The Big Dog on the block is Paramount, who guards the house of Star Trek.  Decker is 
the Medium Dog who plays tug-of-war with Star Traks out in the yard.  I am the Small, 
Yappy Dog down the street with the BorgSpace bone.


				Big Game Hunter, Part I

	The station, a structure barely deserving the name, was largely constructed of the 
mothballed hulls purchased cheap, barges, and miscellaneous metal cylinders.  The 
complicated mess was loosely attached to a small, partially hollowed asteroid, which 
added to the "living" space.  While the always-chilly temperature was barely considered 
adequate by most inhabitants and visitors, the station, despite its appearance, rarely 
experienced major atmospheric leaks or decompression events.  Personally, Tol thought 
the station to be a large pile of trash not even worth the metal content to recycle, but it did 
have one major plus:  it was out of the way and /anything/ could be purchased, sold, or 
shipped by one who was in the know.  And Tol was in the know.
	Tol was a Xenig.  His fifty meter, unreflective black hull could be described as a 
successful mating between lawn dart and a four-lobed starfruit.  He floated several 
hundred meters from the conglomeration of cast off odds and ends held together by 
vacuum welds and collective prayer.  As supervisor of the other three Xenig in his small 
fleet, there was no reason for him to risk his hide docking with the station when he could 
delegate the task.
	The other Xenig, as befitting their roll of porter, wore hulls more conducive to 
hauling cargo than Tol's sleek lines.  A creative being might describe them as pregnant 
horseshoe crabs, minus tail.  Like Tol, the hulls were a spectrum-drinking black.  They 
were not precisely subordinate to Tol:  they could leave at any time and they certain 
spoke their opinions when the need arose.  Xenig had no concept of slave or indentured 
servitude.  However, the trio were much younger than Tol, barely out of the creche, and 
this was their first "real" job.  Experience was required in a universe of unpredictable 
organic-based sentients in order to determine personal aptitude...to learn what each 
wanted to do with the rest of their lives as the mech species strove towards the racial goal 
of the Search for Transcendence.  Currently, Loog was docked, suffering the local 
longshoremen access to her hold to off-load the latest hunting trophies.
	"How much longer?" groused the human Tol billeted.  Sometimes he envied the 
porters he employed.  They only had to transport dead things.  Dead things never (okay, 
only once, but that was a fluke) tried to engage a Xenig in conversation.  However, the 
human was paying more than enough to warrant Tol to be polite.  Hell, for what the 
human had shelled out for Tol's services as big game hunting guide, a small, modestly 
populated planet could have been bought.
	Tol answered.  "Several more hours, sir.  I am negotiating with a buyer for the 
truski meat now - prime truski steaks are a delicacy for the palette that wants to 
experience rare, exotic game; and the trophy forl tusks you wanted to send home need to 
be shipped by a 'special service.'"
	"You mean a smuggler," translated the human.
	"My customers rarely wish to use such direct language, but yes, a smuggler.  
After all, forls are exceedingly endangered, and the authorities of your home planet might 
become very excitable should they decide to inspect the package containing the tusks.  It 
is part of my services to make sure your trophies arrive to where you want them."  Tol 
was very proud of the contacts he had groomed over the last five centuries since entering 
into the guide business.
	Tol had no moral qualms about leading his customers on trips which usually 
ended with a creature killed at the finale.  In his eyes, as with most Xenig, all organics 
were, well, organic.  There was little difference between a sentient bag of carbon bonds 
and one which had just sufficient instincts to eat and procreate.  Sometimes it seemed 
both ends of the biotic spectrum were one in the same.  Most of his customers, including 
the present, tended towards the dangerous (and often rare) prey, however he had been on 
the equivalent of butterfly collecting trips and photo hunts as well.  Unlike most 
customers, his current client had near unlimited funds to squander.
	"Whatever," said the human.  "Will you be able to procure that item I asked for?"
	Tol had no head to nod, but he could chime a tone which signaled the same thing.  
He did so.  "Yes, sir.  The rum-flavored 'Double-Bubble' chewing gum is expected to 
arrive by GPS courier shortly."
	The human - James d'Arthur III - flashed a wide grin, his personal vice soon to be 
satisfied.  He was mildly handsome, a bit taller than average, reasonably intelligent, 
psychologically well-adjusted...in short, the recipient of the best cosmetic and genetic 
tinkering money could buy.  An expensive medical nanite suite rivaling the best from the 
Second Federation military labs patrolled his body, maintaining his health and, as a side-
effect, guaranteeing a lifespan roughly thrice that of an unmodified human.  However, at 
thirty years old, an age which in years past would have long demarked him an adult, he 
was little more than an well-grown infant in the eyes of his business mogul family.  Hell, 
he'd have to wait until his great-grandmamma kicked the bucket before he be given so 
much as a minor sweatshop to manage; and old Bitty d'Arthur, in between 
hypochondriatic bouts, was showing every sign of living for several more decades.  Until 
then, James was forced to endure a boredom that even an allowance greater than the gross 
domestic product of a major industrial planet could not allay.
	Dressed in his idea of the quintessential big game hunter - beige shorts, short-
sleeved beige shirt (with breast pockets), wide-brimmed hat - James was growing 
impatient.  For the sake of this event, he'd even learned an archaic accent known once-
upon-a-time as "English" so as to complete the ensemble.  Thus far, however, the 
creatures he'd shot were little more than exotic versions of lions and tigers and bears, oh 
my.  The universe had to hold greater challengers for a bored member of the insanely rich 
elite.
	"What is the next item on the hunt, Tol?" asked James as he idly regarded a screen 
which showed a view from the mech's hull looking at the station.
	Tol, who had been debating that very question with his junior partners, answered, 
"How about a vatoosi?"  The image on the monitor vanished, replaced with the video of a 
plant more fauna than flora.  With Venus-flytrap jaws and a chameleon skin, it was the 
vegetative ruler of its ecosystem.  "Very vicious.  The sap is acidic and quite poisonous.  
A serious botany collector would give almost anything for either a dead or live specimen.  
Live would be much more challenging."
	James frowned, top lip verging on a sneer.  "I don't like salads."
	"How about a snip-snap, then?" questioned Tol.  The odd name was the 
designator for a deep-sea animal the size of a small runabout which looked like an 
armored octopus with lobster claws grafted at the end of each tentacle.
	"What's it good for?"
	"Makes a mighty fine sushi, I've been told, once you get rid of the 99.9% of flesh 
that will kill you if you so much as touch it.  The testicle-equivalent is the proper part to 
eat for a human.  Of course, since 9 of 10 of the animals are female, it may require time 
in order to find a male."
	"Nah.  Too much work," dismissed James.  
One at a time, Tol scrolled through a long list of creatures, each one more a 
challenge than the one before.  While the mech had a large file of huntable species which 
required days of recitation to reach the end, it was not inexhaustible and he was growing 
increasingly exasperated at the objection to each one.  "Sir, do /you/ have a suggestion?"
	James smiled, turning away from the screen.  "You bet I do.  I want to go after an 
Ehtu!  Imagine the prize that would be!"
	Tol was silent at the pronouncement.  Oh, he could imagine the prize.  He could 
also image the twenty-seven kinds of Hell would descend upon him if he actually 
survived an encounter with an Ehtu.  Ehtu normally deployed the lowest tech necessary 
in a given situation, but that did not mean the knowledge of high-tech was not present.  
After all, rumors whispered on the galactic winds hinted that the species had survived the 
initiation of the current universe, hailing from the one prior.  Not even Xenig were 
confident they could do that.  Besides the fact that Tol refused to hunt another sentient 
mech on moral grounds, when the Ehtu in question inevitably won the encounter, the 
Xenig home system could expect a swarm of the massive, multi-shelled mechs seeking 
retribution.  It was an event which could motivate even the usually sedentary adults from 
their chosen home sites; and an elder Ehtu often had a body numbering in the /tens of 
millions/ of shells.
	"Well?" pushed James.
	Tol carefully answered, "Such a quarry would not be wise, James.  To hunt Ehtu 
would require, first, finding a spacefaring adolescent, and they are few and far between.  
It could take /weeks/ to track one down.  And then, a healthy adolescent has at least 
500,000 shell units comprising its body.  It would be necessary to eradicate 490,000 of 
the units, or the equivalent proportion of a larger Ehtu, for the greater body to be 'killed'.  
I hesitate to reveal any weaknesses, James, but that might be a tall order even for a large 
fleet of Xenig, much less myself, Loog, Yue, and Caz.  And, of course, there would be 
real danger to yourself as well."  Tol had long since learned James to be of that class of 
customer who wanted the illusion of danger, but did not actually desire to experience 
pain or discomfort.
	James blanched as he imagined the outcome of 500,000 to 1.  "Well, maybe not 
an Ehtu.  I /do/ want something more challenging, though, Tol.  I am paying you enough.  
Something a bit...smarter...than the animals I've taken before now."
	Smarter, was it?  Tol had no qualms about pointing customers at sapient organics.  
In fact, a good proportion of his clients over the years desired the illicit thrill of hunting 
another intelligent being.  Considering the amount of money involved, Tol brought out 
his trump card.  Forsaking the monitor screen, Tol projected a holographic representation 
of a particular spacefaring quarry.
	James gasped.  "I thought they were all extinct!  The histories show the Borg, er, 
Hive were very methodical about eradicating every single one of them.  The Hive and 
allies were even willing to blow up gas giants and entire stars to get rid of a single..."
	"You did want intelligence," interrupted Tol, "and this one certainly has that.  It is 
also the last one of its kind as far as I know.  Think of the trophy you could make of it, 
not to mention the bragging rights."
	"But a Dark...." muttered James, enthralled, eyes focused upon the image as it 
began to slowly rotate.
	Tol knew he had his client's attention.  "It gets even better.  This fellow is rather 
wary, and it will require a special bait to lure him in.  Acquiring the bait itself will 
be...interesting."
	A large grin crossed James face.  He was excited.  /This/ was the challenge he 
sought.  "That sounds great!  Tell me all about it!  What bait...what strategy...what 
weapons.  I want it to be sporting, but not too sporting, you know."
	Tol proceeded to lay out the plan.

			*	*	*	*	*

	{Did anyone get the signature of that nova?} muzzily asked Second as he came 
on-line.
	While the question was rhetoric, nonetheless Sensors tried to answer, {Nova?  
Sensors [jumps] no signature of a nova.}
	{I wasn't looking for a response,} said Second as his mental processes quickly 
increased to normal working speeds.  However, it was too little, too late, the moment 
Second had voiced the initial remark.
	Spoke 45 of 422:  {I see a nova!  It is category number HYD-997 and exploded 
approximately 27.3 million years ago.}
	{No...I didn't mean...}
	{If we were hit by a nova,} interrupted 256 of 422, {it would have to be closer 
than that.  And more recent.  We must perform a full scan for nova remnants.}  The 
sensor hierarchy, temporarily absconded from Sensors as she performed a post-
awakening self-diagnostic, shifted large portions of the grid into a configuration best 
suited to search for exploded stars, catastrophic industrial accidents, and out-of-control 
chemistry experiments.
	"That was a mistake," muttered Second aloud from his alcove.  To his left came 
the sounds of disengagement from the various clamps and umbilici which held a drone in 
place.  Captain stepped down to the catwalk and into Second's view.
	"Yes.  Examination of recent memory shows nothing, nova or otherwise.  One 
moment we were in hypertranswarp enroute to unimatrix 009, and the next - ten hours 
later according to the chronometer - here, reawaking.  Not even passive sensors were on-
line," verbalized Captain.  The explanation was unneeded, Second well aware of the 
processes occurring in the dataspaces.
	Captain turned and headed for his nodal intersection.  After a few seconds of 
personal deliberation, Second exited his alcove and followed.
	Second entered the nodal intersection just as a navigation hologram materialized 
in response to an unnecessary, if flashy, arm flourish by Captain.  At the center of the 
display was Cube #347.  Various neutron stars (the remains of supernovas, so the sensor 
hierarchy's impulsive hunt for the fictional antagonist to Second's ill-advised remark was 
useful) populated the volume, true distances distorted in order to fit light years into a 
sphere less than two meters in diameter.  Simultaneously, dataspace processes were 
searching through the star map catalogue, attempting to place the cube.
	"There we are," said Captain.  The cube was 54.8 light years rimward and galactic 
north from the last known coordinates.  They were in tenacious orbit around a hot, young 
blue giant, but the primary was so distant that it was only a slightly brighter point of light 
compared to other stars in view.
	Every drone on Cube #347 paused as the Greater Consciousness abruptly made 
Itself known.  The wordless message was simple:  << Get to unimatrix 009, now! >>
	Captain automatically input the coordinates for the unimatrix as soon as the 
Collective Mind retreated to a comfortable, self-imposed mental distance.  Detailed local 
exterior scans had been neglected during the impromptu nova hunt, but as nothing had 
immediately threatened the cube, the lack was deemed unimportant.  Sensors regained 
control of her hierarchy and reported a scan of the deeper subspace layers revealed no 
obstacles or anomalies.  Cube #347 was clear to proceed.  Engines revved; and Captain 
shifted the cube into hypertranswarp.
	Cube #347 went precisely nowhere.
	{Delta!} snapped Captain to the head of engineering hierarchy.
	{All is working within parameters,} immediately replied Delta.  Several 
datastreams were directed at Captain, each showing unequivocally that the cube should 
be at hypertranswarp velocities and enroute to unimatrix 009.  Certain numbers were 
slowly creeping into 'yellow' territory on the way to redline.  Engines were disengaged.
	Neglected sensor sweeps of the immediate volume were performed.  In addition 
to learning the young star had a denser than normal dust disk which included an unusual 
concentration of water and hydrogen peroxide molecules, the sub-collective found itself 
tethered to a comet.  The ice ball was small and irregularly shaped, no more than 40 
meters on its longest axis; and the five kilometer tether attached the center of edge #7 was 
no more than two centimeters thick.
	{Shoot 'em all!} exclaimed Weapons, before command and control could censor 
his actions.  Several neuruptors and cutting beams were activated.  However, both comet 
and tether resisted the onslaught.  Not even a scar marred the icy nucleus following 
bombardment by torpedoes.
	Captain took control of the impulse stream.  {No.  We will not use our singularity 
torps.}
	{Why not?} snarled Weapons as his mind slithered through the dataspaces 
looking for a workaround.
	{Because...} began Captain.  He was unable to finish the justification due to the 
announcement from the sensory hierarchy through Sensors.
	{Sensors sees [snake duster] waves:  mech species #3 energy signature.}
	Immediately following the identification of the incoming Xenig, four hulls folded 
into existence ten kilometers from Cube #347.  Three were alike in form, a dorsal-
laterally flattened half-oval 120 meters long.  The fourth, while smaller, was quite 
different with its aggressive chassis.  The standoff stretched into several minutes, during 
which time Captain experimented with various methods of propulsion, discovering the 
cube could swing around the comet nexus within the volume allowed by the tether, but no 
further.  Finally, it was from the dart-shaped Xenig that a hail was received.
	"Hello!"  The transmission included a visual component; and that visual contained 
the head and shoulders of an oddly dressed human.  The purpose of the beige hat was 
unknown, but 10 of 19 was immediately covetous.  "How are you doing?"
	Captain initiated internal camera #78 (after checking its suitability) for a return 
reply.  "You will release this cube at once."
	"I think they are a wee bit pissed off," brightly commented the human, not to 
Cube #347.
	The answering voice was a pleasant tenor verging on the bass register.  "You are 
correct, James.  Hold on...there may be a slight bump."  If there was a subsequent rattle, it 
did now show in the transmission.
	{Stop firing torpedoes at the mechs,} chided Captain to Weapons.  {You know 
that torpedoes won't touch them; and you'll only make them unhappy if you do manage to 
scratch a hull plate.}
	{You never know,} said Weapons.  Precisely /what/ was never known was not 
elaborated upon, but Weapons did halt the bombardment, and even refrained from 
activating electromagnetic-based weaponry.
	"You will release this cube," repeated Captain, the words suitably translated into 
the multi-voice.  Assistance had already been requested of the Collective, link with the 
Greater Consciousness not blocked, scrambled, or otherwise unavailable for once.  Two 
Battle-class cubes and a trio of Assault-class spheres were enroute...or would be in a bit.  
The Collective wasn't exactly rushing to Cube #347's aid.  Besides the fact that the 
Exploratory-class cube ranked fairly low on priorities, there was the very relevant fact of 
four Xenig.  If Cube #347 and its imperfect sub-collective was to be terminated by the 
Xenig, then there was no reason to lose five perfectly functional tactical vessels as well.  
Therefore, the rescue detachment (or 'sweeping up the debris' detachment, depending on 
point of view) would arrive when it arrived.
	"How will the quarry know that this Borg ship is here?" queried James to the yet 
unnamed Xenig.
	"You will release this cube."
	"Oh, the quarry will know.  Trust me on this.  I've followed his habits for the last 
three hundred Terran years or so."
	"You will release this cube."  Cube #347 was being utterly ignored.
	"Three hundred years?  Won't the quarry be a bit...old?  Decrepit, even?"
	"Grizzled, certainly.  But that's only made him more wise.  More of a challenge.  
You wanted a challenge, after all."
	"You will release this cube."
	"How about the Borg over there?"  A thumb was absently pointed over one 
shoulder regardless of actual relative position.
	"They may survive.  Maybe not.  The Collective won't be able to respond before 
the quarry arrives.  Are you worried about the health of the Borg cube?"
	"You will release this cube."
	"Not really.  And could you cut the transmission?  If I hear those words repeat one 
more time, I think I'll have to shoot the cube myself.  And then you'll have to find a new 
bait."
	The transmission terminated.
	Quarry?  Bait?  Those were very unsettling words to overhear when one is staked 
out like a goat offering for a hungry lion...or dragon.
	{Keep the weapons on-line,} ordered Captain to the weapons hierarchy.  This was 
one bait that would bite back.
	{I always do,} replied Weapons as he redistributed energy from Auxiliary Core 
#5 to weaponry banks.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Storyteller traveled the same migration route he had followed since first taking up 
the wandering life of a history-bard.  That time had been centuries prior when he had 
been a young male, new to the excitement which existed beyond the creche of comet, 
asteroid, and nurses.  While his inclination was to be a singer of songs and teller of tales, 
he trekked silently, as much as to avoid the demons which had persecuted his race as to 
listen for any sign that he was not the last of his kind.
	Oh, there had been a time when he had fought in the battles of his youth; and he 
had the scars on his flanks to prove it.  Not even his internal symbiotes could completely 
heal the jagged lines of gray against black hide.  Then...something had happened.  
Storyteller remembered flashes of cold and heat, of arcing electromagnetic potentialities, 
of the odd twisting which occurs only when space and time are spindled by an anomaly.  
His was a tale of epic proportions, of terror and the eventual tranquility when he had 
emerged from the phenomenon.  It was a story which begged to be sung.  Unfortunately, 
when he had surfaced from the space-time confusion, it was only to find that many 
decicycles had passed.  In an act of genocide, the demons of cubes and saucers and 
indescribable shapes with their organic parasites had destroyed the glory which was 
Dark.
	At that point, Storyteller could have suicided, either through purposeful 
immolation in the heat of a star or through futile attack of the nearest parasite infested 
metal-creature.  He did not.  His psyche was such that he /had/ to tell his story to 
someone; and a strong conviction impelled him to /know/ that the demons could not have 
destroyed all his kind.  There had to be other unlucky (lucky?) individuals who, as 
himself, had been caught in the swirl of a temporal anomaly.  That was the drive which 
had kept Storyteller moving, hoping, living for the long centicycles.
	And now?  Now, where once there was a young Dark, full of energy, a grizzled 
male of advanced cycles existed.
	Storyteller paused as a singing in the fractal subspace ether caught his attention.  
For a moment, he imagined it was another of his kind.  Those hopes were swiftly dashed 
as he recognized the signature of cube-demons.  Every year it seemed that one or another 
breed of demon was encroaching on his lonely haunt.  This one, however, was different; 
and it took him several beats to realize the significance of the event.
	The cube-demon was...stuck.  Something had happened and the creature was 
unable to leave distant orbit around a nearby star Storyteller occasionally used for 
foraging.  It was bleating for other cube-demons to help it.
	For a long moment, Storyteller considered passing it by, just as he had ignored 
other parasitized metal-beasts in the past.  But, truth be told, he was not getting younger; 
and with each passing cycle, the chance of him meeting another of his kind grew 
increasingly dim.  Maybe...maybe just this once he should strike a blow against the 
demons, a final battle in a war long since lost.  Besides, by the signature, it was the 
smallest class of cube-demons, easily destroyed.  Storyteller would be long gone by the 
time other individuals of the demon nest arrived to help their comrade.
	Storyteller changed course.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Cube #347 orbited around the comet like a demented tetherball.  The comet 
pivoted around its central anchor point so there was no worry about the eventuality of 
spiraling inward.  The expenditure of energy was academically wasteful, but with a total 
of eleven power cores available, the activity was an insignificant drain on resources.  
Besides, it kept the five very vocal members of the Extreme Thrills Society quiet.
	Thus far, the sub-collective was no closer to escaping than it had been upon 
awaking.  Sensors had swiftly determined the reason of the comet's immobility in the 
form of a miniature black hole.  It was no larger than one meter in radius from the central 
singularity to the gravitonic edge-of-no-return.  How the anchor had been constructed - 
stable black holes of such a miniscule magnitude were not common in this galaxy - was 
unknown, but lack of knowledge did not negate the fact of its presence.  The Xenig were 
obviously responsible.
	The Xenig were also responsible for the comet.  A small singularity torp, 
launched without protest from command and control, had provided sufficient vaporized 
material to show the sensory hierarchy that the comet was anything but naturally formed.  
There was ice and rock and carbon and iron and trace amounts of other compounds, but it 
also contained an organo-metallic molecule chain which appeared to be a close chemical 
cousin to a Xenig hull.  While the analysis was extremely interesting to the Collective, 
which had siphoned the data as soon as the sub-collective analyzed the results, it did not 
bring Cube #347 any closer to release.  The singularity torp had carved a disappointingly 
(to Weapons, at least) small crater in the faux-comet.  Calculations showed a minimum of 
50 singularity torps necessary to fracture the comet such that the tether could be 
extracted, which was more than the cube had materials to assemble.
	The tether was constructed of the same exotic molecule.  Needless to say, if a near 
detonation of a singularity torp did not affect it, it was impervious to all attempts at 
cutting it.  An hour of experimentation was required to confirm the hypothesis, followed 
by a second hour of halting Weapons from continuing the futile exercise.
	{The entirety of nacelle segment 7b will have to be removed,} said Delta in 
response to an update request from Captain.  A schematic of the cube was called up, the 
area of the cube under discussion highlighted.  {All overlaying armor and structure is 
required to be removed as well.}  Both of Delta, as well as over a hundred of the 
engineering hierarchy, were clambering around hull and underhull in the vicinity of the 
tether's attachment point to Cube #347.  
Examination had shown the tether to be molecularly bonded to the cube to a depth 
of 40 meters...into the nacelle segment.  The only way to excise the tether was to cut 
away all surrounding material.  Unfortunately, surrounding material included the nacelle; 
and the segment required to be removed in whole...with all armoring hullwards.
	In his nodal intersection, Captain stared at the diagram and sighed.  
{Extrapolation of damage.}
	{Besides the resulting hole in edge #7?} asked Delta.  She received confirmation.  
{Regenerative systems can repair the compromised armor, but we will deplete our 
regenerative precursor reserves.  Length of time to minimum hull repair estimated at 15 
hours.  The nacelle segment will require dry-dock support to replace.  Nacelle 7 will be 
unable to be utilized in propulsion, but warp velocities will not be lessened as long as the 
need to use the nacelle does not arise.}  
The report was the short form.  A longer, more comprehensive analysis streamed 
in the dataspaces.  Captain absorbed both modes, neither of which were Good.  Weapons 
was indecisive about which option to endorse, on the one hand desiring mobility beyond 
that afforded by the tether and on the other hand cringing at the compromised defense.
	{Shall we begin extraction?} inquired Delta.
	Captain turned inward as the consensus cascade began to flow.  Taken into 
account was the present situation, the off-standing Xenig, time to arrival of dispatched 
assault detail, and the propensity of Cube #347 to become embroiled in unhealthy 
situations.  The determination was made.  Captain announced the outcome.
	{Engineering hierarchy:  begin excision of nacelle segment 7b and 70% of the 
underhull.  Do not complete the extraction at this time.}
	{Compliance,} said Delta as she simultaneously ordered additional members of 
her hierarchy to the work site, along more than sufficient plasma cutters.  {If extraction is 
not necessary, it will be easy, relatively speaking, to repair the damage.}
	{And a good yank on the tether will tear the armor and nacelle segment from our 
hull, allowing us to reassert mobility!} exclaimed Weapons as he absorbed the 
ramifications of the strategy.  {The destruction will be horrendous!}
	{To us,} retorted Delta as she directed the first crews to their work sites.  {And I'll 
have to fix it.}
	{I meant the Xenig,} snapped back Weapons, conveniently dismissing the fact 
that whole hull or no whole, an Exploratory-class cube (or any Borg vessel) was no 
match for the least Xenig.
	{Sure you did}
	Interrupted Second, {Children!  Children!  Small beings!  Cease argument.  You 
lower our efficiency, such as it is.}
	Engineering and weapons hierarchy returned to their respective duties.
	"One day," said Second as he entered the nodal intersection where Captain stared 
at the hologram of the nacelle segment extraction, "there will be a brawl between 
engineering and weapons.  And command and control will not be able to halt it."
	Captain's eye did not leave the hologram.  "This sub-collective has survived many 
subjective years and two vessels with this arrangement.  We will survive another day."

			*	*	*	*	*

	"I'm bored," whined James as he chewed his rum-flavored gum, "really bored.  
Nothing to do but watch that stupid cube go round and round."
	Tol, who stocked a wide range of software, electronic, chemical, and physical 
amusements for the gratification of his clients, did not answer.  The human had not 
actually asked a question, not even a rhetorical one, and Tol did not feel like dealing with 
the organic at this moment, especially when gum was being chewed.  Chewed gum 
eventually produced a gum wad, and said gum wad inevitably found itself stuck under a 
seat, under a counter, or on a wall, despite well marked disposal receptacles.  
James had been specifically directed to discard the gum in a garbage disintegrator, 
but the words had obviously not made an impression.  Once the inappropriately disposed 
gum dried, Tol's internal subunits found it difficult to remove the substance without 
significant damage to the surrounding matrix.  The human was making an absolute mess 
of Tol's insides one gum wad at a time; and at the moment Tol did not feel able to make 
civil conversation if such was not required.  Instead, Tol focused upon his porters.
	"Do you know your role?" queried Tol to Loog, Yue, and Caz.  The question was 
not so much asked in any verbal 'language' as it was transmitted as a speedy string of data 
with as much resemblance to binary notation as English has to grunts.
	Caz replied, "You are an old foggie, man.  While /some/ of us in this little fleet 
may have faulty long-term memory cores, I and my fellow creche-mates are not among 
them.  The plans are stored nicely for retrieval when necessary."
	Tol did not take umbrage at the tone employed.  If anything, it amused him.  He 
had been that age once, a mere 300 cycles old and recently released from the creche with 
his first /real/ job and in his first /real/ chassis.  At that time, anyone over a 1000 had been 
viewed as an ancient.  Now, at the vantage of a comfortable mid-life 10,000 cycles or so, 
he was secure in himself.  Not so the youngsters he had hired.  "I do not fault your ability 
to retain the information, Caz.  I require confirmation that you understand the sequence of 
events to happen.  Any mere nonsentient computer, even sophisticated types like the 
Second Federation Personalities, can regurgitate upon demand.  It takes a sapient mind to 
/know/.  Are you sentient...or just a computer wearing a fancy chassis?"
	As Caz sputtered over the insult, Loog captured the threads of conversation.  "/I/ 
am a Xenig, not a Personality.  I know what I will be doing, even if Caz has 
Enlightenment issues."  Loog was a cocky lass, gender among Xenig a manner of self-
assignment rather than genetic dictation.
	"Then show me," challenged Tol to the trio.  He swiftly constructed a virtual 
scenario then invited the three to extend avatars into one of his processing blocks.  On to 
the scene appeared the juniors.  Caz had projected himself to be significantly larger than 
his actual hull, with a few extra fins and blisters as well.
	"Perspective and body, Caz.  This is a scenario, not a 'what I wish my hull was' 
wish list," chided Tol.  Caz immediately altered the virtual chassis to an appropriate 
configuration.  "Good.  Let us proceed at fast forward until the initial Dark capture, then 
slow to virtual real-time."
	A comet with tethered Borg cube appeared; and, more distant, the form of a Dark.  
At speeds too swift for reality, the Dark stooped upon its quarry, the cube retaliating with 
standard Borg tactics minus defensive spin.  As the Dark passed on the opposite side of 
the comet from the cube, a hidden launcher explosively spat a harpoon into the Dark's 
side.  The tether alloy molecularly bonded itself to the Dark upon contact, leashing it as 
securely to the anchor as was the cube bait.
	"Go," muttered Tol as the scenario slowed.
	The trio of avatars advanced upon the Dark, spreading out so as to approach from 
three different directions.  With continual coordination of "You are behind a bit" and 
"Slow down, you organic-brained moron" the three managed to move together within 
five kilometers of the thrashing Dark.  Harpoons, one each, were deployed into the Dark's 
sides; and an electromagnetic pulse was channeled down the super-conducting lines, 
stunning the quarry into quiescence.  At that point, Tol moved his own avatar closer, 
deploying a barbed torpedo with no warhead.  The torpedo would be remote controlled 
by James, with his task to punch it in and out of the Dark's body until sufficient nerve 
clusters had been disrupted to terminate the creature.  It was a tactic used by the 
Borg/Hive and their allies during the Dark wars, only on a much smaller scale because 
Tol refused to sully his hull with organic fluids and ichor.  To faithfully complete the 
scenario, Tol used the torpedo to hole the Dark to a pre-determined threshold of damage.  
With the Dark 'dead', the scenario ended and Dark, comet anchor, and Borg cube 
vanished.
	"Very good," pronounced Tol.  "No difficulties at all, although I do suggest Loog 
use a more pronounced amplitude during the pacification."  One always had to find 
something wrong, even if it was minor, else youngsters might become too big for their 
hulls.
	Yue, the quiet (and likely most intelligent) one of the trio, spoke, "Before our 
avatars are dismissed, I have a question."
	Replied Tol, "Yes?"
	"Isn't this trussing and termination a bit, well, extreme?  It is just an organic, I 
know, but my studies and observations on the concept of 'hunting' show that this method 
is less than sporting.  One might as well be at a slaughterhouse."
	Tol bobbed his avatar ship up and down in a virtual-visual equivalent of a shrug.  
"No, it isn't sporting, but James is a borderline sociopath.  His genetic line is likely 
selected for the trait as his family are hereditary CEOs of major galactic companies.  He 
learned to see people, other entities in general, as objects at a young age, which is 
necessary in the arena of acquisitions, mergers, and terminations.  Why should this Dark, 
or any of the quarry we have pursued in the last several semi-cycles, be any different?  If 
anything, the killing of the Dark will be a visual representation of what James-the-future-
CEO will do following his first hostile take-over."
	"Oh!" exclaimed Yue at this insight into organic behavior.  
Tol was pleased...such moments of understanding were what he strived for when 
mentoring young Xenig in the ways of a universe populated with organics.  He dismissed 
the avatars and collapsed the scenario space.
	"I'm boooooored," pronounced James yet again.  The review with question and 
answer session had required less than a minute, during which time James had secreted a 
gum wad on the base of the main monitor.
	"Well, damn.  I didn't expect that," muttered Tol aloud for the benefit of the 
human.
	"Wha?" said James as he stood from his chair.  "What is happening?"
	"I've been tracking the Dark in warp, but he didn't emerge where I thought he 
would, sir.  Quite a bit further, in fact.  Well, he /did/ survive the Dark war and I know 
him to be on the wary side.  His actions, however, display a bit of paranoia as well.  Still, 
once he determines that the cube is alone and decides we don't constitute a threat, I 
expect him to charge in as anticipated."
	"And I'll not be bored anymore," stated James pointedly.
	Tol altered the display to accept visual input from an appropriately placed hull 
sensor.  "No, sir.  Why don't you watch the action for a bit.  I'm readying the remote 
controlled torpedo now."
	"Finally."

			*	*	*	*	*

	Storyteller dropped out of warp well before reaching his target.  A quick hit-and-
run would have best been served by decelerating as close to the quarry as possible, but he 
was exceedingly suspicious and did not trust that a trap had not been set.  Therefore, 
outside the range of demon-driven long-distance weapons, Storyteller observed the cube.
	The demon spun in a tight orbit around an icy ball which was not a comet, despite 
outward appearances.  There was solid water and basalt and the odd organic tang, but 
there was also a darker vibration/scent/gravimetric disturbance intimately mixed into the 
frozen slush matrix.  The same material - refined and missing the masking signatures of 
hydrogen, oxygen, and silicon - was a sharp slash linking cube and not-comet together.  
The demon itself was not outstanding, neither in form (cube-demons were always the 
same) nor energy signature; and as Storyteller watched, it slowed its restless tugging at its 
tether, halting with the leading edge pointed in his direction.
	Even from far away, the scent of singularities was a pungent smell.  At the center 
of the comet-not-a-comet resided the source of an active, if small, black hole; and the 
evaporated remains of a second was present at the surface of the not-comet.  A magnified 
view of the irregular ball of ice, rock, and unknown material revealed a small divot.  
Storyteller would have to approach carefully, for evidence supported the presence of the 
cube demon possessing singularity-based weaponry.  A black hole applied to one's 
epidermis was not a good thing.
	Attention next shifted to the additional, non-cube foursome which shared near-
space volume with the tethered demon.  They were tiny, from Storyteller's point of view, 
but the Dark knew from experience that small things could contain nasty and lethal 
surprises.  The two configurations presented were not known, but the energy signatures 
which twisted and throbbed in the high subspace layer bands were easily recognizable:  
Xenig.
	Storyteller had little to do with the particular demon which called itself Xenig, 
except to have the vague understanding that they did not suffer organic parasites to ride 
within them.  Their hulls blocked attempts to scan for lifesigns, so Storyteller could 
neither confirm nor deny the theory for himself.  In his youth, he had listened to the 
melodic arguments of philosophers as they debated if the mechanized species - for they 
were supposedly spacefaring, self-reproducing machines - were even to be classified as 
demons.  If a consensus had been made upon the matter, Storyteller did not know, his 
return from the anomaly made after the last philosopher of his kind had been eradicated.  
He did remember the Xenig ignoring the Dark during those parts of the war he had 
experienced (and before), much as they ignored most entities within the galaxy.
	Storyteller also remembered those Dark who did not ignore the Xenig in return 
tended to have a lifespan measured in seconds...if the Xenig in question was having a 
good cycle.  Xenig were not creatures to be assaulted.
	Since the Xenig did not appear to be directly involved with the cube-demon, 
beyond sharing volume, Storyteller would pretend they did not exist.
	For several long minutes Storyteller examined all of space, from immediate 
reality through as many layers of subspace as possible, for sign of ambush.  No 
disturbances, beyond that perpetuated by Xenig, cube-demon, or singularity were 
apparent.  It seemed as if the cube truly was trapped...and alone.  If Storyteller had 
possessed a face and a mouth, he would have grimly smiled in self-satisfaction.  The 
universe would shortly become a better place, if only through the loss of a single demon.
	Confident, Storyteller began to initialize his offense/defense systems and brazenly 
approached cube and not-comet.

	The sensory hierarchy was the first to match signature and silhouette to file 
description.  The delay took longer than normal, partially because Sensors' current grid 
configuration made it difficult for the rest of her hierarchy to make sense of input but also 
due to the fact that the match was not present in standard ship descriptors.  Instead, the 
match was to be found in archived species profiles.  The object which had exited warp 
was species #11086 - Dark.
	The Collective was aware of its involvement in the self-deception which produced 
the initial Dark constructs, as well as spawned an era of Hive and Colors, eventually 
shaping the Borg of now.  That is not to say that the contemporary Collective desired 
Dark to exist.  In this case, so many centuries prior, the Borg had done a very good job in 
designing the Dark; and two were more than sufficient to eventually populate the galaxy 
such that there was no room for anything else, much less the on-going Borg quest for 
Perfection.  Therefore, the Dark was a threat.
	In the distant give-and-take which was the Greater Consciousness, Captain heard 
a reissuing of directives which elevated Cube #347's situation to a higher tactical priority 
than before.  Unfortunately, the estimated time to arrival of an assault force sufficient to 
conclusively terminate the Dark was a minimum of 30 hours.  Long before 30 hours had 
passed, Cube #347 was very likely (88.5%, as quickly calculated) to be a smear of scrap.
	Cube #347 ceased its orbits, coming to a halt pointing at the enemy.
	The Dark, after waiting several long minutes, abruptly appeared to come to a 
decision.  It charged on a vector directly intersecting Cube #347.  At 2.3 kilometers in 
length - 0.3 kilometers longer than the records indicated maximum size - and displaying 
old battle scars, it was obviously an old veteran of the Dark war, possessing the 
knowledge to dispatch a Borg cube.
	A sub-collective decision was made:  total control was passed to the weapons 
hierarchy.
	{About time,} exclaimed Weapons.  Upon relinquishment of control of non-
tactical systems ranging from shielding to energy distribution to propulsion (Delta 
refused access to anything engineering), Weapons immediately transportered himself to 
Bulk Cargo Hold #5.  Within the initiated immersion hologram, Weapons was a minor 
deity of war able to survey the battlefield and his foe.  {Singularity torpedoes.  Ready 
two, four by four proton yield each, to be fired from tubes 5-bd and 5-cd.  A diversionary 
spread of high-isoton cobalt torpedoes will be deployed simultaneously, as well as anti-
matter bomblet chaff.}
	Weapons hierarchy drones rapidly complied.
	Sensors announced, {Xenig move.}  While there were additional words included 
in the warning, they were lost amid [gaggle of geese] and [camera tarnish].
	Weapons glanced at the symbols which designated the Xenig, noting Target 1 (the 
dart-shaped hull) was advancing from the overwatch position.  It swiveled slightly, then 
fired a low velocity warhead.  The torpedo puttered on a vector which utterly missed 
Cube #347 and at a speed that a relatively nimble rock could dodge.  If the lack of threat 
was not sufficiently clear, it exploded less than five kilometers from the Xenig and 
distant any viable targets.
	{Sensors taste [lemons]!}
	"Whatever," muttered Weapons under his breath as numbers from several 
datathreads flooded his processing cortex.  The singularity torps were loaded and primed; 
and calculations indicated the Dark target was entering a range within which only the 
most number-blind and cross-eyed of drones - Weapons quickly confirmed 66 of 83 was 
/not/ crewing anything which required the ability to aim - could miss.  Sensors' citrus-
laced concern was unimportant.
	{Fire,} ordered Weapons.

	Storyteller felt the wash of unreal particles tickle his epidermis and trigger 
sensory clusters deeper in his body core.  The torpedo from the Xenig did not otherwise 
appear to have any immediate effect; and, at any rate, Storyteller was too committed to 
his charge to turn aside.  Ahead, energy surges from the demon-cube sparkled in his 
vision, indicating the transfer of power to attack and defense systems.  In Storyteller's 
favor - he was already confident that the cube would shortly be rendered into debris - the 
comet and tether prevented the demon from spinning, which meant that stressed portions 
of its shield could not rotate away from a concentrated field of fire.
	The demon spat forth its first attack at Storyteller neared.  Incoming missiles 
numbered eight; and the cube's form wavered as a deafening curtain of anti-matter and 
metallic dust disrupted the Dark's visual/aural/electromagnetic gestalt.  The missiles were 
unimportant, Storyteller's bulk more than sufficient to shrug off such assaults.
	::Damnation!::  Storyteller trumpeted the oath aloud, despite the fact that there 
were no Dark present to hear his word.  Two of the torpedoes tasted of the high energies 
produced by mini-accelerators, a primary component of the singularity weapons 
employed by a variety of demons, including the cube variety.  The tell-tale signature had 
been previously masked amid the radiation illusions caused by the demon's defensive 
measures.  While normal torpedoes would have little effect upon Storyteller, the bite of a 
black hole, even a small one, was a different story.
	Too late.  Storyteller braced for the impact. 
	In quick succession, one-two-three-four conventional missiles splashed against 
hide, causing discoloration and minor sub-epidermal bruising.  Two additional torpedoes 
missed, flying away on straight-line trajectories to nowhere.  The pair of singularity 
torps...hit...then bounced away, undetonated, much to Storyteller's surprise.  As he passed 
the cube, neuruptors raked broadside, rending vast lengths of hide, but none penetrating 
deeper than the uppermost muscle layer. 
	The first pass was complete.  Storyteller was unsure why the singularity weapons 
had not torn chunks out of his body, but he was not one to question fate.  That was the job 
of the philosophers who no longer existed.  As the cube repositioned itself on the end of 
the tether, Storyteller turned in a vast arc, once more aligning himself with the demon.  
This time, he would utilize his own weapons...which included his own bulk.  The smaller 
enemy would be crushed.

	"Can't have the bait damaging your trophy, now can we?" rhetorically commented 
Tol to James following successful deployment of the singularity-dampening torpedo.

	{Damage to hull quadrant #455.g6, subsection 6, submatrix 5.  Damage to subhull 
armor layers - 20 meters - at hull quadrant #455.g6, subsection 6, submatrix 5.  Flooding 
from ornamental koi pond, Supply Closet #72, subsection 6, submatrix 14....}  The 
computer calmly supplied a continual 'verbal' monologue of damage reports as sensors 
reported malfunction to damage control pathways.  A separate datastream further 
compiled the list as to severity; and members of both command and control and 
engineering vetted the file into the final 'need to do now' roster.
	Delta, bodies in separate locations and both wielding tools, was only one (two?) 
of many drones triaging cube systems and structure.  Secondary and, in several cases, 
tertiary backups were performing adequately, but many repairs were necessary.  The 
brisk pace of work did not prevent Delta from commenting, {You are supposed to evade 
large, incoming objects, Weapons.}
	Cube #347 had suffered a glancing blow along edge #3 and face #1.  The large 
object in question was the Dark itself, which had used its own body as a battering ram.  
The damage would have been worse (i.e., terminal), if command and control had not 
usurped propulsion at the last moment when it became apparent the weapons hierarchy 
was not going to dodge.  A ship the size of an Exploratory-class cube is not exactly 
nimble, but with a maneuver which nearly incapacitated the inertial damper system, Cube 
#347 had been able to avoid a direct confrontation.
	Barely.
	Weapons did not respond to Delta's accusation, too intent on tracking the target as 
it ponderously arced around in preparation of another attack.

	Storyteller was pleased with himself.  While his port fore-segments ached, the 
pain was worth the effort:  the demon-cube had been well hit.  The pattern of energy 
spikes and the presence of leaked atmosphere, not to mention the impact scar on the cube 
itself, attested to the force of the assault.  If the demon had not managed to move aside at 
the last moment, Storyteller was sure he could have crashed directly through the hull, 
using the same maneuver the demons had employed during the war to kill Dark.
	Storyteller appreciated irony.
	The old history-bard arced along a path which would take him on the opposite 
side of the not-comet from the demon.  Because the cube could not spin, it was most 
gainful to attack again along the same general course as previously, taking advantage of 
prior inflicted damage.  

			*	*	*	*	*

	Just below the surface of the comet opposite the cube, a sensor awaits.  It is not 
fancy, nothing more than motion detector.  While it hailed from Xenig assembly lines, 
the technology was of a type widely available to any civilization sufficiently advanced to 
possess camcorders.  The sequence of events was simple:  when the sensor detected 
motion, it triggered a capacitor, which in turn activated a low-tech pyrotechnic explosion.
	A shape passes into the sensor's field of view.
	A solid explosive ignites, the burning red of oxygen swiftly extinguished in the 
vacuum of space.
	A harpoon hurls outward, burrowing deep into Dark flesh.
	Swift elastic expansion triggers nano-emitters associated with the semi-liquid 
organo-metallic flux.  Sympathetic molecular resonation precipitated by the nano-
emitters causes any subspace within a twenty meter radius of the flux-line to be altered 
into a substance almost, but not quite, similar to the flux.  An anchor is established.
	The Dark, to whom the tether is now embedded, swings into a wild arc; and in 
counter-balance to the celestial rule of equal and opposite motion, a Borg cube follows 
suit on the opposite side of the comet.
	This could have been the end of the story, but it was not.
	Due to poking and prodding of races such as human and Borg, both of whom 
share the singular characteristic of /not/ considering the outcome of tampering with the 
fundamental fabric of space and time, the Milky Way galaxy is awash with anomalies.  
Weak spots exist in many places, waiting for a trigger in the form of an inadvertent 
explosion, an unfortunately placed high-energy scientific facility, the expulsion of the 
organic sewage contents of a poorly maintained freighter, or similar action.  That trigger, 
when it comes, creates yet another phenomenon with the potential to destroy existence 
unless rescue comes about in the form of a heroic ship and its stalwart crew.
	The day that the annual retainer to Bubba's Temporal-Spatial Repair and Repo 
Shop is late is the day that the Milky Way will cease to exist.
	Until that time - far in the future - arrives, the Borg have recorded 3497 
phenomenon, from a wandering anomaly barely a meter across where fresh posies appear 
every 20.2 hours to nebulae one would swear are naturally created.  A new entry is about 
to be added to the Collective catalogue.
	The ill placement of the anchor singularity combined with the stress of the Xenig 
weapon was too much for the local space-time continuum.  After waiting a suitably 
dramatic amount of time, the nascent anomaly ripped into a full-blown phenomenon, 
complete with odd sound effects and mysterious glowing fog.  Naturally Borg cube, last 
existing Dark, and comet were swallowed.

			*	*	*	*	*

On the monitor James was avidly watching, Borg cube and Dark quarry 
disappeared as the trio of porter Xenig lined themselves up for the harpooning.  James' 
jaw dropped in astonishment.  Surprise was quickly replaced by disgust with a healthy 
addition of exasperation.  "Where did my trophy go?" demanded James with the icy tones 
of the spoiled.  The Dark had been replaced with a dispersing mist of neon orange; and 
there was the distinct impression of fading trumpets and triangles.
	Tol did not answer.
	"Well?"
	"Just a moment, sir.  Dimensional potentialities and subspace rift-fractures are 
occluding my senses.  The gravimetric static isn't helping neither.  I'm having a difficult 
time seeing through all the crap out there."  Tol's synthetic voice was as calm as always.
	James looked at the screen again, seeing nothing out of the usual with that 
particular patch of space except that it did not contain his Dark trophy.  "I don't see 
anything wrong.  Where did the Dark go?"
	"An anomaly.  One of the nastier varieties, too.  Fairly limited in scope, however.  
I /think/ I am tracking them...or at least I've locked onto a signature which appears to be a 
distorted version of the anchor singularity."
	"I don't understand."
	Tol internally sighed, then dialed back the techno-babble to a level that even a 
human could understand.  "James.  Have you ever looked at an ocean?  More specifically, 
have you ever looked at the ocean where deep underwater there is a bright light?"
	James' eyes narrowed at the patronizing attitude.  "Yeees."  The word was drawn 
out into a hiss.  "Deep-kelp farms on Arturus III.  The harvesting submersibles moving 
among the kelp rows have bright lights in order to scare off certain herbivores.  Why?"
	"The light...was it dim?  Hard to track?  Occasionally disappeared all together, 
only to reappear where you didn't expect?"
	"Sure, especially when the waves were up and the wind blowing."
	"Good.  Keep that image in your mind, only alter your planet-bound weather 
phenomenon into a major hurricane.  Now try to track the light of your harvesting 
machine.  That is what I'm trying to do.  It is doable, but difficult; and I don't know when 
the anomaly will spit the Dark or cube out.  There's no temporal twist to the anomaly that 
I can discern, but I could be wrong."  Tol was pleased that the analogy had worked.
	James pouted.  "Then my trophy is gone?"
	"Well...we can..."  Tol paused, then continued, "Temporal bow wave incoming, 
signature that of a GPS-rated Xenig drive.  Mail call!  I'll refocus the camera for you."  
	On the monitor, stars slewed right and down, picture coming to rest on a patch of 
empty space alike all other patches of empty space.  For a long minute there was nothing, 
then a faint glow began to emanate.  The glow swiftly built into a blinding glare, which 
then faded.  Left behind was a Xenig with a conical hull intermediate between that of Tol 
and the porters - dart-shaped, but ballooned waist and aft to delineate cargo areas.  On its 
flanks was the GPS logo, followed by the motto of the temporal arm of the delivery 
company.  As James watched, the flowing silver script fluidly altered into a language he 
could read:  "When you absolutely have to get your package there before it was sent."
	"Courier delivery for James d'Arthur III.  Please vocalize your acceptance of an 
urgent message," boomed over the internal speakers with a voice which was not Tol.
	"Tol?" asked James.
	"Just say 'I accept'," counseled Tol.  "Goi is a very busy mech."
	"I accept," said James.
	There was a pause, then the delivery Xenig disappeared.  One moment it was 
there, and the next it was gone.  Tol spoke before James could, "I have received the 
message for you.  I will play it on your monitor."
	The monitor altered.  On the flat-screen display swam into focus James' father, an 
older, more-stern version of the thirty-something man who was in Tol's hull.  The 
message was short and to the point.  "Son.  Get your butt back home.  Your great-
grandmother is sick again.  I want you here with the rest of your family - assuming I can 
track down your sister - if your great-grandmother finally passes and this isn't another of 
her hypochondriac moments.  We are lodged at the d'Arthur Industries compound."  The 
screen blanked.
	"That all?" asked James.
	"That is all, sir."  Tol paused, then delicately asked, "You do not seem anxious, 
James.  Usually when family members receive news of a relative's sickness, there is a bit 
more...emotion.  This is true even among my kind, such as we define relations.  Forgive 
me if I have stepped out of bounds."
	James gave a small, bitter smile.  "There is nothing to forgive.  Great-
grandmamma has had five 'terminal episode emergencies' over the last ten years.  
Hopefully this time the doctors will declare her truly incurable and the old bat will finally 
die.  Then, maybe, I'll be given something useful to do, like manage a small planet or 
company."
	"I...see," said Tol.  "Then, do you wish to continue the hunt, or do you have other 
orders?  You are still paid up for my guide - or taxi - services through the end of your 
calendar month."
	James sighed.  "As much as I want to get my trophy, well, I really should be there 
if great-grandmamma kicks the bucket.  If she doesn't, I'm sure that you can find the Dark 
again for me."  Of the cube there was no mention.  Borg (and Colors), after all, were 
common in the galaxy, and there would always be another Exploratory-class cube.  "Take 
me to the d'Arthur Industries primary compound on Tholtos Prime."
	"As your desire, sir."

*********
Here ends Part I of "Big Game Hunter."  Tune in next story to find out what happens to 
Cube #347.  Will the sub-collective survive in one piece?  Will Storyteller be a bit testy 
concerning the thorn in his side?  And what of the anomaly?  Is the mysterious man at the 
local fast-food franchise really Elvis' cousin's grand-niece's step-son's promotional agent 
and palm reader?