*sniff* Sta Trek is own*cough* by Paramount.  Decka writes *snort*snerf* Sta Traks.  
*sneeze*(ugh) BogSpace is constructed *cough* by Meneks.

Achoo!  Ew...that's just plain gross.  Wanna shake my hand?

				Gesundheit

Once upon a time it was a normal day, for a certain imperfectly assimilated Borg sub-
collective on the Collective vessel Cube #347.  Then an armed singularity torpedo was 
discovered in a little visited supply closet.  

There was an argument about whom would disarm it, of which Delta and engineering 
hierarchy won.  

Followed by a perfect storm in an area of space infamous for its boring emptiness.  

Into which a swarm of midget ships appeared and began to attack Cube #347, before 
being diverted by a second swarm of equal proportions, at which time the cube was 
caught in the middle.

Then a hat dropped, and by a series of unusual coincidences, the singularity torpedo 
exploded.

Kabloomy!   (Oh, yes, and someone sneezed as well)

**********

	"Look at that!"
	"Can sombone gib me a hanky?"
	"Look at that!"
	"Or a tissue?  A tissue woub werk."
	"Look at that!  Snot all over the place!  You are the disembodiment of a /mouth/, 
not a nose!  Where did all that snot come from?"
	Lips noselessly sniffed as the other Critic present produced a large floral print 
hanky.  It was noisily used.  "Oh, shut up.  You're an eyeball, but you are perfectly 
capable of speech without a mouth.  Don't want to argue about stupid metaphysics and 
symbolism and such."  Lips gave another good blow into the hanky, smearing purple (or 
maybe yellow) lipstick.
	Iris was silent for a moment, then waved a nonhand at the Board.  "But look at 
that!"
	Slightly green streamers of snot draped over the Board, dice, table, everything 
which was the role-playing game of Reality the Critics and Directors engaged in.  The 
Editorial staff, already miffed at the problems this particular Board was having, would 
sure to be further unamused.
	Orb carefully picked up a game piece shaped like an octopus mated with a 
brontosaurus, then hidden under a really bad toupee.  It dripped snot.  "You know, we 
may have slightly larger problems than a little Board instability here," it said cautiously.
	"Why?" snapped Lips.  It missed the shock of realization by the other Critic.  "It 
was only a sneeze.  Maybe I'm getting a touch of cold or something."
	"A Critic with a cold?  Think about..." began Orb.  Its sentence was unexpectedly 
drowned out by the blare of klaxons through the Complex, alarms which only activated 
for two reasons, and no Big Bang was currently scheduled.
	"Hold that thought," shouted Mouth over the piercing noise, "'cause we may have 
even bigger problems:  the Auditors are coming!"

			*	*	*	*	*

	This just in!  The Second Federation has officially declared war upon the Orion 
Syndicate, Big Bob's Used Shuttle Barn and Warship Rental franchise, and Paulina Ann 
Swarznik of Legos II's Retirement Castle for Active Old People.  Remember, GNN 
brought it to you first.  For all your news needs, tune to GNN!  Now, some biased sound 
bites from the GNN stable of Walter Kron clones:

Walter Kron clone 1 (WKC1):  "Why the declaration of war, Mr. President?"
Second Federation President:  "At stake is the survival and stability of the Second
	Federation!  Vital resources are at risk!  Specifically, used warp nacelles are now 
	a strategic commodity, although the reasons why are classified.  We have politely 
	asked that all warp nacelles be delivered to the nearest Starfleet representative, 
	but those so named in the war declaration have belligerently refused...especially 
	Miss Swarznik.  Why, Miss Swarznik /assaulted/ an Appropriations for Peace 
	officer with a handbag, by my report, before turning the entire Retirement Castle 
	into a fortress against the Second Federation!"
WKC1:  "Will there be additional war declarations?"
SF President:  "It depends.  All one needs to do is hand over those old, moldy used warp 
	nacelles.  No big deal.  I understand the concerns of those like the Antique Shuttle 
	Club of Terra, but I implore you to think of galactic security!  A little 
	inconvenience is acceptable!  The Borg Collective is on the move, and all 
	Security permits me to say is that used warp nacelles are /vital/ to your survival as 
	individuals."
WKC1:  "Thank you, sir."

			*	*	*	*	*

	A flash of bright light lit the interior of Supply Closet #57, blinding the optics of 
Delta and her assistants.  Unexpectedly, sight returned...unexpected because one does not 
normally expect to see anything when one is dead.  Termination, however, was not to 
happen in this particular moment.
	The singularity torpedo was cracked stem to stern along its dorsal surface.  From 
formerly hidden hatches rose fitfully crackling sparklers throwing capacious amounts of 
smoke.  They framed a small banner which read "BANG!" in Borg writing, a language 
appropriated millennia ago from species #1.
	The stunned intranet silence (other than routine chatter and data requests) would 
have been perfect for an anticlimactic {Kabloomy!}, except 129 of 212 remained in 
regenerative stand-down.
	A green sparkler gutted.  A red one threatened to catch the banner on fire.
	The weight of the universe with its myriad of other problems - storm, feuding 
mini-warcraft, plasma fire - abruptly returned with impatient insistence.  Only, two of the 
three major problems...weren't.
	The storm had stopped as suddenly as it had begun, as if it had never raged in the 
first place.  No more transient spatial anomalies; no more denied access to subspace.  If 
Cube #347 had been in a suitable vantage (and, more importantly, had retained sufficient 
imagination), it would have been noted that a certain star sextuplet no longer vaguely 
resemble a duck's head.  While it now loosely looked like another portion of fowl 
anatomy, such had little significance to the here and now except for a certain proto-
civilization several thousand light years distant about to receive a mass hallucination 
which would open the path to agriculture, the wheel, and, eventually, greasy fast food.  
The lack of storm was minor compared to the immediate fates of Cube #347 and 
the species #3829 swarms.
	{Snot,} declared Sensors as she warily eyed a grill at the base of her alcove area.  
It had just flickered with the distinctive shimmer of plasma and she had no wish to lose 
her right front walking leg if flicker became gushing torrent.
	In his nodal intersection, Captain blinked, then triggered translator algorithms to 
attempt retranslation.  "Snot" was returned once more with notation of 99.3% probable 
accuracy.  Such was very disturbing, for "snot" was exactly what the substance which had 
so abruptly halted the genocidal skirmish appeared to be in visuals as well.
	The reality was much more complex, and unable to be accurately classified by 
Borg sensors, even those tweaked by a certain insectoid hierarchy head.  Ribbons of 
quantum flux substance had consolidated throughout the local volume of space, criss-
crossing in a tangled cobweb.  The strands were tangible, but had no discernable gravity, 
mass, or other qualities which are fundamental definitions of a "thing."  Only a founding 
in obscure mathematics and dead languages could describe their complicated half-
existence.  For the majority of the universe not comprised by beings burdened with 
overlarge brains and pocket protectors, the physical manifestation of the quantum unflux 
strings was that of ropy, sticky, yellow-green snot.
	The snot had ensnared Cube #347 and the entirety of the two swarms.  Even 
missiles had been snared mid-flight; and in some cases were mere meters from impacting 
targets.  A babble of species #3829 accusations and slurs (mostly the latter) were quickly 
arising on radio frequencies as each swarm blamed the other and promised slaughter to 
the youngest cub.
	Simultaneity.  It is complicated.  The singularity torpedo did not explode; the 
storm ceased; the universe blew its nose without benefit of a hanky; and rival Lilupithi 
swarms promised horrendous retribution involving intestines, sporks, and hot charcoal.  
Blurring together to provide little opportunity for reaction, much less understanding of 
the situation and how to proceed, the fourth variable to Cube #347's equation abruptly 
demanded attention.
	The raging plasma fire had reached primary engineering in subsection 14, 
submatrix 14 at the heart of Cube #347.

			*	*	*	*	*

WKC2:  "The hustle and bustle of the 'Retirement Castle for Active Old People' orbiting 
	the resort planet of Legos II is all around me.  However, Miss Paulina Ann 
	Swarznik, five year resident, has been willing to take time out of her busy 
	schedule to talk to me, GNN, the galaxy.
	"The question on everybody's mind, Miss Swarznik, is why?  Why defy the 
	Second Federation?"
Paulina:  "Piffle!  Those hooligans came to take Betsy from me.  True, I can't drive 
	anymore, but Betsy on autopilot can still get me to friends, the casinos, and my 
	hair appointments."
WKC2:  "And Betsy is...?"
Paulina:  "My top-of-the-line Klingon 'Terror-wagon 4' runabout.  She's painted blue.  I 
	bought her brand new 70 years ago.  Really, it's not like the average citizen can 
	afford, or need, anything faster than warp; and when they came to steal Betsy, I 
	put my foot down."
WKC2:  "And a handbag into the officer's face, as well as the other foot to..."
	Paulina:  "And the cretin deserved it!  I'm not some old lady to be pushed around!  My 
	great-great grandma was a Cardassian, you know; and my brother swears that 
	there's Klingon blood swimming in our family veins, probably from a certain 
	indiscretion several generations back."
WKC2:  "And what are your plans, Miss Swarznik, now that the Second Federation has 
	declared war on you?"
Paulina:  "Well, since this war declaration has interrupted /all/ our schedules here at the 
	Retirement Castle, I've convinced everyone that we should make a stand.  At the 
	very worst, I know someone who knows someone, so I can smuggle Betsy away 
	from here."

			*	*	*	*	*

	{Emergency!  Emergency!} inanely screamed the Cube #347 computer as it 
supplied details on a secondary datastream.  Plasma temperature and atmospheric density 
in subsection 14, submatrix 14 were not especially helpful.  The computer, while it could 
recognize danger, was too fundamentally stupid to do anything about it except spotlight 
the obvious.
	Delicate electronics were frying, bubbling, vaporizing in the stellar inferno which 
was Primary Core.  Fifteen drone signatures, those of engineering hierarchy who had 
been performing routine duties - even in the midst of a crises, routine in the form of gum 
in unwanted places slogged onward - in the Core were no more; and thirteen others who 
had been the non-plasma side of the blast doors when they had automatically slammed 
shut where the province of drone maintenance.
	Captain silenced the computer mid {Emerg - }.  While the vinculum had not yet 
re-established contact with the Greater Consciousness, the Collective had long ago 
enumerated the myriad of failures which could occur on a Borg ship and devised the most 
efficient countermeasures.  It was programmed instinct, consultation with the Mind 
unnecessary when the difference between survival and termination was measured in 
milliseconds.  Captain, command and control, the Cube #347 sub-collective acted.
	The central shafts, access points for dry-dock machinery, sliced through the cube 
along X, Y, and Z axes.  They, in turn, connected to subsidiary shafts that fronted tier 
walkways, turning the interior of a Borg cube to an interconnected honeycomb.  The 
shafts, major and minor, where not weaknesses due to the complex series of bulkhead 
doors which acted as vast armored partitions.  During normal operations, all bulkhead 
doors were closed.  However, the star attempting to take up residence in Cube #347's 
heart was anything but normal; and the huge partitions along central shaft #1 ponderously 
slid open.
	Subsection 14, submatrix 14 was exposed to vacuum.  To an outside observer, 
such as those on the Lilupithi warships, it appeared as if Cube #347 was in the act of 
explosion.  Those sufficiently near and caught in line with central shaft #1 did not have 
time to refine initial impressions.  For others, it swiftly became clear Cube #347 was not 
exploding, merely lighting a fart in a most spectacular manner.
	Plasma fires throughout Cube #347 extinguished, although not without major 
collateral damage in many cases.  As central shaft #1 doors slowly returned to their 
normal locked positions, damage reports began to filter through the dataspaces.
	{Emergency!  Emergency!  Emergen - }
	Captain silence the computer again (and the accompanying 
bagpipe/foghorn/bullfrog-death-rattle klaxon).  One of the impairments was apparently 
the freezing of the computer in catastrophic mode.  Outside on the static battlefield, the 
Hanky of Doom had yet to appear.
	In Supply Closet #57, the final sparkler spat its last purple spark and extinguished 
itself in a puff of smoke.  The banner caught fire.  Overhead sprinklers popped out of the 
ceiling and began to rain a mist of fire suppressant chemical guaranteed to stain 
everything in the compartment yellow.  Supply Closet #57 was rapidly evacuated, 179 of 
310 muttering how it would require /weeks/ of scrubbing and polishing to remove the 
yellow streaks already forming on her torso.
	{Damage report!} demanded Captain from his nodal intersection.  Of the many 
priorities clambering for command and control's attention, damage from fire and battle 
was the current priority (much to Weapons' disappointment).  A large holograph of Cube 
#347 floated in front of Captain, slowly turning to continuously display colors 
representing degree and seriousness of damage.  There were a number of too-bright 
florescent spots indicating accidental cross-linkage with some element of Sensors'-
controlled databases.  Simultaneously, a second hologram, this one configured as a flat 
screen, scrolled the holographic cube's alphanumeric list equivalent.  Both representatives 
were only paid fleeting consideration, Captain's focus faced inward by the volume of data 
and crises demanding attention.
	Subsection 14, submatrix 14 was a vast unknown, both in the dataspaces and on 
the ignored cube hologram.  More than sufficient redundancy existed such that 
performance was only minimally affected, but once connection (the vinculum was still 
not responding!) was re-established with the Collective, the Greater Consciousness would 
require information on how much dry-dock repair was necessary...this time.  Cube #347's 
warranty was long since voided.
	Delta, both of her, had beamed from Supply Closet #47 to Door 14-14a.c5, one of 
the several internal partitions which had deployed when plasma had compromised 
Primary Core.  It was stuck, fused shut and warped from the miniature star which had 
temporarily occupied volume on the other side.  All the partitions had suffered similar 
fates, but Door 14-14a.c5 appeared from the outside to be the least affected.
	"Higher," curtly ordered Delta, body A, as body B roughly spray-painted a line on 
the door for the plasma cutter to follow.  The three drones manning the piece of "adapted" 
mining equipment directed the muzzle to the indicated point.  Delta hastily removed body 
B from the field of fire.  The cutter on its tripod whined as its capacitors charged, then 
discharged, point blank.
	Follwing a flash of brilliant white, the cutter settled to a steady working beam of 
dull blue.  Little was known of what was to be found on the other side of the door.  The 
few simple sensors which had survived only indicated that the plasma fire was 
extinguished.  The cutting beam followed the spray paint outline, deviating only slightly.  
Delta, as engineering hierarchy head, ensured her assigned drones had better hand-eye 
coordination than that of certain notorious weapons designations.
	The cut was completed; and the beam was silenced.  "Point it elsewhere," ordered 
body A as Delta body B sidled up to the door.  The edges of the cut were rapidly cooling, 
sliding down the spectrum from white "instant incineration" to a dull red "only slightly 
very hot."  Delta placed both limbs against the relatively cool central part of the slab and 
pushed.  The remnant door fell inward.
	No outward rush of plasma.  No instant termination.
	Delta stalked into Primary Core to begin damage assessment.

			*	*	*	*	*

"Ear wax!  Ear wax! Ear wax by the ton!
Ear wax!  Ear wax!  Ear wax on a date is no fun!
When your female turns away
On that supposedly romantic day
Then you know you really should have used Waxination!"

"Waxination brand Ferengi ear wax candles, for the desperate male courting a too 
fastidious female.  'Personal hygiene, it works. (TM)'"

			*	*	*	*	*

	Primary Core was a blackened mess.  None of the eleven Power Core/Engineering 
spaces were particularly vulnerable to outside damage due to layers of cube bulk between 
them and vacuum, but Primary Core was supposedly more so.  However, even Borg ship 
designs were not armored against an extended plasma bath while being rattled by both 
battle and natural phenomenon.
	The imperfect sub-collective of Cube #347 was very good at turning the outside 
long-shot to a nearly sure thing.
	{It smells like fried pudding under sub-console 28.4af.  The organics are 
scorched,} noted 115 of 240, one of many similar reports as the squad of engineering 
drones slowly cleared debris and tallied damage.  Only the periphery of the room near the 
lasered door was clear, with priority to work inward to the vinculum to learn why it 
continued to be a large blank in the sub-collective consciousness.
	226 of 230 paused as something went *crunch* under her foot.  She peered 
downwards.  {62 of 230, maybe?  No transponder, but that bit of carapace armor has a 
star design alike to the one he lasered onto himself.}  The words were directed to drone 
maintenance.
	While the snot had abruptly stopped the battle and slowed the flow of incoming 
patients to a mere trickle, drone maintenance was still overwhelmed to the point 
assimilation hierarchy was lending dubious assistance.  Confirming the designation of 
terminated drones and determining salvage potential was of very low concern at the 
moment.  {Push the crispy critter aside,} absently responded Doctor, the majority of his 
attention on triage surgery.  {It'll be doggie bagged later.}
	{Compliance,} said 226 of 230.
	"No!  Don't pull the spar that..."  *CRASH*  "...way."  Delta watched as several 
tons of plasma-weakened metal avalanched to the deck as a single keystone spar was 
shifted too much.  141 of 240 was dragged away - transporter locks were not functional 
in Primary Core - with two crushed legs; and 119 of 310 was substituted for 141 of 240's 
designation on the work roster.
	"About..." began Delta, body B.
	"...time," completed body A.
	The abrupt clearing of debris, or, rather, redistribution to those areas already 
emptied, had exposed the vinculum.  A towering form which squatted literally and 
figuratively at the center of all Borg vessels like a spider in its web, the vinculum had a 
swooping elegance which suggested its design was not a Collective original.  In fact, such 
was true, the housing lifted from species #7 blueprints for a civic restroom/PA system.
	Delta picked her ways through the mess, flanked by several drones of the damage 
assessment squad.  The lack of dataspace vinculum presence was most likely due to loose 
connections.  After all, the thing was the Borg equivalent of an airplane black box:  
designed to survive even when the rest of the vessel crumbled around it.  Sure, maybe the 
outside was a bit discolored and the overall frame somewhat warped, but the core was 
surely intact.
	Surely.
	Delta's bodies slowed as the group began to identify minute details which 
suggested something was Not Right.  Panels on the vinculum which should have been 
secure were hanging open or outright gone.  Charred wires.  A scrap of bright paper 
which had somehow escaped the plasma.  Delta used body A to grab the lattermost item, 
peering down at it.  The list of drones terminated in the plasma fire was consulted.
	{Where was 205 of 240 hiding his firework stash?} queried Delta to the general 
sub-collective.  Silence.  {Where?  Or I'll request assimilation and command and control 
hierarchies to interrogate each drone until I receive an answer.}  "Interrogation" was 
accompanied by a visualization of an invasive procedure which three times out of ten 
severely scrambled the interrogatee's mental architecture.
	132 of 230, in subsection 5 investigating damage to central shaft #1 from the 
plasma fountain, slowly raised the metal equivalent of a hand.  {Which one?}
	{The one which may have been in Primary Core.}
	{Oh.  That one.  Er, the vinculum.  All the "special" items.  He calculated they 
would be less likely to be found if they were in the vinculum.}
	Delta crumbled the scrap of brittle paper in her body's hand, reducing it to ash.
	205 of 240 had had a propensity towards fireworks.  The bigger, the better.  He 
was not an arsonist, and in fact disliked expending his fireworks.  He did, however, like 
to collect novelties, or "specials."  Most species usually discovered fireworks shortly after 
a few black powder alchemists dropped unwise chemicals into the mortar in an explosive 
quest of "I wonder what this will do."  As the basic firework is black powder combined 
with a metal to provide color, the basic variations were few.  It was the cultural oddities, 
such as one which used live weasels, which 205 of 240 coveted.
	205 of 240 had been forbidden to have fireworks.  Prohibitions were often 
ineffective from turning imperfectly assimilated drones from their fixations, and such was 
true for 205 of 240.  The vinculum had been the perfect place for the "Extra-Special" 
fireworks, the ones which had been the jewels of 205 of 240's collection and which he did 
not wish to have flushed to space for weapon hierarchy's targeting practice.  Except for 
requirements of minor regular maintenance, the vinculum was self-contained with most 
servicing occuring at a unimatrix by specialty units.
	The vinculum was capable of surviving immersion in the corona of a star.  It 
could withstand a plasma bath.  Gravitational anomalies were shrugged off.  Even a 
singularity torp, as long as it did not directly impact the housing, was survivable.  
Unfortunately, the vinculum had never been designed to have a firework finale of epic 
proportion occur /inside/ the casing, triggered by the heat of plasma.
	Cube #347's vinculum was, quite simply, slagged on the inside.  The housing 
remained serviceable, if a bit blackened, but the housing did not a vinculum make.  It was 
the insides which chained a sub-collective to the Greater Consciousness via fractial 
subspace frequencies.
	8 of 42, first to the vinculum, tentatively flicked a finger against a melted flange.  
There was a dull ringing noise; and black ash shifted from open panels.  Then, with a 
booming crack the flange fell off.  The entire vinculum shuddered and began to cave in 
on itself, raining a curtain of dust.  While fitfully working local ventilation systems would 
require several minutes to clear the air, visual frequencies able to pierce the cloud showed 
a pile of scrap where the supposedly indestructible vinculum once stood.
	{I wonder if that is covered by our extended warranty?} quipped Second into the 
stunned internet silence.

			*	*	*	*	*

WKC3:  "Ah!  The depths of depravity is the Orion Syndicate:  if you want it, it can be 
	supplied.  I am in the slave pens, waiting for my auction where I hope GNN will 
	buy me back, but first, Overseer Gralti outside my cage has decided to provide me 
	with an 'Orion on the pen floor' view.  Overseer, how do you view this war 
	declaration?"
Gralti:  "Don't bother me much.  I knows people, and my cousin - he's real big in the 
	personal armaments trade - says thats the declaration will be good for business."
WKC3:  "But the declaration is on the Orion Syndicate, not other people who'll need 
	illegal guns, supplies, and slaves."
Gralti:  "I may just bes a lowly whip-touting bastard with excellent prospects for 
	promotion at my next review, but the Second Federation won't stop at us.  What 
	abouts the other governments stockpiling nacelles, not to mention all the Colors 
	and Borg Collective?  Nah, Orion's just a start.  You see, before long, they'll be 
	lots of customers.  My cousin says he's gettin' inquiries now...and that loony old 
	human at Legos II has placed a substantial order, I hears."
**Indecipherable announcement on the public announcement system**
Gralti:  "That's your lot being called.  If you'll step to the cage door, I'll gets you on your 
	way.  And I'll only give you one or two bruises to remember your stay here by.  
	However, if yous want a good scar or broken bones, I can do thats too.  We aim to 
	please."
WKC3:  "How very kind of you!"

			*	*	*	*	*

	{We need repairs!}
	{Fix it.  Fix it.}
	{The vinculum requires some duct tape and ultra-superglue.}
	{More than /some/ duct tape.  A lot of duct tape.}
	{Unimatrix dry-dock.}
	{Unimatrix.}
	{Unimatrix.}
	Except for individuals continuing to espouse a variation upon vacuuming 
vinculum debris and fitting them together like a hugely complex puzzle using duct tape 
and glue, the growing consensus was a pressing need to visit a unimatrix.  Or at least find 
a (Collective) Borg vessel and move close enough to link with its vinculum and ask for 
direction from the Mind.
	Cube #347 out of contact with the Greater Consciousness was nothing new.  
Many times - much more than the normal sub-collective - the link had been severed; and 
even in the best of times, the gestalt Mind ignored the imperfectly assimilated sub-
collective except for routine data transfer.  However, in the long history of Cube #347 
and its predecessors, the prospect of total severance with no possibility of reconnect had 
never occurred.  Temporary, yes, but not permanent.  The lack of a vinculum was 
devastating, even to Cube #347 sub-collective.
	Captain and command and control coldly leaned hard upon those individuals who 
showed signs of panic.  Panic would lead to a potentially fatal feedback loop.  In many 
cases, a drone was simply smothered by sheer mental weight, stock cliches repeated over 
and over again.  A few instances required a designation's energies be redirected to 
his/her/its personal obsession, a universe where even lack of Collective connectivity 
became irrelevant when the pressed plant collection demanded alphabetical reordering by 
genus.  A very limited number of drones were declared complete basket cases and 
regulated to deep regeneration.
	Slowly the mental chaos controlled; and slowly the /need/ to find a unimatrix for 
dry-dock repair consolidated into concrete priority.
	A holographic starchart shimmered into pseudo-reality in front of Captain's face 
in his nodal intersection.  He gazed at it with more than his physical eyes.  A hand was 
lifted, finger outstretched, in preparation to point.  Pause.
	"You are standing on our destination, Second," rebuked Captain to his backup 
consensus monitor and facilitator.
	Second, surrounded by stars like a junior deity, said, "Oh.  Attempting the 
dramatic, I see."  He shuffled sideways, head now occupying a nebula, his body most of a 
minor starfaring civilization whose understanding of physics locked them in a culture of 
sublight generation ships and whose religion prohibited usage of the radio frequency.
	A finger stabbed out, pointing at a simulated sun around which invisibly orbited 
unimatrix 013.  "We go there."  {Consensus.}
	"That's all well and good," interrupted Second into a moment which required 
dramatic music, "but how will we arrive there?  We are going nowhere fast."
	Oh.  The unknown material which uncannily resembled snot.  The holo of stars 
vanished.
	"Second, sometimes one can do without a sarcastic voice of reason," said Captain 
as he turned to face holographic projections of a more prosaic screen variety.
	"Sometimes one would wish not to be imperfectly assimilated.  We can't all have 
our desires, now can we?  Desires are irrelevant, after all," blandly replied Second.
	Captain sighed.  Blink of eye.  "Go do something Secondish elsewhere.  I know 
there are things that require your supervision."
	"We are an imperfect sub-collective, but a sub-collective nonetheless.  I am 
performing my duties adequately right here."
	Captain swiveled his head slightly, glowering as he saw a face utterly devoid of 
expression to the point of purposeful nerve disconnect, then returned to staring at 
holoscreens.
	Problem:  Cube #347 could not move.  No amount of power fed to engines would 
break the snot bindings; and warp/transwarp/hypertranswarp was not an option because 
the webbing interfered with attempts to establish a static warp shell.
	Solution:  make engineering do something.
	Even without a connection to the Greater Consciousness, on-board archives 
contained an astounding amount of data about how to break, burn, or otherwise destroy a 
substance; and if engineering files were inadequate, weapons hierarchy contained an even 
greater store of destruction waiting to be unleashed.  The problem was the uniqueness of 
the situation.  Cube #347 had experienced many things, but being caught in a web of snot 
was new.  Maybe the Collective in its long history had encountered a similar scenario and 
retained a ready resolution.  Unfortunately, without a link, Cube #347 could not depend 
upon a Collective solution.
	Delta was beginning to feel the load of so many physically active drones.  A 
primary weaknesses was her inability to activate her entire hierarchy at once and 
adequately manage them.  Once 80% activity (about 800 drones) was reached, efficiency 
began to drop as individuals, simply put, decided to do things their own way or not do 
them at all.  Delta could not be everywhere at once, neither mentally or literally.  As it 
was, a large number of drones were assessing and performing repairs around the cube.  
With trepidation, Delta activated an additinal hundred designations, putting herself at 
75% total hierarchy activity.  Those hundred were dispatched to the hull to begin snot 
removal trials.
	19 of 230:  {Hydrofluoric acid does not work.  It does, however, make a nice hole 
in the hull.  And my foot.  Whoops!  Could someone grab that leg before it drifts too 
far?}
	{Try the plasma torch.  More plasma.}
	{Grenades, anyone?}
	{Never mind.  I think we just made it harder.  That /is/ a lovely purple shade, 
though.}
	{By making an exact clay sculpture, we can...}
	{This is vacuum, but I'm on fire!  Extinguisher!  Haste would be good about 
now!}
	{One banana, two banana, three banana, four!}
	Explosives.  Saws.  Plasma cutting tools.  Voodoo magic.  Acid.  Drills.  Chants.  
More explosives.  One at a time, methods of snot removal normal to highly bizarre were 
attempted and abandoned.  Both hull and individual drones suffered, but the snot - 
including the two meters now purple - resisted all.
	18 of 19 peered at her assigned partner as something materialized in the other's 
hand.  {What is that?} she demanded suspiciously.  The right side of her body was 
already blackened from an impromptu experiment involving high explosive paintballs.
	{Tuning fork.  Middle C,} curtly replied 126 of 310.  He was leaning more than a 
bit to his left, internal gyroscope balance out of kilter from a seriously mis-swung 
baseball bat.  {I need to retune my aura before we proceed to the next item on our list.}
	{A tuning fork in vacuum?  There is no sound here.}
	{Not sound.  Vibrations.  The aura responds best to vibrations.}  The words were 
delivered with a 'duh' attitude.
	18 of 19 rolled her eyes before turning to ready the various flashlights which were 
materializing on the hull next to her.
	126 of 310 grasped the tuning fork by the stem and blithely struck it against one 
of the waist high snot strands which tangled over the hull.  The tuning fork soundlessly 
vibrated in middle C; and 126 of 310 closed his eyes to better feel the realignment of his 
aura.
	{The snot!}
	{Quiet.  You will untune me.}
	{The snot is dissolving} insisted 18 of 19, broadcasting both words and visual to 
the entire intranet with a priority flag.
	126 of 310 snapped open his eyes.
	At the point the snot had been hit with the tuning fork, it was indeed dissolving.  
Like fast-motion photography of melting ice, holes were appearing in the strand, 
enlarging, merging.  As the two drones watched, the snot parted, the ends vibrating.  
Unfortunately, the process was not self-perpetuating, and only three meters of webwork 
"melted" before the process stalled.
	{Hit it with the tuning fork again,} insisted 18 of 19.
	126 of 310 retorted, {Tuning an aura is a delicate...}
	{Hit it with the tuning fork!} roared Delta, backed by most of the other hierarchy 
heads.  Assimilation was too busy debating exactly what hue of gray the snot represented, 
or if it was an entirely new clade.

			*	*	*	*	*

Bob:  "Here at Big Bob's Used Shuttle Barn and Warship Rental, we strive to please all 
	our customers, from the individual to the warlord looking to go on a system-wide 
	rampage.  No-sir-ee, no discrimination when it comes to our fine products."
WKC4:  "Mr...Bob.  Your name is not actually Bob, is it?"
Bob:  "Nope.  I'm not Big Bob, if that is what you are getting at.  When you buy into the 
	franchise, however, one of the legal stipulations is to change yer name to Bob.  
	I've done so many years ago and not looked back since.  You in the market for a 
	nice Warbird?  Got one in recently, single owner, you can barely see the scorch 
	marks on her starboard side; and the charred smell inside is barely noticeable."
WKC4:  "How do you think this war declaration will affect you, and the franchise in 
	general?"
Bob:  "May slow down sales of our warp models, as the customer isn't going to be happy 
	to have a new purchase appropriated the moment it goes off the lot.  I - and that 
	goes for all Bobs up to Big Bob - don't want to just give the stock to Second 
	Federation, however.  So many lost credits!  And as far as the warship rental, 
	well, a significant part of the stock is being deployed remotely by a couple of the 
	franchise's Personalities to provide lot security.  The ships may be unavailable for 
	sale or rental now, but by demonstrating them in action, I'm sure the customers 
	will be queuing up later."
WKC4:  "Thank you, Mr. Bob."
Bob:  "So, need a shuttle?  I've a nice little roadster over here, only 50,000 light years on 
	her, guaranteed."

			*	*	*	*	*

	The web of snot was being detuned.  Hundreds of middle C tuning forks had been 
replicated; and even the one in Supply Closet #57 which had set off the prank singularity 
torpedo was being employed.  126 of 310 had been forced to return to regeneration, 
claiming his efficiency was impaired by the scrambling of his aura from too many 
conflicting vibrations.
	On the hull, engineering teams, supplemented by other hierarchies, moved 
between strands.  The snot was hit by a tuning fork, then followed as it melted, middle C 
vibration hastening its demise.  And it had to be middle C.  Experiments with other 
frequencies generally produced no result; and the less said of a certain extra-low D-sharp, 
the better.
	However, the hull of Cube #347 was only the beginning.  Sufficient volume had 
to be cleared to establish a static warp shell.  In the end, after several aborted 
experiments, consensus decreed that flying drones like ambulatory vacuum kites was 
most efficient.  Models showed the cube as a whole would not vibrate in the correct 
frequency, assuming a large enough mallet could be constructed to set it to ringing.
	The Borg activity was not lost upon the species #3829 swarms.  Intelligent beings 
that they were, the use of middle C tuning forks was quickly ascertained.  Unfortunately 
for Cube #347, not only were the midget ships much easier to clean, but they /did/ vibrate 
at the correct frequency when their sublight engines were detuned to a teeth jarring (not 
that the species had teeth to jar) mode of operations.  One after another, species #3829 
freed themselves and began to slowly limp through the snot maze like lukewarm knives 
carving rock-hard butter.
	The swarms' battle was resumed, albeit in slow-motion and requiring the 
necessity of ramming as missiles could not be fired through the snot.  Cube #347 became 
even more important in the deadly game of hide-and-seek, with the increasingly clear 
volume around the vessel as the only place missiles could be reliably launched.
	14 of 310, one of the many drones "flying" at the end of carbon-fiber "strings," 
urked as a midget warship zoomed past, following on the heels of a missile which it had 
just released.  He threw a tuning fork at it, several replacements strapped to his body in 
the case of accidental loss.  {Watch where you are going!} he yelled in an unBorg 
manner despite the fact the mini-ship could not hear.
	The tuning fork missed the Lilupithi vessel.  Unsurprising.  It spun prongs over 
handle away from 14 of 310, twisting on its way to forgotten space debris oblivion.  Or 
that should have been its fate.  Instead it glanced off a snot strand beyond the border thus 
far cleared by the Cube #347 crew, rapidly hitting a second and third and fourth webline 
in succession like a ball in a pinball machine.
	TILT!
	The strands, all close together although not immediately connected, began to 
sympathetically vibrate.  Unlike the quickly dampened singular strands cleared by Borg 
drones and Lilupithi ships, these ones fed off each other, building the vibration in 
neighbor strands faster than affected webbing could melt.  The entire snot structure was 
suddenly unraveling at catastrophic speeds.
	{Oh-oh?} voiced 14 of 310 as the first explosive release of energy was seen as a 
flash of light.  One Lilupithi vessel which had yet to master the middle C tuning of its 
hull was sliced in half as a snot strand whipped through it as if it had not been there.
	Helpfully offered Sensors, {Sensors thinks she sees changes in [electrical outlet] 
of the underlying [photo] due to [negative quilts] and ...}  The explanation burbled on, 
rendered by universal translator algorithms to an increasingly eccentric collection of 
[dirty tea towels] and [puce grass carpets].
	A strand lashed at Cube #347, narrowly missing 14 of 310 ({Pull me in!  Pull me 
in!}), but cleanly removing a small corner of the cube itself.  The corner was immediately 
tractored by Delta, ignoring Weapons' protests of her usurping tractor function, as every 
little bit lost was a little bit that would otherwise have to be rebuilt.
	On the plus side, the collapsing snot network was opening a volume large enough 
to establish a static warp bubble.  Maybe.
	{Inside,} ordered Captain as emergency transporters snatched drones and dumped 
them within the hull at random and not always comfortable locations.  Several units 
would have to be removed from interstitial spaces which were too tight to accommodate 
the drone body in question.  {Prepare for emergency supraluminal translation.}
	"In other words," said Second aloud, "hold to your figurative hats because we are 
about to go on a bumpy ride.'
	Snot arms sliced through a species #3829 asteroid carrier/armory/repair bay on 
the periphery of the battle.  The explosion was spectacular, if small.  Yet, despite the 
danger around them, the two geneline clans continued to engage in mutually destructive 
behavior.
	A static warp bubble solidified; and Captain engaged hypertranswarp.
	Blackness!
	Said Delta, {There is a small power outage in subsection 17, submatrix 10, 
centered around nodal intersection #19.  Non-critical.  A drone will be dispatched as soon 
as more critical systems are stabilized.  Estimated time to repair is 67.3 hours.}
	Captain turned towards the sound of Second leaving the nodal interaction for the 
dimly lit alcove tier; and a switch to infrared showed the backside of the departing 
secondary consensus monitor and facilitator.  Captain knew better than to try to trace the 
"electrical fault," for without at least an hour of dedicated runtime, the outage would 
continue to be reported as an innocent short.  And perhaps in this case it was.  But 
probably not.
	Captain set Cube #347's course for unimatrix 013.