Star Trek is brought to you by the letter P(aramount); and Star Traks by the letter 
D(ecker).  BorgSpace is associated with the Roman number M(eneks).

				Sunny Days

	Captain, arms crossed over his midsection, impatiently tapped his foot.  Or, at 
least, that was the impression he was emanating in the intranets as he stood on alcove tier 
18 of subsection 3, submatrix 25.  The narrowed eye was a reality, as was a face a bit too 
stony to be accurately labeled "expressionless."  Captain was more than mildly annoyed.
	"Put it back," Captain said, voice even, "all of it.  The garden gnome too."
	Alcove 218 had been dismantled.  All of it.  At the end of an alcove tier, it 
normally abutted the thicker metal which housed the subshaft bulkhead when it was 
retracted into the wall, as it was now.  This position afforded more room for the alcove, a 
deliberate necessity since the alcove in question belonged to Sensors.  It was a 
convoluted affair custom made to fit the Species #6766 body, allowing an insectoid to 
stand naturally as clamps, ports, and umbilicals attached to the dorsal side of abdomen 
and thorax.  Currently it was in pieces all over the tier, only the most rudimentary bits 
still connected to Sensors.  
Captain had interrupted a prank in progress, following suspicious threads leading 
to 59 of 480 and 199 of 480, both of whom had been trying to shield their thoughts.  115 
of 422, Sensors' nearest neighbor, had been in on the joke as well, if only as a silent 
accomplice because one would have to be in deep regenerative stasis to not notice 
activities with wrenches and welders that went a bit beyond standard alcove maintenance.
	"And you will also retrieve parts already transported to the hull."  The hoax had 
been to transfer Sensors, alcove and all, to the hull prior to the end of the Fall, then watch 
her reaction when she was roused.
	59 of 480 and 199 of 480 stood quiescent, staring at a point that was somewhere 
behind Captain's head by about half a meter.  It was the stoic repentance of those caught 
doing what should not have been done.  59 of 480, still holding the garden gnome, 
blinked as she refocused her vision upon Captain, "The gnome too?  Can't it at least be 
put on the hull?"
	"No."
	59 of 480's shoulder's slumped.
	"I will be personally supervising until the job is complete.  Then, since you two 
have shown such an aptitude for engineering, Delta has several tasks for you."
	Protested 59 of 480, "But we aren't of engineering hierarchy."  On vessel as large 
and complex as an Exploratory-class cube, there were always a backlog of low-priority, 
menial chores.  Delta kept a list of those which were especially boring, difficult, or both.  
All drones did as they were ordered, the essence of being Borg, but those imperfectly 
assimilated had enough awareness of their quasi-individuality that they could /dislike/ 
assigned tasks.  Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on point of view), dislikes were 
irrelevant.
	"Too bad.  Comply."
	"Compliance," intoned the two drones as one.  They turned and began the chore 
of reassembling all the bits and pieces of Alcove 218 of subsection 3, submatrix 25, 
alcove tier 18.  Additional parts materialized on the tier as room became available.  
Captain stood in verbal silence and watched.
	Floating upside-down a meter above the heads of Captain and the busy pranksters 
was a Director.  As Iris busily doodled on its PADD with a stylus, a cigar sedately orbited 
the eyeball, emitting bubbles as it "smoked" itself.  Not once had the Director offered a 
comment upon the situation, too busy concentrating on its emerging work of art.  Captain 
glanced upwards, having a fine view of the PADD's contents:  a pair of lips was being 
beat by dull spoons.  The drawing was cartoonish and, frankly, badly done.  It would 
probably fetch millions of credits on the open market by connoisseurs who would declare 
it a "subtle reflection upon the battering free speech withstands even in the most liberal of 
societies."
	Captain stared down at his foot as a particularly heavy part of Sensors' alcove 
materialized.  His gaze strayed to 59 of 480 and 199 of 480, mind reflecting a careful, 
shadowed calm that said more than any words of rebuke could have.  The two hurriedly - 
Borg could move quickly when there was need - collected the mistransported article and 
pulled it towards their work site.  The metal-on-metal screech echoed throughout the 
subshaft area, eliciting complaints from other occupied alcove tiers.
	It was the sound of dice rolling across a table which caused all to pause.  Iris lifted 
stylus from artwork; and the cigar paused in its orbit, bubbles frozen.
	"Hello, Darlings," cooed a sultry Voice, one expected on the other end of certain 
$5.95 per minute phone calls, not in the confines of a cube, "I am your temporary Voice, 
courtesy of VoiceTemp.  Remember, VoiceTemp can staff all your bodiless Voice 
needs."  Although all drones were effectively neutered upon assimilation via surgical, 
chemical, or other means, the Voice still stirred a visceral something deep in the pit of the 
stomach (or equivalence) regardless of gender or species.  "And for all you Darlings, I 
have the following announcement:  this reality is brought to you by the number six and 
the letter eta."  The words were smoothly enunciated, sending a shiver up the spine.  
"Have a nice existence."
	{Bring her back,} cried a contingent of drones, led by 129 of 203, {she 
evokes...memories.}
	From its upside-down ceiling perch, Director chuckled, "If you only knew the 
truth."  It cleared the throat it didn't have, then continued in a more business-like tone as 
it eyed its PADD, "Six-eta...six-eta, where have I heard that name before?"  Several 
buttons beeped as they were tapped, drawing dismissed.
	The familiar twisting that accompanied the completion of the flux jump Fall 
rippled throughout the cube.  Outside was a universe, replacing Nothingness, redolent in 
stars, radiation, gasses, time, space all the things that allow a reality to be.  Within the 
hull, amid select portions of Cube #347, including the alcove tier on which Captain was 
located, a different sort of change had occurred.
	The familiar bulkheads and general ambiance of the cube was present, but it was 
overlaid by a veneer of...cheerfulness.  That was the best, perhaps only, description for 
the unexpected alterations.  Instead of gunmetal grays, dull chrome, and muted light 
strips with a subtle green hue, the walls were painted happy yellows, reflected silvered 
highlights, and lit with warm sun-spectrum lights.  It was most definitely not Borg; and 
even the certain Colored factions known for their merry taste in decor had never strayed 
quite this far from their Borg origins.
	Oddly, as Captain reached out a hand to touch a bulkhead, it was as if two 
different pictures had been overlaid over each other by a light projector.  The cube 
remained, familiar outlines could be seen, but under a softer, rounded fluffiness of cheer.  
Double vision without either alcohol or concussion; double vision of two realities.
	And, because of this effect, there was absolutely nothing which could be done to 
return affected cube areas to their normal dour.  The sub-collective was forced to endure 
the decorative overlay until the next Fall.
	Iris spoke, "Six-eta...there it is.  There's an odd phasic disjuncture associated with 
this continuum, but nothing that should bother you.  In fact, I'd be surprised if the beings 
here could perceive your existence at all."
	Captain peered upwards, rewarded with a near perfect view of the data the 
Director was consulting on its PADD.  Unfortunately, the words were unintelligible, the 
project of a chicken scratching madly in the dirt.  Without frame of reference through 
assimilation (of a Director?  Riiiiiight), Captain was illiterate as to what Iris read.
	Continued the eyeball, "Since the occupants of this reality can't see nor interact 
with you - same goes for most of the normal matter herein - this reality should be rather 
innocuous.  For once."  The PADD was put away, vanishing with the skillful competency 
of a magician hiding a card.  The cigar was captured.  "Therefore, I think I'll head out of 
here, maybe relax for once this turn without biting my fingernails."  Not that the eyeball 
had any fingernails...or any fingers, for that matter.
	Iris evaporated.
	Captain grimaced, then looked at 59 of 480 and 199 of 480, whom had halted 
their reconstructive efforts.  Sensors continued to stand under what remained of her 
alcove, still in deep regeneration.  He eyeballed the pair, "Well, hurry it up.  Increase 
your efficiency.  Whatever the Director claims, we require the full sensory hierarchy, 
including Sensors, operational.  We do not need to deal with Sensors waking to a partial 
alcove.  Besides, Delta is impatient to have you do tasks on the engineering to-do list."
	The ex-pranksters picked up their pace.

	Sensors stared, the exposed eye facets on the lower half of her compound eyes, 
those not obscured by ocular sheath hardware specific to the Species #6766 physiology, 
glittering.  Of course, without eyelids, Sensors always appeared to be staring.  The 
impression was more intense at the moment as she concentrated keenly upon a patch of 
seemingly empty air.  {Right there.  Sensors sees [closet] right there,} affirmed Sensors, 
one thin arm stabbing out to point, finger extended.
	In the forty hours since the Fall, odd sightings had been registered throughout the 
cube, optical and aural hallucinations too many and too varied to be a statistical fluke.  
Occurrence was inevitably in those areas changed since the flux jump.  One drone might 
see a thickness of air; and another hear whispering on the edge of perception, murmurs 
which were real - they were recordable - but nonetheless unintelligible.
	More disturbing, aspects of the affected areas had a bothersome tendency to alter.  
The ghostly outline of furniture shifted, as did signage and pictures on the walls.  No 
hands were ever seen moving these features, nor were they caught in motion.  However, 
where one glance might find an overturned chair in the middle of a corridor, a trippable 
obstacle had it had substance, another glimpse a few seconds later would show the same 
object against the wall, upright and out of the way of unseen traffic.
	It had required Sensors' awakening, after alcove reassembly, to shed light on the 
sightings. 
	The Species #6766 eye was a marvel of natural engineering.  Multiple facets 
allowed evolution to pack into one compound eye what was impossible for creatures of 
the simple eye variety.  Individual facets registered a wide range of electromagnetic 
frequencies, stretching the normal visual acuity of Species #6766 from far infrared to 
ultraviolet and into the realm of microwave and X-ray.  It also allowed for numerous 
polarizations and phase shifts.  All the input was somehow combined into a whole within 
the shifting neural architecture of the brain.  A Species #6766 individual literally saw and 
experienced the universe radically different from other entities.
	Sensors resolved air distortions into sentient beings.  They were visually phase 
shifted to all whom were not Species #6766, which made sense in light of the information 
provided by the Director before it vanished.  Unfortunately, the filtering pathway 
required for Sensors to see the intruders was not conducive for intranet "rebroadcast," 
leaving the general sub-collective clueless as to the aliens' form.  Having Sensors attempt 
a verbal description was unhelpful as well, untranslatable words such as [sparkling] and 
[eraser] inserted precisely at the most critical junctures; and similar difficulties arose 
when she tried to explain the phase differential she was viewing through eyes 
unaugmented by Borg technology.  Therefore, Sensors was collaborating with drone 
maintenance to resolve the proper phase shift so other units could be modified to allow 
the invisible to be seen.
	The "volunteered" drone sent a negative.  {I don't see anything.}  Aloud:  
"Everything is now orange and somewhat...melting."
	Doctor clicked his teeth together.  "This would be much, much easier in a 
maintenance bay."  As altered areas were discovered, they were added to a growing map.  
However, while there were many places affected, including Captain's nodal intersection, 
the list included neither a maintenance bay nor assimilation workshop.  Hence, the alcove 
tier adjacent to Sensors' alcove was as good a location as any for optical adjustments.
	Fingers depressed several buttons on an ocular re-alignment tool before Doctor 
waved it over the front of 115 of 422's skull.  The latter cocked her head at a more 
extreme angle as her eye widened.
	Sensors lightly stamped one artificial walking leg from her position 
within/underneath her alcove.  {Do you [television] it now?  Sensors says there are two 
right [notebook paper].}
	115 of 422 carefully asked, {Um...do they have four eyes?}
	{Yes,} responded Sensors.
	{And these beaks that sort of turn into a waving hose?}
	{Yes!}
	{And, er, hands and feet that look too small for the body bulk?}
	{Yes!  That is what Sensors [tracks]!}  Sensors picked up and set down each of 
her walking legs in turn, then exhaled a musical chord.  "Exactly what Sensors [tracks]."
	Doctor waited expectantly, ocular re-adjuster held poised for its next use.  His 
ears were pricked with interest.
	One corner of 115 of 422's mouth twitched.  "Okay.  For a moment I thought I 
was hallucinating, like the giant sparkling yellow butterflies earlier."  Eye tracked 
something only 115 of 422 (and Sensors) could see, watching it impatiently pace the 
alcove tier.  As an experimental subject, her visual input had been isolated from the 
dataspaces so as to not distract the rest of the sub-collective.  For this reason, a view of 
the invaders remained a mystery to the vast, waiting majority.  That was about to change.
Reading the instrument, Doctor pronounced, {Phase differential 0.921.}  Lines of 
code shifted as he edited drone maintenance orders.  {A drone maintenance unit will be 
around in a hop, skip, and bark to make the necessary adjustments to your secondary 
optical systems.  Please follow the vet's advice and /do not/ do your own readjustments.  
If you blind yourself, it will be your own fault, and don't come whining to me.}

	"One!  Muhahaha!"
	"Two!  Muhahaha!"
	"Three!  Muhahaha!"  *Cough*cough*
	"Cut!  Try that again, Ryin, will you?" said an assistant director as he stood next 
to the two-person camera crew.
	Ryin continued to cough as he straightened from behind the counter he had been 
hiding.  As he did so, a big-headed puppet with canines four centimeters long slumped.  
"Give me a moment Illocob, will ya?"  Trunk waved between coughing fits.  "I think I 
sucked up a dustball from the floor."
	Illocob bobbed up and down in a full body nod.  "Sure, so problem.  Need a 
drink?  Some water?"
	"No, no, I'll be fine."  The coughing spasm trailed off until all which was left was 
saliva and snot.  Ryin spat on the deck.  "Dirty place."
	"Well, what do you expect?  It's a derelict."
	"We're always on freaking derelicts."
	"Hey, man, if you don't like the job, you can always leave."
	Ryin snorted, "Yah, right.  I do the best Duke voice, and everyone knows it.  I just 
wish we could film on some nice station for once, something with a decent pub and joy-
bar."
	The assistant director sighed, all four of his eyes blinking.  "Don't we all.  Don't 
we all."
	Seeing that the coughing was finished, a trio of junior set engineers rushed 
forward to reset the scene.  Raw legs were plucked from the cooking pot, dried, and 
tossed back in the meat bucket; and drops of blood splattered from the joints were swiftly 
scrubbed off the puppet.  One set engineer tried to take a clandestine nibble from a leg, 
but she was quickly noticed by the sharp-eyed assistant director, triggering a scolding.
	The filming crew, the puppeteer, the junior set engineers all belonged to a species 
which looked as if it had been constructed using bits and pieces of other creatures.  The 
body was wide, stocky, powerful, scavenged from a bear and evolved to a true bipedal 
stance.  The arms and legs were proportioned for endurance running, a bit too long for the 
torso; and the small feet definitely did not match.  The four-fingered, one-thumbed hands 
were equally tiny, at least when compared to the body, but they were highly dexterous, 
displaying double-jointed ability.  The neck, like the limbs, was longer than expected.  It 
terminated at a stork-like head, the muzzle/beak flowing smoothly into a tri-fingered 
trunk.  Four eyes were present, two to the front for stereoscopic vision and two to the side 
for peripheral sight.  The earhole was at the juncture of neck and head.  Sharp teeth 
denoted a primarily carnivorous diet, several crowns of which visibly descended from the 
upper jaw even when mouth was closed.  Except for a dense wool fringe which ringed the 
head just above the eyes and below the cranial bulge, tonsure-style, the beige body was 
hairless
	Ryin, no longer coughing, picked up his puppet and critically examined it, not 
trusting the set engineers to have adequately cleaned it.  The light-blue skinned puppet 
was constructed of fabrics and plastics, meant to be operated by hand:  robotics could 
never replicate the smooth, natural flow of a veteran puppeteer.  The puppet itself was a 
caricature of its operator, featuring a blocky, angular head with too-long teeth.
	"The Duke okay?" asked Illocob, one foot tapping impatiently.
	"Yah, yah.  It looks fine."  The tone suggested that "fine" was barely passable.
	"Then get yourself reset for Duke's Six-leg Cooking Surprise scene."
	Ryin crawled back under and behind the counter from which he worked.  Unseen,  
he called, "How much longer we going to be on s**t-hole ship?"  The puppet popped up 
from below, arms gesturing as simple mouth made chewing motions, setting the rubber 
trunk to bouncing.  "We've filmed...ahem...eight episodes here.  Muhahaha!"
	"This'll be our last one, I hear," piped a junior engineer.  "Some sets are going to 
be broken down today."
	The Duke bobbed in the engineer's direction.  "Oh, good."
	Illocob grumbled, "Ready, then?"
	"Yes."
	To the side of the nodal intersection, unseen, unperceived by the seven aliens, 
stood a trio of Borg.  They watched intently, one head or another occasionally tilting to 
the side in unheard conversation.

		Sunny days,
		Sweeping the nebula away.
		On my way to an atmosphere I can breathe.
		Can you tell me how to get,
		How to get to Systama Meet?
	Systama Meet was a children's show, intended for a xenophobic species - Jawlib - 
with an extraordinarily robust digestive system able to extract nutrients from nearly 
anything carbon-based...including other sentients.  Jawlib were not picky about food, 
only that it did not make them throw up.  As alluded in the theme song, the premise of the 
program was a trek to reach a mythical station named Systama Meet.  During the travels 
of the Jawlib children around which the show was based, a selection of adult guardians 
and cheerful puppets educated the young...as well as those watching from home.  
	It was the educational topics which made Systama Meet different from the 
children's programming some of Cube #347's drones, those who hadn't erased the 
memories due to irrelevance, could dredge up from very long-ago years.  Similar to other 
educational shows, counting and basic reading was a staple.  However, puppets such as 
Duke counted edible body parts (not always from "farm" species) before setting them to 
boil into a stew; and letters focused upon words like "d is for disembowel" and "h is for 
hamstring," complete with real demonstrations.  Children didn't learn about different 
colors, but instead covered topics such as basic snare techniques, ways to enhance a 
pitfall trap, and an introduction to phaser use.
	It was a fascinatingly twisted glimpse into a species psyche, especially when a 
phaser differential meant the subject was unaware of the watchers...and couldn't 
physically interact with them even if they were known.
Cube #347's role in the production was as a station encountered by the roving 
Jawlib band as they searched for Systama Meet.  The Jawlib reality beyond the television 
show saw the cube as an old, derelict craft of unknown origins, claim-jumped from a ship 
scavenger.  The scavenger, in turn, since he was not Jawlib, had been used at the new 
shooting location to demonstrate proper livestock disjointing techniques.  Alive.  It was 
not cruel, from the Jawlib point of view, for they only saw themselves as "human," 
everyone and everything else, intelligent or otherwise, as animals.
	For the Borg, Systama Meet Productions became something to watch, something 
to goggle at.  The Director had been correct in that there was little in this reality which 
could affect sub-collective or cube:  Cube #347 was phase shifted in relation to the rest of 
this universe and its matter, its bulk superimposed upon that of some local, dead 
Exploratory-class cube.  Only certain exotic particles or spatial anomalies could endanger 
the cube, of which none were in evidence.
	Bulk Cargo Hold #8 was the nexus of Systama Meet Productions.  Since the 
phased reality did not transmit through cameras very well, Captain was inspecting the 
aliens directly for himself.  In addition to the largest set - the Station Market - the cargo 
hold contained sleeping quarters for crews, actors, puppeteers, producers, and other 
associated personnel; a cafeteria which was also part livestock pen and aquarium (all 
nonsentient); sanitation facilities; and prop and costume lockers.  The computer alerted 
Captain that another drone was materializing directly behind.
	"And what are you doing here, Second?" asked Captain, without turning around.  
It was not necessary.
	Second stumped forward until he was even with Captain.  "Sightseeing, same as 
you."  Pause.  "And, even though my alcove is next to yours, even though my mind has 
intimately meshed with your thoughts for /years/ as your backup system, I just couldn't 
get enough of you."
	Captain swiveled his head to peer at Second.  "A little less sarcasm, maybe?"  He 
automatically examined the datastreams currently tagged as belonging to Second.  Most 
were linked with the normal routine of Cube #347 and could be performed within an 
alcove or without, but one in particular caught the consensus monitor and facilitator's 
attention.  "This is true?"
	Second snorted.  "Unknown.  153 of 510 has all but disconnected himself from 
this sub-collective to keep the secret to himself; and, on top of that, encrypted the data to 
himself using a rotating fractal algorithm."
	Captain activated a holodisplay, bringing forth a compressed dossier of 153 of 
510.  He was noted for tinkering with things and creating devices, but he was not of the 
engineering hierarchy.  Delta, as with Engineers past, whatever their sub-designation, 
would not allow 153 of 510 to so much as touch a tool more advanced than a hammer, 
and then only under close supervision.  The problem was that 153 of 510 incessantly 
downloaded technologies from the archives, then tried to adapt them to situations they 
weren't meant to be applied; and, on top of that, had no engineering aptitude, refusing to 
absorb those files which would at least tell him that water and a live electric wire do not 
get along well.  One would think such a drone would have self-terminated himself long 
ago through a corollary application of Darwinian evolution, but 153 of 510 was an anti-
accident-prone, one of those rare individuals for whom the result of an accident always 
occurs to nearby participants, not to the initiator.  Even worse, his constructs always 
seemed to work, although /never/ in the fashion in which he intended.
	Cube #347 could attribute more than one "blown fuse" incident to 153 of 510.
	"How long until...never mind," said Captain, answering his own question as he 
queried for 153 of 510's location.  
153 of 510 had materialized in the middle of the Station Market, followed by a 
tripod-mounted mining laser.  Or what used to be a mining laser.  Essential parts of the 
tool had been removed, replaced with a mish-mash of wires and devices which were 
designed to be in conjunction.  Even from fifty meters away, Captain could recognize the 
bulk of a phased filter array, normally a component of the hull sensory suite.  A low-
pitched hum arrived with the machine.
	{Turn it off and go back to your alcove,} demanded Captain to 153 of 510.  {We 
will not have a replay of the "Sonic Emitter To Fix Stress Fractures In Metal" device.}  
153 of 510 was uncreative when it came to designations, tending to label his contraptions 
by their expected function, no matter length.  {Engineering hierarchy had to replace 
seventeen shock-struts within the inner hull armoring.}
	{Oh no, this isn't that experiment.  No, no...totally different,} 153 of 510 hurriedly 
responded even as he fought the order from command and control, even as he made final 
adjustments using a screwdriver shoved into a slot on the top of the remains of a laser 
barrel.  {This is a "Device To Rephase Alternately Phased Material To Our 
Differential."}
	Amid the Station Market set and the Systama Meet Productions area, thirty-three 
drones paused in their activities.  A few had legitimate business, engineering hierarchy 
units retrieving items among the inventory housed in Bulk Cargo Hold #8.  Other drones 
were "testing the overlap capacity of the phase differential," or, using terms not steeped 
in justifying technobabble, were walking through things.  The walls of both phases were 
congruent with each other, so neither Jawlibs nor Borg could go through them.   
However, other things - furniture, sets, livestock, people - were ghosts, unable to interact.  
Those thirty-three, both legally and illicitly present, were well aware of the havoc 153 of 
510 could precipitate.
	Twenty-nine transporter signatures indicated a mass exodus.  Only four drones of 
the original thirty-three remained, emoting a morbid fascination concerning what was to 
occur.  However, even as they desired first hand experience, they still retreated behind a 
group of spare slurry vats, watching from relative safety.
	{Turn it off and go back to your alcove,} repeated Captain.  This time the full 
force of command and control was behind the directive, as was engineering.
	153 of 510 stiffened, his eye glazing as compliance subroutines triggered.  
Unfortunately, there was sufficient defiance left that he was able to slap a switch on the 
side of the machine, fully activating it.  The Device To Rephase Alternately Phased 
Material To Our Differential hiccupped and shuddered, then began to shake as if a teapot 
on boil.  Infrared indicated a heat build up in the barrel.  Knowing 153 of 510's past 
history, the safest place was likely right next to the drone in question, as counterintuitive 
at that might seem.
	The barrel slowly rotated until it was sighted upon the thickest concentration of 
phased matter...which just happened to be in the same direction as Captain and Second.
	"Not good," said Second as he stepped to place Captain's body between himself 
and danger.  Whatever the Device was, now that it was fully activated, it was interfering 
with transporters and preventing a lock.
	Captain exclaimed, {Hey!}
	The Device discharged.
	The blue-white beam cut through the phased matter, but it might as well as been a 
flashlight for all the attention it was garnered by the Jawlib contingent.  There was no 
appreciable effect from them or their items as they were speared.  The beam narrowly 
missed Captain and Second, impacting a pile of cast-off conduits awaiting transfer to 
replicator reclamation.  The conduits glowed a pale violet for several seconds, then 
disappeared.  The Device abruptly disengaged as it experienced a small fire within its 
power supply.
	{Dang it.  I got the phase differential wrong.  Not only did it phase normal matter 
away from our differential, it didn't even rephase it to the same differential as the Jawlibs.  
I'll have to try again,} commented 153 of 510.
	Second stared at where the conduits used to be.  Nothing remained except a ring 
of scorched black on the deck plating.  {That was not phased...the conduits were 
disrupted.}
	{Phased,} insisted 153 of 510.
	Intruded Weapons, {I want the machine.}
	Captain took control of the situation.  {No one is having the machine.  Delta, 
dismantle that thing.  153 of 510, you /will/ go back to your alcove and you /will/ stay 
there.  All tools /will/ be confiscated from you.}
	{But...} tried 153 of 510, even as members of engineering hierarchy were already 
materializing nearby.  Delta A was among them, low-tech sledge hammer in hand.
	{Now.}
	153 of 510 whisked himself away to his alcove.  Delta advanced upon the Device.

	Eight drones industriously toiled within the nacelle joint segment linking 
segments 5b and 5c of nacelle 5.  The locality at the juncture of subsection 10 and 
subsection 19 was not a true room, instead more akin to the accessible inner layers of hull 
armor:  maintenance was possible, but not comfortable.  A routine computer diagnostic 
cycle had reported a problem, specifically a minor flow obstruction within the primary 
plasma coupling.  The part-blockage was more nuisance than difficulty, reducing 
efficiency of the greater nacelle by 0.05%.  However, because it could be a symptom of 
an emerging maintenance nightmare and because that nightmare cumulated with Cube 
#347 splitting apart at the affected joint segment, an engineering crew was dispatched to 
determine the cause.  Unfortunately, nothing had been discovered.
	To assist with the hunt, most of the drones in the crew had re-adjusted their 
secondary optics away from the phased differential.  The joint nacelle segment was in an 
altered, and it became annoying after a while to be opening a panel to perform diagnostic 
tests behind the ghostly outline of a sign which could not be moved out of the way.  139 
of 230, however, had retained both optical and aural modifications, and therefore was 
able to watch the commotion as an adult and five child Jawlib actors; a puppeteer with 
purple-skinned, wild-haired Mad Scientist puppet; and a filming crew entered.  They 
were quickly set up and filming.  139 of 230 ignored them in favor of the tool she was 
using to test several joint diagnostic sensors, just in case the part-blockage was a figment 
of the computer's non-imagination.
	"Children!  Gather around!  This is a power nexus for the station we are currently 
calling home," explained the Jawlib adult.  The child actors obediently oohed, awed, and 
gawked at their surroundings with exaggerated interest as if they were actually on the 
fictional field trip to be shown on Systama Meet.
	"Mr. Scientist," called one of the children, "can you tell me more about why this 
place is so important?"
	The Mad Scientist puppet was near the primary plasma coupling, puppeteer 
hidden beneath and behind a cloth draped table.  Just as the children and adult assembling 
around the table ignored the fact that, in a few cases, they were walking through drones, 
so did the drones take no heed of filming activities.
	{Station 3, report,} ordered 30 of 42, the team quasi-leader and past Engineer 
who was coordinating the maintenance activity.
	139 of 230 did not look at the diagnostic device plugged into wires within the 
bulkhead, the readings available within her mind.  {Nominal.  Sensor cluster alpha-3 
shows no anomalies.}
	{Test sensor cluster alpha-4.}
	{Compliance.}  139 of 230 quickly bent to her task.  After moving several 
alligator clips to new locations and resocketing several minor coupling joints, she 
straightened and returned attention to the filming.  The tool required several minutes to 
complete its diagnostic cycle before it could provide output.
	Mad Scientist was waving one cloth hand expansively as its trunk wobbled back 
and forth while the puppeteer recited his lines.  This puppet was a parody of the standard 
Jawlib form in that its cranial bulge was much higher than the norm, visually denoting 
increased intelligence.  "...importance.  It is from here that the station will be destroyed 
when we leave.  Does anyone know why the station must be destroyed?"
	The smallest child excitedly raised her trunk, "Oh!  I know!  I know!"
	"Why, Hypatha?"
	Hypatha eagerly answered, "Because now that we have supplies and have 
recovered from our last trek, we must destroy this resource so no one else can use it."  
The child smiled widely, turning slightly towards the camera.
	"Cut!" called the Jawlib who was serving as director.  The other children groaned.  
A larger child pinched Hypatha on the arm.  "Hypatha," rebuked the director, "what have 
you been told in the past?"
	"No mugging for the camera," remorsely replied the child, looking down at the 
ground.  She offered no apology.
	"Yes, no mugging for the camera.  Stauni, we are going to start at your question.  
That okay?"
	Came a muffled voice from behind the puppet's blind.  "Sure."
	139 of 230 blinked as the diagnostic tool provided a reading which was only 
possible if the segment juncture was in the process of exploding.  This obviously was not 
the case.  Glancing at the maze of connectors, 139 of 230 found the clip which had 
slipped, producing an errant grounding.  She fastened it more securely before retriggered 
the diagnostic cycle.
	Meanwhile, the scene had continued.  The adult's place in the set was mostly 
furniture, a silent parental chaperone as children and puppet expressed the xenophobic 
beliefs of the Jawlib as to why all structures visited during the hunt for Systama Meet had 
to be obliterated.  Suddenly, however, the adult showed animation as she was asked a 
question from Mad Scientist.
	"Clan Mother, could you show your charges the bomb now?"
	The adult dropped her jaw into the toothy gape which was, to another Jawlib, a 
pleasant smile.  "As you wish, Mr. Scientist.  Children, over here, please."  The group 
shuffled sideways slightly, gathering around the hatches which gave access primary 
plasma coupling itself.
	The first action of the maintenance crew had been to check the primary plasma 
coupling.  Nothing had been revealed as amiss, prompting the wider search for why the 
efficiency decrease continued to register to the computer.  The other engineering drones 
paused in their activities as 139 of 230 left her position and walked to the Jawlib crowd.  
She was the only one present able to see or hear the phased reality, and there were too 
many bodies in the way to gain a clear view of the hatch interior.  Reaching the locale, 
139 of 230 overlapped Hypatha as the latter attempted to smile stealthy at the camera.
	The primary plasma coupling was large, the unseen regulator of plasma between 
the two tri-segments of the larger warp nacelle.  Complete overhaul of the coupling itself 
was only possible at dry-dock, immense Borg machinery necessary to partially dismantle 
a cube from hullside inward to reach the coupling.  Minor maintenance could be done 
within a cube using one of several techniques ranging from old-fashioned banging with a 
hammer to activation of shipwide reconstructive nanites.  The control and access point of 
the coupling was thus accessible beneath the hatch which children were crowded around.
	"Camera is in place," said the director as camera crewmember gestured with one 
hand.  "Let's continue on...with less kissing up to the lens, Hypatha."
	Hypatha sighed.
	139 of 230 peered within the access hatch.  There was a box there, a box with 
blinking lights and cylinders mounted on it, a box with hoses and wires intricately 
attached to the primary plasma coupling of the phased Cube #347.  The contraption had 
went unnoticed previously because 139 of 230, the only engineering drone present who 
retained optical adjustments, had not been required during initial coupling assessment.
	{How can that affect us?} queried 139 of 230, giving voice to the confusion 
building within the sub-collective intranets.  {It is a phased device connected to a phased 
Cube #347.  It should not interact with us.}  She reached forward, testing.  As expected, 
her hand passed through the box.
	"Do you all see the bomb?" asked Mad Scientist.  The children chorused assent.  
"Good!  Take a good look at it because I will be showing you later how to make such a 
thing.  It will be fun!"
	"How does the bomb work?" asked a tall child, fringe of tightly curled hair a dark 
black.
	Responded Mad Scientist,  "I'm glad you asked, Whitib.  Remember, everyone, 
you cannot learn without asking questions.  Whitib asked a good question.  Look 
carefully at the bomb and you can see it is straddling a junction between two of the 
station's reactors.  This is very critical, for as livestock is more easily butchered by slicing 
through a joint, so the same can be said about a ship or a station."  There was a pause, 
then Stauni's head popped up from behind the blind, "This is ridiculous.  What station is 
constructed like that?  I think we should have called this derelict a ship to begin with, as 
that is clearly what it used to be."
	"Cut!" cried the director.  "Stauni...not all of us can be engineers able to tell what 
species built a vessel or a station, and provide model number and specs by glancing at a 
piece of hull plating...or a nacelle juncture.  The kids who will be watching Systama Meet 
certainly can't, and neither can their parents.  The point is that these nacelles are still low-
level active, despite the apparent age of this rust bucket, and will make a satisfying boom 
when we leave.  If you have a complaint concerning 'reality' of a /children's educational 
program/, you can take it up with the producers.  I just want to get this scene filmed."  It 
was obviously a common gripe on the part of the puppeteer.
	Stauni muttered something under his breath, then ducked behind the blind again.  
Mad Scientist reanimated.  The children, silent during the tirade, giggled, enjoying seeing 
someone other than themselves be told off.
	"Let's try again.  Stauni, pick up where you left off."
	Mad Scientist bobbed slightly, then began to speak when the camera crew 
indicated filming was occurring once more.  "This is very critical, for as livestock is more 
easily butchered by slicing through a joint, so the same can be said about a ship or a 
station.  Therefore, we are going to slice through this joint using a bomb instead of a 
knife.  The bomb is very special, very powerful.  It uses 'rho fluxed gravitons' to disrupt 
atomic bonds, tearing apart the very elements which hold this juncture together; and the 
gravitons will spread throughout the structure, so, in the end, there won't even be any 
scrap metal left."
	"Wow," exclaimed the children together.  Even the adult managed to look 
impressed.
	With a gesture, Mad Scientist called the children back to its table.  The puppeteer 
thrust up an electronic picture board, upon which several particle icons in cheerful colors 
were animated.  "Let's all learn about rho fluxed gravitons!  Doesn't that sound like fun!"
	The children cheered, Hypatha louder than the rest.
	139 of 230 did not watch the departure of children from the primary plasma 
coupling.  Instead, she continued to stare at the phased bomb revealed by the open hatch.  
The sub-collective did not need a primer on rho fluxed gravitons.  The instable graviton 
variety was very difficult to produce artificially, at least in their home reality.  The effect 
of the gravitons upon matter was to completely disassociate atomic bonds; and it was 
known to be able to affect material not in the same phase differential.  Signature of its 
existence was usually observed transiently within black holes, supernovas, or other 
extreme natural phenomenon.  This reality, however, worked on different principles.  
Assuming rho fluxed gravitons acted the same here as they did in archive files - there was 
no reason to think otherwise, and the ability of the quiescent bomb to affect the nacelle 
plasma exchange argued the case - then Cube #347 was in big trouble.
	And there was nothing that could be done about it except hope the next Fall 
occurred before the bomb detonated.

	Seen by the camera's viewpoint, the Station Market was a quiet, open area.  
Empty storefronts and stands proclaimed the latest bargain or new product, attesting to a 
once bustling atmosphere of shoppers looking for everything from necessities to luxury, 
from legal to illicit.  The first episodes had shown residual "resistance" from the Jawlib 
takeover, imported aliens prodded to act as extras until their inevitable end.  Now, in the 
last filming session, it was a lonely, hollow place, unfilled despite the presence of 
Systama Meet actors and characters.
	In reality, the set was little more than plastics, metals, and glass fabricated to 
appear to be a station market:  the facades had no substance.  The "market" was only a 
small portion of the overall volume of Bulk Cargo Hold #8; and one which was becoming 
increasingly small as those bits unneeded for the last scene shots were broken down for 
transport.
	The several dozen Borg, staring intently at the ground and occasionally stooping 
to pick up an object, were not captured by the cameras.
	At the intact end of the Station Market, two child actors were clustered near two 
puppets.  One puppet, red-skinned, had an oversized mouth containing an excessive 
amount of teeth; and the other puppet, goggle-eyed, appeared to live in a mobile trash 
receptacle.  The red-skinned puppet - Meat Monster - was refusing to allow either 
children or Waster (the other puppet) to share his meat.  The lumps of bloody flesh, 
freshly slaughtered from those animals not being stunned in the canteen pens prior to 
transport, sat on a counter outside a Station Market store advertising manicures.
	"Just a bite, Meat Monster," pleaded the larger of the two children, trunk waving 
towards the goblets.  She glanced at the director:  this particular line had been proving to 
be difficult.
	"No, no...still too whining, Jydicina.  There's just a...tone to it."  The camera crew 
and set engineers sighed, rolling their eyes at the pronouncement.  "Could someone re-
bloody that meat?  It is drying out."  A prop man scurried forward, spritzed additional 
blood on the hunks from a spray bottle, then retreated.  "Yes.  That's better.  Let's try that 
line again, Jydicina."
	Jydicina gnashed her teeth together.  "But I wanna go do something else.  This is 
boring."
	"Too bad, Jydicina.  Other than a few minor reshots that can probably be done on 
the company ship, this is the last major Station Market shooting, and it needs to be done.  
A new location has been found and we need to travel to it soonest."
	"Yes, sir," muttered Jydicina.  She turned back to the puppets, then glared at 
Waster.  "What're you looking at?  Sir!  Mr. Verbon has snorted something again."
	Waster leered as only a goggle-eyed puppet can leer.  The character was supposed 
to be a junkie who occasionally experimented with alien pharmaceuticals, creating 
amusing scenes, but at the moment the script called for a clean Waster.  The puppet was 
noticeably shaking...as was the garbage can.
	"Kilie," harshly said the director, frowning, "is this true?  Sure as damn looks 
true."
	The Waster puppeteer unfortunately often followed his puppet's example, 
claiming it allowed him to better play the creature because he then "knew Waster's 
motivations."  Jawlib society did not stigmatize drug use as long as it no one else was 
affected.  However, Kilie sometimes imbibed at the wrong times.
	One drone, peering at deck, spied a length of wire next to the foot of a set 
engineer, or, more precisely, poking into said foot.  As the wire was retrieved, the soft 
whisper of gossip was heard:  "Kilie's gonna get the boot, I heard.  Company's fed up 
with him.  And I've also heard Kilie knows it and doesn't really care anymore."  There 
was the murmured nothings of general agreement that the rumor fit the scene playing out.
	"No," came the muffled reply to the director's question, "just, um, a bit of a 
stabilization problem with the can's antigravs.  It'll be fine."  Kilie was not emerging from 
his puppetting platform.  The puppets shaking slowed until it reflected the stiff poise of 
someone concentrating heavily on remaining still.
	The filming continued.  Once Jydicina's line was delivered to the director's 
satisfaction, Waster suggested that Meat Monster should be killed and his meat taken.  
This led to an argument, followed by the appearance of an adult, trailed by Systama 
Meets largest character - Big Yellow, an actor-puppeteer wearing a outsized costume.  
Big Yellow had long hair - yellow, hence the name - obscuring most of the body and an 
especially long beak-muzzle with smaller than usual trunk.
	"What's going on here?" asked Big Yellow, looming over children, smaller 
puppets, and adult.
	"Meat Monster won't share his meat," complained Jydicina.  She blinked all four 
of her eyes as she looked up at Big Yellow.
	{27 of 240, back to work,} ordered Delta.  {We need to find the remaining 
components.}
	27 of 240, who had paused near the filming, who had been watching the action 
instead of focusing on the set task, sent an assent.  {Compliance.}  However, 27 of 240 
dawdled, never moving too far, justifying his unhurried pace as necessary in the close 
search for parts which had flown every which way when the Device was broken apart.
	After several false starts, one of which forced the removal of Big Yellow's head to 
expose the actor underneath, the scene continued.  Sermonized Big Yellow, "Meat 
Monster, you should be ashamed of yourself.  You are a part of this clan and you need to 
share with everyone, for only by working selflessly together can we find Systama Meet.  
And you, Waster, you should also be ashamed, for everyone, even Meat Monster, is 
necessary for this clan work.  Didn't Meat Monster help you during the initial 
counterattacks when an alien knocked over your can?  What if Meat Monster had not 
been there for you?"
	There were mumbled apologies from Waster and Meat Monster following the 
lecture.  Meat Monster sighed, then grabbed several pieces of meat, offering them to the 
children; and, after a long moment, one hunk was given to Waster.
	"One more time," said the Director.
	Big Yellow fumbled with its head again.  "Well, before that happens, I need to 
take a leak."  Big Yellow stumped off in the direction of the production nexus, actor 
yelling for someone to help remove strategic bits of his costume.
	27 of 240 shuffled closer to the set engineers as they lounged against a storefront 
shell, keeping out of the director's line of sight lest they be put to work.
	"Man cannot hold his bladder," commented one of the trio, a smirk wrinkling his 
face.
	Asked a second engineer, "How much longer, anyway?  I thought we were 
supposed to be out of here in two days, but we are still filming.  The schedule called for 
Station Market break down yesterday."
	Said the first, serious, "No, it'll still be two days.  I got it from Spunky that we're 
gonna have to work round-the-clock to stay on schedule.  It hasn't been formally 
announced yet, so you didn't hear that from me."
	"That sucks," said set tech #3.  The second engineer nodded in silent agreement.
	"That is does," responded the first, an older fellow who'd obviously been in the 
business longer than the other two, "but that is the job.  Too bad.  There'll be enough 
transit time to catch up on lost sleep."
	Two days - that was the Cube #347's deadline.
	{If I had not been there, we would have missed the advanced warning,} pointed 
out 27 of 240 when he was rebuked again for loitering.
	{And at this rate, we'll not have found all the Device pieces by that time,} retorted 
Delta.  {Keep searching.}

	The reassembled Device To Rephase Alternately Phased Material To Our 
Differential did not quite duplicate the original.  For instance, the mining laser barrel was 
distinctly oval instead of round, and there were more than a few misshapen pieces.  One 
leg of the tripod was held together by super glue, duct tape, and several meters of wire.  
Some of the bits had been replaced from inventory stores, but as much as possible of the 
Device was the original as found from scattered remains in Bulk Cargo Hold #8.  The 
reason for the laborious part retention was because past history had shown 153 of 510s 
adaptations to have a very low probability of working as designed (when they did so in 
the first place) if substitutions were made; and none at all if an attempt was made to 
create a copy. 
	{You know, if the...} began 153 of 510, as he had tried several times previously.
	Brusquely answered Delta, {No.}
	{All I need is a screwdriver and a small thermonuclear...}
	{No.}
	{Just a few minutes...}
	{No.  And if you take one step from your alcove, you will be permanently 
clamped into it.}  The matter was closed.  Unsaid, or at least not voiced although the 
nascent thought pattern was present, were further threats, including relocation of the 
alcove to the thermally elevated region adjacent to the Primary Core, to the hull, or, 
perhaps, to space (minus cube).
	153 of 510 understood.  He quieted, for now, although his hand twitched, fingers 
curled to inexpertly hold wrenches or welder.
	In Bulk Cargo Hold #8, in the middle of the partially dismantled Station Market, 
Delta orbited the Device.  She also completed last minute adjustments upon the power 
source with a spanner, assisted by two others of her hierarchy.  Finally convinced the 
Device was as restored as possible, all backed away.
	120 of 310, drawer of the figurative short straw, shuffled forward to activate the 
power.  After several tense seconds, success was declared as the Device hummed quietly 
to itself.  The alternative was exploding.  The first hurdle was passed.
	{I still think it functions as a disintegrator,} said Second, giving voice to 
misgivings by a significant portion of the sub-collective, even those in agreement that this 
was the best option to pursue.  Weapons was especially avid concerning status as a 
possible weapon, for then it fell under the auspices of his hierarchy...assuming he would 
be allowed to keep a Device created by the notoriously technologically unreliable 153 of 
510.
	Delta grumbled, {The concept - concept, mind you, not the Device - may actually 
be viable.  153 of 510 adapted the Device from technology associated with Species 
#6153.}  The appropriate datatree archive was initiated and technology expanded.  
{Species #6153 used the technology to increase cargo capacity of short-range freighters, 
stacking multiple loads within the same hold.  However, the technology is instable, 
prohibiting phased stacking for more than twelve hours.}  One particular visual clip file 
was played, highlighting several attempts made by the Collective to use the now 
abandoned technology.  {After the time constraint is past, overlapped objects dephase 
and intrude into each other.  Two, or more, items cannot share the same space.  The 
denser the objects, the more extreme the consequences.  In all cases, the outcome 
includes explosions due to stressed atomic bonds.}  In sequence, many Collective test 
ships went, succinctly, boom.
	153 of 510 interrupted, {But there was this promising lead that would...}
	{We do not wish to hear it,} snapped Captain, uncharacteristically allowing the 
ire from Delta and the engineering hierarchy in general concerning 153 of 510 to 
influence him.  {You have adversely affected us and our ships enough in the past.  One of 
these days you will blow us up.  And not just the little bit like that one incident.}
	{And 153 of 510 will be the only one left, considering his record,} added Second.
	120 of 310 blinked, then allowed the suggestion of a frown to cross her face as 
she received a wordless order.  {But I don't wanna,} she protested as she glared at the 
Device.
	{You will,} said Delta.  {After all, where is the safest place when 153 of 510 
"adapts" contraptions.}
	120 of 310 brightened.  {Next to 153 of 510.  Shall I depart to be near his 
alcove?}
	{No.  Go aim the machine at something,} both of Delta's bodies waved at the 
Station Market and busy Jawlib technicians, {and trigger the rephase beam.}
	Heaving a small sigh, 120 of 310 cautiously approached the Device, as if it were a 
rabid animal.  She swung it around until the bent gun sight was pointed at several aliens 
arguing about politics as they took a smoke-and-drink break (a frequent occurrence 
among this particular foursome when their overseer was engaged elsewhere).  A button at 
the base of the mining laser barrel was depressed.  The Device emitted a blue-white 
energy beam, striking the four Jawlibs squarely.
	And continued through their forms, several Station Market elements, and a half-
crated Big Yellow costume.  None of the phased entities or objects took notice of the 
Device's ray, just as they had been similarly oblivious during 153 of 510's initial test.  
Where the beam struck the hold wall, however, a dark scar bloomed.
	{At least nothing was disintegrated this time,} noted Second.  {That is an 
improvement.}
	{A failure,} interjected Weapons, who would have preferred for something to be 
vaporized.
	Three hours later, after extensive assessment and much laborious tweaking, the 
Device was working.  Sort of.  First, only objects which were of a standard humanoid 
size or smaller could be dephased successfully, larger items diffusing the beam to 
ineffectualness.  Second, objects rephased by the Device inevitably reasserted their 
original phase after seven to eight minutes, and sometimes sooner.  Thus far, only 
inorganic items had been the focus of dephasing because (1) the bomb at the nacelle joint 
juncture was constructed of non-carbon materials, and (2) the temporary vanishing of a 
Jawlib crew member could trigger the xenophobic species to explode the bomb before a 
chance to defuse it occurred.
	"Pokel, did you see where I put those keys?"  A Jawlib set technician stood near a 
small crate half-filled with eating utensils.  He idly scratched the side of his head in the 
frustration of one who /knows/ he just set keys /here/ with the expressed reminder to 
himself to bear in mind where they were.
	Pokel was a gangly adolescent, an ex-member of the children's cast of Systama 
Meet literally grown out of his previous job.  Now he worked show support, always 
regaling his co-workers of the latest script he had written and which would, eventually, 
be produced.  While that eventuality was a slim one, he did perform well in the "heavy 
lifting" department.  "You'd forget your trunk if it wasn't attached to your head.  You are 
getting senile, Dorcel, an old man."
	Dorcel growled, "Shut up, boy, before I come over there and kick your backside 
all over the set.  I won't even break a sweat.  Help me find those damned keys."
	Looking around casually, Pokel spotted the ring of plastic keys, each slim 
rectangle electronically attuned to a different lock.  He smirked, dismissing the small 
voice in the back of his mind which insisted that there had been no keys present a 
moment ago.  "Over there, on that table," called Pokel with a smirk.
	"Wipe that expression off your face, Pokel, or I'll do it for you.  I did /not/ put the 
keys there, I know it."  There was perhaps a hint of worry buried within the declaration, 
as if Dorcel harbored deep doubts about his memory, but the concern was suppressed.
	{Cease,} ordered Delta to 21 of 230 and 159 of 310, who had conspired to move 
the keys after successful dephasing.  It was becoming a game of sorts to muddle the set 
technicians as they attempted to do their jobs.  {Find an object which contains intricate 
electronics.  We need to complete several additional tests before we can transport the 
Device to the nacelle juncture.  Our trials would go faster if you pair would do your 
assignment.}
	Reprimanded, 21 of 230 and 159 of 310 scurried into the maze of packing crates 
and jumbled props, joining other drones on a similar mission.  

	The breadbox sized bomb phased into the differential shared by Cube #347 and its 
denizens.  Visually, for those whom had unaltered optics, within the previously empty 
nacelle coupling access hatch appeared the bomb.  One moment it wasn't there, and the 
next, like a mirage made solid, it was.  24 of 42 reached into the access point and grabbed 
the box, easily pulling it from its loose duct tape moorage.
	Suddenly 24 of 42 realized he was holding a bomb in his hand...an active bomb 
with the potential to detonate at any time.  "Here, you can have this," stated the drone as 
he turned, passing box and sticky remains of duct tape to Delta.
	Delta, who had been supervising nearby with body B, stared down as the package 
was delivered to her.  In the Primary Core, body A paused as Delta considered the other 
engineering drones present in the nacelle segment juncture locale.  "Come here, 85 of 
240."  85 of 240, standing against a wall trying to blend into bulkhead, animated and 
carefully approached.  "Your background includes a pre-assimilation specialty in bomb 
defusing and disposal.  Therefore, this belongs to you."
	"I, err, wasn't very good."  85 of 240 recalled for general sub-collective inspection 
the fact that he had undergone numerous operations prior to his assimilation, usually 
because bad color vision had caused important misjudgment in wire color.  A match of 
hot potato commenced, each of the five drones in the juncture passing the bomb unto the 
next.
	As it returned to 85 of 240, the bomb spontaneously rephrased to its original 
differential.  Needless to say, the drone did not catch the box as expected.  Instead it fell 
through his hand, impacting upon deck plating of the phased Cube #347.  85 of 240 
winced.  Nothing happened.
{Will someone open their eyes or activate ocular implants?  There is no visual 
input,} said Captain.
One by one the engineering team did as directed.
	Delta ordered, "Aim the Device at the bomb.  Re-rephase it.  And this time, 24 of 
42, place the bomb on the work bench."  A hand absently gestured at a table which had 
been beamed into the juncture area.
	The effort to defuse the bomb began in earnest.  Every eight or so minutes, 
unfortunately, the task was interrupted as the box snapped back to its original phase and 
fell through the table.  Each time, nothing ensued except the rattling of those drones 
present.  Finally, after the third such occurrence, Delta imparted a sense of disgust within 
the dataspaces.
	{It cannot be defused,} pronounced Delta as she succinctly summarized the 
consensus of those engineering partitions dedicated to the effort.
	Captain, in his nodal intersection with a rough 3-D bomb schematic rotating in 
front of him, protested, {All bombs can be defused.}  It was true:  Collective bomb 
records, a vital strategic component to Borg ship archives, always showed a wire, a 
button, a voice command which, at the last moment, would neutralize the explosive.
	Delta countered, {Not this bomb.  The Jawlib species has been observed to be 
xenophobically paranoid.  No on-of toggles are present, and all wires are the same color - 
black.  There is no obvious detonator or timer.  Several deadman switches are present, 
each connected to the other and to vital components such as the explosive itself:  
tampering with /anything/ within the bomb is liable to set it off. A subspace receiver is 
notable.}  On Captain's schematic and within the dataspaces, a particular part of the bomb 
was highlighted.  {Hypothesis is that the bomb will receive a command to detonate.}
	{Can we jam the receiver?}  The question was directed at both Sensors and Delta.
	{Sensors says yes,} immediately responded Sensors.  {Sensors would reset the 
[clock], followed by rephasing the [stapler] to the [sparkling] frequency, plus [cabled 
shredder]...}  Sensors rambled on in a technobabbled vein rendered unintelligible as 
translation algorithms failed to render her words into ones understandable by the rest of 
the sub-collective.  Captain shuffled the explanation to a mental ear at the rear of his 
awareness after processing the affirmative.
	The bomb was rephrased and examined as closely as possible given the 
constraints.  Before it could fall through the table again, it was carefully placed on the 
floor.  Delta reported, {Not advisable.  We now believe this is a timer.}  A jumble of 
wires and solid-state electronics were indicated, liberally protected by a series of 
deadman switches.  {It is tied to an atomic clock and will prompt the bomb to eventually 
detonate regardless if subspace triggering is received.}
	{The last of the cargo is loaded.  The Jawlib ship is preparing to retreat, thrusters 
only,} informed 13 of 510.  The sensory hierarchy had been watching the manta ray 
shaped ship since it had first been discerned.  Since the external sensors had difficulty 
locking onto the phased differential, it had proved easier to place observers on the hull.
	{Acknowledged,} responded Captain.  {We need options...a consensus.  What 
shall we do?}
	Weapons' advisement was expected, {Blow it up!}  The suggestion encompassed 
both bomb and Jawlib ship.  Unfortunately, there was the little problem, at least in the 
latter, that Cube #347's weapons could not affect the alien ship; and, in the former case, 
the bomb would all too shortly be exploding on its own, with or without assistance from 
Jawlib or Weapons.
	There were no precedents to draw upon from the onboard archives.  If access to 
the Collective had been feasible, then the problem could have been passed onto to the 
Greater Consciousness.  However, such was not an option.  Borg are not known for 
creating novel solutions.
	The sub-collective of Cube #347 was drawing a blank.  Within the silence, the 
sound of a lone cricket was played over the loudspeakers.
	Ventured 153 of 510, {Theoretically the Device To Rephase Alternately Phased 
Material To Our Differential can be modified to a Device To Rephase Normal Material 
To An Alternate Differential.  If I can be allowed a socket wrench and a plasma solder it 
should present little difficulty.  And, true, while beaming the bomb over long distances is 
not feasible, a phased drone could physically carry an unphased bomb....  What?  Why is 
everyone suddenly digging through my brain?}  "Everyone" was an exaggeration, but 
elements of command and control, engineering, and weapons were dragging data and 
vaguely formed ideas out of 153 of 510's mind.
	The consensus cascade upon the half-formed plan was short.  There was only a 
32.3% chance of success.  These were not great odds, but better than 100% failure; and 
better than the former blank.  {You are volunteered, 153 of 510,} informed Second.
	{I get a socket wrench?  Screwdriver?  A hammer?} asked 153 of 510 eagerly.
	{Not quite.}
	{Oh,} said 153 of 510 as he absorbed the plan, and, more specifically, his part in 
it.  {At least I am not stuck in my alcove.}  And, free, there was always a chance to start 
rebuilding his confiscated tool set.

	The primary social setting of Systama Meet - the ship was owned by Systama 
Meet Productions, which explained its name - was a cavernous room located at the 
centerpoint of the vessel.  Once, before it came under Jawlib "ownership", the Atrium had 
been a masterwork of horticulture and garden genius, plants for consumption mingling 
with those grown solely to please the senses.  Jawlibs, being carnivorous, had not seen 
the point to all the greenery.  In fact, to a species evolved for open, arid plains, the 
artificial jungle was a bit claustrophobic.  Some growth tanks, those related to 
aquaculture and others suitable for a number of pleasant herbal-derived drugs, were still 
in use, but the majority of plants had been left to degenerate into brittle, brown skeletons.  
Open space had been refit with dining areas, entertainment consoles, and comfy sofas and 
mats for lounging.
	Jydicina wandered through the primarily adult crowd.  She wished she was older, 
or at least taller, if only so her point of view wasn't one of bellies.  She been with her 
fellow child actors earlier, tucked away in a sheltered corner out of the way, but had 
begun to feel restless.  Then Whitib had vanished, only to reappear several minutes later 
with her favorite robo-pet, threatening to scramble its carefully nurtured aggressive 
personality subroutines to that of placid prey unless she braved the adults to wheedle 
certain information.  Jydicina had agreed even as she planned revenge for the blackmail.
	Spotting Pokel, Jydicina advanced.  From the slight stiffening of his trunk, 
Jydicina knew the older boy had seen her, although he pretended he had not.  She stalked 
next to the adolescent, then began to tug at his shirt.  "How much longer?"
	Pokel broke his conversation with an aged senior set engineer named Dorcel, 
much to the latter's amusement.  "Go away, brat."
	"You're my sib.  I don't have to go away.  I want to know how much longer."
	"If you don't go back to your brat friends, I'll go take you to the butcher and tell 
'em to carve you up for a sleep-shift snack," grunted Pokel, annoyed as only an older 
brother can be.
	Jydicina's forward looking eyes narrowed.  She smiled.  "If you don't tell me how 
much longer, I'll tell Mr. Verbon how you and Glynda took Meat Monster and what 
happened in a certain storage closet.  Very...kinky.  I'm sure he'll want to know why..."  
The rest of the statement was lost as Pokel slammed his hand around his sister's muzzle, 
cutting off the words.
	"You wouldn't dare," Pokel hissed.
	Jydicina smiled as well as she could.  Her expression clearly dared her elder sib to 
call a bluff which was not a bluff.
	"Fine, you evil little hyla-beast."  Composing himself, but not releasing the hold 
upon his sister, Pokel straightened up and asked the set engineer, "Dorcel, how much 
longer until the alien ship blows up?  My ugly sister here has an urge to know."
	The engineer chuckled, then spoke under his breath in a whispered shorthand to 
an implant embedded in his jaw.  He cocked his head slightly as he received a response, 
then waved at one of several brightening wall screens.  "The show is about to begin, it 
seems."
	"I gotta get one of those computer implants," muttered Pokel as he unclamped his 
hand.  "Go back to your brat friends, Jydicina, before I tie your trunk into knots."
	Jydicina laughed, then hurried back through the milling crowd.
	Pokel glared at his sister's retreating back.  "Evil, evil, evil."  At the upper corner 
of the nearest wall screen, the adolescent caught the familiar sight of numbers running 
backwards, a countdown timer to when the fireworks would begin; and a countdown 
timer to when the trip to the next shooting site would commence.  The derelict cube 
floated in the middle of the screen, just as it had when first approached.  A glint caught 
Pokel's attention, one originating at the cube's surface and plainly heading towards 
Systama Meet.  "Dorcel, what is that?"
	The set engineer hummed as he turned towards the screen.
	"That, um, thing coming at us from the derelict.  I thought the vessel was dead."
	Dorcel stared as uneasy quiet filled the room, others noticing the incongruity.  "So 
did I, lad, so did I."
	On the bridge, the Jawlib captain quickly confirmed the object to be a small 
torpedo minus payload, a "rocket sled" as seen in certain high-adrenaline subspace 
broadcasts.  The rider - scans confirmed one life sign of unknown species - could steer 
the sled, although trajectories indicated that the manned torpedo would miss the ship.  
Although Systama Meet was over five kilometers from the cube, the insane sled driver 
was pushing it to such excessive velocities that it would flash by in less than three 
minutes.
	"Separation," called the technician monitoring the exterior sensors.  The captain's 
trunk twitched.  Most of the ship crew were enjoying themselves in the Atrium, mingling 
with production staff and actors as they imbibed alcoholic beverages.  "Um...I think, no, 
it is confirmed.  The rider has left the rocket sled and is attempting to," there was the 
hollow ringing thump of a medium-sized object hitting the hull at high speed, "er, has, 
made touchdown.  Um, whatever the alien is, it stuck to the hull:  it did not bounce."
	Despite himself, the captain was fascinated.  Initial scans of the cube had not 
indicated anything alive, but the damned thing was so huge that there were surely some 
shielded areas.  Probably areas large enough to hide an entire army.  He should blow the 
cube right away, even though it wasn't quite zero-hour, just to preclude more invaders, 
but something made him hesitate.  "Did the alien survive?"  Morbid curiosity prompted 
the captain to ask.
	The sensor technician examined hullside sensors and cameras.  "Um...it is 
moving.  It is standing up.  Er, it also doesn't look like it is wearing a space suit of any 
kind."
	"Long time to hold your breath and keep your blood from boiling," muttered a 
junior officer sitting at the helm controls.
	The captain ignored the comment.  "To where is it moving?"
	"Starboard airlock #3.  It is knocking, and, um...it is waving at the exterior lock 
camera and making motions like it wants to come in."
	The captain stepped over to the sensory console and examined the view for 
himself.  "Let it in, then lock the outer doors.  Do not open the inner doors until a security 
detachment gets there.  Security's been a bit bored, anyway, what with nothing to do but 
break up the tiffs between production staff and actors.  We'll trap the prey.  Maybe it'll be 
edible."  As the sensor technician complied with the order, the captain spoke louder, 
"Computer, relay message to Holston:  alien in starboard airlock #3.  Bring an eight-
squad to the airlock in less than two minutes.  I'll meet him and his team there."
	The computer chirped as the message was relayed.
	The Systama Meet captain was at the airlock in one minute, thirty-two seconds.  
Holston, a very beefy Jawlib, arrived less than ten seconds later, his muscled bulk 
emphasized by body armor.  The enthusiastic eight-squad, each member only slightly 
thinner than their commander, quickly arrayed themselves in front of the airlock, phaser 
rifles pointed at closed door.  This was not a drill, and it was obvious that security really, 
really wanted to shoot something other than practice dummies.
	Holston nodded at the captain.  A sequence was tapped on the keypad next to the 
airlock.  Weapons quivered in anticipation.  The airlock door hissed open.
	Inside was a hideous creature, its skin the color of death, of putrid food.  The 
hairless biped was slightly taller than the average Jawlib, although body form was 
difficult to discern because it wore obscuring armor akin to that donned by security.  
Unlike security, there was the distinct impression that this armor was not easily removed.  
Similar to many alien species the Jawlib had met, the face was disgustingly flat, missing 
the bulk afforded by beak and trunk.  Part of its face was covered by an odd mask like an 
extension of armor, including one eye.  As the door opened, it focused upon the Jawlib 
captain - the only one present without armor or rifle - and stepped forward.  It ignored the 
weapons raised in threat.
	The alien held a box.  With a start, the captain recognized it as the bomb installed 
on the cube.  The significance of the box was not lost upon the suddenly nervous security 
team; and even Holston had acquired a muscle tic at the base of his trunk.
	Garbling something unintelligible, the box was dropped in front of the captain, 
who had to lunge to catch it before it hit the ground.  Then, between one instance and the 
next, the alien vanished, fading away like an image on an ancient cathode ray-tube 
television set.  The captain looked with horror at the bomb in his arms, a bomb that even 
without the subspace triggering sequence would explode in about fifteen minutes.
	"I wonder what 'We believe this belongs to you' meant?" asked Holston as he 
tried to back away without making it appear as if he was backing away.
	Barked the captain, "I don't care if it means the alien just cursed my soul to the 
eternal pits of Hell for the next ten billion years.  Someone get an explosives expert down 
here...NOW!"

	153 of 510 arrived via transporter to Maintenance Bay #2.  He was none-the-
worse for wear from his adventure and subsequent beaming once he had reappeared in a 
phase differential Cube #347 upon which could lock.  As a maintenance drone guided 
him to a worktable for a complete analysis, 153 of 510 reflected upon the rocket sled.  
The contraption had come from 127 of 230's extensive collection of things that went fast.  
While most of the collection consisted of racing shuttle kits in various stages of 
completion, a few objects included items such as the rocket sled.  153 of 510 believed 
that the rocket sled, combined with miniaturized warp core technology from Species 
#10015, could initiate a whole new era in personal transport.
111 of 133 wandered away to the other side of the maintenance bay, hunting for a 
misplaced scanner with which to check neural ion balance.  As the maintenance drone 
hummed a tuneless variations of the Systama Meet theme song to himself while sorting 
through scattered diagnostic tools on a work table, 153 of 510 palmed a set of 
screwdriver drill bits.  111 of 133 hummed an exclamation as he found the proper device, 
then turned around.  The bits were already out of sight, tucked within a leg compartment 
where they would be hidden from all by the most intrusive of searches.
	"I saw that," said an eyeball as it drifted into view.
	153 of 510 hushed the Director, headless of the fact he was a very mortal 
individual and it was an omnipotent entity.
	111 of 113 paused, confronted with Iris' backside.  It was a smooth, slightly 
glistening expanse, such as one might expect the behind of an eyeball to be, minus 
messiness such as optical nerve and blood vessels.  The maintenance drone waved his 
neural analyzer over the Director.
	Iris swiveled in place.  "It won't work; and you might want to check very carefully 
your patient's upper left thigh."  The subsequent denial was ignored.  "Ciao, then.  I'm 
coming to see you, Captain."  The director cheerfully announced its intentions before it 
coasted through a wall in Captain's general direction, well aware the drone named would 
hear.
	111 of 113 stared at the scanner, which had registered exactly nothing from the 
Director, then shifted attention to 153 of 510.
	"I don't have anything," protested 153 of 510 again.  He would have backed up 
except drone maintenance had just frozen all voluntary muscles below his waist.
	111 of 113 caught the edge of a thought, then glanced at the tray nearest 153 of 
510.  It was missing screwdriver bits.  "You know you aren't allowed any tools.  You'd 
better give it up before Delta demands you be dismantled to find where you hid it."
	Iris found Captain, as usual, in his customary nodal intersection.  He was the only 
one present, watching a large holoscreen image constructed from the composite views of 
a dozen sensory hierarchy drones on the hull.  The focus was upon the Jawlib ship, and, 
more specifically, upon a certain red glow.  The crimson ball had been followed for the 
past thirteen minutes as it moved from venue to venue within the vessel.  Currently it 
resided in a torpedo hamper, in the process of being loaded into a tube.
	"Ready to go?" asked Iris as it slid in front of Captain's face.  "Quiet, yes?  I 
wasn't around this turn, figuring nothing could go wrong in this universe.  Lips was 
smiling when I returned from a little errand to budge and payroll, but then again, it 
always smiles if it thinks it can make me feel paranoid."
	"Out of the way," said Captain as he bobbed one way and then the other as the 
Director blocked his view.  Finally he turned a quarter to the right, similarly shifting the 
holodisplay.
	"Huh?" asked Iris, pivoting as it for the first time noticed the direction of 
Captain's attention.
	The red ball abruptly shot forth from the belly of the manta-shaped Jawlib ship, 
powering away on the tip of a torpedo.  The trajectory was away from vessel, away from 
Cube #347.
	{Five.  Four.  Three.  Two.  One.}  The countdown crescendoed in the intranets, 
accompanied by a drumroll.
	{BOOM!} exclaimed Weapons as the torpedo exploded into a brilliant fireball.  
Even ship sensors noted the occurrence, tracking rho fluxed gravitons as they appeared 
harmlessly distant.  {Too bad they didn't blow up.}
	Captain dismissed the holoscreen, then turned to regard a Director self-absorbed 
as it frantically checked the past to see what vital events it had missed...and to learn the 
real reason why Lips had been grinning.  "Now we can leave this place," informed 
Captain.