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			    Door to Door

	The NaJur - species #10009 - colony was in the sights of Cube #347.  A 
wet, swampy world, it was in the midst of terraforming to the desired 
endpoint of hot sands and salt plains.  The single settlement of 
scientists, technicians, and support personnel was largely hidden 
underground in the planet's lone, small desert, the tips of environmental 
domes and ventilation shafts marking the location.
	Cube #347 slid into orbit.  As it did so, the "defense" fleet of four 
tugs, two converted shuttles, and a long-range mining vessel attacked.  
The seven ships were unmanned, the average NaJur not particularly liking 
the concept of travel beyond a naturally produced atmosphere and gravity 
well, and so allowed their machines a high degree of autonomy.  The 
robots with their pitiful assemblage of comm lasers, low-powered particle 
beams, and tractor beams were swiftly dispatched - target practice.  Next 
to be destroyed was the small constellation of weather and GPS 
satellites.  Finally, with three surgical neurupter strikes from orbit, 
the colony's subspace communication array was demolished, isolating the 
inhabitants.
	The behavior the sub-collective of Cube #347 demonstrated were the 
textbook actions of assault leading to assimilation.  However, 
assimilation was not the sub-collective's priority; and with their link 
to the Collective inoperable at the end of the Greater Consciousness, the 
Whole did not know of the attack, did not know where the cube was 
located.
	The cube achieved geosynchronous orbit above the colony complex, then 
set the sensor grid to maximum range to watch for incoming ships, just in 
case the NaJur's aborted call for help had been heard.
	<< Begin primary root protocol one - sales.  Relevant technologies 
applicable to species #10009 - Tupperware, vacuum cleaners, Encyclopedia 
Galactica on synthetic crystal media, sports and home improvement 
magazine subscriptions, and hair products.  Relevant sales techniques 
applicable to species #10009 - door to door and demonstrations, >> echoed 
as One in the sub-collective intranets as the primary root protocol 
initiated.  Drones bustled, readying samples.
	A lone beacon, the last piece of intact NaJur hardware in orbit, sped 
between cube and planet, broadcasting an automated message of "No 
Solicitations Permitted On These Premises."  The basketball sized object 
dissolved into vapor under the overpowered onslaught of a quantum 
torpedo.
	They were Borg.  Resistance to solicitation was futile.
	And it was all 10 of 203's fault.

		*	*	*	*	*

	Cube #347 was on its way to unimatrix 005.  Following escape from the 
Colored hoards of the Starfleet sponsored Color conference and 
transmittal of virus information, the cube had been ordered to the 
complex.  The purpose of treking to the unimatrix was to examine certain 
systems in detail and make small tweaks to increase efficiency, a process 
all new cubes underwent and one better done at dry-dock facilities.
	The trip to unimatrix 005 required ten cycles at hypertranswarp; and the 
Greater Consciousness had neglected to command the sub-collective drones 
to regenerative stasis.  This oversight meant ten days of time to waste, 
ten days of increasing boredom for Captain and Second to counter.  Not 
every drone could be accounted for at all times, especially those that 
actively hid their pastimes from the censure programs.
	10 of 203 was of assimilation affiliation.  Like much of her hierarchy, 
she exhibited what could best be described as a mental aberration, and at 
worst a strong neurosis.  Assimilation was the neglected hierarchy, often 
ignored and left on its own, its services not needed.  For this reason, 
most of the hierarchy drones had turned inward, gnawing in frustration at 
their own minds the same way a trapped animal might chew off its own leg.  
However, unlike the animal, there was no escape from the Collective.  In 
this case, 10 of 203 was highly compulsive, which could be construed as a 
desirable Borg trait, but not always.
	A copy of the Starfleet Eradicator virus remained quiescent in the 
assimilation portion of the dataspaces.  In the normal scheme of things, 
it was assimilation hierarchy's job to not only transform individuals 
into drones and crack resisting computers, but to perform the initial 
electronic dissection of captured data in order to further Borg 
understanding of an opponent.  The Greater Consciousness, however, would 
not leave the vital task of comprehending a new and potentially harmful 
virus to those imperfectly assimilated and, thus, had directed Eradicator 
to remain in the electronic equivalent of hibernation.
	10 of 203 was fascinated by the virus.  In preassimilated life she had 
been a cryptographer, a person who worked with codes, both creating them 
and breaking them.  Her specialty had been fractal-based security 
algorithms, knowledge which had been absorbed and put to use by the 
Collective in the ongoing war to stop nonBorg elements from intercepting 
and understanding Borg communications.
	Convincing herself that she could assist the Collective by analyzing the 
virus' structure had been easy for 10 of 203; self-rationalization was a 
routine constituent in generation of unnecessary impulses among the 
imperfectly assimilated.  More difficult had been sequestering a copy of 
Eradicator for her own use, carving a dataspace pocket opaque to other 
sub-collective members, and especially those partitions of command and 
control which scoured the dataspaces for hidden nuggets of illicit data.  
10 of 203 had the manic energy of obsession fueling her, however, and the 
subterfuge was successful.
	Faced with the virus, 10 of 203 began her investigations.  Eradicator 
was harmless without the activation sequence, but that did not mean it 
would readily give up its secrets.  The virus itself was a complex tangle 
of code, a giant, self-replicating program designed to wreck havoc upon 
the Collective.  10 of 203 focused her attention on the payload, 
isolating blocks of code for close perusal.  The problem with this method 
was that 10 of 203 was forced to examine snapshots, not the living virus.  
In order to most efficiently see how one line of code interacted with 
another, it was necessary to at least partially animate the creature.
	Drawing upon her extensive experience, as well as whatever she could 
covertly skim from local cube archives without exposing her intent, 10 of 
203 surgically altered Eradicator.  The most important thing was to 
neuter the virus to stop reproduction and to pull the payload's teeth to 
prevent infection.  Snip here, tuck there, reroute, splice.  10 of 203 
altered her virus copy to her satisfaction, then enlarged her secret 
dataspace pocket to be of sufficient size to allow the virus freedom of 
movement and action.  10 of 203 was essentially creating a zoo cage for 
her dangerous charge.  The last thing she added to her prison was a 
"port" for observation.
	The activation sequence was inserted into the cage.
	10 of 203 watched the virus stir, nervously monitoring command and 
control exchanges for a hint her project had been discovered.  With 
mounting excitement she watched through her window as the beast awoke, 
previously static snapshots interacting dynamically.  10 of 203 then 
mentally frowned:  the virus was beginning to explore its cage, and it 
was exhibiting unpredicted actions.
	The manic surgery had created loose ends, inducing new variations into 
the virus' software.  The original payload had been neutralized, but a 
new one was built as Eradicator attempted to repair its compromised code.
	The virus leapt around its cage, finally finding and squeezing through 
the observation port.  It swiftly expanded into the dataspaces.  Its 
actions were not subtle as it burrowed through software defenses, looking 
for the root protocols that influenced major aspects of sub-collective 
behavior.  The response of the Greater Consciousness was immediate:  
severance of the infected unit until such time said unit was destroyed or 
could demonstrate virus eradication.  The Collective could afford to lose 
a resource or two, preferring to remove a limb before gangrenous tissue 
infected the rest of the body.
	The sub-collective was helpless as the virus shifted cube code to a 
configuration more its liking, settling into its new home despite initial 
attacks from hunter-seeker programs.  10 of 203's attempt to neuter the 
virus had been successful, for the reproductive component on its code was 
not initiated.  However, that observation was the only silver lining.  
What the original payload had been designed to accomplish was unknown, 
but the virus retained the ability to identify the cube as a viable Borg 
target and alter the sub-collective's root programs.  A new mantra rose 
from the dark depths of Borg prime code.
	"We are Borg.  You will accept from us one of these fine magazine 
subscriptions, products, or other biological, technological, or cultural 
non-necessity to add to yourself.  Resistance to solicitation is futile."

		*	*	*	*	*

	The drones of Cube #347 beamed down to the colony en masse.  Fully half 
the crew compliment was sent, a mixture heavy with weapons and 
assimilation hierarchies, although all divisions were represented.  The 
colony population itself numbered barely twice the invasion force; and of 
that, the only personnel of even a vague military nature were the 
half-dozen law enforcement officers who primarily broke up domestic 
disputes, locked up the occasional drunk until sobriety returned, and 
made sure adolescents behaved themselves.
	The NaJur were reminiscent of large daddy long-legs spiders - eight 
walking legs attached to an ovoid central body.  They were not 
insectoids, however, but mammalian.  Each leg, if fully extended, was 
nearly two meters long, although, like a spider, the knee joints were 
positioned well above the main body.  The knee joints did not quite top 
the one meter mark and the body itself was held about sixty centimeters 
above the ground.  The dimensions of the body were difficult to determine 
due to a thick coat of long, silky, ivory hair.  A pair of blue eyes rose 
on stalks from the forefront of the body, and a pair of arms, as long as 
the legs, but folded accordion style with many joints, was underslung the 
body.  Other sensory organs were hidden under the tangle of hair.
	The colony's streets were silent, empty.  Among the ranks of waiting 
drones materialized boxes of all sizes.  Two thousand points of view 
provided an extensive survey of the area, from the vehicle bays to wide 
boulevards to a public restroom.
	Captain slowly panned his location, noting the presence of residential 
complexes.  He increased the gain on his aural implants, listening.  The 
sound of crewing thundered in his ears, followed by a hollow pop.
	{54 of 83,} rebuked Captain to the drone less than three meters to his 
right, {how many times have you been reminded about chewing gum, 
especially when in public?  Borg are not supposed to chew gum; and Borg 
are not supposed to blow bubbles.}
	54 of 83 retorted weakly, {But it is strawberry...}
	{Get rid of it.  Now.}
	54 of 83 removed the pink wad from his mouth, carefully sticking it 
behind an ear for safe keeping.  {Compliance.}
	Captain groaned.  {That is just wrong, 54 of 83.}  Pushing the topic to 
the back of his mind, Captain again concentrated on listening.  From all 
around came the ambient noises of environmental conditioners drying and 
heating air to keep the atmosphere comfortable for the NaJur inhabitants.  
Whispered hisses and dull thumps echoed in the directin of the squat 
residential cubicles.
	The assault detail waited nearly motionless as additional data flowed 
from units scattered around the compound.  Finally all parameters were 
satisfied.
	{Begin solicitation.  Resistance is futile,} intoned Captain.  Two 
thousand drones set into motion.

	The three young adult NaJur technicians - roommates - huddled together 
in the corner of their apartment leisure room.  Their legs were tangled, 
making it nearly impossible to tell which limb belonged to whom; and 
their eyes were wide orbs of pale turquoise atop stiff stalks.  None of 
the trio had spoken, but if thoughts could be vocalized, the three would 
likely be questioning why they had not been assimilated.
	In the center of the leisure room stood what appeared to be a toadstool 
made of metal with ten steel clamps spaced equidistantly around the cap 
circumference.  The NaJur were not of the bipedal form, and, thus, could 
not be expected to be suitably restrained on the standard platform.  The 
Collective was nothing if not thorough, however, and the proper equipment 
to control the spiderlike species #10009 was a standard component of 
inventory, even on a cube of imperfectly assimilated.  Flanking the 
device were two assimilation hierarchy drones and two weapons drones, 
including Weapons himself.
	Weapons raised an arm, controled from using the disrupter embedded in 
his limb only due to the iron shackles of the perverted root command.  
"One unit - step forward," ordered Weapons.  None of the three NaJur 
complied; and, if possible, tried to push further into the wall.  "One 
unit will step forward."
	It was readily apparent none of the trio would willingly submit, a scene 
common within households all through the colony.  With a flick of his 
mind, Weapons harshly ordered the two assimilation members forward, then 
settled, arm aimed, in a position of readiness.  123 of 212 mirrored her 
hierarchy head's stance.
	68 of 212 and 95 of 300 moved forward, each grasping the limbs of a 
NaJur individual and pulling.  Suddenly realizing his deteriorating 
situation, the captured NaJur began to struggle, long legs unexpectedly 
strong considering the fact each was no thicker than the wrist of the 
average humanoid.  Resistance was futile.  The assimilation members 
easily positioned the NaJur on the metal toadstool and swiftly snapped 
cuffs snug around each leg.  Finally the arms were forced to extend, the 
ninth and tenth clamp closed to complete the restraint process.  Through 
it all, Weapons and 123 of 212 remained on guard, motionless, in case the 
duo still against the wall decided to attempt something stupidly heroic.
	"What...what are you going to do to me?" asked the confined NaJur with 
trembling voice.  His words were muffled, the mouth, just forward the 
arms, having limited mobility.  Whereas before his eyestalks had been 
stiff, now they frantically moved every which way, trying to keep track 
of each of the four drones.  "Just kill me!  I don't wanna be 
assimilated!  This is torture!"
	While 95 of 300 rechecked the restraints, 68 of 212 turned towards a 
small pile of plastic crates.  Each box was approximately twenty 
centimeters high by twenty-five centimeters wide by forty centimeters 
long.  The lid, which easily snapped on and off, was removed.  Inside 
waited several rows of multicolored bottles accompanied by the smell of 
fresh flowers and the distinctive antiseptic scent of cleanliness.  68 of 
212 peered at 95 of 300, hand hovering just above the box.
	95 of 300 carefully considered the NaJur's pale hair, then inhaled 
deeply, "Slightly oily, very fine.  Something with a hint of jasmine 
would best compliment the customer's natural scent."
	"We agree," replied 68 of 212 as he seized a pair of bottles, one 
labeled "shampoo" in delicate Borg script, a word not used for nearly 
eight and a half millennia, and the other "conditioner."
	68 of 212 held the two bottles, stepping across the room to stand 
directly before the NaJur.  "Attend this drone," he ordered.  The NaJur's 
eyes continued to jerk erratically, focusing on nothing for more than a 
few seconds,  "Attend this drone."  Weapons pivoted and fired a 
low-powered disrupter burst into the ceiling over the restraint chair, 
causing flecks of plaster to fall.  The eyestalks swing forward to center 
of 68 of 212.
	The bottles were displayed.  "Gentlebeing," said 68 of 212 dully and 
with an even cadence, "here we have shampoo and conditioner unlike any 
you have ever tried before.  Let us demonstrate."  The products were 
handed to 95 of 300, who upended the shampoo onto the hair of the captive 
NaJur.  Lather rose in frothy bubbles as fingers worked the soap into the 
ivory tangle.
	68 of 212 continued, "The no-liquid lather of the Jasmine Days line of 
shampoo product is a necessity for a culture such as yours which uses 
only a minimum amount of water.  The scents of jasmine entwined with 
lavender refreshes the mind at the same time a combination of 
nanomachines and vitamin A recharges your hair and brings out its natural 
luster."  As 68 of 212 talked, 95 of 300 continued what, to a NaJur, was 
a full body massage.  The NaJur, however, was not relaxing.  "After five 
minutes of exposure to air, the nanomachines break down the shampoo into 
gaseous compounds, leaving your hair clean and unoily.  The nanomachines 
subsequently denature.  At this time, conditioner is recommended."
	95 of 300 carefully squeezed pale yellow conditioner into his hands, 
then began to knead it into the hair.  The flowery smell of lilac filled 
the air.
	"Jasmine is replaced by essence of lilac in the conditioner product, 
enhancing both scents.  The conditioner is a leave-in product, and will 
continue to add life and gloss to your hair all through a busy day.  
Styling, if desired, will not be hampered; and the formula will not react 
with previously applied dyes or coloration.
	"If you have any questions, this drone will be glad to answer them.  
However, before you make the decision to order Jasmine Days, or any other 
of our fine line of hair products, let us continue our demonstration with 
your associates."
	95 of 300 held up a hand mirror he had taken from his person, using it 
to show the captive NaJur his luxurious shining hair at several angles.  
With one eye incompletely focused on the looking glass, the other 
regarded 68 of 212.  Somehow the shocked captive managed to find the 
strength to speak:  "You are trying to sell stuff to us?  I'm not going 
to be assimilated?"
	"No, not at this time.  We cannot ply our wares to ourselves!  That 
would defeat the purpose of us offering our fine wares," responded 95 of 
300, a note of confusion coloring his voice.  Well, duh, Borg have no use 
of hair products when assimilation caused premature baldness even in 
those species which did not normally exhibit hair or feather loss.
	Muttered the NaJur darkly, "I'd rather be assimilated."
	"Your desires are not relevant.  Resistance to solicitation is futile."  
The last sentence was uttered simultaneously by all four drones.
	68 of 212 and 95 of 300 released the clamps holding their unwilling, but 
nicely scented, client.  As they did so, keeping a firm grip on legs to 
prevent the customer from bolting, Weapons said to the pair still against 
the wall, "One of you will step forward.  Now."  Compliance was as 
forthcoming as the previous request, i.e., not happening.
	With an internal sigh, the two assimilation hierarchy drones allowed 
their former captive to reunite with his roommates.  The unification was 
short-lived, for more hair care products required demonstration.  One of 
the two remaining uncoifed NaJur was wrangled to the toadstool, beginning 
a new round of product presentation.

	19 of 152 first politely knocked on the residence door, then pounded 
until the synthawood slab shook.  As the last forty-three domiciles, no 
one answered, although careful listening revealed the presence of people 
inside.  As the last forty-three houses, 19 of 152 turned her attention 
to the electronic lock beside the doorway.  Quick interaction with the 
simplistic house computer via assimilation tubule negotiation convinced 
the door to open.
	Inside the house were two NaJur - male and female - standing in a 
posture of reluctant aggression.  19 of 152 could hear the telltale 
noises of a third individual, likely prepubescent, attempting to hide in 
an adjacent room.  Both adult NaJur immediately present held energy 
weapons, weapons which shook so much in their hands that the safest place 
to stand was downrange where they were supposedly aimed.
	The guns were irrelevant because all drones had pre-adapted prior to the 
invasion; and the weapon discharges which had so far occurred had only 
furthered sub-collective adaptation.
	"Greetings," began 19 of 152, "this drone's designation is 19 of 152, 
and we are here today to show you..."
	"Don't come any closer, I warn you!" shrilled the female.
	"...a fine line of magazine subscriptions.  We have available..."
	The male repeated the female's warning, "I warn you!  I warn you!"  He 
tried to pull the weapon's trigger, failing.  His second attempt was 
successful, but only served to scorch the blue painted wall behind 19 of 
152.
	"...sports and home improvement journals, as well as a wide variety of 
xeric horticulture and xeno-animal husbandry publications.  This drone 
has samples to show you.  And if you act now with a minimum two year 
subscription, you will receive a 20% discount off the cover price."
	The female added her badly aimed fire to that of the male's.  Two pulses 
hit 19 of 152, but did no damage beyond incinerating the sample magazine 
she had held extended in front of herself.  A replacement was immediately 
beamed in from the cube high overhead.
	"With titles such as 'Chicken Soup for the Jhadball Viewer's Soul' and 
'Sand Gardening Monthly,' we guarantee you will not be disappointed."
	The NaJur were loudly screaming their words now, "Get out!  Get out!  We 
don't want any!  Get out!  Don't come near us!"
	As forty-three times prior, while 19 of 152 could not be harmed by the 
rather primitive NaJur weapons, the inability to keep a sample magazine 
whole drove her from the house.  One could not sell a product if said 
product could not be delivered uncharred.  She sighed as she turned her 
back on the panicking couple, looking at house number forty-five.  A 
collective thought rose in her mind, collaborated by the negative 
examples of thousands of drones:
	Species #10009 was a tough race to which to make a successful sale!

	Captain looked out upon his captive audience.  The colony's small 
auditorium, a place normally dedicated to theater and the biannual school 
orchestra program, included a raised stage and seating in the form of 
stools for five hundred.  Two hundred four of the seats were filled.  
Lining the walls were forty weapons hierarchy drones projecting an air of 
indifferent menace.
	Two assimilation members wrestled a final NaJur into the auditorium.  It 
was the colony governor, who had been defiantly hiding in the primary 
communications building, apparently attempting to jury-rig a short-range 
subspace radio into a device powerful enough to yelp for help.  He, like 
all the NaJur present, had ignored entreaties by the sub-collective to at 
least consider a product; and now he, like all the NaJur present, had 
been peeled from his hiding hold and brought to the auditorium.
	The governor was forced to settle on a stool.  The two from assimilation 
retreated to the walls to add to the forbidding drone presence.  Although 
assimilation hierarchy did not have disrupters currently installed, the 
people in the audience were not enlightened to that fact.
	Captain panned the dim auditorium one final time, then held out his 
right hand.  Onto the flat of the palm materialized a plastic container.
	"Tupperware," began Captain, voice amplified, "is what brings you to us 
today.  Tupperware is highly versatile.  Not only can it be used to store 
leftover food, but items ranging from stylus to whatever you can imagine 
can be fit within.  Tupperware comes in a wide variety of shapes, sizes, 
and colors; and special embedded stasis units in the newest models can 
keep organic and inorganic items alike perfectly preserved for up to two 
centuries."
	Captain brandished his sandwich container, then stepped aside.  A screen 
at the back of the stage lit up with an animated dancing sequence of 
anthropomorphic cartoon Tupperware bowls.  "Let us show you the joys of 
Tupperware!"
	The governor stood up and tried to make a break for the door.  He was 
summarily captured and returned to his seat.  Rope bindings secureed him 
to prevent further escape attempts.
	This was wrong.  Pitching Tupperware, selling magazine subscriptions, 
demonstrating the latest in hair styling gel, it was wrong, wrong, wrong.  
Not only was it wrong for Captain, but it was wrong for the entire 
sub-collective; and, at the very least, solicitation did not add to the 
Borg image carefully cultivated over the millennia.  The lousy thing 
about the situation was even as Captain knew his actions and that of Cube 
#347 were not right, the root commands which dictated basic behavior were 
those that drove the show.
	The status of assimilation imperfection gave a lot of wiggle room when 
it came to interpreting commands, but drones so afflicted /were/ still 
Borg, with all the attendant hardware and software designed to make sure 
a given unit ultimately obeyed, no matter the content of said 
instruction.  Whereas most drones mindlessly followed their mandates, the 
imperfectly assimilated had the mental leeway to reflect, even question, 
the validity of an undertaking or to inquire, for instance, the need to 
have "this drone" march into enemy fire when a tactical nuke from orbit 
would serve the same purpose with much less personal mess on the part of 
"this drone."  It was this questioning the Greater Consciousness 
distanced itself from, as uncomfortable with the back talk as an 
individual would be if an intestinal cell suddenly began speaking in a 
squeaky voice upon the philosophy of digestion and "Did you /have/ to eat 
that double bacon cheeseburger?  Don't you know what grease does to your 
arteries?"  However, it was that questioning which allowed the 
sub-collective to identify something was very, very wrong in the first 
place, even as the cube was helpless to devise a counter.
	Captain continued his pitch, internally wincing with each word, 
"Tupperware is available in every conceivable color; and if you do not 
see the exact shade you desire, just tell us the angstrom value and we 
will produce it for you."

		*	*	*	*	*

	Pozh and Jaqu crouched motionless, bodies close to the floor, as they 
heard the commotion break out overhead.  Although they could not see 
through the exuded plastic ceiling, it was not difficult to imagine 
Governor Wahtaki's struggle as he tried to convince the Borg subduing him 
that he was alone in the basement room, only himself and a portable 
subspace console.
	In fact, the communications building went one floor deeper, or rather, 
one crawlspace deeper, than the rest of the colony.  Thick bundles of 
wire, black snakes with no head or tail, crossed the sandstone foundation 
on which the colony was ultimately supported.  The term "crawlspace" to a 
NaJur meant a ceiling which was lower than normal knee height, causing a 
leg position of uncomfortable sprawl.  While the average humanoid might 
have to bend sharply at the waist or walk on knees, s/he or it would not 
have found the space as oppressively cramped as did Pozh and Jaqu.
	The two NaJur were technicians, tasked with maintaining the colony's 
electrical and data grids, as well as internal communications.  After 
waiting in silence several long minutes to make sure the Borg had left - 
some drones exhibited damn good hearing! - Pozh and Jaqu placed their 
bodies as near as possible without embarrassingly locking their toolbelts 
together.
	"What do we do?" asked Jaqu.
	Pozh frowned with her eyes.  Even the NaJur themselves could not read 
mouth expressions beneath the hair of a comrade, so by necessity position 
of eyestalk had evolved as the major conveyor of nonverbal information 
and emotion.  She whispered, "I say we continue."
	Protested Jaqu, "But the Guv..."
	Pozh hissed, "Forget the Guv!  You saw, these Borgs aren't doing their 
assimilation thingy.  Besides, we can always elect a new governor.  
However, you've seen what they are trying to do:  sell us things against 
our will and that of the colony's explicit desire for solicitors leave us 
alone!  Remember what we did to the company that wouldn't stop calling 
our colony over subspace during dinnertime?  And what about that ship of 
those furry round things who demanded we buy hats?"
	Jaqu looked thoroughly miserable, "Yah, I remember."  He picked up a 
bit, "We really showed it to the furry things, didn't we?  No clown hats 
for us."
	"Exactly," chirped Pozh, pleased with her motivational speech.  Perhaps 
she should stand for governor?  No, no, the hours were long and the pay 
horrible.  She would rather stay a technician and be appreciated.
	The two technicians had been crawling under the communications building 
for the past hour, bringing the colony's special anti-solicitor defense 
on-line.  The NaJur as a race despised salesmen, living with the 
philosophy that if one really wanted a credit card or to switch long 
distance carriers, one could do so without the assistance of a being who 
would throw in a lifetime subscription to "Blankets Weekly" for the low 
price of $2.25 credits an issue.
	The device in question was an unimpressive black box.  It was normally 
kept hidden and powered down, the former because it was an ugly piece of 
equipment which did not match the decor of any of the colony's official 
buildings, and the latter because it consumed vast amounts of power.  To 
activate it required connecting it to the power grid and a subspace 
radio.  Unfortunately, the connection established to the radio room prior 
to orbital attack had been disabled when the antenna array blew up.  The 
small unit the governor had been prepping, sufficient to communicate with 
robot tugs and miners in the system, was the goal towards which Pozh and 
Jaqu had been dragging the heavy data cable which snaked away into the 
darkness to the device.
	Pozh said, "Head back to the device.  I'll take the cable through the 
trapdoor and finish preparations.  When I yell, flip the power switch."
	"And if the Borg return?"
	"Just hope it doesn't happen."

		*	*	*	*	*

	Sensors tasted a hail tickling the surface of Cube #347.  Hails always 
made her itch on the inside of her skull, a place inaccessible to 
scratching.  As she backtracked the signal to the colony, Sensors leaked 
the information from her hierarchy to the rest of the sub-collective.
	On the surface, still on stage regaling the positive aspects of 
Tupperware despite the fact several of the audience had collapsed due to 
exhaustion, Captain automatically tripped the command sequence to answer 
the hail.  Within the dataspaces of the sub-collective blossomed the 
computer animated image of a NaJur with red eyes.
	"Hello gentlebeings, and thank you for accepting this call.  Are you 
tired of flabby, drooping buttocks?  Have you had your bottom mistaken 
for sofa throw pillows?  Do small children use your behind to play hide 
and seek?  Well, then Wonderbutt(tm) is the product for you!  
Wonderbutt's(tm) patented technology shapes and lifts your butt in six 
easy steps.  No dieting, no exercise is necessary.  Simply place 
Wonderbutt(tm) over your tired buttocks and let the mini-surgery unit do 
its job sculpting and toning.  In two to six hours, your bottom will be 
pert and perky!"
	A piece of equipment that more resembled a torture tool than a 
pseudo-medical device materialized above the NaJur animation.  A string 
of numbers reverse faded into existence and began to incessantly flash.
	"Operators are standing by!  Call now and you will receive two doses of 
anesthetic!  This multispecial formula will make your Wonderbutt(tm) 
experience more enjoyable with effects ranging from numbness to 
pleasurable addiction.  Please tell the operator your species so the 
proper match can be found for you!"
	The NaJur's red eyes flashed malevolently as it continued its spiel, 
arms waving.  It was annoying.  It was scary.  It was frightening.  It 
had shocked the Eradicator virus crouching in the heart of Cube #347's 
code:  how was the sub-collective supposed to respond to the threat of a 
salesbeing attempting to hock products to it?
	Captain stopped his Tupperware presentation, one part of him elated even 
as another part was horrified at developments.  Similarly, drones 
throughout the colony complex stalled, many in the middle of 
demonstrations.
	In the auditorium, one brave NaJur tentatively stood and began to make 
her way to an exit, wincing with each step in the expectation of 
disrupter fire.  She became increasingly confident as she neared her 
goal, drones lining the walls immobile.  With a whoop, she sprinted for 
freedom and was shortly followed by a stampede of her suffering comrades.

	{Cut the transmission,} ordered Captain to Sensors.
	{Sensors cannot [blind] subspace receivers!  Something is [carpet] 
Sensor's ability.}
	The already compromised Cube #347 was now host to another virus, a very 
specific virus.  The small program, originally embedded in the initial 
hail handshake, had burrowed into the code with one job and one job only:  
to keep sufficient receiver resources on-line to catch the transmission 
from NaJur's anti-solicitation device.  Whereas another ship so struck by 
the attack might mute speakers and cover wall screens with blankets, such 
was not possible for Cube #347.  The message was delivered to the 
dataspaces and, thus, invaded the minds of every drone.
	"In addition to the Wonderbutt(tm), I offer you the fabulous 
WartAway(tm) system.  Are friends convinced you have grown a second nose?  
A second head?  Are you afraid to be seen in public lest you be snatched 
by the local carnival and forced to perform in the sideshow?  If so, 
WartAway(tm) will make all your problems go away!  The three chemicals 
provided in every WartAway(tm) package will dissolve even the toughest of 
wart tissue; and the neutralizer will allow you to finely tune 
progression of the WartAway(tm) wart removal substance.  As a bonus, 
WartAway(tm) can be used to strip floors and dissolve paint!  Highly 
versatile!"
	The Wonderbutt(tm) contraption formerly floating over the demonic 
virtual NaJur was replaced by canisters which looked like they would 
normally hold such liquids as acetone or fiberglass bonding agent.  A new 
string of flashing numbers demanded immediate attention.
	Captain dropped his Tupperware container and beamed to the cube, 
recalled by the puppeteer virus to fight the interloper.  Other members 
of command and control similarly beamed to the cube, retreating to 
alcoves so as to be in more intimate contact with the cube's computer 
systems.  Increasing mental resources were turned upon the new software 
creature, a simple and minute piece of code, but the effort was like 
trying to swat a hyperactive fly with a sledgehammer.  While destruction 
of the virus was assured should contact be made, the virus was facile in 
staying just one step ahead of its hunters, infecting a new receiver 
subsystem as compromised nodes were cleaned.
	"If you buy WartAway(tm), you will receive not only a one month supply 
of product, but we will double the neutralizer at no additional cost!  
That's right, you receive the three WartAway(tm) wart remover agents, two 
bottles of neutralizer, an application brush, and a fifteen minute video 
instruction crystal.  But wait, there's more..."
	{No more,} whimpered Sensors.
	With increasing mental resources required to be dedicated to corralling 
the new virus, soon no drones were left in the NaJur colony, all Borg 
returned to the cube.  Colonists fearfully emerged from houses and 
refuges, many in shock and still clutching brightly colored Tupperware 
samples, else sporting hair freshly washed and styled.  On the cube, 
meanwhile, hundreds of kilometers of corridors were silent, every drone 
unit locked into alcoves so as to better concentrate on the intruder.
	Finally the sub-collective came to a decision.  {We must retreat,} 
voiced Captain, echoing the consensus.  The originator of the subspace 
signal was somewhere in the colony and had the characteristics of a 
short-range transmission.  If the cube went beyond the range of the 
broadcast, then the purpose of the communication virus would be negated 
due to signal loss.  One could have, perhaps, returned to the colony and 
simply destroyed the transmitter, but the sub-collective wasn't exactly 
at its most efficient, even as measured by them.
	As the cube left orbit along a predetermined vector, the sub-collective 
continued to attempt to isolate the new virus.  Hunter-seeker eradication 
programs coursed through the collective neural net, jumping upon any 
suspicious bit of code.  Unfortunately, even if neither of the two 
viruses had infested the dataspace of Cube #347, many abnormalities would 
have been found.  A block of code here, a line or two there, many places 
had been tweaked by an individual drone for purposes known only to that 
drone.  There was little standard code within Cube #347 once the main 
data thoroughfares were left behind, and it was to those irregularities 
the hunter-seekers were drawn, backed by the sub-collective and set to 
"ultra-paranoid;" and it was those irregularities which were attacked.
	It was perhaps unsurprising in the chaos of Wonderbutt(tm) and 
WartAway(tm), giant red-eyed NaJur, modified prime code, mass alteration 
of code without regard to ties to normal code, and the standard 
contradiction of assimilation imperfection that something would happen.  
Cube #347 awoke 147 light years distant from the NaJur colony with the 
dataspace equivalent of a raging hangover, a bulk cargo hold full of 
lampshades and frozen fish, and absolutely no memory of the four days 
between retreat from the planet and the present.

	Captain stood in his nodal intersection, rubbing his temples.  The 
action did not abate the phantom pain ringing in his head, a reaction to 
whatever-the-hell had occurred during four days of missing memory.  The 
self-massage was an irrelevant automatic gesture left from 
preassimilation.  He also had no clue where the purple spiderweb tattoo 
on his right arm had originated, but he was on the drone maintenance 
roster to have it removed as soon as possible.
	At least all traces of /both/ viruses were gone and a link had been 
reestablished to the Collective.
	Second groaned as he materialized from a transporter beam, returned from 
his own bout with the overbooked drone maintenance.  He had woken to a 
Wonderbutt(tm) transfixed to his leg; and while the device could not do 
anything to the artificial limb, it nonetheless had resisted all attempts 
by Second to remove it.  At least his situation had been better than 231 
of 240, who was currently in surgery to separate a Wonderbutt(tm) from 
her head.
	Captain's nodal intersection was filled with stacks of Tupperware and 
boxes of hair care products; and so it was all over the cube.  Prior to 
arriving to the NaJur colony, Cube #347 had assaulted a wide range of 
targets, including a Tikashu knife distribution warehouse (Motto:  "It 
slices, it dices, you can cut through metal and fruit with ease!").  
Holds and hallways, corridors and supply closets were filled with a wide 
assortment of junk not only utterly useless to Borg, but of little use to 
most of the unassimilated individuals of the galaxy.  Disposal was going 
to be a difficult, time-consuming process.
	Captain sighed, "At least it is all over."
	Cube #347 floated in the middle of nowhere, light years from any star 
and distant from commercial space lanes.  Yet, at the very edge of the 
sensor envelope, at the fuzzy reaches of the sensor grid an 
Exploratory-class cube could resolve, a blip had appeared with an 
unerring vector to intercept the cube - one blip, then two blips, then a 
dozen blips.
	"Perhaps you spoke too soon?" quipped Second with his normal sarcastic 
cutting edge.
	{Identify,} ordered Captain to the sensory hierarchy.
	Sensors responded, {Too [cardboard box] for Sensors to make definitive 
[light switch], but silhouette consistent [shoe] corporate ship 
configuration of the Tupperware parent company.}  Another group of blips 
appeared in a different quadrant.  {Tikashu corporation?}  More and more 
contacts popped onto long-range sensors until over two hundred ships of 
various configurations and tentatively belonging to the very companies 
Cube #347 had raided.  It seemed the owners of the products littering the 
cube's holds and corridors had somehow tracked the cube and were now 
closing in to repossess their stolen items.  Cube #347 would be no match 
for the combined firepower of fifteen very angry companies.
	"You definitely spoke too soon," reiterated Second.