics. Privacy was an unknown concept in a system where thinking too loud was not hyperbole, but reality.

Two other hierarchy heads also along for the ride were Delta and Sensors. In both cases, it was luck of the randomizer which added them to the temporal expedition. On most ships, the inclusion of a large chunk of "ranking officers" in the basket would be stupid, if not suicidal. The concern was especially acute as the handbasket in question had high potential to plunge to a temporal hell, never to return. However, the nature of the Borg made such considerations irrelevant: all drones were replaceable, up to and including the Queen. No sub-collective, not even Cube #347, would collapse if a few hundred drones were lost. Many races called the logic cold, indifferent to the sanctity of the unique individual; the Collective deemed it practical and pragmatic.

{Three minutes to temporal insertion. Transmit unit readiness,} Captain was suddenly besieged by hundreds of data packets, {to your subunit hierarchical head.} The packets tapered to a reasonable bombardment easily parsed by background processes. {Query: is the Out-of-Tempo primed?}

Responded 111 of 230, temporary engineering head until Delta returned (and permanent for the duration of the ever lengthening trek to BorgSpace if she did not), {Aye, sir! Ship-shape! Got lots of pretty green lights a'blinking on the consoles, see Figure 7-3.}

Captain hesitated, {But all the lights are green, including the warnings.}

{Aye! And they are all a'blinking, see Figure 7-1.}

The matter was dropped. Either the insertion would be successful, or the sub-collective was about to loose an eighth of its populace and an estimated third of its efficiency.

Captain and company were traveling in a slightly different manner than subunit #522, relying heavily upon the original temporal-phase machine and the truncated sub-collective which would operate it. Subunit #522, utilizing months to build devices and concoct plans, hopped along the tau vector using a self-contained Mini-Temp Buddy. A glossy four page advertisement (created by the subunit as an appendum to the marketing phase of their unique insanity) described the Buddy as "the necessary peripheral for the vacationing family." Further portrayal revealed its function to allow tau vector movement without need to return to the temporally anchored base unit; however, the primary drawback was a freezing of spatial phasing to the original setting. Subunit #347 would be obligated to return to the present and reinsert if the subunit made multiple time jumps.

As communication between tau-separated sub-collective and subunit #347 was not possible, a planned procedure recalled one drone per hour from the excursion force. Return of him/her/it updated the now-sub-collective of attempts to debomb the cube and capture subunit #522, as well as provide directive for past trekking drones to be retrieved for reinsertion. Unfortunately, it was not possible to target specific drones for recall, so the temporal grab would be random. Hopefully the drone in question would not be engaged in the middle of a dangerous activity, such as defusing a high-yield tactical nuke.

The chronometer chimed. {Ten minutes,} said Captain. Execute.

A green button of console 8 (Figure 18-5) was depressed, causing a suite of lights on board A2 (Figure 1-6) to blink. All five hundred members of the temporal excursion force disappeared.

Black. Blacker. Blackest.

White. Whiter. Whitest.

Obscured truth and clear lies.

A species' first forays into time travel often utilize high speed, low elevation stellar encounters, or dangerous manipulations of blackholes with complex machinery. Not only is the transit vehicle highly stressed, but the mind as well. Unidirectional consciousness' are not evolved to function with the inhospitable consequences of cause before effect, often creating horrible hallucinations in self-defense; and highly telepathic/empathic races may receive a bombardment of "what-ifs," to the detriment of individual sanity.

Species suitably advanced in temporal mechanics know slipping into the past is actually quite simple, although such information is never divulged to those behind on the bell curve. The unhelpful nature is not due to a grandiose temporal prime directive, but rather malicious pleasure at seeing a race struggle. Tauntings of "been there, done that" are common. For the temporally-adept, time travel can be executed without damage to either machine or mind.

Through assimilation, the Borg were knowledgeable of chromotons and paradoxes. They had absorbed "Temporal Mechanics for Dummies" and "The 100 Best Vacations for a Savvy Time Tripper." The Collective generally avoided jumping to alternate tau coordinates due to potential problems the hive might cause itself, but the technology was used on occasion. Extensive tests upon incoming species had demonstrated to the Borg the safeguards required upon assimilation to combat dangerous temporal effects.

Temporal phasing was a new phenomenon.

The portion of Cube #347 sub-collective sent pastward found a fluid nothingness full of fleeting snatches of could-be, may-be, will-be. Individual drones, in contact with the minds of all those simultaneously transversing the timescape, were conduits for differing images. The future-past echoes mingled into an almost senseless blob of entangled possibilities, glimpses into the timelines of nearby realities, separated from the sub-collective's native universe by the slimmest of quantum veils. However, within the chaotic whirlwind, one particular vision stood out, variation upon a theme grown familiar from the mental leaking of a certain rogue subunit. While minor differences were noticeable, one scene of Cube #347 exploding is overall much the same as another.

In this unmoment, Cube #347 charged from a transwarp termini, immediately tumbling into a controlled defensive spin against an unseen opponent. Several dark shapes impacted against shields, followed by brief lightening flashes of yellow plasma weaponry. The attackers were frustratingly unknown, location just outside the point-of-view of the impassive third-party observer. Suddenly something sliced through shielding, armor, layers of deck, an impossibly thin cord of black which twisted the stars along its length into distorted ovals. Gravitational lensing effect, solemnly informed sensor hierarchy members, in which a massive near object causes distant points to appear elsewhere due to bending of light.

The sheared corner broke into a scattering of debris, torn apart by a combination of failed artificial gravity, abruptly collapsed shields, and stress of rotational defense. The damage, however, was minor considering the real emergency: two active auxiliary cores caught by the monofilament, both exploding with the wrath of small novae. Fiery crevices ripped deep through duralloy hide, molten metal and fluid plasma geysering spaceward. In sympathetic resonance overload, a third and forth core blossomed into unnatural volcanoes.

The wounds were mortal, terminal, and only the robust noncentralized character of Borg engineering kept the ship in one piece, allowed it to respond to still unseen opposition. A volley of torpedoes, neither photon, quantum, nor tri-cobalt, were flung, followed by a short barrage of plasma weaponry. Defiance died a heartbeat later as a munitions bay disintegrated an eighth of an intact face. Of the biological machinery, thousands of drones were dead or dying, the living too busy patching, welding, wiring, duct taping to do anything but step over fallen bodies, to shove aside a corpse blocking a critical panel. Most frightening of all, one which an observer would not know from dispassionate expressions, was the severance with the Collective, for the central plexus-vinculum complex had not survived chain reaction explosion. True death awaited the crew, not Borg immortality as memory, whisper, within the One.

The maintenance effort was not enough, willing hands too few, damage too grave. Ponderously spinning, shedding gasses and metal, a giant fireball consumed Cube #347, swiftly feeding on oxygenated atmosphere before extinguishing itself. Left behind were cooling spars and charred remains, black on black to the universe, flotsam and jetsam to blow before the cosmic winds.

For the drones witnessing the future-past echo not once, but many times with alternate paths cumulating in the same gruesome outcome, the undignified dogpile which announced an end to the phased time travel came not a moment too soon.

*****

A point of light in the darkness, two, fifty, one hundred, full complement of subunit #522, twinkling candles lost amid black infinity.

A flicker. An inverse.

Points of steady ebony on a field of white, a stark photographic negative of a splash of stars. Not stars - drone signatures. Drone signatures one-by-one snuffed (snuffing/will be snuffed). Zoom in upon one anti-flame, enveloping perception of the unprotesting plight of a Borg undergoing recycling. Disassembly. Dismantling of a subunit #522 unit by (grayscale surroundings clearer) drones of Cube #347. Many observing, one central point-of-view. Point-of-view passively watches as an instrument descends (descended/will descend) out of frame, towards open cranium, towards oblivion. Toggle is bumped, point-of-view fades, stupefied in the paralyzing shock of being one, small, alone.

Another uncandle exterminated.

*

Subunit #522 emerged from tau shift. The chaotic temporal echoes associated with insertion were both meaningless and profound. Highly abstract images are not necessarily interpretable by unilinear lifeforms; and unimaginative beings such as Borg were doubly crippled by inability to utilize creativity, that trait long purged by the Collective as irrelevant, a source of chaos, from which individuality might grow.

The subunit contained well-processed, well-integrated drones. At least prior to the revelation concerning the corruptive influence of Cube #347's imperfectly assimilated crew. An attack by a Drinian field researcher, an assault which never should have occurred, had been the key element fostering conviction on the host sub-collective's basic unfitness.

And now...now the future-past echoes told all. Termination and recycling of subunit #522 meant a timeline where the sub-collective dominated, was able to remove bombs and capture the rogue subunit. Therefore, the logical course of action demanded planting phased bombs in this now, avoiding the past-now tau coordinates implicated in Cube #347 triumph. Since the bombs had never been set in the past-now, they could not be defused; bombs in the subjective-now would wrench the timeline to its proper place.

A place where Cube #347 and assimilation imperfection was not. A targeted marketing campaign timed to remotely launch a sidereal month after the explosive event heralding subunit #522 victory would ensure Corruption would never regain a foothold in the Borg future.

Drones scattered from Replication Reclamation Chamber #8, turning to urgent tasks.

Subunit #522's interpretation of the future-past images was a product of perfect Borg logic...and utterly wrong.

*****

Other than the essentially planet bound species #7863 - Carpones - no languages have evolved specific temporal verb tenses. Past, present, future - was, is, will be - are the standard tenses, one or more used depending on the psychology of a species. The Carpones, on the other hand, worship their ancestors, believing forebears routinely slip through time to invisibly call upon descendants, occasionally dispensing advice. Advanced theological documents propose that since ancestors are free to time travel, so too can descendants alive and unborn, if already dead in somewhen, visit their still living relations. The ability to time travel is inherent in the individual, but requires death to unlock the potential.

One might suppose that the Carpones would view death as the ultimate travel experiences, leading to a species suicide cult. However, the same encompassing religion teaches only elders with full lives lived can unlock the temporal potential. Therefore, only by living a full life could one become a revered Ancestor (or Descendent).

Religion aside, the Carpone tongue includes several tenses additional than the normal language. Subjective-past, -present, -future were everyday tenses, used by the average Carpone in the same manner found universe-wide. The temporal-past, -present, -future, on the other hand, relates to the noncorporeal Ancestor, distinguishing the ever ongoing forward progressing "now" of the spirit from the "now" visited. For example, a Descendent visiting the era of his living grandfather travels to the latter's "now-time," only to return to the temporal "now" of time passing since enlightened death.

The verb construction of species #7863 was very complex. University degrees were even awarded to those linguists able to make sense of difficult constructions such as the second person temporal perfect now-past future tense, passive mood. While the Collective kept a figurative eye on the Carpone race, assimilation would not be considered until the species either achieved warp capability, or produced a major technological breakthrough necessary for Borg perfection. Verb conjunction, no matter how unique, did not qualify a species for absorption into the Whole.

Too bad the Borg did not realize the theological myths were anything by five thousand year-old tales. That story, however, belongs in a different when, a time temporal scholars are only now beginning to write about, following the whispering guidance of holy Ancestors and Descendants.

*****

{Get offa me! Get off! Several somebodies are on my cranium, my torso, my legs!} yowled 5 of 152 nanoseconds after the expedition arrived. The signature did not contain full mental richness to receiving units, "taste" subtly off and recognizable only in the same manner a master chef knows not enough of a certain spice has been applied to an entree. Part of the wrongness attributed to the relative smallness of the working subunit; more was traceable to the lack of access to mediating hardware embedded in cube superstructure. While computer and vinculum were not necessary for individual units to achieve an adhesive whole, machinery did help.

Slowly the pile sorted itself, drones heavy with armor and alloy laminated bones moving so those underneath were no longer crushed. Minor injuries, consisting of bruises, cuts, and soft organ damage, were quickly repaired by nanites. One might expect the chaotic mass of waving limbs and complaining voices to be swiftly spotted by the drones-of-now. However, such a sighting had never historically occurred, and therefore would not, did not.

The Odd Contraption had the ability, as documented in the operator’s manual, to spatially displace inserted objects up to one kilometer in any direction from the point of temporal initiation, in addition to setting molecular phase frequency. In other words, riders did not necessarily arrive at the same physical location as departed. Spatially phased or not, emerging in the middle of the now-subunit #522 would be sure to cause a ruckus. Therefore, Replication Chamber #6 had been chosen as the insertion site, known to be out of commission, low on the priority fix-it list, and unlikely to receive visitors, .

It was also known, accord to 127 of 152 and her "psychic" senses, to be a nexus point for "spiritual" essence. Call the decision to use Replication Chamber #6 a self-fulfilling prophesy, but it had been/was/will be used by subunit #347 as a staging point.

*****

Somewhere, somewhen, somehow, somewhat, somewhy, an alert entity throws up his/her/its hand(s) in disgust.

"What a minute! This machine has been stated to transfer an object one kilometer from point of origin, in any direction. Besides the fact the device is an impossibility to begin with, that kilometer would leave the subunit, either #522 or #347, drifting in vacuum. One minute, one month, one year, however much time, that cube is, was, or will be light years away. More than just a few, mind you! And, factoring in galactic rotation as well as movement of the Milky Way towards the Great Attractor, what the author (if I may use that term loosely) is attempting to propose is ridiculous!

"As long as I'm on this subject..."

Thuds and bangs quiet the voice somewhere, somewhen, somehow, somewhat, somewhy.

A different voice, baritone, "The Management profusely apologizes for this intrusion of reality upon your escapist entertainment. Please halt all critical thinking skills and resuspend disbelief. Such interruptions shall not happen again."

*****

Sensors rose high on her walking legs, posture alert. She stared - without eyelids, her species could only stare - at a point two meters away; antennae waved over her head. Abdomen inflated, then slowly exhaled air through spiracles. "I [heard] something. Did anyone else [hear] it? Two [voices]," whistled Sensors. As usual, the most important words of the insectoid's sentences were not quite translated. At least the sub-collective left behind (forward?) were able to take a break from sensory hallucinations normally evoked by Sensors from the grid.

The drones of subunit #347 remaining in Replication Chamber #6 groaned as seemingly meaningless sensory input was fed into the mini-consciousness. Near the half-assembled components of a racing shuttle, 55 of 79 stumbled, balance lost. If anything was amiss in the chaotic swirl of taste/sight/hearing/touch, those of standard senses and standard neural architecture (i.e. everyone) could not tell.

"Sensors, stop it," snapped Captain even as command and control initiated a perception block against the insectoid. {Continue reports,} said Captain.

Replication Chamber #6 was large, but not that large on the scale of an Exploratory-class cube. Six nonfunctional industrial-grade replicators were unlit dark shapes embedded in one wall. A large amount of floor space was taken up by pieces of Motari racing shuttles, angular forms like half consumed corpses, collecting dust. Stuffing 500 drones into the space was a difficult endeavor. Therefore, as soon as possible, four-fifths of the expedition strode off through bulkheads, tasks three: to find and disarm bombs, to temporarily disable the current cube's transwarp system, and to locate subunit #522.

Easier said than done, especially when there is no transporter access. Even a small cube such as Cube #347 is huge with elevators few and far between.

Incapacitating transwarp, the first priority, went relatively smooth. Manipulating normal matter is not possible while phased; to do more than skulk through duralloy walls, one requires a method to temporarily return phased molecules to normality in relation to the surrounding universe. The PhazeStik, yet another marketing supplemental device to the temporal-phase machine, proved easy to replicate, especially when one was found in a brightly colored, cellophane wrapped box emblazoned with the words "Out-of-Tempo Add-on Kit! Fun for the entire family! Be your own grandfather! Play jokes! Great party icebreaker!"

The insanity of the rogue subunit was plain. Even worse than severing their link with the Collective and hieing off to temporally erase Cube #347 sub-collective (if successful, the Greater Consciousness would shed no figurative tears, assuming the new timeline allowed the remembrance of imperfectly assimilated drones), subunit #522 had apparently embraced the small being concepts of capitalism and commercial marketing.

Delta: {Cryomagnents are in each transwarp canister, disrupting transwarp. Engineering of now will require several hours to readjust coils before transwarp speeds may be resumed.} Pause. {We never did learn who was to blame. Mystery solved. I will need to punish myself when we return to our proper tau coordinates. I did threaten to assign the prank instigator to dustmop detail for a month.}

Captain continued down the designation list, demanding updates from each drone. The action was akin to the interrogation of individual biological units the sub-collective performed under normal operating conditions. However, in this case, the process was less detached due to small command and control cadre and lack of cube computer access. Periodically a signature would abruptly disappear, recalled by the Odd Contraption many months hence.

{Report, 32 of 42.}

Compliance, began 32 of 42. {We are examining bulkhead area where an entombed bomb had been located, but-}

*Pop*

{Report, 15 of 230.} Captain disliked the hourly recalls, especially when a drone disappeared in the middle of a direct narration. 15 of 230 was a partner in the former task quad, now trio.

15 of 230 spun a report grown familiar. No, no bombs in evidence. No, when 127 of 152 was sent to confirm, nothing sneaky like hiding thermonuclear fireworks on a differing spatial frequency. No, no quantum permutations to indicate a quantity of phased matter had occupied bulkhead space in the recent past.

Captain heaved a mental sigh embodying the communal frustration. At this point, the sole excitement of the temporal insertion had come when 49 of 83 had transversed corridor 13 of subsection 14, submatrix 2 and been espied by the now-tau Captain. The encounter itself was not a new happenstance, but it had been the closest. At first, subunit #347 had attempted to avoid the various sightings as remembered in communal memory. The futile effort was quickly abandoned as the contrary nature of paradox insured each encounter occurred no matter how diligently avoided.

Near Captain, 101 of 480 disappeared midstep, victim of recall. Air rushed to fill the vacuum of vanished body, producing a soft bang.

A dozen drones stood in Replication Reclamation Chamber #8, subsection 9, submatrix 14. Wheeled storage vats and bins, empty, lined the walls, secured by a wide assortment of colored bungie cords against gravity loss and less than perfect inertial dampers. Two gated alcoves situated on opposite walls were rooms in and of themselves, dimensions floor level to three meters in height, three meters in width, and three meters deep. They were more than large enough to engulf nearly anything able to be dragged into the chamber. Once placed in the alcoves, the replication reclamation system disintegrated an object, converting bulk waste material into either component atoms or energy depending upon vessel need. Currently the room was in down mode, trash pick-up for the subsection not scheduled until next week.

Positioned equidistant from each other in an outward facing circle, the drones stared intently at the bulkheads. Filters sensitive to resonating frequency 157.362.B highlighted traces of recent phased object movement through the metal walls, a lot of movement. Oddly, while similar passage signatures had been observed at other points in the cube, here there was an unusual tinge overlaying the tracks, a noncolor describable only as a fractional permutation of spatial variance, not enough to be invisible to optic filters, but noticeable nonetheless. 127 of 152 was directed to Replication Reclamation Chamber #8 for her interpretation.  

127 of 152 glanced at the walls, then reached for the beads hanging around her neck. As she rolled the necklace between fingertips, she proclaimed, {The winds of the spiritual world blow the rascals onward. They leap onto the currents of Fate, sailing the raging stream towards an ocean of souls eternally distant.}

{Explain, 127 of 152, without the gypsy act,} said Captain.

127 of 152 let go her beads, cocking head to one side in the characteristic posture of a Borg in deep conversation with the group mind.

{You are an unbeliever,} began 127 of 152, {and that is your prerogative. However, I am not a fraud! The spirits do talk to me, no matter what you may insinuate.}

Sensors suddenly stamped a front walking leg against deckplates, eliciting a sharp metallic click in Replication Chamber #6. Eyes automatically focused on the insectoid as the cause of the disturbance. Understanding emanated from Sensors, from subunit sensory hierarchy, an understanding which quickly spread. {[Strawberry licorice] shift. Doppler. Temporal Doppler shift,} tumbled the words from Sensors. {Sensors says [sea shells] indicate temporal Doppler shift. We can track subunit #522.} A relatively simple computation was initiated.

Captain captured the result, rotating it, examining it. Probability of sensory hierarchy being correct was 93.7%. {This subunit accepts conclusion. We must reinsert at tau coordinates -8.325.} Due to uncertainties of calculations and the quantum butterfly effect of time, positioning could not be more exact. However, reinsertion should place the expedition force in the general temporal vicinity of subunit #522, or at least close enough to fine-tune tau coordinates as necessary.

A long hour ticked past, finally snatching a drone in recall. Less than a minute later, the bottom fell out of the universe, dragging subunit #347 across space, across time. The in-flight movie was no more cheerful the second time.

*****

Subunit #522 reviewed bomb placement. One, two, five, eleven high explosive devices similar to species #5252 Devastation Device(TM), with one small exception. The minor difference lay in the addition of a deadman's switch: a PhazeStik primed to dephase the bombs after Cube #347 had spent a continuous hour in transwarp. Dephasing would bring the bomb's atoms into synchronicity with surrounding matter as the detonator triggered explosion.

Boom! No more imperfect assimilation. No more corruption. As copyright infringement upon species #5252 was irrelevant, spin-off product potential existed.

Subunit #522 drones, assembling in Replication Reclamation Chamber #8 as tasks were completed, cocked heads as One. Voices. Chaotic thoughts. Determination. Resignation. Fear? Images echoing future-pasts from 500 points of view.

The corrupted sub-collective had somehow discovered the efficiency to follow subunit #522. Although the subspace link had been deliberately severed to the Collective, neural transceivers continued to operate on cosmically minute solar system scales; and phase shifting meant the only Borg the subunit could hear would be those similarly displaced, such as the imperfect pursuers.

Calculations flashed through subunit neural architecture. A new tau vector, then a second and third followed immediately, cumulating in a final insertion several temporal jumps distant. By the time(!) the sub-collective defused the bombs - assuming the task could be completed without accidentally detonating the devices - new explosives would be hidden at another when.

The subunit vanished.

*****

Fading whispers greeted the temporal expedition force of Cube #347. Almost words on the edge of perception hissed of discovery, smug satisfaction, explosive surprises, resolution to succeed, marketing ploys, corruption, a backwards ticking clock, perfection. A nearly suppressed image of recognizable surroundings. Subunit #522 mental signature vanished, a nightmare banished. The knowledge of how close the group had come to arriving in the same when as subunit #522 would have been more thrilling if the 500 drones had not exited insertion in yet another dogpile.

Crushed under several thousand kilograms of organics and metal, Captain participated in group contemplation of why the subunit arrived in such a state of disarray after leaving Bulk Cargo Hold #3 standing. Likely subunit #522 did not experience similar difficulties. Captain scribbled the Borg equivalent of a yellow sticky note as a reminder to review Odd Contraption settings...and if a certain secondary consensus monitor and facilitator was influencing a line of code or three.

{Get me off of myself,} griped Delta. {My a** is in my face. This position is highly uncomfortable.}

{Comfort is-} began 74 of 310, already free of the pile.

{Finish that, and you'll discover how relevant comfort is when you are crawling through interstitial spaces to check EPS conduits with a hand-held plasma-voltmeter.}

74 of 310 stifled thoughts.

The pile disintegrated to component Borg.

{Tasks are as assigned,} said Captain after the current situation was reviewed. {To Replication Reclamation Chamber #8 to capture temporal Doppler shift...}

Through the darkened hallways of Cube #347 tromped holographic sailors and marines of species #6101. The canid humanoid military personnel brandished a wide assortment of lethal holographic weaponry, drooping ears and limpid eyes alert. Despite the very real danger represented by armaments unconstrained by safety lock-out, no threat existed. The holograms were unable to perceive anything not in exact phase with them, unlike the living now-Borg.

The emergency state currently existing on Cube #347 provided both pluses and minuses. On the upside of the blunder which had led to Weapons' simulation taking over the cube, all now-drones were barricaded in subsection 8. While battling Thorny and angry soldiers, the current sub-collective was unable to interfere with their future counterparts. On the down side, it was not only annoying to have unperceptive holograms go charging through one's body, but necessary to place phased sentries near any dephased units to give warning of approach by hostile holographic forces.

{Subgroup #2, report,} ordered Captain. He had transferred his body to be among those observing the stalemate between barricaded sub-collective of now and holograms. He was not required to stay in Replication Chamber #6 to fulfill his consensus monitor duties; and, besides, the exoskeletal snapping contest - similar to cracking knuckles - showed no abatement. In addition to Sensors, the other two insectoids of Cube #347 crew had "won" the subunit lotto. Trying to halt the game was an exercise in futility to species which could, when desired, crack joints with each supposedly innocent movement.

Subgroup #2 included 127 of 152, who responded for the rest of the multi-hierarchial group, {Temporal Doppler positive 0.0115 tau, laddy.} The subgroup consisted of ten drones from engineering and sensory hierarchies, dispatched to Replication Reclamation Chamber #8. {This definitely be subunit #522 locus. Their spiritual essences permeate the walls, the very air. If I were to use a crystal ball, even a primitive water scrying device, instead of mechanical instruments, I know I could be more accurate. Perhaps I might glimpse what actions they take at their futureward destination.}

{No,} said Captain. He stopped just within a wall bulkhead of a corridor joining subsection 17 and subsection 8, face protruding into the hallway. Subsection 8 anti-Thorny forcefield quietly hummed, a barrier easily avoided by passing around via walls. Captain moved further out of his hiding spot, noticing the beginnings of a species #6101 barricade - real, not holographic - at one end of the corridor, and a drone - Weapons - at the other. The latter appeared to be engrossed with glowering at the silvered dark green form of Thorny, and not paying attention to the hologram threat. Captain continued to mentally scroll the cybernetic resource list, now amid those weapon-engineering groups assigned the tricky job of bomb disposal. Additional engineering teams were preparing to disable the sensor grid in order to force Cube #347 to exit transwarp.

Captain stepped fully into the corridor. {Delta: summarize bomb removal procedure,} he directed. A file was opened to store the update, multiple copies and part copies deposited in multiple brains until such time permanent reunion with sub-collective allowed full information integration into data nodes for storage. The rush of data into the abbreviated command and control network necessitated concentration be focused on the mental plane, not the physical. Body lacking direction, it shuffled to a stop in the center of the hallway.

Reminded a weapons drone through the data flood, {4 of 8, you are in a tactically unsound location. Move.}

Captain acknowledged the order. All being equal, a drone "lower" in the hierarchy could command a hierarchical head, although irrelevant compulsions were easily deflected. This case was a simple matter of automatic reflex, part of the connected cybernetic organism talking to itself, telling itself to avoid a dangerous situation. The response by Captain was rote, and too late.

Awareness of immediate surroundings reinitialized just in time to see now-Weapons swing up an arm, aiming. The disrupter would affect Captain, phased or not; personal shielding was not adapted to the disrupter frequency Weapons prepared to use, that shred of data not downloaded into expedition force memories prior to insertion. Captain leapt towards sheltering bulkhead as Weapons fired.

Simultaneously, a fuzzing of tactile sensors akin to transporter lock infused limbs - the sensation of imminent tau jump. A chronometer check confirmed recall. The building blocks of reality vanished as the future Out-of-Tempo grabbed onto Captain and yanked.

Down the corridor, deeper in subsection 8, Weapons frowned as his disrupter missed. He wiped pink sap off his face, glaring at writhing bloodvine, as well the universe in general as Doctor chided him. It must have been shadows thrown from Thorny as it crept up on him. Too bad attempting to burn the plant out of the ship was not a feasible option.

A personal trip through future-past echoes was as disconcerting as the group adventure. Memories taken from those Borg recalled did not do justice to the first-person experience. The journey was both subjectively instantaneous and prolonged, a paradox. Captain was very relieved when he found himself staring at deck plates inches from his nose, hands of drone maintenance assisting him to his feet.

Three complex three-dimensional shapes rotated in the dataspaces. Two were alike, with the third related in form. Whereas the pair were girdled with a sixsome of cylinders, the last had four; the former duo were a riot of wires, the lattermost sparse. Just as a machine is engineered through mechanical generations to increasing efficiency with less parts, or a biological moves towards derived and specialized forms over millions of years, the final bomb represented the evolutionary descendant of the others.

The timeline-now indicated subunit #347 had been/was/would be successful in defusing the phased explosives. Shape 1 was the original bomb type found near engines as stored in Captain's memory; and shape 2 represented the bomb encountered in the past. The problem was that timeline-now had the more refined bomb planted in the bulkheads, attesting to the tenacity of subunit #522 to continue efforts of Cube #347 eradication.

Hopeless? Never. While the less experienced time traveler might declare "it has occurred - it will occur - it is occurring" before shattering into a nervous breakdown, the Borg knew better. The temporal aspects of quantum mechanics allow for all possibilities to happen (in fact, all must transpire), and it is viable with effort to slant odds such that...

Let's just say, without the scientific mumbo-jumbo technobabble, that it is possible to alter time. What appears to be not necessarily come to pass. The alteration of the current phased bombs hidden in bulkheads was proof of the axiom.

{We require data on progress of defusing. Recall a drone,} instructed Captain, vocalizing consensus. Communication with the phased past was strictly one-way: recalled crew, Captain included, could not be reinserted. The temporal-phase initiation process was all or none. A drone shimmered into reality in Bulk Cargo Hold #3. Although in his alcove regenerating from temporal displacement stress, Captain was also in the hold, witnessing first person vantage from fifty-three points-of-view.

176 of 240 stood frozen, extended hand grasping a pair of low-tech wire snips. She appeared to have been in the middle of a vital step of bomb disarming, a supposition confirmed as 176 of 240's mind gratefully merged with the comforting larger sub-collective. Fortunately, 176 of 240 had just completed her snipping motion, not begun.

{The final bomb is defused. I think,} said 176 of 240. She magnetically attached wire cutter to torso, projecting an external nonchalant air which fooled no one. {We haven't exploded, have we?}

Second snorted, {We are all here, aren't we? Yes, yes we are. Don't ask stupid questions.}

{Enough,} Second, said Captain. {Recall subunit #347.}

<<Compliance,>> responded the sub-collective whole.

*****

The M-class planet - green, blue, brown, white - orbits (orbited/will orbit) a yellow dwarf star. It is a perfect colony world, rich in resources and lacking native sentients. The parent solar system has the gasses, metals, and rare elements to support a civilization when it expands beyond terrestrial confines. The planet, although distant from most spheres of intelligent influence, is already claimed, multiple beacons broadcasting a single message:

"Planet #8460-C is under indefinite Hive claim. Trespassers, transients, and illicit colonists will be forcibly evicted. Further violations by the offending party will lead to prosecution. Permanently. This is your only warning."

The transmission sounds Byzantine, but compared to the lack of warning only three Terran standard years earlier (Why post claims when the Collective already owned everything?), it is very thoughtful.

A lone starship enters the system, apparently in violation of the warning. The form is Starfleet, futuristic in some respects, yet exuding a recognizably obsolete quality. For one thing, it had spent over two months at high warp just to arrive (including rest stops, shopping, and a side trip to see The Galaxy's Largest Ball of Green Yarn), a distance able to be crossed in only a week by the new transwarp capable warships entering Federation service. On the saucer section, chipped white letters glint with silver flecks under bright floodlights: Secondprize. An omnidirectional, voice-only transmission floods local subspace communication channels.

"This is Captain Maxine Planck of the Federation starship Secondprize. We are here. Hellloooo? No, don't touch that button Ensign...do you want to flood the deck with laughing gas again? Okay, maybe latter, but not now. What Lieutenant? We're still broadcasting? Oops. Umm. Okay, do over. This is Captain Maxine Plank of the Federation starship Secondprize. We are supposed to be meeting a *rustle of paper* Hive Exploratory-class Cube #347 at these coordinates. At least I think we are. When we got this assignment two months ago, dispatch was laughing at us."

No answer. One Captain Maxine Planck directs (directed/will direct) her Ops officer to repeat the message. He does so, neglecting to remove the asides. Secondprize continues towards Planet #8460-C at impulse, then slows to a drift as a familiarly ominous geometrical shape exits the sensor shadow cast by the world's single moon.

"Hive Exploratory *static* #347 responding. We *buzz* you. *Buzz*static* tactical difficulties. They will *buzz*. *Hiss* suggest you maintain a distance of at least *static* kilometers. Sensor array *static* everything looks like an enemy and *buzz* at you," is (was/will be) the multivoice reply. The cube looks quite dusty, as if it had run into a regolith dust cloud. Secondprize sensors confirm the presence of pulverized moon rock as it nears.

The cube abruptly fires a low-yield - for Hive - tri-cobalt torpedo. It misses (missed/will miss) the Federation starship by several hundred kilometers, detonating with enough force to rattle shield. Secondprize veers off, its own weaponry coming on-line.

"We *static* warned you. Communications are nearly repaired. We are experiencing technical difficulties with out sensor-weapon interfacing systems. You will maintain a *buzz* 50 million kilometers from this cube, else you will be mistaken for a target and fired upon. Repairs will *hiss* half an hour, Terran standard. Cube #347 out."

*

Tau shift and tau shift and tau shift. Subunit #522 performed the sequence of temporal jumps as swiftly as it could, only allowing the minimum amount of recovery time necessary. The future-past echoes grew increasingly disturbing, building a narrative which currently included Cube #347 peacefully, other than an accidental munitions discharge, rendezvousing with a Federation starship. It depicted a reality of a peaceful (weak!) Collective, a time where Borg announced intention to colonize, not simply assimilated resources into the Whole. The revealing echoes of an increasingly distant future indicated a solidifying of the timeline. The subunit had to succeed in order to reintroduce the fluidity necessary for Perfection to triumph, Corruption to fail.

Subunit #522 drones turned to spare equipment carried through the temporal excursion. Wire, explosives, chemicals, circuits, transistors, crystal, all had to be inventoried in preparation to construct new bombs. The devices would require modification because not enough parts remained to build the same type abandoned at past tau coordinates. Lack of construction material, however, was a small difficulty in comparison to the surprise development of a major concern.

Drone system diagnostics were complete, revealing a troublesome problem. All organic units were degrading due to repeated insertions. Individually, the damage was minor, easily reparable by nanoprobes. However, cumulative stress was swiftly reducing nanite operational efficiency towards unacceptability. Drones were soon to require substantial regeneration before original predicted estimations. Additional tau jumps would further pressure the Borg microscopic repair/artificial immune system, leading to eventual failure.

A sense of urgency infused subunit #522.

*****

Plasma fire rips (has ripped/will rip) through conduits, warping duralloy armor, consuming organics. One of many injuries, each more grievous than the last, plaguing the cube. Green flames creep (crept/will creep) inward, questing mindlessly for a power core, a warp engine, a transwarp coil: fuel is irrelevant, as long as it burns.

*

{No subunit, no bombs at tau coordinate -7.333, phase shift variance 157.362.B,} repeated 59 of 230, recently recalled and reintegrated. {Tau Doppler in Replication Reclamation Chamber #8 indicates an immediate second insertion by rogue subunit #522.} The appropriate data flowed into the sub-collective consciousness as the drone continued. {Recall subunit #347 and reinsert along tau vector at coordinate -7.152.}

*

A drone sets (set/will set) hand, palm foremost, against a locked door leading to Dilithium Growth Laboratory #1, near the threatened auxiliary core #7. Simultaneously, visual from prosthetic eye shifts to frequencies better suited to gauge thermal stress. With a mental curse, the drone immediately steps (stepped/will step) back, cooked meat odor rising from organic hand even as vision confirms tactile input - intense heat is the explanation sensors in the dilithium crystal growth room are malfunctioning, not kinetic damage due to the cube's ongoing thrashing. The drone is motionless as the crippled mentality of Cube #347 frantically shuffles more pressing concerns than reassignment of a single engineering unit. Thermal stress builds (built/will build) behind the door. And builds. And builds. Momentarily without duties, personal preservation instincts override inactivity, prompting transporter lock to move body to a location not about to become the entry gate to Hell. Too late. Cube #347 loses yet another mind, another drone, it can ill afford to sacrifice.

*

13 of 19 wobbled, reorienting herself to Bulk Cargo Hold #3. At least those driving the Out-of-Tempo contraption were becoming more proficient at landing recalled drones on their feet, as opposed to other anatomical parts. Even as she performed automatic body diagnostics, 13 of 19 was debriefed by the sub-collective. {Another tau Doppler shift. Subunit #347 requires recall and reinsertion - again! - at tau coordinate -6.212.} She paused. {My species does not regurgitate, and nausea is irrelevant for Borg. However, I feel like I am about to throw up.} The future-past echoes reverberating from 13 of 19 were not pretty.

*

Plasma fire burrows (burrowed/will burrow) through the final meters of reinforced bulkhead, entering open space. Flowing into a rolling green sea of not-quite flames, it eagerly devours oxygen. Drones in auxiliary core #7 hastily beam away, aware they can do nothing to quench the approaching monster. It pauses, then leaps, screaming with mindless triumph.

Energies tunnel (tunneled/will tunnel) rapidly to the surface of subsection 4, submatrix 22, fountaining destruction to space. Cube #347 shudders at the wound, then slowly turns to present a less damaged face to assailant, a more intact portion of the fragmented weaponry grid. 

*

Whispers on the edge of hearing greeted subunit #347, mutterings quickly dampened to unintelligible subliminal hisses. Subunit #522 was found, found and surprised. The brief moment of understandable intradrone communications indicated rogue units were spread all over the cube.

Captain barked commands even as his body was extracted from the dogpile, the central voice of rapidly forming consensus, {Engineering: determine if bombs have been emplaced, and defuse as necessary; also, keep the cube out of transwarp. Weapons: assist engineering as required, and capture subunit #522 members. Hierarchies other than command and control will lend assistance to top priorities. Command and control: coordinate. There will be no bickering, no protests, no tangents, no side trips, no dissent, no whining. Any drone hindering our task in any way will immediately be put into involuntary stasis lock by drone maintenance. Higher order mental pathways will be disabled, with only autonomic processes left intact until such time we are recalled. Compliance.}

{But...} began 131 of 510. His mental presence abruptly downgraded from active to passive status. Two drones near him picked up his stiff body, leaning him against a wall before he could fall on his face.

Any further dissent was stifled amid the choruses of acquiescence.

Delta, body A and B, labored at the junction between warp nacelle segment 1a and segment 1b, subsection 10. Four limbs smoothly complimented each other, weaving in and out as if connected to one organism, not two. As Delta was of single mind split between a pair of bodies, the observation was essentially correct. She was currently initiating mild fluctuations in the primary plasma coupling. The fluctuations were more annoyance than danger to Cube #347, as long as warp load was not shunted betwixt the segments in question. As nacelle 1 was idling, such an incident should not occur. The purpose of Delta's actions were to keep the now-sub-collective busy, to allow teams access to the areas where phased bombs were hidden.

As Delta worked, she talked to herself. She had disabled vocal subprocessors to insure the fragmental rambling she often unconsciously engaged in with herself as thoughts shunted between brains was not overheard. However, the action did not halt mouth movements of her silent conversations.

{Idiotic, subgroup #3,} began Delta, body A mouthing along with the scathing words.

Body B: {you were almost}

Body A: {seen by that maintenance detachment.}

Delta focused her eyes upon her work, tapping several long numerical sequences into the plasma stabilizer. Devices meant for repairs could also be employed to cause havoc. Delta still had trouble with the realization she was to blame for many of the inefficiencies she had mended over the last ten thousand light years. Chronometer check - her now-counterpart should be nearing the locale to investigate. Hands began to detach stabilizer from coupling joint unit.

{Damn. The clip has melted to the}

{segment coupling and it won't come}

{loose. I will have to pull at it. However, there}

{is no time for proper detachment techniques.}

Body B firmly yanked at the offending wire, pulling it loose just as body A spotted now-Delta body A striding down the corridor. As now-body A slowed in disbelief, Delta grabbed the evidence of her sabotage. PhazeStiks disengaged, allowing atoms to revert to the phase variance set by the Out-of-Tempo. Escaping through a bulkhead, Delta left the crime scene, leaving behind a very confused past-self.

Sensors slowly stilted through bulkheads, storerooms, hallways on thin walking legs, affording each obstacle nary a glance. She focused instead on a different sight, a nebulous false color/smell/taste view overlaying her normal perception. Sensors was tracking the passage of a subunit #522 member, relying upon newly implanted cortex filters for the task. A weapons drone, millipede-like insectoid 3 of 3, followed closely behind.

{We close,} remarked Sensors to 3 of 3. {Sensors tastes [muddy] footprints.}

3 of 3 clicked acknowledgment. Within his carapace, a quiet humming began as his personal armament drew power from internal energy sources. Designing practical offensive armaments for knee-high species #7109 had caused the Collective difficulty until a skunkworks military outpost had been captured, data and personnel assimilated. Revelations led to a segmented disrupter which was situated along the spinal axis of an individual. Internal and external disrupter variations existed, each with pros and cons. 3 of 3 mounted the internal model, and thus was forced to duck his head before firing, lest he crisp his own cranium.

Sensors stopped, head pivoting back and forth as she regarded which of two trails to follow. {Don't fire at Sensors!} admonished the sensory hierarchy head as she led her comrade along the left path.

{I will not aim at you.}

{That is what Sensors is afraid of. Sensors would be safer if you did so.} 3 of 3 had lousy aim due to excess heat from internal disrupter elements warping key targeting implants. The only practical fix required most of 3 of 3's equipment to be removed and reinstalled, a major surgery with high probability of fatality. As 3 of 3 was rarely assigned actual combat duties, the procedure had never been prioritized on drone maintenance rosters.

Sensors paused as she entered a hallway. Her antennae waved in frustration. She had followed the wrong trail. "[Yellow submarine carpet] it!" outburst Sensors.

2 of 3, centipedal insectoid, looked up from the open panel he had been examining. The first third of his body was raised off the ground, free manipulatory legs holding a variety of equipment. The insectoid rattled his mandibles in confusion as he attempted to decipher the obvious oath, then squeaked in alarm as a powered-up 3 of 3 rambled out of the bulkhead on Sensors' heels. Exclaimed 2 of 3, {Point at me! No, don't point at me! Just don't fire at me!} 2 of 3 dropped to present a lower profile, legs smoothly tucking instruments into carapace compartments.

Armored footstep on metal alerted the three insectoids to the presence of a fourth individual. All three turned to look at the intruder, ready to dash into a sheltering bulkhead should it be a member of the now-sub-collective. Instead, a drone of subunit #522 stared at the trio. 3 of 3 fluidly aligned himself upon the target before ducking his head. The miss did little except discolor duralloy. The subunit #522 drone broke into a stiff jog, disappearing through a wall.

{Follow!} trumpeted 3 of 3, goading the other two insectoids into pursuit as immediate local priorities shifted to rogue subunit capture. Sensors leapt forward on long legs, shifting to an undignified hexapod gait which included hands and arms. 2 of 3 also ran afterwards, movements fluid and coordinated, circumference antennae ruff steering him straighter than sight alone. Ironically, the sole armed drone of the three, 3 of 3, could not move fast in comparison to the other two, and was swiftly regulated to the rear of the chase pack. The occasional leg which fell off, appendage shedding a trait of his species during times of excitement or stress, did not help.

The subunit #522 drone retreated towards central shaft #1, at walkway 45 of subsection 5, submatrix 14. The target trotted onto the shaft walkway, ducking into an adjacent hallway. Sensors loped behind, gaining. A metallic glint across empty shaft space caught her attention. She slowed slightly, capturing the distant image of now-56 of 133 watching the pursuit from tier 18. {Follow!} urged 3 of 3 again. Sensors returned full attention on the scramble, skidding around the corner as left medial truefoot slipped. 2 of 3 gamely chugged behind, with increasingly distant 3 of 3 making the best speed possible without loosing additional legs.

Another turn of the corridor, and Sensors slowed as she found her prey apparently evaporated. 2 of 3 managed to avoid the spindly insectoid's legs, but 3 of 3 was not so agile. His armored form slammed into Sensors' appendages, sending her sprawling. Sensors untangled herself, antennae held stiff with indignation, only to find her right rearmost leg slightly bent out of alignment with the joint socket. Ignoring the injury, she slowly panned the walls, detecting multiple traces of phased bodies having passed through a short time prior, the target's signature lost in background spoor. The rogue drone had escaped.

"[Yellow submarine carpet] it!" snarled Sensors, repeating her earlier expletive. She gave 3 of 3 a faceted gaze which required no translation, then turned to limp in the direction of Replication Chamber #6 and awaiting drone maintenance.

Replication Chamber #6 was evacuated for a short time to allow now-127 of 152 to prepare her spiritual paraphernalia. While the Ghosts were supposedly around, Captain never saw one personally; and neither did anyone of subunit #347 interact with one of the phase-shifted entities. Even 127 of 152 was kept too busy tracking subunit #522 drones to contemplate communication with "spirits."

Stated priorities regarding bombs and rogue subunit had thus far rendered both good news and bad news. On the one hand, subunit #522 did not have sufficient time to set bombs. On the other hand, capturing the subunit members was easier said than done. Just as it seemed a drone was cornered, it slipped away through a combination of inefficient bungling (by subunit #347) and competent tactics (by subunit #522). Obviously subunit #522 would not rendezvous at Replication Reclamation Chamber #8, that position compromised, but the meeting place could be any of numerous possibilities within the cube. Continuing efforts to force the residual link between expedition force and rogues went unrewarded.

And then, suddenly, the subunit was gone. No more quiet whispers hissed on neural transceiver fractual frequencies. Where had subunit #522 drones met? Until an answer could be provided, the temporal expedition force was stymied. Each moment wasted allowed subunit #522 to progress closer to their final goal.

*****

Subunit #522 gathered on the hull at subsection 17, submatrix 17. Tau shifting from outside the cube, as opposed to inside, would not fool their uncharacteristically competent pursuers for long. Logic dictated that if quantum traces of time jumps were not found at suitable locales in Cube #347, the meeting point thus had to be exterior. However, the hull area was vast, and Corruption would be delayed in finding the correct location.

*

A garbled transmission impinges upon Cube #347's grid. Both visual and audio components are distorted, hissing static turning the subspace communique into sputtering A/V lace. However, as long as data is available to be amplified, the number crunching organic computer of Cube #347 sub-collective is game; and the Hive offers assistance as well. Quickly the broadcast clears.

Maxine Planck grips the back of her Captain's chair, leather scorched and torn. Her power bun is undone, fly-away hairs framing (framed/will frame) face in a frizzy blond halo. The picture shakes, causing Max to duck involuntarily as sparks shower down upon her, followed by a tangle of optic wire. "Cube #347 - Captain: in the Directors' names, where are you? The ambush is toast, compromised somehow, and we are besieged by ships. Not even Zzzghatix's driving skills are going to get us out of this one." The picture shudders again. A chime catches the Secondprize captain's attention.

"What?"

"Ship no go," is the hesitant voice.

"Nor, what are you doing on the intercom? Now is not the time for the lecture about touching things..."

"Lt. Cmdr. Goth, she no go."

Max's eyes widen. "Is she dead?"

"No. Lt. Cmdr. Goth no go. Legs no go. Mouth goes very good."

"Then do what the Lt. Cmdr. says, Nor! I don't exactly have the time to talk to you."

From off-screen comes an Andorian oath uttered by a very human voice, "By the Hive Mother, another one is closing! I can't keep them off our nacelles. We will have to turn and die honorably!"

"No, Zzzghatix, keep driving. And your antennae have fallen off again." Max clears (cleared/will clear) her throat, then stares into the camera pick-up, "I don't know if your Hiver communication system is still functional, but if you hear us Cube #347, get your collective a**es here!"

*

As the pivotal nexus approached, the residual future-past echoes were becoming stronger, more persistent. Less time, no pun intended, remained in which to alter the timelines. Potentially the subunit could continue slipping from time to time, always one step ahead of Corruption, until that moment the imperfect drones faltered and gave subunit #522 the opening to succeed. Of greater importance, however, was the reality of regeneration, and the swiftly approaching deadline when individuals would enter protective stasis lock due to lack of downtime. The subunit would remain functional without the members, but as further Borg became incapacitated, the miniature Whole of the subunit would waver. Dissolution of One into small beings would occur when a lower drone number threshold was passed, after which programmed instincts would dictate action to those not in shock by forced reversion to individuality.

Eleven members of subunit #522 hefted eleven bombs. The design was a modification upon initial scheme, resulting in a product both more powerful and slightly smaller. The military marketing potential was vast, especially if ads were taken out in magazines such as "Terrorist Weekly" and "Modern Mercenaries." The alterations had been forced due to lack of components after abandoning the initial bomb attempt. The modifications would work perfectly. Subunit #522 scattered in a race against that most fickle of entities - Time.

*****

Tricky subunit #522, or desperate. Hours of searching, hours of delay playing hide-and-seek with drones of now (purposeful in the case of 100 of 510, an activity Captain swiftly quashed) led to the inescapable conclusion the subunit had not fled from a locale inside the cube, which left the hull. Searchers spread out upon the hull, losing yet more precious time. Finally, Dopplered phase traces found, subunit #347 returned to their proper tau moment to prepare quickly for a new insertion.

Second griped, {This is not fair. Inform me again why I have to go?}

A mental groan was Second's reply from Captain, {Second, I am regenerating to expedite repairs to my neural pathways. Thinking is sluggish. Conversation hurts. My brain aches. I require a minimum recovery time of three hours with limited neurological stimulus to regain full efficiency.} On return, the ever-present future-past echoes had strongly impacted certain drones, leading to near mental breakdown of those affected. Subunit #347 command and control cadre had contained individual psychoses before they could induce the Borg equivalent of a sub-collective seizure. Unfortunately, the price of success was high, knocking those cadre drones involved temporarily out of commission and unavailable for additional temporal excursions. With replacement subunit members chosen, including a new command and control group, Second drew pick as primary baby-sitter.

{You did not answer my question.}

{In response to your query, recall "'I' does not matter for Borg."} Captain threw Second's earlier response to a similar complaint back at him. {You go. End of story. Now let me regenerate.}

Second attempted to re-engage Captain, but failed. The latter had initiated his voice mail, complete with recorded messages personalized to the caller. The one directed at Second was mildly insulting, assuming Second allowed himself to take offense. No, not only was enmity irrelevant, it would give Captain an equally irrelevant satisfaction at needling his admittedly whinny second-in-command. Second gave a last grumble, reminded himself to work upon his sarcastic image, then purged himself of the emotional inefficiencies threatening to affect his performance. Finally he informed engineering the subunit was ready to go.

*****

With the bombs armed as of several hours prior, subunit #522 desired to have tau jumped elsewhen. Critical time remaining to required unit regeneration grew increasingly short, and temporal travel would only aggravate the problem, but as long as the subunit remained ahead of their pursuers, there was always a chance for success. Chance, however, wasn't high at the moment.

The batteries of the Mini-Temp Buddy were nonfunctional, discharged, kaput. All twenty Foreverizer D-size units required replacement. Unfortunately, spares were lacking, highest priority at misadventure start placed upon glossy Out-of-Tempo sales brochures requiring final editing prior to mass production. Without power, the Mini-Temp Buddy did not work, and thus the subunit was stuck at the current tau coordinates until the problem was remedied. For lack of a better place, the subunit returned to Replication Reclamation Chamber #8 and attempted to proof brochures while determining a new course of action.

And then subunit #347 arrived, imperfect presence a blazing fire upon the fractual frequencies.

One drone nodded in acknowledgment as a decision was reached. He was of a nondescript humanoid species with Standard Prosthesis and Implant Package #3 installed. Three comrades surrounded him, catching the suddenly limp body as it slumped to the ground, self-terminated. The cadaver was laid upon the deck, lasers and cutting implements crudely slicing away armor and flesh. Inside the "volunteer" was an internal energy source, an obligate implant installed in all drones to produce extra power to fuel-energy hungry systems like personal shields. Properly modified, the power source would function as a replacement for the twenty Foreverizer batteries. For this reason the ghoulish sacrifice was necessary.

While the majority of subunit #522 stood motionless, contemplating which of two photos best displayed the Out-of-Tempo, the wet sounds of tearing muscle, ripping organs, and dripping fluids filled the air.

*****

Second paced back and forth in Replication Chamber #6, automatically stepping over or going around obstacles in his circuit. Several wisea** command and control members were surreptitiously placing additional impediments in his path, then betting on the outcome. The ultimate goal was to trip Cube #347's back-up captain.

Second avoided an oxygen cylinder, stopping. His eyes followed scenes much more distant than the gray wall five meters away. {Elaborate.}

Delta said, {There is nothing to elaborate. We cannot defuse these bombs.} The device under discussion was a modified four-cylinder Devastation Device(TM), the same object which at a futureward point resided in a wall adjacent to every engine core.

{Elaborate.}

{There is nothing to elaborate,} fumed Delta, {or should I repeat myself until understanding arrives? There are fewer visible wires, but it appears circuits are etched into the inside casing of the bomb itself. We are lucky we did not blow ourselves and the cube to bits when we opened the bomb at auxiliary core #8. The cavity is packed with electronics, any action upon which may cause a Boom. We need more information. Schematics.}

Second turned on heel, striding towards the opposite end of the room. On his way he activated his PhazeStik and kicked an empty lubricant can. It skittered noisily across the floor. "Better refine those bets," he muttered to all in earshot. Internally: {No off switch? No convenient manuals nearby?}

{Subunit #522 is deranged, not utterly stupid. There is a difference.} Delta flooded command and control with the partial schematics thus far built by visual inspection. {Incomplete. There may be no specific off toggle, but the subunit had to build, transport, and arm the thing without becoming scrap in the process. Therefore, there must be some method to disarm it.}

Pausing centimeters from a wheeled container rolled into his pathway, Second gave a mental smirk, disengaged his PhazeStik, and passed through the object without damage. "The only way I will trip is if the object is in phase with me, and visa-versa." Five drones glanced at each other, then bent into a whispering huddle. Second ignored them.

{Weapons detachments - close on subunit #522. Command and control and assimilation designations will assist.} Second orientated on the direction leading to Replication Reclamation Chamber #8, the known location of the subunit. Why the rogues kept returning to that locale was a mystery, one which may or may not be cleared by their capture. Whatever the outcome, their detainment was now vital to defusing Cube #347's eleven explosive problems.

One step from the wall, Second was jostled by 22 of 31 as the latter fell against him. "Examine your internal gyros," snapped Second as he caught his balance, continued forward...and smacked into a wall suddenly solid. He automatically checked his PhazeStik, finding /someone/ had engaged it, returning his molecules to standard universal phase variance. Unfortunately the culprits were already gone, hastily trekking towards the subunit #522 position as commanded.

The showdown was anti-climatic.

Subunit #522 stood in a loose aggregation, those on the group exterior facing outward; from the middle came sounds of drilling and hammering. Arms were raised in threat as subunit #347 drones egressed the walls and encircled the rogues. Threat, however, did not materialize into action, and would not as indicated by the turbulent emanations from the target. For all subunit #522 was willing to destroy Cube #347 sub-collective in the name of Perfection, faced with actual bodies instead of a concept initiated still active prohibitions against purposeful injury to a peer.

Second stepped to the fore of the pack, regarding subunit #522 members through his own narrowed eyes, as well as multiple other view points. They continued to resist mental incursions, adroitly evicting each effort at forced compulsion, forced data extraction. However, engineering hierarchy required bomb knowledge - detailed schematics, secondary triggers, a list of influences which would precipitate detonation. Teams were poised to act upon influx of such data, when and if it came.

"Surrender. Disengage personal weapons. Submit to us. Resistance is futile," announced Second, echoed by his fellows. Subunit #522 refused to accept any transceiver communication, including drone-to-drone linkage into Borg chatroom channels.

As one, subunit #522 lowered arms and powered down disrupters. They continued to stand defiant, none openly admitting defeat.

"Submit. You will speak verbally if you will not follow standard communication protocols. Comply."

A single drone - 143 of 1810, subunit #522 consensus monitor - departed the pack. He moved single-mindedly around the circumference of his subunit until he stood in front of Second. "This drone speaks for all. We have a few words prepared. Although our bodies will be reduced to spare parts and organic waste, our designations declared rogue, we will continue to resist. Resistance is not futile against flawed perfection. We will wipe our memories of all relevant data. We will prevail, and thus the Collective will be saved."

Through the speech Second became increasingly impatient. He rolled his eyes in annoyance, listened to snide background comments, tapped a toe against the deck, and made "hurry up" motions with his nonprosthetic hand. 143 of 1810 verbally stumbled in the face of overt and irrelevant rudeness, but quickly returned to the cadence of his oration. Consensus rippled among the subunit #347 neural network, arriving at a course of action with which Second heartily agreed.

Asked Second, "Are you done? Have you initiated," wave of hand towards 143 of 1810's head, "memory erasure yet?"

"Yes. No," answered 143 of 1810 in the order of questions asked.

"Good. Hold still." Second's waving hand slapped down upon 143 of 1810's shoulder. Assimilation tubules triggered; they burrowed into the other drone's neck, seeking direct contact with neural fibers. Augmented nervous systems met, fought for control. However, Second was fated to emerge victorious for he had the force of 500 minds behind his rush to break the one. 143 of 1810 was immediately partitioned from the subunit #522 consciousness, an automatic reflex against virus activity and alien incursion. So fast were the various actions that 143 of 1810, caught in the middle of abandonment and mental rape, was unable to erase the vital information stored in his head. And as (former) consensus monitor and facilitator, much of what subunit #347 engineering hierarchy needed was found in 143 of 1810's brain.

Delta reported, several extra streams of data - schematics and action footage - supplementing an otherwise dull recital. Second absorbed it, juggling the engineering situation analysis with guard accounts concerning quiescent subunit #522 and activity of now-Cube #347 drones. He had already told 38 of 39 and 138 of 480 to stop tossing objects at him: the noises the materials made when they passed through him and hit the floor was distracting.

{In conclusion,} ended Delta, {the primary trigger of the bombs - continuous transwarp transit time - has been disabled, but the devices remain in the bulkheads.}

Second blinked, {Clarify.}

Delta flooded command and control, subunit #347, with sound reasons for not immediately removing the explosives. First and foremost, dislodging the bombs from their bulkhead hiding places activated a final deadman's switch, an elegantly tamperproof trigger which could be defused with a success rate of one in four. Those calculations translated to two or three bombs igniting, which was two or three too many.

Now that the secondary triggers to detonate bombs were known, the most effective disposal method was to physically cut them out of the bulkheads. Internal armor with phased bomb intact could then safely be dumped overboard via airlock, before remote detonation with disrupter fire.

{Weapons will be pleased,} commented Second, {assuming he is refrained from blowing the debris before they reach a range where shockwaves will be rendered harmless. } Second paused to take stock of subunit #347 member locations, as well as consult countdown to next recall. {Drone maintenance, finish tagging subunit #522. Assuming proper efficiency, we will be ready at the next recall in twenty minutes to return ourselves and the subunit to our proper tau coordinates. Our tasks here are complete.}

Plink. Plink. Plink plink plink. A shower of rivets deluged Second. Second altered his time perception to make subjective time appear to speed faster...twenty minutes could not come too soon.

*

Cube #347 charges (charged/will charge) from a transwarp termini, immediately tumbling into a controlled defensive spin against an unseen opponent. Several dark shapes impact against shields, followed by brief lightening flashes of yellow plasma weaponry. The attackers are frustratingly unknown, location just outside the point-of-view of the impassive third-party observer. Suddenly something slices through shielding, armor, layers of deck, an impossibly thin cord of black which twists the stars along its length into distorted ovals. Gravitational lensing effect, solemnly informs sensor hierarchy members, in which a massive near object causes distant points to appear elsewhere due to bending of light.

The sheared corner brakes into a scattering of debris, torn apart by a combination of failed artificial gravity, abruptly collapsed shields, and stress of rotational defense. The damage, however, is (was/will be) minor considering the real emergency: two active auxiliary cores caught by the monofilament, both exploding with the wrath of small novae. Fiery crevices rip deep through duralloy hide, molten metal and fluid plasma geysering spaceward. In sympathetic resonance overload, a third and forth core blossom (blossomed/will blossom) into unnatural volcanoes.

The wounds are mortal, terminal, and only the robust noncentralized character of Borg engineering keeps (kept/will keep) the ship in one piece, allowing it to respond to still unseen opposition. A volley of torpedoes, neither photon, quantum, nor tri-cobalt, are (were/will be) flung, followed by a short barrage of plasma weaponry. Defiance dies a heartbeat later as a munitions bay disintegrates an eighth of an intact face. Of the biological machinery, thousands of drones are dead or dying, the living too busy patching, welding, wiring, duct taping to do anything but step over fallen bodies, to shove aside a corpse blocking a critical panel. Most frightening of all, one which an observer would not know from dispassionate expressions, is the severance with the Collective, for the central plexus-vinculum complex has not survived chain reaction explosion. True death awaits the crew, not Hive immortality as memory, whisper, within the One.

The maintenance effort is not enough, willing hands too few, damage too grave. Ponderously spinning, shedding gasses and metal, a giant fireball consumes (consumed/will consume) Cube #347, swiftly feeding on oxygenated atmosphere before extinguishing itself. Left behind are cooling spars and charred remains, black on black to the universe, flotsam and jetsam to blow before the cosmic winds.

*

{Faster! Faster!} urged Weapons of the engineering hierarchy, an ongoing attempt at appropriation since subunit #347 had been recalled. {Faster! Faster! Remove the bombs faster!}

{And where was your enthusiasm earlier?} inquired Delta acidly. She fended off yet another push by Weapons for her bomb removal teams to speed up, a compulsion which could easily end in accidental detonation. An appeal was dispatched for command and control to dampen Weapons' extreme vivacity - again.

Answered Weapons, {Before it was only an engineering problem, but now it is a weapon problem as well. The solution requires disrupters, perhaps several dozen high isoton yield quantum torpedoes. Therefore, faster!} He frowned as a subhierarchy of command and control instituted a new series of blocks limiting his actions; resources were diverted to circumvent the firewalls.

{That much firepower will produce larger explosions than the bombs. What is the point? They are hunks of inert metal and chemicals, and can't return fire,} said Delta with exasperation. The argument, or variations thereof, was a common one, one which Delta, after twenty-nine years, had yet to end in anything but a stalemate.

Retorted Weapons, {One never knows. Therefore, we must take precautions, just in case.}

Captain ignored the bickering, which would never end as long as either Delta or Weapons remained a functional part of the sub-collective...of the Collective, even. He also shelved speculation of attributing meaning to the future-past echoes, a fruitless affair as Cube #347 was /still/ blowing up even as subunit #347 returned to their proper place on the tau vector, triumphant. Likely, some omniscient being was playing with the timelines, making sure the sub-collective only saw failure, and doubtless getting good laugh out of it. As omniscient entities were beyond the scope of what the Borg could confront, Captain turned his attention to more mundane tasks, such as preventing Weapons' hostile takeover of bomb defusing teams.

A subspace transmission impinged upon Cube #347's sensor grids. It originated from deep in the wormhole-binary system. The point was located in the system of the nearer star of the binary pair, dust and wormhole interference restricting the ability of long distance scanners to provide an exact location. Signal strength argued for a dedicated communications facility. The message was recorded, and thus did not allow real-time response. All over the cube drones continued at their tasks, shunting part of their neural resources to the appropriate dataspace stream to watch the transmission. In his nodal intersection, Captain put the recording on his viewscreen; from adjacent alcove tier 7, Second stumped in, fresh from regeneration.

"Borg invaders, I am Ta'loc, matriarch general of the sole Lupil people left free in the galaxy. My bands control the Departure system planet of Beachball and its satellites. We are the strongest of the Artifact Seekers, and as such have graciously volunteered to deliver the ultimatum of the recently formed MAAC - Mutual Alliance Against the Collective."  

Self-proclaimed Ta'loc was of species #6214, a bipedal reptilian race assimilated by the Borg approximately nine years prior. Or at least they were believed to have been completely absorbed into the Collective, individuals down to the youngest subunit displaying a fierce territoriality and willingness to defend every meter of their claimed space in doomed resistance. The Greater Consciousness was interested, in a distant manner, of the continued existence of species #6214, and most especially of Ta'loc.

Ta'loc was the designation of a naval officer, one which quickly rose in the military ranks after she proved tactically adept by successfully defeating early Borg incursions into Lupil colony systems. A major Borg offensive had been required to overwhelm her ships, a hodgepodge assortment of vessels bought or stolen from as many sources as possible, providing an unusual tactical flexibility. The Collective would have preferred to assimilate Ta'loc, to add her obviously excellent mind to the ranks of those high in the Borg hierarchies, perhaps even a primary processor of the Queen. However, a pivotal battle had destroyed the Lupil navy flagship, and supposedly Ta'loc herself. Somehow she had not only escaped destruction and put aside instincts to defend territory against her Borg aggressors, but traveled tens of thousands of light years with members of her own species, managing to secure a haven in this one-way trap of a system.

Ta'loc began to pace back and forth in front of the camera, her seemingly emaciated species #6214 frame actually the picture of perfect health. She talked as she paced, emphasizing points with a fist pounded against open palm. "This alliance between Artifact Seekers may be temporary, but it is strong. Very strong. We will not suffer Borg intrusion into our systems, neither Departure nor Arrival, and we have the ability to destroy that pitiful excuse for a cube. Well, there are certain groups you may approach, those who in paranoia refused to be part of MAAC, and we will not interfere. Those Artifact Seekers are weak, not deserving. Besides, the stinking Jeraki proposed 'Mutual Alliance Against the Borg,' which as anyone with sense knows is an acronym for MAAB, a highly obscene and derogatory insult meant to outrage the Lupil people. We may be a new Artifact Seeker, but we are stronger than those aging and now stagnate races." Ta'loc paused, realizing she had wandered off on a distant tangent. She regarded the pick-up squarely. "As I said, stay away from MAAC Artifact Seekers, or face retribution. A list of those species and groups aligned follows." The visual feed ended, replaced by a datastream of forty-one names, inclusive of many unknown races and five presumed extinct outside the Collective.

The Greater Consciousness was now very interested in the artificial wormhole system, even more so than before. Cube #347 already had directives concerning gathering information on the system while determining a way to leave in order to continue towards BorgSpace. Additional commands were now inserted to take sample specimens of new species where possible, as well as ascertain how those species which avoided complete incorporation into the Collective managed to evade capture. Knowledge of the latter would allow similar oversights (never mistakes!) to be avoided in the future. And, oh yes, finish prepping subunit #522 before all the above is begun.

Subunit #522 was no longer to be simply dismantled and recycled. Often physical misassimilation of an individual was the cause of single rogue units, which, when recaptured, would contribute to species dossiers concerning best assimilation procedure to prevent future errors. However, the Collective rarely regained those drones which went rogue as a group, instead destroying them from afar when given the chance. Mental psychoses, not hardware faults, was the hypothetical cause of group fracture from the Whole, a problem difficult to quantify and rarely studied in detail. Subunit #522 represented a unique opportunity. Initial review of behavior recorded by Cube #347 indicated a possible Drinian vector, rogue tendencies not noted until the Drinian researcher examining Cube #347 attacked the subunit both physically and with a virus in retaliation and grief over her species' assimilation.

Instead of standard post-capture procedure which entailed immediate dissection and disposal, the drones of subunit #522 were being prepped for long-term hibernation storage. Neural transceivers had been physically removed and nanite suppressants injected to prevent spontaneous regrowth, so the drones knew nothing of their newly declared fate. No one bothered to inform subunit members of their change in status from scrap to science project, most catatonic with drugs, neural inhibitors, and the frightening situation of a mind wholly contained within a single skull. The reason? The knowledge just wasn't relevant to their processing.

{Faster, faster, faster!} pestered Weapons. He had managed to burrow through the blocks. {Faster!}

{Stop it, Weapons. Maybe engineering should procure phaser control? After all, it would be in support of destroying the bombs...an /engineering problem/, yes?} snarled Delta.

{You would not dare!}

{Just try me!} Delta sent Weapons a very rude pict. Irrelevant, sexually impossible, but definitely rude.

Captain rolled his eye in exasperation as bickering between Delta and Weapons flared up again. Assigning lessor priority duties to Second, such as the subsection regeneration system diagnostic update and finding a suitable location for the racing lawnmower championships, Captain interrupted the argument, {Does drone maintenance have to deactivate both of you? Stop your quarrel! It makes the sub-collective seem more schizophrenic and psychotic than it already is; and furthermore...}

*****

Deja vu, of sorts. The scene was not quite the same, but future-past echoes were notoriously capricious, mutating from unmoment to unmoment in the nonspace between whens. Unfortunately, this was reality, not hallucination.

1273 of 6257, trinary reciprocal subprocessor of unimatrix 4, watched as a tri-pronged instrument, tines sharp, descended towards his cranium. His body, except for eyes, was paralyzed. An external neural transceiver served as a narrow link to select Cube #347 drone maintenance units, broad enough to compel his physical compliance, but too constricted to receive a meaningful sense of belonging to the Collective. With standard transceiver interface disabled and nanites suppressed so that the implant could not regenerate, 1273 of 6257 was truly alone in the universe. Alone. Small. Single. Less than One.

The drone closed his eyes, one of the sole voluntary actions left to him, blocking the sight of the hardware bedecked rodent visage hovering over him. Chatterings such as "This won't hurt a bit, boyo. Just a pinprick." were irrelevant. Rogues were always terminated, salvageable parts retained for future use, organics discarded to regeneration vats or replication reservoirs. Only his physical self would assist the future Collective; his mental patterns, deemed unsuitable, would not be stored amid the echoing memories of other deceased drones. 1273 of 6257 was a small being now, and death had relevancy. Fear was irrelevant, but he was frightened anyway.

A whispered command of "Sleep, puppy," a prick of needle against neck, watery squish of exposed brain matter accepting a new implant - those were the final sensations of 1273 of 6257. Of the reattachment of skull section, the securing of his body into a prepared alcove, of the three-an-hour breaths emanating from subunit comrades already processed for hibernation, he did not perceive.

---

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