Quickie Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek; Decker created Star Traks; I write BorgSpace.

The BorgFiles

32 of 422 stood in an alcove of Assimilation Workshop #14. No other drones were present except Assimilation. The workshop had a disused air to it despite the relative newness of the current Cube #347 incarnation, surfaces filmed with a thin layer of dust. Half the eight alcoves lining the room's periphery had never had their shrink-wrapped plastic covering removed. A faint new-cube smell tickled the edge of the senses.

There was a click deep in 32 of 422's head, a sound which bypassed the ears on the way to the brain. Another click, then a beep.

Assimilation sighed deeply. "We cannot download the appropriate memory. Your base species has never been amiable to remote transfers of this type. I could crack your skull and attempt manual stimulation." 'Manual stimulation' was an euphuism for slotting electrodes in the brain near memory centers for the purpose of applying shocks. The output from stimulated pathways was then recorded and analyzed. The problem was that the process was not kind to the brain in question, often reducing a drone so processed into a useless vegetable. Termination and recycling usually followed manual stimulation.

32 of 422 minutely shook his head, setting his jowls to swinging. He protested, "I can remember. I can. If I start recall, you should be able to read the neural pathways used, and then be able to have a specific enough target for normal methods." The imperfectly assimilated drone that he was, he didn't want his brain to be scrambled.

Assimilation cocked his head sideways, consulting as to which option to follow. 32 of 422 followed the consensus cascade, but was not allowed to be a part of it despite the fact that it was /his/ brain under discussion. Finally an outcome was reached. "We shall attempt a self-recall first," he pronounced in his standard uninflected monotone.

32 of 422 allowed a small sense of relief to permeate his self. There may still be manual stimulation in his future, but not in the next five minutes. He watched as dataspace code was reconfigured by assimilation hierarchy into a new format; and the clicking in his internal ear faded to a steady hum.

"We are ready," said Assimilation. He would have announced the birth of a universe, or the end, in the same manner.

Started 32 of 422 without preamble, {It began with this music, just a few notes, but still music...}

I awoke from regeneration to the dim illumination of emergency lighting. The cube was quieter than it should have been, lacking the distant echo of drone movement or the nearly subliminal hum of engines and energy cores. Almost immediately a noise caught my notice, a single musical note which spun into two, then many. It was an eerie whistle, one which fit with the darker than usual lighting conditions.

Do-da-do-da-do-da-da-daaaaaaa

Do-da-do-da-do-da-da-daaaaaaa

Do-da-do-da-do-do-do-daaaaaaa

{Lights,} I ordered the computer. The mysterious ambiance faded as light strips brightened on the tier where my alcove is located. The whistling also stopped. The underlying quiet, however, continued.

The dataspace and intranets mimicked the exterior silence. There were no active designations besides myself. The computer confirmed the entire crew compliment to be present in their alcoves, but that none were operating at a consciousness level higher than deep regenerative stasis. Thousands of minds slumbering, not even a snore.

I was stunned. The first coherent thought which formed was that this situation must be what a Captain is confronted with when first roused from stasis prior to a new task assignment, before the rest of the sub-collective is activated. However, I was only a sensory drone, not of the Hierarchy of Eight, not even a hierarchy head.

What was /I/ doing awake?

I disengaged my alcove, stepping to the tier plating. The sound of clamps and pneumatics was loud in the silence, and even more so the clank of feet on metal. It had been several weeks since I had last left my alcove. As I am of the sensory hierarchy, my mental resources are my most important asset, not my body. Unlike engineering or drone maintenance, there is no need for me to leave my alcove for the purpose of performing my day-to-day function. Occasionally engineering is too busy with repairs of higher priority to fix malfunctioning grid elements, forcing sensory hierarchy units to take up wrenches and welders, but such incidences are rare.

{Computer: command pathway override 32 of 422 to all units, terminate deep regeneration stasis sequence.}

{Key not accepted,} gravely informed the computer. {Unit 32 of 422 does not have authority to use that command pathway.}

The computer's rejection was not unexpected. The command code I was attempting to access was reserved for high-level units of command and control. I turned to my left, facing one of my two neighbors.

{Computer: command pathway override 32 of 422 to 167 of 203, terminate deep regeneration stasis sequence.}

{Key not accepted. Unit 32 of 422 does not have authority to use that command pathway.}

{Use it anyway.}

{Key not accepted. Unit 32 of 422 does not have authority to use that command pathway.}

Arguing with the computer was like arguing with a plate of dense-packed neutronium armor: you could smash your head against it all you liked, but in the end the only dents would be on you.

I sighed and tried a new track, a bit less direct. The command architecture I was trying to access, that on the level of a single drone, was open to command and control, drone maintenance, and assimilation hierarchies, all of whom might have need to awaken or put to sleep one unit. {Computer: reassign unit 32 of 422 to drone maintenance hierarchy.}

{Not able to comply. Unit 32 of 422 can only be reassigned through command and control pathways}

{Reassign unit 32 of 422 to command and control.}

{Not able to comply. Unit 32 of 422 can only be reassigned through command and control pathways}

{That's rather circular logic, isn't it? What if there were no command and control units present to reassign hierarchy assignments?}

{?Syntax error? Re-input command.}

"Stupid computer," I muttered to myself. I could have talked at a normal volume, even shouted or used the PA system, but I felt illogically loath to break the greater silence.

Several minutes of experimentation showed I was allowed to access sensor-related areas, limited environmental controls as it affected my immediate surroundings, transporters, replicators, and other systems as appropriate for my status as a non-priority member of the sensory hierarchy. I could even initiate a single-player game of BorgCraft, Weapons never locking the program from general use. No weapons offensive or defensive, no engines, no alterations to the regeneration system, nothing which might upset the status quo. Some drones are excellent hackers, able to twist code to their specifications. Unfortunately, I do not have this aptitude, and I did not want to learn now when a mistake on my part might lead to accidentally exploding all the cores or something else drastically lethal.

Other than the fact everyone except myself was asleep, all systems were nominal: everything was operating within expected parameters and we were not under attack.

I reached forward to try manually waking 167 of 203. I tapped in several numerical sequences which should have activated her, computer block or no computer block. Other than a faint beep of rejection, there was no response. I eyed the alcove...I could damage it to a point that the computer was forced to activate 167 of 203...but no. No. There was no pressing reason to wake anyone up besides to say that I was lonely.

Loneliness is irrelevant. All were present; I was not a small being of one.

Apprehension is irrelevant. So what if the cube interior was dark? Using power for lighting was inefficient when no one was awake to need it.

And the whistling?

Too much imagination is irrelevant. Drones aren't supposed to think, only act.

As the sensory pathways were open to me, I decided to perform my assigned job, as a good, unthinking drone should. I stepped up and back into my alcove, then closed my eyes to better visualize the grand blackness of space surrounding Cube #347. For once I was able to alter the grid configuration to one which did not cause hallucinations. Perhaps having Sensors in deep regeneration was a good thing. The first order of priority was to scan for potential threats within a light year of the cube, both those in normal space and those which might be utilizing various faster-than-light drives. I did not need to venture further than ten meters from the hull.

Tethered to edge #10 was a ship. It...

"A ship?" interrupted Weapons. He had beamed into the workshop, shoving away Assimilation. Weapons was practically nose to nose with 32 of 422, the latter unable to retreat from piercing purple eye.

Confirmed 32 of 422, "A ship. Could I have a little bit of room here?" He lifted up a hand and tried to push the larger, heavier drone back a couple centimeters. Weapons did not budge.

"There was a ship," repeated Weapons. It was less question and more statement. Many pictures of vessels, big and small, intruded into 32 of 422's mental space. The entire ship catalogue was being spooled through his mind, from static pictures to clips to detailed schematics. "Identify which ship."

"Yes, a ship. If you let me continue, I will provide a neural address for the visual to be retrieved from my brain. That will be faster than looking through all the vessel configurations known to Borg," protested 32 of 422. He wedged his other hand, neither had been replaced with extreme limb augmentation, up next to the first and attempted to push again. This time Weapons yielded, in part because Assimilation had pulled back on one of Weapons' shoulders at the same time.

"Continue," prompted Assimilation. Weapons sidled sideways a meter, but otherwise showed no indication of leaving.

32 of 422 continued.

Tethered to edge #10 was a ship. It was a practical two-seater vessel of Species #9720 construction, nothing fancy, but reliable. The fuselage looked like a sausage, and attached to each mid-lateral on short pylons were very skinny warp nacelles longer than the main body. There were no obvious weapon ports, nor did offensive systems appear on a deep scan. The engine was large for size ship, likely providing a very good light year to dilithium crystal conversion ratio. No life signs.

I abruptly decided to go for a walk. Illogically, I felt as if something or someone was watching me. This is not an unusual feeling amid a sub-collective of 4,000 units, often because a designation /is/ watching. However, such could not be the case at the moment since all were in regeneration. Disengaging from my alcove, I strolled along the tier at a normal pace, turning at the first juncture to leave the shaft area behind me. I did not have a destination. Instead, I turned inward to Cube #347, initiating a scan for nonBorg presence.

{Subsection 15, submatrix 14, hallway 21,} replied the computer when the scan was complete. I paused mid-step...that was on my level and only two hallways from my present position.

{Computer: activate internal cameras for subsection 15, submatrix 14, hallway 21.} I wanted a visual of the intruders.

Chirped the computer in return, {Unable to comply.}

{Elaborate.}

{Cameras were disengaged by 221 of 230.}

I grumbled and resumed walking. 221 of 230 disliked cameras and continually disconnected them in those locales he was assigned to for maintenance. A check of recent crew roster logs confirmed the hallway in question, as well as surrounding areas, had been within his duty locality. The cameras remained physically intact, but vital wiring had been removed from each one. Therefore, I could not simply activate the cameras. While I was not tactical, not assimilation, I was the only drone conscious and I would have to confront the invaders myself.

Unfortunately, sensory was the hierarchy least likely to leave a Borg vessel, especially where direct combat was possible. Consequently, my armoring was very light, nearly nonexistent compared to weapons, assimilation, or even command and control.

I made no effort for stealth, such a quality lacking in most Borg, including myself. Internal scans with no camera confirmation made it impractical to beam in since I could not pinpoint invader locality. I could transport myself directly between them, or I could end up thirty meters distant. Walking was the simplest solution. My echoing footfalls were loud to my ears. I need not have worried about stealth, however, for the invaders, when I found them, were arguing loud enough to drown out an entire assault force.

"Do you really think Antar is on this weird morgue of a vessel? Do you? Be honest, Mudder," said one voice, a mid-range alto suggesting female.

Replied a more masculine voice, "Antar is here. I can feel it. This is just the type of place he would run to."

"Well, I've never seen this 'type of place' before, and it isn't on our astrometric maps. I've never seen Antar, either. I really think taking you from your psychiatrist was a bad thing, Mudder, just when he said you were making an improvement."

"Scuddy, Scuddy, Scuddy. I asked for you to help me out. You are."

"This is the /last/ time, too. I mean it." It sounded like an oft voiced conviction, one said many times in the past, one which would be uttered many times in the future.

"But," continued the Mudder voice as if Scuddy had not spoken, "the psychiatrist is a part of the Conspiracy. As is Antar. Antar is relatively small potatoes, but he can lead us to those who are in charge. If we catch him."

"Mudder, the reason we've never caught Antar is because he does not exist. He doesn't...hey, what the heck is that?"

I had just turned the corner to hallway 21. Standing mid-way down the corridor, two Species #9720 had been facing each other in classical posture of an arms-waving disagreement. Form was that of a typical humanoid biped, but tall and willowy in the nature of their species. Mudder, the one who had not spoken at my appearance, was nearly a head taller than Scuddy, the latter still topping my own height by fifteen centimeters. As suspected from their voices, Mudder was a male and Scuddy female. Unusual for a race that almost universally sported brown cranial hair, Scuddy's was a muddy red. Both wore comfortable grey coveralls, suitable for long-distance travel on the ship tethered to the hull, with dark brown overcoats topping.

Abruptly I was looking down the barrels of two guns. Species #9720 can be quick despite their long limbs, and these two were no exception. The weapons appeared to be primitive projectile weapons, slug throwers. The high-pitched whine which quickly climbed into a near inaudible hum denoted a handgun a bit more high tech. I accessed the tactical database, quickly narrowing the options to a hand-held railgun. It was a very deadly weapon, a Borg killer, bypassing personal shields completely. Depending on the load and where the projectile was aimed, a heavily armored member of the weapons hierarchy may or may not survive being shot. I had no chance.

Scuddy slowly lowered her weapon. "It isn't Antar, at least not how you have described him. It looks more like some sort of freaky dog."

"Antar is a shapeshifter...it could be him." Mudder's weapons had not wavered. The muzzle was targeting my head. I did not move. "You! Are you Antar?"

"Like it'd tell you if it was," muttered Scuddy.

"That is not the designation of this drone. You are trespassing on Borg property. You will leave. Comply."

I must admit that I am not a very imposing unit. My base species - Species #2133, Bowsti - is average-sized for a humanoid, and my body suit with light armor did not add much bulk to my frame compared to more heavily modified drones. Except for the apparatus covering the tracheal slits on the sides of my neck and the ocular implant replacing my right eye, I have few exterior implants or prosthetics, most of my modifications internal. Heavy skin folds hanging as jowls, a double-slit nose, and a facial muscular arrangement which causes my mouth to be perpetually turned upward in a smile also fail to lend a threatening air. Therefore, I was not surprised when the two invaders did not take me seriously, instead returning to their argument.

"Antar would," answered Mudder to Scuddy, "since that's the type of fellow that he is. I'm was trained as a criminal profiler, remember. I can get into this guy's head. He is the sort that likes to gloat, to make sure that you /know/ who he is, whatever form he's wearing...hey, you, dog fellow, don't move."

I stopped. I had tried to advance down the hallway, but had been only able to approach by one step.

Called Scuddy, "You are a crew member, aren't you? I thought this was some sort of crypt. The gods know there were no life signs when we pulled up."

"Antar doesn't display a life signature," murmured Mudder to himself.

When drones are in regenerative stasis they become a part of the computer, the ship, life signs lost amid the background clutter of organic components such as neural gel packs. Most standard scans fail to recognize the difference. "We are Borg. You are on our ship. You will leave. Comply."

"Not until we've looked for Antar and are convinced you are not harboring the fugitive," shouted Mudder. "How do I know that you aren't part of the Conspiracy? All warp capable governments in this quadrant of the galaxy - all, mind you - are part of a temporal overgovernment from the future. Their purpose is multifold, including domination over all free peoples. For this reason, the Conspiracy kidnaps various members of my family - and Scuddy a few times, although she's not related to me - and performs gruesome nostril-probing experiments on them." Mudder's face was becoming very red, and I wondered if he might burst something. "Do you know what it feels like to have your nostrils probed?!"

The gun was being waved wildly. I had felt more secure when it was pointed at my head.

Scuddy, meanwhile, was quietly shaking her head back and forth, hand covering her face. She sighed, then reached into her pocket, pulling out a bottle of pills. "You do this every time, Mudder. Every time. I think it is time for your medicine. Er, um, it is time for the pills that keep Antar from taking over your mind." Scuddy smiled slightly, then shot me an expression which was part apology, part embarrassment.

Wide-eyed, Mudder stared at Scuddy, "You are part of this Conspiracy too! You are! Else, why would you be offering me medicine! The satellites have affected your mind...no...you have always been part of the Conspiracy, always in league with Antar! In that case, you know where my mother's cousin's son-in-law's grandmother is being held! Nostril prober!" The gun was swung around to aim at Scuddy. The trigger was pulled. Nothing happened.

Scuddy didn't blink, only sighed again. "I'm not part of the Conspiracy. If you take the medicine, I'll give you some darts for your gun. Deal?"

Mudder seemed to consider, then held out a hand, "Deal."

Two pills were shaken out and handed over. The bottle was placed back in the pocket. "You eat those first." As Mudder was contemplating the pills, peering at them as if to search for hidden poisons, Scuddy called to me, "He'll be better in a moment. Nostril probing always sets him off if he's forgotten to take his pills. I'd like to get off your ship, and I think I have a compromise solution that will satisfy my partner nothing is here. If he goes away with doubts, I'll promise you'll find him back here in a couple of days. How about..."

Lights flickered in the workshop. 32 of 422 paused as an echo of an echo bounced around the room, originating from corridor 17. It was the flesh-on-flesh and flesh-smashed-by-heavy-bodies sound of a twemty-five drone pile-up. Dataspace confirmation revealed the actual number to be twenty-eight. Drone maintenance was dispatched.

Second, who had materialized into the workshop during the recitation, took advantage of the interruption to voice a question. "A conspiracy? Secret organizations within governments I understand, but a conspiracy on that scale? Most governments can't even balance their own budgets, much less keep conspiracies."

"Conspiracy," replied 32 of 422, emphasizing the capital "c."

"Governments can have conspiracies," admonished Assimilation. "A conspiracy is how I came to be Borg."

Second snorted, "That was one part of one government. 32 of 422 is describing not only a quadrant of governments, but also mentioned temporal connections. Not possible."

The lights flickered again.

Weapons stared at 32 of 422. "This method is ineffective. This unit's skull needs to be cracked and the information extracted manually. There is data we require. Now."

32 of 422 was quiet, saying nothing, doing nothing, trying to think nothing.

Assimilation turned away from Second to regard Weapons. "Manual stimulation may destroy the very data you need. This technique is slower, but more sure, although manual extraction is still a possibility. Diagnostics indicate we are successfully reading the proper neurons and harvesting memes."

"Too slow," grunted Weapons.

"It will suffice," answered Second. "The need for data is not an emergency, yet."

"It is vital," argued Weapons. The drones were acting as mouthpieces of a much richer intranet dialogue.

Asked 32 of 422, "Shall I continue?"

Assimilation solemnly replied, "Yes."

"How about we go for a little walk. There is one thing that will make him happy. Mudder, tell the nice non-Conspiracy person here about Antar." Despite Scuddy's calm words, she slowly raised her gun again to point at me. High probability her weapon was loaded, even if Mudder's was not.

Mudder's eyes flicked back and forth, searching for hidden enemies in a corridor with no place to hide. His (empty) gun was now pointing at the floor. "Antar is a high-level Conspiracy operative. He coordinates field agents and does a lot of field work himself, although always alone. Antar is a phasic shapeshifter, and the first thing he has to do when he finds himself on new territory after a long chase is to seek a plasma source to recharge."

Mudder opened his coat and reached into it with his non-gun hand. I tensed, ready to back away. The hand reappeared, holding a...spoon with a string tied around the narrow portion of the neck. The spoon on a string was displayed by Mudder as he solemnly pronounced, "This detector will show me where Antar is."

I swiveled my head to stare at Scuddy. Despite the fact that Species #9720 does not have telepathic or empathic abilities, despite the fact that Scuddy was not Borg and thus could not hear my thoughts, she nonetheless knew what I was thinking. She shrugged a response and mouthed, "He's a slight bit crazy. Traumatic experience. He's getting better, though."

Outloud, "That's enough Mudder. Put away the phasic entity detection device."

"My darts?"

"Just a minute."

"Okay."

She was seriously considering arming an insane being?

Said Scuddy, "We need to visit major plasma sources. Power cores, warp nacelles, that sort of thing. Once my partner is convinced that the plasma sources don't have Antar sitting in them, we'll be off and won't bother you again."

I was flabbergasted, and I didn't bother to keep the expression from my face despite standing orders to the contrary. Not only was there a primary core and ten auxiliary cores, but under each edge was a tri-segmented warp nacelle, essentially three warp nacelles laid end to end for a total of 36 nacelles. I replied, disbelief coloring my voice even through reverberating undertones, "All major plasma sources? On a Borg Exploratory-class cube? That is, one, very time-consuming even if, two, we use the transporter to visit everything."

Mudder looked like he was going to burst into tears. He sniffled.

Scuddy gestured with her gun. "Sorry, but that's the way it is. He's impossible unless he waves around his spoon." A hand patted Mudder's shoulder. "And - again, sorry - I don't trust local transporters. We are already too deep to use our own here. Frankly, in the past I've had bad experiences from people that we've popped in to visit. Guns, threats of violence, that sort of thing."

{From which side?} I silently asked; and was moderately disconcerted by the lack of expected sub-collective input upon the question, even though I knew everyone was in deep regeneration.

Scuddy continued without pause, never knowing she had been interrupted, "Anyway, all the corpses in this floating crypt give me the creeps. You look no better, buddy. Therefore, I think we'll walk."

"To visit all major plasma sources without using transporters will require walking 108.3 kilometers," I informed following a quick calculation after consulting cube schematics.

Scuddy snorted, "Yah, right. This ship is only 1.3 kilometers on a side: big, but not /that/ big. You have quite a maze in here, though not nearly enough for the walk to be that long. Nice try, buddy." She frowned, "And what is your name, anyway? I can't be calling you 'Hey, you', or 'buddy' all the time. Mine's Scuddy, and this is Mudder. Oh, don't mind him: the pills are finally kicking in. He'll be like this for an hour or so as long as no one mentions nose-probing."

A small smile was stretching Mudder's face and his eyes were distinctly glazed. He began humming an off-tune song to himself.

"This unit's designation is 32 of 422."

"Unusual name," commented Scuddy, "but not quite as bad as my cousin. My sister couldn't decide and so picked the first word out of a randomly opened dictionary. Poor, poor Manicotti." Remembrance was whisked away. "Lead on, 32 of 422. Don't try anything funny."

"Funny is irrelevant," I muttered.

Scuddy and Mudder followed me as I trekked the 1.2 kilometer, circuitous route to reach the nearest cargo turbolift. The turbolift would not go directly to an engine core, but it would bring us to the correct level. While Scuddy was businesslike as she pointed her gun at me, Mudder careened off the walls, unable to walk a straight line. At least he seemed to have forgotten about gaining ammunition for his weapon. There were no words spoken by either of the pair until we had to cross from hallway 32 to hallway 33 via alcove tier 4. Scuddy slowed as she spied regenerating drones in alcoves; and Mudder almost, but not quite, flipped over a safety rail into the adjacent Central Shaft #2.

"Why are there so many dead people in this ship? Are you some sort of cryptkeeper for this floating morgue?" asked Scuddy as she paused to wave a hand at an alcove.

I halted at the question, then turned to face Scuddy. The specific drone referenced was 44 of 79 as I consulted the dataspaces, but I recognized the inquiry to be of a generalized nature. I debated within myself, but without at least one other designation with which to actively consider options, I defaulted to Borg standard operating procedure of answering all questions asked by alien intruders, "None of these units are dead. All are in regeneration. This drone has attempted to wake them, but has been unsuccessful. For unknown reasons, I am the only unit active at this time."

From her facial expression, the mixture of third person and first person syntax had baffled Scuddy. Such was not the case with Mudder, who blurted, "Hah! Antar /is/ here. He usually tries to put a crew to sleep so they won't interfere with his nef...nep...nefarious activities." Mudder's tongue tripped over the difficult word.

Scuddy's face twisted from confusion to pained embarrassment. A gesture was made with the gun. "Continue on, 32 of 422. How much further?"

"Three hundred meters to a cargo turbolift, followed by an additional 1.5 kilometers to Auxiliary Core #4," I replied.

"Oh. Nothing more direct?"

"Transporters."

Safety warred with convenience, the former winning, for now. The gun was brandished again. "Lead on." I turned on heel and continued along the alcove tier, the Species #9720 pair behind.

Cargolift #4 was reached without further incident. The interior of the turbolift was the same dull box common throughout the universe, there only being so many ways to design an elevator. It was a large box, granted, since it was used to convey cargo between levels when a transporter beam might prove to be inconvenient in an explosive way. Some cargos reacted poorly to transporters. One difference, however, was lack of buttons, speaking grille, or other methods nonBorg use to convey destination to the system which operated the elevator. Once my captors were in the cargolift with me, I placed one hand on a small data panel and triggered nanotubules, inputting destination. For reasons lost to Borg history, the cargolift system only accepted control via direct input, not through the dataspaces; and the Greater Consciousness did not consider it worth the time or effort to upgrade a system which functioned fine. The lift smoothly began moving.

Scuddy peered at me suspiciously. "Well, that is inconvenient. Makes it hard for visitors to get around though if you need to have those things."

The cargolift stopped, doors opening. I pulled my hand back, disconnecting myself from the lift computer sub-node. "We do not normally entertain visitors." I led the way, automatically brightening lighting as we entered an area, and damping it behind. The two must not have been accustomed to walking even moderate distances, for the next 1.5 kilometers of winding corridors passed in relative silence except for suppressed panting.

"You are leading us in circles, aren't you?" accused Scuddy during a demanded rest break.

"No," I had replied, and, anticipating the next question, added, "and Borg do not lie to small beings."

Auxiliary Core #4 was as other cores in Cube #347, ceiling fifteen meters above the floor. Three mezzanines circled the outer wall, reached by platform lifts. Data pillars and screens were present on all levels, glowing a muted green in the dim ambient light. On the ground floor, alcoves were built into the walls, not of the type of which a drone might be assigned, instead present to allow deeper linkage to computer systems when required. In the center of the room squatted the auxiliary core itself, a modified warp core alike to its eleven counterparts aboard the cube. A low thrum, that of a core idled, permeated the room; and a hint of blue leaked from the structure.

"Auxiliary Core #4," I announced as I brought up the lights, "one of Cube #347's major plasma sources. This core is currently idle."

As Scully peered upward, disbelief on her face as to the room's size, Mudder came to life. The Species #9720 male glanced at the core, then the surrounding area, looking for something unseen. He then dug into an interior overcoat pocket, emerging with his spoon on a string. As Mudder advanced on the core itself, he held the free end of the string and began to swing the spoon until it was whirling around overhead. "Altar!" the man suddenly screamed, smashing the spoon against the warp core's casing.

The spoon make the clinking sound of metal hitting metal, then fell to the deck.

"Not magnetic. Altar's not here," said Mudder.

I blinked. Although I was not of engineering hierarchy, even I knew that the metal of a warp core casing was specifically fashioned to dampen magnetic fields. When a power core is active, plasma movement and electrical charge create strong magnetic fields, more than sufficient to pull any drone in the room onto the warp core like a refrigerator magnetic. And even if an organic being was naked, the magnetic field would still adversely affect brain and nerve functioning. To counter detrimental effects, the casing for /any/ warp core, Borg or not, shielded those outside from the magnetic fields inside. Therefore, a metal spoon would never stick to any casing but one poorly insulated.

Scully, ignoring Mudder's antics as he attempted his spoon detection technique again, asking me, "How far to our next destination?"

"By least time walking route, Auxiliary Core #3 is 3.3 kilometers distant."

The spoon went *clank*clatter*.

Sighing, Scully considered. "Um, over one hundred kilometers total, you said?"

"Yes."

"Er, maybe we will use the transporters then. But, if you try any funny stuff, I'll shoot you. Come on, Mudder, put away the spoon: I have some darts for you."

"Altar's not here," repeated Mudder as his spoon continued to not stick to the warp core casing.

"I know. Do you want your darts?"

"Sure." String was wrapped around the spoon's handle and the object hid away inside the overcoat.

I did not wish to do anything, funny or otherwise. I was not weapons hierarchy, nor assimilation. If it took a tour of auxiliary cores and warp nacelles to convince these intruders to leave, then I would take them on that tour. There was a short flicker in the overhead lights as I established transporter lock...

"Was that the first instance of a lighting anomaly?" asked Delta. Both of her had pushed Assimilation out of the way and she now flanked 32 of 422, staring at the latter's face. In the dataspaces, her attention was painfully centered on 32 of 422, mirroring the real world situation.

32 of 422 carefully answered, "That is the first instance of light flicker I saw. It could have been coincidence since the internal environmental system in general was..."

Interrupted Delta, "You are not engineering. Leave engineering hypotheses to the engineering hierarchy. And how do you know that the spoon was just a spoon. Working postulation indicates that its use in congruence with light flicker indicates it could be involved in our current problems."

In the background, as 32 of 422 tried to justify his belief that the spoon was, in fact, a spoon, Second scoffed about the use of eating implements for detection devices. "A spoon on a string to search for phasic lifeforms? How about a fork on dental floss to find plasma leaks? Or a butter knife on a rope to seek out fatigued metal and stress fractures?"

Meanwhile, Weapons confronted Assimilation, again, concerning the status of 32 of 422. He was advocating manual extraction in order to augment the sensory drone's usefulness. "You should have enough data to know which neural cell cluster contains these memes. Open the drone's skull and directly stimulate those cells. Much, much more efficient."

The lights in the workshop abruptly died, leaving the area in darkness except for the twinkle of laser range finders welded to the side of heads of those Borg present, as well as miscellaneous blinking lights on bodies. Two data pillars glowed eerily, displays seeming to float without support. Only the lights were off, other devices, such as the alcove 32 of 422 currently resided within, drawing normal energy from the grid.

Delta stiffened as she turned inward to focus upon engineering matters, her bodies blocking Assimilation's access to 32 of 422. Assimilation disengaged from Weapons, physically shifting Delta A out of the way. As he began to adjust several electrodes attached to 32 of 422's skull, Assimilation answered Weapons, "32 of 422's base species has a unique neural characteristic in that there is no specific memory storage nexus. Memory cell clusters are located throughout the brain; and a complete meme sequence may be split among several clusters. The memory-enhancement implants in 32 of 422's cranium are integrated with this system. Therefore, I do not know all the cell clusters involved in this meme sequence yet, and direct stimulation without this data could lead to losing vital parts of the information requested."

There was no mention of the fact such radical brain surgery would terminate 32 of 422 in the process. Of course, there was no need, the loss of one drone insignificant if the required data could be extracted using direct stimulation. Adjustments complete, Assimilation spoke to 32 of 422, "Continue."

...I established the transporter lock with a destination of Auxiliary Core #3. I briefly considered the idea of beaming the intruders into space, unsuited Species #9720 not particularly resistant to vacuum effects. However, with no other designations to support the alternative, I stayed with my initial plan to shuffle the beings as quickly as possible between major plasma sources before returning them to their ship.

We all materialized safely in...

There was a clatter in the dark as something toppled to the workshop's deck. That something was Delta A, Weapons pushing the body aside with much greater force than that used previously by Assimilation. The lattermost was also shoved away as the weapons hierarchy head intruded deep into 32 of 422's personal space, had assimilation left him with any.

"You actually considered a decision branch to space the intruders? Why did you not follow that option?" demanded Weapons. He was yelling the same thing in 32 of 422's mind at the same time, creating an odd type of stereo effect.

Meanwhile, Delta helped herself to her feet. Both of her glared at Weapons' back, and thoughts involving "alterations" to his alcove were uncensored.

32 of 422 stared at Weapons, then quietly retorted, "Back off. One, my function is /not/ of your hierarchy and, thus, my thought patterns are not primed to follow tactical pathways. Two, if I /had/ spaced the intruders, the recitation would end here, assuming we even knew we had a problem to so interrogate me, and we would know even less than we do now."

Assimilation bodily stepped between Weapons and 32 of 422, shouldering the former away.

32 of 422 continued again, picking up where he left off with no prompting.

We all materialized safely in Auxiliary Core #3, much to Scuddy's obvious surprise. I suspect she had been expecting that I would space her, or another of many unpleasantly terminal options. She examined the new room while Mudder patted overcoat pockets for his spoon.

"We never left the other warp core." It was an accusation. The gun, which had been lowered, rose again.

Auxiliary Core #3 was more or less the same as Auxiliary Core #4, which itself resembled any of the other core rooms except the much more used Primary Core. There was different information on the active displays and data pillars; and the lift was at the second mezzanine instead of ground level. Of course, Scuddy wasn't a Borg, able to call to mind a detailed map of the cube with the equivalent of a "You Are Here" arrow denoting current location.

"This is Auxiliary Core #3," I pronounced. Scuddy's incredulous posture did not change.

*Clank*clatter* If Mudder had reservations concerning his new location, he was not vocalizing them. Instead he had found his spoon on a string and was solemnly trying to flail the core. As before, the logically expected outcome of nothing was the result.

Scuddy winced at an especially loud smack of metal on metal. She reached into a coat pocket and retrieved an unlabeled bottle different from that containing Mudder's medication. Two white pills were shaken into a hand, tossed into mouth, and swallowed dry. "Headache," she explained, a pinched weariness coloring her voice.

I cocked my head as I considered the next objective to visit: I wanted this pair off the cube soonest. "We continue." I locked on to the invaders, Mudder mid-throw, and beamed them to Auxiliary Core #2. Mudder completed his throwing motion when we rematerialized. However, since he was no longer standing next to the core casing, he blinked in surprise as his spoon hit nothing but air.

"A little warning next time," snapped Scuddy, eyes wide.

Mudder stalked up to the core and whipped his spoon around. *Clank*clatter* I could understand why Scuddy might have a headache, and perhaps I would be forming one too if I wasn't immune by dint of being Borg.

Obviously there was no "Antar" on board, but before we went on, curiosity overwhelmed my desire to finish this tour as soon as possible. Imperfectly assimilated drone that I am, I submitted to the impulse, calling to Mudder, "Species #9720 male designated Mudder: describe Antar and what you will do if you find this entity."

Scuddy groaned, slowly lowering her gun a final time before holstering it under her overcoat with a shrug. She shook her head. "Don't encourage him," she whispered overloud.

Mudder turned his attention to me. His eyes, while still far-away, were not as glazed as they had been immediately following medication The spoon was grasped by the handle, wielded bowl-end pointed at me. "Antar," the word was slightly slurred, as if tongue wasn't working quite in concert with the rest of the vocal apparatus, "is a shapeshifter, so he could look like anything, /anything/ or /anyone/. He is also a phasic entity, not organic, and resides at least partially in subspace, keeping some of his mass there. That means that his size here isn't always the same. Sometimes he is very, very small," Mudder held up his non-spoon hand, thumb and forefinger indicating a minute space, "and sometime he is very, very big." Both arms were swung wide like a fisherman embellishing upon a lost catch.

"Antar subsists upon plasma, mostly, for his energy. You see, his species evolved on a star before joining the Conspiracy. I don't know where exactly this star is nor have I ever seen his native form. You'll see what I use to get rid of him when need be, but not before, just in case any of the Conspiracy are spying on me via subspace-embedded devices which emit mind-reading rays." Mudder continued, following a babbled tangent which became increasingly wild, increasingly improbable, increasingly unrelated to my query.

Scuddy sighed, and pitched her voice to be heard above her partner's prattle. "32 of 422, I've seen the Antar-banishing 'device.' I think he made it one afternoon during group craft-time at his psychiatric hospital. It looks like one of those collapsible plastic camp cups, with a strip of red and yellow blinking lights attached to the rim. There is a small red button on the base; and a slot to put a battery, to power the lights I believe." Anticipating the next logical question, she continued, "And, no, since I've never seen 'Antar,' I've never seen the device in operation."

The overhead lights imperceptibly flickered, unnoticed by the two unaugmented beings. "We continue." Mid-babble, Mudder, Scuddy, and I transported to Auxiliary Core #9, the next stop on the plasma source tour.

The lighting strips, as they brightened from emergency to operational level, were fluctuating in this core room too. Additionally, the visual blue throbbing of the core was subtly erratic, and the hum of an idle core was at a lower than expected pitch. I shuffled through the dataspace, examining indicators linked with Auxiliary Core #9. The datastream reported a energy drain in the power core, edging down to levels below standard operating procedure.

Was I supposed to download engineering files now? Attempt repairs when I did not have the appropriate diagnostic devices on my chassis, nor the correct tools? I strongly desired the rest of the sub-collective could be awake...or even one additional drone to share my turmoil.

*Clank* The spoon had struck the core covering. However, there was no accompanied rattle of the eating implement hitting the deck. I looked in that direction. Against all expectation, the spoon was stuck to the casing.

"Aha!" crowed Mudder, pointing at the spoon. "I have you now, Antar!"

Scully blinked, "Wha' the ..." Her oath trailed off in disbelief.

A rich baritone voice, not loud, yet filling the core room, suddenly spoke, "Damn it! How do you keep on finding me? I just want to be left alone!" The core brightened, leaping from idle to active; and power indicators showed a massive rise in energy levels. There was a flash of blue light, overloading my optics, and I felt myself fly backwards through the air.

When the light died, when I was able to see again, I found myself lying prone in hallway 74, adjacent to Auxiliary Core #9. Finding no damage to myself, I scrambled as best I could to my feet, using a wall for support. Unfortunately, I was facing the wrong direction, the core behind me. As I turned on heel expecting to find rubble (a scene I did not relish explaining to Delta and engineering hierarchy when consciousness was eventually regained), I noticed a small flip-out communicator on the floor next to my foot. Also present was what looked to be a loosely segmented plastic object with a button on the bottom. I scooped up both items, secreting them in a thigh compartment.

No wreckage greeted my sight, nor did the computer report damage to Auxiliary Core #9. Instead, I saw a semi-transparent barrier, a translucent blue which wobbled like jello. It was not flush to the juncture of corridor, beginning a meter into the room proper and arching over the core. The surface texture was lumpy, not static-smooth like a forcefield; and when I touched it, my hand penetrated slightly before encountering a firm block. It felt oily. I removed my hand.

Peering inside, I could see the core, distorted form presumably due to barrier refraction. There were also two bipeds, similarly warped. The slightly shorter one - Scuddy - was waving her gun again, and Mudder was making motions reminiscent of searching through too many pockets.

I backed away....

Weapons was crowding in front of 32 of 422's alcove once more, this time sharing space with Delta. The hierarchies represented by the pair had already copied and were subjected to analysis data provided by 32 of 422. However, both drones were demanding additional information concerning the barrier. Weapons, as expected, wanted to blow up the barrier; and Delta desired to know more on how the object was affecting power systems.

{State the velocity of your hand when you penetrated the field's outer layers,} ordered Weapons, shouting the words aloud as well.

Temporarily drowning out Weapons, Delta inserted her own urgent requirements, {Extrapolate material composition of the barrier: biological, plastic, energy, other? Relate the degree of induced magnetism present outside the core casing.}

To each demand, 32 of 422 could only respond: {I don't know. Insufficient information. I don't have that type of instrumentation built into me, so how would I know? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.}

Elsewhere in Cube #347, gravity control was beginning to show the same flickering symptoms lighting had undergone before completely off-lining. Fluctuations were also appearing in other, more vital systems as the rate of energy bleed to Auxiliary Core #9 increased. Engineering was rerouting as quickly as possible in order to minimize drain on critical systems. Unfortunately, the figurative stuffing of fingers in the cracks of a failing dam could not last indefinitely.

"Okay, that's it. Back off. If you do not comply, I will shut you down; and if you resist deactivation, I will have drone maintenance inject enough sedative into your systems to temporarily stop your hearts." Captain had arrived, and his calm plural "you" was directed towards Delta and Weapons. In the dataspaces, his presence radiated displeasure at the actions of the two hierarchy heads, backed by Second and other command and control elements. 32 of 422 was glad that ire was not directed at him.

Delta immediately complied, retreating from 32 of 422, both physically and mentally. Weapons hesitated for a long moment, then did likewise.

Except for Sensors and Doctor, it was an rare instance when so many drones high in the hierarchy command ranks were present. Too bad the moment was not as historical as it could be, Delta and Weapons devolved to presenting cases to Captain, Second, command and control hierarchy why each required additional in-depth data from 32 of 422's head.

Assimilation side stepped in front of 32 of 422, targeting laser at side of his head lancing into the latter's eyes. 32 of 422 winced slightly, but otherwise withstood the unintended assault. Said Assimilation with a sigh, "You are almost done. Finish the meme sequence. Then I can return to my boring non-existence where I have nothing to do."

32 of 422 closed his eyes to the dark and disengaged aural input so as to not hear the verbal chaos occurring in the middle of the workshop. Internally, he narrowed his focus to his own mind, an act of concentration to push away distractions.

I backed away. What was I to do? The energy drain to Auxiliary Core #9 had increased, and since the computer refused to accept my designation for non-sensory-related commands, I could not even unidle another core to restore cube-wide power levels to their prior status.

I could not act. I had no options. I was alone. I was one. Standing in the middle of hallway 74, facing the glowing barrier, I was paralyzed with indecision, mind looping through the same pathway track.

A loop is a dangerous thing to enter, an if-then hell that has been known to crash even the most robust computer. Borg, being largely dependent upon computer systems and individual units not encouraged to think for themselves, are not immune. Variations of the loop have been used by resisting species to temporarily halt an assaulting sub-collective. Always the Greater Consciousness has overcome, each time adding new loop-breaking subroutines. My thoughts must have spun in place long enough to trigger a loop-breaker algorithm, for I was suddenly facing the root of my difficulties: I required the active support of my sub-collective. The loop-breaker refused to allow me to return to a circular contemplation path.

A check of my internal chronometer showed that the computer had allowed me to loop for six point three minutes.

Okay, I required active support of my sub-collective, but how was I to achieve it? I did not know why the crew was asleep except for me. I suspected it was not Fall-related, but rather linked with the invasion by Antar, Scuddy, and Mudder. The cause, the how and why, were not relevant, only the course of action I needed to take to remedy the problem.

Standing in the corridor, I considered my options. They were few, the direct paths already shown to be closed to me; and I did not have sufficient time to attempt the intricate hacking of which I was not facile. Emergencies...emergencies could awaken a cube in deep regeneration. All I needed was an emergency I could fabricate at my permissions level in order to fool the computer.

{Computer: activate BorgCraft.} Weapons' immense training/game program had grown since its initial installation from a bootlegged version. It now permeated all computer and sensory system in order to provide a realistic scenario environment for participants.

Chirped the computer, {Access. Welcome to BorgCraft!} Several holoemitters in the hallway activated, displaying a floating menu. In my mind's eye, a virtual version similarly appeared. {Please choose a selection: New Game, Load Game, Scenario Builder...}

I scanned the options. {Load game.}

{Compliance.} In front of me the menu altered, accompanied by a scroll box filled with a folder maze. In the dataspaces, a tangled data tree sprouted, a spaghetti of paths leading to a multitude of games, from those saved-in-progress to raw scenarios. I followed the latter branch.

{Um...path Completed Scenarios/Gamma-Epsilon/Gamma/Gamma2.3_multi-attack.} I randomly chose a scenario. A summary of the choice appeared, describing a small armada of Second Federation ship ambushing Cube #347 from warp. Good enough. {Load, but do not run.}

{Loading.}

While I did not have access to locked non-hierarchy command paths, sensory control remained available. {Computer: link BorgCraft virtual Cube #347 scenario input to general sensory grid.}

{Compliance.}

What the BorgCraft Cube #347 "saw" in the scenario was now mirrored by the real Cube #347 exterior sensor grid. This action had occurred several times in the past, usually as a prank, creating chaos amid the sensory hierarchy as reality was sifted from sensory hallucination. Without drone support, the computer would be fooled, forcing sub-collective activation. {Run BorgSpace scenario.}

{Compliance.}

Even though I was expecting it, the result caused me to recoil. At a distance of a five hundred kilometers, it seemed as if twelve Second Federation warships of various tonnages had just dropped from warp. They were approaching at attack speed; and sensors were registering active target locks. Long-range weapons envelope was imminent. The computer was demanding me to do something.

{You stupid machine! I can't do anything except watch the incoming! I don't even have a single member of the weapons hierarchy to feed tracking data to!} The computer, of course, did not really understand, but its algorithms were concluding I was insufficient as to required action. Decision finalized, emergency activation codes flooded the sub-collective, awakening drones from regeneration.

{Warning! Attack! Warning! Attack!} Into the minds of all drones, the computer calmly issued its warning. The first view of the awakening sub-collective was one of adrenaline-rushing danger.

The cube immediately began to spin defensively, weapons hierarchy demanding targeting data. Torpedoes of varying type, including a trio emanating singularity signatures, were incoming in front of the Second Federation forces. Cube #347 jerked into motion, moving at an angle away from the attack, spitting countermeasures. At the same time, torpedoes, real ones, were shot towards the attacking ghosts. An outside observer would have seen a previous quiescent cube suddenly jump to life and begin attacking nothing, a person half-asleep batting at a nightmare.

Into the wakening chaos, I tried to inform the sub-collective of the ruse, that there was nothing there. The rest of the sensory hierarchy, perceiving that there certainly /was/ something present, censored me. The cube zigged again, reacting to missiles which were not exploding upon the countermeasures, which were narrowing the gap to Cube #347's hull.

Captain's voice cut through the intranet white noise of multiple coordination, {By the twins...well, damn.} The exclamation was submerged once more by general conversation and option projection.

The torpedoes were closing at speed. Cube #347 fired in a futile effort to thin the incoming ranks, weapons hierarchy scoring direct hits that nonetheless did not affect the targets. To the computer, I ordered, {Disengage grid linkage to BorgCraft scenario. End BorgCraft scenario and exit program.} The torpedoes, the attacking ships, all vanished from the sensor grid.

{Compliance. Linkage disengaged. BorgCraft program disengaged.}

The silence in the intranets was intense. Except for the movement of dataspace packets between hierarchy elements, one might think all drones to be returned to regeneration. Into this sudden quiet as I faced the semi-translucent barrier, I declared, {This unit reports a small difficulty involving Auxiliary Core #9 and three alien invaders.}

32 of 422 finished his recitation. The rest was known, both by himself and the general sub-collective. As soon as it was apparent 32 of 422 had directly experienced events leading to the current crisis, he had been transported to Assimilation Workshop #14 for interrogation.

Assimilation stepped away from 32 of 422 and the alcove, staring blindly into space for several moments with head cocked as he concentrated on the dataspaces. Blinking back to the here and now, he answered the questions not verbally asked, "Meme reconstruction is complete. All pathways involved in this memory recollection have been mapped. Manual stimulation is not required. 32 of 422's memories of this incident can now be re-extracted through normal means for detailed analysis, if necessary." A long sigh shook Assimilation's frame. "And, now, since I'm no longer needed, I think I'll go back to my alcove." Despite the pronouncement, he did not move. Erratic energy spikes and lows had forced restriction of transporters to emergency use; and going to one's alcove did not qualify.

Delta pronounced, "That is it? Then this was a waste of time. We learned nothing on how to stanch the power bleeding. Hypothesis that the alien designated 'Antar' is the cause of the problem is now 98.7%, but that is the only outcome."

"Agreeance," said Weapons in rare concurrence with the head of the engineering hierarchy. "The barrier cannot be penetrated by phasers, disruptors, lasers, various corrosive liquids, explosive concussion, or sonics. Transportering through the barrier is not a viable option. No novel solutions are suggested by the meme recovery."

Indeed, the hallways leading into Auxiliary Core #9 were littered with the remains of attempts to breach the jello-like forcefield. The corpses of overloaded contraptions of various lethality lay abandoned, obstacles to be tripped over in the dark as new devices were lugged into position. One corridor was temporarily abandoned, mix of three highly acidic substances creating an solution that was slowly eating into the duralloy deck, not to mention the feet of anyone who walked through a puddle. Blackened rosettes on ceilings attested to experiments in high explosives. Even low-tech sledgehammers were in evidence on the theory that if something is hit hard enough, it will break. Thus far, however, the barrier had been resistant to all attempts to crack it.

Delta glared at Weapons, her emotional state one of returning animosity tinged with annoyance, "You are causing more damage to this cube than the alien is. At least the alien just sits there, even if it does absorb power and disrupt systems. Why don't you try cutting through the floor from underneath?"

"We are."

Delta was astonished, even more so because until that point, Weapons had managed to successfully shield the happenstance from those outside the small group which was even now worming through interstitial spaces to reach a point under the core room's floor. With the admittance, more than a few interested parties focused on the small expedition force lugging specialized plasma cutters capable of scoring duralloy.

"Don't you dare," protested Delta. "You are likely to cut something essential and leave a hole where the auxiliary core is supposed to be. Or a plasma conduit will be breached. Maybe a..." Delta continued on, listing the myriad of things which could occur if the weapons detail did not cut precisely in the correct place.

A ringing, that of an old-fashioned alarm clock, cut through the growing disagreement between Weapons and Delta concerning methods about how to (safely and with no damage to the cube) breach the barrier. It was ignored. The sound originated from the communicator confiscated from 32 of 422 upon his transference to Assimilation Workshop #14. It and the plastic contraption with button on, had been set aside on an unoccupied workbench still shrink-wrapped in plastic. As the communicator was a common Species #9720 technology, its examination had been low rated in light of the current troubles.

32 of 422 automatically glanced in the communicator's direction. However, since he remained clamped into the alcove, he could not reach it.

The communicator rang again.

Second picked up the communicator and looked at it while accessing the appropriate files relating to Species #9720 technology. As the small square rang a third time, he flipped up the cover to reveal a series of numbered buttons, several function keys, and a speaking grille. A yellow button was depressed and the communicator lifted to ear. "Hello?" Pause. "Sure. Just a moment." Second turned to regard 32 of 422, holding out the device towards the latter, "It is for you."

32 of 422 held out a hand, open palm upward. The communicator was passed over. His head suddenly became very crowded as drones all over the cube piggy-backed on his personal datastreams; and even Delta and Weapons lessened their confrontation to mild sniping. "32 of 422 speaking."

Scully's voice was on the other end of the connection. "Good, good. I can see all these forms moving around outside the barrier, so I assume the morgue isn't a morgue anymore. This was the only way I could think to talk to anyone outside; and when Mudder couldn't find his phone, well, I hoped you might have it. Just a minute, Mudder!" Those words were not directed at 32 of 422. Those drones just beyond the forcefield could see the distorted forms of the two Species #9720 standing closer to each other, near head to head. "Okay, okay...Mudder wants to talk to you."

32 of 422 patiently waited for the communicator to be relocated. There was a moment of static, then, "Do you have the Rings of Confinement?"

Confused, 32 of 422 responded automatically with a very unBorg, "Huh?"

"The Rings of Confinement. Very important." Mudder's voice grew distant for a moment as Scully shouted, "The camp cup with twinkling lights." There was the noise of a scuffle, then Mudder was back, indignant. "Yes, the Rings of Confinement. It is not /just/ a cup with twinkling lights."

Already next to the appropriate work table, Second picked up the disc of plastic, shaking it out into a segmented camp cup. As promised, little lights of red and yellow began to sparkle when the cup was at full extension. Second raised the "Rings of Confinement" object to eye level, examining it minutely. Delta B took half a step towards Second and his new toy, then stopped.

Responded 32 of 422 into the communicator. "Yes."

"The Rings of Confinement will cause Antar to pull in upon himself. All you need to do is put the open end - that with the lights - against the barrier and push the button," said Mudder fervently. He offered no explanation as to how the Rings functioned. "You must be the one to do this. I assume you picked it up after it was separated from me. If this is so, then the device currently has your genetic imprint. It won't work for anyone else. If someone else does use it, it will explode!"

Second, who had been about to push the plastic cup's red button, paused. Peering at the Rings of Confinement once more and seeing nothing that even remotely looked volatile, he pushed the button anyway. *Click!* Nothing happened.

{You just had to do that, didn't you?} asked Captain. He had been keeping engineering and weapons hierarchies from abandoning their respective chores and mirroring the dissent between their heads.

Second shrugged in response.

The lack of an effect from the cup begged the question of how it would positively affect the situation, much less break the barrier.

"Okay. We understand," replied 32 of 422 into the communicator.

"Great! Okay. I gotta go now because Scuddy is complaining that I'm using up her minutes. I told her that the phone plan was part of the Conspiracy and that she should go to flat-rate unlimited minutes, but nooooo, she..." The signal was cut with the finality of an impatient hand grabbing the phone and flipping it closed.

32 of 422 looked at the communicator, then passed it back to Second.

Assimilation sighed a "Whatever" and began to remove electrodes attached to 32 of 422's skull. Consensus cascade indicated that while it was doubtful the camp cup would affect the forcefield, it was unlikely to worsen situation. Weapons hierarchy drones beginning to cut under the floor of Auxiliary Core #9 were doing just fine in the "potential negative repercussions" department. Conversely, duralloy was a tough metal to burn through, even in the best of conditions, and time would be required for that gamble to work. Therefore, it was decided to have 32 of 422 deploy the Rings of Confinement as requested.

Released from the alcove at last, 32 of 422 stepped to the ground just as gravity control was lost within the subsection. Borg, even one of the sensory hierarchy, however, came equipped with magnetic soles. As 32 of 422 secured himself to the deck, Second issued a warning, {Catch.} The twinkling camp cup was floated to 32 of 422's waiting hand.

A transporter lock attempted establishment on all the drones in the workshop except Assimilation. When only 32 of 422 remained, lock unsuccessful due to power fluctuation, he informed, {I think I'll walk. It isn't that far, only 2.9 kilometers and two cargolifts which may or may not be functioning.}

{I don't think so,} replied Captain.

Beaming commenced. 32 of 422 closed his eyes, only opening them again when he felt himself fully rematerialize. He had arrived in the correct place, blue barrier glowing at the end of an otherwise dark hallway. Gravity was present here. As a bonus, all body parts had arrived intact.

Delta was present in the form of body A, the other part of her beamed elsewhere to where engineering assistance was required; and Weapons was in attendance as well. The presence of the pair was not unexpected, both having reason to see if the Rings of Confinement could breach the barrier against expectation. Captain and Second were near as well, prudently at the far end of the corridor. They had desired a first-person view of the action instead of third-person relay, but neither wanted to be too close should there be explosive consequences.

32 of 422 stepped forward, tripped over an abandoned sledgehammer, and reeled uncontrollably towards the barrier as the gravity grid abruptly collapsed. An object in motion tends to remain in motion...and so 32 of 422 smacked face first into the barrier, then slid to the deck as engineering managed to increase power to the area and re-establish gravity. "Ouch?" said 32 of 422 as he struggled to his feet. There was no damage. There was also nothing in the hand which had been holding the camp cup.

"That hasn't happened before," commented Weapons as he approached the barrier, followed by Delta. Captain and Second inched closer from their vantage point, but still remained distant. Several other drones, circumventing the transporter inhibition, materialized behind the consensus monitor and facilitator vanguard. A crowd was growing in the hallway.

The Rings of Confinement were embedded in the barrier. The open top was sunk into the substance, red and yellow lights twinkling just under the jello surface. All other objects which had been thrown at the barrier had either (1) bounced back to the thrower, or (2) had momentum absorbed such that they clattered to the deck, similar to 32 of 422's performance.

Delta waved an arm over the Rings, built in diagnostics obtaining basic readings. She grumbled, "No change. The barrier still does not register by any means except visual and tactile. As far as scanning is concerned, this is a plastic cup hovering mid-air without support."

Weapons reached a finger forward. {I will push the button,} he informed.

32 of 422 lunged towards the cup, one arm batting away Weapons' hand while his other palm smacked against the base of the Rings of Confinement. {I've spent most of my existence since assimilation tied into the sensory grid; and, more recently, enduring Sensors. I have a chance to do something for once.} *Click!* Aloud as nothing happened: "I guess it was just a plastic cup with lights glued to it."

"You doubted?" asked Delta incredulously. "It is a shoddily constructed 'device' which is as technologically advanced as a..." Delta trailed off as the barrier shimmered, bulged oddly around the cup, then rapidly dissolved. The Rings of Confinement fell to the ground, collapsing in upon itself until it was nothing more than a loose stack of plastic rings.

Power levels rapidly returned to nominal throughout the cube. Overhead light strips flickered as they activated, then steadied to normal lighting illumination.

"That itched! I thought I'd gotten rid of that damned thing!" The blue glow which had formerly suffused the entire area was now confined to a vaguely humanoid form perched atop the energy core. "Vaguely humanoid" was the best descriptor because to be more accurate would be to say that the entity had been constructed out of turquoise clay by a small child wearing oven mitts. There was a head region, a torso, limbs, but there was nothing definite and only a suggestion of features. The humanoid - Antar - wobbled as it/he shifted, creating the seeming of being made from jello.

"Antar!" yelled Mudder, voice oddly pitched as he held one hand over his nose. The other hand held a gun which was pointing as much at the Borg standing at the hallway egress as at the being on the core. "I knew I'd track you down!"

Scuddy, meanwhile, stared at the scene, jaw slack, stunned disbelief on her face.

"I have a restraining order, Mudder. I do! You and Scuddy are not supposed to come within one parsec of my location. I swear I'm going to sic the authorities on you this time," retorted Antar. He was paying attention only to the two Species #9720 individuals.

Weapons slowly raised one arm and directing his chassis-mounted disruptor at Antar. Additional weapons hierarchy members were edging out of the other hallways (except the one bathed in acid), similarly taking aim at the intruders.

"Don't you dare fire," hissed Delta. "I know 281 of 300 is here, and he'll miss! Disruptors and warp cores mix too well, Weapons. We don't have any spares nor dry-dock options to fix the resultant mess." Body B had materialized next to Weapons, and now both Deltas were forcing Weapons to lower his arm. Command and control was at the same time ordering the weapons hierarchy to wait. Arms were slowly lowered, Weapons' the last.

Shouted Mudder, "You are part of the Conspiracy, Antar! I have you this time!"

Antar called down to Scuddy, "You /didn't/ give him ammo for that thing, did you? He /knows/ that the railgun won't touch me...hell, anything less than a nova or a catastrophic subspace event is an inconvenience at worst."

Scuddy managed to look sheepish. She had her gun drawn as well, and her aim upon Antar was much more steady than Mudder's.

"You did give him ammo," accused Antar. He sighed, then swiveled his lump of a head to regard his Borg audience. "Sorry about this, but these two are crazy. Insane. I didn't mean for you to be dragged into this mess. I thought if you were all asleep I could do a quick recharge and leave, no one the worse for knowing I was here. Then these two show up and it seems I didn't quite manage to put everyone into slumberland. What a mess."

"Do you probe nostrils?" suddenly asked Mudder, gun pointed erratically at 32 of 422, Delta, and Weapons.

As Scuddy rapidly shook her head back and forth behind Mudder, 32 of 422 hurriedly replied, "No. Do you want the Rings of Confinement back?" He kicked the collapsed camp cup towards the male. Mudder considered the offer as it rolled to a stop at his feet, the picked it up. The gun, which could do considerable damage to a drone, was returned to aiming at Antar.

Captain pushed his way to the forefront to act in his liaison capacity. "We are..." he began, then hushed as Mudder pointed the gun again towards the corridor.

Pronounced Mudder, "Silence. You are part of the Conspiracy. I know it."

Captain quieted.

Sighed Antar from his perch, "See? Crazy. Beyond the bend and down the river, paddling in the sea somewhere." A jello arm was waved in dismissal. "At least he's obviously loony. She's not quite in her right mind, either, although you can't tell by looking at her. She talks real good too, always able to convince Mudder's current psychiatric hospital to release him for a week or a month. However, just as Mudder has this stupid fixation upon a mythical Conspiracy and me, Scuddy is always following behind Mudder no matter a /normal/ being would have abandoned the man long ago."

"The truth is out there," shouted Mudder.

Muttered Antar, "Yah, way out there."

Said Scuddy indignantly, "I am sane. I've the papers to prove it."

"Anyone who /needs/ papers to declare them sane..." The observation was not finished.

Tactical drones shuffled in their respective hallways, trying to look both menacing and non-threatening at the same time. The sub-collective was charting options to follow. Finally one was chosen for its probability to work, or at least to keep the cube in one piece at the expense of a single drone.

32 of 422 protested even as the assignment was compelled, {Me?}

"Because," muttered Captain as 32 of 422 was propelled forward into Auxiliary Core #9 proper with a shove. {Because you are familiar to the intruders and because you are the most expendable drone present.} It was cold, Borg logic.

{Just get close enough to assimilate the Species #9720 pair,} ordered Captain. {One problem at a time. We'll worry about the phasic shapeshifter later.}

32 of 422 carefully advanced upon Scuddy and Mudder, trying to be as inoffensive as a Borg can be. Compared to the bulk of the disruptor-armed tactical drones, or even Captain's densely armored frame, 32 of 422 was innocuous. {But I've never actually assimilated anyone before,} continued the protests. {I'm only a sensory drone. I deal with tachyons and gravitrinos and subspace pressure waves.}

Answered 19 of 300, one of the weapons hierarchy drones prevented from proceeding with the assault, {You wimp! You just put a hand near the neck or other piece of anatomy with a major artery and trigger your nanotubules. It is basic.}

Whimpering amid the internal catcalls, 32 of 422 reached Scuddy and Mudder. The latter were not paying him attention, instead deep in an argument with Antar concerning the definition of sanity and how it could be measured. Mudder wasn't helping Scuddy's case, spouting paranoid cliches such as "Trust no one." 32 of 422 tentatively stretched one hand towards Scuddy's shoulder.

Antar snapped, "Don't do that, whatever you are doing. They are good people, if a bit misguided and lacking medication. And I have a restraining order I'm going to enforce once I get back to a civilized sector. You have transporters...transport this lot back to their ship and let 'em go." Antar paused for dramatic effect. "If you don't, I'll blow up this vessel."

The light strips in Auxiliary Core #9, in subsection 22, all over the cube dimmed. Gravity plating disengaged. Defensive and offensive systems failed. Power from throughout the cube was being drawn into the warp core of Auxiliary Core #9, pushing the warp core to redlined meltdown. One, two, all nine auxiliary cores and the primary core were performing similarly. While Cube #347 could withstand the explosion of up to three, possibly four, cores, all power plants at once would turn the Exploratory-class cube into tiny bits.

{Say yes, say yes, say yes,} repeated 32 of 422 over and over again. He was a frozen statue. At least being at the epicenter meant he would be terminated very quickly. A final bright moment followed by nothingness, denied an afterlife echo in the Greater Consciousness. However, while any drone was willing to give up his/her/its existence at the behest of the Collective, no matter how foolish the cause, self-preservation for the imperfectly assimilated was a mite stronger than in the normal unit when the Whole wasn't actively ordering termination.

"We...agree," said Captain.

The throbbing blue of the core slowly returned to idle. Systems reported nominal status. Antar folded arms across chest in an obviously smug posture.

"A final demand...please destroy that camp cup, could you? I'm not quite sure what is in that plastic, but it tickles my matrix horribly. I think I'm allergic to it."

Mudder, who had not quite followed all which had just occurred except to know he and Scuddy were the focus of some Conspiracy-laden bargain, did recognize the stipulation as it regarded his cup. He dropped his gun and crushed the Rings of Confinement to his chest. "NO!" 211 of 300 fell to the ground, a dart hole through her leg due accidental discharge by the railgun. She vanished in a transporter beam for Maintenance Bay #4.

Directed Captain, {Get it.}

32 of 422 seized the plastic cup and pulled. Servo augmented muscles were no match for the male Species #9720. The Rings of Confinement were twisted from Mudder's grasp, then crushed within a fist. Bits of plastic dropped to the deck, followed by the solid clump of a small battery.

"And you looked like such a nice, if alien, fellow," commented Scuddy.

Mudder and Scuddy were transported to their ship. A cutting beam sliced the tether uncomfortably near the nose of the small craft, almost severing part of the starboard forward nacelle structure.

"The aliens are back in their vessel," dully stated Captain. His mental state in the intranets was one of suppressed ire at the blackmail, at the knowledge there was nothing the sub-collective could do about it.

Antar performed a full-body nod. "Good, good. Now go warp for about five minutes, direction doesn't matter, as long as it is away from here."

Cube #347 executed as directed, returning to normal space ten light minutes from origination. 32 of 422 watched through a grid partially warped by Sensors' manipulations as the Species #9720 vessel powered up its engines and disappeared into warp, trajectory almost exactly opposite of that taken by the cube.

Sighing, Antar floated off the core casing, becoming increasingly globular and translucent as he rose into the air. The voice, however, remained the same. "I think I'll get off here. Again, sorry about the inconvenience. Assuming they follow their normal routine, Scuddy is returning Mudder to his psychiatric facility where he'll stew in his own Conspiracy juices. Eventually she'll get pathologically bored and spring him again. Hopefully by then I'll have found a nice, quiet star to settle on for a bit and be safe from them. Somewhere in this galaxy there has to be a place where they can't stalk me."

The final sentence was more whispered plea than firm statement, one which trailed into nothingness as Antar continued to fade. Finally he vanished completely, leaving behind a crowd of drones, plastic shards from the Rings of Confinement, and adjacent corridors requiring maintenance.

Silence, then...

"There is nothing to blow up here. I have better things to do," stated Weapons as he beamed back to his alcove. Following suit, and before Delta might decide to make them clean up the mess they had created, others of the tactical hierarchy did likewise. Captain and Second looked at each, mirrored a shrug, and themselves left for other amusements. Very soon, all who remained were Delta and 32 of 422.

"Well," barked Delta, "what are you doing here? You don't belong here: it is not your function unless you want to trade in your optic sensory suite for a mop."

32 of 422 locked on to himself and returned to his alcove.

{Are you going to answer that?} peevishly asked 120 of 510, my alcove neighbor to the right. 120 of 510 had very sensitive hearing and was known to complain about incomplete regeneration due to other units on the alcove tier breathing. The fluffy pink earmuffs provided by Doctor had solved much of the grumbling, but she didn't always use them.

I dragged a part of myself out of the calculations in which I was involved, examining minute differences in local gravimetrics so as to find cloaked ships. It was a standard defensive protocol always engaged. {Huh?} I asked groggily, most of my awareness situated amid gravitonic wave potentials.

{The ringing coming from your thigh. It is very annoying.}

{Put on your earmuffs.}

{They are on.}

{Oh.} I completely surfaced from sensory hierarchy immersion, pushing dataspace awareness to the back of my mind in favor of the real universe. Indeed, my thigh was ringing. It was the Species #9720 communicator. I had recovered it from Assimilation Workshop #14 after engineering hierarchy had expressed disinterest due to it being well-known technology. I was not sure why I wanted it, just that I did. Compared to the collections and do-dads coveted by other members of the Cube #347 sub-collective, my desire was extremely minor.

*RIIIIIIIING!*RIIIIIIIING*

The muted alarm became louder as I opened my thigh compartment and fished out the communicator. The top was flipped open. "Hello?" The response was an eerie solo whistle:

Do-da-do-da-do-da-da-daaaaaaa

Do-da-do-da-do-da-da-daaaaaaa

Do-da-do-da-do-do-do-daaaaaaa

This was the sound I had awoken to.

"If this is an obscene phone call, the Collective will find you and assimilate you," I harshly grated into the phone.

"Oh, sorry." There was a cough, and an embarrassed silence. "Er, um, this is Antar. I am really sorry. 32 of 422, wasn't it? Well, since this is Mudder's phone and as he rarely ever is without it, I...that is...ah....hum. Let's just say this is a little joke between Mudder and I."

The silence stretched. I did not reply.

Antar continued, trying to fill the increasingly long pause. "Is Mudder gone? The subspace-embedded satellites sometimes have a hard time fixing on him. We got to his partner some time ago, but by some genetic fluke he seems to be immune."

I answered the question asked with a single, monosyllabic reply, "Yes."

"Good. They will be pleased that he's heading back to the hospital. Easier to keep track of him there. Even through his medication he has undue influence over Scuddy. Um...ship all okay? I didn't want to blow it up, you know."

"Yes."

"Er, quite the conversationalist, aren't you. Well, I gotta go. Lots of nostril-probing abductions of Mudder's family to set up, you see. Hum. Um, bye?"

The signal cut, transmission lost.

I replayed the solitary whistle. It was a catchy tune, if a bit peculiar.

Do-da-do-da-do-da-da-daaaaaaa

Do-da-do-da-do-da-da-daaaaaaa

{Stop it,} muttered 120 of 510.

Eventually we would Fall, eventually Sensors would be rendered unconscious (allowing those more prone to grid hallucinations a break), eventually (maybe, maybe not) we would return to our native reality. Until then...

Do-da-do-da-do-do-do-daaaaaaa

{If I have to tell you one more time to stop,} threatened my aurally over-sensitive alcove neighbor who was /not/ wearing her earmuffs, despite assurance to the contrary.

Until then, well, I had to pass the time some way.

---

Return to the Season 6 page