At high noon in the Star Trek corral one will find Paramount. The midnight shift at Star Traks Industries is toiled by Decker. The BorgSpace coffee cart is manned by Meneks at about half-past six.

Teatime of the Living Dead

"What do you mean the only ingredient needed was the hair?" Captain's raised voice echoed and re-echoed within the confines of Analysis Shop #7 and out into the adjacent hallway. "My whole hand was half torn off by that byrint creature, not to mention I then had to wait 25.4 hours for you to collect 'samples' from my chassis before I was allowed steam-clean the saliva, urine, and excrement off myself."

Analysis Shop #7 was the scene of a mad scientist laboratory from a bad B-movie. Tables were covered by mysterious apparatus consisting of kilometers of hose winding between bubbling beakers of colored liquid. Lit Bunsen burners, unnecessary when discrete hot plates were available, added a low volume hiss and the smell of incomplete combustion to the ambience. Several plasma globes of the type able to be purchased from teachers' science catalogues were lined up against one wall, serving no apparent purpose unless it was to contribute an uncertain light. The only items which had an obvious role in the construction of a vaccine to inoculate the Collective against an insidious quantum virus were located upon a single table: neatly labeled bins containing collected ingredients, a beaker of clear liquid which may have been water, several pedestal-and-mortars, and a scale.

Out of place in the center of the room, a glower both on his face and projecting within the intranets, was Captain.

Doctor stood before the explosion, face carefully neutral of expression, ears perked alertly forward. Behind him cowered Frank, the hologram broadcasting fear that his program was in imminent danger of being ripped apart into its component algorithms. As Captain finished his tirade, Doctor clicked his teeth once and calmly replied, "There were many ouchies to deal with when we returned, and such takes precedence for my functioning within the Whole. Do I need to make a binding recommendation for you to see Assimilation? It seems, just perhaps, your censure filters are a wee, tiny-winey bit unhinged." Within the dataspaces, Captain's designation was tentatively added to the growing list of units in line to visit the assimilation hierarchy for filter rebuilds and general mental check-ups.

Captain blinked, taken aback. The consensus monitor and facilitator closed his eyes; and a sense of calmness radiated outward from the sub-collective's central node as patches were self-applied to eroding filters. Eyes opened as emotional neutrality was re-achieved. "Hair. The only required item from the byrint was hair." The words were less question and more statement.

"Correct," replied Doctor. He performed a quarter turn to his left, dislodging Frank from the EMH's hiding place, and waved a hand at the empty air. In response, a file appeared, formatted as an ingredient list upon a very large recipe card. The third item, highlighted, read 'shed component (temporally-infused) from a quantum-cloaking beast'. Ears twitched. "In retrospect, 'shed' be the key. What do beastie-weesties with furry coats always shed? Hair! That is why lint rollers were invented!"

Frank tentatively cleared his throat and added, "Until the potential ingredients were directly in front of me in a controlled environment, I didn't know which was the required one." Despite the inherent knowledge that he was no longer under immediate threat of forced dissolution, the hologram nonetheless made sure Doctor remained between himself and Captain. The barrier was symbolic - any attack would originate from the dataspaces - but Frank's AI roots were as a Terran program, complete with inbuilt human foibles.

The consensus monitor and facilitator was silent.

"Um," continued Frank, "I, er, we can start mixing the potion now. Unfortunately, the recipe isn't specific as to exact ingredient amounts, so experimentation is necessary. When the partial concoction is correct, however, I will be able to tell." The EMH hunched in upon himself, prepared for another outburst.

None was forthcoming.

Captain's continued silence and absolute immobility were not due to another breach of thinning filters, but rather diversion of primary attention. The sensor hierarchy was reporting interception of an emergency beacon belonging to species #7601, and consensus cascades were forming the backbone of the deliberation concerning what course to pursue. Finally Captain blinked, an outward sign that a decision had been reached and the drone was released from the Whole to focus on external inputs. "Mixing the partial recipe. Do so. We are required elsewhere." The stilted, chopped quality of enunciation, in addition to the atypical pluralities, indicated that only a slice of attention was present.

Only after Captain had vanished within the grasp of a transporter beam did Frank feel he could emerge from behind his barricade.

"The Big Dog is very, very, very busy," commented Doctor aloud.

"Uhum," replied Frank noncommittally. Very shortly he had returned to where he had been prior to the consensus monitor's interruption, contemplating the three ingredients and how they might be combined. The byrint hair was especially intriguing. An unknown mechanism had allowed it to interact with the quantum sub-reality, bending probability and rendering the byrint, when conscious, invisible. Detached from its host, the harvested hair resembled nothing more than tangled gray yarn forming a small mound within its bin. Several small filaments were cut from the whole: all ingredients were finite in amount, and one did not wish to make waste while experimenting.

Doctor heaved a long sigh. "I am required. 22 of 152 did a boo-boo while working on 238 of 480, and now there are fluids /everywhere/. No biscuit for 22 of 152. I cannot remotely assay the damage. Be a good boy, Frankie, and mixey-mixey everything."

Part of Frank noted Doctor's leave-taking and was relieved that he was not to be dragged along to witness yet another butchery masquerading as Borg surgical technique, but the greatest portion of his matrix was focused upon the hairs he as delicately placed them upon the scale for weighing.

*****

A pinch of spores, scrapings from a gem, a few hairs, the logical mind insisted such added to a large beaker of distilled water would produce nothing. Instead, a proto-elixir of evil green muttered quiet nothings to itself as bubbles rose without benefit of applied heat. The instigator of the liquid was not present to see his creation, called away for an unnecessary nap after the dozenth attempt had finally produced a solution deemed acceptable.

It was unfortunate no one was in the room to view the liquid creation, for while the combination of materials was correct, the vessel in which it resided was less than adequate. As an unfelt breeze originating from a plane of reality simultaneously too small to be observed by the most advanced microscope and too large to be seen by the mightiest of telescopes stirred the air, bubbles were fanned into froth. Mere tempered glass was quite insufficient to contain a mixture whose disparate ingredients were linked by the salient fact that none were anchored wholly in their host universe....

*****

The scene in Bulk Cargo Hold #2 was one of controlled chaos. At the center of a throng of busy drones lay the corpse of a partially disassembled ship. Once the vessel had been nearly 120 meters long, a not inconsiderate size, although a cleared section of deck within the Bulk Cargo Hold had been more than sufficient to house it. However, like a swarm of army ants dismantling an unfortunate grasshopper prey, the ship was in the process of being reduced to its component parts and no longer completely resembled its original form. In several more hours, nothing would remain except a few surplus bolts, the rest carted off into storage or added to replicator reclamation.

Delta was working to remove a section of hull plating near what remained of the aft end of the species #7601 ship, just forward of a large rift through which the interior could be seen. An emergency beacon, calling for help, had caught the sub-collective's attention and led to the salvage opportunity. Although the crew had abandoned the vessel and species #7601 technology was known, the ship itself represented raw materials of which the cube, unable to resupply at Collective depots, could not ignore. The hole had been present upon the ship's capture; and an examination of the logs would be required to determine if it was cause or contribution to the broadcast distress. After browbeating Weapons to not use the vessel as target practice, it had been tractored aboard and left to engineering hierarchy to dispose. Currently Delta body A was levering a hull plate using a crowbar while body B applied heat with a plasma torch.

A call of {Query} formed in Delta's mind, overlaying the otherwise omnipresent engineering datastreams relating to functions as diverse as the current salvage project to status of microfracture surveys of the secondary core cowlings. Body B paused as body A continued pulling on the crowbar. {What is it, 66 of 240?}

66 of 240 added a visual component to his words. It was a view of one of the cargo holds inside the ship, showing floor-to-ceiling racks holding what appeared to be technologically advanced coffins. In fact, that was exactly what they were, species #7601 building dedicated morgue ships to transport the newly dead in a state of suspended animation: the dominant religion required all followers who died away from the mother-planet to be transported home in order to receive properly blessed cremations followed by scattering ashes over sanctified regions of the planet's oceans. {What should we do with these?}

Delta snatched at the number of coffins counted in the holds - 520 - with most intact, although several dozen in the hold where the rent had penetrated were empty. As body A finally managed to snap the hull plate from its mooring, body B began to cut rivets holding the adjacent square. {Stack them in the Supply Closets near Replicator Reclamation Chamber #10. We will separate the organics from salvageable technologies later, after the ship is dismantled.} The task from added to the engineering to-do list and given a moderate-low priority.

{Okie-dokie,} acknowledged 66 of 240 as the visual datastream was severed.

Nearby, 288 of 310 yelped as a heavy piece of plating was dropped on a foot, then a second time as her work partner, shouldering a length of structural support, pivoted, slamming metal against cranium. Both of Delta's bodies heaved a sigh as body A set down the crowbar before trekking over to sort out the developing mini-disaster.

*****

With a sound reminiscent of foamboard ripping, a hole opened in the ceiling of Supply Closet #77. However, no one was present to hear, and nor were eyes available to observe the slow drip-drip-drip of a viscous, green liquid. Glass, metal, ceramics, although the escaped proto-elixir slowly lost strength with each meter of material dissolved, sufficient potency remained to eventually carve a hole completely through the cube, including dense-packed neutronium armor. Therefore, it was unsurprising the simple plastic upon which the liquid fell was not a hindrance.

Droplets fizzed, spat.

*****

The light slowly dimmed until near darkness was achieved before abruptly flaring back to too-bright intensity. Another tick of an unheard clock and the light began to randomly pulse in a series of headache-generating flickers.

*THUNK*

A spanner was withdrawn. The lightstrip shone steadily, fixed by the rough application of a heavy object.

"That's better," said 3 of 42 aloud, words echoing along the hallway. "The shorts propagating in this submatrix are affecting /everything/. Now, if only this carbon dioxide fog would go away - 195 of 203 and his stupid chemistry experiments - it would be easier to see what we are doing. Have you found the problem yet?"

The target of the question, 15 of 19, was approximately fifteen meters in front of 3 of 42, eyes narrowed as she panned the deck before her in a futile attempt to see where she was going. Unfortunately, the carbon dioxide was waist deep; and the simple act of walking served to stir the vapors into a visual obstacle nearly impossible to see through. Then one foot plunged into an unseen hole, sending the rest of her sprawling. "I think I have," replied 15 of 19 from somewhere beneath the fog.

3 of 42 advanced along the hallway. Once 15 of 19 was helped to her feet, the drone looked down, then up, stopping as a ragged, out-of-place hole was espied in the ceiling. Frozen strands of what appeared to be metallic mucus ringed the rough edges. "Whatever is happening here, that hole is directly under the regeneration conduit in this hallway," said 3 of 42 as he consulted dataspace engineering schematics.

"Yes," agreed 15 of 19. Diagnostics had returned nominal personal damage; and nanites were already fixing the hairline fracture to her ankle. "Why don't you start repair to the conduit? The sooner the regeneration system reroutes are ended, the better. Then you can move to the electrical subsystem shorts. Meanwhile, I'll track the substance or creature so that it can be identified and neutralized." Although the delegation of duties had been phrased politely and in the singular, the truth was a larger component of the engineering hierarchy was determining assignments.

{Acceptable,} echoed through both 3 of 42's and 15 of 19's minds, the multivoice indeterminate as to exact origin.

As 15 of 19 vanished in a transporter beam enroute to check levels 'lower' in the subsection, the lightstrip began to flicker again. "Bugger," muttered 3 of 42 as he raised his spanner in preparation to once more apply the universe's oldest fix-it method.

*****

The parasite awoke. It had no name, none of its kind did; and neither did it have a recognizable intelligence, although it could call upon the cognitive ability of its host to present a semblance thereof. Mostly the parasite was just stimuli and response, with the overwhelming instinct the same as parasites everywhere - reproduction.

Like a master puppeteer, the parasite tentatively tested the connections with its host. The fact that the host was clinically dead did not bother it; and, in fact, was preferred because live hosts tended to fight back, both mentally and via autoimmune reactions. An arm twitched, a leg bent. Satisfied that neural impulses were functional, the parasite opened its host's eyes and began to accept sensory input.

In front of the host's nose was a semi-transparent pane of plastic. Spider cracks radiated from a melted hole located at the hinged side. Shuffling through memories the parasite had embedded within its host's brain, images were recalled, then subsequently linked with the host's linguistic neural ganglions. A hospital, people screaming, wandering the streets, other infected hosts...the images were varied, ending with it being forced into the coffin in which it currently inhabited.

Unacceptable.

Able to draw upon the full muscle potential of its host, the parasite punched arms upward. The already weakened plastic shattered. No notice was taken of the hole, a continuation through the body of the coffin from the canopy, the instigator of which, while it had barely missed burning through the corpse's arm, had dissolved critical control mechanisms. The parasite sat up, looked around. Surrounding it were coffins; and it /knew/ without knowing how it had the knowledge that each contained a body which, in turn, hosted another of the parasite's kind.

There was safety in numbers.

The body groaned, air escaping lungs, as the parasite forced its host to climb out of the coffin. There was a louder noise when the corpse, not exactly the paradigm of balance, tumbled to the ground. Oh well...it wasn't as if the host was alive or could feel pain, not that the microscopic puppeteer would (or could) care if such had been the case. The parasite levered itself to its borrowed feet, then prodded neurons into a semblance of working order. Knowledge of buttons and levers flooded the brain, the 'how' to release its comrades from their suspended animation prisons.

The corpse shuffled forward to its first target.

*****

15 of 19 materialized in subsection 8, submatrix 20, hallway 14, near Supply Closet #77. Thus far the substance/animal/whatever dissolving through tritanium (and wires and conduits and ceramics) as if it were not there had been tracked through nine levels. In each case there was a variety of damage causing the shorts that were propagating through numerous subsystems. There were no serious issues, automatic damage control able to reroute problems with minimal loss to overall efficiency, but repair would take time. On top of that, Delta was pushing 15 of 19 to conclusively identify what was causing of the damage, if only to know where (or to whom) to assign blame.

Glancing upward, 15 of 19 allowed herself a small frown. It seemed the substance or thing had once more deviated from a straight line path. However, local damage assessments culled from the computer suggested the hole was nearby. Something brushed against 15 of 19's arm. She ignored it. Hole, hole, hole...where was the hole?

A damage report originating from a minor plasma linkage suggested Supply Closet #77. 15 of 19 entered the tagged room, still staring upward, and was rewarded by the sight of the hole. However, it was also quite apparent that the culprit had long left the scene. Grumbling to herself, 15 of 19 followed the path the liquid or critter or whatever must have followed as it dripped from the ceiling, eyes sweeping downward to catch upon one of the high-tech coffins extracted from the salvaged species #7601 morgue ship. It took several seconds for 15 of 19 to realize what was wrong.

The coffin's plastic canopy was shattered and the occupant not present. That was a new development!

As 15 of 19 edged forward in order to determine what was left of the corpse and why it had spontaneously dissolved, she noted three things. The first was that the warped remains of the coffin's top suggested something inside had pushed itself /out/. The next thing realized was that most of the surrounding coffins were open, their contents also vanished. The third, and final, item was a smell of decomposing flesh accompanying the heavy breathing sounds normally associated with long-time asthmatic smokers.

"Braaaaaaaaaaaains," hissed a voice.

15 of 19 slowly pivoted her head sideways to her left, followed by the remainder of her body. Regarding her was an extremely pale, gray-splotched humanoid, and not a Borg. Limp arms and lax posture gave the impression of a body 'parked', or a puppet hung up and waiting for its master to pull strings into a semblance of life. Skin was loose, almost at the point of sloughing from flesh; and there were horrible festering wounds visible - the source of the decomposition odor. The mouth was agape, allowing breath to whistle quietly in and out of lungs. However, it was the eyes which were the worst, simultaneously reflecting the dullness of death and the glint of an aware intellect.

"Er..." said 15 of 19.

Responded the dead man walking, "Braaaaaaaaaaains."

"Um, I seem to have left brains in my other prosthetic arm. Maybe if you'll wait for me to return...?" 15 of 19 paused as she felt something (or someone) jostle her right side. {Er, um, Delta?} tried the surrounded drone. While the sub-collective was always present, it wasn't as if the imperfect Whole was continually monitoring every activity of its component parts.

"Braaaaaaaaaaains," said the corpse as it lunged forward with unnatural swiftness.

*****

A pane of glass glinted under tacky fluorescent lighting. Behind the window stood a plastic humanoid draped in clothing heavy with metallic sequins. Its limbs were held stiffly in an unnatural posture while a vacant gaze stared at the dusty fronds of an artificial fern. Overhead, a banner proclaiming "SALE!!!!!!" listlessly swung, caught in the pitiful breeze originating from a too-small ventilation grill. The shadows of shoppers browsing clothing racks could just be discerned in the store's background. Quasi-classical muzak with a vague holiday theme drifted through the air.

A speaker exploded in a shower of sparks. The storefront window shattered; and the plastic model burst into flames. Screams rent the air. Either a SuperSale had just been announced, else the mall was under attack. Only the sudden appearance of pale, armored humanoids with much offensive-leaning technologies grafted to their bodies distinguished the difference.

{The mall guards! The mall guards are the priority!} shouted Weapons. {Not the muzak!} Disregarding his own instructions, Weapons raised his arm to aim at a grille which was spitting forth a static-laced instrumental. Unfortunately, even with yet another speaker turned into scrap, the overall muzak ambience continued unabated. {Guards!}

The BorgCraft scenario was an orbital mall where the ultimate goal was to find and destroy the central controlling computer. While some of the 'guards' were the standard mall-cop, primarily hired for decoration and to dispense directions to the nearest public restroom, the main opponent consisted of nasty automatons armed to the metaphorical teeth to control the occasional sale-spawned mall riot. As the scenario had been set to Nightmare mode, the waist-high robots would be especially numerous and prone to working together in wolfpacks.

Weapons leaned over the railing located on the second floor of the food court atrium. Ignoring the not-so-rare phaser bursts which threatened bodily harm - no 'protected' mode here! - the head of the tactical hierarchy scrutinized both the action below and the visual streams of squads elsewhere in the mall. A ripple caught his attention as several mall-'bots emerged from a holographic wall adjacent the "Emperorville Fried Food Emporium" stall: the physics models obviously needed adjustment.

The necessary settings were altered...and rejected.

{Diagnose the problem,} demanded Weapons to the computer. The BorgCraft program had been heavily modified over the years from its original configuration, and the occasional glitch was not unexpected. From his overwatch position, Weapons casually disintegrated a robot which had the audacity to aim in his direction.

{No problem exists,} dully replied the computer. {BorgCraft program is operating nominally.}

{Yes, there is a problem,} countered Weapons as he tried changing several other settings. Unfortunately it seemed as if /all/ the controls were frozen. Even the rarely used abort command was unresponsive. The scenario would have to be played to its conclusion.

Repeated the computer, {No problem exists. BorgCraft program is operating nominally.}

Fuming, especially as he spotted another robot 'cheating' by ducking through a wall, Weapons turned his attention to another quarter. {Delta! Why is my BorgCraft program malfunctioning? I demand that you fix it!}

Delta's reply to the confrontation was immediate. {Repair your BorgCraft game? Engineering doesn't alter software unless it is directly associated with hardware. You are well aware of my hierarchy's boundaries! And, besides, that game is /your/ bailiwick, not mine.}

{Tactical simulator,} growled Weapons in response to BorgCraft being labeled a 'game'. {It is a tactical simulator. And it is clearly the computer at fault, not BorgCraft: it claims there is no problem when clearly there is. My hierarchy and I have no time to comb through code right now, not when there are perfectly functional debugging algorithms available. Debuggers that are not working because the /computer/ is malfunctioning. Clearly the problem is hardware; and, clearly, /you/ should be fixing it.}

Delta was not swayed by the flawed chain of logic. {If you paid attention to things other than tactical, you might realize that your "problem" is likely related to a rash of other similar /minor/ issues,} snapped back the maintenance hierarchy head. {Something is eating a hole through the decks in subsection 8, and the damage it leaves behind is propagating subsystem inefficiencies throughout the cube. /Your/ particular complaint will be added to the priority list...at the bottom.}

Although annoyed, Weapons decided to force the issue was not worth the cost. Instead, he returned full attention to the on-going BorgCraft scenario. Fine, let the computer cheat by taking advantage of a faulty physics module. In the end it would not matter because his tactical forces were superior. And it was only Nightmare mode...now, Doom mode might present some difficulties.

{Doom mode engaged,} informed the computer. Mall lighting immediately dimmed by 75% and muzak volume increased by 40%.

Weapons raised his disruptor arm in a cautionary gesture. Perhaps new tactics in the form of ten additional 10-drone squads were required.

{Answer me, 15 of 19: status report. This is not the time for one of your little hide-and-seek games. Remember what Delta said?} 3 of 42 grumbled when there was no response. He and 15 of 19 were often paired together, their racial type and tool suites complimenting each other. Unfortunately, a past engineering incident had rattled 15 of 19's brain, nothing so extreme as require surgery, but electrical jolts of a particular voltage and duration had the tendency to trigger undesirable behavior.

3 of 42 checked transponder location of his partner once again. She was still moving slowly along hallway 31 in subsection 8, submatrix 19, heading in the general direction of Bulk Cargo Hold #5 and well away from their assigned area. Grasping the cattle prod in his whole hand, 3 of 42 transported himself to 15 of 19's location. A few shocks would restore 15 of 19 to normal; and then both could return to their task with none the wiser. Luckily Delta was currently in regeneration, else the engineering hierarchy head might already be alerted to their unauthorized excursion.

The hallway in which 3 of 42 materialized was dark. Most lightstrips were extinguished, with only a few providing a dim glow that illuminated nothing. Shuffling and low moaning were vaguely registered by 3 of 42's aural system, but he catalogued the noises as unimportant. Approximately six meters ahead of him was the dark shadow of 15 of 19's back, red and yellow diodes embedded in her skull blinking.

"15 of 19!" shouted 3 of 42. Perhaps verbalization would catch his partner's attention as intranet pinging was not. "Acknowledge me! Comply! What are you doing here? And why are the lights turned down?" The cattle prod was hefted in preparation for use. "I've a little present for you...."

The lights suddenly flared to full intensity. 3 of 42 automatically squinted against the unexpected brilliance, his optical filters requiring several seconds to compensate. What sort of fantasy world had 15 of 19 slipped into this time? He had not even felt the command to the hallway lights! Then again, he had not been monitoring those dataspace pathways. Vision normalized, 3 of 42 saw that 15 of 19 had turned to face him; and he also belatedly realized that something seemed wrong.

15 of 19's stance was...not right. Her limbs were hanging loosely from her shoulders, as if the nerves had been severed. The body in general was abnormally cockeyed, hips thrust one direction and shoulder girdle the other, indicating a balance issue. Even worse, however, was 15 of 19's face.

Although Borg facial expression was discouraged, drones One with the Collective occasionally reflected the inner emotional state of the Whole. The units of Cube #347 tended to be a bit more expressive than Borg norm, but even they were greatly restrained compared to the beings they used to be in pre-assimilated life. 15 of 19's face was perfectly blank, unnaturally so, even as dull eyes peered unblinking at 3 of 42. As the ancient Terran idiom went, the lights were on, but no one was home.

3 of 42 waved his cattle prod uncertainly. "I think you were zapped by something a little stronger than a loose wire," he said. "I'll contact drone maintenance."

The shuffling noises that 3 of 42 had been ignoring were suddenly conspicuous by their absence. A heavy weight fell onto the drone's back, upsetting his balance. As he leaned forward in an attempt to compensate, he felt a /bite/ to the flesh of his upper neck, just above the collar segment of his body armor. Another weight attached itself to his arm; and 3 of 42 careened against the wall, simultaneously hitting his head against unyielding metal with great force and zapping himself with the business end of the cattle prod. Consciousness fled.

3 of 42 did not see as hallway lights dimmed to their former near darkness.

*****

Call them zombies. It was as good a label as any, the parasites lacking the concept of language, except as it applied to survival when sentient hosts were infected, much less names. In truth, many sapient species when confronted with the parasitic horror reached deep into their racial history for an easily grasped description, more often than not surfacing with the apt notion of walking dead.

The parasite hungered, as did its comrades, for brains. Not to eat, for it wasn't that sort of hunger, but rather a yearning for the necessary proteins and sugars required for successful reproduction. Like many other microscopic parasites, this particular type grew not through the sexual production of offspring, but rather division into billions of copies. A subset of those copies were then transferred into any animal host with a suitable neurological physiology to repeat the cycle. 'Suitable neurological physiology' translated into anything with a brain.

It was towards a massed collection of lifesigns that the zombie shuffled.

Several new hosts had recently joined the herd. The fact that they had metal and plastic inclusions throughout their bodies and looked nothing like the other bodies meant nothing to their respective puppeteer parasites. The bodies were also still alive, unlike those who had arisen from coffins, original minds subjugated into slumber. Eventually lack of care by the parasite would push the bodies into death, not that the parasite cared. In fact, such was actually desirable since as long as the minds retained that sense of 'self', no matter how tranquilized, there was always the possibility of rejection.

The locally-acquired zombies led the shuffling, careening, shambling pack. Their parasite riders drew upon the knowledge contained within sleeping brains to navigate the hallways, to darken the too-bright lights. With them lumbered the zombie who had first awoken from the coffins, not necessarily a leader - there was no such concept - but rather a parasite who came from a lineage which tended to take better care of host bodies, thence allowing better speeds, better reactions, and, ultimately, a better chance of passing itself along.

The local hosts paused at an intersection, causing a pile-up as trailing zombies blundered into each other. After a long minute, the leading bodies turned to trek down a new hallway, one which was oh-so-near the lifesign goal. There was no need for the parasites to learn how to read, the skill unnecessary no matter how literate the ridden body may have been in living life. Therefore, the herd ignored the sign floating mid-air just beyond the junction, registering the sparkling hologram as little more than an insubstantial annoyance.

Long after the zombies passed, the words remained: "Warning! BorgCraft simulation in progress in Bulk Cargo Hold #5. Enter at your own risk!"

*****

{Entry to Bulk Cargo Hold #5 via door 4a,} murmured the computer to Weapons. The head of the weapons hierarchy smoothly swung his arm around and fired a disruptor at the mall-'bot he had been pursuing, ignoring the protest as another member of the tactical squad was narrowly missed in the process. Only then did Weapons pause, positioning himself completely behind the barricade he and his squad manned so that an errant phaser from the hostile 'bot-pack holed up in the "Shoes-R-Us" store wouldn't not interrupt him.

{Identify units,} demanded Weapons. Standard procedure set the computer to watch all doors to the Bulk Cargo Hold when a simulation was in process, reporting all intrusions. As the term 'safety protocol' was a not part of Weapons' vocabulary, entry by any except his hierarchy tended to be dangerous. In truth, Weapons could care less about the health of any non-tactical drone foolish enough to enter an active holo-simulation. However, after one particularly nasty incident concerning several engineering and drone maintenance units, the entirety of command and control had engaged in a very long, very intense 'discussion' with Weapons concerning the matter. Weapons had eventually acceded to the demand to add a few (unnecessary) protocols to ensure the relative safety of uninvited guests.

The computer responded, {Two engineering drones detected. Designations are 3 of 42 and 15 of 19.}

Weapons cocked his head as he mentally brought up a map of the Bulk Cargo Hold, overlaid with the simulation's floorplan gamespace. Two red dots signified the new drones, well within an area of the mall earlier secured. Unfortunately, given the faulty physics settings, cleared areas occasionally reverted to battlegrounds when robot packs ignored walls. It was obvious that the engineering drones had arrived to fix the hardware problem plaguing the BorgCraft system, despite Delta's earlier assertion that such was a low priority. So certain of the logic, Weapons did not bother to check the engineering to-do list.

{81 of 212,} barked Weapons, {you are closest to the entries. Go guard them.}

81 of 212 acknowledged the order, leaving his picket duties.

Remaining behind the barrier, Weapons followed 81 of 212's progression via the other drone's optic input. Melted mannequins and dark stores gave way to service corridors as the drone made his way to door 4a. Here and there were the remnants of the shopping crowd, those not 'killed' or 'assimilated' during the course of battle, hiding from the chaos on the mall thoroughfares. Their numbers increased as 81 of 212 approached the egress, and he was forced to actually push bodies out of his path. Weapons mentally tagged the area as requiring a half-squad for clean-up: one could not have so many potential obstacles lurking should quick passage be required.

Among the shadows near door 4a, 81 of 212 spotted two engineering drones. They were among the shoppers, not bothering to do anything constructive. Stupid engineering units...cowards, using civilians as cover. Weapons was unimpressed.

"Come on," called 81 of 212, both verbally and via the intranets, "this way to computer access ports. I will be your guard."

Neither of the pair moved.

Persisted 81 of 212, "I don't have all day. My squad will soon be rotated to front-line duties, and I do not want to miss it. We have been stuck as peripheral sentries for the last several hours."

Still no acknowledgement of 81 of 212's existence.

{Go prod them in the correct direction,} ordered Weapons. {We have better things to do than baby-sit wusses.} A flurry of concentrated weapons fire from the mall-'bots provided momentarily illumination even as it threatened to melt part of the barrier. Weapons added his own disruptor to the response.

81 of 212 stomped towards the engineering units, then slowed to a stop. It had just struck him that the shoppers were not moving out of his way. The majority of BorgCraft simulations, including the current one, included life-like reactions from non-assimilated sentients. The shoppers should have been in a virtual (no pun intended) panic trying to escape from the three drones in their midst. Such was not occurring.

It was at this moment the engineering drones turned. "Braaaaaaaaiiiiiins," the pair exhaled.

{You aren't 3 of 42 or 15 of 19!} exclaimed 81 of 212, unsure how he knew even as their transponders and dataspace signatures insisted otherwise. A too solid hand, without the subtle electromagnetic tingle of manipulated light, brushed against an arm. {And these aren't holograms!}

Those were the last words Weapons caught from 81 of 212 before the latter became the foundation of a dog-pile. Moments later, 81 of 212's transceiver link went non-reactive even as passive stasis for the drone insisted all was fine.

Weapons' head blindly turned in the direction of door 4a even as himself and a subset of (unengaged) members of his hierarchy considered the implications. As much as he disliked to involve others in what was obviously a tactical situation, the presence of unknown intruders demanded certain deep-programmed directives be followed.

{Captain,} informed Weapons to the consensus monitor and facilitator, {we may have a problem in Bulk Cargo Hold #5....}

Screaming. Shouting. Words mostly unintelligible, except for those of a four-letter nature. Dim, flickering lighting hides all except the shadowy outline of bodies. Finally one face swims into view, the visage of a species #7601 female sheened with purple sweat.

"This is secondary morgue technician Tilesh. There was a slight problem with the warp core, forcing rerouting of power to life support at the expense of the Hold Three stasis coffins. I know that the captain and head mortician received some sort of sealed instructions concerning this shipment of dead to deliver to the cremation priests, but I don't know if that has anything to do with what is happening now. All I know is that once the coffins in Hold Three were completely defrosted, corpses started to come alive! Head mortician Ujil made it to the bridge in time to hit the emergency beacon, but the zombies creatures were right behind him and...and...and I don't know what became of him!"

A nervous laugh. "Zombies. Sounds like a stupid superstition from pre-Enlightenment, but I don't know what else to call the creatures." Tilesh abruptly refocused her attention on something to her right. "Ujil? Is that you?" A hand entered the scene, clamping onto shoulder. "Ujil?"

"Braaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiins."

With a scream, Tilesh was yanked out of view.

The remainder of the log from the morgue ship, downloaded along with the rest of the data from the computer prior to disassembly, was useless. Shortly after Tilesh's impromptu status update, the input location had undergone terminal failure due to an overzealously flailed crowbar ill-aimed at a dimly perceived head. Several hours later, secondary hull sensors had registered vibrations consistent with grappling hooks, air lock use, and, finally, the thump of explosive decompression.

One hundred forty-seven weapons drones, nearly four-fifths of those present in the BorgCraft simulation, stood in the main mall thoroughfare outside the corridors which led to Bulk Cargo Hold #5's door 4a. Outwardly there was no fidgeting, none of the quiet whispers that one might associate with a large gathering, all eyes and optics focused on the humanoid shapes which were slowly shuffling into view. For the moment, the simulation's robots were forgotten (except by those currently under attack at the far end of the mall).

{How many,} demanded Weapons to Sensors, once again.

{Sensors says that there are no lifesigns. Not even a [blue squiggle]. Interior sensors do not resolve for Sensors like the hull sensors. The only thing Sensors sees is three drone signatures near the door.}

Weapons snorted. As he panned the kill zone, he automatically painted targets on each mobile bipedal shape. {We can all see where 3 of 42, 15 of 19, and 81 of 212 are located. They are unimportant. We need to know how many of these alien creatures are present. Computer: disengage power to Bulk Cargo Hold #5.}

Answered the computer, {Unable to comply.}

{Why?} demanded the head of the weapons hierarchy.

{Because the glitches that are showing up all over the cube have affected the power grid as well,} replied Delta. {As much as I would not mourn your game's holoemitters being shut down, to do so would require complete powering down of the subsection. Until the cause of the glitches is found and key repairs made, models indicate an 87.9% chance of a major subsystem calamity somewhere within the cube if that subsection is depowered. So don't even /try/ to pursue depowering, Weapons, because I have locked all the relevant commands. You are the mighty tactical drone...deal with your tactical situation.}

{We will,} asserted Weapons.

*Shunk-shink!* The loud sound of a shotgun being cocked echoed over the silent Borg crowd. Eyes, both actual and dataspace, turned towards the instigator.

{Zombies,} snarled 107 of 212. {They look like zombie and act like zombies. The morgue ship logs even call them zombies. The appropriate method to deal with zombies is easily found.} A host of phrases in which 'dead' (often paired with 'living' or 'walking') and 'zombie' flowed from 107 of 212's mind, each linked to one of the movies in his vast collection. The shotgun was raised high in the air, {There is a whole sporting goods store of these on the second mall level, more than enough to take out any zombie swarm menace! As there are no safety protocols, this holographic weapon is as good as the real thing! Observe!}

107 of 212 stepped forward to approach, alone, the line of shuffling zombies. In addition to carrying an oversized shotgun suitable for Very Large Game, a bandoleer of rounds crossed his chest, and an odd pack full of sloshing liquid was upon his back. One by one the zombies stopped their seemingly aimless milling, turning to regard the lone drone.

"Braaaaaaaaaaiiiiiins," said one of the undead creatures, arms held before itself in a limp manner, as it started to slowly move forward towards perceived prey. Although Borg are not exactly the most speedy of beings, compared to the zombies they were as cheetahs to the turtle.

Stopping in the zombie's path, 107 of 212 confidently raised the shotgun and fired point-blank at the thing's head. The backwash from the resultant noise could be felt as well as heard. {There. One zombie down. No problem,} said 107 of 212 as he swiveled his head to regard his audience.

"Braaaaaaaaaiiiiiiins," moaned a voice.

"What?" exclaimed 107 of 212 as he turned back to regard the zombie. Except for having been forced backwards a step or two, the only visible result of the blast was a large, black streak crossing the skull. {That...that isn't possible.} The shotgun was raised and fired again. The zombie stumbled once more, but otherwise remained unfazed.

Other zombies were starting to advance upon 107 of 212.

Although it was true that shattering the braincase was one of the most efficient methods to destroy the species of zombie confronting Cube #347 - the parasite could not direct its mount if the primary neurological control nexus was missing - a gander at the species #7601 dossier may have suggested the futility of using any caliber of projectile weapon able to be carried by the single individual. The cranium sported an exceedingly dense bone structure, recalling a time in racial evolution when individuals, male and female, dueled each other by literally knocking heads together. How such a brain-stunning activity ever allowed for the rise of intelligence was unknown, but the legacy of such was thick skull with knobbed protuberances able to turn aside anything less than a fist-sized round traveling at supersonic velocities. In summary, species #7601 made excellent assault drones against civilizations who had yet to progress beyond the projectile as a major offensive weapon; and in that same vein, a simple shotgun was useless.

107 of 212 tossed away the shotgun as it became apparent its best use was as a length of smackin' metal. {In the odd event that a bullet to the noggin is not effective, fire is always a zombie's worst nightmare.} A hand reached around to pull at a nozzle attached to the sloshing backpack. {The "Mercenary Emporium", right next to the food court, has a wide selection of flamethrowers for all occasions.}

A line of fire arced out from 107 of 212 as he started to laugh maniacally in an unBorg manner, dispensing unholy justice to the advancing evil scourge. Flames temporarily chased away the gloom of the dim Doom-level mall lighting. Someone had obviously been watching way too many horror movies as of late.

With zombies merrily on fire, 107 of 212 pivoted to regard his fellow tactical drones. "And that," he said aloud, "is how one kicks zombie butt."

"What if one of them has a fire extinguisher?" called a voice from the crowd.

"Who ever heard of a zombie with a fire extinguisher?" From behind 107 of 212 came a loud, chemical hiss, as if that made by holographic carbon dioxide putting out too-real holographic flames. He turned just in time to see that not one, but several unaffected zombies were wielding fire extinguishers taken from brackets inset the mall walls. The slightly crisped zombies, now coated in a thin coating of white gas, did not appear to be overly impacted by their near barbeque.

"Braaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiins," called a zombie, now within arm-reach of 107 of 212.

{Crap,} succinctly said 107 of 212 as he was surrounded by the lead elements of the zombie pack.

Weapons stomped out from the Borg lines, taking position in front of the drones of his hierarchy and turned to face the assembled ranks. In the background came the groans and yelps of 107 of 212 being overwhelmed; and in the dataspace inventive curses abruptly stopped as the zombies introduced the drone to their undead ranks. All was ignored by Weapons, for he had more important things to say.

"Projectiles and fire? What are we, primitives? While an organism may be able to resist /holographic/ shotguns and flamethrowers, no matter safety protocol status, disruptors are completely different." Words said, Weapons pivoted, arm raising to take aim on the lead zombie.

{Uber-Insanity mode engaged,} interrupted the computer into the minds of all drones present.

Weapons froze. {Computer: confirm BorgCraft mode.}

{Uber-Insanity.}

{Disengage Uber-Insanity mode.}

{Compliance. Uber-Insanity mode disengaged for Uber-Insanity mode.}

Arm was lowered and an unWeaponish step was taken backwards away from the slowly advancing zombie horde. {No good. Not good at all.}

{Explain "Uber-Insanity" mode,} ordered Captain, who had been monitoring, along with much of the sub-collective, the developing dilemma from afar. Anything which caused Weapons to voluntarily retreat, even by a step, was probably not a good thing.

{BorgCraft only has three difficulty settings: Normal, Nightmare, and Doom. This was not sufficiently challenging, so I have been leading the development of Uber-Insanity. The setting is incomplete and should not have been activated.}

{Go on,} urged Captain.

The zombies were beginning to advance at a greater shambling pace, as if sensing an opportunity. Several individuals held fire extinguishers at the ready. The tactical drones remained holding their ground, but uneasiness was flitting through the dataspaces as the number of opponents grew. Continued Weapons, {For ground-based simulations there are slight weaponry restrictions that sort of disengage all chassis-mounted energy-based weapons, like phasers or disruptors, in order to require projectile or hand-to-hand combat. Additionally, exit restrictions lock doors; and transporters are inoperable so that reinforcements cannot be added nor individual units leave the battlefield.} Pause. {Addendum: transporters can be utilized, but only to remove disabled drones for maintenance.}

Second interrupted before Captain could respond, his tone scathing, {Let me summarize. You created a mode that purposefully hobbled you and your hierarchy. It is now engaged. And because it is engaged, your weapons are limited to projectiles which do not hurt these zombies, else closing to hand-combat range where they swarm you. On top of that, no one can get in; and can leave only if severely damaged or terminated. Did I leave anything out?}

Weapons cocked his head slightly in thought. {No. However, overwhelming odds can always be overcome.}

At that moment, several packs of mall-'bots charged through wall on the offensive. While the Borg may no longer have access to energy-based weapons, the robot defenders were under no such handicap. Two drones immediately fell, one due to a trip rope and the other from several phaser blasts to the back of the knee. Several other units, while trying to mount a defense from the robots, managed to maneuver themselves into the zombie crowd. They were quickly overcome by the overwhelming odds.

{To rally point C,} commanded Weapons. It was a good thing no unassimilated species were present to observe the total rout of Borg drones, waist-high robots snapping at their heels.

Weapons blindly reached for the table which was to his left, but questing fingers encountered nothing. Frowning, the head of the weapons hierarchy shifted his gaze from looking for zombies on the food court below his second-floor overwatch location to the table in question. It was bare. Unacceptable!

"Where are my projectiles?" yelled Weapons, verbally and in the intranets.

{We are coming,} answered a drone voice, one of whom assigned to searching for suitable throwing fodder. {Some of 'bots ambushed us just as we left the "Rock Place" and we had to use up all the ammunition we had gathered to drive them off. However, the bakery next door had a nice collection of very stale buns. We will be there in 2.7 minutes.}

"Too slow," muttered Weapons to himself. The shambling form he had been watching became lost behind an obscuring barrier of mall greenery, the leaves glowing with that particular green of a plant fed one-part water and three-parts sugared and/or caffeinated drink. The fact that the target had the blinking lights of a zombified Borg was not cause for hesitation.

6 of 83, one of Weapons' strike-team leaders, came up to stand next to her hierarchy head. The floor below was silently panned, incoming visuals from both drones merged into a seamless whole and combined with that from scouts at other lookout venues. 6 of 83 nudged Weapons with an elbow featuring a natural bone spike. "Another one is trying the escalator," she noted.

At the far side of the food court, an escalator provided admission from the first floor to the second story walkways. One of the species #7601 zombies was hesitantly approaching the access point, stopping to peer at the stairs as they flattened before vanishing under grooved metal. Head turned upwards to stare at a pair of guard drones on the balcony above, then returned to the conundrum of the escalator. Finally, with a short utterance of "braaaaaaaains," the zombie tried to go up the down escalator.

It was unsuccessful.

An unBorg snicker arose from 6 of 83. It was not necessarily a reflection of eroding inhibition filters, but rather the remnant of a dark humor which had survived the assimilation process. To put it simply, 6 of 83 enjoyed it when others became hurt due to their own stupidity. "Not quite as spectacular as the one that fell off the side of the up escalator, or the one that managed to get its pant leg stuck in the grating, but still satisfying."

The zombie stumbled around as it tried to regain its balance, the victim of a tumble that had ended with an audible crack of head upon one of the food court's mirrored pillars. One of the second story drone guards aimed a rifle at the zombie. While the round was unlikely to do much damage, perhaps something vital could be hit on the limbs to limit the creature's mobility.

Chased by zombies and mall-'bots, the earlier retreat had forced the weapons hierarchy members stuck in the BorgCraft scenario to regroup on the floor overlooking the food court. While the robots had their own transportation between mall levels and had continued to be an annoyance, the zombies had been unable to master the challenge of the escalator. As there were no normal stairs and the few elevators had been disabled early in the BorgCraft scenario, the zombies had been regulated to the first floor.

The restrictions imposed by Uber-Insanity mode had led to a stalemate. If the mall-'bots had not been an issue, then the weapons drones likely would have been able to whittle away at the more numerous zombies. Unfortunately, the robots had continued unrelenting in their programmed mission to protect the mall; and of the two threats, they were the most immediate. Maintaining the safety zone command post left few resources to deal with the zombies. The assault parties which Weapons had dispatched to the lower levels inevitably came up against groups of zombies too large to be adequately tackled given their immunity to most projectiles. Most importantly, Weapons had finally accepted that hand-to-hand combat was unfeasible, for while tactical drones were stronger and more coordinated than either species #7601 zombies or zombified Borg, all it took was one bite to defeat an attacker. The zombification process was swift.

There had to be a way to defeat the menace. Everything had a weakness.

Weapons was once again bugging those partitions charged with examining the morgue ship logs when the replacement ammunition arrived. Piles of fist-sized bread loaves, all stale, were heaped in wheelbarrows. When it became swiftly obvious that stacking bread on the table was not possible - the buns rolled away - a wheelbarrow was left to serve as the bread holder. Both Weapons and 6 of 83 armed themselves, the latter returning to scan the ground for targets as the former slipped back into the dataspaces.

Something important was being missed in the morgue ship logs...an obvious something....

The rolling echo of one of the heavy caliber shotguns being fired roused Weapons from his interrupted contemplation. Beside him, 6 of 83 was throwing a bun with the wicked precision capable only by a being with laser range finder, computer-assisted target acquisition, and perfect muscle control. Weapons blinked, automatically focusing on the object of attention. On the ground, between several plastic tables bolted to the floor, sprawled a zombie; and, more precisely, the same Borg zombie Weapons had been tracking earlier. A transceiver identified the victim as 112 of 300. Unlike the species #7601 specimens, zombified Borg tended to be more susceptible to high-speed projectiles.

{Computer, status of 112 of 300?} queried Weapons. A systems diagnostic was the response. In addition to a large chunk of unarmored shoulder, neck, and face having been shredded by the shotgun load, the skull was fractured due to a precise impact from a past-date bread product. A key threshold in unit damage had been passed, triggering the only egress allowed under Uber-Insanity mode. {Transport unit 112 of 300 to Maintenance Bay #5.} The shimmer of a green transporter beam removed the semi-conscious body.

"That was fun," said 6 of 83.

Weapons grumbled as he received a report of imminent breach of defenses in grid 4 by robot attackers. Even the most optimistic calculations pointed to defeat. Consequentially, Weapons no longer found the BorgCraft scenario amusing, especially given the weaponry restrictions. "6 of 83, take squads 3 and 7 to grid 4.2. Mission is reinforcement."

An acknowledgement was nonverbally provided as 6 of 83 gathered several more buns before pivoting on heel in compliance.

Weapons glanced upwards - one never knew from what quarter attack would come, especially under Uber-Insanity - at the mall ceiling. However, he did not focus on the dim light strips or dingy tiles, but rather the unseen sight of the giant cargo hold doors many hundreds of meters above. The morgue ship logs tickled the back of his mind, along with several parallel datathreads. Doors...sensor logs...the rattle of a section of ship undergoing explosive decompression...horror movie plots...engineering appraisal of vacuum damage to salvageable inorganic and organic components....

{The barrier at grid 3.5 is under attack.} It seemed the mall-'bot controlling computer was attempting assault of the Borg safety zone at multiple points.

A plan suddenly materialized in Weapons' mind, the crystal clear melding of disparate data into a workable whole. He was not the origin of the scheme, no individual drone could be singled out of the collaborative process, but rather the hub around which the tactical endeavor orbited. Nor was the proposal novel - 'Borg' and 'novel' were largely incompatible - instead drawing upon other knowledge, other experiences, adapting it to fit the current circumstances. 107 of 212's movie collection was intrinsically involved.

However, before any plan could be put into motion, other priorities beckoned.

{Squad 5, with me. We go to smash robots,} called Weapons as he turned his gaze away from the holographic mall ceiling and towards the besieged blockade.

"Braaaaaaaaaaiiiiiins."

"Shush. Bad zombie."

"Braaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiins."

"What did I tell you?"

"Braaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiins."

Doctor leaned over his patient, index finger of one hand curled and held at the ready by the thumb. As the inevitable "braaaaaaaiiiiiiiins" began to be declared once more, Doctor briskly *thonked* the zombified drone on the forehead between the eyes. There was a sudden, disbelieving blink, the utterance immediately cut.

"Bad zombie."

"Braaaaaaiiiiiiiins," tried the zombie again in defiance.

*Thonk* "Bad zombie."

"Braaaaaaiiiiins?"

*Thonk* "Bad zombie."

The mouth opened in preparation to speak the one work vocabulary, but narrowed eyes and cocked index finger wordlessly suggested that such a course of action was undesirable. With an audible sigh, the zombie closed his mouth and lay quietly.

"Good zombie."

Six zombified Borg were trussed to workbenches in Maintenance Bay #5. Five were units which had been sufficiently damaged in the BorgCraft scenario that the computer had allowed removal. The injuries were easy enough to deal with, even the drone with the nearly torn off leg. It was what Doctor was calling the 'zombie element' which was causing difficulties.

On the surface, all the drones appeared (other than various cuts, bruises, and contusions) to be perfectly functional. However, beyond the rather annoying lack-of-vocabulary, there was something deeply wrong. For instance, full body paralysis was a Collective standard operating procedure in the case of surgery to prevent random nerve discharges from, say, slamming the armored elbow of the operatee into the nose of the operator. The code strings to disengage voluntary muscles below the neck of the five patients had been sent; and while there had been acknowledgement by the respective patient's automatic systems, it became quickly obvious that either it had not worked or a bypass was occurring. Whatever the cause, the result had been active, if slower than usual, patients. Unacceptable. All five drones had been strapped to tables to minimize movement. Unfortunately, jaws had been among the remaining mobile parts.

Doctor turned away from 112 of 300, confident that there would be no more outbursts. Sometimes the training process required a small dollop of punishment; and while Doctor would prefer to balance punishment with reward, thus far no amount of biscuits or squeaky toys had demonstrated any positive effect. Eyes swept down the row of bound drones, accessing the current medical file of each in turn. Ears twitched. All were stable, or at least the Borg systems were, and, best of all, all were quiet at the moment.

Drone maintenance units continued at their normal tasks as Doctor took a position where he was out of the way and at low risk of being run over.

{I have preliminary results on the zombie drones,} reported Doctor to Captain and Weapons. While these two hierarchy heads were the primary targets for conversation, such did not stop the ranks of eavesdroppers from listening, nor from accessing the data resulting from the battery of tests performed on the five units.

Captain absorbed the data. {Continue.}

Doctor summarized, {Although the organism has not been isolated as of yet, genetic analysis of spinal fluid indicates the presence of foreign DNA. A virus or other parasitic vector is the most probable postulation, one which is largely restricted to the brain. How, exactly, the virus works and why the nanite immune system ignores it is unknown and will require additional investigation. How it animates dead bodies is also somewhat of a poser. However, the method of transmission is fairly obvious, as discovered when 120 of 133 was bitten by 65 of 83; and questioning weapons units in the BorgCraft game who have observed the results of zombies biting drones offers additional in-the-field confirmation.}

Second, one of the multitudes of eavesdroppers, interrupted, {So...you are saying that a parasite that immune systems cannot see is capable of taking over an individual - alive /or/ dead - to create a zombie that has been aptly demonstrated is near impossible to kill. And that the parasite is spread by biting.}

{Yes. You hit the clown on the nose!}

{Is there any good news?} sarcastically asked Second.

{I think it will be possible to biopsy a wee slice of brain from the poor zombie-drones for testing to learn how the parasite locks away the existing personality and takes over. This is better than performing a full cranialectomy. For most species, including the ones in the maintenance bay, it is impossible to recover a drone that has had the head sliced off and brain matter removed to a blender.}

Captain blocked Second's scathing reply. Said the consensus monitor and facilitator, {We wanted to know if any cure is available, or if all infected drones will have to be destroyed.}

Doctor clicked his teeth together. {Oh! There are initial indications that the form of music known as "muzak" has a beneficial effect, as do liquid products containing tannin.} What he did not relay was the exact set of circumstances which had led to the unlikely discovery. Although he had not been directly involved, the incident was somewhat embarrassing - emotional relevance be damned - to the drone maintenance hierarchy as a whole. Doctor was sure that given enough time and deodorant, 150 of 152 would eventually smell, well, normal, although none were sure if the stain would ever come off.

Weapons, quiet to this point, absorbed the implications. {Useless,} was the succinct comment. {Tell me when you have information of value.} The head of the weapons hierarchy dismissed the drone maintenance datafeed, the equivalent of turning his back and plugging his ears.

Captain mentally shook his head. {Relay to us} - the 'us' was a plural encompassing the sub-collective as a whole - {when additional data is available.}

{Okie-dokie!} chirped Doctor. He returned attention fully to Maintenance Bay #5 just in time to see one of his hierarchy beam in, carrying a tea service. The brightly polished silver pot steamed where it sat upon a delicate lace doily, surrounded by half a dozen porcelain cups. A small plate was heaped with miniature shortbread biscuits dipped in dark chocolate.

"So," said Doctor as he turned to regard 112 of 300, the nearest of the zombified drones, "what sort of muzak might you like with your tea: 'Mall Bluez' or 'Unseasonable Holiday Tunez'?"

Weapons looked to his left. Zombies. He looked to his right. Zombies. The visual streams of all the drones accompanying him showed zombies. There were no convenient holes to escape through the slowly advancing cordon. There was only retreat. Weapons swiveled his head to consider the two stores which the group were backing towards, one of which could hold the means to survival, even success. However, Weapons was not ready to make /that/ decision yet, not while there remained a greater than 1% chance of winning the engagement.

After successfully defending the mall-'bot assault, even counterattacking to force withdrawal of the increasingly annoying things, a conclusion had been reached considering how to deal with the zombies. Vacuum was the key. Evidence from the morgue ship logs suggested the unknown rescuer, after retrieving the few remaining crew, had holed the morgue ship, thus fatally destroying any zombies. The infected corpses still in storage had not been affected, waking when their coffins were later compromised. Perhaps species #7601 had planned to eventually salvage the morgue ship, which is why it had been otherwise left intact when conversion into a fireball would have been more prudent. Such would never be known.

To put a bulk cargo hold in vacuum was a simple matter of opening the large hold doors. Or should have been simple, anyway. Unfortunately, the initial command for the computer to do so had been denied; and it quickly became apparent the Uber-Insanity provision locking egresses meant /all/ access points. The inclusion of hold doors had not been deliberate, but rather because it was simpler for the weapons subunits working to modify the BorgCraft program to include everything instead of making exceptions.

Delta had not been pleased. An attempt by the engineering hierarchy to manually open the hold doors from the outside had proven futile, the on-going glitches affecting all hullside subsystems in the relevant grid. Even Second had learned new words to add to his collection of vulgarities.

Finally, the inescapable conclusion had been made that one of several specific data pillars would have to be accessed from inside the bulk cargo hold; and the door manually instructed to open from there in order to work around the Uber-Insanity lock-out. A route to nearest data pillar had been charted. Gathering together the remaining drones left in the tactical simulation to him, Weapons had led the trek to the oh-so-dangerous first floor and the goal.

Normally a group of 114 Borg drones represented an unstoppable force, especially armored and armed tactical units who also happened to be a wee bit on the hair-trigger side. The key word was 'normally'. The mall computer, ignoring the zombies as being out of its programmed ken, had immediately sent robots to take advantage of its opponent abandoning the safety zone. If it had just been a matter of Borg versus zombies, the Borg could have easily outdistanced the zombies, but each attack by the robots, often taking advantage of the faulty physics module, slowed the drones such that the zombies could catch up. Any Borg cut from the group by the robots or fallen from their weapons became easy pickings for the zombie swarm. All it took was one bite for a comrade to be converted to a slack-jawed opponent.

Weapons peered at the two stores once more...there /had/ to be another option. Nearby, the last speaker blasting muzak in the mall died amid a shower of sparks. Weapons' glare immediately turned to the culprit.

{Oops,} said 6 of 83, {I guess I threw that bun a little bit too hard.}

Despite Weapons' skepticism of Doctor's maintenance bay findings, muzak had been found to be a weapon, of sorts. The zombies appeared to avoid the few intact mall speakers; and the head of the weapons hierarchy had quickly determined that volume control was one of the few responsive BorgCraft controls, assuming one wanted louder as 'down' did not work. Unfortunately, the respite created by maximizing muzak output had lasted a very short time, earmuffs soon appearing on zombies and speakers one-by-one going silent. Likely the latter was the result of earmuffed zombies destroying the offending equipment, but incidents such as by 6 of 83 were to blame as well.

{I spy a robot scout,} noted 24 of 212. Such was usually a prelude to a larger mall-'bot assault. Weapons had to make a decision now.

Was it to be "Froo-Froo", selling tea, candles, and incense, or "Funs and Guns", a store dedicated to all things sports and weaponry? Through the storefront windows of the latter, ranks of shiny baseball bat handles could be seen, as well as a banner proclaiming a new shipment of shotgun rounds designed for the largest of large game. Lace and pastel colors dominated the other store.

Decisions, decisions, decisions.

Wincing as a final verdict was made, one of which he did not necessarily approve, but for which he was being overruled by both his hierarchy and other Cube #347 members, Weapons pivoted and entered Froo-Froo.

"Hurry up with that batch of Earl Gray," demanded Weapons as he brandished a lit incense stick as if it were a sword, "I am almost out of cedarwood. All we have left is lavender and honeysuckle, neither of which works very well."

Complained 95 of 300 from where he awkwardly knelt on the deck, "Do you know how hard it is to make tea while moving? The little electric pot keeps unplugging itself from my torso socket, among other things. I refuse to try to fill these spray bottles while in motion: I've scalded myself too many times. As it is, you are not allowing the proper steep time for the tea bags. And speaking of tea bags, loose tea imparts a much better taste, as well as greater authenticity."

"Taste is irrelevant," growled Weapons. The incense stick was almost at its stub, the last wisps of scented smoke curling into the air. "Cease accessing those tea-making manuals and just pour the hot water."

"But there is a certain ceremony for tea!" protested 95 of 300. "If it isn't done just right...." The drone trailed to silence as he mentally wilted under a combination of Weapons' glare and the unvoiced threat that he would shortly be finding himself the primary downrange focus of the next target-shooting competition. "I'll just pour the hot water."

The last thirteen tactical drones, inclusive Weapons, were in a niche at their goal. The losses would have been greater, if not complete, had it not been for the booty gathered from Froo-Froo. Both scented candles and incense seemed to produce an odor the zombies found objectionable, one for which there was no olfactory equivalent of earmuffs. Even more devastating, however, was the tea. Tea splashed on exposed zombie skin precipitated a nearly instantaneous reaction more akin to a chemical burn than scalding by hot water. Spray bottles appropriated from a hair salon had increased effectiveness and range while decreasing waste, but there were still more zombies than tea products, especially as the ranks of the undead had grown at the expense of Weapons' group.

"Light the barrier. Pass out the armaments," ordered Weapons.

In an arc around the niche, candles were lit, filling the corridor with both a flickering light and a delicious vanilla-cinnamon-cherry scent. Incense sticks stuck into the wax of the thick candles were next, adding a bitter aroma heavy with lavender, honeysuckle, and other botanicals. Spritzers set to full stream and filled with Earl Gray or Breakfast Sunrise - black teas were best - were passed out, several bottles to each drone, along with the remnant stale buns. As last stands went, this one was more eccentric than most.

Beyond the candle and incense blockade, zombies shuffled. None were willing to press closer than two meters; and most were further given the deadly accuracy of the spray bottles.

Satisfied at the current stalemate, Weapons was finally able to turn his attention to the data pillar. The hologram facade automatically disengaged as the cover to the pillar was removed, exposing innards. This station was one of several specialized for the bulk cargo hold, accessing such systems as internal tractor emitters and compartmentalization forcefields, as well as the exterior doors. Where BorgCraft had locked-out less tangible options such as dataspace code, making (or breaking) the correct physical connections would bypass certain fail-safes and cause the hold doors to open.

Weapons reached into the pillar in preparation to simply rip out all the wires.

{Wait!} cried Delta as she recognized the intention.

"Oh-oh," said 6 of 83 at the same time, among the last baker's dozen of surviving drones.

Weapons blinked as he was assaulted on several fronts. He straightened and turned towards 6 of 83 as the physically closer of the voices. "What?"

"Down the hallway. We may shortly be having a problem. A big problem."

Squinting through the uncertain candle light, Weapons focused to where indicated by 6 of 83. Four other drones were also looking in that direction, affording several slightly different points of view able to be melded into a whole. What had caught 6 of 83's attention was a fan; and, more specifically, one of the large fans used by emergency personnel to quickly clear smoke or fumes from a confined space. Pushing the bulky fan along were two zombies, one each species #7601 and a Borg. They would have been progressing quicker in their task, except milling undead kept tripping over the trailing extension cord, thereby causing the entire fan to violently jerk backwards several paces. The fan, once it was in position, would be more than sufficient to extinguish the candles and incense sticks, as well as ruin the effectiveness of the tea-filled spray bottles.

"We will open the hold doors before that problem arrives," commented Weapons as he returned to facing the data pillar. {6 of 83, try throwing bread at it when it gets close enough. Maybe the blades can be bent.} A hand was reached for the wires once more.

Delta interrupted again, {Wait!}

{What?} irritably demanded Weapons, hand stopped mid-motion.

{You can't just rip things out. You could cause great damage, and still not open the doors.}

{We are willing to take that chance.}

{Well, you can not. Follow this wiring diagram. If the yellow wires are crossed with the blue and purple striped ones, then connectors A, B, and G broken, that should allow you access to the modulator assembly at access point 5b.} A complex schematic was inserted into Weapons' dataflow. {Access point 5b then can be used as a conduit to these four wires labeled 54, 72, 47, and 9, the first and third of which should be cut and looped back upon themselves.}

There were more instructions forthcoming, but Weapons refused to hear them. He savagely slashed through the bewildering wiring diagram. {There is no time!} He tried to force his hand forward, but could not, Delta bringing the force of engineering hierarchy to bear to block his motor connection. As much as he disliked asking for help... {Captain! Delta is asking the impossible.}

Captain was not swayed. {It is an engineering matter, Weapons, concerning the best way to open the hold doors.}

{But there is no time!} Weapons checked a visual stream from 6 of 83 and several other drones, seeing that the fan was being trundled into place. Stale bread was having little effect. {What Delta demands will require at least ten minutes. We will} - Weapons forced out the words - {not survive ten minutes.}

Delta said, {Then you all terminated or become undead or whatever. Your BorgCraft game will still not let you out. Once the glitches are sufficiently fixed, we will be able to manually open the hold doors from the hull, else devise some other method to evacuate the air. Maybe Doctor can salvage you then.} The word 'salvage' did not offer connotations of drone maintenance removing the parasite, but rather break-down for spare parts.

{That is a valid point,} noted Captain. Command and control was being swayed.

Weapons tried to force his hand forward, but was denied. {You will lose, however permanent or temporarily, over a quarter of the weapons hierarchy, including this hierarchy head. If a tactical situation develops, this cube will be hampered, perhaps terminally so.} Logic was not Weapons' strong point. {And what if, in fixing the glitches, this BorgCraft scenario disengages or drops to a less extreme mode before the hold doors are opened? The zombies could escape into the rest of the cube. So what if I break something here? The worse to happen is the hold doors do not open and we are zombified. If I do nothing, or attempt what Delta says, that will be the outcome anyway.}

The fan coughed as its blades began to spin. Then it abruptly quieted as yet another stumbling undead pulled the extension cord out of an unseen outlet. The zombified Borg of the attending pair appeared to give a heaving sigh, then proceeded to shamble away, following the cord back to its origin. The species #7601 zombie continued to wait at the ready, hand next to the fan's 'on' switch.

{Captain....} warned Weapons.

{Delta, back off,} said Captain as command and control came to a decision. {This is a tactical situation, and the weight of engineering hierarchy's concerns have been noted and dismissed.}

Delta was aghast. {Captain!}

{Back off. Comply.}

The pressure stopping Weapon's arm abruptly lessened. Fingers stabbed forward, grasping a handful of wires and tearing them backwards. The data pillar gave a sad-sounding series of beeps, followed by the display screen abruptly darkening.

Nothing.

Weapons tried to pull out another tangle of wires, this time including several circuit boards and some isolinear crystals.

Still nothing.

The fan roared into life. Candles immediately blew out; and spritzed tea flew back into the faces of those who sprayed it.

"Crap," said Weapons outloud as he straightened, peering upwards towards the unseen cargo hold doors.

Delta's presence was a smug and wordless 'I told you so'.

Unholstering his spray bottle, Weapons joined the line of drones for the final show-down. The zombies would pay dearly for these braaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiins.

An echoing *clank* followed by a *klu-cling* boomed from overhead. Simultaneously, a high-pitched whine signifying escaping air turned into a roaring torrent as Bulk Cargo Hold #5's atmosphere started to evacuate. Not only were the cargo bay doors opening, but the forcefield which normally covered the vast opening was nonfunctional. Lightweight material - real, not made of photons and shaped electromagnetic fields - began to swirl in chaotic tumbles. Zombies blinked, eyes reflecting growing confusion.

Weapons activated his magnetic traction. It would be inconvenient to be sucked out into space along with the zombies, even if he could be retrieved later. His nascent smile, little more than the slightest upturn of the corner of his mouth, vanished moments later as mall-'bots, unaffected by the opening of the cargo bay doors and not at all perturbed by incense and tea, emerged from walls.

{6 of 83, did you save any stale bread ammunition?}

*****

The parasite was dying. It did fear the concept of 'death', not as a sentient being might, for the parasite ultimately was reliant upon response to a given stimulus. Only when it was entrenched in a higher-order brain could it take advantage of advanced reasoning, and only then to a limited degree and as it directly related to survival. Abstract concepts like death were unknown, unknowable.

The host body was cooling, dangerously so. The lack of air, light, gravity were unimportant, none of the above impacting the parasite except in how they affected the host. The fact that the host was already dead simplified things, for there were no automatic glandular emissions nor other annoyances to deal with as the body fought a losing battle with life. Heat, however, was a necessity; and in the empty blackness of interstellar space far from any star, a corpse did not retain warmth very well.

The parasite forced its host body into a small ball, the better to retain residual heat. Around it floated other zombies, their respective puppeteers performing the same instinctual actions. There was no move to cooperate, for ultimately it was each parasite for itself. Shortly after ejection to this cold nowhere, the bodies of the locally-acquired hosts had vanished, but all those who had come from the stasis coffins had remained.

Stimulus-response. The stimulus was cold. The response was hibernation. The parasite drew in upon itself, disengaged from the controlling neurons of its host, collected itself into a dense mass. Secretions hardened the developing cyst. Soon little was left for an outside viewer to see except frozen corpses bumping into each other, each with a core of slumbering life deep inside.

The parasite, like all others of its clade, was ultimately a survivor.

*****

Doctor was in Nanite Assembly Room #8, overseeing the de-zombification of drones infected with the parasite. While the exact mechanism behind the possession of the parasite or why nanites continued to ignore it was unclear, what was known was that it could not tolerate tannins. Therefore, vats #3 through #8 had had their normal contents of nutrients and nanites removed, replaced with several varieties of lukewarm or iced tea. The first experimental subjects were nearby, undergoing pre-immersion tea saturation, the liquid injected into veins and forced down gullet. The last was a wee bit messy as patients tended to regurgitate their drinks within several minutes due to rejection by the Borg body, but Doctor was convinced that every little extra bit of tea absorption helped. Complete recovery from the zombie parasite was expected.

At the top of a scaffolding, Assimilation peered into one of the vats. He stuck his arm into the brown liquid, then withdrew it. {This will take forever to clean before nanites can be reintroduced, not to mention the possibility of ring stains. Above all, this color gray is absolutely incompatible with the Plain Gray #4 of the vat interiors,} he commented.

Doctor clicked his teeth together, but otherwise ignored Assimilation.

A ping focused Doctor's attention to the dataspaces. {Doctor.} The originator was Delta.

{There will be no contamination of the regenerative systems,} replied Doctor, immediately reiterating to a key point in a discussion that had occurred more than a couple of times. {These vats have been physically disconnected and there will be no reconnection until you and Assimilation pronounce it squeaky-clean. Myself and members of drone maintenance will be scrubbing everything as sterile as a pack of unopened rockhound scalpels.}

{That is not the purpose of this conversation,} replied Delta. {We have traced the origin of the substance which caused all our subsystem glitches.} A schematic of the cube was proffered, one in which a more-or-less straight line meandered its way between a point within subsection 8 to just below the hull on edge #8. {An incredibly caustic substance was created in Analysis Shop #7; and it finally stopped when it encountered the ceramic-alloy interior sheath of nacelle segment 8b. Does Analysis Shop #7 sound familiar?}

Doctor's forehead wrinkled and his ears were lain against his skull. {That is where Frankie and myself are formulating the elixir of life and goodness that will save the Collective from the quantum virus, thusly allowing us to reintegrate with the happy Whole.}

{What precautions did you take before you started mixing up whatever it is that you mixed up?} Delta was adamant in trying to determine the exact series of events which had almost transformed into a disaster well beyond subsystem glitches and zombies. If the nacelle had breached, the resultant plasma release would have caused a likely terminal set of circumstances for the sub-collective entire.

{Standard procedure. Frankie-hankie used a non-reactive vessel - glass. How was I/we to know it would escape?} said Doctor defensively, plurals spiking his words.

Unfortunately, there was no way Delta could place the blame on Doctor (or his holographic pet EMH) for the problems, no matter how she contorted the problem to look at it from all angles. There had been no intention to cause the havoc which had resulted from what had obviously been an accident. {Well,} concluded Delta belatedly, {don't do it again. Determine a safe way to contain the substance before you try to mix it again. The batch that escaped was beamed out into space once it was found corralled in a bubble within the nacelle sheath.}

{Compliance,} returned Doctor.

The sound of retching and the splash of projectile vomiting brought Doctor's attention back to Nanite Assembly Room #8. He turned his head in time to see one of the experimental patients, face partially covered with a muzzle in order to keep biting to a minimum, fall off a worktable to the floor. It seemed that someone had neglected to strap down the zombie-drone during her move from maintenance bay to vat-dunking preparation. Several attending drone maintenance units, whom had just missed being covered by regurgitated tea, stood around emanating sheepishness.

Doctor rolled his eyes, then started forward to enter the fray and fix what needed to be fixed. "You may be deemed excellent, or at least adequate, maintenance units, but it is obvious all of you are less capable than first year veterinary technicians. This is a job for a professional."

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