Star Trek, owned by Paramount, was not filmed before a live studio 
audience.  Star Traks was written by Decker, although one is fairly sure 
no studio audience was involved there either.  However, I know people 
were watching as I wrote BorgSpace...as long as one believes fish are 
people.  I do, don't you?


			   Technicolor

	Cube #347 was on its way to a conference.  Sponsored by Starfleet, the 
meeting was to be a gathering of the Colored Borg and the military arm of 
the Second Federation for purposes to plot against the Collective.  The 
Greater Consciousness had sent Cube #347 to Igyn 4, the location of the 
conference, to infiltrate the meeting.
	The Colored Borg were a legacy of the Hive era.  Mental schisms were not 
tolerated by the Borg of either then or now, extreme aberrations that 
went beyond mere assimilation imperfection either calling for a complete 
mindwipe, else termination.  The Hive, on the other hand, had required a 
semblance of individuality from its drones for survival of the Whole, and 
this lessening of the formerly rigid dictatorship of the individual 
allowed fissures to develop.  Fissures became fractions, fractions became 
factions, and factions became, well, imagine a multiple personality 
disorder which spanned the breadth of a galaxy.  Instead of forcefully 
reabsorbing the differences in mindset that developed, the Hive cast the 
factions out.  The central Hive was thus saved from erratic, divergent 
viewpoints; and was thus the Colored Borg created to follow their 
singular obsessions.
	Green - capitalistic (The Collective had no use for money, nor the 
obsessions which accompanied currency).
	Red - extreme violence (There was a place for an offensive, but not for 
single-minded aggression).
	Purple - environmentalist (Worries over the fate of a species or 
ecosystem did not mix with planetary-scale engineering efforts, many of 
which were highly destructive).
	White - serene (Peace to all did not fit the Collective, be it Borg or 
Hive, although, for unknown reasons, the Whites were highly facile in 
verbally convincing the unassimilated to join their ranks).
	Blue - depressed; Orange - perky; Black - suicidal; Yellow; Brown; a 
virtual rainbow of colors.
	Some factions had been short-lived, such as the Blacks, who had survived 
precisely as long as it took to plunge into the nearest star; and the 
cowardly Yellows were believed to be somewhere between the Milky Way and 
Andromeda galaxies, ever running from the slightest provocation.  Others, 
such as the Grays and Beiges, had been exterminated in the six years 
since the resurgence of the original Borg consciousness, the faction 
members either reabsorbed or terminated.  Still, Colored Borg persisted; 
and they did /not/ wish to rejoin the parental Mind.
	The sub-collective of  Cube #347 had been temporarily severed from the 
Greater Consciousness.  The reason for the separation was because no 
Colored Borg communicated on the same fractal frequencies as another 
Color, and none certainly transmitted on the same bands as the 
Collective:  to do so would be to be instantly recognized.  No other 
group of Borg integrated with the Collective, with the exception of the 
imperfectly assimilated crew of Lugger-class Cube #238, could subsist 
without the guidance and presence of the Greater Consciousness for a long 
period of time, else face loss of sanity, experience catatonia, or 
self-terminate.  Cube #347, while not particularly comfortable being 
forced to operate alone, would survive.  
	The sub-collective was undercover.
	The Collective required knowledge of the events at the 
Starfleet-sponsored conference.  The drones of Lugger-class Cube #238 
were known to most, if not all, of the Colors, precluding their use even 
as they also had the ability to survive cut off from the Greater 
Consciousness.  On the other hand, the recent appearance of an ancient 
pre-Dark and supposedly terminated sub-collective opened new doors of 
opportunity.  The sub-collective of Cube #347 accepted the assignment and 
severance from the Whole:  they did not have a choice.  It was to the 
assigned color the sub-collective had objections.
	Puce.  A dark red, grayish color that resembled the shade of a leprous 
eggplant.  It was not a dignified color, puce; and even the name left a 
lot to be desired.  The reason why no Borg faction over the centuries had 
chosen it as a color was obvious.  Colors such as Chartreuse and 
Goldenrod signified the effort expended to avoid the stigma of Puce.
	"Cyan," said Second as he paced back and forth in the nodal intersection 
behind Captain.  He had taken a particular affront to the use of puce.  
In response, a self-conversation had been initiated within the 
sub-collective, using the current heads of the cube as mouthpiece 
proxies.  Second represented the side that there had to be a better 
color, and Captain acted as opposition.
	Captain examined the Color records which had been uploaded to the 
sub-collective's dataspaces by the Collective prior to severance.  "A 
short-lived faction.  Disappeared in a spatial anomaly."
	"Lavender."
	"They grow flowers on an asteroid in system As6-3/g.  The flowers are 
given away to passengers at space stations and ports.  Resistance to 
accepting a flower is futile."
	"Tan."
	"Purveyors of the 'Borg Tanning Salon' chain of franchises."
	"Cream."
	"Tracked down and reassimilated."
	"Cauliflower."
	Captain turned to regard Second squarely.  "Cauliflower?"
	"It is a color," defended Second, refusing to return Captain's stare.  
He was stretching the definition of color, and he knew it.
	"Cauliflower.  Met with a mech species #3 individual having a bad day.  
The Color did not survive."  Captain returned to facing the forward 
bulkhead of his nodal intersection, the wall of which, in the old Cube 
#347, had held a viewscreen.  Currently, in lue of actual hardware, a 
holographic window floated.  It reflected the color under discussion, in 
front of which scrolled a visual representation of the data Captain (and 
his partitions) sorted through.
	{We arrive,} announced Sensors the moment the cube exited hypertranswarp 
for its destination, interrupting the Color search, {sensors [table].}
	A picture formed on the holographic screen, displacing the powder blue 
of cauliflower.  Although he did not have the same extreme distaste 
Captain had for sensor grid data sampled directly from the appropriate 
streams, Second nonetheless stopped his pacing to observe over the 
primary consensus monitor's shoulder.  Puce it would be.
	Igyn was an old system, its star shrunken and red with age, located at 
the outer fringes of the Second Federation frontier near the ambiguous 
border between Alpha and Beta Quadrants.  Very little dust and debris 
orbited the star, dross long since swept up in the gravitational 
influence of the system's five planets, else in-fallen to a fiery end; 
and even comet nuclei and asteroids were scarce in comparison to the 
cockroach multitudes such minor planets could achieve elsewhere.  Igyn 4 
itself was the fourth planet of the small system, a world that may have 
once been water-rich with life, but now supported an arid, cold 
environment with a very thin remnant atmosphere.  Life still existed in 
the form of bacteria, hardy fungi, and a few eyeless, wingless, 
deep-burrowing insects.  Sentience, if it had ever arose during the 
golden years of the dying sun's life, had been extinct for such a long 
time that any signs of habitation had long been ground between still 
feebly active tectonic plates, else decayed to a sandy constitute of the 
globe-spanning deserts of what used to be the beds of immense seas.
	A station was in orbit around Igyn 4, a modular affair of Starfleet 
design easily transportable, or left behind in an emergency.  It was 
fairly impressive, as such things went in the universe of small minds, 
and indicated that the conference would occur comfortably in orbit, not 
on the harsh surface below.  Any Starfleet vessels present were either 
buried in the modular mess which was the station or hidden from sensors 
due to approach vector.  However, it was not the absence or presence of 
Second Federation representatives which was prominent in the dataspaces 
of the sub-collective, but rather the wide array of obviously 
Borg-derived vessels.
	The ship types were diverse.  Cubes of various sizes, from boxes a third 
the volume of an Exploratory-class to a lunker fully twenty kilometers an 
edge, filled the viewscreen.  Spheres flitted here and there, one barely 
missing a runabout-sized transport shuttle.  Some Colors had opted for 
nontraditional designs, hence the pyramid and the gigantic soccer ball.  
A rhomboid-faceted  "cube" made a brief appearance, as did a 
dodecahedron.  Geometrical designs were not the only alternative, as 
evidenced by the eclectic collection of Borgified vessels which 
originated from a myriad of races.  One spaceship - the name applicable 
only because it held an atmosphere and was sedately sailing through a 
vacuum - resembled a giant humanoid head.  The Color allegiance of most 
of the vessels was not immediately apparent, although several units, most 
notably reds and whites, had substituted all exterior light strips and 
bulbs to reflect their chosen hue.
	A hail pinged Cube #347, sent on a common subspace frequency.  Captain 
answered it, and the sub-collective found itself confronted not only with 
an audio-visual signal, but a subsignal with the rapid give-and-take 
possible between computers, mech species, and beings such as the Borg 
whom were intimately entwined with their machines.  Captain opened a 
second holographic screen next to the first; and Second turned his head 
slightly to watch it even as the communique echoed inside his mind.
	"Greetings fellow Color.  Transmit your filled out registration packet, 
and we will process you and assign your vessel a parking orbit."  The 
"speaker" was a vacant-eyed female of the rodent-like species #5999, 
Bonoi, heavily cybernized.  Speaker was not quite an accurate term, for 
while the audio component which accompanied the visual stream was of a 
singular synthesized voice, the drone in question never moved her mouth.  
She momentarily focused on her end of the link before cocking her head 
and returning to what was likely several dozen simultaneous conversations 
in the same vein as the one threaded to Cube #347.  She was Teal; and 
Teal thrived upon administrative duties, the more forms to fill out in 
triplicate, the better.  "Registration," prompted the voice again.
	Captain mentally nudged Second, and Second scanned the documents (or, 
rather, a subpartition of command and control scanned the documents) 
before sending them on their electronic way.
	The operator drone on the screen focused her eyes again.  "Thank you 
very much for compliance...Puce?"  Brow wrinkled in consternation as if 
she was registering the return catwalk cam for the first time, which was 
likely the case.  Her forehead smoothed as curiosity was subdued by the 
Teal overmind, returning the operator to her normal state of disinterest 
towards a customer.  "Your orbital slot has been assigned.  Follow to the 
specified coordinates.  Welcome to the Color conference.  A full 
itinerary has also been sent to you.  Note mixer and opening remarks will 
begin in 3.2 hours in the Pulsar Ballroom on the station.  A maximum of 
five drones per Color, only.  Subsequent workshops and seminars are 
allowed the presence of one drone each.  All drones must be labeled by 
Color with a ribbon tied around an arm or comparable body part; stickers 
with personal drone designations are optional."  The transmission was cut 
as information was delivered, the operator moving to her next customer 
with swift efficiency.
	Cube #347 carefully moved towards it assigned orbital slot.

	"I do not want to go."  Pause.  "I refuse to go."  Second was adamant 
even as 101 of 133 finished tying a puce bow on his upper left arm.  
"Stop that," snapped Second irritably as he tried to fend off a 'Hello, 
My Designation Is 3 of 8' sticker.  He was not successful.
	"Don't peel that off," admonished Captain, "and don't remove the 
ribbon."
	Second cocked his head to peer distastefully at the cheery yellow 
sticker with letters of bright puce.  "This is not dignified.  I will not 
go," he repeated.
	Captain sighed.  {You will go,} was the strong multivoice response as 
the combined wills of those who did not have to attend the conference 
linked together.  Second stopped fidgeting, standing stiffly motionless 
as the compulsion settled into his brain, rewiring mental architecture.  
While he was now committed to the conference, it did not stop him from 
shifting his gaze upon Captain, did not stop his feelings upon the matter 
from leaking into the intranets.
	'Damn you,' was a fairly accurate translation.
	Second, along with four other drones from command and control (13 of 31, 
19 of 79, 74 of 480, and 168 of 480), had been randomly chosen to attend 
the conference opener.  Second knew there was nothing truly random about 
the selection, knew it because he had been actively attempting to 
influence the computer to not generate his designation.  However, with 
most of the 700 members of command and control doing likewise, the 
various manipulations were bound to interact unpredictably.  Ironically, 
the massive communal effort to alter randomness into predictability had 
likely spawned a greater degree of chance than might have otherwise been 
true.  At any rate, Second had been a loser in the game, and he was not 
amused.
	Although it was not logical, was far from relevant, he utterly despised 
puce.

	"Say," said a voice to Second, "that's a nice cube your association 
arrived here in.  Top of the line Exploratory-class Mark XXIX, if our 
data is correct.  Just how did you manage to get a hold of one of those?"
	Second swiveled his head sideways to regard the owner of the oily, 
synthetic voice.  It was a human male, Borgified, with a green ribbon 
tied around his biceps.  A Green.  The make-up of the Greens was skewed 
towards humans and Ferrengi, which provided an interesting, if 
irrelevant, insight into what races included a preponderance of 
capitalistic-inclined individuals who believed money to be more important 
than freedom of thought.  Oh, there were many other species extant, which 
made the Greens one of the strongest of the Colors, but humans and 
Ferrengi were linked at the hip when it came to greed.
	"It...fell out of the hold of an old Cargo-class cube," responded Second 
after a moment of hesitation.  There were several drones in the 
sub-collective with a less than saintly background, and it was them 
Second was drawing his answers from, as well as his own pre-assimilated 
life.
	The Green mused, "Just fell out of a hold, did it?"
	"Yes."  The word was chopped, curt.
	"You think you might be willing to sell it to us?" inquired the Green, 
'you' spoken in the plural mode.
	"No.  It is our transport."
	"Are you sure?  We have this cherry of a Battle-class you might like.  
Only a century old.  Low, low light years.  Smooth transmission to 
hypertranswarp.  Plenty of space for your Color to grow.  Maybe it needs 
a minor overhaul on the sensor grid on one face, perhaps some new armor 
and a little dash of paint, but other than that, excellent condition.  
Interested?  Give me a port protocol, and we'll send over the specs."  
The drone smiled insincerely.  Except for the lack of bowtie and greasy 
haircut, he resembled a certain used-shuttle dealer prominent on subspace 
TV commercials until a short time ago.  Second squinted an eye as the 
drone's image was stilled and dissected:  it /was/ the vanished owner of 
a now defunct and bank repossessed shuttle lot in Second Federation 
space.
	"We are sure.  No."
	The Green sighed.  "Well, if you change your minds, just give us a hail 
at frequency Z126.75.  Or, if other Collective vessels just happen to 
fall out of future Cargo-classes or float away from dry-docks, if you get 
my meaning, we would be very interested in hearing about it.  We could 
have a wonderful working relationship, us Green and you Puce."  The smile 
returned, only emphasizing the fact that Borg were more presentable when 
no expression was allowed.
	"We will keep it in mind."
	The drone clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, twice.  "Be 
sure that you do.  Good conference, eh?  Oh!  Someone we need to talk to.  
We'll be seeing you again."  The Green gave a dismissive wave, then 
stalked predator-fashion across the floor towards a singular drone with a 
pink bow tied around her arm.  The Pink saw the Green, and immediately 
melted into the milling crowd.  The Green relentlessly pursued.
	Nearly 500 drones were packed into the cavernous Pulsar Ballroom, which 
not only reflected the number of Colors which attended the conference, 
but also the extreme schisms the Hive had undergone during its years of 
existence.  Although it was technologically simple, merely a matter of 
realigning the broadcast frequency of a neural transceiver, drones not of 
the same Color did not talk to each other through the intimate link of 
subspace fractals.  Vocal was a very inefficient way to communicate, but 
the Colored Minds were all paranoid concerning drones not of Self riding 
their transmission frequencies, possibly eavesdropping.  There was an 
undeclared war between factions, as well as between Collective and 
factions, which involved trying to intercept important data, but it was 
not publicly acknowledged, hence the verbal talking among drones in the 
ballroom, creating a mishmash of interlocked conversations.
	A diverse selection of species was represented in the gathering.  
Besides the ubiquitous humanoid form, separable only by differences in 
cranial morphology, other, more exotic races circulated within the crowd, 
shrouded by Borg hardware.  Thus far, the Cube #347 delegation had seen 
an amphibious octopoid Dromela, an insectoid species #6766, and a centaur 
reptiloid species #9442.  The odd three-legged gait of a single species 
#8472 was distinctive; several volunteers had allowed the Hive to crack 
the assimilation problem of the fluidic space species, but it had not 
been known by the Collective that any of the rarely encountered race was 
a Color member.
	While the Colors generally mixed freely, there were exceptions.  Most 
conspicuous were the closely related delegations of Plaid and Polka-dot.  
Wide spaces were provided to the respective members, even by the Reds, 
and very few drones attempted to strike up conversations with these 
notables.  Neither was quite right in the cortical node, or so it was 
whispered.
	Second was forced to engage in several long minutes of talk with a 
forlorn Blue, listening to a long list of depressing reasons highlighting 
the dreariness of the universe.  The only reason the Blues had not 
followed the suicidal Blacks into oblivion was the effort involved to 
break their funk and take action:  it was surprising the Color had 
exerted itself to attend the conference.  Second managed to lead the Blue 
to a decorative pillar, edging away to leave the drone minutely 
cataloguing numerous minor malfunctions of his limb assemblies to the 
ever-attentive post.  Second had a task to perform.
	The five members of Cube #347, Collective infiltrators, were circulating 
through the crowd.  They were eavesdropping on conversations in an 
attempt to learn the specific purpose of the conference, as well as 
gather as much information as possible concerning Color endeavors and 
locations.  Except for 74 of 480, who had been trapped the moment of 
arrival by a loquacious White trying to obtain Color defectors, the 
conference was a treasure trove of data.  Well, a treasure trove except 
none knew why the Second Federation had sponsored it nor what the 
Starfleet representatives, yet to be seen, had planned.
	Second passed a hastily erected booth situated at the edge of the Pulsar 
Ballroom, one of a dozen promoting various services or equipment 
specialized by a Color.  This particular stand was somewhat different in 
that it was a multiColor endeavor.  A banner read "1254 of 1613's 
Unite!"; and all the drones gathered near the booth sported fancy magnets 
stuck on torso or cranium which said "My designation is 1254 of 1613, and 
proud of it!"  Each Color maintained a separate designation system, and 
so it was not unexpected for drones of differing Color to be assigned the 
same number.  However, one did not expect a social society to exist 
promoting a particular designation.
	Second briskly proceeded by the booth, unmolested as his sticker 
proclaimed his designation to be 3 of 8.  Further down the row, 13 of 31 
perused an extensive selection of earrings, bracelets, and trendy torso 
magnets, pseudo-stone insets colored to match the wide range of hues 
present at the conference.
	{No,} sent Second.  {The decorations are irrelevant.}
	13 of 31 blinked, shook her head, and regretfully turned away to make 
another pass through the crowd.
	At one end of the Pulsar Ballroom was erected a temporary stage.  Upon 
the stage was a microphone, a podium, and a number of portable 
holoprojector units.  Motion on the state in the form of three freshly 
transportered bodies attracted the attention of the crowd, and silence 
reigned as the Colors terminated conversations to regard the entrance.  
Second elbowed his way to the front of the mob, an action reflected by 
other drones as the collective mind behind each Color positioned units 
for optimal viewing.
	Two human males and a Bajoran female stood on the stage, the latter 
sporting a plain earring dangling from her ear.  All were dressed neck to 
toe in black, not a service stripe nor rank pin to be seen.  Prominently 
holstered at their hips were heavy-duty phasers, of which Second was sure 
would work quite well should the crowd become boisterous.  Centered on 
the front of the holster belt, just below navel, were small black boxes 
recognized as the personal shield technology available to nonBorg in this 
century.  There were surely less obvious technologies protecting the trio 
as well, for Second Federation civilians, not to mention the military 
Starfleet, used several classes of surgical implants to augment the body; 
and invisible specs of nanotechnology surely swam in their veins as a 
deterrent (one surmountable with sufficient time and adaptive effort) to 
assimilation.  Sensors relayed the presence of heavily encoded fractal 
band communications linking the Starfleeters to their still unseen ship, 
codes which the sub-collective alone would not be able to break without 
the help from a Greater Consciousness they dared not contact.
	The central male advanced upon the microphone.  He flicked it several 
times with a finger, eliciting thumps from speakers hidden in the 
ballroom walls.
	"Hello.  Testing, testing.  Testing one, two, three.  This thing on?" 
the human asked, a sequence as old as the first microphone to be 
developed in the cosmos.
	The Bajoran rolled her eyes at her companion.  Words must have passed 
from her to the other human on their personal transmission band for the 
man not at the microphone had his lips pressed tightly together in an 
effort not to laugh aloud.  He succeeded, except for an aborted snort 
which the speaker elected to ignore.
	"Welcome all who could make it to the Color conference.  I am one of 
your hosts and will be the chief coordinator.  You may refer to me as 
Brian O'hare," said the human in an accent which, despite the language 
homogenization of the species for a thousand years, had not disappeared.  
Irish was the archaic label.
	"The keynote speech will occur in approximately 18 hours, at which time 
we of Second Federation Starfleet will tell you our primary reason for 
extending this invitation.  Rest assured you will not be disappointed; 
and rest assured it will not favor the Borg Collective.  Until then, we 
have sponsored a number of seminars and workshops at which various of you 
will be speaking on a variety of exciting topics.  Please consult your 
itinerary, and check with Teal representatives for updates to the 
schedule.  For now, you are encouraged to continue interacting at this 
opening event.  The first seminar set will begin in the White Dwarf Rooms 
in an hour."
	The man stepped back, replaced by the Bajoran woman.  Her voice rang 
over the speaker system.  "Before we go, there are several announcements.  
First, Teal reminds you to keep your ship in your designated orbits, 
unless you have filed flight plans to the contrary.  Additionally, 
consult your itineraries /before/ you ask the Color a schedule question 
which can be learned by simply accessing the text object.
	"Purple requests that Igyn 4 not be used as a dump for radiomutagenic 
waste due to the presence of several unique fungi species.  If you must 
dump waste, do so at Igyn 2 where Purple will be setting up a temporary 
recycling facility.
	"And, finally, Lime sends regrets that the Color can not attend due to a 
spatial rift swallowing their central unimatrix complex."
	Messages delivered, the Starfleeters beamed away, leaving the stage 
empty.  The social returned to its formerly noisy state.

	"...scavenging capability of this 5' nanoprobe variant can be used to 
collect specific iron species from organic body components, most notably 
neural tissue, gastrointestinal..." monotonously lectured the Ultraviolet 
drone behind the Nova Room 3 podium.
	Second's eyes were open, but he, at least, was far from home.  His body 
was standing next to the back wall, limbs locked, one of many drones in 
the room set aside for lectures with the theme "Nanomachines - New Uses 
For An Old Technology."  He had very little interest in the jargon laced 
presentation, and had distanced his mentality from his body.  Such was 
not to say his body was an empty shell, for others of the sub-collective, 
namely members of assimilation, drone maintenance, and engineering, were 
avidly using it as an observation post.
	The seminar was only one of several dozen occurring throughout the 
station complex., ranging from "Telemarketing Methods to Entice the 
Unassimilated to Your Color" to "Ramifications of Quasi-Transdimensional 
Spatial-Temporal Rift Junctions Through Cosmic String Influenced 
N-space."  One room was even packed with Plaids and Polka-dots for a 
spirited discourse on spoons, watering cans, and bunny slippers.  Sensors 
was attending that particular presentation series and claiming it was a 
highly interesting debate about advanced sensor grid application, 
although how cardboard replications of kitchen appliances fit, none 
except Sensors was sure.
	"I said," whispered a voice, "interesting, eh?"  The question was 
accompanied by a slight elbow nudge.
	Second returned to his body, beating back the observers riding his 
senses amid much protest.  {You retain plenty of bandwidth,} he snarled, 
{and it /is/ my personal body.  You don't see me "helping" an engineering 
drone tighten rivets nor "assisting" in surgery, do you?  No, I don't 
think so.}  Second unlocked his joints, turning his head slightly to the 
side and shifting an eye.  His neighbor was Peach.
	"...by altering the electrostatic field 0.08 microReins, chromium ions 
may be transported..."
	Second returned the whisper, "So believes certain of my sub-collective."
	"Ah," replied the other in understanding, "same here.  Personally, I 
could care less about this presentation; and without requesting remedial 
files to understand the remedial files, I do not have a chance of 
understanding.  My comprehension, however, is irrelevant  This drone is 
just a conduit."
	Second had found a suffering comrade!  He would have nodded his head in 
agreement, except the crowd in his head refused to allow the picture to 
shake.  As it was, he had been forced to return all four eyes to a 
viewscreen which was displaying nanoprobles herding jiggling xenon atoms.  
"Same here."
	The two stared in companionable silence for the next ten minutes.
	"...and so concludes this presentation of expansion of 5' nanoprobe 
scavenging."  The overhead lights brightened as the holographic screen 
was disengaged.  "Any questions?"
	Second winced as voices arose in his mind, each with a question for the 
Ultraviolet drone.  There were too many inquiries for Second's single 
mouth.  He shook his head.  {Beam here and ask yourselves,} responded 
Second to the clamoring.  {This was the last talk of the series, and I am 
no longer forced to stay here.}  Beside him, the Peach drone must have 
been going through the same tribulation.  Seconds later, several 
transporter beams disgorged Puce and Peach beribboned drones, breaking 
the rule of one Color representative per Room.
	"The keynote speech is scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes.  Meet you 
at coordinates 26-103 in the Pulsar Ballroom?" asked the Peach.
	"Yes," was Second's curt reply even as he locked a transporter on 
himself.  Moments later he was at the appropriate location, companion 
materializing nearby.
	"Glad to be out of there," sighed the Peach.  "Nice to meet you, the 
individual and the Color.  My designation is 26 of 82, sensory block."  
26 of 82 was species #7831, a humanoid species that when encountered "in 
the wild" was covered with a fuzzy lavender fur.  Although the fur was 
long gone, the drone's revealed epidermis still reflected a hint of 
purple luster under the predominance of mottled gray.  Other than the 
unusual hair, species #7831 was typical, a cranial structure which 
included bony projections on the thrust forward lower jaw a defining 
characteristic.  The implant array which shrouded half the face and 
dominated the left arm supported the drone's claim to be modified for a 
primarily sensory function.
	"My designation is 3 of 8, subdesignated Second, command and control 
hierarchy," returned Second.
	26 of 82 snorted, "A head honcho of your sub-collective, eh?  Doesn't 
seem to have gotten you out of duties as a listening post."
	"One must do as one is tasked for the Whole.  My duty as secondary 
facilitator is not required at the moment.  However, we do require eyes 
and ears at this conference."  Second shrugged.
	"The story of my assimilation," muttered 26 of 82, the suggestion of a 
smirk threatening to put an expression on his half-face.
	The Pulsar Ballroom was beginning to fill in expectation of the 
Starfleet keynote speech.  Second and 26 of 82 searched for a communal 
vantage point agreeable to both their respective sub-collectives, finally 
settling near a holographic projector.  There was a clear view of the 
stage, as well as a nearby wall speaker.  Unfortunately, also near was a 
Green booth promoting a wide variety of semi-humorous stickers ranging 
from lapel size to a picture of a bumper sticker sufficiently large 
enough to attach to a Lugger-class cube; and the booth was doing a brisk 
business.  As the two drones waited for Starfleet to put in an 
appearance, they talked.
	"I still can't believe the appearance of that last Ultraviolet speaker," 
mused Second.  "One would swear her lower arm assembly had been installed 
upside-down."
	26 of 82 hesitated before answering, likely reviewing the presentation.  
"You know, I think you are correct.  Ultraviolet /is/ known for 
scientific inquiry and the cerebral excellence of its drones.  I guess 
the Color, in all its exalted wisdom, neglected to include drones for 
scutwork assignment such as assimilation or drone maintenance.  Either 
that, or the Color has never noticed it constructs its drones wrongly."
	The thought was amusing, but Second did not allow himself to laugh.  It 
would not be dignified.  Instead, he nodded in acknowledgment.  "We have 
a question, if you would so oblige," said Second, his change to the 
plural indicating a query which was collective in nature, not personal.  
Back to gathering information.
	26 of 82 waved a hand.  "Go ahead."
	"We retain records of Peach, but they are scanty beyond the fact your 
Color exists.  What is your primary function?"
	26 of 82 shrugged.  "We find things out.  Investigate, but not 
scientific investigation, mind you.  For instance, say Green has loaned 
credit to an unassimilated individual of dubious nature, and that 
individual disappears when it comes time to repay that loan.  We find out 
where the individual has retired.  Another example - a company requires 
sensitive information of an industrial nature from a rival corporation.  
We will retrieve that information.  It is what we do:  investigation."
	Second made the proper noises of understanding as the data was absorbed.  
The explanation might explain why all the Peach drones thus far observed 
had a similar implant suite as 26 of 82, as well as why the Peach cube 
bristled with an extensive sensory grid.
	"And you, Puce, what is the function of your Color?" reciprocated 26 of 
82.
	The question was not unexpected.  On the way to Igyn 4, the 
sub-collective had created a set of likely inquiries that might be asked, 
as well as devised answers.  Their cover would not be broken easily.
	Second said, "We get things done that others would prefer not to do."  
Ironically, the description was exactly what Cube #347 did, assuming one 
substituted "the Collective" for "others."
	"Expediters.  What is your sub-specialty?  There are many expediter 
Colors."
	"We are a small Color of limited resources.  We do whatever tasks we can 
find.  Radioactive feces cleanup was our most recent assignment."  The 
answer did not promote deeper conversation upon the subject, although 
such could be provided to minute detail if the questioner persisted.
	The Peach grimaced in disgust.  "We, and this drone, understand."  The 
topic was dropped.
	Ballroom lights dimmed; conversations ceased:  it was time for the 
keynote address.  On the stage materialized the same three Starfleeters 
who had opened the conference.  Brian O'hare, who had been glimpsed on 
occasion in the station's hallways asking if the conference was to a 
particular Color's liking, stepped forward.  He wore a large smile.  
"Greetings, Colors!  I know your general mindset concerning the 
irrelevancy of small talk, so I will begin immediately with the reason 
Second Federation Starfleet sponsored this conference.  We believe we 
have devised a way to rid the galaxy of the Borg Collective scourge 
without affecting you Colors, and we need input concerning the design of 
the project."
	A holographic screen sprang to life behind and slightly above the trio 
on the stage.  Data scrolled at an astounding rate of speed, creating a 
backdrop for a rotating fractal shape.  "Each Color has now been sent a 
copy of what Starfleet research and development is calling the Eradicator 
virus.  Go ahead and open your package.  The virus is perfectly harmless, 
the payload inactive until we send a subspace sequence which I will 
detail later in this address.  And when activated, the virus is 
intelligent enough to look for several key Borg-only indicators lacked by 
Colors.  Thus, collectives without the markers will not be infected."
	Cube #347 fielded a data package sent on the Teal administrative 
frequency and carefully opened it.  From it sprang the most beautiful, 
the most complex, the most potentially malevolent bundle of code the 
sub-collective had ever personally seen.  The slumbering creature was 
hideous, was exquisite, was radiant in a manner only a digital-immersed 
consciousness could appreciate.
	"So, where you from?" hissed 26 of 82.
	Second blinked, realizing he had been spoken to.  On the stage, the 
human was talking, detailing a general overview of the virus' 
capabilities, specifics to follow.  He seemed oblivious to the fact most 
of his audience was not attentive, each Mind turned inward to examine the 
deadly animal delivered to their metaphorical doorsteps.
	"The virus, yes.  Been there, done that," the Peach said with 
incongruous dismissal.  "I guess as a facilitator type it must hit you a 
bit harder than a sensory drone like me.  Leave it to rear-brain 
run-time.  Parallel process.  You have the facilities to multi-task your 
personality, don't you?"
	Threads were created, data processing and facilitator functions 
separated from the kernel of self which was Second.  "Yes.  Processing.  
Yes, I can.  The virus is...unique.  We are intrigued.  I am able to 
extract myself.  What did you say?"
	"We understand.  It /is/ a stupendous carnivore, is it not?  I was just 
asking where you, your Color, was from.  You are small, as you said 
earlier, but I though we knew of all Colors.  Of Puce we have not heard."
	"Puce fractured from Hive shortly before the Borg resurrection event.  
We existed on an abandoned colony in Delta sector 256, grid 18j0 until 
recently, when the cube we use...fell out of a cargo hold."  Second's 
response was more mechanical than usual, part of his personality still 
entwined in communal scrutiny of the virus code.  Still, the answer was 
another of the stock replies designed prior to arrival.  The sector-grid 
location was a galactic backwater with a sparse population of red and 
black dwarfs, a region largely devoid of higher lifeforms, much less 
sentience.  It was too poor in material to attract the attention of 
potential colonizers and of no strategic significance.
	The Peach verbally probed, "Delta section 256, grid 18j0?  Then you know 
of Lime.  They are nearby - practically neighbors - at grid 18k3.  
Horrible thing, that rift."
	{Lime?} queried Second, forcing the sub-collective to focus upon his 
developing dilemma.  {A little help here would be appreciated.}  Lime was 
not in the Collective Color files the cube had acquired from the Greater 
Consciousness.  The existence of Lime had not even been known prior to 
the announcement during the opening remarks.  The missing data was not 
unexpected, it known some Colors were created through the fission of 
existent factions, which would account for the information hole if Lime 
was one of these fractions.  To have Lime so close to the fictional home 
of Puce, however....  New lies were devised on the fly in an emergency 
attempt to rectify the situation.
	Second did not notice the piercing stare 26 of 82 was giving him; and 
neither did the other pseudoPuce in the room see they had a Peach lurking 
nearby.  Also overlooked was the fact there were quite a few more Peaches 
in the ballroom audience than the mandated five drones per Color.
	On the stage, the address continued, Starfleeters heedless.
	"Horrible waste of resources," spouted Second.  "It will take a long 
time for Lime to recover."
	A wide half-smile, an evil half-smile, stretched across 26 of 82's face.  
Species #7831 had the even, sharp teeth of a piscivore.  "You should 
know," conversationally replied the Peach drone, "that there is no such 
Color as Lime.  The Borg Collective should really add that information to 
its files.  Peach finds things out; and, in this case, we have found a 
Collective infiltrator, haven't we, fictitious Puce?"
	"Um, whoops?" said Second.  The other four members of the sub-collective 
present in the ballroom noticed they also had Peach drones staring at 
them, although none sported the wicked grin of 26 of 82.  On the stage, 
the speaker had stopped:  his head and that of his escort was cocked to 
the side, as if listening to unheard words, very similar to the position 
often adopted by drones receiving instruction from the Collective.  The 
various Colors in the crowd were peering at each other, unsure what was 
happening.
	At the microphone, Brian cleared his throat loudly, "Excuse me, Colors, 
and excuse the interruption.  I have just been informed of a breach in 
security.  Apparently the Borg Collective has infiltrated the conference 
in the guise of Puce.  We will be reviewing our records to determine how 
this occurred.  In the meantime, Teal is providing you with the orbital 
slot of the Collective vessel, and we request that it be destroyed.  Make 
sure the appropriate fractal frequencies are jammed, as well.  Starfleet 
does request prisoners, but my superiors and I understand if such is not 
possible.
	"Once this incident is contained, the keynote address will continue."
	26 of 82 titled his head curiously, "You are imperfectly assimilated, 
are you not?  Is that how the Collective managed to infiltrate without 
risking the sanity of a sub-collective?"
	Around Second, around the other "Puce" in the room, drones were 
pivoting; and in space, Cube #347 was reading an increase in energy 
output from surrounding vessels as idled cores were powered up.  Second 
grabbed the ribbon on his arm, pulling it off and dropping it.  "Sorry, 
can't stay to chat.  Imminent termination and all that.  I don't like 
puce, and never did in the first place.  Gotta go."  Cube #347 reclaimed 
the missing members of its sub-collective moments before a transporter 
dampening field was initiated on the station.
	It was a long chase, fraught with explosives, feints, and use of exotic 
weaponry.  Eventually, however, Cube #347 escaped from pursuers and their 
jammers to relay the pertinent data to the Collective.  The 
sub-collective had a lot of experience running away, after all, that was 
when they were most efficient.  Too bad the Color Yellow and that 
expertise were already claimed.