This little Paramount piggy owned Star Trek; and this little Decker piggy created Star Traks.  
This little Meneks piggy wrote BorgSpace; and I know there are two more little piggies, but they 
don't want to come out and play.

				Pigs in Space
	
	"Seventy-four, raised to the power of pi," intoned a Voice grown familiar, too familiar.  It 
could not be assimilated, persuaded, argued with, nothing.   It simply Was.  The Tone which 
followed had also become well-known, the bell toll which Was Not, a shaking of the soul as well 
as mind and body.
	Somewhere in the bowels of Cube #347, observed a drone, Does the Voice sound like it 
is getting a cold?  The question was ignored as an irrelevant musing.
	"Ouch!  This is gonna be a nasty one!" brightly said the Director in Captain's nodal 
intersection.  Its pseudocigar was sitting in the air beside the eyeball, bubbles forming at the end 
of the fake stogie despite the fact Iris was not actually "smoking" it.  Buttons on the Director's 
PADD were pushed.  "All I can say is be careful of the pigs."  The eyeball winked, an exercise in 
existentialism.
	"Provide further..." Captain trailed off as Iris and its cigar faded from sight.  The query 
was abandoned.
	What's the use of this omniscient being? asked Second from his alcove.  He wasn't in 
regeneration, but neither did he see the attraction of standing around in a nodal intersection such 
as Captain was wont to do:  unexpected turbulence was a major contributor to injury when 
unsecured drones met immobile bulkhead.  It tells us to stay safe, then, when so inclined, 
provides cryptic advice that may or may not make sense in hindsight.  Otherwise, it is of no 
assistance at all.
	The Fall had not completed itself, allowing Captain to answer.  As, you pointed out, it /is/ 
an omniscient being.  We can't do anything about it.
	We could...what the hell is this? began to retort Second, before abruptly switching 
thought streams.  The Fall had ended, and an example of  'what the hell is this' was standing 
impatiently in front of Captain, and, as well as, infesting the rest of the cube as reports spun into 
the intranets.
	A bipedal pig in full riot gear gazed with baleful boredom upon Captain, small eyes made 
smaller by an extreme squint.  It was not the idealized swine of fairy tale books, a pig of polite 
oinks and smooth pink skin; and neither was it the nervous animal of the feeding lot, bred for 
bacon and hams.  This pig was an ugly, wild boar; a Hell's Angle swine; a lean creature of black 
bristles, wicked tusks, red eyes, and snotty nose who stood equal in stature to Captain.  Armor 
more fitting urban warfare shrouded the pig, from wicked boots to sleek comm helmet; and the 
dual projectile/energy weapon it held lazily draped in the crook of one arm was both compact 
and lethally efficient in design.  The other hand, vaguely hoof-like around the ends of the stubby 
fingers, held a very low-tech clipboard with neat bundle of papers, several of which were 
currently flipped over the binding clip.
	"You have the right to remain silent.  Anything you say or do can be used against you in 
a court of law.  You have the right to an attorney.  If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be 
appointed to you.  Do you understand and acknowledge these rights?" asked the pig.  For the first 
time, Captain realized that the creature was speaking, and that translator algorithms for the never 
encountered race (Porker - species #13261) were available in the databases, as if they had always 
been present.
	Captain cocked his head slightly, paying more attention to internal conversations and data 
discrepancies than the reality immediately before him.  "What?"
	"Come on, fella, do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?  Yes or no, it 
is a very simple question."  The pig had an accent, a slight lilting of the consonants and slurring 
of certain vowels.
	Several drones from the tier level immediately adjacent to the nodal intersection were 
literally pushed by, among them Second.  All over the cube, the scene was the same:  armed pigs 
were rounding up crew and collecting them in designated areas; and those in alcoves were roused 
by the simple expedient of pulling wires and tubes until the alcove forced the drone within 
awake.  Each Porker had a body forcefield, alike that of the Borg, but much more advanced.  
Fighting back was futile, pigs walking through opposition attempts and physically dragging 
away crew where necessary, often after the resistor had been, pun not intended, hogtied with a 
sticky webbing that made all movement impossible.  Not even assimilation was an option, for a 
drone could not even touch an invader, much less inject nanites.
	"We do not comply," announced Second, halting in his tracks.  For his effort he was 
given a body shot of sticky web, dispersed from a small aerosol canister all pigs had on their 
waist utility belts.  A second blast sealed Second's mouth.  Thus secured, Cube #347's secondary 
consensus monitor and facilitator was dragged away in a very undignified manner.  The other 
four drones in the group allowed themselves to be herded along, much more subdued.
	It was chaos in the cube, and the Porkers were winning.
	"Pay attention to me!" snapped the swine in front of Captain.  For the first time it was 
noticed the uniform included an insignia on the shoulders, a series of four vees in alternating 
colors of silver and black.  Swift analysis of the symbols on other pigs showed that this was the 
only one with that particular pattern.  Hypothesis:  this was a leader.
	"What is the purpose of this invasion?" inquired Captain harshly, those collective 
impulses which were remained logically coherent (those originating from the weapons hierarchy 
did not count) prodding him to act because he was the only one thus far unmolested enough to 
ask the question.
	The officer, for lack of better classification until it was offered, was not impressed.  "You 
are under arrest for speeding, evading arrest, criminal negligence, destruction of a police cruiser, 
assault upon officers of the law, as well as other things as they come to light as I think of 'em.  
That is what I told you to before we boarded.  Now, answer the question."
	Captain blinked.  "We did no such thing."  And, then, as with the translator module, there 
it was, a new meme, a new memory.  It showed Cube #347 speeding at high impulse, pursued by 
a much smaller light warship calling for the Borg vessel to stand down.  The pursuer tumbled 
apart under a barrage of tri-cobalt torpedoes, but not before additional forces took up the chase.  
After a time of high speed chase, from impulse to hypertranswarp, a clever celestial version of 
spike-strips stopped the cube and allowed boarding.  Peculiarly, the datastream was in a third-
person theatrical view, not the expected "first-person" cube view.
	The Porker snorted, flipping over another page of paper.  "Oh yes you did."
	"We did not," affirmed Captain.  "We were not...here.  We were...elsewhere."  Even to 
him, the explanation sounded hollow.
	"Yah, right, that's what they all say, buddy.  However, I have eight cruisers with crews 
and cameras, not to mention dozens of observation stations which say otherwise.  I also have one 
destroyed cruiser with all aboard that definitely says otherwise."  The pig was not happy, not at 
all.  Nowhere in the multiverses is a policeman content when members of his or her own force 
are killed.  The officer was taking it very well, almost civil except for the bite of words.  Such 
could not be said of those rounding up Cube #347's drone compliment, where force just beyond 
that necessary was being employed, especially against those who made the slightest effort to 
resist arrest.  Perhaps it was a good thing that Weapons had been strapped to a table in 
Maintenance Bay #5 when the sub-collective had Fell into the invasion.  "You, however, are the 
one who identified himself as 'speaking for all,' whatever that means.  Therefore, I ask you one 
final time before I haul your butt in regardless:  do you understand the rights as I told them to 
you?"
	Captain observed what remained of a consensus cascade, turmoil of so many physically 
active bodies affecting intranet workings.  Finally an answer came.  "Yes."
	The pig nodded, then flipped the clipboard such that all the papers lay flat upon it before 
slipping it into a pouch on his torso front.  The weapon was unshipped from its casually held 
position and the business end pointed at Captain's face.  "Well, then, let's trot along to the nearest 
collection point and reunite you with your buddies.  March."
	Captain marched.

	The crew of Cube #347 had been imprisoned aboard the prison barge for ten hours.  From 
an abstract point of view, the barge was extraordinarily interesting, one of the largest mobile 
nonBorg or nonMech constructed object the sub-collective had on record.  In volume, it actually 
surpassed an Exploratory-class cube.  Normally civilizations who went in for "large" tended to 
hollow out and refit small asteroids, a much more economical fabrication technique.  In form, the 
barge's designers had started with the notion of "aerodynamic" before realizing the behemoth 
would never be able to land on a planet with atmosphere, much less have sufficient wing surface 
to actually lift.  The final product was a giant delta wing with angular, blocky edges, unable to 
travel faster than low impulse without the assistance of the multiple tugs which could dock 
themselves at strategic points about the hull.
	Of course, it /was/ a prison barge, and there was rarely need for such a vessel to go 
anywhere quickly.
	Inside, where the drones had been transported after collection, was a maze as fully 
complex as any Borg cube interior, except there were more elevators.  Corridors snaked through 
the warren, opening into larger spaces, or abruptly dead-ending at blank walls.  Without a map, 
one could become lost for weeks.  Somewhere, presumably, was at least one central control 
station, whereupon the entire facility could be observed, but the Borg crew was not taken there.  
Instead, in lots of ten, the drones were unceremoniously herded into chambers warded by nothing 
more complex than thick metal and bars, both of dense-packed neutronium, and heavy manual 
locks; and, ironically, those simple methods foiled escape plans more fully than would 
electronics and forcefields.  By simple mathematics, 400 total rooms were thus employed, but, 
considering the size of the place and the population density the Porkers were obviously willing to 
accept, it would not be surprising to learn the barge could hold 100 times the prisoners and still 
have room for more.
	Captain's immediate surroundings were not as important as other considerations.  As he 
shuffled options - or, more precisely, as he stood, eye closed and optical implant dimmed, mind 
leaping from multi-hierarchy partition to multi-hierarchy partition to examine output - he knew 
there was a time limit.  At the time of capture, over a third of the crew had been physically 
active; another third or so had been in their alcoves, but in the wake period of their personal 
regenerative cycle; and the final third at various points within regeneration.  That meant over 
2700 crew, including himself, would be the first to feel the need for regeneration, automatic 
systems eventually forcing the body into stasis lock.  True, different drones, depending upon 
modifications and base species, could tolerate lack of scheduled regeneration for differing 
amounts of time, but the final outcome was the same for all.  At this juncture, the inability to 
regenerate was not a vital problem, but it was one always looming in the background.
	And, of course, there was always the complete joy of keeping four thousand active drones 
in check.  All hierarchy heads were burdened, some more than others in the case of Delta, and 
Captain was forced to assume a larger than normal load himself.  Command and control was 
working overtime.  The longer the situation continued, the more difficult it would become to 
control impulses.
	Partition 3a - summarize and report, ordered Captain.
	Said 10 of 13, No access.  Partition 3a, comprised of command and control, sensory, and 
engineering drones, was attempting to enter Cube #347 dataspaces.  The cube was towed behind 
the barge by huge emitters embedded in the latter's hull; and, in fact, could easily be accessed via 
standard subspace fractual routes.  The problem was lack of ability to do anything.  All power 
plants on the cube had been locked down with manual dampers, which meant there was barely 
sufficient energy to maintain base computer and life support systems, much less propulsion, 
weapons, defense, or even gravity.  Internal sensors showed a mess on the cube.  The blocks, 
machinery installed by the Porkers, had to be physically disengaged, which required 
transportation, which could not be accomplished because, in the vicious circle, there was not 
enough power to engage transporter systems.
	Captain internally sighed and moved to the next partition.  Partition 7c - summarize and 
report.
	Consisting primarily of weapons drones, with several command and control for 
moderation, partition 7c was tasked to determine how to escape the prison.  Replied Second, who 
had been given oversight of the potentially troublesome minds who might want to turn 
hypothesis into actuality without regard to timing, 24 of 212, we don't have those resources.  No 
thermo-nuclear bombs.  You are too influenced by Weapons.  Exit that tangent...oh, report.  
Same as before.  In other words, nothing.  A nonBorg ship, if attacked, would be sure to have 
crew bravely hide in the ductwork in order to emerge later and heroically save the day.  Borg do 
not think that way and, thus, the entire crew was incarcerated.  Was it mentioned all the Porker 
guards who patrolled the corridors wore the same shielding which rendered standard Borg 
assault tactics unworkable?  Not to re-mention the dense-packed neutronium that required special 
equipment to burn through?  Partition 7c was very frustrated.
	Next, continued Captain, to partition 1b - summarize and report.
	Connection to the Collective:  was there one?  Amazingly, this reality /did/ have a 
Collective, and a familiar Collective at that.  Somewhere there were Borg and a Greater 
Consciousness bent towards the quest for Perfection.  Unfortunately, that somewhere was not 
here.  The link was present, but it was a tenacious one, stretched to its limit by vast distance and 
unable to convey more information than "We exist."  Passive sensors had confirmed that Cube 
#347 was far from familiar surroundings, currently located in one of the parasite globular 
clusters that orbited above the plain of the Milky Way galaxy.  How Cube #347 came to be so 
distant from the main body of the Borg was unknown (no mysterious meme-files spontaneously 
appeared to fill the gap), and as unimportant as the stunning stellar whirlpool which stretched 
across a full quarter of the cube's globular field of view.  The question of concern was if there 
was a way to have meaningful dialogue with the Greater Consciousness, to pass the buck and ask 
a larger Mind to determine a method of escape.
	Nope, replied 133 of 480.  No dice.  No can do.  No pizza for us.  The bell does not ring.  
Do not pass Go, do not collect five million dollars.  No biscuit for the doggy.  No...
	We get the picture, stated Captain, cutting off 133 of 480 before she could continue her 
irrelevancies.  As he shifted to the next partition there was a clearing of throat, followed by the 
sound of a rifle butt striking metal bars.  An inquiry was sent to those in the cell who had their 
eyes open.
	Answered 199 of 422, It is a guard.  I think he wants to talk to you.
	Captain carefully kept all expression of annoyance off his face as he opened his eye and 
fed power to his optic implant.  Part of his mind fractured to continue the reports, but a greater 
portion of his consciousness focused upon the pig standing beyond the cell bars.  "You are 
interrupting us," stated Captain.
	The Porker had strawberry blond bristles and scrimshaw carvings decorating his tusks, 
but was otherwise similar to every other prison guard who had passed the cells in the last ten 
hours.  The uniform was comprised primarily of blues; and on a utility belt around the waist sat 
the shielding unit that was the bane of all Borg escape scenarios.  In one hand he held the 
ubiquitous dual action weapon, able to splatter or fry depending on the mood of the wielder.  The 
guard did not look impressed with Captain's response.  "I don't give a squeal.  The Big Man 
wants to talk to you.  Now."
	"Clarify."
	"Hey, I'm a guard.  The Big Man doesn't tell me squat.  He says 'Go get that fella who's in 
charge of those mechanical yahoos,' and I say 'Yes, Boss' real polite-like because I want a raise at 
my next job review.  Now, are you coming, or do I have to web everyone in the cell and drag you 
to the Big Man?"
	The webbing the guard spoke about was the same restraint used by the invaders to 
capture resisting drones.  While there undoubtedly was a weakness to the substance, in the chaos 
of the time, none could be discovered.  The webbing bound the prisoner and resisted all removal 
attempts, eventually dissolving into styrofoam 97 minutes after application.
	"We come."
	Ignoring the plurality, the guard waved his rifle.  "Fine.  All of you, step back."  
Squinting eyes watched as the directive was followed, then a key was plucked from the utility 
belt.  As far as could be determined without hands-on examination of the object, the key was an 
advanced liquid metal, minutely flowing into the shape necessary to open a given lock.  The cell 
was opened.  "Okay, you, the blue-eyed one the Big Man wants, step out.  The rest, stay back."
	Captain did as he was bade, standing silent as the door was relocked.  At no time did the 
guard's attention waver from Captain; and above watched the glinting lenses of security cameras.  
The weapon gestured.  "No funny stuff.  Walk down the hallway.  I'll be behind you."  Captain 
complied.
	It is a well-known fact that even in prisons which forbade forks or bedsheets as they 
might be converted into weapons by enterprising sociopaths, tin cups and harmonicas are always 
available.  Various drones resident in this particular bloc of forty cells had found the 
commodities and put them to use as per "illegal" files hoarded in Cube #347 archives showing 
stereotypical cinema prison scenes.  Some units were banging their cups on bars, while others 
used them as targets in games somewhat, but not entirely alike, bowling.  Harmonicas wailed 
soulful, and often out-of-tune, songs, each clashing with the echoes from its neighbor.  
	Captain had been aware of the activities, but had not done anything beyond disallowing 
occurrence in his own cell.  The actions were an outlet to compulsions otherwise bottled, ready 
to explode in ways potentially able to influence the entire sub-collective. 
	Guard and Captain passed through a door, sealing the cacophony behind.  The guard 
frowned.  "Geesh.  At least I can hear myself think now.  Go on, up the passageway, turn right, 
past the holding cells, and first white door to your left.  You lead.  I'll be keeping my eyes on 
you, so no funny stuff."
	Captain had no "funny stuff" in mind, either his or collectively, instead concentrating on 
passing his visual feed back to the general sub-collective.  The more known about the facility, 
the better the chance to successfully escape, or assimilate everyone on board, whichever was 
easier.  The hallway was featureless except for faded script and closed doors flush to the wall.  
There was a map at the junction, which Captain allowed his gaze to linger upon longer than 
necessary before turning right.  More barred cells loomed ahead on both sides, similar to the 
blocks in which the sub-collective was being held.
	A slimy tentacle suddenly lunged from between two bars, curling around Captain's neck.  
It was followed by a second, then a third, looping around torso, trapping arms impotently to his 
sides.  Captain sighed with inevitability as tentacles squeezed tight, prepared for an unglamorous 
termination, far from the Collective, far from Borg immortality as echoes in the Greater 
Consciousness, far from his native reality.  Then there was a jolt as exoskeleton shunted 
electricity from vital internal systems, followed by a loosening of the construction.
	"That's right, honey," cajoled the guard, "back into your cell.  All of you.  Keep your 
arms to yourself.  Can't have you assaulting our other guests, now can we?"
	The tentacles continued to retreat, absorbed into a dark shadow which appeared to be 
plastered against the rear wall of the cell.  A single yellow eye, incongruously surrounded by 
extra long lashes, blinked innocently in the middle of the mass.  The shadow rippled.  Captain 
felt like he was covered head to toe in slime.
	The guard glared at the mass once more, before turning away.  He confided to Captain in 
a voice meant to be overheard, "That's the fifth time this month that hooker has been in here.  
She ain't exactly the swiftest brain on the block, if you get my meaning.  One more time, and the 
Big Man is going to simply incinerate her, I swear, especially with the way she tries to come on 
to everything biological that strolls down the hallway."  The yellow eye narrowed, then 
disappeared as lids closed.
	Snorting, the guard poked Captain in the shoulder with the rifle.  "Go on.  She didn't hurt 
you, just gave you a little love squeeze.  Sorry about the electricity, but that's the only way to get 
her to let go.  The white door, remember?"
	Ignoring the catcalls reverberating in his mind, Captain swiftly walked past the holding 
cells, each containing one or more creatures, although none as unusual, or as desiring to make 
new friends, as the black blob.  Innuendo and oaths were spat at the guard, who either ignored 
them or responded in kind.  At the end of the row was another hallway divider, beyond which 
awaited the white door.  The guard opened the door and urged Captain through, then followed.
	Within waited the same Porker who had read Captain his rights, the same squinty red 
eyes, the same hog-nosed visage.  Also the same weapon, for the "Big Man" was not one to take 
chances.  The trace of a smile flickered across the pig's lips as the guard entered behind Captain 
and took up position to the side of the door.
	"We haven't formally met.  My name is Dobbs.  I've a rank, but it isn't important in this 
setting.  All you need to know is that I'm in charge of the jail," said Dobbs casually.  No hand 
was offered in greeting, nor any other variation of welcome.  Instead, a clipboard of loose paper 
was picked up from the desk.  "4 of 8 is the name you gave during processing, yes?"  No wait 
was allowed for confirmation upon the obviously rhetorical question.  "The 'one that speaks for 
all'?  No matter, settling this all in one batch will be easier than trial dates for each individual.  
And, besides, I'm a believer in the ship captain or the unit leader facing up to punishment instead 
of putting the blame on subordinates."
	Captain panned the room, gaining no useful information.  The office was spartan, devoid 
of any but the most basic of necessities.  No familial pictures, no splashes of color relieved the 
monotony of metal.  One working hypothesis suggested a psychological ploy, that Dobbs 
received prisoners here and did his actual work elsewhere, but the forthright officer was not the 
type for such duplicity.  An egress in the back of the room was noted, door slightly ajar.
	"I said," continued Dobbs, "did you hear me?"
	Captain blinked, returning attention fully to Dobbs.  "Yes.  We hear.  Our auditory 
function is not damaged."
	Dobbs did not look convinced.  "Then you understand Mr. Woton is the trial lawyer 
assigned to you.  You refused to acquire your own legal council, so the Tribunal Circuit has 
chosen Mr. Woton for you."
	"Legal council is irrelevant," snapped Captain.
	"Well, your irrelevant court date is in two days:  we are civilized and like to have these 
things done as soon as possible.  The 291st Tribunal Circuit will be stopping at my barge in two 
days to process all whom are currently on board, including your lot.  I refuse to tow that ship of 
yours around as evidence for another six months until the Tribunal passes through this stretch of 
space again."  There was more than a hint of sarcasm present, endearing him to Second.
	"Court dates are irrelevant."
	Dobbs heaved a gusty sigh.  "Too bad.  You get a court date; and you get a lawyer.  
Therefore, you'll now be meeting your lawyer.  You'll excuse me if the guard and I stay in the 
room, but prisoners are not allowed to be alone with civilians, just in case, you understand."  The 
Porker touched a webbing canister at his hip in a meaningful gesture before glancing down at 
something written on the uppermost paper of the clipboard.  "Mr. Woton, please come in."  
Pause.  "Mr. Woton, enter now!"
	A noise not entirely unlike a quack sounded from beyond the slightly ajar door, followed 
by a crash and several thumps.  Behind Captain came a very unprofessional snicker, quickly 
shushed as Dobbs glared in the direction of the guard, red eyes glinting.  The door to the other 
room abruptly yanked open, revealing the outline of an emu, or perhaps a very large chicken.  
Outline became actuality in the bright light of Dobbs' office, and still there stood the bird, 
dressed in a very ill-fitting suit complete with polka-dotted power tie.
	"Hello!" squawked Mr. Woton as he tripped his way into the office, sending several 
green feathers into the air.  "Whoops!  Sorry!  Hope you didn't really need that."  On the desk 
had been a monitor, operative word "had" in the past tense.  Now the monitor was on the floor, 
casualty of Mr. Woton's ungainly entrance and unsuccessful attempt to keep himself from 
falling.  PADDs from the briefcase he had been carrying were littered all over the ground.
	Sighed Dobbs, "Don't mind it, Mr. Woton.  Just introduce yourself to the prisoner so I 
can return him to his cell.  The name is 4 of 8."
	A purple crest rose on Mr. Woton's head in utterance of Captain's designation, then laid 
flat again as one unshod chicken-foot slipped on a PADD.  With hoot of indignation and much 
flapping of arms, the lawyer fell to the ground, landing on his rump and sending up another 
blizzard of feathers.  Dobbs suppressed a sneeze.
	This is our legal council? asked Second.  Incompetent!  The various partitions had 
slowed, and, in several cases, stopped their tasks to more fully observe the proceedings.  For 
Captain, it was as if 4000 individuals were sitting in his skull and conversing so loudly that he 
literally could not hear himself think, a description not far from the truth.
	Desist, ordered Captain as he attempted to push the snoopers more distant from the part 
of consciousness left from assimilation which he considered 'himself.'  He was only partially 
successful, and the effort involved in one mind attempting to herd 4000 must have showed on his 
face.
	"Are you okay?" asked Dobbs, less from actual concern than from the fact he didn't want 
to clean up the mess should a prisoner become sick on his office floor.
	Captain consciously disengaged all facial nerves, then erected a block to discourage 
additional unwanted expressions.  "We are satisfactory at this time."
	Dobbs shrugged.  "As you say."  Meanwhile, Mr. Woton clambered back to his feet and 
managed to pick up his PADDS and shove all but one back into his briefcase without mishap.
	The singular PADD was examined, lawyer absently clapping his beak together as he 
read.  "Resisting arrest, my, my."  Silence as crest feathers rose again.  "Criminal negligence?"  
Pause.  "Destruction of a police cruiser and assault upon police officers?"  Eyes blinked, crest 
feathers slicked back into invisibility.  "Speeding."  There was a longer pause, during which Mr. 
Woton suddenly lifted a leg and began to scratch the back of his neck in a very poultry-like 
manner.  Itching complete, attention was returned to the PADD.  "Reckless endangerment of 
shipping lanes and commercial properties.  Manslaughter.  Rude language."
	Captain internally winced at the last one.  Action had not been taken fast enough to stop 
209 of 300 from embarking upon a most scathing example of creative cursing when she had been 
cornered for resisting arrest.  Her jaw was currently wired closed by her cellmates to prevent 
future mishap.
	"I think this is doable.  Yes, very doable.  I'll have you out of here in a jiffy!" proclaimed 
Mr. Woton joyfully.
	"Our vessel?" inquired Captain.
	"That'll be out of impoundment as well.  All a simple misunderstanding.  I'll review the 
facts and come up with a defense in no time!  You'll be on your way before you can say 
libera...liperati...no, libperty...um..."
	"Liberation?" inquired Dobbs patiently.
	Mr. Woton's head bobbed up and down like a chicken eyeing a crawling bug.  "Yes, that 
is the word.  What was it again?"
	"Liberation."
	"Yes.  Liperation.  Exactly.  I'll be seeing you, 4 of 8, so we can discuss your trial 
appearance more in-depth."  Mr. Woton turned and exited through the door he had entered.  He 
almost made it too, except one arm somehow became caught in the jam, and he tumbled out of 
sight into the next room.  More crashes and bangs sounded, cutoff as Dobbs glided over with 
unswinelike grace to secure the door.
	Said Dobbs brightly, "Interesting fellow, Mr. Woton.  Did you know that he's lost all his 
cases so far?  However, he comes from old money, and mommy keeps plowing in the credit in 
the hope he'll follow the family tradition of crack trial lawyers.  Mr. Woton does try hard, I must 
give him that:  he's the only lawyer I've every seen who managed to convince the 291st Tribunal 
Circuit to allow a death sentence on minor parking violations...in two separate cases, mind you; 
and where, in fact, the defendants, those /he/ was supposed to protect, were innocent.  There was 
even video to prove it.  Very persuasive, Mr. Woton is.  Guard, why don't you take the prisoner 
back to his cell?"  It was a statement of how it was going to be, not a question.
	The guard had an expression of pity on his face as he beckoned for Captain to step into 
the corridor.
	We are screwed, intoned Second into the stunned intranets.
	Captain gave wordless agreement, then ran an emergency consensus cascade.  Our first 
priority is to escape...as soon as possible, and preferably before Mr. Woton constructs a defense 
for us at court.

	The prison break of 4000 Borg should have been easy, but, predictably, it was not.  Not 
only did bars and locks impede the way, but so did competing escape plans as one faction or 
another of the sub-collective pushed for /their/ favored scheme.  Finally, as the stalemate 
lengthened, Captain sidled up to the bars of his cell as a guard passed on rounds.
	"Think of a whole number between one and ten, but do not say it aloud," ordered 
Captain.
	The guard paused, a puzzled expression on her face.  There was little to distinguish males 
from females for the porcine race, except the latter tended to have smaller tusks, softer bristles, 
and more pronounced curves.  "Huh?"
	Repeated Captain, "Think of a number between one and ten, but do not say it aloud."
	"Okaaaay," returned the guard.  She fingered her weapon nervously, as if expecting a 
trick.
	Captain cocked his head as consensus focused upon a single number.  A single /whole/ 
number, despite 161 of 203's fixation upon 4.3742.  "We choose three," said Captain.
	The guard shook her head.  "The number was eight.  Why such a silly game?"  She was 
ignored as Captain pivoted a quarter to his right, turning inward.  Muttering a scatological curse 
under her breath, the guard glanced once at an overhead security camera, shrugged, then 
continued on her way.
	We were five away from the target.  Therefore, we will choose plan #5, needlessly 
informed Captain to the rest of the sub-collective.  The advocates of the named escape option 
smugly acclaimed their victory before bending towards implementation of it.
	Plan #5, with 15.3% probability of success (one of the better options), was initiated.

	Twenty drones were chosen semi-randomly to actually escape the cells and gain physical 
access to Cube #347.  Semi-random because all participants had to come from Bloc C; and semi-
random in that individuals, as usual, tried to influence the generator to include (or not) their 
designation in the final selection.  The forty cells of Bloc C included Captain's; and his 
designation was among those highlighted in the dataspaces, despite attempts to counter.
	Second! accused Captain.
	Replied Second, What?  He was in Bloc A, and therefore not eligible for the lottery.
	I saw that patch before it erased itself.  The code specifically substituted my designation 
for yours, even though yours would not have been accepted for this generation, criticized 
Captain.
	What?  Silence.  Long, lingering silence.  Oh.  That patch.  You see, statistical probability 
shows my designation is often among those 'randomly' picked for missions, therefore I decided 
to...reweigh the odds.
	For me?  I remind you, if something happens to me, if I terminate or otherwise become 
unable to interface with this sub-collective, you will be the one in charge.
	Second mentally winced.  Oh.
	Captain allowed himself a slight frown, but the drone selection was complete; and, most 
importantly, the focus of plan #5 had been sighted strolling down the hallway.  A command was 
sent to 215 of 422 in Captain's cell, participant although not escapee, who stiffened and fell to 
the ground as a drone maintenance paralysis pathway was evoked.
	Ouch, said the facedown 215 of 422 automatically even though no damage beyond 
subcutaneous bruising was registered.
	The key to plan #5 revolved around one particular guard, Bruti by name.  Bruti was a bit 
more grizzled than the other two guards who shared his beat, a bit more stiff in the manner in 
which he walked, a bit more stooped, a bit more disheveled in dress.  He also appeared to be a bit 
more forgetful, a sign of advanced age, first theorized when he had been observed twice to pass 
cells out of schedule and in a hurry, muttering to himself where he had been in the past hour.  
The theory had crystallized when the two other guards who shared Bruti's beat had met at a 
corner, one complaining to the other of Bruti's growing senility and asking how much longer 
until the retirement party.  Perhaps to combat a failing memory, Bruti had multiples of several 
items on his person, including two keys.
	He comes, was relayed from elsewhere in Bloc C.  Right on schedule, Bruti shuffled past, 
uniform bits clicking and jangling with each step.  The guard's bristles had once been black, but 
were now frosted with gray; and glasses perched over his snout.  Jaw worked in an unconscious 
chewing gesture.  He paused before the cell as Captain stood against the bars.
	"We have a maintenance issue and require access to our cube," related Captain.  
Internally he poked:  Don't just stand around...look busy.  He doesn't know no drone maintenance 
units are in this cell.  Behind, a pair of drones awkwardly kneeled and began to unfasten torso 
armor segments from 215 of 422.
	Chewing action slowed as Bruti squinted nearsightedly into the cell, blinking once.  He 
shuffled his rifle from one shoulder to the other.  "Well, I don't know..." he said slowly.
	Do a seizure or something, ordered Captain to 215 of 422.
	215 of 422 tentatively shook his legs somewhat, then went into grand mal as drone 
maintenance evoked the appropriate pathways.  What drone maintenance hierarchy could fix, 
they could also break.  215 of 422's weak protests were ignored, as were those of the two 
"helpers" as they were punched in face and arm by their patient's gyrations.
	Said Captain, That's sufficient.  Aloud, "We require maintenance access now."
	Bruti grimaced.  "You are all metal buggers, for the most part, and full of computer do-
dads.  How do I know you aren't faking it?  This could be a trick."
	Captain stepped to the side, carefully positioning himself.  "Enter and inspect the unit 
yourself.  We will not assault you."
	Glancing once up at the security camera, Bruti gave a sharp nod.  "Okay.  If you do try 
anything, though, I'll web you, so help me I will.  Else I'll kill ya, if I have to.  I've killed a 
prisoner before for trying to escape," threatened the guard.
	He bluffs, reported 123 of 203 from the cell directly opposite Captain's, followed by a 
detailed physiological profile.  Assimilation hierarchy was observing Bruti's reactions, analyzing 
minute changes in stance, in odor, in capillary action, in any datum able to be gathered from afar.
	Captain held still.  "We will not assault you.  We will not touch you.  We require 
maintenance for the malfunctioning unit."
	Giving Captain one final suspicious glare, Bruti removed one of the two keys from his 
waist utility belt and fit it into the keyhole.  Inside the lock mechanisms rolled and clunked, 
allowing the barred door to swing inward.  Then, on cue, in the same cell inhabited by 123 of 
203, two non-escapee participates to plan #5 entered into a loud verbal argument.
	"A Tiberian rose is the best example of horticultural genetic manipulation, period!  It 
combines the best of three separate species, as well as brings out its own subtle natural scent," 
exclaimed 68 of 133.
	Responded 98 of 240 loudly, "You don't know what you are babbling about.  The 
Tiberian rose is /nothing/ next to the Jicya pleasure lily, expounded by experts to be number 
one."
	"Only because the Jicya pleasure lily includes a naturally occurring narcotic in its 
perfume.  Cheating, if you ask me."
	"Well, I didn't ask you," spat 98 of 240 as he shoved the other drone against the cell bars.  
The act wasn't quite as pretend as it was supposed to be, mental signatures indicated.  The two 
drones had both been rival horticultural experts - 68 of 133 decorative fruits and 98 of 240 desert 
plants - prior to assimilation, and their spats, which had continued past assimilation, were well-
known.  Spite to one day conclusively prove the other wrong was believed to be a large 
component to their assimilation imperfection state.
	Bruti rapidly turned, weapon raised, open door momentarily forgotten.  "What is going 
on here?"  The ceiling camera was also swiveling to more fully observe the nascent brawl.
	With attention suitable occupied away from him, Captain simply reached forward and 
removed the key from the lock.  As liquid metal returned to default form, it was shoved into a 
thigh storage compartment, alongside several Jumba the Wise Lizard novels in crystal storage 
format.
	"Break it up, you two," demanded Bruti.  68 of 133 and 98 of 240 ignored the order, 
instead shouting the merits of rose and lily while grappling, each trying to choke other despite 
the fact such actions would not incapacitate the opponent.  The other Borg in the cell had 
retreated to the periphery.  "Okay, that's enough.  I warned ya."  Canister of webbing was 
fumbled from belt, dropped, picked up, shaken, aimed, and trigger depressed.  
	Foam arrowed through the bars, striking the two drones and instantly binding them 
together with webbing substance.  68 of 133 and 98 of 240 immediately quieted as their mouths 
were sealed shut, then toppled to the floor like an abstract sculpture gone bad.
	"There," stated Bruti.  "Be good."  He returned attention to Captain's cell, whereupon 
none had moved except 215 of 422.  The latter was shakily taking his feet, snatching at a piece of 
armoring held by one of his helpers and trying to refit it properly to his torso.
	You are trying to put it on upside down, helpfully observed 23 of 39.
	215 of 422 retorted, I knew that, before hastily flipping the segment the correct way.
	Captain blandly said, "The unit appears to be recovered.  We do not require immediate 
maintenance at this time, although we still request access to our cube and facilities in case future 
incidents are more troublesome."
	Bruti's jaw worked rapidly back and forth as he considered the matter.  Suddenly he 
seemed to realize he was standing in front of the cell, door wide open, rather dangerous 
individual within lunge range with nine more close behind.  The door was quickly swung shut, 
where it clicked as lock engaged:  a key was only needed to open, not to close.  "Um, well, I'll 
tell the Big Boss, then, of your request, but I can't guarantee he'll do anything about it."
	"Relay our request," repeated Captain.
	"Okay."  Bruti backed away, glancing once more at Captain before taking a longer look at 
the former combatants now gummed together with webbing.  Shrugging, the guard continued on 
his beat, only /one/ key now hanging from his belt, the other forgotten.
	It was now time to initiate stage two of plan #5.
	The guards had not known quite what to make of the insectoids of the crew, and so had 
thus perhaps been less than thorough in searching for contraband on the three.  Besides, when 
confronted with a giant centipede over three meters long, such as was 2 of 3, it was 
understandable none wanted to poke and prod among the numerous legs and body compartments.  
Therefore, 2 of 3 had successfully retained the tools he had been using at the time of invasion, 
secreting them about his body.  Those tools were now instrumental in prying off a panel inside 
the cell of which he was residing, revealing a hole that only one of his low-to-the-ground stature 
could navigate.
	"Here I go," declared 2 of 3 in his artificial voice as he lifted his forebody, snake-like, to 
a position whereupon he could enter the hole.  It was not important as to the ultimate destination, 
but that there was access to data cables; and, specifically, access to the security cameras.  
	Flowing down the hole, 2 of 3 felt more than saw his surroundings, natural circumference 
antennae ruff much more sensitive to the environment than his augmented artificial vision.  The 
tactile sensations were relayed to the general sub-collective, although few had the appropriate 
filters or brain structure to accurately interpret them.  Finally one antenna cluster brushed across 
a conduit, electromagnetic field tingling nerves.  2 of 3 lithely doubled back upon himself, 
bringing primary manipulatory limbs to bear.  Diagnostic equipment previously hidden within 
body compartments was passed forward from back limbs.
	I have found the target, relayed 2 of 3.
	Replied Captain, Plug yourself in.
	Compliance.  2 of 3 reached out one limb, curling it until it was correctly positioned.  
Assimilation tubules were extended from the limb, plugging the sub-collective into the prison 
barge's security system.
	The security system was isolated from the rest of the prison computer network and 
heavily protected by hostile programs.  The Porkers were apparently very, very paranoid.  Even 
had plan #5 included provisions to subvert the AI which oversaw internal security, the process 
would have required much time, not to mention organic resources in the form of intimate 
computational contact provided only by Borg alcoves.  No, the objective was much simpler in 
scope, a relatively minor alteration to the camera algorithms.
	There were too many cameras in the facility for any but am extremely large cadre of 
Porkers to actually sit down and watch monitors flip from view to view.  Like many species, the 
pigs were lazy, easily bored, and so left such tedious tasks to electronic consciousnesses.  The 
computer could observe all datastreams all the time, directing cameras as necessary for better 
vantage points, deciding what required intervention by guards and what could be safely ignored.  
Since prisoners out of their cells was a definite red flag, the trick was to convince the computer 
that the drones plainly visible on any monitor were not actually there.  Call it a case of selective 
sight, watching without seeing.
	Of course, there was always the danger someone in a control center somewhere would 
just happen to glance at a monitor at the right time, showing the right view.  Eyeballs were much 
harder to fool than electronic.  It was a chance the sub-collective would have to take.
	Three.  Two.  One.  Patch accepted, sighed Assimilation, whose hierarchy had the job to 
alter minds both organic and electronic.  Are we having fun yet?  Whee.  The hue of this dense-
packed neutronium is slightly different than the grays I have observed prior.  It warrants a new 
color line, with this particular panel labeled Neutronium #1.  Assimilation was in Bloc A, staring 
at a corner, motionless since he had been herded into his cell.  His nine cellmates were using him 
as a backstop to their exciting game of toss-the-harmonica-into-the-tin-cup.
	Captain pressed against the door, confirming with security cameras that no guards were 
nearby and Bruti was yet to discover the theft.  Satisfied, the key was retrieved from its hiding 
place and awkwardly maneuvered so that it was positioned for keyhole insertion.  Bar spacing 
allowed arms to be slid through, but seriously limited mobility.  For a moment it seemed as if 
they key were to be dropped, then it slid home, liquid metal deforming to a perfect fit.  The door 
swung inward and open.
	The cell only had Captain tagged for escape from it, so he exited and closed the door 
behind before retrieving the key.  The corridor of Bloc C was then walked, consensus monitor 
and facilitator pausing as necessary to release the escape team.  Three drones here, one drone 
there, and then twenty Borg stood in the hallway, committed to the breakout:  if the security 
patch failed or a guard decided to take a shortcut between point A and point B through Bloc C, 
plan #5 would fail.
	Borg peered a final time through the cameras, then turned as one and proceeded down the 
hallway, strung out into a single-file line.
	No, said Captain to the weapons units in the group, you may not destroy the cameras.  
That /will/ alert the computer.  His position was slightly forward of the line midpoint.
	A transporter facility was the target, one which would allow the twenty to board Cube 
#347.  The pathway to the goal, according to the map Captain had seen during his trek to meet 
the Mr. Woton, was in part familiar.  Steps were to be retraced past holding cells, past a certain 
white door, before entering new territory which included a Bloc control room, with transporter 
facility adjacent.  Perhaps there were nearer transporters, or ones that did not require such a high 
profile jaunt (Borg were not known for their covert prowess), but the singular map the sub-
collective processed only included the wedge of Bloc C, immediate environs, and a "You Are 
Here" arrow.
	Chided Captain, Quiet, as the line shuffled along the corridor, approaching the turn which 
led to the holding cells.
	I can't help it, complained 136 of 230, I squeak.  My joints need re-alignment, which was 
not a vital maintenance issue until now.  While twenty drones can't exactly be labeled silent as 
metal rubs metal, as heavy feet strike floor, the twin chirrups that originated in 136 of 230's 
knees each time he took a step were especially noisome.  
	Walk lighter, suggested Second from the safety of his cell.
	136 of 230 provided a response not as rude as 209 of 300, but quite descriptive.
	At the corner, the lead drone carefully stuck his head around the corner, confirming 
camera views of no guards present.  The holding cells were quiet as well, most detainees 
snoozing on floor or stiff bunks, else playing creative games which involved harmonicas and/or 
tin cups.  From the complexity of the latter, it was clear many of the prisoners were not first time 
offenders.  The coast was clear.
	The line of Borg walked at speed down the hallway, which was not overly fast 
considering mobility limitations afforded by armor.  Still, it was a fair pace, and the line made 
good time as the first of the holding cells were passed.  Bored expressions followed the drones, 
but the prisoners were otherwise quiet:  guards were targets for ridicule, not fellow detainees 
trying to escape.  The first of the three major hurdles was nearly past.
	Captain suddenly found himself wrapped in familiar black tentacles, pulled out of line 
and slammed roughly against unyielding bars.  A yellow eye liquidly regarded Captain before 
the bulk of the blob hooker's body was flowed to the fore part of the cell.  Mucus dripped to the 
floor.
	"Hiya, cutey," whispered the blob in a low, seductive tone.  She was separated from 
Captain only by bars, and for the first time, the primary consensus monitor and facilitator was 
glad that dense-packed neutronium constituted the metal.  "I like you.  How about a free quickie?  
I'm certified mostly disease free and can do you through the bars.  I've done it before."
	Captain tried to pull away, to do anything, but was as firmly secured as if wrapped by 
restraint webbing.  "Nmmmooo!" he said frantically, mouth partially muffled by a tentacle.
	Second crowed, Gotta girlfriend!  Isn't she preeeeeety!  He was echoed by many other 
signatures, although it was tempered by the reality that the delay could cause the escape attempt 
to fail.  Still, the event was highly entertaining to those not standing exposed in the middle of a 
hallway.
	"Don't move around so!  You are of standard humanoid configuration, and I love a 
challenge.  Just relax and let me go to work, and you will not regret it, honey," cooed the 
prostitute.
	"Nmmmooo!  Lef ufff go!"
	"Ouch!" exclaimed the blob as she abruptly let go.  Captain fell to the ground, again 
covered head to toe with slime.  The feeling flooding through his system was one of relief, as if 
he had just escaped a fate worse than termination, worse than laying six hours on an operating 
table as Doctor contrasted the merits of squeak toy brands for a convalescent pet depending upon 
species.
	Above all, Captain felt dirty.
	"What did you do to me?" hissed the blob from the back of her cell.  She held out one 
arm, which was slowly turning a mottled gray.  The coloration was visibly working its way up 
the limb, albeit much slower than the standard assimilation.  The yellow eye narrowed, then the 
tentacle fell to the floor, self-amputated.  "I only wanted to be a friend," hrumphed the blob, 
unaffected by the assimilation attempt other than the loss of one of multiple limbs.  She huddled 
at the back of her cell, a thick shadow.
	Captain ignored the sulking blob as he retook his place in line.  No acknowledgment, no 
outpourings of gratitude were sent to 116 of 203, who had merely acted in the Borg mode.  She 
had been closest to the attacking blob, and so it had been her who had injected the nanoprobes.
	Passage past the rest of the holding cells went without incident, although those following 
behind Captain had to avoid the slime dripping from his body, else slip to an unglamorous (and 
noisy) fall.  The white door, slightly ajar, presented new dangers.
	Dobbs' office was occupied, voices inside indicating at least two people present.  A 
security camera did exist, but the lens had been painted over, affording the Big Man privacy in a 
facility where it was otherwise nonexistent.  The door was a quarter open, sufficient to reveal any 
passing drone to those inside should an eyeball turn in the wrong direction at the wrong time.
	One by one, Borg successfully sidled past the doorway.  No alarm was raised.  Then it 
was Captain's turn, but before he could move, the words being spoken within the room caught 
his attention - Dobbs and Mr. Woton.
	"Circuit Tribunal case #74," excitedly squawked Mr. Woton, "is going to be my best one 
yet.  Best one yet!  I cannot lose."
	The unseen sneer on Dobbs' face was reflected in his voice, "Those mechanical men that 
destroyed a police cruiser?  I knew some of the people on the Chitack...I went to the /academy/ 
with some of them."
	If Mr. Woton took notice of Dobbs' displeasure, it was not apparent in the lawyer's voice.  
He continued as if Dobbs had offered encouragement, not criticism.  "All technicalities.  All 
technicalities.  You see, it seems they don't even come from our fair neighborhood.  I've checked 
into some reports from the Borderland Systems, and they say the cubeship just appeared there a 
couple of months ago." Pause, then hushed whisper, "They may even originate beyond this 
galaxy, perhaps the Whirlpool."
	"I don't care if they come from the bunghole of the universe, there is no cause to go 
shooting up a police cruiser because it simply asked them to pull over!  Unless they are total 
barbarians, there should have been /one/ person in that insanely large crew who knew their 
actions weren't right.  And then to go running off like that!"
	"I, however, have a brilliant defense!  I am going to plead insanity on their part.  Utter 
and total homicidal insanity!  I'll get them off for sure!"
	There was a very long silence, finally interrupted by Dobbs, who tentatively observed, 
"You do realize the sentence for insanity of that level is for the entire lot of them to undergo 
lobotomies, followed by 're-education' as organic robots to slave on asteroid mining facilities.  It 
is a slow death anyway you look at it.  If you just go for 'guilty' to all charges, only 4 of 8 will be 
affected, and he'll just rot in jail for a hundred years or so."
	"But," said Mr. Woton, "I will all of them their bodily freedom if I succeed.  All or none.  
All or none."
	Let's continue.  We have a time limit, rushed Captain as he selectively filtered his hearing 
so as to avoid further discussion upon his (and the sub-collective's) probable fate.  The doorway 
was crossed.
	The final obstacle was the Bloc Control Room.  Theoretically, each prison bloc had a 
control room acting as a central security nexus.  From the post, bloc guards could check in and 
log off their shifts, examine the status of particular prisoners, and observe a bank of monitors 
with cell views.  Reality was different with the Bloc Control Room was located in the nebulous 
fog somewhere between break room and recreation facility.
	A large plexiglas window looked out upon the hallway, but none inside were paying 
attention to anything as unimportant as escaping prisoners.  A large plasma screen monitor 
welded onto one wall was the object of attention, a game Jhad-ball like in character occurring 
with larger than life players.  Couches and chairs faced the monitor, although the prison guards 
present were not actually sitting in them, instead standing so as to be in a better position to shout 
play suggestions to a team and a couch which could not hear.  The local equivalent of popcorn, 
pretzels, and empty non-alcoholic beverage cans littered the room.  Even Bruti was present, still 
unaware of his missing key.
	The Borg could have shouted, danced a reel, exploded a singularity torpedo in the 
corridor, and still would not have been noticed:  it was the Galaxy League quarter finals with two 
teams evenly matched and literally out for each other's blood.
	Will someone get 44 of 83? asked Captain as he counted the heads who were in line.  44 
of 83 protested as he was pulled away from the window, a drone to either side marching him 
back to the task at hand.
	The entrance to the transporter facility was adjacent to the Bloc Control Room, helpfully 
labeled in bright orange letters.
	The transporter room was nothing spectacular, a variation upon the thousands of designs 
encountered by the Collective.  The science encouraged a technological convergent evolution; 
and while the specific buttons or levers might be placed in different positions on the control 
console, they were always present, always helpfully marked with words such as "Energize" and 
"If red light blinks, duck and cover, then see page 54 of the troubleshooting manual for hints as 
to how to remove the stains."  In this particular transporter room, the transporter pad was isolated 
from the rest of the area by a clear wall, presumably in case prisoners became a bit rowdy.  The 
smooth transport of all twenty drones to the Primary Core of Cube #347 was more than slightly 
anticlimactic.
	Located slightly offset from the center of Cube #347 - the vinculum merited that 
placement - the Primary Core nonetheless was close enough considering the overall bulk of the 
ship for quibbling over a few tens of meters to be irrelevant.  The design of the room had not 
appreciable changed in eight and a half millennia of Borg construction, remaining several stories 
high with three accessible levels above the floor.  On the ground floor alcoves lined the walls, 
alternating with data pillars and monitors, the latter still present as a backup to the dataspace and 
to provide the occasional inconvenient invader access to vital subsystems.  Dark hallways 
opened off the angularly circular room at regular intervals.  Dominating the center of the room 
was the primary warp core unit itself, a misnomer because it did far more than power propulsion, 
but was the true heart of Cube #347, supplying energy to all systems.  Currently, it was beating 
with only a fraction of its available output, damper leeched on the core casing, appearance that of 
a giant beetle shell, perfectly seamless.
	You gotta be kidding, harped Captain after materializing in the Primary Core and 
allowing the four engineering drones present a short amount of time to examine the damper.  The 
lack of gravity did not hamper efforts, although floating tools and blobs of miscellaneous 
substances (mostly regenerative system slurries, but also a large jello sculpture) did create minor 
obstacles.
	The Porkers seemed to have a technology which allowed the production of mass 
quantities of dense-packed neutronium.  So available was it, the alloy could be used in prison 
barge construction as well as warships...and dampers too, apparently.  Since cube transporters 
were inoperational, there was no time to travel to Bulk Cargo Holds #3 or #7 where cutters 
suitable for working neutronium were stored.  Closer inspection revealed the damper to be held 
to the core casing by a high tensile relative to superglue; and, again, time presented a critical 
issue concerning the need to fully analyze the glue and devise a solvent.  The only solution was 
to use the normal plasma cutters in a storage closet adjacent the Primary Core to cut the casing 
itself and thus remove the metal to which the damper was attached, a tricky operation if one did 
not wish to cause instabilities within the core that would lead to an Exploratory-cube-sized 
fireball.
	So much for the relatively smooth escape thus far encountered in plan #5.
	While the engineering drones set up the supplies they required for the delicate procedure, 
Captain eyed the alcoves.  One was chosen - all alcoves on the cube, with a few exceptions in the 
case of nonhumanoids or those heavily modified by their normal occupants, were fundamentally 
similar - and entered.  A deep connection to cube dataspaces initiated.
	You are in my alcove! protested Delta, both to Captain and to 116 of 203.  All drones not 
directly engaged in removing the damper had taken position in an alcove.
	Captain dimmed his external perceptions to better focus upon cube operations.  So?  It is 
just an alcove.
	It is /my/ assigned alcove.  I have set the clamps and umbilici to more efficiently conform 
with my bodies.  It required /regeneration cycles/ to do properly.  You have destroyed that 
perfect alignment.
	Snapped Captain, Concentrate on your own hierarchy, specifically those with the plasma 
torches ready to cut into the core casing.  Your complaint will be irrelevant if we all go boom.
	The violet glare of four hand-held plasma cutters dimmed as they were applied to the 
core.  The casing was not quite dense-packed neutronium, but it was much harder than the 
duralloy used throughout Cube #347's construction.  Time would be required to completely 
separate damper from core; and time would be required to cut with the exacting precision 
necessary to do so safely.
	Time was running out.
	Observed from security cameras, with 2 of 3 still acting as a bridge between sub-
collective and prison subsystem, one member of the Bloc Control Room Jhad-ball party had 
separated itself from the group.  Bruti was performing a pat down of himself, concentrating 
especially on his pockets, a confused expression of attempted remembrance twisting his face.  
After a minute of the search, he shook his head ruefully and turned to speak with a rowdy 
neighbor.  The words could not be heard due to the camera's lack of a microphone.  The meaning 
was clear, however:  Bruti had discovered he was lacking his second cell key.  As he left the 
Bloc Control Room to search for the missing object, the informed neighbor relayed the reason 
for Bruti's leaving to the rest of the guards, resulting in much eye rolling and the body shake of 
laughter.
	Cameras watched Bruti's slow progress.  Eyes to the ground, the guard scanned for his 
lost key, retracing a route which would eventually lead him back to the Borg sector of Bloc C.  
At one point he went into a washroom, but exited after only a couple of minutes after confirming 
the key had not been misplaced during a pitstop. Assuming his pace stayed the same, Bruti 
would be before Captain's vacated cell in thirteen minutes.
	Engineering was estimating twenty minutes to fully remove the damper, after which 
another five minute, minimum, would be required to engage systems beyond basic 
environmental and thruster propulsion, including the transporters.
	There were things to occupy Captain's attention as the twin timers floated in the 
dataspaces, old fashioned arms of the clock faces sweeping backwards.  Theoretically, only one 
drone was required to drive a cube; or none in the case of automatic pilot as long as no 
difficulties arose along the flight route.  Reality, however, was different, with a minimum crew 
of 50 plugged into alcoves necessary to watch the myriad of systems and sensors, not to mention 
specialized engineering support to fix the inevitable breakdowns which occurred in a machine as 
complex (and large!) as a Borg cube.  Sixteen driving and four maintaining would not be enough, 
but it was calculated to be sufficient until all crew could be recovered from the prison.
	Assuming there wasn't another invasion of Porkers, the cube wasn't being fired upon, the 
barge didn't raise shields to block transporters, or any of a wide number of negative scenarios 
being examined by the weapons hierarchy.
	Bruti entered the drone area of Bloc C, jaw aimlessly chewing as the elder pig swung his 
head back and forth, squinting through his glasses.  Arms gestured unconsciously as he mentally 
walked through last shift; and he finally stopped in front of Captain's ex-cell.  Forehead wrinkled 
in concentration.  The, for the first time, Bruti seemed to notice the absolute silence, the lack of 
harmonica, the lack of tin cups.  All drones were staring with unblinking eyes at the guard.
	"Where's the big one, the one with all the armor what-nots and so forth?  You know, the 
blue-eyed bugger?" demanded Bruti after peering into the cell.
	Five minutes.  The engineering drones were beginning the most delicate portion of the 
exacting operation, plasma directed one millimeter off course, temperature a few tens of degrees 
too warm, and vital seals to the core's deep interior would be compromised.
	Stall him, ordered Captain.
	215 of 422 stepped forward.  "You are at the wrong cell.  The unit you seek is not here."
	The guard's frown deepened.  "I may be half deaf and half blind, but I'm not stupid.  
Feeling better, are you?  I remember you flopping all over the ground when I was here last, 
which means your captain fellow was in this cell.  Besides, there are only nine of you in there."  
Pause, then eyes widened.  "Nine...of...you....  Damn!"
	In Cube #347, Captain blinked his organic eye open to focus directly on the progress by 
the engineering detachment.
	The job cannot go faster, reported Delta, not unless you wish to permanently "escape" 
this, and all, realities.
	"Bruti calling central," frantically spoke the guard into a hand radio plucked from waist 
belt, "I've a problem here.  Come in."
	Laughter crackled over the link, "Did'ja find the key yet?  Or have you lost something 
else?"
	"This isn't funny, Klune.  Laugh at the old fart all you like - the devils know I did in my 
day - but there is a very serious problem here with those metal Borg fellows.  Have the computer 
do a visual count on all them here in Bloc C."
	"Yah, whatever.  You really should get your glasses fixed, you know:  they ain't thick 
enough."  There was a pause, then, "Um, Bruti, the computer says there ain't any of them Borg 
down there."
	"Well, I'm looking at a cage of 'em right now.  I'm looking at a cage which should have 
ten, but it has nine."  Bruti glanced at another cell, eyes blinking as he counted rapidly.  "And 
there's another that is three short.  I don't know how many all together are gone, but we've at 
least four roaming the barge, maybe more."
	There was the background of argument over the radio, voices too indistinct to be 
discerned.  The camera in the ceiling rotated until it was facing the cell Bruti stood in front of.  
"Damn you, Computer, I have the picture up right now and see prisoners.  They exist."  Pause.  
"They do."  Pause.  "Well, that was uncalled for, and right back at you with a double helping of 
rudeness.  Bruti, the computer's been compromised, I think.  I'm getting Geelan to hack into it; 
and I've called the Big Boss.  He's a little on the twitchy side.  Stay there and watch them that are 
in the cages:  backup will be down shortly."
	 "I understand," responded Bruti.  The radio was returned to the belt and rifle nervously 
gripped by both hands.  "I'm watching you, now, yes I am.  Don't try anything."
	Less than 400 drones were physically present in the Bloc, but Bruti was feeling the 
presence of 4000.  Somewhere a harmonica began to wail, ending on an abrupt squeal as it was 
ripped from the player and crushed in an augmented hand.  Once more silence reigned.
	Two minutes to cut off the damper; and then five additional minutes for transporter 
systems to become operational.  It was going to be close.
	Assimilation:  the patch erased all Borg to the computer, didn't it?  The question from 
Captain was rhetorical, answer known even as the inquiry was formed.
	Answered Assimilation, Selective erasure would have required too much time, perhaps 
caught the computer's attention as this patch did not.  It worked, did it not?  Why put more effort 
into it?
	There was no trite response or argument possible, for, yes, the method had worked well 
enough.  Nothing more, nothing less.
	I think it is time for a long, long talk, Assimilation, said Captain.  A /very/ long 
examination of your personality memes and algorithms, followed by chemical adjustment as 
necessary.
	Assimilation did not react beyond a long sigh reflected both in the dataspaces and 
physically.  To a varying degree, the drones of his hierarchy mimicked the action.
	Got it, said Delta as plasma torches shut off.  For several long seconds the damper did not 
move, then the slab of metal it was attached to, and which was no longer connected to the core 
casing, fell backward in slow motion and with a groaning squeal.  It swiftly gathered momentum, 
however, and hit the deck with the heavy ring only possible by dense-packed metal.  A dent 
appeared where the damper bounced.  190 of 230 hopped awkwardly on one foot after not 
having been swift enough to move out of the danger zone, then drifted away in the weightless 
environment when magnetized foot lost contact with deck plate.
	Captain contemplated the scene, then closed his eye again.  Someone remove the plasma 
torch from 190 of 230 before he cuts something important.  Unidle core and bring systems to full 
operational status, priority transporters, defense, propulsion, offense, gravity, full environmental.  
Query:  cube status and time to full activation?
	Cube status:  3% of normal power and rising.  Systems diagnostics nominal.  Primary 
core available.  Ten auxiliary cores unavailable.  Four minutes, forty-eight seconds to full 
operational status.  Cube #347 is currently at sub-optimal performance rating, dryly returned the 
ship computer.
	Snorted Second, Well, duh.  His comment was ignored.
	The initial power-up sequence was not lost upon the prison facility, which immediately 
sent a hail to Cube #347.  Captain chose to disregard it in favor of more pressing business.  
Meanwhile, in Bloc C, guards, many wearing hastily donned clothing and equipment, were 
beaming in to join Bruti; and cameras to the other Blocs showed a lesser number of Porkers 
converging upon Borg cells via foot.  Purple lights had descended from the ceilings and were 
flashing in time with recorded audio warnings.
	"See," muttered Bruti at the first of his arriving comrades, "I don't imagine all the things I 
see.  Maybe next time you'll all listen when I say I've seen little varmint critters that don't belong 
running around the hallways."
	"Shut up, ya old foggie," sharply replied the nearest of the guards.  Bruti did not take 
offense and, if anything, looked more smug.
	Three minutes, five seconds to full operational status, counted down the computer.
	As Captain's multitasking mind followed system diagnostics, the evolving situation in the 
cell Blocs, and continued to maintain nominal censure control of the sub-collective, the hail from 
the station became more insistent.  The "answering machine" algorithm was initiated, if only to 
stall the situation a bit longer until the point was reached when Cube #347 would not be 
vulnerable to Porker transporters.
	"We're sorry, but Exploratory-class Cube #347 of the Borg Collective is not available at 
the moment.  At the beep leave your name, species designation, where you can be reached, and 
time convenient for assimilation, and we will return your call as soon as possible."  A sharp tone 
followed.
	"I know you're there, so pick up!  Pick up, damn you!" spoke the angry voice of Dobbs.  
The communication included a visual feed, and it showed the irate visage the Big Man, flanked 
to one side by Mr. Woton.  "I don't know what you think you are planning, but you ain't escaping 
these tractor beams, 4 of 8.  Yes, I know you are not in your cell, and I don't know how the hells 
you did it, but scans indicate humanoid lifeforms on that cube thing of yours.  You are one of 
them, aren't you?  If you don't want to make it hard on yourself - well, harder than it already is - 
you /will/ step down your power core and return promptly to the prison."
	"Yes," added Mr. Woton, pushing in front of Dobbs, head bobbing and one hand having a 
PADD.  "Come back, come back.  Your case is all complete and ready to be presented to the 
Tribunal.  I've read all my literature, and I know I can plead with the court for a swift death for 
everyone except 4 of 8.  Him, I'm afraid, will get off with life in prison without parole and be 
forced to listen to Yatukit yodeling for the rest of his natural lifespan."
	Dobbs shoved Mr. Woton to the side, perhaps a bit harder than necessary, and certain 
with a small eruption of feathers.  "Um, yes, you can't beat that, now can you?  Anyway, it 
doesn't matter what you think you are doing because authorities will be here in less than five 
minutes!  Do you hear me?  And if you thought police cruisers were bad, you ain't seen a real 
warship."
	Interrupted the recording, "We are sorry, but your allotted time on this hail has been 
exceeded.  We will get back to you about your comments, concerns, questions, and/or 
assimilation request at our next most convenient time.  Remember, the Borg Collective wants to 
meet all your Collective needs."
	The hail was terminated.  Passive sensors confirmed nearby ship-vectors shifting to focus 
upon the prison facility.  A new timer was initiated in the dataspaces.
	One minute, forty-five seconds to full operational status.
	"Web the lot of 'em," pronounced Dobbs' voice over prison loudspeakers.  Drones 
hurriedly backed away to the rear of the cells as webbing canisters were aimed between bars and 
sprayed.  In a show of unBorg behavior, drones crowded behind each other, pushing those less 
lucky or of weaker physiologies to the forefront to act as living shields.
	The webbing deployment took much longer than required, many guards in a very bad 
mood:  the Jhad-ball game had been entering a five minute overtime period with scores tied and 
debilitating injuries to both sides.  Those not directly involved in the securing proceedings 
sheathed guns with an over-the-shoulder motion into back slings, then unshipped batons from 
their utility belts.  Baton shafts smacked against open palms.  The prison guards were obviously 
very experienced, very hands-on in their work as necessary.
	Three seconds to full operational status.  Two seconds to full operational status.  One 
second to full operational status.  Cube #347 is now at full operational status.  Pause.  Have a 
nice day.
	Who programmed /that/ into the computer? demanded Captain even as transporters were 
activated.  Drones from the mass grab were dumped into the Bulk Cargo Holds with no order 
observed or attempt to place units near their "home" subsections, much less adjacent their 
alcoves.  A full quarter would not have been able to enter their alcoves anyway, at least not for 
another 97 minutes, due to the thick coating of webbing which made movement impossible.
	Shields up! thundered Weapons.  Due to injury sustained in the prior Fall, he had been 
undergoing repair at the time of boarding; and at the insistence of the saner portions of command 
and control, had been kept at minimal awareness by drone maintenance command pathways 
throughout the incarceration.  Unfortunately, an able tactical command was required at this 
juncture, one represented by Weapons and his ability to (more or less, as everything on Cube 
#347 was more or less) direct his hierarchy towards one goal.  Offensive weapons are not at 
100% capacity.  It is demanded full power to diverted to them now.
	That power Weapons desired was currently being directed to propulsion, but Cube #347 
was not moving from its position next to the prison barge.  The advent of shields should have 
disrupted the tractor beam, requiring the enemy emitter to reset itself before attempting to 
reacquire the target.  However, such was not the case, and the tractor remained firmly latched 
onto the cube's hull plates regardless, matching Borg shield phase harmonics effortlessly
	Encountering a species with technology superior to the Borg was annoying, and always 
boded Not Good for Cube #347.
	Offense, demanded Weapons.
	Propulsion, countered Captain as increasing amounts of energy were directed to thrusters 
for the patented Borg brute method approach.  As the inevitable conflict between courses of 
action arose, it became clear tactical hierarchy was at a disadvantage without alcove support.  
True, most of command and control were similarly without, but their tendency was toward unity 
as opposed to the several disparate options (Disrupters, neuruptors, or torpedoes?  If the 
lattermost, what type?) weapons hierarchy was exploring.
	Outwardly, there was little evidence of the dataspace turmoil beyond modest energy 
fluctuations to weapon mounts.  Thrusters doubled output, then doubled and tripled again, 
increasing the strain both to cube and prison.  It was a contest to see which would happen first:  
large chunks of hull pulled off Cube #347 or tractor burn out.  In the end neither happened, for 
the prison tractor mounts literally pulled from their settings, winking off one by one as power 
cabling snapped.  In consequence, Cube #347 abruptly shot away on full thruster acceleration, 
like a watermelon seed squirted from between two fingers.
	Throughout the Bulk Cargo Holds registered minor injuries as inertial dampers flickered; 
and in the Primary Core, the four unsecured engineering drones swayed back and forth like 
Punch-Me inflatable dolls.  Drone maintenance roster registered additional damage as artificial 
gravity abruptly powered up in all subsections, slamming not only bodies to deck, but sending 
objects formerly floating loose into drone heads and limbs.
	The freeform jello sculpture in the Primary Core splashed against Captain, coating him in 
a thin veneer of jelled red over drying mucus.  Today was not a good day for hygiene.
	Those who were able began to stagger out of Bulk Cargo Holds, stepping into the first 
available alcove introspective of assigned owner.  Others groped for transporter control, beaming 
themselves to more familiar surroundings, to alcoves which fitted form.  Sensors was among the 
latter, and did not hesitate switching the sensor grid fro passive to active as Cube #347 glided 
away from the mammoth prison barge.
	Oh!  [Blanket] comes!  And incoming, too! exclaimed Sensors as the grid returned the 
first of its data.  There was a very short pause as filters translated the data into a form most of the 
sub-collective could handle.
	Three warships in a V formation vectored in at high speed.  Fine details were not possible 
because of a wavering, much as a heat mirage over sand, obscuring the hull.  The form which 
could be discerned was a refined chevron 70 meters long, point leading, a design which the 
prison had strove to be and which the warships were.  They were a raptor to the barge's emu.  
They were also moving quite a bit faster than Cube #347, with less than a minute to overtake.  
Each of the trio fired one projectile.
	Fifteen seconds.  The torpedoes were sheathed in the same substance which covered the 
warships, making them impractical to scan.  They were also not quite aimed at the cube, a 
purposeful shot across the bow Cube #347 did not have, so no move was made to alter course.  
Besides, other difficulties were more impending.
	What do you mean we can't go to supraluminal queried Captain harshly.
	What do you mean we aren't going to attack? attempted to butt in Weapons in the 
background.  Captain turned a greater portion of attention towards that teeny, tiny problem, 
leaving Delta to answer.
	Explained Delta, There was no maintenance to the dilithium during our incarceration, 
therefore there has been too much matrix destabilization to move a ship of our volume.  No 
warp.  Weapons' attempt to divert power to the weapons arrays resulted in frying 80% of 
transwarp coils.  No transwarp.  They hypertranswarp systems experienced too much plasma 
overflow from thrusters during the escape, and require to cool to operational temperature.  No 
hypertranswarp.
	Second took over the inquest.  Impulse?
	It isn't faster-than-light, but it works, came the response.
	Picky, picky, muttered Second.  He had been among the unfortunate masses webbed, and 
lay under a pile of similarly bound bodies in Bulk Cargo Hold #1.  He was not in the most 
expansive of depositions, and it showed.
	Several neuruptors lanced out at the incoming torpedoes, weapons arrays unlocked.  The 
hit percentage was an abysmal 30%, but sheer amount of defense meant each projectile was 
impacted at least thrice.  No harm betook the weapons, which exploded well off the hull with 
force approaching a singularity torp without the singularity, flickering shields and causing brief 
surges throughout electrical subsystems.
	No impulse, noted Delta.  That was just toasted.
	Does /anything/ work on this boat? asked Second.
	Answered a lone voice, My vacuum cleaner does.
	A hail originated from the lead warship, demanding response.  The trio slowed, matching 
velocity to remain just outside an Exploratory-class cube's effective long distance 
envelope...assuming the crew in question was One in tactics.  The pursuers, therefore, were quite 
safe from everything except chance and/or the unexpected act of an omniscient being.
	"Surrender, escapees," intoned the lead ship, audio only, "and you will be escorted back 
to Prison Barge #28.  We wait for your response, but your grace period will expire in five 
minutes.  'No' is not an acceptable answer."
	Before a consensus cascade could be initiated as to defensive action, Weapons took 
control.  A relatively large portion of the weapons hierarchy was now plugged into alcoves 
(oddly, individual units had been more than willing to push comrades into webbing line of fire), 
occasionally pulling out those already connected to make room.  At this moment, the careful 
balance of the Cube #347 hierarchies was skewed, allowing Weapons to heist propulsion and 
communications.
	"No," was the Porker's answer, the multivoice monosyllable spat back only seconds after 
the initial hail.  Then, Cube #347 arced into a thruster-forced trajectory that would put it on a 
path towards the warships; and, at the same time, the cube spun up into a defensive pirouette.  
Four questing torpedoes were sent as emissaries towards the warships, just in case the verbal 
message had been insufficient.
	Then, as synthetic hormones countered natural adrenalines, as certain destruction (or at 
least great hurting) loomed, as 526 drones lay like so much cordwood, as anticlimactic tensions 
rose amid the rolling of a cadre of snare drums, into Nothing Cube #347 Fell.
	Are we terminated yet? asked Second.  I hope we are.  I really do.
	A moment of pause, of reflection, of held breath reigned.
	Twin coughs alerted Captain to a presence beyond the alcove.  As he activated optic input 
he also automatically queried the dataspace as to the intruder's designation.  Both sources 
returned 12 of 19.
	Delta flanked her alcove, impatience coloring her thought-streams.  "Get out of my 
alcove.  Now," demanded Delta in stereo.  Both of her held plasma welders, appropriated from 
the team who had cut the damper from core casing.
	Captain complied.