Star Trek is owned and operated by Paramount. The writers for the show are very much into recycling and reusing, and it has been suggested Decker's Star Traks has been a Dumpster diving recipient in the past. Lawyers note: no accusations are being made, only rumors voiced. The BorgSpace author (me) also has suspicions, but no proof (okay, the pictures are blurry, but I swear the alien /was/ Elvis). Reclamation A cold gas giant was tenaciously held in the gravity grip of its primary. No spectacular Jove of brilliant hydrogen reds nor fancifully ringed Saturn, the planet was an icy methane blue with dull brown bands of nitrogen derivatives. The sole reason the atmosphere had not frozen to create an extraordinarily large snowball was due to immense core pressures combined with natural radioactive decay, producing just enough warmth to vaporize gasses into sluggish activity. The planet itself was not born of the primary around which it circled, but rather a rogue long ejected from its birth system and only recently, in an astronomical sense, captured. Some day its highly elliptical orbit would fling it back into the long dark between stars, there to finally spin down like an unwound top, passing into frozen death when its already sputtering core radiated its last erg. That death, however, was millions of years in the future, a short time on the cosmic scale, but sufficient on the biological to raise a savanna-edge ape from nonthinking haze to builder of starships. In this now, in this era, the cold gas giant had no moons beyond a stray asteroid or comet, and, more importantly, an unusually strong radiation field. It was the lattermost character which interested Cube #347, for it effectively masked the shipıs signature while simultaneously providing a stupendous observational platform for the inner solar system. Effectively the planet was being utilized in the same way a duck hunter employs a blind. An Exploratory-class cube has an excellent sensory suite, able to see much further and in greater detail than the other Borg vessel types. Its role, after all, was primarily one of reconnaissance and investigation, to allow the Collective to spy upon enemies and those soon to be assimilated, a distinction which more than occasionally became a bit blurred. Cube #347 was an Exploratory-class, and, for once (insert gasp of astonishment) it was being used in the vein it had been designed for - observation. The Greater Consciousnessı utilization of Cube #347 was no reflection upon a lessening of the assimilation imperfection pariah status. The system in question was somewhat out of the way and no other cubes could be committed for a month of sentinel duty. It was a boring, tedious task which normally would be regulated to an automated espionage platform. In this case, the species #9214 colony under observation was scheduled to undergo assimilation (by sub-collectives not Cube #347) for purposes of information gathering: the race was a candidate for complete absorption into the Collective in the near future. The only obstacle preventing the colony from immediately attack was the almost pathological Borg requirement for data. Cube #347 was relaying the colonyıs shipping schedule, scrutinizing the comings and goings of merchants and the occasional warship. Or, that had been the task. Then Purple had arrived, destroying the Greater Consciousnessı carefully crafted time schedule, but relieving the boredom in Cube #347 which threatened to send the vessel into a terminal dive into the gas giant. Or reveal itself through meaningless attacks upon comet nuclei. Or an attempt to set the planetıs methane on fire. Or one of a thousand other compulsions of which it was command and controlıs duty to censure, a chore which seemed to grow exponentially the longer Cube #347 remained on overwatch duty. Purple was a Colored Borg, spawned in the Hive era and focused on environmentalism. Militant environmentalism to the point of obsession. Using the epithet "cleansing," Purple suspiciously monitored the colonization efforts of a myriad of races, preaching to mind the habitats of the pristine worlds and pleading for outposts to be built on sterile, airless rocks. Those who did not heed Purple advice, who recklessness polluted their adopted homes and did not have the military means to resist a Borg-style invasion were candidates for cleansing. In the last century, Purple had become increasingly strict concerning what constituted the "environmental point of no return" for a colony duly warned; and had begun to experiment with cleansing on the solar system scale, no longer satisfied with removing transgressors from the life-bearing world under assault. The Purple Reclamation-class cubes had entered the system approximately two weeks into Cube #347ıs watch. "Reclamation-class" was the Purple version of Assimilation-class; and were in fact the exact same vessel, except reclamation was a much more media friendly word than assimilation. The five trespassers had targeted the colony world, unaware of the Collective's presence in the outer system, With the colony under attack, the Cube #347 sub-collective assumed that the job was concluded. Wrong. Instead of being released to the next menial task, the sub-collective was bade to continue observations. Five time periods later the colony had fallen, most of the former population whisked away. A single Reclamation-class remained to oversee the next stage of cleansing. Again expectations rose that the task was done. Again the prospect was dashed as no leave mandate was issued. The Collective was suddenly very interested in Purple, for not only was this system under observation, but others as well. Powerful models run by the Greater Consciousness indicated an event to occur soon, an opportunity not to be wasted. The details were fuzzy to Cube #347, the sub-collective the most minor of minor cogs and not privy to the full analysis. It was not that the data was forbidden, but that there was no need to explicitly divulge the knowledge, just as the human does not relate to the little toe the destination towards which the body moves. Then, elsewhere, Purple launched a major assault, intent to cleanse an entire solar system, not just a stressed world. The target was extremely populus and well-guarded, requiring a significant portion of Purple assets, including the Reclamation-class under Cube #347 observation. The Purple ship departed, leaving unwarded the planet it had been orbiting. This was the opportunity, one of several scattered about the sector, for which the Greater Consciousness had been waiting. Too bad Cube #347 was the sole unit close enough to dispatch. << Enter insystem. Collect data, >> intoned the Greater Consciousness within the minds of the Cube #347 drones. The simple words were accompanied by a richly data-laden list of objectives, as well as an underlying sense of distress concerning the use of the imperfectly assimilated sub-collective for such an important job. However, nothing else was available. List implanted, the Mind of the Collective withdrew to a more comfortable distance, waiting with morbid curiosity to see if the opportunity knocking would lead to the desired outcome, or a door in the face. Cube #347 emerged from its gas giant blind and headed insystem. Collective archives indicated the colony was less than 50 years old and (had) numbered 500,000 souls. The planet, however, appeared very ill-used, as if it had been settled for ten times the length and by 100 times the people. By the solar cycle and the wobble in the planet's axis, it should have been in the midst of a mild ice age, yet fluorocarbons, methane, and elevated carbon dioxide levels had pushed the climate into an era of global warming. Bands of nitrates mixed with smoke and made dirty streamers in the prevailing mid-latitude winds; and at the poles were signs of recent ice cap melting. The seas had an unnatural orange tinge, while on the land, desert encroached upon prairies and forests. The environmental disregarding could be traced to the psychology arising from the physiology of species #9214, Trigolyte. In appearance they were pale-skinned humanoids with overlarge, dark eyes adapted for the cave environments from which the race had evolved. The mouth was a small slit under the near useless bump of a nose; and the sensitive aural organs looked like a cross between cat ears and bat wings. The species continued to prefer to live the underground life; and on the homeworld gigantic cities delved over two kilometers into rock, while other metropolises were hidden by the shells of mountains. The surface was considered a place to exploit, weather and scenery an irrelevancy, a bother, in a world of automated farms and economically useful creatures genetically engineered to tolerate adverse environmental conditions. Small wonder Purple did not hold species #9214 in high esteem. It was a sentiment shared with many unassimilated species, including several mechs, none of whom desired the race for a neighbor. When the Trigolyte moved in, property values plummeted. "What a dump," commented Second as he perused the surface scans, each one worse than the previous. The Borg were not adverse to terraforming a planet to fit their own needs, but they also did not go out of their way to carve "Extoban Was Here" in kilometer tall letters out of a dense rain forest just so it could be viewed from orbit. Yet, the planet's jungles sported several such examples of petty vandalism. And when the Borg did undertake terraforming, a specific objective was in mind, not the senseless waste displayed on the holoscreens. Captain wordlessly signaled his agreement. His attention was directed at two specific holodisplays mirroring incoming data from the sensor grid: species #9214 ex-residences and Purple population clusters. Species #9214 had tunneled deeply into the earth, hollowing out towns and cities within granite basement rock. No faults were present to be shifted in an earthquake nor volcanic lava to intrude, but the living areas had not been designed with Borg in mind. Likely the species #9214 inhabitants had felt safe with half a kilometer or more of stone between themselves and surface threats. Purple had proven otherwise, assimilating the population and infecting them with environmental fascism. The cities had subsequently been sealed to allow concentration upon reclaiming the visible surface, plenty of time available in the future to catalogue the deep warrens prior to their dismantling and ensuing infilling. It was the senescent data the Greater Consciousness was interested in, had always been interested in. The original scheme had been to assimilate the colony to access that data; and while the bodies were now claimed by Purple, Cube #347's sensor grid indicated generators continued to fitfully power sections of the deep cities. The data would be intact. Frustratingly, the source closest to the surface was still beyond the range of transporters, overlaying rock preventing the preferred, easy access. Wasn't that always the crux of the matter, at least when Cube #347 was involved? The target data source also lay in the middle of the largest Purple work camp, but that information was secondary. The number of Purples on the surface was a mere 12,000, of which 5,000 signatures registered in the primary concentration. The rest of the drones were scattered from pole to equator in groups ranging from ten to fifty. Holding with the minimum impact ethos, Purple built no more support equipment than necessary, of which alcoves, maintenance bays, replicator reclamation units, and self-contained fusion plants were. A vinculum, however, was not, not when an orbital cube already had one built in. When the Purple ship had left, however temporarily, the 12,000 Purples had been severed from their Greater Consciousness. The drones' hardware neural transceivers were more than adequate to coordinate bodies for surface reclamation tasks, but no larger Mind was available to "pass the buck" should such be necessary. Individualism could be roughly separated along a spectrum with the single, small being on one end and the Collective on the other. In the middle, more or less, fell the likes of Hive and Cube #347, as well as Colored Borg such as Green, White, and Peach. The loquacious, depressed Blue tended towards the individualist side of the middle; and the violent Reds could be classified between Hive and Collective. The Purples heavily tilted towards the One Mind end of the spectrum, and with every passing year slipped more in that direction. Militant environmentalism is much easier when everyone has a single focus concerning how to achieve the Purple version of Perfection: no sentient-caused environmental impact. Unfortunately, like the standard Borg Collective, the downside included a paucity of individual initiative or thought. Without the governing Overmind of the Purple Greater Consciousness, the 12,000 drones on the surface had reverted to programmed instinct. They pulled plants alien to the native biosphere, dismantled species #9214 surface factories and installations, and exterminated genetically modified animals. They did so with the single-mindedness characteristic of Collective drones, ignoring anything which was not relevant to the current world view. As long as Purple was not attacked and reclamation efforts went unhindered, there was no reason to lift mental blinders and respond to an intrusive presence. Only if the link to the greater Mind was reestablished would a reaction occur, and Cube #347 desired to be well elsewhere when the more powerful Reclamation-class cube returned. {Let us get this over with. Quickly and efficiently, if possible. Without stirring up the Purples,} said Captain into the intranets, resignation heavy in his emotive signature. The assignment commenced. On top of a small, rounded hill, twenty weapons drones materialized. They faced outwards in a defensive cluster, arms raised and ready for hostile activity; except for 161 of 300, who had managed to beam in facing the wrong direction. As 161 of 300 hastened to turn the correct way, the situation was appraised and declared safe. Two steps were taken forward, forming a perimeter. In the center of the circle appeared a dozen engineering drones, three assimilation drones, and a large tripod-mounted mining laser. The heavy laser rocked back and forth as it settled into the soft surface of the hill, support legs sinking to the first joint. Among the dozen engineering drones included Delta, body A, who realized within seconds that all was not as kosher as the first tactical-influenced garnering of the situation had indicated. The hill had been chosen as a beam in location because it was the one place in the target vicinity consistently free of Purple signatures. From orbit little had been discernible beyond the hillockıs unnaturally symmetrical form and the fact it rose approximately thirty meters above the surrounding land. Purples were observed to be very busy at the periphery, but never on the hill itself. The reason was now quite evident. Delta plus company stood on the peak of a midden, a large structure which used to be the local colonial town garbage dump. The edge of the heap was approximately half a kilometer distant, along which busy Purple drones were carting away garbage to a mobile reclamation unit. Inroads into the midden revealed a ramp gradually sinking into the ground, presumably to a depth equal to the height for an overall sixty vertical meters of garbage at the center. Methane hissed around the laserıs supports, but the odor was only a minute addition to the fragrance already perfuming the air. Scraps organic and inorganic gave the ground a lumpy, melted appearance, predominantly a gray-brown hue, but speckled with brighter oranges, reds, and blues. A hint of green was not the local equivalent of a grassy weed, but rather photosynthetic slime basking in the heat and waste gasses of the decomposing midden. A fairy ring of knee-high mushroom analogues added a touch of vertical relief. {If I wasnıt a Borg, I think I might be sick, both of me,} commented Delta. She frowned as body A stepped forward, then followed the example of the mining laser by sinking to one knee in muck. {Move us closer to the target,} ordered Delta, seconded by the other 34 drones on the surface. The main opening, and thus the most direct route, leading to the species #9214 residences was in the side of a cliff approximately a kilometer distant. On Cube #347, Captain received the latest real-time update from the sensor grid, focusing on Purple signatures. He responded, {No can do. Too much activity. There is a 75.6% chance that a nonPurple transporter beam at the target locale will trigger unwanted Purple response. You will walk.} {But,} began Delta. {You will walk,} repeated Captain forcefully. The surface team walked, engineering drones carrying the laser on their shoulders while the weapons hierarchy drones maintained a defensive perimeter. Each step was fraught with danger, from methane release to midden sinkholes to stepping in something which squished in such a way that none wished to know its origins. The midden was only the smallest part of the overall disaster area, a mere thirty meter pimple on an acne-laden face. To the horizon in one direction stretched the agricultural district once necessary to support the underground species #9214 city. Aggressive genetically engineered plants non-native to the biosphere replaced what used to be a temperature rain forest, dotted here and there with factory farms of food animals and mobile processing facilities now senescent. Except when absolutely necessary, no species #9214 farmer set foot on the surface, directing computers and robots from the safety of underground. Waste output from the agricultural district - excess fertilizer, silage, dung, offal and meat-stripped carcasses, unused plant products, fuel, oil compounds - had been dumped in the nearby river, turning the water a deep goldenrod. Since the river was a major aquatic artery nearly three kilometers wide at this point in its race to the ocean, that color change attested to the sheer volume of pollution. Lining the river upstream of the agricultural district were a series of automated factories. Presumably they had once supplied durable goods and general non-food consumables to the hidden city, but now they were silent. Smoke stacks indicated they had been powered by inefficient combustion. Perhaps the forest which had once graced the region had originally fueled the hulking monstrosities, but orbital observation had spied a huge open pit coal mine twenty kilometers distant, a well traveled road for robotic dump trucks linking it to the factory row. Throughout the fields, at the factories, and on the edge of the midden was Purple. The drones hauled, weeded, and dismantled, feeding the fruits of their labors to reclamation units. In return, the units spat out implements required by the surface Purples, else large ingots of "primordial matter" for use in future endeavors. Eventually the reclamation process would turn to naturalizing the landscape, recontouring the land, planting flora, and bringing in native animals, but for now work was directed solely towards basic cleanup. Fittingly, in an inadvertent irony, the majority of the laborers were species #9214, the very ones who had been living underground only a short time before. The surface team parted to make way for a ten-squad of Purple drones toting hoes, those carrying the minding laser grumbling. They had reached a road, which meant no more sinking to knees (or hips) in garbage. However, it also meant more traffic. It was easier to avoid Purple rather than force a confrontation, or so command and control reminded the tactical units on the surface, drowning Weaponsı subtle urgings for a more radical resolution of the Purple problem. The ten-squad passed their Cube #347 counterparts, oblivious. {Is that what we act like?} queried 45 of 212, limb weapon trained in the general direction of the passing Purples as she peered at them. {Is this how small beings perceive us?} {It doesnıt matter,} replied Delta as she prodded her laden units forward. {Come, we must reach the destination. The schedule was to beam to the surface, open the city entrance, retrieve the information, then leave this system, all within 15 hours. That schedule is already in shambles after the dump stroll. Less speculating, more walking.} 45 of 212 picked up the pace, retaking her position in the perimeter. {But it is all so robotic.} {Less speculating, more walking,} said Captain as he repeated Deltaıs words, reminding the surface team that there was a deadline. A currently disused path split from the main road, leading to the primary city entrance. Once automated vehicles had used the route, bringing to consumers items from the factories and agricultural district. More recently, Purple feet had tread the ferrocrete and asphalt way, a relatively small number going in; and a much larger number coming out. Now as Purple interest was directed at other, more pressing surface matters in the reclamation, no drones came this way. The detachment paused in the open area before the immense opening, within sight of the busy thoroughfare. The mining laser was set on the ground, unladen drones stretching the kinks out of backs and joints with audible pops. Meanwhile, Delta regarded the door, both of her bodies, well separated physically, frowning ever so slightly. {You have got to be kidding,} stated Delta as she eyeballed the structure warding the opening, as structural algorithms automatically calculated burn times for the plug. The opening was sealed by an enormous slab of hull-grade dense-packed neutronium metal. The entryway was a rectangle fully 12 meters high by 25 meters wide, and the neutronium represented a considerable effort to install. The "why?" for the choice in sealing material was a complete mystery, although Purple likely had a rationalization, when a cement block would have worked just as well and been easier to remove. Closer examination of the slab edges revealed it had been molecularly bonded to the native rock, making removal even more problematic. Delta scrutinized the mining laser, the neutronium barrier, the laser again. She did not physically move her head, not when she had sufficient eyes on the surface to look through, but the description was apt. The problem was mulled by engineering hierarchy, passed to command and control for quality assurance. {Possible with this piece of equipment,} slowly reported Delta, alluding to the mining laser, {but it will take time.} At the plug face, 103 of 230 had one ear and an arm pressed to the surface, acoustically sounding the material. {The neutronium is only five centimeters thick, but it /is/ neutronium, and we will be required to burn a sufficiently large hole to shove the assimilation units through. If 29 of 203 wasnıt so corpulent...} 29 of 203 squawked with indignation, {Hey! It is baby fat! My species retains baby fat until the fourth or fifth decade of life, of which I had not reached by my assimilation. Iıve just never seen any reason for liposuction as a Borg.} Continued Delta, {...a smaller opening could be drilled. Behind the plate is approximately a meter of a less dense material ­ concrete? ferrocrete? ­ which will pose no impediment. Drill time is estimated to be at least one hour, closer to ninety minutes.} Captain mentally nodded, then adjusted four holoscreens, each showing a viewpoint of a ground team member. In reality he, as command and control hierarchy, as Cube #347, was aware of all 35 visual streams. However, these four were the most informative, some drones such as 58 of 83 more interested in the local winged caterpillar analogue crawling up the stem of a scraggly weed. {Initiate.} The mining laser was swiftly positioned, aimed, and powered up. The violet beam struck the neutronium plate. A spot on the metal began to glow, deform, and melt, a slow-motion version of a dull knife through butter. All was going apace, if at glacier speed, when 43 of 300 of the weaponry hierarchy chirped a warning. {Purple five-squad and a tractor approaching!} From the roadway five Purple drones mechanically approached, followed by a tracked cross between a pickup truck and a multiarmed device more fitting for a maintenance bay than a deconstruction site. It docilely followed its drone masters, reacting to unheard orders in the Purple dataspaces. Delta hastily stopped the mining laser as it became apparent the goal of Purple and the tractor was the fresh scar in the neutronium. If one of the six was accidentally hit by the beam, the intruder protocol would surely be activated. The tractor trundled to the slab and stopped as Purple drones began to closely examine the flaw. A hose was extruded from the tractor, loose end placed into the hole by a drone. Before the watching eyes and optical implants of the Cube #347 surface team, ferrocrete (an iron-infused concrete composite) was pumped into the slice. The hose was retracted, then the tractor set its fore end flush to the plate. After several minutes of ominous growling and a wave of heat, the machine withdrew. Left behind was a smooth expanse of neutronium, as if the mining laser assault had never occurred. The Purple drones spent five minutes assuring the local sub-collective that the work was sound via a variety of limb mounted devices, then swiveled to walk back to the main thoroughfare, tractor obediently trailing behind. {Well, damn,} swore Delta as body A advanced to look over the Purple handiwork. {They are efficient. There must be sensors embedded in the matrix or behind the barrier to indicate breaches and necessity to fix. Whatever the reason, we cannot counter without beaming down additional equipment.} Reminded Captain, needlessly, but obligatory all the same as a part of the internalization which was Cube #347 talking to itself, {Negative. You will proceed with what you have.} Delta turned to eye 29 of 203 as she contemplated the attribute lists of the various drones present. {We could dismantle 29 of 203, use his parts. At the very least, the hole required would be smaller, take less time to drill.} 29 of 203 uttered aloud the first words actually vocalized by the surface team, "No! Assimilation...!" Aboard Cube #347, in an assimilation workshop that had more in common with the house paint area of a hardware superstore than a place to perform the initial operations for a new drone, Assimilation barely glanced up from his new batch of Neutronium #1, inspired from the surface barrier. {Do not dismantle 29 of 203.} "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you," muttered 29 of 203 to himself. {Why not?} asked Delta. Assimilation dropped three grams additional pigment into the paint batch, then began to stir. {Triple redundancy. 29 of 203 is required to maintain triple redundancy of assimilation units when the three of my hierarchy are sent underground.} Pause. {Not that the data is important. Nothing is important anymore. Nothing.} The three surface members of the assimilation hierarchy looked at each other as waves of depression from Assimilation washed over them. They shuffled towards each other, meeting in a group hug which included tears and quiet sobs. Delta muttered something about dismantling the lot of them, beginning with Assimilation. {They better not suicide,} warned Delta as attention returned to the mining laser. With a shrug, it was reactivated. And deactivated twenty minutes later as the same five Purple drones and their pet tractor ambled into the cul-de-sac. They swiftly repaired the plate and left, leaving the surface team back at square one. Soon the deadline would pass, after which it became increasingly probable that the Purple Reclamation-class cube, or another similar vessel, would return to the planet, chasing Cube #347 away. The sub-collective contemplated what course to pursue. Obviously drilling in the current location was not acceptable, at least as far as Purple interference was concerned. A decision was made: if the neutronium obstacle could not be drilled, then a new opening would be made in the relatively soft raw rock of the cliff, intersecting the existing tunnel and bypassing the barrier all together. Surface scans. Captain observed scan after scan as the target entryway was dissected from orbit, minerals hilighted. Oranges. Greens. Sparkling silvers with lead luster. Crisp golden yellows that smelled of a floral perfume. No, Sensorsı sensory hallucinations were not enjoyable, but they were mere shadows of the raw data the non-species #6766 portion of the sensory hierarchy (i.e., all not Sensors) was forced to deal with. During the course of the extensive scan, only eleven drones collapsed to a gibbering state requiring drone maintenance intervention. Delta peered towards the road, and more specifically, a spot just off the main thoroughfare. Local weeds clad it in a prickly cloak; and bits of old ferrocrete made walking treacherous to ankles, even ceramic and metal reinforced varieties. {Unacceptable. Too close to Purple traffic.} {Necessary,} reminded Captain, {to cut into rock. That is the best location.} On Cube #347, in the main core near a short-circuited panel box, Delta, body B, heaved a sigh. On the surface, breath was saved to hoist the mining laser off the ground, carrying it to its new location. The amount of stone to drill was approximately 15 meters, too thick for a simple slice. Therefore, the beam was set on wide spread, suitable for vaporizing the rock, albeit slowly, to create a claustrophobic tunnel. No drone dared to place itself between mining laser and cliff face, no matter how tenacious the beam, for while armor could withstand the drilling laser, flesh was an entirely different story. The weapons hierarchy drones were fascinated with the procedure, in much the same way a moth is drawn to fire. Once the drill was set to burning, engineering and assimilation drones were kept busy reminding the perimeter, sometimes forcefully, what their job was supposed to be. Drone flambe stunk horribly. The Purple units moving mere meters distant on the paved roadway ignored the drilling, intent on their own duties. Those few drones who, for whatever reason, were walking beside the road instead of upon it automatically detoured around the laser, avoiding it as if it held no more importance as an obstacle than a tree. {Stop that,} rebuked Captain to 43 of 300, for the third time caught standing in the middle of the roadway. 43 of 300 had been purposefully acting as an obstacle, forcing Purple units or associated machines to go around. A game had even been devised, the rules modified from the species #10334 pasttime of Borg-Dodge. On the side of the road opposite the laser, 43 of 300ıs shoulders slumped, but that was he only outward sign of his reprimand. Looking both ways, he prepared to cross to regain his comrades, but then froze with foot in the air. {Oh-oh.} {Oh-oh?} asked Delta suspiciously. Thirty-four sets of eyes/optical implants stared at 43 of 300, then slowly turned to regard that at which 43 of 300 was staring. A giant combine slowly trundled along, moving in the measured way which suggests brakes are an option that requires at least half a kilometer to fully implement, and therefore were used only when absolutely necessary. Although the front blades of the massive machine were not turning, the head was wide enough to require the entire thoroughfare, and then some. The combine was the first of several, a parade of giant farm implements; and in the opposite direction came an equal number of combines. The two columns would meet about where the laser was currently located. Members of the surface team dropped their gaze, looking at the ground. For the first time the large tracks which had torn the ground were registered, as was the nature of the spiny weeds to jump erect even after being trampled by megaton metal beasts. The one place where the drill could burn through the cliff was a major combine passing zone. The laser, if it was not moved, would be reduced to scrap parts, mashed thin. Hastily Delta and the rest of the surface engineering team switched off the laser and moved it out of the way. The safest place was to return to the great neutronium slab. Once again, the sub-collective had been returned to the starting point. {See, unacceptable,} said Delta. Captain snorted, {Although not for the reasons you were originally thinking. You will return after the machines have passed.} {Not possible,} replied Delta. The reasons were many, but primarily centered on the slow-motion nature of the convoy. By the time the machines passed, it would be possible to cut completely through the neutronium door, /if/ Purple did not interfere. That "if" was a very big qualifier since Purple would patch the slab as soon as the breach was realized. As it would later turn out, a combine would break down on the very spot the mining laser had to be positioned to drill into the cliff, an ironic, if irrelevant, tangent. {Fire,} chirped the computer, {Replicator Reclamation Chamber #2, subsection 2, submatrix 17.} At the same time, the crackling cackle of 279 of 300, pyro extrodinaire, burst into the intranets, {Fire! Fire! Fire fire fire fire fire fire fire!} {Part of Captainıs attention turned away form the planetıs surface and towards more immediate problems, such as 279 of 300. {There was a governor put in him! Drone maintenance, what happened? He hasnıt acted up since the implant was installed!} ({Fire! Fire! Fire fire fire fire!}) {Fire, Supply Closet #21, subsection 2, submatrix 17,} noted the computer. ({Fire! Fire! Fire fire fire fire!}) Engineering was currently using a number of the supply closets in that portion of the cube under pyromaniac assault to store mining supplies. The laser on the surface had been kept in Supply Closet #14, subsection 2, submatrix 17, in a dismantled state, tucked in a case which looked like it should house a bass sized for a giant. In Supply Closet #21, were... {Blasting caps!} uttered Delta as the inventory list for Supply Closet #21 resolved. {Heat activated blasting caps!} A dull rumbling in the hallways and corridors of subsection 2, submatrix 17 changed the operational word to /had/ been blasting caps...and /had/ been Supply Closet #21. 68 of 152 of drone maintenance interrupted, {The governor is found. It is next to 279 of 300ıs alcove, on the ground.} The visual feed from 68 of 152 showed a hand reaching down to pick up a fist-sized angular device with blinking green lights. Doctor tsk-tsked, the impression of clicking incisors clear even in the intranets. {Governor model 62-b, external installation. It is the recommended model for 279 of 300ıs species. I guess weıll have to try an internalized one. The bad doggy has pulled off this one. Yes, it will either have to be an internal model, else fit him with a collar.} The collar in question was the plastic megaphone despised by pets the universe over, extending forward of the neck and prohibiting tongue from licking itching stitches. How this would prohibit 279 of 300 from removing another external governor was unknown, but his designation would be added to the short list of drones which had undergone collar torture. ({Fire! Fire! Fire fire fire fire!}) {Fire, corridor juncture 23n, subsection 2, submatrix 17,} called the computer. Calculations flashed through the intranets. {Heıs heading in a straight line,} said Captain. Well, as straight as possible in a Borg cube, the insides of which had more in common with a plate of spaghetti than the construction techniques employed by most spaceship building civilizations. {Intercept him.} Meanwhile, as the sub-collective concentrated on keeping the cube from exploding in dozens of miscellaneous fires, one portion of the mini-Mind continued to digest the surface problem. It was the Borg equivalent of thinking about a dilemma by ignoring it, by moving it to the back of the mind and sleeping on it. Therefore, as a fourth hot spot appeared and the first was smothered by a combination of fire extinguishers and baking soda, a subset of command and control, weapons, and engineering hierarchy drones plugged into their alcoves considered the issue. A possible solution was devised, one which was relayed to the surface drones, who had been regulated to staring at glacially advancing combines, previous high priority status downgraded in the face of cube difficulties. Delta, by her very two-brained nature, was excellent at multitasking. True, she had trouble directing her hierarchy where large numbers of drones became physically active, but multitasking a problem? It was her forte. Therefore, while part of her was busily extinguishing fires, another part noted the solution presented by partition #8, eagerly latching upon it. Within the intranets, her voice was directing fire crews, but the same voice was intruding upon Captain. Captain had only one brain. He was excellent at directing, at regulating, at delegation; and he had implants and devices in his head to assist those functions. However, in the end, he had, as mentioned previously, a single brain. Currently it was a very busy brain, as was that of Second and other "leadership" command and control positions. 279 of 300 was a one-drone force of chaos. {We shall proceed upon this course of action,} declared Delta to Captain as she indicated a plan more than slightly influenced by current events aboard the cube. Fire figured prominently, very prominently. Captain was too distracted to regard the scheme more than cursorily. In addition to the 279 of 300 difficulty, there were his normal oversight and censoring activities. Besides, Delta was a responsible personality; and the plan had been built by a tri-hierarchy collaboration effort which included elements of command and control, so it shouldnıt be too outlandish. {Whatever,} replied Captain, more than a little preoccupied. His state of mental dishevelment was not helped by a highlighted report incoming from Exploratory-class units observing the Purple engagement: the first stage of the solar system cleansing was complete, and some Purple cubes unnecessary for the next step were disengaging. None had extrapolated destinations to the species #9214 colony world, but it was only a matter of time. The deadline was swiftly approaching. {Just gain access to the data quickly,} added Captain, perhaps a tad unwisely. Liberally interpreting the endorsement, the surface team briskly (well, as brisk as possible for an individual largely encased in rigid and very heavy armor) sprung into action. As engineering positioned and repositioned the mining laser for the most efficient cutting angle, a quarter of the weapons drones crossed the road and headed directly for the midden. A midden which was leaking methane. A lot of methane. A lot of very flammable methane. Was it mentioned methane is flammable? Good, confirmation upon flammability is always prudent. Ten minutes later, just as a combine broke down in the passing zone, a dull *foomp* echoed in the direction of the garbage mound. It was a sound often associated with a dense concentration of gasses catching fire. Moments later a pillar of flame leapt skyward, fueled by fifty years of uncontrolled decay, followed by a brief wind of intensely heated air. The initial outward blast quickly reversed as the galaxyıs second largest purposefully set bonfire (the largest was the centerpoint of an art performance piece on Wattobi Three, and included the conflagration of an entire continent) sucked in air to feed itself. On Cube #347, 279 of 300 stopped midstep, lit flare falling from suddenly unresponsive fingers. So great was his awe over the act of pyromancy that he did not attempt to escape his pursuers and was captured less than two minutes later. It was not often a fire of the magnitude of the midden can be seen, much less observed from orbit, and 279 of 300 was forced to seriously turn inward to evaluate his fiery obsession. Clearly he had been setting his ambitions too low. Delta reached out an arm to activate the mining laser. She then turned to regard the brightly burning midden in the near distance. Purple drones were converging on the disaster, although how the local Mind expected to douse what was an environmental catastrophe was unknown. Frankly, Delta did not care, as long as no crew with tractor in tow arrived to repair the neutronium slab. She contemplated the orange and blue flames leaping into the late afternoon sky. While Delta did not eat, she suddenly had an overwhelming urge to find a marshmallow, a craving quickly suppressed. {What the hell just happened?} asked Captain. One moment he had been overseeing 279 of 300ıs capture, and the next, the sensor grid had reported the apparent eruption of a new Hades outpost where the midden used to be. Delta turned body A to eye the laserıs progress, keeping tabs on the fire through other drone viewpoints. Returning, but still over five minutes away, the weapons detachment was a soot-blackened fivesome, dodging Purple drones and occasionally breaking into a round of high-hives (or ­fours or ­sixes, depending on number of digits). The combines had stalled, crowded behind the broken machine and now idled by the Purple consciousness in the face of a more immediately technical difficulty. {What was necessary,} replied Delta, chorused by the rest of the surface team. {This plan was approved.} Captainıs response to the initial query was replayed. Captain winced internally, but could find no fault with the surface actions, not withstanding the dramatic, fiery quality. {Say nothing, Second. Think nothing,} he warned to a presence hovering at the edge of his awareness, as well as physically looking over his shoulder. The presence said nothing, as ordered, and thought nothing. That which as left unsaid and unthought was quite clear, and quite biting. The weapons drones regained their comrades, returning to perimeter guard duties. Meanwhile, the mining laser passed the point whereupon previously the Purple repair unit had interfered. All 5,000 available Purple drones were clustered in the vicinity of the fire; outlying units globe-wide could not be transported to assist due to absence of the Reclamation-class cube, which had the transporters (more "unnecessary" surface equipment) and the orbital vantage point. Observations from Cube #347 indicated a large machine was being dragged towards the midden from the main Purple encampment by a pair of tractors, but its purpose in extinguishing the conflagration was unknown. The only reason the fire was not spreading beyond the garbage pile was due to the species #9214ıs former policy to denude ground where it couldnıt be paved; and the agricultural district was sited a distance away since plants and animals, even genetically enhanced varieties, grew poorly in the presence of methane. The laser automatically disengaged as the circumference of the hole was completed. Using a stout metal bar "liberated" from a combine, the plug was pushed upon until it toppled to the ground inside the blocked entry. Light streamed through the one meter-plus-a-bit hole, making the dimly perceived tunnel inside seem correspondingly darker. Especially to the three assimilation drones. Especially to 29 of 203. {I will not fit in there!} protested 29 of 203. His two comrades had obediently, if forlornly, approached the hole and were now being shoved through in a prone position. The bar was being employed as an agent to "help" the drones. Delta addressed 29 of 203, {Get over there.} 29 of 203 backed one step, then a second, as the order was echoed first by Captain, then Second, and finally Assimilation. However, Delta was much more immediate, as were the impassive expression of the weapons detachment closing ranks behind her. {I wonıt fit,} wailed 29 of 203, back against the slab. {Get. In. There. Now.} 29 of 203 stiffened, as if he meant to resist, then mentally shattered under the assault from the sub-collective willing otherwise. He mechanically reached into the opening, grasping the helping hands of the two drones who had already undergone the experience. Two sharp tugs and a wiggle later, and 29 of 203 was stuck. {I cannot move!} {Spar,} said Delta as body A held up a hand, palm flat, expectant. One end of the bar was placed on it. The rod was then unceremoniously aimed at what was undoubtedly a delicate portion of the anatomy on any except a collective race which routinely armored the bum end of its units. The bar was set against 29 of 203. {One,} said Delta as the spar was shoved, {Two. Three.} Metal squealed tooth-numbingly as armor scraped against rock, then 29 of 203 exited the hole with the sound akin to a cork popping out of a bottle. {I am...undamaged,} reported 29 of 203 hesitantly. The two drones which had broken his fall were not as lucky, although body repair systems would make short work of the minor injuries. Delta smirked, {The opening was just right...} {It was the drone which was several sizes too big,} interjected Second, unable to resist the opportunity. Inside the tunnel, the three assimilation drones were not bothered by the paucity of light. Walking (and in one case limping) deeper into the dark, roving eyes noted a green triangle, one corner pointing toward the floor. As the drones approached, the triangle resolved into an arrow. On a panel. Next to an pair of sliding doors. It was an elevator. 9 of 46 reached forward and depressed the button. Accompanied by a chine, the doors slid open invitingly to reveal a brightly lit interior. The drones looked at each other, then one after another entered: descending in a working elevator would be faster than walking many kilometers of unlit tunnels. On the inside of the elevator were a row of buttons, all helpfully labeled in the species #9214 alphabet. The words "Governmental Level" caught the attention of 9 of 46, who touched the adjacent button. The elevator began a leisurely descent. The species #9214 mind was neat when it came to organization, even as its environmental ethos left a lot to be desired. It was an example of a selective type-A view of the cosmos. Everything had its place, and in this case the desired data would be found on the Governmental Level, within the Information Department subsection. It was thus with every species #9214 installation, no matter how big nor small. The colony mainframe would thence be located across the hall from the departmental break room, excess warmth from the machine cleverly captured by pipes and used to heat water to perfect tea temperature. Housed within the mainframe would be a tray with 144 data crystals, a treasure trove of A to Z information, including the nugget desired. Unfortunately, there was no time to boot the master mainframe and look for the specific crystal or crystals which held the goal. Neither could the three assimilation drones, even with their expanded cranial capacities through implanted memory aids, hope to encompass even a fraction of the bits and bytes which was the data heart of the colony. Therefore, the crystals were required to be physically transported to the cube. The purpose to have three assimilation drones was redundancy, just in case something happened to the other two. To have the entire trio riding the elevator was perhaps unwise if it had been booby-trapped, or was simply mechanically deficient, but the downward trek passed without incident. The elevator was akin to a spaceship turbolift in that it did not only go up and down, but forwards and backwards, sideways, and occasionally diagonal. After several minutes of motion accompanied by the faint bump when the car shifted to a new track, the elevator slid to a stop, doors opening. The assimilation trio exited, finding themselves in a darkened lobby. The warrens of a species #9214 town were not the low, organic tunnels of a rodent or insect burrow, but rather featured vaulted ceilings, expansive spaces, and, most importantly, precise angles. Usually jolly metallic colors and jewel tones were prominent, lit by an overindulgence of illumination, but in the current dark, the lobby seemed both larger and smaller than its actual dimensions. Emergency lights in the form of luminous chemicals dotted the edges of the corridors, delineating paths; and signs on the walls had text in gold, red, or green. The purpose of the illumination was less to light up the surroundings than to facilitate an orderly evacuation to areas of the complex not experiencing a blackout, or, in the worst case scenario, the surface. The chemicals had been performing their job since the fall of the colony and were showing signs of age with less than crisp hues. The quality of illumination was poor, yet sufficient for the drones to see. The need for light was not particularly great in the first place for a Borg equipped with a wide variety of methods to prevent walking into walls (very embarrassing when seen by those nonassimilated), but its presence in this case would not go unused. Besides, the signs made navigation easy, a simple matter of following helpful arrows to reach the mainframe. Along the way the drone trio noted the subtle signs of the Purple assault: no bodies were in evidence, but the faint smear of blood on a wall, a toy broken by a heavy tread, and a discarded phaser were all indications of the resistance. Meanwhile, on the surface, Purple activity continued. Nothing could be directly observed by Delta and her comrades - they were forbidden from leaving the breached entryway to make personal observations - but faint sounds could be heard under the roar of the fire. Most of the sounds were mechanical in nature, ranging from the high pitched buzz of a chainsaw to the low frequency rumble of a tractor engine asked to perform beyond the owner's manual recommendations. Other sounds were organic, including in one instance a disturbing crackle which had the same qualities of fat burning on an open-pit barbecue. From the vantage point it was impossible to tell if Purple was gaining headway against the blaze. 174 of 300 left her perimeter position and guardedly approached one of the nearer combines, thoughts in her mind prominently including climbing the metal monster to gain a higher viewpoint. She gained confidence as she was not ordered to return. Of course, others, both on ground and on Cube #347, were interested in the sights as well. 174 of 300 reached the combine and stiffly began to climb, using conveniently placed handholds which had been welded onto the chassis after the giant tractor had been acquired by Purple and converted to harvesting undesired plants. Captain urged, {Faster.} A new observation was propagating through the Borg consciousness, centered on the Purple effort at solar system cleansing. Three additional cubes had disengaged from the assault, one a Reclamation-class with a heading that made it highly likely that the species #9214 ex-colony was the destination. At hypertranswarp speeds and due to the relative closeness of the cleansing, the Purple cube was estimated to arrive within the hour. Underground, 29 of 203 levered off the back of the mainframe to allow 9 of 46 and 103 of 203 access to the crystalline innards. They had already accidentally tried to gain entry to both a copy machine and a dishwasher, but were absolutely sure that this overlarge piece of office equipment was the mainframe. The nearby sign helped as well. Sparkling dimly in the faint light of Borg targeting lasers and chemical illuminants, the data crystals lay in their individual cradles like eggs in an overlarge carton. 9 of 46 and 103 of 203 unceremoniously plucked each crystal from its place, dumping them into a plastic bag. They clinked against each other, four spilling out to scatter on the ground. 29 of 203 laboriously dropped to his knees to search out the lost crystals. It would be predictable irony if all this dangerous work was accomplished, only to learn the required data was on the single crystal that was not retrieved because it inconveniently rolled under a desk. With 144 data crystals counted into the bag, the trio began to trace their path back to the elevator, and thence the surface. On Cube #347, Sensors realigned the grid to scan for incoming hypertranswarp traces. However, more than sufficient resources were retained to observe the ground, and what was seen, in a variety of brain-numbing frequencies, was not a Happy Thing. The mostly cleaned up sensor stream was passed on to command and control elements. "Mostly cleaned up" were the operative words. Captain squinted at the picture which resolved on a holodisplay; and mentally did the same thing to the internalized grid data. Second cocked his head as he regarded a scene as seen from afar overhead, the quintessential back-seat driver, content with commentary as long as he wasn't forced to be the one in charge. {It looks like the flames are coming under control,} said Second, {by what appears to be a very large...fire extinguisher? Crop sprayer?} On the surface, even the high perched 174 of 300 could not see the machine in question, although it was obvious that the flame intensity was less; and dense oily smoke had begun to replace the formerly light colored haze. From the superior orbital vantage point, the huge machine dragged to the scene earlier, resembling little more than a thermos bottle on wheels, was spraying a white foam at the midden. Where the foam coated the heap, less flame and more smoke was evident, with some patches completely extinguished. There was still much midden to go, but it appeared that the catastrophe was slowly being controlled. More ominous, some of the Purple signatures were dispersing from the edges of the fire, most heading back towards the Purple compound, but others returning to former activities. A fivesome was converging on the entryway, although they were still a good ten minutes away, even at best Purple speed. {Hurry!} ordered Captain. 9 of 46 responded, {We are moving as fast as we can. Um, er...103 of 203, 29 of 203, does that corner look familiar? I don't remember it.} {Faster!} 103 of 203 contemplated the signs on the wall nearby. {No, we didn't go this way. Let's backtrack to the last intersection.} The threat of the Purple repair crew was great. If the drones were walled up behind the slab, they would not be able to be retrieved for the same reason crew could not be transported in for the first place. The data would be lost, along with the assimilation trio, but the information was more important. Theoretically, the crystals could be read, one at a time, and data passed along to Cube #347, and thence to the Greater Consciousness. In reality, the Purple cube which was imminent would deter that option, the Color having no more liking for the Borg than any other Hue. An Exploratory-class vessel was no match for a renamed Assimilation-class. {Hypertranswarp [speaker]!} exclaimed Sensors. It was the Purple Reclamation-class, and it was early. Likely, it was not the one sighted leaving the system undergoing cleansing, but rather one dispatched from elsewhere. The particulars were not important, only that a Purple cube was rapidly approaching insystem. The limb of the planet blocked the Purple vessel from view, orbit swinging Cube #347 out of sight, but not before the whisper of an alien sensor grid lashed against the hull. Sensors grumbled in irritation at the contact, complaining of a high pitched whine of which no one else could perceive. Purple was now aware that the Collective was in orbit around the colony world, although not necessarily knowing of the ground crew. The minutes ticked by, Cube #347 playing an orbital game of cat-and-mouse with the Reclamation-class, always remaining just below the horizon to prevent direct confrontation. Needless to say, while Weapons was not happy, it did serve to keep the smaller Exploratory-class cube alive. Underground, it was becoming increasingly apparent that while the assimilation drones were not quite lost, they were certainly misplaced. In the mean time, stuck between the heavens above and the very dark not-quite-Hell below, the surface team was faced with a new dilemma: the Purple repair crew. Filtering from different directions, five Purple drones - the same ones or different, it did not matter - approached the neutronium slab. Clattering in on a sixth vector was the small tractor, its multiple arms folded. They could not be allowed to reseal the breach, lest the hard won data crystals be trapped inside, assuming the bearers could ever find the elevator to return to the surface; and yet, at the same time, to force a direct confrontation would mean the undesired interest of 5,000 enemy drones, not to mention the Reclamation-class cube orbiting above. Two weapons hierarchy drones glanced at each other, then approached a Purple. Halting, they spread their arms wide and ceased motion, as if frozen in a stance of herding sheep or chickens. The Purples paused, gazed sightlessly at her unexpected obstacle, then turned to take the long way around. The delay had been slight, but a delay nonetheless. Seeing the minor success of 46 of 83 and 9 of 212, the rest of the perimeter broke from guard position and attempted to form a living maze to confound the Purple units. After half a minute, most of the engineering drones joined their comrades, additional bodies required to build the labyrinth. Delta held back and regarded the tractor, now idling; or, rather, body A regarded the tractor as several dozen minds examined the machine's design. Still holding the metal spar, Delta advanced. The maze was not working very well, the single-mindedness of the Purple drones ever forcing an advance towards the neutronium goal. One by one the units slipped through the tangle built by the surface team. However, without the tractor, the ward could not be repaired. Delta meant for the tractor to stay away from the neutronium slab, and with that thought in mind, she sidled up to the tractor, then thrust the spar through a port-side track. The tractor was immobilized, temporarily at least. The Purple fivesome halted where they were in their staggered advance and turned as one to regard the tractor from five separate points of view. Apparently the expansion of local mind to Purple Mind with the arrival of the Reclamation-class cube had not raised selective visual blinders, fortunately, for the reaction was not one of immediate hostility. If anything, perhaps a faint puzzlement crossed the visages of one or two pale Purple faces, confusion as to how a stationary tractor could have picked up a bit of left over species #9214 trash in its track, especially driven in at such an odd angle. The sub-collective of Cube #347 was not to argue with fortuitousness, even as luck was professed to be irrelevant. One did not need to believe in luck to have luck believe in you, even if luck was technically recognized as statistical oddities. {Hurry,} urged Captain to the underground trio. As soon as the spar was pulled and the tractor's tracks reset, it and the five drones would resume their quest to reach the slab The underground trio in question had finally found the elevator, or at least stumbled into a series of signs which had led them back to the elevator. The up arrow call button was pushed by 9 of 46, then repeatedly depressed it in the impatient and automatic gesture whereupon the hindbrain believes that an elevator can be hurried by doing so. When the doors finally yawned wide, the three assimilation drones piling inside. The ride up was the same speed as the leisurely trip down, but seemed glacially slow as circumstances served up the time warp which accompanies all who are trying to hasten. {I will be first,} insisted 29 of 203 as the breach was approached from the inside. The bright circle of light was brilliant after the dimness of the city below. His motivation was as much centered around getting the crystals to Cube #347 as it was to make sure he was not "accidentally" left on the planet surface. {Here, give me the bag...whoops!} Peering over his shoulder, 29 of 203 had not been exactly watching where he was going, relying upon 9 of 46 and 103 of 203 to act as his forward facing eyes. The field of view had not been as good as his own personal vision, qualities more akin to peripheral sight, but under normal circumstances it should have been sufficient. In this case, however, it was dark, and the bright circle of outside had forced a downgrading of optic filters lest the light-gathering function cause an overload and temporary blindness. While the fold of rock had been missed by eyes, it was found by 29 of 203's foot. He turned forward just long enough to see the oncoming breach as he stumbled, just long enough to flail his arms before he did a perfect dive into the hole and became quite stuck. Again. Before the crystals could be beamed out, 29 of 203 would have to be removed. {Help me,} squealed 29 of 203. Delta turned to regard the face peering out from the neutronium wall. Body A and four engineering drones converged upon the stuck form. In the background, Second was chortling in a highly inappropriate matter, a connoisseur of all things ironic in addition to his sarcastic bent. Replied Delta to 29 of 203's distress, {You will be removed. Any way expedient.} {Keep him whole, and alive,} interjected Captain, {if possible.} 29 of 203 blinked, {If possible???? I'll lose weight! I will!} He inserted his designation on the drone maintenance roster for immediate girth reduction surgery. The orbital game of catch-me-if-you-can continued. The Purple cube was transmitting demands to Cube #347 for Color-to-Collective contact, heavy with pro-environment slogans in addition to requests to leave the system. While Sensors complained of a phantom itch she could not scratch caused by the hails, Second was warding communications to ensure there was no response. Now was not the time to engage upon the inevitable electronic warfare which would accompany opening of communications. Additionally, Weapons had several choice rejoinders to the Purple consciousness, all inappropriate given the situation, none furthering the desired Borg image, and several quite rude in nature. Within the dark confines of the tunnel, 9 of 46 and 103 of 203 pushed on 29 of 203's rather expansive butt: even armoring could not disguise the so-called racial "baby fat" which padded its ample dimensions. 29 of 203 had required as much armor as two normally proportioned individuals of his height during his assimilation processing. On the other end, Delta had grabbed hold of the flailing arms and was leaning back as she pulled. She was gripped around her waist by an engineering comrade, and he by a third, forming a six-drone chain as if they were participating in a tug-of-war contest. All heaved backwards as 9 of 46 and 103 of 203 shoved. {Suck in your gut,} ordered Delta as she strained. Footholds would have been nice, but the smooth ferrocrete pavement on which she stood offered nothing. 29 of 203 whimpered, internally and aloud, {I am! My armor doesn't deflate much, though; and so neither does my tummy. I'm going to have it tucked at the same time I am liposuctioned. Really. Just don't remove my arms. I don't like it when my arms are removed.} 103 of 203 paused, {Too bad you aren't a balloon. If you were, we could just puncture you. Stop kicking with your feet: you almost hit me in the face.} The very unBorg whimper sounded again. Suddenly 29 of 203 popped free, his not inconsiderable weight falling forward onto an unbalanced Delta. As body A became the base of a two drone dog pile, the rest of the engineering chain slipped backwards and thumped rear to ground. All except 187 of 240, who floundered into the backside of 46 of 83. The weapons drone subsequently lost his balance, waving his arms around until collapsing to one knee, free limb just missing a Purple drone, but contacting the tractor. The chain of events could have ended at that point with Purple none the wiser, but it was not meant to be. In the course of its hasty repairs, several panels had been removed from the tractor by the Purple drones, exposing various mechanical innards. 46 of 83 not only contacted the tractor, but reflexively grasped a bundle of wires to halt his complete fall to the ground. A bundle which included one wire live and unshielded. The electricity in the exposed wire was automatically shunted to the exoskeleton for grounding, but as it did so, the surge triggered certain capacitors in 46 of 83's opposite arm. Those capacitors just happened to be associated with his limb-mounted disruptor, which just happened to be aimed at the Purple drone whom he had just happened miss during the initial fall. The disruptor beam that struck the drone was very weak, little more than nuisance, but it was sufficient to alert Purple that more existed on the surface than the remains of the species #9214 colony. The Purple units blinked. Heads swiveled exorcist style to regard the thirty-plus drones who were not of Self, to contemplate the thirty-plus invaders. The spar was ripped out of the tractor. "Intruders!" vocalized the Purple fivesome as one. The one drone began to spin the rod as if it were a martial art staff. Cube #347 was overhead, which meant the Reclamation-class cube was not. Consequentially, until the latter came over the horizon in fifteen minutes, Purple could not beam units into the area. That inability did not preclude ground assets from converging, however, and Cube #347 was noting signatures abandoning fire fighting and other tasks, individual vectors angling towards the perceived intruders. Five thousand drones would be more than slightly inconvenient, Reclamation-class cube or no Reclamation-class cube. Abandoning the game of orbital keep-away, Captain parked Cube #347 into a geosynchronous orbit. The moment the bag of crystals became accessible, the cube had to beam it to safety. While it would require 15 minutes for the Reclamation-class to gain line-of-sight for drone beaming, it only required half that time to enter kick-butt range on Cube #347. Time was of an essence. Within the dataspaces, a large hourglass materialized, symbolizing time remaining until Cube #347 would either be successful, or be a smear of debris fated to fall to the planet as a spectacular meteor shower. Without the crystals there would be no retreat, the Greater Consciousness not allowing a retreat option. Sensors whistled an ominous tone into the intranets. It sounded very much like Taps. {Stop that,} said Second, whom, for unspecified reasons which would require dismantling his psyche to discover, did not especially like Taps nor funeral dirges. {[Stereo] incoming signature. Hypertranswarp,} added Sensors helpfully. She concocted in the dataspaces a surreal image of the current solar system as seen from several light years to the galactic north. An arrow, Purple tinged, was vectoring in, and would arrive approximately the same time the Reclamation-class would fire its first round of torpedoes. The incoming signature was that of another Purple cube, as if one wasn't sufficient. Even if the game of hide-and-seek had not been dropped due to more pressing concerns of crystal retrieval, it would nonetheless become nigh near impossible with two hunters instead of one. On the surface, the weapons drones had raised their limbs in threat, retreating a step as the five Purple drones advanced. Disregarding its damaged tread, the tractor was also progressing, arms unlimbering from storage positions: it was, by far, much more menacing than the Purple drones, even the one arthritically twirling the spar. A pair of combines were also showing signs of activity, a deep rumbling as engines remotely started, much to the consternation of 174 of 300, who was still on top of the one climbed earlier. Weapons snorted in contempt. {Blockheads! We have weapons; and they do not. We also outnumber them. Fire! Destroy! Kill! Terminate!} With each word of command, his voice became a bit more agitated. The spur to aggression, however, occurred quick enough to halt the flow of verbs, and hence prevent Weapons from blowing a key blood vessel. Twenty weapons drones fired upon five Purple drones. The Purple units were of a utility nature, generalists that filled much the same niche as engineering. Consequentially, they did not mount weapons (the spar did not count). In the battle of drone against drone, a scene rarely encountered even in the era of Collective and Colors, personal defensive screens were of little use when each disruptor could be set to a slightly different frequency, and when each target was the recipient of more than one beam weapon. Four of the Purple drones, including the spar wielder, fell to the ground, twitching. The fifth was not the beneficiary of any disruptors, all passing him to strike against the tractor. One member of the weapons detachment had also frankly missed, nearly hitting 174 of 300, who was forced to take a diving leap off her combine perch to avoid the fate of the four downed targets. The tractor waved its arms, unharmed except for minor scars. It honked once, clanged a bell, then charged, clacking forward with all the speed of a three-legged turtle. Speed demon it was not in the best of times, and the fouled track did not help matters. However, Borg drones are neither known for their great acceleration prowess, so the match was more even than might be thought otherwise. In the scattering, the final Purple drone was knocked down by the tractor, legs caught beneath tread and snapping loudly under the heavy weight. If the Purple Mind cared of the loss of its four drones on the scene and the immobilization of a fifth, it was not obvious; and likely the Mind did not, not with 5,000 more units incoming, not to mention a cube overhead and another imminent. Besides, the tractor appeared to be more than sufficient as a warrior; and the two activated combines were slowly pivoting in place, blades beginning to whirl to a dangerous speed as deadly to flesh as there were to crop plants. 103 of 203 peered through the hole through the barrier. He carefully crawled into it, hands leading, and, more importantly, holding to the bag of all important crystals. {Get off me and get out of the way,} ordered Delta as she tried to heave the offending 29 of 203 from body A. The effort was ineffectual, succeeding only on having 29 of 203 hit body A in the nose with one armored arm. Blood exploded onto her face, flow immediately slowing as body systems began repairs. Unharmed body B jerked in sympathetic response. {Beam this idiot out of here!} called Delta. 29 of 203 dematerialized, returned to Cube #347. More specifically, he reappeared in Maintenance Bay #5, where Doctor waited for him. A vacuum hastily modified for liposuction thundered as it was revved. "I've never had the chance to do liposuction," said Doctor, ears alertly perked. "It shall be fun, like grooming for your innards. A special diet of low calorie dry food is the preferred way to lose weight, but in this case, this shall be better. Oh, and Delta has professed much interest in this procedure, and will be watching intently. Very educational. I shall make recordings!" 29 of 203 tried to back away, protesting that he no longer wished to have the elective surgery. Unfortunately for him, two bulky drone maintenance "orderlies" had already bracketed him. They roughly faced 29 of 203 at a work bench and marched him toward it. Delta climbed to her feet, a helping hand assisting body A. Meanwhile, 266 of 310 reached into the breach to grab the proffered bag. The moment Cube #347 gained transporter lock, the crystals disappeared from 266 of 310's grip, retrieved to the safety of the cube. {We must leave,} urged Captain. {Recover 9 of 46 and 103 of 203, if possible. Our primary objective is complete.} With the goal achieved, the Greater Consciousness had lifted the block which prohibited retreat. Leaving behind drones was not preferable (even if those drones were imperfectly assimilated...it was the principle of the matter for the Collective to not abandon its toys), but if necessary, it would be done. 266 of 310 reached into the hole, grabbing 103 of 203's hand. As he tugged backwards, he was joined by other engineering hierarchy members. Unlike 29 of 203, 103 of 203 was much more petite in the girth, and was quickly drawn out. Clamped to his ankles was 9 of 46, who wasn't taking any chances that she might be left behind to untender Purple mercies. As 9 of 46 cleared the hole and belly-flopped to the ground, both assimilation drones were beamed to Cube #347, followed by the engineering hierarchy members. 174 of 300 beat upon the head of the partially crushed Purple drone. The latter was not terminated, only disabled, hands well able to clutch whatever came into reach. What had entered grasping range had been 174 of 300 following her dive from the combine. The aforementioned combine was advancing at a slow, yet steady pace, former perch bearing down upon the trapped drone, blades whirling. Meanwhile, the fight with the utility tractor was not going well. It was more heavily armored than it looked; and it was fairly simple as machines went, so it could absorb much punishment without terminally failing. It spun, arms outstretched, clipping one defender on the shoulder even as it took a disruptor hit on a wheel boogie. {Beam us up! Beam us up!} called 174 of 300, leaning backwards as blades sliced closer. Cajoled Weapons, {We have another minute, we should finish the battle...and then we will bash the Purple cube, both of them.} The second Purple cube, another Reclamation-class, had exited hypertranswarp, deeper in the star's gravity well than standard protocol mandated. The combine relentlessly rolled forward, but did not shred 174 of 300. The latter, along with the rest of the remaining surface team, disappeared in a transporter beam. The disabled drone on the ground, unfortunately, did not fare so well, not that the Purple Greater Consciousness was unduly concerned: many other drones remained to be used in colony cleansing activities. Cube #347 roughly broke orbit, engines and inertial dampers protesting at the abrupt change in vector. The mass represented by an Exploratory-class cube was not as great as the other Borg vessel types, but it still could not be expected to turn on a dime. Hypertranswarp engines powered up. As the new Reclamation-class cube rushing inward, offensive systems charging and targeting scans locked, Cube #347 prepared to perform a perhaps unwise action. However, the sub-collective did not have a choice, not with the orders from the Greater Consciousness. Gravity and hypertranswarp did not play well with each other. Implosive events on the part of the vessel employing hypertranswarp became more probable the closer to a star one entered or exited a system. The probability was small until a certain gravity potential was reached, equating in the standard yellow dwarf system at the point ten light minutes from the primary, with danger linearly increasing the closer to the star a ship approached. The colony planet was located 7.5 light minutes from its primary. Sensors chirped, {[Diskettes] come.} In this case, "diskettes" approximated torpedoes, for a singularity torp and a trio of tri-cobalts were accelerating from the Reclamation-class cube. Captain mentally goosed the throttle, sending the cube into overdrive. He also shut his eye, the remnant of a pre-assimilation instinct. The action did not serve to mask anything, his mind remaining perfectly cognizant of all the shakes and shudders of the drive as the cube dove into the deep subspace layers. The pursuing cube did not deign to follow, Purple evidently satisfied with driving the Collective intruder from the cleansing site. Second tapped Captain's shoulder, "You can open your eyes now." Captain did so. "So," asked Second, "what exactly did we risk our necks for, anyway?" The answer, of course, was not forthcoming, merely a rhetorical questioning, a verbalization of the thought most immediate in the collective consciousness of the sub-collective. The answer would not be known for several days and several hundred light years, after the crystals had been transferred to Research Facility #19 for processing. Even then, Cube #347 was not included in the analysis result, and only the persistence of Second uncovered the information. Species #9214 had developed a technology able to be applied to problems in manufacturing quasi-liquids and colloids with a high viscosity quotient. However, species #9214 had never recognized the potential of the unique foray into chemistry and physics; and even as the first Borg cubes began to engage in the activities which would lead to the race's eventual assimilation, members of the doomed species voiced questions as to what they had done to deserve such unwanted attentions. The fact that they were soon to subsumed completely into the Borg because of a new rage condiment resembling extra-thick ketchup never occurred to the leaders of species #9214. And Cube #347's reaction that the sub-collective had been risked for the sake of a tangy red sauce which went well with fried tincho chips and grilled pa'tash steaks? What could they say, since drones could not complain to the Greater Consciousness about assignments? Besides, "pass the ketchup" was ironically applicable, seeing as Cube #347 was most recently tasked with transporting genetically engineered potatoes from one research facility to another. As long as the root vegetables (mutant, sentient, telepathic, telekinetic, tele-everything to the point of omnipotence, and only going along with the whole Borg thing because they thought they had won it as the grand prize in a vacation drawing) were aboard, the question of condiments was just not appropriate. It was going to be a long transport job.