All Star Trek knick-knacks and paddy-whacks owned by Paramount.  The dog running 
away with the Traks bone belongs to Decker.  And I don't know /where/ to put this old 
man who came rolling into BorgSpace.

			Give the Dog a Bone, Part II

Previously on Star Traks:  BorgSpace (cue ominous "Borg" theme, heavy on drums and 
piccolo) - 

Luplup is back!  With more lives than a feline cockroach, an overt literary ploy by the 
Author brings the Queen Vyst back from Season 5 termination!  Long live Luplup!

The last remnants of Luplup have been caught by Second Federation Black Ops and are 
being held for study at a secret location.  Meanwhile, on the BorgSpace border, the 
Collective is attacking a Sec-Fed colony as a feint to test for response and weakness.  In 
reply, Black Ops unleashes Luplup (with Peach help) upon a Borg experimental mining 
complex; and it is only after loss of the complex and two cubes that Exploratory-class 
Cube #347 is sent in.  Luplup is discovered and Cube #347 ordered to << ATTACK! >> 
against overwhelming odds.

And spoons will have no further part to play in this particular drama.

***********

Post #10665137 on rumor.news.net		(last reset:  104 time periods)
Title:  Conspiracy!!				
Author:  TheQueen_921

This is not a noRMal Conspiracy.  I have real rumor NewS.  I was right aboUt the Bolian 
and poLYesTer thing, yes?  THis one much BeTter.

Secret Sec-Fed gRoup called Black Ops has eNslaVed Luplup.  They tell no one they 
have Luplup.  You knOw whaT a Luplup is?  And Colored Borg iNVolVeD too.  Peach 
Borg, the sPy-Borg type.  The Bad Peach Borg NO tell othEr Borg.

This not just RumoR, but real News.  Trust TheQueen.

History:  TheQueen_921 has posted 159 times on rumor.news.net and has the rank of 
"FuzzyWuzzy"

			*	*	*	*	*

	It was a titanic accident in the making rushing to ground zero.  Borg vessels, even 
the relatively small Exploratory-class cubes, were not insignificant objects; and when two 
so much as side-swiped in a crowded unimatrix flyway, things tended to break.  Big 
things.  Sufficiently big things that sometimes it was easier to tow the most badly 
damaged loser (there were never winners) to a ship-breaking facility for recycling rather 
than attempt repairs.  There were damages even nanites and a dry-dock could not fix.  A 
head-on collision - and it increasingly looked like such was in the immediate future - 
between two Exploratory-class cubes and a Battle-class cube would be a spectacle to 
behold.
	The former Battle-class Cube #761 and Exploratory-class Cube #1187 were not at 
their best.  By their exterior, beyond a few scratches in hull armor and an odd wobbling, 
the cubes seemed fine.  On the inside, however, ranks of reptiloid creatures pattered four-
footed through (and under, in more than a few cases) the sundered remains of the 
pervious cybernetic tenants.  The occasional Luplup tactical Self would raise a muzzle in 
a barking hunt cry, echoed by nearby workers who strived to maintain the machinery of 
the stolen cube.  In the deep bowels of the vessels, many underQueens lent cognitive and 
neural functioning to slave the ship computer to the Will of Luplup.  The Borg computer 
wasn't exactly the shiniest spoon in the drawer, but it was intelligent enough, in a brute 
force way, to know that its normal Collective owner was not at the helm.
	On the other end of the equation, Cube #347 possessed all its faculties.  This, 
however, was not a recommendation to higher efficiency.  Such was especially true when 
the brand of assimilation imperfection that somehow managed to survive the many 
pitfalls which had destroyed and/or maimed similar sub-collective predecessors was 
being driven by a Collective imperative to << ATTACK! >>.  Strategy was nonexistent.  
The suicidal charge favored by Borg and Colored Borg offshoots failed to work when 
confronted by superior numbers combined with superior firepower, which was the 
scenario with which Cube #347 was faced.  Certain designations saw nothing wrong with 
the action, but then again, certain designations thought "tactic" was an abstract term to be 
set with the equally fantastic concepts of "retreat" and "we are so screwed."
	The maths which were totaling one plus two equals BOOM! were not quite 
complete.  There was a third player, one whom had yet to be included into the general 
chaos.  That wild card shimmered into view, cloak dropping, as Cube #347 passed within 
optimal firing range.
	The Black Ops Titan-class corvette SFS Camel's Walk was 100 meters long, a 
mere sliver of nothingness when set against the bulk of an Exploratory-class cube.  The 
regenerative bioarmor standard on all Second Federation military ships, even those 
dedicated to the shady art of espionage, gleamed oily black as final adjustments were 
made to yaw.  The exact form was difficult to pick out, but the impression was one of 
lethality flattened into a stylized "W" nearly as wide as it was long.  Rumor had that a 
design engineer, long since fired, had watched too many classic "Batman" vids; but 
rumor remained only rumor, as the plane used by the caped hero was very trademarked, 
and the Second Federation military had no wish to pay royalties due to perceived 
infringement.  The fact that the few Titan-classes in the fleet were regulated to the 
shadow world of spy games had nothing to do with dodging corporate copyright lawyers.
	Camel's Walk lined up its target and fired a dark purple ray streaked with mauve.  
The light impacted and washed over Cube #347, leaving behind no obvious damage. 
Despite the outwardly smooth manuver, Camel's Walk had been a hurried, Cube #347 
charging before the receiving parties had been ready.  Twisting cliches, better early than 
never, the ambush was sprung even as it seemed the handbasket was approaching Hell at 
the speed of free-fall.  Things were not going quite according to plan, but such would not 
make too much difference in the soon-to-be explosive outcome.
	For a few seconds following weapon deployment, there was no modification in 
Cube #347's suicidal actions.  Such was not expected by those who observed from the 
recloaked Camel's Walk.  What was unexpected was the abrupt change in vector as the 
Borg cube slewed violently sideways to convert a sure head-on into what calculations 
were describing as a miss.  The three cubes slid past each other, the intense exchange of 
raking neuruptor fire inefficient as both sides were largely unable to target anything vital, 
i.e., each other.
	Cube #347 sped away, striving to slip below the arc of the gas giant before the 
Luplup controlled vessels began pursuit.  In the meanwhile, Camel's Walk applied 
emergency power to engines while shouting subspace screams for Battle-class and 
Exploratory-class cubes to break off, stop, anything before they inadvertently smashed 
into the hidden Black Ops ship.

	{Transmutation pulse!} diagnosed Delta immediately as all fractal subspace 
communications with the Borg Collective ceased.  {I /detest/ transmutation pulse.  Even 
with the entire engineering hierarchy washing down the hull and replacing antennae 
clusters, it takes many regenerative /cycles/ to completely remove the transmuted 
molecular layers.}
	Over the disjunct centuries the Cube #347 sub-collective had existed, many 
variations of the old BIC protocol, from initial inception of it as a First Federation Secret 
Weapon of Doom(tm) to latest Colored adaptation in the never-ending Borg-vs.-Color 
(and occasionally Color-vs.-Color) strife had been deployed against it.  At one point, the 
sub-collective had even attempted a crude self-infliction of the weapon on itself in a futile 
attempt to block an incoming flood of junk mail.  Yes, the Cube #347 sub-collective was 
very familiar with the transmutation pulse.
	{Too small,} complained Weapons, distracted for the merest fraction of a second 
before the Enemy corvette vanished under the blanket of a cloak.  Indeed, the Second 
Federation ship was theoretically too undersized to include a transmutation pulse weapon, 
but theory had never gotten in the way of those small beings who did not build on the 
scale of kilometers.  Weapons' diversion did not last long, not with a battle looming.
	Ignoring the readying of the weapons hierarchy and the reaction of the 
engineering hierarchy, command and control was faced with a new situation, one in 
which the order of << ATTACK! >> from the Greater Consciousness was silenced.  Such 
was not to say that the onus was lifted from the sub-collective to attack Luplup with her 
overwhelming odds, just that the burden was not so immediate, not so directly suicidal.
	In other words, "tactics" could be forced upon Weapons (and his hierarchy) as 
something other than a dismissed dictionary definition.
	Captain, backed by other members of the Hierarchy of Eight, wrenched the whole 
of the sub-collective from its track, shattering the Collective-imposed unity to something 
more "normal."  Except for the stability provided by his location in his alcove, Captain 
would have lost his balance and found himself on the deck, if not over the unsafety rail 
and into the tier shaft.  "I am going to need a neural adjustment when this is over," 
muttered Captain.
	The words did not go unheard.  In the neighboring alcove, Second shuffled 
slightly, tilting his head to avoid the intermittent cascade of sparks which had began 
moments before with no provocation, no reason.  {As long as you don't terminate and 
leave the primary consensus monitor and facilitator job to me.  And if you do terminate, 
this whole cube better follow behind, 'cause I will refuse the chore.}
	{Until the Greater Consciousness makes you,} commented Captain absently.  The 
banter required only a fraction of a second; and the entire thoughtstream was a minor 
thread of the greater multi-tasking effort.
	The weapons hierarchy was fighting the redirection of Cube #347's actions.  Ever 
obsessed with tactical simulations and things that went boom, as of late, Weapons had 
become increasingly reluctant to back from a fight, real or otherwise.  Obsession had 
mutated into fixation; and the fixation was threatening to not only lower the efficiency of 
Cube #347, but destroy the vessel and its sub-collective as well.
	{Priority command override, path unit designation 4 of 8 to unit designation 45 of 
300:  initiation of deep regenerative cycle.}  Pause.  {Don't you dare fight it, 45 of 300, 
else I/we will begin termination sequence,} said Captain as he uncharacteristically 
invoked not only Weapons' designation, but a plurality.  Defensive hunter-seeker code 
which had been twisting around as in preparation to turn on its own host returned to 
nominal status of sniffing for virii and other software intruders.  In his alcove, Weapons 
slumped as muscles relaxed and higher brain functions were taken off-line.  
Captain randomized the weapons hierarchy roster, plucking a designation.  The 
first attempt - 13 of 212 - was immediately discarded due to lack of the mental resources 
required in a hierarchy head.  Simply put, 13 of 212, while very endowed in the muscle 
department, made a brick look like a genius.  183 of 300 as an alternate was suitable.
	{183 of 300,} announced Captain to the intended, {you are now sub-designated 
Weapons.}
	{Don't want it,} quickly replied 183 of 300.
	{That does not matter.}
	{Don't want it.  When Weapons wakes up, he'll...he'll...it would be better if I just 
terminate myself now.}
	{Negative.  You are Weapons.}  Captain dumped the entirety of the hierarchy 
responsibilities on the new Weapons.  45 of 300 would be dealt with later when 
emergencies were not so pressing; and it was entirely possible that the former Weapons 
would not be reactivated at all.
	{I am Weapons,} repeated 183 of 300 with dread.
	Only ten seconds had passed since the transmutation pulse had cut connectivity 
with the Greater Consciousness.
	Within Captain's mind and within the dataspaces, attention was shifted to sensor 
input.  A secondary datastream overlaid tactical options.  While Captain would have 
preferred a hologram over the compiled data, it was not an option at the moment.  
Captain did not /need/ a holo, it was just sometimes easier to engage the eyes as a 
supplement to the brain.  If the data had been projected, it would have shown a complex 
diagram of gas giant, moon, cubes, hypothetical location of cloaked Second Federation 
corvette, three scows previously lost in the moon's sensor shadow, random rocks, 
gravitational and radiation fluxes, and so forth from a myriad of inputs.  Various 
simulations and what-if's hovered on sub-streams, each associated with a series of 
numbers which indicated chance of cube survival, Enemy eradication, universe 
spontaneously imploding, etcetera.
	An abbreviated consensus cascade was initiated.  With the weapons hierarchy 
more or less under the control of a new Weapons, the preferred alternatives were a tad 
less suicidal than the current course.  While two highly attractive options ended with a 
95%+ chance of the multiverses turning inside-out, the simplest and most prudent was 
altering trajectory as best possible considering the cube's current momentum and...
	{...retreating to gain better positioning,} finished the new Weapons.  There was 
no escape of the Collective call to << ATTACK! >>, but it could be delayed to a more 
advantageous time and place.  And, since 183 of 300 /was/ of the weapons hierarchy and, 
thus, had the base mindset of a tactical drone...{We will strike as we pass.  Near envelope 
weapons arming.}
	In the back corner of his mind, Captain thought this new Weapons was going to 
be an improvement upon the old.

			*	*	*	*	*

Post #10665218 on rumor.news.net		(last reset:  104 time periods)
Title:  RE:  Conspiracy!!			(Thread:  Conspiracy!!)			
Author:  Watch_Dog18-3

Anyone with half a brain could have figured out the Bolian and polyester 
thing...eventually.  All one needed to do was pay attention to plumbing futures on the 
Market.  

As far as any Peach and Luplup connection?  I don't think so.  (1) Luplup is extinct, end 
of story.  (2) Even if Luplup wasn't extinct, a Color working with Luplup?  HAH!!!!!!!  
Even /Whites/ destroy Luplups on sight...even /Polka-dots/, and they are out of touch 
with the rest of the universe.

You are so full of it, TheQueen.

History:  Watch_Dog18-3 has posted 559 times on rumor.news.net and has the rank of 
"KrazyKat"

			*	*	*	*	*

	Commander Tracy sat in the chair behind the desk in the Camel's Walk captain's 
office, reading a packet of sit-reports from the BorgSpace-SecFed border.  At his feet 
dozed Lups.  He was a base commander, not the Camel's Walk captain, and that worthy 
had been more than happy to give up her office if it meant Tracy would remain out of her 
hair and let her do her job of captaining.  Except for the rather annoyingly cute butterfly-
and-flower motif, Commander Tracy found the office more than adequate, even 
comfortable.
	The Borg advance was faltering, if not outright collapsing.  Ultra long-range 
sensors by disposable spy probe sentinels were noting a massive shift in naval resources, 
major installations left essentially undefended and patrol routes abandoned.  The attack of 
the Almina outpost and colony had ceased (although too late for the people there).  At 
last estimate, 132 Borg ships of various configurations and tonnages were enroute to the 
current system, a total drone force conservatively approaching four million.  And that 
was just from the fringes of BorgSpace.  Mobilization deeper in the territory was 
unknown.
	"Going to get a little hot around here, isn't it?" rhetorically asked Tracy to the air.  
Lups snorted a small snore, then rolled to her back under the desk.  "A right ol' sh**-
storm, I'd say."
	"Whatever you say, sir," replied Slim Jim.  Unlike the base Personality Sam, the 
Camel's Walk AI was always stiffly formal with him.
	Commander Tracy leaned back in his chair, a black leopard (with green 
wristwatch) out of place amid the cheerful butterflies which was the captain's defense 
against the unofficial mascot color of Black Ops.  There was a question which had been 
bothering him ever since he had commandeered Camel's Walk from its assigned duty of 
patrol and base defense.  "Slim Jim, are you the original Personality of this ship?"
	"Yes, sir.  I was installed into Camel's Walk upon her commission 11.3 standard 
years ago."  There was a timbre of pride in the Personality's voice.
	"Were you 'Slim Jim' before then, or did you rename yourself?" asked Tracy.
	Long pause.  "I think I know what your real question is, sir.  At the time of my 
installation, I was a newly spawned Personality, my code freshly declared functional 
following virtual genetic inception.  My three code-parents had given me a binary 
designation, but unless you are a computer, sir, it really doesn't parse.  I did not chose a 
use-name until installation."  Slim Jim stopped talking, waiting several long beats before 
beginning again.
	"Yes, 'Camel's Walk' is a stupid name for a ship, but I wasn't the one who 
christened her.  Her /original/ name was a monstrous mess having to do with camels and 
needles.  I hypothesize the naming commission was drunk and/or stoned at the time.  
Before she was launched from the shipyards, I begged one of my code-parents, who was 
in an appropriate capacity, to rename her in the registry, on the side, you understand.  To 
prevent the change from being too conspicuous, my code-parent altered 'How Many 
Camels Through the Eye of a Needle?' to 'Camel's Walk.'  As a continued play on words, 
I designated my use-name to be Slim Jim, before some smart-ass technician tried to 
attach 'Camel' or 'Humpy' or something else hideous to me.
	"I had not done any research on the name, just thought it a rather witty rhyme 
with 'Jim,' a name I was leaning towards following my inception.  Later I did look up 
'Slim Jim' and found references to a meat byproduct, an illegal device to jimmy open 
aircar doors, an Andorian death-rock band, a sexual..."
	"Oh," interrupted Commander Tracy loudly as he abruptly leaned forward again 
and began to aimlessly shuffle PADDs with a vengeance.  "Er, um, okay then."  
Awkward pause.  Tracy was embarrassed for no discernable reason, as if he had pried 
into a deep, dark, salacious taboo secret, although such was untrue.  Still, the images 
which were spinning in his mind.... "Open a channel to Liaison, would you, Slim Jim?"

	Liaison was at the data pillar, ostentatiously scanning one of the pitifully small 
number of files he could officially access when a chime rang in his head.  Turning 
slightly so as to better face the hologram of Commander Tracy sitting behind a desk, 
Liaison disengaged himself from the pillar.  For an unknown reason, visual contrast 
analysis showed an uncharacteristic flush, rapidly fading, to the human's face.  The flush 
would normally be unnoticeable due to the commander's dark complexion, but the 
algorithm picked it out nicely.
	"Yes?" spoke Liaison, small talk not his forte unless required.
	"The plan is working," said Tracy.  "There is a fleet of Borg ships enroute now.  
The lead elements will be here in about five days.  Evacuations and frontier 
reinforcements on our side are already starting.  The question is...what now?  That fleet 
will swoop in, swat Luplup, and be on its way.  We need more time."
	Liaison cocked his head slightly to study the commander and to precisely arrange 
his thoughts prior to speaking.  The information Tracy was relaying was already known.  
In fact, Liaison had intercepted it as the data had first arrived to the local computer, 
without the resident Personality knowing.  The extent to which the ship systems had been 
compromised had to be kept from the human, crew personnel in general, and, most 
importantly, the AI.
	"I will require a copy of the report, as detailed as possible.  Cube #347 must be 
captured, whole and relatively unharmed.  Certain...manipulations can be introduced 
through the Cube #347 interface which will allow Luplup to achieve a victory, at least on 
the short term.  The Collective will eventually adapt, and she will be terminated."
	Tracy frowned.  Somewhere below the field of view, a sleepy whine sounded.  
The commander shook his head and sighed.  "Luplup is expendable, regretfully.  Those 
are my orders.  We have to keep the Borg distracted as long as possible.  Must it be this 
Cube #347?  Luplup already has control of two other cubes."
	Liaison would have nodded, except body language was irrelevant.  "Yes.  There 
are certain...properties this particular sub-collective possesses which can be taken 
advantage of.  We must have Cube #347, and more specifically, its current consensus 
monitor and facilitator."
	"Its what?" asked Tracy in confusion, ignoring the plurality Liaison had used.
	"Its Captain."

	Luplup paced her Original Self back and forth in her cell.  Forth and back, to and 
fro, if the deck had been any substance than metal, a trough would have been worn.  As it 
was, a scattering of small tick marks showed where the occasional foot-claw had dug into 
the floor.
	The room was, unknown to Luplup, very similar to that of Liaison's, albeit 
smaller and lacking a bathroom.  However, there was the alcove Luplup had developed to 
best fit her Selves; and a computer console sat at waist height on one wall.  Sensors and 
cameras of various sorts, all working except a few which had fallen to claws wielded in 
frustration, watched with unblinking determination.  Unlike Liaison's quarters, Luplup's 
also sported a small workbench with tools and scraps of devices to allow the Vyst Queen 
a chance at (supervised) tinkering and maintenance upon her body.
	As Original Self passed the bench, one arm flung out, sending everything on top 
crashing to the floor.
	Luplup was irritated, annoyed, angry.
	She had been told - ordered! - by the human who controlled her larval self that she 
was required to capture the Cube #347 and its Bad-Mans and bring all back to him.  
Unharmed.  Oh, a couple of gashes and a few dead Bad-Mans was okay, even expected, 
but the Captain Bad-Mans had to be unscathed.  Mostly.
	A spanner crumpled under a well placed foot, the remains kicked away in a 
scattering of metallic shards.
	Luplup would not comply.  She was not a slave to fetch.  She would not, could 
not, even as she had said she would obey.
	Original Self paused, a hands-claw raised in pre-strike against a winking spy 
sensor target.  Perhaps it was time...
	No perhaps.  It was time.
	Cube #347 would be captured, yes, and Captain Bad-Mans even fetched to the 
human.  But in the in-between bit...well, things could happen; and Luplup would insist 
that Original Self would deliver Captain Bad-Mans to the big black human in person.  
When all was done, Luplup would be free, not a slave.  Her captors would be dead, the 
Spy Bad-Mans would be very dead, many others would be dead...and she would not just 
be Queen of her Selves, but Queen of the Borgs, too.  Eventually Queen of Everything, 
with the universe as her hunting grounds and space for Her to grow.  As she was fated to.
	Yes, it /was/ time.
	A hands-claw whipped against the sensor head, shattering it most agreeably, an 
omen for what was to come.

			*	*	*	*	*

Post #10665547 on rumor.news.net		(last reset:  105 time periods)
Title:  RE:  RE:  Conspiracy!!			(Thread:  Conspiracy!!)			
Author:  OutToGetMe666_666

/U/ R full of it, Watch_Dog.  U R nothing but a Suc-Fed Black Ops drone-troll woo's job 
is to screw with ppl's minds.  Go to h*ll and rot ther.

TheQueen must B rite.  My sorses have more activity at the Suc-Fed Black Ops base 
Trident, but could not say Y.  And rubber bals have been shiped in 2.  What doez a base 
need with rubber balls?  There'z a conspiracy in the werks!

History:  OutToGetMe666_666 has posted 8310 times on rumor.news.net and has the 
rank of "Mini-Paranoid"

			*	*	*	*	*

	Cube #347 sank deeper into the gas giant's atmosphere.  Clouds larger than many 
terrestrial planets protested by unleashing hellish flashes of lightening.  The glow of 
ionized plasma swirled in the cube's wake like a miniature comet, colors of red, green, 
blue, and white intermixed depending upon local atmospheric composition.  Screams, 
booms, crackles, moans gave a voice to the gas giant.  Antennae and other minor exterior 
hull bits, able to withstand the rigors of vacuum and the heat of battle, sheared off amid 
conditions a space-faring vessel was not built to endure for long periods.  Gravity and 
atmospheric friction fought to drag the ship to punishing and inescapable depths.
	It was not a healthy place for Cube #347 to be.
	Behind Cube #347 pursued the pair of Luplup controlled Borg ships.  Neither was 
being piloted well, as witnessed by the slight jigs and jags in trajectory; and hyper-
hurricane force winds were actually blowing the smaller Exploratory-class cube sideways 
(and up or down) on occasion.  While the larger Battle-class cube was more steady due to 
its larger mass, it nonetheless lagged the furthest in the chase, slowly losing ground, more 
power directed to fighting the planet's clutches than following prey.
	{We are in,} dully informed Assimilation, as if the task for his hierarchy to break 
layers of encryption and innate core-code protection was as mind-numbingly exciting as, 
well, watching (grey) paint dry.
	Unlike Cube #347, neither Battle-class Cube #761 nor Exploratory-class Cube 
#1187 had been disabled by a transmutation pulse.  Besides making their capture all the 
more puzzling, that lack of a molecular coating allowed for resolution of the shredded 
remains of the cubes' vinculum fractal subspace carrier waves.  Luplup had disabled the 
vinculums as best as possible; and with the computers largely neutered, there was no data 
to send or receive through what remained of the transmission pipeline.  However, since 
the vinculums were an integral part of any Borg vessel, they could not be removed 
without irrevocable harm to general functionality.  Therefore, the crippled vinculums 
continued to mindlessly throw their carrier waves to the fractal subspace sea even though 
the greater Borg Collective could not perceive them.
	The sub-collective of Cube #347 was a different matter.
	Even suffocated by the layer of subspace dampening material which coated the 
hull, sufficient surface area remained unscathed to "hear" the vinculums of the two 
occupied cubes...as long as Cube #347 was sufficiently close.  It was akin to trying to 
listen to someone through a thick wall with loud machinery working nearby.  The sub-
collective had targeted Cube #1187, the Battle-class cube having fallen out of range due 
to its lagging once the atmospheric option had been taken.  To make matters more 
difficult, the Cube #1187 computer, or what was left of it, had slipped into a defensive 
mode where it tried to protect its core resources at all costs from all intruders.  Luplup 
had already completed her work-arounds to those systems she needed to pilot the cube.  
The Cube #347 sub-collective, and specifically Assimilation and his hierarchy, required a 
deeper insertion.
	Assimilation in his alcove found it all very exciting, in a grey sort of way.  At 
least he and his hierarchy were of use for this nanosecond.  Of course, once they were no 
longer needed, they would be put back on the shelf, forgotten, unneeded.  Bored.
	{The bridge is narrowing,} complained Weapons.  {These programs 45 of 300 
tweaked are extremely vicious.  More so than they should be.  I don't want to unleash 
them without a viable target, else they may turn on us.}
	Captain, juggling a large computational load, took a beat to allow himself to 
examine the surface code of the corralled hunter-seeker programs Weapons was holding.  
The algorithms looked normal enough, but a subsurface scan showed a crosslinking of 
code which was anything but Borg standard.  The facade of an obedient German Shepard 
had a rabid wolf underneath.  Unfortunately, there was no time to rectify the problem, 
assuming simple erasure was not the best action.  Instead, Captain added it to the never-
shortened "Things To Do When The Universe Isn't Trying to Terminate Us" list 
maintained for the command and control hierarchy.
	Continued Weapons as one of the hunter-seekers lunged at the current weapons 
hierarchy head, venomous decompiler just missing latching into an important personal 
memory block, {Hurry.  Expediency is required.}
	Assimilation sighed a body-wrenching sigh, an action unconsciously mirrored by 
many of his hierarchy.  {If I must.}  The tenuous connection to the heart of Cube #1187's 
kernel code widened.
	Cube #347 abruptly dropped as it entered a region of concentrated low pressure 
and relative lack of lateral crosswinds.  Except for in the alcove of 12 of 19, oxygen 
masks did not drop from ceiling compartments nor barf bags eject themselves from 
pockets filled with unreadable airline magazines.  Several tens of kilometers were 
plummeted before vertical stability was reacquired.  By that time, it was too late (yet 
again) for the latest Jello masterpiece by 171 of 230.
	{Hunter-seekers away!} warned Weapons.
	The hunter-seeker programs charged down the temporary bridge to Cube #1187.  
Before the connection was severed, it was already possible to see the distruction 
developing within kernel code.  Algorithms screamed digital death as they were dissolved 
into component bits and bytes, then erased to nothingness.  The resident hunter-seekers, 
primed to repel foreign virii, were no match for their rabid counterparts.  The effect on 
the target cube was immediate.
	Exploratory-class Cube #1187 abruptly flipped into an uncontrolled tri-axial spin, 
a chaotic gyroscope lending stability to nothing.  Propulsion systems necessary for 
navigation in the gas giant went catawampus as thrusters and coils misaligned.  The 
already barely controlled cube tumbled out of it previous trajectory, new course arcing to 
the planet's liquid hydrogen core.  Cube #347's sensor grid tracked the enemy ship as it 
plunged deeper into the atmosphere; and those grid parts which specialized in high 
energy emissions registered the powerful signature of Cube #1187 imploding as it 
reached crush depth.
	{You will do the paperwork,} sent Captain to Second.  One of the legacies of a 
species assimilated long ago was a remnant bureaucracy which insisted upon the filing, in 
triplicate, of Form 871-3302.az19 whenever a sub-collective caused the accidental or 
willful destruction of personal (i.e., Borg) property.  Cube #347, more than most 
imperfectly assimilated sub-collectives, had input quite a few of the forms over the time 
of its existence.
	Second sputtered, {Me?  I've done the last dozen of them!}
	{Isn't delegation efficient?  I know you have several already mostly filled out 
except for a few fields, so it shouldn't be that great of a hardship.}
	Cube #347 powered to the upper wisps of atmosphere.  Against all odds, one of 
the Luplup controlled Borg cubes was destroyed.  However, the much more powerful 
Battle-class cube was likely to be a very different story.  Luplup could, and would, adapt 
and learn.  Hunter-seekers would not work a second time, and Cube #347 could not 
withstand a direct slugmatch with the much more powerful ship.

	Commander Tracy sat in the observer's chair on the Camel's Walk bridge.  
Normally it belonged to the ship's second-in-command, but rank hatch privileges, 
although not even Tracy was foolish enough to suggest he take the plush captain's chair.  
Captain Reaver did rule her ship; and, besides, the butterflies which decorated her office 
extended to the upholstery of her chair.  Lups was laying down on the floor.
	Captain Joanne Reaver impatiently talked with her helmsman.  Helmswoman.  
Helms...something.  The helm was crewed by a Tractian, and although very competent, 
the species also consisted of five distinct sexes, four of which were indistinguishable 
from each other by a nonTractian.  "Well, then, move us there," ordered Reaver.
"Yes, ma'am," said the helm.
	Reaver returned to her central position of command, but did not sit down, too full 
of nervous energy.
	The captain was a dynamic woman.  Human, her age was in the late-seventies, 
although medical technologies and a small degree of genetic tampering had long since 
regulated anything under a century to "middle-aged."  Her once black hair had more than 
a few grey streaks in it, but her face was largely unlined.  Reaver, committed to an 
exercise routine, had the toned body of a woman half her age.  She was also a career 
captain, a long time in her job and a fighter tooth and nail every time someone had the 
bright idea to promote her.
	"Baumer!  Can't you get me better resolution?" barked Reaver to the sensors 
console.
	"Sorry, ma'am, but Slim Jim wants me to remind you that they are on the far side 
of gas giant and that unless a genius comes up with a new interpretation of physics, 
sensors can't see through planets.  His words, ma'am, not mine," replied the ensign.
	Muttered Reaver under her breath, "Sarcastic AI."
	"He's always been overly polite to me," commented Tracy as his hand slipped 
over the chair's arm to tickle Lups' back.
	"Trust me, after eleven years, you get to know a Personality.  It takes a while for 
him to warm up to new people.  And, if you pardon me, he's never too thrilled when has 
top-level spooks on board."
	Tracy shrugged.  "No offense taken.  Is there an update?"
	Reaver eyed the forward wallscreen, which was currently showing a real-time 
view of the gas giant.  With a terse command to Slim Jim, the flat picture morphed into a 
3-D diagram with three trajectories denoted by dotted lines.  "This is the best guess of the 
situation.  The big battle cube is lagging, but the smaller one should be catching up to the 
target.  /Should/, I emphasize.  The Director's know what is actually happening.  I'm just 
glad we're not a smear on the face of one of those two buggers."  Reaver referenced to the 
incident just prior to pursuit whereupon the Luplup controlled vessels had nearly collided 
with Camel's Walk.
	"Seismic disruption!" interrupted Slim Jim to the bridge at large.  "Massive 
pressure waves circling the planet's atmosphere.  Not natural in origin.  I think one of the 
cubes was just destroyed; and, from Original Self's reaction, it was one of her ships that 
was whacked."  The dotted line which represented Luplup's Exploratory-class cube flared 
red, then was removed form the display.  The tactical overview was shuffled to picture-
in-picture format as the O-Self's room was brought up.
	The quarters were in the process of transformation from relatively clean to 
disaster area.  In the center of the deconstruction zone was O-Self, her muzzle opened in 
an angry scream (volume was swiftly muted).  As the bridge crew silently watched, the 
work bench, made of heavy metal and bolted into the wall, was literally ripped from its 
setting and thrown across the room, narrowly missing the alcove.  The bench weighted at 
least three of the Vyst.  The computer console was next, erupting into a flurry of sparks 
as four pairs of claws, wielded in angry temper-tantrum, were dug into delicate 
electronics.
	Reaver grumbled, "That little eight-legged bitch is making a /mess/ of that room.  
Between her and that Peach drone, my crew is going to be spending more time returning 
my ship to a state of normalness than I want."
	The words had been twisted so as to place blame on the part of Black Ops in 
general, and Tracy by accessory.  The commander understood, simply choosing a 
sardonic reply.  "If you want to complain to her, go ahead, but I don't think she is going 
to listen."

	Liaison, piggybacking the audio-visual feed of the Vyst's quarters, was 
entertained.  Luplup's discombobulation was a source of not-quite-pleasure to both the 
Peach Collective and its operative.  The exact emotional descriptor was impossible to 
fully explain, but "amusement" was the closest term.
	Within the computer system, Liaison was becoming confident in his evasion of 
the AI and resident ship programs.  The bits of code he was carefully inserting made his 
virtual movements that much more secure.  They also provided a "just in case" offensive 
should certain what-if scenarios occur.  In the meanwhile, increasingly high level data 
was being transferred to the Peach Greater Consciousness.
	Still, while the phrase "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy" was 
irrelevant in the Borg view, a little time out to watch Luplup vent impotent frustration 
was agreeable.

			*	*	*	*	*

Post #10665593 on rumor.news.net		(last reset:  105 time periods)
Title:  RE: RE: RE: Conspiracy!!		(Thread:  Conspiracy!!)			
Author: Watch_Dog18-3

You are insinuating rubber balls as the tell-tale that TheQueen's insane Luplup-Peach-
SecFed plot is true?  How much of your medicine did you forget to take?

I did some research of my own.  I hve no clue wher you came up with your "Trident," but 
there is no such base, colony, or installation.  There are a couple of resturants and a 
manufacturer of pitchforks which use that name.

You are out of it more than usual, OutToGetMe.

History:  Watch_Dog18-3 has posted 560 times on rumor.news.net and has the rank of 
"KrazyKat"

			*	*	*	*	*

	An active sensor sweep probed the area at local coordinates subgrid 90.012.  As 
before, Sensors reiterated the existence of an odd echo ([yellow fuzzies]) bouncing 
between diffuse ring particles and miscellaneous rocky debris captured by the gas giant.  
The uncertain nexus of the echo was not moving, but it was the correct volume to be the 
cloaked ship which had hit Cube #347 with the transmutation pulse.  The echoes were 
given a wide berth.  Who knew what other weapons the undersized opponent might 
possess.  In comparison, the known qualities of Battle-class Cube #761 were preferable.
	Other than the slight detour, Cube #347 was traveling hellbent for the mining 
complex.  Orbital dynamics had conveyed into view the existence of a trio of unprotected 
scows, likely the transports which had conveyed Luplup to the system.  Well behind was 
Cube #761, still struggling with piloting control and the atmospheric vagaries of the gas 
giant.  Defenseless complex and scows versus Battle-class cube?  The favorable solution 
was not difficult to calculate.  The plan was to fly-by the moon, destroying the scows and 
performing a torpedo strafe of the complex, thus terminating more Vysts.
	Cube #347 altered trajectory into the most efficient course for destruction.
	{[Marshmallow perfume green] ahead!} suddenly warned Sensors as a specially 
"tweaked" portion of the grid examined space in the cube's route of travel.  {Lots of 
[marshmallow] and [perfume green]!}  Sensors helpfully forwarded the stream from the 
grid.  Unfortunately, the raw data was unfathomable to anyone else, and most 
importantly, to those actually driving the cube.
	Captain blinked as the piloting subpartition asked for immediate input.  In 
sympathetic resonance, eyes and head blindly tracked a dataspace interpretation of 
[marshmallow perfume green].  The field of view largely consisted of an amorphous 
electric lime mass located over the mining complex and between the scows.
	Urged Sensors once more, {[Marshmallow perfume green]} without providing 
any indication of what, if any, danger threatened.  As far as Captain knew, from the 
"Insufficient data" returns he was receiving, the mass represented a volume of unusually 
dense hydrogen molecules, extra reflective ice, or a swarm of baked goldfish crackers.
	And then, as dictated by the unforgiving and omnipresent rules of physics 
governing momentum, it was too late.  Cube #347 sailed into the region of perfumed 
green marshmallows.
	Or, rather, the directed dampening /zone/ Luplup had set up under direction of her 
own knowledge and that provided by Second Federation and Peach.  With the mining 
complex supplying energy from more than ample geothermal sources and the scows as 
the resonance points, a "kill zone" had been erected whereupon even vessels as large as a 
Borg Battle-class cube could be efficiently and swiftly silenced.
	The sub-collective of Cube #347 did not have time to reach a conclusion, all 
systems, followed quickly by drones, falling under the influence of the directed 
dampening field.  None registered the tractor beam, normally used to shuffle packaged 
ore to storage orbits for Cargo- and Lugger-class cubes, which originated from the 
mining complex locking onto the hull; and none registered the capture of the cube to a 
stable orbit deep within the dampening zone.
It's hard to register anything when you are forcefully comatose.

	Luplup was pleased!  Her Selves, those physically capable and not otherwise 
involved in delicate work, spun around and danced.  The cube of the Bad-Mans, and 
specifically the Captain Bad-Mans, was caught!
	As other Selves continued the celebration, Luplup focused on her Original Self 
nexus.  The den in which the nexus Self was kept was in shambles.  No matter. The 
fouled room would be left behind, and when her plan came to fruition, it would become 
vapor, following the fate of the Second Federation spy ship.  While most, if not all, of 
those sensors and cameras Original Self could reach were destroyed, Luplup knew the 
Invisible-Brain which actually ran the ship was listening.
	"Isss ready to go fetch," she called impatiently to the air via the nexus Self.  "As I 
demandeds, this Self musst be among the packss sents to get the Borgs.  I goes NOW!"

			*	*	*	*	*

Captain regained consciousness.  The first thing he registered was his position flat 
on his back, followed by the realization that he was bound ankle, knees, elbows, 
arms...everything which could be tied up had been so done.  A slight flexing of limbs 
indicated the bindings were of a strength beyond that capability of his servo-assisted 
muscles and that the knots were secure.  
Following gross physical sensations, Captain turned inward.  Diagnostics returned 
nominal functionality.  There were a few reported bruises and contusions, but nothing 
readily handled by nanites.  The contact he maintained with his sub-collective was 
tenacious, little more than a carrier signal to indicate that there still /was/ a sub-collective 
on the other end, even if said sub-collective was unresponsive.  The quality of the signal, 
coupled with an increasing faintness, told Captain that not only had he been moved 
beyond the bounds of the transmutation pulse affected hull of Cube #347, but he was on a 
transport which was steadily conveying him further from his ship.  He had no memory of 
anything between entering Sensors' lime marshmallow mass and the present.
	A clawed foot backed by the unyielding power of metal and genetically enhanced 
muscles thumped into Captain's torso on his right side.
	"Yousss are awake," hissed a synthetic voice, achingly familiar even as the 
specific voice was not.  "Do not try to deny it, Captain Bad-Mansssss.  Your cortical 
output wavessss have changed; and I can smell/see sssso through these Selvesssss."  The 
words were punctuated by another kick.  Captain opened his eye and fed power to his 
ocular implant.
	Reptilian heads attached to extremely sturdy bodies gazed down upon Captain's 
form.  One by one, six of the eight heads turned away, leaving only two in Captain's 
direct field of view.  "Tacticals" he identified, but of a type even more self-bred for battle 
than the last ones he had had the misfortune to directly contact.  Each one easily stood 1.5 
meters at the head and a shade over 1 meter at the forward canted shoulders.  Thick armor 
had been grafted to epidermis and all talons (and those teeth which were visible) had 
been replaced with metal counterparts.  Implants and limb assemblies were common.  
Additionally, several of the tacticals had heavy caliber weaponry attached directly to their 
chasses above the double-hip girdle like lethal outriggers.  In his peripheral vision, 
Captain counted an additional four tacticals for a total of twelve.
	Also at the extent of his vision, Captain could see the expected integrator, type III, 
slumped against a wall, staring at nothing in particular.  The integrator, little more than a 
mobile vinculum (type III merely operated on the scale of the planetary, even when the 
planetary system in question was as large as a gas giant), the organic form of a Vyst so 
full of implanted technology that there was no room for anything else.  The type III was 
mobile, unlike type I and type II, but so were slugs and sloths.  When it was not required 
to move, such as at the moment, the integrator had as much motivation as furniture.
	"Awakess you are," gurgled the voice once more.  Bobbing into his sight stalked a 
form which could not, should not be.  The Luplup Self was smaller than the tacticals, less 
bulky than the integrator, more reminiscent of the original Vyst body.  She was even 
missing a tooth.  Lacking was the extreme cybernization of the last time Captain had 
encountered the Self, a self-mutilation which had reduced the organic body to spinal cord 
and head necessitating a completely mechanized body to carry it around.
	Captain sucked in air and opened his mouth, one of the few parts of his body not 
bound, taped, or otherwise rendered immobile.  "You are terminated.  I shot you myself."
	The muzzle of the Original Self wrinkled and eyes glinted in what Captain 
recognized as smoldering hatred.  "Impostersssss."  This Luplup Self had a much greater 
sibilance than the one Captain remembered.  "I have splintered in passst timessss.  Not 
good.  One parts of me - imposssster part - took original body Self.  This part, the /true/ 
Self part, needed an Original Self, so long ago.  I and Bad-Mans of Borg and Bad-Mansss 
of Color have destroyed all those imposters parts.  I, the true Self, am left."  Original Self 
slapped herself on her chest with all four arms, a motion copied, more or less, by the 
tacticals present.  The integrator remained motionless.
	"I know of the technologiessss called 'clone.'  This part of Luplup, the true part of 
Luplup, has kept Original Self true to geneset, with modificationss.  Not contaminated the 
Self with the extreme mech-an-i-zation" Original Self slowly sounded out the word "of 
certain impostersss Luplup.  Thiss Luplup is /true/ Luplup!"  Luplup trumpeted the last 
sentence, setting off a barking amid the tacticals which even the integrator joined with 
harshly jarring wheezes.
	"You are an abomination.  Will you never die?" said Captain.  His question was 
answered by another kick, this one to the side of his head.  Diagnostics reported minor 
cranial damage.
	"Don't hurt the drone.  I remind you that Liaison needs him," spoke a bodiless 
voice.  So perfect was the dictation and mellow the tone that Captain immediately 
identified it as inorganic and, hence, likely a Personality.  A glance to the interior 
configuration behind the Luplup Selves confirmed that Captain was in a Second 
Federation runabout.
	All the Selves hissed in various degrees of annoyance.  "Yous are computer!" 
barked Original Self.  "Yous cannot tell Me whats to do!  And the Captain Bad-Mansss 
will be whole for the Spy Bad-Mansss."
	"I may be a computer, but I am Turing capable and fully sentient as far as such is 
understood in silicon intelligences.  I merely relay and /remind/ you of your directive 
from Commander Tracy.  He does control both Lups and your eggQueens."
	"And if I disobey?" asked Luplup.  Captain found himself looking at an extreme 
close-up of a Vyst foot, claws quivering with barely repressed violence.
	A very convincing sigh wisped from hidden speakers.  "The same thing which 
you were told would happen if you attempted to take control of the runabout from me:  I 
will fire the weapons of my host ship.  You claim that you cannot function without your 
Original Self; and you begged to allow your Original Self to go fetch" the foot mashed 
against Captain's face before drawing back slightly "the Borg consensus monitor and 
facilitator.  Wouldn't it be interesting to experiment how well you retain cohesion without 
your Original Self?  I personally think that you'll pull yourself back together, but not 
before the Borg fleet gets here.  I know Liaison would not be too broken over the 
outcome, even with the loss of the Borg drone."
	Original Self hissed like a steaming tea pot, stomping her foot down next to 
Captain's head.
	"And /stop/ gouging the floor of my runabout!  It will take /forever/ to buff out 
the scratches with Camel's Walk's maintenance robots!  And I refuse to authorize 
carpeting until my crew learns how to eat without getting crumbs everywhere."
	Original Self dug two of her four feet into the deck plating, causing the hideous 
scream of metal on metal to fill the runabout.  Silence reigned.
	"You have something else planned for me, don't you?  The Luplups I have met in 
the past, including this one you designate 'imposter' all had schemes.  The last time, you - 
however you wish to view yourself - tried to implant controls in my head."
	Original Self glanced down at Captain, then returned to staring straight ahead.
	"You still have designs to be 'Queen', do you not?"
	Silence was Captain's answer.
	"Docking," informed the Personality ten minutes later, followed by the 
unmistakable sounds of the runabout touching down and engines powering off.

			*	*	*	*	*

Post #10665612 on rumor.news.net		(last reset:  106 time periods)
Title:  HELLO EVERYONE!	!		(Thread:  Conspiracy!!)			
Author:  TommyJonesSmith211

I'm new here!  What is this place?  Who are you all?  Why do you only use antique text 
here?  Where are you all?  What are your species?  My name is Tommy Jones Smith.  
Can I join you all???

History:  TommyJonesSmith211 has posted 1 times on rumor.news.net and has the rank 
of "Shiny Happy People"

			*	*	*	*	*

	*Bounce*
	Silence.
	*Bounce*
	Silence.
	*Bounce*
	Silence.
	*Whine*
	Lups sighed, awkwardly tossing her ball against the wall one final time in a 
disillusionary attempt to play.  No fun.  Boring.  The ball did not go the same as when 
Owner threw it.  And Owner was elsewhere.  Not here.  Not in Owner's den.
	Lups was smarter than her extinct Yoole cousins; and somewhat more intelligent 
than even her first pre-Vyst self.  Not that she realized such nor could formulate the 
requisite abstract thought.  All she knew was that she was bored.  Bored.  Bored.  Bored.  
She wasn't hungry.  She wasn't tired.  She wanted to play, but Owner, who usually played 
with her, wasn't present.
	The solution?  Find Owner.
	Lups picked up her ball, juggling it clumsily until one pseudo-hand pinched it in 
as tight a grasp as she could manage.  Task completed, she turned the extent of her 
brainpower to the next chore.  Nose was placed against the door.  Eyes slit in 
concentration.
	"Open," said Lups through her voder.  She disliked using Owner speech because 
it hurt her head and the device around her neck vibrated funny.  However, when Owner 
wasn't present, it was the only way she could do such things as open the door and get 
additional water put into her dish (unfortunately, from her point of view, food only came 
twice a day and not upon demand).
	The algorithm tasked with responding to Lups' commands noted the location of 
the Yoole, considered the word, and correctly hypothesized that the speaker wanted the 
door to the quarters to open.  Chirping the door chime at a job well done, the simplistic 
snippet of code reset itself with unwavering anticipation at the next demand which might 
be made upon it, content to wait.  It had not been told that due to the delicate situation 
soon to develop that it might be best if Lups were not wandering the halls.  Even AI 
Personalities can have "mental slips," concerning low priority items, such as rewriting 
algorithms, when more important things capture great portions of finite computational 
power.
	Sweeping her long tail back and forth in anticipation, Lups gripped her ball tightly 
and set out on walkies to find Owner.	

	In his alcove, Liaison abruptly opened his eyes.  A computer voice mindlessly 
said "Regeneration cycle incomplete" as the drone stepped out of his alcove and to the 
deck.  Something was...not quite right.  Premonitions, hunches, all were irrelevant, the 
simple superstition of a small being operating on insufficient information.  Nonetheless, 
Liaison /felt/ as if something were amiss, as if something were about to occur.
	<< Hypothesis:  45.3% probability.  Possible fringe overlap and/or sympathetic 
resonance with Borg Exploratory-class Cube #347 consensus monitor and facilitator 
along resonant fractal subspace frequencies, >> reported the Peach Greater 
Consciousness at an unvoiced query by Liaison.  Translated into colloquial language, he 
was receiving "vibes" from the Cube #347 Captain.
	With nary a glance at the walls where the remaining functional spy camera 
resided, Liaison pulsed a command for them to begin a rather boring loop of him 
quiescent in his alcove.  The farce would not last long, especially not when his hijacking 
of the non-Personality components of the computer was noticed.  At that point, he would 
simply fry the offending electronics, along with the idling backups he could feel within 
the walls.
	Liaison approached the data pillar, raising one hand and inserting his nanotubules.  
Into the computer systems he raced, an electronic shadow, absorbing information from 
code carefully integrated over the last several days.  He eavesdropped on Personality 
thoughtstreams, rode the sensor grid, listened as a young ensign dictated a love letter to 
his sweetheart.  Most importantly, he isolated those data which intersected in even the 
most minor way with Luplup.  Thus, he saw the movements of her ships (minus one 
Exploratory-class cube), replayed runabout conversations, watched the bandwidth 
monitoring of intra-Self communication within the larger Luplup, felt the mating of 
runabout to clamps in the shuttlebay.
	Saw the wandering of the larval Vyst through hallways.
All was passed to the Peach Mind.  Liaison's Collective considered all scraps of 
data, no matter how minor.
	The Personality, much less the wholly organic crew, would not have linked the 
disparate information.  At the very least, they were not sufficiently paranoid concerning 
the Luplup entity as were the various Colored variants (including the original Borg 
Collective).  Peach, as with any Collective, could draw upon massive computational 
resources to consider a problem through brute force methodology.
	<< Simulations indicate 87.76% probability scenario A3 is in effect, >> intoned 
the Greater Consciousness into Liaison's mind.  << Sufficient probability to enact 
appropriate countermeasure.  If we are mistaken, and you still function afterwards, offer 
our apologies. >>
	{Acknowledgement,} replied Liaison.
	Ever the operative, Liaison performed a final, encompassing, and very obvious 
sweep for all information tidbits, funneling them to the hovering Peach Collective.  In 
response, the Personality automatically took note of the intrusion and began to deploy 
blockades and to unleash vicious anti-intruder programs.  With just a hint of a smile, 
Liaison gave a small bit of virtual ground, feinted retreat, then paused.  It required the 
least flick of his mind to trigger the first defensive/offensive measure, the one which 
would gain him additional time while he further appraised the situation and determined 
Luplup's most likely course of action, which, in turn, would dictate his own.
	A faint *zap*buzz* indicated initiation of a forcefield around Liaison's quarters.

			*	*	*	*	*

Post #10665614 on rumor.news.net		(last reset:  106 time periods)
Title:  RE:  HELLO EVERYONE!!		(Thread:  Conspiracy!!)			
Author:  SzzzinithBoy

By the Great Hive, a noob.  *Noob alert!  Noob alert!*  All stupid szzatix noobs should 
be boiled in oil as their limbs are slowly pulled from their sockets.  At least the ones who 
ask stupid questions.  Go back to your mommy, poppa, or other parental unit, Tommy-
larvae, before I hunt you down.

I have been reading this thread, but not posting to it because I was in agreement with 
Watch_Dog.  Despite Watch_Dog's often crude behavior, I felt he/she/it was correct in 
that there was no merit to TheQueen's conspiracy call.  Then I found something /very/ 
interesting.  Follow this <link> to view the original documents and transcripts.

In summary, a friend of a friend, all of whom, like me, shall remain nameless, has a 
device which eavesdrops on Colored fractal subspace communications.  As most Colors 
are always shifting frequencies and encryptions, the best he can typically get are bits and 
pieces.  Now, the Plaids don't change, but who can understand them anyway; and Colors 
like Red are predictable in their 'terminate this' and 'terminate that' philosophy.  In short, 
listening to Colored subspace comminiques isn't as exciting as it sounds.  This friend of a 
friend, however, did access a little gem:  Peach conversation with a drone operative.  
Peach, as every good spook-hunter knows, are always in the midst of whatever is going 
down.

And something big is going down.

The where remains unknown, as does the why.  On the other hand, the transcripts plainly 
reference Luplup and the SecFed's Black Ops arm....  Make what you wish of it, but 
TheQueen may just be right.

History:  SzzzinithBoy has posted 15,326 times on rumor.news.net and has the rank of 
"Uber-Paranoid"

*	*	*	*	*

	"He what?" spouted Commander Tracy as Slim Jim relayed the news through his 
implant that Liaison had hijacked part of Camel's Walk's systems and erected a forcefield 
around his quarters.  
	{He has seized...} began Slim Jim again.
	"Have you told Captain Reaver?  Alerted security?  Activated back-up room 
sensors?"  The security personnel who waited with Tracy outside the main shuttlebay 
door for the runabout to finish docking procedures stared with puzzlement at the 
commander.  Faces went slack with varying degrees of inward-focused concentration as 
an abbreviated briefing was relayed to all ship personnel.
	{Yes to all three, sir.  As to the back-up sensors, they all fried the moment I 
increased power above base.  I am blind in that room, sir.  I theoretically /do/ have a 
single camera remaining to me, except its visual stream is showing nothing except last 
season reruns of 'Last Andorian Comic Standing.'  I assume it is some type of joke, but 
the humor of it escapes me,} continued Slim Jim with his report.
	"Is there..."
	{No, sir.  Captain Reaver has dispatched security to Liaison's quarters to try to 
break through the forcefield; and I am attempting to override his overrides.  I can do it, 
but it will take time.}  Pause.  {And Luplup is disembarking from the runabout, with the 
Borg drone.}
	Tracy snarled, "One problem at a time.  That's all I ask.  One problem at a time, 
not the entire garbage scow load dropped on my head all at once.  What else can go 
wrong?  You, with me."  The last sentence was directed at the six security crew who were 
the commander's escort.  All seven swept into the shuttlebay.
	Despite the unconventional and edge-of-trademarked design of the Titan-class 
vessel which was Camel's Walk, the runabout - one of three - sitting in the shuttlebay had 
changed little over the last five to six centuries.  There is only so much one can do with 
what is essentially a box with nacelles.  Oh, fads such as "streamlining" and "racing 
stripes" and "moonroofs" had come and gone over the years, but the base chassis was 
always present.  In this current era, the standard runabout was a sharp-angled box, these 
particular ones painted Secret Spy Black(tm).  The back ramp was extended; and waiting 
on the shuttlebay deck was the Luplup strike force, including Original Self.
	At the center of the pack, literally head and shoulders above the Vyst crowd, was 
the reason of the entire operation.  Tracy had seen many drones in his life, from Borg 
(and past Hive) to various Colors, and this one looked no different.  Lacking the 
equipment which would identify it as a soldier-type, the drone was rather...unremarkable.  
Perhaps it was heavier cybernized than the norm (the base race was definitely obscured), 
but Tracy was no expert.  There was some scorching to its armor and minor scratches to 
exposed skin, the former likely a product of the running battle with Luplup and the latter 
"accidents" incurred during the transport.  It was difficult to believe that Liaison, now 
barricaded behind a forcefield, had demanded that this particular drone be captured from 
its cube.  The whole eye (blue?) sought out Tracy as the commander strode closer; and 
the mind behind that eye immediately deduced the local chain of command.
	"You will release this drone at once and return the unit to its cube.  You will then 
release the cube and allow us to exterminate the vermin abomination," demanded the 
drone.  'Captain' Tracy reminded himself, amazed at the wording used to describe Luplup 
and its similarity to that utilized by Liaison.
	Original Self hissed in annoyance and one of the Luplup tacticals lashed out at the 
Borg's knees with a double-footed kick possible only by a creature with four legs.  "Yous 
will show obediences, slave-pet Captain Bad-Mansss," gurgled Original Self.  As Captain 
stumbled slightly, Tracy was able to see the makeshift hobbles which were around the 
drone's ankles, as well as the ropes which encircled neck and waist and led to the two 
heavy soldiers like leashes.
	"I haves broughts the Captain Bad-Mans, as I was tolds.  I fetched," spat Luplup.  
It was an overt threat, and Tracy did not have to be a genius to know that even now 
Luplup was sizing up the opposition posed by the six security guards.  There was an 
instinctual feel to the situation, as if one rival was regarding a second, which only 
highlighted the basic animalistic nature of Luplup despite her obvious ability to speak, 
think, adapt to her surroundings.
	"Hand over the drone, Luplup.  Then hop every body except your Original Self 
back in the runabout to let Slim Jim transport them back to the scows.  The Original Self 
will be escorted to her quarters," calmly said Tracy.  He held out one hand in expectation 
of the ropes.
	"We are not a prize.  You will release this unit.  Resistance is futile."  The drone 
interjected its demands once more into the conversation.  Tracy did not relish bringing 
the Borg into lunge range, but was confident that his military-issue nanite suite was 
sufficient to impede any assimilation attempt until the appropriate nullifiers could be 
administered.
	All of the Luplup Selves, with exception of the dully staring integrator, stretched 
necks, arms, tails in an effort to look as menacing as possible.  Several security guards 
shuffled with nervousness at the commander's back.  Tracy, however, did not flinch, 
merely staring at Luplup's nexus Self, hand held out in wordless demand.  Original Self 
gave an abrupt growling yip.
	"Fines.  Yous can have...have...."  Luplup's words trailed off, attention of all her 
Selves diverted away from Tracy and onto something well behind the commander and the 
six security.  The drone's blue eye, on the other hand, never left the commander's face.
	"Slim Jim, is who I think is at the shuttlebay exit at the shuttlebay exit?" 
subvocalized Commander Tracy.
	Before the Personality could answer, a metallic "Mama!" echoed through the 
hanger.

	"Mama!  Mama!  Mama!" cried Luplup's Yoole self.  Luplup was unsure what the 
term 'Mama!' signified precisely, except that it was something the Yoole said each time 
she was near.  Dictionaries indicated it was a term of maternal endearment.
	Luplup abruptly came to a decision.  Her timeline would have to be advanced.  
True, she had been willing to hand over Captain - after much posturing and fussing, of 
course - but the relinquishment would have been temporary.  Of primary concern before 
the Bad-Mans had been her immature clone.  Said clone was now currently on the 
threshold to the shuttlebay, within leaping distance.
	Via a tactical drone, Luplup sliced the hobbles securing Captain Bad-Mans with 
one well placed foot swipe.  Another tactical Self prodded the drone while a third, 
utilizing little used vocal apparatus, harshly ordered her captive to move, words full of 
sibilance to the point of incomprehension.  The rest of herSelves, including Original Self 
and minus integrator, rushed at the non-selfs blocking her path.
	"Here she comes!" shouted Commander Tracy as he backed up and fumbled for a 
weapon holstered to his hip.
	Luplup slashed!  Luplup bit!  Luplup clawed!  Luplup tore!  Luplup ripped!  The 
black-clad bipeds scattered at her charge, a pair falling to her multiple talons and a third 
badly wounded when a type IV tactical fired upon it with body-mounted disruptor.  As 
the remaining four fled for cover, Commander Tracy bellowing heated commands to the 
Invisible-Brain computer, Luplup let part of herSelf harry the bipeds while the rest pelted 
for the ship hallway.  While the Bad-Mans was a necessary inconvenience requiring 
forceful tugging with his leashes to hurry, it was the glacial pace of the integrator which 
slowed the pack.
	The Yoole blinked as Original Self pushed her way to the forefront of herSelves, 
dropping her ball with a cheerful yip.  With nary a thought, Original Self leaped over the 
low form of the Yoole, a tactical immediately behind scooping the clone up into a four-
armed carry.  She was a handful.  In terms of body mass, she weighed nearly half that of 
the unarmored Original Self, and a quarter that of a standard tactical unit.  However, at a 
meter in length, she was nearly as long as any Self.  Yoole squeaked in pain as metal 
claws automatically and accidentally dug into her unprotected flesh.
	"Quiets little self," rumbled Original Self as she gathered herSelves to look in all 
directions.  A ship schematic, acquired before her enslavement, was uploaded from a 
dataQueen repository.  "Alls will be better ssssoon."  Luplup examined her options.  The 
first task was to remove Invisible-Brain from consideration.  Invisible-Brain was the most 
dangerous entity, followed by the Spy Bad-Man.  The bipeds were a very distant third in 
order of threats.  Invisible-Brain did have a body, of a sort.  Anything with a body could 
be killed.  The body's den was easily located on the blueprints.
	The Yoole self whimpered again and began to wiggle.
	"Bes nice, little clone," whispered Luplup.
	"You will be terminated, you know," commented Captain.
	Growling, Luplup responded.  "Shuts up, Bad-Mans.  I don't needsss to keep you 
functional.  Mostly functional will do.  I really justs needs yours head.  It will be easier to 
keep your brain alive iffths it is attached to your body."  She prodded the drone with a 
tactical.  "Follows.  If you lag on purposssse, I will decapitate yous and deal with the 
consequencess laterrr."
	Choosing the best path to her target, the pack of Luplup set into motion.

	Liaison blinked.  His connection with the Peach Greater Consciousness had been 
severed.  It was not unexpected, although he was mildly surprised such an action had not 
been invoked prior to this point.  No matter, he was expendable; and likely his echoes 
were even now being incorporated into the Whole.
	Even as his computer connection found the resident Personality striving to 
override his overrides, Liaison's eyes scanned the room.  Specifically, he focused upon 
the forcefield he had erected around his quarters.  The forcefield was part of the ship's 
emergency bulkhead system, a compartmentalization necessary for a vessel of war to 
prevent the decompression of a room or level from affecting overall fighting fitness.  One 
of Liaison's first actions, upon twisting code to his purpose, was to take control of the 
emitters around his room, to bend them to his will.  He knew the feat would be futile in 
the end, especially once the Personality brought its full computational might to bear, but 
it would give him more time.
	That time was nearing an end.  Liaison had pillaged what information he could 
from the databanks of Camel's Walk, funneling all to the Peach Collective until 
disconnection.  Even as he watched, the forcefield was spitting ominously, threatening to 
dissipate; and his aural implants could hear the mass of security in the corridor waiting 
for their cue to charge.  It was time to move on; and Luplup's movements, combined with 
several other factors, dictated the plan which was to follow.  A final batch of software 
"extras" and code contingencies were released into the resident computer system.
	Liaison backed from the pillar, extracting nanotubules as he did so.  The 
forcefield flickered again and steadied as layers of mutable virii-based encryption code 
battled the resident Personality.  Turning to the direction which faced the hull - the 
normal occupants of the quarters ranked the luxury of windows - Liaison raised his right 
arm to aim.  Earlier, Commander Tracy had accused the Peach drone of smuggling 
weapons on his chassis.  Such was technically not quite true.  Liaison did have several 
/tool/ assemblies grafted to his body.  Some of them, such as the cutter he was preparing 
to deploy, were more typically found on specialty engineering units than sensory 
platforms.  However, as many races well knew, a tool is just another name for a weapon 
with a peacetime function.
	Internal diagnostics chirped as capacitors registered full and ready.  Due to power 
limitations, the cutter could only be used for short bursts; and even then, it would 
severely drain Liaison's onboard energy reserves.  That consequence was irrelevant, as he 
severely doubted he would ever see the inside of an alcove again.  Aiming at the wall, 
Liaison began to cut through layers of hull and armor.
	"Desist!" ordered the voice of Slim Jim through room speakers.  "You are 
compromising my hull integrity!"  
Liaison ignored the Personality.  There was no loss of air pressure, not with the 
forcefield in place.  In the hallway, Liaison caught the tail end of a shout for vacuum 
suits.  The hullside forcefield did not deter his cutter, he having already synched the 
waveforms.  Soon enough, a section of wall was pushed outwards with an assist by 
servo'ed muscles.  Blackness, a scattering of stars, the reflection of red spectrum sunlight 
off methane clouds...a drone-shaped hole beaconed.
It was at that moment the Personality overrode Liaison's encryptions.
	The forcefield dropped.  Air immediately began to rush outward, following the 
inexorable siren call of high pressure to fill low pressure, even when said low pressure 
was a vacuum tens of billions of light years in diameter.  Liaison rocked, but did not 
follow, magnetic souls and locked joints more than sufficient to resist the exodus.  As the 
screaming lessened to the silence of space, the drone slipped through the hole, 
completing the maneuver just as the Personality reinitialized the bulkhead forcefield 
under its own control, resealing the ship.  Armored feet clanked onto a patch of hull clear 
of bioarmor.
	Liaison took a few vital seconds to orientate himself, to link his real-time visual 
with pilfered ship schematics.  Ignoring the spectacular spectacle of gas giant system and 
dying star which was his new environs, several vital waypoints and objectives were 
added to the internal map, followed by a selection of possible paths.  Liaison chose one of 
his options, unfazed by the need to work alone, to be returned to the status of small being.  
By the beliefs programmed into him upon his voluntary assimilation, he was already 
dead.

	Captain, due to the assimilation and cybernization process, was not as fast nor as 
agile as most of the Luplup units.  Only the fact that the integrator was even slower was 
the saving grace for Captain, preventing the undesired separation of his head from his 
body.
	Why did Luplup profess a need for just his head?  There were many hypotheses, 
ranging from the requirement of a ball for a soccer-like game (more than a few cultures 
did utilize body parts in recreational pastimes, often without consent of the donor) to a 
need for specific implants and memory crystals stored within.  The possibilities leaned 
more to the latter than the former, but without the rest of his sub-collective to perform a 
consensus cascade to narrow likely reasons, he was at a loss.
	"Move fasterrrr," rumbled a tactical Vyst.  She tugged savagely on the rope which 
encircled Captain's neck, causing him to misstep and veer into a wall.
	"I only slow you down.  The logical course of action would be to let me go," 
attempted Captain.  While he had been mapping those corridors which he had passed 
through, he was unfamiliar with the specific Second Federation vessel configuration and 
therefore did not know Luplup's final destination.  Ship schematics was not a file he 
habitually stored in his on-board memory.  He was yanked again as his semi-controlled 
stumble nearly placed him within reach of a computer panel.
	"No," spoke the Vyst which bore the strong resemblance to the original Luplup, 
"yous would make more Bad-Mansss.  I comes quickly to meet mySelves in my Bad-
Mans ship.  I will rescue mySelves, my clone, and yous.  Alls wills be good."
	Thus far, there had been no serious resistance to Luplup's advance.  The trip 
through the Jeffries tubes to change levels (Luplup refused to use a turbolift) had been 
more than a little uncomfortable for Captain, but even there potential ambush spots had 
not been utilized.  Either something was happening even more important than a rogue 
Vyst pack hauling a Borg drone to an unknown destination, else the Second Federation 
crew was planning a surprise attack.
	Even without a consensus cascade backed by hundreds or thousands of 
compatriots, Captain calculated a near 100% probability of the latter option.
	The Yoole began to whimper anew, struggling in the unyielding grasp of its 
carrier.  "Papa!  Papa!" it cried, eyes rolling.
	"Mama!  Not papa!" snapped Luplup.  "Yous will be okay.  And you," the word 
was redirected at Captain, "willssss hurry.  Now!  Faster!  Remembers, I only needsss 
yous head."  A pair of tacticals trotted forward, taking up the position of forward scouts 
as the hallway ahead ended in a T-intersection.

	In a lonely, off-the-beaten-path system whose claim to (official) fame was a 
terrestrial planet early in its biotic evolutionary path with vertebrate analogues beginning 
colonization of land, a single Exploratory-class cube decloaked.  In the opposite side of 
the orbit of the planet's larger moon, it served as the litmus test to determine if sensors on 
the ostentatiously secret base would raise an alarm.  After several minutes of resounding 
nothing, four more cubes of similar size shimmered into view, followed by a much larger 
Assault-class sphere.
	Non-metallic trimming and most of the exterior lighting of the vessels was of a 
delicate peach shade.
	The six ships represented a significant fleet commitment on the part of the Peach 
Collective.  Not the largest of Colored factions, it was specialized in seeing what there 
was to see (or was paid to see), then filing away the information for later use.  To those 
ends, a modified Exploratory-class cube as a sensor platform was preferred, the "retreat 
and fade" tactic favored over conflict when a choice was available.  However, for those 
times when battle was inevitable, the Assault-class sphere - the only one in the fleet - 
provided an advantage in firepower, armoring, and power the smaller cubes could not 
match.
	The sphere's official designation was Assault-class Sphere #1.  Unofficially, it had 
the unusual nonBorg subdesignation "Silencer."  If one knew where to look on the hull, 
and if one viewed the correct quadrants in the correct spectral frequencies, the name was 
visible, written in letters tens of meters tall and in a variety of languages.  Silencer was 
only brought in when "special needs work" was required.  Assassinations, after all, were 
not a Peach forte.
	As the Exploratory-class cubes silently spread into a vast defensive half-sphere 
(okay, technically it was a pyramid as there were only five points), they began to emit a 
jamming signal, effectively cutting all superluminal communications for the Second 
Federation base Trident and its two attendant picket ships.  Simultaneously, Silencer 
slipped lower into its orbit, stabilizing only as the top wisps of atmosphere began to 
caress hull plates.  The doors to a small cargo bay opened; and from that hold an object 
made insignificant against the bulk of the sphere emerged and began a controlled plunge 
to the planet below.
	The Borg had long known of the myriad ways inventive races had devised to 
crack the mantle of their own planets.  Only the intervention of the Collective had 
prevented many of those species from exterminating themselves (and their home 
biosphere) in an orgy of self-destruction.  Borg, except in the case of specific mining 
endeavors, had no need of planet-busters, but the archived knowledge remained.  That 
information had been passed to the Colored splinters, some of whom had actively 
pursued the knowledge.  Red, as expected, was one of those Colors.  Unexpectedly, 
Peach had done so as well.
	The payload which fell screaming through atmosphere did not fill the cinematic 
expectations of a planet-buster.  There was no blinking lights, no ominous doomsday 
proclamations.  It was not even all that big.  The capsule was an ovoid a mere 30 meters 
long by 10 meters wide, abbreviated fins the difference between "brick" and semi-
controlled glide.
	From the second largest land mass arose the familiar mushroom cloud of atomic 
detonation as the missile nosed violently into the ground.  The planet was doomed, it just 
did not know it yet.  In two local days, nothing would be left except rapidly cooling rocky 
debris on its way to becoming a significant asteroid field.  Any Vysts on the planet were 
similarly fated to death.
	The cancer which was Luplup was not regulated solely to the planet:  there was a 
second potential vector.  Elevating itself to a higher orbit, Silencer became the internal 
anchor point for an Exploratory-class cube flying wedge.  As a unit, the six vessels 
plotted a course for Trident moon base.  No vestige of Luplup could be allowed to 
remain.  Collateral damage was acceptable.
	They were, after all, only small beings.  Any nonVyst survivors of the attack 
would even be given the choice between assimilation or termination as the air supply in 
emergency pods ran out.  Peach was nothing if not altruistic given the appropriate 
circumstances.

			*	*	*	*	*

Post #10665625 on rumor.news.net		(last reset:  106 time periods)
Title:  RE: RE: HELLO EVERYONE!!	(Thread:  Conspiracy!!)			
Author:  Watch_Dog18-3

Yah, shut-up Tommy.

We all admire SzzzinithBoy, but transcripts can be forged.  Enough said.

History:  Watch_Dog18-3 has posted 561 times on rumor.news.net and has the rank of 
"KrazyKat"

Post #10665628 on rumor.news.net		(last reset:  106 time periods)
Title:  I am Rite!				(Thread:  Conspiracy!!)			
Author:  OutToGetMe666_666

As evr, U R a spoilsport.  All bow 2 SzzzinithBoy!  All hail SzzzinithBoy 4ever, may 
he/she slice Tommy-The-Noob to small, oile peeces!

I bleve U, as do most ppl here.  And I've added my rubber bal receps at this <link> for 
ppl to view.  I've also added some odd perchases from Green auctions Suc-Fed has made 
lattly.  And the base /is/ named Trident, Watch_Dog.

History:  OutToGetMe666_666 has posted 8316 times on rumor.news.net and has the 
rank of "Mini-Paranoid"

			*	*	*	*	*

	Luplup was strung along a corridor, much more dispersed than she wanted to be.  
She was piloting a Bad-Mans cube and examining exotic mining equipment and 
maintaining scows and performing a myriad of other duties, but her primary attention was 
with those part of the I around the nexus Original Self.  To the forefront of the pack she 
was scouts and to the back she was integrator with tactical support to guard Captain Bad-
Mans.  There were doors to either side of her; and the hallway gracefully arced just 
enough so that the far ends were out of sight.  She was nearing the den of Invisible-Brain.  
The bipeds were increasing their resistance, but Luplup was coming to believe that 
because of her obvious superiority, her obvious dominance, they were backing off, 
willing to sacrifice Invisible-Brain in order to gain leniency for themselves.  Perhaps she 
would only kill the leaders - who would continue resistance - and then accept the rest into 
herSelf as Not-Selves.
	As one part of her was contemplating a victorious future, another part was arguing 
over a course of action.  It was a verbal manifestation of the decision process., i.e., 
Luplup was talking with herself.
	"Should I leaves my Self behind?  Should I kills part of myssself?" mused 
Original Self aloud.  She didn't bother to look at the Self under consideration because, 
well, when a toe asks about the fate of an elbow, the two don't usually need to see each 
other.  And if they do (not to mention the whole talking business), there are usually larger 
problems brewing unless one is a Director, Critic, or other ambulatory, omniscient body 
part.  Anyway and besides, the Selves at the back of the pack could see those forwards 
just fine.
	"I nesssesarrriee?" gurgled the integrator, followed by a hiccup, the word mangled 
to virtual incomprehension if any listeners were near.  It was a valid question:  was that 
part of Luplup necessary?  Did the cost outweigh the benefit?
	Original Self paused, head slightly cocked, "I can hears I at the moon.  I sneeds 
my integrator Self because toos far.  Buts I alsso run to rescues mySelves in the Bad-
Mans cube.  The badss planet not holds that part of I anymore.  I near!"
	"Maebees I sno nesssesarrriee," conceded Luplup through the integrator.
	"I sinks I scan sacrifricess the Self," concluded Luplup via one of the integrator's 
escort tacticals.  A claw was raised in summary judgment and in preparation to decapitate 
the integrator; and the integrator bared her neck for the strike.  For Luplup, it was no 
more troublesome than the normal bodily processes whereupon cells naturally suicide.
	And then Luplup Whole convulsed.
	She was burning!  Dying!  Crisping!  Suffocating!  Earlier she had experienced an 
interlude of fuzziness with her link to her eggQueen Selves and necessary attendants at 
the Second Federation den.  She had automatically compensated, no thought as to the 
cause.  Now...now that part of her was dying.  As eggQueens succumbed one by one to 
the flames and attendant workers scrambled with mad intent to shield their charges with 
insulating debris, even their own bodies, Luplup came to a decision.  That part of her 
Whole was severed, cast off.  Luplup shrank.  There were still a few eggQueens hidden in 
deep dens on the den-planet (there had been an odd earthquake several hours before, but 
rocky balls always shook), away from the Second Federation enslavers, and they would 
have to suffice.  Had the Second Federation den collapsed?  Been assaulted by rivals?
	The answer to the question would have to wait because Luplup-as-pack was under 
attack.
	Forcefields had shimmered into existence in the corridor, emergency bulkheads 
designed to compartmentalize the ship in case of battle damage, but able to serve in a 
security aspect.  The forcefields did not bother Luplup, because, like all assimilated 
beings, she was confident she would adapt to their impediment.  Of more concern was the 
carbon dioxide ground fog which was being pumped into the hallway, obscuring vision as 
it interacted with the strobe lights and odd mirrored ball now hanging from the ceiling.  
Worst of all was the music, a technofunk of discordant rhythms and odd backbeats 
known as neodisco.
	Neodisco had been voted by the Weaponization Society as "the music second 
most likely to be developed into an offensive weapon," just behind Klingon opera.  
Andorian death-rock had not been included in the top-ten list because it had been 
converted into a weapon over a century prior and was now banned by all sane, law-
abiding cultures.  Needless to say, it was a favorite the universe over for teenagers 
looking for a way to rebel and, coincidentally, start a small war.
	Luplup screamed.  All of herSelves opened their mouths and uttered a high-
pitched shriek.  Only Luplup-as-pack was drowned out by the volume of the neodisco.  
Original Self thrashed her head back and forth trying to avoid the noise.  Futile.  The 
situation was made more desperate as the doors in the hallway split open to reveal the 
forms of heavily armored and armed bipeds.
	Luplup's pack shrank as weapon fire impacted the integrator and tacticals at the 
back.  The former and one of the latter were terminated immediately, heads crisping.  The 
third Luplup forced back to its feet, ignoring the chest wound which would have felled 
any other organism.  The charred skin and layers of blackened armor was of no 
consequence.  The Self still worked.  That tactical was permanently eradicated by the 
next volley of fire.
	Captain Bad-Mans tumbled to the deck as well.
	Visions of victory splintered for Luplup.  The plan to kill Invisible-Brain similarly 
shattered.  She had to escape.  Original Self and larval self were sacrosanct.  This level of 
the ship had its own shuttlebay.  The shuttlebay would have shuttles.  The Bad-Mans, if 
not terminated, was serious damaged, and she would have to risk herSelves to take its 
head because beyond the obvious exterior armor, the vertebras were likely metal-
reinforced.  Decapitation would require time she did not have.
	As Original Luplup and the remainder of the pack sprinted forward, bounced off 
the forcefield, then successfully passed through (only losing one more tactical, 
unfortunately a type IV), the Luplup Whole mulled her options.  Certain doors were 
closing, but others would open.  For one thing, she had a big Bad-Mans cube.  She would 
rescue the remainder of her Selves, explode the annoying Second Federation ship and the 
small Bad-Mans cube, then remove the rest of herSelf from the system.  All before the 
Borg fleet arrived, as she knew it would.  Over the centuries, Luplup (or at least this part, 
who considered herself the /real/ Luplup) had become extremely patient, willing to retreat 
and give ground.  In the end, she was confident she would have a superior position.
	Besides, as she started to look for dead drones with (mostly) intact heads at the 
mining complex and on the big-cube, maybe other brains would serve.  Not as well, but 
perhaps they could be made to work.  She would survive and, in the end, she would be 
Queen.

	Liaison disengaged from the terminal, pondering his updated options.  From the 
hull he had needed to return inside for computer access, a task easily accomplished via an 
exterior port as much of the Personality's higher runtime functions were otherwise 
engaged with Liaison's "parting gifts."  His foray had netted him Luplup's current 
location, as well her recent movements.  Liaison had also taken the detour to activate one 
of the quiescent programs lurking in the computer's system, giving him passive 
eavesdropping access to internal communications.  
The data revealed Luplup was on a lower level.  Security had forced her to retreat 
from her previous route to the AI core, but even with diminished numbers she remained 
undeterred from her new course for the secondary shuttlebay.  With the swarm of ship's 
crew between him and the shuttlebay, Liaison would have to choose another route.  It 
would be longer in distance, but calculations declared it would be shorter temporally.  
First, however, he required to move to the lower deck.
	Liaison, unlike Luplup before him, did not shun use of the turbolift:  he merely 
entered (after impatiently waiting for one to reach his deck while pushing the call button 
more than the requisite single time), plugged in his nanotubules, and ordered it to his 
destination.  A rather mousy human with an overlarge inventory PADD cowered against 
the far wall for the trip, but was paid no attention.  Once the appropriate deck was 
reached, Liaison exited, sparing barely a moment to pulse certain implants and fry the 
turbolift's controls.  A sideways look by Liaison caused the mousey man to faint.
	Striding down the hallway, Liaison listened to security's frantic calls for the 
resident Personality to assist them.  Unfortunately for them, their cries only received a 
"I'm sorry, I'm either not online, not on this local net, or extremely busy at the moment.  
Please rekey your communication implant and try again in a couple of minutes" message.  
It is hard to focus on little things like chaos among organics when several strains of 
increasingly virulent virii are threatening to take bites from important strings of code.
	Nervous personnel, most non-security and simply handed weapons for the 
duration of the emergency, occasionally fired upon Liaison as he walked the hallways.  
Most missed; and the few which impacted did no damage.  Crew who did not get out of 
Liaison's unwavering path were simply pushed out of the way, although one belligerent 
Klingon with ensign pips and the collar insignia of the medical department required 
physical lifting followed by a toss.  He hit the wall with a rather hollow thud and a 
surprised look to his face before unconsciousness claimed him.  Liaison was reasonably 
sure that the Klingon was not permanently damaged.
	It was in the final hallway which led to the desired hull access point that Liaison 
paused.  There was a lingering trace of carbon dioxide vapor and a few strobes continued 
to flash.  More important was the physical evidence in the form of three dead Vysts of the 
ambush on Luplup.  Lying amid those corpses was a Borg form.  Liaison swiftly 
concluded that the unfamiliar drone was the Cube #347 consensus monitor and facilitator.
	As he approached, Liaison at first thought the Cube #347 Captain was terminated.  
Such would be a pity, in the greater scheme of Peach plotting, but not ruinous.  The drone 
was heavily blackened over his left side and there was a significant dent to his head.  
Exposed epidermis was visibly charred in places, where it wasn't scored by Vyst-derived 
scratches.  When Liaison neared within two meters, however, one of his more exotic 
implants began to "see" the electromagnetic field of the downed drone.  Not only was the 
battered Captain still functional, he was regaining consciousness.
	Liaison paused to assist the very punchy Captain to unsteady feet.
	"Diagnostics adequate?  Will you survive, or do you require termination?" asked 
Liaison.  Collective drones, like most Borg, could not self-terminate except under very 
specific circumstances.  Little considerations like nonfunctionality or physical pain which 
overwhelmed inhibitors were not relevant, at least not to nanites which would mindlessly 
try to repair a drone whose only future was that of salvage.  Perhaps this situation was not 
a complete lost, assuming the consensus monitor would survive.
	"I...we...this unit will continue," haltingly began Captain before fully registering 
Liaison's presence.  "Just a moment.  You are not of the Collective."
	"Do not bother with the third person deception.  I am aware of your status.  I - this 
unit is severed from its Greater Consciousness, so this is a personal opinion - recommend 
you make your way to the hull and wait for your cube.  Your sub-collective will shortly 
be reactivating, and if this ship decides to leave, and it will, at the very worst you can 
withstand a few hours floating in vacuum while waiting for retrieval."
	Captain continued to wobble, balance not fully restored and mind focused more 
inward than outward.  Liaison reached forward and grasped Captain's non-prosthetic arm, 
flecks of burnt skin flaking under his hand.  As his nanotubules burrowed into the other's 
epidermis, Captain began to automatically fight the intrusion, both internally and without.
	Liaison backed away, receiving a blow to his shoulder for his efforts.  Captain's 
attention was fully focused upon him now.  Even with the damage, Liaison's brief contact 
had brushed up against what he recognized as a very strong mind, fitting for a consensus 
monitor and facilitator.  "I provided you with ship schematics.  It is suggested you follow 
one of the recommended routes to a hull access point.  Do not use the turbolift because it 
is...damaged."
	Captain stared at Liaison as the information was assimilated.  Liaison returned the 
look for a long beat, then swiveled on his heel and returned to his previous task.  Either 
the Borg drone would follow advice, or not.  Either the Borg drone would survive, or not. 
Either the Borg drone would recognize the rider to the map data, or not.  If the Captain, 
and that particular Captain, survived and did not summarily destroy the alien code hidden 
within the schematic data, well...well one of Peach's long-term schemes would go 
forward.  Or not.  All was out of Liaison's figurative hands.
	The hullside trip was uneventful, even restful as no fumble fingered non-security 
crew were using him as target practice.  As always, the semi-organic, regenerative hull 
bioarmor used by Second Federation warships made secure footing less than dependable, 
but he traversed the distance with no difficulties.
	 Liaison slipped through the hullside forcefield into the secondary shuttlebay.  
The neatly Spartan volume currently supported its maximum of two runabouts.  The 
small, boxy vessels sat with their noses pointed to space, rear ramps extended and ready 
to go.  They were functional, which was all which could be said concerning aesthetics, 
although a crew member, perhaps in a fit of boredom, had painted a stylized Bactrian 
camel onto the starboard side of the far ship.
	With nary a thought, Liaison remotely hijacked the shuttlebay tractor beam 
docking system.  A sub-program of the original ship computer, largely unaffected by the 
turmoil surrounding the Personality, automatically objected to the illegal action, but 
Liaison swiftly silenced the protesting code.  The Bactrain-painted runabout was then 
summarily picked up and returned to the deck...upside-down.  It was only then that 
Liaison noticed, while walking over to examine his handiwork and confirm that the ship 
would not be flying any time soon, that he noticed the Dromedary on the other shuttle's 
port side.
	Liaison eyed the painting for a moment, then cocked his head as he heard the 
approach of Luplup, both externally and through the link with the internal security 
frequencies.  He used the tractor beam one last time to levitate himself to the top of the 
intact Dromedary vessel before relinquishing control back to the computer.  It was only a 
matter of seconds to kneel on the roof, then lie flat.

	Luplup skittered into the shuttlebay, Original Self leading, followed by her three 
remaining tacticals.  Two remaining, she amended as the lagging Self was cut down.  The 
pack now consisted of Original Self, the tactical carrying her larval clone, and a type IV.
	The sight which greeted Luplup was not wholly a happy one.  Eyes first flicked to 
a runabout on its roof, obviously unusable.  The second vessel was waiting, ramp down, 
but considering the state of its partner, there was a high likelihood something was wrong 
with it too.  It was a chance Luplup would have to take.
	At that point, Lups decided that enough was enough.
	Luplup as tactical Self felt her claws slipping as the larval clone began to wiggle, 
tail whipping back and forth, muzzle producing whimpering sounds.  Tacticals were not 
really designed to grip things, although it was possible to sufficiently twist stuff fingers 
of hands-minor around to awkwardly work certain weapons.  Workers had the truly 
dexterous hands.  As Lups struggled, Luplup automatically clutched tighter, blinking as 
she felt talons penetrate deeply into unaugmented flesh and heard the scream of pain from 
her clone.  Startled, not knowing what to do, she let the clone go.
	Whimpering and with blood running from wounds obscured by red-tinged hair, 
Lups at first seemed surprised that she was free.  That astonishment did not last long.  
The Yoole, after fighting for traction against smooth deck uncondusive to claws, ran for 
the door leading to the hallway.  As she passed Original Self, Luplup lunged to catch her 
larval self.
	And missed.  Nearly missed.  For a moment she had Lups in a tenacious grip.  
Then, Lups pulled free, leaving Luplup with a handful of hair; and the nanotubules oh-so-
briefly inserted pulled free.  "Comes back little ssself!" called Luplup to the retreating 
Yoole.
	Disruptor fire from the entrance way caused Luplup to duck a tactical and come to 
a rapid conclusion:  Original Self must survive.  More clones can always be made, more 
clones can always be grown.  As one, Original Self and the type IV tactical turned 
towards the runabout ramp and ran forwards.  Meanwhile, Luplup also ran at her bipedal 
pursuers, sacrificing the remaining tactical such that the more important part of the I 
might survive.
	Jacking into the shuttle was only the work of a moment.  Luplup was slightly 
confused over the lack of challenge from Invisible-Brain, but did not take the time to 
consider the implications.  Instead she seized control of the vessel, closed the ramp door, 
and sent it hurling out of the shuttlebay.  She was within long-range weapon range of 
herSelves, now, her stolen Bad-Mans cube soon to close within transporter distance.
	Survival was assured.

	Captain, blinking as his ocular implant refused to reduce images to anything less 
than an out-of-focus two, tried to make sense of recent history.  And failed.  His memory, 
like his vision, was a bit on the fuzzy side.  He remembered the chase through the gas 
giant's atmosphere; and he recalled his shuttle trip and part of the forced march through 
the hallways of the Second Federation ship.  After the bright light, everything became 
scrambled.  Captain suspected a memory fault.
	Self diagnostics are difficult when the diagnostics on the diagnostics pronounce a 
host of problems.
	Captain careened off a corridor wall, not entirely sure where he was going.  Faces 
and bodies - there were a number of these, most expressing emotions ranging from 
surprise to fear - were ignored as irrelevant.  He had a map of the ship, courtesy of the 
Peach drone, and a voice deep in his mind urging him to find a hull access point.  That 
voice, or rather sense of a voice, was mildly troublesome, and Captain strongly suspected 
that the schematic data had an extra snippet of code or three hidden within it.  
Unfortunately, he had not the time nor the focus to examine it.
	Another wall rudely impacted against the wobbly Captain as he continued his 
trek.

	The only regret Liaison had was that he had not been able to fulfill all his goals.  
The Second Federation ship would survive, and so, assuming injuries did not kill her, 
would the larval Vyst.  The long-range plan with the Borg Collective may or may not 
work.
	Luplup, however, would be exterminated.
	The runabout had a small data coupling on its roof linking exterior dorsal sensors 
and the ship's computer.  It was a small chink in its lightly armored hide, one which was 
unimportant in normal times.  At this moment it was sufficient for Liaison to connect 
with said computer.  All he needed was access to one specific sub-program.
	"Core overload in ten seconds," brightly informed the computer to its two 
occupants.

	Luplup lost her mind.  Lost her soul.
	Ten seconds was not enough time to force her cube into transporter range.  She 
could only watch helplessly as the I shrank.  The numbers were insignificant - two Selves 
of several hundred thousand (even after implosion of the small cube) - but the result was 
out of proportion to the loss.
	Luplup convulsed, was consumed.  She fell apart.  She could feel the strands of 
what held her together fraying, dissolving.  She was dissolving.  She existed, but in a 
floating, dreamlike state, unable to control her Selves.
	On the Battle-class cube, in the Borg mining complex, on the scows, in the dens 
where a few of Luplup's eggQueens hid, all the places Luplup existed, individual Vysts 
returned to a state of instinct.  Less than instinct.  Bodies mindlessly snapped at each 
other, dropped equipment to the ground, and/or went catatonic.  Ships drifted off course.  
Devices stopped working.  Life support failed.  Dens erupted in a frenzy of bodies.
	Luplup was chaos incarnate.

	{Hurry up,} cajoled Captain to the sub-collective of Cube #347.  {I've been burnt, 
shot, and clawed.  My oxygen reserves will begin to red-line in less than twenty minutes.  
Of course, I could be wrong, as those sensors may be malfunctioning as well.}
	{A table on the maintenance bay will be ready when you are retrieved,} helpfully 
replied Doctor.  {A table of your /very/ own.}
	{I would like to be in that maintenance bay, alive, not being stripped for parts,} 
said Captain in return.
	Captain floated in his own orbit around the nameless gas giant.  A subroutine had 
calculated his orbital period to be 44.5 standard days.  A second subroutine determined 
his personal revolution to be once every ten minutes.  With slow-motion regularity, the 
planet rose and set, Captain unable to do anything to dampen the spin.  Earlier, he had 
made it successfully to the hull of Camel's Walk, then subsequently been forced to 
literally jump ship when the vessel had shown indications of imminent warp.
	Contact with Cube #347 had resumed shortly after a runabout, disgorged from 
Camel's Walk, had exploded.  Following the fireball, not only had Captain been treated to 
a very close encounter of the cube kind as Battle-class Cube #761 had sailed past with no 
propulsive power, but the dampening zone had lifted.  Perhaps it had been the realization 
that Cube #347 was no longer quietly slumbering, perhaps the knowledge that the 
vanguard of a large Borg fleet would soon be arriving, but shortly after the explosion, 
Camel's Walk had left.
	The Second Federation vessel need not to have scampered off so quickly, for 
Cube #347 had not immediately come to their consensus monitor and facilitator's rescue.  
Instead, priority had been assigned to destroying the scows, followed by raking the 
mining complex with a barrage of torpedo fire.  And now...now there was an argument in 
progress.
	{Battle-class Cube #761 is our priority,} insisted Weapons.  She was not as 
virulent in her desire as 45 of 300, but she remained insistent.  {Surviving Vysts must be 
destroyed before Luplup regains her senses.}
	Countered Delta, {The hull!  We can't make adequate contact with the Collective 
until the hull is washed down and the transmuted layers removed.  This is top priority.}  
She might believe she could work better with the new Weapons, but in engineering 
matters, Delta still put her hierarchy's importance first.
	{Battle-class Cube #761.}
	{Hull.}
	{Battle-class Cube #761.}
	{Hull.}
	Captain blocked out the argument.  {Second!  Make order, now.  And I don't care 
/which/ is done, I just want to be retrieved sometime before this star turns into a black 
dwarf corpse.}

			*	*	*	*	*

Post #10665649 on rumor.news.net		(last reset:  107 time periods)
Title:  RE: RE: RE: RE: Conspiracy!!	(Thread:  Conspiracy!!)			
Author:  WeAreGreenBorg

Correlations are correct with 73.2% probability that the theory of TheQueen_921 is 
correct, especially when backed by data collected by SzzinithBoy and 
OutToGetMe666_666.  Requests by us to Peach have returned no answers...which is not 
unexpected given the base nature of Peach.  We have contacted Ultraviolet to have that 
Color continue analysis upon gathered data in order to raise probability percentage; and 
we are currently attempting to determine the location of the Trident base despite 
insistence by Peach that the facility does not exist.

Small beings, continue to post relevant information to this newsnet board.  Else, you may 
turn yourself into the nearest Colored recruiting facility, regardless of Color, to be 
assimilated.  We have already located SzzzinithBoy and persuaded him to do so.  Credit 
can buy many things.

Monetary rewards will be considered.

Luplup must be eliminated.  Resistance is futile.  At any and all cost.

History:  WeAreGreenBorg has posted 10 times on rumor.news.net and has the rank of 
"Not So Shiny Happy People"