If you have a bug up your Star Trek, call Paramount.  Gotta bee in your Star Traks 
bonnet?  Decker is your man.  Ants raiding your BorgSpace picnic?  Don't look up this 
author:  you are on your own.

				Pest Exterminator

	Light.				Heat.
Needing.  Wanting.  To the Light.  To the Heat.  To the Water.  To the Nutrients.
		Too much Light!
		Too much Heat!
	Pull away.	Pull away.
		Too much Light!
		Too much Heat!
Remove the excess Light.  Remove the excess Heat.  Use the source of the excess as
			Mulch.
	Unbalanced.  Must Grow in that way.  Avoid the Cold.  Seek the Light.
				Seek the Heat.
Seek the Water.				Seek the Nutrients.

	The thoughts - not really thoughts, not even impressions, but, just perhaps, 
instinct and stimulus-reaction given form for the sake of readership - slowly flowed 
through sap and crossed the pseudo-synapses of tissue not evolved for such a purpose.  
Fluctuating turgor pressure and contractile fibers shifted the macro-whole.  Senses 
quested for light and water and nutrients without the benefit of eyes or nose...or brain.  
Within the chaotic, non-linear, and often disjunct stream-of-instinct flickered bright 
pinpoints of mechanical intent, everything their host was not; but those nanoscopic sparks 
were, in their own way, as driven by instinct as the entity (not being and definitely not 
person) they inhabited.
	The specks, the nanites, had no capacity for sapience on their own.  However, 
they functioned best when their host was sentient, for only then could they fulfill their 
full programming, a condition which provided a measure of "happiness" to the specks.  
The specks, on the other hand, were not without resources.  Key among them was 
adaptation, the ability to mold and resculpt tissue - DNA! - while building critical non-
organic based hardware add-ons.  The process might take a while, but there was no sense 
of time nor urgency to the specks, only "duty."
	And so the host gained, albeit slowly and in a limited fashion, the ability to think.  
Perhaps, one day, the host might even rationalize and plan and conjecture.  The thought 
pattern would always be alien, however, with alien needs and alien wants fueling an 
uniquely alien point of view.
	After all, there were only so many adaptations Borg nanites could perform on a 
plant.

	Light.		Water.		
		Heat.		Nutrients.
	(Adaptation programming internal log - Phase II, ongoing:  alter DNA nuclease 
	542.aa3 on chromosome zeta-2.  Substitute genome string from branch point 
	0.331 on chromosome theta-1.  Resuture.  Observation mode.)
		Grow towards the Light.
	Grow towards the Heat.
Grow.  Grow.  Grow.  Grow.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Cube #347 exited hypertranswarp upon the common-route approach to unimatrix 
009, joining the stream of other incoming vessels.  The unimatrix was huge, a necessity 
as it was a port of call for a significant segment of the Borg fleet.  In times past, when 
unimatrix complexes were the gateways to permanent transwarp conduits painstakingly 
burrowed through the fabric of space-time, the bulk had also served to house the 
immense generators required to stabilize the Borg version of a superhighway.  The advent 
of hypertranswarp technology had allowed the disassociation of unimatrix and conduit, 
but it had not lessened the grandiose size of the structures.
	Small engineering, like small thinking, was for small beings.
	Giant nodes, dwarfing even the largest of Borg vessels, were the size of 
planetoids.  The nodes were not haphazardly placed within the structure, as might be first 
impression when looking upon a unimatrix, but instead were carefully set according to 
the dictations of high level mathematics, micro-gravitational fluctuations, and installation 
purpose.  Flexible tubes, themselves immense habitats and made small only by the scale 
of the overall complex, linked nodes; and transport trains balanced on thin wires spun 
molecule by molecule by specialty nanite constructors shuffled cargo and drones between 
destinations.
	It was towards a node that Cube #347 vectored.  The node was a dodecahedron, 
middling in size compared to its conspecifics.  Equidistantly spaced about the equator 
were six vast cylinders, the mouth of each flickering with the subtle shimmer of a 
forcefield.  The passageways into the node were of sufficient radius to allow passage of a 
Battle-class cube; and as Cube #347 neared, a vessel of said type exited a cylinder.  At 
the mouth of the designated entrance, the Exploratory-class cube paused, waiting for final 
confirmation that the path was clear.  Finally the cube plunged forward, cutting 
propulsion as docking tractors captured the ship and guided it inward to its dry-dock 
berth.
	Or that is how I narrated our approach to unimatrix 009, dry-dock node 013, 
supplementing oration with images liberally lifted from both cube- and unimatrix-based 
cameras.  Despite the duties required of me as a low-level command and control drone, I 
could not help setting everything into story prose:  I admit it, I am a compulsive writer.
	Unlike the majority of the Cube #347 sub-collective, I hail from the current era.  
No reincarnation or time travel (or whatever plausible explanation that allowed a 
collection of imperfectly assimilated drones 500 years out of date to surface in the 
contemporary "now") for me.  Less than a year prior, I had been chasing rumors of the 
Color sept Sepia.  The elusive Sepia was a scholarly Color, focused upon collecting and 
preserving literature on a galactic-spanning scale.  As a struggling (starving) author 
whose every idea had been shot down by editors demanding originality, my plan had 
been to lease my body to Sepia for a couple of years.  In return, I would have access to a 
wide-variety of fictional literature, one or two stories of which would surely suit my 
purpose of blatant plagiarization, preferably of an ancient text with no copyright from a 
long-extinct species.
	Unfortunately, for me, I found the Borg Collective, not Sepia.
	Deemed imperfectly assimilated, I was originally (not that I, locked into deep 
regenerative mode, knew at the time) slated to be introduced into the sub-collective of 
Lugger-class Cube #238.  However, Exploratory-class Cube #347 had docked at 
unimatrix 012 prior to Cube #238; and the Greater Consciousness decided that one 
imperfectly assimilated sub-collective was as good as another imperfectly assimilated 
sub-collective.
	And so here I be.
	I think the only reason the consensus monitor and facilitator did not assign me to 
assimilation hierarchy was due to my species' natural ability to multitask.  Even among 
my race, I have high multitasking ability.  That is my only saving grace, my prior 
occupation as struggling (starving) writer not lending skills useful to the other 
hierarchies.  Assimilation, as the most underutilized hierarchy, is the depository of the 
useless amid the unwanted.  Sometimes I wish I /had/ been assigned to assimilation, for 
then I would have been able to concentrate fully upon my futile journalistic aspirations.
	{Stop daydreaming, 4 of 480,} inserted Second into my thought stream, utterly 
ruining my narration.  Now I would have to edit.  I dislike editing.  Waste of time.  That 
is what /editors/ were for, except as a Borg drone, I no longer had access to editors.  
{Attend to your duties.}
	'Yes slave-driver,' is what I wanted to respond, but well-integrated drone that I 
am, the snappy reply is swiftly curtailed by my censure governors.  {Compliance, 
Second,} I return instead.  A splinter presence of Second hovers in my background 
perception for several long moments, confirming that I am concentrating on the boring 
task of mediating compiled datastreams incoming from sensory partition 2b.  Finally 
Second's shadow moves on.
	The inside of dry-dock node 013 is one of cubes and spheres captured into 
scaffolding floating within a mazework of stabilizing tractor beams.  Constructor vehicles 
- of sharp edges and dripping plasma sparks - dart between hull fissures, landing to 
disgorge specialty engineering drones.  Larger barges haul a wide assortment of struts, 
spars, sensor clusters, and armor plating from Point A to Point B.  The bustling action is 
an intricate dance coordinated by a minor subset of a subset of the Greater 
Consciousness, as automatic and unconscious as my digestive processes prior to my 
assimilation.  It is to an empty and waiting scaffold that Cube #347 is maneuvered.  I 
record all, adding the occasional footnote for when I have time to compile the final 
approach for my narration.
	Finally we are docked, and the processing load directed towards me drops 
sharply.  Except for a few minor datastreams concerning hull and subhull temperatures of 
face #6, my official duties of Secondary Compilation Engine are suspended.  I return 
most of my multitasking attention to my prose.
	{All drones:  prepare for regeneration.}  Captain's announcement echoes through 
the dataspaces, prompting those who are mobile to return to their alcoves.  Such is not a 
problem for me, for I rarely leave my snug home except for a few minor errands.  It is not 
surprising that the sub-collective is to be idled for the duration of unloading cargo (a 
species #10427 probe, among other things) and repairs.  Delta can be a bit...intense at 
times when it comes to matters of cube restoration, something I'm sure the Greater 
Consciousness, even a minor subset of a subset, would rather not contend with.  I tie up a 
few loose ends to my narration and insert the equivalent of a bookmark.
	{Sub-collective wide regeneration initiating in ten seconds,} said Captain.  {Nine.  
Get back to your alcove, 99 of 203.  Six.  Five.  Four.  You too, 86 of 510.  Two.  One.}
	My whole eye sagged shut; and my ocular implant powered down.  Regeneration 
claimed me.

	The wordless command to wake sparked through my synapses.  I automatically 
consulted my chronometer, only to find ten hours had passed since initiation of deep 
regeneration.  With internal flags waving, I next turned to grasp at the datastreams which 
would indicate attack, structural failure, a souffle left in the oven by 17 of 19 rampaging 
out of control.  Nothing.  Correction, not quite nothing, for ten signatures, including 
myself, were registering re-activation status.  {Clarification,} I queried the computer.
	<< You will function as temporary sub-consensus monitor and facilitator for the 
assigned task. >>
	The Voice and Will of the Collective, not the expected computer, blasted into my 
mind, pinning my psyche.  Part of me was already offering words of compliance, but 
another part of me, the part which was a compulsive writer to such an extent that not even 
assimilation could erase the urge, protested.  {This unit functions as a Secondary 
Compilation Engine.  The task, whatever it is, would be better served with one of the 
Hierarchy of Eight installed.}
	The minor subunit of a subunit which oversaw the functioning of unimatrix 009 
was taken aback at my response.  << The mental resources of the Hierarchy of Eight are 
required for other duties.  You are deemed suitable for this task.  You will comply. >>
	With the 'you will comply' goad invoked, I had no choice.  {I...er, we will 
comply.}
	The overlord presence lingered for several seconds, tasting my intentions and in 
general disproving of my inadvertent reference to myself in the singular.  Finally it 
moved on, tasks of greater importance than a single, imperfectly assimilated drone 
claiming its attention.  A kernel of data was left behind.  I accessed it.
	{Thorny!}  Doctor, one of the units activated, filled the intranets with a montage 
of plant-related imagery.  Specifically, the hulking presence of a /very/ large plant with 
big leaves, bigger thorns, and the distinctive silver-gray hues of Borgification.
	177 of 212 groaned.  {I thought that damn thing had been vaporized when our 
prior cube was dismantled for raw materials.}
	{Thorny?} I queried, at a loss.
	{A plant that /certain/ drones...} began 177 of 212.
	Interrupted 12 of 83 with a meme-replay of a point of view which indicated the 
drone in question was suspended at least two meters off the deck:  {Cantankerous piece 
of...}
	{Baby Thorny is a nice plant.  Just a little rambunctious at times,} defended 
Doctor.
	{You call that a baby?} said 12 of 83.  {It took over the entirety of subsection 8!  
Only high powered forcefields contained it!}
	As sub-consensus monitor and facilitator, it fell upon me to halt the budding 
argument and bring the ten of us back into a semblance of One.  Yah, sure.  I'm a writer, 
not a negotiator, not a dictator...not that the Greater Consciousness cared at my 
preference.  I keyed the equivalent of an air horn which stunned the nine into silence.  {I 
have no records of this "Thorny."  It obviously originates prior to my assimilation.  I 
require information.}  Pause.  {14 of 24, you will provide information.}
	The assimilation drone, inherent twitchiness apparent even in the dataspaces, 
responded with a concise history of the bloodvine only slightly marred by the attempts of 
Doctor to include his own opinions.  I blocked Doctor's asides.
	{Essentially, it is a semi-mobile, assimilated /plant/ which originally served as a 
form of rodent control on its native world.  It has no intelligence beyond stimulus-
response,} I summarized.  I did not like the sound (nor the pictures) of the focus of our 
task.
	{Essentially,} acquiesced Doctor with the click sound of incisor on incisor, 
{although I like to think that Thorny was a bit more enhanced in the neural department 
than...}
	{It has no brain!  Therefore, no neural department at all!} exclaimed 17 of 300.  
None of the weapons drones assigned to the subunit exactly had rosy thoughts for the 
plant.  In fact, most of the recollections focused upon various extermination attempts 
which ended with the drone in question rolled in vines or slamming against a bulkhead.
	I keyed the air horn again.  {Enough!  We have a task to perform.  The faster we 
get it done, the faster we can return to our alcoves and regeneration.}
	{Assuming we return at all,} inserted 177 of 212.

	The mass of silver-tinged greenery writhed in the darkness, increasingly worried 
as only a plant can be.  Light was gone, as was heat; and the nutrients and energies which 
flowed in their respective conduits were no more.  The comforting thrum of warp engines 
had ceased, replaced by the pinging metal of a cooling superstructure and the sharp 
motions possible only due the deactivation of inertial dampers.
	With the disengaging of the forcefields which kept it confined to a single 
subsection, Thorny had been provided room to expand, to grow.  However, the plant did 
not wish to do so, and so did not as there was no reason to grow beyond its current 
bounds.  The increasingly dry air indicated that the habitat in which Thorny grew had 
been abandoned, the non-Thorny creatures gone along with the elements which 
encouraged life.  Survival instincts honed for the winter snows of a world long left behind 
prompted the plant to draw inward to its roots, to ball up into a mass which would allow 
the tender shoots at the center to survive to the spring.
	Then came light!  And heat!  All motions ceased.  The light stabbed again and 
again, alike the pokes and bites the non-Thorny creatures had once used upon Thorny, 
only much more powerful.  Thorny quested with one tendril, then another, then an entire 
vine segment, unperturbed by lack of gravity.
	As Thorny...
	The elbow to my ribs disrupted my narrative conjecture upon how Thorny had 
survived the destruction of the old Cube #347 within salvage node 002.  Reluctantly, I 
closed the prose and more fully concentrated on the location of our subunit.  Our station 
was approaching.
	The transport train slid to a noiseless halt at the platform.  Despite the packing of 
cars in a manner which the colorful Terran literature texts refer to as "cattle car" and 
"sardine tin," the other, normal drones present had been allowing our knot several 
centimeters of space as if we were contagious.  We were the only drones which 
disembarked at the station, doors to the train slamming shut the moment 44 of 203's heel 
cleared the car.
	The platform was cold, ambient air just above the freezing point of water instead 
of the normal temperature of 93.1 C.  It was also extremely dry, and the vapor from our 
breathing plumed towards the ceiling.  The conditions made sense, since it was inefficient 
to utilize energy for climatic control at a location where the transport system rarely 
stopped.  Stale oxygenated air continued to circulate, but only because to totally mothball 
the platform, and then be required to return it to functionality later, would be more 
trouble than it was worth.
	We were about to embark on a one-way trip to purgatory.  The only way we 
would be allowed to return was if we were successful at our task.
	The task in question was to facilitate the initial phase of the recovery of salvage 
node 002.  Thorny, during the dismantling of Cube #347, had escaped to the node and 
subsequently occupied it.  Before the unimatrix could destroy the node and end the 
problem, the Greater Consciousness had discovered that the node was set on a particular 
key gravitational flux point and that to remove the node was to risk severely upsetting the 
entire complex and cause it to unravel.  Leaving the node (and Thorny) alone was also 
not an option, for Thorny was not the only inhabitant of the salvage yard.  If it had been, 
then the Collective might have been willing to let the plant be.  However, there 
were...complications.
	Complications came in the form of rogue drones.  The number was not large, 219 
at last scan, but those drones who had severed themselves from the Collective had found 
refuge within the salvage node.  Apparently, they had carved a semi-symbiotic 
relationship with Thorny in that they kept the plant happy and the plant didn't use them 
for mulch, as it had been want to do with the tactical drones sent prior in a series of 
forceful recovery bids.  While the Collective was willing to allow the plant to live (no 
sentience meant no chance of embarrassing leaks to the galactic media concerning the 
faux pas), the Greater Consciousness could not condone rogue behavior from its drones.
	And now the question becomes how were we, ten imperfectly assimilated drones, 
to facilitate the recovery of salvage node 002?  Or at least allow the entry of sufficient 
numbers of tactical drones to terminate the rogues while not provoking the plant?
	The answer?  We were to sedate the plant.
	Yes, sedate an overgrown, Borgified example of the floral Kingdom.
	Finally, I had an original plot to an original story - and, as a bonus, non-fiction - 
that not even the most malevolently evil of publishers could reject...and I could not 
distribute it.  That is what in the literary circles was called irony.
	The trio of assimilation drones of our merry subunit carried packets of 
concentrated dust containing billions of specialty nanites.  Once the nanoprobes were 
introduced into the regeneration system, they would interact with Thorny's nanites, 
hopefully causing a sedative effect.  How long the sedation would last was unknown, as 
was if the nanoprobes would even work.  The perfect chore for imperfectly assimilated 
drones (i.e., expendable).
	First, however, we had to gain access to salvage node 002, thus our 
disembarkment at the disused station.  The Greater Consciousness had learned that 
beaming drones directly inside the structure was not prudent:  the transporter irritated 
Thorny, causing a lethal welcome for materializing units.  Near the station was a cargo 
transporter pad; and that pad would send all ten of us on our way.  At least as far as the 
node's outer hull, that is.

	It required over two hours to access the interior of salvage node 002.  156 of 422, 
the single sensory hierarchy member present, whined the entire time, alternately claiming 
an aversion to vacuum and lack of oxygen storage despite the fact Doctor pronounced her 
satisfactory on the latter and offered a kibble treat to combat the former.  An old waste 
ventilation shaft provided entrance.
	Why does salvage node 002 (and, for that matter, /all/ unimatrix nodes) even have 
a waste ventilation shaft?  It was a mystery.  Disregarding the fact that organic waste 
products are not produced by Borg drones, if such had been a factor, they would have 
been routed to replicator reclamation to be recycled into usefulness.  I theorize that the 
shaft is a "design appendix," a legacy of assimilation of the original node blueprints.  
Other appendixes did exist.  For example, Cube #347's (very small) hydroponics closet or 
the exercise gyms with stationary bicycles which populated all Assault-class spheres.
	Chisel marks and laser scorches on the shaft hatch attested that we were not the 
first to enter the node via this particular entrance.
	The shaft unceremoniously burrowed through the hull, exiting via another hatch 
in a closet tiled with bright white ceramic squares.  A sink was present, as were several 
half-constructed stalls, but not commodes.  Likely the Greater Consciousness had noticed 
the laboring of drones to follow nonessential blueprint instructions, sending them to other 
more relevant tasks.  The lavatory had never been completed; but, then again, it had also 
never been demolished.
	We filed through the jaunty swinging door to the outside corridor; and, for the 
first time, I was able to experience Thorny directly for myself.
	The air was warm and humid, but no more so than the norm insisted both my 
environmental sensors and those of my subunit.  Yet, the silver-green leaves - the size of 
my head and larger - which hung from thorned vines lent a tropical seeming which made 
the air feel warmer, denser.  The vines, themselves an odd mottle of silver and green, 
snaked along every conceivable surface, be it ceiling, wall, or deck.  It was as if we stood 
in a tunnel carved through vegetation, not a hallway on a Borg salvage node.
	"The plant is moving!" exclaimed 12 of 83 as he lifted his arm (I suppressed a pun 
which formed in my mind) in preparation to fire.
	While memory-memes are supposed to allow a second-hand full sensory 
experience, they are still not the same as reality.  Academically, I knew Thorny was 
mobile, but it was not the same as seeing vines and tendrils curl away from our feet, 
leaving a patch of bare deck.  Nor was it the same as seeing a shudder ruffle leaves 
hanging from wall and ceiling, as if caught in an invisible wind.
	Doctor reached out one hand to caress a nearby leaf.  "Don't you dare fire, else I 
will spank you!" snapped the head of drone maintenance without bothering to turn.  
There was a bite to the words, punctuated by a sharp incisor click, which implied Dire 
Things involving rolled up newspapers.
	12 of 83 lowered his arm, followed in turn by the other three weapons drones.
	"Good," muttered Doctor.  In the few seconds the exchange had required, a vine 
had detached itself from the wall and wrapped itself around the proffered limb.  Silver 
thorns sunk deeply into Doctor's flesh, but they were dismissed with a laugh by the 
rodent.  I tucked /my/ arms carefully to my side and confirmed I was as far as possible 
from any of the twitching leaves.  Doctor laughed again as blood ran down his arm and 
dripped onto the deck.
	"Um, Doctor..." I said,  "...you are bleeding."
	Doctor's ears briefly flipped to his skull.  He began to gently unwind the tendril.  
"Thorny wants to play," said Doctor in response to my silent, unvoiced query.  The rest 
of the subunit bunched into a tighter knot (smaller target?) in case the plant wanted to 
"play" with one of them.  Doctor seemed to finally register the welter of quasi-emotion 
emanating from all.  "As long as you don't attack Thorny, he won't bite you.  He /is/ 
happy to taste me again!"
	How one could tell if a /plant/ was happy, or otherwise, I was unsure; and I was 
equally unsure Doctor, his arm rapidly healing, had actually communicated with Thorny.  
I did know, from memory-memes of Cube #347 and Collective origin, that Thorny would 
not hesitate to let us know if it was angry, displeased, or whatever might or might not 
apply in the hypothetical emotional department.  If the plant was willing to let us be for 
now, that was fine with me.  I mentally nudged the subunit and at the same time brought 
up a schematic of the node.
	{Let us go.  17 of 300, make sure Doctor doesn't dally.  We have a task to do.}
	Shuffling into a single file line (Doctor hesitating until prodded by 17 of 300), we 
turned as one to face our route of march to the node's primary regeneration facilities.  
Thorny squirmed out of our way as we moved forward, exposing deck plates to avoid our 
heavy footfalls, only to swallow our path behind.  We were on our way.
	Unfortunately, while Thorny may be willing to let us pass unmolested except for 
the occasional thorn caress, I (we) did not hold such high hopes for the rogues:  
Collective scans indicated the main rogue concentration to be very close to our target of 
the primary regeneration facilities.

	How would a plant experience the world?  That was the question I contemplated 
as we forged ever deeper through the salvage node's empty alcove tiers.  Thorny, leaves 
shivering in an intangible breeze, clung to every surface except for a narrow strip of deck 
barely sufficient for one drone to pass another.  Exactly nothing was happening, with 
Doctor assuring everyone that "Thorny-worny" was uneasy, but willing to let us be as 
long as we didn't "bruise a single, tiny-teeny tendril;" and even the paranoid thought 
stream of the weapons drones were starting to relax.  The urge to write, to sketch the 
scenes of a story which would never be published overwhelmed me as the lack of 
immediate threat continued.
	Although I had yet to actually observe eyes or obvious sensory patches, I assumed 
Thorny had some way to perceive the universe.  As a plant, I doubted that visual was 
involved except in the most primitive of ways which allowed taxis towards light.  
Unfortunately, as a writer of the visual-audio genre, providing a point of view which was 
based upon chemicals and diffuse heat was a bit beyond my ken...and likely the greater 
majority of any theoretical readers as well.  However, the writing profession was also 
allowed a few basic liberties, among them out and out speculation and "what if".
	I started with a visual of us walking past a hypothetical observation point, 
captured when I temporarily stepped out of line for the purpose.  After examining and 
discarding several promising virtual lens filters, I settled on "carnival fish eye, modified."  
The filter was a subtle effect, slightly shortening and fattening the scene (like certain fun 
house mirrors) while at the same time lending a hint of that particular distortion which is 
possible only through a fish eye lens.
	Color was the next consideration.  To have Thorny view the universe in the 
standard visual frequency range was boring.  I knew from the bloodvine primer that the 
nonBorgified plant was used to limit vermin populations in agricultural fields, therefore 
one could propose a hunting strategy based upon infrared...heat.  Actual factuality was 
not my problem.  To the drones in the clip I applied an infrared proxy, i.e., a red filter.  At 
first it was too intense, obscuring faces and other visual identification clues, but after 
some fiddling I found a suitable combination.  A light pink layered over non-drone scene 
components completed the picture.
	On to sound.  As with eyes, Thorny had no obvious ears.  That lack did not stop 
me.  While silence and deafness were perfectly valid uses of sound and could convey 
alienness, it was not the track I wanted to use...especially if important observations were 
verbalized, forcing the reader to read lips.
	I used my favorite "predatory alien hearing" technique.  It was rather standard the 
universe over, but that very robustness and expectation of use was why it remained 
popular over the millennia with the major publishing houses.  When Thorny observed a 
group of drones, sounds would be highly distorted with conservation nigh-near 
indecipherable except for the occasional key word.  With a "zoom" sound and Fast 
Camera Blur, a single drone filled the scene and all became crystal clear on the audio 
front.  
	As I contemplated the merits of adding heartbeats and general ambient sounds, I 
crashed into the armored back of the drone in front of me.  177 of 212 had stopped, as 
had the rest of the line.  Myself, conscious awareness drawn inward and body set onto 
automatic pilot, had not noticed.  Only a series of very ungraceful arm windmills 
prevented me from falling to the deck.
	{Watch it,} spoke 177 of 212 to me.  17 of 300 followed with a {Welcome back 
to the land of the living.  Now you can tell us what to do.}
	"There are armed tactical drones among you.  Those units will /not/ power up 
their weaponry.  All of you will proceed forward into the chamber on your route of 
march.  Slowly."  A high-pitched voice, mechanical tones of a drone evident, bellowed 
the commands from somewhere up front.  As my species was generally shorter than the 
humanoid norm, and 177 of 212 was within the upper percentage of height and width, I 
could not see what was happening.  I captured the visual stream of 12 of 83, who was at 
the point of our column, Doctor just behind.
	12 of 83 had crossed half of the twenty meter chamber - draped with the ever-
present silver-greenery - before realizing something was amiss.  From behind the tendrils 
and vines had emerged twenty drones.  While the twenty were not necessarily of a 
tactical specialty, all had been fit or retrofit with weaponry.  With drones against drones, 
personal shields are next to useless.  Now, those twenty had the business ends of their 
weapons pointed at those of the column who had already entered the chamber.  Oddly, all 
had splashes of a bright green painted somewhere on their bodies - an "X" on a forehead, 
an entire leg, a streak across the torso.
	"And don't bother trying to back up," said the speaker, a half-sized Klingon-
crossbreed with both arms to the shoulders completely painted.  "I have another squad 
moving forward to cut you off."
	I blinked.  The drone had used the individual instead of the plural.  These must be 
the rogues.
	Snorted 12 of 83, who had been following my stream-of-thought, {Gooooood 
deduction.  Brilliant.}  The tone indicated a high level of sarcasm.  {Maybe you should 
be a character in one of Captain's Jumba the Wise Lizard novels.}
	"Forward, forward.  I don't have all day!" squeaked the part-Klingon drone in a 
manner that might have been comical if it wasn't for the display of weaponry.
	The subunit was looking to me, as a command and control unit, to make the final 
decision.  Despite the always-present Thorny threat, all weapons and two of the 
assimilation drones were quite willing attempt a counter-attack.  However, the rest of the 
party, myself included, weren't quite so eager to go charging to our collective 
terminations.  Besides - and this was the overwhelming factor - our deaths would mean 
failure in our task as mandated by the Greater Consciousness.  More than anything, that 
provision weighed the consensus cascade which I was attempting to weave into a 
decisive whole.
	{We will do as the green painted drone says.}  Pause.  {For now,} I quickly added 
to appease those of the weapons hierarchy.  We shuffled forward; and it was satisfaction I 
noted on the face of the part-Klingon when I beheld the rogue for myself.

	The room to which we were led had once been used to hand-sort delicate 
recyclables from salvaged dross otherwise destined for bulk reclamation.  Schematics 
labeled it as Processing Facility #16.  Now the large room was retrofit with banks of 
alcoves scavenged from alcove tiers, all wired to backup power sources should the Mind 
which ran the unimatrix complex decide to sever energy to the salvage node.  Part of the 
expanse had been modified with much wielding of metal so as to produce three stories of 
work space, effectively tripling the usable volume of that portion of the chamber.  Upon 
the tiers and scattered on the original deck in carefully partitioned areas were the various 
requirements for a functional Borg colony, from the tools of drone maintenance to those 
of engineering (of which there was little difference in my non-technical opinion).
	And, through it all, twined the presence of Thorny, although the plant was not 
quite as prevalent here as it was elsewhere.
	Upon entrance to the chamber, we were marched to a wall largely clear of vines 
and unceremoniously chained to wall brackets obviously installed for the purpose.
	"I suggest you patiently wait for a bit," said the half-Klingon leader of the tactical 
squad, his designation never provided.  "Thorny," a gesture to several vines actively 
questing downward from the ceiling, "dislikes phasers, lasers, disruptors, and the sort. 
One will be along shortly."  The half-Klingon turned away, but only moved 
approximately fifteen meters to take up a position which clearly indicated guard status.  I 
had recognized the phrasing, the tone of dismissal from the many times I had attempted 
to gain an audience with a publisher: One would arrive when he, she, or it was good and 
ready.
	{I wonder how the rogues know Thorny's designation?} mused Doctor as he 
gazed upwards at the descending tendrils (all of which were heading towards him).  
{Come here wittle ones!}
	{Does it matter?} asked 177 of 212 who had the distinct displeasure to be chained 
next to Doctor, along with 44 of 203.
	Doctor did not answer, too entranced with Thorny.
	With nothing happening, nor likely to happen until "One" put in an appearance, I 
attempted to return to one of my many bookmarked narratives.  I even tried a bit of 
editing.  Unusually, I could not focus on the task, chaotic anticipation and conversation 
occurring among the rest of the subunit short-circuiting even my multitasking ability.
	Finally, after several hours of abortive attempts at story crafting, watching 
statuesque guards, observing the actions of green-splattered rogues as they went from 
task to task, and innumerable games of virtual Go-Fish, something started to happen.  
Several additional guards joined those already posted near us; and, with no audible order 
given, the drones who had been working left their chores to gather as a crowd.  Even 
regenerating drones left their alcoves.  Between the ten of us, 218 drones were identified.
	And then it was 219.
	Upon the first tier stomped whom I presumed was the so-designated "One."  The 
massive drone was of flarn origination, Borg armor overlaying natural armor to present a 
creature which was more tank than drone.  That, and other modifications, indicated the 
rogue to have been of a tactical specialty prior to his defection.  The tier shook as he 
heavily (exaggeration?) stomped to an odd decking extension which I now recognized to 
be a short of balcony.  One was painted head to toe in green; and as he stood on the edge 
of the balcony and lifted his arms, all of whom I had labeled "worker drones" awkwardly 
kneeled to the deck.
	"My children, rise!  I am your One!  Do you acknowledge me as your One?  Are 
there any challengers?"  The amplified voice echoed in the chamber.  Among the 
"children" there were furtive glances and minute headshakes or other indicators to the 
negative.  Looking at the flarn, I thought I had an inkling of what a challenge would 
entail; and I also knew that any present, even the rough midget half-Klingon, would be a 
smear on the ground following said challenge.  "Stand up, children!"
	The worker drones hastily regained their feet.
	One stood on his stage, head slightly tilted upwards as he gazed down upon us.  
"Who speaks for you, intruders?"
	Although we were chained against the wall, I still tried to shrink backwards.
	{Do your duty,} said 177 of 212.
	Chirped Doctor, {Good puppy!}
	14 of 24 twitched, {Lead us.}
	One by one, the nine subunit members re-affirmed my dubious status of sub-
concensus monitor and facilitator.  I wished this /was/ one of my stories, where I wouldn't 
have written the protagonist into this position; or where I could weild the magic mega-
delete function.  Unfortunately, this was reality.  Very much reality.  Battered by mental 
nudging, I away forward from the wall as far as I could.  "I speak for all."
	"Excellent!" called One.  "You do look a bit puny, though.  Marty Two, bring the 
intruder forward.  I'll be right down."
	The midget half-Klingon animated, stalking to me.  Head cocked, Marty Two 
abruptly slashed one armed limb over my chains.  With the smell of burnt flesh and the 
screech of hastily heated metal, the bonds fell away.  "Don't try no funny stuff, ya-hear?" 
piped the drone.  The tough words coming from a drone only three-quarters my 
admittedly not-so-great size was difficult to bear, until I reminded myself that he was 
armed and I was not.
	As I approached the balcony, One reached for a pole I had not previously 
registered as anything but a part of the larger structure.  He swung onto it and rode it to 
the deck.  The flarn's landing was, if possible, louder than his original stomping.  I was 
halted less than one meter from the hulking, green rogue.
	"I am One.  I speak for the plant which is known as Thorny.  It is I who was the 
first to this node, who was the first to break from the Collective.  It is I who was the first 
to contact Thorny.  It is I who is the first among all.  It is I who is One."  The speech 
blasted at me.
	{Pompous!  And /very/ bad breath!} I exclaimed as I did my best not to flinch 
from the explosion of halitosis.
	Doctor was, to put it mildly, annoyed.  {I am the one who raised Thorny!  Thorny 
is /my/ baby!  Tell that...that twisted, mangy excuse for a cur so!} hissed Doctor into my 
head, drowning all other voices.  At the wall, he lunged forward, ears plastered to his 
skull, but was brought up by a combination of chains and lowered weapons.
	...And, faced with overwhelming odds, the hero smiled....
	Taking my own prose advice, I allowed the merest of smiles to upturn the edges 
of my mouth.  "Nice to meet you, One.  My designation is 4 of 480.  I speak for us."
	One's eyes narrowed as he contemplated me.  I noted that his paint needed a touch 
up.  "You speak in the singular.  But are you really severed from the Collective?  The 
imperfect drones of Cube #347 are known to me and us."
	To my back, Doctor continued to test his bonds, although with less drama.  
Thorny's lazily flexing vines hovered just overhead the hierarchy head, tendrils and 
leaves trembling.  This scenario, or at least a version whereupon we were captured 
(probability 98.3%), I had compulsively considered in a series of outlines.  In each of 
them, the hero had provided a glib comment, instantly believable.
	Once again, I reminded myself, this was reality, not fiction; and reality consisted 
of a very large flarn with bad breath who could probably yank my head from my 
shoulders.  "Well...we decided that we, um, didn't care to be part of the Collective any 
more.  When Cube #347 came to dry-dock berth, I, as command and control, was in a 
position to hack code to wake us from regeneration.  Then we made our way here.  Very 
simple.  We want to join with you."  Pause.  "Really."
	"I don't know.  You claim you, all of you, wish to be Disciples of the Green.  The 
question is, are you worthy?  And, even more important, can you be trusted, or is this a 
ruse?"  One was more than slightly paranoid, perhaps even a bit mad (an odd label 
considering my imperfect, and thus innately insane, status), but One was not stupid.
	"Please," I whined in my best grovel, a tone I had practiced for many years with 
publishers prior to my desperate trek to seek Sepia, "please?  Why would the Collective 
send ten imperfect drones on the cusp of rogue behavior when it has billions of tactical 
drones available in this unimatrix complex alone?  We want to join with you!"
	{Marvelous performance,} silently applauded 156 of 422.
	One did not immediately answer, instead taking a step forward to stare at my face, 
to exhale his foul breath upon me.  Finally he spoke, "There will be a...test to both prove 
your sincerity and to show that you truly belong amid the Disciples of the Green.  And 
you, 4 of 480 whom speaks for all, will take that test."

	"The test," boomed One, pausing with dramatic intent, "will be to balance spoons 
upon your nose!"
	While I had been restored to my position against the wall, I had not been chained.  
All worker drones had returned to their labors, leaving only those of a tactical nature to 
guard against any foolish actions on our part.  One had been pacing back and forth in 
front of us before the announcement, ostentatiously to decide upon a test.  However, I 
(and the others in my subunit) were sure he was acting as consensus monitor and 
facilitator for the rogues after a fashion, transceivers tuned to operate on a different 
subspace fractal frequency than the Collective, thus allowing them the sense of 
togetherness that even a colony of rogues craved.
	The spoon comment only cemented the monitor position hypothesis, for One did 
not look the type to consider such as a relevant test.  Arm-wrenching-from-socket, yes, 
spoons, no.
	I gestured to my face.  "My species does not have a significant nose, and my 
assimilation only lessened any prominence.  I would fail such a test even before it 
began."
	One huffed and returned to pacing.  Our heads swiveled back and froth as one as 
we watched his progression.  He paused.  "Pain.  I will cut off your fingers knuckle by 
knuckle..."
	"You could cut off my entire arm," I interrupted, "and I would not feel pain, if 
that is your objective.  I would be severely crippled until I received a replacement; and I 
might terminate from blood loss if sufficient medical support was not provided.  
However, pain would be minimal.  I am a drone, after all."  The clinical response hid my 
internal wince as my too-active imagination placed me upon a maintenance table 
watching as I was dismantled piece by piece.
	One deflated slightly as his test was dismissed.  To and fro, fro and to he went.  
His lips moved slightly as he argued within himself.  Then he stopped mid-step and 
pivoted to face me.  "We have decided how you may prove yourself to be worthy of the 
Disciples of the Green."  I noted that One had unconsciously used a plural.  "We have 
been barred from the primary regeneration facilities of this node for too many cycles.  
Access is necessary, not for us, for we have sufficient resources, but for the purpose of 
Thorny's health.  The regeneration facilities provide nutrients for Thorny, fertilizers and 
mulch for growth.  Trace elements.  Unfortunately, a terrible beast which not even I, as 
One, can overcome roams the hallways and the facility.  It has made the corridors and 
chambers its nest.  Only forcefields, carefully positioned and configured so as to not burn 
Thorny, keep the creature from attacking us in our stronghold.
	"It is a terrible beast.  Terrible.
	"And you will terminate it.  Alone.  Only then will you and your subunit be 
confirmed as true Disciples of the Green."
	A crazy light lit the flarn's whole eye, one which was literally mirrored in the 
depths of his ocular implant.  I gulped.
	"I, um, must consult with my comrades.  Could you sever their chains so we can 
huddle?"
	Marty Two glanced at One, who nodded.  The half-pint half-Klingon went down 
the line, releasing bonds and growling, "Don't try nothing, or else" to each drone.  We 
gathered into a tight knot.
	{If One, or his tactical drones, can't terminate this creature, what chance do /I/ 
have?  I'm neither armed nor armored for combat; and I'm relatively newly assimilated, 
so my replacement parts are minimal!  I'll be slaughtered!} I howled, most un-sub-
consensus monitor and facilitator like.
	{Doesn't matter,} huffed 44 of 203 mildly.  {You'll gain access to the primary 
regeneration facilities, as is our task.  Just survive that far and dump these packets in the 
vats} - the assimilation drone passed to me to hide in a body compartment the reason of 
our deployment - {and your personal survival does not matter.  Unless the creature can 
breath fire and incinerate you in one go, you should survive long enough to fulfill your 
purpose.}
	{Nicely put, 44 of 203,} commented 177 of 212.
	Although I, personally, did not wish to undertake the trial, my opinion was 
overruled nine to one.  I consensus monitored and facilitated my own death.  We broke 
from the huddle.
	"I will undertake the test," I sullenly replied to One's unasked question.
	"Excellent," exclaimed One.

	Hunched shoulders brushed the ceiling, the bipedal creature's low-slung head 
ponderously waving back and forth with each heavy stride.  Dark green hide was soft, but 
not unprotected as evidenced by the liters of sickly yellow slime which dripped to the 
deck.  Small, red eyes viewed the universe with a keen paranoia, all threats to be 
categorized as either "Things to rend with my claws" or "Things to crush with my teeth."  
A breath was indrawn in preparation to bellow a territorial scream....
	I peeked around the corner, fanciful beast evaporating into nothingness as I 
beheld a corridor full of gray-green leaves, minus nameless horror.  I tentatively waved 
the spear One had provided for my personal defense (it being the only weapon 
pronounced "safe" to use in Thorny's presence), but no invisible monstrosity leapt upon 
it.  Once again - as all corners before - I was safe.
	At least as safe as one could be when surrounded by a semi-mobile Borgified 
plant whose origin was distinctly carnivorous.
	I was beginning to believe that I would not only survive, but actually perform the 
assigned task.  I glided (okay, hesitantly walked) down the be-vined way, highly 
overactive imagination already crafting the beast which was so horrific that even the 
overlarge One and his rogue enforcers hesitated to attack it.
	Hissing like a kettle come to boil, the eight-legged reptilian encased in bony 
armor roared in preparation to strike.  Tentacles arose from its back, each tipped with a 
pair of hollow fangs which dripped a deadly venom.  Flat, dead eyes of coal black coldly 
regarded the Borg victim cowering before it, spear a laughable impediment to its next 
meal....
	Holding my breath, I jumped as best I could around the final corner, prepared to 
risk all.  The node schematic placed me one corridor and forty meters from my goal of 
the primary regeneration facility.  Unfortunately, the jump became a shuffle, then an 
unglamorous fall to the deck which had members of the subunit (all were watching a 
datastream from me, even as I kept tabs on their point-of-view) universally chortling.  My 
initial impression of the corridor before I went face first into a lethargically twisting vine 
with overlarge thorns was that it looked oddly denuded of the omnipresent foliage.
	{Graceful,} commented 12 of 83 from the peanut gallery.
	Added Doctor, {You didn't hurt poor Thorny-baby, did you?}  The concern of the 
ex-vet for the plant was plain.
	I used the spear to lever myself to my feet, then awkwardly pivoted to face the 
direction I had to go.  The blood streaming down my face from numerous puncture 
wounds was an annoyance.  Reality was /so/ much more difficult to live than fiction.  
And then I saw the creature which so terrorized the rogues.
	Unlike the beasts I had constructed in the confines of my mind, the "horrible 
scourge" was neither horrible nor very scourgish.  If anything, it resembled a knee high 
tangle of brown yarn.  From one end curled a grayish, naked tail 70 centimeters in length; 
and the other end featured a prehensile muzzle tipped with a curiously sniffing black 
nose.  Feet, legs, eyes, ears...if these were present, I could not see them through the yarn 
body.
	From the rodent? (a vermin importation, I surmised, acquired from who-knows-
where) came the unmistakable sounds of vegetation being well masticated.  A bit of 
browned, almost charred, vine was slowly disappearing into the mass of wiry hair.  It was 
apparent that the little herbivore was responsible...
	{It is eating Thorny!} wailed Doctor.  {But it is also soooooo cute!}  Doctor 
quieted, drawing into himself as he worked upon the conundrum of deciding which 
creature - yarn ball or plant - gain his preference.
	{/This/ is what the rogues are afraid of?} I queried in confusion.  {This?  Even /I/ 
could step on that thing.}  Ignoring the cautions which suddenly sprang from the 
weapons and assimilation drones, I heavily stepped towards the rodent while brandishing 
my spear.  "Shoo!"
	The sound of munching abruptly stopped.  With my imagination painting in many 
small, rapidly shuffling feet under the yarn coat, the vermin pivoted to face me.  It was a 
good ten meters away.  I had the unsettling feeling it was sizing me up.
	Said 17 of 300, {Maybe you should...}
	I ignored the advice.  "Shoo!"
	An odd sound, like that of a nose being blown into a wet hankie, echoed through 
the corridor, originating from the rodent.  It was followed by a bubbling hiss much closer 
to me.  I looked down with consternation, seeing that my spear - a tritanium spar tipped 
with a duralloy shard - was rapidly melting due to liberal application of organic acid.  
Wisps of smoke arose from what had once been a spear.  I dropped the wea[pm just 
before it burst into flame.  Duralloy and tritanium isn't supposed to burn, yet...it was 
burning.
	A part of my mind (or perhaps an echo of a thought from a subunit member) 
noted that acid spittle not only would protect the critter from Thorny's attentions, but 
might make for a useful, if unconventional, cooking method for greens.
	The beast, the horrendous scourge, began to swell noticeably.  I beat a hasty 
retreat to the relative safety of vined hallways lest I follow the same fate as the spear.

	{You didn't mention the thing spat acid!} I said.
	"You didn't mention the thing spat acid," dutifully repeated 156 of 422 to One.
	"Why else did you think we couldn't reach the primary regeneration facility?" 
retorted One.
	{Why else did you think we couldn't reach the primary regeneration facility?} 
relayed 156 of 422 back to me, needlessly as I could follow the conversation occurring in 
the chamber the rogues had claimed.
	The long distance argument raged back and forth, me demanding another task to 
"prove" my subunit's intentions and One adamantly refusing.  I lost, One asserting he 
would terminate my conspecifics if I returned.  They would continue to live only if (1) I 
came back with proof of the beast's demise, or (2) I terminated in the attempt.  In the 
latter case, another would have to speak for all, but hey, it wouldn't be as if I would care 
at that point.  So, with great trepidation (and a personal oath that if I /did/ survive, I 
would publish the incident, Collective or no Collective), I turned to the interstitial spaces 
to pass the rodent by.
	The interstitial spaces of the node, although dark, were still filled with bloodvine.  
Obviously the plant was not as dependent upon light as it once might have been.  
Unfortunately, it presented a problem for me since there was barely enough space inside 
the walls for a single drone to move, much less a single drone and a large plant.  Double 
unfortunate, I had no choice in the matter.
	The vines caress me, explore me, travel over hoses and snag on assemblies as if 
trying to figure out what I am...or if I might provide a good mulch.  Additional puncture 
wounds and scratches join those already acquired on exposed flesh; and my internal 
diagnostics inform me that the level of cumulative damage is beginning to affect the 
efficiency and ability of my nanites to repair my body.  I quiet alarms and continue on, 
wincing with each new laceration yet not daring to tear the vines lest Thorny take 
umbrage.
	I emerged into the primary regeneration facility, crawling through a deck level 
access point that was not designed for the standard bipedal drone form.  Without a mirror 
or another drone to confirm, I speculated my appearance was less than stunning.  The 
lack was not a sufficient deterrent to halt my self-introspective, and the image I built of 
myself was undignified - a Borg streaked in blood, half healed wounds, swathes of green 
from inadvertently damaged leaves, and bits of silver-greenery caught in various 
hardware crannies.
	The primary regeneration facilities of a unimatrix are built on the familiar 
blueprint of a large space filled with vats.  It was grander than any ship-bound facility, 
but then again, the resident population of a typical salvage node is larger than any cube or 
sphere.  Except for a few sick-looking tendrils crossing the ceiling, Thorny was not in 
evidence.  Numerous pinhole pits dotted deck, walls, vat, attesting to the power of the 
Beast's (the vermin required a designation for the novel I would likely never have the 
chance to write) acid.  Of the Beast itself, I saw nothing.
	Although such was not necessary when conversing drone-to-drone, I nonetheless 
whispered, {I am in the primary regeneration facility.  No Beast.}  I panned the scene to 
allow the others to see what I was seeing as 156 of 422 relayed my accomplishment to 
One.
	One was not entirely pleased.  An displeased flarn of larger than average size who 
just happens to be an insane rogue Borg specializing in tactical mayhem is not a nice 
sight.  For a moment - just a moment, mind you - I was relieved to be in a room with an 
acid spitting rodent instead of the rogue habitation nexus. "Find the Beast and destroy it!"
	{What if I initiated a forcefield while it was in a corridor?  Between the outer 
perimeter field and the inner, it would be trapped.}  It was a logical solution.  It was also 
a solution I had no intention of following, not with the vats (my true goal) so close.  Let 
the local lesser subunit of a subunit of the Greater Consciousness deal with rogues and 
Beast once the plant was sedated.  I only wanted to decisively conclude that the Beast 
wasn't to ambush me.  I increased my audio gain and listened for anything out of place.
	"Insufficient!  I want the Beast's head!  If you terminate in the process, it only 
shows you are unworthy to be a Disciple of the Green, not truly concerned for the welfare 
of Thorny.  Perhaps another of your group will speak for all and demonstrate a greater 
dedication."  The impression was that I had already failed.
	The coast seemed to be clear.  I could hear nothing out of place; and the Beast 
was nowhere (glance to ceiling, just in case) in sight.  With a careful step, wincing at the 
noise my footfall made, I proceeded forward to the nearest vat twenty meters distant.  
{But a forcefield...} I insisted.
	"No!" bellowed One.  Resecured to the wall, my subunit could not shrink 
backwards, although they tried, even the usually brash weapons drones.  One flung an 
arm sideways, knocking an attendant tactical drone to the deck.  The other arm swung in 
obvious temper-tantrum in other diretion, whooshing over Marty Two's head.  "No.  No 
forcefields.  If you initiate it, you could burn Thorny."
	{No forcefields,} I replied.  156 of 422 relayed my long-distance concurrence.  
Fifteen meters.  I was relieved the difference in transceiver frequency between myself 
and One meant the latter could not track my actual actions.  Ten meters.
	The muffled sound of small claws scrabbling on metal bade me to halt less then 
ten meters from my goal.  Swiveling as best my stiff body could, I caught a glimpse of 
the Beast almost directly behind me.  As best I could tell, the snorting, quivering mass of 
brown yarn was not happy.  If anything, it was downright pissed I was in the heart of its 
territory.  It emited a growling snarl; spittle leaked from the side of the Beast's muzzle, 
followed by a disturbing, metallic hiss.
	Borg, be they of the Collective of Colored variety, are known neither for grace 
nor agility.  The exact opposite, in fact.  However, over the short distance, a charging 
drone is not something one wants to be the recipient of.  The concept is like the pet chiny 
I owned when I was young:  awkward and slow, except when treats were to be had, 
whereupon I would find myself flat on my back with pockets being scrutinized, the chiny 
unobserved in the intervening space between rug and chest.
	I bolted.
	A disturbing sizzle, like that of a large puddle of acid eating tritanium, was my 
reward.  I did not look back, not with the goal so near.  The acrid smell could have been 
me, could still be me.  At the vat, I fumbled in a body compartment, trying to locate the 
sedative nanite packets the assimilation drones had provided.  Just as I prepared to chuck 
the packets into the vat, I noticed a critical detail:  the vat was dry.
	A rumbling cough of a growl urged me to take flight once more.  One part of my 
consciousness noted the stream of complete fiction 156 of 422 was providing One on my 
activities, an account of utter boredom which did not fit the uncontrolled winces 
occurring amid 14 of 24 and 44 of 203.  The other members of my subunit were more 
outwardly passive, although internally they were offering suggestions that when taken as 
a whole threatened to paralyze me.
	Once again arose the dreaded sound of dissolving metal.  As I dodged an ill-
placed mobile catwalk access (i.e., a stepladder), I was able to glance at the vat I had so 
recently vacated.  A very large hole indicated the need for major maintenance before it 
was usable again.  The next vat in the line loomed.  I braced myself to hit, controlled stop 
impossible at the moment.
	I did not hit.  Instead I found myself flying into the air, arms and legs flailing with 
a combination of "RUN" impulses and remnant fear of falling instinct.  As I twisted, I felt 
the bite of thorns penetrating bodysuit and minimal torso armor; and a brush of silver-
green leaves only confirmed my (our) hypothesis.
	Thorny had captured me.
	Perhaps it was predatory instinct.  It surely could not have been thought, for the 
plant had no brain and only the most redundant of pseudo-nerves.  The few ceiling vines 
had sensed sudden motion, much as might indicate a vermin dashing to a field of 
foodstuffs, and Thorny had struck.  As the larger of the two scurrying forms, and the one 
unable to defend itself with acid, I had been caught by Thorny; and now the plant was 
reeling me to the ceiling, additional vines detaching to assist entanglement.
	{BAD THORNY!  Put 4 of 480 down, NOW!} ordered Doctor, not to me or any 
other drone, but to the bloodvine.
	Shortly following our capture, Thorny had quested vines to Doctor, much to the 
latter's pleasure.  The tendrils which had attached to Doctor had been of no concern to 
One or the other rogues, who did not curtail the plant's movements.  It was to these vines 
Doctor directed his command.
	{Down!  Put 4 of 480 down!  4 of 480 is not a toy.  I will find you a toy if you put 
4 of 480 down.  NOW!}
	I felt the vines which were holding me shiver, an action which was mirrored 
throughout the bulk of Thorny.  My imagination provided me with a graphic 
foreshadowing of my immediate future if Thorny released me.  It prominantly featured a 
plunge to the deck, followed by a drooling Beast and much puree drone. 
	{Doctor...} I started.
	Doctor ignored me.  {Thorny.  Drop.}
	Thorny obeyed.
	Hand still clutching the nanite packets, I plunged head first (fortunately or 
unfortunately) into a vat.  The thick slurry of precursor molecules and nanites enveloped 
me, and I knew no more.

	I awoke to my own alcove, drone maintenance command to exit regeneration 
echoing in my mind.  Present in the background was the hustle and bustle of cube #347 
preparing to leave dry-dock.  My last coherent memory was dangling in the air (followed 
by a sequence of very confusing imagery); and for some inexplicable reason, I 
felt...crusty.
	"Wakey, wakey!" chattered a voice in front of my, accomplished by several 
clicks.  The cheerful greeting was repeated nonverbally and augmented with a series of 
commands which produced an involuntary self-diagnostic.  Even without an automatic 
lookup of designation location, I knew the drone talking to me was Doctor.
	Groaning, I managed to open my eye.
	"You need a bath," said Doctor as he peered at me, ears flat against his cranial 
armor.  "You are starting to reek.  I know you should have been hosed down before you 
were placed in your alcove, but the Greater Consciousness would have nothing of it.  Just 
'hurry, hurry, hurry.'  Except for me.  I had to undergo a full body scan to confirm that I 
had not smuggled a Thorny-baby from the salvage node."  Doctor was indignant, not that 
he wasn't above trying such, but that the Collective would think he would hide it in such 
an obvious place.  If there /was/ a cutting, Doctor had carefully hidden all physical and 
mental evidence of such.  The rodent brightened.  "No matter!  You do need a bath, but 
we are leaving soon and Captain demanded your services as Secondary Compilation 
Engine, assuming you were functional.  You are sufficiently functional.  All better, but 
the smell."
	My species has an atrocious nose, but even I could tell I was less than pleasant in 
the odor department.  The warm, humid air of the cube was not helping.  Tentatively, I 
queried the locations of my neighbors, discovering that everyone for five alcoves to either 
side had temporarily relocated.
	'And he stank,' I thought to myself.  While I did not necessarily expect a 'happily 
ever after, that was not the way I wanted to end this particular story.
	Doctor clicking his incisors and sent a tendril of questing to me in response to my 
uncensored surface thoughts.
	"Never mind," I said.  "Obviously the Collective's plan worked, else I wouldn't be 
here.  What happened?"
	Doctor's ears flicked.  I received a large data dump of meme-files, too much to 
assimilate all at once as it came from nine different view points.  "After you were 
dumped into the vat by big-Thorny (poor irritated, stressed plant), we told One - his 
actual designation was" I noted a use of the past tense "6133 of 10310 - you were 
terminated.  One was very unhappy."  One of the more memorable meme sequences was 
One looming in 156 of 422's field of view as the former ranted at him following 
announcement of my demise.  "One, however, was unsatisfied with the attempt, so he 
picked another to be sent to prove our worth.
	"One picked me.  I think it had more to do with my rapport to Thorny than 
anything else.  The rabid, green dog was jealous!  Foaming at the mouth jealous!  The 
only thing that can cure a jealous, rabid dog are vaccines, neutering, treats, and 
electroshock treatments, not necessarily in that order.  Trust this vet to know."  Doctor 
ended his analysis of One with a snap of his mouth that included back teeth as well as 
front.
	The narration continued.  "So I was unchained, lectured, and given a spear.  As if 
I would use a spear on the Beast.  So cute it was, the way it spat acid at you.  I'm sure an 
accommodation could have been worked out between rogues, Beast, and Thorny without 
lethal use of the spear.  Before I could be sent out on the hunt, however, Thorny seemed 
to go to sleep.  At least the vines didn't react to the transporter and disruptor beams from 
incoming tactical drones when the Collective had decided sufficient time had passed 
since your immersion for the nanites to have taken effect.
	"Personally, I don't think that was the case.  Thorny told me before One ripped me 
away from the vines that it was getting a tired of the ineptness of the green-painted 
rogues and wanted a new set of pets to caretaker it.  Thorny preferred to have me, but 
knew such was not to be."
	Doctor's ears brightly flipped back and forth.  I was not sure what to believe 
concerning the drone maintenance head's complex translation of the wills and desires of a 
plant whose actions were solely a case of stimulus-response.  While the premise was 
good - I added a footnote to "sentientize" Thorny - I myself dismissed the words as yet 
another of Doctor's pet-fancy.
	"If you say so," I said to Doctor.
	Doctor cocked his head, withdrawing into the dataspaces as a maintenance 
appraisal caught his attention.  "Oops!  Gotta go!  179 of 230 did a boo-boo to her hand 
with a rivet gun!"  A transporter whisked the vet away to his latest patient.
	Contemplating the data I had been provided, I sank into semi-awareness to sketch 
the outline of a galaxy-wide best selling novel.  It did not escape my attention that Doctor 
had not disseminated the fate of the Beast.
	{Snap out of it, 4 of 480, and pay attention.  You have a job to do,} interrupted 
Second into my thought stream before I had constructed more than five reader-minutes of 
introductory audio-visual prose.  {How many times does Captain have to announce our 
dry-dock departure for you to acknowledge readiness?}
	I did not bother to reply with an excuse.
	{Well...?}
	{Secondary Compilation Engine is ready.}  The compiled datastreams from 
sensory partition 2b impacted me.  I went to work.  Well, most of me went to work, with 
a small thread multitasked to continue story development.
	I would publish yet.

			*	*	*	*	*
Lethargy.
				Slowly twisting.
				Slowly moving.
				Slowly reaching.
				Slowly grasping.
								Quiet.
		Grow.  Expand.  Always grow.  Always expand.
								Quiet.

	A battle rages, nanite against nanite, residents adapting to repel intruders.  The 
invaders, while fast moving (on the nanometer scale) and single-mindedly determined to 
fulfill their programmed function, do not reproduce.  The outcome is a given; and only 
the time required to reach the endpoint of the small-scale war is in doubt.
	Pseudo-nerve impulse slowed, turgor muscles hindered, senses dulled, Thorny's 
measure of time becomes sluggish.  To survive, a plant (at least one of Thorny's gentic 
origin) must have an excellent innate knowledge of the seasons, of the diurnal-nocturnal 
passage, even when expected environmental cues are not present.  The creatures which 
live among the twisting and twining of Thorny's bulk appear to speed to a nonsensical 
pace, as if a movie sped to multiple times the normal rate of progression.  Then, a 
nonblink later, the creatures are gone.
	Both two-legged and multi-legged varieties.
	The resident nanites are victorious, rending their opponents into component 
atoms.  Damage is repaired.  Plaques are removed.  The long-term agenda mandated by 
programmed instinct is resumed.  Thorny slowly regains mobility.
	The host can not describe what happened to it, except in the crudest of stimulus-
response "thoughts" which focus on the lethargy of winter despite the lack of a chilling 
frost.  No matter.  Everlasting spring/summer has returned, and with it a new urge, a new 
response to the stimulus of winter.  Life continues.
	And Thorny blooms.

	(Adaptation programming internal log - Phase II, query to resumption.  
	Affirmative removal of alien intruders.  Notation of host activation of DNA 
	sequences on chromosome beta-1, loci 45.1z through 1003.5a.  Observation.  
	Enzyme analysis and projection.  Substitute chromosome beta-1, loci 67.0g into 
	chromosome gamma-2m branch point 1.913.)
Grow.  Grow.  Grow.  Grow.
	Lethargy forgotten.
		Always and ever grow.
			Towards the light.
				Towards the heat.