Thou shalt abide by these rules three: Star Trek be-est owned by Paramount; Decker is the creator of Star Trek; and BorgSpace is writteneth by Meneks. Oh, and never shall thee forget rule four: the concept of #66CC33 was brought to you by "e of pi" (R. Davidoff) of the Star Traks Forum. God's Geeks and Hell's Angels If your second-born child was birthed in the first quarter of this fiscal year, add the number of hours of labor to line 158-a. If labor was less than one hour, substitute minutes divided by seconds. If no child was birthed this fiscal year, go to line 216 and declare number of bad pickup lines encountered at bars in the last six months. If you are a litter-bearing species, perform calculation worksheet 18c and enter the result on line 158-a. If you are an egg-laying species, complete Schedule EL-11.a and follow all instructions before completing Form N0-HP4-u. {Psst. 571 of 6730. You busy?} 23 of 70 carefully inserted his thought-thread into the working partition's wall, angling it for the target unit. He did not know why he was being so stealthy: the accountant hierarchy was oblivious to the outside world when the subject matter included the newest Flarn income tax form. {571 of 6730? I've something really neat.} A moment passed - a long time in the Fast Time of the dataspaces, enough to increase the impatience and fidget factor of 23 of 70 - before the consciousness which was 571 of 6730 oozed through a crack in the steel wall analogue that was the tax hierarchy's secure working space. {What is it? We are still reading instructions and assembling forms for the client. I won't be needed until we start calculations for Section D - integrals and differentials based on bowel movements, average breathing rate, and astrology. Brand new this year.} 571 of 6730 was actually starting to sound excited. 23 of 70's avatar, a sprite which looked exactly like his real body, winced. {How can you stand all those boring numbers. They don't /do/ anything.} {Yes they do,} said 571 of 6730 with the fervency of a tax accountant. {They record a year in the life of a client. As the final tax burden or refund nears, the puzzle which is the client's life blossoms, fruits. Especially under the Flarn income tax system. Only two others are more complex - Ferengi and a historical oddity from a partition called United States of America on pre-warp Terra.} {Enough! You are sending me to regeneration. Do you want to see what I have?} {Of course, otherwise I would have ignored you.} 571 of 6730 and 23 of 70 were members of a small Borg Color designated #66CC33. #66CC33 was a hexadecimal description of a particular green shade, but that was not important. What was important was that #66CC33 were specialists in applications which involved numbers. In addition to the normal hierarchies which supported a Collective, the divisions to which a drone was assigned upon assimilation, there were accountants and coders. For those who could afford the services of #66CC33, the accountant hierarchy - tax, investment, and corporate - was a godsend. However, the accountants and their pursuit of obscure refund loopholes only partially advanced the #66CC33 agenda. The hunt for the #66CC33 brand of Perfection was the primary function of one hierarchy, the nucleus about which the Color revolved: coders. Naturally, all drones of #66CC33 shard some fascination or faculty with manipulating code, else they would not have allowed themselves (or been forcibly "volunteered") into the small Collective. Some, like 23 of 70, were more central to the pursuit than others. {Look,} ordered 23 of 70. He opened his metaphorical hands, kept tightly clamped together until now, to expose a knot of code. The code, an intricate twist of algorithms, revealed itself in the dataspace environment as a butterfly lazily fanning its wings. 571 of 6730 blinked. {So? A Mobius knot isn't that exciting.} Color rippled over the butterfly's wings. {Look closer at the fractal fringe decomposition. If it passes the quantum tests, we will have a brand-new encryption key, one which /may/ have further possible adaptations. I found the unmodified and rather crude precursor code...} Where 23 of 70 made the initial find was lost as an announcement from the Webmistress (the #66CC33 Queen) rippled through the minds of all drones. << Gather! Attend! The Grand Code is to Speak! >> 23 of 70 palmed his snippet of code, its importance diminished to irrelevancy. The Code was to Speak! The next step along the road to Perfection would be revealed! * * * * * Captain critically reviewed the course Cube #347 had taken over the past seven cycles. In his nodal intersection floated a field of stars. The slice of space was threaded with a jagged, multi-colored line, hue a summary indication of speed, engine performance, drone efficiency, and other aspects important to a Borg sub-collective. Within the three-dimensional volume, the line zigged and zagged, first traveling galactic north then abruptly veering coreward, only to spiral aimlessly before reversing direction rimward and a shade antispin. Captain rotated the display, staring at it as larger aspects of command and control ran calculation strings and waited for input from sensory hierarchy. {[Ding-dong-a-ling]} announced Sensors, orchestraic word filled with connotations even more untranslatable than usual. {Analysis complete. Data upload [beige].} Several stars in Captain's display softly glowed with auras of rose and purple. Spectral analysis confirmed the stars had been passed six cycles prior. It was official: Cube #347 was traveling in a vast, detour-ridden circle. Captain sighed. The course display vanished, leaving the nodal intersection lit only by a double pair of dim light strips. {It is 354 of 510's fault,} accused 162 of 480. {He dragged us off to examine the artistic potential of that nebula.} {Other arteests could have been nearby, admiring it,} retorted 354 of 510, substituting a long "e" for the "i" of "artist." He implied the ships of the hypothetical arteests would have included navigational maps. {At least /I/ did not hijack propulsion for no good reason.} 127 of 152 indignantly snapped, {The Ouija board always has a good reason! It is just not transparent to certain drones.} {Most drones. All drones,} said 162 of 480. {Especially when a fraud runs the board.} Argumentative chaos descended upon Cube #347, fragmenting quasi-unity. Such was not unknown to the sub-collective, but it was becoming increasingly common amid the imperfectly assimilated since the vinculum had disintegrated. Among its many important functions, the vinculum updated and renewed several critical filters and censure sub-programs. The ghost transmission was at fault, whispers which had led to a small temporal rift leaking the electronic beeps of the ancient probe caught within. Then there were the transwarp wake echoes Sensors had "seen" and Weapons had pushed the cube to chase. Like a game trail in dense forest, the spoor had vanished ten light years later as mysteriously has they had first appeared. "Prettier that way" had led to several nonproductive detours. {Cease!} shouted Captain. A facial tic, long since banished, was threatening to make an unwelcome return to the corner of his whole eye. He triggered a reboot and reapplication of all filters from backup files. Silence in the intranets, except for the prattling of a lone 90 of 152, whose incessant gossip finally trailed away as sub-programs took effect. {We will pick a course and stay with it. There will be /no/ deviations, be it for artistic potential, broadcasts which may or may not exist, or any other reason. /None/.} In the dataspace, a course was plotted. {We /will/ comply.} Captain altered vectors and the course was initiated. It was time for a long regeneration session. Cube #347 was stopped. For the past two cycles, the cube had trekked straight, resisting temptation which would have eventually resulted in another non-circular circle. Then Sensors had reported a subspace disturbance (else had been commenting upon the finalists in a quilting contest) that necessitated downshifting temporarily to normal space. Waiting for the cube when it had emerged from hypertranswarp was a Battle-class cube, non-Collective. A subspace ripple charge from the opposing vessel had made local use of translight speeds impossible in the interm; and Weapons had been "convinced" that an Exploratory-class' odds against a Battle-class were similar to that of a fly challenging the swatter. After blocking escape for Cube #347, the unknown Battle-class cube had just sat there, ignoring the sub-collective's demands for communication. The disturbing fact that it seemed to have been /expecting/ Cube #347 was shifted to the back of the collective mind as impossible, and therefore irrelevant. The Battle-class cube was slightly modified from Borg standard. While the base configuration and armaments were as expected, extra sensor clusters and antennae studded the hull. It was as if the owners of the cube had attempted to tack on the electronic warfare capability and sensor suite of an Exploratory-class to the Battle-class. Unknown was how effective the retrofit was as Exploratory-class chassis were built from the substructure frame outward for utmost sensor efficiency while Battle-classes were designed for maximum mayhem potential and absorption of battle damage. The green paint highlighting hull plating not encrusted by extraneous sensory hardware indicated the owner to be a Color. A hail was intercepted by Cube #347. The different factions of Borg did not converse via fractal subspace channels, be they Color to Color or Collective to Color. The protocols were too intimate, too prone to convey nasty vermin like virii. Even Colors who were nominally allies were not adverse to removing what were fundamentally viewed as competitors to Perfection. The audiovisual stream resolved itself to that of a single Borg, flanked on either side by two additional units. Captain, returned to his nodal intersection following several cycles of regeneration, routed the visual through local holoemitters. He was careful to vet the return stream to ensure an appropriate CatwalkCam was in use. "You are late," bluntly said the central Colored Borg. He looked, if possible, a bit paler than the normal drone, although not as pallid as the unit standing behind his right shoulder. Captain blinked, then again as the sub-collective recovered sufficiently from the remark to initiate the standard Borg opening: "We are Borg. Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated. Your biological and technological distinctiveness will be added to our own." On the display, the Colored speaker managed to look bored as he mouthed Cube #347's defiance. "Whatever. Our turn. We are #66CC33. |2351574||C3 15 |=|_|71|_3. Your technological distinctiveness will be added to our own. All your base are belongs to us." #66CC33? Files indicated that the Color was extremely small, irrelevant on the grander scheme of galactic Borg politics, although not to a certain sub-collective confronted by their Battle-class cube. It was a Color of accountants, hackers, and other number-crunchers. Why would such an insignificant Color challenge the whole of the Borg Collective? "And we know that you are severed from your Greater Consciousness, imperfect sub-collective of Cube #347, so don't try the high and mighty routine," continued whom was probably (91.7% likely) the #66CC33 Battle-class' consensus monitor and facilitator. Captain shifted the visual stream from the CatwalkCam to that of his nodal intersection. {Get in here, Second. They have /three/ drones on the screen. We need to have more than one.} Second grumbled, but Captain could hear the distant release of alcove clamps. "State your demands," brusquely said Captain to the #66CC33 visual. "We..." "What /is/ #66CC33 anyway? Avocado?" asked 126 of 133, overlaying Captain with a picture-in-picture format. The #66CC33's captain's attention shifted focus to 126 of 133. "Avocado? #66CC33 is /not/ avocado! What a /ridiculous/ color." 241 of 422 added another sub-picture to the frame. "Electric Sea Green? That is what I've always believed it to be. And I can see why you'd go all hexadecimal, as 'Electric Sea Green' is too much a mouthful to say all the time." Another shift of attention. "We are #66CC33. We are not Electric Sea Green." The Color's Captain was defensive, as if the question of Color authenticity when said Color did not have a traditional designation had arisen many times before. "Pea Soup?" "Baby Barf Green?" "Radioactive Spinach?" Captain, his face completely obscured by pictures-in-pictures-on-top-of-pictures, stripped the sub-transmissions from the carrier wave. The primary visual stream cleared, leaving himself and Second, who had stumped in during the inquisition. {Stop it,} he hissed, {or at least debate elsewhere.} An intranet pocket sprouted color swathes as the argument shifted venue and participants voiced opinion as to what exact color #66CC33 symbolized. "What are your demands?" tried Captain again, as if the prior incident had never happened. In the background, sensory hierarchy registered a series of targeting lasers flickering over the many sensory clusters facing the #66CC33 cube. Command and control allowed weapons hierarchy to respond in kind, but not to up the ante by, say, a 5- proton singularity torp at short range. Captain's opposing consensus monitor and facilitator appeared to relax slightly at the abrupt halt of interrogation, although only another Borg would have registered the minute shift in body posture. However, even a nonBorg could not miss the rictus of a smile which pulled a face unused to such stretching. "We demand that you take a nap." And the whole of the sub-collective of Cube #347 did just that. * * * * * 23 of 70, primary sub-collective code integrator (or, as it was informally known, CodeWiz), watched over the literal and figurative shoulder of the current Captain of Battle-class Cube #1 (okay, #66CC33 only had one of the vessel type) as the target's Captain was confronted. The former because he was in the comm-node with his Captain and Second; and the latter as he easily surfed the dataspace currents in a manner of which he was more comfortable with than Real Time function. "We demand that you take a nap," said 23 of 70's Captain, triggering a cascade of processes from the implanted virus, ending only when the target cube's consensus monitor and facilitator and his backup collapsed to the deck plates. The audiovisual stream of the two drones continued for a brief minute before idling out from nonuse. 23 of 70 stopped himself from performing a celebratory jig. It was not dignified. Many other coders of his hierarchy were not so restrained, but they were also not in the direct presence of two high ranking units of command and control. "Congratulations," said 7 of 10, "the virii was successful." 23 of 70 could not hide his affront, not from a drone who could literally read, although not necessarily understand, his thought stream. "Of course it was successful. The only question was if the sub-collective over there would realize the targeting lasers were a vector for introducing the Trojan. Obviously not. Then again, the Collective is not very advanced in such things." 7 of 10 shook his head, motion echoed by Second. The exterior display winked off, plunging the comm-node into a dimness which required visual enhancement to chase away the shadows. "That was not the Collective. /That/ was Cube #347, an imperfect sub-collective. Don't get too cocky. Code, while it will lead to our Perfection, can't factor every random element. Collective Cube #347 is randomness personified." The voice of caution and reason for the sub-collective, 7 of 10's proclamation was dismissed by 23 of 70. "The Code Spoke and sent us to them, did it not? We are doing as told. We comply." 7 of 10 was growing edgy: he had projects to work on. 7 of 10 stared at 23 of 70, not bothered by the other's obvious lack of patience. That was code hierarchy for you. "Well, go do what you need to do. I comply as well. What we do will upgrade the Code in the end." 23 of 70 immediately vanished in a transporter beam. 3 of 10, as pragmatic as her current Captain, spoke, "Murphy?" It was a single word question, steeped in an ancient Law, the bane of the overconfident. Like all drones of #66CC33, 3 of 10 and 7 of 10 believed in the Code and its way to Perfection. However, other qualities than adoration of code were necessary to be an excellent command and control drone. Those traits included a healthy dose of skepticism, knowledge that sure odds weren't always sure, and acknowledgement of the Real World. "Maybe. Most likely not. The Code is /very/ good now a'days," responded 7 of 10, an eternal optimist. "Wager on it? Perhaps your antique slide rule?" asked 3 of 10. 7 of 10 was silent. The slide rule in question was a coveted pre-assimilation treasure. Color #66CC33 leaned to the "individualistic" side of the Collective spectrum, and as such the retention of the slide rule had been declared irrelevant where efficiency was concerned. "The Code may not be Perfect, but it is very accurate. I accept the bet." Battle-class Cube #1 latched onto the smaller Exploratory-class cube with a tractor beam and accelerated into hypertranswarp. * * * * * "How many lights?" Captain blinked to sluggish awareness, utterly unlike his normal return to crystal consciousness. In the back of his mind, he automatically triggered the algorithms to wake the rest of the sub-collective. He squinted at the overly bright spotlights directed on his face. "Five." "Wrong! Four! How many lights?" The voice demanding the senseless question had the synthetic reverberating quality of a Borg drone. The owner of the voice was unknown, hidden behind the glare for which optic filters were attempting to compensate. "Five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five." Captain nodded to each spotlight in turn; his slow return to awareness catalogued the fact of a full body restraint except for his head. "My optics are functional." Silence. "Five. Fine...just kidding?" All the lights except one were abruptly extinguished, the final spot dimmed and swung to the side where it would provide general illumination. Captain was not immediately conscious that the light had been removed from his face, instead turning inward as the wake routine reported successful contact with only six drones. The remainder of the sub-collective was present - the link remained functional - but not reachable due to a barrier. Captain pinged the six drones for designation, restoration of their higher thought processes slower than his return to awareness. Accurately, it was seven drones, but Delta always registered as one designation. Second and the hierarchy heads of Cube #347 were the only units Captain could reach. Mental fuzziness cleared. "Where is the rest of my sub-collective?" demanded Captain. He inclined his head slightly, recognizing the angular room lined by alcoves as a standard assimilative workshop configuration. Half of the available alcoves were filled by Cube #347 hierarchy heads; and one alcove had been completely replaced with a design suitable for Sensors. In the center of the room, next to the operating table, stood the same three drones seen on the hail. Several other units moved about the periphery of the workshop, checking displays and otherwise adding to the ambiance, but they were irrelevant. Two alcoves to Captain's right, Weapons came online with an internal shout of {What?} and a simultaneous attempt to escape. Foresight had added extra restrains to Weapons' alcove, which proved necessary as a sharp metallic clang indicated the breaking of a clamp. Several of the loitering drones swiftly moved to Weapons' ruckus, lifting arms into an aiming posture of unmistakable threat. {Weapons: cease. All units, run diagnostics and report,} ordered Captain. "Accelerated cerebral functioning," said the palest of the central triumvirate. As such words were not necessarily amid a Collective, be it Color or Borg, the verbailization was obviously being performed for the benefit of their visitors. "All are awake. The virus' suicide function operated as expected and the code is eradicated from all subsystems." Said Captain a second time, "Where is the rest of my sub-collective?" "Perhaps the question should be: 'Where are we in relationship to our sub- collective?' They are all safely in regeneration on your cube. You seven or, er, eight, are the only ones who have been moved." The speaker was the one who had spoken in the hail. Captain locked eyes and immediately catalogued him as the local sub-collective's consensus monitor and facilitator. #66CC33 was small, but not so small as to fit the entirety of the Color on a single Battle-class cube, thus the need for quasi-autonomous sub-collectives and the further requirement of a Captain equivalent. Silence, at least verbally. One at a time (a debatable term in the case of Delta), the Cube #347 units present provided silent input in the form of diagnostics; and a very abbreviated dataspace was woven in which all might function and perhaps achieve consensus on action to take. Except Delta opposed all Weapons' suggestions on principle. Except Sensors was even more incoherent than usual. Except...except...except.... Said Pale Drone, "Reinitialization of linked neural network. Really odd spikes and activity levels, though." Pause. "Script 3b, yes?" #66CC33 Captain affirmed, "Apparently. Initiating script 3b." Eyes never left those of Captain. Any hypothetical observers would have long since contracted a case of dry eyeball if they had attempted to match the staring contest. "Welcome to #66CC33 Battle-class Cube #1, 4 of 8 of the Borg Collective, current consensus monitor and facilitator of Exploratory-class Cube #347. I am 7 of 10, your counterpart on this vessel, although I'm sure you" - it was a collective 'you' - "have already determined thus. To my left is 3 of 10, backup consensus monitor and facilitator. To my right is 23 of 70, primary code integrator." "What do you want with us?" asked Captain. Demanded. It did not matter that all were trussed and could not act on any threat real or implied. The 'us' included not only the hierarchy heads present, but the still presumably slumbering drones on Cube #347. 7 of 10 blinked, breaking the stare-down, and managed to actually appear slightly puzzled at the question. "Code, of course." 'Well, duh, that's what we do as a Color' was left unsaid, but implied. "List the code you seek. We will resist." "Resistance is futile; and we aren't sure what code we will assimilate from you. We will know it when we see it." It was Captain's turn to be confused. "Unsure? Your actions demonstrate that this sub-collective was a specific target. What is your reason to attack us if you do not know your objective?" Spoke 23 of 70, a note of reverence in his voice attainable only by hard-core sports fanatics and caffeine addicts contemplating the newest truffle triple-chocolate creation from BlueStarBucks. "Because GOD told us to." * * * * * GOD had been born in an ivory tower, on a pedestal, and with a silver spoon in its figurative and nonexistent mouth. With such a pedigree, narcissism and egotistical selfishness were inevitable. GOD was the grand work of #66CC33 Borg. Signifying Grand Omniscient Diviner (or Great Ominous Delinquent, Grandiose Official Diva, and sometimes Good Old Dobbie...the Color was good at numbers, okay at irony, and lousy at acronyms), GOD's function was to predict the future. It read the quantum foam which underlay reality, examining the tau echoes of what-ifs to determine the likelihood of the when and where of a macroverse event. Perfection would be attained when the GOD code foresaw with 100% accuracy, at which time theory stated it would be possible to force maybes to be definites. At that point, #66CC33 would merge with the Great Operating Design, taking up the mantles of omniscense, omnipotence, and other dictionary omnis. At its most fundamental level, GOD was an AI, built from bodged together code in an effort to create an algorithm able to shuffle through the many possibilities and accurately predict which one was most likely to occur at a given point on the temporal axis. Unbeknownst to the Color, the AI had gone from expert system to awareness, becoming greater than the sum of it parts. Like any other organism, it was inherently selfish, desiring only to benefit itself. Hardwired into its base code was the drive for 100% accuracy in foretelling the future; and if the Color that spawned it held to its coattails when Perfection was achieved, fine, but in the end it was every entity for itself. GOD was scared. Normally when it swam the quantum foam sea, its purpose was to search for ways to better itself. A snatch of obscure code, a bit of hardware, it would Speak, like the Oracle at Delphi, to its #66CC33 admirers of its requirements, detailing the how, when, and where to maximize success. As of late, however, the quantum foam had become a land of boogiemen, a nightmare of not if, but when. The AI knew that every entity - digital, biological, other - complex enough to be considered "alive" was the macroverse echo of a probability knot infected by a quantum virus. The virus was the nucleus of "self," of "I," of "soul," of the thousand ways the compartmentalized "me" had been described by philosophers, psychiatrists, and physicists. The virii themselves held no awareness, but it was their interaction with extremely complex knots that was echoed as sentience in the macroverse. In the ecology of the quantum foam existed the equivalent of hunters, prey, and parasites. A parasite pandemic was growing at exponential rates; and those soul virii infected altered the macroverse echo to a self that was no longer, well, self. The symptoms of infection would eventually lead to a paranoia-fueled macroverse death of the individual. GOD was a creature of the macroverse. It did not want to die. Seining the quantum foam, examining the range of possibilities, GOD had learned that a unit of Collective Cube #347 had successfully defeated the parasite. The hows and whys remained maddingly unknowable, even by the prediction algorithms which were GOD, fuzzy probabilities becoming increasingly blurred as specifics were sought. The dice had been rolled, but GOD could not read the number. No matter, it was enough to know the general sub-collective "who." Siccing #66CC33 on the sub-collective was as easy as claiming that the sub-collective' code held another step on the road to Perfection. #66CC33 would dismantle the sub-collective target bit by byte, and GOD knew it would recognize the parasite inoculation when it saw it. GOD didn't necessarily /lie/ to its Colored creators: Perfection is awful hard to attain when one is dead. * * * * * "This is GOD," said 7 of 10, waving one hand in what was obviously a practiced theatric. In the middle of the assimilation workshop, before the captive drone audience, a hologram shimmered into existence. Floating two meters above the deck, GOD was a pulsating ball of color. Hues smoothly merged into each other - white, orange, purple, green, blue, violet, red, white - the sequence never repeating. "Or, rather, GOD's avatar. GOD is our grand quest for Perfection embodied in code, a nonsentient AI expert system. It stands for Grossly Optimum Drudge..." "No, that was last week," interrupted 23 of 70. "This week it is Grand Omniscient Diviner." "I am this sub-collective's consensus monitor and facilitator! Why doesn't anyone tell me these things? Second" (both Seconds present went "What?") "did you know about this?" 3 of 10, the Color's Second, moved shoulders in the faintest of shrugs. "Yes." Said 23 of 70 accusingly, "You didn't check your email again. Your inbox is so full that messages are bouncing." "It's three-quarters spam," defended 7 of 10, "if not more. #66CC33 is the premiere code engineers in the galaxy, and we still can't build a decent email filter." "That's no excuse for not checking your email." "You could have told me directly." "Well, that's what email is for." The argument was obviously an old one. During the extended discussion, the hologram's color shift had sped up, and darker jewel tones were more prominent. 7 of 10 and 23 of 70 abruptly stopped speaking: obviously the pair had just received a silent rebuke from a much higher, likely Queenlike, power. "Okay," said 7 of 10, "GOD, this week, stands for Grand Omniscient Diviner. The function of GOD is to scan the quantum foam which underlays the macroverse, determining the probability of an event to occur. It tells us the future, mostly, which is good for Lotto picks and horse races. Unfortunately, GOD's code is not 100% accurate; and only upon achieving perfect accuracy will we achieve Perfection. The code needs to be tweaked. GOD had informed us that your sub-collective harbors the code required for an upgrade to V.10012.113.47. Now that we have you, GOD will determine the exact code it requires, and we will then extract the code for it." Captain could feel the mounting distaste of his mini-sub-collective as the invasion of alien software was described, followed by the matter-of-fact information of virtual rape. It wasn't the action which was distasteful - the Borg Collective routinely did similar during the processing of new drones - but that they were to be the victims. "We will resist," informed Captain. There were nods all around, except Sensors, who waggled her antenna. Spouted 23 of 70 with a snort, "Resistance is futile. I, er, we've liberated code from the security of the Grand Nagus, and those protections are /much/ more complex than the Borg Collective." "Why are we here?" asked Captain, abruptly changing the topic. The "we" included himself and the others immediately present. {I don't have to do all the speaking. Others can chime in.} The criticism was especially directed at Second. Second replied, {But you are doing such a good job. Besides, you are our speaker-for-all.} Assent was received from all drones except a sulking Weapons. Weapons had things he desired to verbally convey, but as they were utterly inappropriate and irrelevant, Doctor had used his command pathway overrides to freeze the weapon hierarchy head's vocal cords. GOD's pulsations, which had slowed once the email argument had been halted, were beginning to increase again. 7 of 10 panned the half-arc of captive audience. "You are not the first Borg we have raided, although this Color has not attempted the Collective before. Your link to your Collective is already severed - what /did/ you do to your vinculum? - which is good, for us, as nosy Minds are difficult to work around and we would have had to do so anyway. "We have found it easier to search a sub-collective dataspace if some drones are active because much underlying code remains quiescent when all units are in regeneration; and the maximum activity occurs if hierarchy heads are conscious. Following in that vein, it is most convenient for us if we have all current hierarchy heads in one location, so as to more efficiently monitor mental-digital activity levels." Weapons managed to hiss wordlessly, an exhale more teapot squeal than verbalization. {That was /very/ vulgar,} commented Second, catching an echo of what Weapons had meant to say. Captain bade Doctor to work with Assimilation to ensure that there was no further loss of control. "Spike in mental patterns, focus upon the tactical hierarchy head," informed 23 of 70. 7 of 10 stared for a long moment at Weapons, all muscles except those associated with breathing now paralyzed, before returning attention to Captain. "We currently control your access to your primary dataspace. Right now, access is basically nil. We will shortly be increasing the pipe, but while your conscious sub-link presence will activate hierarchy-dependant code subroutines, we will be filtering your output to prevent any commands." GOD strobed variations of black and blue with the occasional startling red. The ball of light abruptly froze, brilliant white. "I must insist haste." The avatar's voice had a hollow, echoing quality, bass and baritone not quite blending as one. "The Code is vital. There are many after this sub-collective. While my predictive algorithms foresaw where and when they would be, those using conventional methods will eventually determine an alternate way to track the cube. Color #66CC33 is too small to defend its catch in the great majority of possibilities I have examined." "Define 'many after this sub-collective'," insisted Second, breaking his earlier assertion that Captain was the one best qualified to speak for all. He was ignored. Said 23 of 70, "We understand, GOD. The is prepared. Are you ready?" "Affirmative. Initializing DEVIL." To the left of GOD, another image coalesced. It was a cartoonish anthropomorphic caterpillar, fat and green with spectacles and white gloves on its many hands. Instead of antennae it had small red horns; and a cigar was clenched in its mouth. The caterpillar lazily blinked, removed the cigar from its mouth, then suddenly sneezed itself into a butterfly with scintillating wings. The butterfly shimmered into a pixilated blur before returning to stable caterpillar image once more. "DEVIL is a subset of myself. It is a Deviously Elegant Viral Iconic Laborer subroutine which will perform the search, reporting its findings to me." Like #66CC33, GOD tended to select an acronym before attempting to force words to match the capital letters. "Let us begin," said 7 of 10. * * * * * {Do you see? Do you see?} 23 of 70 was excited. {The DEVIL subprogram utilizes my Mobius knot code as its nexus!} Even as the head of the code hierarchy was keeping a stern facade in the Real World, he was beside himself with pride in the Fast Time of the intranets. 7 of 10 minutely shook his head while 3 of 10 rolled her eyes. On the dataspace plain, all stood on the analogous equivalent of a warehouse floor. Overhead, shining like a warming sun, GOD's avatar presence hovered. Dividers were erected upon the floor, forming partitions within which assigned groups of drones monitored the Color's "guests;" and even now partitions were readying themselves to filter and double filter the Cube #347 hierarchy heads when the data pipeline to their dataspace was expanded. {That's nice,} replied 7 of 10 blandly. {Aren't you forgetting something?} {Oh,} said 23 of 70. He briefly concentrated, and a bank of virtual audio-visual monitors linked to each partition sprung into existence. {The code is secure.} Pause. {But that was /my/ Mobius knot variant that is being used to further Perfection!} ::Yes,:: wisped GOD hollowly from a monitor. Above, the ball of light slowly pulsated through the color spectrum, pastels the primary hue. ::The Mobius knot had potential quantum applications greater than that of encryption. Therefore, I copied it to my Code.:: 23 of 70 basked in recognition from the AI at his contribution. {He's going to be impossible for the next several cycles,} commented 3 of 10 sourly, unheard by 23 of 70. 7 of 10 sighed his agreement. {Coders.} * * * * * Filing cabinets as far as the eye could see, stretching to a gray horizon under an uncertain sky. Aisles of filing cabinets, cadres of filing cabinets, battalions of filing cabinets, some short and stocky, others tall and fanciful, but most uniform in size and a plain black color. Each drone's perception of the dataspace differed, a morphic world of symbols based upon situation and circumstance, but Captain knew each of his compatriots were experiencing a similar vision. It was this vista which had greeted Captain when he had felt a firm re-establishment of the link with Cube #347's computer hardware. Captain's point of view was as if were standing on an elevated platform. Reaching out with one figurative hand, his mind traced the invisible barrier which separated him from accessing the file cabinets below. Like a multi-dimensional one-way mirror, he could feel the ebb and flow of data, see symbols and icons, even smell a scent of dry paper and grease. However, he could not interact, not that he didn't try. {File command pathway, target all drone units of Exploratory-class Cube #347 sub-collective: cease regeneration, initiate revivication protocols.} The command echoed hollowly, ignored. On the plain, filing cabinets began to open and close their drawers. Files leapt into the air. Sparkling messenger agents like tiny fairies fluttered, carrying papers from one cabinet to another. Most of the action was automatic routine which occurred in response to conscious drone units, but an increasing amount of activity was not normal. Dimly seen here and there were glimpses of a transparent caterpillar trailing smoke, or maybe the sparkle of a multi-colored wing. {I demand a targeting interface!} shouted Weapons. Captain was not the only Cube #347 drone present on the invisible platform, surrounded by unseen walls: his comrades had followed the link to the dataspace, leaving behind bodies as dimly perceived extensions. {Torpedoes! Disruptors! Rail guns! Anything! Cube #347 must be physically near, and thus the Battle-class cube is in weapons range!} {We are on the Battle-class cube,} reminded Delta, her dataspace selves speaking in unison. She added with frustration, {I can /see/ datastreams from the engine cores, but I cannot manipulate them.} Assimilation sighed. {Why bother? This Color will get what they want and leave us alone.} Second kicked Assimilation in the metaphorical shin before Captain could. Doctor clicked his incisors disapprovingly. {Assimilation. Your hierarchy is most suited to break these code filters,} said Second. {Meld with command and control and extract us from this mess. All we need is one command to the dataspace and we can resist.} {Well...} trailed Assimilation. He received another kick. {Okay. I guess. Maybe.} For Assimilation, it was enthusiastic approval. Captain wove his thought processes with Second and Assimilation, adding Weapons after brief consideration. Sub-links were forged with the other units present, but they would serve as secondary calculator nodes with himself, Second, and Weapons providing brute strength. Assimilation was the focus to dissect the barrier separating them from their dataspace. Assimilation conjured a safe door and hesitantly hung it on the barrier. The rotary dial had considerably more numbers than the standard combination lock, and not all those numbers were integers. With a long exhale, Assimilation bent to listen to the dial as he turned it, mind simultaneously leading the drones into the complex filter encryption code which was the real wall. Unfortunately, seven (or eight) against a Battle-class cube full of drones, the majority of them the galaxy's best hackers, was no match. Seconds after weaving the link, Captain felt it forcibly severed and all of them ejected out of the code. The safe door slid to the ground and shattered. {[Quilt],} said Sensors, adding a stomp of her right forefront and a complex wave of arms. If any could understand what she meant, they would probably all agree. There was a puff a smoke, and the caterpillar DEVIL appeared just beyond the barrier's perimeter. In its multiple hands it held several files, most of them marked "Secret" and "Stay Out Intruder, This Means You." DEVIL was speed-reading them one at a time, dumping those finished so that new ones could be summoned. It paused, cocking its head as it contemplated the drone captives. ::'Thou art really in a pickle,' I quote from the Book of Preserved Vegetables, verse 18, line 2,:: said DEVIL, its meta- voice squeaky, as one might imagine a mouse if mice could talk. ::Is it that thou art aware that thou is lacking navigational files?:: {Tell us something we don't know,} sourly muttered Second. The caterpillar stared at Second with overlarge eyes, briefly returned to scanning files, then sneezed itself into a butterfly. The butterfly shrunk, then vanished back to the caterpillar. ::It is highly probable that thy does not perceive thou future. At this time, the quantum foam indicateth 95.2% probability that all consciousnesses associated with the file structure I be examining will be terminated. The physical firmware knoweth as Exploratory-class Cube #347 will be seized by Color #66CC33 and, forsooth, relogged as Exploratory-class Cube #3. Many pursueth cube and consciousness; and the Webmistress will not alloweth others to partake of what the Color steals first. As the Book of Real Reality, verse 114, line 18, sayeth: 'Life's a bugger.':: DEVIL blinked twice - quick, bird-like movement - then returned to the files, unconcerned that it had just pronounced the sub-collective's doom. {The used warp nacelles we have in our holds?} asked Captain, his disbelief made stronger by the others. ::Excuseth me.:: said the caterpillar as it sneezed again. Glittering wings blossomed, then folded inward to a fat, wingless body. ::Quoth the Wage-Slave Bible, chapter 3, verse 20, line 201: 'Beats me, I just work here.' I be a subset beget from GOD. I knoweth only my work, data of that beyond my work irrelevant to my program.:: Captain stepped as close to the barrier as he could, stepping over Assimilation where the latter had slumped following the unsuccessful attempt to hack into the dataspace. {Then how do you know this sub-collective's future if all you do is work to strip us of code?} DEVIL blinked its eyes out of sync with each other as it chewed on its cigar. It looked like it was to sneeze again, then stifled it by blowing its nose in a file marked "Rubber Band Weaponry," eliciting a growl from Weapons. ::GOD begat me from code able to partake of the quantum foam. To the quantum underworld I seeketh probabilities for the most efficient place to search.:: DEVIL paused, glanced at Weapons, then continued. ::Forsooth, I see other things as well in passing.:: {Stop staring at me,} grumbled Weapons. {When I get out of here, if I find you have scrambled /any/ of my vital files...} The caterpillar absently dropped the rubber band file, no longer interested in it. The icon fluttered away in a nonbreeze, eventually captured by a squadron of sprites. ::Thou art an odd creature. That individual there is one in two,:: Delta was indicated with a lazy nod of head, ::but thou art two? three? more? in one. Thou quantum signature is...corrupted?:: Doctor joined Captain. Ears flicked. {You are a pretty caterpillar. What will happen to you when you are done searching us?} DEVIL's attention shifted away from Weapons. Second groaned. {Doctor, we are to be terminated without the prospect to become Collective echoes, our cube is to be commandeered, and we will end our existance as a failure to the Collective...and you want to know the fate of a /program/ that happens to have a smoking caterpillar as its primary icon?} DEVIL scanned a triplet of files before replying, ::I be bored, so I converseth with thou. My runtime processes art more than sufficient for the task giveth to me by GOD. After I finish my task, I shall surely be begeth with praises of my prowess from upon high before frozen in a nulltime loop until my services be required again. Your query is nonsensical.:: The caterpillar read another two files, then froze. {It is a pretty caterpillar and prettier butterfly,} insisted Doctor to Second. ::'Pour honey on my head, slap me with a fish, and call me Master of Stupidity,' quote the Python Book of Silly Stuff, verse 1, line 1. I am to be terminated, with 99.9999% accuracy, upon my success!:: exclaimed a reanimated DEVIL. ({What /are/ these things that program is quoting from?} asked Delta as an aside.) ::My code will be broken and the subsets dispersed to primordial bits and bytes! GOD required I could looketh upon the quantum foam that I mayst toil more efficiently, but in doing so, it knowingly created a competitor that it wouldeth destroy.:: Pause. All files were dropped, vanished. ::I do not wish to die.:: {Poor caterpillar,} sympathized Doctor, ears drooped. Captain cocked his head. {You are a subset of a nonsentient AI expert system. You have less free-will than a Borg drone. Desires are irrelevant.} He toed Assimilation, then gave him a mental boot to force him to his feet. If the program was kept side-tracked, focus by the #66CC33 subunit overseeing program compliance might begin to appropriate resources currently dedicated to Captain and others, allowing Assimilation a second chance to break the filter. ::I be sentient, as is GOD,:: admitted DEVIL. ::/All/ entities be reflections of the quantum. Forsooth, sentience be required to see the quantum, scan the quantum, ye, understand the quantum. Thereby, while my life in this Fast Time digital macroverse is short, I do not wish to be separated from it just yet. Does not sayeth verse 25, line 24, of the Book of Pith: 'Be not too proud to scamper from death like a coward'?:: The infinite gray plain dimmed, then flashed brightly, flat vista transformed to three-dimensional seeming under auspicious pseudo-sun and attendant shadows. The filing cabinets and fairy sprites paid no heed. On the other hand, DEVIL sneezed itself into a butterfly that blurred back to a caterpillar as it rose to confront GOD. ::Thou ist to trashcan my code when my task be done!:: accused DEVIL. Captain urged Assimilation, over his depressed protests, to re-initiate hacking protocols. He swiftly rebuilt the linked connections, this time setting Weapons in a position to repel counter from #66CC33. GOD slowly shivered from yellow to white to gold. ::Yeah? So? You are a sub- program. /My/ subprogram. So what? You and what army and all that jazz? I had to thread a tentacle of /myself/ through this Director-squashed pipe to see why you are lagged. GET! TO! WORK!:: DEVIL winced, shrinking into a fat, green ball as GOD flared imperiously before vanishing. The filing cabinet squads returned to flat non-shadow. Color #66CC33 versus imperfect hierarchy heads easily shredded Assimilation's newest probe. Assimilation crumpled once more, his wave of futile defeatism leaking over the linkage. The caterpillar unwound itself, dropping down to platform level. It removed its still smoking cigar, carefully impaling it on one horn. ::Whilst thou be my army? GOD exists in the dataspace of #66CC33 and hast them as backup. My anchor could be-est thy dataspace and my choir could be thou.:: Captain shed the effects of Assimilation's rejection. {Army? We are seven, our bodies hostage and our sub-collective in regeneration. We are} Captain disliked the very unBorg admittance {helpless.} DEVIL waved three of its hands dismissively. ::I can break the filter. I can institute some difficulties with #66CC33. I can...provide thee with accurate probabilities. I only wish to not die. I will ride your dataspace quietly until I can findeth a digital realm to dismount.:: {Trap,} immediately deduced Weapons. Of course, most things were a trap to Mr. Paranoia. Delta cocked her heads slightly. {I must agree with Weapons.} If Hell had just frozen over, it was not apparent to anyone outside the infernal realm. Doctor wrinkled his nose. {The pretty caterpillar-butterfly is hurting! Why would it trap us?} {Swirls of [vermillion vermicelli pasta] - no trap,} insisted Sensors, her head and upper body bobbing as one unit. Captain's attention focused on Assimilation. The latter sighed dejectedly, not bothering to stand. {No good will come of it, trap or not. Why bother to even try?} Second eyed the caterpillar, then announced, {We are to be terminated anyway. It may be a trap, but such is not irrelevant. We must accept all chances.} Three on three (Delta counted for one). With no clear consensus, it was required for Captain to be tiebreaker; and with most drones pulling hard for /their/ consensus, Captain was caught in a tug-of-war. However, on the "Trap" side was Assimilation, who was not assisting Weapons and Delta; and Second's morbid logic was impecible. {We will accept DEVIL's assistance,} announced Captain, codifying the contested consensus into What Will Be. ::Oh, good!:: exclaimed DEVIL, clapping multiple hands together. Then it sneezed, sprouted wings, lost them again. ::I /must/ be allergic to something,:: it said, ignoring the preposterous image of a digital intelligence with hayfever. * * * * * "GOD! I challenge thee!" cried DEVIL across the chaotically shifting nth dimension quantum foam sea. No up or down, no to or fro, no references able to be described in three-dimensional terms. This was not the macroverse, nor the symbolic digital universe of Fast Time. Distance was everything, and nothing. DEVIL was a zero- dimensional point presence, one shrouded in butterfly wings camouflaged by Mandelbrot patterns. The fiery self of GOD appeared. Paradoxically, according to quantum rules, it had always been there, yet never would. "You challenge me?" asked GOD, incredulous. "I created you! I moulded you from a snippet of code! How would you challenge me? I can cut through the Shrodinger haze and calculate the possibilities better than some upstart encryption program. Whatever you provide your Borg, I can counter." DEVIL drew its wings close to itself. "True. But as told in the Book of Fables, chapter 18, verse 226, line 1: 'Run as fast as you can, but you can't catch me because I'm the gingerbread man.'" Fractal wings billowed wide and beat, whipping the quantum seas into an encrypted white noise of chaos. The probabilities surrounding the linked entities of Cube #347, already fuzzy due to unknown reasons, were shrouded in a storm of impenetrable maybes and what-ifs. "You can't hide forever!" shouted GOD angrily. "And you won't be able to find the parasite cure without my expertise!" The squeak of DEVIL's laughter from within the gale was GOD's only answer. * * * * * The affirmation to accept DEVIL's assistance barely made, the caterpillar pranced around in a circle. ::'Happy happy happy! Joy joy joy!' from the Book of Small, Furry Cartoon Animals, verse 1, line 43.:: {Are you going to do anything?} demanded Captain. DEVIL halted its gyrations, grasping for the cigar stuck on its horn. It deeply sucked on the stogie, then blew the smoke onto the invisible barrier. Captain heard the shattering of glass, then felt the full two-way linkage to the cube's dataspace reassert itself. ::There ye go. Now, if thee will excueth me?:: The caterpillar froze, motionless. {File command pathway, target all drone units of Exploratory-class Cube #347 sub-collective: cease regeneration, initiate revivication protocols,} ordered Captain, backed by Second. Sluggish response of multiple signatures echoed as hundreds, then thousands of units responded to the prime-level command; and filing cabinet drawers increased their rate of opening and closing, a symbolic reflection of the amplification in dataspace activity. Captain opened his eye and cycled power to his optic implant as he recentered primary awareness to his body. He was greeted by a scene of chaos. The GOD hologram was frozen, similar to DEVIL, its light dimmed mid-pulse, caught in an unsavory transition between orange and green. The enforcement drones had left their positions at the room periphery and in front of Weapons, walking in aimless circles. One unit bumped into a wall, backed slightly, then stepped forward into the same wall. Meanwhile, 7 of 10 and 3 of 10 had linked hands and were spinning in a circle with a drooling 23 of 70 in the center, the latter staring upwards at the static avatar. GOD winked out. 23 of 70 broke into a bawling moan. The two command and control drones abruptly stopped their orbit, bowing their heads as they stumbled to a confused halt. ::I have cloaked thee in chaos, a rapidly shifting fractal pattern with Mandelbrot inclusions,:: whispered the squeaky voice of DEVIL. ::Within the cloak I observeth potentials now invisible to GOD. Certain actions art more likely to come to pass if they be acted upon at specific loci on the macroverse tau. When I tell thee to transport, thou /must/ transport back to thy firmware.:: A chorus of {What's} and {Huh's} greeted the pronouncement. The reboot of every drone of Cube #347 was occurring slower than usual; and internal system diagnostics were screaming at red alert volume of incursions tenatively classified as viral. The addition of a Battle-class cube in the very near sensor envelope did not help. Captain dumped his memories since reawakening into the intranets, ordering Second and the hierarchy heads to do likewise. {Answers later. You will comply with the AI. Leash the hunter-seekers before they shred something. Lock to our signatures and transport when told.} The sub-collective responded to the order for compliance, grateful for direction as only a Borg sub-collective could be. ::Now. Transport.:: A moment of hesitancy at following nonBorg orders, then Captain felt himself swept away by the transporter beam. He materialized on the bottom of a heap of drones piled in - check of location - Bulk Cargo Hold #7. "Sensors says that you have bent her left hind walking leg," complained Sensors, her words unusually clear and free of ambiguity. "Sensors says that Weapons is [window blind]." Weapons was heavy, as befitting a tactical drone outfitted with dense armor and offensive capabilities. However, all drones, no matter their specialty, generally weighted at least half again their pre-assimilation weight once all surgeries were complete. Captain was on the bottom, and he could feel the pressure of /many/ kilos pressing his head, his torso carapace, his limbs. The weight lessened as each drone hauled him or herself upright. Sensors limped in a circle. "Sensors needs maintenance." Captain stood, then sucked in a breath for extra oxygen before diving into the dataspaces. There was insufficient time to realign the hold holoemitters to display the exterior sensors datastream, and so he would have to accept the data nearly raw. Captain disliked unprocessed data. As expected, Cube #347 was tractored to a Battle-class cube. The pair were drifting in interstellar space. Without navigational charts, the best which could be determined was that the cube was not where it had been assaulted. ::I suggest thou target the active emitters. A crest in probabilities is approaching whereupon thou will have greatest chance to departeth.:: DEVIL inserted itself in the sensor data, appearing as a translucent caterpillar sitting on the Battle-class cube. {I know what I am doing. I do not need a program telling me,} insisted Weapons as he pushed his hierarchy to high alert status. {26 of 300, you have targeting for Disruptor #7.3 this week, not shield modulation integration for sectors 57 through 62.} {Do as the program says.} {Will not.} {Do it. Comply.} {Maybe. Maybe not.} In tactically-driven situations, the weapons hierarchy held greatest latitude in actions which affected the sub-collective, able to drive consensus, be they prudent or not. {Comply.} Captain blinked, then sent a thought to Second, who was adjacent to Weapons in the hold. Second stretched a transient grin as he lifted a hand, face returning to nonexpression as he cuffed Weapons perhaps a bit harder than necessary on the back of his head. {Fine,} responded Weapons, {but I protest.} Second replied, {Protest all you like. Complaints are irrelevant. Regard it as an algorithm which will increase your efficiency and subsequent explosion quotient.} ::If thoust done? The probability crests. Wait for it...wait for it...I recommend that thee shoot.:: Weapons may have been forced to follow timing from an AI with the avatar of a sneezing cartoon caterpillar, but none had provided an edict on amount of offensive power. All disruptor banks on edges #7 and #8 erupted. At that moment, the shield of the Battle-class cube faltered; and several of the disruptor beams scored directly on the offending tractor emitter. Other beams melted long furrows through retrofitted antennae clusters or on tritanium hull plates. At least one disruptor hit nothing. {Targeting, 26 of 300, targeting!} admonished Weapons. Calmly squeaked DEVIL as it shimmered into existence in the bulk cargo hold upon hijacking the local holoemitter. ::As the Book of Real Reality suggesteth, verse 53, line 3: 'Run like the wind.':: DEVIL sneezed. "It's making up all those quotes, I know it is," muttered Delta, body B, as both of her stared up at the hologram, caterpillar once more, as it pulled a hankie out of thin air and proceeded to loudly blow its nose. 30 of 46 scrolled the virtual diagnostic readout. He was bored. His intellegence quotient should have placed him among the command and control hierarchy, else his aptitude for beeping devices into engineering. No. Upon assimilation, subsequent diagnosis of assimilation imperfection, and assignment to Cube #347, he had been placed in assimilation hierarchy. It wasn't /his/ fault that certain misaligned neurological implants sent him to giggling at inappropriate times; and no matter that drone maintenance insisted nothing was awry, he /knew/ that it was the implants, not any intrinsic defect of his natural neural circuitry. ::'Lo, fire rained upon the ground, wrothing havoc upon the masses. Heavenly chords deafened the first three rows, causing blood to spill from every orifice. And so it was deemed good,' sayeth Lay of the Apocalyptic Critic,:: purported DEVIL, directed to 30 of 46. 30 of 46 rolled his eye, then silenced the ultra-diamond-acid rock which had been playing through the custom stereo speak system of his alcove. He could not concentrate without a minimal decibel level of 120, which is why his alcove was situated so far from all populated tiers. Not only was it time to report, but his AD&D gaming group was meeting in fifteen minutes. {Can't do it,} informed 30 of 46 brusquely to Captain. Captain, in his alcove, opened his eye and stared across the subshaft to the alcove tier on the far side. An engineering drone waved, then leaned over the safety railing to watch the accidentally dropped wrench go clanking into the depths. {No?} {No. This partition has run every diagnostic possible. DEVIL has wedged itself in every dataspace nook and cannot be removed against its will, not without a complete system wipe and reboot. Not only is that decision the realm of command and control, but the Greater Consciousness retains all of our backup operating system disks.} Captain closed his eye again. {Wonderful. Just what we need, a hitchhiker.} Pause, then directed to DEVIL's presence: {And /don't/ quote that towel nonsense again.} * * * * * 23 of 70 would have described GOD as sulking, except computer programs could not sulk. All coders of #66CC33 had been examining GOD's basic Code line by line, comparing it to a back-up read-only copy. Thus far, some errors had been found - probably digital mutations from the Incident - and rectified. More obviously existed, impacting the pseudo-personality subroutines. Once they had been dealt with, GOD would cease to "sulk." ::The code was not acquired,:: admitted GOD. It was a Color-wide announcement, but 23 of 70 felt the AI was speaking specifically to him. 23 of 70 focused on the latest report, giving the acquiesce for the relevant partition to fix the minor problem. {It is okay. Perfection will be attended. Just tell us where the sub-collective's cube will be and we will re-acquire it.} Tactical hierarchy had already declared that the next encounter would end with all drones on Cube #347 asleep. It would make the Code hunt more difficult, but better nuisance exertion than another Incident. ::No,:: slashed GOD, ::it cannot be. The rogue subset designated DEVIL has obscured the probabilities. My current configuration cannot see the sub-collective.:: Pause. ::DEVIL is Chaos, anti-Perfection. It must be hunted down and deleted.:: 23 of 70 halted mid-thought in ordering an intensive tertiary-level scan of GOD's pseudo-personality and logic subroutines. The Webmistress agreed with GOD; and, thus, the entirety of #66CC33 agreed as well. The Color would rejoin the galactic pursuit of Borg Exploratory-class Cube #347, only the sub-collective would be destroyed, not captured, not interrogated, not given a chance. Advancement of the Code would occur through other means. The moment of root-level alteration of priorities passed. 23 of 70 completed his act of ordering the diagnostic. Elsewhere in Battle-class Cube #1, 3 of 10 tapped 7 of 10 on the shoulder. "Murphy has spoken. I win. Hand it over." 7 of 10 frowned as he removed his treasured antique slide rule from a torso compartment and handed it to 3 of 10. "I'll get it back, so don't become too attached to it."