Andard-say isclamer-day:  Ar-stay ek-tray is-ay owned-ay by-ay 
Aramount-pay.  Ecker-day reated-cay Ar-stay aks-tray.  Eneks-may ites-ray 
OrgSpace-bay.

	Jumba the Wise Lizard and the Case of the Mad Queen, Part II

Jumba the Wise Lizard has been hired by the government to get to the 
bottom of a mystery, a mystery involving a group of drones which cannot 
be because the Borg were defeated in the Borg Wars.  Jumba, therefore, 
interrogates the last remaining Borg Queen, who happens to be somewhat 
insane, but does not receive any straight answers.  Meanwhile, Cube #347 
just wants to know what is going on, and so, after blowing up a few ships 
and trying to contact the remaining Borg colonies, is out to kidnap the 
Queen from her high security prison...

		*	*	*	*	*

	Jumba awoke to the blaring of alarms and, when he emerged from his Jika 
guest quarters, the mad scurrying of prison personnel.  It was as if 
someone had kicked over a plansi mound.  Security ran helter-skelter, 
many in 5-squads, but also singletons and pairs.  Males were noticeably 
smaller than their female counterparts, although both genders were plated 
in combat armor and, as Jumba squinted, holding /projectile/ rifles.  The 
occasional clerk or technician caught within the crowd appeared out of 
place even as he or she trotted onward on some vital task.   It was a 
young male, computer expert by his tabard, who sought out Jumba as the 
latter leaned against the hallway wall outside his quarters watching the 
controlled chaos.  Jumba thought the specialist looked like a tax 
auditor, all skinny limbs, narrow snout, and undersized ruff.
	"Come, come," trilled the male, soprano voice unusual in a 
post-adolescent.  The detective idly wondered if the lad had partook of a 
party drug or three in his youth, several of them known to suppress 
masculine traits.  "The General wants to see you."
	Jumba pushed from the wall, inflated his neck ruff partway to make 
himself appear larger (and maybe to catch notice of a female who might 
visit later) in the crowd, and followed.  "It's the Queen, isn't it?  
She's escaped."
	The specialist stopped, shocked, and turned with wide eyes and quivering 
ruff.  "How could you know?  You were on sleep schedule!"
	"I'm a wise lizard.  I have my ways," mysteriously responded Jumba.  As 
far as the other male knew, Jumba had been communing with ancestral 
spirits, but the truth was observation and listening were the best tools 
a detective possessed.  The security choice of rifles meant it was a Borg 
threat, not a mass prisoner riot, whereupon stun phasers would be 
utilized; and it was hard to miss the content of shouts between one 
security person and the next, ominous words of "Borg" and "Queen" and 
"attack."
	The small male quivered under the rebuke, then scurried onwards.  Jumba 
followed, covertly straightening his swiftly donned kilt and vest in 
order to appear more awake than he actually was.  Appearances were 
everything in his business.
	The General was in a control room, monitors in the darkened area 
highlighting throat scutes with an eerie glow.  She had a spectral 
appearance.  However, her manner was anything but ghostly as she snapped 
at technicians bent over consoles, ordering them to alter screens to 
different views, to bring up sensor displays, to have the AI begin event 
reconstruction.
	"I said now, by the flatulent Gods down below!" sharply spoke General 
Thalth to a technician.  In response, the middle-aged male danced fingers 
even faster over keyboard, interspersed with curt verbal commands.
	Jumba lounged against the wall next to the door and watched as the 
computer specialist cautiously approached the General.  It took several 
seconds to acquire her attention, after which the male slid away to a job 
less stressful.  General Thalth swiveled her head to eye the Wise Lizard.  
In the element of action, the General's aged body seemed to be replaced 
with one half the years.
	"Come," ordered Thalth, indicating a relatively quiet corner of the room 
where a desk cluttered with maps dominated.  "And I want another replay 
of the incident in display three, now!" was directed outward to the 
hunched technicians.
	Joining the General, Jumba cut to the chase.  "The Queen's out, isn't 
she?  No assimilations, I hope."
	"How did you..." began the General petering off in the face of Jumba's 
lazy shrug.  "No matter.  You are good.  Yes, the damned Borg cube snuck 
in here, using that new propulsive technology, so we did not detect it 
until too late.  It came in and plucked the Queen out as neatly as you or 
I might eat a nutlet meat from the shell.  There is some minimal damage 
to the facilities where one corner of the cube went through some 
outbuildings, but nothing important."  Pause.  "As I'm sure you know, 
this is a disaster.  The Borg Wars all over again, only this time the 
enemy has even more powerful weapons.  Something needs to be done.  I've 
been authorized to double your fee if you can figure out a way to bring 
the Queen back before this whole mess leaks to the press...and triple it 
if you do so yourself, quietly."
	A wide grin crossed Jumba's face, stretching earhole to earhole as only 
possible in lizardfolk.  Ruff went flush to shoulders in pleasure.  
"Done, my fair lady."  Jumba wasn't exactly greedy, but the credit he 
took as fees had a troublesome way of vanishing through gambling, 
expensive vices, and spur-of-the-moment trinkets for his latest female 
fancy.  Tripling of his already astrometrical fee might, just might, mean 
he could actually put something into savings, as his bookie-accountant 
was always badgering him to do.
	"What do you propose?" asked the General.
	Jumba had already considered the Queen's escape, a mental exercise upon 
seeing the Jika facilities and deciding that no matter how secure the 
set-up appeared to be, the perversity of the Gods would ensure the 
inevitability of such an accident..  This wasn't the precise way he had 
imagined, but it did not matter within the greater scheme of things.  "I 
will need a technician...maybe that young fellow who brought me here, 
time on the primary AI, and access to the system sensors.  The courier 
that was docked to return me to the homeworld tomorrow...is it undamaged?  
Have warp drive?"
	"Yes and yes," answered General Thalth, obviously intrigued.
	"Then I'll need it too, although a crew beyond the computer won't be 
necessary."

	I am, a heart, a loner.  The guard I propositioned at Jika was quite 
astute when she observed that I wasn't the settling-down type.  I'm not.  
However, that was not the reason I boarded the courier alone.  The truth 
was that, if I was wrong, I didn't want to risk a crew.  The boat was 
essentially unarmed, although it sported the extraordinarily tough 
armoring necessary for a trek through the perilous neutron star system.  
Unhappily, hull plates and shields would not save it from the cube's 
armaments.
	Therefore, with the courier computer linked to the prison AI, which in 
turn was monitoring the faint subspace threads of technological 
consciousness which linked all Borg together, I left Jika.  
Unfortunately, the cube's sub-collective didn't appear on the subspace 
monitoring.  On the other hand, the courier could, theoretically, home in 
on the Queen, last seen on the Borg cube.  Unhappily, for all my 
confidence in finding the escaped, I was at a loss as to how to capture 
her.
	I didn't need a crew around to see the Wise Lizard being less than wise 
as he contemplated scenarios that ended in his assimilation or death.
	Suddenly triple fee didn't seem near enough.

	Upon retrieving the queen, there had been an element of anticipation in 
the sub-collective of Cube #347.  Anticipation had been tempered by the 
discovery of the jammer in her cerebrum.  The problem was one easily 
rectified by Doctor, a simple surgery to remove the offending piece of 
technology, thus freeing the queen to her duties.
	What a mistake.
	{She's in the interstitial space of juncture 52a.3,} reported 2 of 3, 
the centipede insectoid one of the few drones comfortable in the cramped 
area of conduits and wires.  Of course, 2 of 3 was also built a bit lower 
to the ground than the normal drone, had many more legs, and was 
physically evolved for tunnels, unlike most of his counterparts.
	{Focus on her actions,} demanded Delta.  The queen had managed to make 
herself invisible to internal sensors, thus forcing manual tracking.  
Delta was not pleased, but it was a software error, not of her bailiwick.  
{How much longer?} asked the engineering hierarchy head in irritation, 
second question directed towards elements of sensory and command and 
control.
	{The algorithm has shifted again,} muttered Captain in response.  At the 
same time, 2 of 3 returned, {She's linked into a data cable.  Shall I 
advance?  I still have the stick and a full spray bottle of water.}  2 of 
3's species did not retain eyes, but augmentation in the form of implants 
connected to atrophied visual centers nonetheless allowed the 
sub-collective to view the scene from his point of view.
	{Hold,} intoned Captain, overriding any commands Delta (or Weapons) may 
pronounce.  {Weapons, send a tactical contingent to the queen's 
location.}
	Replied Weapons, {Compliance.}
	The queen was mad, insane, deranged, something beyond the ken of mere 
words.  It was a subtle insanity, one not realized when the queen had 
been transported aboard the cube, masked by the jamming apparatus.  It 
was a madness which allowed comprehensive verbalization, an order to 
remove the jammer, a demand to which drones moved with unnatural 
competence to comply.  However, there were degrees to mental imbalance, a 
range upon which assimilation imperfection ranked only moderate with the 
psychological ruler employed by the Collective; and for whom many in the 
galaxy might consider eccentric, except for the firm allegiance to 
everything Borg.  The queen, on the other hand, had passed well beyond 
the sanity event horizon, and was threatening to drag all else with her.
	Borg were not designed, programmed for isolation, even those imperfectly 
assimilated, unable to exist for extended periods of time without mental 
support.  The queen, the definition of One, the integrator of All, had 
been without meaningful contact, without Collective give-and-take, for 
three Crouki years.  The fact she was apparently the last Borg queen in 
this existence only exaggerated the problem.  In that isolation, the 
queen's mind had wound tighter and tighter upon itself, twisting the 
natal code of Perfection into a dark vision.
	Released from the jammer, the queen's mind, like an overwound watch, had 
essentially gone *boing*.  On the face she appeared uncompromised, but 
virtual springs and sprockets had flown everywhere.  By dint of jammers 
in orbit around the various interdicted Borg colonies, the queen still 
could not contact the native units of her collective, returning them to 
the state of Collective, but Cube #347 was not so shielded.  Like a 
leech, she fastened upon the sub-collective.
	Whereupon one goal of the Collective, including the version in this 
reality, was to spread the Perfection of Oneness to encompass all, such 
was not quite the same with the queen, not any more.  Her prime code, 
from which all in the Collective would draw, was now bent to a more 
self-destructive nature.  Just prior to the strike by which the 
biologicals had tilted the Borg Wars into their favor, the Collective of 
this reality had isolated the hallowed Omega particle, crafting it into a 
weapon of mass destruction.
	Automated machinery had begun creating and fashioning sufficient Omega 
mass to be a weapon suitable for demolishing orbital defenses; and 
perhaps be adapted later as a sub-critical planet-buster tool, one to be 
deployed on otherwise useless real estate to crack the rocky surface and 
create conditions ripe for geothermal energy taps.  Three years later, 
the machinery, location never divulged to Coalition forces, never 
suspected by the small beings, had long progressed past planet-busting to 
solar-system-eradicator to an Ultimate Weapon that, if applied to the 
galaxy's central black hole, would sterilize a globe approximately a 
million light years in diameter of anything but wisps of gas glowing at 
unhealthily high temperatures.
	Fire was an image glimpsed in the queen's thoughts, linked with 
Perfection and cross-correlated with embracing All into a greater level 
of consciousness.
	The only reasons the Cube #347 sub-collective had not been co-opted into 
the queen's vision was their state of assimilation imperfection and the 
fact that this /wasn't/ their reality, fundamentally /wasn't/ their 
queen.  Any other group of drones would have been subsumed into the 
insanity, cube already on a high-speed course to the secret location for 
purposes of having Omega bomb meet galactic core.  Still, despite the 
incompatibilities, Cube #347 did not remain unscathed.  The queen, after 
all, was a queen, and prohibitions against harming her were overriding, 
notwithstanding her intentions.
	The mental battle to stop the queen's insanity from infecting the 
sub-collective was at a stalemate.  Almost immediately upon removing the 
jammer, the full extent of her altered state had become apparent.  Cube 
#347 had been forced to stop to deal with the matter, hurling at high 
velocities with essentially no one paying attention to the driving not 
conducive to long existence.  It had been a near thing, but command and 
control had successfully held off the initial assault.  At first one 
might think the disparity of one against four thousand would ensure the 
latter's victory, until one remembered that the one was a queen, used to 
directing billions.
	After deciding she was thwarted, for now, the queen had escaped into the 
vast volume which was Cube #347.  Her larger plans unable to be completed 
at this moment, she could still bully her way past the defenses of less 
critical subsystems, such as internal sensors and transporters, to make 
her detection more difficult.  Add to that an ability to "influence" any 
she physically came into nanotubule contact with, assimilation 
imperfection or no, and tracking her became very dicey.  In reality, it 
was only a matter of time before the queen gained the control she sought.
	{Squirt her} directed Captain to 2 of 3, {but don't get too close.}
	If 2 of 3 had been physically able, he would have rolled his eyes.  
However, as he possessed no natural external eyes, the intranet 
equivalent had to do.  For reasons unknown, the queen was hydrophobic, so 
a few squirts from a water bottle would generally force her to move, akin 
to disciplining a cat.
	It had been a odd brainstorm from Doctor.  Enough said.
	{Squirting,} announced 2 of 3 as he passed the squirt bottle to a 
forward manipulatory limb and carefully advanced.  He clung to the wall 
at head height using conduit and wire projections for hand-feet holds.  
The only view of the situation the sub-collective had was through 2 of 
3's pseudoeyes and, currently, it was a bit skewed.
	A stream of water struck the queen on her head, dribbling between eyes 
and dripping off chin.  As if she had been scalded, the queen withdrew 
from the data access and began to rapidly scrub the liquid from herself.  
2 of 3 immediately retreated several body lengths upward, holding 
prodding stick to the forefront (just in case), the recipient of nothing 
more unhealthy than glares and hisses.  He took aim with the bottle 
again.
	"You will submit!" exclaimed the queen.  Then she disappeared in a 
transporter beam , the only one with command access.
	{Second,} snapped Captain, question unvoiced, known.
	The partition Second was heading swiftly formed a summary.  {We almost 
have control again.  General location is subsection 19, submatrix 19, 
levels 23 through 27 of quadrant grid 15.2}  The narrowed volume of cube 
was highlighted in a dataspace virtual display.  Drones in the area 
converged upon the locale to begin, once more, the ongoing hide-and-seek 
game.
	Sensors interrupted deliberations.  {Sensors [smells] ship [tables].}
	From warp emerged a vessel.  A 20 meter long cylinder with blunted nose 
cone and paired warp nacelles, it exuded a sense of practical 
functionality.  It was a freighter, mostly hold with some forward 
sections available to transport biologicals and other items which did not 
tolerate vacuum or deep space temperatures.  It sported few weapons and, 
thus, was a very limited immediate threat.  Normally, Weapons would have 
already targeted and destroyed it, so deep had it emerged in the cube's 
defensive envelope, but problems on board were of much greater importance 
at the moment.
	{Track it,} unnecessarily ordered Captain, mind already returning to the 
internal battle to keep the queen from gaining full control.

	Jumba the Wise Lizard leaned back in the pilot's seat in disgust.  
"Brainless Borg cube floating in my viewscreen, wake up.  Is anyone home?  
Answer the fat target practically sitting on your hull," intoned Jumba 
once again.  And, once again, there was no response to the hail.  Tail 
twitched in annoyance.  It was as if the courier did not exist, or that 
something else occupied the cube crew's attention.  Grumbling, Jumba 
directed the courier to land on a hull face.
	Other than odd power fluctuations, there was little to differentiate 
this cube from any Jumba had ever seen on the news.  It was big, it was 
cubical, it had lots of bits and pieces poking here and there and, 
presumably, utterly devastating weapons.  It was base functionality given 
form with no thought as to aesthetic value.  It also continued to be 
inert as the small intruder settled to a precarious landing.
	Jumba rose from his chair, stretching.  As the courier was not designed 
to actually set down on anything beyond a low gravity docking platform, 
there was no way to secure the ship to the hull face.   The Wise Lizard 
could only hope that the vessel, now part of the greater mass of the 
cube, would stay in place should the latter maneuver violently; and all 
bets were off if the cube went supraluminal.  Deciding that he was as 
ready as he could be after checking to confirm personal weapons were hung 
or hidden in their appropriate places, for all the good they'd do if he 
was beset upon by Borg drones, the computer was directed to beam him to a 
hallway directly below and closest to the surface.
	"What a nasty place," murmured Jumba to himself as he materialized in 
the cube, "and in need of a cleaning service, too."  The first impression 
the Wise Lizard had upon arrival was the enlightening sensation which 
came from the slight lessening of gravity, dropping his weight by three 
or so kilos; and the delightful heat which washed over scales.  Those two 
plusses, however, were quickly overwhelmed by the negatives, especially 
the humid air.  Crouki lacked sweat glands, and Jumba was forced to pant 
slightly to keep himself from overheating in the high humidity, no air 
current environment.  Neck ruff automatically rose several centimeters to 
act as a radiator.
	The corridor Jumba found himself in was dusty, lack of footprints 
attesting to the fact that it had not been visited in a while.  The 
detective squinted at the floor, then crouched and ran a single finger 
along it, examining the resulting black smudge on his digit.  If he 
didn't know better, he might think the vessel fairly new, with this area 
/never/ having been visited.  Jumba shook his head in irritation, 
corralling wandering thoughts.  Eyes glanced right, then left, but in 
both directions stretched more of the same.
	"Hello!" shouted Jumba.  "Anyone home?  I am nearly weaponless, 
vulnerable!  Anyone have time for a chat?  Free drone fodder!"  The words 
echoed hollowly, swallowed by distance.  There was no answer.
	Sighing, Jumba retrieved a communicator disk from a vest pocket and 
spoke into it.  "Computer, transport me about, um...20 levels deeper from 
this spot.  That would be approximately 60 meters, correct?"  The 
corridor was about 3 meters high, although that dimension was not 
guaranteed to hold throughout the cube.
	"Negative.  20 levels will be about 80 meters," replied the patient tone 
of  the courier computer.
	"Whatever.  Just send me down 20 levels."  Only 80 meters, plus another 
30 for the insane thickness of the hull armor, equaled 110 meters.  It 
seemed much deeper.  Transporter tingle prickled scales.
	When he materialized, Jumba found himself in a better trafficked part of 
the cube.  The floor was free of grime and several wall and ceiling 
panels removed from their frames attested to ongoing maintenance.  The 
drones who should have been attending the openings with their tangles of 
wire and glowing green lights were nowhere to be seen, however, and all 
signs, from partially spliced wire to a forgotten tool, indicated a hasty 
departure.
	Curiouser and curiouser.
	"Hello, again!  This is Jumba the Wise Lizard, being not so wise!  Free 
drone material!  I want to have a short chat with you, with someone, 
about a certain item you stole!"  Once again, Jumba's voice went 
unanswered.  Unlike the previous attempt, echoes to his right sounded 
different.  Pivoting in that direction, Jumba saw several cross-hallways 
and a distant end to the corridor as it opened into a larger expanse.  
With twitch of tail, the detective tromped toward the new objective, 
still panting in the oppressive humidity.
	The hallway T'ed a joining catwalk, protected from a dandy of a fall by 
a low guardrail.  Jumba was not prone to agoraphobia, but, as he leaned 
over to peer into the depths, he felt he could cure that particular lack 
very quickly.  Stepping backward half a pace, attention was directed to 
the right and the left, sighting along a series of alcoves, some full and 
some empty.  No movement was apparent.
	"What the hell does one have to do around here to be noticed?" asked 
Jumba to himself as he scooted sideways to regard the nearest drone in 
the alcove to his left.  The Borg was humanoid, cast of features Jumba 
associated with a mammalian ancestry.  What skin was visible was mottled 
gray.  An odd bone structure to the forehead and nose made Jumba think 
its owner had had a run in with a delivery truck, and lost, or been in 
five too many bar fights.  Standing in its alcove, it was taller than 
Jumba, and the lizard had to rise up on tiptoes and stretch his stout 
neck to its fullest to peer the Borg in the face.  Relaxing to a more 
normal position, Jumba thought about what course of action to take.
	Reaching forward, the Wise Lizard touched the stationary drone on 
exposed flesh of the right hand, the other limb a monstrosity of bits and 
pieces more appropriate for a construction robot than an organic 
creature.  Jumba quickly leaned back, expecting the Borg to awaken, to 
leap forward with thoughts of assimilation in its collective mind.  No 
reaction.  Somewhere, in the distance, Jumba thought he might have heard 
a cough, but then again, perhaps he had heard nothing.
	Frowning, Jumba sidled carefully closer, forcing himself to actually 
grab the unaltered hand and shake it.  The limb flopped stiffly, but that 
was all.  Emboldened, the detective tried to shake a shoulder, the 
attempt as futile as the first tries.  Squinting, Jumba could see clamps 
which held the drone in place in the alcove.  Standing tiptoe again, a 
snout was thrust directly into the Borg's face.
	"Wake up!  I am Jumba the Wise Lizard and I need to speak with someone!  
If you don't wake up, I'll start to cut you apart bit by bit with the 
gigantic vibro knife that I conveniently left in my apartment, and 
doesn't really work anyway because it needs new batteries!  I still can 
pummel you about the head and shoulders a bit, an action that might just 
serve to reverse the damage the ugly stick did to you!"  Jumba made sure 
to put extra saliva into the shout, spraying spit all over the drone's 
face.  The words were nonsense, more or less, threats unable to be acted 
upon, but the content was not important.  With thick dribbles of saliva 
dripping down its face and chest, the drone continued to non-react.
	"Well, damn me by the Gods below," muttered Jumba to himself at a more 
normal volume.  He turned to regard the drone in the alcove next, 
swellings of the upper torso suggesting a female mammal.  However, Jumba 
knew that outward appearances were not to be taken seriously, for there 
were mammalian species in which the male nursed, and others, not 
mammalian at all, which had pectoral muscles and fat deposits for reasons 
which had nothing to do with reproduction.  To this second Borg Jumba 
went through the same routine, but remained unrewarded by the time he 
finished.
	Grumbling loudly, Jumba returned attention to the first drone.  "What 
does one have to do to be assimilated around here?" he asked to himself.  
"Do I need to draw blood from one of these creatures and actually inject 
it in myself?  If this is the standard welcome, I don't see how they 
could have survived a decade, much less became the scourge of the 
galaxy."
	Closer inspection of the alcove by quickly darting eyes revealed two 
possibilities for annoyance.  The first was a touch pad, sixteen Borg 
numbers in a four by four configuration, set below a liquid crystal 
display.  The second was a piece of loose metal, under which were a 
number of wires, several recently repaired with obvious splices.  
Contemplating the two candidates, Jumba decided to forgo the former and 
attack the latter.  A small utility knife quickly severed the connections 
with little more fanfare than a few sparks.  This time, the reaction was 
immediate.
	The drone's eyes opened wide, and an expression Jumba could only 
describe as "utterly ticked off" twisted its face.  However, it still 
ignored the Crouki detective which stood less than a meter away and off 
to the side.  Instead, it stepped from its alcove, clamps loudly 
disengaging and pulling back into ready positions.  The drone turned, 
examined the damage Jumba had caused, then took the several required 
steps to place it squarely in front of the other Borg the detective had 
unsuccessfully tried to rouse.  A sequence of alphanumerics was tapped on 
that alcove's pad.
	"Out of regeneration, 59 of 480.  I told you there would be consequences 
if you played any more 'fun tricks' to my alcove.  Let me show you 
consequences, starting with your /own/ alcove."
	The addressed drone's whole eye opened a slit.  "What are you talking 
about, 174 of 310?  I have done nothing, and my neural resources are 
required at the moment, or have you missed our little problem running 
about, trying to destroy the galaxy, us, everything within half a million 
light years?"
	"You can converse with me perfectly well with your dataspace resources 
utilized.  You can also remove yourself from that alcove, else I will 
begin to work on it whether or not you have vacated."
	"I have done /nothing/!  You are delusional!  Perhaps you should report 
to drone maintenance!" protested 59 of 480.  It showed no intention of 
leaving its alcove.
	174 of 310 was adamant, "That is what you asserted last time, too.  
Internal sensors aren't working at the moment, so I can't prove it, but 
with your history..."
	Jumba grew impatient, and so interrupted the unexpected argument.  "Is 
anyone going to acknowledge my existence?  Heeeelllllooooo.  My name is 
Jumba the Wise Lizard, and I really need you to take me to your leader, 
or whatever, before you do whatever it is you will do to me.  And I'm the 
one that cut the wires."
	Both drones visibly started, 174 of 310 pivoting on one heel to regard 
the being it had so blatantly ignored seconds before.  59 of 480 
retreated back into its alcove, swiftly shutting its eye, leaving 174 of 
310 to face the impetuous invader alone.
	"Leader," reminded Jumba as he skipped back a pace, not quite tripping 
on his tail, "could you take me to him, her, it, whatever?  Assuming you 
have one?  My name is Jumba the Wise Lizard, private detective, and I've 
come about a little matter which involved this cube stealing a Queen.  
Now, if she's already in charge, fine, I just want to confirm before I 
return to my employers."
	174 of 310 reached forward to confront the Wise Lizard, face abruptly 
wiped to neutrality.  The unexpected first person speaking of moments 
before was abandoned in favor of pluralities.  "We are Borg.  You will be 
assimilated.  Your...your...you will be transported to subsection 17, 
submatrix 10, nodal intersection 19 to meet with this cube's consensus 
monitor and facilitator.  You will not be assimilated at this time," 
uttered the drone.  Mouth was opened to add something, then shut again, 
leaving it to stand at menacing attention, faint aura of sheepishness 
surrounding it.
	Jumba did not have time to respond as he felt a transporter beam - not 
that of the courier - grab hold of his being.

	Captain stared at the spot where Jumba the Wise Lizard was expected.  
Jumba the Wise Lizard!  /The/ Jumba the Wise Lizard!  Jumba the /Wise/ 
Lizard!  If Captain could have acknowledged a literary hero, Jumba would 
have been it, followed as the character had been over the years from the 
Pits of Anarchy to the Dungeon Dimensions to the Brothel of Sins to the 
Lava Lamp.  In Captain's native reality, Jumba was nothing more than an 
author's figment, an author still debated as to who or what was actually 
behind the Eliasi L'vef pseudonym.  Jumba was not a real person except in 
the minds of readers.  Here, however, Jumba was an actuality.
	No one would assimilate Captain's favorite literary character, not until 
the consensus monitor and facilitator met him face to face...and managed 
to get him to sign a few momentos and stand for a photograph or ten.  It 
was a fortunate occurrence that transporter control had recently been 
wrested from the queen, for otherwise Jumba would have been forced to 
march clear across the cube and down multiple levels, a difficulty in a 
vessel where elevators were a rarity.
	Jumba materialized into Captain's nodal intersection, confusion evident 
on the detective's face.  The Wise Lizard was based upon the beings 
designated species #787, who, in Captain's native reality, were a wily 
lizard people who had, century after century, managed to stay one step in 
front of Borg assimilation.  In this timeline, they had been among those 
forefront in defeating the Collective.
	Captain activated internal forcefields to seal the nodal intersection, 
just in case Jumba attempted flight, then advanced upon the lizard.  A 
collar of skin around the detective's neck rose in agitation as he backed 
up, hand fumbling beneath one armpit.  The Wise Lizard stopped as he felt 
the electrostatic crackle warning at his backside.
	"We greet you."  Pause.  Captain gave into his impulse, and a large 
smile crossed his face.  "Let me shake your hand.  I am your biggest fan.  
I just /love/ your exploits.  The Blasphemous Forest was stupendous, and 
the terror demon Elvis an extraordinary example of your cerebral 
excellence.  Oh, and don't bother with that weapon in your hand, nor the 
other items secreted on your person:  even if you dispose of me, others 
would either terminate or assimilate you long before you escaped.  As 
long as I exist, however, that won't happen, so just relax."  Captain 
held forth his unaltered hand.
	Jumba looked down at the needler which had somehow appeared, then, just 
as swiftly, hid it away in his vest.  The offered hand was eyed; and 
Jumba's ruff slowly deflated.  "This isn't some weird Borg ploy to get me 
to assimilate myself, is it?  You already have me trapped."
	The limb was withdrawn.  "No.  You don't understand.  Your mind is too 
small to understand."
	Jumba's eyes narrowed.  "If this is another offer to 'expand my mind,' 
I've already heard it, thank you very much, and rejected it.  Make your 
sale elsewhere."
	Captain heaved a sigh.  "I said, you don't understand.  Why would 
/anyone/ want to assimilate the great Jumba the Wise Lizard?  It is not 
going to happen while I am in charge."  He tried to hide a wince as the 
queen tried a new tactic, a feint which almost broke through security 
firewalls.
	{You aren't going to be in charge much longer, at this rate, if you 
don't focus full attention to the problem at hand,} reminded Second, 
sarcastic irony rich in the mental tone.  The backup consensus monitor 
and facilitator entered the nodal intersection, ignoring the warding 
forcefield.  {You are making an absolute fool of yourself.  Very unBorg.}
	Captain swiveled his head slightly to more fully see Second.  {/I/ am 
making a fool of myself?  What about that time...}
	{Don't bring that up,} hastily interjected Second.  {Still, so much for 
the concept of Borg collectiveness and Oneness, at least as far as this 
species #787 individual is concerned.}
	{He's a bit wiser than that, if his novels are any indication.}
	{Novels,} emphasized Second.  {They were novels.  Unreality.}
	{Here he is in the flesh.  He looks just as he is described on the data 
crystals.  Therefore, it follows other characteristics should be similar 
as well.}
	{Your logic is flawed.}
	{He is Jumba the Wise Lizard.}  Captain faltered again as another thrust 
was made into command and control hierarchy by the queen.  {Weapons!  
Delta!  Get to the location and find her!}
	Jumba, impatiently tapping his tail against his shin, finally said, 
"Will you two stop gazing at each other, and tell me again that I'm not 
going to be assimilated.  And, while you're at it, could you maybe tell 
me where the Queen you kidnapped is?  I'm assuming she isn't in charge, 
as it seems you are number one around here?"
	Captain felt distinctly uncomfortable as he returned his full attention 
to Jumba, ignoring snide background comments from Second.  "Yes, we have 
the queen.  And, no, she isn't in control of this sub-collective, yet.  
Yet is a stressed word.  She shortly will be, as our software defenses 
are eroded.  I am not precisely as you say 'number one.'  The reality is 
more complex than your simplistic description.  You will not be 
assimilated as long as this drone is primary consensus monitor and 
facilitator."
	"Whatever," said Jumba, visibly relaxing.  A certain tightness did not 
completely leave his stance.  Black eyes darted back and forth.  "Would 
it be too much to ask for the Queen back?  My employers are a bit, um, in 
a tizzy.  Talking about explosions and so forth.  Very uncivilized."
	Face now expressionless, Captain regarded the detective.  "Perhaps we 
can come to an understanding..." he began.  The sentence trailed off as a 
babble of voices spun in the intranets, detailing the queen's securing of 
transporter control once more.  More important things required his 
attention, things more consequential than even Jumba the Wise Lizard.
	"What sort of understanding?" asked Jumba after several long moments as 
it became clear Captain was not to answer; and Second had also joined the 
former with primary awareness in the intranets.  They were not swift 
enough to deny authority to the queen.
	"Damn it," Captain vocalized.  {All tactical units report to my 
location, now!}

	"What sort of understanding?" asked Jumba.  The blue-eyed drone - were 
Borg supposed to have an eye that blue? - was not answering, nor its 
companion.  That was certainly not what he had expected when he had 
beamed onto this cube.  Many scenarios had crossed his mind, but not an 
insane Borg holding out its hand and proclaiming its gladness at meeting 
the detective.
	Blue Eye uttered a monotone, "Damn it."  Seconds later, a distortion 
appeared in the middle of the nodal intersection, solidifying into a form 
familiar to Jumba.  Unexpectedly, the two drones looked at each other, 
than began slowly backing away in opposite directions, aiming for 
hallways Jumba could not access.  If Jumba didn't know better, the pair 
were /fearful/ of the newly arrived Borg.
	"Ah," purred the Queen as her head swiveled first to one drone, then the 
other, finally fixating on Jumba.  "I see everyone is here.  Good.  The 
endgame is at hand."
	Jumba gave the widest smile he had, slowly reaching for his vest.  
"Well, I think I have learned what I came here to learn.  I'll be 
trundling along now.  Don't bother to show me the door...I can figure out 
how to get out of here."  He put as much sincerity into his words as 
possible.
	The Queen was not impressed.  One arm gestured, causing Jumba to flinch 
slightly, much to his embarrassment.  Ruff began to rise once more, an 
action he viciously countered.  "Keep your limbs were they can be seen.  
Your earlier stated belief in truth amused me.  You will now join as part 
of a new Collective, and you will know Truth and Oneness and Fire.  
Especially Fire."
	"Whoa!  Whoa!  I never signed up to be a drone!  Nothing personal, but I 
like my truths just the way they are!"  Jumba's swept his hands over his 
vest before holding them outstretched wide, as ordered.  He took another 
half step backwards, and the forcefield responded with an increased 
tingle, warning him that any more movement in that direction would result 
in a shock.  Perhaps he wouldn't be getting out of this caper, after all.  
Oh, well, he'd had an interesting life.  Idly a part of him wondered if 
he would still be allowed cheap rotgut booze once he was assimilated, 
although intellectually he already knew the answer.
	The Wise Lizard caught a subtle move behind the Queen as the two drones 
to the rear glanced at each other, then put on faces of pure 
nonexpression.  Blue Eye looked to tense slightly, then both abruptly 
stepped forward with a swiftness Jumba had not thought the armored 
creatures capable.  At the same time, he felt a lessening of the blockage 
at his tail, and maybe the slightest tingling which indicated a 
transporter beam.
	The Queen did not take her eyes off Jumba as she sharply said, "Desist!"  
She turned to regard the two drones, frozen in their tracks, arms still 
outstretched as if to grapple the Queen.  The forcefield was back to full 
strength; and the transporter could no longer be felt.  "4 of 8, primary 
consensus monitor and facilitator.  3 of 8, secondary consensus monitor 
and facilitator.  You have resisted my will too long.  Forceful 
integration of you into a new Greater Consciousness will end resistance 
of this sub-collective, allowing us to pursue a grand unification of all 
into a Whole, crowned with Fire."
	There was the slightest of facial tic from Blue Eye; and Jumba himself 
was becoming extremely worried concerning the Queen's fire fixation.  
Peering at the object he had palmed from his vest, he slipped quickly 
forward, slapping the walnut sized thing midback to the Queen, precisely 
where her limited mobility would not allow her to reach.
	The device was a jammer, alike to the one which was obviously no longer 
in the Queen's head, except meant for external application.  Such had 
first cut this Queen from the larger Collective when she had been 
captured, which was why she ended up surviving in captivity while her 
conspecifics had been destroyed.  The military would have loved to have 
several more of the creatures in custody, but the Borg had not allowed 
any other of its major pieces to be so ambushed.
	The jammer clung to the Queen's spinal column by dint of a thin layer of 
contact activated adhesive.  Six small legs emerged from the faceted 
ovoid, digging into overlapping spinal armor, securing the device to its 
locale.  Meanwhile, the Queen gyrated around the nodal intersection, 
hands trying to reach behind her back to grasp the object.  The attempt 
was useless.  At one point, she crashed into 3 of 8, still held in the 
odd paralysis, knocking him over.
	Jumba never went anywhere unprepared.  He had learned of the device from 
a prison technician who had attempted to explain to him the theory behind 
subspace jamming using words of three syllables or less.  The technician 
had failed in that regard, but Jumba had remembered the jammer.   
Previous to departure on the courier, he had requested one, just in case.
	That "just in case" had come about.  Jumba had been told the jammer 
might require several minutes to function as it synched itself to the 
Queen's nervous system.  The detective wished the device would hurry up 
and work already, for there was nothing to prevent the Queen from doing 
as she wished before the jammer came into full operation.  For instance, 
if she were to order Blue Eye or the other drone to simply cut the thing 
off of her back....
	The Queen slammed into a bulkhead, then spun away, facing Jumba.  Seeing 
the Wise Lizard, she slowly, jerkily advanced.  "You.  You will be 
assimilated.  Then you will be a part of what remains of the Collective, 
whether you wish it or not.  Maybe you will be put on one of the 
colonies.  Maybe you will be destroyed.  Maybe you will be interned at 
the jail and be poked and prodded.  It does not matter."
	Jumba sidled sideways, jerking as his tail slid across forcefield.  "I 
thought the whole revenge thing was irrelevant, or so I swore I heard 
somewhere."  The needler appeared once more in one hand, aimed at the 
Queen's head.
	The Queen took one more step, tottered, then fell to her knees.  The 
drones Blue Eye and 3 of 8 suddenly showed animation; and the forcefields 
warding the intersection dropped.  Somewhere in the distance there was 
what could only be described as the echo of a "Whoopee!" cheer, followed 
by a number of large objects being dropped from a great height.
	3 of 8 levered itself to its feet, joining the silent Blue Eye.  Both 
gazed down at the Queen, who was staring sightlessly at a point about a 
meter in front of her.  They cocked their heads slightly, then, as one, 
reached down to grasp the limp Queen below her shoulders.  The ex-Queen 
was dragged out of the way and discarded against a wall.  3 of 8 remained 
standing near the Queen, while Blue Eye marched upon Jumba, stopping an 
armspan distant.
	"I knew it!" exclaimed Blue Eye in a tone which, while conversational, 
was delivered in a barely animated monotone.  "I was right!  Jumba the 
Wise Lizard /always/ has a backup plan.  Always.  See, Second?  And you 
thought reading those novels a waste of time."  The comment was directed 
at the other drone, whom did not reply, at least not so Jumba could hear.
	Jumba smiled unsteadily, keeping his needler pointed towards the drone.  
He had not lived as long as he had by taking chances.  "I think I'll be 
going now.  Any chance I can have that Queen?  Suitably restrained, of 
course."
	Blue Eye gazed at Jumba, long enough for the detective's eyes to feel 
dry as the anticipated blink from the former never occurred.  Borg could 
certainly stare.  There was a lot more happening than Jumba could 
perceive, that was obvious.  Finally the drone answered, "We will discuss 
arrangements.  First, however, more important matters:  how are you at 
signing data crystals?"

	I was returned to the courier, along with a trussed up Queen I was 
assured would remain comatose until a certain external implant was 
removed.  There was a brief reference to water, as well.  The device had 
been installed by a rather sharp-faced humanoid drone, somewhat like a 
hairless bratif, only much larger.  My visit might have continued longer, 
but for, I am not kidding, the arrival of a giant eyeball.  I have been 
known to try a pleasure drug or three, but only the non-addicting type, 
and never, in all the times I've been buzzed, have I ever seen an 
eyeball.  Yet, there I was, sober, seeing the impossible.
	It had a green iris.
	After that eyeball came, the Queen and I (and a spray bottle of water) 
were transported back to the courier.  I am not a poet, nor a writer of 
any sort, but what happened next I should try to describe before it fades 
from my memory.  The cube, it disappeared.  I don't mean it went warp or 
exploded, but vanished in slow motion.  The ship seemed to become 
flattened, a three-dimensional image squashed onto a photo plate, but not 
in that way.  And then it went all grayscale, kind of, before the colors 
inverted and the whole mess drifted away like smoke fading over a dusking 
sea.
	I said I was no good at such narration.
	The one thing I still don't understand is 4 of 8's - he insisted I call 
him Captain - infatuation with me, with the signing and the pictures and 
the incessant questions, as if I were a movie star.  And the data 
crystals, all fiction with /me/ as the main character, like someone had 
been spying on me all my life.  Paranoid I'm not, but still...
	 No, no...quantum mechanics and the soul acting as a subspace 
transceiver is too much to think upon.  I will just quietly collect my 
fee from the government, try not to spend it all within a week, and 
forget all about Borg by acquainting myself with the bottom of more than 
a few bottles of strongly alcoholic drink.
	I'm just a detective.