Paramount is God! Or at least it is the Deity of the Moment for the Star Trek universe, more powerful than even the brashest Q. On a lesser note, Decker is in charge of Star Traks...when he can get his characters to sit down and behave. While I purportedly rule BorgSpace, trust me, it isn't so. Deus ex Machina, Part I "Deus ex Machina" - Literally: "God from a machine"; a diety in Greek and Roman drama who was brought in by stage machinery to intervene in a difficult situation -The American Heritage Dictionary, 2nd College Edition * * * * * It was a Board. Somewhere between the second and third dimensions, or perhaps third and fourth, danced the galaxy known by a small proportion of its inhabitants by the quaint name of Milky Way. In the Milky Way spun stars and nebula, black holes and cosmic strings, asteroids and anomalies, and even little blobs of organic matter which made a claim to sentience. Each of those things was mirrored by the Board; or, just perhaps, it was the other way around, and the Milky Way and all therein which was simply the Board's Platonic shadow. Around the Board sat four entities which, to the casual observer, manifested as pieces of anatomy. Specifically, there were two eyeballs, one of green iris and the other of brown, and two pairs of lips, one of which wore a shocking purple lipstick. Respectively, they went by the name of Directors and Critics. They did and did not have hands to manipulate things, legs to move them from place to place, and digestive systems to break down the pizza which steamed in its open delivery box. Most entities, when confronted with Directors or Critics, tended to ignore the little incongruities which are inherent in a being which, for all practical purposes, was omnipotent. Those entities which insisted upon order to their universe were inclined to become incurably insane. The Board was sick. The Director and Critic players who sat around the table that supported the Board knew this fact. The wrongness had been readily apparent within a few million Board-years after starting the most recent Game. The black holes had never acted correctly, anomalies were too numerous, inertia did not function as it should, space occasionally conducted sound, and the wormholesŠdonıt even begin about the wormholes. The discrepancies were more annoying than dangerous, and the players had opted for a maintenance technician to fix the Board as opposed to tipping the playing field and starting all over again. The maintenance staff was largely composed of Editors, bodiless hands which were as skillful with the tools necessary to tweak cosmic strings as Directors and Critics were facile at influencing the roll of infinity dice. The Editor which crawled from under the table was filthy, dirt clinging to skin of swarthy Mediterranean brown. The whole demeanor of the hand was one of weariness. "What did you do?" suddenly screamed the purple-painted lips. Excitable to begin with, the Critic had already been forced to retrieve its pieces from Boards in other rooms when the occasional anomaly went astray as the playing field was tweaked. It snapped the fingers it didnıt have. Nothing happened. "You affected my omnipotence!" The brown-irised eyeball snickered while its green-irised companion scanned the Board. "Oh-oh," the latter said. "What?" asked the Editor as it ignored the frantic attempts by the one Critic to demonstrate it was still a preternatural being. "There are spatial-temporal anomalies in my future. Well, in the future of my piece," the green-irised eyeball indicated with a wave at a cube-shaped playing icon. Directors, by their very natures, were fairly decent at peering along the timelines. "What /did/ you do? No matter how my piece moves, it will encounter the anomaly, and a nasty one at that. Not right away, mind you, but eventually." "My powers! My powers!" continued to shout the purple-lipsticked Lips. The Editor questioned, "It canıt be that bad, can it? All I did was nudge the gravitational constant in sector 17, beta quadrant, back to its default, plus redistributed a clump of brown dwarf halo objects to less regular patterns." Iris, the green-irised eyeball, was insistent, "Well, you did /something/." The brown-irised Director, call it Orb, smugly observed the Board: all /its/ pieces remained in play, and even a few old ones thought to have been lost had recently reappeared. "Iıll make it better. It is what I do. A few more tweaks, and the Board will be as good as new. However, it is my break now, so youıll have to live with it for a bit," answered the Editor. It sailed out of the room, intent upon some errand. Although the tools of cosmic rearrangement remained behind, scattered on the floor, none of the players felt any urge to take matters into their own non-existent hands. The non-decorated lips nudged its companion. "I think Iıve found your powers," it said. "Where?" asked Lips frantically. A moving speck was pointed out, one which glowed with the faint luminescence that indicated a reality-fold drive in operation. "See that NPC Xenig mech? It currently had your mojo." Orb blinked, "Hey! Right you are!" Meanwhile, Iris groaned, "And guess whose piece his fate is going to intersect with?" * * * * * Hek felt odd. Currently employed as a Galactic Postal Service (GPS) mail transfer mech, none of the cargo Hek was transporting were priority delivery. Therefore, the Xenig did not feel any compunction about halting his fold transit to postal hub zeta-three to take stock of his condition. As his virus filters were up to spec and no silicon parasites appeared to have hitched a ride in or on his chassis, he was at a loss as to his condition. Except in a few specialized cases, Xenig did not mass produce chassis in a cookie-cutter manner. Individuality, both in developed personality and in exterior shell, was highly encouraged. Hek was no exception. His body was 70 meters long, pointed at the bow and flared aft. Amidships, the fuselage bulged, as if a huge egg had been swallowed ­ the main cargo hold. Four smaller, swept-back delta wings, one pair behind the bulge and the other pair in front, served as mere decoration: Xenig mastery of gravitational and quantum fluxes made aerodynamic qualities meaningless. As there was no organic crew, window ports were unnecessary and therefore not present. Similarly, although for different reasons, no weapons apertures were noticeable on the flat gray chassis. The same engine which allowed folding near instantaneously across the galaxy or into another reality was a more than adequate defensive measure. Hek contemplated the grand darkness of the Between at the same time he focused on his immune systems. He was tens of light years from the nearest star, a distance which could make even the most technologically advanced entity in the galaxy feel insignificant. He was but a mote, less than a mote, on the stage of the cosmos. And, damn it, his diagnostics continued to report nothing wrong with software agents or physical chassis. The feeling of oddness persisted. Hek was no hypochondriac, but he was seriously considering calling for an associate to tow him to his destination port. The longer he stared at the distant stars, however, the less important his peculiar sensation. In fact, why should /he/ be so insignificant? He was Hek! He was Xenig! Xenig were the masters of reality! True, the Progenitors may have once been greater, but they werenıt here now. The Xenig, and more specifically Hek, were the ones present in this universe. No longer did Hek feel odd. It was /power/ which coursed through his conduits, power which demanded to be let loose upon the cosmos. * * * * * It was a pitched battle with three sides, each one looking out for its own interests, and no place for an imperfectly assimilated sub-collective to be. Nonetheless, Cube #347 was in the middle of it. Side number one consisted of species #10703 - Gphawkines (it was pronounced as if one was gurgling phlegm in the back of oneıs throat). They strongly resembled bipedal red-bellied newts, from rough, moist skin to long tail. They had had the misfortune of developing a unique non-stick, non-slip substance to coat the sidewalks of their overly moist population centers. Essentially molecular-scale Velcro, the Collective had looked upon the invention as having greater potential than stopping the epidemic of pedestrian slippage which came with locating cities in perpetually rainy swamps. With all outlying colonies assimilated, species #10703 was down to their homeworld, which they defended aggressively. In an effort to create a pro-active deterrent to the Collective, species #10703 had two decades prior carefully eyed the cyborg pestilence slowly edging towards their territory and then invited the Green Borg to take up residence. The Green Borg had swiftly paid the lease for lunar real estate, then proceeded to build a minor flea bazaar hub to cater to the local garbage antiquities market. Now, the Green Borg fought on no side but their own. While they did not fire upon the species #10703 defenders, neither did they help them. The Green Borg were simply trying to defend their assets as they pulled out of the hostile takeover situation. The Collective advanced with two goals in mind. The primary objective was to complete the assimilation of species #10703, adding to the perfection of the Whole (and gaining all there was to know about non-slick sidewalks). A secondary goal was to sting the Green Borg, to take the opportunity presented to slightly burst the balloon of the Green juggernaut, to show the original Mind was still the best. In other words, the war was complete and utter chaos. Cube #347, along with the other imperfectly assimilated sub-collective of Cargo-class Cube #422, had unluckily been in the sector performing other tasks when the order had gone out. Reserves were required in the Gphawkine home system. Every Borg vessel in a two hundred light year radius not already engaged in the battle had responded. It was a definite matter of urgency in that no exceptions had been made, so the arriving resources had consisted of ships ranging from relatively small Exploratory-class to several monstrous Lugger-class twice the edge length and able to haul Assimilation-class vessels within their holds; and had also included one Cube #347. Cube #347 waited at the outskirts of the planetary system, one of a small armada consisting of two dozen mixed Exploratory-, Battle-, and Assimilation-class cubes and Assault-class spheres. While the rest of the armada waited in the utter patience characteristic of Borg and non-sentient machines, Captain of Cube #347 was hard-pressed to keep Weapons in line. Weapons wanted to charge from the metaphorical shadows of the larger, more powerful vessels and head insystem for some indiscriminate flinging of singularity torpedoes. That was not the purpose of the twenty-four Borg vessel detachment, however, as Captain kept trying to impress upon Weapons. The end result of the internal wrangling was what an exterior observer might call fidgeting as Cube #347 spun with apparent restlessness by the action of ionic thrusters. {Our purpose is to be a distraction, Weapons. We are a feint. Green Borg convoy epsilon has a trajectory which must pass near us,} said Captain. The appropriate battle schematic was highlighted, one of many updated in real-time by the Greater Consciousness and overlain with only the most subtle of Sensors' "enhancements." The graphic was pushed into extrapolation mode, sending the twenty-four red dots of the armada into movement vectors against the small Green Borg six-ship array. {The centermost vessels are stripped down Cargo-class carrying important assets. Green will appropriately respond byŠ} {I know,} countered Weapons coldly, {I know Green will respond by lessening the defense here, which, in turn, will open a hole there and allow advancement of armada #16 to direct confrontation with species #10703 homeworld fleet.} A larger picture of the battlefield was displayed with the appropriate markers shifting to their predicted spots. Simultaneously, the plain geometric shapes of solid color were enhanced by Weaponsı direct input: he was in Bulk Cargo Hold #3, into which he had fed the BorgCraft simulation in order to create a deityıs eye view of things to come, including full surround sound and fiery explosions. Captain switched to an internal camera within Bulk Cargo Hold #3. Weapons was stalking back and forth, head raised to regard the cataclysmic vision he had created. The intranets thrummed with his excitement, Cube #347 rarely allowed to take a formal part in Great Things beyond post-assimilation inventory or cargo transfer. {It is to be a feint! A feint, remember? Our actions will be minor! It will be the Battle- and Assimilation-classes which will be in front. The sensor envelope of an Exploratory-class is superior to other vessel types, so we will be acting as a mobile sensor relay platform with the function to watch for unexpected enemy movements in this part of the theater,} tried Captain to interject the purpose of the assignment into the head of the weapons hierarchy. Maybe if command and control repeated it often enough, the words might sink in. Weapons swapped the Collective schematic with one of his own. {Blah. This armada already has Exploratory-classes beyond ourself. We can best be utilized by attacking here, where it will be least suspect.} Captain pointed out the obvious, {That is a Green Dreadnought-class.} Dreadnought-class cubes were Green specific vessels, refit Cargo-classes that provided the firepower of a Battle-classŠper face. They were relatively rare within the Green fleet and primarily used as mobile bastilions to guard key assets. While they punched quite a wallop, it was bundled in the poorly maneuverable package of a Cargo-class; and the Cargo-classı legendary shield strength had been sacrificed for additional offensive power. Still, a Green Dreadnought-class generally required three to four Borg Battle-class cubes in order to be subdued. An Exploratory-class like Cube #347 would be wadded up and thrown away like used tissue paper. {It will be a surprise!} crowed Weapons as he graphically depicted the fantasy of a large cube being blown up by a much smaller. Captain muttered darkly, "No it wonıt, at least, not for us." He began to pace back and forth his nodal intersection, only occasionally glancing at the main holographic screen, the one mirroring the visual feed from Bulk Cargo Hold #3 in his mind. At the very back of his consciousness, the ship computer noted the premature activation of engines. {No, Weapons! We have not been cued! Second, take care of it.} Propulsion and navigation were taken from Weaponsı hierarchy control. The engines disengaged. {ButŠ} began Weapons, the chaotic thoughts of an insane tactical genius, minus the genius, twirling through the dataspaces. Captain was firm, {No buts. We await the signal, like a proper sub-collective.} "As if," snorted Second from the side of the nodal intersection. He normally would be found in his alcove, but in this case, he seemed to be gaining more personal satisfaction watching Captainıs movements and commenting upon the joys of only being a Second. There was also the consideration of the every faulty surge suppression system, which routinely caused random drones to be ejected from their alcoves when a stressed shield was trying to dump excess power to the onboard capacitors. <> dryly echoed the Greater Consciousness within the local dataspaces of Cube #347. An updated outline of the part the cube was expected to play was included in the communique before the Collective mentally withdrew. One could not suppose that the update had solely been provided to the sub-collective, but it was highly unlikely the other ships of the armada had received schematics with screaming orange script runes that roughly translated to "YOU WILL BE HERE!!!!!" {We go!} crowed Weapons as Captain set Cube #347 into motion. The rest of the weapons hierarchy was a similarly tight wound spring of readiness. Command and control briskly fought attempts by the overeager hierarchy to take control of engines and navigation systems. <> <> <> The sub-collectives of the strike armada rumbled summary updates as they went into motion. Underlying the silent "words" were many levels of complex operations data ranging from precise navigational logs to state of weapons to functionality of individual drone units. In return, the grand Mind which was the Borg Greater Consciousness observed the battle theater and pushed its pieces around the playing board with the same cold calculation and detachment of a master strategist. As long as Cube #347 kept to its overwatch (translation: out of the way) position along with the other two Exploratory-class vessels, the sub-collective was ignored. Sensors abruptly shifted the sensor grid of face #2, the side currently facing the beginning engagement, to quantum harmonic frequencies. The insectoid claimed the setting was the best one to observe the virtual particles associated with cloak and energy dampener systems. That claim may have been true, but only for the likes of Sensors. For the rest of the sub-collective, the universe view (at least on face #2) was suddenly set awash with the fleeting sparks one experiences after staring too long at a blue sky. {Mines!} exclaimed Sensors. {Cloaked mines [bees] dragged passively in the targetsı shield wake!} The head of the sensor hierarchy paused as another filter was applied, causing the already abused sub-collective to cringe further: small multi-colored gnats joined the sparkles. {Singularities! [Kitty-cat] are singularity mines!} In response to the sudden warning screamed from Cube #347, the attacking armada of cubes and spheres veered off. Because a vesselıs shield fundamentally functioned as a standing wave, it was possible to balance an object with it, much as a kayaker surfs a rapid; difficult, but possible, as long as a specific minimum speed is maintained and a maximum not exceeded. The Collective had long known of the technique, and hence so did the Green Borg, but the information was supposed to be tactically irrelevant, the equivalent of a parlor trick. The enemy was proving otherwise. The Green Borg were not the primary opponent, merely an opportunity; and the six Green ships a minor component in the overall battle. The prudent action to take would have been to allow the targets to escape now that the trap was uncovered. The Collective, however, was known for forthrightness, not caution. A plan had been devised, a scheme to allow direct access to the species #10703 homeworld fleet, and by deities which did not exist, it would be completed, cloaked singularity mines or no cloaked singularity mines. <> boomed the Collective. {We go!} cheered Weapons eagerly. He was stymied in his efforts to join the larger cubes by action of Second. Captain responded, {Donıt make drone maintenance sedate you again like the last time. You will miss the entire battle. Our task has not been changed.} Weapons sulked. On the holoscreen in Captainıs nodal intersection, within the dataspaces, and in Bulk Cargo Hold #3, the battle played out. However, it was not transpiring as expected, the feint not creating the forecast hole half a solar system distant. Instead, the targets were drawing into a defensive globe, the two Cargo-class vessels opening their holds to disgorge eight Exploratory-classes apiece, one per hold. Now the odds were twenty-two versus twenty-four, not six against two dozen. Still, firepower favored the Collective, even with the Green Dreadnought-class waiting ominously, and thus the armada closed in. Things were not so desperate as to require Cube #347ıs assistance even through the other two Exploratory-class cubes moved in to join the fight. Sensors chirped: {Oh-oh.} The words did not inspire confidence, especially as they had been used before, usually when the cube was about to experience extreme danger. {Near-range envelope [cushy sofa] signatures.} Analysis path after analysis path flashed through the dataspaces as the sensory hierarchy attempted to match the incoming signatures to known profiles. {Analysis complete: Green reinforcements.} The Greater Consciousness seized upon the data as it spooled from Cube #347. Another rare Green dreadnought plus eight Battle-class cubes were incoming. The odds of success were tipped towards Green; and suddenly what had been a feint changed to major skirmish. "We are Green!" announced the nine ships as they exited warp, joined on subspace by their twenty-two brethren. "Our assets belong to Us. You will not take them from Us nor destroy them. Resistance is futile." "What a lousy opening dialogue," muttered Second as Captain opened another holographic window to observe this latest threat. "No style. No panache. Obviously good image coordinators are not among the beings regularly assimilated by Green." <> ordered the supreme Voice. There seemed to be a hint of reluctance to the command, but it had to be the imagination of a lowly drone, or so supposed Captain. The Collective never hesitated nor regreted its actions, nope. {Yee-haw!} yelled Weapons. Cube #347 rotated slightly, then dove towards the developing skirmish. A battle between Collectives more resembled a sumo wrestling match with two titans facing off against each other than a proper space navy engagement. Through it, Cube #347 jiggered back and forth in an approximation of dodging, but an Exploratory-class vessel only seemed maneuverable when compared against its larger brethren. Several neurupters were fired, as were a pair of tri-cobalt devices, but none of the attacks scored on either friend or foe. On the other hand, the few weapons discharged at the zigging cube were avoided as well, more from luck than any reflection of battle skill. Cube #347 emerged from its first pass unscathed. {Aiming is off. Fix it,} demanded Weapons. In Bulk Cargo Hold #3, which no drones, not even those of the weapons hierarchy, dared to enter due to the disengagement of holographic safety protocols, he watched the unfolding battle in real-time. Unfortunately, the fine line between simulation and reality had been leaped long ago, and portions of the sub-collective were unsure Weapons realized that a loss by Cube #347 would be terminal in nature. No reset button was available. While the most prudent action to take would be to replace 45 of 300 with a more stable drone, none within the weapons hierarchy disvalued their existence so little as to challenge the current Weapons. Delta replied, {Your hardware is functional. Engineering is busy at the moment.} In addition to light shield damage caused by near misses, several processor arrays on tier 17, subsection 3, submatrix 25 had finally melted under stresses resulting from the sensor realignment of face #2. Five assimilation drones on the tier had caught on fire during the catastrophic liquefaction, but that was drone maintenanceıs problem, not engineering. {Consult Sensors.} Freeze the battle for a moment and step back in time to an earlier, seemingly unrelated action which had occurred 80 light minutes distant. At the beginning of the engagement 15 hours prior, one of the two carriers remaining to the Gphawkines had been chased into the systemıs unusually dense asteroid belt. In the sensor shadow of a large rock, momentarily out of view of all Collective eyes, a huge explosion had occurred. When pursuing cubes had rounded the rockıs horizon, they found blackened basalt and the remains of the carrier and its crew: the already damaged ship had apparently ran into the asteroid. What the Collective had been unaware of was that the Gphawkine government had recently bought cloaking devices from the Green Borg (for a very hefty price of 100,000 citizens (volunteers). Species #10703 did not have homegrown cloaking technology). However, there had only been sufficient time to install the first of the delivered devices into their foremost capital ship. The destruction of the carrier had been a ruse. Now, under the cover of its cloak, the repaired carrier released nearly the entirety of its one-person fighter compliment. The ship, an oblong box only a quarter the volume of an Exploratory-class, had been stalking the waiting Collective armada. The captain held no illusions concerning the outcome of the suicidal mission, but the element of surprise would likely allow at least one of the cubes to be destroyed. Small splinters, barely more than casings for the prone pilot, converged on the small cube on the outskirts of the battle. Simultaneously, the carrier, still cloaked, turned to deliver a disrupter broadside along with a pattering of rail gun pellets. The sub-collective of Cube #347 mentally blinked as the ship came under attack. The assault was more annoyance than anything else, but it had come suddenly. Given enough time and lack of retaliation, the little fighters and the larger weapons would erode shields to reach the hull beneath. {Whoops!} said Sensors. {Sensors wasnıt watching. [Maple table].} Second spluttered, {You are the sensor hierarchy! How can you not see? You found the cloaked singularity mines!} Sensors shuffled legs in her alcove, a complex process. {Well, Sensors wasŠ} What followed could be understood perhaps one word in ten. {We have other things to concentrate upon,} remarked Captain. He was surrounded by a virtual maze of holographic screens, reflecting the multitude of threads he was juggling within the sub-collective mind. He pivoted, momentarily lost. {Find the origination of those disrupters and destroy them. Weapons, are you listening?} {Acknowledgement,} absently replied Weapons. In Bulk Cargo Hold #3, a graphical triangulation was underway, tracing the broadside back to its cloaked carrier platform. "Gotcha," muttered Weapons, unaltered eye narrowed in concentration. If the fight had only been between Cube #347 and the cloaked carrier with her fighters, it would have been short. Well, perhaps not as short as a competent sub-collective, but still (eventually) decisive on the side of the Collective. However, Cube #347 and its opponent were not fighting in a vacuum, metaphorically speaking, and the skirmish between Green Borg and the Collective was not fated to be bound by any particular volume of space. The outskirts of the sumo-dogfight-bashing match engulfed Cube #347 just as the latter fired a swarm of antimatter bomblet clusters. {Whoops!} repeated Sensors. {Sensors wasnıt watching. [Maple table].} {You didnıt see a Battle-class cube from /our own side/ almost run us over?} asked Second incredulously. {You didnıt see fifty-four vessels of various tonnages, all of them large, shift battle in our direction?} Sensors replied, {[Newspaper] happens?} At the side of the nodal intersection, Second waved his hand to ward off another opened window and muttered something scatologically irrelevant under his breath. The bomblets went wildly off target, occurring because Cube #347 had to abruptly dodge to avoid becoming plastered over the shields of Battle-class Cube #878. On the upside, a third of the fighter swarm was now subatomic paste due to the larger shipıs passage. However, the carrier must have had substantial reserves, for the small vessels harassing Cube #347 actually increased in number. Another broadside of disrupters tickled the cubeıs shields. The skirmish overwhelmed the cube. Neither side appeared to be paying much attention to the imperfectly assimilated sub-collective in their midst, the two Collectives focused upon each other. While the Greater Consciousness had ordered Cube #347 into the fight, few instructions were imparted as what role to play beyond <> On the other hand, the Green Borg spared only the occasional neurupter or low-yield torpedo, accurately calculating the cube to be a low priority target. Still, Cube #347 was now forced to dodge fire from both friend and foe as it tried to jockey to a position to take out the cloaked carrier. {Warning! [Area rug] singularity torpedoes! Warning! [Area rug] singularity torpedoes! [Cedar tree], Sensors not blind,} spouted Sensors. Instead of sorting through the myriad of windows already open, Captain initiated yet another screen. The simplified schematic of the area immediately around Cube #347, as represented by a flashing yellow square, consisted of various colored shapes signifying the vessels and vectors of battle. Converging on the cube was a dozen vivid pink medicine capsules trailing long red vector arrows. Twelve singularity torpedoes would be more than sufficient to destroy an Exploratory-class cube. One chance to escape existed, as frantically calculated by elements of command and control, one chance if an eighth-power impulse pulse was initiatedŠNOW! Now. Now? The "now" never became now as the gas pedal was pushed to no avail, Weapons temporarily blocking commands to engines because to move would have meant loosing the perfect shot on the extrapolated carrier location. With a choice between unleashing death upon a carrier that would not survive the assimilation of the species #10703 system and a prudent escape from singularity torpedoes, Weapons had chosen the former. As the singularity torps crossed the no escape line, Weapons fired another cluster of antimatter bombletsŠand then relinquished his hierarchyıs hold upon impulse. {You idiot!} chorused Captain and Second together, backed by most of the sub-collective, minus the satisfied weapons hierarchy. The pink pills closed on the flashing yellow square. {We are terminated, Weapons. Do you understand? No reset button. We are deŠ} Time stopped. To be precise, time did not stop, but only seemed to. For each tick of the clock, an infinite amount of time which verged upon the mathematical construct of imaginary time existed. Between these ticks, there was always time to read that last bit of book before your mother noticed the light was still on; and there was always time to bask in the rays of a setting sun from a perfect day. It was between those ticks that Q moved, along with various Supreme Gods as well as entities like Directors, Critics, and Editors; and now, between those ticks, glided Hek. Hek was simply there because he wanted to be, examining the Borg cube known by the designation of #347. In perfect 3-D stop motion, live action frozen, the lead singularity torpedo was just impacting upon ship shields. The proton clusters within the torp had not yet merged to the critical sub-Planck length necessary to cause an instable black hole, but the formation would only require another tick of the clock which Hek had found he could ignore at will. Elsewhere, the cloaked carrier was about to be impacted by bomblets; and a Collective Battle-class cube was captured disintegrating under the assault of a Green dreadnaught, even as the latter was falling apart under the neurupter beams of four Assault-class spheres. Hek carefully scanned Cube #347, then mentally nodded to himself: this was what he was looking for. Without thought as to the consequences, he grabbed the cube ­ the vessel was much larger than his chassis, not that size meant anything ­ with technology that was, but was not, almost akin to a tractor beam. His prize secure, Hek folded to a much quieter corner of reality. Time resumed. A dozen singularity torpedoes hit nothing. The captain of the cloaked carrier watched in dismay as his bow disappeared under the assault of antimatter. A chain-reaction explosion eliminated the Gphawkine vessel. It had indeed been a perfect shot. The Collective noted the disappearance of Cube #347 from the intranets and dataspaces of the Whole, but it was not due to termination. However, more important things demanded attention than an ineffective Exploratory-class cube. Somewhere, nowhere, a voice: "Look what that bloody mech is doing with my powers! Stop laughing, you! Somebody, do /something/!" {Šad.} the sub-collective paused as the count down to termination went from positive numbers to zero to negative; and, exterior the hull, the stars were in configurations not recognizable to be in the Milky Way galaxy. This was not the Borg version of nirvana. At the very least, the final explosion was missingŠas was the whispers of the Collective. A hail was received by the cube. Captain accepted it, somehow unsurprised that it originated from a small Xenig mech with GPS slogans emblazoned on its sides. "Hello!" echoed the Xenigıs metallic voice from speakers all throughout the tiers and hallways of Cube #347. "My name is Hek. God is feeling benevolent today; and I am God." *************** Here ends Part I of "Dues Ex Machina." I would give you a hint about what comes next, but the crystal ball is a big foggy at the moment...must be that silly infinity dice roll.