Return to the following senders: Star Trek belongs to Paramount; Star Traks goes to Decker; and BorgSpace to Meneks. Original sender pays all postage. Junk Mail A hacking cough exploded. It was not a polite throat-clearing, but a rather wet sniffling that left one with the distinct feeling one had been used as a tissue. A final snort drew unseen snot into unseen sinuses. "Two-pi tibes the rabius of the uniberse squared," announced a Voice with more than a touch of congestion. A suppressed sneeze rocked the minds of all on Cube #347, followed by the expected BONG. 85 of 152 ventured cautiously, {The Voice is definitely sounding unwell. I wonder what is wrong?} Second swiftly replied, {As long as it doesn't hack up a booger on us, I don't really care. The important thing is...where are we now?} The Fall into reality had not, for once, placed Cube #347 and its sub-collective into the middle of a firefight or other difficulty. Nothing was trying to eat them, or kill them, or use them as the eight-ball in a game of celestial billiards. Beyond the hull was normality, or what passes for such in the depths of space where the galactic winds whisper. The faint prickle of dust and elemental motes tickled the shields; and the eerie singing of a thousand and one electromagnetic sources announced the equivalent of "All is well." After past excitement, it was a welcome boredom. Opening first one eye, then a second, and finally feeding power to his optical implants, Second peered at the space immediately in front of his alcove. Nothing. He cocked his head, but no unexpected sounds caught his attention. Still suspicious, he selectively disengaged the clamps holding his torso in place, leaning forward just enough to provide himself with a clear view both to right and left on the tier. A drone towing a bundle of jolly colored balloons moved in the distance, but that was all. Satisfied, Second straightened and resecured himself in his alcove, dropping back into a state which hovered in the gray area of semi-conscious non-regeneration: there was a virtual three- dimension, multi-player Andorian chess match to consider - only command and control designations were participating - and his move was coming up. As Second compared the merits of moving battlebeatle or berserker, a background stream from Captain's nodal intersection played across the back of his mind. He was somewhat paying attention, or at least was recording all the relevant parts in case there was a quiz later. All drones are good at spitting back words and images unconsciously experienced, an organic recorder. Second's primary focus, however, was upon the game. "...no attacks. What, excuse us, is wrong? Is this reality just saving up to hit us all at once?" inquired Captain upon Iris, reflecting the general thought set of the sub- collective. The Director stood upon the ceiling, or as best could be described for a being without actual feet. The eyeball was definitely upside down and acting as if gravity was polarized the opposite from subsection norm. If it was discomforted by its position, it did not display it; and Captain refused to reveal the crick which was developing in his neck as he was forced to peer upwards. "Nothing really special about this reality. At least there isn't immediate termination in your future." "Oh, joy," answered Captain. He straightened his head and pretended the Director was before him, not directly overhead. "Can you be a bit more obscure in your 'helpfulness'?" "Yes." Pause. "Yes, I can." Second moved his berserker into the third tunnel of hive Zho, baiting 137 of 480 to advance her secondary king for the sacrifice. He carefully shielded his ploy behind a masking static of multiplication tables while at the concurrently attempting to hack into the thoughts of his five opponents. When a game was played, especially one which required tactics, it was standard Borg procedure to use the sub-collective link to gain advantage. Strategies operated on more than one level. One of the datastreams Second was monitoring in the background as part of his duties as Second pinged. The sensor hierarchy had determined where Cube #347 was located. They were, by pulsar mapping, in a familiar corner of the galaxy, one which should be deep in BorgSpace. However, the vinculum was not locking onto the characteristic subspace fractal transmissions which were the hallmark of Borg communications. The most likely hypothesis was this reality was one in which the Collective did not exist. "Do you have anything useful for us, or not?" asked Captain of the Director. In defiance of gravity, Iris calmly pushed buttons on its PADD, pausing every couple of beeps and boops to blow bubbles from its cigar. "Just a minute...a few seconds more. Sorry, the network's being a bit slow at the moment." Pause. "And I know who's holding it up, so lay off the funny stuff, Lips!" The words were directed to someone or something not present, but there was the distinct impression of a snicker in return to the eyeball's demand. The chess round returned to Second. The feint from 34 of 79 could be ignored, but 7 of 8 was attempting a round-about sneak through the back caverns to capture Second's primary king. 7 of 8 had to be dissuaded. As he was deliberating between sending in the queen or a chochuk-rider, a melodic electronic trill captured Second's attention. {You Have Mail!} chirruped the computer brightly. Too brightly. {No I don't,} retorted Second quickly. The tone rippled again. {You Have Mail!} The computer didn't actually have a voice, just bits and bytes arranged in a configuration Second perceived as words. If the computer could actually talk, the voice currently utilized would be bright, sunny, and having that disgustingly awake quality of a morning person who had no need for a triple shot espresso mocha to start the day. {Do not.} {You Have Mail!} Grumbled Second, {Borg do not get mail, therefore, I do not have mail.} {You Have Mail!} Unfortunately, Borg computers are not very smart, at least not smart enough to argue with. One might as well as discuss high level mathematical formulas with a brick wall. The computer could be reprogrammed, ignored, or simply shut off, but argued with? It was, as the Borg motto went, futile. Artificial intelligence implied a personality, and if individual drones were frowned upon development of such, so was the glorified calculator algorithms used by the Collective. Primary functions of the computer included basic data management, file storage, integration of organic nodes (i.e., drones), and enforcement of the Borg paradigm. Second absently moved the chochuk-rider to intercept 7 of 8's sneak attack. {Fine. Computer, open the mail I do not have.} {You Have Mail!} affirmed the computer brightly. "Second, nee 3 of 8, you have been selected as a winner in the Sweepstake Foundation's annual random drawing! You may have won a cruise around your home galaxy, one billion credits of the currency of our choice, or a lifetime supply of Swoo-a- cola! Congratulations!" The voice boomed, both in Second's ears and in his mind. He reflexively opened his eyes, only to see the holographic projection of a Ferrengi; and there is nothing more frightening than a smiling Ferrengi in a bad business suit with matching power tie. The voice both originated from the hologram and echoed over every speaker on Cube #347, not to mention intruded into the minds of all drones due to the intimate linkage of drone to ship systems. Balloons and psychedelic sparkles began to explode around the Ferrengi. "None of these prizes are guaranteed, of course, but if you don't enter, you will not have a chance! Entering for these once-in-a-lifetime prizes is easy! In fact, just for putting your name in the final drawing, you will receive a trial subscriptions to The Gentleman's Home Journal and Galactic Geographic, as well as a fruit basket! You cannot lose!" Holographic balloons were being reported throughout the cube, some of them highly distracting to engineering drones working on delicate plasma connectors in Auxiliary Cores #2 and #5. "All you have to do is to indicate your acceptance. Whatever your answer, you will remain entitled to several excellent journals." The hologram abruptly snapped into overdrive, the Ferrengi's booming voice sped to chipmunk speed, and faster again until it was an aural blur. The bits and snatches which could be captured indicated it was a standard legal disclaimer, absolving the Sweepstake Foundation of all responsibility should the entree not win any prizes. Numbers indicated odds of claiming the Grand Prizes, which were based upon number of entries received, to hover in the range of 1 in 1,000,000,000,000,000. After the hologram had continued in this vein for over a minute, it was ignored in favor of trying to shut off the message. Sometime during the message, between booming congratulations and spontaneous outbreak of balloons, the Director had disappeared from its ceiling perch. The mail program was virus-like, malicious, dancing from system to system one step ahead of hunter-killer programs and active drone minds alike. Just when it seemed to be cornered, the "program" chased was exposed to be an image, a feint to lead trackers wrong. In front of Second, the Ferrengi slowed from its insane pace, stepping sideways with a flourish ending with a deep, sweeping bow. Multicolored flame rose, momentarily blinding, before damping back to nothingness. In the wake of the fire was a large holographic panel, reflected in the mind of Second and all crew. The words "Do You Accept" were prominent, as were "YES" and "NO" buttons. The mail program awaited acceptance or denial. Second narrowed his eyes, then said "No" in an even monotone. He did not consult with the rest of the sub-collective, making an unusual unilateral decision. However, this message was directed at him, annoying him, interrupting his Andorian chess game, and therefore would be answered by him. The hologram straightened, large grin on its face. "Are you sure, Second? Last chance!" "The answer to the question remains 'no.' What part of 'no' do you not understand?" "Fine, fine, fine!" smiled the Ferrengi. "That is your answer! The Sweepstake Foundation appreciates you for your participation!" The ur-virus transferred itself to outgoing communications, activated subspace, then sent an omnidirectional burst transmission consisting of precisely one bit. It was a short, but very loud shout. Then the invasive program surrendered to its pursuers, waiting for the hunter-killers which had been tracking it. Weapons hierarchy gleefully dismantled the code and returned all systems to complete sub-collective dominance, passing alien algorithms to assimilation for post-mortem examination. The holographic Ferrengi, balloons, and other celebratory items faded from existence. "Good riddance," muttered Second as he closed his eyes again, dismissing the occurrence from relevancy. There was a chess match to win. Second drifted in the nothingness and everythingness of regeneration. During regeneration, a drone could set himself to actively participate in the use of his computational resources, a process akin to lucid dreaming; or, the other option, dampen awareness and drif, a wisp of consciousness blown from one datastream to the next like a rudderless boat upon the ocean. Second had chosen the latter. Cube #347 was enroute to a nearby star. Other than the annoyance of the mail virus and its loud holographic payload, nothing had beset the cube or its sub-collective. No war fleets had materialized to attack and no unusual natural phenomenon threatened cube integrity; and, very quickly, anticipation for something, anything, to happen devolved into figurative and literal fidgeting by more than a few drones. Therefore, consensus had been reached to travel to the nearest suitable system and stock up on necessary resources before (1) the dice were rolled again, and (2) the excrement hit the rapidly oscillating rotary unit of this suspiciously quiet reality. That was two day cycles ago. Second's Andorian chess match was long finished, he placing well in the six- drone game. The only reason he had not won was 7 of 8 had managed to take advantage of a disciplinary distraction Captain had ordered his backup babysitter to deal with, thus, allowing the rival to extract vital tactical information from Second's mind. It was an allowable, if dirty, trick. Second would have done the same if in 7 of 8's position. He wasn't exactly convinced the "distraction" had not been engineered by 7 of 8, but had yet to conclusively prove his hypothesis. However, the game was behind, another one scheduled in six hours, and Second had other tasks, including regeneration, to perform prior to reconvening the next chess game. A tickling, a pinging, an itching slowly forced Second's mind to consolidate from the dataspace ether. It was not an emergency, which would have snapped awareness back to body, nor particularly urgent in the vein of a compulsion from Captain to deal with the latest graffiti war on alcove tier 5, subsection 5, submatrix 17 waged between taggers 21 of 510 and 36 of 212. It was the equivalent of a mosquito whine to the ear, not critical, but as annoying as hell. Sensing Second's rising conscious level and cross-correlating it with time spent in regeneration, the computer allowed the occupant of alcove 15 of alcove tier 7 in subsection 17, submatrix 10 to completely waken. {Regeneration incomplete,} informed the computer. {Optimal regeneration requires additional one hour, thirty-six minutes.} Pause, then, {You Have Mail!} Second opened his eyes wide in surprise (drones rarely were surprised, or at least rarely showed such) before automatically moderating his expression. {I do not have mail. We do not have a mail address. Logic tree failure thus dictate I cannot have mail.} {You Have Mail!} Once again, the computer was too idiotic to be persuaded by argument. {Computer, divulge for whom, precisely, is the "mail" addressed,} ordered Second. The computer took no umbrage from the Second's harsh tone, could not except when infected by a super powerful energy organism or was the host for a particularly nasty virus, neither of which was happening at the moment. {Address: 3 of 8, quaternary reserve sub-sub-processor of unimatrix 006 (Thyeo del Frantz); c/o Exploratory-class Cube #347; Somewhere in Gamma Quadrant, Sector 1988-2105; Milky Way Galaxy, Local Cluster, Universal Zip 9847031. Transmit on fractal subspace frequency alpha-65- gamma.} Second blinked. {Return address, report.} {Sweepstake Distributions, Inc. No further identifier.} Despite himself, the bump of curiosity was rising. It was not helped by the several designations which had noted Second's actions and were themselves wanting to know this mysterious mail. Still, precautions had to be taken. {Run the mail through a virus sieve.} The computer did so. {No executable parasitic programs detected.} Carefully, memories of the holographic Ferrengi fresh, Second closed his eyes, settled himself once more in his alcove, and accepted the impossible mail. It opened and revealed...*drum roll by 95 of 133 in the background*...a copy of a magazine entitled Galactic Big Game Hunter Monthly. That was all. A journal dedicated to the pursuit of trophies, most of them quite willing to hunt the would-be gun-toting adventurer, was the totality of the mail. {Computer, I did not order this. Return it to sender,} said Second. He ignored the groans of those who would have been happy to peruse the magazine. The computer pinged brightly. {Unable to comply: no return address.} {Then send a cancel subscription notification on the transmission vector and delete this copy.} {Unable to comply.} Second allowed himself a gusty sigh. It echoed along his alcove tier. {Explain.} {The transmission vector is no longer operational. Origination was as a directed signal from a frequency booster unit which is not currently on-line.} Translation: whomever mailed the magazine had bounced it off a temporary beacon, making the originator untraceable. {Then delete this copy.} {Unable to comply.} {What?} Second was taken aback. Software bits and bytes could always be erased or copied over. {Explain!} {Prior mail message included latency to set core priority permission on all incoming documents from Sweepstake Distributions, Inc.} Second frowned. In other words, the ur-virus had been more than Ferrengi and balloons. It had also included a true virii package, one which had wormed its way into core programming during the other distractions, subtly altering code so that mail such as Galactic Big Game Hunter Monthly was given the same permissions as sub-collective root commands. The caveat to "everything erasable" was that the sub-collective could not alter its root command structure: only the Greater Consciousness could do that. To put it simply, Cube #347 was /forbidden/ and /unable/ to erase the journal suddenly cluttering the dataspaces. The problem was disseminated to the rest of the sub-collective, a dangerous security hole which had to be plugged as soon as possible. Until then, yes, Galactic Big Game Hunter Monthly was available to any who desired to read it. Five minutes later echoed the cheery words which would soon be dreaded: {You Have Mail!} {You Have Mail!} {You Have Mail!} {You Have Mail!} The amount of junk mail was rising, and at the present rate of increase would soon surpass thirty pieces an hour. There were magazines; offers for credit from a dozen different banks; enticements to buy a car/truck/shuttle/freighter/warship at such or other new/used dealer; circulars; pleads for votes from candidates of tens of species on tens of worlds; and general advertisements from, thus far counted, 163 disparate companies. Command and control was operating in overtime to prevent those drones with shopping compulsions from doing so, as well as nixing inquiries from others who saw the chance to, for instance, upgrade their racing lawnmower or finally order that difficult-to-find intake manifold to a species #4481 classic neo-warp age shuttle with optional tail fins. {You Have Mail!} {You Have Mail!} {You Have Mail!} The primary problem, beyond the lack of return addresses, was that the mail could not be ignored. If it was not opened within an hour of arrival, it would open itself, an action that could trigger macros in the form of holographic irritations ranging from a hard-sell for a thrice-used freighter with only "cosmetic" plasma damage to a spit-laced speech from a political candidate campaigning on the twin platforms of "roast magu for all!" and "free shoelaces." The only solution was to dissect out the mini-programs before mail was unleashed to the general dataspaces. Resources usually used in other arenas were redirected to accomplish the onerous task. Additionally, if the size of each mail was taken into account, cross-correlated with increasing frequency and inability to delete it, within ten days the capacious datastorage of Cube #347 would be reduced to nothing. It was a boggling concept considering the number of free terabytes available; and, a snatch of code inserted in the sub-collective's untouchable root commands included the permissions to erase any data not originating from Sweepstake Distributions, Inc., thus making more room for incoming junk. In the end, a mere 390 hours and 23 minutes from now, Cube #347 would be inoperational, a floating crypt of advertisements from a thousand companies overwriting every line of vital code which operated the ship. Even worse, if such was possible, the virii inclusion recognized no distinction between computer and its organic sub-nodes, thus, the drones of Cube #347 were similarly prone to infection, minds erased piecemeal to house the latest "Buy 3, get 1 free, music selection" ad. {You Have Mail!} {You Have Mail!} {You Have Mail!} This seemingly quiet reality had turned into an insidious death trap. {Very [sparkly] and [burning],} affirmed Sensors. She was examining the light spectrum of the star Cube #347 was hastily approaching, a difficult task to accomplish from hypertranswarp as gravity was the primary sense when traversing subspace, and even more so when the target was not the star itself, but reflections from orbiting debris. Fortunately, the quarry was bolonite, which had a very unique signature. The mass mailing was beginning to degrade performance. In assembly-line manner, each received package was carefully examined, poked, prodded, and sent through a virus detector. Then, Second himself had to open the mail: it /was/ addressed to him and refused to display initial content to any but him. The process dedicated forty (and growing) command and control drones to the project, as well as the backup consensus facilitator and consensus monitor. General sub-collective functionality, never great at the best of times, had slipped several percentage points and threatened to enter the sub-optimal range. It could only become worse as memory capacity filled. The first consensus cascade upon stopping the mail deluge, or at least slowing it down, was to block the transmission. Unfortunately, the transmissions were not standard subspace, but rather the fractal frequencies to which the vinculum listened. If it had been the former, Sensors could have disengaged specific grid elements, leaving Cube #347 without radio, without easy-listening stations, without mail. The vinculum, however, did not have an "off" button, had never been designed to have one (unlike the ships of many species which routinely included easily accessed ways to intrude upon vital systems), and would only stop transmitting due to catastrophic failure or accidental spillage of soda; and Delta had repaired the flaw which, through a variety of unlikely consequences, could allow spilt cola to disrupt the Collective linkage. Beyond the mail, no catastrophic failures loomed. A different tactic was required. Transmutation pulse. A much evolved Borg Internment and Containment - BIC - protocol, Starfleet had initially developed it during the pre-Dark era, and Hive had subsequently perfected it for use against Colored splinter groups. Contemporary Borg and Colors continued to deploy it against each other in their infrequent skirmishes. It transmuted the top seven to ten molecular layers of the target's hull into a substance opaque to subspace fractal frequencies, severing a sub-collective from its Greater Consciousness. Colors were generally better able to operate independently than Borg, but both usually had a length of stunned pause when caught by a transmutation pulse, during which the pulser could use terminal weapons against the pulsee with only minor resistance from the latter. The weapon did have limitations, which was why it was not used often in battle. Also, while the appropriate information was stored aboard Cube #347, it was a weapon mounted on Battle- and Assimilation-classes, not typical to an Exploratory-class unless specifically installed. Cube #347, despite some minor internal changes by its crew, had a factory standard configuration and no transmutation pulse offense. Besides attempting to cut the vinculum out and hosing it down with soda, the highest probability to stop the mail influx revolved around the transmutation pulse. Bolonite was the heart of the plan. Starfleet's first steps with bolonite and BIC had tangled two phenomenon. First, lambda particles, produced by the ore, could be used as a long-distance transport (impractical and inflexible, but the Collective was ever looking to adapt the knowledge). Second, when bolonite was suitably stimulated, it also emitted the much more useful anti-lambda, able to be focused into beam format and used to silence a sub-collective from its Greater Consciousness. A very crude transmutation pulse - more of a transmutation flash-bang nova - was possible without specialized equipment. It was very dangerous, naturally, and it required a substantial bolonite ore source. As a minor curiosity, on-board archives indicated it was a post-Dark Hive version of Cube #347 (Exploratory-class Cube #8879) which, under Collective directive in the interests of experimentation, had first accidentally did what the sub-collective was about to purposefully do. Once observation craft were deployed insystem to examine aftereffects, the Greater Consciousness had designated the experiment to be a complete success, a concept tested and ready for refinement, notwithstanding fully half of Cube #8879 had been vaporized and a third of the crew terminated. Second did not care of the deliberations within the intranets, did not participate in the decision cascade which set the sub-collective upon its course. Sensors' confirmation of bolonite in the system barely registered. It was mail which literally demanded Second's attention. Virtual hawkers for products ranging from feather lotion to a used dreadnought directed their advertisements at the mail addressee. Some of the mail, such as the journals, were benign, quiet, but others were programs that actively vied to be heard. An entity not linked to a computer had the simple option of turning off the vidscreen. Unfortunately, it is much more difficult to turn off the brain. Second braced himself as another mail cleared of virii was passed to him. He opened it, then relaxed. The package was a journal to "Better Stations and Hydroponics" and therefore relatively harmless beyond the fact it could not be deleted. A small bit of Second, that part always aware of his surroundings, noted the signature associated with Captain flicker from regenerative status to active. It also heard the hiss and thump as the alcove to the left disengaged, followed by the muted clang of foot onto metal catwalk. The expected footsteps took two paces towards the nearby nodal intersection, then paused and retraced until they halted directly in front of Second's alcove. The sliver of awareness not dealing with the mail felt the stare of eyes, then heard the command, the demand for attention to be paid to the primary consensus monitor and facilitator. Second opened his eyes. It was a rather glazed, blank look which confronted Captain, but Second did not care. He, one of the Hierarchy of Eight, should have the mental fortitude for a little multitasking, but so great was the demands of the mail, so full was his mind with the latest aggressive advertisements, he could barely accept any external input. Voice engaged. "Leave me alone." Captain peered up at Second. The emotion the unassimilated would equate with concern was not evident, neither on his face nor in the intranets, for such an emotion was irrelevant. However, there was a ghost of a feeling, suitably translated to a Borg perception. "This is lowering our efficiency, you know." The reply required several seconds to formulate, but one was required. When the words did come, they were measured, without inflection. "You sound like Delta, efficiency this and efficiency that. If I didn't keep some order to these attacks, our efficiency would be even lower; and when we are advertised to termination, our efficiency rating will be absolutely abysmal." Captain minutely shook his head, a habit not of his base species, but osmosed from others. "You can barely speak, yet you are sarcastic to the end. We enter a bolonite field in six hours." "I know, and I don't care. I've been opening mail for five days now. The advertisements increase in number and in size. Current estimate is 30 hours until free memory is filled and they start to overwrite important things. 2 of 240 will be very disappointed when his cocktail recipe collection becomes the latest in discount furnishings." Captain opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again as he cocked his head sideways into the characteristic Borg posture of listening, of turning inward. Cube #347 had dropped into normal space to confirm bolonite in the target system using real light spectrums; and a hail was being received by a rapidly approaching vessel. The ship was small, barely adequate for a crew of two assuming they were of standard humanoid proportions, little more than a boxy cabin with attendant life support equipment bolted to a pair of warp nacelles. There were no recent warp signatures in the area, indicating it had been waiting for Cube #347. The ramifications were unsettling. The hail was accepted. The visual component consisted of a pair of beings, human in appearance except for the small bone nubs populating the skin like a resistant case of acne, both smiling widely and holding up a large cardboard check. The check had lots of numbers on it. "Congratulations! You, Second, have been chosen as our Grand Prize Sweepstakes winner this cycle! We are here to..." The rest of the hail was lost as the ship exploded into countless shards. A ten-isoton quantum torpedo at short range will do that. "Second!" exclaimed Captain, astoundment and question coloring his signature. "Leave me alone," muttered Second as he closed his eyes once more, dismissing visual input datastreams. He had taken control of the weaponry system, uncharacteristically so, and removed the small vessel from existence. Even Weapons, highly protective of his bailiwick, had little to say except {Good shot.} {You have mail.} {You have mail.} {You have mail.} The small swarm of two-person Sweepstake ships hovered just outside the weapons envelope of Cube #347. In this case a "swarm" only consisted of six, but it would periodically grow by one as a new vessel arrived. A like number had thus far been destroyed, those that ventured within invisible line which separated "nearly sure kill" from "potshot that might hit." Second had been the originator of all the torpedoes, the goad for the weapons hierarchy; and his mood was such that Weapons did not complain upon the trespass, nor any of command and control. Therefore, as Cube #347 traveled through the asteroid infested system homing in on a particularly strong bolonite signal, the Sweepstake ships followed. A hail was received, all six vessels joined in the request. Second felt the growing agitation of Sensors as it was not answered, but, then again, she claimed all hails itched, so the unspoken complaint was not unexpected. With the small part of his besieged mind not captured by a Baer pharmaceutical catalogue (all mail had to be viewed completely by the addressee before the next could be opened), Second felt Captain answer the hail, directing the transmission to designated Target Beta. The action quieted Sensors' distress. The video component showed, as it had for every hail thus far received prior to a vessel going boom, two humanoids with boney epidermal nubs. They were dressed, as all others had been, in grey business suits. The features proclaimed high odds that the Sweepstake crews were all clones against the probability of a belligerent winner such as Second on Cube #347. An oversized cardboard check was raised. "Congratulations! You, Second, have been chosen as our Grand Prize Sweepstakes winner this cycle! We are here to present you with this check of one billion credits! All you need to do is..." "We demand that you go away," interrupted the multivoice. A return transmission was being sent to the Sweepstake ship, featuring the standard CatWalk Cam view and the Voice of the Collective. The speaker doggedly continued, "All you need to do is allow us transport to your fine vessel such that we may..." "We are Borg. We demand that you go away." The speaker's companion frowned, then they leaned together behind the check and whispered together. The words were too low, too rapidly strung together to be discerned. Finally they faced the camera pick-up again. Spoke the speaker, "We can't do that until the check is delivered, you see. Look, we're just doing our jobs here, and have nothing to do with the selection of winners. We only go where we are told to go. The individual named Second has won this thing," the check was brandished, "and we can't go home until it is properly bestowed, which includes a short speech and a small video clip. It'll only take five minutes, honest." The patter was presented in the manner of one who knows a hard sell is at stake. A dangerous hard sell. Second bade a torpedo be aimed at Target Beta even though it was a slim 13% probability the ship would be hit. Time was running out. With less than two hours until the first random overwriting event occurred, Delta was pushing herself and her hierarchy to finish modifications to the deflector dishes. The required output was non-standard, a technobabble of "induced sub-quark leptonic phase shift" which Delta adamantly defended as not being invented, but part of the early Cube #8879 transmutation pulse tests. Second believed every engineer, Borg or not, kept a secret dictionary-thesaurus of technobabble, although he had yet to prove it so. Whatever the origin of the leptonic phase shift, the deflectors did not normally produce the energy, and engineering teams were necessary to make alterations hullside in vacuum. What happened to the time? Only short hours and light years ago the countdown had registered as days. Now it was mere hours. What occurred had been a realty catalogue, an extremely big realty catalogue including planets, moons, and asteroids for sale. If the catalogue had solely consisted of text descriptions like "moderately volcanic moonlet with geothermal potential for your new cult" or "lovely view acreage of the system's triple stars" bundled with a few pictures, all would have been fine. Unfortunately, the brochure from Galactic Realty had included full 3D landscapes. The program which had installed the landscapes into the holographic system was not technically a virus, and, therefore, had not been caught by filters. The end result transformed Cube #347's interior into a hodgepodge of environments where it was possible to travel from undersea garden to bustling city to arid desert without leaving a submatrix. Auxiliary Core #7 (currently an ancient temple) was required to power the holograms, a necessity in order to prevent the catalogue from directly siphoning energy away from the primary core and vital cube systems. Just beyond Second's nose, if he cared to open his eyes, was an impossible beach disguising the empty space beyond the alcove tier safety rail. It was complete with crashing waves, golden sand, and scaled birds filling the seagull role. 138 of 152 had already demonstrated it to be illusion without substance when she had tried to haul a surfboard to the inviting waves, only to wipe out on the shaft floor and end up in the care of drone maintenance. Because of the sense of urgency, because the distracting Sweepstake ships were unwanted, an unBorg question was posed to Target Beta: "If we accept the check, will you go away and will the advertisements end?" The representatives look at each other, then shrugged. Said the speaker, "Trouble with too much mail? Not my department. I just deliver checks, and, yes, I and the others out here will disappear once this little ritual is complete. As far as the post, didn't you read the fine print before you accepted to be entered in the contest?" "We declined entry into this irrelevant contest." Both officials shook their heads. "'No' /is/ the acceptance. It is all in the fine print; or, if you got the Ferrengi hologram vid, the fine babble." Fine babble. The Ferrengi of the mail which had started the catastrophic cascade had included a legal section, sped up to allow all legalities to be provided in an allotted time. While the original mail was gone, copies of it remained in memory of various drones, including Second, and it was to those copies the sub-collective went. Into the working dataspaces were dragged the Ferrengi, its chipmunk voice slowed to normal speeds and "fine babble" actually listened to. One particular phrase caught the sub- collective's notice, strategically buried in the middle, past the point where the recipient would be paying attention but before anticipation for the spiel to end. Had said the holographic Ferrengi: "If you accept by speaking or otherwise indicating 'yes,' then the Sweepstake Foundation and its associates will leave you and your descendants alone through ten generations. If you refuse by speaking or otherwise indicating 'no,' then you will be entered into the Grand Prize drawing and your name will be included on the mailing lists for the Sweepstake Foundation and its associates." "It is all perfectly legal," explained the Sweepstake representative, interpreting the minute-long silence accurately, "from what I understand. That part isn't our problem. We are just doing a job. Please let us do it." It was the 'not my problem' attitude of minor functionaries and powerless employees the multiverse over. Like the Borg computer, argument was futile. "/You/, however, will go away if we accept the check?" "Yes." Arrangements were made for Target Beta to approach within transporter distance without joining its prior ill-fated comrades. Second stood in Captain's nodal intersection. Only by locking his joints could he maintain his upright stance, and even then he wavered back and forth as internal gyroscopic implants wobbled, disrupting balance. He preferred to be in his alcove in the protective embrace of clamps and safe from toppling, but such was not to be. Even with mail temporarily stacking unopened, already active advertisements were a force to be reckoned with. However, the consensus had deemed it most suitable to receive visitors in the comparatively expansive area of the nodal intersection rather than on an alcove tier. Additionally, it afforded more room if the guests became frisky, requiring a tactical squad to sort out any problems. The nodal intersection was not its normal spare interior consisting of five archways with plain bulkheads in-between. Instead, there was a purple-tinted jungle occupying the area, holographic leaves rustling to an unfelt breeze. Animals occasionally called from the thick underbrush, but nothing was ever seen except for the ghost of a silhouette gliding from bush to bush. Captain stood in his normal location, ignoring his unconventional surroundings, eyes focused on a spot between himself and Second. Two forms materialized in the nodal intersection, directly where Captain's gaze had been directed. The taller of the two, tentatively male, tightly clutched a large cardboard check to his chest and boggled at the jungle ambiance. "Oh, wow!" he said. His compatriot appeared to be female, and she was similarly awestruck. She was also quicker to recover. "What wonderful decorations! So unusual! This looks just like the reality and travel picts of Traxis III! Very nice!" Captain abruptly stepped forward, halving the distance between himself and the two Sweepstake representatives and causing them to instinctively retreat. That action only brought them closer to Second. Awe was replaced by the nervous smiles of those trained in the context of 'The Customer Is Always Right' even when said customer is a psychopath wielding a chainsaw. Captain wasn't said hypothetical psychopath with chainsaw, but potentially much, much more dangerous. "That unit is designated Second. Present the check. Complete your irrelevant ceremony. Leave us." Captain's words were clipped, short, and to the point. The female's smile was stitched to her face. She nodded, then opened a bag she was carrying. From the bag zipped a frisbee with lens - a floating camera - which positioned itself with a few curt commands from the representative. Meanwhile, the male sidled up to Second and offered the check. "Here, hold one end of it and smile. This won't take too long." Second dully glanced down at the cardboard check with one eye while the other watched the man. All fixated on Captain as {Do what the sentient says. Comply.} echoed within his mind. Arms lifted and the check was grasped. "Very good. Now a smile?" "Borg do not smile," stated Second. {Smile,} said Captain. A stiff rictus stretched Second's face. It looked as if he were trying to pass gas, and failing. The man looked at the 'smile' and sighed. "I guess we can do a bit of editing of the picture later, then. Su, we all ready?" Su answered, "Yup, Roi, all ready. Just let me get over there and I'll read the script. Camera, begin recording." The presentation went smoothly and took less than two minutes. It was well rehearsed on the part of Su and Roi, the congratulatory spiel to a Sweepstakes Grand Prize recipient. When the camera was turned off and returned to its bag, however, Roi had a bit extra to add. "There might be one small problem when you try to cash the check, Mr. Second. I can call you Second, can I not? Anyway, there may be a tiny, teensy difficulty. You see, the denomination is in Greckat currency, which was, up to a couple hours ago, one of the strongest currencies around. Then there was this slight spatial anomaly which swallowed up most of the civilization, including all the banks, credit stocks, and industries. Financial nose-dive, to say the least, in the stock markets. I'm sure they'll pull out of it in a couple of centuries, but if you don't want to wait that long, just sign this paper here, here, and here, and we'll be sure your problem comes to the attention of the appropriate Sweepstake officials so we can cut you something with a better exchange rate." On cue, Su whipped a three centimeter thick paper document from her bag, brandishing it and an old-fashioned ink pen under Second's nose. The document was immediately grabbed by a transporter beam and taken elsewhere, but not by Second's violation. This time, Captain declared, all the fine print would be read. If Su or Roi was discomforted by the snatch, they did not reveal it. Instead, Su added, "We can also see about entering you in the Super Sweepstakes for the Extra Special Great Grand Prize." Second blinked in unison with Captain as the fine print was examined. Yes, there would be a new check cut, and, yes, there would be an entry into another contest, but microprint notations within a comma indicated a new contract for the duration of two centuries for the signee to receive additional subscriptions and junk mail. Unacceptable. The complexity of the document showed it to not be a spur-of-the-moment thing; and one tangent wondered how often Greckat or other civilization of choice entered financial ruin just before a check was issued. Borg may not smile, but they can glower, at least those imperfectly assimilated. Second's eyes narrowed and the edges of his mouth turned just the slightest bit downward. The perpetual smiles of Su and Roi, which had become more natural, regained their forced quality. "No," said Second, "we will not sign." "But, think of the opportunity!" wheedled Roi. "No." The transporter beam activated, returning the Sweepstake representatives to their vessel. Second was left holding the worthless check. He glanced slightly upwards and a holographic display opened between purple fronds. On it was the Sweepstake ship, and a targeting crosshairs. {We are ready,} interrupted Delta before Second could give the okay to Weapons to destroy the annoyance. "Not now Second," said Captain as the view in the window swung around until crosshairs sighted upon an outwardly unremarkable asteroid. Second relinquished control with a sigh. Explosions just weren't really his thing, despite Weapons' disappointment coupled with an urge to reconsider. Anyway, the mail was building a large backlog, demanding attention. He pushed it away again, more interested in a possible end to the deluge, hopefully by blocking fractal subspace frequencies and not because Cube #347 no longer existed. Across face #3, that which was currently facing the bolonite asteroid, the deflector array warmed up. A purple aura, the same tint as the jungle in Captain's nodal intersection, infused the area above the deflectors. The deflector was the swiss-army knife of the future, indispensable when it came to repelling an alien lifeform intent upon sucking the energy from a wayward ship, discharging an energy beam, or cooking aluminum foil manifold chicken. These deflectors glowed an increasingly brilliant lilac with the induced sub-quark leptonic phase shift. Then, as the sub-collective held its collective breath, a light purple beam verging upon rose shot forth from face #3, impacting the asteroid. The raw bolonite ore immediately reacted. There was no dramatic color change from red to orange to light-blinding yellow, rather a soundless explosion of silver as if Cube #347 were at ground-zero for a supernova. Aboard the cube the situation was deafening as the Borg excuse for an emergency alarm sounded (over five centuries the sub-collective had been in limbo, and the dying-frog-playing-bagpipes had not changed). Additional were the sparks, the inevitable burst plasma conduit, the shaking superstructure, and the ragdoll dancing as those drones not secured in their alcoves attempted to keep to their feet. Second watched Captain tumble into some greenery (purplery?), disappearing beneath large leaves fuzzed with static as the holographic system threatened to malfunction. With locked joints, there was little Second could do to help himself as he succumbed to the rattling and ungracefully fell on his back. {I knew something like this would happen if I left my alcove,} said Second as he slid headfirst into a bulkhead. Captain did not respond, too busy trying to find himself in his own nodal intersection. Anti-lambda particles burst forth from the asteroid, sleeting through shields as if they were not present. They bored through the top centimeters of the hull, transmuting each encountered element and atom into a fractal subspace shielding material. Even face #5, turned away from the explosion, was affected. However, the very act of the transmutation meant it was increasingly difficult for anti-lambda particles to penetrate the hull, which was a good thing because, as shown by Exploratory-class Cube #8879, Bad Things happened to exposed flesh and unshielded bodies. And, then, it was over. The anti-lambda tempest passed, rippling into the depth of space to someday become an interesting blip to an observing astronomer. Despite the fury of moments before, the bolonite-rich asteroid remained whole, only anti-lambda particles released, the remainder of the rock matrix left untouched at the eye of the storm. {Can I breathe now?} asked 42 of 46. Tension broke. Carefully the drones of Cube #347 picked themselves up from the deck. Damages were inquired, both for mobile units and the cube itself, with the return relatively minor considering the fact the sub-collective had deliberately, as opposed to accidentally, detonated an anti-lambda explosion less than ten kilometers away. Most importantly, no mail was incoming and there was static throughout the fractal subspace bands. Second pulled himself to his feet, glancing down at the dent his head had made in the wall. A camera not obscured by fronds revealed a visible depression in his skull, but it did not impede functionality: the translucent blue dots that floated in his field of view could be ignored. It was all over. Yes, there remained mail to be opened, but no more would be joining it. In turn, time could now be spent figuring out how to reset permissions and rid the dataspaces of the junk cluttering it. Nothing vital would be involuntarily erased. Unknown to the sub-collective, there was a very slight difference in physics in the current reality as compared to their native reality. True, electron potential remained the same, as did the gravimetric constant and the value of pi. In the normal course of events, the difference would have been inconsequential, never observed except using a solar system sized hadron collider powered by a star, approximately twenty years worth of data, and a computer sufficiently powerful to analyze said data. Even then, there might only be a single incident of noncompliance to expected values to hint of the present reality's difference. Succinctly put and without assistance by the super-sized collider, the transmutation pulse did not have the effect intended. Instead of blocking subspace fractal frequencies, it boosted them. The static cleared as the anti-lambda tsunami sped away. All was right in the world. {You Have Mail!} happily pronounced the computer into Second's mind. Second's jaw dropped open in shock. {No, I don't! I can't!} he protested. {Malfunction! I do not have mail. Computer, perform diagnostic on subsystems [list of fifty-three related hardware and software items], then confirm.} The computer gurgled to itself as it rechecked what it already knew. {Diagnostics nominal. No unreported malfunctions. You Have Mail!} Captain pushed his way from the thick vegetative tangle, stepping into the nodal intersection's clear area. It was a scene out of an ancient National Geographic except this exotic location was in a Borg cube where no self-respecting jungle should grow. Luminescent violet sap coated his left side. {You Have Mail!} Pause. {You Have Mail!} Pause. {You Have Mail!} Whispered Second, "I have mail." Captain shook his head. "I heard that last one too...." The computer only told Second of received mail, never the rest of the sub-collective. Second listened to the order from Captain: {Computer, list address of the most recent mail.} The computer replied, {Address: Sub-collective of Exploratory-class Cube #347; Somewhere in Gamma Quadrant, Sector 1997-2056; Milky Way Galaxy, Local Cluster, Universal Zip 9847031. Transmit on fractal subspace frequency omega-omega-omega.} Confusion infused Captain's signature, as it did the entire sub-collective. There was no such frequency as omega-omega-omega. {I'll do it,} said Second gravely. A brooding fatality settled as the one mail of hundreds waiting, of tens incoming, was opened. All over Cube #347, jungles, deserts, seascapes, bustling cities faded. In their place floated a pair of lips in Captain's nodal intersection. Nothing more, nothing less, just a pair of lips painted purple. The lips twisted upward into a big smile. "Congratulations! While you have not won the Extra Special Super Grand Sweepstakes, you have won a consolidation prize. Pack your bags and prepare to travel on an all-expense paid trip into Nothing! That's right, lovely, scenic Nothing, the non- space between realities, where there is no-time, no-space. It is the ultimate relaxation as you get away from it all!" "Lips! Get out of there!" bellowed a familiar voice, one which bypassed the ears to impact the brain directly. "That's my piece! Stop tampering with my piece!" "I'm just having a little bit of fun," protested the lips as they began to fade. "Go have fun elsewhere," was the return snarl. The lips disappeared, replaced by a green-irised eyeball. "Sorry about that," apologized Iris, "but do hang on to something. I am rolling now." There was the sound of a die skittering across an eldritch table which just happened to support a working galactic model. The clicking and clacking slowed, slowed, slowed, wobbled, halted. "Dang," spouted the eyeball, PADD abruptly appearing in one non-hand. "That roll definitely needs to be researched." Cube #347 Fell.