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 III

"Deus ex Machina" - Literally:  "God from a machine";  a deity 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

		*	*	*	*	*

	"Again," asked Iris, "should I page the Editor?  It has had an overlong 
break."  The eyeball held up a portable phone in helpful demonstration.  
Directors liked to help, especially when it meant a Critic would get in 
trouble.
	Lips, its purple paint looking less than crisp at the moment, rapidly 
waved nonexistent hands in a negative.  "No, no, no, no, no!  The Editor 
will be POed enough when it comes back without hurrying the process.  
What say you?"  The question was directed to the other Critic.  Because 
the non-lipsticked Critic really needs a name, even though it had gotten 
along thus far with "Hey, you!" and other oblique references, call it 
Mouth.
	The newly christened Mouth glared at its companion.  "Why should I care?  
It is all your fault, after all.  You are the one that used the Editor's 
tool!"
	Lips shifted nervously, then sighed in relief as Iris put away the 
phone.  
	"Can't get decent service in here anyway," said Iris in explanation.  
"The Board interferes too much with the transmission signals."
	With a loud pop, Orb appeared in the room.  "Well, that manifestation 
went well," it reported with the smug voice of one who knows it is ahead 
in the game.  "Very good dice roll, and great response by that piece to a 
little prodding.  I think I generated a whole short story out of it, at 
least twelve pages worth."
	Iris' previously relaxed mood disappeared as apprehension returned.  It 
scanned the Board.  "Well, not a lot I can do with my primary piece, is 
there?  Between the Editor's last major tweak of the Board, and now 
/both/ your omniscient powers in play with my piece as the nexus, my 
hands are tied."  The cube icon under consideration faded and was 
replaced by a different form.  The shape was that of a squid, 
representing both ship and the species which piloted it.  It was located 
in the bright sphere of stars near the center of the galaxy.  "I'll play 
with my Squilips this round, and let my primary and other pieces coast."
	Mouth, meanwhile, continued to stare at Lips.  The effect wasn't quite 
as intense as a Director performing a similar action, but it came pretty 
darn close.  "This is your fault."
	"What?" asked Lips.  "The Editor started it, if you remember correctly."
	"No, my losing powers is your fault.  You are the one who took a tool to 
the Board."
	"You could have stopped me, you know.  It is partially your fault as 
well."
	"That does it!  You are toast!"  Mouth leapt onto Lips, and a brawl 
broke out.
	Orb pursed the, um, lips it didn't have into a pout.  "Well, I guess 
this means there will be a delay of game for a bit."

		*	*	*	*	*

	EinTon was a pariah of Xenig society.  He clung to the blasphemous views 
that there was no Transcendence, at least not at the end of the road his 
race was traveling; and that the Progenitors either did not wish to be 
found or, more likely, had gone the way of extinction, as all species are 
fated.  If instead of just pointing out the flaws in the Xenig belief 
system EinTon had offered another goal for the race to strive towards, he 
might have been labeled a prophet, or, at the very worst, a fellow who 
wasn't all quite right in the quantum logic processes, 
if-ya-know-what-I-mean.  However, EinTon had not listened very well to 
basic psychology classes in his creche, had not absorbed the basic tenet 
that a species without a collective goal was a dysfunctional race 
destined for mass suicide, usually after turning inward and beating the 
daylights out of itself; and Xenig were not immune to the doctrine of 
racial psychoanalysis.  Instead, when he came of age to be taken 
seriously, EinTon had exposed the flaws in Xenig belief, asking very 
uncomfortable questions and not providing answers.  It did not make him a 
very popular person.
	If blasphemous views had been the sum total of EinTon's transgressions, 
he might not have been ejected from Xenig society.  Ignored, yes, cast 
out, no.  Everyone was entitled to their opinions, even unpopular ones, 
and Xenig did not practice forceful altering of minds.  However, a second 
problem was that EinTon thought in Captitalizations, mentally 
capitalizing some Words of Importance, while lessening the stature of 
other letters to decrease a word's significance.  It was all well and 
good to change Transcendence to transcendence and Progenitor to 
progenitor, but to view all names except one's own on such a scale 
indicated a mind treading the edge of psychosis or pathology.
	If trampling the Xenig belief system and Capitalization were not enough, 
EinTon had also performed the worst act a Xenig could accomplish:  his 
full usename included /two/ syllables.  A Xenig's soul-birth name was a 
rambling string of base-sixteen alphanumerics and radio frequency 
modulations, a proper designation for a species whose roots could be 
traced back to software running an automated industrial production line.  
For interactions with other sentients, a Xenig mech chose a one-syllable 
sound.  The reasoning behind this practice was unknown, but so strong was 
the custom that it was the subject of one of the few written rules of 
society:  "Thou shalt pick a one-syllable usename" (following "Thou shalt 
not covet territory beyond the gravitational influence of Hoodin system" 
and before the ambiguous "Thou shalt be good Xenig, grow and expand," 
which some individuals observed literally, hence giant chassis).
	Thus, EinTon had been cast from Xenig society, told not to return upon 
pain of undeath.  Death was a release, an end; undeath meant stripping a 
mech from the chassis and suspending the naked soul in a software prison 
with virtual rooms housing the worst the galaxy had to offer:  reruns of 
the Andorian version of Casablanca, the director's cut; little cartoonish 
animals with fluffy pelts, too big eyes, and so cute as to cause nausea; 
and other horrors which had driven many a strong mind insane.  EinTon 
could have taken the hint and left for those distant parts of the 
universe where his species had no interest, but he had to stay close to 
his race.  One day they would come to their senses, would realize there 
was no Transcendence or Progenitors, only transcendence and progenitors, 
and that one-syllable usenames were idiotic; and on that day, EinTon 
wanted to be able to say "I told you so."
	Today might not be that day, but neither would Xenig society be able to 
ignore him as he made his case once more.

		*	*	*	*	*

	Hek was in full oratory mode, ranting and raving like a master attorney, 
or a teaching professor espousing his favorite subject.  Captain was not 
paying much attention, the novelty of the courtroom worn off in favor of 
other priorities.  The phrases "paper towel" and "fuzzy dice" were being 
bandied about in conjunction with "bobble antennae," but the convolutions 
of the average Xenig scheme where Progenitors were concerned was too 
great for the nonXenig mind.
	The 'other priorities' which had the bulk of Captain's, Seconds, and 
indeed much of the command and control hierarchy's attention was the 
effort to hold the sub-collecting into one (more or less) cohesive unit.  
As far as could be discerned, the courtroom environs was a realm 
constructed of software bits and bytes, yet the sub-collective was 
present physically.  There was no linkage to cube or cube resources; and 
the only evidence that Cube #347 existed was the image on the screen on 
the other side of the room.  The command pathways normally present for, 
say, thruster control were absent.  Attempts to activate them regardless 
produced a great amount of nothing.
	The disconnection from Cube #347 was not being taken very well.  While 
linkages between drones continued to exist, the amount of information 
contained collectively was not of the same caliber as that of onboard 
archives; and the fact that an individual unit might have directed neural 
storage resources for the complete galactic history of peanut butter was 
not necessarily useful.  For many sub-collective members, the lack of 
readily available data was like disconnecting an internet junky from his 
computer, or taking away the television from an avid channel surfer.  
There were withdrawal symptoms.
	Second elbowed Captain in the ribs.  As the torso was generally heavily 
armored in a Borg, the gesture elicited a sharp thump sound.  Captain 
blinked twice as he detached part of his mind to deal with the 
imposition.  Talking mind to mind was not a true option at the moment, 
for without the normal filters present by intrinsic cube software, the 
effort involved would have been akin to shouting across a large room 
during a boisterous party.
	Mumbled Captain, "101 of 203 has just been calmed down and 99 of 212 is 
no longer threatening to throw his limb assembly into the gallery area.  
What do you want?" 
	"Listen carefully," said Second, gesturing at Hek as the mech 
thunderously spoke to the spiky fivesome sitting in the place of judges.
	Captain cocked his head to hear, "He is going on again about yellow 
raincoats.  So?"
	Second grumbled, providing Captain with a compressed replay of oration 
over the last five minutes.  "Now do you see?"
	"Oh," said Captain, his understanding sending a wave of shocked mental 
silence through the drone-to-drone linkages.  The quiet did not last 
long, mere nanoseconds as the new information was digested and individual 
drones came to conclusions which were not healthy concerning 
self-preservation.  Babble filled the mindspaces.
	The revelation?  Cube #347 and, more specifically, the sub-collective 
were to be used as Progenitor bait.  Hek had precisely chosen the 
sub-collective because of an otherwise minor incident involving several 
Xenig mechs of a near fanatic bent concerning the Progenitor quest and 
their harassment of an individual who claimed his species to be Gzhekay, 
and not related to Progenitors what so ever, now-leave-me-alone!  The 
incident had occurred over five centuries earlier, a long blink in the 
span of Xenig history, but was a key element for Hek.  He was arguing 
that the so-called Gzhekay individual had in fact been a Progenitor, 
despite adamant claims to the contrary, and that through the interaction 
with Cube #347, the sub-collective was now intrinsically bonded to the 
Progenitors.
	To focus the bond required paper towels, fuzzy dice, and bobble 
antennae, among other things.
	It was time for the grand plan to be unveiled, including the fine 
details and timeline.  In the anticipatory lull, as Hek drank a glass of 
water for purpose of heightening expectation, the flaming minotaur 
appeared.  The swarthy humanoid body with bull's head was covered in fine 
red scales, each of which contributed a small tongue of flame to the 
overall inferno.  Standing well above the shocked silent gallery, the 
Herculean minotaur had seemed to blossom out of nothingness like a poor 
special effect.  The final product, however cheesy the entrance, was 
stunning.
	"Give me the borg!" bellowed the minotaur menacingly.  A bullwhip of 
lightening materialized in one hand.
	Captain glanced to the screen showing the outside as Second elbowed him 
in the ribs.  The picture had widened its view to show the anticlimactic 
scene of Cube #347, the Transcendence Board, Hek, and a featureless black 
orb only 30 meters in diameter, its hull dully reflecting the orange 
plasma of the nearest miniature sun.  The latter mech chassis had not 
been present previously.
	In the gallery, a general screaming began, followed by spectators 
disappearing with panicky haste.  Very soon, the indeterminate rough 
wooden benches were empty, although the sound of shouting continued; and 
in the background of the window, mechs were streaming towards egresses, 
leaving behind expendable camera bots.  What could so /scare/ Xenig that 
the all-powerful mech species scattered so?  Whatever it was, it likely 
boded Cube #347 ill.  Whispered speculation began between detained Borg 
drones as to where fate was to take them next, with termination a prime 
supposition.
	Meanwhile, neither Hek nor the Transcendence Board had retreated.  The 
former had turned to face the towering minotour, growing until a giant 
Agent Bond matched the demon.
	"Ein," shouted Hek, "what are you doing here?  You've been banished!  
And where did you get those powers?"
	The minotour snarled, whip thundering overhead as it was cracked, 
"EinTon!  My Name is EinTon.  And I could ask you, my pansy gps courier, 
the same Question.  Now give me the borg, else I will take them from 
you."
	The Transcendence Board had grouped into a tight huddle behind their 
desk, whispering frantically to each other.  With plan of action decided, 
the center crystalline entity thumped a hereto unseen gavel against the 
benchtop and pronounced the current session suspended until such time it 
could be reconvened.  Then the crystal icons disappeared from the 
courtroom as quietly as possible.  Their spiky chassis swiftly joined the 
stragglers exiting the sphere.  They passed the few forms who had 
remained, morbid curiosity driving them to view upcoming actions from a 
hopefully safe distance.
	Hek drew himself straight, one hand lifting in a gesture of warding.  
"You still insist on that stupid usename, I see.   I was present at your 
trial; and I see sitting in vacuum thinking of your actions had not 
changed you a bit.  Well, creche-brother, the Borg belong to me and the 
Transcendence Board.  If you really want them, you'll have to come and 
get them"
	Whip thundered again.  "If you insist."
	The 4000 drones of Cube #347 looked at each other, then in wordless 
agreement scrambled to duck behind what little cover was available.
	Captain found himself back on Cube #347 as abruptly as he had been 
snatched to the unreal courtroom earlier.  Unfortunately, he was not in 
his nodal intersection, but rather draped precariously on a walkway over 
a vat of bubbling acid, an engineering project which had been left by 
itself when the population of the cube had been stolen away.  By the 
froth on the floor, it had bubbled over recently; and by the holes being 
eaten through the duralloy deck plates, Captain was quite certain that to 
step down there would mean a quick trip to drone maintenance for a double 
foot replacement.
	Elsewhere in the cube, most drones had been returned to positions less 
dangerous.  245 of 510 had been plunged upside down into lukewarm comet 
slush, but the locale, while forcing the drone to hold his breath, was 
not hazardous except to the dignity, something which Borg did not have.
	Regaining his feet, Captain steadied himself against the railings before 
beaming back to his nodal intersection.  He had barely rematerialized and 
begun to order drone status reports when the cube spun around, captured 
by the black sphere.  Inertial dampers did not fully compensate, rattling 
the sub-collective populace.
	{Hang on, it's going to be a Bumpy Ride,} hissed a malevolent voice in 
the intranets not originating from a sub-collective member.

	In a blue giant globular cluster approximately 1.1 billion light years 
(give or take a hundred million or so) from the Xenig home system , 
EinTon reappeared in the normal universe, Borg prize in tow.  The 
gigantic, hot, young stars of the cluster averaged only half a light year 
from each other; and some were so close that they danced in the plasma of 
their nearest neighbor.  The cluster members were not so much a loose 
association as a multiple star system whereupon the gravitational upset 
of one blue giant would propagate across the five hundred light year 
diameter to affect a distant relative on the far side of the tight 
aggregation.
	EinTon was feeling extraordinarily smug:  he had stole this cube from 
the Transcendence Board!  He did not know what the Board had in mind for 
the Borg, but it surely had something to do with the Progenitors.  What 
he was going to do with the cube, he was not quite sure, but it was 
enough that his fellow mechs did not have it.  Perhaps he would find a 
nice place to "abandon" the sub-collective within, then spend several 
centuries manipulating the resultant Collective which would form.  The 
experiment might prove amusing.
	EinTon did not spare more than a few seconds contemplating what he would 
do if Hek followed him.  He recognized the ex-GPS courier to have 
similar, if not the same, omniscient powers of he himself, but he also 
remembered the other from decades together in the creche.  He and Hek 
were creche-brothers, souls that had been raised at the same creche 
facility and in the same cohort.  Together they had first grown beyond 
their processor cradles, and then, later, played with their first baby 
chassis.  EinTon remembered Hek as a cautious Xenig, one who tended not 
to question authority, had little ambition beyond the desire to earn a 
spacefaring chassis, and would become one more cog in the quest for 
Transcendence and Progenitors.  While EinTon did recall that Hek had 
spoken out for him at the hearing (very few others had) which had 
eventually consigned him to exile, his youthful impression of his 
creche-brother had not altered.  No, Hek would not be able to track him 
down.
	It was time to play with his new acquisition, to see if it might be 
pliable to his budding plan of establishing a new Borg Collective a 
billion light years distant from the original.
	"Cube of borg," whispered EinTon to his toy, "my name is EinTon.  I will 
be your New Deity.  Does that not Sound like Fun?  Would you like to do a 
little Assimilating, perhaps several trillion persons?  I can help."

	Cube #347 found itself in a globular cluster denser than any in the 
stellar charts of the navigational archive.  Blue giants made unstable by 
the relentless pull of neighbors near and far had ejected so much gas 
that the space around the ship was more akin to a tenacious atmosphere 
than normal interstellar vacuum.  The space immediately around cube and 
kidnapper was an amazingly large two light year radius bubble free of any 
star, but beyond that, blue giants orbited each other at close distances.  
It was not a healthy place to be, and ship shields, already abused by the 
earlier skirmish with Green Borg and cloaked Gphawkine carrier, had not 
fully recovered, and therefore were struggling to ward against the 
extreme amounts of charged particles present.  Any vessel not a Borg 
cube, even a weakened Exploratory-class, would have already been 
radiation and/or gravitationally warped slag.
	{Where the hell are we?} demanded Captain to Sensors.  The latter 
mentally shrugged and professed not to know, although her hierarchy was 
desperately working on it.  The best she could say was that the cube 
remained in the natal Borg universe, various cosmological constants still 
the same.  That statement was not necessarily encouraging because the 
universe was a big place, and a Xenig with omniscient powers likely had 
the ability to go anywhere within.
	Captain stared at the viewscreen currently showing the area exterior the 
ship, filters blocking out the worst of the blue giant glare.  A small 
black sphere which was the Xenig designated EinTon seemed insufficient to 
have stolen Cube #347, but it had undoubtedly done so.  Before rumor and 
speculation became too advanced concerning what was to happen next, 
however, a darkly rich voice which elicited images of master statesman, 
echoed in the minds of every drone.  EinTon obviously did not believe in 
using a speaker intermediary, as Hek had done.
	{Cube of borg, my name is EinTon.  I will be your New Deity.  Does that 
not Sound like Fun?  Would you like to do a little Assimilating, perhaps 
several trillion persons?  I can help.}
	The cadence was a little odd, as if certain words normally emphasized 
were not, and others were being raised to an exulted status of 
importance.  It was a subtle difference from ordinary speech.
	Before the resultant mental maelstrom could respond coherently (besides 
Weapons, the hierarchy of which had a predictable reply to everything), 
Sensors abruptly exclaimed, {[Red carpets!]  A black hole!  Another 
[chartreuse] hole!  And another!}
	Captain's exterior view shifted to focus upon what had suddenly captured 
Sensors' attention, and what was now being registered as a major warning 
throughout all cube systems.  The gravitational flux view flickered 
several times before an appropriate false color image was substituted, 
although Captain did not need it to know the problem looming.  One of the 
nearer blue giants had spontaneously begun to collapse into a black hole, 
without benefit of a nova; and it was triggering its neighbors to do 
likewise.  The reason behind the improbable event (novas were a 
prerequisite of stars ending life as a singularity) was unknown, but a 
consensus cascade returned an 85.5% likelihood that EinTon was the factor 
causing the event.
	{Would you like to Assimilate people?} asked EinTon again, seemingly 
oblivious of the chaos percolating in the globular cluster around him.  
An inevitable chain reaction would eventually convert the entire cluster 
into a mass of hungry black holes.  
	"No!" abruptly yelled another voice, recognizable as Hek, over the 
loudspeakers.  The GPS courier vessel materialized amid a bright burst of 
white light.  "They would not!"
	Assimilation, interest piqued out of his normal gray funk, managed to 
interject, {Well, actually...}  The two mechs, however, were not 
listening.
	Hek continued, "They have a hearing before the Transcendence Board, one 
you rudely interrupted.  I will be taking them now."
	The globular cluster disappeared as Hek took charge of the cube, 
snatching it away as one child might a toy from a fellow playmate.

	Hek snickered to himself as he watched a pair of vacuum particles 
spontaneously generate out of nothingness, seemingly to violate the law 
of energy conservation.  In fact, no such infraction was occurring; and 
it was that well of energy that the Xenig zero-point array core tapped to 
provide energy for warping reality.  In the normal course of affairs, the 
virtual particle and its anti-twin would annihilate each other near 
instantaneously after materialization, disappearing in a puff of gamma 
radiation and exotic "real" particles.  In this case, however, Hek had 
parked himself and the Borg cube on the knife edge of a singularity, and 
more often than naught, one member of the virtual particle pair would be 
caught by the black hole, leaving its orphaned twin to radiate away in 
what distant astronomers called Hawkin's radiation.  Hek was pleased 
because EinTon would /never/ think to pursue him here.
	Not only was Hek perched just outside a black hole event horizon, he had 
shrunk both himself and his Borg prize down to a point where a free 
electron would appear to be the size of a large boulder.  Additionally, 
he had slightly phased the pair of them out of step with the rest of 
reality, not only to better resist the effects of the singularity and 
keep the organic and inorganic bits of the cube healthy, but to better 
observe the virtual particles.  Before now, while he knew such existed, 
could feel their actions in his vacuum energy core with special sensors, 
he, like every other Xenig, had never observed them directly.  It was 
beautiful.
	Hek, unfortunately, was not here for the fireworks, but to hide while he 
thought of how to deal with EinTon.  The Borg /had/ to be returned to the 
Xenig home system and the Transcendence Board reconvened.  It was vitally 
necessary to do so in order to set the plan to find the Progenitors in 
motion.  On the other hand, out there somewhere EinTon was undoubtedly 
searching.  EinTon had never been the most humble of Xenig, and Hek 
remembered his creche-brother to be extremely tenacious when it came to 
solving a puzzle, no matter if the solution required days to intuit and 
the rest of the creche-cohort had long since grown bored.  EinTon would 
not simply give up.  
	The trick would be to make EinTon firmly believe his quarry was 
elsewhere in the universe, preferably several billion light years 
distant.  When he finally realized he had been deceived, Hek's plan would 
have come to fruition with the Progenitors hopefully found.
	Gazing as one virtual particle detonated against another, Hek thought 
deep thoughts.

	The cube tried to twist away as another pair of the baffling 
not-boulders annihilated each other amid a grand burst of multi-colored 
light, but the hold Hek had upon the vessel was too great.  Before 
command and control could assert dominance among the hierarchies, Weapons 
managed to fire a neuruptor at the mech, although no damage, no notice, 
appeared to have been taken.  Charge in the beam weaponry capacitors were 
directed to be drained and energy applied to defensive systems, much to 
Weapons' displease.
	Sensors was even more bewildered by where the cube was located than 
before, for once again the severa cosmological constants the Borg used to 
determine which of a number of realities the Collective had access to 
indicated the original reality had not been left.  However, the actions 
occurring outside, the absolute black plane stretching to the horizon 
which Hek had parked next to, the energies which even had Sensors' 
baffled in her hierarchy's attempt to match to catalogued phenomenon, was 
outside every recorded event in cube data archives.  The sub-collective 
did not realize that even with a link to the Greater Consciousness, no 
"You Are Here" point would have appeared within their universe-view; and 
there was insufficient abstract imagination left to the drones to picture 
themselves a very small out of phase mote at the razor edge of a black 
hole.
	With no obvious course of action available, the consensus cascades which 
had been attempting to determine a strategy faltered, each stream of 
thought aborting.  When all else fails, the intrinsic programming which 
was Borg instinct fell to "bluster mode," to a haughty demeanor (not 
haughty, not exactly, for Borg could not feel such an emotion when the 
Collective /knew/ the One was superior to all those individualistic 
lifeforms out there) which demanded to, well, it just demanded.
	Captain opened a subspace channel on the Xenig frequency.  The 
multivoice proclaimed, "We are the Borg.  We..."
	"Oh, bugger!  Why couldn't you have just been quiet?" swore Hek, 
interrupting the opening spiel.
	EinTon's sphere dodged between a boulder pair as they materialized, one 
of the two flying into the black plane while the other fled in the other 
direction and out of sight.  "Tally-ho!  I knew I felt borg weaponry in 
this Corner of the universe; and that Transmission clinched it.  You are 
a little Smarter than I gave you Credit for, creche-brother, but I'll be 
taking those borg now."
	The enigmatic scene vanished as the sub-collective was whisked 
elsewhere.

	EinTon peered around himself in interest.  He had never been to this 
reality before, to this universe.  Of course, that was the point, because 
if he had never come here, and if it was unknown to Xenig, then Hek would 
be hard pressed to follow.  EinTon had simply imaged in his mind an 
improbable locale, then went there, confident that somewhere in the 
infinite book of multiverses that such a destination would exist.  And it 
had.
	This universe was thick with gasses, much like the atmosphere of a gas 
giant, or perhaps a tenacious nebula made as dense as planetbound fog.  A 
soft ambient light permeated surrounding space as molecular bonds 
dissolved; and somewhere there were certainly "stars" of some sort, zones 
where extra energy and heat were made available to whatever creatures 
might evolve in this environment, playing the same role as geothermal 
vents did on the bottom of liquid oceans.
	Pleased, EinTon turned his attention back to his Borg.  He wondered if 
somewhere there was sentient life in this realm, and if so, if they would 
be susceptible to assimilation nanoprobes.  He might have to alter the 
drones in the cube so that they could survive outside the hospitable 
confines of their cube, but since EinTon believed Hek would never find 
him here, his little assimilation-God experiment would be able to proceed 
here as easily as in his natal universe.
	"Hey, borg, do you like this Place?  I do.  I Think we'll stay Here for 
a bit," called EinTon into the primitive internets of the Borg cube.

	{Hey, borg, do you like this Place?  I do.  I Think we'll stay Here for 
a bit,} whispered into the minds of all drones on Cube #347.  EinTon's 
voice could not be ignored, no more than any Borg could ignore the 
presence of the Greater Consciousness.  However, the Xenig was definitely 
not the Collective, and the experience was an intrusion.
	The question of 'What can we do?' was posed.  Unfortunately, the sensor 
grid was informing the sub-collective that not only was the cube no 
longer in proverbial Kansas, but that familiar surroundings were well 
beyond whatever rainbow might be concocted.  While the universe outside 
the hull was friendly to metals, ceramics, and other nonorganic 
substances, anything organic in nature would dissolve quite rapidly, 
molecules of the unlucky individual joining the gaseous soup which 
enveloped everything.
	{Sensors says we have [chap stick],} warned Sensors.
	Confused, Second demanded, {What?  Repeat.}
	Sensors repeated herself, at the same time directing all interested 
parties to a modified visual feed.  Simultaneously, the vessel began to 
vibrate, for the presence of gas implied atmosphere, which in turn meant 
the possibility of sound.
	Penetrating moans and tooth-rattling clicks proceeded before the immense 
creatures, serving as the primary sense of the beasts.  The environment 
precluded efficient use of vision, or at least of the type of sight most 
commonly utilized by organics in the Borg universe, so sound had become 
the navigational instrument.  The use of sound as guide, and even weapon, 
was common on planets with water or another dense medium; and considering 
a universe where "vacuum" or "clear air" did not exist, it was hardly 
surprising the solution evolution had devised to allow an animal to know 
its surroundings.
	Through the murk appeared five creatures, each approximately half the 
volume of Cube #347.  They were globular in shape, body slightly tapered 
in the direction of travel and colored a smoky gray.  The equator was 
ringed with countless tentacles, each approximately ten meters in length; 
and every 40 meters was a much longer arm, specimens of which measured 
between 50 and 200 meters long.  Many orifices pocked the beasts' hides, 
some of which appeared to be mouths.  Other openings had a propulsive 
nature, sucking in gasses and expelling them through siphons.  Large 
patches of skin, darker in color than surrounding surfaces, were the 
focal point of the sounds shaking the cube. 
	It was unknown if the beasts were intelligent, although translator 
algorithms embedded in the sub-collective had already begun to try to 
make sense of any possible speech.  While the navigational pulses likely 
did not convey information, sensors were picking up a series of patterns 
directed between the five animals of the pod. 
	Captain concentrated as the first rough translation of the interanimal 
sounds floated through the dataspaces.  The algorithms were not always 
accurate, with Sensors' species a prime example.  They had also been 
known to render the communication of technically nonsentient, if highly 
intelligent, animals into apparent sense.  The fact that rudimentary 
understanding had been determined so quickly for creatures not only 
resident in another reality, but certain to hold utterly an alien 
viewpoint made it highly probable that the translator was messing up.
	Still...
	"I say," called one creature to its podmate in a distinctively British 
accent, "what do you think that chap is?"
	Answered the second creature, "I don't know.  Why don't we tear it apart 
and take a look at its insides.  It might be a most delicious delicacy.  
Besides, it is time for our teatime repast."
	"Right as always!" responded the first creature.

	Hek appeared in the gaseous realm just in time to see EinTon driving off 
five large gas bags.  The creatures looked something like jellyfish, or 
perhaps the beasts known to thrive in Jovian atmospheres, both apt 
analogies considering the pervasive gasses.  The differences in reality 
constants was just sufficient for normal maneuvers using the folded-space 
drive awkward, which would explain EinTon's difficulties.  The other mech 
did not appear to desire to outright harm the gas bags, although the 
singeing of a few tentacles was obvious.
	The Borg cube had been left on its own.  It was currently spinning in 
place using its thrusters.  Hek could see that it was trying to form a 
static warp shell for superluminal travel, but the physics of the 
universe precluded that type of drive.  Hek himself was unsure exactly 
what technologies would require adaption for FTL, but he did not plan to 
stay long enough to need such knowledge.
	Hek wished himself next to the Borg cube, and was there.  EinTon had 
evidently not noticed his prize was about to be reclaimed by its rightful 
owner, so busy was he in harrying the gas bag beasts.  Still, Hek had an 
overwhelming urge to say something, an urge to which he yielded.
	"Hah!" Hek shouted just before dragging his prize elsewhere.

	Cube #347 was back where this whole fiasco had begun:  the Xenig home 
system.  The cube was in a position to see several near platforms, upon 
which a myriad of endeavors were underway by thousands of Xenig 
non-spacefaring chassis.  Equipments of unknown use were being assembled, 
organics oblivious to hard vacuum were growing, and on one platform an 
abstract plasma sculpture was taking shape.  The mechs slowed their work 
to a halt as they became aware that Hek and the cube had returned, Xenig 
communication frequencies first doubled, the tripled the immense amount 
of information carried between individuals.  Rumor was not solely the 
province of nonassimilated organic species.
	"Oh, damn," swore Captain, who did not normally result to expletives.  
However, he was merely mouthing the general mindset of the sub-collective 
as EinTon's distinctive sphere appeared less than 20 kilometers distant.
	"That cube belongs to Me!" shouted EinTon, forsaking intranet dialogue 
for a common subspace carrier wave.
	Hek responded in kind, maneuvering his chassis directly between Cube 
#347 and perceived threat, "This Borg cube is the property of the 
Transcendence Board, and is required for use to find the Progenitors.  
You cannot have it!"
	"I want it, and I will have it."
	"Why do you want it?  What use is it to you?"
	"Its use is that you will not Have it.  I do not Need to Justify myself 
to you, hek."
	What followed was destruction on a grand scale, or, if viewed 
differently, was little more than the minor temper tantrum of a pair of 
omniscient beings.  And Cube #347 was in the middle of it.
	Pieces of the construction known to the Xenig by the apt name RingWeb 
were torn apart by Hek and EinTon and sent hurling towards each other.  
Those mechs who tried to get close to stop the chaos were regarded as 
little more than convenient projectiles.  In places the vast ring began 
to visibly deform, gravity from the sun twisting the engineering marvel 
out of alignment as immense reactor thrusters necessary to maintain order 
went inoperational.  Through the catastrophe, the two opponents traded 
insults more fitting for the schoolyard than between omnipotent beings.
	"You always thought that chassis was soooooo cool.  You know what you 
look like?  A bowling ball!"
	"Have you looked at yourself from a camera bot lately?  I don't see you 
winning any beauty prizes.  Your chassis looks like it was designed by 
organics!"
	Captain eyed Second sideways, who returned the look squarely before 
giving a small nod.  The sub-collective was in agreement:  now would be a 
good time to slip away.  Captain revved engines, sending the cube on a 
random vector, one which led away from the combatants.
	"Hey!  Look!  It is Elvis with his purple spaceship!  Wow, those 
rhinestones are blinding!" suddenly shouted EinTon.
	Hek paused with a chunk of platform hovering nearby, possibly a metal 
refining considering the raw ore floating in a cloud where the structure 
used to reside.  "Where?"  He was suddenly enveloped in a sticky web, one 
which reflected impossible /marshmallow/ signatures to the sensor grid.
	EinTon crowed, "Hah!  Made you look, sucker of a creche-brother!"  
Captain goosed the accelerator, beginning a tear to the deeper layers of 
subspace where hypertranswarp speeds could be found.  The move was 
unsuccessful as EinTon swept by, grabbing the cube in an unbreakable 
grip.  The Xenig home system faded from view.

	EinTon chuckled to himself, not believing that his creche-brother had 
fallen for such an old and obvious ploy!  Everyone knew Elvis piloted a 
pink ship, not a purple one.  Geesh!  For lack of anywhere better to go, 
EinTon had simply jumped 900 light years from the home system, stopping 
in a random patch of interstellar space.  This was a mistake, for Hek 
arrived only seconds later, in hot pursuit and covered with the remains 
of his unexpected marshmallow cage.
	"Mine!  For the Transcendence Board and the Progenitor quest!" shouted 
Hek as a plunger formed and shot towards the cube.  The suction cup 
gripped one of the target's faces and began to retract towards Hek's 
chassis.
	"Forget you," snarled EinTon.  An oversized robotic arm with a powerful 
grasping hand materialized, the shoulder joint hovering near the black 
sphere's position.  The arm reached forward, clamping to the side 
opposite the plunger.
	"Mine!" repeated Hek.
	"No, mine!" yelped EinTon in return as the arm pulled strongly.
	"Mine!"
	"Mine!"
	"Mine!"
	"Mine!"
	Neither antagonist gave any thought as to the consequence of a Borg 
Exploratory-class cube when being used as a rope in a tug-of-war.

	On Cube #347, emergency klaxons blared, sounding like horribly 
out-of-tune bullfrogs.  Captain's organic eye was glazed as he stared 
straight ahead, mind diving deep into the chaos of the dataspaces.  A 
piece of catwalk several levels above shook loose of its bolts and fell 
past the nodal intersection, twisted metal throwing sparks whenever it 
spun against stationary walkway railings.  The drone who had the 
misfortune of being on the falling catwalk segment was not having a good 
ride.
	"I liked the gaseous universe better," commented Second.

		*	*	*	*	*

	The door to the Board room opened and closed unheard.  In strolled the 
Editor, who stopped in flabbergasted surprise.  With an amazingly loud 
voice, the hand bellowed, "By Hades, what the seven hells is going on in 
here?"
	Lips and Mouth, still rolling around on the ground, sheepishly stopped 
hitting each other and stood up.  The Directors, meanwhile, swiftly put 
away the cheering pennants they had created earlier; money changed hands 
under the table, out of sight of the Editor.
	The room was in shambles.  The Board, sacrosanct, was the only thing 
left unaffected by the brawl between Critics, that and the table on which 
it resided.  Of course, it would take more than two fighting lips to 
upset a galaxy, especially a model one which was and was not the actual 
thing.  Elsewhere, the dry ice tub labeled "Mysterious Mists" had been 
tipped by a chair, and the pizza and soda cans were no longer in a neat, 
if sticky, pile.  At least one slice of cold pizza (extra sauce) was 
stuck to the back side of the door.  Worst of all, from the Editor's 
point of view, its precisely positioned row of tools was no longer 
immaculately ordered, but rather scattered helter-skelter.
	The Editor leaned over to pick up two drill bits and a partially spilled 
box of tacks.  The ambulatory hand was Pissed Off, capital "P" and 
capital "O" not doing justice to the stiff, nearly shaking position of 
fingers.  Hands are very expressive pieces of anatomy, body language a 
forte, and the Directors and Critics could see the struggle the Editor 
was going through to prevent curling itself into a fist.  As it was, the 
middle finger was twitching alarmingly, the Editorial equivalent of the 
visibly throbbing forehead vein.
	"Explain!" shouted the Editor.
	"Well, you were taking a little long..." began Lips.
	"I had a manicurist appointment!" yelled the Editor again.  Taking care 
of nails is important when one is a hand.  Critics see the dentist twice 
a year, and Directors made regular stops at the local optometrist.
	Lips spat out the explanation in a blazing display of speech, one which 
was comprised of a single sentence lacking most punctuation, and pauses 
for breath for that matter.  
"...soyouseetheaccidentaluseofthedrillcausedthisentireseriesofeventsforwh
ichitisallMouth'sfaultbecauseitdidn'tstopmeinmymomentofinsanity,whichwasc
ausedwhenIlostmyomniscentpowerswhenyouspunthosecosmicstringsthatway."
	In the resulting silence, the Editor digested the Critic's words.  
Critics were renown for their fast-talking and the ability to weasel out 
of trouble through deft application of verbalities.  "So," the Editor 
said quietly, "you imply this," wave of hand (body?), "is ultimately my 
fault?"
	"Yes?" squeaked Lips.
	The Directors watched raptly.  This was better than the brawl.
	More silence.  The absolute quiet stretched on and on and on.  Finally, 
the Editor spoke, precise and icy words echoing in the Board Room.  The 
temperature felt as if it had plunged several degrees,  "Get out."
	"What?" asked Mouth, unwisely.
	"I said," replied the Editor, "get out.  You want your powers back, 
fine.  You want the Board fixed, fine.  However, I obviously cannot do it 
with you idiots messing up everything.  I have work to do, so get out!"  
The final words were bellowed with great force.  The Critics practically 
ran from the Board room.
	Chortling, the Directors applauded.  "Good show!" exclaimed Orb.
	The Editor turned its attention towards the eyeballs.  "And what are you 
doing here?  I said get out."
	"But," spluttered Orb, suddenly on the defensive, "we didn't do 
anything.  We are /Directors/, not Critics."
	"I don't care if you are the Producer itself!  Get out!"
	The Directors scrambled with great haste to follow the Critics' exodus.
	As the door to the Board room closed, the Editor sighed before looking 
around at the mess.  It examined the Board for a moment, then moved aside 
several hammers and wrenches to find the cordless drill.  It had work to 
do.

		*	*	*	*	*

	{The ship can't take much more of this,} calmly reported Delta to 
Captain.
	Second interrupted, {Isn't that a cliche?  Maybe you should add a bit of 
faux-Scottish accent?}
	Delta's tone darkened, and images of Second stuck in his alcove because 
clamps refused to disengage floated in the dataspaces, {The cube is 
falling apart, and at this rate, will be literally torn into two unequal 
halves within the next ten minutes.  Nine point four five, to be exact, 
according to the latest compiled reports from sensor analysis of the main 
struts.}
	{Oh,} said Second, and shut up lest certain visions come true.
	Pull back from the scene for a moment and take a look.  To one side was 
the black orb of EinTon, chassis lost against background black except for 
the obscuring of a few stars.  Ten kilometers distant was Hek, his form 
outlined with ethereal purple flame.  Located equidistant between the two 
opponents was Cube #347; and attached to the face towards Hek was what 
appeared to be a bathroom plunger of omninously large size, while a giant 
robotic pincher was clamped to the face in EinTon's direction.  Slowly 
the two forces were pulling the cube apart in a deadly game of 
tug-of-war.
	Cube #347 was massive, yet it shook as an outer door to Bulk Cargo Hold 
#7 buckled along one mammoth railing.  Forcefields kept atmosphere and 
cargo inside, but the former threatened to drop as structural integrity 
was desperately required elsewhere, namely the primary struts that 
defined the skeleton that the cube was built upon.
	{Structural integrity dropping by 5% along main strut #1.  Engineering 
squad alpha-3 dispatched to effect temporary repairs in Bulk Cargo Hold 
#7,} dully reported Delta into the intranets.  {Revised time to full 
structural failure:  7.26 minutes.}  Deep within the ship, teams were 
trying to weld large patches of metal over developing stress fractures, a 
futile endeavor considering the circumstances, but one nonetheless 
demanded by cube survival protocols.
	Calculations flashed through the dataspaces.  A decision was reached.  
{Drop wards in Bulk Cargo Hold #7.  Redirect power to main structural 
integrity.}
	{Noooooooo!} wailed 10 of 19.  {My hats!  My hats!  Do you know how hard 
it was to recover my collection?  Noooooooo!}
	10 of 19's protests were ignored as Bulk Cargo Hold #7 was allowed to 
decompress.  While some objects in the hold were blown out with the 
atmosphere, the break was "high" enough above the floor so that the 
result was mostly mess.  The hat collection was not among those few 
things lost to space.
	{8.03 minutes to structural failure,} reported Delta.
	As the minutes counted down, the situation became increasingly 
desperate.  Hull plates, entire sections of armor to a depth of 20 or 
more meters, disintegrated under the respective pulls of Hek and EinTon.  
Overloaded relays exploded and engineering fire teams scrambled to 
replace or reset each failure:  only tertiary redundancy kept certain 
sectors from becoming tangles of metal and rubble.  Two auxiliary cores 
abruptly shut down under overload, and the main one was showing signs of 
strain.
	And then, suddenly, as the two-minute warning sounded and the already 
stressed door of Bulk Cargo Hold #7 threatened to buckle further, both 
Hek and EinTon stopped the contest.  No robotic hands nor plungers pulled 
against the hull.  Silence reigned, except for the pinging of deformed 
metal, the sparking of spectacularly malfunctioning relays, and the 
hissing of welders.
	{Sensors says the mechs no longer radiate omniscient signature,} spouted 
Sensors.  At least the sensor grid remained fully operational.  {They are 
still mech species #3, however, so Sensors is [mouse] how relevant this 
information is.}
	{Gee, thanks,} sarcastically retorted Second.  {So, you are implying 
that we are still deep in trouble, omniscience or no omniscience?}
	Sensors's thoughts were a whirl, a normal state of affairs which none 
claimed to understand.  Still, it was true that a Xenig was more than a 
match for a Borg cube, even without near godly power.
	Silence exterior the cube was suddenly broken as the Xenig bands were 
filled with indecipherable babble.  Simultaneously, Borg Collective 
fractal subspace frequencies coughed into existence, reconnecting Cube 
#347 with the Greater Consciousness amid the feedback sound of 
uncountable microphones.  Predictably, no Borg units were sufficiently 
close to whisk Cube #347 from the danger zone.  As the first queries came 
from the Collective arrived concerning how the sub-collective had managed 
to appear 10,000 light years from its starting point and what had 
occurred during the communication outage, EinTon began flooding normal 
subspace with intelligible words.
	"No!  I'm not going to be exiled again!  No!"
	The response from Hek was subdued, whispered, "No, you won't be exiled 
creche-brother.  It is your soul at risk now.  Undeath"
	If EinTon had a rejoinder, it was not heard.  The arrival of three dozen 
Xenig mechs, including the five spiked ovoids of the Transcendence Board, 
precluded any remarks.

	The sub-collective of the Borg cube could not be present in the Realm, 
at least not to the extent Hek had forced during his time of omniscience.  
However, they could have a superficial presence, be a metaphorical face 
peering through a window; and it was thus the sub-collective was 
portrayed in the Transcendence Board's courtroom.  A screen held the 
flat, two-dimensional representation of the Borg cube, one corner of the 
larger picture displaying the "infinite catwalk" perspective the 
Collective insisted upon.  If one squinted, however, one might see a very 
small picture-in-picture-in-picture, specifically, the head and shoulders 
of the drone acting as primary consensus monitor and facilitator.  The 
drone was occasionally joined by a second - the reserve facilitator - and 
a single maintenance unit which persisted in crossing the background, 
obviously on duties of little actual importance as evidenced by the same 
wrench and conduit wiring it was always carrying.
	"Hek," called Nup, capturing attention away from the screen, "how do 
your repairs go?  Are you fit?"
	With the loss of his omniscience, Hek had dropped the arrogant image of 
the legendary Terran film spy as his avatar.  Until it had been lost, he 
had not realized how much the powers had affected his mind, had caused 
pure arrogance.  He!  Hek, the GPS mech!  He had been comfortable in his 
GPS courier job, and, looking back on his recent behavior, was aghast 
with embarrassment concerning his attitude.  He currently wore the body 
of a nondescript humanoid form clothed in gray jumpsuit.
	"Yes, Your Honors," murmured Hek, staring at his feet, "I am nearly 
well.  Internal maintenance is about complete.  The backsurge of vacuum 
energy into my folded-space drive when the powers left me caused numerous 
problems, but it has been corrected.  My chassis is able to fold space 
again at this time."
	"You should be busted down to bulldozer," muttered Yun, newest member of 
the Transcendence Board and located to Nup's right.
	Hek looked up fearfully.  Not bulldozer!
	Nup wobbled her crystalline icon in a negative; and in the nonRealm 
reality, her chassis brushed up against the spikes of Yun in ringing 
reproach.  "No.  Hek has suffered enough already, as has already been 
decided during our deliberations.  Hek will keep his chassis, but will be 
working his butt off as a GPS courier for three additional century 
contracts past his current one."
	"Yes, Your Honor," replied Hek, attention once more focused on floor.
	"And take those Borg back where you found them, okay?  You know the 
rule:  no sentient pets allowed.  Besides, you don't really know where 
those drones have been, and everyone knows Borg carry weird diseases."
	"Yes, Your Honor."
	"Moving on," began Nup, her tone darkening, "we have Ein.  Do you have 
anything to say in your final defense before sentencing is passed?"
	EinTon, refusing to acknowledge the shortening of his usename to an 
acceptable monosyllable, had imaged his Realm self to be a likeness of 
his chassis.  The black orb was covered in heavy chains, the ends of 
which were held by four bailiffs, each a different species (or armoire, 
as the case was in one instance) dressed (or undressed) in police 
costume.  Reality reflected Realm, four Xenig chassis of a size just 
capable of entry through the entrance holes to Transcendence Hall on 
Transcendence Board Platform, sector 11413, holding EinTon tightly with 
invisible cords of energy.
	"Yes," snarled EinTon, "I have Something to Say."  Unlike Hek, EinTon's 
arrogant attitude had not disappeared with his powers, and in fact had 
been present to begin with, perhaps manifesting at the moment of his soul 
inception so many centuries prior.
	"What is with you people?  I am not going to Undeath - I know what my 
Sentence is to be - because of my 'heretical' views on transience and the 
progenitors; and I am not to be put to Undeath because of my Actions 
concerning hek and that borg cube thing.  Neither is my Punishment 
related to the destruction I caused to the RingWeb that will require many 
Centuries and much Resource Stockpile to rebuild.  These are all /minor/ 
Matters.  No, my Transgression is to go against Strictures of the 
one-syllable usename.
	"Is EinTon so Horrible?  What about hektor, or nuppol?  Maybe I should 
be really adventurous and call myself EinTonDee?"
	Gasps of horror filled the gallery as EinTon attached an unheard of 
/third/ syllable to his usename, and slaughtered the public designations 
of both Hek and the Transience Board leader.
	"Order!  Order!" shouted Nup, "There will be order in this Hall!  
EinTon, if you do not quiet you will be gagged.  Do you understand?"
	EinTon's virtual self bobbed up and down under its load of chain.
	Nup projected a sound like that of throat clearing.  "Very well.  
EinTon, this Transcendence Board unanimously renders you the sentence of 
undeath, to be carried out..."
	"Hello?  Did someone call for an order?  I'd like the pastrami on rye, 
extra mustard!  Thank you, thank you very much!"  A new form appeared in 
the courtroom venue, that of a human with a hawk-like nose dressed in 
well, call it very loud clothes, literally.  The human shushed his 
wailing yellow shirt.  In the screen window, two minute Borg drone heads 
were showing sudden renewed interest in the proceedings, with a third 
body, holding conduit, jumping up and down in the background in an effort 
to see.
	The board member to Nup's left grumbled, "Q, go away.  You Q are like 
insects, very annoying and unwelcome insects.  This is a Xenig matter, 
and you said you would leave us alone, five thousand revolutions ago."
	The Q flipped one hand in a gesture of dismissal.  "That was then, and 
this is now.  Besides, that was Q, while I am Q.  Q's promises do not 
bind me.  I was in the neighborhood and I thought I'd drop in.  Quite a 
bit of excitement you had here, I understand."
	Nup began to ask, "Don't tell me it was..."
	Q sighed, "No, no dear...lady, is it?  No, dear Xenig lady, it was not 
I.  Hek and EinTon here had hold of an entirely different flavor of 
omniscience.  Criticish, I believe.  Speaking of which...EinTon, I really 
like you:  you have style, not to mention issues that really need to be 
worked out.  So, do you want to blow this popsickle stand and take a spin 
around the universe with me?"
	EinTon rocked back and forth, "Do you Mean it?"
	"Well, if you want undeath, it is all the same to me, although I would 
be very disappointed.  Still, I cannot tamper with free will," said the Q 
as he buffed the fingernails of one hand against his shirt.  He was the 
epitome of disinterest.
	Hek glanced sideways at the window to the physical universe.  The two 
Borg facilitators were so close to the camera pick-up that their 
cybernized faces took up most of the picture-in-picture-in-picture.  Of 
the third drone, nothing could be seen, until a loop of conduit wiring 
was thrown over the back-up's neck, pulling him back and down in a sudden 
tangle of limbs.
	"I'll go," hurriedly answered EinTon, not one to allow opportunities to 
be missed.
	The Q smiled.  "Excellent!  Let us be off.  I know of this great dive in 
the Quataltrk district.  You'll love it."  Fingers were snapped, and with 
a great burst of light, both the Q and EinTon disappeared.  The burly 
guards were left with nothing except a pile of empty chains; and in the 
world beyond the Realm, the twists of reality which had been holding 
EinTon in place were unraveled.
	The Transcendence Board swayed up and down uncomfortably, looking 
nothing so much as over inflated pufferfish bobbing on the surface of an 
unsettled sea.  Nup finally said, "Well, er, um.  So, Hek, why don't you 
take the Borg back to where you found them, then get back to your GPS 
job.  This session of the Transcendence Board is adjourned."

	Cube #347 was deposited in orbit around planet #8881 of the Gphawkine 
system, the homeworld of the erztwast species #10703.  In the time the 
sub-collective had been kidnapped, visited the Xenig home system, been 
the focus of a cosmic tug-of-war between two omniscient beings, and 
finally "rescued," the battle for species #10703 had concluded.  The 
space navies of species #10703 were destroyed except for the odd shuttle 
or picket, the local Green Borg contingent had finally escaped with what 
assets they could transport, and the assimilation of the population of 
planet #8881 was going apace.
	Weapons was disappointed.  It had been the big chance for Cube #347 to 
contribute to Something Major, and the sub-collective had been stolen 
away by a Xenig.
	The Collective, after absorbing the experiences of the sub-collective 
following its disappearance from battle as well as every nugget of 
information concerning mech species #3, did not immediately dismiss the 
cube to menial tasks elsewhere in the galaxy.  No, there were plenty of 
menial tasks available locally, starting with an orbital vegetable farm 
and processing facility.  After all, one never knew where new technology 
might be found to add to the Perfection of the Whole.
	Captain watched the motley collection of spacefaring greenhouses on a 
holographic screen as he managed the maneuvers necessary to move the cube 
towards its target.  The emotions radiating from his signature into the 
intranets could best be described as dismay, fortified by resignation to 
the situation.  He glanced at the garden scissors he held in his 
unaltered hand, snipping them together.
	Second materialized in the nodal intersection, festooned with a pair of 
bandoleers criss-crossed over his torso.  The strips of heavy 
pseudo-leather held a wide assortment of garden implements, from 
miniature limb saw to a multi-function trawl.
	"Well," remarked Second as he reset the tools to a more efficient 
configuration, ignoring the holographic screen for an internal visual of 
the same view, "it could be worse."
	Asked Captain, incredulous, "And how would that be?  We have greens, 
flowers, and root vegetables in our future."
	"Think," urged Second, "we could be Progenitor bait, the cube wrapped in 
reams of absorbent paper towels, fuzzy pink dice hung at every hallway 
intersection, and all drones wearing bobble antennae.  There are worse 
things than inventorying a greenhouse."
	Captain peered at the orbital installation, his mood altering only 
slightly (after all, he was a reflection of the communal perspective upon 
the duties to transpire), "Whatever you say, but if there are any mobile 
flora in there, it will be flame-throwers first, tissue samples for 
genetic and enzyme analysis later.  Once," he said in reference to a 
certain bloodvine infestation the previous Cube #347 iteration had 
experienced, "was enough.  You are correct, we could be inventorying the 
sewage treatment plant, like Cube #422."
	Second theatrically hushed Captain, "Shhhhh...don't give the Greater 
Consciousness ideas."