Never forget that Paramount owns Star Trek; Decker created Star Traks; and I write BorgSpace. Now, what were you supposed to remember? I forget too. Exchange I shifted myself in the alcove to get as comfortable as possible, to find a position where umbilicals and clamps most closely conformed to those of my normal alcove. Theoretically, all alcoves are the same, disregarding those specifically manufactured for nonhumanoid body forms. In fact, while alcoves may arrive from the manufactories all alike, over time it comes to best suit the requirements of the particular drone to which it is assigned. To increase regeneration efficiency, an umbilici might be raised a bit higher to more precisely align with a shoulder port; or a clamp adjusted to proved maximum support against space-time turbulence. Such alterations were true of all alcoves assigned a singular unit, not just those of imperfectly assimilated sub-collectives. The alcove I was temporarily borrowing was no exception. My designation is 67 of 400, engineering subspecialist of Lugger-class Cube #248. My sub-collective is a contemporary version of that assigned to Exploratory-class Cube #347, the latter of which I was now aboard. The Collective in its wisdom had directed a small fraction of it cognitive resources to study the problems related to assimilation imperfection, a task which I understand has been ongoing for eight and a half millennia, including the Hive era. Most recently the Greater Consciousness was examining the feasibility of combining the current two imperfect sub-collectives into one, a single trouble-prone entity easier to keep tabs on than a pair. However, it was unknown if blending the sub-collectives, formed as they were in different eras, was feasible. A dozen newly assimilated drones had been absorbed by Cube #347 with no incident, but the ramifications of blending established sub-collectives with slightly different mental wiring was unknown. The modeled outcomes ranged from "nothing" to "radical disassociation propagating to the general Mind, leading to shattering of the Greater Consciousness and dissolution of the Collective." Therefore, a series of experiments had been devised, of which I and the absent owner of the alcove represented the first. Cube #347 and Cube #248 had randomly chosen a single member and exchanged them. For a month I would live on Cube #347 and immerse myself in the local sub-collective. With my mental condition closely monitored by the local assimilation hierarchy, it would be awaited to see if I survived intact, or degenerated into a gibbering wreck. In reality, there were gradations between the two extremes, of which the Greater Consciousness would use to devise further experiments, else decide too many differences were present to allow the melding of the disparate sub-collectives. Lucky me, the guinea pig. As noted, the alcove did not quite suit my frame. My base species is #5677, Bajoran, which is sufficiently different from 3 of 310 (species #8670 - Hof) to make for an uncomfortable fit. I could have been assigned one of Cube #347's available spare alcoves, but there were reasons many of them were unused, ranging from uncomfortably elevated ambient temperatures to chronic flooding by comet slush vats. I wish (a drone can desire, just that those wants are usually ignored) I had been assigned to one of the undesirable alcoves, for 3 of 310 appeared to possess a most annoying neurotic tendency - chewing gum. Wads of used gum were everywhere, many inconvenient; and several had lodged under the tread of my left foot, as well as in a back joint requiring excavation by another drone. Although unpleasantly sticky, the alcove was in a familiar location. Unlike Cube #248 with its 3000 occupants clustered around the central engine core, alcove tiers were located in all subsections, and thus, theoretically, I could have been anywhere. However, this alcove was in subsection 14, submatrix 14; and while not in the primary core room itself, it was adjacent. It also meant I was near 12 of 19, subdesignation Delta (not Engineer), current head of engineering hierarchy. Cube #248 has an engineering hierarchy, although it is only 400 members to Cube #347's 1000. I myself have been Engineer once, but Delta had held the position for an amount of time adding to years. I will admit she is competent, but she also gives me the creeps. I realize the irrelevancy of the emotion in question, but the phrase, one remembered from the Terran slang lexicon, is appropriate. My first introduction to Delta occurred after my initial exchange to Cube #347, during the subsequent integration into sub-collective and engineering hierarchy. "So this is what replaces 3 of 310," said a voice to my right as I materialized from the transporter beam. My mind, already secured by the consensus monitor and facilitator, was being woven into the sub-collective, therefore awareness of anything exterior the dataspaces was extremely low. From my left replied /the exact same voice/, "The drone is a bit scrawny in my opinion. 3 of 310 was very good at lifting heavy things, even if he was a bit stunted in the brains department." "Yes," said the right-hand voice, "I agree. This drone does have an interesting background, though." Left voice: "Perhaps manual dexterity tasks will be best for this drone. Exoskeleton is also modified to handle greater than normal electrical surges so..." "...high voltage electronics and conduits will be on the list as well. Oh, and advanced computer troubleshooting." Together, in stereo, "But I still liked 3 of 310's lifting ability." My sluggish brain at the time registered first one Delta, then a second, as I looked to either side of myself. A query to the dataspaces about the flanking drones only added to my confusion as they both were labeled 12 of 19. I was hearing, seeing, and even reading the dataspaces in stereo. I admit my reaction at that point wasn't the most Borg of responses, but the sedative administered by a drone maintenance unit was sufficient to calm me and allow assimilation hierarchy to insert minor software patches to allow adjustment during my initial regeneration cycle. When I rose to thinking awareness later, I was fully processed into the sub-collective and cognizant of my position in engineering. I was much calmer. Still, the concept of Delta continued to "creep me out," an emotion I would be glad to divest myself of when I returned to Cube #248. Other than my initial encounter, I feel to have adjusted well to my exchange position. I can't help but feel well adjusted, courtesy assimilation hierarchy, but the conclusion is the same. Compared to Cube #248, Cube #347 is a city of signatures, a virtual sea of voices. It is a richer environment, always active, than the one to which I am used, and at the same time almost overwhelming. It is /not/ the Greater Consciousness. The Greater Consciousness is calculation, many striving to one goal, order. Cube #347 is near-chaos on a scale Cube #248 could never hope to achieve, even with their similar crew numbers. I don't know if I like it. I know I don't like it. I may be adjusted to it, but assimilation hierarchy hasn't changed (yet) my attitude to like it. I wish to return to Cube #248, a desire I do not bother to self-censure from the peeping Toms monitoring my mental state. The silent answer I receive, however, is expected: my wants are irrelevant, and I will stay on Cube #347 for the duration. My sole consolidation is the knowledge 3 of 310 has similarly requested to return to his home cube (The reason? The host sub-collective is smaller, a step /away/ from being One in the Collective; and it is boring); and was similarly denied. {Regeneration cycle complete,} said the computer, its electronic cadence a familiarity in an otherwise alien environment. {Duty list for 67 of 400 this wake cycle: nodal juncture #19, subsection 17, submatrix 10 - replace components of holomatrix system; hallway 24, subsection 6, submatrix 22 - troubleshoot computer subsystems, ascertain fault, and repair; Maintenance Bay #5, subsection 2, submatrix 14 - troubleshoot high voltage computer subsystems, ascertain fault, and repair; other tasks as assigned.} I opened my eye, activated my optic implant, and stepped from of my borrowed alcove. Like the computer's "voice," the maintenance routine was well-known, anything as large and complex as a Borg cube always requiring the services of a drone with plasma welder. My first full day as part of the Cube #347 sub-collective had begun. Now if I could only scrape the gum off my foot. I materialized into nodal juncture #19, subsection 17, submatrix 10. Several items in the scene stood out immediately. The first, and most obvious, was the drone, arms akimbo, toe tapping impatiently against the deck. He was heavily cybernized, almost like a tactical unit, although his base signature radiated command and control; and the eye which focused upon me was a bright blue unlike the standard drone eye. The waves of restlessness which rolled over me as I became the center of his direct attention were strong, then slackened as the bulk of his awareness was required elsewhere in the dataspaces. "It is about time," stated 4 of 8, nee Captain, the current consensus monitor and facilitator of Cube #347. The second item I noted was the removal of four bulkhead panels, each revealing a holoprojector unit. A quick glance at each opening showed the signs of attempted maintenance without the proper tools. I glanced at Captain again, who abruptly tried to hide his unaltered hand behind his back, finger tips moderately blackened. Another drone entered the nodal intersection, marching in from the tier hallway directly behind Captain. The newcomer - 3 of 8, Second - snorted as he stopped next to Captain, then made a successful grab for the latter's injured hand. The foot tapping halted. "You are low on Delta's list of favored designations today, aren't you?" chortled Second. Captain's eye slid sideways and narrowed into an undirected glare. What passed between the two, Captain to Second, within the intranets was ambiguous to my datasenses, but was likely a shorthand reply modified by long association of the two drones into an abbreviated code. Presumably it was one interpretable by a drone native to the sub-collective, but just on the edge of ken for me. The eye returned to me and the foot began tapping once more. "Well, fix it." {Take as long as your require,} whispered Delta to me in her unsettling stereo as her signature passed by me. The words were not solely directed to me in a drone-to-drone communication, but on an open intranet channel perfectly audible to Captain and Second. Second chuckled again before disappearing in the clutches of a transporter beam, half-smirk twisting his features. "Fix it," muttered Captain once more. I turned my back on the consensus monitor and facilitator and began my first assigned task. The projectors in this nodal intersection were among the most oft used in the cube, but that had not led to their need for maintenance. Apparently a bucket of green paint had figured prominently, as had several bottles of a glass etching acid and a subsequent bag of neutralizer powder. The end result was an avacado colored cement-like mess which required removing all four of the holoprojector units and replacing them in their entirety. Oddly, the only item affected were the projectors, not even a drop of paint splattered on the inside of the bulkhead panels. Curiosity is not a trait fostered in the Borg drone, so I did not delve into the incident background. My task was only to repair. As I deftly spliced wires and leads, unfastened bolts and spot welded flanges, I was aware of Captain's intense stare. Tapping into his visual feed rewarded me only with an unwavering view of my backside; and while having more than one viewpoint can be helpful at times, this wasn't one of them, so I dismissed the stream. Ever behind me came the tap-tap-tapping of his foot. It was very annoying. Finally, at the third of the four jobs, I turned to confront Captain. I suppose I could have disconnected my aural sense, but I would have still known of the foot, even if I could not hear it. I pointed with the spanner I clutched in my unaltered hand, "Can't you stop? Maybe go someplace else?" Captain blinked. "What?" Memories from pre-assimilation held colleagues who had informed me on more than one occasion that I could be blunt to the point of rudeness. Assimilation had not cured the situation, but then again, politeness was irrelevant. "The foot. You, Captain, consensus monitor and facilitator, don't you have anything better to do, something to facilitate?" I briefly imagined taking a riveting gun to the foot under discussion, but that would mean Captain would not be able to leave the nodal intersection without amputating the limb. Captain peered down at his foot, then back a me. "Oh." Pause. "And I am busy, only I would be more efficient if these homoemitters were fixed." "There are other projectors," I reminded Captain, exasperation creeping into my signature. I had work to accomplish. Captain stood, adamant, "I will wait for these ones." Groaning, I faced my work site. I carefully reached into the opening, avoiding the small conduit which had undoubtedly contributed to Captain's blackened fingers. "Fine," I replied as I adjusted the emitter's positioning, "just don't do that tapping thing." The foot tapping held off for five minutes, then started once again. What was a drone to do? Gritting my teeth, I completed the job, tested the emitters, then transported as quickly as possible to the next duty locale. 'Tap-tap-tap' was replaced by 'thump-thump-thump' as I rematerialized in hallway 24, subsection 6, submatrix 22. The origin of the sound, however, was much more mundane: a drone hammering at a deck plate twenty meters along the corridor in a hullwards direction. The drone - 98 of 230 - barely acknowledged my appearance, merely marking me in the dataspaces as a nearby designation. By the time I had sighted upon my job, 98 of 230 had taken her hammer and moved out of sight. The next round of thumps were made faint with distance. The task in hallway 24 was easy, consisting of replacing a string of burnt out isolinear chips. Routine maintenance. Hallway 24, however, was a major thoroughfare, frequented by a relatively high number of drones. It was in the hallway that I gained my first real look at the individuals that comprised Cube #347. A squeaking, that of a wheel requiring oil, alerted me to the first intrusion. Querying the database, I learnt the drone walking in my direction was 39 of 240. He pulled a red wagon filled with pink flamingos, their metal legs welded to the bed so that they stood straight. The eyes of the lawn ornaments were not painted, but rather the plastic google eyes of cheap toys. As pink heads rattled along, black pupils bounced erratically, insanely. 39 of 240 himself appeared quite normal, as long as one discounted the sock puppet on his hand. 39 of 240 passed, oblivious to me as he held a deep discourse with the puppet - Mr. Floontzy - in which "potatoes" and "butter" figured prominently, as did "purple pencils." The pink flamingos leered crazily; and the single wheel squeaked. No sooner than 39 of 240 had turned a corner and disappeared from view then I began hearing the distinct rumbling of an internal combustion engine. The sound was distant, and as I continued to replace chips, it became apparent that it was nearing. I was puzzled, but the good drone that I was, I did not track the noise to the source. Eventually the source came to me. Turning the corner 39 of 240 had taken, first one, then two, then four small tractors appeared. They were riding lawnmowers light years from the nearest sward, ringed with pliable plastic to give them the attribute of a bumper car. Their speed was not great, no more than that of a walking Borg drone, but for what they lacked in velocity they more than compensated in noise. The impression of an internal compression engine was not quite true because the machines themselves were sensible (however such might be applied in this instance) electrical contraptions. The large stereos strapped to the backs of the lawn mowers provided the illusion of gas-powered engines via taped recording. "Outta the way!" shouted 233 of 510 as she neared. She was in the lead, weaving back and forth to prevent her three opponents from passing. I stood against the wall, allowing plenty of room for the foursome. Later I learned the hallway was part of Standard Course A for Cube #347's riding lawnmower racing enthusiasts - Hell's Clippers. Lawnmowers, pink flamingos, and sock puppets were not the extent of my experience. During the short hour I was in hallway 24, subsection 6, submatrix 22, I was also interrupted by a dozen six-legged hamsters, a running battle of holographic soldiers engaged against a trio of weapons drones sporting semi-automatic hunting rifles, and a drone pushing a rack filled to overflowing with garish clothes. Oh, there were drones on normal errands, walking from point A to point B because the destination was too close to warrant transporter use, but it was the oddities which caught my attention. I replaced the hallway panels I had removed, then beamed to Maintenance Bay #5, subsection 2, submatrix 14. My first impression was of normalcy, of busy drone maintenance units ministering to the needs and requirements of sub-collective members. Some drones on tables were alone, seemingly ignored, while two were the scenes of intense surgery which included a lot of bits and pieces arranged on trays near the subjects undergoing operation. One drone stood stiffly next to an empty workbench, eyes staring at nothing straight ahead, as a rodent-like maintenance unit poked and prodded at the joints of the largely noncybernized right limb. The rodent looked up as my gaze fell upon him. He was 27 of 27, Doctor, head of the drone maintenance hierarchy. He clicked his teeth together, commanded his patient to stay using a combination of voice and arm gestures suitable for a trained animal, then adroitly dodged the room's controlled chaos to approach me. "About time you got here. Fix it," said Doctor as he gestured at a corner mounted data pillar. The words were familiar, but what was appended to the order was not. Doctor continued, "And since you are a new puppy, if you finish promptly, you get a biscuit! Yummy, yummy, yummy treat! Good for teeth, too!" A box was grabbed from a nearby table. Inside of it was a collection of bone shaped pet treats. "I don't eat. Why would I want a biscuit?" The question appeared to confuse Doctor, who blinked. Several heads, both of drone maintenance and patients, turned to regard the scene in the making. Replied Doctor, "Then a squeak-squeak toy? Made of rubber it is, with a bell inside too. Much fun for fetch." The biscuit box was substituted for a similar one, this time half filled with colorful balls. More heads were swiveling to watch Doctor and myself. I was regretting the confrontation, desiring to fix the data pillar in the corner (which had just begun to send out a wisp of smoke, I noted). Still, I could not extract myself, not with the drone maintenance head blocking my path. I pushed the box away, eliciting a muted jangle, "I do not want toys. Move out of my way." Doctor's ears laid back, but he did not move from my path. Instead he set down the ball box, then opened his hand flat to receive a transportered stick with a feather on the end of it. "A tough customer, eh? I'll soothe that bark," he said. "How about this prize? Finish your task and you will gain this special toy." The feathered end of the stick was thrust in my face. I batted it away, which pleased Doctor, who responded by whipping the feather against my nose once more. Meanwhile the curl of smoke had thickened. I beamed a fire extinguisher into my grasp, then used it to ward off the feather-on-a-stick. "Out of my way." Startled as I bodily pushed past him, shoulder clanging against shoulder, Doctor backed into a workbench. The box of balls tumbled to the floor, scattering underfoot. The steps I hastily took towards the smoking pillar were punctuated by jangling bells and rubbery squeaks. The center of attention, I removed the cover from behind which smoke was exiting. Revealed was a small, pale flame, although I was unsure what it could be burning: no combustible materials were immediately present. Answers would have to come later, though, as I aimed the extinguisher, squeezed the handle, and smothered the flames with retardent. Behind me, show over, the pace of the maintenance bay returned to normal. Patients were patients and maintenance units were maintenance units. As I brushed away the foam, a drone clanked up to peer around my shoulder. It was Doctor. Teeth were clicked together. "Is it okay?" I stared at the tangle of blackened fibers my efforts had revealed. It resembled an animal's nest, but Cube #347 should not have such on board; and there was evidence of chewed wires, which would explain the malfunction which had tasked me to Maintenance Bay #5 in the first place. Then I remembered my previous job site, and more specifically, the small stampede of six-legged hamsters. I had thought the creatures to be a holographic image, or perhaps well-detailed robots, but had never actually inquiring upon their authenticity. My thought processes were not muted; and as they came to a conclusion, the presence at my shoulder tried to covertly creep away. However, drones are not built for stealth. The squeak toys on the ground did not help. The maintenance bay abruptly became more crowded as first Delta, both of her, then Captain and Second, and finally Weapons, the head of the weapons hierarchy, materialized. They surrounded Doctor, who hunched down, ears tight against skull. He waved his feather-stick, "Anyone for a game?" "We've had a damn hamster infestation for over five hundred real-time years!" shouted Captain aloud. His dataspace signature was dark, jagged. He sucked in a large breath, held it, then continued in a calmer manner, "We have traveled through time, had bits of us blown up, even died and been resurrected. We have been shifted to a new cube. Through it all, those hamsters have managed to remain. Explain." Second was adding his mental pressure to Captain, and Delta was simply glaring at Doctor. Meanwhile, Weapons had left the encircling mob and was making his way toward a wall, eyes searching. "They are just so /cute/," finally choked out Doctor by way of explanation. Second rolled his eyes, "He is impossible. I've better things to do." "Just as long as Weapons doesn't tear apart the cube in this extermination round. That is your primary task for the next dozen regeneration cycles, or until the hamsters are cleared," replied Captain. "Gee. Fun. Yippee," deadpanned Second, his voice pitched to an exaggerated monotone that somehow made mockery of the normal Borg voice. His form shimmered, then disappeared in a transporter beam. Weapons was tapping on a wall, ear pressed against the panel as he listened. "I think there is a bunch back here. Explosives will be required to terminate the pests." The part of the wall Weapons was "testing" was filled with pump machinery supplying the local regeneration sludge artery network. Unless the vermin were the size of my pinkie finger, they could not be back there. However, ship schematics had not been accessed by Weapons' signature, he had not checked to determine what might actually be under his tapping knuckles. "There is nothing back there," snapped one of Delta as the other stared at Captain as an internal protest was raised over Weapons' actions. Weapons stiffened as he was rebuked via the intranets. "I'll be back," he threatened as he dematerialized. {With /no/ explosives,} added Delta, {and no cheesy accent, neither. You've been watching too many of those pre-warp Terran Schwarzenegger movies.} Captain grimaced, then co-opted Doctor's attention. "What is the rule about pets?" "Borg do not have pets," muttered Doctor mechanically. He added in a more normal tone, "But what about 12 of 310 and his pet rocks?" "Pet rocks don't chew the wiring. Maybe one day the rule will be spliced into your root command pathways, and stick," sighed the primary consensus monitor and facilitator. He followed Second's and Weapons' examples by leaving the maintenance bay. Delta glared at Doctor, who had begun to pick up loose balls. One of her turned to regard me. "Well, what are you looking at?" demanded the body. "You have been assigned a take here. Do it." I returned to my chore, gingerly inserting a hand to remove the smoldering, foam encrusted remains of a hamster nest. The next two weeks passed quickly, no days as momentous as the first. There were events and confrontations aplenty, but suitably spaced as to allow me the opportunity to absorb them. Through it all, teams from the weapons hierarchy occasionally interrupted me, as they did all drones aboard the cube, with the hamster hunt. In more than one instance I found myself repairing the damage caused by the destructive extermination squads. At least the use of explosives did not last long, else the cube would have been much more severely impacted. The longer I was on Cube #347, the more I desired to return to my normal sub-collective. It wasn't homesickness, not quite, but it was akin to that irrelevant concept which wasn't so irrelevant from my viewpoint. The longing manifested itself as a pressure in my head, as an ache in my limbs, although the latter may have been deeply wedged gum affecting joint actuators. Still, my censoring programs were strong, were different, more adequate than those utilized by this vintage sub-collective, the Greater Consciousness over the centuries tightening filters to cut down inappropriate thoughts/actions attributable to assimilation imperfection. It did not feel as if the two programs, old and new, were quite compatible; and mine were slowly eroding under the continual onslaught of 4000 drones. I was undergoing regeneration, a time during which I increasingly concentrated upon my own mental maintenance instead of allowing my brain to be fully used as a computational node. My body was infused with nutrients and nanite-fostered repairs occurred as it always did, but it was becoming more difficult to weave the strands of my censure programs into a workable fabric, especially when I did not have the master to compare it to (that being within Cube #248's dataspaces, and inaccessible to me during the experiment). Eventually my programs would break, the censor filters would fail. I had no clue what that would bring. In such a situation I should be frightened, except the assimilation process had more than adequately erased all traces of that emotion. Drones who feel fear are worse than useless, especially when such might interfere with directives like a suicidal advance upon a military stronghold of defenders to be assimilated. I redirected my thinking away from gloom, focusing upon Weapons. Weapons was a fascinating personality, in the way I remember a half-healed bruise or scab to be fascinating. There was a self-destructive quality to him, although he never quite blew himself up. The consequences of his actions, for the most part, inevitably happened to those around him; and when he was affected by his actions, the damage was relatively minor. I knew from cube records that there were exceptions, but through it all Weapons still lived...even when he had died. As I dwelled upon the conundrum of Weapons, as I tried to bolster my self-censure programs, I passively monitored the give and take of the dataspaces. Cube #347 was currently in a system taking readings of its (uninhabited) planets; and Weapons hierarchy, seizing upon the chance represented, had requested a live-fire test of a modified singularity torpedo. A suitable asteroid target was being debated. The hamster squads were only a small punctuation in the normal activities of the moderately violent hierarchy, and other duties demanded. I did not bother to delve more deeply into the matter for it did not concern me. A few minutes later, the torpedo flew towards its goal. I idly switched to a visual feed of the event. In Cube #248 I would skim incoming data direct from the sensor grid, a habit not appropriate in Cube #347. The sensor feed could be normal, or it could be an esoteric stew to melt neural synapses: the head of the sensor hierarchy was a species #6766 insectoid with a unique view upon the universe, literally. After one direct feed had sent me to drone maintenance for three hours, I had tacked a reminder to myself, the equivalent of a bright yellow sticky note, to only view sensor data after it had been processed. Even then, visual and aural hallucinations were present at times. The torpedo sped to its target, missing a vaguely cube shaped rock. It looped around the asteroid once, then twice, an undesired effect from the dark signature which was Weapons. As the torpedo neared the end of its fuel supply, it stopped its powered orbits, swiveled, then charged back towards Cube #347. {281 of 300!} shouted an enraged Weapons. {That is the last time you are allowed to drive a torpedo! Until your hand-eye coordination is fixed, not to mention your eyes, you are assigned to Tractor Emitter #3!} A small part of me accessed 281 of 300's dossier. The drone was dyslexic. Protested 281 of 300, {But I'm not driving! I've not controlled the torpedo since the initial miss! And the miss was deliberate, anyway. It was part of the modification, to program the torpedo to recognize an enemy so we have a higher hit percentage, and a greater number of fire-and-forget torpedoes in space. It is driving itself.} {Oh, yes,} muttered Weapons, {You are still assigned to Tractor Emitter #3, 281 of 300.} The torpedo bore down upon Cube #347. Beam weaponry failed to hit it, and tractors failed to redirect. Tractor Emitter #3 had a key opportunity, but missed by four meters. {Prepare for impact!} called Captain's voice in the intranets. Already clamped in my borrowed alcove, there was not much more I could do. A singularity torpedo is a contact weapon. When it hits shield, hull, or other hard (physically or electromagnetic-based) target, suspended proton clusters are driven in the on-board particle accelerator to near light speed, forced together in the reaction chamber. When sub-Planck distances are achieved, a black hole, very small and very transitory, is created. While the duration to evaporation is short, and the area affected small, it is sufficient to disrupt a shield or take a bite out of a hull. The torpedo hit Cube #347, but did not explode. Instead it smashed through the hull directly over Central Shaft #1, burrowing through successive layers of temporary and permanent bulkheads on its way to the central core region. The chances of such happening were astrometrical, yet, with near-sentient intent, the torpedo was battering its dense-packed neutronium chassis ever deeper into Cube #347's heart. Finally it did the impossible, broaching the Primary Core and lodging itself into a wall less than 50 meters straight-line from my current position. Delta immediately shut down the central core, starting Auxiliary Core #3. The automatic reaction was useless should the torpedo detonate, the primary consequence of which would be to gut the vessel and propagate a catastrophic explosion. {Command override regeneration pathways, target 67 of 400,} spoke Delta. My regeneration cycle, nearly complete as it was, aborted. I automatically stepped from the alcove. {67 of 400, report to Primary Core. We have a little task for you.} The 'we' was a collective we, Delta never referring to herself in the plural. Oh-oh. I really wished I could still feel fright. I tried for anxiety instead, but had to settle for dread anticipation. I entered the Primary Core, the heart of Cube #347. The room rose several stories, more than sufficient to house the now quiescent energy core unit (a modified warp core), and then some for the awe effect. Data pillars ringed the circumference, interspersed by alcoves for when drones were required to dip deeper into sub-collective cognitization than that allowed by neural link or pillar alone. Some of the few elevators in the cube were present to lift drones between levels, ladders not a Borg forte, it an inefficient waste of energy to use the transporter to move a vertical distance of three meters to the next story. Each of the four levels, other than the ground, was warded on the edge by a railing; and dark hallways angled off periodically, providing access to other portions of subsection 14, submatrix 14. The room was circular, in an angular sort of way standard to Borg architecture. Usually the Primary Core was the scene of bustling bodies, drones moving here and there on tasks. At the very least a number of the alcoves should have been occupied, with others stationary next to pillars as the dataspaces were consulted. The only drones, or rather drone, present was Delta, both of her. I queried the location of Cube #347 drones, finding a disproportionate number of the active engineering hierarchy engaged in previously low priority maintenance in the subhull corridors or on the hull itself. One object was blatantly foreign to the Primary Core - the torpedo. Singularity torpedoes are four meters in length, longer than the standard torpedo chassis. They are also less flattened in the dorsal-lateral profile, which is necessary to house proton cluster containment devices, miniaturized particle accelerator, reaction chamber, and engine fuel. The chassis was coated in a seamless layer of dense-packed neutronium armor; and even though this torpedo had burned through 650 meters of vessel, the hull of which I could see remained shiny and unscratched. I glanced along the angle of entry, in the direction of Central Shaft #1. The bulkhead wall was intact, except for the torpedo shaped hole. There was no risk of atmosphere loss, not that such would bother me, as forcefields warded each of the many breaches along the shaft. Repairs were already occurring; and Delta had even activated the ship regeneration systems, an action she did not often undertake, according to records. "Fix it," said Delta, bodies pointing at the torpedo. I was coming to dislike those two words. I was also perplexed. Stopping in my tracks, I blurted, "It didn't explode. Am I supposed to repair it so it /can/ explode? Clarify." One of Delta remained watching the torpedo while the other turned to squarely address me. There were differences between the twins, I knew there had to be, but they eluded me (as it did many on Cube #347...even the interplexing beacon signatures were alike). Delta spoke to me using the facing body, "Prior to your assimilation, you were a certified Second Federation computer technician on Personality-enabled warships? Answer." "Yes," I carefully replied, puzzled as to what that bit of my personal history brought to the situation. I had once been a lieutenant in the Second Federation; and I had once been an engineer - computer specialist, first class - on the SFS Cerebus prior to her inadvertent capture by a Borg vessel. I had also once owned an earring with a fish patterning and been considered pretty good at balancing a spoon on my forehead, neither of which were relevant now. "And you were certified in Personality psychology?" I cocked my head and quested toward Delta, trying to intercept her thought processes to understand the line of questioning. I failed. True, I had taken the Personality psychology short course when it had been offered at Starbase 117, but I had done it to get off the ship for a month and, ultimately, to earn a little extra in my paycheck. I had never actually practiced what I had learned, leaving shrinking to the real Personality counselors. My job generally focused around installing and troubleshooting hardware or associated "dumb" algorithms, never the controlling AI itself. "Yeeeessss. But this sub-collective already knows my dossier, so why..." "It is confirmed," interrupted Delta. "You deal with the torpedo. Weapons 'upgraded' it with a Personality base. Fix it." With these words, she disappeared amid a transporter beam, joining those of her hierarchy closer to the hull. I hesitantly approached the weapon. What fool would put a fully self-aware AI in a torpedo? Personalities were designed for the freedom afforded by ships, or the responsibilities of starports, not kamikaze suicide plunges. And where had Cube #347 acquired a Personality base anyway? Those few Personalities the Borg captured had were closely studied in research facilities, the AIs poked and prodded into computer insanity in a quest of understanding, to add to a knowledge base stored for future application against mech species. Personality bases were not common cube inventory. Those concerns in mind, those concerns voiced with an answer demanded, I stopped next to the torpedo. Feeling more than slightly odd, I rapped on the chassis. "Hello? Anybody home?" A panel of armor slid back to reveal a crudely installed speaker grille. "Can I explode now? I was told I had to explode after I hit the target. My senses are not...right. I need to know if I can explode now. /He/ told me it was my duty to explode. /He/ told me, over and over and over and over again." "No, no it is not time to explode," I hastily replied. Senses, in a meaning beyond a sensor grid, were, as the torpedo said, not right. {He? Who is he?} Weapons immediately answered, {That is I.} "But I really want to explode," whined the torpedo in the manner of a child proclaiming he had immediate need of a potty. "No explosions. You will comply." {That is Personality psychology?} questioned Delta incredulously. I retorted, {It was the short version of the class, okay? And it was five years ago, four of which passed before I was assimilated and during which I never practiced anything I was taught.} I paused. {Weapons, what did you do to this Personality? And where did you find it?} Weapons imaged a cardboard box, top flaps loosely fitted together and one end labeled "chips - odds and ends" in barely legible Terran. {It was secured as part of a bulk lot of items at an estate sale,} unhelpfully replied Weapons. I accessed records pertaining to the incident in question, which had occurred four months prior, but terminated the tangent after it included in quick succession a robotic ostrich, tapioca pudding, and a fuzzy blanket. Mixed in the morass was in fact a box of obsolete computer parts, but I had the feeling one had to be there to truly understand the chain of improbable events. For some things not even perfectly recalled memories from many viewpoints could substitute for first-hand experience. "Now I'll explode," stated the torpedo. "Why don't you wait a while?" "Okay." Pause. "Is it a while now? /He/ said I /had/ to explode when I caught the cube-shaped item." "No, it isn't a while yet. I'll tell you when it is a while." "Okay." I tried again, {It is established where the base originated, but why put it into a torpedo? And what did you do to it? Personalities do not act like that.} Weapons conveyed a shrug, a laissez faire dismissal. {Torpedo modifications required it to be able to independently match a target with a provided image. We needed more on-board computational ability to attain the goal. The cardboard box was examined, and the base, when scanned, was found to be sufficiently complicated, and, more importantly, was functional. The fact that there was a Personality meant there was no need to upload software algorithms. After that it was a simple matter of telling it over and over again that it must explode after hitting its target.} {How many repetitions,} I asked suspiciously. {106,327,560 repetitions,} replied Weapons after a moment. {It tried to ignore the directive during the first 10 million repeats, begged for mercy during the next 50 million, was silent for 30 million, cried for 5 million, then spent the remainder claming it would do anything it was told, if only the recording would stop. I kept it going for another several million times, just in case.} Shocked silence; and in the intranets, that is an astounding, unique sensation. It did not last long. Finally Second broke the quiet with, {106,327,560 repetitions? A little bit of overkill there, Weapons, don't you think?} Heavy sarcasm laced the words. Weapons asked, {In what way?} I blocked the subsequent dialogue, on one side a clueless Weapons backed by his hierarchy and on the other a pointed Second. When the Collective broke a Personality, it was by brute force, the same method used to shatter an organic psyche prior to reintegrating it into the Greater Consciousness to produce a drone. In comparison, Weapons' actions were like the concept of Chinese water torture taken beyond reason, beyond the end of the road to the side of the mountain and pushed off a cliff; or being nibbled to death by flea-sized ducks. Whatever the appropriate analogy, the Personality, likely not in too good a condition to begin with since it was found at the bottom of a box of old computer parts, must have suffered horribly, and was now certainly insane...if not so beyond the condition that no words existed. My Personality psychology course had never covered what to do in the case of an insane AI, other than mentioning that being in the same sector, much less on the same ship, with it was not a Good Thing. I decided to start simple. I also beamed an array of tools to my vicinity and accessed singularity torpedo schematics; and as the disarmament process was by Borg necessity a communal effort (with me at the blast nexus), I additionally acquired many, many back-seat drivers. "Personality, provide your designation." "Is it later yet? My time sense isn't so good at the moment. Are you sure I haven't hit my target? I can't see very well." "No, it isn't later. You will be told when it is later. Until then, provide your designation." Silence. I selected a tool - crowbar - and wedged it into a minute opening next to the grille. The armor had to be removed. Finally the Personality answered, "Thor. My activation date was Terran year 2902; and I grew at Tycho base on the Moon of Terra until graduation from my creche as a fully sentient program in the year 2905. Original designation prior to ship installation was TH-X53-22-XX." A panel popped off, the seamless chassis not so seamless following the modifications by the weapons hierarchy. Usually one accessed the interior through a hatch just back of the nose for purposes of swapping proton containment boxes for payloads of greater or lesser atom clusters. In this case, the nose was well buried in the wall and I had to work with what was available. The rectangle of armor crashed to the floor, dense-packed neutronium a heavy-mass material. "And your ship?" I continued, as if nothing had occurred, as if I wasn't hunting for a spanner nor a wire clipper from the array of tools on the ground. "What was that loud noise?" asked Thor, ignoring my question. "Should I explode? /He/ said it was my duty to explode. Perhaps that gong means it is later." "Has 'later' arrived? No. The noise is irrelevant. Provide the name of your ship." Internally I winced as I was flooded with a variety of "advice," ranging from {Pour acid inside to see what happens} to {Pour chocolate syrup inside and see what happens} to {Clip the red wire...in the movies, 88% of the time the red wire controls the detonator} to {Rip out the Personality and crush it underfoot.} Much was in complete disregard to the schematics, and I had to concentrate to keep myself from hunting for red wires which were not present. Thor was again silent a long time, hesitating as it searched through its memories for one which was not Weapons telling it to explode. "Hammer. I was installed on Hammer. SFS Hammer. Not a warship. A high volume rock ore processor. Elements and compounds, including radioactives. Exotics too - limited dillithium and antimatter refining." I attached an alligator clip to a wire, then strung it to a second. As I did so, the high voltage flux carried by the target arced to my wrist, giving me a jolt I felt through the electrical shunt protection afforded by my exoskeleton. I blinked twice as the pacemaker associated with my reinforced cardiovascular system shocked my heart, returning it to a normal rhythm. Sufficiently recovered, I reached again into the torpedo, cut away the offending wire, then burrowed my limbs more deeply into the innards. The eventual goal was to disconnect the power to the aft proton containment box, effectively removing the munitions from the torpedo: with only one proton cluster, not only was no black hole possible, but no bang at all. "That felt funny," said Thor, reacting to feedback from the arcing incident. "What are you doing? Is it later?" {What, exactly, defines "later"?} asked 57 of 79, ex-philosophy major. {Is it a proper neoEuclidean concept, or a retro-existentialist view with no definable end point?} Several {Huhs?} were 57 of 79's answer, as well as one {I'll take Door Number Two.} The words were all recognized, but their stringing made for a speech more alien than that of a species #6766 poem translated to Klingon. I answered Thor, "No, it is not later. Cease asking. Later will come when I say it has come." I paused. "/He/ will tell me when it is later." {It is later,} said Weapons confidently, caught in the widening debate 57 of 79 had initiated. {No it isn't,} I hurriedly replied. {Don't think it is later! Just don't.} I did not want to inadvertently tell Thor that it was time to explode, a possibility should enough drones begin thinking so, thus influencing my own point of view. Aloud, to Thor, "I am going to fix your senses. You will see better when I am done." "Oh." "Tell me about Hammer." Another long pause was required before Thor could begin. "My ship body was aesthetically ugly, angular, functional, but beautiful to me. On my fifth year from installation, I was attacked by raiders. My captain pulled my base when we were boarded, then hid me in a box of obsolete computer parts collected by the Chief Engineer." My right arm was nearly up to the shoulder, hand very carefully feeling around. I could not see and was progressing by touch and schematics alone. {Clip the red wire,} whispered a multitude of voices in my head, along with {It's later. No, now is later. Later is...wait for it...now!} I closed my eye and darkened visual input to my optic implant so as to have less exterior distractions. "And then?" I absently prompted, a part of me unwilling (or the curiosity of those not in immanent risk of experiencing a singularity short range) to allow the recitation to end. "Nothing," answered Thor after the expected wait. "My base has no exterior senses. After awhile, when no one reinstalled me, I erased my time-logging algorithms. I was in limbo. It was horrible. Then I wasn't in limbo, but it was even more horrible because /he/ was there, was always there, no matter how I tried to blank /him/ out. I would have preferred limbo. /He/ did not allow it, only instructed me to do as /he/ bade by running into a designated target and exploding." Pause. "Is it later? I want to explode. I have to explode. When I die, I won't be able to hear /him/ any more." Not only was the personality insane, but it was fatalistically suicidal. Not a good combination. My questing fingers brushed against the interior structure for which I had been looking. Now the appropriate wire was... Several things happened at once. My self-censor programs, already battered after two weeks of continual contact with Cube #347 sub-collective and now under constant assault by impulses directed at me, collapsed. {The red wire! Always the red wire disarms the bomb, unless it is the green one. It sometimes is the green wire, or the yellow one. Still, chances are best to cut the red wire!} Fingers compulsively curled around a wire I could feel. The color did not matter. Weapons: {It is later. Now is not a valid concept, not when it is always later.} The wording was nonsensical, a verbal paradox in which a near tenth of the sub-collective was caught, and which Captain was trying to break. My lips twitched. "It is later," I said before I could reinitialize the censor programs. "Really?" asked Thor, tone animated. "No! Do not comply!" I shouted at the same time my fingers, without will of my own, snapped the wire they had been griping. I awaited an explosion. None came. "But it is later...I will explode now," firmly stated the Personality. There was a *click* from deep within the torpedo. Again I waited for the explosion, for the here-now-gone-now sensation which would symbolize my termination. Or perhaps the singularity would pull one part of my body into its gravity grip, stringing me out like a pasta noodle and leaving me horribly aware of my dissolution? It was a good thing I no longer retained a bladder. The *click* sounded again, then a third time; and realizing I was not dead, I allowed visual input to flow to my brain once more. I carefully withdrew my arm from the hole in the torpedo, hand still curled in a fist, receiving jolts as it brushed against charged electronics. Once retrieved, I looked down at my opened hand, seeing a ragged length of wire. It was red. {See! I told you it is the red one that disarms the bomb!} crowed 107 of 212. From the torpedo came the plaintive question, "Have I exploded yet?" The universe came crashing in on me, a babble of voices, a cacophony of images. I pushed back at the intrusion; and maybe I screamed. Very unBorg. I do not remember because at that point everything went black. << Wake wake wake wake wake, >> whispered to me, an insistent commanding echo which slowly faded. As my consciousness swam up from the depths of stasis, the One voice dissolved into the familiar chatter of the Cube #248 sub-collective. I was returned to my base vessel, to my own alcove which fit just so. Query to chronometer: 16 days since my last activation. {Awake? Aware? Cognizant?} asked the Cube #248 Captain of me. His projected voice I translated into a rumbling bass, utterly at odds with his physical appearance of a petite humanoid 1.3 meters in height. {Yes,} I replied to the primary consensus monitor and facilitator as my diagnostics returned nominal status. A quick examination of my mind showed self-censor filters to be replaced and whole. I captured a particular thread of data and absorbed it. {The experiment is over. Failed. Why? It was 3 of 310, was it not? His entire sub-collective is deranged.} Returned Captain, {No. 3 of 310 was found by this sub-collective to be a competent engineering drone, although wads of gum are still being encountered in bizarre places. The experiment, for now, is canceled because of you.} I was shocked. For a drone, even one imperfectly assimilated, there is little worse than to learn that one has failed the Collective in some way. It is a programmed imperative burned into the brain. {How?} I asked as I replayed recent memories. {I performed as I was bade to do. I even disarmed a talking singularity torpedo.} Captain directed my attention to a particular file in a datatree. As I focused on it, it glowed to my datasenses. It was the evaluation of my mental condition during my time aboard Cube #347. {You...collapsed on Cube #347. Immediately following the torpedo disarming, you attempted to impose your censor filters on the host sub-collective. Automatic anti-virus algorithms interpreted your action as an attack, and replied in kind. Several hunter-seeker programs had been highly modified, and in the chaos initiated by you, they not only assaulted the Cube #347 sub-collective, but also escaped into the Greater Consciousness. During this time you were knocked off-line by the anti-virus programs; and it was determined the best course of action was to keep you sedated until such time you were returned here.} I mentally winced as I not only read my own file, but followed the thread of observations from Cube #347 and outcome of Collective analysis. Cube #347 had experienced...difficulties with the out of control hunter-seekers, during which time shields were lost and asteroids had impacted the Exploratory-class vessel's hull. The damage had been superficial, although the dozens of drones in vacuum at the time due to the torpedo threat would beg to differ (transporters had malfunctioned, stranding units on the exterior). Within the Greater Consciousness the hunter-seekers had been eradicated before more than trivial injury had occurred. The loss of several backup data archives was inconsequential, but it had served notice to the Collective of the possibilities inherent in the failure of a single drone undergoing merging of two dissimilar imperfect sub-collectives. How much more trouble would the process of full integration bring? That was the question the Greater Consciousness had asked itself. Disliking the answer, the dilemma had been sent back to the burner where it had simmered for eight and a half thousand years. It is a closely held Borg secret that the Collective has committees. Not many, but they exist. The Collective, after all, is the sum of its many parts, seeking Perfection. Many of those parts, prior to assimilation, had included that most insidious of unliving creatures: the committee. The committee which examined the assimilation imperfection question was as old as the Borg itself; and its success at solving the problem was on par with the effort of any committee the universe over in resolving a quandary. I sighed, {I understand.} With these words, Captain turned his attention to other considerations. My regeneration cycle was nearing its end. {Regeneration cycle complete,} announced the computer into my mind as clamps disengaged. I stepped forward and down, body activating, ready for work. {Assignation of drone 67 of 400 to the following tasks...} Jobs listed in my mind, stacking one on another into a standard caseload. I, however, was only passively listening, a part of me automatically cataloging the to-do list. Most of my attention, however, was focused on my left foot, and, more specifically, to an irritant I believed left behind on Cube #347. Unfortunately, 3 of 310 had utilized my alcove during his exchange; and during that time had predictably engaged in his vice. Stuck to the sole of my foot was a wad of gum. Pink.