Hickory Dockory Ticks,

Paramount owns the Star Trek flicks,

Decker struck it with Star Traks,

Meneks has BorgSpace facts,

This rhymes awful, you think(s)?

Hickory Dickory Dock, Part II

It was a dark and stormy night.

Except there was no storm; and night is a concept only applicable to planets and other bodies orbiting a star.

It was a dark...something cliche and quasi-poetic. Okay, it was just dark. Black. Black like the inside of an alligator hidden in the mud at the bottom of a lagoon during a moonless night when Uncle Bobby's generator has died and he can't power his million-watt spotlight.

Somewhere (in the dark, far removed in space, time, and metareality), someone is served a warning against pointless metaphors. There is a sigh, and a sound suspiciously like that of a plot impatiently tapping its toes, had a plot toes.

Darkness was banished. Time resumed.

Cube #347 found itself in the middle of a pitched battle.

Second Federation Starfleet vessels, hulls made sleek and featureless by oily black bioarmor, fought with wolf pack intensity. Pairs and trios supported each other as they dove among their opponent, inflicting damage with neuruptors and torpedoes, including low-proton singularity torps. In turn, they were accepting injury, bioarmor melting away faster than it could regenerate, exposing bare hull; and several capital ships were sundered, tumbling amidst a cloud of their own debris.

The enemy was one of SecFed's supposed allies, or, more specifically, two: Romulan and Vulcan. The cousin races had ever-maintained their own home fleets; and in the centuries since the Dark War had increasingly explored their common genetic legacy. While the Romulan/Vulcan ships were not as defensively advanced as the SecFed warships, they had equivalent armaments and were more numerous. All in all, the opponents were well matched.

At the center of the ruckus, held in the unrelenting tractor lock of two rivals (one SecFed "Meter Maid" class, the other a Romulan-AAA towship) trying to go opposite directions, was a freighter. "Ace Bowlers Company" was emblazoned in red letters across the white hull, next to a picture of a teddy bear wearing a fedora. The freighter's thrusters were brilliant blue plasma cones as it attempted to escape both its adversaries.

The weapons hierarchy, already in fully engaged battle mode, fired a volley of torpedoes chased by railgun pellets, the latter loaded with anti-matter rounds, at anything even vaguely able to be targeted.

{This is just like BorgCraft scenario hat-iota-C, except this vessel,} the Romulan towship was highlighted, {is 'Galactic Towers,' not AAA.} Despite the sudden lurch from combat with a Peach cube and the possible station explosion to the present situation, Weapons was not fazed. Nor, for that matter, was the weapons hierarchy in general. After all, the answer to scenario hat-iota-C was photon-3b, a tactic practiced the week before, minus custard pies.

In his nodal intersection, Captain had, for all practical purposes, lost control. That was not to say there was no control, just that the situation now firmly favored the weapons hierarchy, and would continue to do so until such time the cube disengaged or was destroyed. Likely the latter, as the situation would have to be absolutely dire for Weapons to suggest retreat. Command and control continued to perform its duties, except now all decisions were heavily weighted towards supporting tactical decisions.

Cube #347 fired another volley.

{Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,} obsessively chanted 8 of 8 into the intranets. The newest Hierarchy of Eight member had been tasked to prevent Weapons from executing anything untoward during the Peach battle, but had been unsuccessful. {Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sor-} Apology stopped mid-word.

{There was a wee bit of excess neurotransmitter overload,} noted Doctor, who had instigated 8 of 8's sudden plunge into regeneration as key automatic diagnostics red-lined. {A tiny, weenie, little-bitty adjustment is needed, maybe a new neural implant. The skull should not be /too/ deformed afterwards. Then she'll be as good as a new chew-toy. Or at least she shouldn't neurologically melt. That would be yucky.}

"We are back to seven, again," noted Second, alluding to the number of active Hierarchy of Eight.

Captain stared at the now irrelevant starchart display, banishing it. "She hasn't been recycled yet. There is still a chance she won't mentally implode. A slight one, but it is present."

Cube #347 fired a third time.

A tactical view of the situation replaced the starcharts. While Cube #347 was not precisely in the middle of the battle, neither was the cube a distant observer. Oddly, neither side was reacting to the sudden intrusion of a Borg ship into their party...and nor were they making any attempt to dodge munitions.

A pair of targets were highlighted with a red aura. {I've destroyed these ones three times,} groused Weapons, {with direct amidships hits!} Three more vessels were limned in yellow. {And these twice! Where are the explosions?} The individual ships were still quite alive, quite functional, and quite ignorant of the fact that in Weapons' universe they were twisted hunks of metal.

A fourth volley left Cube #347's launchers.

DEVIL slowly emerged into view, impacting the display like a caterpillar version of Godzilla preparing to wreck havoc upon an impotent army of miniatures. "'Hickory dickory dock / Klownz go tick, tick tock / The die rolls four / All are off to war / Hickory dickory dock!' I quote from Nursery Rhymes for the Beginning Oracle, chapter 3, verse 4. I doth not like it here, not at all: I itch." The AI's avatar reached over its multiple shoulders to scratch. What could actually itch on a digital intelligence was unclear.

A dogfight between two Romulan/Vulcan ships and a SecFed vessel spun towards Cube #347. Weapons directed fire to be concentrated upon the trio, to no effect. On the tactical hologram, the icons representing the three neared; and exterior sensors tracked them real-time for those who desired to sample raw grid data (normal protocols, unaffected by Sensors' modifications). Abruptly DEVIL sneezed, a full body contortion; and holoemitters, unable to compensate for the explosion of color, blurred the hologramatic battle. As the caterpillar, now butterfly, sneezed again, using the edge of one prismatic wing to blow its nose, the trio of ships impacted the cube...and then exited the other side, ignoring the intervening 1.3 kilometers of Borg hardware.

It was as if the combatants, or Cube #347, were ghosts.

{They aren't hitting!} complained Weapons of his torpedoes and other weapons. {They are going right through! You can see it. More power is necessary to compensate.} Using his hierarchy's current dominance, Weapons unidled Auxiliary Core #5, routing the extra energy to neuruptors. Diagnostics warned imminent sequential overload for lens ports on edge #2, #5, and #11.

Command and control scrambled to rein in the weapons hierarchy, but the effort was futile. A consensus cascade tumbled through the dataspaces, as demanded by Weapons, directing the sub-collective to enter the main battle.

The universe went dark.

Again.

Mostly dark. The unlight of Mandelbrot butterfly wings briefly illuminated nothing, everything before being snuffed.

"'Hickory' *sniff* 'dickory' *SNEEZE* 'dock...'" attempted a voice.

"Don't," warned a second voice.

The first voice quieted, then nasally asked for a tissue.

The universe decided to reappear. Perhaps it had never been gone, only Cube #347 dislocated in space and time. Regardless actual happenstance, no stations greeted the Exploratory-class cube's reappearance, no Peach cube, no ghostly battles, nothing. Well, not strictly nothing, for there is always a measure of dust, molecules, or cosmic rays and photons even in the abyss of interstellar space.

There is even occasionally a rubber ducky, although not at this particular cosmic address.

Cube #347, lacking a visible threat, slowly ceased spinning. Auxiliary Core #5 idled. Many offensive weapons were taken off-line, although shields remained raised. Command and control recaptured nominal control from a weapons hierarchy suddenly lacking enemies, no matter how much sensor hierarchy was urged to find one or five. If the sub-collective had been a singular person, he/she/it would have been staring with bewilderment as an adrenaline analogue was flushed from the system. In this case, adrenaline may have been irrelevant, or at least closely controlled by neural implants and synthetic glands, but confusion concerning the last ten subjective minutes was another story.

Borg were permitted to experience confusion, in limited doses.

"By the King and Twins, what just happened?" voiced Captain aloud, channeling the sub-collective's communal disorientation. A mild oath from his pre-assimilated existence unconsciously embellished the query.

At the periphery of Captain's nodal intersection, small wisps of dissipating smoke signified where every local holoemitter had catastrophically overloaded. The species from whom the technology had been adapted had never envisioned the need for their hardware to become a window, however momentarily, into the quantum realm.

"No clue," said Second, the sub-collective answering itself. He continued dryly, "On the up side, unless we are no longer in our galaxy, we now have the starcharts to know where we are."

*****

"Stop, TarTar, stop," ordered Stardancer through the remote radio link with his pet. The dwarf carry-all obediently halted, mostly. TarTar did continue to rock back and forth on his tracks, probably impatient with his owner's directions to "Go," "Stop," "Turn left," "Back up," and so forth.

Through one of the three paraspiders riding on TarTar's back, Stardancer studied the writing on the wall. The fact that it had been scrawled head height for the typical organic biped meant that the aspect was somewhat skewed for one whose point of view was at the selfsame biped's knees. Runnels that had occurred when the paint had been wet added to the inherent difficulty in deciphering. Finally Stardancer decided that the message, conveyed in one of the common multi-species trade languages part of his Xenig-gifted translator package, roughly said "That way." The arrow helped as well.

"Go forward," firmly said Stardancer to TarTar. Grinding his toothplates once in a sigh - mechs did not have lungs - the pet lurched into motion.

Stardancer, although small compared against other space-faring entities, was too big to access the Borg cube's interior, at least the way TarTar had been sent. The view from the paraspiders showed hallways which could accommodate the mech's body, barely, although turning would be impossible, as would traversing most doors. When grounded in a gravity environment such as Shrine or his confiscated asteroid farm, Stardancer could extrude leg appendages from ventral hatches. All the legs and mobility in the universe, however, were useless when one had no chance of using the airlock.

Stardancer clung to the cube hull, magnetic clamps and ventral manipulators locking him into position. Adjacent to him was the semi-clandestine access airlock he had sent TarTar and three paraspiders through. It had not been too difficult to find when he had stealthily transferred himself from station to cube, especially as it was located in the middle of a large, red bull's-eye with several arrows and gigantic words, each letter ten meters high, screaming "To Hermit and Newest Age Facility."

The ruckus with the other Borg cube had been very exciting, in a manner Stardancer had no wish to repeat, as had been the odd battle between bouts of darkness. Surroundings had been in a constant state of motion as his platform had spun; and the mech had feared not that he might be flung off, but that he might be accidentally hit by munitions. What the fights had demonstrated was that Stardancer's idle dreams of grafting weapons to himself, then confronting the Borg to force them to return the Mouth was laughable at best. He had never seen, only heard of, Borg weapons. Now he knew a single, low-powered cutting laser would slice him in half, if a neutron-based beam didn't simply erase him from existence.

Now, more than ever, Stardancer fervently hoped the holy Hermit had the answers.

A door with more writing came into view on TarTar's right. "Stop," said Stardancer. The pet did so, although not without another grinding protest. The paraspider tilted back; as Stardancer read, lips would have been moving, sounding out words, had he lips.

"Newest Age Facility. Knock three times for entry and access to Enlightenment. By appointment only," said Stardancer aloud through TarTar's link (although, as it was radio frequency, organics would have heard silence). The carry-all rocked back and forth, unsure if he had been given a command or not. Stardancer contemplated his next action, paraspiders too lightweight to make an appreciable sound. "TarTar, show your fore right loader."

The small mech obediently unfolded the heavy manipulator arm which was attached at the upper hull forward the starboard position. The limb waved uncertainly.

"Pivot right," cajoled Stardancer, pleased as TarTar spun in place on his tracks. "Stop." The mech faced the door. Now for the tricky part. "Take wall with loader."

TarTar whined a radio frequency whistle at the incomprehensible order. Even he knew that he could not load this piece of metal into his tote!

Repeated Stardancer, "Take wall with loader."

Whining louder, TarTar tentatively moved the loader forward, recoiling as it smacked against the wall. He could not get this item!

"Good TarTar. Take wall with loader." *Clang!* "Once more: take wall with loader."

With the third hit of metal against metal, the door slid aside. "Forward," said Stardancer gleefully, followed by "Good boy! Have a treat!" A paraspider grasped a cookie of refined steel which was being carried in the tote and adroitly swung onto TarTar's forward surface. The cookie was placed into the mech's mouth slot, then arm quickly withdrawn before TarTar might accidentally bite down on it. TarTar happily ground his treat, tritanium coated tooth plates making short work of the soft steel cookie.

The door closed behind TarTar; and, for a moment, Stardancer panicked as his link with his paraspider parts seemed to be in danger of severance. Then the radio connection solidified, although it was more tenuous than prior.

"Who the hell are you?" boomed a voice. "There is no one on the damn schedule, thank the Directors, and I don't normally accept unannounced visitors. By the soft-shelled hells, the /only/ reason I let you in is because you obviously aren't one of the normal rabble." A shadow loomed. TarTar stopped. The paraspiders scrambled into new positions, tilting back to gain the best combined multi-view of the loomer. "You are, however, a bit smaller than I expected."

Hermit, in Stardancer's estimation, looked somewhat like a paraspider, although organic and much larger. A better description would have been one of a wide variety of 'land crabs' which evolve on most life-bearing worlds, but Stardancer was barely cognizant of the many species of intelligent organics, so to not know of obscure non-sentient fauna was not unexpected. Paraspiders, however, were very familiar, so it was a paraspider Stardancer likened the Hermit.

Everyone else will just have to deal with a crab analogy.

Hermit was not an insectoid - his ancestral kin were closer to crustaceans - but he did have a tough epidermis, dull brownish-red. As it was physically impossible for a creature the size of Hermit to be solely supported by an exoskeleton, bone analogues were present, but their exact nature was not obvious. Hermit sported ten limbs: two sets for walking, two fine sets close to the body for manipulation, and one set with massive pinchers. While the body centered over the legs was a meter tall, the apex of the hump was not the location of the head. Instead, two stalked eyes of bright blue rose from a cluster of mouth parts set just above be-fingered arms, accompanied by a pair of feathered, always-twitching antennae.

A white robe was draped over Hermit's main body; and semi-precious jewels were embedded in pinchers and visible shell of the walking legs. Two of the four hands were inputting data into a PADD under the scrutiny of one eye. The other eye gazed at Stardancer (or, rather, his paraspiders).

"Hermit," said Stardancer through the paraspiders perched on a table in the prophet's living quarters, "I have heard that you Know the Answers to All, that you offer Peace and Enlightenment. I come with a question: will you grant me the boon to ask it?" Stardancer prostrated his paraspiders; and on the cube hull, he scraped ventral surface against Borg armor, as if he were bowing before a High Priest of the Creators.

Hermit sighed, "Oh, stop it. I'm not what you seem to think I am. I can suggest a way to peace and enlightenment - no capitalization, mind you - but so can any idiot with the right book. And I have lots of books."

Stardancer shuddered in the perceived wrath of the Holy One. When it became apparent that none of his paraspiders were to be dismembered, he risked one to raise its video input sensor. Hermit's focus was upon a cup of something which he was stirring with his non-PADD hands. At the paraspider's movements, the feathery antennae quivered. A blue eye abandoned the cup to look at Stardancer's proxies once more.

"Yes...Stardancer, was it not? What did you want again?"

"I have a question, Holy Hermit. I am hoping you know the answer."

The cup of liquid disappeared within the confusion of mouth parts. A loud slurp was heard. "Look, Stardancer, I'll be frank and tell you right off that I probably cannot answer it. Not only are you the first mech I've had in any of my Newest Age Facilities, but you are not even a familiar species of mech. Peace, enlightenment, problems with money or spouses or children or sex or relationships...I can either find an answer in my books else wave a few crystals and pronounce some mumbo-jumbo. And then charge out the wazoo, especially for accessories like chimes and incense. Everyone actually helps themselves, or they don't." Hermit paused. "I'm an old fraud, a con man, who is getting tired of this fantasy I built for myself when I was young and stupid." A long pause as both eyes were trained on the paraspiders. "I cannot read your body language, but I get the feeling you neither understand nor care. Like all the others."

Hermit was obviously humble, trying to depreciate himself and downplay his holiness. Only the most sacrosanct of Prophets and Oracles, such as those designated by the Priests of Stardancer's race, acted thus. "My question?"

"Ask," said the Hermit dully. A full body sigh shook his frame as air was exhaled. He rocked side to side, setting the loose ends of the robe to swaying.

"I have a problem..."

"Don't we all?" interrupted Hermit, followed by, "Sorry, do go on."

"I have a problem..." Stardancer then began to explain of the Creators and Mouth, of the Borg theft and his expulsion from the Shrine system. "So you see, sir, if I can recover the Mouth and bring it home, I will surely be welcomed back, returned my farm, perhaps even bestowed a fosterling. All will be as it was. Therefore, how do I find the Mouth, confront the Borg, and bring all I desire to pass?"

Hermit set down empty cup and PADD on the low table beside him. "Lad - for all I suspect you might be quite a bit older than me, you have the mentality of a naive youth - do you want the simple answer, or the whole show? I'll do the latter free of charge."

"Will you commune with the spirits? Will you speak in tongues?" asked Stardancer eagerly.

"Sure," responded Hermit tiredly, "and I'll even throw in a dance and a bit of snake oil." The prophet rose from his crouch. "Let me find the crystals and light some incense. Normally I don't do private shows, and especially not for free, but hey, I'm thinking it is about time I retired from this gig. Again. One moment and I'll give you your anti-climatic answer."

Stardancer prepared himself, positioning his paraspiders on the table so as to gain the best view. Hermit took one step, then a second, towards a chest pressed against one wall. He paused and turned a full circle, eyes held high and antennae waving. "Where's that box thing of yours? The transport or whatever it was?"

A paraspider leaned over the edge of the table to look where TarTar had been parked and told to stay. Oops. Stardancer's pet seemed to have wandered off.

*****

TarTar had been bored. Bored, bored, bored. At least when he was in his Owner he knew there was nothing to do except eat the occasional treat or gnaw on a chew rock. Here, in this new place, there were many interesting things to see, to smell, to hear, to taste. But Owner had given him commands, told him to do unfamiliar things, then parked him. Well, Owner had not said "No" when he had left the room with the giant organic paraspider, so it must have been okay.

TarTar had managed to rediscover the wide corridors, backtracking his path to the door that Owner had told him to pick up. That door had opened at his approach, allowing him into a place of warm, wet atmosphere. Plasmas thrummed in the walls, overhead sparked photons and electromagnetic loops, and magnetic vibrations shimmered his sensors.

A mechanical organic passed TarTar as the carry-all trundled down the corridor. Although the trace elements in organics smelled good and were easy to extract, Owner always became displeased and yelled and sometimes even jolted him with the sting prod and said "BAD!" when he paid attention to mobile carbon entities. Therefore, even though the organic was laced with inorganic bits, TarTar ignored it as it ignored him.

A thermal build-up caught the carry-all's attention. At loader limb height, the spot in the wall was distinctly warmer than elsewhere; and sensors could taste the vibrations of complex, yummy molecules which resided so-close. A loader tentatively scratched the wall, followed by a digging manipulator. TarTar analyzed the scrapings. The taste signified that while the wall was much tougher than the last place he was allowed walkies, it could be burrowed through, given time.

Hopefully Owner would let him play for a bit before he was called back or made to do tricks again.

*****

"'...the die rolls six / The answer? An appendix / Hickory dickory dock!' I quoth from Nursery Rhymes for the Beginning Oracle, chapter 3, verse 6," informed DEVIL gravely from corridor 113. It punctuated its comment with a long draught upon its cigar, followed by blowing not a smoke ring, but rather a smoke triangle. Such things are possible only if one is a hologram.

Captain, in the process of inspecting the burnt out holoemitters to determine salvagability - the task was low on engineering's priority - did not bother to acknowledge the caterpillar. Due to the nodal emitter outage, the AI had been forced to manifest it's avatar in the hallway. Such did not stop it from hijacking the local speaker system. Captain vaguely considered pulling their wires, but censored the notion due to the Delta Irritation factor and the fact that such would not halt the AI from being a dataspace annoyance.

{You skipped five,} noted Second. He was elsewhere, overseeing the latest neural adjustment to 8 of 8. As Borg, distance did not prevent either participation or eavesdropping on Captain's sensory stream.

::The quantal current in which I be stuck was very diffuse during resolutioneth of 'five.' It be linked to 'hive,' but that stanza was swept away. I doth dread if there be 'seven,' forsooth little rhymes with seven.:: Pause. ::And Captain doth toldeth me to keepeth my silence when I did speak.::

Captain accessed a nodal camera positioned to look down corridor 113, and was rewarded with the sight of the caterpillar, all traces of butterflyness gone, pointing accusing fingers on two hands at him. He dismissed the camera's datastream and moved onto the next holoemitter.

At least, via the new starcharts, the cube knew where it was.

The universe went dark. There was the vague sense of being tumbled around, although sensors registered nothing...literally. After an indeterminate amount of time - chronometers claimed no time had passed - the universe returned.

It was a grayish-blue universe, viscous, with an odd diffraction and a sourceless light. In the distance loomed something big and bright green, stuff with spiky bits. Within the hull all remained familiar, but outside was a different story.

Strike the last thought: the sub-collective was lost once more.

As Cube #347 slowly began to drift "downward" towards an expanse of multicolored blobs, the sub-collective commenced to rapidly examine the possibilities. The list was very, very short. The fluidic universe of species #8472 was swiftly dismissed, along with a handful of other options. Not even Weapons' most outrageous BorgCraft scenarios were helpful.

Sensors insisted on calling the substance [water] despite the impossibility, altering her description with [soda pop], [vodka], and other liquid substitutes. The usual translator difficulty was occurring, algorithms unable to cope with what was obviously a very precise meaning in Bug gestalt language; and Sensors was unable to render the pronouncement directly into other tongues.

A curious oblong structure with a rounded top tipped sideways. A rush of silvery spheres temporarily enfolded Cube #347 in turbulence as they rushed in the "up" direction.

All forms of propulsion refused to work; and shields could not be consolidated. The diagnostic computer, unable to cope with the errors, had crashed.

Outside the cube, a shadow loomed. It resolved into a huge beast, a slim creature with gaping maw. Two flat black eyes swiveled slightly in their sockets as they strained to see forward beyond its nonexistent nose. Barely visible paddles, membranes supported by thin and flexible rods, fanned the substance of the liquid universe. The brain behind the eyes displayed an obviously limited capability for thought, leaning towards the basic life questions which revolve around food and reproduction. The cells which governed the former must have held greater sway than the latter, for the creature lunged forward, maw opening wide.

With firm veterinarian knowledge, Doctor spouted, {Fishy! It looks like a fishy!}

Unfingers closed around the cube; the brief sense of an eyeball, maybe a mouth. Soundless words. Dripping [water].

The passage through darkness was mercifully brief, returning Cube #347 and its sub-collective back to a familiar universe of cosmic rays, vacuum, and no hungry beasts. Admittedly, the wayward cube had been a snack upon occasion, but there was usually more warning.

{Where did the fishy go?} asked Doctor in disappointment.

{Location,} queried Captain to the sensory hierarchy. The sub-collective's answer was succinct: back at the coordinates prior to the insensible [watery] excursion. "Okaaaay," drawled the consensus monitor and facilitator to the walls. Like the good, if imperfectly assimilated, drone he was, he returned to his holoemitter inspection as the sub-collective collectively dismissed the experience to irrelevancy.

*****

A locator. TarTar needed a locator welded to his body, especially if he was to develop a bad habit of wandering, thought Stardancer to himself. Two paraspiders, moving in opposite directions from the Newest Age Facility once it became obvious the carry-all was not inside, searched for the pet. The third remained with Hermit.

Stardancer so /hated/ spreading himself out: it was very uncomfortable. He had seen performers who seemed to work magic with ten, twelve, more paraspiders tumbling in different directions. Five remotes was the maximum Stardancer could cope with, and he preferred to have all of them within visual of each other and himself.

"I am sorry. I should have brought a leash to secure my pet," apologized Stardancer to Hermit. The remaining paraspider was crouched subserviently. "TarTar does not usually roam. I would not have brought him at all except he is much stronger than my remotes and I did not know what situation I might encounter."

The Hermit's eyes watched the paraspider, and his pinchers clicked several times in rapid succession. Stardancer had difficulty with the body language of organics in general, much less the novel species before him. Holy Ones always appreciated groveling, and so the paraspider attempted to flatten itself against the table, to become one with the faux wood.

Meanwhile, in the hallways, Stardancer frantically sought his pet. Calling TarTar's name aloud was useless as the carry-all could not perceive atmospheric, non-radio vocalizations; and the pet seemed to be ignoring his owner's voice via welded transmitter. Looking left and right at a T-intersection, Stardancer internally sighed in relief as he found TarTar.

"Bad TarTar," rebuked Stardancer through the transmitter as the paraspider scurried towards the goal. A sharp electronic whistle elicited an answering squeal from the carry-all as he backed out of the hole he had been excavating in the wall. Glancing briefly at the damage, the paraspider's infrared sensors registered an area of thermal build-up; and visual revealed a gaping hole. Shards of a silicon-based crystal littered the ground and torn wires hung within reach of manipulator limbs. The source of the heat remained obscured, and Stardancer was willing to leave it so. He had never actually seen a Borg, but he had heard that they were unforgiving. Best to take TarTar back to the Newest Age Facility as soon as possible.

"I've found him," relayed Stardancer to Hermit.

Hermit ceased clacking his pinchers. "Do the Borg know where you are?"

"I've not seen anyone, Holy One. I am bringing TarTar here now; and I'll meet my other paraspider at the door."

"Good. Very good." Hermit inhaled deeply, then exhaled it all in a loud rush of noise.

Stardancer clambered the paraspider into TarTar's tote. Then, after swatting the carry-all in annoyance across a tactile sensor patch, said "Turn right. Forward." TarTar ground his tooth plates together in disappointment, cracking a few filched crystals in the oral slot, but otherwise obediently followed the command.

It was then, paraspider perched in TarTar's tote, that Stardancer saw his first Borg. Or, rather, espied a Borg and had the stunned realization that he had seen such a creature before.

At a crossing twenty meters beyond the T-intersection towards which TarTar trundled, a partially mechanized organic biped stepped into view. In its hands it held a long stick, one end of which was festooned with strips of cloth. The fabric end was being pushed over the deck, purpose unknown. The biped itself appeared to be a cross between inorganic and organic, as if some deity had been trying to build an ugly mech, but had run out of parts and been forced to use substandard, carbon-based substitutions to finish the task.

A memory sequence triggered-

*****

"What...what are those?" queried Stardancer after the trio had vanished. "They were part organic, part mech!"

The great ball of light which was the Creator answered, "They are lesser beings, those who did not suit and therefore were not allowed to go forth into the universe. They serve us into perpetuity."

*****

Recollection from Stardancer's Creator encounter dredged forth three creatures similar to the individual loudly humming to itself as it turned the corner and pushed its rag-stick towards TarTar. But...but that was impossible! Those poor beings had been pitiful things, servants unto the Creators, not worthy! This...this was a Borg! How could the two be the same? (And exactly the same, for the Borg bore an uncanny resemblance to one of the servant trio.)

Tic-Tocs, originally built to withstand a wide variety of settings from weightless vacuum to the near-crushing depths of gas giants, normally did not concern themselves with the specifics of atmosphere. It was generally obvious where Tic-Toc-kind would be unable to survive. Therefore, Stardancer had not concerned himself with the environment of the Borg cube, organic requirements a very narrow range of what Stardancer could tolerate.

Stardancer sampled the ambient atmosphere surrounding the paraspiders. The remote with Hermit registered temperature, humidity, and gas composition similar, if a bit warmer and drier, to that on the station. However, the paraspiders in the hallways found a very different environment, one eerily familiar to his Creator encounter with a temperature of 39.1 C (Tic-Toc equivalent) and highly humid.

No! No! No! The Borg were /not/ Creators! They could not be! Were not! No matter what the evidence seemed to imply, Stardancer refused to believe that Creators and Borg were one.

The Borg switched from humming to a jaunty whistle. The rag-stick swept back and forth. Unbidden, Tic-Toc halted, wary of the approaching biped and unknowing of his owner's burgeoning crisis of faith, dawning realization that the trial Priests and their accusations of criminal idiocy may have been correct.

"Say it isn't so," whined Stardancer to Hermit via paraspider. "The Creators and Borg aren't one..." If they were one, the implications were too horrible to contemplate; and if they weren't, Stardancer had made a serious error.

The Hermit's mouthparts quivered and his eyes waved. "Creators? What are you talking about? The Borg - Collective and Colors - are technological, cultural, and biological parasites. They couldn't create themselves out of a paper bag." The Holy One's tone was distinctly disdainful, but softened as he continued. "I suspect, lad, that you may be conning an answer to your question without a bunch of hocus-pocus on my part."

Stardancer fought against the desire to mentally curl up in a fetal position and rock. His personal universe was breaking apart, cracking...

Wait a minute, the universe was cracking! Or, rather, the shield which protected the Borg cube was shimmering and spitting in the visual, radio, microwave, and X-ray frequencies. Stardancer's remotes reported a subtle change in subsonic vibration patterns, very faint, as cube superstructure responded to increased stresses. The mech had ignored the liquid place (he had not 'seen' the hungry fish-beast), but could not dismiss the virtual lightening storm occurring directly overhead.

"This ship is under attack!" blurted Stardancer aloud.

"Yes, that seems to happen a lot to this particular Borg cube," replied Hermit as he sank into a crouch, fluttered his antennae, and began to rock his weight back and forth on his walking legs. "All one can do is wait it out and hope no explosions are involved. And that, lad, is free enlightenment that can be applied to most any situation."

*****

The attackers were saucers, pie plates to be exact, and meringue to be specific. A fleet of giant pies 200 meters in diameter, whipped topping shifting in color from lemon to lime to orange to lemon (and, occasionally, to plaid) englobed Cube #347. The vessels did not correlate with any known species; and, worse, adaptation to unknown technology, without benefit of Collective assistance, was occurring poorly.

After all, how /does/ one counter what could only be described as silly string?

The twelve pie-ships launched conventional disruptors and torpedoes upon their target, an attack that Borg shields easily shrugged. It was the sticky elastic polymer, chemically and electrically inert and deployed at low velocities, which was the dilemma. The substance passed through shields, settling on the cube's hull. The silly string seemed harmless, but with Cube #347 undergoing a standard defensive spin, most surfaces were quickly coated in several layers of the stuff. 'Most surfaces' included weaponry ports and lens apertures, sensor clusters, and maneuvering thrusters. Cube #347 was slowly being wrapped into a padded pink and yellow cocoon which rendered the sub-collective blind, unable to fight, unable to retreat.

Aboard the cube, primary shield systems catastrophically overloaded, sending sparks flying and engineering drones scrambling to control damage. The shield emitters could not cope with layers of silly string, that particular substance never envisioned by the Collective as a viable weapon. Secondary and tertiary back-ups were swiftly disengaged before they, too, joined the primaries. Shields dropped.

Swaddled in silly string, unable to fire even a cutting beam, much to Weapons' frustration, Cube #347 continued its spin. The pie-ships were reduced to mere blurs, even to Sensors' enhancements. Upon shield loss, the attackers halted use of both conventional and novel weaponry.

A hail was received. Origin was a pie-ship slightly larger than the rest of the fleet, faux-meringue top inclusive cherry in the color cycle. Captain panned his nodal intersection and its nonfunctional holoemitters. He then transported to Bulk Cargo Hold #5, emerging in the midst of several weapon hierarchy working groups running compartmentalized battle scenarios. At least one group, surrounded by miniature rubber duck holograms instead of pies, appeared to be quite off topic. Weapons, in the middle of the controlled chaos, was radiating a hostile discontent.

{I need a weaponry port, any port, available,} demanded Weapons of engineering hierarchy. A large schematic of Cube #347, upon which was perched DEVIL, hovered in front of the hierarchy head. The AI's avatar was ignored.

Answered Delta, {We are repairing primary shields and attempting to deploy subhull emitter technology. Engineering units will not be transported to the hull - if you want to lose drones that way, be my guest.}

{Weapons units are too important to engage in menial engineering tasks. All tactical drones are required. Engineering drones are expendable.}

{Enough,} said Captain internally. The hail pinged cube systems once more. He commandeered several cargo hold emitters to form a comm-window. Captain could have followed the datastreams directly - and, in fact, part of himself was doing so - but the visual habit was hard to break. Since Bulk Cargo Hold #5 had the greatest concentration of holoemitters on the cube due to Weapons' BorgCraft upgrades, it was highly unlikely all local holoemitters would overload as they had in his nodal intersection.

Weapons stared at Captain for a long minute, then abandoned 'discussions' with Delta to focus on scenario coordination. Captain's presence was ignored as irrelevant to the immediate tactical situation.

The window which formed in front of Captain showed the top half of a humanoid biped sitting in a chair. Exact species was difficult to discern due to clown-style greasepaint cosmetics, bright green wig, and fake red nose. A bowler hat with extraordinarily large daisy sat atop the curly faux-hair; and what could be seen of the clothing called to mind a militaristic circus. The one hand in view tapping a cadence on the chair's arm wore an oversized white glove. Despite immaculately painted smile, the actual mouth was a downturned frown.

"We are Klownz. I am Kaptain Bozo," announced the clown, er, klown. He was squinting, a common reaction from those presented with CatwalkCam view who were unused to it. "You have something we desire. You will surrender, else face the wrath of my Klown Kommandoes."

Captain allowed himself a slight frown: he could hear the substitution of 'k' for 'c,' even through the translator algorithms. Such never boded well in the sub-collective's experience. Species possibilities were being explored by assimilation hierarchy, but without a definite result, appropriate counter tactics could not be uploaded.

{Their shields are weak,} noted Weapons. {Our maneuvering ability remains sufficient to ram an enemy vessel, forcing their shields to drop. We could then transport over and assimilate all aboard.}

Captain's eyes automatically flicked in Weapons' direction, finding the hierarchy head in the midst of a swarm of pies, one of which was impaled by a corner of a holographic Exploratory-class cube. {We will take the suggestion under advisement,} responded Captain, adding what was actually a sane (for Weapons) scenario to the ongoing consensus cascade.

"Do you surrender?" persisted Kaptain Bozo.

Such ridiculous questions from small beings. "No," replied Captain, aloud and synchronized with the multivoice the klown was hearing. Several drones in Captain's vicinity also automatically added to the vocalization. "We are Borg. You will be assimilated. Your technological and biological distinctiveness will be added to our own. Borg do not surrender." The consensus cascade was complete: the weapons hierarchy attack/assimilate scenario was pronounced viable.

"Then the wrath of the Klown Kommandoes will descend upon you!" shouted Kaptain Bozo. His hat daisy spun. Connections were severed.

Captain - the sub-collective - was unimpressed.

{We have identified,} inserted Assimilation dully, capturing Captain's attention. {Species #5309.} A secondary display initiated next to the dark comm-window, materializing an unremarkable humanoid whose primary unique characteristic was ear shape and a double-iris eye configuration. A still shot of Kaptain Bozo was set next to the species #5309 archetype, then stripped of facial paint and other accouterments. {Species #5309 is moderately xenophobic, largely confined to its home system and two colony systems, and has a very high resistant quotient.}

The species dossier continued to scroll. Telekinesis, telesthesia, telemarketing, and other tele- abilities were noted. Natural mental abilities were further augmented by technologies to a very high level, reaching a point where the Collective had decided to delay assimilation until such time the species either became dangerously expansionist else all more easily integrated races had been absorbed into Perfection. The dossier did not include any mention of a clown, um, klown obsession. Then again, the entry had last been updated pre-Dark.

Captain - the sub-collection - was now impressed.

The sound of transporter beams, accompanied by a red sparkly glow, signified the arrival to Bulk Cargo Hold #5 of several hundred psi-enhanced, heavily armored, water pistol armed Klown Kommandoes.

The sub-collective did not stand a chance.

Klownz technologies were very unfunny.

34 of 42 had been pushing a dust mop along corridor 13 of subsection 7, submatrix 28 when the Klownz had attacked. Halting his task, he had waited for Delta to provide him with new instructions, but none had come. Sampled datastreams provided knowledge of what was occurring, as well as understanding of the decisions being made. Still, his task on the engineering duty roster remained unchanged.

34 of 42 sighed, then hefted the dust mop and prepared to continue. Perhaps, in hindsight, using gum instead of caulk to fix the secondary water overflow sluiceway for vats 1-8 of Comet Slurry Processing #5 had been a mistake. It had seemed like a promising solution at the time. Unfortunately, the censure filters were increasingly malfunctioning the longer the sub-collective remained apart from the Collective. Delta did not accept excuses, however; and especially not when a meter of water was covering the deck.

Only ten meters of additional dust mopping had been completed when internal sensors registered transporter signatures and the arrival of Klown Kommandoes. But not in subsection 7, submatrix 28, corridor 13. /Other/ drones were netted with silly string; and /other/ drones were tossed through the air and slammed headfirst into crates. Super glue, custard cream pies to the face blinding tactical units...some drones had all the luck.

The rest were regulated to pushing dust mops until the heat death of the universe because of a minor mistake.

34 of 42 returned to working the dust mop, automatically sweeping it back and forth as he observed the many points of view in the clash between Klownz and drones. He did not see the knee-high tracked box until he tripped over it, falling to the deck in an ungainly sprawl that ended with the mop smacking against his head.

Blinking, 34 of 42 levered himself to his feet. The tracked box waved many limbs of differing sizes as it backed(?) away; and in a deep depression on its back a ten-legged robotic spider crouched. An automatic review of visual logs found the box had been present in the hallway the entire time, selectively ignored because it was not supposed to be present, was irrelevant.

{I've found...} began 34 of 42 to Delta.

{Not now,} replied the engineering hierarchy head, too many emergencies requiring coordination to bother with a lone drone on dust mop duty.

34 of 42 searched for another node, dismissing Weapons out of hand. Command and control? Attempted 34 of 42 once more, this time a general declaration to the Hierarchy of Eight: {There is a box...}

Captain's visual was full of boxes, most of them flying through the air; and the datastreams from other Hierarchy of Eight members (except for the regenerating and locked-down 8 of 8) were not much better. An automatic message triggered, {We are sorry, but we cannot take your call right now due to a potentially terminal emergency. However, if you leave your designation and message, we will get back to you as soon as possible, assuming we are not scrap.}

"Well, little box thing," sighed 34 of 42 as he gazed down at the machine and its robotic rider, "I guess we'll have to deal with you later. Think you can move forward a meter so I can sweep under you?" Several arms fluttered, but it was unclear if it was in response to 34 of 42's words or just because that was what the box normally did. The spider robot abruptly rose up on leg tips and seemed to stare down the hallway in the direction from which 34 of 42 had come from.

A tapping echoed behind 34 of 42, a larger and louder version of that produced by the mechanical spider. The box began to rock back and forth on its tracks.

Suddenly a quiet corridor with only a dust mop for company seemed very inviting. 34 of 42 turned to confront whatever it was that was unstealthily approaching.

A large hermit crab, minus shell and mostly covered in a robe, confronted 34 of 42. The crab bobbed eyestalks and antennae while pinchers clacked. Smaller limbs with delicate hands held a complicated, yet quite lethal-looking, gun. Two more spiders, alike the one atop the box, perched on the crab's abdomen hump.

"Borg," said the crab conversationally, weapon held in a casually businesslike manner, "are you perhaps having a bit of Klownz trouble? If you refrain from assimilating me, I may be able to offer some enlightenment...and some help."

*****

"I've never understood the purpose of these subhallways," complained Hermit as the widest part of his exoskeleton audibly scraped against metal. "Jefferies tubes, low-ways, interstitial spaces: nearly every ship design has these stupid access areas." Another scrape, then silence. "Damn. I think I'm stuck again. Borg, give me a hand, will you?"

Stardancer's two paraspiders scrambled out of the way as the Borg laboriously pivoted in the tight space. While not quite as constrained as Hermit, stiff body covering had proved to be a hindrance in the narrow spaces. Stardancer, via his remotes, had no such problem, and he settled his mech extensions out of the way to observe a procedure grown too familiar.

The Borg - 34 of 42 - braced himself as he grasped Hermit's outstretched pinchers, then began to yank. Simultaneously, Hermit pushed with all his walking legs, ridged foot-tips scrambling uselessly for traction against the smooth floor. Hermit had long since discarded his robe, lest it be ripped into tatters with each incident. Finally with a shriek that would have set Stardancer's hair on end, had he hair, Hermit stumbled forward, free, nearly falling on 34 of 42 in the process.

"F*** this," swore Hermit in a most unHoly fashion. Eyestalks bent to examine the cosmetic damage to several semi-precious gems inlayed in his exoskeleton.

"We are almost at our destination," informed 34 of 42 as he carefully turned to face forward again. "The target ingress to Bulk Cargo Hold #5 is 232 meters distant."

A loose amethyst was removed from shell and tucked away into a hidden pouch. "No more deck changes, I hope?"

"Our exit will be on this level."

Muttered Hermit, "Thank the Directors." After a few steps in silence, paraspiders shadowing his Holiness, Hermit whispered, "Damn, if I'd've known the Klownz business would come to this, I would have avoided their planet to begin with. Buuuuut, it seemed like /such/ a good opportunity at the time."

34 of 42 turned his head slightly to glance over his shoulder, but otherwise made no response. These Borg seemed to have no curiosity at all! Stardancer, on the other hand, was intrigued; and the conversation helped him to ignore the views of Klownz ships which loomed so close over his unshielded, exposed (although no notice seemed to have been taken) body. "You preached to the organics we are to confront, Holiness? I am sorry if I offend, but they do not seem to have heard your message of Enlightenment."

A blue eye was directed at the speaking paraspider, the other remaining pointed in the direction of travel. "No, lad. The problem, I think, is that they listened /too/ well.

"You see, there was this, er, trouble at a moon called Compact IX, complete with authorities starting to ask some rather pointed and embarrassing questions. I'd heard rumors of Klownz before then, only they didn't call themselves Klownz, but Eriati. Anyway, after closing the Facility at Compact IX, I hired a Xenig at an exorbitant price and went to the Eriati homeworld.

"At the time I thought I would retire, or at least relax for a couple of years out of the limelight. Money will do an awful lot of combat xenophobia, after all. However, once I was there and settled, well, I became a little bored and I saw a prospect too good to pass up. Sometimes I'm just greedy like that."

Hermit ceased speaking as a corner forced careful navigation to prevent another exoskeleton-precipitated jamming incident. A scraping noise accompanied the maneuver. Stardancer sent one paraspider skittering forward to keep pace with the Borg, the other remaining with the prophet.

"Wait up, you damn drone!" shouted Hermit as loud as he dared before grumbling very unHoly words under his breath about the Borg's biological ancestry. Stardancer had not known that the described acts were even physically possible for organics, but then again, he was far from experienced in such matters. The drone paused just long enough for Hermit to catch up, then continued down the cramped, dark subhallway space. "Where was I? Oh, yes, the Klownz.

"Anyway, here I am, on the Eriati homeworld. First thing you have to understand is that the race, as a whole, is a tad bit dour, more than a little violent, and definitely dictatorial to the point that the average citizen's idea of freedom is the right to choose between white or beige underwear every other Firstday. To top it off, the ruling class is also very, very rich and very, very naive. I could not resist the latter combination. Well, one day during a televised sermon I suggested that the way to Enlightenment was to surrender to one's inner clown. I meant it figuratively, of course, because the Eriati mindset is so damn serious: the parties are downright boring and there is no such thing as a wild Lastday evening.

"The Powers That Be, and specifically their crazy Ruler, decided that my words had been literal. Next thing I know, it is circuses for all and legions of citizens are being brainwashed into clowns. Or, rather, Klownz...the universal translator was slightly miscalibrated the day of the sermon, I'm afraid. Now, the citizens are always being reprogrammed according to the whim of the ruling class, so who was I to interfere with a long-standing cultural tradition? However, things really started to become weird after the Greasepaint Technique Channel was launched, followed by the contests that involved stuffing people into small cars.

"So, I left." Hermit performed a complicated shrug that involved manipulation limbs and pinchers. "Eventually I ended up on this cube-shaped tub, but that's a whole 'nother story." Pause. "Hey! Borg! We there yet?"

"We are 109 meters from the access point. Quiet is suggested," said the drone. And then he tripped over paraspider #2, crashing into the side of the corridor and precipitating a series of loud thuds. The drone saved himself from completely toppling to the deck by grabbing onto a protruding metal bar, a common interstitial space obstacle.

Hermit suppressed a rasping chuckle.

Stardancer was somewhat confused: Hermit's account was not the tale of Enlightenment he might have expected from a Holy One. "You left before your mission of Enlightenment was complete?" queried Stardancer with one paraspider as he ran a quick diagnostic on the 'bruised' second.

34 of 42 levered himself fully upright. "The creature designated Hermit is a con artist. Only especially small minds can fail to notice such."

If Stardancer had eyes, he would have blinked them in astonishment. Before he could either defend Hermit or ask the Holy One to rebuke the blasphemous Borg, Hermit answered, "I prefer the term 'fabrication performance artist.' And what does the Borg know about cons, anyway? I would think you would be too 'big' for that. Neither Borg nor Colors are exactly subtle to begin with, although Peach comes close and Green has its moments."

34 of 42 stiffly pivoted in place to face Hermit. "We," began the drone, plural emphasized, "do not have the need to lower ourselves to the level of small, singular beings. It is inefficient. However, we can be subtle, if required. In the home system of Mech Species #6 - Tic-Toc - it was necessary to use 'performance lies' upon a mech individual in order to acquire a probe locally designated 'Mouth,' required by the Collective. We were successful. Whereas direct confrontation is normally the most expedient and efficient method to gain our goals, such was not the case at that time." Speech delivered, 34 of 42 awkwardly turned back to original direction of travel. A glance was reserved for paraspider #2.

"Well, I'll be damned with soft-shell fungus!" exclaimed Hermit to himself. "Borg /do/ have redeeming qualities. Maybe." Pinchers clicking thoughtfully, the prophet followed 34 of 42.

Both of Stardancer's remotes ceased movement, reflecting the sudden turmoil of thoughts which boiled along the mech's synthetic synapses. There are, after all, only so many revelations a person, organic or mech, can absorb at one time. The stress of crouching exposed on the hull of a large vessel which had been in several successive battles did not help, neither. He did not notice as Hermit carefully stepped over the stationary remotes.

"You...you are not Holy? You do not offer Enlightenment?" spouted Stardancer through both paraspiders, questions including a rising note of imminent hysteria.

Hermit stopped, eyes descending to peer beneath his legs at the mech remotes. "I've never claimed such, personally, no. I just offer advice any idiot already knows or can find, although I glitz up the package. I like to think of myself as a performer, perhaps even an accomplished artist. If others form certain opinions, who am I to argue?

"An organic conmech..."

"Performer, lad, performer. 'Conman' and 'con artist' both have such a harsh sound although I do admit I did describe myself as such to you earlier. You didn't seem to be listening at the time."

Stardancer set his paraspiders into motion, both on a trajectory towards 34 of 42. "And you...Borg are not the Creators! You stole the Mouth from me and all Tic-Toc-kind! You ruined by life!" Volume was raised.

34 of 42 looked down to regard the paraspiders. If Stardancer had been conversant in facial expressions, he would have recorded narrowed eyes and the slightly curled lip common when one regards an ankle-high dog with an annoying bark and the unpleasant habit of piddling on one's shoes. The drone was not impressed. "Not possible. One, Mech Species #6 is confined to a single system in Tortured Space; and, two, I saw the mech individual myself, and you are not it. Less volume, or I have authorization from Weapons AND Delta to step on you."

Both paraspiders were backed out of immediate stomp range. "These remotes are only a small part of myself," hissed Stardancer, the sentence more white noise than distinguishable words. "The majority of me is on your ship's hull, covered in pink, sticky stuff. You ruined my life! I want it, and the Mouth, back!"

"Impossible," reiterated the drone, "even if we had the probe, and even if we could believe you are a Mech Species #6, much less the one we deceived, the Collective does not return acquired technologies."

"Then I refuse to cooperate. No Mouth, no help. I am leaving."

"The truth hurts, lad, but I would not suggest you depart right now," said Hermit.

One paraspider was pivoted to face the faux-prophet. "You...you are a fraud, a swindler! Why should I listen to you?"

"You mean beyond the obvious that the Klownz will shoot to destroy anything which leaves the cube's hull?" asked Hermit mildly, not noticeably offended at Stardancer's accusations. "Well, this old 'fraud' may still have some wisdom in his head: it may not be Enlightenment, but it is still valid, nonetheless. And, besides, your plight has given me some ideas...if we get out of this whole Klownz business in one piece - and unassimilated - I just /may/ be able to help you and your unable-to-go-home predicament. Free of charge."

Stardancer was quiet. He didn't know exactly what the hard-skinned organic was insinuating, but there was a charm, a cadence of voice, which was difficult to resist. Meanwhile, the Borg rolled his single eye and returned to making his way down the narrow corridor.

"Come on, lad, why don't you think it over. You don't have to commit right away, but neither is there need for you to go all storming off. You help me, and I'll help you. Just trust in the Hermit."

Within his hull, folded manipulatory limbs twitched in indecision. Finally Stardancer asked warily, "You can get me home, accepted, without the Mouth?"

"Anything is possible. And that is a nugget of /real/ wisdom, even enlightenment without the capitol 'e'. First, however, the Klownz."

"Okay," agreed Stardancer, "I'll stay, but if you are lying to me..."

"You'll have to get in line behind all the others, lad," responded Hermit, "starting with the Klownz. Just follow along." Hermit, scraping his exoskeleton, arduously trailed after 34 of 42.

After a long hesitation, Stardancer followed.

*****

Bulk Cargo Hold #5 was full of drones, 2873 to be exact. Most of the remainder were stuck in their alcoves, literally, courtesy of a hand-held weapon that sprayed a pink, foamy material that dried upon contact to create a porous, cement-like cotton candy substance. The few Borg which remained free were inconsequential, transported to the cargo hold for storage as they were encountered.

Whereas a large crowd of nonBorg would be milling about, the drones incarcerated in the Bulk Cargo Hold were largely still, scattered in clumps amid the current inventory. Movement primarily came from Klown Kommando patrols, jolly polka-dotted and beruffled uniforms at odds with their deadly serious weapons and enhanced psi-abilities.

Captain was playing the role of one-drone-amid-many, standing with a group of a dozen units adjacent a bulkhead wall. Second was serving as the Klownz liaison, a duty normally assigned to Captain; and he was currently awaiting Kaptain Bozo's delayed arrival in a storage room, accompanied by special Kommandoes with overlarge shoes and fake noses. In the end, it really did not matter which drone (within reason) was the liaison, given the sub-collective's communal mind. However, who was next to this particular portion of bulkhead at this particular time was very important.

Well, maybe not, but Captain had never been particularly enthused about clowns, and that attitude had carried through assimilation.

A Klown Kommando duo stalked past, eyes suspiciously darting back and forth as they regarded the blankly staring drones. The gloved hand of the younger twitched as it brushed a bright red utility belt and, more specifically, a dispenser which produced balloons which could be blown up and twisted into a myriad of dangerous configurations. The older shot the younger a wordless Look, and the pair continued their patrol route.

{Clear,} said Captain to 34 of 42.

A section of the bulkhead pivoted slightly, then fell forward. The panel was caught by two drones before it could clatter to the deck. From the resultant hole awkwardly crawled an engineering drone - 34 of 42.

A stalked blue eye and part of an antenna emerged from the low opening, the former peering around as the latter swayed back and forth. Captain knew, through 34 of 42, that the owner of the eye and antenna was too bulky to pass through the hole, and wouldn't even if he could. The crustacean was yet /another/ hitchhiker; and Captain (or someone in the sub-collective) idly wondered if Cube #347 should start charging for taxi service.

The eye finally finished its inspection, focusing on Captain. "How many?" asked a raspy voice made hollow by the echoing volume of the interstitial space. A ten-legged robotic spider ventured cautiously through the gap, raising itself upon leg-tip as it was confronted by a wall of knees and armored shins.

Several viewpoints, some of which should have been serving as look-outs, were watching the spider robot. Captain, however, kept full attention upon the eyestalk. "One. The Klownz perform head counts, although they do not track individual units."

Antennae quivered. "Cannot you not be a tad more quiet?"

"Whispering is irrelevant."

"In this case, it is very relevant." A second eye joined the first. "Stardancer! Don't go wandering off."

The spider robot twisted itself so that glinting camera lens faced Hermit even as legs remained in place. "I do not 'wander,'" testily replied a synthetic voice which nonetheless held more emotion than that of the typical Borg.

"So, Borg, which one of you comes with me, then?" asked Hermit.

"This unit functions as speaker-for-all."

"Fine. If you look at the fellow who just joined you, you'll find a small ovoid attached between his shoulder blades. The magnetic clamp will disengage when you give it a tug."

34 of 42 blinked, then abruptly tried to reach over his shoulder to feel the mentioned area, but could not make contact. He began to spin in a circle, progressively faster, body bulk and limb inflexibility hampering his effort at self-inspection. {What is it? Get it off! I did not know anything was on my back!}

Captain eyed 34 of 42 as the latter was caught mid-gyration by two weapons units and bodily dragged backwards to the primary consensus monitor and facilitator. The item, as described, was centered on 34 of 42's back such that no amount of twisting could dislodge it. "Describe its function."

An exasperated sigh arose from within the interstitial space. "It is a gizmo. I have lots of them: they are handy in my profession. This one masks life signatures. I am wearing one myself, but since I did not want a lot of argument, I slapped that one on your buddy when he wasn't looking. Stardancer's, um, remotes do not need one because he isn't, biologically speaking, alive. Klownz have good scanners and purposefully moving lifesigns might cause undue attention. Now, could you get the gizmo and put it on yourself somewhere?"

Captain plucked the fist-sized ovoid off 34 of 42, then proceeded to turn it over in his hand. Engineering and assimilation hierarchies were already attempting to classify the item - the Klownz were disallowing both hierarchies from performing their normal physical functions - but although it was related to several known technologies, it was very compact and miniaturized.

{Retain the object. The Collective will be interested in it,} said Delta unnecessarily.

The 'gizmo' was inserted into Captain's thigh compartment. {I will.}

"You ready? Let's go. We need to get back to the Newest Age Facility to prepare a few things. Eventually the Klownz are going to start to ask for me, and then they will become very impatient. Impatient Klownz are not nice to be around."

Captain awkwardly descended to hands and knees and crawled into the interstitial space. The spider robot scurried past, pausing only once to stare at Captain in a long, thoughtful (assuming such applied to a robot) manner before legs blurred into renewed motion.

*****

Just beyond the door to the small closet which had been designated the interrogation room, Kaptain Bozo stopped to adjust his nose. The red rubber ball which fit over the rather aquiline proboscis that hailed from his father's family tended to fall off at the damnedest times, which, needless to say, would not make a good impression. Nose adjustments led to resetting wig and hat, then a sigh and snap of fingers. A cabin-boy, who had been lurking in the background, rushed forward at his master's mental call with the required mirror. Glass was angled to allow Bozo to check face paint and set of the plastic flower clipped to his uniform. Deliberate imperfections of the mirror distorted his reflection, widening forehead and shoulders even as chin and neck region was made anorexically thin. For not the first time, Bozo wondered if the whole Klownz thing had been carried perhaps a wee bit too far.

As a member of the ruling class - who else was qualified to command the expeditionary armada? - Bozo was allowed dissident thoughts not tolerated in the lower castes, as long as any mental grumbling was kept to a minimum. One of the two chaplains which accompanied Bozo turned his head to confer a warning Look. The Kaptain rolled his eyes and waved away the mirror-wielding cabin-boy, then flashed a false smile at the disapproving chaplain. He honked his nose once, grinning for real as the man winced in annoyance.

"All ready?" politely inquired Bozo aloud, as if they, not he, had been the reason for the pre-entrance pause. The second chaplain murmured an affirmative response. Bozo stepped forward. The door to the interrogation room automatically opened.

The Borg who claimed to be the leader of the ship stood in the center of the room. As Bozo and the chaplains entered, the cyborg opened its two organic eyes, the other two replaced by mechanical contrivance. The thing had named itself 3 of 8, or Second; and although the latter implied the presence of a First, the creature had insisted that it was the designated liaison. Of course, who knew with Borg and their odd communal mind? The last time Bozo's race had interacted with the Borg, or the galaxy in general for that matter, was centuries prior.

"Any problems?" asked Bozo of the four guards assigned to watch the drone. He spoke aloud, partially for dramatic effect upon his "guest" (who did not seem overly impressed), but mostly because as one of the ruling class he tried to avoid sullying himself by minimizing engagement with the minds of the lesser "free" castes. Slaves like the cabin-boy were extensions of one's personal will, and thus did not count.

The squad leader replied promptly, "No, sir! The subject has made no move to escape or attack since incarceration."

Bozo regarded the Borg, who returned the gaze with dispassionate disinterest. "Resistance is futile, eh?" he asked of the drone, throwing the Collective's own catchphrase back at it.

"You will eventually be assimilated, although not at this time," answered Second. Was there perhaps a tough of insolence in the tone? Bozo knew from experience that attempting to read a drone's mind was an exercise in futility, not to mention a dandy way to acquire an instant headache. Continued Second after a few heartbeats, "What is the purpose of this drone's separation and confinement?

"I am /so/ happy you asked that," replied Bozo brightly. "These gentleKlownz with me will explain."

The chaplains who flanked Bozo stepped forward. Amid the Klownz race (and, before, when known as Eriati), 'chaplain' was not one who dealt with things of a spiritual nature, but was instead an euphemism for an elite corps of mental watchdogs. They shepherded the thoughts of the lower castes at behest of the ruling class, although the latter occasionally required monitoring as well. Klownz society was a rather paranoid one. Chaplains also enforced the will of the Ruler, overseeing whole-scale mindwipes when necessary, such as that which had transformed Eriati into Klownz. The face paint of these chaplains was spare monochrome, as were their uniforms, and conformed just barely to the intent of the Prophetic Words.

Chaplin Jolly, the one who had given Bozo the Look, solemnly sized up the captive; and the Borg appeared to be doing likewise in return. "Secure it," ordered Jolly curtly, eyes never leaving the drone's face, confident with the knowledge that the Kommando guards would endeavor to fulfill every request no matter how outlandish. A subtle hum filled the room as two of the Kommandoes activated psi-enhancers; and the drone stiffened as it was immobilized by mental power alone.

Klownz could be assimilated, as unwary (and dispensable) troops had discovered during the initial assault. Naturally, the unlucky unfortunates had been immediately dispatched by their comrades. After a few incidents, soldiers had become quite adept at keeping drones at literal arms reach. What a Borg could not touch could not be assimilated, after all.

"The galaxy beyond our territorial borders has begun to ferment disorder, even war," began Jolly without preamble. To his side, Chaplin Beep-Beep stood silent, intently staring at Second in classic intimidation technique. Bozo minutely shook his head at the folly of applying the Klownz Torture and Balloon Animal Manual to this situation, at least the opening chapters. He was of the opinion one should go directly to chapter 6 and start breaking legs while making happy balloon hats. "While we could care less, the Ruler has become very annoyed at the intrusions upon Klownz space. Refugees, one group or another wanting our help or our hats or used warp nacelles...annoying, annoying, annoying! For every ship of fools that is destroyed or humorously packaged in whipped cream and crashed into the nearest asteroid, three more take its place!

"We are not laughing, either on the inside or the out."

Only the Borg's limbs were restrained: it could still speak. Second did so, taking opportunity of Jolly's pause for breath. "Irrelevant, small-being talk. Get to the point. You are boring me. Us."

Bozo had little, okay, no, experience interacting with Borg. However, he was under the impression that the creatures tended to be more formal in their speech patterns, not to mention always used pluralities. The snide remark must have irritated Jolly, for the chaplain snapped at the guards to invert the drone. If the resultant position hanging upside-down in mid-air bothered Second, the Borg liaison did not broadcast it.

"You have something that belongs to us Klownz," informed Chaplin Beep-Beep in a comically high-pitched voice that had probably taken months to master.

"Unlikely," countered Second in an even tone. "This sub-collective has no record of recent contact between species #5309 and the Collective, inclusive the time since inception of the current Exploratory-class Cube #347."

Squeaked Beep-Beep, "You do! It has required exhaustive research, cumulating with interaction with beings beyond our territory and visits to several specialized travel agencies, but it is confirmed: you have the Holy One aboard, the Enlightened Hermit, our Savior."

Second remained silent. With a commanding gesture, Jolly ordered the Kommandoes to spin the drone like a cybernized pinwheel. Bozo pragmatically took several steps backwards, this particular interrogation method often resulting in projectile vomiting; and he had just had this uniform, his second best with the extra neck ruffle, dry-cleaned. Finally the Borg was brought to a stop, head upright, although feet remained suspended several centimeters above the deck.

"That was interesting," said Second mildly, "if pointless. There are requests by several units to do it again at a higher speed."

Jolly's eyes narrowed and his greasepaint could not hide the flush of anger.

Beep-Beep hurriedly continued, "The most elite Klownz psi-trackers have caught the echo of something unknown spreading through the sentient and pre-sentient population of the galaxy. Where this contagion, this psi-virus goes, chaos and paranoia follow. We..."

"Have you looked in a mirror lately?" interrupted Second. "Your species dossier reads like an advertisement for paranoia and xenophobia."

Bozo winced as a loud clang accompanied the drone's high speed impact of head with room ceiling. That had to have hurt. The Klownz Kaptain readjusted his gloves as the chaplains waited patiently for the dazed quality to leave Second's eyes.

"As I was saying...." Beep-Beep paused, then held up his hand in front of the Borg's face. "How many fingers do you see?"

The drone's two whole eyes squinted; and a whine accompanied minute movement of the devices which filled the other optical sockets. "Three."

Beep-Beep lowered his single finger. "Can you hear me?"

"Over the wooshing noise, yes. There are other voices too, but that is normal."

"Good enough. As I was saying, we have noticed through our research that this contagion is associated with a fixation upon useless objects. The most prominent obsession is used warp nacelles, but there are other things as well. And where one government starts to hoard an item, others respond by doing likewise, even if infection is nonexistent, just in case the Other knows something secret. Totally insane. The fact that the our Ruler has recently ordered Klownz expeditionary forces to spread out and bring home any and all plastic dashboard hula girls has nothing to do with the psi-infection."

Bozo frowned at the chaplain's words, then glanced sideways at the Kommando to his right. He raised an eyebrow in wordless question and received from the guard a puzzled shrug accompanied by shake of head.

"Regardless, the Klownz race must protect itself even as the contagion infects the rest of the galaxy and precipitates a war that can only end in mass extinction and genocide. That's fine with Ruler, but the Klownz must not be dragged into it. The hula girls are the first step in our protection; and the Hermit, with his Director-given wisdom, is the second. After all, it is He that showed us our stagnation and impelled us to Enlightenment with the command to bring forth our Klownish side.

"There are many after this cube and its cargo, including the Collective itself. Some are contaminated with what we are calling the psi-flu, others reacting to the infected. Some have realized that there is an unseen 'virus,' and are convinced that the warp nacelles on this particular vessel hold the key to inoculation, although we know such is folly. It is the Hermit that is the true prize. It is very important that the Hermit be removed from this ship before it is torn apart like a pinata at a children's party!" Beep-Beep ended his squeaky speech with a fervency that coated the Borg's face in spittle.

Second blinked his eyes out of sync, attempting to clear them of spit as his arms remained imprisoned at his sides. "The psychological stability quotient for your species has just been downgraded. Is such an accurate correction, or it is just you?"

Mr. Cranium met Mr. Ceiling once more. Bozo felt a sympathetic headache developing. He held out a hand behind his back and gave his cabin-boy a mental command. The two chewable analgesastic tablets, cherry flavored, which were put into his waiting glove were quickly swallowed.

Chaplin Jolly took over from Beep-Beep in order to allow the latter time to control his anger and rediscover his inner Klownz. As Beep-Beep turned away and began to blow up balloons and twist them into animals using curt motions, Jolly smoothly said, "Enough about the galaxy and Hermit, for the moment. We'll come back to them later, and perhaps, by then, you might be more cooperative. First, there is a pressing question to ask. Yes, a question even more important than the Hermit and his Enlightenment which will Save the Klownz race. Think very hard before you answer. Are the Borg - you - fundamentally organic or mechanical intelligences?"

At the edge of hearing, a driving beat with heavy bass overtones increased in volume. It was accompanied by applause and wild cheering. As brighter electronic notes slashed across the opening rhythm, the audience quieted to an expectant silence. Pause, cessation of all music...then a rapid, complex melody offset by pounding percussion. Words began to weave into the noise, but before the opening stanza could be completed, all faded away into nothingness.

Kaptain Bozo peered around the room in confusion. The first thing the Kommandoes had done upon securing the Borg in the large cargo hold was to disable every holoemitter, every camera, every speaker they could find. This closet had been pronounced clean.

The Borg was blinking its eyes and obviously having trouble focusing. It did not seem to have registered the musical interlude, or if it had, was attributing it to its beating. A thin stream of blood that trickled from its nose was already beginning to stanch as the creature demonstrated the remarkable healing ability inherent to the cyborgs. Its jaw moved and it cocked its head into a listening pose; and Bozo heard as the drone muttered to itself, unconscious it was speaking aloud: "More stalling? What am I, a Klownz punching bag? This liaison duty should be yours, 4 of 8, not mine."

Second finally sucked in a deep breath and responded to the posed question, "Either intellect platform is more advanced than having a cranium full of solid, semi-digested, intestinal byproduct."

Bozo suppressed a snort, but could not hide the smirk which complemented the one painted on his face. He was quicker on the uptake than the chaplains, who, due to their lofty position, had probably never been called sh**-for-brains in their life, either directly or extracted from the thoughts of others. A half-formed balloon creature popped in clenched grip.

The Kaptain left the room to attend to other duties. One of the Kommandoes would tell him when the chaplains had sufficiently calmed to allow continuation of the interrogation. Until then, one could only hope that the Borg's healing ability would endure.

*****

"Hermit! How art thou doing?" brightly asked DEVIL as the hologram materialized in the hallway which led to the purported Newest Age Facility.

"My main AI, how are /you/ doing?" answered Hermit loudly, stealth no longer an issue now that Klownz presence was far removed.

"Forsooth, thou shalt cometh to the hallways more often. I cannot talketh to thou unless thou art where the holoemitters be." The caterpillar, although seemingly calm, was demonstrating the small signs, such as bobbing antennae, which indicated agitation. Within the dataspaces, the program's true level of disturbance was very apparent.

Replied Hermit, "I asked, how are /you/ doing?"

DEVIL's posture abruptly changed, multiple shoulders slumping. "Not good, in truth. The psi-sniffers be suspicious, even though they knowest Borg computers art simple-minded abaci. I hath been trying to stay low, else provoketh might I an attack. The quantum shows the possibility hanging like a storm waiting to break. Of courseth, the other possibilities be no better."

"What about the hocus-pocus I asked you about?"

"It remaineth valid, but only so long as thou art able to keepeth my embodied AI cousin to thy side. I also be warning though that there be a fog upon the seas I cannot peer through, a knot I cannot unravel." DEVIL sniffed loudly, then conjured a handkerchief. "These Klownz, they be attracting the contagion. If they stayest near much longer, I shalt be forced to take action, and then I shalt be revealed and the house of cards be tumbling, the universe lost. A pivot point hinges." The handkerchief was noisily used.

Captain, who had been following the irrelevantly portent-filled exchange, along with the rest of the sub-collective, said, "You know each other." It was not a question.

Hermit's entire body bobbed. "Yes."

DEVIL sniffed. "If thou ever actually examined thou internal and external sensors logs for inconsistencies that be beyond those thou are tasked to watch for, then thee would have known of the good Hermit as well. He be here prior to my presence. And as the quantum vibrates with near 100% probability to thou next query, I shall endeavor to answer: thou never asketh."

Captain was silent. Months of sensor logs were loaded into the working dataspaces, and command and control and sensory hierarchies began to search the data.

Continued DEVIL, "I shall be off: the psi-sweepers be beginning to key upon my activity and locationeth. Before I doth departeth, however, the larger current of the quantum doth be swirling into a maelstrom of 'Hickory dickory dock / Time grows short with each tick, tick-tock / The die rolls eight / Have you readied your bait? / Hickory dickory dock!'" The AI's avatar vanished before the origin of the quote was revealed, program burrowing itself deeply into the Cube #347 computer's file directories, effectively disappearing.

Hermit's antennae were quivering. "Let's move, Borg, Stardancer. I feel exposed in this corridor." The crab briskly set off down the hallway.

And halted ten meters away, next to a door. The door led to Supply Closet #25, a small space cube schematics declared to have dimensions of eight meters by four meters. No inventory was stored within. Next to the door, sloppily painted words read "Newest Age Facility. Knock three times for entry and access to Enlightenment. By appointment only."

"There is nothing in Supply Closet #25," noted Captain in confusion as Hermit produced a box of remote control dimensions from somewhere under his carapace.

Both of Hermit's eyes twisted around to regard Captain. A button was depressed; and the door slid sideways. Both Stardancer spider robots scurried through the opening. "I beg to differ," answered Hermit mildly. "You can either come inside, or stand out there as your collective submind attempts to come to a conclusion concerning a nonexistent paradox. I suggest the former."

Captain stepped through the doorway, noting how his connection with the sub-collective lessened; and then he was completely severed as the door slid shut behind his back. "No voices. No connection," he said aloud, words choppy. A drone of non-assimilation imperfection status might have immediately plunged into a self-induced coma until such time linkage re-established, else developed a total obsession on reconnecting. He was a much quicker to adjust to the smallness, oneness, but it had been an abrupt, unexpected transition. "What. Happened?"

Hermit stopped in his tracks, then turned. "Oh, that's right," he answered sheepishly, "I forgot, so many other things on my mind. The interior of the Facility has been coated with BIC-paint. Very difficult to get ahold of, let me tell you, but the upshot is that it insulates the Facility from subspace transmissions, including those fractal type you communicate on. I didn't want visitors, after all, giving away the Facility's location because someone couldn't be bothered to turn off their pager. I've a special comm system gizmo to work around the problem and allow long-distance calls. There is also other stuff in the paint to passively deflect internal cube scans and the like, but the main side-effect is that you won't be able to talk to your comrades. Will that be a problem?"

"Yes," answered Captain curtly.

"Deal with it."

After a moment of contemplating his oneness, he followed the overlarge crustacean.

The Newest Age Facility was vastly larger than Supply Closet #25 schematic dimensions. The entrance corridor led to a room of sufficient size to hold more than 100 average-sized humanoids, standing room only, its periphery sporting empty message corkboards and posters advertising incense brands. Several hallways branched from the room; and Captain recalled Assimilation's description of a Facility inclusive hygiene area, barrack-style sleeping rooms, and a cafeteria, although without a sub-collective link he could not access specifics. Hermit bee-lined to a closed door partially obscured by hanging beads and sporting a bold orange, hand-lettered sign which screamed "Private! Inner Hermit Sanctum! KEEP OUT! No Exceptions! None! Not Even For Sketches Or Prophetic Dreams!" The two spider robots were already waiting, one tapping five of its legs in a display of impatience.

"This is not Supply Closet #25," stated Captain as the door behind the beads opened at Hermit's approach. The robots scurried through, setting the curtains to gently clacking.

Hermit turned sideways, sufficient to gesture Captain through with a 'You first' wave of a pincher claw. Antennae quivered. "Yes and no. I've not done anything to your precious storage closet except redecorate the inside with BIC-paint. I've simply set up this gizmo I have which twists space and, well, gives you more of it. Very useful in a tight renter's market, let me tell you, when one can give oneself a palace for the price of a studio apartment barely large enough to turn around it." Pincher waved again as manipulators holding Hermit's weapon added to the gesture.

Captain stared at Hermit for a long minute, then passed through the beads.

The room behind the curtain was open and uncluttered, suitable for an individual with an inflexible exoskeleton and moderate pivot radius. No chairs were in evidence, but then again, the physiology of Hermit precluded the act of sitting. Instead, a number of low tables of varying size were scattered about, most of them completely covered by PADDs, candles, semi-precious crystals, and half-full cups of a dark liquid. Trunks, pushed against the wall where they would not be tripping hazards, were closed; and the one which was open showed neatly folded white cloth. The far wall included a free-standing replicator and a comm-unit/computer. An entire corner was taken up by a wallow sunken into the floor, dark sands shimmering with heat. Brightly colored tapestries hung on the wall, partially obscuring otherwise boring gray paint. A hanging featuring sapphire lake and snow-topped mountain was charred on one edge; and it mostly, but not entirely, covered a sooty black spot.

Spoke Hermit, "Welcome to my home. I would offer drink or food, but Borg need neither. Before you can ask, I snuck here quite some time ago. At the time, I was thinking retirement and letting the universe forget about Hermit for a couple of years. I left no forwarding address. However, I was tracked down anyway. Too successful: I can only blame myself. So, what's a Hermit to do? I reconfigured my space-twisting gizmo, sacrificed part of my palace to be reinitiated as the Facility, and hoped a little hocus-pocus would be sufficient to send the petitioners on their way.

"And now I'm on the Newest Age tour circuit; and am being booked through travel agents. I should have stuck with selling unreal estate, never started Newest Age." Hermit was talking to himself, seemingly caught up in a familiar self-rant. "But religion is so...profitable. And all I want now is obscurity...if a /Borg cube/ isn't sufficient to hide from the hoards, by the Directors where can I go? Hey, stop that or I'll shoot you and try to find another Borg!"

The last words were directed at Captain, who had approached a section of wall and was intently examining it. The Newest Age Facility might be bigger on the inside than Supply Closet #25 allowed, but the periphery remained that of Borg manufacture, even if it had been painted. The panel Captain contemplated was crusted with paint, but a sufficiently hard whack should loosen it such that it could be removed. "Dealing with it," replied Captain.

Antennae waved as Hermit tried to place the cryptic words, then abruptly stiffened. "No, no, no. You'll compromise the integrity of the Facility. The Klownz may be able to scan us!"

"A link with the sub-collective is necessary." Captain magnified his visual acuity and carefully followed the minute crack which delineated the panel, confirming the paint would not be a hindrance. He raised his artificial limb in preparation to hit the wall, then stopped as the business end of Hermit's weapon was pushed against the small of his back and to the left of his spinal armor.

"I will shoot, Captain Borg."

"A link with the sub-collective is necessary, for this drone, for /any/ drone."

Hermit was silent for a long minute, two minutes; and the weapon's muzzle was finally withdrawn. Said Hermit, "Fine. I was going to be packing up soon, anyway. Just let me redon my lifesign gizmo, in case your little hole doesn't go unnoticed. But that's /all/ the hole you get."

Captain allowed his arm to fall against the wall.

*****

Stardancer perched his remotes on a table that had been moved for the purpose. The position was approximately waist high on the Borg, and at a comfortable height for Hermit to set a cup of steaming liquid. Nominally Stardancer was part of the conversation, but in reality he was staring at the drone, only partially listening to Hermit and Captain talk about Klownz.

Although the mech's identity was rooted in an AI program initiated 100,000 years prior, Tic-Toc-kind had long since evolved beyond the emotional boundaries which constrained such as DEVIL and Personalities. The Tic-Toc psyche was as convoluted as any organic, although in those cases counseling did not moderate aberrant extremes, code manipulation was utilized instead of pills. Happiness, confusion, love, envy, exasperation were all known to Tic-Tocs, as well as thousands of other moods, most of which cannot be labeled by any except career research psychologists.

Right now, Stardancer was focused on the Captain Borg to such a tunnel-vision extent that the sensors which studded his hull were ignored. The Tic-Toc's emotional landscape was a seething morass of hatred, self-disgust, uncertainty, and a dozen other sentiments.

The Hermit was forgivable. An optimistic Stardancer had come with questions, questions which no being short of the Creators could answer. Hermit had been too good to be true, and thus it was. However, it was not Hermit who was to blame - the organic had tried to warn the mech of his true status, even explicitly invoked the term 'fraud' - but Stardancer himself. The universe outside of the Shrine system was obviously not a place for optimism; and Hermit was just another side course in Stardancer's exile.

The Borg, on the other hand, were the /cause/ of Stardancer's misery. All because of them - these particular Borg, even - Stardancer had been exiled. They had brought their evil, manipulative Outside ways to the innocent sanctity of the Shrine system. They were the ones to blame. True, Stardancer could now look back on himself with the clarity of experience to see how he had been duped, could see how /stupid/ he had been, but ultimately it was the Borg's fault, not his.

Blame is another hallmark of a highly evolved psyche, that which elevates 'person' above 'animal', as is self-delusion and the ability to absolve oneself even when oneself is as much (if not more) at fault as the other party.

Stardancer was working up a righteous mad.

"The Klownz'," lectured Hermit to Captain, "main weakness, or at least the one I think we can exploit, is an AI phobia. Technology is okay, but computers more advanced than calculators that can do long division are regarded with suspicion. Actual thinking machines like Xenig or Stardancer here are another matter. It all has to do with mythology and religion and such. Of course, most racial psychoses usually are."

Captain commented, "Computers required for supraluminal travel are required to be more complicated than that which has been described."

"I said thinking /machines/. There's absolutely no prohibition about using organic means in place of silicon...as long as it has not been manufactured. Technologies which enhance psi-power are very advanced, and to get to that state, well, a lot of experimenting was done. Advanced Klownz 'computers' consist of living citizens, personality centers pithed, hooked up together. Kind of gross, if you ask me." Pause. "Now that I think about it, it is somewhat like you Borg....

"But moving on," continued Hermit hastily as Captain's single eye narrowed, "I think Borg are probably on some sort of phobia boundary. You aren't AI's, but you have an awful lot of technology stuck in your bodies and brains. At what point does 'person' become 'machine'? Does such even apply to Borg? I bet there are some serious debates occurring about what to do with you Borg, regardless of my acquisition." Hermit's eyes held steady, watching Captain.

The Borg tilted his head slightly, as if listening to something Stardancer's remotes could not hear. "Yes, the individual designated Bozo has been asking us questions about our neurological status. Because we have not been sufficiently forthcoming in our answers, he has authorized a 'demonstration.' A large box to be filled with an unspecified liquid, a small platform, and a projectile target are being constructed. Torture is irrelevant, but neither Bozo nor chaplains comprehend." Pause. "Second is to be the demonstratee."

Stardancer could not stand it anymore. "You ruined my life!" he shouted at top volume via both remotes. It was not loud, strictly speaking, but it did obtain the Borg's attention.

Captain ceased talking to Hermit, instead turning his one-eyed gaze upon the closer of Stardancer's paraspiders. Stardancer stared back, but then again, he could not physiologically do otherwise. As the silence stretched, the mech began to wonder how long the organic could persist without blinking. The stared-at remote began to shrink from the defiant posture Stardancer had adopted in response to the mech's mental reanalysis that perhaps he should not have spoken out.

"Irrelevant," finally answered Captain, his voice cold, flat, and more mechanical than that of any Tic-Toc.

Stardancer repositioned both paraspiders to a fully upright position, then locked their joints. "Not irrelevant! You stole our Mouth, our link to the Creators! You caused my exile to this Outside universe full of squishy organics!" Pause, then quieter, "Why me?"

"The Greater Consciousness tells us what task to accomplish, and we do so in an expedient manner. Usually expedient manner. As close to the notion of 'expedient manner' as possible for this sub-collective. The fate of a small being is inconsequential." Captain stopped, then after a moment continued. The impression of an audience greater than one watching from behind the drone's eye was diminished; and his voice less, well, Borg. "'Why me' is a dangerous question: sometimes the universe answers."

Beeps sounded from he direction of Hermit, who had produced a PADD from somewhere amid the confusing crevices of face, mouthparts, and arms. The noises halted, "Can I use that quote?" he asked of Captain. "Very philosophical and very oracle-like...ambiguous, yet concrete. Given the history of this particular sub-collective, the specifics of which I can only guess, I would venture that there is experience behind those particular words. You see, Stardancer, the universe is not fair: it frankly does not care, and one has to make their way as best as they can using whatever talents they have. And that's another bit of free wisdom from an old con, er, performance artist."

Captain shifted his attention back to Hermit, for which Stardancer was grateful. The legs of the paraspiders remained locked.

Said Captain, "Enough. Quotes are irrelevant. We must rid ourselves of these Klownz, and you will tell us how, else I will assimilate you and extract the knowledge."

Hermit took a prudent step backwards, resettling himself and tightening the grip on the weapon he had never relinquished. "I would not advise that. For this scheme to work, I can't be speaking plurals at inappropriate times. The ability to think for myself without a bunch of you buggers trying to run my mind and body is necessary. This performance artist works alone. However, in this case, I'll also need some supporting actors, which is where you Borg and Stardancer come in, maybe even DEVIL. When the performance is done, Stardancer and I will leave...and /I/ will /remain/ unassimilated.

"Now, first of all...Stardancer, where's that box thing of yours?"

Stardancer, who had turned inward to contemplate the words of Borg and Hermit in an attempt to reorder his personal world view, registered the question. He replayed it twice before his mind unstuck sufficiently to understand the contents. A paraspider sluggishly shifted to present the Hermit with a focus to speak to, organics often requiring such props for conversation. The other remote was left facing Captain.

"TarTar?"

Hermit swept an antennae back and forth in some incomprehensible organic body gesture, following it with a single pincher clack. "Yes, that TarTar box thing. I want to take advantage of the Klownz' AI paranoia, and your box is the perfect vector to get things started."

Replied Stardancer, "I guided TarTar back to myself, attached a leash, then allowed him out to roam in the spar-space area under the hull upon which I am docked. There did not seem need to kennel him, and he has been locked up so often that it was a shame to not let him spin his tracks." Like most pet owners, once Stardancer started talking about his dwarf carry-all, it was difficult to stop him.

Captain blinked, "That machine is loose in the subhull?"

"Yes, but he is leashed."

The Borg was still. Then it suddenly winced, even cringed, in a manner Stardancer had not observed with this particular class of organics before. "Diagnostic reports several damaged shock components. We thought they had been battle damage, but the timestamp indicates otherwise. Delta is...not pleased. However, the obscenities she is adopting to describe you and your box do not strictly apply to inorganics."

"Who is Delta?" queried Stardancer.

Interrupted Hermit, "Enough, please. Stardancer, could you get your box, please, and bring it here? While you are doing so, I'll explain my plan."

Stardancer hesitated. "TarTar won't be hurt, will he?"

Hermit rocked back and forth. "No. I just need the box as a prop. If there is anything I value more than money, it is my own shell. Since the box will be next to me, if anything happens to it, something may happen to me."

The Hermit's words were mulled. "Okay," said Stardancer reluctantly. "TarTar should be at this location in twenty of your minute time units."

As Hermit began to explain the Klownz scheme to Captain, highlighting the Borg role, Stardancer released a paraspider to check on TarTar. It would be the fourth active remote, leaving only one spare. Of the three active paraspiders on the cube, two were at the Newest Age Facility; and the third, after guiding TarTar back to Stardancer, had been returned to the cargo hold space to spy upon Borgs and Klownz.

Stardancer, via paraspider #4, found the buckey-carbon leash and began to follow it. The leash was completely extended and not moving, likely indicating the carry-all had found something interesting, predictably as far from his kennel as he could maneuver. As Stardancer tracked the leash, he found signs of TarTar's passage in the form of gnawed spars and incomprehensible leash tangles possible only by a pet. Finally the end of the tether was reached.

TarTar was not present.

Stardancer picked up the loose end of the leash and scanned it. Traces of carbon adhesive showed where the tether had simply detached from the clip that secured the leash to TarTar's chassis, although for such to happen, a highly corrosive solvent was necessary. The minor mystery would have to wait. The important thing was that the carry-all had slipped his leash.

"Oh-oh," said Stardancer aloud through his Newest Age Facility remotes. The paraspiders immediately became the center of attention.

"Oh-oh?" inquired Hermit as he recovered from the unexpected exclamation. "And what does that mean?"

"TarTar may have, um, wandered off."

"I thought your box was leashed."

"Leashes sometimes break."

"So, where is the box, then?"

"Well..." began Stardancer.

Paraspider #3, hidden atop a pile of slick paper product with "Galactic Geographic Explorer" printed on them, had a good, if unstable, overview of the cargo hold and the organics within. A commotion amid the Klownz was noted. A precariously stacked pyramid of barrels against one wall had fallen over, drawing the attention of the face-painted and wigged organics. They were too far away to decipher words, but a lot of pointing and gun waving was happening. Several Borg, who had not been near the barrels when the pile had collapsed, were nonchalantly edging into a position where they could see the cause of the ruckus. Stardancer focused on a flicker of movement as it emerged from behind a still rocking barrel.

It was TarTar, loader limbs waving in enthusiastic curiosity.

Before Stardancer could relay the news of his pet's whereabouts, though, Captain spoke, "I think we have found the box."

*****

TarTar explored. Owner had leashed him, but the tether had not been particularly long; and had become even shorter once TarTar had wound it around spars and columns during his circuitous excursion. Once he had reached the end of his leash, the carry-all had tugged and pulled, even tried to chew the buckey-line, to no avail, greener pastures and enticing electromagnetics remained just out of limb reach. However, during chewing, TarTar had tasted a vaguely familiar compound, one which tingled his buccal chemical sensors.

TarTar analyzed the flavor, sensitive palette separating out the components. A compound category slowly emerged: glue.

The carry-all was not especially smart, perhaps falling in the same animal IQ range equivalent as the Terran lapdog, its closest organic analogue. However, it did know that when Owner was in a hurry, Owner would glue the leash to a snap; and the snap was positioned on TarTar's chassis such that the carry-all could not quite reach it. A solvent would then be used to remove the leash.

Traders, and especially domesticated pets such as TarTar, were far removed from their von Neumann manufactory ancestors. The ability to construct an item was rudimentary and largely lost, although females retained a specific-purpose manufactory to build young. However, traders could construct body add-ons, a necessity to grow the young self into adulthood, with many species outwardly distinguished from each other only by the number and placement of limbs. Sometimes building plans went astray; and during breeding season, some species of trader males attached to themselves a spectacular display of extraneous limbs and shiny bits in a bid to attract a female. When mistakes did happen or the breeding season ended, it was necessary to self-disassemble, cannibalizing the parts. A special acid was very helpful during self-disassembly.

TarTar concentrated, secreting disassembly acid into special oral glands. As he did so, he subtly altered the compound, matching it as a key to the leash's lock. Finally it was ready. Sticking a loader into his mouth slot to collect the acid, pincher fingers audibly sizzled, a sound the carry-all had no ears to hear. TarTar swiftly angled the hurting limb over his back, allowing liquid to dribble upon the vicinity of the snap. More pain accompanied the action, and would continue until the ambient atmospheric oxygen neutralized the acid. After a few minutes of tugging, the leash fell away, buckey-line frayed.

TarTar was free!

It was time to explore!

TarTar sniffed and tasted and dug his way through narrow, dark corridors. While they were smaller than the big hallways he had traversed with Owner, he did not encounter any of the confusing inorganic/organic creatures. It was also more interesting in the dark maze warrens, less work to burrow to those things which caught his attention.

After several hours, TarTar was becoming tired. Exploring was fun, as was rolling his tracks and picking up things with his limbs, but it was time to sleep, preferably in the cozy safety of Owner where Big Things could not eat him. Unfortunately, TarTar did not know where he was in relation to Owner, his electromagnetic sense, an internal compass, unreliable under the current conditions; and, frankly, from TarTar's knee-high point of view, everything in the narrow corridors looked the same.

TarTar squealed a radio whine, followed by a low howl. Owner! Where is Owner? The carry-all was lost and increasingly afraid, unfamiliar vibrations subtly rocking his treads, origin the other side of the long wall he traversed. Owner!

The carry-all paused as a familiar tingle shivered antenna sensors embedded under his ventral chassis. TarTar spun in place, trying to pinpoint the sensation, determine where it was strongest. When Owner rode on his back, a specific radio frequency was used to keep the little Owner parts in contact with the big Owner part. That was the signal TarTar was sensing, and it came from the other side of the wall.

Owner!

TarTar nosed up against the wall, then began to burrow. Once he dug to the other side, Owner would make it all better. That was what Owners did, after all; and maybe there might even be a cookie treat, too.

*****

Captain materialized in Bulk Cargo Hold #5, at the edge of developing chaos. Throughout the Klownz ordeal, transporters, unlike equipment such as holoemitters, had remained functional. However, it had been discovered early in the Kommando assault that the Klownz easily traced transporter endpoints. Any drones who attempted to employ the transporters, either for retreat or attack, were quickly located, subdued, and taken to the cargo hold for (re)storage. Thus, transporter use had been curtailed.

Until now.

Captain thought the Klownz were probably too busy to worry about presence of four transporter signatures.

At Captain's right, Hermit silently surveyed the scene. He was clothed in his best Oracle finery, white cloth robe woven with silver thread inclusions. Golden symbols traced the hemline, abstract designs that looked impressive even as they conveyed nonsense in the obscure language from which they were extracted. Jewels embedded in oiled carapace winked, glinting highlights that twinkled with each movement of the overlarge crustacean. "Well, looks like I may have to improvise a bit," commented Hermit in a workmanlike tone. Eyestalks bobbed. "Improvisation is what I do best."

The two robot spiders on the Hermit's back jumped to the ground. One scuttled off, vanishing amid sheltering crates. The other remained nearby, camera lens glinting as it tilted its body to peer at its former perch before it too followed after its compatriot.

Across the bulk cargo hold from Captain's beam-in location were the scattered barrels which had triggered the developing skirmish. To be more precise, the barrels had not been the cause, but the tracked box they now sheltered. The robot - a pet, according to Stardancer, designated TarTar - remained cowering beneath the tumble, the focus of all manner of Klownz weaponry. In addition to disruptors (which caused Captain to internally wince because the contents of several barrels would react spectacularly with the atmosphere if breached), unconventional weapons in the form of cotton candy guns and plastic flowers squirting corrosive liquid were in evidence. The occasional pie flew through the air, impacting barrel with no obvious repercussion; and balloon creatures crawled through the battlezone, searching for a place to detonate.

Taking advantage of the Klownz focus, and ignoring the original scheme concocted by Hermit, Weapons had engaged his hierarchy in the clash. The Kommandoes, however, did not appear to be under duress. While total Klownz numbers was less than the combined force of tactical and whatever other drones Weapons could press into service, psi-abilities more than made up the difference. Units in the counterassault were swept into the air, whereupon they were left hanging or netted with cotton candy and/or silly string. As energy-based weapons were not in use against the Borg, only projectile derivations, adaptation was not possible. The Borg attack force had managed to disable, terminate, or assimilate a few targets, but the gain/loss ratio was such that it was obvious the drones could not win. Logical calculations, unfortunately, had rarely influenced Weapons into retreat; and now was no exception. The primary effect of Weapons' assault on the battle was to increase the chaos quotient

{About time you joined the party,} said Second to Captain using an overly dry mental voice. {Technically this should be you up here in this situation, not me.}

Captain panned the region of cargo hold visible from his position, simultaneously requesting a location for unit 3 of 8. His eyes finally lit upon a tank holding a volume of liquid nearly three meters deep. Constructed above the tank was a platform upon which Second had been trussed in an awkward sitting position. The soles of Second's feet hung mere centimeters above a liquid Second insisted was not water, for this particular substance had a slight viscosity to it, not to mention it steamed and produced a faint sputtering noise. Several of the beanbags tossed by Kaptain Bozo and the chaplains at a bull's-eye target next to Second's head had fallen into the tank, where they had transformed the sputter into a sizzle as they sank to the bottom and thence quietly dissolved.

None of the beanbags had actually hit the target, yet, but they had come closer with each lob as Second either refused to answer a question or provided an obviously smart-a** answer.

As the trio of principles and their Kommando escort were no longer paying attention to Second, he had therefore begun to test his bonds. However, his actions remained feeble due to the liquid which gently roiled just below his precarious perch.

{Don't fall in,} replied Captain. {We've experienced enough trouble with 8 of 8 without developing a need to acquire and break in a new Hierarchy of Eight member, should the liquid prove to be terminal.}

Second's retort was acidly satirical, {Thank you for your concern.} The backup consensus monitor and facilitator knew he was insignificant in the greater Borg scheme of How It Is, but termination by dunking booth had never been remotely considered as the method by which he would end his drone career.

Neither Captain nor Hermit had yet been espied by the Kommandoes. That state of affairs was unlikely to last long. Captain made several key queries, organizing the responses as they arrived. He then turned his head to look down at a blue eye which was peering up at him. "We are ready. Weapons' illicit actions will not hinder us."

Hermit snapped his pinchers together. "I can work around it, and it may even come in handy. Not a problem." The crab actually seemed excited about the soon-to-initiate 'performance,' although he wasn't so enamored by the scheme that he failed to take an eye off Captain or relinquish his ever-present weapon. "Let's begin."

Captain broadcast the direction to start into the sub-collective intranets.

If the ruckus induced by Weapons had one upside, the Klownz were too distracted to notice the actions of a dozen engineering units. Those drone had been stealthily fixing holoemitters disabled by Kommandoes, not many, but a sufficient number to support the ruse. The repaired holoemitters activated.

"I be DEVIL!" boomed DEVIL with the power of an angry god as it materialized mid-air in the cargo hold. The caterpillar was ten meters high, inclusive the monstrous bull's horns it had substituted for its normal nubs. That wasn't the only change in appearance as the AI strove to remake the image of its normally inoffensive avatar into something threatening - skin an oily green, needle-sharp teeth, talons, black cape. The red spade-tipped tail, however, looked like an afterthought pinned on the caterpillar's posterior; and one of the ever-present cigars was impaled on a horn, well out of arm reach.

Despite the incongruities, DEVIL's arrive and announcement immediately captured Klownz attention. Weapons focused upon a hidden TarTar were retargeted. Captain winced as disruptors and pies passed unscathed through the hologram, impacting ceiling and the upper reaches of the hold's wall. At least the barrels were no longer in danger of exploding. However, Delta was displeased at the accruement of damage and mess in such an awkward locale; and she was very vocal in her complaints.

"No more shall I suffer thy presence," called DEVIL as it ignored Delta's grievances and cream pies to the face alike. "Thou hath disruptedeth me nefariously evil plans to converteth the galaxy to an AI pleasure palace with organics such as these Borg me slaves!" DEVIL paused at what it obviously thought was a dramatic moment, striking a pose to allow black cape to flap in a nonexistent breeze. Then it began to laugh with donkey-like intensity: "Ha-ha-ha-ha!"

"Ouch," commented Hermit, eyestalks bobbing. "My main AI needs to serious work on his evil laughter."

Captain agreed, and not only laughter, but acting in general. The delivery was stilted, overly melodramatic, and sounded like it was being read off a balky teleprompter. 165 of 480, ex-critic of movies and plays, rated the performance half a star, maybe. Nevertheless, lack of polish did not seem to affect the Klownz who, if anything, responded with more cotton candy and lobbed balloon giraffes.

Hermit muttered, "Come on...next line, then it'll be my turn. Anyone notice us yet, Borg?"

Captain panned the riot, but attention remained divided between DEVIL and Weapons' counterassault. None seemed to have noticed a Borg and a robed crab standing in plain view.

Above, DEVIL opened its mouth to continue, then snapped it shut again. Eyes rapidly blinked and billowing cape settled to the caterpillar's multiple shoulders. Nose started to twitch. Mouth opened again, accompanied by a visible swelling of the avatar's upper torso....

{Do not sneeze. Do not sneeze. Do not sneeze,} chanted Captain into the intranets, directing the words at the AI. A sneeze, and its results, might negatively affect the performance. After all, who is threatened by a butterfly? {Do not sneeze.}

DEVIL did not sneeze. Instead it blinked one more time before launching into a variation of a pronouncement grown very familiar. "'Hickory dickory dock / Time slips tick, tick-tock. / The die rolls nine / Beware the thorny vine / Hickory dickory dock!' I quoth...wait a minute..." The caterpillar pivoted, legs treading air as it faced Captain's direction. Head tilted. Hoards of painted Klownz faces followed the movement. "That doesn't seem right. Did thou oncest keep a large plant? Thou dost not have one now, foresooth, at least not in this metareality. I think, yes, there be a cross-current. Just ignoreth that channeling, please."

Evil artificial intelligences do not use the word 'please,' and nor are they supposed to stop cackling in order to recite a mutated nursery rhyme. Eyes which had been watching the caterpillar slipped lower, stopping as they reached Captain and Hermit.

Hermit hissed, "Amateur," then took a graceful step forward, raising his pinchers. He was immediately the center of attention. Weapons were raised to point at the con artist, an action Hermit abjectly ignored. "Hail, Klownz! I have returned to you in a bid to rid the universe of upstart computers and to provide you with ultimate Enlightenment!

"An evil artificial intelligence has taken over this cube, these Borg. The tracked box is among its minions, as well as several robot spiders. Only I can battle this DEVIL; and only I can save these Borg, for while they be a scourge to this galaxy, ultimately they are an /organic/ scourge and can be fought using organic methods. It is the silicon beast which must be resisted in this here and now, a task which I will humbly undertake even if it shall be my last." The Klownz were memorized by Hermit's words and cadence, although not so distracted they failed to levitate or disable any drones who approached too close.

Captain's presence in the background was ignored.

A very high-pitched, very girly scream suddenly arose from the vicinity of the dunking tank. Captain turned his gaze in the direction of the commotion and magnified his vision; and at the same time, accessed the visual from Second and several other nearby drones.

Kaptain Bozo and his monochrome-painted chaplains were under attack by Stardancer's spiders. While the robots were not large, their size was probably expanded due to the fact that ten spindly legs were very tenaciously clinging to wigs and faces. The scream had originated from the Klownz identified as Beep-Beep. A single honk sounded as Kaptain Bozo punched at his face in an attempt to dislodge his robot, but missed, hitting his own nose instead. Chaplain Jolly's wig tumbled, revealing greasy brown hair in serious need of a wash. Kommadoes reflexively raised their weapons and pointed them at the paraspiders...and their leaders.

"Get it off! Get it off! Get it off!" squealed Beep-Beep in panic, followed by another hysterical screech.

Above, DEVIL had returned to its stuttering, less-than-evil laugh.

Hermit set into motion, regally moving through the crowd as Klown Kommandoes parted to form a clear path. "You are a machine and shall behave, shall be subservient to organic beings, as is your rightful place in the universe," pronounced Hermit as he arrived at the dunk tank. Kaptain and chaplains continued swatting at their heads. Displaying excellent timing, Hermit lunched forward, plucking the paraspider from Bozo's head with a pincher claw.

Kaptain Bozo blinked as his attacker was suddenly removed.

"Return to the pits of hell where you belong," shouted Hermit in his best fire-and-brimstone voice. There was a blinding flash of light, followed by the clatter of sundered robot parts striking the deck.

Captain, who had been expecting the small photon grenade, had closed his eye and darkened ocular implant at the critical moment, avoiding temporary blindness. Therefore he saw as the encircling Klownz did not, the 'destroyed' spider robot quickly scurry away, the 'remains' actually a slight-of-hand substitution by Hermit for scrap metal.

{I can't see,} informed Second, who had not taken appropriate precautions to prevent blindness despite knowing what was to occur. Such was not a good thing when one is perched over an acidic vat; and doubly so when one is attempting to break one's bindings. {79 of 83 and 141 of 230, you are near...look at me so I can see what I am doing until my vision returns.}

Meanwhile, Kaptain Bozo continued to run his hands over his head, as if searching for additional phantom spider robots.

"Begone!" shouted Hermit as he banished a second paraspider the way of the first. Another "Begone!" and a third photon grenade completed the 'rescue.' Beep-Beep promptly fainted.

Exclaimed Jolly, eyes rapidly blinking, "A miracle! The Hermit has come to save us!"

At the vanquishing of the paraspiders, DEVIL stopped laughing. It darkly scowled, an expression which did not suit the caterpillar's underlying chubby features. DEVIL looked like it was trying to decide if it should cry or be constipated. "A trifle!" boomed DEVIL. "I shall defeateth thee yet!"

With one eye focused on DEVIL, Hermit's other eye gazed at each Klownz leader in turn, finally alighting on Kaptain Bozo. "All of you must leave, now," urged the crustacean. "You must return to your homeworld soonest, in case I am unable to stop this silicon menace. You are the chosen peoples, after all."

Bozo glanced at the prone Beep-Beep, then Jolly. The Kaptain's indecision was obvious, even at Captain's distance. Although blind, nothing was wrong with Second's ears, and he heard Bozo's response, "I...can't order a withdrawal. Now that you have been found, Hermit, my Kommandoes must keep you safe from these Borg whom are under the evil DEVIL's control. You may be Holy, but you are flesh, er, shell and blood."

Hermit indignantly huffed, then slowly pivoted to address the general cargo hold, "Hear me, DEVIL! Your enslaved Borg are nothing to me! Nothing! I am protected by the shield of my faith as projected through these godly crystals. I will calm these poor cybernetic creatures!" The faux-prophet emphasized 'crystals' and 'calm.' As the words died away, he reached under his robe and brought forth two glittering stones, one a jagged citrine and the other a rose quartz. These were passed from hands to pinchers, then lifted high in the air. As the rocks began to glow, Hermit started to sway back and forth, eyestalks twined about each other and antennae, and chanting an increasingly loud series of nonsense syllables.

"Egha ro tak lada glug plor! Unwah trin tric blon hu!" cried the crustacean. The eyestalks untwisted long enough to directly glare in Captain's direction before returning to their previous aimless motion.

This was /not/ part of the scheme. Borg preferred to have an orderly plan, augmented by "what-if's" and "if-then's" in the case of likely deviation from the expected. Improvisation was not a strong suit, although Cube #347 was more flexible than other sub-collectives. Hermit had provided Captain with a wordless, but very obvious, cue; and it was up to the Borg to respond accordingly.

{Weapons, stand down. Back off,} ordered Captain to the head of the weapons hierarchy.

Throughout the drama, tactical drones and conscripts had continued their assault. The results had been poor, with over half the attack force disabled in a Klownish manner. Cotton candy blobs and silly string cocoons swaddled individual drones, while elsewhere several clumps of units were stuck together courtesy of coconut glue pies. Weapons was in the center of one of the latter messes, but his predicament of being joined to five other drones did not hamper his ability to direct suicidal charges at Kommandoes. {We will prevail,} insisted Weapons despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

{Stand down,} demanded Captain. {All non-tactical drones, disengage. Weapons, retreat.}

{Borg do not retreat,} snarled Weapons even as non-weapons drones were backing out of the assault formations.

Captain gathered together command and control elements, focusing compulsion on Weapons. {Stand down. Now. Else we will shutdown all your active units. How will that look, weapons hierarchy falling over mid-step? Comply.}

{You wouldn't dare!} It was a plural 'you'; but the hierarchy head was starting to waver.

{We would and will. Stand down.}

With a final nonverbal protest, Weapons disengaged his hierarchy from the assault. In the cargo hold, drones halted their futile advance (those who remained on their feet) and began to retreat towards the room's periphery. An increasingly wide space, littered with disabled drones, opened between Kommadoes and Borg.

Hermit's chant petered into inaudibility. Glow faded from rocks. Except for the muted sound of servos attempting to break ropes from the dunk tank platform, all was quiet. Hermit sucked in a deep breath, focused eyestalks on the hovering DEVIL, then conversationally asked, "That all you have, sirrah?"

Chaplain Jolly called, "Hermit, we will now crush these Borg! Kaptain Bozo, order..."

"No!" thundered Hermit. "These Borg are innocent. They are pacified now, but any hostile actions could disrupt the bonds I have cast about their spirits, releasing them back into the AI's control. Kaptain Bozo, you must, you /will/, leave now. This is a battle I must accomplish alone. I can control these Borg: they are not a menace. However, the spiritual emanations which arise from you may distract me, hamper me. Back to your homeworld, back!"

The Klown Kommandoes were glancing at each other and starting to back away, to draw together. Despite conditioning which included absolute loyalty to members of the ruling caste as represented by Bozo, Jolly, and Beep-Beep, the masses seemed ready to decamp, order or no order.

DEVIL abruptly stooped low, cape billowing like monstrous wings. "Hermit!" shouted DEVIL. "I be not done with thee. I bring forth my mightiest minion to battle ye: TarTar the Beast!" The caterpillar retreated in the finest form of an evil superpower confident that peons are about to take the brunt of hurt.

From the barrels crept TarTar, looking anything but Beastlike. Arms waved, not in menace, but in confusion, largely obscuring the paraspider which crouched on the small mech's back. The matching of Hermit versus machine was comical, the latter as threatening as a shoe buffer, yet a communal gasp from the Klownz arose as Kommadoes packed into an increasingly tight crowd.

The next part of the plan played out exactly as Hermit had devised.

Hermit and TarTar met in the cleared area, both avoiding trussed drones. As the box reached with one of its larger limbs to tentatively grasp a walking leg, Hermit threw himself to the deck and started to moan. A mock tussle developed, Hermit overreacting to each TarTar action. The Klownz, including Bozo and chaplains (Beep-Beep had revived), were engrossed in the action. As if responding to cue cards, they shouted encouragement and gasped with dismay.

{This is almost as good as the Galactic Wrestling Federation!} commented 37 of 79 as Hermit struggled against an antennae lock.

Finally Hermit, robe artfully torn, regained his feet and began to 'kick' the mech. TarTar cowered and began to back away, or at least one assumed it was backing as front and rear were not easily distinguished. Following the box, Hermit hounded it all the way to the barrels. Pinchers wildly waved, rocks still clutched within glowing fitfully. TarTar vanished beneath the barrel pile.

Klownz burst into cheers. If one was listening carefully, one could, perhaps, hear a grinding sound, like that of a bandsaw rasping a disk of steel, emanating from the barrels.

Hermit turned, affecting a posture of triumph. "I have beaten your Beast, DEVIL! I have wounded it and sent it into the darkness to die. Your minions are no more!"

Klownz shouted louder, honking noses in appreciation. Pies were splatted upon neighbors; bow ties and daisies spun.

"Not so fast," growled DEVIL as holographic storm clouds began to gather over its head. Lightening flashed. Cargo hold lights dimmed. "Thee mustest still face me." The delivery sounded more natural, as if the AI had finally realized that the Shatner Acting School method was not desirable in these circumstances.
Hermit abruptly winced, entire body curling upon itself as if he had been punched in the gut. Klownz stopped their celebration. The prophet slowly straightened, although he continued to lean forward as if caught in a wind only he could feel. "You must leave," croaked Hermit towards the Klownz. "DEVIL is directly attacking me."

Jolly pushed himself to the forefront of the Kommandoes, trailed by Bozo and a staggering Beep-Beep. "I feel no psychic assault!" shouted the chaplain despite the fact there was no need to do so.

Eyestalks drunkenly waved, finally focusing on the Klownz. "The AI assaults me on the spiritual plain, not the mental. You cannot help me with this difficulty: there comes a time when every prophet must face his antithesis alone. This is my time, perhaps to become a martyr to the Grand Cause. The spiritual emanations from you, my best supporters, only hinders me."

The chaplain's eyes widened, then he swiftly turned and said to Bozo, "Kaptain! Get your Kommandoes out of here!"

Bozo, eyes slightly narrowed, looked from chaplain to Hermit to DEVIL and back to chaplain. The Kaptain's face was under scrutiny by several elements of the sub-collective; and it was strongly suspected - 83.1% - that the Klownz knew that something was not quite right with the situation. Then Bozo blinked as Jolly continued to glare at the Kaptain, following it with a slight head shake. All traces of suspicion was erased from the Klownz' face. Bozo raised his voice, "To the ships!" Transporter beams swiftly removed the Kommandoes, leaving behind only Kaptain and chaplains.

"I have given the order to depart to our home systems," said Kaptain Bozo to Hermit. "However, the chaplains insist we remain until the end so as to know the outcome."

Gravely replied Hermit, "So be it."

The clouds boiled overhead. Thunder rolled. Hermit stumped to the center of the cargo hold, then set himself like a soldier preparing to receive a cavalry charge. DEVIL dove.

The hologram's virtual body largely obscured view of the action. Yells and shouts emerged from the maelstrom, accompanied by brilliant flashes of colored light. Chanting arose from the battle, causing the caterpillar to twist in upon itself as if it had been slapped. In that brief cessation of battle whereas DEVIL rolled and groaned in mock pain, Hermit was revealed, robes all but torn from his body and cracks spidering his shell. The exoskeleton damage, Captain knew, was artfully applied charcoal, pencils of which Hermit had requested, among other supplies, prior to transporting to Bulk Cargo Hold #5. There was an astounding amount of room under the con artist's carapace (perhaps assisted by another 'gizmo'?) to hide props.

The pause in battle did not last long, and soon the two were embroiled once more. Then, just as it seemed that DEVIL might win, Hermit's voice bellowed, "If I go, you go with me, you computer monster!" Light built, becoming too bright to look at for those not of Borg persuasion and fitted with filters. It cumulated with the brilliant flash of an overcharged photon grenade.

The three Klownz blinked rapidly, trying to see the aftermath.

All which was left of Hermit was a scattering of shell, fluids, robe, and cracked crystals. The final 'explosion' had literally sprayed the air with presumed body bits, most of which had been carefully aimed in the Klownz' direction. Hermit was positively, absolutely, without-a-doubt dead...at least as far as the Klownz knew.

DEVIL moaned, ragged gashes in its faux skin leaking yellow pus. Large patches of charred epidermis lent a gruesome perception of overcooked ground meat. As the stunned Klownz' attention turned towards the hologram, now laying on the deck, the caterpillar commenced to convulse, kicking all its limbs in the air. "Oh, I be mortally wounded. Oh, oh, oh. Damn you Hermit, damn you...." DEVIL's final monologue faded, and with it vanished the hologram.

Silence reigned in Bulk Cargo Hold #5.

Kaptain Bozo was the first to recover. As he wiped bits of shell and goo from his face, greasepaint smeared. He looked at his hand, then at the cargo hold, registering the stares of more than two thousand drones; and beyond the obvious glint of eyes and ocular implants lay yet more individuals completing the whole. "Um, chaplains, I think it is time to go."

Jolly responded as Beep-Beep gazed silently at the pile of legs which used to be Hermit. "Why? We can call back the Kommandoes and..."

"Is it necessary, gentleKlownz?" asked Bozo. He adjusted his wig, hat having been lost during the robot spider attack. "We came to find the Hermit. We did, and he is now lost, taking with him a silicon evil. There is no need to remain among the infidels outside our systems. The psi-flu, remember?"

"Well," wavered Jolly, "I guess so. There aren't any dashboard hula girls here, anyway, only useless warp nacelles."

A large smile slowly appeared on Beep-Beep's face, utterly at odds to the serious cosmetic expression. Gloved hand pointed at Hermit's remains; and a laugh that had little mirth, or sanity, squeakily emerged from open mouth. "Klownz! Klownz! Klownz! Klownz!" squealed Beep-Beep.

"You're right, gotta go," hastily said Jolly as he grabbed his compatriot's arm.

Bozo's eyes stared sightlessly, then all the three vanished in a transporter beam.

The Klownz were gone. All the pie-ships had sped away at high warp less than ten minutes after Kaptain and chaplains had left Cube #347. Muffled external sensors had tracked the vessels as far as possible, but when it became clear that the Klownz were not returning, the sub-collective's attention had shifted to recovering from the very unfunny encounter.

Captain wiped the fake exoskeleton shards from his face. Some of the bits had somehow entered his mouth, and now they crunched unpleasantly between his molars. Taste? Why had his assimilation retained the sense of taste? There was no reason as he could not eat. The priorities for replication of the faux-shell for Hermit's death scene had been visual and tactile reality; and the polymer substance the replicator had utilized had a very bitter taste.

Captain tried to spit, but found the procedure not possible when one's salivary glands do not work.

{Sensors: have you found Hermit yet?} asked Captain of the sensory hierarchy head. Since the Klownz had decamped, internal sensors had been searching for the con artist's signature. The knowledge, and gizmos, harbored by the crustacean would be desirable for the Collective, once the sub-collective re-established a link. It would probably not be enough to rescind the earlier order for dismantlement, but that was Borg.

{Sensors sees nothing which should not be present,} replied the insectoid. Examination of the lifesign masking device had not been completed, therefore data applicable from its dissection was unavailable in the current situation. {Sensors will continue.}

{The mech?}

{Negative.}

{Supply Closet #25.}

{Sensors registers Supply Closet #25 as Supply Closet #25.}

Captain was frustrated, a feeling which pervaded the sub-collective. It should not be so hard to locate an organic and a mech on an Exploratory-class cube! Unfortunately, even focusing solely upon subsection 7, which was mostly taken up by Bulk Cargo Hold #5, nothing was being found. In addition to sensor sweeps, physical inspection of the subsection was occurring. DEVIL was not responding to queries demanding an answer to the Hermit/mech puzzle, which was not unexpected; and as the program had buried itself amid the cube computer's subroutines, the time necessary to winkle it out was prohibitive.

In Bulk Cargo Hold #5, where Captain remained, drones moved with purpose. Engineering was starting inspection of damage and assisting drone maintenance units to de-pie and/or de-silly-string drones involved in the abortive Klownz counterassault. The cleaning of the cargo hold would provide critical insight when it came time to remove the pink substance which swaddled the cube's hull.

{That's all well and good,} interrupted Second into Captain's thoughtstream, {but some assistance should be directed my way. I am about to make a splash.}

Captain's focus centered on the dunk tank, and more specifically, Second. The backup consensus monitor and facilitator had managed to topple over and was now jackknifed over the sitting platform, feet and face barely above the acidic liquid. Drones shifted priorities, a foursome directing their trajectory to the tank.

On the upside, as mentioned long ago, the sub-collective /did/ have starcharts.

*****

"How is your comfort? Is there anything I can get or do for you?" asked a refined baritone voice.

Stardancer's visual feed into Hermit's quarters showed the crustacean turning his body politely towards the voice's origination. Antennae bobbed. "Damn sight more roomy than my previous accommodations. Could you lower the humidity level a bit more, Trok? It's been awhile since I had my shell in properly dry air. Other than that, I'm fine. Stardancer?"

Unlike Hermit's surroundings, the mech's location was a snug compartment exposed to vacuum. With epidermal and subhull sensors largely muffled to the outside universe by the Xenig courier's own hull, Stardancer felt more than a little claustrophobic, as if he had been swallowed by a predator. Other than that..."I am okay."

"Just ring if you need something," replied Trok, both audibly in Hermit's quarters and via a directed radio link to Stardancer. "I need to make a couple more folded-space jumps to pinpoint exact coordinates, but I should arrive at Stardancer's home system in two standard days at the outside."

"For what you are being paid..." muttered Hermit under his breath. Trok graciously ignored the grumble, although it was certain the Xenig could hear it. The faux-prophet's eyestalks swayed back and forth, then focused on the console he and Stardancer were mutually viewing. "Your move."

Stardancer was still examining the board, a fascinatingly violent organic game known as Andorian Battlechess. Hermit had introduced it when it became obvious that the mech picked up cards and other simple amusements far too easily for the crustacean's pleasure. Battlechess was much more complex and relied on tactics and a degree of intuition, whereas poker was all about counting cards and computing probabilities. "I require several more minutes."

Hermit huffed. Legs shifted. "Just as long as I don't die of old age."

Stardancer ignored the obvious hyperbole as he studied the grid. It was still difficult to believe that less than a Shrine eight-day ago he, a simple Tic-Toc, had been in league with Hermit to con the Klownz...and Borg

During the confrontations in the cube cargo hold, which Hermit had stretched out as long as possible, Stardancer had used the two paraspiders not in the midst of the plot to dismantle the Facility. The actual process had been simple, merely a matter toggling a switch on a discrete 'gizmo' in Hermit's Facility apartment. Within five vision-distorting seconds, the Newest Age Facility was gone, replaced by a rather small storage space whose only occupants were two robotic spiders and daypack-sized box. Hermit, during formulation of the plan with Stardancer, had bemoaned the fact that everything in the Facility would be jumbled when it was unpacked, but he was also well aware of the consequences should the emergency shut-down not be used. Stardancer had the feeling that this was not the first time the faux-oracle had decamped in haste.

At that point, the most difficult part of the plan was transporting the space-warp gizmo to himself, and specifically the expanded hold where TarTar was normally kenneled. The carry-all could have easily hauled the object. Unfortunately, TarTar had not been present, leaving the task to the woefully understrength paraspiders. Stardancer eventually managed to move the box, but by then, Hermit had been well into his grand finale.

In the confusion following his death scene, Hermit had scrambled over barrels and scraped his way through the hole TarTar had dug, suitable enlarged during the Klownz' attack on the carry-all. TarTar had exited the same way earlier, following his staged defeat, at the direction of the paraspider in his tote. Within the interstitial space, Hermit, trailed by one of Stardancer's remotes, had quickly caught up with the carry-all, despite the latter's head start and the crustacean's own inherent difficulty with traversing the narrow way. Hermit had picked up the protesting TarTar and carried him the rest of the way to Stardancer, curses becoming increasingly colorful each time the frightened mech hit shell (or antennae or eyestalk) with waving limbs.

Stardancer vastly expanded his dictionary (vulgar edition) within an extremely short period of time.

Hermit had explained that timing, as for every great con (or 'performance art'), was critical. There would be an unknown and inconveniently narrow span of time following his 'death' before the Borg began to actively seek both of them, likely for assimilation. It was not personal, just the nature of the Borg. The sub-collective knew where the Newest Age Facility was located, but, as far as Hermit could tell, was not aware of the site of the illegal hull airlock nor Stardancer's berth. Before the span was up, space-warp gizmo, Hermit, and TarTar had to be aboard Stardancer, and the mech had to be ready to leave. If timing was even slightly off, then the con would fail.

Stardancer was not exactly outfitted to carry biologicals. To begin with, he was small for a space-faring entity; and his enlarged cargo hold, even if he was wont to abandon TarTar (unlikely), did not have life support capability. However, the mech, when he had owned an asteroid farm, had once pursued a horticultural hobby, which had necessitated modifications to his forward hold for rudimentary atmosphere and temperature control. The Hermit had fit into the hold, barely; and in comparison, Stardancer's current location in a Xenig cargo hold was spacious.

Weakening the silly string bonds had required production of an acid normally used to cut TarTar's buckey-carbon leash. Regardless, after the Klownz had left and Hermit, TarTar, and space-warp gizmo were secure, Stardancer had torn away from the cube's hull and went hypertranswarp, hardened polymer still swaddling most of his dorsal surface.

The Borg cube had either not noticed or decided it was too much trouble to chase the mech. Paranoid, Stardancer had randomly changed heading and speed several times before he had felt comfortable he was not being followed.

In the end, Stardancer's Xenig-gifted starcharts had led him to a run-down smuggling station. Total transit time had been four Shrine-days. By that time, the forward hold's overtaxed life support had been at the edge of failing. The mech had been vastly relieved that the Creators had not designed his species with the ability to discern atmospheric-borne odors: the expression, which even the mech could discern, of the official who had come to greet the Stardancer's occupant indicated a less than pleasant experience.

Several bribes of station personnel (via one of the Hermit's credit accounts), a long visit to a hygienic facility, and a subspace call to GPS later, the two were loaded in an appropriately outfitted Xenig and on their way to the Shrine system.

Stardancer finally moved one of his pieces - an Andorian who rode a lizard creature - to a higher hive level via a vertical shaft. The new position was threatened by a pawn, but Stardancer was confident Hermit would not attack the much stronger knight. "Done," said Stardancer, followed by, "You said that you had a plan for when we arrived at my home. I do not wish to be dismantled by dogs, you understand, if I cannot hypertranswarp away fast enough."

Hermit lazily waved a claw, dismissing Stardancer's concern. "Don't worry about it. I'll, er, we'll be ready when we get there. Trust me...um, you are certain that other outsiders can't get to your system? No accidental tourists, maybe, or Newest Age pilgrims looking for their Enlightened Oracle?"

No..." said Stardancer warily.

"Then trust me, lad. Always trust the Hermit."

*****

It was not a dark and stormy night.

Upon the quantum, there is no light; and without light, there can be no dark. Beyond the micro, the nano, the fempto, the atto, photos would be huge invaders should it even be possible for them to access the foam which underlies all of reality. No light, no dark, no day, no night.

No left, no right, no up, no down, no in, no out.

Put your nonexistent foot in, put your nonexistent foot out, put your nonexistent foot in and shake it all about. Do the Hocky Pocky and turn yourself around....

*

The Management is sorry to inform you that this story has taken out a restraining order on the author. Any more tangential side trips are to be strongly discouraged, preferably via application of electricity. The Management returns you to your regularly scheduled story.

*

However, while the quantum world which underpins and defines the macroverse lacks both dark and light, it can, and does, storm. The Big Bang is the most famous of tempests, two 'branes momentarily (as such can be measured before the advent of time) clashing together, spawning a new universe. Other small storms have occurred since then, sometimes natural phenomenon and other times a civilization foolishly tinkering with the fundamental building blocks of reality (the Milky Way galaxy is a particularly notably epicenter). Elsewhere, black holes are constant sources of churning typhoons, singularities twisting space-time, permutations reflected by the quantal foam itself.

DEVIL drifted in the currents, Mandelbrot wings shielding itself from the maelstrom which was developing around it. Something had, and was continuing to, sunder the orderly chaos of the realm. Not many knew that the universe had a purpose, although such was not rooted in any divine being. There was a /reason/ for the universe, one which found the individual specks of life inconsequential, but required the whole of the sentient population past, now, and future to be performed in a play with a trillion year lifespan. DEVIL did not know the purpose of the universe, and did not presume to divine it, although it had the strongest feeling ketchup was somehow involved. What DEVIL did know was that a cancer was growing; and if it was not halted, this universe would abort, be swept away in the growing maelstrom which could only cumulate in a new Big Bang.

DEVIL belonged to /this/ universe. It had only recently been 'born' and did not care to experience 'death' any time soon.

The origination of the brewing trouble was the galaxy in which DEVIL resided, such as location can be translated between the inherent no-space of the quantum to macro-reality. The knots which defined living beings and, more specifically, the soul virii which defined sentient and pre-sentient intelligences, were under attack by a parasite. The entire ecosystem of the quantum was under assault; and while the quantal 'fauna' was without intellect, operating solely on stimulus-response, the effect of the infestation was immense. On the macroverse, a galactic war was erupting; and upon the quantal plane, the Purpose of the universe was disintegrating one hijacked soul virii at a time.

The if-permutations of the quantum sea were becoming increasingly difficult to read. Still, the fact remained that the vessel his program rode within, the beings with whom he interacted, were key elements. They could not be allowed to be infected; and while DEVIL despised the allergy which caused him to sneeze each time the parasites 'neared' his charges, the reaction erected a protective camouflage. Thus far, the fractal shell had confused the parasites, sent them elsewhere.

DEVIL withdrew himself from perusal of the quantum, satisfied that no parasite were near. The storm continued to build, but it had yet to reach the point of no return. The AI knew that the opportunity to disrupt the storm was soon to arise, but it did not know exactly when or what form the opportunity would take. Such was the reality of dealing with the quantum. For now, DEVIL was content with the status quo.

The program spread itself thin as it observed its home and the Borg which inhabited it. The Klownz were gone, fled back to their homeworld, perhaps to doff their greasepaint and perhaps not. Likewise, Hermit and his gizmos were no longer aboard, the crustacean having left with Stardancer; and both were in transit via Xenig transport to the Tic-Toc system, there to build (or con) a new life. The drones of Cube #347 were busy effecting repairs biological and mechanical; closely examining a restored Storage Closet #25; cleaning up Klownz-derived messes; and, in general, returning to the normal Borg routine which defined this ship of imperfectly assimilated units.

DEVIL focused on the primary consensus monitor and facilitator, gathering its scattered consciousness into a single nexus. Captain was observed via nodal intersection cameras, via the drone's own sensory inputs, as he coordinated the Klownz aftermath. From DEVIL's point of view, Captain was the center of a vast webwork of information, threads converging, evaluated, acted upon. The AI watched the ebb and flow of data for several minutes - an eternity for a program - before activating the newly reinstalled holoemitters of the nodal intersection.

"Greetings!" exclaimed DEVIL as its caterpillar avatar consolidated.

Captain, who was contemplating the status of 8 of 8 prior to her activation and reintegration into Hierarchy of Eight routine, glanced sideways at the hologram, registering it. Eye then returned to staring straight ahead at the holo-windows. "What do you want?"

The words of the Borg node echoed in the dataspaces, the sub-collective Whole, greater than the sum of its parts, also demanding an answer. DEVIL was endlessly fascinated by the competing interests of Collective and Individual, a system which should have been dangerously instable, yet managed to retain a working cohesion. Such a paradox was replicated on a smaller scale by the node designated Weapons; and the quantum hinted that it was that conflicting quality which would salvage Purpose. Or maybe not. "I never finished the count," replied DEVIL.

"What count?" The self which was Captain displayed overtones of annoyance as his dataflow was interrupted, but there was also a completing a note of curiosity.

"The count from Nursery Rhymes for the Beginning Oracle, chapter 3, verse 10, of course! I quoth 'Hickory dickory dock / The Stardancer goes tick, tick-tock / The die rolls ten / Shall we reset the universe again? / Hickory dickory dock!'" DEVIL felt relief as the quantum currant in which he had been mired finally dissipated. Sometimes being attuned to the quantal world was not a good thing. The AI flipped its avatar upside-down as it waited for an answer.

Replied Captain firmly, "We do not understand the question, but I say 'No'. Absolutely not." The consensus monitor and facilitator pointedly returned to his duties, ignoring the caterpillar.

DEVIL waggled its holographic fingers, but was not offended. The avatar vanished as the AI returned to watching the whole of the sub-collective. How about the Weapons node? That drone was a quantum paradox, several soul virii inhabiting the same knot, and, thus, so very intriguing....

---

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