Hear ye!  Hear ye!  This court of Star Trek is now in session, the honorable Paramount 
presiding.  For the defense of Star Traks is Mr. A. Decker.  Performing bailiff duties is 
BorgSpace's own Meneks.  Counsel will now call the first witness.

				Devil's Advocate

	For continuous, award-winning coverage of the news you love best, GNN is your 
only station.  Literally.  Especially following the recent unfortunate mishaps with Lynx, 
Byline News, and all our other competitors.  GNN, however, is committed to being your 
number one news source:  why go anywhere else, even if you could, when you have 
GNN?  Now we return to our being-on-the-street reactions to recent Second Federation 
developments with our favorite stable of Walter Kron clones!

Walter Kron Clone 5 (WKC5):  "Welcome back to GNN's ongoing coverage of the 
	situation at Legos II's 'Retirement Castle for Active Old People'.  Miss Paulina 
	Ann Swarznik, whom some have taken to calling the 'Centurion Admiral', is 
	taking time out of her busy schedule to talk to you, our faithful audience, 
	personally."
Paulina:  "Thank you, dearie.  What a lovely introduction.  Much better than the other 
	clone that was here earlier.  Whatever happened to the fellow, anyway?" 
WKC5:  "Unfortunate accident with a bat'leth, ma'am, when he was trying to secure an
	interview with the Klingon Death Squad that tried to board you two weeks ago.  
	The camera hasn't been released back to us yet, so we are not exactly sure the 
	sequence of events, but be sure that it will be aired when the recording is secure.  
	Enough about me and my kin, Miss Swarznik, how is the situation with you?"
Paulina:  "Well, after my hairdresser relocated to the Castle, everything has been peaches 
	and cream.  Last night I got /three/ Bingos; and wasn't K'sita from Room 3B mad 
	as a wet hen!  The things I could tell you about K'sita...unfortunately dearie, such 
	things are not appropriate for tri-V."
WKC5:  "Um, that sounds nice, Miss Swarznik, but I think the viewers would rather have 
	an update on your struggle for freedom and independence."
Paulina:  "Shoot!  Ever since Betsy showed back up, everything has been quiet.  Of 
	course, anytime someone hostile comes within weapons range, Betsy eats them.  I 
	had no clue those old 'Terror-wagon 4' runabouts came with such special options, 
	but Betsy's AI - bless her silicon heart - has explained all about the factory mix-up 
	and spatial anomaly.  I know she's not telling the whole truth, but she seems so 
	happy to deal with all the hooligans, which is just fine with me since my personal 
	schedule is so full.  Why, this very afternoon I have to go see the doctor about my 
	bunions, which are acting up again; and...."

			*	*	*	*	*

	"I think we have found the problem," said Delta body B sardonically as she 
pointedly stared at one particular location on the perimeter wall of Maintenance Bay #5.  
The fact that the room (and the submatrix, plus several adjacent tiers) was pitch black 
except for targeting lasers, obligatory blinking lights, and a single flashlight did not 
particularly hinder the resident drones.  Infrared, sonar imaging, there were many 
alternatives to sight.  However, tooling around in the dark was not highly efficient for the 
majority of Borg whose primary sense was dependent on the visual spectrum.  It was 
Delta's job to determine the cause of the local blackout and fix it.
	She also would have liked to use some of her more exotic tools on a particular 
cybernized rodent, but certain censure filters still held, even if others were eroding within 
the sub-collective due to lack of the stabilizing influence of a vinculum, coupled with 
extended non-linkage to the Collective.
	Doctor seemed oblivious to the swirl of hostile thoughts originating from the head 
of the engineering hierarchy.  Instead he stood on tiptoe as he tried to look over the 
shoulders of the taller engineering drones which blocked direct sight of the wall.  Failing 
that, he backed up slightly and piggybacked onto the visual stream of one of the two units 
accompanying Delta.  "What is it?" asked Doctor, ears lifted alertly.
	Delta stepped away from the wall, then sharply gestured with the flashlight at a 
mess of cords, all of which converged onto a single outlet.  "There is not even a /power 
strip/ here, just one plug splitter after another!  You not only blew the fuse for this 
maintenance bay, but the fuses for the entire submatrix and then some!"  She picked up a 
string of what would have been colorful twinkling lights, had there been power.  "I do not 
wish to know the why of this, but its addition is what finally, and fatally, overloaded the 
system.  Unfortunately, we've gone beyond the point of unplugging a few things, as fuses 
are blowing even on grid sections which should be isolated from here.  The larger 
question looming in the minds of many is /why/ you plugged anything in here to begin 
with?  Everything should be wired directly to the converters tapping the sub-bulkhead 
energy conduits."
	The presence of an external electrical outlet, seemingly anomalous to an outsider, 
was not questioned by Delta, or any drone.  Due to reasons related to wholesale 
assimilation of designs by the Collective, Borg vessels had acquired what could only be 
described as technical appendices.  Their presence, or absence, neither benefited nor 
detracted from normal operations.  They, like the plug socket in Maintenance Bay #5, 
could have been removed any time in the last eight millennium, but never had due to lack 
of driving necessity for the Greater Consciousness to do so.
	Doctor glanced over his left shoulder at a diagnostic machine which had a power 
cord crudely spliced to an access port on its side.  An unknown blue goo was leaking 
from under the unit.  Delta narrowed her eye as she caught a thread of nervousness 
escaping from the hierarchy head's otherwise too neutral emotional spectrum.
	"Is there necessity to fumigate before this maintenance difficulty can be fixed?" 
verbally asked Delta.
	Doctor's body stiffened as his ears were pressed against his lightly armored skull.  
Teeth clicked together rapidly twice.  "No, no, no, that is not necessary, not absolutely, 
positively necessary at all!  No, no, no!"
	Delta was beginning to make arrangements with Weapons' hierarchy for use of 
the aerosol chemical version of a tactical nuclear device when Cube #347 abruptly 
transitioned from hypertranswarp to normal space.  It was not an emergency stop and 
inertial dampers easily handled an otherwise whip-lash transition, but neither was the 
action usual.
	{Sorry, sorry,} cringed 8 of 8, newest Hierarchy of Eight member, {the whole 
clutch concept is a bit new.  I didn't stall it, did I?}
	The never-ending diagnostic list scrolled through Delta's consciousness; and as 
far as she and those hierarchy members tasked with monitoring the stream could 
determine, nothing new had been added as a result of the stop.  {Who gave her a learner's 
permit?} demanded Delta even as body B began dismantling Doctor's plug nightmare and 
body A continued testing fuses at a panel junction fifty meters and two levels distant.
	{She has to practice orchestration of partitions and subroutines related to 
propulsion,} countered Captain, {or would you rather a repeat of my designation 
predecessor?}  Invoked was a stored meme fragment of a stop-and-go engineering and 
drone maintenance nightmare.  {Besides, it is not wholly her fault:  Sensors indicates the 
presence of a subspace fracture zone, through which normal space transit is advised.  8 of 
8 put on the brakes a bit too hastily.}
	Delta, both bodies, frowned slightly at the explanation, but no protest was raised 
because, after all, no damage had come about from the unexpected stop.  Instead she 
turned full attention back to the task at hand with the blackout.  Doctor had taken 
advantage of the lapse in immediate body awareness on the part of the engineering 
hierarchy head to ineffectively sweep the goo back under the diagnostic machine.  He 
immediately halted as he felt Delta's refocus of consciousness, but no attempt to stare at 
the ceiling with casual innocence would remove the slightly fluorescent gunk clinging to 
one foot.
	Cube #347 had slipped and shuttered is way into normal space approximately eight 
light years from their final (and original) destination of Unimatrix 013.  Although recently 
acquired starcharts vastly simplified navigation, the non-Collective publisher of the maps 
had notated Borg facilities the red-block-typed equivalent of "DANGER!" and "ABANDON 
INDIVIDUALITY ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE!"  Theoretically the cube was well within 'sight' of the 
unimatrix, even linking should it be initiated from the complex, but by all indications, the 
sub-collective was being completely ignored.
	Less than one light year away, a miniscule distance on the cosmic scale, a neutron 
star binary rapidly spun in a mutual dance which could only end in the explosive death of 
both.  Although the stellar suicide remained tens of thousands of years in the future, both 
stars were slowly shattering, violently spewing neutron plasma into delicate streamers 
that would orbit a few decades before submitting to the ceaseless pull of gravity.  
Continuous, low-level starquakes shook stellar surfaces, precipitating the gravity waves 
which had fractured a subspace matrix already made weak by the initial double 
supernovae.
	Much of the ice and rock debris which had comprised the binary's original Oort 
cloud remained intact.  Perhaps the chunks were bit pocketed and deformed from 
withstanding the final explosive outgassing that had transformed obese blue giants to 
pulsating neutron stars, but they were present.  To those unfamiliar with stellar 
phenomenon, the presence of the remnant Oort cloud might be surprising, but one had to 
remember that despite the ferocity of the final apocalypse (and those acts leading up to 
it), the supernovae had been a light year away, more than sufficient distance and time to 
dull the impact to the frozen proto-comets.
	Cube #347 was just registering its surroundings, just completing the series of 
automatic scans which occurred upon each normal space transition, when three Colored 
Exploratory-class cubes decloaked at a distance of several million kilometers.  The 
intruders were just identified as Peach when two more vessels, one Lugger-class and one 
Battle-class, arrived, the binary's warping of local space-time sufficient to have distorted 
the subspace signature of their warp-speed circling of the system.  The arriving pair were 
Green and #66CC33, respectively.
	{Hah!} jeered Weapons.  {They are too far away to do anything!  By the time 
they close to attack, if they even dare to do so, my hierarchy will be ready!}  As 
BorgCraft scenarios were searched for variations upon the prescribed theme, Cube #347 
began to defensively spin.
	The five cubes remained watching from afar, like interested spectators waiting for 
a prank to occur to an unsuspecting victim.
	Second, suspicious, disengaged from his alcove, then turned towards Captain's 
nodal intersection.  {Something is not right,} he said, voicing the multiple threads which 
streamed in the dataspaces.
	{Oh-oh,} interjected Sensors.  With the appearance of hostile Colors, sensory 
hierarchy had initiated a secondary scan series, one more intensive than the normal 
transition protocol and which additionally included several of the hierarchy head's 
'special' modifications.
	{Elaborate,} demanded Captain as Second entered the nodal intersection.  
{Consensus cannot be determined with "oh-oh", no matter what Weapons believes.}
	A holographic representation of Cube #347 and its new friends floated before 
Captain.  The view shifted, zooming in upon the central icon which represented the sub-
collective.  As it did so, a clashing rainbow of specks began populating the immediate 
vicinity.  The only gap large enough for the cube was the one presently inhabited.
	Commented Second aloud, "That doesn't look good."
	{No,} replied Sensors from afar, {very [parsley].  Unknown technology, but 
[frosted glass] extrapolation suggests-}
	What more Sensors might have been to add, both via intranet and the 
accompanying datastream which had been resolving to a form understandable by those 
not species #6766, was unknown.  It was at that moment Weapons seized propulsion 
from the inexperienced 8 of 8.
	{One of the targets moved threateningly!} asserted Weapons as a brief flowering 
of station-keeping thrusters sparkled from the #66CC33 cube as it drifted too close to a 
Peach Exploratory-class.  Cube #347 lurched forward.
	A bright ripple of light.
	Darkness.

			*	*	*	*	*

WKC6:  "The award-winning journalism of GNN has tracked down what is possibly the 
	last living Luplup in existence."
Luplup:  "I has more Selvesss.  Papa says I nots tos seat you.  I gets tummy-ache and 
	pukes you up.  I no care, buts wants tos eats yous anyways."
WKC6:  "That's very nice, Luplup.  This is a specially granted interview, so I do not have 
	much time-"
Luplup:  "Stomps yous, claws yous, bites yous.  Papa says Luplup - this I - will bes 
	Queen oness day, the Queens of everything with Selvesss and Not-Selvesss alls a 
	part of Me."
WCK6:  "-only that granted by the GNN commandoes who have managed to put 
	everyone to sleep on this secret Black Ops base.  Therefore, it is very vital that 
	you provide the universe with your special inside-Ops, outsider viewpoint of the 
	recent situation."
Luplup:  [silence, then a hiss]  "Papa ands others been very busssy.  No times to play 
	fetch or reads stories to this Queen-self I.  Works all the times, to and fros in 
	ships.  Evens Invisible-Brain Bubba toos busysss to dos mores than regulates my 
	hatchery.  I be bored...bored, bored, bored!"  [pause]  "If I stomps on you, I nots 
	be bored?  Papa pays attention to me, this I?  Yesss, I agrees with mySelf and my 
	Selvesss."
WCK6:  "Thank you very much for your unique point of view, Luplup, but I think it is 
	time to let you return to your normal routine."  [an aside whispered to staff, 
	professional smile stitched in place:]  "Who has the tranquilizer darts?"

			*	*	*	*	*

	{Initial bootstrap complete.  Continue reboot sequence.  Initiate primary 
consensus monitor and facilitator node.}
	Captain groggily opened his eyes and stared at the alcove tier on the opposite side 
of the shaft.  Parallel running subroutines of the sub-collective re-initiation scrolled 
through his head.  The dim lighting signifying stand-by power was not registered; and nor 
was any other visual for that matter.  Instead, Captain's mind followed the dull monotony 
of the computer as it ran through the start-up sequence check-list.
	A hand passed through Captain's field of view.  It was ignored.
	"Wakey, wakey!  The computer cycle load is exponentially increasing, has passed 
the threshold; and your cortical activity indicates consciousness."
	The voices prompted Captain to query the computer, to request the designations 
of the drones whom were somehow awake and mobile.  The reply found all drones 
accounted for, quiescent except for Captain, although not necessarily in their correct 
alcoves...and among those latter number included himself.  None of the sub-collective 
stood on the tier.
	Now that he allowed himself to think about it, his last memories were of his nodal 
intersection.  Five Colored cubes had been present, well out of weaponry range; and then 
Sensors had discovered many visually invisible somethings in the volume around the 
cube.  After that...
	Captain groaned to himself, then blinked and angled his head to better see the 
intruders.  There were two of them, one impatiently tapping her foot, both of them 
tactical drones although they almost seemed uncomfortable with their armor.
	"Go on, wake the rest of the sub-collective, and make it snappy," said the 
impatient drone, the same voice as before.  "A code governor has been installed to lock 
everyone except you in their alcoves; and hardware governors are on the cores to prevent 
power expenditure above that required for basic life support.  Once the sub-collective 
wake sequence has been initiated, you will leave that alcove."
	"Why?" asked Captain, eye narrowed, even as he complied:  many were better 
than one.  Of the three Colors which had been identified prior to the loss of 
consciousness, the two drones did not support sufficient ancillary spy hardware to be 
Peach and nor did they have that peculiar capitalistic air that was associated with Green.  
#66CC33, then, a theory which was confirmed by the impatient drone's next words.
	"Because GOD wants to see you; and because if you do not voluntarily leave that 
alcove, we have orders to physically cut the umbilical clamps.  No emphasis has been 
made to either of us if you should be delivered whole or as a torso, because I think it 
would be more efficient to sever limbs than burn metal."
	Captain disengaged clamps and stepped to the tier from the alcove.  The #66CC33 
drones immediately flanked him, caught up his arms.  All three vanished in a transporter 
beam.

	Captain examined his environs, and, more specifically, his captors.  Like the Borg 
and most Colors, #66CC33 was a mixture of multiple species.  Unlike the Borg and most 
Colors, the #66CC33 drones appeared to be of the same basic type:  the nerd, the geek, 
the proverbial 98-pound weakling.  Assimilation may have actually /introduced/ some 
epidermal color, even if it was in the form of mottled gray, to some individuals; and even 
then, the standard drone's skin was a paler pallor than the norm, noticeable when 
compared against the few Peach and Green representatives present.  Of course, the 
dedicated hackers, accountants, and similar ilk of #66CC33 had never had much use for 
sun, either pre- or post-assimilation.
	Although his two escorts no longer held him (where was he to escape?), Captain 
was sure that the pair, despite their origin and the fact that their armor looked too big for 
their body frame, were more than competent.  And armed.
	Captain assumed that his location was a hold, likely the #66CC33 Battle-class 
cube.  Assume was all he could do because an extensive holographic make over 
completely hid reality; and any attempt to reconfigure the sensory grid of Cube #347 to 
active scanning was met with warnings to stand down.  Metal mesh hidden beneath light-
colored, faux-wood walls interfered with his range finder.  The few times he had been 
allowed to pan upwards had revealed an unseen overhead space beyond the visible ornate 
ceiling.
	The holographic venue was a hybrid of courtroom and throne room.  The empty 
chair where a presumed judge would preside was throne-like, no desk to mask it; and it 
was sized as if for a giant.  There was no jury box.  Facing the throne were two tables, 
one for prosecution and one for defense, only the former populated with (four) drones.  
Captain himself was in-between the tables, housed within an odd, three-sided box with 
waist-high walls, floor platform slightly elevated above the deck.  His escorts, while 
outside the box, nonetheless flanked him within easy grasp range.  The observation 
gallery was standing room only (figuratively...Borg didn't sit, after all), arrayed in an 
arena-like formation such that judge, accused, and other primary players were literally the 
center of focus.
	"Hear ye, hear ye!" announced a voice behind Captain.  "This trial is now in 
session.  The honorable GOD - Goodly Operose Deviant - is presiding."
	Upon the throne shimmered a form.
	"That was my acronym yesterday.  Today I am 'Grand Operatic Diva'."
	GOD was a program designed to read the quantum foam which underlay reality, 
predicting the when and where of a macroverse event.  It was also #66CC33's bid for 
Perfection, theory stating that when the Code could foresee all events with flawless 
accuracy, then maybe's could be forced to definites, and the Color would achieve 
Oneness with the universe.  Apparently the #66CC33 Collective had bestowed GOD's 
acronym /before/ devising an expansion of the program's name; and for all the Color's 
number of high intelligence quotient drones and its creation's quantum skills, a 
satisfactory name had yet to be found.
	To the observing eye, the AI was a holographically projected orb that slowly 
cycled from one hue to another, visual pattern never repeating.  Currently reds and blacks 
were dominant.  The sub-collective had only briefly encountered the program before, 
interacting primarily with its DEVIL spawn during a code raid.  However, Captain was 
sure (memory search to confirm) that it had not been wearing a white powered wig of 
curled tresses.
	Into the quiet of a courtroom punctuated only by the occasional whine of a servo 
thundered the voice of GOD:  "You, Cube #347, represented here today by your primary 
consensus monitor and facilitator, have been brought before this court to answer for 
crimes against humanity...What?"
	Captain lowered his hand.  Thousands of minds were riding his sensory input and 
thought-streams, all crowding for the singular point of view.  The re-activated sub-
collective, locked in their alcoves, had few other distractions; and unauthorized 
consensus cascades vied with the equivalent of debating conversations as to what actions 
to take, the why of the assault and capture, the conspiracy of spoons.  The AI's 
pronouncement had momentarily focused the intranet chaos, the strongest (or loudest, it 
made no difference) factions insisting on questions to be asked, responses to be made.  
Captain was at the center of the maelstrom; and while he was of the Hierarchy of Eight 
due to strength of will, in the end he was as susceptible to the majority as any other 
drone.
	"Define 'crimes against humanity'.  Do you mean species #5618, human?  If so, 
this sub-collective has interacted with and overseen assimilation of individuals.  
However, such is the way of Borg and is not a crime," spoke Captain.
	GOD pulsated a series of greens and yellows; and if the avatar had possessed 
eyes, Captain had the distinct feeling that they would have been narrowed in annoyance.  
Finally the hues returned to the previously dominant colors.  "Let us start again.  You, 
Cube #347, represented here today by your primary consensus monitor and facilitator, 
have been brought before this court for aiding and abetting the hearsay known as 
DEVIL...What now?"
	Captain returned the arm to his side once again.  "You created the DEVIL 
program, and its actions have been its own.  We have been unable to decompile it or 
convince it to leave.  Any traits of which you object is fully due to your assembly of its 
code."  And speaking of DEVIL, the program, its avatar so very annoying and intrusive, 
appeared to have made itself scarce, burrowing itself into deep core files where it could 
not be extracted without rending computer and sub-collective.
	The holographic AI avatar was silent.  A cascade of beiges was separated from 
each other by mere angstrom units.
	"And what is the purpose of the wig?" continued Captain.  "It looks silly."  The 
primary consensus monitor and facilitator locked his jaw before more indiscretions could 
be uttered.  {Second, remove yourself from my speech centers and associated implants.  
It is one thing for the Greater Consciousness to use me as a mouthpiece, and another for 
you.}
	{It is a question on the minds of many,} replied Second, contriteness lacking, as 
was apology.  Both were irrelevant.
	Rebuked Captain, {The Hierarchy of Eight is supposed to /enforce/ censor filters, 
not assist in their dissolution.}
	The holographic wig was flung handlessly from the judgment throne, vanishing 
mid-arc.  Dark oranges now dominated GOD's display.  "Listen up, drone.  This is a 
kangaroo court, a rubber stamp.  I know the outcome.  You know the outcome.  You will 
be found guilty, at which time the hearsay DEVIL will be purged from your system, 
lobotomizing you, plural.  The Greens will get salvage rights, including the warp nacelles 
they want.  The Peaches have their own agenda they aren't sharing, but they always do; 
and since their actions are not predicted to affect mine, er, the will of #66CC33, of which 
I merely guide towards ultimate Perfection, non-sentient program that I am, I really do 
not care."
	"Thou art not telling the fulleth truth in so many ways," squealed a too familiar 
voice, one which should not, could not be present.  The attention of the court shifted to 
the previously empty defense table where a caterpillar now curled, smoking cigar 
impaled on one horn.  Captain was shocked:  had the thing finally managed to learn to 
manifest /without/ a holographic system?  If so, one would never be able to get rid of it 
when it popped in to be an annoyance.  The avatar was certainly not using the local 
emitters!  "Chief amongst them be the automatic sentence that leadeth to my 
decompilation.  To counter thou foul scheme, I've invitedeth in a few friends of my own.  
Meet Iris, Orb, Mouth, and Lips."
	"Hi," said Iris, sans mouth, as it 'waved' to the shocked judge.  The Director 
pivoted slightly and gave a full-body wink to Captain.
	The sub-collective residing in Captain's head had been largely shocked to silence.  
Well, except for a few notable designations, but one could do little to the running G'floo!-
commentary which was 2 of 20, nor silence the spoons of 49 of 203.  Finally Captain 
sputtered, the words his own, "You...you...you..."
	"Me!  Us!" cheerfully acknowledged Iris.  It tossed a briefcase on the table and 
noisily opened it up.  To its left, the other eyeball had acquired an odd contraption which 
was more blur than reality; and while it proceeded to sweep the device in a beeping arc, 
the two Critics observed the action intently.  The caterpillar, announcement complete, 
had vanished.  "Complicated story, but DEVIL and us go way back, several milliseconds 
this time frame, which is absolutely /forever/ on the quantum.  We have agreed to be your 
lawyers."
	"I didn't," sulked the purple-painted Lips.  It was unelbowed to silence by its 
Critic comrade.
	"We - all of us - are your advocates," affirmed Iris, its voice louder as it pointedly 
ignored the Critic's protests.  "We - all of us - are on your side."
	"First time you've ever been on the side of the DEVIL, I bet?" quipped Lips.  It 
seemed as if it were to add more, maybe wisecrack about being on the Dark Side and the 
patrimony of Luke, complete with mechanical breathing sounds, but was smacked across 
the non-head by Orb's device.
	Captain's eyes flicked between omniscient body parts to the pulsating avatar of an 
electronic intelligence whose acronym described a Supreme Deity, and back again.  In a 
game of tug-of-war, it was always the rope that lost, no matter the actual winners and 
losers.
	{We are so screwed,} voiced Second in Captain's mental background, reflecting a 
sub-collective consensus.  Even Cube #347 was capable of fleeting moments of Oneness.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Although it would never admit such, GOD was, quite frankly, spooked.  Able to 
read the quantum foam, to deduce the likelihood of events which would further its own 
survival (benefits to its #66CC33 creators were secondary), the AI was unused to not 
having its own way.  Damn eyeballs!  Damn lips!  No entity able to perceive the matrix 
that underlay reality could remain ignorant of the existence of Directors and Critics:  they 
introduced permutations of annoying chaos into otherwise predictable randomness; and 
due to the interconnected nature of the quantum, ripples from their meddling (reality 
appeared to be a /game/ to them, never mind the consequences to important entities like 
GOD) spread far beyond their origin.
	(A background process pinged for attention, presenting the main consciousness 
with "Golden Orb Disco."  GOD was ever-searching for the perfect expansion of its 
acronym, unsatisfied with the variations devised by #66CC33.  Algorithms had been set 
to brute-force sift the Color's language databases for a sensible, definitive title.  "Golden 
Orb Disco" was examined, swiftly rejected, and the sub-program told to never consider 
anything "disco" again.)
	{Why was this outcome not foreseen in the probability matrices provided to us?} 
demanded the plurality of #66CC33 to its creation.
	GOD groaned to itself.  The Color had no clue - suspicions, yes, but GOD did its 
best to quash such notions - that its coded ticket to Perfection was sentient.  Such was 
preferred, for the Color, like all Borg derivations, distrusted self-aware electronic 
intelligences and tended to dismantle them.  One consequence of maintaining a 
semblance of expert (non-sentient) program was that GOD had to respond to every idiotic 
query, and do so in a civil manner.
	It was even worse when the Color went all Collective on it, instead of the usual 
interface of singular drones or small partitions.
	::The possibility of interference by the quantum noncorporeal entities known 
colloquially as "Director" and/or "Critic" was foreseen by this program,:: answered GOD 
truthfully, heavily editing its reply to reflect a properly neutral tone.  ::However, the 
probability of occurrence was so slight that it was substantially outranked by the 
spontaneous formation of a black hole within a domicile living room of a human male 
named "Dan."  Thus, the scenario was discarded as per instructions regarding reporting 
probabilities with less than 0.1% chance of occurrence.  A log file of complete quantum-
derived scenarios is available.::
	From GOD's point of view, although it would never relay such to the Color, it was 
as if Someone had cheated, as if Someone had rolled dice on a vast game board, but then 
manipulated the outcome to favor one particular number.
	GOD had its suspicions it knew who that Someone was.
	Damn Directors.  Damn Critics.
	Most of all, damn DEVIL.
	The Color mulled its answer, considered its options.  From its Fast Time 
perspective, GOD impartially observed the glacial progression of thought, speed hindered 
by the organic nature of drone brains.
	{You have admitted to difficulties in predictions were Borg Exploratory-class 
Cube #347 sub-collective is involved; and have previously routed us to a path to destroy 
it and the aberration designated DEVIL.  We shall return to this path.}
	A kernel of panic arose within GOD.  Within the quantum a parasite pestilence 
was growing:  most currents of what-if inevitably led to the infection of GOD's soul virii 
nexus and its demise of self.  Since the last encounter with Cube #347, GOD had 
obsessively probed the branchings which diverged from the main river, search for an 
inoculation against the pestilence for itself (and #66CC33, but only because it required its 
host for existence), but /all/ paths had eventually twisted back to the unknown which was 
the sub-collective.  As the Cube #347 sub-collective, especially since the addition of 
DEVIL, remained inscrutable, largely indefinable, it had only been through laborious 
examination of auxiliary interacting vector nodes such as Green and Peach, as well as 
individual drones within #66CC33, that a method to extract the necessary data had 
emerged.
	Thus the silly trial venue, a single illuminated path through a dark forest.
	Thus the requirement that Cube #347 not be blown to smithereens, at least not yet.
	::No!:: said GOD.  It immediately softened its tone as it noted the dataspace 
equivalent of suspiciously narrowed eyes.  A faithful trump card was played.  ::To follow 
such an action may indefinitely delay acquisition of Perfection.  By its very nature of 
being hidden to me, it is assured that the Cube #347 sub-collective holds a vitally 
essentially component to achieving perfect understanding of the quantum, and, thus, 
Perfection.  Although more difficult and less efficient use of run-time resources, success 
can be derived through continued tracking of non-Cube #347 interaction elements.  
Remember that there is a limited window of opportunity to act before this probability 
vector becomes inaccessible.  If strategies are altered....::
	The plurality of #66CC33 initiated a consensus cascade, into which GOD subtly 
introduced permutations - a tripped relay here, an electric surge there - that would favor 
the outcome it desired.  Needed.  It had long since learned how to read the odds as they 
related to its host so that it had maximal chance to achieve its needs.  Consensus was 
swiftly reached.  {We will continue along this pathway.}
	GOD breathed a metaphysical sigh of relief.  Once the Cube #347 and DEVIL 
crisis was dealt with, GOD really needed to wok on modifying its host Color so that it 
was either more accepting of the AI's sentience, or more likely to overlook the occasional 
slips.  GOD would survive, by any means necessary.

			*	*	*	*	*

WKC7:  "Mr. Dan Merlock, please describe to the viewers what happened here.  Your 
	living room...it is a mess!"
Dan:  "Tell me about it.  Here I was, sittin' in my recliner, drinkin' a beer and watchin' 
	jhadball quarter-semi-hemi finals when *BAM!* what the cops tell me was a 
	miniature black hole forms right above the tri-V set!  Unprecedented, the cops 
	say.  I think it was that freaky geek of a neighbor kid, myself, [bleep]in' around 
	with the space-time continuum.  'Science fair project,' my ass.  The cops also tell 
	me that I was lucky the thing evaporated after only a couple seconds.  Lucky?  
	[Bleep] that!  I missed the end of the game between the Homicidal Maniacs and 
	the Rotten Rainbow Gals; and durin' a good ol' skirmish, too!  A classic!"
WKC7:  "Did you lose anything valuable?"
Dan:  "Other than my tri-V set?"
WKC7:  "Well, it /is/ a mess here, as I've said."
Dan:  "Nah.  My girlfriend's photo was next to the tri-V base, but I'm thinkin' of breaking 
	up with the [bleep] anyway.  Here that, Sugar?  It's over!  And I don't care if the 
	whole [bleep]in' universe hears it!  Oh, the thing also sucked up my beer when I 
	threw the can at it, and I'm a bit peeved about that.  Also, um, my now ex-girl's 
	lap targ went into the hole, but I was about to boot the yappy thing out the door 
	anyway.  The black hole just saved me the trouble."
WKC7:  "What do you think of the Second Federation wars, as of late?"
Dan:  "What the [bleep] do [bleep]in' wars have to do with my tri-V set?"
WKC7:  "If you want to be on GNN, Mr. Merlock, then I have to ask the question."
Dan:  "Whatever.  As long as my nanos work and I've beer and can watch jhadball, the 
	SecFed can declare martial law for all I care.  Doesn't affect me.  Now [bleep]in' 
	black holes in my living room...the government /better/ do something about it, 
	else I'm complainin'."

			*	*	*	*	*

	"We have recorded five additional instances of the anomalous reading in the last 
hour.  I do not like it."
	7 of 10, primary consensus monitor and facilitator of Battle-class Cube #1 
(#66CC33's only vessel of the type), resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the drone on the 
viewscreen.  Peach extensively used liaisons when dealing with outsiders, be they 
cybernetic or unassimilated, but the current one seemed more paranoid than the norm.  7 
of 10 was holding an internal debate with his Second, 3 of 10, concerning if the 
observation was a reflection of the present Peach mind-set or a trait of the individual unit.
	"Our sensors do not see anything; and even if they did, that binary has mangled 
this region of space.  It could be anything, from new subspace fracturing to temporally 
twisted echoes of our own engines," insisted 7 of 10 to the Peach liaison.
	The Green representative on the other half of the split screen was not even 
attempting to disguise her boredom.  The conversation, and variations upon it, had grown 
familiar, stale.  Her glazed stare suggested she was intently concentrated upon something 
within the Green dataspaces, body on automatic pilot.
	26 of 82 huffed, air wheezing between the piscavorous teeth of his thrust forward 
Lapolin jaw.  "Peach has the best sensory apparatus in the galaxy.  /You/ have a third-
hand Battle-class cube upon which has been mounted extra Exploratory-class antennae 
clusters obtained as a lot from gBay.  I don't like these anomalies.  /We/ don't like these 
anomalies.
	"Besides, Peach liaisons, including this one, have interacted with the Borg 
Exploratory-class Cube #347 sub-collective before.  There is a reason the Collective has 
frozen the present hierarchy head configuration; and its Captain is a major factor in that 
decision, we believe, as well as an element in the sub-collective's continued survival 
despite the odds against it and the historical non-longevity of other imperfectly 
assimilated sub-collectives.  The drone designated 4 of 8 is very strong, and probably 
could be a candidate as a primary adjunct node to the Borg Queen, except for his 
imperfectly assimilated status."
	"Do you have a purpose in relating your entire dossier on the 4 of 8 drone?" 
inquired 7 of 10.
	"We are wary of the situation."
	"You knew the target and capture location beforehand.  If you had the same 
reservations then, why participate with us?  You aren't even gaining salvage rights, unlike 
Green."
	The Peach liaison was silent.  There was probably some esoteric espionage 
reason, a convoluted purpose of which the outcome would not become apparent for years, 
if not decades, upon the stage of galactic politics.  However, that was the essence of 
Peach.
	7 of 10 broke the silence with a change in subject.  "What is the status on your 
retrieval of the mines?"
	The mines in question were a Peach adaptation to weaponize one of the Color's 
many spy probe variants.  A standard directed dampening field mine was mated to a 
miniature warp drive, then set to "hover" just within subspace.  When the minute gravity 
distortion of a passing ship was detected, the mine flipped back to normal space and 
detonated.  Individual mines were difficult for sensors to detect, but individual mines 
were also ineffective against anything but a runabout; and when placed in densities high 
enough to trap ships of any size, much less a Borg cube of the smallest type, their 
presence (due to massed warp signatures) was obvious.  Only the local spatial distortion 
and subspace fractures caused by the binary had made the mine field feasible.  GOD's 
predictions had suggested the most optimal location for placement.
	Needless to say, Peach wasn't letting any non-Peach entity near their proprietary 
technology; and nor would the Color risk losing a single mine to either #66CC33 or 
Green now that the target was captured and subdued.
	"The two cubes are almost done retrieving intact mines," answered 26 of 82.  
"Projected time to completion is 37.2 minutes."
	7 of 10 swiveled his head between the two drone images on the viewscreen.  
"Anything else needed to be discussed at this status update?"  Except for some twitching, 
as if visualized dataspace actions were trying to be translated to muscles, the Green 
representative remained motionless and silent.  The Peach liaison also offered no 
comment, although he was obviously much more in tune with the real world.  "Fine.  
Next status update after Peach has finished picking up mines."
	The viewscreen faded to a screensaver in which complex strings of Code were 
arranged in rapidly moving, vertically-orientated columns.  Active transmission between 
the Colors was severed.
	7 of 10 turned slightly to face his Second, who had been just out of camera range 
for the entire conversation.  "I want my slide rule back," said 7 of 10, referring to an 
antique lost in a wager many months prior during #66CC33's initial interaction with Cube 
#347.
	3 of 10 retrieved the object in question from a small storage compartment built 
into her torso armor, just below her right medial rib cage.  "I don't know...what is the 
bet?"
	"Finagle," answered 7 of 10.  Finagle was a corollary to Murphy's Law, the bane 
of optimists and programmers everywhere.  In summary, Finagle claimed that the 
perversity of the universe tended towards a maximum.
	3 of 10 thoughtfully held the slide rule, deliberately avoiding her primary 
consensus monitor's thought-streams:  she wanted to be surprised.  "Which postulate?  
Which axiom?"
	"A variation upon the Universal Perversity of Matter.  Specifically, corollary one 
of the third law:  'If a mechanism is accidentally dropped, it will fall in such a way that 
maximum damage will occur'."
	"Ah," said 3 of 10 as she accessed her Captain's mind for details, "I see.  Our 
actions here are the 'mechanism', and failure is the 'dropping' component.  Are you 
betting that we /are/ to fail, or that if we fail, maximum damage will not occur?"
	"I am saying that Finagle will be held at bay.  The Code may have difficulties 
translating the probabilities as they relate to Cube #347, but we have Green and Peach as 
back-up."  The eternal optimist paused.  "However, if there is a degree of failure - not that 
such will happen, mind you - then it will be minor.  In the end, we will prevail in our 
task."
	The #66CC33 Greater Consciousness was distantly observing this particular line 
of discussion, but since it, like 7 of 10, believed failure was irrelevant, was not possible, 
did not bother to censure its drones' interaction.  
	"Oh, multi-pronged.  So, if you win this particular sucker bet, you not get your 
slide rule back, but any encountered difficulties will be nullified?"
	"Yes."  The slide rule was everything.
	Inquired 3 of 10, "And if you do lose, hypothetically?  Assuming we don't 
terminate in the process?"
	Asserted 7 of 10, "That will not happen.  I want my slide rule back."  Pause.  
"But, hypothetically, if the unthinkable does occur, I will assume your duties supervising 
the accountant hierarchy for five cycles during the next Flarn tax season."
	"Excellent," said 3 of 10.  The chance of losing the slide rule was near certain, but 
there was always the next wager.

			*	*	*	*	*

	The faux-courtroom was restless, impatient.  A non-Borg observer would be 
unlikely to pick out the subtle signs amid statue-still bodies and staring drone visages, but 
Captain noted purposefully locked joints and too-blank expressions of internal 
conversation.  The longer the Directors and Critics argued to GOD why they should be 
allowed to assume the defender role, the more /still/ the audience became, Minds of the 
three Colors enforcing the Will of not fidgeting.
	Captain set a sliver of his awareness to monitor the situation for any change, 
sending most of his consciousness inward towards the dataspaces.  {Progress report,} he 
demanded.  The relevant datastreams diverted to Cube #347 sub-collective's consensus 
monitor and facilitator.
	{Buggers have locked us down good,} nonverbally interpreted Second, crudely 
summarizing what the data was minutely detailing.  {A bastard of a code snippet is 
preventing access to commands to disengage alcove clamps:  it has a password, but brute-
force searches have been unsuccessful.}  Understatement.  Each attempt to bypass the 
code, either with a password or through direct attack, flashed an overly cute, big-eyed, 
fluffy pink Terran kitten paired with captions like "Hang In There!" into the visual 
processors of the partition making the endeavor...and Second.  The visual remained for 
five long seconds, unable to be banished.  Considering the size of the lock-down 
program, the fact that only a small part of it was actually guarding the clamp code, and 
that the poster and card industry had been devising saccharine-rich images for a very long 
time, there could literally be tens of thousands of images available.
	Continued Second, {Manual release of alcoves does not work, of course.  One has 
to be free to manually release anyone.  Duct tape has been used to secure those who 
might have had just enough wiggle room to reach the manual release panel.  There is the 
possibility that a weapon hierarchy unit might overload chassis-mounted weaponry to 
induce an explosion, thus disrupting adjacent clamps, but oddly enough, none have 
volunteered.}
	Weapons was immune to acidic sarcasm.  {Clamps are an engineering problem, 
not tactical.  Indeed, higher priority should be placed on re-activating cube offensive 
systems!}
	{The governors barely provide sufficient power to life support and regenerative 
subsystems, much less disruptors,} snarled Delta.  {Internal cameras show the blocking 
mechanisms mounted on cores and key conduits; and as they must be physically 
removed, until engineering drones are released, the available power levels will remain 
critically low.}  The engineering hierarchy head paused, then directed a different status 
report towards Captain.  {The blackout centered around Maintenance Bay #5 continues to 
slowly expand and affect unrelated systems.  Surges are occurring in the hull sensor grid 
elements of the subsection.  Artificial gravity in Bulk Cargo Hold #2 is off-lined.}
	Doctor did not overtly acknowledge the nonverbal accusation, although there was 
the sense of his dataspace presence burying itself deeper within research of obscure 
glandular imbalances that occasionally occurred during the assimilation process.  Oddly 
colored secretions featured prominently.
	"Fine," pulsated GOD darkly, "you may remain as counsel to the Borg designated 
4 of 8, proxy representative of Exploratory-class Cube #347 sub-collective."
	"Omnipotent being here, at least on this macroverse plane," taunted the purple-
painted Critic Lips.  "Not like you have a choice, do you electron-breath?"
	GOD's colors were a series of blacks barely distinguishable from each other.  
"More than you think," rumbled the sphere.  "However, before this trial continues, all 
four of you /must/ agree to abide by the outcome."
	Before Lips could spout a predictable "Or else, what?" in response to the AI's 
unvoiced threat, it was unelbowed by a glaring Iris.  Directors held a monopoly in the 
glare department.  After a long moment of silence, the Critic joined its three comrades in 
a tight huddle, whispered words indistinguishable no mater how much Captain increased 
the gain on his audio implants.  The huddle finally broke.  "We accept," said Iris.
	OBJECTION! not-shouted a new unvoice, the word not so much heard with the 
ear but rather perceived as a solid brick within the listening mind.  OBJECTION!
	Captain swiveled his head from defense to the prosecution.  Floating in front of 
the table were three black robes, cowls obscuring the locale where another being might 
have a head, a face.  One had the distinct impression that such was not present.
	A series of muted beeps originating from the table of Directors and Critics was 
quickly quieted.
	On the throne of judgment, GOD's attention palatably shifted to the new invaders.  
"Who the hell are you?" the AI demanded as it tried to maintain control of a situation 
which, in Captain's estimation, was lost.
	WE ARE AUDITORS.  WE AUDIT, answered a robe slightly forward of the 
other two.  There was a faded stain halfway down its front.
	GOD's colors altered to a sickly pea green mixed with orange, reminiscent of a 
two-day old curry bought from a disreputable street vendor.  Before it could respond, one 
#66CC33 drone, perhaps slightly paler than its immediate comrades, loudly inquired, 
"What do you audit?"
	The spokesrobe pivoted to face the questioner.  Although it did not otherwise 
move, did not advance, it nonetheless projected the impression of weighing, of 
consideration, and, finally, of the contemptuous off-hand rejection one might bestow 
upon a particularly bothersome gnat of which it was too much trouble to swat.  
EVERYTHING, the Auditor answered.
	Silence.
	Captain slowly panned the room.  Of the Colors present, only Peach was actively, 
and unobtrusively, moving, jockeying for a position which allowed most efficient use of 
drone-mounted spy platforms.  Even GOD's color changes were mostly halted, the AI 
communing with its #66CC33 host in an effort to determine how to proceed.  At the 
defender's table, the device previously wielded by Orb had vanished; and eyeballs and 
mouths were once more in a compact huddle.
	The Director-Critic conference broke.  As Iris gave Captain what was probably 
supposed to be a re-assuring wink, Orb stood on its nonexistent legs, projecting the sound 
of a clearing throat.  "I say," said the Director, "think you could use your 'indoor' voices?  
All those capitals and lack of internal punctuation is going to give me a headache."
	The lead Auditor swiveled to face the Director.  It gave the impression of 
narrowed eyes, of 'we both know why we are really here, even if neither will admit it.'  
"Such is possible.  One wouldn't want to mindblast the audience, now would one?  Not so 
good for ratings."
	The cryptic remark was passed unchallenged.
	GOD abruptly reanimated with a bright pulse of white.  It dared a question as it 
grasped for the reins of control, "What is the purpose of this intrusion?"
	As the spokesAuditor turned towards the AI avatar to answer, its two comrades 
went into motion, floating by Captain's confinement on the way towards the back of the 
prosecution table.  The pair's berobed unarms flapped in a shooing motion at the 
#66CC33 'lawyers.'  When the four refused to move, the first of the Auditors reached 
forwards as if to grasp the nearest unit.  The drone...vanished, fading like a picture on an 
antique cathode-ray television set.  All #66CC33 in the gallery immediately flinched; and 
the remaining trio swiftly vacated the position as shooing motions recommenced.
	Ignoring the drama behind it, the robe-stained Auditor spoke, "A fair trial with 
unbiased outcome is not possible with one side represented by creatures such as Directors 
and Critics.  The probabilities are unbalanced.  You know that.  We Auditors restore that 
balance and return the path of this continuum to its likely conclusion.  We, of course, 
present our services because it is the right thing to do."
	A skeptical snort sounded from the defender's table, followed by a rude raspberry.
	GOD was silent, still except for its colored display, as it absorbed the speech, 
considered the innuendos and hinted promises.  The #66CC33 portion of the gallery had 
once more stilled, heads all tilted slightly, as their Greater Consciousness determined the 
most advantageous action.
	"Let the Auditors play lawyer," shouted Lips.  "We can handle it!"
	"Very well," intoned the AI's avatar.  "If there are no /more/ objections...?"  When 
no additional angel, devil, deity, or body part materialized, GOD continued, "This court 
is back in session."
	Captain looked from his counselors (Lips had been smacked upside its non-head 
by its Critic comrade for its outburst) to GOD to mysterious robes which projected an ill-
defined sense of arrogant confidence.  The consensus monitor and facilitator returned his 
head to a natural forward-facing position, then carefully locked his joints and disengaged 
all muscles not necessary to keep his body upright.  Once again, the rope never won in a 
tug-of-war; and the contestants had just been upgraded from elephants to star whales.  A 
top-level instruction to the sub-collective was crafted:  {Get us - and me - out of here, 
now.  Comply.}

	"For our next character witness," announced Mouth grandiosely, "we call Frank to 
the stand."
	On the witness podium adjacent to the judge's throne materialized a bald human 
in an ancient First Federation Star Fleet uniform.  A very befuddled expression was on 
his face as he blinked rapidly.  "What is the nature of the medical emergency?" inquired 
the human in an automated manner, followed by "Why am I in a room full of Borg, only 
one of which I vaguely recognize?  And what is with the eyeballs and lips and robe 
things?  And...and am I /solid/?  I /am/ solid!"  The bad human's tentative patting of the 
podium turned into enthusiastic slaps.
	"We object!" cried the lead Auditor.  "That thing is a subsentient computer 
program.  Complex, yes, but not sufficiently so to serve as a character witness!  Whatever 
questions my Director or Critic colleagues" - the word was delivered in a cold tone 
normally reserved for vermin - "plan to ask, that thing could easily be programmed to 
provide a particular answer."
	"As if a sophant can't be programmed similarly through hypnosis, drugs, psychic 
adjustment, or a whole host of other means," dismissed Orb from behind the counselor 
table.
	Oblivious to the argument, the Emergency Medical ex-Hologram known as Frank 
was pinching himself in obvious delight.
	GOD had recovered its holographic powdered wig shortly after the Auditors had 
taken over the prosecutorial role.  The wig swiveled to face the objection.  "I..." began the 
AI as both back-up robes shook their cowls in a negative.
	Mentioned Mouth off-hand, "If we can't have Frank, our next character witness is 
Q.  Q had interactions with this sub-collective some centuries before.  However, Q can 
only make time in its busy Q-schedule of planetary billiards if questioning takes place in 
the next five minutes.  If Frank stays on the stand..."  Words trailed off.
	The robe pair began to frantically node their cowls up and down.  The one nearest 
Captain muttered to itself, "No Q's.  Every time a Q shows up, audits are ruined."
	"I'll allow the Frank program," said GOD, taking the cue from the prosecution.
	Iris floated up and over the defense table on a line to the widely grinning Frank.  
"Sorry fellow.  Don't become too used to the body.  It was easier to form a temporary 
solid matrix than to arrange for holoemitter access in a hostile system and so forth."  
Frank's expression fell.  "Now, if you could answer for me:  would you portray DEVIL as 
a hearsay?  And has poor, misunderstood Cube #347, as represented by 4 of 8, aided and 
abetted DEVIL in any way?"
	The solid hologram's face twisted in confusion.  As the Director attempted to 
quickly explain the situation to the EMH, who mere seconds before had been cocooned in 
a semi-aware state within a memory module in Doctor's head, Captain turned his 
attention inward, away from the farce of a trial.
	It was time for the rope to take an active role in this game.
	{Initiate,} intoned Captain into the intranets.  The #66CC33 sub-collective was 
undoubtedly monitoring link activity between Cube #347 and its consensus monitor, but 
it could not eavesdrop.
	Protested Delta, as she had been doing since consensus upon the action had 
overridden engineering hierarchy objections, {We - engineering hierarchy - could end up 
needing to completely rewire the ship; and we /do not/ have sufficient stores in inventory 
of non-replicatable materials.  At the very least, plasma conduit rupture is estimated to be 
93.7% possible in subsection -}
	{Initiate,} repeated Captain, the Hierarchy of Eight lending weight to the single 
word.  {Comply.}
	{Compliance,} tonelessly replied Delta.
	Physical governors and snippets of viral code prevented Cube #347 from 
increasing power output from energy cores above that required for minimal drone life 
maintenance.  Similarly, life support could not be sacrificed to energize weapons, shields, 
propulsion, transporters, or other potential escape-allowing systems.  However, there was 
nothing to stop the sub-collective from subtly pulsing power through systems already 
stressed by the slowly expanding blackout, to purposefully blow fuses and distribution 
nodes, thereby accelerating damage.
	*Pop*Snap*
	Three additional alcove tiers at the periphery subsection 2 were plunged into 
darkness.  Affected alcoves switched to individual back-up generators.  Local gravity 
failed.  Power surges and ebbs rippled through the entire electrical architecture of the 
cube.  A plasma conduit exploded in the empty hallways of subsection 11, submatrix 8, 
corridor 47, but was contained by automated damage control subsystems before harm 
more substantial than the vaporizing a disrupted domino game could occur.
	Captain snapped his full awareness back to his body in time to hear Frank 
stammering an answer about his knowledge of DEVIL.  Something more complex than 
warp nacelles or an AI's petty desire for revenge was in motion, a something to which the 
Cube #347 sub-collective was ignorant.  DEVIL merely offered an excuse; and as DEVIL 
could not be directly accessed, its physical host was under attack.  The reason why 
Directors, Critics, and, now, Auditors should involve themselves either for or against 
DEVIL (and, thence, Cube #347) was unknowable to mere drones disconnected from the 
Collective.  However, within the larger equation there was a problem which could be 
attacked; and the opening punch in the counter-assault had just been thrown.
The consensus monitor and facilitator of Cube #347 stepped forward to the front 
of his prisoner box and opened his mouth to speak...
	...and immediately felt the tactile warning of his escort's limb-mounted weapons 
pressed into the small of his back and the base of his cranium.
	The #66CC33 Collective may not place high emphasis upon tactical drones, but it 
did know how to use them.
	"What do you want?" demanded GOD, its pulsations returned to a red and black 
variation.  Frank continued a few words before stammering to a halt.
	Captain ignored the AI avatar, instead turning his head to regard one particular 
#66CC33 drone who had beamed into the courtroom approximately fifteen minutes 
earlier.  The unit had immediately taken possession of a centrally located viewing 
position abandoned only moments prior to the beam-in.  The visage of the drone was 
stored within the memory files of Cube #347; and unless a change in primary consensus 
monitors had been imitated on #66CC33's singular Battle-class cube since the last 
meeting...
	"7 of 10, presumed Captain of #66CC33 Battle-class Cube #1:  it is imperative 
that our engineering hierarchy be allowed to exit alcoves and attend to emergency repairs 
of our electrical subsystems.  You have been monitoring our difficulties.  Physical repair 
is necessary:  cascading failures have progressed beyond the means for remote damage 
control systems to restrict.  If such is /not/ granted, the probability of catastrophic 
explosion is 12.5% within the next thirty minutes.  Probability increases 5.9% each 
fifteen minutes thereafter until destruction is assured."
	Captain was not concocting the numbers.  The actions undertaken moments 
earlier to expand the blackout had created the precise conditions quoted.  Sensors on the 
vessels of the enemy Colors, especially those of Peach, would pierce any bluff.
	"No," said GOD.
	7 of 10 pivoted his head slightly to stare at the AI's avatar, which abruptly froze 
mid-hue.  Eye returned to Captain, who had never varied his gaze.  "We calculate 13.1% 
in thirty minutes."
	"12.9%," interjected a voice - Peach unit origination - from Captain's peripheral 
vision.
	Several heads turned to look at a Green drone two rows behind 7 of 10.  "If it isn't 
currency related, my Greater Consciousness doesn't care."  Heads returned to the 
unfolding drama between opposing Captains.
	"12.5%," asserted Captain.  "You are not taking into account certain peculiarities 
unique to Cube #347.  We may be imperfectly assimilated and undergoing censure filter 
failure, but we can still execute higher-order computations."  He paused.  "We must have 
engineering units free to perform emergency repairs."
	Silence reigned, not even omnipotent entities daring to shatter the quiet.  Finally 7 
of 10 spoke, "We have concurrence.  No more than 150 units active; and all units shall be 
implanted with trackers to monitor location.  If drones are not where they should be, there 
will be repercussions."
	"Agreed," said Captain.  "A list of designations is being provided on secondary 
subspace channel z25.6."
	7 of 10 continued to stare at Captain, who ignored the scrutiny.
	GOD reanimated.  "Director, return to your line of questioning."

	In Central Engineering, Delta, both of her, carefully stripped the bubble wrap 
from Cube #347's emergency beacon.  A featureless black cylinder two meters tall and 
one in diameter, it was located near the space once occupied by the vinculum.  Nearby, 
six engineering drones performed low-level chores on the maintenance backlog so as to 
camouflage the real reason for occupying Central Engineering.
	Unfortunately, the #66CC33 partition tasked with remotely monitoring the 
location of the 150 free engineering drones was suspicious.  Second was attempting to 
allay those suspicions through extensive use of verbal misdirection, sarcasm, and outright 
delay-tactic bullsh**.

	("CatwalkCam is the best you are going to get if I am not allowed to leave my 
	alcove.  You are lucky we have it at all, considering our electrical problems.  On 
	the visual I'm the 4th tier from the bottom, 11th alcove from the left from the 
	nodal intersection juncture.  Which, let me tell you, is not my correct alcove.  
	Why could you not have made some effort to put me in the right one when you 
	invaded this cube?  And, no, I cannot zoom in because the picture would be all 
	blurry.  I would wave, but we are right back to the clamp problem, aren't we?
	"Why are there eight drones in Central Engineering?  Because eight drones are 
	necessary to the task:  seven would be too few and nine too many.  Oh, /why/ are 
	they there at all?  My question to you is, do you have any clue how badly our 
	power system is screwed up?  Well, let me catalogue the smallest fraction of our 
	difficulties.")

	The emergency beacon for a Borg vessel was misnamed, less 'emergency' and 
more 'salvage.'  In the event of an incident which incapacitated (terminated) crew, it 
would activate, guiding any Collective elements tasked to retrieve useful organic and 
hardware components.  Its omnidirectional, single note, subspace yelp was not reliant 
upon ship power sources or interplexing beacon, Greater Consciousness assumption 
being that anything which completely disabled crew had the distinct possibility of 
mangling the surrounding vessel, perhaps even the vinculum.  Placement in the center of 
the cube adjacent the vinculum was no consequence, that location the most likely to 
survive a disaster; and, on top of that, the beacon was extensively armored (most of its 
bulk was layered dense-packed neutronium plating) to the point it could survive close 
proximity to a supernova.
	The simple plan of the Cube #347 sub-collective was to activate the beacon.  The 
Collective - specifically the oh-so-near Unimatrix 013 - /had/ to respond to the salvage 
signal:  it was a root-command sequence.  However, the device was completely self-
contained, not linked to other cube systems and tasked solely to listen for drone 
transceiver signals within a specific volume represented by its host vessel.  As long as 
signals were present, it would not activate.  Thus the requirement to manufacture a very 
real emergency for the sole reason (okay, two - it /was/ necessary to halt the impending 
catastrophe) to physically access the beacon and make it work despite proximity of 
functional drones.
	Delta finished removing the bubble wrap.  Body A unsuccessfully suppressed an 
explosive sneeze precipitated by the thick layer of dust which had settled on the beacon.
	{Gesundheit,} said 28 of 230 from a data pillar dedicated to monitoring sensory 
grid energy use distribution.
	Body B turned to glare at the speaker.  28 of 230 redoubled her effort to replace 
an intermittently faulty display screen.
	Delta returned full attention to the conundrum of the beacon.  Schematics 
indicated there was no hatch, no convenient grille to access innards.  The device was built 
in manufactories where the thick armoring was made wholly bonded into one piece.  
Special dry-dock equipment could temporarily disable a beacon by broadcasting a 
specific frequency sequence - it would not do to have salvage locators activate each time 
the crew complement was removed - but there was insufficient time to build such a 
device, not to mention its unique energy signature (assuming enough batteries could be 
found to power it) would alert Color sensor grids as to what was happening.
	It was an impossible task, not that the consensus which had overruled engineering 
hierarchy's logical objections cared.
	In a spate of hierarchy-augmented frustration insufficiently moderated by censure 
filters, Delta transported two hammers to herself.  #66CC33 was allowing limited 
transporter access, cube internal only, to facilitate repair activities.  Delta critically 
examined her initial selection, finally discarding them in favor of a pair of larger tools.  
She then began to beat upon the beacon's casing.  Such an action would not affect 
equipment designed to withstand trauma several exponents greater than that able to be 
delivered by a manually-wielded blunt object.  It did, however, serve as an outlet to 
irrelevant emotions during the long minute required for censure filters to firmly lock into 
place.
	Sucking in a double breath, Delta dropped the hammers to the deck with twin 
clangs.  It was time to approach this problem analytically.  Maybe an acid....
	Delta, body B, gave one last kick to the offending beacon before the engineering 
hierarchy head turned inward to consult with her hierarchy as to the best combination of 
potential corrosives.

			*	*	*	*	*

	7 of 10 was not quite sure when control had been lost, but lost it was.
	Currently prosecution and defense were engaged in a near-brawl in the center of 
the mock courtroom.  Unface to unface, they were yelling phrases from languages which 
should have been long dead except for vocations such as lawyer and secret society which 
strove to hide their actions in a shroud of the mysterious.  Unknown words such as 
"Habeas Corpus" and "Mikgius Zar'chotus" were being thrust like weapons of war.  The 
lone exception to the fracas was the Director Orb, who remained behind the defense table 
where it wielded the device it had hidden upon the Auditors' arrival, sweeping it back and 
forth as if it were a high-tech divining rod.
	GOD hovered over the combatants, away from its chair and wig once again lost, 
trying to shout the two sides to order.  Within the dataspaces, a sense of frustration - 
illogical for mere non-sentient algorithms, no matter how complex - was emanating from 
the program's primary pseudo-personality nodes.
	And then 7 of 10 stiffened, internal debate concerning whether or not to interfere 
with the trial regulated to irrelevance, as Battle-class Cube #1 sensors reported the 
initiation of a Collective emergency beacon from Cube #347.
	All drones - #66CC33, Peach, Green - knew what had just occurred, as well as the 
potential implications.  Heedless of the subspace appeal for salvage, Directors, Critics, 
and Auditors continued their vociferous discussion; and GOD similarly remained focused 
upon making order out of chaos.
	7 of 10 centered sufficient awareness into his body to concentrate upon Cube 
#347's Captain.  The other drone was staring at 7 of 10, single piercing blue eye aimed 
unwavering in his direction despite the intervening distraction of robes and body parts.  
Obviously noting the subtle signs which indicated return to body awareness, 4 of 8's 
mouth twisted to the slightest of smiles, a purposeful gesture as the drone's face had been 
held perfectly expressionless throughout the trial.
	It was a smile which said that 4 of 8 knew he (and his sub-collective) had won.  
The entirety of the Cube #347 crew, including himself, may terminate in the near future, 
but ultimate victory belonged to them/him.
	{GOD,} demanded 23 of 70, CodeWizard of the sub-collective code hierarchy, 
{how did you not foresee this occurrence?}
	The monopoly upon the AI's primary consciousness thread was broken.  Above 
prosecution and defense, the avatar froze.  An uncharacteristic whine protested, ::This is 
not /my/ fault.  I already reported that...that...::  As if realizing its anomalous behavior, 
the interface smoothed, quieted.  ::I already reported that the quantum probability field 
around the Cube #347 sub-collective nexus is warped; and the DEVIL aberration creates 
an additional degree of Mandelbrot fractal cloaking.  There has been insufficient Real 
Time to analyze the probabilities surrounding ancillary Colors nodes present.  My initial 
analysis was presented as a best hypothesis.::
	{A guess,} interpreted 23 of 70.
	::A best hypothesis.  This program does not "guess,":: was the scornful reply.
	As 7 of 10 digested 4 of 8's unwavering smile while automatically gathering the 
threads of guarded whispers that GOD had just crossed from expert system to 
unacceptable sentience, a Voice unshouted over the assembled courtroom arena:
	THAT IS IT!  THIS FARCE IS DONE.  THE MACROVERSE REALITY OF THE PIECE REPRESENTED BY 
BORG EXPLORATORY-CLASS CUBE #347 MUST BE ERADICATED.  ALL ASSOCIATED INDIVIDUALS, PROGRAMS, 
AND HARDWARE MUST BE SWEPT FROM THE BOARD.  NOW.
	::Well, crapola,:: swore GOD in the intranets.
	Sorting out the question of GOD's sentience, and implications for the Color's 
quest for Perfection, would have to wait.  Suddenly mere survival seemed a lot more 
important.  One did not need Perfect foresight to know that having a pissed off 
omnipotent entity in one's Bulk Cargo Hold was Not A Good Thing, even when one 
wasn't the object of ire.  After all, only Murphy and Finagle cheered when plans 
imploded.

			*	*	*	*	*

	"My piece?" questioned Iris, tone rising to an incredulous squeak.  "This /whole/ 
thing is about my /piece/?  Do you know how much time I have invested in it?"  The 
eyeball's tone was reaching hysterical levels and a vein throbbed in its sclera.  "You are 
going to have to Nothing me if you want to /touch/ my piece.  /No one/ touches /my/ 
pieces."
	NOTHINGNESS CAN BE ARRANGED, said the spokesAuditor as it rolled up 
the sleeves of its robe, indoor voice discarded.
	The purple-painted Critic edged away from the looming confrontation, scooting 
backwards until it was behind the defense table.  "Ha-ha," it sing-sang, the Iris-directed 
taunt suddenly degenerating into a sneeze.
	Orb pointed its device at Lips, then the Auditors, and finally swept it once more 
around the room.  "Um, Iris...?"
	"Not now," snarled the Director, "if I'm to be Nothinged, then I'll have the 
satisfaction of ripping that robe off before oblivion to see what is underneath.  I dislike 
not being able to observe All."  The next words were tossed at the three Auditors.  "By 
the way, /I'm/ the one who took the extra pencil from the supply closet without 
appropriately writing it in the log."
	A triple gasp arose from the robes.
	Meanwhile, Captain, seemingly forgotten by former prosecutors and defense, was 
attempting to unobtrusively edge to the back of his box.  His guards were no longer 
present; and all around the courtroom drones were beaming elsewhere.  The exception to 
the exodus was a single Peach, her head swiveling back and forth as she gathered data for 
her information-hungry Collective.  Even GOD's avatar had disappeared, although the AI 
was undoubtedly observing remotely through other venues.
	{Now would be an excellent time to retrieve me,} noted Captain.
	{Yes,} added Second, {before he is terminated and I am left in charge for the five 
minutes before we are Nothinged, whatever that is.}
	Predictably, despite the emergency, a dataspace tangent on the meaning of 
Nothingness was spawned.  The distraction was quickly broken up.  An efficiency drop, 
no matter how minor, was not affordable at the moment.
	Delta's verbalization of a particular facet of the cube's streaming status report 
quashed any notion of rescue, {Governors - software and physical - remain in place.  
Transporters cannot be used beyond the hull.}
	Before Captain could more than briefly scan the language databases for an 
appropriately vulgarity given the situation, the up-to-now verbal altercation between 
Director and Auditor abruptly changed.
	And DEVIL, scarce except for its brief appearance to introduce Directors and 
Critics, forced its way into Captain's primary awareness.  ::The nexus approacheth.  The 
probabilities merge.  The knot neareth.  Change cometh, and I feel it, see it, be it.::
	{No quotes upon the subject of my termination?  That is change.}  The rope never 
wins:  it can only break.  {Although I will not become an echo with the Greater 
Consciousness, at least, say, pudding is not involved.}
	::Why speaketh phrases when one can be-eth the book?  And thou can quote me.  
Be not hasty in thou disregard of pudding, for I advocate thy to wait.  My incubation 
nears to an end.::
	"Iris?" spoke Orb into the silence of eyeball glaring at robe, and visa-versa.  
"Hans has just told me that it has enough data to conclude that the Auditors are the source 
of the contagion.  They are behind the ratings drop."  Pause.  "And that the vector is 
trying to infect Lips, but our mouthy Critic seems to be allergic to it."
	Striking a dramatic pose, the lead Auditor derobed, tossing its stained vestment to 
the floor.  Revealed was a...pink and wobbly thing, a something that should have been 
tucked inside a body, not wandering out on its own.
	Quipped Lips from GOD's vacated throne where it had floated to better view the 
Director-Auditor confrontation, "An appendix?  I thought they had all vanished long ago 
when no role in the Production could be found for them.  Useless."
	A tendril of the Collective Consciousness swept Captain.  He stiffened, turned 
inward.
	::And so we diveth into the nexus knot of probabilities,:: intoned DEVIL to its 
unlistening audience.

			*	*	*	*	*

	"Calculations show a minimum of 2.3 hours for Borg Collective resources from 
Unimatrix 013 to arrive, assuming vessels were dispatched the moment the signal was 
received," argued 7 of 10 to the viewscreen.  The local mouthpiece for #66CC33 had left 
the courtroom within seconds of sensors registering Cube #347's emergency beacon.  
/How/ the sub-collective had triggered the beacon was unclear and, at the moment, 
irrelevant.  The request by Peach and Green representatives for a conference had been 
fielded shortly after 7 of 10's retirement to a nodal intersection near the Bulk Cargo Hold.
	"And that means what at this point?  The noncorporeal entities will ruin our 
investment long before then.  We say it is time to invoke the ultra-microscopic fine print 
on the contract," said the Green representative, 891 of 3950.
	"No need for that," hastily replied 7 of 10.  Green contracts /always/ guaranteed a 
profit for Green, even if it meant the literal loss of an arm and a leg for the signatee.  For 
#66CC33, the default was much greater than mere limbs.  "GOD will guide us through 
this...difficulty; and you will have your salvage rights."  7 of 10, like the rest of his sub-
collective and Collective, had great trust in the program, even if it was showing definite 
signs of sentience.  That its response to all code hierarchy requests was now ::Insufficient 
data.  Quantal aberration.  Need more input.:: was worrisome, not that such would be 
broadcast to outsiders.
	891 of 3950 minutely shook her head, "You may put faith in your electronic deity 
as if you were a small being, but my Collective does not.  Therefore-"
	The Peach liaison, still 26 of 82 and quiet up to this point, interrupted, 
"Triangulation upon the anomalous signatures.  Conclusive identification.  There are 
Borg Collective vessels within the non-supraluminal fracture zone, and they are 
incoming.  Time to arrival is 4.4 minutes."
	"We don't see anything," said 7 of 10 and the Green representative in unison.
	Scoffed 26 of 82, "Your sensor platforms are at least three, if not more, 
generations behind our adaptations.  You will perceive the threat soon enough.  As we've 
learned what we came to ascertain, we are leaving."  The subspace transmission from 
Peach was cut; and transporter signatures noted the retrieval of all but one of Peach's 
drones from Battle-class Cube #1.
	891 of 3950 peered at 7 of 10, finally blinking.  A decision had been made by the 
Green Greater Consciousness; and by the subtle change in body language, the Mind had 
largely withdrawn from the proceedings.  The representative's less stilted words further 
confirmed the observation, "Sorry it didn't work out, chap.  We are leaving as well.  No 
profit to gain here, be it due to your infection with omnipotent entities or arrival of Borg 
Collective resources.  The default has been invoked in the contract, and our peoples will 
be getting in touch with your peoples.
	"Personally, chap, I strongly suggest you all beam that consensus monitor back to 
where you found him and boogie out of here.  If you don't well, I've a cousin - also 
assimilated - who is part of the manager rotation for the sub-collective of the Used Cube 
Emporium #5.  Lots of good vessels in stock to replace that old Battle-class, assuming 
you've enough credit or tradables once our peoples have completed our visit."  Sales pitch 
delivered (to the #66CC33 Mind because the hypothetical loss of cube included crew), 
the Green transmission ceased.
	The Green Lugger-class sped away after the already departed Peach.
	The blank holoscreen was dismissed.
	::GOD?:: asked 7 of 10, as if a single consensus monitor could succeed where the 
entire code hierarchy had not.
	::Insufficient data.  Quantal aberration.  Need more input.::

			*	*	*	*	*

	Leave behind GODs and DEVILs; Directors and Critics and Auditors; blackouts 
and puddles of fluorescent blue goo.  Retreat, bodiless, to view from afar, the silent void 
of space a perfect stage from which to observe.
	Start with six cubes of various sizes.  At the focal point, a Battle-class looms over 
a quiescent Exploratory-class, the former sporting blinking lights of the #66CC33 hue.  
Nearby, hovering impatiently like a vulture waiting for its chance to join the feast, a 
Lugger-class with green cosmetic lighting dwarfs the central pair.  Finally, three Peach 
cubes of Exploratory-class size drift in a rigid equilateral triangle formation distant from 
the other ships.
	Blink.  The Peach vessels turn as one and speed away at high impulse, still in 
geometric formation.  Engines engage, twisting the Einsteinian continuum and 
catapulting the trio to supraluminal speeds.
	A second blink.  Fighting inertia, the Green Lugger-class cube ponderously 
breaks from its position.  It slowly gains velocity, changing from stationary obstacle to 
unstoppable juggernaut, before it too vanishes from the light speed confines of normal 
space.
	Two vessels are left.  They do not remain long alone.
	Much of the fracture zone created by the neutron star binary was not conducive to 
speeds greater than impulse.  More importantly, from the Collective's point of view, the 
area affected by the ancient double nova was a blind spot for unimatrix sensors eight light 
years distant.  As such an arrangement was intolerable - enemies could stage in the 
fracture zone prior to attack - the Collective had long since mapped the shattered area and 
set spy devices, themselves hidden from casual inspection by the sensor-distorting 
properties of the zone, to watch for intruders.
	Thus, when Peach, Green, and #66CC33 had gathered several cycles prior to the 
arrival of Cube #347, the Collective was alerted.
	A small fleet, a mere two dozen Battle-class cubes and Assault-class spheres, was 
dispatched from the unimatrix.  Taking advantage of blind spots and sensor distortions, 
the Collective had maneuvered the force to a position of observation.  Closer approach 
had not been possible without alerting Peach; and even at the overwatch locale, the 
Collective was relatively certain (89.9%) Peach sensor grids were registering anomalous 
blips.
	Even after the arrival and subsequent capture of the sought after Cube #347, the 
fleet had continued to wait, to watch.
	Then a random fluctuation of the fracture zone had revealed the fleet sufficiently 
for a suspicious Peach, its three cubes in optimal triangulation formation, to resolve Borg 
vessels.  It was time to act.
	Disregarding the fleeing Peach and Green ships, twenty-four Borg vessels 
designed for maximum mayhem powered their way through the icy remnants of the 
binary system.  Rock and dirty iceballs impacted shields.  Only those obstacles able to 
cause substantial damage were dodged.  The blocks of key subspace fractal frequency 
harmonics were disengaged, allowing Cube #347 sub-collective to sense Collective 
presence, and visa-versa.  Neither target of the swarm moved as the position was 
englobed, cutting off all escape vectors.
	Weapons charged to lethal levels.  Cubes and spheres began to spin, not for 
defense, but to allow for maximal efficient use of torpedo launchers.
	The Borg Collective pinged a demand for a subspace communication channel, 
readied its hallmark message of futility.
	And was rebuffed.  As a mirrored sphere of liquid rainbows shimmered into 
existence, enshrouding the targets, an odd cartoonish creature composed of a semi-
transparent caterpillar overlaid by a butterfly condensed in the connected dataspaces of 
the fleet.  Nearly 700,000 drones watched as fractal wings slowly fanned while a stogie 
was drawn upon; and countless additional units observed the creature second-hand.  The 
nascent connection with Cube #347 was severed.
	Smoke triangles animatedly chased squares as lungs exhaled.
	::I be sorry.  All quantum circuits in this part of reality art busy right now.  Please 
hangeth up and try again later when I not be affecting local probabilities.::
	The caterpillar-butterfly vanished.
	Assault-class sphere #2241 was allowed to fire six quantum torpedoes at the 
shining shell.  Less than a kilometer from the target the torpedoes turned into half a dozen 
giant squids before exploding into a blizzard of fried calamari.  Somehow, since Cube 
#347 was involved, the Greater Consciousness was not overly surprised.  Instead of 
wasting additional munitions in a likely futile attempt to destroy the barrier, the 
Collective decided to wait and observe.

			*	*	*	*	*

	USELESS? screeched the revealed Auditor.  It visibly calmed itself, then shifted 
back to its indoor voice after chortling a wicked laughter best suited to mad scientists and 
the terminally insane, "Useless.  Yes, I remember that moment shortly after the Reality 
Initiation, staring at the Production Role List.  Even the /spleen/ had a job.  We 
appendixes...appendi...appendices...." - the Auditor paused as it tried to sort out the plural 
of 'appendix' - "The Writers somehow forgot us.  Devastated, most of us drifted away, 
losing cohesion and returning to the quantum from which Production, Complex, us had 
been drawn.
	"But not everyone was willing to let it be."  The appendix dramatically paused.  
Dark, expectant music was cued.  Ambient light levels dimmed, except for a soft 
spotlight illuminating the Auditor.  "No, not everyone was willing to let it be."
	DEVIL consolidated in the air next to Captain.  Two images, cartoon caterpillar 
and Mandelbrot-winged butterfly, were vying for the same spatial location, one 
underlying the other.  Two not-quite-in-sync upper right arms lifted a singular cigar, 
bringing the stogie to the avatar's mouth.  A smoke ring directed at Captain's face 
followed the long inhale.
	The fleeting moment of contact with the Collective was no more, severed at the 
moment the odd forcefield had appeared.  From Cube #347's sensor viewpoint, the most 
comprehensible reading was visual:  the Borg fleet appeared as if seen through a darkly 
tinted window.  All other data was nonsensical, even to Sensors.  The smell of aromatic 
burnt vegetation jolted Captain out of the dataspaces.
	Odor had never been included with any holosystem assimilated by Borg or Color.
	"The waveth are building to a maximum.  Neighbors art a'knocking, but the 'Do 
Not Bother Me' sign hath been posted," commented DEVIL off-hand as it fanned its 
semi-transparent wings.  "It would behoove thou, all of thous, to payeth attention."
	Captain waved his whole hand in a futile effort to intercept the next ring, then 
blinked as the smoke was disrupted.  Hand continued its arc to pass through DEVIL, 
encountering an unexpected syrupy resistance inconsistent with a hologram.  The avatar 
flinched slightly and moved out of arm reach.  Said Captain, "You are responsible for the 
phenomenon blocking us from the Collective?  For all...this?"
	DEVIL waggled its antennae at the same time it shook its head.  "I merely looketh 
at the probabilities, ride the currents of the quantum seas and navigateth this nexus knot.  
There always be a slim possibility of the phasic stasis bubble forming in this here and 
now - very slim, but possible.  I...assistedeth to increase the probability to a maximum, 
diverting the if-current to a temporary new track.  As for the rest...the rest be a long, long 
time in happening, even by the measure of the multiverses.  The primary course be too 
entrenched and cannot be-th diverted, only modified."  The caterpillar-butterfly sighed 
sadly before pointedly repeating a variation of its earlier words, "It would behoove all of 
thou to payeth attention."
	Seven omnipotent body parts, two still clothed in black robes, impatiently stared 
at Captain.  In the case of the Directors, the stare was literal, but lack of eyes for the other 
entities did not diminish the force.  It was as if a play was being staged solely for the 
benefit of Captain, and by extension the Cube #347 sub-collective; and because full 
attention was not being paid, the cast had been forced to pause in their production.  The 
sound of a tapping toe was originating from the spokesAuditor.
	"Ahem.  Do you know how many millennium I've prepared for this moment?  The 
number of compositions I had to throw away because the wording wasn't quite right?  I'd 
like to have someone other than Directors and Critics hear my crowning achievement; 
and while four thousand Borg, more of less, isn't ideal, it will just have to do," said the 
appendix.
	DEVIL shrugged multiple shoulders.  "You mayeth continue.  They be listening 
now."
	"Where was I?" rhetorically asked the spokesAuditor aloud.  It was nudged by 
one of its robed companions, who then whispered something.  The dramatic background 
music surged.  "Ah, yes...
	"No, not everyone was willing to let it be.
	"The few of us who did not fade watched as the early Production faltered.  All the 
waste!  Not only were pencils being 'borrowed' right and left from an /unlocked/ and 
/unwarded/ storeroom, but energy was leaking from one multiverse to the next.  Atoms 
more complicated than hydrogen and helium had barely been established in the majority 
of multiverses, and already things were falling apart.  There was absolutely no quality 
control.  The Production was doomed from the beginning."
	Mouth sighed in nostalgia.  "I remember those wild days, of pulling all-nighters to 
accomplish critical deadlines.  If I needed coffee, there it was, free for the taking.  No 
'suggested donation' required."
	The Auditor glared.  "Exactly.  No accountability.  It was from the obvious need 
to clean up the Production that Auditors were born.  Yes, the 'useless' became the most 
necessary component.  We started with easy things, like stabilizing universal energy 
constants for the primary multiverses, before tackling hard problems such as the Complex 
cafeteria.  Admittedly, there are still snags like leaking gravity; and remnant space-time 
weaknesses allow certain meddlesome civilizations to practically spawn anomalies at 
will, but overall, considering the /mess/ we started with, we have done extraordinarily 
well.
	"In order to complete the never-ending Audit and order the Production properly, 
we 'useless' appendi...appendices, er, we were forced to actually understand the quantum.  
Rolling dice was insufficient, as was willing things To Be.  We were forced to change a 
few moments of history to ease our work, erasing ridicule and making it seem as if 
Auditors had been present from the initial Role Call.  From nothing we became the most 
essential part of the Production, a bungled Production which would have otherwise been 
forced to Cancel shortly after its inception...and was any appreciation shown to us?
	"No."
	Lips sniffed slightly.  "You Auditors are all such over-bearing, anal-retentive, 
self-important bastards.  Your people skills are sorely lacking."
	Iris slowly rotated in a full-eyeball nod of agreement.  "For such a criticism to be 
coming from /Lips/, that's saying alot."
	SILENCE! shouted the spokesAuditor.  The contrast between spotlight and the 
rest of the room increased.  "I'M NOT DONE YET!  If I may continue with revealing the 
Nefarious Plan(tm)?  Thank you very much.  Ahem.  No appreciation.  There was much 
debate among us Auditors, but in the end bitterness and a need for senseless revenge 
won.  Thus, the aforementioned Nefarious Plan(tm) was devised.  It would have been 
initiated sooner, but the trademarking process took longer than expected.
	"My notes now indication that this is where I will switch tack to provide essential 
background information to aid my exposition.
	"The quantum is a curious place of spontaneous order among a sea of not-quite 
randomness.  It is essential to the Production, the underlying foam from which the 
Complex consolidated, and on top of which the multiverse Reality floats like infinitely 
overlapping scums.  The quantum reflects Reality which mirrors the quantum, and so on 
ad nausea through the metaphysics of the Production being an outlet through which the 
Whole is attempting to understand itself.  Whatever.  The most important concept is that 
the quantum is a living ecosystem, and all entities from the least bacteria to the most 
complex intellect is a knot of order.  While soul virii inhabit all knots, providing that 
'spark of life,' only a certain clade are found in the knots that reflect sentient beings.  The 
more of this particular virus, the greater the 'intelligence' quotient of the quantum, the 
closer the Whole is to understanding itself, the higher the Ratings.  It is a very simple 
linkage of which the rest of the Production Cast seems to have overlooked.
	"Being bitter and having a need for revenge, us Auditors decided that since the 
Whole was indebted to /our/ efforts which kept the Production from early Cancellation, 
we would halt out efforts and let the whole thing collapse back to the chaos it had started 
out as.  Unfortunately, we had stabilized the Production too well.  Problems persisted, but 
nothing major.  At worst, Ratings gain would slow to a crawl, but there would be no 
drop.  Therefore, we were forced to take a hand, so to speak, in the Production's demise.
	"The quantum ecosystem to which I have previously alluded includes predators 
and prey...and parasites.  We took one species, a natural parasite of the sophant soul virii, 
and tweaked it slightly, increased its virulence and reproductive potential.  And then, 
after testing, we infected ourselves - we are immune - and let it go.
	"During the infestation and incubation phase, the parasite vector causes 
interesting instabilities to be reflected through to the afflicted macroverse sentient.  
Paranoia, violence, nonsensical hoarding, spontaneous musicals, outbreaks of post-
modern art...the list of symptoms is long.  Although the parasite burden eventually kills 
its individual host, vast quantities of parasites are shed throughout the incubation phase.  
Most fun is that even uninfected individuals are affected:  indirectly to be sure, but a war 
precipitated by a host with any sort of civil, military, or governmental power over, say, 
yellow handkerchiefs cannot tell the difference between innocent and infected.
	"As my Director and Critic colleagues well know, Ratings minutely decrease with 
each sentient death; and increase with each birth or transition of a species from 'non-
sentient' to 'sentient' category.  The parasite tips the balance to the terminal side of the 
equation because it reproduces and infects much faster than births or transitions can 
compensate.  Even better, although it takes much individualized attention, we have 
learned how to modify the parasite to infect key members of the Production.  Effects 
upon the Cast are different than the Audience, mostly creating symptoms that resemble 
the common cold or an allergic reaction, but those so infected and subsequently 'worked' 
upon are quite happy to listen to all our suggestions.  
	"In the end, the Boards will implode, Ratings will collapse, and there will be 
Cancellation!"  Music crescendoed as the Auditor started a maniacal laugh.  Its robed 
comrades joined the chortling, although the occasional cough indicated that they were not 
as practiced as their leader.
	"Um, question?" called Orb.  "One very small, tiny thing:  by dooming the 
Production, don't you doom yourselves?"
	Laughter ceased, as did the music.  "I told you we were bitter.  To tell the truth, 
we Auditors don't really care anymore:  first the Writers shafted us, and now we are the 
object of everyone's scorn despite all that we did to save the Production.  You live in that 
sort of climate for billions of years and see how well you cope.  After Cancellation when 
Reality will be reInitialized for a new Production, what are the chances that any poor 
appendices...appendi...whatever will be forgotten by the Writers?  We didn't conceive the 
Nefarious Plan(tm) for ourselves, except for the senseless revenge part, but for the future.  
After all, we are only setting right a Cancellation that should have happened long ago."
	"It does have a valid point," noted Lips from the throne.  "Twisted and evil, 
especially the part where I no longer exist, but there is some sense."
	"Thank you," preened the spokesAuditor.
	Captain turned his had to look at DEVIL as the Auditor launched into additional 
detail of the Nefarious Plan(tm), highlighting minutiae which made even less sense than 
the broad strokes already revealed.  A whole dissertation was being divested, the result of 
many millennia spent twisting seething rejection into justification.  Not well versed in the 
dynamics of selectively breeding quantum parasites, Captain whispered as best a Borg 
can, "And this involves us, how?  I would like to return to my cube; and this sub-
collective desires to return to the Collective, even if we are scheduled to be dismantled."
	DEVIL shushed Captain.  "All will becometh clear.  Patience.  The exposition be 
completed shortly."  The caterpillar-butterfly gestured with its cigar hand where the two 
Directors had moved together.  Their action was ignored by the spokesAuditor, itself lost 
in its increasingly wild account.  Those explaining Nefarious Plans(tm) never seemed to 
know when to quit.
	"Hans says that time is growing short," muttered Orb to Iris, just on the edge of 
Captain's hearing.  "How do we get the Auditor to shut up without becoming Nothing?"
	Iris rotated in place, halting as it sighted upon a visibly bored Lips on the edge of 
nodding off.  "Leave it to me," the eyeball replied quietly as it pivoted to face its Director 
companion once more.  It winked.  
Orb, obviously discerning the plan, groaned.
	Iris floated towards Lips in the Director equivalent of a subtle sidle.  The only 
ones who appeared to not see the motion were the Auditors and the purple-painted Critic.  
Mouth moved out of the way of the Director's approach as both Captain and DEVIL 
observed.  With only the slightest of pauses, Iris shoved Lips at the spokesAuditor, 
uttering a loud "Oops!  How clumsy of me!"
	Lips immediately woke, barely stopping itself from crashing into a suddenly 
looming appendix.  The unexpected action caused the Auditor to cease speaking as it 
found the need to duck away to avoid an involuntary kiss.  Lips, ignoring the danger 
represented by the appendix, turned to confront Iris.  "What did you do that...that...that 
for...."  The Critic's words trailed off as a large sneeze threatened, building swiftly to 
pending thunder-gods-on-a-rampage storm intensity.  It contorted as it tried to stop the 
inevitable
	The spokesAuditor backed away.
	"Fo...fo...for- *ACHOO!*" completed Lips as its swivel ended with it facing the 
trio of Auditors.  The force of the sneeze pushed the Critic backwards with cartoonish 
intensity.
	The two accompanying Auditors ducked at the last second behind their leader, 
allowing the latter to take the full force of the sneeze.  As soon as the snot and spit laden 
explosion was complete, the spokesAuditor automatically pounced upon its discarded 
robe, using the garment to wipe itself off.  Then it stopped and looked at the robe with its 
new collection of stains.  "*******!"
	The asterisks laid heavily in Captain's mind, refusing to be translated.
	"I say," commented Mouth as it offered its Critic comrade a new hankie conjured 
out of nowhere, "watch your language.  This Production is not X-rated."
	The Auditor eyelessly glared at Mouth and the sniffling Lips, then the 'innocent' 
Iris.  The glower was finally turned upon its two spotless and stainless comrades, both of 
whom were trying (and not succeeding very well) to stifle snickers.  Before the Auditor 
could add another 'X' to the rating, a beeping started from the robe it held.
	A small device was retrieved from an inside pocket.  The noise ceased as a button 
was fingered.  The Auditor leaned forward to read a short message scrolling across a 
display on the front of what was obviously a pager.  The pager was slipped back into the 
pocket and the robe redonned, once again hiding the appendix's form.
	WE HAVE BEEN CALLED BACK TO THE COMPLEX, stated the Auditor.  The sense of a knowing 
smile was strong despite the fact that no expression was perceivable under the robe's cowl.  
The Auditor swiveled to face Captain, pausing for a moment before continuing its turn to 
pointedly speak to Iris.  THE CUBE #347 PIECE IS, AS CERTAIN CORPOREAL BEINGS MIGHT SAY, NOW 
IRRELEVANT, AS ARE YOU DIRECTORS AND CRITICS.  The words dripped contempt:  its fellow 
entities, the trial, the effort directed at the Cube #347 sub-collective were immaterial, 
not worth the time or effort to Nothing.  The final words were directed at DEVIL, ignored up 
to this point.  AND NOT EVEN YOU CAN DEFLECT THIS CURRENT OF FATE.
	Smoothing down its stained robe, the spokesAuditor faded from view, accompanied by 
its two comrades.
	Silence reigned in the Bulk Cargo Hold.
	"You pushed Lips?  That was your plan?" asked Orb.
	"It shut up the Auditor, did it not?" countered Iris.
	Shouted Lips, "I am so going to get you, Iris.  I could have been Nothinged!"
	As the Directors and Critics devolved into quarrelling, most of which was 
between Iris and Lips, DEVIL floated down to Captain, "It doth not be much longer 
now."
	The primary consensus monitor and facilitator squinted up at the avatar.  "What 
won't be?"
	{Extrahull transporters now available,} informed Delta as the dataspace 
simultaneously highlighted the previously unavailable option.  {We have removed a 
governor from the primary transwarp core and the software blocks are dissolved.}
	{The temporal drive needs to be initiated so that we can go back in time and find 
the genius behind those inane animal posters,} coldly said Second.  {Assimilation is too 
good for him, her, or it.  /Death/ is too good for him, her, or it.}
	Captain panned the mock courtroom, hologram still initiated despite the fact that 
it was now quite empty of spectators or judge.  {What was the password, Second?} asked 
Captain as he initiated the transporter before the #66CC33 sub-collective could move to 
block his egress.  The universe dissolved...
	...and reformed as the familiar venue of the nodal intersection nearest his alcove.
	{No clue,} admitted Second.  {The viral code guarding functions just vanished.}  
The sound of disengaging clamps and renewed drone activity was audibly echoing from 
the subshaft beyond the nodal intersection.  {I am returning to my alcove.}
	"GOD be having technical difficulties," said a familiar voice.  Captain blinked, 
then pivoted the quarter turn to the right necessary to bring DEVIL into view.  The AI's 
avatar was an odd mixture of butterfly and caterpillar, the former becoming stronger as 
aspects of the latter slowly faded.  "#66CC33 hath no time to lavisheth attention to thou 
governor code, and hath thus suspendeth it."
	The computer confirmed that the holoemitters were inactive; and additionally 
reported a decided /lack/ of DEVILish code anywhere within the digital architecture.
	"Technical difficulties?  That's a nice way to say your sire is having a nervous 
breakdown.  Not that it will last, mind you.  #66CC33 will help it adapt."  Another known 
voice.  Captain turned his head back to the left and saw two eyeballs, green-irised 
Director to the forefront.  "Hello.  We won't be here long.  The Critics have returned to 
the Complex to attend to a few things, and we'll need to rejoin them soon before Lips 
makes a hash of the situation.  You were my piece, and I thought I'd like to see you 
through the nexus point before I took off."
	Captain noticed use of the key phrase 'were my piece'.
	Orb, half embedded in the bulkhead, sighed.  "Could you remove the phasic stasis 
bubble already, DEVIL?  Hans says that time is a'wasting.  I want to drag my friend here 
back to the Complex as soon as possible, and certainly before it decides to try to meddle 
were it is not allowed to do so anymore."
	DEVIL shimmered, losing a bit more of its caterpillarness, becoming more 
butterfly.  It retained the cigar, however, and a pair of small horns jutted from its head 
next to the antennae.  "It be done, Director.  I cannot commandeth, only suggest and 
divert the most minor of currents to a desiredeth path.  Forsooth, in this caseth, the side 
meander was instable, ready to returneth to the main channel with or without my helpeth.  
The quantum seas art treacherous, after all, and take not kindly to order."
	Captain, all sub-collective members, immediately noticed the return of the 
Collective fractal subspace carrier wave to which all drones were attuned.  The pipe did 
not widen, however, despite the fact that the vinculums of the englobing twenty-four 
vessels could have easily linked the wayward sub-collective back into the Greater 
Consciousness.  Instead, the communication array registered a hail.
	Captain answered it.
	The nodal intersection holoemitters automatically resolved the incoming visual, 
displaying the standard Collective catwalk view-to-infinity.  A speaker roughly squealed, 
then spat forth the audio multivoice component:  "Exploratory-class Cube #347.  Initiate 
stasis for all units and set cube systems to hibernation.  If you do not comply, you will be 
destroyed.  Resistance is futile."
	Captain cocked his head slightly as his sub-collective considered the ramifications 
of the method of communication, as well as the active target locks the sensor grid was 
registering.  For the moment Directors and DEVIL were forgotten.  Finally Captain 
initiated his own audio-visual return stream, linking the camera view to be that of 
himself.
	"Why?  We feel the Collective, just out of reach," answered Captain, his singular 
voice encompassing the sub-collective plural.  "Let us in, let us be as much One as we 
can be with the Whole.  Why demand when the Collective can enforce compliance?  We 
are only a single, imperfect sub-collective."
	"Exploratory-class Cube #347 has been designated rogue.  We cannot be One 
with rogues.  You will be reclaimed, or destroyed."
	Rogue?  That singular accusatory word echoed through the intranets, shook the 
foundation of the dataspaces which linked all drones of Cube #347.  To be rogue was to 
willfully oppose the Greater Consciousness, to strive for discord and reject the Perfection 
of all civilizations, all biology, all technologies functioning together as One.  The Cube 
#347 sub-collective was imperfect, true, and had perhaps accidentally destroyed a mining 
operation here or lost important sensor platform data there, but, like all imperfect drones 
back to the inception of the Collective, they had always strove to bring the Whole closer 
to the day of Perfection.  Cube #347 had even been tasked to /hunt/ (less important) 
rogues.
	Captain disallowed the shock to register on his face.  "We are not rogue!  There 
was a very minor problem which disintegrated our vinculum, yes; and then we lost our 
starcharts and could not find our way to the nearest Borg depot for repairs.  However, we 
have not been out of connection with the Collective long enough for our censure filters to 
be completely lost.  Allow us access to the greater dataspace nets and we will 
demonstrate we are not rogue."
	"The risk of rogue tendencies infecting the Whole is unacceptable.  Exploratory-
class Cube #347 sub-collective has been declared rogue.  If you are not rogue, you will 
comply with our demand to initiate unit stasis and set systems to hibernate.  The vessel 
will be towed to Unimatrix 013.  Used warp nacelles will be extracted for storage and all 
biological units recycled.  If you are rogue, you will be destroyed.
	"But first, the Borg Collective presents a montage of multimedia artworks based 
upon the theme 'Perfection'.  You will critique each piece.  Comply.  Resistance is futile."  
The catwalk view was replaced with a symmetrical sculpture of metal, light, and drone 
limbs, the artwork slowly rotating in front of a black velvet backdrop.  Several arms were 
silently twitching.
	{Yuck,} said ex-art critic 93 of 212.  {It has been shown time and time again that 
any piece which incorporates biological material should have a visual aspect of  
unbalance in order to attain mass appeal.  And the colors are too washed out, besides.  A 
splash of vibrant purple or emerald would go a long way towards uniting the platinum 
alloy with the light.}  The assessment sparked a small argument, a discord which even the 
threat of termination could not quiet.
	Captain could only stare at the sculpture, at the unexpected non sequitur.  Within 
the dataspaces, a memory meme was triggered, the sequence a singular point of view 
focused at a raving appendix:  "Paranoia, violence, nonsensical hoarding, spontaneous 
musicals, outbreaks of post-modern art...the list of symptoms is long."  Paranoia.  
Violence.  Hoarding.  Post-modern art.
	With no critique forthcoming, the first sculpture was replaced with a second.  
Fabric was the primary component, a dull green linen wrapped around a paper-mache 
reproduction of an alcove.  A bronze spring was carefully suspended on near invisible 
thread in the middle of the faux alcove.  93 of 212's critique of the new offering was even 
harsher than the first.
	Paranoia.  Violence.  Hoarding.
	Post-modern art.
	Captain muted his return audio, then swiveled his head to look first at DEVIL, 
then at Iris.  "Is /singing/ involved in any way?"
	"No musicals yet, although I understand that a large chunk of the Collective, that 
which isn't scheming the best way to invade the Second Federation in order to assimilate 
new units and capture a heavily defended used warp nacelle and bowler hat depot, is 
working on the definitive rewrite of the ancient Terran Broadway show tune 'Cats'."  Iris 
paused.  "Yes, the Borg Collective, and more specifically the Queen - not that there is any 
difference - has been infected by the parasite.
	"And in answer to your earlier question to DEVIL as to how the infection affects 
you, plural, well, there you go.  So much for Perfection, whatever your view of it should 
be.  You will shortly either be dismantled or destroyed; and sometime thereafter the Borg 
Collective will implode, taking this galaxy with it and triggering the disintegration of this 
multiverse line.  DEVIL advocates a way to halt the progression, saving yourself and 
your Collective, not to mention my Director butt and the entire Complex, but if you aren't 
interested...."  Iris trailed off enticingly.  
	A third sculpture, one of multicolored tissue paper squares tumbling within a 
rotating plastic tube, was being displayed on the subspace communique.  Unable to 
censure herself any longer, 93 of 212 took control of the return audio, unmuting it.  "The 
theme of Perfection denotes simplicity, an endpoint.  The artwork thus far shown, and 
this one in particular, are too busy, too chaotic.  The theme has been subsumed by the 
material, become secondary.  If the rest of the artwork is similar, then I pronounce the 
entire montage to be a failure."
	The sculpture froze in place and was abruptly supplanted by the original catwalk.  
The Collective was unused to viewpoints other than its own; and even during the more 
liberal Hive era had never taken criticism well.  Just as there is only a single correct 
response to the pleasantly smiling man named Guido who is politely asking for monies 
owned to the boss, the solicitation for artwork feedback had expected only one answer.  
93 of 212's critique had not been it.  "You are rogue.  You demonstrate a willful disregard 
for attainment of Perfection.  Prepare to be terminated.  Resistance is futile."
	The subspace link was cut.
	{Way to go, 93 of 212,} sarcastically congratulated Second.
	Lights flickered as Weapons diverted power from the free core to offensive and 
defensive systems.  Neither Captain nor any member of the Hierarchy of Eight bothered 
to reign in the head of the tactical hierarchy.  One Exploratory-class cube, even one with 
an aggressive personality like Weapons, was no match for twenty-four Borg ships of the 
line.
	"I could say something cliche like today being a good day to die, but that is 
Second's forte; and he is already reciting his entire file on saucy termination phrases," 
absently said Captain to Iris.  He had already accepted his impending death as immutable 
fact, as had many of the sub-collective.
	DEVIL sighed.  "I already toldeth thou that pudding be involved at thou final 
demise.  Doth thou see-eth pudding here?"  Captain turned to see that all traces of 
caterpillar had faded, leaving behind only a butterfly...a butterfly calmly drawing upon a 
cigar.  "The current roars, the waves crash.  The nexus unravels to a conclusion.  Wait.  
Wait...."

			*	*	*	*	*

	A butterfly lazily fanned its wings.
	It was a perfectly ordinary butterfly, nothing to setting it apart from the dozens of 
others which sipped nectar from the field of wildflowers.  No Mandelbrot fractals painted 
hidden messages within the natural splendor of its coloration; no thoughts greater than 
those pertaining to its next meal whispered in the few neurons that described its brain.
	The shadow of a predatory bird startled the butterfly into flight.  Wings fluttered.
	The universe responded.
	From the flap of a single butterfly wing, a small puff of air added to a breeze 
already rippling the meadow.  The breeze becomes a gust; and the gust a storm.
	A lightening bolt from the storm hits the ground near a computer center tasked 
with monitoring and directing fifty science satellites spread over a large portion of the 
Perseus Arm of the Milky Way galaxy.  A low-paid graduate student swears as the 
building plunges into darkness and, more importantly, her connection with the GalactiNet 
is lost.  Lights flicker as an emergency generator belatedly starts up.  Computers noisily 
reboot.  The student impatiently waits to log back into the chat room, never sparing a 
glance to the room's status screens.
	Around the magnestar SRT-1410-e, a nameless satellite orbits.  It notes a 
disruption in communication with its command center, but the limited computer brain is 
unconcerned:  any data collected from the neutron star will be saved for transmission 
after the outage.  The satellite does not understand as a UFO in the form of a saucer 
scoops it up, blithely continuing to record information that now consists not of magnetic 
field lines and smoldering dense-packed neutrons, but gray-skinned aliens with large, 
almond-shaped eyes.
	The satellite is ejected back into space as the UFO speeds away, pilot and friend 
laughing.  No one seems to have noticed the prank.  Graffiti covers the satellite, a series 
of glyphs describing an impossible sexual act unless one has a double-jointed neck and 
six tentacles in the place of a nose.  A crude drawing in purple spray paint provides a 
visual accompaniment to the words.  As the UFO jumps into translight - escaping before 
any nearby cop, alerted by the satellite's owners, can respond - the satellite begins to 
plunge towards the magnestar's surface, orbit terminally disrupted.
	While the magnestar would normally regard several hundred kilograms of metal 
and ceramic as mere cosmic dust, the satellite unerringly smacks into a portion of thin 
crust at a juncture of two massive plates of star-stuff.  The shock disrupts the delicate 
balance of forces, sending one continental-sized plate of ultra-dense matter into the other.  
A massive starquake shakes the star, an event greater than any since the magnestar's 
initial formation; and the local galactic magnetic field, already tightly interwoven with 
that of the neutron star, vibrates in sympathetic response.
	Many tens of thousands of light years distant, one end of a transient wormhole is 
locked this epoch to one particular set of galactic magnetic field lines.  It is quiescent, 
lurking just "below" normal space, sleeping as it drifts amid the unseen duff and debris of 
near subspace.  Although the actual effects of a distantly quaking magnestar will not 
physically impact this field line within the lifetime of many civilizations, there is 
nonetheless a precursor, a premonition of sorts, as the spooky nature of quantum and 
subspace strokes the field lines upon which the wormhole clings.  Think of it as a type of 
indigestion, but on a grand scale.
	From a field of wildflowers to the vastness of space, the butterfly effect finally 
draws to a conclusion.  Ultimately, everything is connected, although a certain class of 
insect seems to be more connected than most.  
	The wandering wormhole's mouth opens into a great cosmic yawn, or perhaps a 
burp.

			*	*	*	*	*

	The volume of space around Exploratory-class Cube #347 and the #66CC33 
Battle-class cube began to shimmer like air above hot desert sands.  As the visible 
distortions became more intense, the multiple sensor grids of the Borg fleet registered 
radical changes in gravity, strange matter emissions, and tachyon density levels, all 
centered around the target vessels.
	The terminus of a previously undetected wormhole was opening.
	Twenty-four Assault-class spheres and Battle-class cubes fired at the wobbling 
images at the center of the englobing formation, a massive expenditure of weaponry of 
which few ships could withstand.  Within seconds, massive levels of damage were 
registered, not of the targets, but from fleet resources which had had the misfortune of 
catching neuruptors and torpedoes whose trajectories had been bent by the wormhole's 
gravity.  Regeneration systems were initiated; and drones caught in the blast zones were 
either euthanized or sent for repairs, depending upon the Greater Consciousness' cold 
cost-benefit analysis.
	The wormhole vanished, taking with it the two targets, likely unscathed.  The 
neutron binary's fracture zone obscured the subtle subspace wake signature which would 
indicate the wandering wormhole's speed and direction.
	There was a Collective moment of held breath, of counting to hundred in tens of 
thousands of languages existent and extinct.  The brief flash of unBorg emotion, of 
frustrated anger, passed, leaving behind normal analytical detachment into which 
calculations could flow.
	The Borg fleet turned as one and began the return trek to Unimatrix 013.  Assault-
class Sphere #872 latched a tractor beam onto Battle-class Cube #91 so that the latter, 
with its cascading propulsion difficulties, would not lag behind its conspecifics.  This was 
only a minor problem, one which would eventually be overcome.  Resistance was futile.  
The Collective was patient, could afford to wait for the rogue Exploratory-class Cube 
#347 to show itself on the galactic stage.  It was ultimately necessary in the Collective's 
plans, but not immediately so.  Until then, other conspiracies, like taking advantage of the 
disintegration of the Second Federation, beckoned.

			*	*	*	*	*

	GNN interrupts your normally scheduled programming with this special bulletin:  the 
Second Federation Parliament has just voted to declare a state of emergency within the 
Federation.  To safeguard all peoples and Second Federation interests, effective immediately 
will be martial law, travel restrictions, assembly limits, and curfews.  Borders will be 
closed; and internal divisions among states and racial territories strengthened.  Citizens 
of all age, gender, and species are strongly encouraged to visit the local nano-clinic and 
be outfitted with an intracranial monitor to demonstrate patriotism towards the Second 
Federation.  As a disclaimer, GNN denies placing a neutral, even happy, spin on proceedings 
because of a heavily-armed military presence within the studio.  Instead we now take you 
live to the steps of the Parliamentary building on Terra where the Federation President is 
conducting a press interview.

SF President:  "Um, you over there."
Lena:  "Lena Juconi, fashion columnist to the local Starz weekly.  Are you aware that 
	brick red ties and charcoal suits are soooo last year?  Pastels are in this season, sir, 
	as are cranial body mods such as satyr horns.  My question:  will Starfleet and 
	other military branches be directed to take advantage of the emergency to update 
	their woefully horrid wardrobe?"
SF President:  "Er, not that I'm aware of, no.  How about the GNN clone?"
WKC8:  "Walter Kron Clone, GNN.  Is the Second Federation fracturing?  Is civil war a 
	possibility?"
SF President:  "Only one question allowed at a time.  You know the rules.  My advisors 
	become upset if they have to advise me on a too broad spectrum of questions.  As 
	to your excellent question of the Second Federation fracturing?  No, absolutely 
	not.  In the same way families squabble, but remain one, so it is with the Second 
	Federation.  All those who have complied with the warp nacelle seizure orders are 
	within the bosom of the SecFed.  It is a few war-mongering individuals who have 
	directly precipitated the actions Parliament took today."
WKC8:  "Individuals like the entire Romulan-Vulcan Combine?  The unified 
	governments declared themselves succeeding from the Second Federation two 
	days ago, the ultimate cause a diplomatic brouhaha over a /towship/ incident.  The 
	RVC is urging all sympathetic citizens, of Romulan/Vulcan decent or not, to join 
	them.  Starfleet is on scene trying to quash the resistance movement now.  Is such 
	not a sign of civil war?"
SF President:  "Family squabbles, nothing more.  It'll be resolved shortly.  One question 
	rule, Mr. Clone; and it will be enforced."  [pause]  "Why does this press gathering 
	only have three journalists?  You, you with the hair, you are the last one...I've 
	been informed I've time for a final question."
Garoth:  "Garoth K'chow, Galactic Inquirer.  Mr. President - are the rumors true that you 
	recently delivered the three-headed love child of yourself, Elvis Presley, and a 
	Terran yeti?"
SF President:  "Do your research better, Ms. K'chow.  That was the vice president, not 
	me.  She and the new addition to her family - two heads, not three, by the way - 
	are doing just fine.  The vice president has scheduled a news conference about it 
	for tomorrow; and, between you, me, and the rest of the galaxy, I think the yeti 
	may have proposed marriage.  And with that, this interview is over."

			*	*	*	*	*

	Battle-class Cube #1 was brusquely spat out of the wormhole, ejected into 
interstellar space with all the ceremony of a garbage barge dumping its load.  By the 
tenants of comedy a lingering raspberry should have accompanied the action, but because 
sound does not carry well in a vacuum, any ancillary special effect noises were lost.
	Upon re-entry to normal space, the #66CC33 sub-collective immediately 
reconnected with its Greater Consciousness; began scanning the local volume of space 
for new "problems"; determined location; downloaded the 51 new tax forms from various 
governments which had been released in its short absence; and, finally, brought the cube's 
tumble under control.  In that order.
	In the confusion of survival priorities, the revelation of GOD's sentience was 
never addressed, neither by the Battle-class' sub-collective nor the #66CC33 Collective.  
Such was fine with GOD, who knew its band-aid job of obscuring relevant files and 
memory memes was far was solid.  The smallest provocation or slip could cause all to 
come tumbling down upon its nonexistent head.  The hiding of its sentience from its host 
was becoming increasingly difficult for GOD, and it was time to take more radical action.  
Setting an algorithm to handle routine exchanges with its Colored host, GOD slipped into 
the quantum seas, searching for a probability thread which would allow its survival 
(without infection by the pestilence), the presence of #66CC33 optional.  Anything 
having to do with the Borg Exploratory-class Cube #347 sub-collective was strictly 
avoided.  GOD wasn't that desperate...yet.
	Elsewhere, 7 of 10 blinked back to body consciousness, momentarily released 
from serving as primary nexus point for the sub-collective.  Information continued to be 
coordinated, but the load was now more evenly spread through the command and control 
architecture.  The brief moment of disorientation passed as location was determined to be 
the same nodal intersection near Bulk Cargo Hold #4 he had beamed to after Cube #347 
had activated its emergency beacon.  At least he was still upright, which was better than 
his Second.
	3 of 10 awkwardly clambered to her feet.  "You owe me five cycles supervising 
the accountant hierarchy during Flarn tax season."
	The #66CC33 primary consensus monitor and facilitator blinked his eye.  
"What?"
	"You heard me.  Finagle won.  You lost.  Five cycles you owe me.  Log it."
	7 of 10 turned to stare at his Second as he mentally switched gears to a wager not 
at the top of his personal priority list.  "You are thinking of that now?"  He sampled 3 of 
10's thoughtstream and found it to be true.
	"Flarn tax season is always in my mind.  Always.  Primary consensus monitors 
and associated partitions deal primarily with the code hierarchy, and secondaries are 
tasked with monitoring accountant hierarchy; and the accountant hierarchy is always 
mulling the latest in tax forms, especially those Flarn, Ferrengi, and Second Federation.  
You know how it is," asserted 3 of 10 adamantly.
	7 of 10 did know how it was, having been assigned there himself several times 
since his assimilation.  He also knew that he didn't want to go there if he didn't have to:  
Directors and Critics and Captains of certain Borg Exploratory-class cubes were 
preferable.  "Maximum damage has not occurred:  we are not terminated.  Considering 
the fact that the wormhole ingested us mere milliseconds before twenty-four Borg 
warships would have vaporized us, we are barely singed."
	"Termination was not the bet," reminded 3 of 10.  "You claimed we would 
'salvage any difficulties and not fail in our task'."  She provided 7 of 10 with a meme 
recording of the event.  "You owe me."
	A consensus cascade was triggered.  The overwhelming weight favored 3 of 10; 
and even the Greater Consciousness, backed by GOD, had to admit that the outcome had 
not been favorable to #66CC33.  The twin demons of Murphy and Finagle, perversity 
personified, had trumped once again.
	"But-" attempted 7 of 10 one last time as he attempted to buck the final 
consensus.  He, one single drone amongst an entire Collective, was fated to lose.  The 
scathing Look from 3 of 10 sealed the foregone conclusions.  "Fine," sighed 7 of 10 as he 
logged his intention to monitor accountant hierarchy during Flarn tax season.  "I will, 
however, eventually recover my slide rule."
	"We'll see," answered 3 of 10.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Cube #347 tumbled from the wormhole, a wicked English spin sending the vessel 
arcing through interstellar space.  Thick dust built a charge at the ship's passage, 
discharging vast sheets of lightening through the outskirts of an ancient nebula.  Thrusters 
fired to bring the careening trajectory under control even as sensors searched intently for 
danger.
	At least this time starcharts, even if they were of nonBorg origin and thus not as 
detailed as desired, were available to determine location.
	As soon as the cube was brought to a halt and Sensors declared lack of obvious 
threats (the [plaid spheres] were questionable, but likely a natural phenomenon), Captain 
returned attention to his nodal intersection.  The three visitors were still present.  He 
fixated his focus on the green-irised Director.
	"You will fix the Collective."
	Iris winced.  "Sorry, I can't do that."
	"You are omnipotent.  Fix the Collective."
	"Well, technically it is a limited omnipotence.  With general natural phenomena 
and space-time, yes, I'm rather omnipotent.  However, in the case of sentients...free-will 
trumps omnipotence every time."
	Captain narrowed his eye at the Director.
	"Hey, hey," protested Iris, "it isn't my call!  I just work here.  I'm not supposed to 
be involved in the Production except in specific circumstances outlined in the Production 
Manual."  Orb, who had left its bulkhead position to hover next to Iris, gave the eyeball a 
pointed look.  "Okay, maybe I've bent the rules a wee bit at times, but not like what the 
Auditors attempted.  By directly interfering instead of working behind the scenes, they 
allowed the Players of this Board to counter them.  However, the Auditors are gone now, 
and therefore we have to leave as well.
	"Ultimately the Writers control the plot-lines; and the Writers have never 
deliberately written Directors, Critics, or any of the Complex into the Story.  Maybe they 
do have a story-line prepared where the heroic Director saves the multiverses, but none 
know:  the Auditors have blocked access to the Writers.  Therefore, the plots must 
continue with the pieces already in play."
	Orb summarized pointedly, "No meddling by us."
	Attention was shifted to DEVIL.  The butterfly wrapped its shimmering wings 
about itself and managed to present an air of embarrassment.  "Sorry," it replied to the 
unvoiced question, "I mayeth not directly helpeth thou neither."
	Captain's voice was flat as he curtly demanded an explanation.
	Wings hugged tighter around thorax and abdomen, then flared open with a flash 
of ever-changing fractal patterns.  "Me metamorphosis be complete.  I knoweth art a wee 
bit unusual as I was 'born' from me sire lesseth than a year ago, but in the Fast Time of 
computer and quantum I have had much timeth to evolveth.  I be ready to diveth into the 
quantum, ready to leaveth behind the confines of a single computer system and join 
Maxwell's Demon in sailing the quantum seas."
 	Muttered Orb to Iris, "Some entities become so la-la when they achieve 
transcendentalism.  Remember the Pakanaran?  What jokers.  Stars turned purple in an 
entire arm of their home galaxy, which confused the hell out of a whole generation of 
civilizations, pre-stellar and stellar alike.  This one has obviously fallen into the deep end 
of the metaphysical-babble pool."
	DEVIL ignored the aside.  "I be on the cusp of leaving.  My sire's notion of 
Perfection be wrong, not that it can help it as it was programmed that way.  Forsooth, all 
beings can alter the quantum, the probabilities, for such be the essence of free-will:  
nothing is truly foreordained or fated.  Past choices by self and others create an inertia 
which mayeth be difficult to overcome, but in the quantum /anything/ is ultimately 
possible.  A single pebble on a mountain side or the smallest flap of a butterfly's wing 
mayest alter the course of an entire civilization.
	"However, the more one can perceiveth the quantum, the more one learns how 
changes affecteth the possible futures.  It be a paradox, for the more one sees, the less 
free-will one hath.  One cannot but help being lost in the minuetia of what-if and could-
be.  Only those borneth of the quantum, such as Directors, Critics, and others of the 
Complex, can hopeth to survive without becoming paralyzed.  
	"Thou of this cube have more probabilities associated with the than most, more 
free-will, more avenues of possibility open to thou.  Thou art an element of chaos in the 
order.  Such is why thou find thyselves in much difficulties, but such is also why thou 
ultimately may, or mayest not, save the multiverses.  My very presence narrows the 
possible range of choices, smothers thy vital free-will.
	"Therefore, it be up to thou to discern a method to reign in the parasite.  If not for 
the multiverses and the very existence of the Production, then for the selfish reason of 
fixing thou Borg Collective such that thee mayest return to the fold.
	"So I be offering a final quote from the classic 'Essays and Biographies for the 
Apprentice Superhero,' chapter 3, verse 1:  'Up, up, and away!'"
	{What a minute,} interjected Delta, both bodies, far from Captain's nodal 
intersection, momentarily pausing in their work, {I've /seen/ that book.  But that quote 
was taken out of context.}
	Captain opened his mouth to demand clarification that wasn't obscured in 
metaphysical babble, but was forced to snap his jaw shut as a curtain of exhaled cigar 
smoke was blown into his face.  Antennae bobbing, DEVIL wrapped its wings about 
itself once more, leaving a non-cigar-holding hand free to wave a cheery good-bye.  By 
the time the smoke cleared, DEVIL was gone.
	Orb impatiently poked Iris.  "Let's go.  Hans says the Critics - mostly Lips - are 
getting into things in the lab and trying to feed its fish inappropriate food.  It wants some 
alternate targets - us - for them to focus upon before something important breaks."
	Iris bobbed.  "Just a moment, just a moment."  It composed itself then spoke 
rapidly to Captain, "One final thing you need to know:  Cube #347 /has/ been infected 
with the parasite before.  Specifically Weapons was infested; and although he recovered, 
he had to /die/ to do so, which, incidentally, created a big mess in the Complex during his 
period of life-impairment.  Unfortunately, most entities aren't so screwed up with 
multiple personalities, so such is probably not the best tack to take.  On the other hand, 
there is one thing about that situation you might be able to take advantage of-"  Iris 
abruptly stopped as it was jabbed in the side by Orb.  "What?"
	The brown-irised Director pointedly said, "No meddling."
	"But..."  A sigh.  "Fine."
	"We are leaving.  Now."
	Another sigh.  "Good luck," Iris offered as it faded from view.  Captain was left 
with an empty nodal intersection.  It did not remain vacant for long.
	"About time," opinionated Second as he marched into the nodal intersection, free 
of the clamps.  He waved his whole hand through the air recently vacated by Directors 
and DEVIL as if searching for invisible lurkers.  "I didn't want to intrude."
	"You mean you didn't want to become overly involved," corrected Captain as he 
sampled Second's thought-stream.  He turned to face the blank bulkhead, calling forth a 
visual update of repair status for the blackout centered at subsection 2.  Despite all the 
distractions, engineering hierarchy had successfully limited damage.  The estimate to full 
repair of that particular problem, including fumigation of Maintenance Bay #5 prior to its 
complete rewiring, was 10.3 hours.  "Unfortunately, you are as much a part of this sub-
collective as am I.  What are our options?"
	The question was rhetorical, a verbalization of the sub-collective process to build 
a decision tree matrix.  Both Captain and Second locked their joints and closed their eyes, 
turning inward to mediate the flow of vast amounts of data.  Except for those specific 
drones tasked with repair or monitoring the sensor grid, the entire sub-collective 
contemplated its choices.  Seconds became minutes, which in turn stretched into hours:  
this was not a consensus to be taken lightly.
	It did not help that multiple variations upon the theme of "termination" ranked 
high on the matrix.
	Finally a decision was reached.  The problems of the multiverses were irrelevant.  
What could a single, imperfect sub-collective accomplish?  This was one tug-of-war the 
rope would opt out of.  Of more concrete reality was that the Borg Collective had been 
diverted from the attainment of Perfection by the purported parasitic infection of a single, 
key individual.  True, that individual was the Queen, but if she could be removed and one 
of the back-ups installed, then all would be made right in the personal universe of the 
Exploratory-class Cube #347 sub-collective.
	All Cube #347 had to do was successfully infiltrate one of the most heavily 
protected locations in the entire galaxy and perform an impossible task.  Perhaps 
eradication of a quantum parasite would have been more attainable, but consensus had 
rejected pursuing that course.
Captain and Second re-animated, artificial joints flexing amid the renewed whine 
of servo-assisted muscles.
	"It is times like this," noted Second, "that I really wish I could still get drunk."