On the poker board of life, Paramount holds the royal straight of Star Trek. A. Decker is doing well with the Star Traks full house. I have the high card of BorgSpace. God Doesn't Play With Dice, Directors Do **RECAP** Waaaay back at the end of Season 5, before the roll of the Infinity Die, Cube #347 was investigating the emergency beacon of a presumed new species stranded in an out of the way star system. Do you remember? Do you? Eventually, after numerous capture attempts by pursuing Colors, the sub-collective of Cube #347 realized they were being hunted. The attempt to flee (despite Weapons' desires to the contrary) ended with the cube trapped in a very large net. And then the author decided that the story would be concluded in a year and a half, and so rolled the Infinity Die. * * * * * In a place where time was irrelevant, tick slid into tock; and tock transformed into tick. It was all very irregular. Papers would have to be filed, eventually, in triplicate. Time was not a welcome commodity in the halls and cafeterias of the Infinite. /Someone/ was in big, big trouble. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Time was passing where it was not supposed to be. In one particular Board Room, at first glance, everything looked normal. Upon a seemingly solid table in the center of a room whose walls were indeterminately far, yet bound a finitely infinite space, a spiral galaxy shone. The galaxy glacially turned, mirroring the reality of stars, of planets, of gravity, of small lives unaware that their existence was influenced through choices made and dice rolled by omniscient eyes and lips...assuming, of course, the galaxy /was/ a model, and not the real deal. Mist gently formed abstract shapes just beyond the galactic glow cloaking the perimeter of the room in further mystery. The mists were always the same, even if everything else was swiftly going to Hell in a gold-plated handbasket. An eyeball focused upon a certain bodiless hand. "Your watch is a little loud. Very stylish, but how did you get it to operate? They don't usually work in the Complex." Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The hand - Editor, name never provided to the Board players - looked as startled as a piece of ambulatory anatomy could be. If it had had eyes, a head, and a neck, it would have been trying to peer at something unseen and unseeable on its non-back. As it was, it was spinning in a circle. "But I don't wear a watch! I don't even own a watch!" The words were a confused wail. A toolbox the hand was, er, holding, dropped to the ground with a clash of metal. The brown-eyed eyeball (Orb was the Director's name) who had made the comment hummed to itself. "Interesting." Something had...happened. That was the only explanation. Iris, the other Director, stared at the Board. It should have been jubilant since it had finally rolled an infinity plus one on the Infinity Die. The un-number had halted one of its major pieces from jumping from reality to reality, but, like Orb, was aware as only a Director can be that something was still Not Right. Oh, the Board /looked/ okay. except for the chaos ripples caused by the original accidental roll by the Editor on Iris' turn, but.... "Phooey," spat Lips, yellow lipstick looking less than fresh, "there goes my Wild Card. Let's see...Mouth's turn next." The Critic ignored the watch which had Orb's attention; and was oblivious to Iris' stare. Directors always were staring at things, after all - it was due to a lack-of-eyelid condition. Mouth contemplated Lips. "We have a problem, I think. What color lipstick were you wearing?" Lips paused. "What do you mean /were/? I /am/ wearing purple, the same as I always do. That's the only color I have." The mists were becoming agitated, as much from the Editor's spinning as from anything else. The hand finally gave up trying to see the impossible. "Because," continued Mouth, "it is now yellow. Canary yellow." "What?!" roared Lips. When a Critic raises its voice, all are forced to listen. "Just a minute. Don't anyone touch my pieces." The pair of lips rushed out the door to the corridor beyond the Board Room. "I think there still may be a wee bit of a problem," stated Orb with characteristic understatement. * * * * * Captain Marshall worriedly watched the four panes of the split-screen monitor, eyes flicking from one Color representative to the next. Only long years of being a captain kept emotion from his face. Several of his younger bridge crew were neither as facile nor as experienced, and occasional glances to certain people showed varying degrees of apprehension reflected. As a precaution, Marshall had already ordered his black ops vessel SFS Ice to a more defensible position, which when dealing with the amount of Color firepower represented in the system meant a place that allowed swift retreat. Ice could take on an Exploratory-class cube; and maybe even give a good showing against a single Assimilation-class. However, with numerous Battle-classes present, Ice had as much chance as a comet surviving a plunge into a star should fighting occur. Marshall was successful in the black ops arm of the Second Federation because he knew, one, when to seize the initiative, and, two, when to get the hell out. The operation was rapidly devolving into the 'get the hell out' category. "Move the Lugger-class vessel out of our way," snapped the Red liaison. There was probably a lot more said on the fractal subspace frequencies, but scanning by Iceman, the SFS Ice AI Personality, had yet to determine on which of a multitude of bands Colored conversation was occurring. A secondary monitor set aside the primary screen switched views to show the large Green vessel under discussion to be in the path of a pair of Red Battle-classes, not that there wasn't plenty of room for the latter to divert from their course. The Green liaison replied, "Where else can our vessel go, eh? The star whale is blocking our ship's movement. We can't park anywhere else at the moment." As the liaison was relaying a more general Color consensus, he was currently talking in plurals despite the fact that he was perfectly capable of using the singular pronoun, unlike the more collectively minded Red. "You like to blow things up...go blow up the star whale. Just don't do it where you will scratch the paint on any of our local vessels because it is a bugger to repaint them, not to mention wasteful of credits." A hint of a sneer, a twitch of upper lip, passed over the face of the Red in the window. "Paint is irrelevant. We will not do as you tell us. You will not order us. You will move your Lugger-class. Or else." "No! And we wouldn't be in this mess if /you/ could use your weapons with a little finesse instead of relying on sheer firepower. For once. /Three/ times you had the chance to capture Cube #347, only to bungle it." The star whale, a kilometer long juvenile with four longitudinal sails spaced equidistantly around its circumference, emitted a mournful subspace cry which caused static to fuzz Ice's main monitor. As it tacked in bewilderment back and forth near the net which had held Cube #347 prior to a certain spatial anomaly, it spun out a confusion of electromagnetic eddies. Those eddies, in turn, negatively affected many of the sublight propulsion systems Colors and SFS Ice relied upon for slower-than-light transport. The Green Lugger-class was caught in one of those eddies and could not move faster the glacial pace of station-keeping thrusters, no matter Red threats. Meanwhile, the Orange Liaison giggled, reason unknown; and the Peach representative quietly regarded Marshall (or seemed to), head tilted slightly with eyes not fully focused on the here-and-now. "Tactical report: two Peach ships are drifting towards our position again, sir," came a whisper to Marshall from the implant associated with his aural perceptions. The captain returned a wordless acknowledgement as the secondary monitor altered from Red and Green traffic jam to that of two Exploratory-class cubes 'drifting' just a tad faster than they should, not to mention more than a bit off their previous vector. Iceman added to the tactical report, "Intersection to tractor range in 2.45 hours." "I see that," subvocalized Marshall. "Helm, 'drift' us in a new direction, a bit faster than our Peach friends out there. Keep us away from any 'accidental' tractor beams." Throughout the process, the bridge had been quiet, except for routine passage of noncritical information. Anything important was routed through the cranial implants all Second Federation personnel possessed. Even if audio-visual was muted, Colors could read lips perfectly fine; and now was not the time to blank transmission feeds just to make course corrections. The Peach liaison's gaze suddenly sharpened, and a slight smile curled the corner of the drone's mouth. The slow-motion pursuit had begun shortly after Cube #347's disappearance three hours prior. Marshall was anxious to ensure Peach never caught up with Ice. The Colors supposedly did not assimilate people against their will (with a few exceptions, such as in the case of bettors who couldn't pay their debts at Green casinos), but the captain just did not trust Peach intentions. Never had. "Hey! I felt that!" cried Green suddenly. A limb, largely augmented but whole of hand, rose into the camera field of view. A presumably rude gesture was made, one which used two of the six fingers on that hand crooked into an odd claw shape. "Stay out of our Mind!" Orange had stopped giggling. "I did too. There was no need to ruin the party, man. Now you have us bummed. It'll take minutes to get back in the mood; and right in the middle of the toga spa-a-thon. I was due to be relieved soon for a soak. Now my day is all messed up." The Red liaison, recipient of the gesture, calmly replied, "We only do to you what you tried to us earlier. We did not start these hostilities." "Yah, right," muttered the Green. Eyes narrowed, the wrist of the hand was rotated. While it is not possible to display a middle finger when the full digit complement is an even number, the meaning of the newest gesture was not lost upon Marshall. "Sit on it and spin." "Back us up more," hurriedly subvocalized Captain Marshall to the helm. "I don't care if it does look like we are running. I'm not going to sit here while these Colors declare war on each other, with us still in long-distance weapons range." Before the helm could respond, tactical blurted vocally, "Sir! One of the Red Battlers near the Green Lugger is starting to cycle weaponry! Green is responding; and so is Orange!" Iceman whispered, "Wonder what took Red so long? Remarkable restraint, for once." Marshall silently agreed. "Back us far, far away. Prepare for hypertranswarp, destination Gamma 6." The orders were given aloud, need for secrecy abandoned. Humans and the other races which populated Second Federation vessels tended to be more comfortable with vocal orders, as opposed to implant-mediated conversation, a function of evolution the Colors never had managed to understand. "Status of Peach?" "No weapons cycling," responded the woman at tactical. Unsaid was the tacit understanding that just because sensors were not picking up weapons, that was not to say unknown weapons were not already locked upon SFS Ice and preparing to fire. Iceman's baritone suddenly overwhelmed the controlled chaos of Ice's bridge. "Attention. Spatial anomaly forming at coordinates 55674.47 by 1203.33, local stellar grid." The split-screen was shuffled to the secondary monitor; and the primary screen showed a stylized close-up of the ambush site where Cube #347 had vanished. A blue point marked anomaly origin approximately 250 kilometers galactic south from the net. "It is similar to that which took Cube #347." The bickering liaisons suddenly went quiet as sensors were trained upon the coordinates overheard from Ice's bridge; and even the Peach cubes halted their directed drifting. The faces of the Colored drones went slack, eyes glazed, as minds turned inward. Marshall watched the point in fascination, but still had the presence of mind to continue helm on a not-quite-escape vector...just in case.... * * * * * The Fall was neither the longest nor the shortest, as such could be imprecisely measured in a place where time was irrelevant, but the duration still stretched several subjective hours to the occupants of Cube #347. Sensors' higher mental functions were locked into unconsciousness, to prevent her distracting calls of {Nothing!}. The rest of the sub-collective continued in the normal routine of a Borg cube, ranging from the never-ending readjustments required to keep power cores operational to a replicated rose appreciation contest. The latter, of course, was normal only for Cube #347. Captain took the opportunity for extra regeneration, allowing his mind to drift within the dataspaces. Captain snapped back to his body as sensors registered the end of the Fall. He opened his eyes, but did not leave his alcove. About now should appear a certain Director (who had, oddly, not been present during the Fall); and about now should a disturbing Voice announce which of an infinite number of universes Cube #347 was currently visiting. Nothing. About...now. Still nothing. Captain allowed himself a heaving sigh. No matter. {Wake up Sensors. Sensory hierarchy, report.} A hissing was present at the back of Captain's mind, an unscratchable itch. It occupied the place where the link with the Greater Consciousness should be; and for the moment Captain dismissed the static, categorizing it as yet another not-quite- Collective in yet another universe. {Wha?} rasped Sensors as she woke from her imposed coma. Meanwhile, 123 of 422 delivered the preliminary report. {We are in an asteroid belt. Everything is a bit...fuzzy.} Captain called up a visual feed from the hull. Yes, definitely an asteroid belt. He preferred to be in his nodal intersection examining incoming input via the holographic interface, but such would mean leaving the relative safety of his alcove. The first few minutes after a flux jump were occasionally a bit traumatic on the cube, not to mention the unsecured drones who sometimes found themselves catapulted into the central shafts. {I can see that. A more comprehensive report is required.} {Some asteroids are big and some asteroids are small?} attempted 123 of 422. Captain grumbled to himself, then pinged Sensors to wake up faster. Attention shifted to the other hierarchies as command and control collected reports. Still the Voice had not spoken; and still the Director had not arrived. Two minutes post-Fall, Sensors was sufficiently awake and aware to coordinate the first comprehensive observations to determine locality, assuming this universe was similar to the home universe. The first reports were promising, once Sensors' words had been appropriately translated and raw input filtered: known pulsars had been sighted. Additionally, the parent star of the asteroids in which Cube #347 was drifting had a familiar spectrum. It was eerily alike the star from which the cube had started its Fall. A sense of foreboding permeated Captain's awareness. He traced it to Second. {Pessimism is irrelevant,} reminded Captain to Second. Second was currently in subsection 11, submatrix 26, alcove tier 5. He had been making unhelpful comments while monitoring the removal of a hoard of hammers by 134 of 230 from behind the latter's alcove when the Fall had ended. Replied Second, {So is optimism.} {I have neither,} retorted Captain, {although it is now [check of appropriate partition] 45.7% probability we have returned to our own universe. Correction 57.9%.} The calculation of universal constants had just returned identical coefficients to those expected, if this was indeed home. The hiss at the back of the sub-collective's mind demanded Captain's attention. A niggling suspicion, not traceable to any particular drone or partition, colored his thoughts. The lack of substance in the Collective link was similar to that caused by a transmutation pulse. {Engineering hierarchy. Report upon hull condition.} A pair of cautious drones were transported to the hull where they were immediately lost to the sub-collective's awareness. Both were quickly returned inside the cube. No further examination was necessary: the hull was covered with a layer of transmuted metal which might only be atoms thick, but was more than sufficient to sever the fractal subspace frequencies Borg relied upon for communication. {Intensive system scan,} intoned Captain. Weapons, without direct orders from command and control, had already begun to warm up weapons and prepare for battle. Captain ignored the preparations. {Sensors [pens] trouble. Big [storm clouds],} reported Sensors. Elaboration came in the form of datastreams. To the outside observer, Captain was statue-still within his alcove, head tilted slightly as his whole eye gazed sightlessly at a point approximately half a meter in from of his nose. Except for those drones whose duties, such as engineering, which required movement, the posture was mirrored throughout the cube as the sub-collective rapidly came to a 99.634% conclusion that not only was this their original universe, but they were potentially in deep trouble. A near area scan, neglected as the cube first examined pulsar beacons, revealed not only asteroids, but the biosigns of a star whale. The presence of the star whale was unexpected (and accounted for the 0.364% deviation from absolute). However, it was the signature of many non-Collective cubes ranging from Exploratory-class to Lugger-class which had Cube #347's attention; and there was a Second Federation vessel present as well. The nearest enemy vessel was 216 kilometers due galactic north. Supralight speed was impossible due to recent saturation of this quadrant of the solar system with subspace ripple charges. It had been five minutes since Fall. Unless all cubes and the Second Federation vessel were blind (0.113% probability, as calculated by Partition 2a), Cube #347 had been seen. {Perfect striking range!} crowed Weapons, who had obviously not learned from the last encounter with the Colored armada. Captain squelched Weapons' enthusiasm, drawing upon other command and control designations to force the issue. {We retreat. We are not in the net now. The enemy is bunched in one location. Probability 32.57% we can reach an area were supralight travel is possible.} Sublight engines cycled into activity as the first of the Color ships began to display intersect vectors. The Peach Exploratory-class which uncloaked two kilometers off face #5 was not expected. Before a reaction could be devised, even by the hair-triggered Weapons, a directed dampening field enveloped Cube #347. Captain only had time for a whispered "Oh, sh-" before power failed throughout the cube and darkness overwhelmed the senses. Captain sluggishly woke. His mental processes were...slow. This was not regeneration, where the consciousness snapped into awareness of body; and neither did the longer forms of drone storage incapacitate the mind in such a way. It felt - a search into distant, pre-assimilated personal memories was required - like he had been pummeled about the head with a blunt object a few dozen times. Even before Captain opened his eyes, he registered the fact that he was isolated from Cube #347. Only the most minute of links remained, informing him that the sub- collective continued to exist, but meaningful data exchange was not possible. The latter assumed other drones were awake, which, considering his own state of affairs, was highly unlikely. As Captain contemplated his reduced link, he felt something socket itself roughly into the side of his head; and an electronic hum momentarily overwhelmed his aural senses. << Testing one, two, three. Testing one, two, three. >> Sound of finger tapping a microphone head. << Is this thing on? Reply. >> It was a non-Collective multivoice, harmonics subtly different from the Greater Consciousness. The alien presence invaded Captain's mind despite the defenses he hastily erected. << Oh, there's the pain center. Reply. Comply. >> The order was accompanied by a prod of the aforementioned cluster of nerve cells. Captain clenched his teeth together and opened his eye, fed power to his optical implant. He found himself in an alcove at the periphery of an assimilation workshop. Presumably it existed on one of the ships of the four Colors, but nothing suggested which Color, which vessel. The room, unchanged in design since before Color schism from Hive, might as well as been on Cube #347 or any other Collective ship. A slight shake of the head, the only piece of anatomy permitted movement, confirmed the presence of an attachment to the cranial port behind his right ear. In front of Captain loomed a drone. It was fiddling with the exterior probe, rocking Captain's head back and forth, side to side, as it did so. Around the left biceps was a twist of cloth, peach in color. Other than that, it resembled any and all other drones. Finally it stepped back, finished. << We know you heard us. Comply. >> {Get out of my mind,} retorted Captain. He managed to concurrently vocalize his demand. The presence slipped deeper into his pathways. Captain mentally retreated, building a wall around the knot which was himself, that bit which even the Collective had never been able to eradicate: he would not be converted. The presence, the alien Mind, examined the barrier Captain had built, but did not attempt to breech it. "He speaks!" exclaimed a surprised voice, one without the synthetic harmonics of a drone. "He is also, shall we say, very unhappy at the moment. No, that emotion is irrelevant. Ticked off, annoyed, irritated are better descriptors, such as they can be applied, Captain Marshall," spoke the drone with the peach ribbon. "I would be too, if I were in his place." Captain focused upon the beings present in the brightly lit assimilation workshop. In addition to the Peach drone, there were two heavily armored and armed drones with red ribbons tied around their foreheads like bandanas; a third tactical drone wearing an orange necktie who grinned in a manner which lent it more than a hint of maniacism; a pair of nondescript drones with green ribbons twisted around their upper arms; and three non-assimilated humanoids. Of the three who were unBorgified, only the speaker was not heavily armed, armored, and did not have an overt expression of apprehension on his face. All three humanoids wore black; and all three had the Second Federation insignia. The Peach focused on Captain. "Very good. The connection is functioning correctly. I will be asking you a few questions, and you will be answering them. Resistance is futile." The voice was pleasant, even conversational. There were inflections instead of dull monotone. It all appeared, from the outside, to be very, very civilized. The drone was even /smiling/. Another spike of pain, the merest suggestion of what could happen, tickled Captain's senses. He ignored it, grinding his teeth together in a way which would cause Doctor to click his incisors in disapproval. A very rude response was verbalized. "We like that. We will remember that one," answered one of the Red tactical units. The Orange burst into a fit of giggling which ended in coughing. All three Second Federation personnel looked startled. The Greens smiled slightly. Only Peach remained impassive. "The parentage does not apply in my case, 4 of 8," responded the drone inquisitor. Captain Marshall, human, spoke, "He's a drone and you're jacked into his brain. Can't you just read his programming and thoughts and be done with it? Why do you even need him awake at all?" The Peach sighed and rolled his eyes, then turned. "Captain Marshall, Captain Marshall, things are a bit more complicated than your small mind can comprehend, but I'll try to explain them to you." Captain Marshall's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared slightly at the patronizing words, but otherwise did not react. "The drones of Cube #347 are a bit...disorganized in the mental department. "Oh, we can read the more basic programs and identifiers, enough to know the full designation of the drone, its duties, and so forth. Therefore, I know that this drone is 4 of 8, consensus monitor and facilitator of Exploratory-class Cube #347. There's more to his designation than that, but that suffices. There are other things we can skim, but for the data we - Colors and you - require, deeper probing is necessary. "At this moment, 4 of 8 believes we are trying to convert him. He has erected defenses around his personality core. The designator 'consensus monitor and facilitator' intrinsically means his mind is a strong one. Better than mine, actually; and most certainly better than yours, Captain Marshall. There are defenses beyond the personality core, and it is these we need to breach...or more accurately, cause a few leaks. "To this end, I will be asking leading questions; and we, Peach being the ones probing these drones, will record the unvoiced responses. 4 of 8 cannot control everything he thinks; and eventually we will acquire the data we need." Captain Marshall glared at the Peach's back as the drone returned full attention to Captain. "4 of 8, don't think of pink wargs." Captain closed his eyes and resolutely began constructing a dynamic, three- dimensional table which included a complex formula of integrals, derivatives, and imaginary numbers. "Oh, my," commented the Peach, "I think this is going to take awhile." "Mr. Floontzy, I told you not to answer them!" berated 39 of 240 to his hand. The fact that the hand was covered with a wooly green and red plaid sock upon which were sewn a pair of shiny black button eyes was irrelevant; and so was the yellow mop of yarn hair. As the sock opened its mouth, 39 of 240 hastily shoved Mr. Floontzy under an armpit, then winced. "Apologies. I don't know where Mr. Floontzy picked up that type of language. I think he has been listening to 223 of 300 too much." 39 of 240 blinked. The Peach drone asking questions was more blank than usual; and the other drones similarly sported the slack expressions which meant a manual disconnect of the facial muscles. Only the Federation captain showed emotion with flared nostrils and the minute jaw movements of subvocalization. 39 of 240 allowed Mr. Floontzy to escape his temporary jail. Mr. Floontzy huffed, then proceeded to sulk. At least Mr. Floontzy wasn't inhabiting a vacuum cleaner this week. Vacuum cleaners were very hard to drag around on a leash. The Peach drone animated with a shake of his head. "Let's try this again. We require data upon..." The drone abruptly rocked backwards as Mr. Floontzy headbutted breastplate armor. Unlike 39 of 240, Mr. Floontzy was not paralyzed within the alcove. "Mr. Floontzy!" admonished 39 of 240. "That was not polite! Not polite at all. Sorry...sorry. Mr. Floontzy has been a bit unstable as of late. It had something to do with the rubber band incident, I think. Poor, poor Mr. Floontzy." Mr. Floontzy peered at 39 of 240 with sparkling button eyes, then faced the Peach drone and proceeded to twist, exorcist style. "Ouch...that's gotta smart," muttered an adjunct of the Second Federation captain. The Peach drone sucked in a deep breath, and stepped forward once more into 39 of 240's personal space, had the latter retained any personal space following his assimilation. "Restrain that hand...that...Mr. Floontzy, else we will amputate the limb," warned the drone. "You will answer our questions." 39 of 240 rebuked his hand. "Mr. Floontzy - comply." Slowly the sock puppet drew back from the aggressive posture. "Mr. Floontzy..." Mr. Floontzy lowered to 39 of 240's side, but tension remained. The Peach stared at 39 of 240's face, never blinking, eyes never wavering. In the background, both Reds had their arm disruptors pointed at 39 of 240. With Mr. Floontzy somewhat calm, the Peach began to speak, "Let us try again..." "Sensors answers with [lamp shade] and [purple] clusters which, in turn, [mouse] into [yellow squiggles]." The bug which was Cube #347's current head of the sensory hierarchy animatedly stomped two of its four walking legs. Since no appropriate alcove was available to house it, the bug had been restrained with metal bands bolted to its carapace; and unlike the other drones undergoing interrogation, a cranial jack had not been installed. Marshall had inquired the reason why the latter was so, and received a series of glares from the various Colors present. The Peach interrogator relented with an explanation that none of the Colored Minds desired the collective version of a headache. If the Cube #347 bug ("Sensors" was its apparent designation) was feeling any discomfort over the proceedings, it was not complaining. Near Sensors was another bug, transported by Green especially for the interrogation. It was the only Colored bug in the small fleet. At the conclusion of Sensors' nonsense spiel, the Green bug translated...sort of. Marshall personally thought the 'translation' to be as obscure as the original. "The drone says that [tables and chairs] are very [big], especially when the arrays are [tied] into a [bundle]." The Green bug copied Sensors' leg movements. Marshall thwapped the side of his head behind his right ear. The universal translator implant was having trouble with the words. The Colors were apparently affected as well. The Peach drone swung his head to stare at one of the Green non-bug representatives present. "What did the drone say?" The Green, a humanoid heavily augmented and of indeterminate species, cocked her head slightly. The wait for an answer stretched into a near minute. Finally the Green replied, "We are...I am not quite sure. Something to do with the tertiary sensor array. Maybe. The gestalt meaning is unclear." "A translator for the translator," muttered the Peach not quite under his breath, "is not functioning." The Orange drone snickered. During the exchange, Marshall - he felt like quite the fifth wheel at this point after several days of interrogation, but did not trust the Colors to accurately report if he was not present at all times - noticed the Green bug had shuffled closer to Sensors. A quiet conversation was occurring. "[Door craft box] where [computer] and then [jello jello jello]?" asked the Green bug. "Sensors thinks [pad], were [lamps and desks and silver spoons]. Up [sewing array]." The translation algorithm was breaking down. Not only was the exchange more cryptic than previously, but the original language, an orchestral composition interspersed with rapid clicks, could be distinctly heard. Sensors waved its arms widely. The Green bug bobbed up and down, spitting forth a concerto. Both Greens winced; and one drone lifted whole hand to forehead in the universal gesture of migraine headache. Universal translators, Federation and Color versions, abruptly and simultaneously halted trying to make sense of bug speech. The bugs continued to talk, clicking and popping and twanging and whistling, oblivious to the protocols of interrogation. "Can you not control your drone?" asked Peach to the Green. The speaker Green, with effort, replied, "We are having technical difficulties. Stand by. If your Color had any bugs, you'd understand what we are going through." The Green had reverted to plurals. Her compatriot was even paler than the normal Borg pallor. Meanwhile, Marshall fancied he could pick out the opening measures of "Home Again" by the 25th century Terran composer Terrance Wallich. 2 of 20, currently in the midst of what the Cube #347 sub-collective designated as his manic state, espoused the delights of G'floo!, as well as its more common side effects. It did not matter that the original question - "Why do you speak excessively fast?" - had been posed rhetorically; and nor did it matter that all subsequent attempts to bring the interrogation back on track had been ignored in favor of the G'floo!. The current explanation of the not-so-good side of G'floo included what happened if certain legal medicines were taken with the sponge-derived drug. "Artificialserotonincanbeverybad,especiallyifthespeciesusesitasastimulant. WhencombinedwithG'floo!,themostmarvoloushallucinationsoccur. Onceabuddyofmine thoughthesawaHirudianGamblebeast. Actually,itwasacloserrelative,theHirudian Bumblebeastthatatehim. MybuddythoughtthehungryBumblebeastwasaharmless Gamblebeast. IthinkthatthefactthattheGamblebeasthesawwasyellowshouldhavetipped himoff,sinceGamblebeastsdonotcomeinyellow. Thenagain,hewastakingartificial serotoninwithpurpleG'floo!,andthat,asyoucansee,isn'tgood." As 2 of 20 continued his exposition, he watched the human and Colored drones. The drone with the Peach ribbon had stopped asking non-G'floo! questions, and in fact had given up on questions at all. Following a brief conference between Colors and Second Federation captain, unheard by 2 of 20 due to his babble, a second Peach had materialized into the workshop. This one was augmented as a drone maintenance unit. 2 of 20 continued to ignore his audience, even as the newest member of the group started to wave scanning equipment a nose length from his face. The human Federationer shouted something at the new Peach; and the original Peach drone replied. 2 of 20 increased his volume so as to speak over any distractions. "Andthentherewasthetimethatmysister'sbrother'scousin'snephewtriedabitoforange G'Floo!whiletakingamorphine-basedpainkiller. Whoo! Hisbladdercrampedupanditwas daysbeforehecould...hey...what are you doing?!" 2 of 20 had finally noticed that there was more than sensor waving occurring. The Peach drone maintenance unit was attaching a piece of equipment to his - 2 of 20's - chassis. The clampy-spinny-whirly thing made a noise like a dental drill as it was clamped onto his thigh. "Don'ttouchmethere!" bellowed 2 of 20, even faster than before, if such was possible. "I'mwarningyoutonottouchmethere!" 2 of 20 did not like to have anyone touch his upper legs. Usually drone maintenance sedated him if work in that area was required. 2 of 20 glared down at the Peach drone who was ignoring the demands. Concentrating on an extra-sparkly ribbon of data, 2 of 20 forced an impulse through the inhibitions set by the Colors. The inhibitor had no chance to stop the G'floo! distorted thought pattern. 2 of 20 kicked the Peach in the face. The contraption was dislodged, falling on top of the sprawling maintenance drone. There was an immediate rise in noise as the piece of equipment thrust its drill into the Peach's skull; and neither was the Peach quiet, scrambling to her feet with a very unColor (or unBorg) yelp of dismay. Satisfied, 2 of 20 said, "Toldyounottotouchmethere." A short pause. "Backtothe G'floo!story. Yousee,mysister'sbrother'scousin'snephewcouldnot..." "If I were able to move, I'd be using your chassis for target practice!" screamed Weapons. "Both of you! All of you!" With no command and control presence to temper his impulses, Weapons was in full rage. Even his alternate personality, Ghydin, was absent, cowering in a dark corner of his mind. Unfortunately, his body was restrained in an alcove, but that did not matter. He still retained the power of speech. That speech was currently directed at the two Red drones inches away. "You are a poor excuse for a tactical drone. You would not last three minutes against us, even against the least of our units," responded one Red drone as heatedly as Weapons. There was a spray of spittle with each articulated 's', the drone's mouth structure lisping sibilants into 'th' amid a preponderance of saliva. Weapons ignored the shower. "Hah! I could take any of your units on with one arm amputated! Both arms amputated! You lack tactical finesse. You couldn't hit the side of a moon with a planet- buster!" "We have destroyed many moons!" The other Red spoke. There was lack of spittle. "But have you ever destroyed a sun? Hmm? I thought not. Just give me the chance, and I'll rip you apart. Cube #347 can take on any /five/ of your Battle-class cubes! Nothing will be left except scrap!" "I really hope Red won't try to destroy the star we are orbiting, now. At least wait until we all leave," said human to the other drones, the ones not involved in the shout- fest. Weapons automatically logged everything in earshot, recording it for a time when he was not arguing with two belligerent Red drones. The Peach continued to stare at Weapons, not that Weapons noticed. "We are watching the Red ships." Pluralities shifted to the singular. "I think I now understand why Red is so...Red. Somehow the template of Cube #347's weapon hierarchy head was reproduced. How, I don't know, but it was." Marshall replied, "If anything, Red is a bit mellower than that fellow. I wouldn't want to face an entire cube of drones like him. Hell, we'd be lucky if anything left in the sector was larger than a few microns." Weapons sucked in his breath and responded to the latest insult. "At least I had a mother! You have the tactical sophistication of an underpowered /chess/ program!" * * * * * Marshall was back on his own bridge, a reassuring change of scenery after a month of 18 hour days observing the interrogation of a select thousand of Cube #347's drones. A month! A month, or a day, was too long to spend on a Colored vessel surrounded by drones who were likely (despite protests to the contrary) running 'hypothetical' scenarios on Marshall's own cybernization. Being in an assimilation workshop, among the 'tools of the trade' had not helped neither; and lack of bathrooms had increased the discomfort level because the Minds believed potty breaks were irrelevant. Although sessions would be required with the ship's counselor before the nightmares went away, Marshall was very glad he was back on his own ship. The main screen was split into the usual four panes, each populated with a Color liaison. Peach, Green, and Orange were familiar, the same drones serving as liaisons throughout the proceedings; and Red was a new face, individuality not as strong in that Color as it was in the other three. Peach was providing the final audio report. A much more extensive set of data had already been received by SFS Ice earlier. Captain Marshall glanced at the side screen as the Peach monotonously talked. The secondary monitor was itself divided in two, the upper vertical pane a tactical schematic with current positions of all Colored vessels and the lower window a picture of Cube #347 within a monstrous hold of the Green Lugger-class ship, courtesy of a Green visual feed. "Interesting conclusions, don't you agree, Captain Marshall?" The erstwhile Captain Marshall swiftly gave his full attention to the liaisons. "Did I miss anything important?" he subvocalized to Iceman. "No," responded the computer via implant, "unless you count the fact that the Peach liaison seems to like to hear himself speak. Longest report I've ever heard from a Color." Marshall regarded the Peach, eyes slightly narrowed. The question had been a not-so-subtle notification that the Color (and likely Colors) were aware of his 'small being' propensity to become bored, to not pay full attention. "Yes, interesting conclusions. Do continue." "I shall." The Peach paused, eyes glazed slightly as he temporarily meshed more deeply with his Mind for data retrieval. "Additionally, we have probed the sub-collective dataspaces of Cube #347. The sub-collective, of course, could not keep us out. Unfortunately, the architecture of the dataspace is not as...refined as expected. In fact, it is a chaotic mess of cul-de-sacs, dead ends, and loops. How the sub-collective functions as well as it does is unknown. That data which was gleaned provided only minor contributions to knowledge of the Borg Collective in general and individual drones in specific. "In conclusion, we believe nothing more can be learned at this time from Cube #347. It is time for the final operation and memory modification." The Peach halted. To Marshall's confusion, the drone winked, or at least Ice's captain assumed it was a wink and not a facial tic. "We concur," spoke Green. "Our ships, especially the Lugger-class, have been diverted too long enough from normal duties. Money is being lost!" A wide smile stretched across the face of the Orange liaison. "Party on, dudes!" In translation, Orange agreed as well. "Blow it up," said the Red. "Not while it is in the holds of Cube #8077, you will not," protested Green. A double wink was directed at Marshall by the Peach. The other Colors were oblivious despite their reception of the same audio-visual stream as SFS Ice. "Brethren, we have the same goal here. Blowing up Cube #347 at this time will not accomplish anything. It is time to initiate the final phase of the plan prior to memory modification and release of the subject." Wink-wink. "There will be other opportunities to slag Cube #347." "You are sure?" Red was skeptical. "Many other opportunities." Another wink, this one coinciding with the word 'opportunities.' Inserted Iceman silently, "I think the Peach is trying to tell us something." "Yes, he is. Remember the double-cross headquarters set up with Peach, the one I didn't like, especially if the other Colors got wind? The one where Second Federation and Peach will profit in a long range plan the other Minds don't know about? He is implying that his Color is ready to go." "Oh," replied Iceman, digesting the new datum concerning organic being behavior as he correlated it with similar files. "I understand. However, your medical implants indicate you to be extremely tense." "Of course I am. If Peach is willing to double-cross the other Colors, I've always wondered if we - us personally or the Second Federation in general - will be the recipients of a triple-cross. Peach, like the Collective and like the other Colors, only looks out for itself. The brass at home never listened to me about my misgivings with Peach. That Mind is unlike any other. And now, that odd spatial anomaly. A Red Battle-class turned into a star whale, for Director's sake; and Cube #347 disappeared for hours. That makes me wonder if anything else has changed." Meanwhile, on the main screen, Green and Peach together had finally convinced Red that blowing up Cube #347, especially while it was within the Lugger-class, was counter-productive. Through it all, the Orange liaison silently played an air guitar. "We are ready," affirmed Peach. Looking directly at the liaison, Marshall gave a small nod. "So am I." * * * * * Captain awoke. Part of him, the realistic part, had not expected to wake to consciousness again, at least not as himself, not as 4 of 8; and another part of him, that composed of Borg-instilled instinct, consulted his internal chronometer to learn 703.6 hours had passed since the interrogation. As previous, he was clamped in an alcove with limited movement. Unlike last time, he could not see. Clarification: Captain could see (dim alcove panels spaced equidistantly along walls indicated the room to be an assimilation workshop), but his senses were those of his base species. A hasty query to the appropriate hardware returned nominal functionality despite continued lack of infrared, extended hearing, and other technically grafted senses. Even his targeting laser, seldom utilized except for measuring distance, was nonfunctional. An exploratory shake of the head revealed an odd weight to one side. Abruptly Captain understood - an inhibition probe was affixed to his cranium. As if the thump of metal against metal had been a signal, the electric whine of transporters filled the air. One after another, drones materialized into the assimilation workshop; and the spacious room began to feel distinctly crowded. At the same time, a pressure assaulted Captain, like and unlike the interrogation, a wordless thrumming at the edges of his mental defenses. With each drone came the grind of gears and actuators, the flash of lasers and the subdued green glow of active cybernetic implants. The pressure continued to build. The drones were silent shadows, except for a pair with limbs outlined in garish multicolored light strings blinking intricate patterns more appropriate for a Christmas tree. Captain squinted at the crowd. As he automatically pushed back at the Mind which was assaulting his being, he had the distinct impression of theatrics, of drama, of staged threat. Captain relaxed his face into impassionate disinterest. "If you are to attempt re-assimilation or dismantlement for parts, proceed immediately. This...performance...is unbefitting a Borg, or a Color." The mental pressure made one more feint, causing Captain to wince, then withdrew. As it did so, lights were raised in the workshop, precipitating momentary blindness. When Captain's eyes readjusted, he was greeted to the sight of thirty-eight Colored drones, all bedecked in conical party hats and holding various noisemakers. "SURPRISE! Happy hatchday!" Off-tune singing of the species #2553 hatchday song commenced. * * * * * Orb threw up its hands in disgust, or would have if it had possessed hands. "Of course things have changed! Don't whine so much about it. After all, /you/ are the reason for this whole fiasco, what with your removing the tape from the Board Switch." Orb referred to the incident where tape covering the switch meant to prevent Board maintenance from affecting a game-in-progress had been discovered by the Editor handyman to be removed. After a bit of prodding, Lips had confessed to the action. Unfortunately, at that time it had been too late, the Editor having already accidentally set the Infinity Die into play on Orb's turn. "But should it have affected the Complex?" asked Lips. A hint of uncharacteristic worry had entered the voice of the usually brash Critic. "And, more importantly, why is canary yellow the only color I can apply?" Normally the egocentric Lips wore a purple paint, but the conclusion of the Infinity Play had wrought...changes. Changes to the Board were common enough with any roll, but changes to the Complex were unheard of. It was worrisome. Mouth, the other Critic, spat a vulgarity concerning Lips and certain, um, hobbies physiologically impossible even for an omnipotent pair of lips. It was a sign of the extreme stress in the room, Critics normally banding together, especially when under criticism from Directors. At the Board, Iris ceased trying to comfort the Editor, who had discovered the impracticality of a hand successfully removing a watch it could not reach. Another Editor would be required. Iris interjected, "Nothing looks wrong to me." The eyeball was a bit smug: none of /its/ major Board pieces had been affected by the Infinity Die, and it remained untroubled by alterations to the Complex. Orb sighed. "The Auditors are going to be pissed." At the mention of 'Auditor', the Board Room became very, very quiet. Even Lips was silent. "Did you /have/ to mention them?" asked Mouth, finally, it impossible for a Critic to be hushed for very long. The Editor flicked its fingers in a nervous flutter, then moved to its discarded tool bag and dived into it for a device. The contraption looked like the misbegotten offspring of a squid and a flashlight, all blinking lights and waving appendages which was blatantly too large to have emerged from the modestly sized toolbox. The Editor fiddled with several knobs as Lips once again began the blame game, trying to fault everyone but itself for the Infinity Play. As Lips brought up a Board move played by Orb over three million years ago, the Editor swept the contraption through the air, occasionally stopping to peer at a hidden output screen. "The Switch is decoupled," whispered the Editor. "The damn Switch is decoupled." Iris pseudo-shrugged. "So? Fix it, then. And make it snappy, before some Auditor notices any changes to the Complex." The Editor replaced the contraption into the toolbox. "I can't. The Switch, when engaged, stops actions by Players, or anyone else, from affecting the Board. The Switch is busted. To fix the Board now, including all your prior complaints, will mean shutting it off and restarting from the beginning. The big Reboot. At least I think that is the only problem..." The Editor paused, ticking watch forgotten as another thought occurred to it. "Oh, damn. Damn, damn, damn. No, no, no...that had better not have happened. Excuse me! Gotta make a few emergency calls!" Without a word of explanation, the Editor rushed out of the Board Room. The door slid close with a quiet thump. Mouth said, "Well, since it didn't tell us /not/ to play, why don't we continue? Eventually I'm sure it will come back and tell us what has happened. Besides, if we do have to Reboot, I have several pieces I want to work with prior to that." The other Players gave their equivalent of a shrug. Why not? * * * * * Captain stared at the cupcake he had been given. No longer in the alcove under restraint, he was in the middle of the assimilation workshop surrounded by representatives of four Colors. They crowd was as effective as any shackle, especially the hulking Red drones sporting armaments more fitting tanks than body chassis. The cupcake glowed in Captain's hand, surreally lit by a single candle. The same glow infused the periphery of his vision. "Go on, extinguish it," urged an Orange, one of the drones wearing the personal light display. Orange, as party specialists, had taken charge. "According to calculations, with 99.9954% probability, today is your 596th hatchday. Unfortunately, the cupcake would not hold so many candles without causing a potentially dangerous conflagration." Captain continued to stare at the cupcake with its single candle. Green and blue frosting had been artfully swirled into abstract art. The candle was of the cheap, white wax variety, quickly burning down its length. Two pieces of paper, one noticeably stiffer than the other, were shoved into Captain's face. The more flimsy of the pair threatened to catch on fire. The Orange drone continued, "There is also a hatchday card, of which we have all signed. Or rather, all Green, Peach, and Orange individuals signed it. Red only contributed one signature, as did the captain of the Second Federation vessel." The heavy paper, folded in the middle, was opened to reveal the words of "Don't think of it as getting older...think of it as stealing more silverware." The sentence did not parse. Undoubtedly the phrase in its original language was of hilarious content, but it had suffered from a literal translation into species #2553 script. Except for a hastily scrawled 'Marshall', the rest of the card was black with microdots, presumably the personal designations of all drones in the fleet. The second piece of paper proved to be a certificate of appreciation for the sub- collective of Cube #347. Amid flowery decorative scrolls and calligraphy, the Colors all expressed their appreciation of the sub-collective to have been the ultimate model (suitably altered, of course, to escape the pitfalls of assimilation imperfection) that allowed their own existence. /This/ was the reason for chase, capture, and interrogation? Hatchday wishes and a certificate? A twinge, such as those imperfectly assimilated were prone, whispered skepticism. The ghost of a hypothesis suggested more than Cube #347 had been affected by the roll of a certain die. A Red rumbled, interrupting Captain's contemplation of his unexpected gifts, "After extinguishment, you will eat the cupcake. You /will/ enjoy it. Enjoyment, in this instance, is not irrelevant. It is required." There was a menacing tone to the pronouncement, as if mandatory fun was a concept as easily worn as the Orange drone's lights. To not have fun was to risk termination. "This drone cannot digest food," protested Captain. He had slipped into plurals, but corrected himself for his next utterance. "I will ejest it." The Orange drone smiled. "Vomiting is fun! I have been to many upchuck parties. You see, the participants first eat or drink a variety of consumables. Well, mostly consumables. Then, when the inevitable happens, there are so many games to be played. Target games, painting games, games of skill...the list is endless!" The other Oranges present all sighed in unison, gazes momentarily directed elsewhere as each contemplated his or her own personal memories of grand vomit galas. A second Red growled, "Extinguish and eat, or else!" Captain tilted his head slightly and looked up from his cupcake, but he was seeing something other than the workshop. Like his current location, there was a dreamlike (nightmarish?) quality to it, only more so. One might think from his posture that he was receiving information from his sub-collective except, as before, he was isolated within his own self but for the tickle which reminded him of a lurking, opportunistic Mind. "It doesn't look broken," commented a voice maddingly familiar. However, despite the fact that a Borg drone was incapable of forgetting anything, unless it was specifically erased, Captain could not place the owner of the words. A second voice, unfamiliar. There was an impression of...fingers? A watch? Ticking? "Well, not quite broken. Definitely malfunctioning. My colleagues in maintenance are checking on something now." "What?" The single utterance was peevish, whining. "Can't you leave off the technical mumbo-jumbo of 'switch decoupling' and tell us something? Oh, my turn? Just a sec." A pair of dice rattled along something which was, and was not, the hard top of a wooden table. "Fudge it. That gravitational point influenced by dice. I want to do it again." "You shouldn't have rolled so close to the black hole. There are no do-overs, and you know it. You were the one that insisted on that rule at the beginning when we unpacked the Game from the box." This voice was softer, cadence and accent similar to the first, but still unable to be placed. Voice One: "We can still play, can we not?" The fingered voice: "I don't see why not? Board problems usually happen on the scale of eras, thankfully. I still think you are eventually going to have to reset the entire thing so that I can fix the Switch in here...and do so before the Auditors take notice." "La-la-la...can't hear you...la-la-la...." sang the whining voice off-tune. "Are you even paying attention?" was inquired, much more immediate than the fuzzy dream-within-a-dream. Captain blinked, then focused on the same Peach drone which had been his interrogator. "Answer." The Peach drone was drowned out by a sudden commencement of chanting led by Orange. Even Red was involved. "Eat the cake! Eat the cake! Eat the cake!" A soundless alarm permeated the scene; and Captain abruptly woke to full awareness. The dream (drones don't dream!) swiftly faded and was forgotten as automatic instincts located Captain within his own alcove aboard Cube #347. Automated inquiries leapt along dataspace synapses and returned the report that the entirety of the crew was in a low-level stasis mode, the cube itself in distant orbit around an average white dwarf. << Activation of primary consensus monitor and facilitator complete, >> echoed within Captain's skull. << The sub-collective of Cube #347 has been out of communication for 1028.18 hours. Explain. >> It was the Greater Consciousness; and the Collective (or at least the part of it which paid attention to its imperfectly assimilated drones when said imperfectly assimilated drones weren't accidentally twisting the universe inside out or angering a nearly omnipotent, multiverse-spanning species) was uttering a 'where the hell have you been and what the hell have you been doing' equivalent. {Um...} answered Captain, still stunned from his wakening. His personal memory over the last month was fragmented, tattered. Disjoint chronometer timestamps did not quite align with snatches of recollection. In no particular order, there was a spatial anomaly, a close up of an alien whose face looked like a rubber mask, prods and needles, tap-dancing, a cupcake and a lone candle. Through the data was laced the tell- tale signature of a sloppy erasure, perhaps done by an entity with no prior knowledge of Borg data architecture. The Greater Consciousness downloaded every morsel of Captain's personal memory, as well as the equally fragmented common storage and that of every drone (minus those such as Sensors) still locked into alcoves. The action took less than a minute. << Continue to unimatrix 012. Complete transport of designated cargo. >> The cargo in question was 300 barrels of a mutagenic toxic waste languishing in Bulk Cargo Hold #7. It was the Collective equivalent of 'Standard imperfectly assimilated actions. Whatever. Get back to productive work.' Data originating from flux-jumps had not been accessed due to chronometer inconsistencies and because the ever literal Collective had only desired information for the preceding 1028.18 hours. Captain automatically stepped from his alcove, reeling slightly before catching himself against the tier safety bar. A glance at the neighboring Second confirmed the other remained asleep and would make no comment on the less than graceful alcove exit. Captain allowed himself an internal sigh, then, as he turned towards the nearby nodal intersection he considered his central network node, he began the process of rousing the rest of the sub-collective. It was time, as unsubtly indicated by the Greater Consciousness, to return to productive work. Captain, attention inward directed, never noticed the two corners of paper, one thin and the other robust, slightly protruding from the crevice between alcove and bulkhead support in which they were wedged. 1