Once upon a time in a land not so far away, Paramount owned all things Star Trek. A little bit closer to home, Decker created Star Traks. Down in the basement and behind the water heater, Meneks writes BorgSpace. Conspiracy of One "They are the ones behind the Conspiracy. They are out to get me, this sub- collective, the Borg, everyone. They are to blame, and I have the flowcharts to prove it." The word 'they' was capitalized, and not just because it was at the forefront of a sentence. They were maybe-living, maybe-breathing, and thoroughly made-up entities. Or at least that was what the quasi-personality Pilgrim Ghydin believed. Belief or unbelief was irrelevant for Ghydin's existence itself was little more than insubstantial thought residing in a corner of Weapons' mind. An artificial personality, he should have dissipated long ago when the Borg had barged in with their very efficient process used to subjugate a psyche. Ghydin had remained, though, for reasons he himself never understood, the ghost of a personality past residing in the dark mental niche he called home. A home which had become invaded these last few weeks after Weapons had been disconnected from his body and the dataspaces. A drone who was sent into deep regenerative stasis - as Weapons had been - was theoretically quiescent in all aspects. The unit was viewed as an organic machine, able to be shuffled into stand-by mode with no more self-will than a toaster. Theory worked quite well for most drones, but Weapons (still, and ever, Weapons, never 45 of 300) was not most drones. For one thing, most drones did not have their own captive audience. Even when sent to stasis, even when disconnected from the Whole except for the most menial of necessary datastreams, Weapons freely roamed his own mind. Reading on-board files. Developing esoteric BorgCraft scenarios. Constructing detailed conspiracy theories. Displaying said conspiracy theories to Ghydin. Ghydin sighed and stepped out of his sheltered nook. His form, when he was sufficiently motivated, was that of Weapons, pre-assimilation. At the moment, his image was little more than a free-form humanoid shadow, no face, indistinct and wanting to melt back into unthought except for the summons by the mind's primary personality. Weapons, on the other hand, was brilliantly sharp, his drone body, if possible, sporting more armaments than reality allowed. "There is no They. Well, there is a 'They,' but your They is not that They," said Ghydin, familiar with the conversation to come. Weapons ignored his secondary personality (and any logic) as he erected flowcharts, diagrams, and (this was new for Ghydin) a model of an oddly distorted spiral galaxy. "There is always a They," he replied, a finger sending the galaxy into graceful, if wobbling, rotation. "I feel They as They try to rip secrets from me. They tried so two hours and thirty-six minutes ago." Ghydin pointed out, "That, as it always is, was drone maintenance, probing a synaptic pathway." He was not clouded by paranoia...or hostility, or any of many associated facets his constructed personality had never originally incorporated. "They," insisted Weapons as he materialized a baton out of nothingness and pointed to the first bogglingly complex chart. It was at that moment Ghost decided to appear. Weapons paused. Ghost was the name Ghydin had christened the tattered remains of Micah, the body's birth personality. Long since torn into disjointed fragments, to call Ghost's appearance a "decision" was stretching things more than a bit. Ghost was little more than random impulses which occasionally synched to allow materialization. Ghost incarnate was little more than a thickness of air, a shimmering mirage. "Shoo," spat Ghydin, waving a hand at Ghost as if chasing an annoying insect. Ghost sparkled for a long moment, then vanished, temporary cohesiveness scattered once again. Weapons blinked, then continued, "As I was saying..." the baton pointed to the first box. The contents of the box always changed. This time the root of all conspiracies was a rubber duck balanced on the outstretched finger of a hand making a rude gesture. A kleenex box was in the background, atop a mound of used tissues. Ghydin settled down to listen. "There is no conspiracy," he said, just as he had said so many times before.... * * * * * Cube #347 was on the edge of BorgSpace, supposedly on patrol to detect unlikely intruders within the sparse sprinkling of aged stars which comprised the galactic rim. Supposedly. In reality, Cube #347 was drifting, the sub-collective turned inward, attention to the outside barely sufficient to avoid random interstellar debris. The small, ragtag fleet of civilian ships plus antique battlestar was ignored. Announced the ever-popular Walter Kron-clone, anchor of GNN: "And in other news..." The report continued on to detail a marketing tiff over used warp nacelles which featured Ferrengi, Green Borg, and a galactic-spanning used-ship consortium. Tensions were running high, and the judicial arbitration arm of the Second Federation behemoth was threatening to become involved. The reaction was much larger than the original provocation. Such was becoming familiar fare these days. {For the last time, leave the GNN feed alone!} The broadcast was cut. {We need those navigational files, else we'll be the ones featured in the "Daily Bloop" line-up. The Greater Consciousness would not like that, especially as we were already on it last month,} stated Captain. Without the appropriate charts, even the most routine calculation of FTL course became next to impossible. Queried 120 of 203, pastry chef, {And the poptart recipes?} Second answered before Captain could formulate an appropriate reply, {Navigation is a bit higher priority than fast-food breakfast items. Furthermore, we have no need to consume food.} {Eat? Why would I eat anything? That is like actually drinking wine! The alcoholic beverage and food tasting party is tomorrow, and I /absolutely/ must access the poptart recipes. The party is the highlight of the social calendar!} Captain, 120 of 203, and nearly all on Cube #347 were having trouble with the computer, and more specifically, accessing computer files. In fact, it had become downright dangerous at times. From recipes to inventories to navigational charts, the data was too large or too mundane to be held in the often expansive on-board memory of individual drones. It was more than a little distressing (never embarrassing...Borg could not be embarrassed) to have computer problems, but such was the nature of the danger to potentially spread that the Collective was not offering assistance even to upload a copy of necessary navigation files. The efficient operation of any Borg sub-collective depended upon computers. Part of it was robust organics in the form of individual drones and biocircuitry, but the great majority was hardware which allowed manipulation of quantum quibits. The computer entire was a brute force machine employing automated helper programs of the most rudimentary type unable to be classified as artificial intelligence even by the broadest of definitions. And, like all computers, a potential susceptibility to rogue code existed, be it a maliciously introduced virus or buggy programming of the homegrown variety. Thus, the need of an synthetic immune system. Hunter-seekers were, at their most basic, semi-autonomous programs designed to seek rogue code and eliminate it. They were watchdogs, protecting the purity of the core vinculum and root codes. Hackers and other remote agents had to beware the hunter- seekers, for not only would the programs howl "intruder," but they would enter active pursuit, more than capable of rending code of a trespassing network. Hunter-seekers were an immune system with over eight millennium of experience and upgrades. On Cube #347, 45 of 300, long-time Weapons and now currently in deep regenerative stasis due to excessive paranoia, had tweaked the resident hunter-seekers. The sub-collective had always been a potential weak point in the grater Collective digital architecture, so the Greater Consciousness had not prohibited the hunter-seeker adjustment to the more extreme end of their parameters. All had remained within overall tolerance limits, even if the local immune agents were more aggressive than the norm. Unfortunately, hunter-seekers were, by necessity to manage ever-changing virii, constantly evolving. In normal course of affairs, routine synchronization with the Collective allowed the comparison of all variants, followed by dissemination Collective- wide of good mutations and the elimination of the useless or harmful. Hunter-seekers were otherwise all adjusted to the same basic code. Those on Cube #347, already at the tolerated extremes, had, without the moderating supervision of 45 of 300, slipped into the realm of "over enthusiasm." The hunter-seekers were protecting the data stores, just as they were programmed. They were also perceiving the drone populace as bearers of code only narrowly defined as "right," almost intruders, but not quite. The digital presence of the drones was sufficiently Borg to preclude outright attack, but suspect enough that free file access was not automatically granted. More worrisome, the intolerance was growing hunter-seeker generation by generation, and likely scenarios not only projected the programs turning on the Cube #347 sub-collective, but potentially the Collective as well. All Borg were nodes, deeply entwined at a subconscious level with the computer: it was more than possible for an insubstantial computer code to harm flesh and blood and brain. Unfortunately for Cube #347, the hunter-seekers guarded their local spawn code with such ferocity that it was impossible to approach it, to alter it, to terminate it, to upload a new immune system. It was still possible, barely, to access critical parts of the file architecture. {Navigational files,} repeated Captain. In Captain's nodal intersection, an empty cube of air was suddenly populated with stars, subspace riptide warnings, and other holographic representations of the requisite file; and in the dataspaces, the same file was uploaded into a secure area defended against hunter-seekers. Unless a file had already been committed to drone memory - as they became available, critical files, as designated by command and control, not overly biased individuals, were saved - its access had become a safari expedition. The more essential the file, the deeper it lay within the dangerous virtual heart of darkness. Navigational files required one command and control member to retrieve and an escort of six weapons or assimilation designations for defense. 120 of 203 assaulted 62 of 480. {My poptart recipe?} 62 of 480 returned a snarl, {Recipe? Recipe!? I almost had part of myself ripped by one of those deranged hunter-seekers, just for a routine file! If you want your recipe, get into the "Miscellaneous" queue and wait for your own escort. I am not a courier service.} 62 of 480 retreated to his own mental space, erecting blocks to dissuade 120 of 203's pursuit. {But that'll take too long,} muttered 120 of 203 concerning the waiting requests in the Miscellaneous queue, ranging from an article in a prior year issue of Galactic Explorer to the blueprints for a Bolian type-6a plunger. 120 of 203 turned attention to the next runner in the "Critical" queue to convince her to make a poptart recipe side trip. Captain, meanwhile, completed the orchestration of calculations necessary for the next twenty light year jaunt on the patrol, then sent the file to secure storage in the head of a command and control drone. As translight engines revved from idle, Captain was already directing the request for the next navigational file. Needless to say that amid such inner turmoil, Cube #347 never registered the mass of robotic ships in never-ending pursuit of the previously ignored fleet of mismatched vessels. * * * * * Weapons suspiciously watched the pulses, the interrogations, as they periodically swept through his physical brain. He was a passive observer, unable to affect, fight, impede. One part of him, the grounded Ghydin-esque part, knew it was drone maintenance testing neural pathways, attempting to find a reason for his behavior and to determine if he was worth salvage beyond that represented by spare parts. The other part of him, the paranoid part which had gained strength these last few years, avidly leapt from what-if to could-be, constructing a logically illogical web of deceit with the ultimate purpose the destruction of the Borg (and, hence, Weapons). The Ghydin persona, unknown to the greater sub-collective, had been the anchor for the "sane" Weapons, the rather aggressive Weapons who nonetheless did not instantly leap to a conclusion which included invoking a mysterious They. As of late, the "paranoid" Weapons was increasingly overwhelming the "sane" quasi-subpersonalities of an already abused primary personality, shifting dominance. Ghost shimmered into perception, drawing Weapons' attention. "What do you want?" demanded Weapons to the shade of a shade. Ghost, as always, was silent, a fragment of a dead personality. The vaguely humanoid shape threatened to consolidate, then returned to its normal wispy state. The fact that it had not already faded to background mental static was unusual. "As long as you are here, let me tell you about the newest Conspiracy twist...." Weapons invoked an easel with flipchart and began to summarize. Unnoticed, the electrical storm probing implant-laced gray matter slowed, ceased. * * * * * Doctor's ears flicked as the alarm rippled through the intranet: hunter-seekers had assaulted several of the less stable (and, therefore, most divergent from standard) members of the sub-collective. The action had been expected, but not so soon. Doctor backed away from his patient, disengaging himself from the diagnostic machine which englobed most of 45 of 300's cranium. The ex-head of the weapons hierarchy had been installed in a modified alcove taken from one of the many largely disused assimilation workshops. The alcove now resided in Maintenance Bay #5, further altered to incorporate many neurological- orientated diagnostic equipment. What had begun as a temporary measure had, over the weeks, evolved into semi-permanence, from emergency patient status to experimental subject. The "curing" of 45 of 300 was no longer an urgency, not with 183 of 300 showing adequate competency as Weapons; and 45 of 300 had become a part-time hobby to puzzle over between maintenance check-ups, elective surgery, and illicit cage- cleaning. Doctor absently slapped a button as he turned to face the center of the maintenance bay. Behind him, a complexity of armatures hissed and rattled as the alcove was removed from the examination table and smoothly returned to its "put away" position on the periphery of the bay. A final sigh of plastic was the unrolling of a clear tarp which prevented stray blood, fluids, and sparks from splattering either machine or interred body. Three drones of varying degree of consciousness, ranging from semi- to un-, materialized on the deck in the center of the room. Elements of weapons and assimilation hierarchies had beaten back the assault, but not before organic damage had resulted. With a drone maintenance pathway command, all body systems locked. "Up, up, up on the tables," commanded Doctor to both the maintenance drones present and those additional units arriving via transporter beams (thus far, the hunter- seekers were only blocking file access, not systems access). "Stabilize and scan for ouchies." The patients' species were Dobbon, Erechan, and Infree, which meant... {9 of 152 and 10 of 152, fetch yourselves to my location! Come! *whistle* Come quickly!} The drones in question collectively held basic neuro-physiology files for species "C" through "J". Like the other hierarchies (except assimilation, which had decided since their specialty was little used, there was no need), drone maintenance had begun backing up essential data in drones, on PADDS, anywhere which could be held apart from the hunter-seekers. It was awkward because security necessitated physical data exchange, as well as potentially dangerous if certain vital walking repositories were attacked by hunter-seekers or had a garden-variety accident, but it worked...for now. 9 of 152 and 10 of 152 appeared in the increasingly crowded Maintenance Bay #5. Doctor held out an arm for a nanotech transfer of knowledge. {What about 45 of 300?} asked 33 of 133, at the table nearest ex-Weapons where she was strapping down 2 of 20 prior to the invasive scan. She had noticed a tell-tale blinking on the alcove cradle behind the tarp. {The equipment is not fully shut-down.} Doctor clicked his teeth in annoyance. {45 of 300 is quite crated and isn't wandering anywhere. There are other sicky-wicky boys and girls to attend.} He closed his eyes briefly as the first shot of data was absorbed, dismissing the matter. 33 of 133 shrugged, returning to her assigned task. Behind the plastic shroud, the light blinked one-three-one-three; and 45 of 300 slept, oblivious. * * * * * "...and over here, as one can plainly see, it is by the action of small, furry creatures that...and where do you think you are going? I'm not done yet." Weapons huffed and began to tap the baton against his thigh in annoyance. Ghost was wafting away on an unseen, unfelt current. Weapons cocked his head, or, rather, that which he perceived to be his head. Semantics did not matter. Something had changed. The brain-storms were calmed, but a breeze remained. A very unexpected breeze. Ghost, unusually solid, was caught in it, whipped along to a destination unknown. Unacceptable. Weapons banished easel, chart, and baton and forged after Ghost. If Ghost was to be solid(ish) for longer than a heartbeat, then Ghost could well listen to Weapons' theories. Ghost would be brought back. "Come back here! You will comply!" Pause. "I /will/ comply with myself!" Like an ever-retreating mirage, Ghost floated out of Weapons' grasp. The breeze wended through the architecture of his mind, past the shadow forms of implants, neurons, nanomachines operating at minimal maintenance levels. Files containing a hundred and two ways to transform paperclips and rubber bands into instruments of lethal intent were ignored. "I will not stand for insolence from such an insignificant part of myself. Comply!" Weapons only paused for a moment as he passed through the hole, the drain between that which was himself and that which was without. He hesitated, the sane part of himself wary as to the rationality of the situation. The paranoid part abruptly took charge and swept forward. Ghost was escaping. Very unacceptable. Ghydin blinked and abruptly stood up from his niche. Something was not right. He felt...alone. Singular. One. Frantic, Ghydin cast his awareness beyond his quiet corner, scanning for the body's primary personality. Except for a cooling spoor, Weapons was gone; and, it seemed, the fragments of Micah-past had vanished as well. The crack to the outside world immediately caught Ghydin's attention. Drone maintenance, following the last neurological probe session, had neglected to sever the link with exterior dataspaces. Weapons' trail led to the hole, and through. Ghydin /was/ alone. Ghydin had surrendered the post of primary personality a very long time ago and did not wish to resume it. The few times he had been forced to be in charge...a disaster. No. It would not happen again. He was not the assimilated one here. Conspiracies or no conspiracies, flowcharts or no flowcharts, Weapons was primary. Had to be primary. Pushing himself from his niche, and following a quick check to confirm the stability of the autonomic nervous system while all bits of the body's "soul" was on walkabout, Ghydin flew towards the hole. He was a personality on a mission: Weapons /would/ return to his rightful place in the body. * * * * * Three engineering drones crowded together behind vat 23a of Comet Slurry Processing #4, ostentatiously tracking the source of a chronic leak which plagued this particular facility. The requisite mops, buckets, slickers, and waterproof maintenance gear were visibly strewn so that the casual observer would believe work was in progress. Reality was different. These drones had carefully inserted an ingenious snippet of code which originated a random (harmless, but messy) leak using a hideously complicated algorithm that allowed the trio to meet every four to fifteen cycles. The reason? "Hah! Go fish!" chortled 29 of 240 with glee. A low-tech deck of cards, be it Klingon, Terran, Bajorian, or any of a vast number of species which had invented their own version of ranked paperboard, was easily replicated. It was also not subject to the current dataspace difficulties. 6 of 310 grumbled. "I swore you had a nine." 29 of 240 snorted. "That's what you get for trying to cheat...a false visual stream." "I did not cheat! I just..." "Didn't get a chance to mark the cards this time, so I had to guess," completed 281 of 310. The plastic slicker crinkled as shoulders shrugged. "I dislike 'Go Fish.' Let's do 'Klingon Targ Screw' next." 29 of 240 winced. "Last time we played, I nearly lost my arm, not to mention the torso assembly dislocation I had to explain to drone maintenance. I don't think it was truly believed that I was on the losing side of an argument with my mop." The named game (the only vulgarity to it was the name) was very physical; and decks which started with, say, seventy whole cards tended to have 100 or more card pieces by the end. 29 of 240 was at a distinct height and weight disadvantage in comparison to the very solid 281 of 310. "What do you think, 6 of 310? 'Go Fish' for awhile longer or...what is with you?" 6 of 310 was drooling, a trickle of spittle oozing down an uncharacteristically limp jaw. As 29 of 240 watched, the other drone's body slumped, hand opening to allow cards to flutter to the deck. The nearby portable shelf, upon which lay the fish pile as well as a selection of paired cards, shrieked in protest as heavy drone body leaned against it. "Very funny. If you didn't want to play 'Go Fish,' why did you agree with me in the first place?" "Excuse me," said 281 of 310 to 29 of 240, "have you seen either Weapons or Ghost? I'm not used to navigating anywhere outside my own head. Oh, there's Ghost." 29 of 240 blinked and swiveled to face 281 of 310. The other's body posture was all wrong, head, arms, torso held in an almost awkward manner. "Phooey. I didn't want to possess a body," continued 281 of 310 as she peered at her own hand with unabashed curiosity, "but there seems to be a wee bit of commotion amid all the digital pathways and no one would stop to talk to me." 6 of 310 leaned forward, back, then too far to the side. Balance was lost, sending the drone to the floor to join the cards. This time, the shelf did not survive. "What just happened?" faintly mumbled 6 of 310 from his new position. "Dang. There goes Ghost again. Anyway, I'm Ghydin, Weapons'...er, 45 of 300's...secondary personality. If you encounter him, could you tell him I'm looking for him and that he better get back to his body because I refuse to run it for him every time he decides to step out for a bit? Thanks." With that, 29 of 240 felt a presence slip from the interplexing beacon signature which was 281 of 310, leaving the latter to follow 6 of 310 to the deck. "'Sixty-Eight Card Pick-up', anyone?" asked 29 of 240 as he let his own hand, the only cards not on the floor, flutter from his fingers. * * * * * Weapons strolled through the unusually empty dataspace. He had lost Ghost's trail - perhaps the subpersona had dissipated to become a true ghost in the machine - but it no longer seemed important. In fact, the longer Weapons spent outside the confines of his physical self, the more distant the concept of They became. Unfortunately, the idea of "body" was becoming equally irrelevant. A hulking brute of a program, all coded teeth and spikes and spines, loped near on software paws, pausing to regard Weapons. The ex-hierarchy head perceived the hunter- seeker as a dog-analogue, a pit bull-Doberman cross with devilish red eyes and the temper of a caffeine addict forced to go cold turkey. Weapons had observed from afar both the extreme caution of drone avatars and the aggression of the hunter-seekers as they guarded their file treasures. As dangerous as they were to others, however, they gave Weapons nary a hostile glance. In fact, this particular rabid pooch avidly fell to the ground to expose its belly. Weapons stopped to give the hunter-seeker a friendly pat before wending on his aimless way. What was his purpose? How did They fit, if at all, assuming They actually existed. What about Ghost? Ghydin? Did he really want to return to his body with the heated thoughts and the probing by drone maintenance? Tick, went a background clock. Tock. Without an anchoring body, Weapons was starting to fade, to tatter, to become another Ghost. Perhaps he should go back. Perhaps not. Another hunter-seeker glided past on a patrol which changed to pursuit as an intruder was smelt/tasted/felt. The intruder - 183 of 300, absently noted Weapons as he accessed the appropriate datanode - had crept too near a file containing information of a tactical nature. The designation "183 of 300" struck a cord in Weapons, although he knew not why. Piqued in spite of his growing apathy, he trundled after the howling hunter-seeker. * * * * * Ghydin was in the same maintenance bay his, well, Weapons' body was stored. He was not in that body and nor would return until Weapons was back where he belonged. Instead, Ghydin had possessed the body of another drone, one of the hunter- seeker attack victims which had been brought in earlier. Cube #347, from what Ghydin could gather - his normal hermit semi-existence precluded any faculty to access the dataspaces, that the realm of the dominant Weapons - was dead in space. The cause was the hunter-seekers, their disruptive attacks increasing against the fringe elements of the sub-collective. On top of this, Ghydin's possessions had not gone unnoticed. When he had emerged in the maintenance bay, strong persuasion had been invoked for him to stay and hear what Captain had to say. Captain, consensus monitor and facilitator, was present. The ever more crowded bay was finding it difficult to accept even one more ambulatory drone. Unfortunately, it was necessary, for Ghydin, unsubstantial semi-personality he was, could not use the intranets unless he borrowed neurons; and when in possession, the energy required to maintain control, even of otherwise comatose drones, only allowed verbal communication. Therefore, Captain's presence, for if he wanted to talk, the choices were face-to-face or a more inefficient third-party relay. "Explain why you are not attacked by hunter-seekers," curtly demanded Captain. "I know you can be more civil," said Ghydin with his borrowed voice. He paused, taking in both the deadpan expression which masked annoyance and the arrival of another unlucky drone. The latter captured Ghydin's attention briefly because, before she was surrounded by a swarm of drone maintenance, there was a tugging familiarity. Focus returned to Captain. "However, considering the situation..." Captain's eyes bored into Ghydin's face. "Our weapons hierarchy head has just been attacked. Explain why you are not attacked by hunter-seekers. And explain why you are not in your body." "Second things first, it isn't my body, no more than this one is. It is Weapons'. 45 of 300's. Whomever. His self-identity, and thus mine of him, is Weapons. I just live there. While he's been cut off to the rest of you, he's become increasingly paranoid. Well, there was an incident, the linkage between him and the outside was left open, and he took advantage. There's a wee bit more to it than that, but suffice to say he went walkabout, and I refuse to be the personality-in-charge. There's not enough of me left. I'm trying to find him and bring him back. "As far as those attack programs, I can only assume that they are coded not to attack Weapons. I /am/ a part of Weapons, perhaps a bit more independent than your typical alternate personality, but I probably register as Weapons to them. Ghost too." Ghydin waved a borrowed arm in emphasis. Body language was not Borg, but then again, neither was Ghydin. "Ghost?" Captain blinked as he was drawn off subject. Ghydin winced. "Long story. Not important." Across the bay, a maintenance drone fell to the deck, victim of a sudden punch to the face. The patient - the current Weapons - was apparently experiencing a tad difficulty with motor control of her right arm. A second maintenance unit approached carefully as the first picked himself off the floor. "You can approach the hunter-seekers. Can you reprogram or terminate them?" queried Captain. Thoughts churning as he slid his gaze away from NeoWeapons (not "Weapons," for that entity existed still, if unofficially and only in his mind (of which Ghydin was a part)), Ghydin replied, "I don't think so." Pause, then a rush to continue: "Not that I would not want to help, but I can't. I'm just a partial personality, understand. I mostly gaze at my metaphorical and nonexistent navel. I know next to nothing of Borg coding nor have I the aptitude." Captain's face imperceptibly tightened at the refusal. He was not used to outright noncompliance. As his eyes unfocused, or at least unfocused at the outside world, there was a hitch in the work of the bustling drone maintenance units. Internally, Ghydin could feel the gathering of disparate designations, the weaving of a consensus of which he was not a part. After a long minute, Captain's attention snapped back to Ghydin. "This problem must be solved. You imply 45 of 300 is like you, disembodied and in the dataspaces. We cannot find him. You will find 45 of 300 and tell him to terminate the hunter-seekers." Ghydin's borrowed body was mostly secured to the worktable. While he was flat on his back and forced to gaze up at Captain, the upper torso was partially free. Ghydin felt a certain presence consolidate nearby and swiveled as much of his body as he could towards the source. He began to shout, "Ghost! Bad Ghost! Go home! Home! Go home right now!" A maintenance drone, recipient of possession, wavered on her feet before collapsing. Ghost's tentative grip on wholeness had shattered. Ghydin sighed and rolled flat to his back. "Apologies. You asked about Ghost earlier. That was Ghost. I will do my best to track Weapons..." "45 of 300." "...but I'm not the dominant personality. He doesn't listen to reason in the best of times, and if he's still as paranoid as he was before he left his body, well, I cannot make promises." "Promises are irrelevant. Do it. Comply." "Fine. Fine. But first, while I'm here..." Ghydin swiveled the body again, this time towards NeoWeapons. The sense of knowing her as more than a passing designation was strong. "You! Weapons hierarchy head! How..." NeoWeapons, right arm frozen in a gesture of ultimate vulgarity to species #8713, began to turn her head at the unusual verbal summons. She did not complete the motion, her body stiffening before collapsing into a wave of seizures which bowled over two attendants. Hunter-seekers had bypassed the dataspace defensive cordon and were attacking NeoWeapons again. The dogs of war had been slipped; and NeoWeapons wasn't the only one under assault. The massive might of the sub-collective had to beat off its own software immune system. Several heartbeats later an uneasy, unspoken truce had been declared and NeoWeapons stopped seizing. Captain's wordless glower deepened. "Fine. I'm going," said Ghydin. * * * * * Weapons stood on the featureless topography of the dataspace, observing. At his urging, the barely restrained hunter-seeker pack had assaulted 183 of 300 despite the protections surrounding her. He didn't know why he had directed the attack, except that it had been appropriate, necessary. The pack had run off, and now it returned, swarming around the huntmaster. They had been defeated (momentarily), but they had also decompiled code. Weapons was satisfied. The pack roiled, then separated as no new commands were issued. There was collateral damage, secondary targets mauled. Weapons did not care, and nor did he care that the hunter-seekers were now moving in active pursuit of those secondary targets, no longer content with guarding files. A humanoid shape consolidated next to Weapons, solidified, became Ghydin. The personality gathered insubstantial robes around himself and stared long at Weapons before speaking. "Weapons, you need to terminate the hunter-seekers. If they continue, they are going to kill the sub-collective and, by extension, you. Us. And you need to return to our body. If you are searching for 'They', They are certainly not out here." Weapons required a long, sluggish moment to process the words. Although his mind had cleared since he had left his body, obscuring mental fog burned away, it had become increasingly hard to think. Perhaps it was a lack of neurons. No matter. He may be unsure why 183 of 300 had to be attacked, but he /knew/ he did not want to return to the fog-inducing confines of his physical brain. "They? Who are They? Don't want to return to body. Cannot think there. Cannot think here, neither, but better than there." Weapons paused. He was not explaining himself well to himself. Maybe the other topic? "I am Weapons, but I am not recognized Weapons. I can point, but I cannot do..." Weapons trailed off, frowned. Thin molasses thickening. He did not have to justify himself to himself! A spark flared, flowered. "But," began Ghydin. "Go away!" Weapons pushed the other part of himself. Surprise registered on Ghydin's face before he evaporated, blew away, vanished. The spark dimmed. Weapons stood on the featureless topography of the dataspace, observing. * * * * * The self. The I. The consciousness. The soul. The one of a thousand imprecise words to describe a sum which was grander than its parts. Be it a sugar-hungry mass of specialized cells, a digital parade of bits and bytes, or an organized electrical storm, self- awareness and all (good and bad) it entailed was more than smarts, intelligence. The complexity of systems, organic or inorganic, which gave rise to a spectrum of unique sentient brains all had one thing in common: attraction. Under the constraining width/length/height of the common universe curled unseen dimensions. The quantum world was the real nut and bolt foundation upon which the macroverse was merely an airy scum. Gravity, superstrings, subnanoscopic wormholes exchanging instantaneous information, all the building blocks were here, the basis of consciousness. Complex mental architecture registered as knots in the quantum foam, a stable projected quasi- structure safe from the dangerous fluctuation of probability which routinely set effect before cause. And among the complex "ecology" of the quantum world, that eddy was a haven. With all things possible within the quantum foam, no matter how unlikely, it was inevitable that self-assembly would create random fluxes which were slightly more persistent than the norm. And that these fluxes would, selfishly, want to continue to persist. It was life, or maybe not, of a sort. The great majority of the fluxes had no more intelligence or self-awareness than an amoeba, little more than sparks of stimulus- response fated eventually to return from the foam they were birthed. Some fluxes did have that spark of self, but the origination of Directors, Critics, Producers, and (eventually) the entire infinity of a Complex housing Boards and Waiting Rooms and Bars and other capitalized Facilities is not under scrutiny here. It is all rather metaphysical and may or may not have something to do with the universe seeking to know itself. Very deep. Very mind bending. Totally irrelevant. Transcendent beings such as Q (and R, S, and Z...with B soon to come) were another story all together. Unlike certain Body Parts, actual bodies had been involved at one point. Again, utterly irrelevant and likely part of some sort of colossal prank which would only be revealed in a trillion or so years. For the quantum ecology of the majority, survival was a manner of finding uninhabited knots. The fluxes - virii - inserted themselves into the stability of the knots, safe. In the macroworld, the ego, the id, the "I" was expressed. As the consciousness would rather not ponder upon itself as a side-effect of the equivalent of a chronic sinus infection, more palatable ideas such as supreme deities tend to be created to explain the soul. Once a knot was infected, virii and haven were virtually inseparable. Snail and shell. If the flux left its haven, it would eventually loose cohesion and return to the quantum foam; and the knot, bereft of tenant, would manifest in the macroworld as a persistent vegetative state. For a very few, primarily monks with a near lifetime of meditation to harmonize with the self, it was possible to nudge the flux from the knot, at least for short periods of time. Finding the way "home" was always a problem should the self drift too far. In the supersubatomic levels, the knot represented by Weapons' brain was resetting. No one was home. Except in circumstances highly unusual even in the ever- shifting world of the quantum foam, no new "soul" virii would take up residence, the phantom spoor of the prior flux highly repulsive to the unconscious consciousnesses searching for habitation. Unfortunately, soon (a relative term), the original flux would also be locked out. A shimmer, a sparkle, a vortex briefly arose from the knot which was Weapons. It hovered in the howling storm of nonspace, mindlessly indecisive. It had found a good, safe place to live, a place to hide and reproduce, but that home was growing cold. It was time to move on. The quantum foam was a proper ecology, after all, and the presence of parasites and predators was not unexpected. * * * * * Ghydin fought through the fog of possession, struggling to surface in one of the patients in Maintenance Bay #5. As he blinked his borrowed eye and ocular implant into focus, his first thought was that this drone was malfunctioning. All the colors were wrong; and bodies had serious proportional problems, from clown feet to pinheads to outrageous noses. And the body parts tended to balloon and wither away in cyclic randomness. And the colors shifted to an unheard stuttering cuttlefish beat. Ghydin dove into the neuroprocessor, forcing it to spit out the body's designation. "Oh, I'm in 2 of 20. That explains...a lot. Serious brainburn," opinioned Ghydin to no one in particular. As swiftly as he could, he surrendered the G'floo! ex-addict's body to the oblivion of regenerative stasis, striking out for a new drone. Flexing the unsecured arms of 151 of 203, Ghydin found himself back to where he had began, complete with Captain staring down at him. Except for the odd blue- mauve, semi-transparent quadruped with the stocky body and long nose hovering in the background, this drone's neurological pathways were normal. Nearly normal. Didn't exhibit the sensation of stepping into a psychotropic, slow-motion disco, anyway. "I have returned." Captain focused on Ghydin, disengaging from wherever he had strayed. "The hunter-seekers are increasing their attacks; and they have begun operating together instead of alone. Will 45 of 300 comply?" Ghydin wrinkled the face of his body into an expression which stretched unaccustomed muscles. "Not...exactly." Pause. "Okay, no. I think Weapons may have initiated the upswing in attacks, actually. Separated from his body, he's become rather...scattered, apathetic, and it'll only get worse until he fades completely away. I'm not as affected as him because I've pretty much not had a body since I was assimilated. Nothing, not even his own termination, seems to affect him. His only fixation is on NeoWeapons, er, 183 of 300. I think he sicced the hunter-seekers on her. "As far as him stopping them, well, he implied, sort of, that his designation is not enough. He had to /be/ Weapons, officially. Of course, even if he had the subdesignation, I don't know if he'd apply himself to the task. Weapons certainly isn't listening to me. In fact, he sent me away." Ghydin blinked at Captain's confusion. "He can do that, send me away. I'm a subset of himself, after all." Ghydin sighed. "If only I could convince him to go back to his body. That would ground him. However, he implies he can't think clearly there, and I don't know why that should be. I haven't been paying much attention, true, but I thought what drone maintenance was performing was the mental equivalent of an enema." Doctor, leaving the scene of the no longer seizing NeoWeapons, had joined Captain. The rodent flicked his ears. "Yes, yes. Clean as a whistle. No, whistles aren't very clean, are they? All that spittle and such. Spic-and-span as a freshly autoclaved whistle. New as a...that's not right!" Doctor paused, incisors clicking. "Bad code lies! Unhappy subroutine!" Captain cocked his head. {Explain. Show us,} he said internally. Ghydin could only follow superficially the swift, high-speed dissection of the diagnostic agent Doctor had been using as an aid in Weapons' treatment, but whatever flaw was present, it caught the full attention of the consensus monitor and facilitator, the entire command and control hierarchy. {Trace,} he ordered, dragooning members of his hierarchy to send them on an internal hunt, dodging hunter-seekers. Straight to 183 of 300. Captain swiveled his head slightly, eye narrowed. What happened next Ghydin could only describe as mental rape. It was cold, impartial, yet laid bare that which was 183 of 300. Captain rarely asserted the full power of his posting, but when he did... Across the bay, 183 of 300 twitched, thrashed, stilled. Drone maintenance units stepped away, as if afraid to contract the contagion which had infected 183 of 300. Another full body seizure, and 183 of 300 surged to her feet from an examination table, clattering to the deck before hauling herself upright again. Captain marched towards her (angling to her left, just in case the motor malfunction triggered another chin jab), stopping in what most nonBorg would consider extreme personal space violable only by intimate associates or a drill sergeant. Ghydin rolled as best he could to watch. "Explain. Now. You. Will. Comply." NeoWeapons shuddered, closed her eye, then opened it. "Explain, else we /will/ strip all of you from you. You will be broken, else you will have the appropriate data physically downloaded. The procedure requires cranial dissection, with 100% fatality. Comply!" A body-wrenching sigh. "I...I did not mean to. At first, this unit did not desire to be Weapons." 183 of 300 had reverted to the third person. She stared straight ahead, focusing on a spot two meters in front of her. "This unit knew that 45 of 300 would return. He always had, even from termination. This unit anticipated the eventual requirement to visit drone maintenance when he did so. "But, 45 of 300 remained in regenerative stasis; and we grew to covet our task. 45 of 300 could not be allowed to regain operational status. We inserted code which slightly altered diagnostic out-readings. The drone maintenance hierarchy believed 45 of 300 was unbalanced even following therapeutic stimuli sessions, not critical, but just sufficiently out of tolerance to keep him here." Enjoy. Like. Covet. Drones were assigned tasks, but they were not supposed to like or dislike, at least not to the extent performance was affected or other units impacted. Drones were a tool; and tools simply functioned. Some, such as 45 of 300, were excessively obsessed tools. Others, like Captain and Second, may prefer not to have their responsibilities, but performed to the best of their abilities regardless. NeoWeapons had crossed a very fine line, sabotaging 45 of 300's treatment to keep what she had received by random. "You are no longer head of the weapons hierarchy," stated Captain, command codes revoked and temporarily assigned to Second. Left unsaid was that 183 of 300's actions may have cost her worse than losing the title of Weapons. {Hey,} distantly protested the named recipient of unexpected duties. Captain eyeballed Ghydin from across the maintenance bay. {You will convince 45 of 300 to disarm the hunter-seekers. We cannot reassign the command codes until there is...someone in his body and associated with the interplexing beacon to accept them.} "I already tried," protested Ghydin verbally. "His own termination does not phase him. He'll only push me away again." {You will comply. If you cannot create reasons, we will do so for you.} "Fine," said Ghydin in resignation. * * * * * "You will be Weapons again. Officially! With all the command codes and access and everything," wheedled Ghydin. Weapons walked the infinite, empty plain. Sky matched ground, a dull gunmetal grey which only Assimilation could appreciate. At a respectful distance trailed a growing pack of hunter-seekers led by a beast distinctly larger and spikier than the rest, eyes squinted with intelligent malevolence. Every once in a while, Ghydin appeared, both to shadow and to be a nattering nuisance with logical reasons as to why Weapons should return to the confines of body, mind, and responsibility. As always, Weapons pushed; and, as always, Ghydin disintegrated. And, as always, Ghydin returned. "You will be terminated. The entire sub-collective, maybe the Collective, will be terminated." Push. "What about all the green things?" Push. "The galaxy might blow up." Push. "Do it for all the things that go 'ping'." Pause. "What is /that/ supposed to mean?" Push. "Puppies and kitties and little chirpy birdies." Push, "Um, They told you to?" Push. Push. Push. In another lifetime, Weapons might have grown annoyed, might have crushed the irritant, might have even surrendered if only to make Ghydin stop. Weapons, however, did not have that spark anymore. Even the assault upon 183 of 300 had been a transitory lift from the pits of apathy. He simply wanted to continue his trek until, well, until. That was good enough. Ghydin materialized again, frantic concern on his face. The personality paced Weapons for several long unminutes, saying nothing. Finally, solemnly: "I'm running out of ideas, and so is this sub-collective. Even far-fetched ones like that ping stuff. All I can say - even if you don't remember - is that we've been dead before. Really dead. There's waiting rooms, lots of them, likely each with a surly nurse. Dying would be an end to yourself, no BorgCraft, no weapons, no more explosions and nearly senseless violence. Nothing except sitting in those chairs, waiting. And this time I would not be surprised if entities with tie-down chains, gags, and duct tape were waiting for you to prevent a reoccurrence of the last time we were there." Weapons slowed. Paused. Cocked his head. "No more BorgCraft?" "None. Highly doubtful in your next life as well, assuming personality constructs such as us are resurrected." "Not even a tiny bit? A hand-held version?" "No." Weapons blinked, looking around himself, registering his surroundings for the first time. The hunter-seeker pack craned their heads, observing from afar, leader's squinty eyes narrowing to red slits. "No BorgCraft at all," persisted Ghydin. A trigger had been tripped, a button pushed. There was a certain restful relief to dissolution with plagues of conspiracies, They, and paranoia left behind. He was beyond care of himself, the sub-collective, puppies, the galaxy. But to abandon BorgCraft? "Unacceptable," said Weapons as he turned to regard the unblinking pack leader. "Very unacceptable." * * * * * The knot of quantum probabilities had been a shadow of a shadow, not fully developed, unattractive to the local quasi-wildlife. However, the soul virii was a shadow of a shadow as well, oddly mutated, oddly mangled, a parasite within its own haven. Lost, escaped, wandering from its home, it was destined to slip that final incline to dissolution. Then, amid the improbable probabilities of the quantum foam, the two met, fused, became a construct greater than the sum of its parts. * * * * * Weapons made his way to the vault where the master hunter-seeker code was stored, the spawning pool of each hound. He was officially Weapons once more (not that in his own perception he had ever lost the subdesignation). With Ghydin as an escort, he had returned to his body domicile, finding it cramped and oddly unfamiliar, as if he had stepped into a stranger's house with floor layout and bric-a-brac almost, but not quite, a twin to his own. The disorientation had passed; and the feared fuzziness of illogic had not descended to cloud his mind. Oh, Weapons was still Weapons to the core, violence and unnecessary mayhem intact, but the whispers and urgings related to an impossible They were gone. Perhaps the literal out of body experience had allowed his self to air while his shell of a physical body had its cobwebs swept clean. The exact reason (or awkward analogy) was irrelevant, especially when there was a task to perform. In Maintenance Bay #5, Weapons remained enshrouded behind plastic and locked within the displaced alcove. His body was no longer in regenerative stasis, but except for a single test blink of an eye, the outside observer might believe little had changed. Internally, on the other hand, Weapons was fully reintegrated with himself. After a stern lecture by Captain concerning his duty and compliance, a swift diagnostic once-over by Doctor (who had other, much more critical anim...um...patients to oversee), and a query by Ghydin (who was quite happy to remain to his niche) as to if Ghost had been seen, Weapons forged into the dataspaces. Unlike his last walkabout, an anchoring thread of his consciousness was left behind. The dataspaces were no longer a featureless rolling plain. Each drone had a different interpretation, ranging from the halls of an impossibly large library to an Escher universe of color and contradictory architecture. The underlying numbers were all the same, but drone brains were organic, and even the most well-integrated Borg unit was unable to merge into the code streams without a personal filter. For Weapons at this mindset moment, a dim and dirty cityscape loomed, full of dark streets, locked doors, and distant sirens. A dog - a hunter-seeker - bounded from alleyway ambush. As the others before, it stopped, jaws agape, as it processed Weapons' signature, confused as to the breaching of the back way. As the other encounters before, Weapons waved his hand, freezing the hunter-seeker in its tracks. The issuing of a second command string opened a door on the dog's back, a metaphorical visualization of the sub-program exposing its inner workings. Once the hunter-seeker's personal defenses - armoring was necessary when grappling belly-to-belly with vicious virii - were breached, it was simple to scramble code. The dog faded as Weapons removed his hand, severed wires clutched in a tight grip also vanishing. He could destroy each hunter-seeker individually, but it was inefficient because the spawning pool would respond by increasing output. It was more economical to terminate the source and reinstall an approved copy from the Greater Consciousness. Weapons continued his trek, navigating the lightly guarded backdoor maze. He went through an alley, over a fence, into an empty club and out of the kitchen door, across a street of silent gridlock. Along the way, several more hunter-seekers were summarily dispatched. Weapons stopped in front of a phalanx of Port-A-Johns, carefully examining each in turn. At the forty-seventh one he swung open the obscenely graffitied door and entered. Instead of a sickly sweet chemical smell and a cramped closet lacking toilet paper, Weapons stepped into a grand room. The high arched ceiling and ornate scrollwork enhanced, not detracted from, the central focal point - the pool. Filled with an oily orange liquid, slow motion ripples and waves lazily rolled. On a schedule of its own devising the pool would roil in agitation, smoothing only when a new hunter-seeker climbed dripping from a set of hand-railed steps set in the shallow end. It was obviously the shallow end because it lacked the driving board on the other end and the words "No diving - shallow! Beware of neck injuries! No lifeguard on duty!" were painted on the deck nearby. Weapons had not realized how dirty the pool had become. His own modifications had not helped, but the reason for those alterations had seemed relevant at the time. No matter. Some (virtual) disinfectant would kill the source; and those individual hunter- seekers that did not terminate with their source code would be easy to decompile. Weapons focused on the locked chemical closet on the other side of the room and headed towards it. "No!" boomed a voice, vaguely familiar. From the unshadows slinked a hunter- seeker, its dog form that of the pack leader who had trailed Weapons across the dataspace plains. It was huge, of hellhound proportions, one corner of its muzzle curled in a snarl to reveal code-rending fangs of a caliber Weapons had never installed. It was obviously a mutation; and while the crest of pink feathers along its spine was out of place, the long claws and protruding tusks were not. Weapons absently tossed his master command code at the beast, then continued on his mission. "No," growled the pack leader again, "you cannot so affect me. Maybe once, but I am more than I was. I am not some mindless piece of code you can just switch off." Weapons swiveled, blinking with astonishment. The pack leader slowly advanced, legs stiff and head held low in canine threat. Other hunter-seekers, of a more normal kind, emerged from the walls. They were nervous as their leader was not, but they still came, radiating hostility. Impossible. Weapons had carefully crafted a failsafe to recognize himself as supreme arbitrator and dictator of the hunter-seekers. The pack leader coughed a laughing snarl. "I know you. I /am/ you. I was you before you were you. Then I was destroyed, first by my own foolish actions, then by the Borg, but only finally by you. By a bastardized construct of myself." Pause. Another step forward. "I should be dead. I was dead, or as good as. My memories are fragmented. Then I awoke here, in this...body. How it came to be is not important, only that it is. Here /I/ have the advantage; and when you are destroyed, ripped apart...we'll see. I haven't thought that far." Weapons turned his paralyzing code on the oh-so-familiar pack leader again, with no effect. A test against a normal hunter-seeker showed it did function, but too many dogs were appearing: he could not halt them all. Weapons, however, would not be torn apart without a fight - the apathy had been left behind with the featureless plain. Weapons sidled towards the pool chemicals cabinet. "You are a semi- autonomous subset of the computer. You are a malfunction, an aberration." "I can't find Ghost anywhere, and I've looked everywhere in our brain. He has usually appeared by now. Could you..." Ghydin floated through a wall. Unable to raise Weapons via the small part of himself left as anchor, the quasi-personality had tracked Weapons to deliver message and ask question. He stopped as he took in the scene. "Ghost! What are you doing entangled in this mess? Bad Ghost!" "Micah!" roared the pack leader, rearing rampant, forepaws striking the air. "I am Micah! And you, little construct, you will be decompiled as well!" Ghydin blinked, then swiftly retreated. "I'm going home now, Weapons. I never should have left in the first place. If you need me, you know where to find me." The hunter-seeker pack charged after Ghydin. The room emptied, leaving behind only Weapons and pack leader Micah. "What I started so long ago, I will now complete. The conspiracy to free the Brotherhood of Galactic Love may no longer be relevant, but I will be in charge of myself again!" "I talk too much," muttered Weapons having achieved the cabinet and now fumbling with the lock. Where /had/ he left the key? In the distance, the baying music of hunter-seekers chasing prey echoed. Micah, suddenly realizing the danger, charged. The dog hit Weapons in the side, sending both crashing against the cabinet. The locker rocked; and a thin bit of silver fell from its perch, striking the deck with a metallic tinkle. It was the cabinet key, left where Weapons could easily find it. It skittered away as both combatants abruptly changed tactics and scrambled after it. Weapons took a double paw to the face as Micah used the drone's avatar as a launching pad. Objective attained, Micah rolled to his feet to face his adversary, teasingly holding the key visible between his teeth before throwing back his head to swallow. "Ha! Who is in charge now? Maybe I won't decompile all of you, construct. I could use a Ghost for my amusement..." Weapons, master of many forms of hand-to-hand combat, even on the virtual arena of software thrust and parry, slammed Micah against the wall. As the hunter-seeker struggled, a precise punch was delivered to abdomen. Canine mouth gaped; and in cartoonish manner only possible in the dataspaces, the key flew from its former prison on a trajectory to the cabinet. The key snicked into place and turned, allowing cabinet door to swing open. "No," hissed Micah as he swung his head around and bit deeply into Weapons' shoulder. Weapons' avatar was a reflection of his physical self, including standard layers of tactical unit armor, but the protection could not serve to turn the software threat. In his physical body, a chunk of memory was scrambled and brain hemorrhaging erupted from spontaneous organic damage. Weapons body-slammed the hunter-seeker again, then stepped back, torn between the fight in front of him and his need to comply with the directives from command and control. Before his walkabout, illogic would have dictated he continue the battle, even if long-term victory was better assured by indirect action. That was then, however, and this was now. Eyes on Micah as the latter regained his footing, Weapons advanced (never retreat!) in the opposite direction. Micah growled at Weapons. "I have tasted myself. I now finish the job. The hellhound sprang into a gallop, a missile of death unerringly aimed. Both combatants crashed against the cabinet once more, shaking it and sending various bottles labeled "chlorine" and "bleach" from the shelves. As the pool belched forth a new hunter-seeker, the containers plopped one after another into the highly caustic liquid. Micah abruptly pulled back, as if slapped. "I sometimes am too tunnel-visioned. I must remember that," rumbled Weapons as he shoved himself out of the Weapons-shaped dent he had made in the wall. * * * * * The malformed knot split, expulsing its virii. It had never been meant to be, neither sufficiently developed to support the whole. The knot faded to its previous shadow of a shadow existence, on the edge of complexity, but insufficient to serve as even a rudimentary haven. The virii, on the other hand, was swept along the quantum currents. Its eventual fate of dissolution had only been postponed. Shortly it would return to the probabilities from whence it had originated, if it was not "consumed" first by the predators which existed in any well founded ecology. Elsewhere, such as could be applied in a realm without the spatial dimensions for "elsewhere," quasi-life continued. A parasite mindlessly struggled for survival in the cold quantum foam. It required an infected knot, unable to colonize a complexity on its own. It also required an infested knot which was not already parasitatized with one of its cousins. This particular parasite strain had become very successful as of late, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to find a suitable haven. The predators were also multiplying, feeding upon the boom of homeless parasites helpless in the quantum currents. The parasite brushed against a knot, clung to it, tested. It was an odd knot, peculiarities abounded. It tasted "new," yet indications were of long habitation by its virii; and there was the faint spoor of a brother/sister/cousin, although none currently were in residence. The parasite had no faculties for abstract thought, no reasoning as to the why behind the peculiarity. It only knew the conditions for its survival (and reproduction) had been met. The knot easily yielded to the parasite's intrusion. The quantum unwinds howled. A probability storm was brewing, and on its forefront danced the ghostly visions of maybes, should-have-beens, and, not so oddly in a realm where nothing was impossible and the long-shots were routine, kleenex boxes and rubber ducks.