And the moral of the story is:  "Hare today, Gnome tomorrow."  Wait, that's not right.  
The real moral is Paramount owns Star Trek, Decker created Star Traks, and I pen 
BorgSpace.  Not quite so catchy, is it?

				Garden Gnome Liberation Front

	Captain fidgeted in a most unBorg manner as he stood in his nodal intersection.  
To the uninitiated, it would seem as if he were motionless, only eyes flicking from one 
holographic window to another.  However, to another Borg (or the very perceptive), the 
small shifts in weight were obvious, as was the minute motion of a twitching finger.  
Captain felt as if he were being watched.
	Being watched on a Borg cube, as part of a sub-collective, was not unexpected.  
To /not/ be watched would be the exception, rather than the rule, amid a amalgamation of 
4000 minds (not to mention the distant impartial observation of the Greater 
Consciousness).  However, this was different.  It felt as if external eyes focused upon 
him.  Either that, or he was receiving paranoid vibes from Weapons, 7 of 300, or a short 
list of other designations.
	Captain abruptly pivoted on his heel...to reveal nothing, just as the nodal cameras 
had shown.  Behind him, the holographic windows froze, then one by one went into 
"screen saver" mode despite the fact that there was no screen to save.  Alien fish swum 
about a virtual aquarium next to a shower of bouncing balls, which in turn was adjacent a 
simplistic depiction of stars at warp speed.  The nodal intersection was empty of anything 
except Captain and the ambient noises of a cube mutilating the speed-of-light laws of an 
Einsteinian universe.
	*Clank*  Pause.  *Clank*  Pause.  Slowly Captain approached the back bulkhead, 
just right of the intersecting corridor 113.  The sense of watching was most strong at this 
point.  Cocking his head, Captain extended an arm, then began to industriously remove 
the panel which covered wiring underneath.  The sheet of metal popped off and was set 
on the floor.  In the revealed gap was a garden gnome.
	The pudgy, ceramic creature grinned a foolish grin, as if happy with the universe.  
It wore a bright red, conical hat and similarly colored pants held up with contrasting 
green suspenders.  The shirt was a dazzling yellow.  Shoes were oversized by at least 
three sizes.  One hand fingered a frazzled beard while the other clutched a hoe.
	Captain no longer felt as if he were being watched by an outsider.  Instead, he felt 
an emotion which verged on embarrassed chagrin...only verged, mind you, for he was, 
after all, Borg.  Emotions are irrelevant.
	Pranks, however, were not, especially when they disrupted the efficiency of the 
consensus monitor and facilitator.
	{66 of 203, report to subsection 17, submatrix 10, nodal intersection #19 
immediately to remove an offending garden gnome of yours,} directed Captain to the 
aforementioned drone.  66 of 203 had a deep fascination of the creatures and had re-
amassed a collection in the several years since the sub-collective's resurrection and 
transfer to a new cube.  The gnome obviously belonged to him.
	66 of 203 sent an acknowledgement, arriving in the nodal intersection a few 
seconds later.  He took one look at the gnome, then declared, "It isn't one of mine.  It is a 
cute little bugger, but it doesn't match my inventory.  Besides, all mine are accounted 
for."
	Captain was skeptical.  "And who else on this cube collects those things?"  The 
gnomes were not cute in his estimation...if anything, their perpetual cherubic grins were 
on the creepy side.  And Borg should not be creeped out by anything.  They were worse 
than 29 of 240 and the demented-eyed plastic flamingos which he uncrated when sock-
puppet Mr. Floontzy took a vacation.
	"No one that I know of.  Still, it doesn't belong to me."  66 of 203 blinked.
	Captain's eye narrowed as he considered possible perpetrators, including 66 of 
203.  He abruptly released the thought-thread.  He did not have the time to track down 
such a minor infraction.  Some drone, somewhere, was having a good chuckle; and if it 
was 66 of 203, that drone was shielding himself very well.  "It belongs to you now.  
Remove it from my sight."
	66 of 203 grabbed the gnome, tucked it under an arm, then retreated amid the 
shimmering curtain of a transporter beam.
	After returning the panel to its place and slowly gazing about his nodal 
intersection as if in search of additional gnomish intruders, Captain returned to his 
position in front of the holographic windows.

			*	*	*	*	*

	In the hard vacuum of space, red lights flashed a cadence of alarm; and in those 
areas of the facility which retained atmosphere, a steadily undulating wail needlessly 
informed those who were in charge that something was wrong.  What was left of the 
computer mindlessly persisted in its task, as if those self-same persons were unaware of 
the explosion which had shook the facility an hour earlier, leaving behind a gaping hole.
	The asteroid which slowly tumbled around an otherwise undistinguished red 
dwarf star was a ultra-super-high security prison complex, tasked to hold the most 
heinous of criminals of many species.  The ranks included sociopath genocides, heads of 
the most notorious criminal organizations, black-market doctors willing to perform any 
surgery for the right amount of credit (no questions asked), ambulance-chasing lawyers, 
used-shuttle salesmen, and even worse.  It was the "even worse" category which had the 
facility brass worried.
	In order to reach their target near the center of the asteroid, the prison break had 
required the use of a highly illegal weapon originally envisioned as a demolition charge:  
a planet buster on a small scale.  Needless to say, the black market had several suppliers 
of such, assuming the price could be met.  The price had been met; and the charge had 
been smuggled through the gauntlet of electronic and physical cordons which protected 
the asteroid.  While many hundreds of criminals had been killed (no loss) during the 
explosion, the almost surgical expertise had cracked the vault of the "even worse," 
allowing mass escape.
	The prison warden swallowed hot bile as it considered its predicament, multiple 
eyes twisting in consternation on eyestalks slimy with sweat.  Manipulatory tentacles 
knotted and relaxed, only to knot again.  Its superiors had been informed of the problem 
and relief vessels were on their way.  Now...now it fell to it to contact and contract 
professionals to hunt down the "even worse" which even now fanned out into the galaxy, 
seeking to hide.  It so disliked the brand of bounty hunters it was tasked to employ, but 
they were also the only ones with the skill and ability to bring the escapees back (or their 
corpses).
	But first..."Will someone find that computer's off switch?!  The noise is driving 
me insane!"

		*	*	*	(Time Passes...)	*	*	*

	"That is the twelfth gnome!  Twelfth in twenty cycles!  And those are only the 
found ones.  Who knows how many more are lurking.  This game is becoming annoying.  
211 of 230 opens a panel to check a faulty biochip, and there is a gnome.  39 of 152 
enters a storage closet to collect an extra limb assembly...and when she turns around, the 
formerly empty room has sprouted a gnome.  Some of the more paranoid drones are 
becoming even more unhinged to the point our efficiency, such as it is, will be hindered.  
Those drones will have to be terminated if they cannot be rehabilitated."
	Standing in Supply Closet #118 (subsection 26, submatrix 2), Captain verbally 
and nonverbally berated 66 of 203, collector of gnomes.  The supply closet was a rather 
idyllic "natural habitat for gnomes," as termed by 66 of 203, the 20 by 20 meter space 
transformed into a backyard many a homeowner on many a world would desire.  The 
centerpiece was a lawn of real grass, nurtured by light lamps specifically tuned to an 
optimal growth spectrum.  On the lawn was a tinkling fountain and several decorative 
benches; and a walkway of stepping stones wound a convoluted path.  The edges of the 
lawn and strategically placed "islands" supported a wide variety of flowers, ferns, and 
colorful bushes originating from more than a dozen planets.  While most of the non-grass 
plants were a combination of plastic and hologram, as he could, 66 of 203 planted and 
nurtured the real flora.
	And then there were the garden gnomes.  Garden gnomes peeked from under the 
fronds of a fern; and others lay on the lawn as if trying to tan their ceramic skins.  One 
gnome perched in the fountain, recipient of an unending shower, holding a fishing rod 
complete with smiling worm.  At last count, including the new additions, there were 
thirty-three of the statues, lending a somewhat disturbing atmosphere to the garden.
	66 of 203, holding a pair of clippers used to sheer the lawn of overzealous grass 
blades, protested, "I am not to blame!  I search for quality, not quantity!  That last gnome, 
even though I am willing to give it sanctuary, was just plain ugly!  I had to hide it over in 
the corner behind the blooming stituk tree.  Do you think I would purposely collect a 
gnome like that?  And those extra gnomes are stretching my resources to the limit...I may 
even have to redesign this habitat so that the gnomes don't look so cluttered.  They /hate/ 
to be crowded, you know."
	Captain mentally shook his head.  Just as 66 of 203 began to sound somewhat 
sensible concerning his collection, he said something which indicated that it was time for 
a mental check-up.  "If you have too many, smash or recycle the ones you do not desire.  
That will solve your problem."
	66 of 203's eyes widened in horror, and his dataspace presence momentarily spat 
stuttering static.  The clippers were secreted into a pocket of the apron he was wearing as 
he began to pace back and forth.  He paused as Captain waited for a reply, picking up a 
sunbathing gnome dressed in nothing but beard and striped swim trunks, brushing off 
imaginary dust, then returning the statue to its previous place.  "I...I...this drone could 
not!  This drone could not and this drone is not responsible for..."
	Captain splintered his awareness from 66 of 203's third person objection as 
Sensors reported an outside request for communication.  The request was highly unusual 
because it came along the frequencies used for unencrypted Color-to-Color transmissions 
when in hypertranswarp.  The Collective routinely monitored intraColor chatter when 
such was intercepted, but did not employ it because there was no need for the Greater 
Consciousness to make small talk to the Colors. 
	The request was specifically targeting Cube #347.  Captain cocked his head, one 
part of his consciousness still listening to 66 of 203 and another part contemplating the 
consensus cascade which was deciding if to answer the communique or not.  The solution 
returned positive.  With an internal shrug, Captain set about finding an appropriate 
catwalkCam view for the return transmission, then selected the multivoice function.  The 
subprogram imp tasked to find Cube #347 was given the affirmative to open a full voice-
video linkage between the cube and its return address.
	What the sub-collective saw was an empty chair; and not even a chair of any 
importance, just the swivel type with minimum padding provided to low level officers of 
any number of humanoid space navies.  On the console at the edge of the lower view 
were pasteboard cards of colorful design laid in a half-completed game of solitaire; and to 
one side a fizzy liquid confined to a nearly-spill-proof container quickly chuckled to 
itself.
	"We are the Borg Collective, ship-unit Exploratory-class Cube #347.  You will 
reply," sent Captain over the link.  The sound at the other end must have been muted 
because there was no response.  After waiting for several minutes (66 of 203, dismissed 
from importance for the moment, quietly clipped grass), a crotch swam into view, 
complete with hand scratching at an intimate place.  The nether regions vanished as a 
humanoid sat down at the chair, took a sip of drink, then returned to the card game.
	The individual was mostly human, although the width of shoulders and broader 
than average facial structure indicated that some other species had contributed in the past 
to his genetic heritage.  He had the beginnings of a beard, but unfortunately the shadowed 
patchiness of whiskers showed that pursuing such a fashion was a mistake waiting to 
happen.  There was no uniform, or at least Captain did find reference to any navy, 
legitimate or otherwise, using grey T-shirts with the words "Born To" (the rest of the 
phrase was likely on the back).
	A chime dinged from the human's console.  The face turned into a frown of 
annoyance at having been interrupted, then smoothly flashed into one of alarm.  "Oops," 
mumbled the human as he, for the first time, realized that a catwalk was displaying in one 
of the monitors he was supposed to be watching.  "Er...sorry!  Um...Wally!  The comm-
imp just found the sub-collective the captain was looking for."  The words were shouted 
over one shoulder, no mention of the fact that said comm-imp had finished its duty many 
minutes before.
	"Well, put them on the big screen, then, you moron!  While you weren't exactly 
hired for your brains, I know you have to have /some/ grey matter in that skull of yours 
somewhere.  And don't forget to turn on the sound this time!" came the shouted reply.  
The return video feed switched to a new perspective.
	The design was an odd synthesis of Borg and commercial-market military Second 
Federation design.  The "bridge" actually appeared to be a node of a much larger Colored 
vessel, hallways disappearing on the left and right extremes of the picture lacking the 
sliding doors customary on pure Second Federation vessels.  The banks of consoles and 
attendant chairs were not original equipment; and familiar data pillars provided access for 
a Borgified crew compliment which was not present amid the otherwise unaugmented 
species which manned the equipment.  Obvious in its lack was anything relating to helm 
or tactical control...most of the consoles present appeared to be associated with 
communications or sensors.  In the center of the room was a dais, sans the standard 
captain's chair.
	Standing on the dais was a shifty-eyed female Romulan dressed in black on black 
tunic and pants.  While no more a uniform than that of the sheepish looking solitaire-
playing human who was making no attempt to look busy, it was more professional than a 
plain T-shirt.  Around her waist she wore a belt which contained, among other things, a 
lethal hybrid projectile/disruptor weapon and a personal forcefield emitter of (stolen?) 
Second Federation military issue.
	"We are the Borg Collective, ship-unit Exploratory-class Cube #347.  You will 
reply," repeated Captain via the multivoice.  The words echoed on the other end.
	Answered Wally, "Our Captain will be with you shortly."  The words were said in 
a manner which capitalized the C.  And what sort of name was Wally for a Romulan, 
anyway?
	Captain quashed that particular sub-collective tangent before it could spiral out of 
control.
	Wally cocked her head slightly, as if listening to an unheard voice, then stepped 
off the dais.  In her place materialized another shape, this one Borg, or, rather, Color.  
The drone was not heavily cyberized, but those implants and assemblies which were 
present indicated a specialty which leaned heavily towards the tactical end of the 
Borgification spectrum.  The base species was not readily apparent under the hardware, 
but Vulcan was a likely possibility.
	"I am Captain of this vessel - Hunt-class Sphere Omega #2.  We represent Rose.  
Our specialty is bounty hunting.  Our sources indicate that fugitives we are tracking have 
taken refuge aboard a ship of the Collective, specifically, Exploratory-class Cube #347," 
said the drone.
	Captain blinked, then sent a query through a log of internal and external sensors.  
Due to the more than several times Cube #347 had been boarded by aliens (an action  
which also irregularly occurred on other Collective vessels), security protocols had been 
altered to give alert when the random nonBorg intruder was noted.  A summary review of 
the past thirty cycles provided nothing untoward beyond the normal jumble of an 
imperfect sub-collective.
	"Negatory.  No intruders have entered this vessel.  You are in error."
	"We are not in error.  The fugitives are on your cube.  If you will meet us at these 
coordinates" [Numbers representing the X, Y, Z axis of the galaxy, cross-referenced with 
pulsar beacons, was intercepted on a sub-frequency carrier wave.] "we will search your 
cube and remove them.  We have the specialty equipment required to recapture the 
Shros."  The name of the unknown species was pronounced with a long 'o', as in the word 
'dose'.
	Except for the occasional shuffle of feet, squeak of swivel chair, or cough from 
the Rose side of the transmission, silence reigned following the request.  Captain ran a 
consensus cascade, which returned the following facts:
	1.  Borg did not (well, usually did not, but it was the principle of the matter) 
concede to demands by lesser species or Colors; 
	2.  the artful setup of the "bridge" indicated that no matter how slovenly the crew, 
no matter how convincing the message, there was the high probability it was a setup by 
an alliance of Second Federation and Color (Peach?) to capture the cube; and, most 
important,
	3.  the transmission originated from many, many hundreds of light years distant.
	The answer to the request was simple.  "We do not comply."  Captain terminated 
the transmission, then instructed Sensors to ignore any future comm-imps which might 
try to sniff out the cube and re-establish a connection.
	"66 of 203," said Captain, returning to the matter at hand, "you will fully open 
your mind and allow command and control to search it."
	66 of 203 sighed and replied, "Again?  You've already turned my mental 
processes inside out as well as can be done without dissection!  I am not responsible 
for..."  He trailed off as he caught a sub-process in the dataspaces contemplating just such 
an option.  "Fine.  One more time.  Just let me put away my lawn tools."

			*	*	*	*	*

	"The transmission is gone," said Tim helpfully from his chair at the primary 
communication console.
	On the dais, Captain Ricko (or 5 of 21 when formality was called for) did not 
require confirmation of the link's severance.  "Not unexpected.  The comm-imp did 
resolve a general location of the target.  We are altering our course now."  The sphere, 
well built and silent as it cut through the high subspace layers at hypertranswarp 
velocities, did not provide any aural clues to the unassimilated that the maneuver was 
underway.
	Wally impatiently fiddled with her belt.  "Damn it, why couldn't that Borg sub-
collective just have cooperated?  The Shros are going to be bad enough to capture 
without the Borg with a bug up its collective a..."
	"Wally!" snapped Captain Ricko.  "What have I told you about swearing?"
	"It is unprofessional.  And Rose will not tolerate unprofessionalism amid its 
assimilated or hired ranks," sullenly answered Wally with the cadence of something 
repeated many times.
	"Very good.  Try to remember it this time, else I am going to strongly recommend 
you receive a memory implant, one which is linked to your pain center to provide helpful 
reminder shocks."
	Wally glared at the Rose drone.  "I'm too good at what I do, keeping the 
unassimilated part of this sphere's crew in line.  Not to mention there /are/ places 
nonColored can go that will otherwise shoot anything assimilated on sight.  Rose would 
not dare.  I may be expendable, but not that expendable.  You were once a Vulcan, think 
of how illogical it would be to spend time trying to find someone similar to me...then the 
training involved afterwards."
	Captain Ricko sighed.  "You may be right, but that does not make swearing any 
less professional.  Mind to the unassimilated crew, then.  I was interrupted from my 
regeneration cycle.  It may take some searching, but we will find the Collective 
Exploratory-class Cube #347."  
The Colored drone vanished in a transporter beam, taken somewhere else in the 
giant sphere, likely to some alcove tier that Wally had never seen nor wanted to take the 
time to search for in the vast metallic maze.  Wally's eyes flicked around the comm-
bridge (the Rose sub-collective actually controlled everything, but realized their nonBorg 
crew would go buggy unless they were provided with some fictional busywork task), 
looking at each unassimilated crew in turn, before landing on Tim.  "Tim," she purred, "I 
want to review the incoming transmission log for, say, the last hour."
	Tim gulped.

			*	*	*	*	*

	{This is the last warning.  I want those things destroyed, and I want them 
destroyed now,} said Delta to Captain.  {They are annoying, continually in the way, and 
several of my hierarchy are even claiming that the things move.  Unacceptable.}
	Delta body A was in Auxiliary Core #4 to examine the source of an odd reading 
in the idle energy-output of the power core.  The cameras in the vicinity either did not 
adequately cover the entire room, else had been blacked out, cause unknown.  She had 
discovered several back-up communication circuits severed from the whole, yet cleverly 
wired for the computer to think that they remained present and functional.  She had found 
an interrupted effort to splice overflow from the core intermediate dump capacitors to the 
comm circuits, perhaps in an attempt to make a one-way subspace transmission shout.  
She had also literally stumbled on gnomes.
	Twelve gnomes ringed a thirteenth, a chubby fellow clutching a fishing pole.  In 
the half-light of the idled Auxiliary Core #4 room, the encircling gnomes seemed to have 
an angry cast to their feature, while FisherGnome almost appeared to be cringing.  It was 
illusion, of course, one fostered by ceramics, shadows, and poor illumination.  Statues, 
after all, did not move.
	Captain materialized in Auxiliary Core #4, followed closely behind by Second.  
"Interesting.  It almost looks like the ring of gnomes are confronting the interior one," 
commented Second.
	"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were behind this chaos," said Captain as he 
too took in the scene firsthand.  "However, I also know that such a display is not your 
style.  66 of 203 certainly isn't behind it:  his mind has just about been turned inside-out."
	Delta's body waited with ill-concealed impatience.  "I don't care who's fault it is, I 
just want it to stop.  Someone, some /drone/ since there are no intruders onboard, 
obviously wants us to believe that these...statues are the cause of this mess.  Therefore, I 
want the gnomes destroyed.  Remove the scapegoat."
	Second, who was carefully rearranging the gnome scene so that the FisherGnome 
looked as if it had hooked one of its compatriots by the beard, mildly remarked, "And 
what will that accomplish?  Instead of gnomes, we'd likely start seeing rings of 12 of 
310's pet rocks, or maybe plastic flamingos."
	"True," agreed Captain.  The conversation between the three drones was only the 
most visible aspect of a much greater decision process occurring within the dataspaces.  
"Delta.  We require more data.  Set up a security system of extra sensors and cameras in 
each auxiliary core, as well as Supply Closet #118.   Include a secondary linkage to an 
off-grid storage system which is to be tamperproof and accessible /only/ by direct drone 
physical contact."
	"We will comply," replied Delta.
	66 of 203 materialized in the core room, followed by a wheelbarrow.  The 
wheelbarrow was customized to include open-topped foam boxes, so as to better 
transport delicate ceramic gnomes without chip or crack damage.  66 of 203 himself 
seemed to have difficulty focusing on any one thing, and he swayed back and forth as if 
balance were slightly compromised.  Incidental damage by the intense command and 
control interrogation was not fully repaired.
	"Return the gnomes to Supply Closet #118," ordered Captain.
	Second sighed as his toys were quietly gathered by 66 of 203, each placed in a 
separate foam cubby.  "Can I not at least keep the FisherGnome?  It has so 
many...possibilities."
	"We will not" blink "comply.  This drone must return these objects to their 
habitat," stiffly replied 66 of 203 in a tone totally devoid of inflection.
	"That drone's mind is a bit bruised," reflected Second as 66 of 203 and 
wheelbarrow full of gnomes disappeared.  "Of course, he was taken to an edge just short 
of mental termination."
	"He'll recover to his previous aspect.  The imperfectly assimilated always do.  
Unless they've been overelectrocuted, had a crayon shoved into their brain, or otherwise 
undergone extreme trauma.  Then a new plateau of imperfection is attained."  Captain 
spoke from long experience.
	"I'd better confirm all the gnomes are returned to the closet," remarked Second in 
a poorly contrived excuse to mettle.  He vanished after 66 of 203.
	Delta cocked her head and stared at Captain.
	"Fine, fine.  I'll get out of the way of the engineering hierarchy," answered 
Captain to an unvoiced command by Delta.  He returned to his nodal intersection and the 
current oh-so-exciting task Cube #347 had been assigned.
	The cube was "patrolling" an empty sector of space.  Their charge was to act as a 
mobile platform, searching for the radio and subspace transmissions of newly emergent 
civilizations to the galactic playground.  This was best accomplished by warp travel - it 
was faster than sublight, but not so fast as to accidentally pass a low powered signal 
(radio spectrum didn't penetrate to transwarp or hypertranswarp layers).
	The reality of the mission was quite different.  While the Greater Consciousness 
would never explicitly say so, such patrols were actually make-work while the Collective 
was too busy with other things to provide a meaningful task to an imperfect sub-
collective.  The sector of space was relatively empty, the few stars present either too hot 
and young, or too cold and old, to support life bearing planets, much less a thriving 
civilization.  Similarly, there was little in the region to attract an already high-tech race 
for purposes of colonization or resource exploitation.  The best one might expect was a 
lost freighter wandered far from the common transit lanes, but even that was not a high 
probability.
	Captain absently stared at a holographic window of black studded by the 
occasional bright point of light, mind elsewhere.
	Sensors intruded upon Captain's primary thoughtstream, {Comm-imp is back.  I 
[patch]?}  In her alcove, Sensors twitched in a futile attempt to scratch an itch which was 
wholly within her head.
	Captain wasn't sure exactly what Sensors wanted, but he shifted part of his 
awareness to watch the comm-imp.  After several time intervals of attempting to entice 
the sub-collective to access it, the program dissolved into frustrated bits and bytes.  
However, it left behind a virtual note telling of an urgent data package deposited at a 
virtual galactic-web dropbox address, able to be opened only by the Cube #347 consensus 
monitor and facilitator.  Captain was willing to leave the potential problem be, except...
	{Open it,} cried 123 of 480.  {Come on...open it!}  123 of 480, a single voice, 
easily quashed, began a cascade of pleadings, which turned into a chant of demand.  
While Captain's location in the overall hierarchy, as well the strength of mind which had 
set him in such a position, meant he was not precisely ruled by the majority, the structure 
of the sub-collective to give greater weight to the whole than the individual meant that 
given sufficient push, he could be overruled.  The sub-collective of Cube #347 spoke:  
Captain was overruled.
	{So be it,} grumbled Captain as he opened a link to the galactic-web and 
navigated to the address in question, threatening the security program until it accepted his 
identity.
	The data package was short.  Very short.  {Look behind you,} it whispered before 
it dispersed.
	{Incoming!} spat Sensors.
	Captain snapped his attention to his nodal intersection, calling forth a holographic 
representation of the suddenly developing situation.  An Assault-class sphere was 
rippling the warp strata as it dropped from the "higher" hypertranswarp subspace layers.  
The maneuver was very difficult, and very dangerous, the slightest miscalculation 
rending a vessel into wisps of near nothingness.  However, it was possible, akin to 
suddenly slowing from Mach 7 to the velocity of an aging crop-duster.  The strain to the 
sphere's superstructure had to be immense, not to mention inertial dampers and other 
systems which kept the occupants from becoming smears of jelly.
	As it stabilized in the near warp space, the sphere began to radiate an overt Rose 
signature, as well as an omnidirectional transmission for Cube #347 to drop to normal 
space for a bit of a chat.
	Captain muttered, "I don't think so," as he directed the cube to accelerate.  In the 
long run, the lesser mass of an Exploratory-class cube allowed for greater sustained 
faster-than-light speeds:  in a stern-chase, they would beat an Assault-class sphere; and 
for said Assault-class sphere to swoop down for another successful ambush were slight.  
Somewhere Weapons happily crowed, all lockouts banished and complete tactical control 
provided to the weaponry hierarchy.  A delaying action might be required before Cube 
#347 slipped beyond the sphere's reach.

			*	*	*	*	*

	"Well, get it!" shouted Wally as she watched a holographic screen from a chair at 
the side of the comm-bridge.  The window was focused tightly on the Borg cube target.  
She longed to be up, pacing back and forth as was her wont, but she did not dare, not 
after the emergency stop from hypertranswarp velocities had threatened to spread her 
against a bulkhead except for the chair harness.  She was one of only a few unaugmented 
gung-ho Rose bounty hunters on the comm-bridge, the rest safely (and sanely) strapped 
to their bunks in the sphere's humanoid living quarters.  Of Colored Borg, there were 
none, all secured in their alcoves.  Their physical locations did not matter, however, for 
they were the ones actually running the ship.  The comm-bridge was nothing more than a 
glorified observatory.
	A hologram of Captain Ricko shimmered into view on the dais.  The drone knew 
the nonColor portion of the crew generally disliked talking to disembodied voices.  "We 
cannot just 'get it'," patiently explained the current consensus monitor and facilitator of 
the Rose sphere.  "While we emerged where our calculations expected, minus 0.0013%, 
the stress on the superstructure has caused some unforeseen...difficulties.  We require 
several minutes to reach full engine efficiency.  By that time, the lesser mass of the 
Exploratory-class cube, and hence greater acceleration quotient, will have provided the 
target an insurmountable lead.  We expect to remain close enough to track their eventual 
exit vector - to normal space or transwarp/hypertranswarp - in order to follow."
	Frustrated, Wally waved a hand, imaginary hand-phaser pointed with lethal 
accuracy.  "Weapons, then.  Wing 'em.  Make them stop."
	"Unfortunately," responded Captain Ricko with the dead tone she associated with 
the drone when he was deeply immersed in his Colored sub-collective, "the same 
difficulties which have lessened our engine efficiencies have disrupted our targeting 
arrays, not to mention primary through tertiary turrets on the currently forward facing 
hemisphere; and we dare not rotate at this time to bring functional quadrants into play.  
Using weapons while at warp is more complicated than in normal space, especially at our 
current velocity.  For instance, unexpected gravitational influences by..."
	"Enough lecturing, Captain Ricko.  Are you going to be able to get them or not?  
All our paychecks - us in credits, you in credits and new 'recruits' courtesy of a prison 
facility error which will underestimate the number of 'dead' convicts - is riding on 
stopping that cube and catching us some Shros.  Well?" demanded Wally.
	"Not," succinctly replied Captain Ricko with a stiff shrug.  "This hunt will 
continue longer than I/we anticipated."
	Wally closed her eyes and groaned.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Cube #347 was slowly pulling away from the enemy sphere, as expected.  As it 
did so, it rotated slightly, presenting a face to the direction of travel.  Warp had no "wind 
resistance," so no matter if an edge, face, or point was leading.  What was important was 
that a face was now also confronting the following sphere, a face containing torpedo 
launchers with a special, experimental payload.  
Three torpedoes, twinkling an odd blue shimmer unlike the normal green tinge of 
Borg manufacture, fell away from the cube.  After several heartbeats, they orientated 
themselves in a manner only explainable by a moderately intelligent onboard guidance 
system, their flight path to the target too focused considering the usual level of 
competency which arose from Cube #347 for missiles not fire-and-forget.  One missed 
the sphere, but only because a rogue gravitational flux caused the torpedo to wobble out 
of control and prematurely explode.  The other two smashed into the target, triggering 
flowers of fire to briefly bloom above the hull.  The sphere's lag behind the cube 
increased as it slowly rotated the damage away, the latter as if reluctant or difficult to do 
so, but the alternative of breached armor was worse.  
	{We need more warp torpedoes!  More!} shouted Weapons triumphantly into the 
cube intranets.  {We need to slow down!  We need to destroy the enemy!}
	{It only worked because those things drive themselves,} answered Delta.  {If we 
had to rely upon the normal guidance or aiming of your hierarchy, the safest place to be 
would /be/ the target.}
	{It will take at least 10 minutes to unpack more warp torpedoes from their crates 
and slot them in launchers.  Too much bubble wrap,} said 85 of 212, current speaker of 
the munitions status partition.  The previous speaker was in drone maintenance to have an 
arm assembly reattached for the seventh time this year.
	Weapons' attention fixated upon the head of the engineering hierarchy, ignoring 
85 of 212.  {We have injured the enemy.  We must finish the task.}
	{A scratch does not an injury make,} argued Delta.
	Captain broke in the budding argument, {Enough!  The /unexpected/ and 
unnecessary torpedo test was a success.  However, Weapons, we will continue our 
retreat.  A new warp vector is initiated.  A charted gravitational anomaly at coordinates 
345.332 by 1900.093.1 will allow us to transit to hypertranswarp while scrambling our 
spoor to prevent tracking.  No more torpedoes.}
	The torpedoes in question were warp torpedoes, an adaptation eight millennia in 
the making.  It was a new and experimental weapon consisting of a mini-warp drive 
packed into a standard quantum torpedo shell and provided with a guidance computer 
more advanced than that normally utilized by the Collective.  The concept of a warp 
torpedo was not new; and most civilizations tried to develop one before sufficient 
casualties in the form of people and/or R&D platforms caused them to scuttle it as a bad 
idea.  The Collective cared little concerning the losses of either resource, but had only 
recently assimilated the right innovation (an experimental pump powered by a grain of 
dilithium and meant to provide water circulation in an orbital ornamental fish breeding 
facility) to allow final adaptation of the product to full-scale testing phase.
	Not only could a warp torpedo accurately navigate in the warp environment, but 
when fired in normal space, it would accelerate to warp on its way to a target.  The ability 
to warp combined with computer guidance expanded the effective long-range weapons 
range of a Borg vessel to that equivalent of Terra's inner solar system.  Light-minute 
delays for real-time data, required for normal torpedoes, were no longer relevant.  The 
weaponry advance would revolutionize the Borg Collective and provide it with an edge 
(not that such was needed, mind you) over Colored rivals and unassimilated species.  
Certain bugs - unexpected detonations and guidance computer foul-ups that targeted the 
firing vessel - required real-world analysis, of course, but that was what field trials were 
for.
	Captain listened to the grousing from Weapons, but the latter did not attempt to 
gain cube guidance control.  Satisfied Weapons was behaving (as was Delta, beyond a 
few 'verbal' swipes) and that the sphere was losing even more ground in the stern chase, 
the new vectors were input.  A communication attempt from the sphere was ignored.
	Cube #347 began to slow.
	Captain stared through the holographic depiction of the event, delving into the 
command code nuts and bolts for a software reason even as he queried engineering for a 
possible hardware fault.
	{Not me,} sulkily replied Weapons, unasked.
	{It is not hardware related,} simultaneously returned Delta.
	A handful of other designations with a history of cube hijack similarly professed 
ignorance and nonculpability when prompted.
	Then Cube #347 performed an emergency stop to normal space, perhaps not as 
traumatic to the superstructure as the sphere's drop from hypertranswarp to warp, but 
distressing enough.  A vessel as large as an Exploratory-class cube should not buck, 
should not twist.  Cube #347 bucked and Cube #347 twisted, main skeletal spars buried 
deep in the vessel's volume protesting with a series of deep groans and high-pitched 
shrieks.  Hull plates sheered from their moorings; and an antennae cluster disintegrated 
with sufficient feedback force to cause minor brain hemorrhaging in members of the 
sensory hierarchy sensitive to such things.  Drone maintenance recorded an upswing in 
designations requesting repair from unsecured drones meeting unyielding bulkheads or 
too-yielding central shaft space.
	At least the transit to normal space was in very interstellar space, with only the 
occasional molecule and atom to wreck additional damage.  The same maneuver 
performed in the depth of a solar system - a very dirty place - would have ended with the 
cube torn into scrap metal.
	Simultaneous to the chaos resulting from the emergency stop, an omnidirectional 
subspace transmission coughed into existence, broadcasting at top volume and with a 
rather squeaky (and nonBorg) voice:
	"This vessel has been appropriated by the GGLF [*pronounced as if the speaker 
had an overpowering urge to vomit*].  We have rigged it with explosives.  No one - and I 
/know/ who is likely to be listening, you Rose bastards - better get too close, else this ship 
and everyone on it turns into a supernova!  And we mean it!  KABOOMY!  I assure you 
that we'll be okay in the end, as you well know, but all carbon-based lifeforms will be 
reduced to elemental matter."
	The speaker obviously had a weak grasp as to the value the Collective placed 
upon its drones, and especially a certain imperfect sub-collective.   Internal speakers 
relayed a slightly different message, spoke by a second individual and with a much less 
fanatical tone.
	"Carbon-based lifeform crew.  Stay calm and don't do anything stupid.  
Everything will be okay.  As long as you, Rose, and anybody else in the neighborhood 
cooperates, you will be assured of your life."
	Again, a decided lack of the fundamentals of Borg priority was demonstrated.  
Not do anything stupid?  Cube #347 was doomed.  Captain sighed, shook his head, and 
initiated an internal probe.  The origination of the rogue commands had to be located.  
Several seconds later, as the subspace broadcast repeated itself in a more venomously 
ranting vein, the probe returned a positive find.  The commands were coming from 
Supply Closet #118, which contained nothing except ceramic gnomes and 66 of 203.
	And a query as to 66 of 203's status found the drone unresponsive.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Wally sighed.  You didn't need to have a fancy computer in your head - or be part 
of one - to know the outcome:  the cube with the Shros on it was going to escape.  One 
only had to look at the holographic display and see how the icon which symbolized the 
Borg cube was slowly increasing the gap between it and the sphere.  Wally's eyes flicked 
past the static holo of Captain Ricko and to a personal display next to her chair's 
workstation showing an enhanced visual of what was beyond the hull.
	"What the hell is that?" murmured Wally as she saw something of a sparkly blue 
nature ejected from the cube's backside.  The other members of the nonBorg crew present 
must have wondered the same thing, for all were staring at the large tactical schematic 
which now showed what appeared to be three small "X"s denoting torpedoes on track to 
intercept the sphere.  One of the symbols flickered and disappeared, but the other two 
remained.
	"Whoops," spoke the suddenly animated holo of Captain Ricko.
	From across the comm-bridge, a male crewmember shouted, a note of panic in his 
voice, "What do you mean 'whoops'?"
	Yah, what do you mean 'whoops'? thought Wally to herself.
	"Although such should not exist, obviously the Borg Collective has managed to 
adapt technology to overcome the difficulties.  The information is valuable and we have 
already logged it and are searching for buyers.  Peach and Red will especially be 
interested.  Brace for impact."
	"From what?" asked Wally, unable to remain quiet any longer.  "It looks like a 
torpedo, but I thought torpedoes in warp weren't very accurate."
	Captain Ricko's holograph pivoted without moving the legs.  "Very good.  It is a 
torpedo.  Until now, it was believed that warp torpedoes were too inherently instable to 
construct.  The two incoming objects have signatures which would match a theoretical 
warp torpedo.  There is nothing except hull to protect this ship as shields cannot be used 
during warp without completely disrupting the static warp shell and we are still having 
difficulties with our point defenses on the forward hemisphere.  Now, excuse us, but we 
calculate we are shortly to have a maintenance emergency."  The holograph froze once 
more.
	The torpedo icons intersected the sphere; and, while the actual impact was distant 
from the comm-bridge and humanoid living quarters, the entirety of the nonColor crew 
could still feel the sluggish, nearly subsonic ring which followed detonation.  The 
damage was not great - many more torpedoes of similar isoton yield would be required to 
seriously hamper the fighting efficiency of an Assault-class sphere - but it was another 
bruise to a vessel already abused by the earlier hypertranswarp-to-warp deceleration 
maneuver.
	The gap between sphere and cube widened.
	"Damn," muttered Wally.  She thought for a moment, then winced as she 
remembered something.  "And double damn.  If the Shros actually manage to escape 
here, I'm going to loose that bet with T'vik.  Damn, damn, damn.  I don't look good in a 
tutu - my legs just aren't tutu material."
	And then the cube vanished from the display.
	"Target has performed emergency exit to normal space," said the multivoice 
through speakers in the comm-bridge.  The Captain Ricko holograph completely 
vanished.  Wally knew for a reversion to bodiless-voice mode meant the sub-collective 
was a wee bit busier and dealing with a greater damage load than they would care to 
confess to their unaugmented riders.  "We will transit to normal space less abruptly.  
Incoming subspace transmission."
	A squeaky voice with a slightly hollow quality was patched to the comm-bridge 
speakers: "This vessel has been appropriated by the GGLF.  We have rigged it with 
explosives.  No one - and I /know/ who is likely to be listening, you Rose bastards - better 
get too close, else this ship and everyone on it turns into a supernova!  And we mean it!  
KABOOMY!  I assure you that we'll be okay in the end, as you well know, but all 
carbon-based lifeforms will be reduced to elemental matter."
	Wally thought the pronouncement of the Garden Gnome Liberation Front 
acronym sounded like a dog preparing to vomit.  Either that, or someone with an 
overpowering archaic 'Scots' accent was speaking of a game which involved a dimpled 
ball, clubs, fairways, and a small hole.
"Not the blow-up-the-ship routine again," groused Wally aloud.  "The last time 
the Shros did that, the only reason we picked them out of the debris field was because one 
of them was stupid enough to discharge a flare.  I think that particular Shro was found 
shattered in the prison shortly after the lot of them were transferred."
	Elsewhere in the sphere, Captain Ricko agreed with the human's assessment.  The 
nonColor humanoids did have their uses, especially during negotiations and assaults 
where a drone was a liability, but mental fortitude was generally not one of them.  The 
several implants they did have were standard quasi-military issue, most of which were 
useless on the sphere since they required mediation by a vessel Personality.
	The Shros, being silicate lifeforms, were perfectly capable of surviving an 
explosion, as well as the resulting vacuum and near absolute zero temperatures.  
However, the inconvenience factor was high due to their current location was so far from 
anything resembling shipping lanes or civilization.  Therefore, concluded that particular 
thought-stream as it brushed against Captain Ricko's awareness, one could suppose that 
the fugitive Shros had a plan that would get them to said civilization.  The cube would 
likely (97.51% probability) be blown up regardless of promises tendered in order to serve 
as a diversion.  After all, from the Shro point of view, the crew was only carbon-based 
lifeforms.
	Conversely, the cube crew was also Borg.  That could be a plus or a minus.  On 
the plus side, there would be an intimate connection with ship systems which might 
hamper the Shro plan.  On the minus side, the Collective (similar to any Colored Greater 
Consciousness) had a fundamental disregard for its own drones which was equal, if not 
greater, of the Shro contempt for anything non-silicate.  In the end, it all depended upon 
the Borg sub-collective which ran the cube...
	...which meant the cube was almost certainly, as the humans liked to put it, toast.
	The Rose sphere transited to normal space, distant enough from the cube to not 
overly startle either Borg crew or Shros, yet near enough to watch any drama unfold.
	A sub-sub-partition clambered for Captain Ricko's attention.  He splintered his 
awareness to absorb the outcome of the partition.  Certain discrepancies had been noticed 
with the cube in regards to previous communications and actions, which in turn had 
prompted background research concerning the transponder code associated with the cube.  
There was a 91.22% chance that the cube was crewed by one of the Borg Collective's two 
known imperfectly assimilated sub-collectives.
	The likelihood of the cube exploding was revised to 100%.
	Captain Ricko (and several thousand of the 35,000 strong crew) contemplated 
options.  An imperfectly assimilated sub-collective opened additional avenues of 
opportunity which did not exist with a normal sub-collective.  By themselves, the Borg 
crew would certainly find a way to blow itself up, highly inconveniencing the Rose 
bounty hunters in the process and precipitating several weeks, if not longer, of tracking to 
find the Shros destination.  If they accepted assistance, however, something which a 
normal sub-collective would not and could not do, it might be possible to remove the 
Shros before said inconvenience occurred.
	The analysis was sufficiently positive for Rose to risk opening a communication 
request on a fractal subspace channel occasionally employed by the Collective for local 
vessel-to-vessel data transfer.  It was a narrow tertiary band, or so alleged the Peach agent 
who had sold Rose the information.  The risk came if not just the cube answered, but the 
Collective took an interest as well.  The Borg Collective would have more than sufficient 
resources to overpower a mere 35,000 being sub-collective, entering the local group 
mind, overpowering it, and, if it couldn't outright absorb the sub-collective, terminating 
it.  Or, if the Borg Collective decided it did not wish to undertake such an effort, it could 
simply unleash a variety of nasty viruses designed to unravel the Whole which was Rose, 
a Color which, in the scheme of things, wasn't very large.  Hunt-class Sphere Omega #2 
found itself severed from its Greater Consciousness, just in case the worse happened.
	{Rose Hunt-class Sphere Omega #2 requests communication linkage with Borg 
Exploratory-class Cube #347 concerning your current difficulties.  Respond.}

			*	*	*	*	*

	Doctor tilted his head and flattened his ears in a show of consternation.  66 of 203 
had been brought to Maintenance Bay #5 once it had been confirmed Supply Closet #118 
was empty of the "new" gnomes (the search by Weapons and squad had been very 
thorough - 66 of 203 would need to build a new gnome habitat, not to mention acquire 
new, guaranteed-ceramic gnomes).  The still unresponsive drone had a dent on the side of 
his head due to the unexpected transit to normal space, large enough to be fatal if he had 
not been Borg.  Repair nanites were busily at work and Doctor was confident of a full 
recovery with only minor memory loss and/or personality alteration.  No, Doctor's 
dismay came from the object that 66 of 203 clutched with such force that none had been 
able to remove it, specifically, the FisherGnome.
	Ears were flicked as Doctor registered the transporter arrival of Captain.  "Then 
find a substitute for the pry bar if it has gone missing.  Any length of metal the size of a 
doggy-fetch stick will do.  This poor fellow here may have to have his arm removed to 
extract the cutesy gnome."  The last sentence was directed at Captain, not the scurrying 
drone maintenance hierarchy members present.  66 of 203 was only one of many injured 
drones in this and other maintenance bays.
	"Either some drone has taken a joke way beyond funny and into the 'Terminate 
me' category, or something else is happening.  There is a high degree of probability 
that...the...gnome" Captain disliked the consensus, but the other decision branches verged 
beyond the improbable to the downright impossible "66 of 203 holds will assist us in the 
matter."
	"We may have to remove his forearm," warned Doctor again as a number of 
crowbars borrowed from engineering supplies materialized in the bay on an equipment 
table.
	Captain minutely shook his head, part of his primary attention directed towards 
the external sensors and, more specifically, the Rose sphere which was visible just 
beyond customary long-distance threat range for both vessels.  "Remove it.  It can always 
be upgraded with an assembly.
	Doctor gave a nonverbal assent, followed by a "True-blue."  He glanced at the 
crowbars now present, then at a laser bone saw.  With a click of teeth, he called for a pry 
bar:  less destructive method first as the angle of the arm necessitated cutting in such a 
way which might damage the FisherGnome.
	Captain transported back to his nodal intersection as drone maintenance units 
were lowering 66 of 203 to the floor from the surgical table in order to gain better 
leverage for the crowbars.
	{Update,} ordered Captain to Delta as he banished the bouncing sphere screen 
saver from holographic windows.
	Internal scans had found high explosives packed in strategic and /very/ hard to 
access points of all auxiliary cores.  The explosives were crude chemical-based bombs, 
but that did not make them any less dangerous.  If triggered, simulations indicated a fatal 
dilithium cascade which would punch very large holes in the superstructure.  Secondary 
explosions were extremely likely.  The final outcome would be a cube literally shredded 
from the inside-out.  One could not completely power down the cores without risk of a 
dilithium breech; and while engineering removed dilithium during normal core 
maintenance, it was a multi-step process which would not go beyond the notice of the 
saboteurs...who had already warned against the action.
	Progressively finer internal scans had not found the intruders.  Other items of a 
suspiciously pet-like nature had been uncovered, as well as an organic blob of something 
in Supply Closet #73 which seemed to be verging upon 'life' (if not sentience), but no 
hijackers.
	Delta had dispatched 2 of 3, the most limber and low-slung of the engineering 
hierarchy, to see if he could access the explosives.  {Negative.  The explosives are 
located in an area which is normally serviced once every one million light years, or three 
spatial anomaly episodes, at a dry-dock complex.  Very difficult to access without 
specialty equipment we lack.}
	{It is cramped in here,} stated 2 of 3 as he provided a modified visual stream high 
in the claustrophobic quotient.  {Even if I didn't have non-flexible artificial bits, I still 
couldn't reach this cache,.  One needs a young child of my species.}  Pause as the low, 
dark corridor jerked side to side.  {I think I'm going to need help backing out...could 
someone pull on my rope.  I may be a wee bit stuck.}
	{Attempt another auxiliary core,} ordered Captain.
	{We've tried three,} reminded Delta, {all the same as this one.}
	Said Captain, {There are seven additional cores to go.}  Awareness switch to 
Sensors.  {Report.}
	{There is anomalous [bumper cars] on [bonsai] ship-to-ship fractal subspace band 
theta-omega-0.3.}
	Captain blinked, then tasked one of the holographic windows to display a 
graphical representative of the band.  It was a frequency largely abandoned the year 
before following evidence that one or more Colors had compromised its integrity.  It had 
not been entirely discarded on the off chance a Color might try to utilize it, precipitating a 
possible opportunity to attack the source Mind.  Usually the command and control 
hierarchy monitored vinculum traffic for irregularities of the home-grown variety, but the 
current situation warranted passing that responsibility to sensor hierarchy for the nonce.
	The transmission was solely verbal with no sub-channels for additional content.  
It was the action of a Color - only Borg-derived entities could access vinculum-mediated 
bands - who was attempting to limit contact to as narrow a band as possible just in case 
something nasty came swimming back upstream.  Captain switched the sound stream to 
nodal intersection speakers, passive reception.
	Multivoice:  "Is this the correct sub-drift frequency?  Respond.  Rose Hunt-class 
Sphere Omega #2 requests communication linkage with Borg Exploratory-class Cube 
#347 concerning your current difficulties."
	Captain narrowed his eye and cocked his head as the transmission minutely 
shifted to another sub-sub-frequency, attempting to lock on the correct band.  Without 
feedback, however, the Rose sphere would not be successful.  It /could/ be a trap; or it 
could be a true offer of assistance.  The offer would surely benefit Rose in some manner, 
but the Collective was being singularly unhelpful at the moment, distracted by matters 
relating to the latest attempt to collect Omega particles by forcing white dwarf stars into 
miniature supernovas.  One did suppose that a disabled science platform about to be 
engulfed by plasma (and which held important information in its databanks, 
untransmittable due to the termination of all drones onboard following a 'cottage cheese' 
incident - very embarrassing) was seen to be of higher value than an Exploratory-class 
cube undergoing its 21st "we are going to explode!" episode since commissioning.
	The consensus cascade was to answer, with the caveat to retain a verbal-only 
transmission.
	"This is Borg Exploratory-class Cube #347 responding to Rose Hunt-class Sphere 
Omega #2.  The correct band is theta-omega-0.3.  State the nature of this transmission."  
Captain voiced the words aloud even as his eye glazed over and he turned inward, slivers 
of himself busy with multiple tasks at once.  The nodal intersection speakers repeated the 
words in verbal lockstep, substituting a multivoice.
	"You have an infestation of Shros.  We will remove them for you."
	"There is no reference to 'Shros' in our file.  Elaborate."
	"Schrodinger silicates.  Species #123."
	Captain accessed assimilation files; and the hologram in front of him mirrored the 
dossier for species #123.  Most of the information fields were blank and there was no 
picture of the being.
	"Silicates are a rare lifeform.  There are none on this vessel."
	The Rose verbal component altered, dropping the multivoice for that of a singular 
drone, specifically, that of the Rose Captain.  "We know this is an imperfect sub-
collective.  Do you, by chance, have any garden gnomes aboard that you are aware of?"  
Long pause.  "Hello?  Garden gnomes?  Lawn gnomes?  Ceramic gnome statues of any 
sort?"
	"Maybe..."  Captain substituted the Collective multivoice for an analogue of his 
own.
	"You have Shros.  I assume I am speaking to the consensus monitor and facilitator 
for the sub-collective.  Gnomes are their favorite camouflage because so many species, 
for unknown reasons, invent the phenomenon of the tacky garden gnome.  We can help, 
but we will be required to send specialists."
	"That is unacceptable.  Provide us with directions of what we need to do."
	"There is a 100% probability that your fate in this matter is to become a rapidly 
cooling debris field.  Only by including us in the calculations is there a chance for you to 
remain in one piece, more or less.  If you do not, it is no loss to us if you do explode, 
except it will be very inefficient for us to comb through the scrap looking for Shros.  
Rose /is/ in the bounty hunting business, and we have confronted Shros before."
	"So?"
	"Do you really /want/ to blow up?  Because you will if you continue the way you 
undoubtedly are.  Even if you cooperate, the Shros will blow you up anyway.  The 
Garden Gnome Liberation Front - GGLF - is the most radical of their organizations.  
They do quite fine in a vacuum.  Shros generally view carbon-based lifeforms in the same 
way many sentients regard annoying insects.  Besides, if you blow up for no reason, that 
won't further the Borg Collective now, will it?  For all the faults of an imperfectly 
assimilated sub-collective, you are still useful, else you would not exist."
	Captain knew the Rose captain was fast-talking, attempting to swing the case in 
the direction of Rose by voicing any and all arguments which may have weight in the 
inevitable consensus cascade.
	"All terminated for nothing," repeated the Rose captain.
	"Stand by," said Captain as four thousand drones halted their various activities to 
consider their fate.  Several calculations and simulations later, all of which ended badly 
for Cube #347, a decision was reached.  "No more than three representatives are to be 
allowed on this cube.  Beam them to the following coordinates in five minutes, standard 
Exploratory-class cube schematic plan with Y-axis-up aligned with galactic north."

	Subsection 17, submatrix 10, nodal intersection #19 was not the smallest of its 
kind on Cube #347, and certainly not the largest.  However, at the moment, Captain's 
usual locale when not in his alcove was a mite cramped.  Captain, Second, and six bulky 
weapons units comprised the cube compliment; and the Rose representatives consisted of 
the sphere's consensus monitor and facilitator, another tactical drone, and a rather 
nervous Romulan decked out in powered exo-armor and full anti-Borg gear.
	Captain pivoted to face his Rose counterpart, banging his right shoulder against 
Second.  "We are ready."  A space at the "front" of the nodal intersection, opposite 
corridor 113 and where Captain normally positioned his main holo-window, was clear of 
bodies.
	"Proceed," said Captain Ricko.
	 A pair of bar stools set side-by-side materialized from of a transporter beam.  On 
one stool was a small hand-held recorder, of the type used by college students throughout 
the universe to tape lectures.  Upon the second stool stood a garden gnome, specifically 
the FisherGnome, recently pried from 66 of 203's grip, smiling worm lazily swinging 
back and forth.
	"Wally," snapped Captain Ricko.
	The Romulan snorted.  "I'm part of your crew, but I'm not one of your drones.  
Just a moment."  A tricorder studded with an impressive number of blinking lights was 
unshipped from exo-armor harness.  "If I'm not moving fast enough for you, you could 
have brought another drone, you know, else outfitted yourself or 98 of 981 with the 
appropriate hardware."  Despite tough words and armor which made her frame resemble 
that of an over-built tactical unit, Wally still flinched as she edged past Second to 
approach the stools.
	{Stop that,} Captain told Second.
	Second, who had lunged several centimeters towards the Romulan, professed to 
have no idea what Captain was talking about:  his internal gyroscopes had momentarily 
malfunctioned.
	{Riiiiiight,} responded Captain, not bothering to ascertain the validity of the 
statement.
	Wally passed the tricorder up and down the front of the FisherGnome, read the 
output, then called over her shoulder, "It's a Shro."
	Captain Ricko emphasized to Captain, "See, you do have a Shro infestation."
	Captain narrowed his eye, not pleased at the 'I told you so,' but unwilling to voice 
any complaint or show an outward reaction.  He (and Second) did briefly cock their heads 
and turn inward as a rogue command originating from the intruders - How did they 
manage their interface? - attempted to unlock internal sensors outside the auxiliary cores.  
It was blocked.  Command and control and assimilation hierarchies were working to limit 
the hijackers' access to computer subroutines which would reveal the sub-collective's 
noncompliance with an earlier demand to not consort with Rose.
	Returning attention to the nodal intersection, Captain regarded the Rose 
consensus monitor and facilitator.  "Are we ready to begin?  We have transported to this 
locale the requested items."
	Captain Ricko glanced at the unBorg bar stools, "More or less requested items, I 
see.  First, what information does the Collective retain on the Shros?"
	Behind the FisherGnome a holographic window flashed into existence.  Borg 
alphanumerics slowly scrolled, but where the normal dossier would be thick with 
descriptors, resistant quotients, figures, and pictures, this file was remarkable in the 
amount of empty space it possessed.  Returned to the relative safety of Captain Ricko's 
side, Wally squinted at the display, unable to read any except the most rudimentary 
gestalt-words.
	"Species #123 - Schrodinger Silicates," pronounced Captain mechanically (and 
completely, disregarding the Rose abbreviation of the species name).  "Native form - 
unknown.  Commonly adopts 'garden gnome' likeness as camouflage."  Many additional 
unknowns followed, including if species #123 was even susceptible to assimilation.  
"Ancillary note - species #123 only partially resides in the same temporal tau frame as the 
Collective."
	The cryptic note explained the reason behind the common name for species #123, 
the actual racial designation another unknown in the long list of unknowns.  Similar to 
the famous thought experiment with Schrodinger's cat, observation froze quantum 
potential into reality.  Schrodinger silicates were shapeshifters, although not in the 
traditional sense, able to rearrange their molecular structure to any inorganic shape of 
similar base form mass which had no mechanical or electrical complications.  In other 
words, an individual could become a chair (or a ceramic gnome), but not a bicycle or a 
computer.  However, for the species, even the simple act of /moving/ involved 
shapeshifting, although it was moving which could occur on a vastly accelerated scale 
due to their not-quite-here in the quantum-temporal sense.  Unfortunately, the moment 
they were observed, by eye or camera or sensor, they snapped into unmoving reality, 
analogous to Schrodinger's cat which was simultaneously living and dead until the box 
was opened.
	Captain Ricko contemplated the window.  "Your data is a bit outdated, but then 
again, none except Rose has had much experience with Shros."  Pause.  "And, no, we will 
not be updating the Collective files, so don't bother to ask."  Shorter pause.  "We are 
ready to begin?  Okay, Shro, you probably know the answers better than I know the 
questions.  Start talking."  The Rose drone pointedly closed his eyes and turned his back 
to the bar stool, followed almost in lockstep by 98 of 981, and, subsequent an elbow jab 
to the side, by Wally.
	After a long moment, Captain mimicked Captain Ricko, as did Second and the six 
tactical drones.  
	Nothing happened.
	Captain turned slightly, enough to bring the stools into his peripheral vision.  
Recorder and gnome had not altered position.  He scanned the nodal intersection, 
noticing that one of the guards had not quite turned her back, had not quite shut her eye 
or dimmed her ocular implant.
	{159 of 300!  Face the wall!}  The drone abruptly snapped to attention with nose 
to the wall, limbs audibly whining.
	Another long minute passed.
	{Second!  Disconnect the feed from camera nd-119-beta!}  In the dataspaces, the 
visual stream in question was severed.
	Yet /another/ minute passed with no results.
	"Captain Ricko, tell your Romulan to act as required."  Wally received a kick to 
her shin which staggered her despite exo-armor support.
	Finally, with all parties suitably not observing, there was the sound of a bar stool 
wobbling leg to leg, followed by the click of a tape recorder.  Captain Ricko pivoted to 
face the gnome.  Everyone else followed suit.  By all outward appearances, little had 
changed, except the worm was gently swinging once more.
	"Rewind and play the message, Wally," ordered Captain Ricko.
	"Why me?  They are closer."  Wally flicked her chin at Second and Captain.
	Replied Captain Ricko, "Because you are the small being here; and because even 
with your armor, you remain more mobile in these cramped surroundings than any of us."
	Wally huffed as she shouldered her way to the stool, detouring as best as possible 
around Second, muttering, "Well, aren't we getting the 'superior lifeform' attitude going?  
Must be some sort of Collective-Color pissing contest, except neither pisses."  The 'we' 
was very sarcastic, and no matter how underbreath it was whispered, it was perfectly 
audible to all present.  The recorder was picked up, rewound, and set to play.
	"My name is not important."  The voice was breathy with a squeaky undertone, 
like an aspirating clarinet not quite in tune.  "What is important is that this vessel is 
currently under the threat of the GGLF.  I can help you.  The real question is...can you 
help me?"
	 The recorder was placed back on the stool.
	"It depends.  Elaborate.  I am Rose, and I'm sure you know what that means.  
Turn."  The final word was directed to the nodal intersection at large by Captain Ricko.  
In such a manner the 'conversation' progressed, not without its stops and stalls as one or 
another had to be forcefully reminded peeking was not permitted.
	FisherGnome:  "I used to be part of the GGLF, only it wasn't called the GGLF 
then.  It was a part of the larger Siliconite Awareness movement to have the organics of 
the galaxy recognize that those of naturally evolved silicon chemistries were not just 
novelties or sources of exotic ores.  Silicon-beings are alive too.  Then it got out of hand, 
and the GGLF splintered from SA, turned to more violent actions.  I /know/ organics are, 
well, just carbon-based bags of puss, but still...it wasn't right."
	Second:  "Carbon-based bags of puss?  Engineering could use some exotic ores 
via replicator reclamation."
	FisherGnome (one arm frozen with middle finger extended towards the ceiling):  
"Maybe I'd rather this poor excuse for a Borg vessel was blown up, despite it being my 
refuge for the last year and a bit."
	Captain Ricko:  "Back to the recitation.  Cube #347 consensus monitor and 
facilitator, control your drone."
	Captain:  "My sub-designation is Captain.  And Second is controlled, else Second 
will find himself transported back to his alcove for a time-out."
	FisherGnome (back to original posture):  "As I was saying, I didn't find violent 
means to liberate the occasional Silicate, usually a Schrodinger Silicate caught under the 
glare of security camera in a mall-garden setting, right.  I felt that something more than 
lobbying, which is what the SA primarily accomplishes, needed to be done, but the 
GGLF had gone too far.  And it was expensive.  In order to gain the supplies and credit 
needed, the group would attack organic-run businesses, ships, individuals.  It did not 
matter how many organics were killed during the raids.  That, more than anything else, 
made me decide to take action."  Pause.  "Are you sure the GGLF isn't listening in?"
	Captain:  "We are sure."
	FisherGnome:  "Okay.   Then I'll tell you.  I was the one responsible for this 
particular cell of GGLF to be incarcerated.  I set them up for capture.  Rose did not 
participate in it, but I'm sure they know the vague details.  I managed not to be at the 
arrest location at the time of their imprisonment due to a contrived excuse; and then, after 
a bit, I was picked up by this vessel.  I won't bore you with the details.  'A Borg cube,' I 
thought...'Perfect!'  I knew that they would eventually manage to break out of jail, but I 
believed that none would find me here, even if they did harbor suspicions."
	Captain Ricko:  "Go on.  You have yet to tell me your requirement for assisting 
us."
	FisherGnome:  "I'm getting to that.  Don't get your nanites in a bundle.  Well, to 
make a long story short, they did hear of my location.  However, they figured that it was 
coincidence that I had not been captured and that I was lying low here.  After all, why 
would the leader of the GGLF turn in his own cell?  Yes, I was the leader at one time, but 
the whole movement spiraled out of my control.  Thus far they are a bit suspicious, but 
no more than usual.  While I think I've allayed them for now, I can't keep it up forever.  
Eventually one of them will catch on, and them I'm shards.  So...how can you help 
me...?"
	Captain Ricko:  "Comply."
	FisherGnome:  "Borg and Colors can be soooo narrow-sighted.  Almost as bad as 
the GGLF.  I'll help you recapture this cell, the most radical of the GGLF, but I want it to 
look like I was killed in the process.  Then I want transportation away from here to a 
location to be determined later if everything goes down okay.  If I am shards, and if they 
escape again (which they will), they won't come looking for me."
	With the recitation complete, Captain Ricko quickly agreed to the conditions, not 
waiting to hear the details of the plan.
	"Wait a moment," said Captain, "this vessel is Borg Exploratory-class Cube #347, 
and not under the control of your sub-collective.  I desire to hear an outline of what this 
species #123 individual has planned before we agree."  Such was accomplished.  "No.  
As the /that/ plan stands, no.  This sub-collective and this vessel will be the ones at risk."
	The two Captains pivoted to face each other, then simultaneously reached forward 
with unaltered hands to grasp in a handclasp.  It was not a particularly friendly gesture.  
Nanotubules burrowed into wrists in a reciprocal contact to allow a contest of wills 
between individuals which did not risk either sub-collective as a whole to the potential 
dangers of a fractal subspace linkage.  The two drones remained still for one minute, two 
minutes, five minutes.  Wally shifted balance from foot to foot in her exo-armor; and the 
various drones present had the glazed eyes of inward examination as they watched an 
unseen contest.  Finally the Captains pulled apart.
	{Good show,} commented Second to Captain.  {For a microsecond there...}
	Aloud, from Captain Ricko, "Fine.  Modification of the plan will commence.  You 
hear that gnome?  No, don't bother to answer, just think on it.  As for you, 4 of 8, Captain 
of this vessel, if you ever decide to defect, Rose will find a place for you as consensus 
monitor and facilitator."
	Second squinted at Captain, {Don't you dare...}
	{One, why would I want to?  Two, if such ever crossed my mind, the Collective 
would terminate me.  Three, the only reason I'm still consensus monitor and not rotated 
out is because of a Collective efficiency analysis, as such applies to this sub-collective}  
Verbally, "I will not be defecting."  
	"If you say so," amiably replied Captain Ricko.  "Now, let's modify the plan, shall 
we?"

			*	*	*	*	*

	"Is this sub-collective to be trusted?" whispered Wally.  Some of the lower spinal 
contact points to her exo-armor were chaffing, but the discomfort would have to increase 
significantly before she felt the need to reseat them.  Unfortunately, the slightly off kilter 
neural interface was causing a ghost itch on the back of her thigh.
	Captain Ricko swiveled his head in the patented Borg-exorcist style to regard the 
Romulan.  "Of course not.  And whispering is futile.  I am sure that there are sensors 
trained on us which will pick up the most minute sounds.  It is what we would do if 
circumstances were reversed.  Now, if you would only let us perform an upgrade to the 
hardware already in your head so that it could interface with us..."
	Wally shook her head, answering (still in a whisper) vehemently, "I am not being 
paid to have Borg or Colored neural interfaces in my head.  Nor is the rest of your 
unaugmented crew.  Check our union contract.  The next thing I know, it is 'How about a 
limb replacement to be more efficient' and 'Just a few billion of our nanites to work with 
your medical nanies, for your benefit, of course.'"  Another head shake.  "And it all ends 
with me a member of the Rose Collective.  Unpaid member.  No.  Find a Personality if 
you want the efficiency represented by the hardware in my brain, but no neural 
interfaces."
	A long sigh.  "As you insist," said Captain Ricko.  Nearby, 98 of 981 suppressed a 
smile in response to an unheard comment.  Both Colors unexpectedly stepped aside, their 
vacated locale suddenly full of transporter beam, then solid cargo.
	"Hey," exclaimed Wally, no longer whispering, "warn me when that is about to 
happen!"
	In response, Captain Ricko simply lifted his whole hand and tapped the side of his 
armored head, indicating the merits of the neural interface and linkage with the sphere's 
sub-collective.
	The three Rose representatives were in Bulk Cargo Hold #8 of Cube #347.  The 
payloads, much more than the just-arrived pallet shrouded in enough square meters of 
plastic wrap as to turn the contents into a vague lumpy shadow, were specialty apparatus 
from Omega #2's stores.  The equipment was necessary to capture the Shros; and there 
was insufficient time (not to mention danger of opening a full link) to transfer the 
manufacturing data for Cube #347 for local replicators.
	A foursome of Cube #347 drones trundled to the recently arrived pallet, ignoring 
Wally, Captain Ricko, and 98 of 981.  Hold tractor beams briefly raised the pallet, 
sufficient to slide an anti-grav transport platform under the payload.  The equipment was 
ready to be pushed to the unwrapping and unloading zone.  As the pallet silently levitated 
away, it became the ball in an increasingly rough game of keep-away from one of the 
drones.
	"Okay, this sub-collective can't be trusted.  Fine.  I have already insisted on extra 
hazard pay for my part in this little plan, not to mention just /being/ on this vessel," said 
Wally to Captain Ricko, voice deliberately at normal conversational levels.  "My next 
question is, can this sub-collective actually pull off the plan?"
	Captain Ricko shrugged as best he could under his armor, knowing that 
unaugmented crew liked to have visual cues.  "There is a 30.5% chance to the positive 
that it will be possible."
	Wally snorted, "And 69.5% to the negative.  I want an increase in my hazard 
pay."
	"We'll get back to you on that."  The plural was a definite inclusion of the entire 
Rose Collective.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Except for the addition of a small runabout prominently placed in a large open 
area in front of partially ajar exterior doors, Bulk Cargo Hold #8 looked as it always did, 
at least to the untrained eye.  There was perhaps a bit more clutter, a few more 
haphazardly stacked crates and a stack of conduit lengths which had not been present 
earlier; and the looming bulk of a fiber-optic wire spool pyramid leaning out of kilter was 
hard to miss.  However, this was a Borg cube, and inventory, especially that related to 
ship maintenance was in constant flux as it was shuffled from one hold to another as need 
dictated.
	The runabout was the standard long-distance racing model, hastily constructed 
from one of 127 of 230's recently acquired do-it-yourself kits.  True, the life support was 
minimal, but the soon-to-be occupants did not breathe and could care less if the ambient 
temperature was a brisk five degrees above absolute zero.  For them, the only thing which 
mattered was that the engines worked, fuel was topped off, the subspace radio had 
sufficient power, and that there were two warp torpedoes (much to Weapons' dismay) in 
the makeshift launchers fastened to the shuttle's sides as if a pair of extraneous outriggers.
	It vehicle had been one of the increasingly outrageous demands from the GGLF, 
substituted when the sub-collective had flatly denied, explosion or no explosion, signing 
over the title for the cube (which included drones as slave labor crew).  There had been 
several detonations of small bombs throughout the cube, but nothing threatening to the 
structure and, as of yet, no KABOOMY!  The minor explosions had occurred when the 
sub-collective had not been expedient in acceding to demands; and the bombs were 
located throughout the cube, the Shros able to move vast distances in the interstitial 
spaces due to their temporal decoupling.
	Among the other demands associated with the runabout, in order of importance:
	1.  a wide variety of weapons to be placed onboard;
	2.  the liberation of any rock-like object to the runabout, especially any garden 
gnomes which might have escaped mostly unscathed the searching of supply closet #118;
	3.  unfettered access to internal and external sensors;
	4.  the shuttle to be carpeted in turf and sufficient grow lights installed to support 
the grass; and
	5.  no action to be taken to stop the runabout from leaving, either inside the hold 
or when free to space.
	For the last of the stipulations, it was explained in vivid detail the presence of a 
deadman switch and what would happen should said switch not be properly deactivated.  
KABOOMY!  Although the switch was not a physical switch but a transmitter which had 
to "beep" the detonators once every five seconds, the concept was the same as any low-
tech finger-on-button.
	The sub-collective, at the urging of Rose, readily agreed to demands 1, 2, and 4.  
Demand 3 was outright denied; and the response to demand 5 was obscured in a 
momentary multivoice coughing fit in which the word "bullsh**" was definitely not a 
component.  Definately.  The GGLF had apparently acceded to the minor defiance 
represented by the refusal, while believing that the sub-collective had agreed to the last 
stipulation.  Still, paranoia high, as a final demand, the Rose sphere was to move into the 
blast radius represented by Cube #347...just in case.
Supposedly the Shros would remotely deactivate the detonators once they were on 
their way.
	"The bombs will be deactivated.  Unfortunately, it will be terminal for us," said 
Captain Ricko, echoing the independent consensus of the Cube #347 sub-collective, as 
the Rose vessel slid in to position (and as Captain, with support of command and control, 
froze Weapons' control lest "accidents" occur).
	And so, in Bulk Cargo Hold #8, as per instructions, no one observed the entrance 
of the Shros.
	If one could watch the Shros, either through an eye biologic or technological, one 
would have first known of their presence through the clang of an interstitial access panel 
crashing to the deck.  From the waist-level hole came shapes only vaguely resembling 
cheery garden statuary.  There was a certain gnomish roundness to the midlines, and a 
definite pointy hatness, but the overall sensation was one of blur, as if one's eyes had 
developed a furry post-inebriation morning mouth.  The Shros, after all, weren't quite 
playing by the rules as far as temporal dynamics were concerned.
	One, two, five, thirteen blurs melted from the access point, gathering on the deck 
in a circle before flowing across the hold towards the runabout.  There were odd pauses 
and jerks in which momentary glimpses of limbs, beards, suspenders, plaid shorts could 
be discerned.  Slowly (or quickly) one of the smudges pushed its way to the forefront, 
then distanced itself from the rest of the pack, as if eager to enter the inviting door of the 
shuttle where just a hint of green grass could be seen.  And then it tripped, slipping an ill-
defined foot through a faint oil sheen, falling with an exaggerated clatter of fishing pole.
	"Clumsy..." began the wispy chime of one of the followers, abruptly stopping as a 
foreboding quasi-clairvoyance whispered of Something about to commence.  
"Blindfolds!  Now!"
	"Got you now!" shouted Wally as she rolled out from her hiding place behind the 
leaning tower of wire spools.  The Shros, paranoid and expecting a highly cybernized 
threat, had carefully scanned the hold before exiting the interstitial space.  Without her 
exoskeleton, the few implants which Wally did have were occluded to insignificance by 
her otherwise organic body.  Since the scanner had not been set to look for organic-only 
signatures (and even if it had, several strategically placed barrels of neurogenic gel would 
have confused the issue), Wally had gone unnoticed.  Until the rattling cue, that was.
	Glaring lights turned the formerly dark hold into a brightly lit arena; and various 
recording equipment, from primitive flash bulb cameras to sophisticated 3D news gear, 
whirled into life.
	Wally lobbed a smoke bomb at the lead Shro with one hand and fired her weapon 
blindly with the other.  Amid the pall of white smoke came the satisfying crack of 
damaged pottery, followed by a spray of shards.  The muzzle of the gun turned to train on 
the rest of the party.  Unfortunately, the Shros had broken the laws of their own temporal 
physics.
	"If I can't see you, you can't see me" is a common belief of many creatures, 
ranging from the extremely endangered kupta-bear of Hydraus III (which hides from big 
game hunters by placing its paws over its eyes) to young children to a certain civilization 
who, by religious edict, believes that it is impossible for sensors on stellar naval ships, 
regardless of species, to be able to report data further than 70 light minutes beyond the 
hull.  The latter until relatively recently, did not believe there was anything beyond a 
certain invisible line drawn around their own solar system; and are even now astonished 
as vessels sent out to that line find that the universe does not end amid "Here be Dragons" 
(unfortunately for those vessels, they usually become lost as the homeworld disappears 
into the ether).
	The remaining Shros had taken the "If I can't see you..." axiom to heart, large 
blindfolds of many colors and patterns obscuring their sight.  Unable to conclusively 
determine if organics could observe them, Schrodinger's quantum cat was reversed, feline 
in the sealed box disbelieving the universe outside to be one truth or another.
	And it worked.
	Despite obvious stumbling, the Shros remained blurs, unable to be targeted, 
unable to be hit by weaponry regulated to one mere tau vector.  There was no simple 
pottery to pick up and lock into confinement, as had been the plan.  Conversely, even 
though the Shros could not see, they could both hear and use an temporal electromagnetic 
sense which was not echoed amid the biological clades.  Seeing was not necessary to 
close in upon the annoyance which was Wally.
	"Get your metal butts in here now," spoke Wally into the communication pickup 
embedded in her collar.  "And nets would be really good too."
	Transporters shimmered, scintillating green against the wispy remains of the 
smoke bomb.  Wally danced sideways half a step before she recognized Captain Ricko.  
"Where's my exo-armor?  It has all my anti-Borg gear on it, besides this," she waved her 
dual-action weapon.
	"Maybe..." began Captain Ricko.
	"Whatever you - all of you - are thinking, unless it concerns giving me a raise, the 
answer is 'no.'  Just get me my exo-armor."
	The metallic shape of rods and bars shimmered into material reality.  As Wally 
sidled to her equipment and began to quickly check it before stepping up and back into 
the exoskeleton in unconscious parody of a drone entering an alcove, Captain Ricko 
remarked, "Blindfolds.  New resistance action.  It will be futile, but it will raise the 
general capture-resistance quotient of the species should it be adopted by all Shros."
	"Whatever," muttered Wally as the exoskeleton successfully inserted the primary 
connector into the plug at the base of her skull, followed by the secondary links along her 
spine.  The machine smoothly whirred to life, amplifying her movements with a grace 
unequaled by the standard Borg or Colored drone.  "Ready to go."
	"Good, because I think our allies of the moment are having difficulties with the 
Shros."
	Wally peered to the scene of action.  While four Shros had been divested of their 
blindfolds and thusly frozen into a variety of unflattering positions, eight of the creatures 
still moved with blurring fluidity.  One would think that a net would be a relatively 
simple object to use, but from the evidence of five drones hopelessly tangled while 
another six argued deployment strategy, such was not the case.  Secure in the projection 
afforded by exo-armor, personal forcefield belt, personal nanites, neck guard, and other 
anti-Borg gear, Wally waded into the fray with typical Romulan confidence.

			*	*	*	*	*

	"It was only a light load of nanites," said Captain along the communications link 
to the Rose sphere.  "A nonBorg humanoid amid drones of tactical and assimilation 
specialties, what did your unaugmented assistant expect?  Her forcefield did absorb the 
weapons fire, after all, even if it did overload near the end.  The scorching appeared to be 
slight and the hair will grow back."
	Replied Captain Ricko from the display window, "She will recover.  The problem 
is that she requests /additional/ hazard pay above and beyond our contractual standard, 
else she is going to sic her union on us."
	"Don't look to us.  Money is irrelevant.  Unions are irrelevant."
	"I knew you were going to say that," grumbled Captain Ricko.
	The Rose Captain was returned to his sphere; and it was the comm-bridge which 
was present behind him.  The same semi-competent individual who had been the cube's 
first contact with the sphere was present at a background console, engrossed in a game of 
solitaire.  Another nonBorgified crew member crossed the field of view, wielding a 
pushbroom with lackluster enthusiasm.
	"Have you completed the internal scan?" queried Captain Ricko.  Color and 
Collective would have parted ways immediately following the securing of the escaped 
silicate convicts, except for the need of Cube #347 to perform an intense internal scrutiny 
to confirm no additional unknown Shros lingered.  Protocols reluctantly furnished by the 
Omega #2 had been immediately transferred to the Greater Consciousness for inclusion 
to the database linked with species #123.
	"Completion in 10.75 minutes."  Captain paused as Sensors relayed the presence 
of a comm-imp displaying the sender-signature of a loose end which had developed 
concerning the Shro roundup - FisherGnome.  {Download.  Sweep the code for viruses.  
Prepare to unencrypt contents.}
	The FisherGnome was gone.  The original plan had called for the apparent 
destruction of the FisherGnome, followed by transfer of the silicate to the Rose vessel for 
transport wherever the creature wanted to go.  The smoke, the weapons fire, the swap of 
Shro for ceramic shards had been completed flawlessly during the initial opening attack.  
The transporter destination had been the shuttle, the FisherGnome arguing it a reasonable 
destination which left him available should he be needed.  Obviously the FisherGnome 
had harbored an ulterior motive.  During the following mess of nets and a certain Rose 
Captain insisting that the Shros had to be captured alive, the FisherGnome had taken the 
opportunity to make a hasty exit...with a runabout loaded with weaponry, warp torpedoes, 
and a well manicured lawn.  Due to the exterior weaponry lockdown, the shuttle had 
managed to place sufficient distance between itself and cube to allow uncontested transit 
to faster-than-light speeds.
	{Ready to [stereo],} affirmed Sensors less than a second later.
	Captain focused upon Captain Ricko, who had adopted the standard pose of a 
drone concentrating most attention upon internal operations.  "We have received a 
message from the silicate FisherGnome."
	"We have as well," responded Captain Ricko.  "We calculate 98.7% probability 
they are the same."
	Captain frowned slightly.  "Our calculations are 98.75%."
	The two momentarily locked into a staring contest over the discrepancy of 0.05%.  
Captain Ricko broke it off first.  "Random statistical error?" he opinioned.
	"Could be," admitted Captain.  {Play.}  He cocked his head slightly as the 
FisherGnome's voice spat from the nodal intersection speakers.
	"Sorry I had to run, but I could not divulge my entire plan.  While Rose /could/ 
take me to a station, planet, or other destination, such might leave behind a trail for the 
more radical elements of the GGLF to uncover.  Better for me to just vanish, to remain 
dead.  At least for awhile.
	"The lawn is excellent, I must say.  Very homey, although it does need a few 
stepping stones and fountains.  It will never be as nice as 66 of 203's habitat, I fear.  Still, 
tolerably comfortable.
	"I do thank you for the warp torpedoes.  They will fetch a very good price on the 
black market once I feel it is time to emerge from my 'death'...with a new face, form, and 
name, naturally.  I will so miss that fishing pole, although I hear that radically styled 
beards and curly-toed shoes are in with the younger generations.  The money will be 
necessary, you see, when I make the reconquest of the GGLF.  The tenants are still good, 
even if the methods are not.  Talk is not the answer when action is needed, just not so 
much on the KABOOMY! side.
	"So, here's to seeing you around, or not.  And could you relay to 66 of 203 that 
he'll find some good deals on eccentric non-silicate garden gnomes at the Grand Market 
on Bombalay II?  Just tell the shop-creature that FisherGnome sent you."
	The message ended.
	Speaking of KABOOMY!...  "We will begin to remove one of the detonators 
shortly," informed Captain to Captain Ricko.  The vaulted deadman switch of the Shros 
had not been the threat the gnomes had apparently thought, it quite easy to replicate the 
frequency and timing of the beeps sans the actual device to keep the explosives from 
becoming, well, explosive.  The removal of the problem presented a slightly different 
difficulty, the locations involved technically suited for dry-dock, except the Collective 
had banned Cube #347 from said facilities while it was a virtual bomb.  Much work 
would be required by engineering hierarchy to gain appropriate access.
	Captain Ricko blinked.  "I think we can do without waiting for the outcome of 
your scan.  Highly unlikely any additional Shros remain, after all, since the escapees are 
all accounted for.  However, if you do come across any additional Shros, just give us a 
holler.  We will remove them for a suitable fee."  The communications link was severed 
as the Rose sphere gave the impression of backing away despite the fact that ship 
technically had no front or back.  It vanished hastily into hypertranswarp.
	Why worry?  The sub-collective calculated only a 14.53% chance (per detonator) 
that there would be a catastrophic explosion.  Give or take a random statistical error.