The big Paramount dog barks Star Trek. The Decker mutt howls Star Traks. The Meneks lapdog annoyingly yelps BorgSpace while biting ankles.

Silence of the Dogs, Part III

In Part II:

Finally, some action! First there was this part that went, like, *whoosh*! Then came the *bleep!*bleep!*bleep!* bit! And, finally, the part where everything went *whoomph*! What? You want a better description than that? Well, too bad...go back and read Part II if you can't remember on your own what went *whoomph*.

*****

"Come on Lup, tell them what they want," cajoled Ali. She gave her best fake smile of encouragement, but Lup was having nothing of it.

"Why? I have been thinking, that all I have to dos when I not being poked and prodded. In fact...in fact, this is just like the cell, the Black Ops doctorses." A hologram displayed a stylized solar system rendering, complete with Borg cube icon lurking at the edge among tumbling proto-cometary nuclei. Uncertain light glinted over gray scales and shined on eyes.

One of the nearby drones, designated 11 of 203 of some specialization ominously called 'assimilation', began to tap the index finger of its (her?) whole hand against the prosthetic cowling of the opposite limb. Ali recognized the gesture as one of impatience. Assuming she actually survived this experience whole of limb AND mind, she was gathering enough information to fill more than a few reports on this most unusual of sub-collectives.

Ali sucked in a breath, then slowly let it out. "Comply, Lup. You did so for me back in Detention. What did you think your dreams were being used for, anyway? You are more than smart enough to make the deduction."

"SecFeds used my dreams to attack Luplup?" asked Lup in mock horror, body and head raising up as far as possible. The action stretched the twin leashes - now a brown faux-leather instead of their original pink - beyond the extent allowed by the drones holding them. A yank was the result, forcing Lup to her former posture.

"This 'revelation' bothers you? I know you better than that." Lup was, for whatever selfish reason, stalling. This session was a repeat of previous sessions, the vyst perversely testing the limit of her boundaries, trying to expand them if possible, while dolloping out required information one painful word at a time. This was why these insane Borg required a handler.

After the first frustrating session following the Flame Nebula episode, Captain had bluntly told Ali that data was needed concerning where Luplup was located, and Lup could provide that data. However, the sub-collective had nurtured the suspicion that if only the vyst had been acquired, Lup would have been more than willing to withstand any goads to the point of death, refusing to (civilly) talk to Borg inquisitors. The first hours following the kidnapping had confirmed that hypothesis, as well as the need for Ali. How, exactly, the sub-collective had learned of Lup's ability and Ali's handler status, beyond vague rumor.news.net postings, was never revealed. Ali had the suspicion that one or more assimilations may have been involved.

And now Ali was in the unenviable position of standing between an increasingly impatient Borg sub-collective and contrariness incarnate in the form of an octopoid reptilian. She was unsure the cost of failure, but assumed it would be greater than a bad job evaluation followed by reassignment to the rubber room ward.

Lup's response to Ali's question was a gape-jawed laughing bark. "I should bes nexusQueen of Luplup, but I am not and never wills be. I am nexusQueen of /I/, a single body, a single small self. I care nothing about Luplup. Ifs I cannot be a true Queen, neither should my parent Self. I hates Luplup."

"Then tell the Borg what they want, Lup. If you cooperate, then Luplup will die."

"These Bad-Mans cannot kills Luplup. They will just die in the process, and I will die too." Lup snorted. "However, maybe they can hurts Luplup before we all terminate. Remove the leash." The last sentence was directed at 11 of 203, muzzle pointed at the drone as one unbound hands-minor reached up to touch the collar. "If yous wants any directions, yous will comply."

The drone's eyes narrowed, finger tapping abruptly halted. Throughout the room, all eight Borg present had paused in a moment of unnatural stillness, heads tilted in posture of collective communion. Finally the two weapons drones holding the leashes reached forward to unclip them from the collar.

"No funny stuff," warned 11 of 203.

Lup crouched down, tail waving back and forth, eyes focused on the assimilation drone as if she were to pounce. This was new, Lup successfully pushing her boundary to include off-leash time. Ali premised the sub-collective to be sufficiently desperate to allow what previously had been bluntly denied each time it was asked. Six drones lifted their arms to aim at the vyst in unmistakable threat.

The tense moment suddenly passed as Lup raised herself to a more normal standing position, voder and throat emitting noises of vyst laughter. "Silly, silly Borgs. You think I /stupid/ enough to attack yous? Or Ali? I bes turned into crispy bits and then, worst of all, Luplup survive while I be dead." A disdainful snort sounded as Lup stepped towards the hologram. One hand raised, pointing to a planet icon. "Hot. Many of Luplup be here. I think...I think this I once be there, too." The hand then moved to the trailing Trojan point of a gas giant. "Very hot. Not so many Luplup here, but is active nexusQueen, is /Luplup/ herSelf." Several other points throughout the system were indicated next, most accompanied with the words "Cool", indicating presence of Luplup Selves, but not great concentration.

It was this game of "Hot and Cold" which had found the system Luplup inhabited in the first place; and now it was being used to create the framework upon which the sub-collective would plan their attack. Or, at least, that was the plan as Ali had intuited, sub-collective representatives like Captain not exactly forthcoming when it came to keeping their human tool informed.

"This session is done," said 11 of 203 as the hologram abruptly ceased to exist.

This part of the routine was well known. Ali turned to head to the exit before she could be 'encouraged': she recognized her assigned escort as prone to use more force than was strictly necessary if she was even slightly hesitant to comply with demands. Behind came the expected profanity as leashes were reattached.

"I think they really /are/ going to try attacking Luplup," said Ali. The human lay on her cot, staring at the ceiling, arms crossed behind her head. Such had become the routine following a Lup session, Ali spending up to half an hour ordering her mind in the best way possible to a single being, then speaking her conclusions aloud. "We seem to be at the system were Luplup hides. Lup pointed out two places - a planet and some asteroids with a symbol in the middle - where she says Luplup Selves are located. The Borg wanted the information so bad they actually let Lup off her leash. Not long, mind you, and the drone next to me kept whispering 'Make my day...come on, make my day', but she was unsecured."

Liaison abruptly came to a decision. Several potential plans had been hovering in the back of his mind, but now a preset stimulus point was tripped, prompting action. He stepped from the alcove. On the cot, Ali blinked and sat up, transient alarm swiftly replaced with a neutral expression. The human was becoming very good at controlling her face. However, unlike some individuals in a similar situation, it was obvious she would never complacently let down her guard, could not forget her dangerous position, from the Borg, from Liaison himself.

In the small corner of his mind where Liaison was allowed to nurture a kernel of himself apart (but never separate!) from Peach, he found Ali's situation amusing.

"Did the sub-collective say which of the targets they were to attack, or when?" demanded Liaison as he purposefully took another step, then a third, away from his alcove to loom over the cot.

"You know they won't tell me anything like that." Ali attempted to edge away to a more comfortable distance, not that there was much room, her back already against a wall.

Liaison turned his head to regard the ever-present interior guard. This one's jaw was moving not-so-subtly as it chewed something. Chewing motion stopped as Liaison approached. "This drone offers two pieces of data to you: a planet-buster and a virus. Plans for both are kept in on-board storage." Any pretense of the pseudo-politeness used during discourse with the non-assimilated was abandoned, substituted for a brusque manner typical of Borg-to-Borg communication.

Chewing resumed. A small bubble was blown, popped. "If a planet-buster is required, we have schematics detailing fifty-five different types. And we do not want any virus. Return to your alcove."

"I would provide you with the fifty-sixth," persisted Liaison. He ignored the guard's disruptor arm as it was lifted in nonverbal warning. "And I know you've been playing a game of 'Hot-Cold' with Ali and the vyst. Novel, but to continue to do so to find /every/ enclave of the abomination is inefficient; and if Lup lies at all, or is simply imperfect in her detection, you could miss one or more nests. However, Luplup has an Achilles heel. Even if you fail in your task to destroy all of Luplup, the virus I hold will ensure she eventually follows you to death, ridding the universe of her taint."

The guard blinked, not at the melodramatic ending Liaison had tacked to his plea - a personal foible, one which was normally controlled by his Greater Consciousness when he was linked to his Color - but rather because a bubble malfunction had plastered gum all over his face. The Borg outside the supply closet quickly passed through the forcefield ward, pushing her half-blind compatriot outside and taking his place.

"Well?" asked Liaison of the new guard. He spoke not to the individual, but the sub-collective. "I will only provide the data to your consensus monitor and facilitator."

"This unit is /not/ at the beck and call of you or any not of ourself," stated Captain as he stepped through the forcefield and into the room. There was an indefinable 'rumpleness' to him, as if he had been awoken from regeneration by the Whole and immediately sent to the makeshift brig. Considering the speed of the response, such was probably the case. "This had better be good, else you /will/ be rendered down for parts."

Liaison held a neutral expression and posture, recognizing that the threat was not a bluff. He backed up, allowing the consensus monitor more room.

After slowly panning the room, eyes were returned to Liaison. "Explain," said Captain sharply. "Why would we /want/ to receive a virus from /Peach/ of all Colors?"

Carefully ordering the explanation in his mind, embellishing certain truths while downplaying others, Liaison began to speak. Success or failure, his very survival, would be determined in the next few minutes. "Within on-board meme crystals, I hold a virus suitable for modification to use against Luplup. It is designed to infect vinculum code, causing fatal malfunction of the subspace booster. As that is the fundamental function of Luplup's integrator, type I, Selves, minor adaptation should allow it to serve a similar purpose. The eradication of that particular subset of the integrator clade will sunder Luplup, isolating the nexusQueen from colonies or Selves not within solar system transceiver distance. At this point, Luplup is so self-specialized that disconnected subunits will either stop working, or continue their last assigned task until individuals drop from fatigue. Peach has yet to find nexusQueen nodes, active or in stasis, outside this system, so sundering of the Whole, followed by eradication of the pestilence at its source, will kill Luplup."

Captain's head tilted slightly, his single eye glazing. Liaison waited patiently for the sub-collective to complete its consensus cascade. Finally Captain blinked, an outward indication of his mental return to the here-and-now. "What is to stop assimilation hierarchy from manually extracting the data?" From the mild tone, it was obvious Captain - the sub-collective - did not believe such would work, but required confirmation.

Liaison minutely shook his head, a gesture adopted from the human SecFeders he was so often tasked by his Greater Consciousness to work with. "A worm program. If I am terminated, my skull cracked to physically retrieve the meme crystal, or a whole host of other methods attempted without my permission, a worm will activate and erase all critical data. The virus and the planet-buster are among the worm's targets.

"And," Liaison held up a hand, index finger raised, "to make it more interesting, from both my and your perspectives, I asked for you in particular because the data package is too large, too complex to transfer via PADD or other medium. It will mandate a drone-to-drone link; and I highly doubt your sub-collective will allow such a dangerous prospect to occur through any unit /but/ its consensus monitor. Suitably firewalled, of course. If anything, the danger is much greater for me than you."

"Yah, right," muttered Captain under his breath before body locked again in sub-collective contemplation.

With the pause in the conversation, Ali approached. "You had a weapon against Luplup, and you did not tell Ops?" she accused Liaison. "I and others had to spend /days/ sifting through Lup's dreams to find even /one/ nugget of truth, much less string together enough to allow for actual operations against her and the Taurini mob."

Liaison, keeping his eyes on the now blindly staring Captain, answered, "It is not a Luplup-specific virus, but as you alluded earlier, these are desperate times."

"What is it for then? It sounds like a Color versus Color weapon, or Color versus Borg."

"Exactly. And by giving it up, there is a very high probability that the Borg Collective will eventually learn of it, no matter the current rogue status of this sub-collective. Not only will the virus then be useless against the Borg Collective, but there is the very real chance that it will be altered as a payload to deploy against Peach and other Colors. As I said, desperate times. I may be alone, but I know my Greater Consciousness will agree."

"We accept," said Captain, not so much interrupting the conversation, but rather continuing the one between sub-collective and Liaison. "We will take the virus and the planet-buster schematics. And this drone will function as the transfer node."

Liaison pivoted on heel to head for the alcove. Although the transfer was necessary, it was also risky. It would not do to lose his balance in front of the human.

Captain waited as the Peach drone secured himself in his alcove, clamps audibly engaging. Several additional units of the weapons hierarchy had entered Supply Closet #35, putting Ali under close guard in case the human tried something stupidly rash. Captain personally thought the xenopsychologist much smarter than that, but there was no harm in the extra guards, assuming Ali did not breath too vigorously, and it gave Weapons something to do. The latter was especially important at the moment, the head of the weapons hierarchy denied from rushing recklessly into the system to attack anything which moved or looked vaguely vyst-shaped.

{I do not wish to do this,} protested Captain, a lone voice against the already concluded consensus. {At least allow me time to complete regeneration.}

{The majority have spoken, boyo,} answered Second. {Just do not get yourself infected with any Peach virus because that means you would have to be terminated. And /that/ means this temporary transfer of command would become permanent.}

The purpose of the weapons drones was not just to guard Ali. If the Peach drone successfully uploaded something nasty, the last thing Captain was likely to see would be a bright flash of green-tinged light...assuming dataspace hunter-seekers did not rip his mind apart first.

{Ta-ta,} said Second, accompanying the words with the visual of himself waving.

The sub-collective link abruptly shrank to little more than a carrier wave as Captain was walled from the Whole as a protective precaution. Captain closed his eyes as he felt the mental claustrophobia of being small, of being near-one, close in. Well, the faster he completed the task.... Eyes were reopened. "Ready," he stated.

Liaison's own response was to tilt his head back, baring his neck. His eyes were closed.

Captain reached forward, laying the fist of his whole hand against the other drone's collarbone. Assimilation tubules triggered and immediately burrowed into exposed flesh. Neural fibers and spinal implants encountered, Captain dove into the Peach drone's personal dataspace.

The data was obvious, packets pushed to the metaphorical foreground so as to preclude the need to rummage for the information. The download began, first of the planet-buster, then the much more dangerous virus in a state of quiescent stasis. As data queued into Captain's mind, several programs examined each bit and byte, searching for hidden dangers. While some of the programs were common to all drones, part of the standard electronic immune system, others had been grafted to Captain from assimilation hierarchy for this specific purpose. Much more ominous, a pair of hunter-seekers, normally denizens of the dataspace wilds, not the drone mind, observed...just in case.

Nothing. All reports from the immune programs pronounced the Peach files as clean. The hunter-seekers remained dormant.

Perhaps it was eroded censure filters, perhaps it was a quirk of personality normally subsumed by the Whole, regardless of reason, Captain did not immediately pull back to himself once the required data was obtained. Instead he reached out, cast a mental net towards the kernel of self which was Liaison. While the Peach drone had erected personal defenses against attack, it was obvious he had not expected a lunge in that particular direction. Firewalls were swiftly raised, data locked away, but not before Captain had acquired a prize.

This Liaison - 8 of 12 - was definitively related to the Peach unit Captain recalled as being present the last time Luplup and Black Ops had been encountered in the same place. And it was not coincidence.

Captain allowed himself to be ejected from Liaison's mental space. The drone, while of strong fortitude, necessary to adequately function when severed from the Whole, was not consensus monitor material. Captain could have remained, likely even broke the drone given time, although to do so would surely lose any additional data stored within the other's brainware.

A step was taken away from the alcove, assimilation tubules withdrawn.

Liaison rolled his head forward and glared at Captain. "That was utterly unnecessary."

Captain offered no apology. A series of coded challenge-and-responses, of immune system programs broadcasting the lack of hidden intruders or nasty software bugs, prompted the sub-collective link to tentatively enlarge to something wider than carrier wave. It would be several more minutes before complete trust would be gained, for consensus monitor to be fully reintegrated into the Whole and normal duties resumed, but already the uncomfortable feeling of individuality was fading.

"I have the data. This sub-collective will examine it carefully, determine if it is of use against Luplup, as well as dissect it for any undesirable side-effects," informed Captain.

Said Liaison, "It is clean. I only wish to be of help, maybe even survive this ordeal. Trust me."

"The data may be clean," replied Captain as he turned away and began to trek towards the forcefield to leave Supply Closet #35, "but we - every single one of us, and such consensus is rare in /this/ sub-collective - trust you about as much as one can trust a Q to not use its powers for the purpose of meddling."

Liaison mentally reeled as Captain withdrew. It had not been a mental rape, not quite, the other drone mostly satisfied to take proffered data without searching for more, but it could have turned that way. Liaison was now unsure if he /could/ have triggered the worm fast enough to prevent data from being stolen, for even without the backup provided by his sub-collective it was obvious 4 of 8 was an excellent consensus monitor and facilitator. With this first-hand experience, Liaison could see why this particular Borg drone had been selected as a vector for one of Peach's long-range plots.

Hopefully that scheme could be salvaged. As things stood right now, even a lone point of view could see that certain plans were circling the cosmic crapper.

The data transfer had not been one-way. A worm inserted during Captain's encounter with 1 of 12 had possessed a largely passive payload. A variation upon a common snippet of code Peach had widely distributed throughout the computer networks of the Second Federation and other starfaring civilizations, the worm collected information based upon certain key words or phrases. More than anything, it was a primary element upon which the Color's specialty of espionage and blackmail was built. Unlike the code which hid within the GalacWeb, Peach could not query the worm hidden within Captain (and other closed networks) to send home data packets; and it was concentration upon receiving the accumulated store of information while simultaneously hiding the transmission which had led Liaison to be overly lax in his personal defenses, presenting Captain with an opportunity for his half-hearted mental swipe. Liaison would have to inventory compromised files to determine what, exactly, Captain had acquired, but initial estimates suggested nothing vital had been taken.

While most of the data accumulated from the worm was mundane and of no real value, it was a relatively recent revelation which had the most wide-spanning consequences. In fact, if the information was accurate, if the sub-collective had drawn the appropriate conclusions - no reason to doubt existed, for while Cube #347 represented imperfection, they were not stupid and /were/ Borg - then all Colored versions of Perfection were soon to become academic. Peach included.

A quantum parasite was the root of Second Federation troubles, spawning paranoia and insensible fixations. Other civilizations had been similarly tainted; and, so it seemed, had the Borg Collective. Even where only a few individuals had been infected by the quantum parasite, if those individuals were among those in charge, then the whole was affected, spreading ripples well beyond the central point. That was the catch: even if Peach remained free of the parasite, the impact would eventually affect the Color, dragging it and the rest of the galaxy into collapse.

More so than ever, Liaison had to link with his Greater Consciousness. He was certain the Whole would come to the same conclusion as had he, but as a lone quasi-individual, confirmation was always nice; and if he /couldn't/ connect to his Collective, then Peach would never be warned, would never have the chance to alter plans and salvage long-term assets.

Check of chronometer. Twenty minutes had passed since Captain's departure. Eyes were finally allowed to blink, alleviating a serious case of dry-eyeball. Liaison stepped from the alcove, panning the supply closet as he did so, noting both the bored non-expression of the single tactical drone near the door and the open question painted upon Ali's face. The latter was near the food replicator, holding a bowl of highly nutritional food supplement she had more than once declared to be bland and utterly tasteless.

Liaison smiled. Ali took a step backward in alarm, eyes wide. Mouth was returned to normal neutrality: it would not be to scare the human, not yet, anyway. After all, her cooperation would be necessary if Liaison was to regain communication with his Collective.

"We will be attacking the planet," informed Captain to Liaison. He had returned to Supply Closet #35 to meet face-to-face with the other drone. Such was not strictly necessary, options available ranging from a drone proxy mouthpiece to hologram, but what was to be discussed was greater than delivery of a simple message; and, once again, Captain had lost the consensus cascade with his own sub-collective.

"Did you like my gifts?" Liaison stood calmly outside the alcove, where he had been talking with Ali prior to Captain's arrival. The conversation, as overheard by room sensors, had been typical, the Peach drone attempting to convince the human the benefits of assimilation. Ali, as always, had declined.

"Even as we speak, weapons hierarchy is arguing with engineering as to whom should be building the new planet-buster. I believe engineering will win, if only because Delta will have no desire to 'pre-test' the weapon. That, however, is a minor issue. It is the virus which is of greater importance."

"A beautiful beast, is it not?"

Captain narrowed his eyes at the vocal tone. "Beauty is irrelevant. Its /danger/ is not." He paused. "It is a very close cousin to a certain virus we encountered several years ago."

"Ah, an early version Eradicator, a copy of which was distributed at the Color Convention of 2919." The Peach drone did not bother to feign ignorance. He also did offer enlightenment as to why a single drone would have memory resources dedicated to knowing of Cube #347's participation. "Eradicator v5.4 is superficially similar, but certain instabilities have long since been eliminated. Is it suitable for modification against Luplup?"

"Our assimilation hierarchy head believes it will be possible. However," Captain sighed internally, "assistance will be required to do so in a timely manner, preferably from a source familiar with the code."

Liaison outright grinned. The expression looked much more practiced on his face, more natural, than it did on most Borg. "It could be that this drone, when duties as a liaison are unnecessary, has been a processing node among those partitions which have modified the Eradicator code and simulated target responses to its release."

"There is also knowledge needed as to how to distribute the virus. While you have provided the primary code, there are 'hooks' for add-on modules associated with delivery methods," dully said Captain. He dreaded what was to come next.

"I /just/ happen to have on-board several of the modules you are referring to, as well as seed scenarios from which to devise a decision tree for deployment based on a wide range of what-ifs."

{Cocky,} muttered Second in the dataspace background, {especially for a unit who is alone. I must study this fellow closer...he is inspirational.}

Automatically responded Captain, {Oh, shut up. Next time /you/ can have the joy of liaising.}

{I'd rather stick my mostly whole arm into an active plasma conduit,} cheerfully replied Second. {I even prefer Captainly duties to what you have coming, and that is saying a lot. I'm just a poor backup consensus monitor, after all, and this is a job for the primary.}

Captain stared at Liaison. From the weapons drone point-of-view at the doorway, he could see Ali was wanting to interrupt with some irrelevant question or comment, but hesitant to do so. Captain wished she would, if only to provide an excuse to postpone the inevitable. "Then you will assist us. /Very/ limited dataspace access will be granted with me acting as your physical input node. I will have hunter-seekers loaded; and Weapons has altered their base programming to be more sensitive than normal."

Whatever internal deliberation Ali was undergoing came to a conclusion. Visibly steeling herself, she finally raised her voice in a question. "What is going on?"

Liaison swiveled his head slightly, just enough to bring the human into peripheral vision. "My services are required to adapt the virus to be used to attack Luplup. Therefore, Captain will be my chaperone to ensure that I keep to my best behavior in the poor excuse of computer access I will be granted. If I am naughty, or if such is perceived, some very nasty programs that serve the same role as our drone guard over there will tear my mind apart...likely after doing similar to Captain so as to limit contagion. Termination by hunter-seeker is not a pleasant death."

Liaison's answer was extremely simplistic, pruning complexities to the bare minimum necessary for the non-assimilated to maybe understand. Personal aversion to termination was greater than a selfish, individual desire to avoid pain. While that facet was present, much more important was Captain's death - by hunter-seeker or other means - would do little to further the overall plan of destroying Luplup (and, ultimately, curing the Borg Collective). A further layer of complication revolved around the inability to save a kernel of self as an echo within the Whole, a fundamental right of all Borg, imperfect or not. Mere words were insufficient for Liaison to explain even a fraction of the difficulties currently confronting Captain; and only assimilation would lift the shroud of small being ignorance.

"Oh," answered Ali in confusion, clearing realizing that there was much Liaison was leaving unsaid. "I'll, um...er...."

"It is highly likely you will be required within the next twenty-six hours," informed Captain to the Black Ops operative. Command and control had just received an engineering update.

"So, is that when the planet attack will be happening?" asked Ali.

"That is the estimation for when the planet-buster will be completed." Engineering had triumphed in the decision to build the device. "After that point, it will become increasingly difficult to keep Weapons from deploying it, if only to see how it compares to the other known variations. Once we leave our current secluded location and begin the vector for an in-system attack, Luplup will see us: we will be committed, ready or not. I would prefer the planet-buster to be tested on the target, not a random comet nuclei."

"Oh," repeated Ali in the face of an explanation she obviously did not fully understand. "Er, I'll go stand over here, then, like a good little tool." There was a pause. "Look, could I at /least/ have some sort of reading material? I'll even take a trashy romance novel printed on actual paper, if you are so worried about Liaison acquiring a PADD with electronics. It is /boring/ in here."

"Twenty-six hours...that is not much," commented Liaison. He glanced over at the human, then returned his gaze to Captain. "Not much time at all. Your choices are becoming increasingly limited."

Captain was sure there was clandestine meaning to the redirection of attention, but did not care to waste the mental resources on decrypting it. "Yes. Are you ready?"

Liaison shrugged. "No need for the alcove this time, I think. However, if we link right here, the human will have to walk on her cot to move around us."

"The human is irrelevant."

"As you say. I am ready. Will you provide Ali entertainment material? She is prone to the small being propensity of boredom. If she is not kept mentally stimulated, she may not function at her best when you require. Besides, she /is/ starting to bother me a bit, with her need for small talk."

Captain stared at the Peach drone, trying to determine if there was an alternate motive to the request. Probably. The clock was ticking backwards and he, the sub-collective, did not have time for subtle double-meanings. {94 of 480, you maintain the largest literary collection.} It was of obscure technical manuals, but that was irrelevant. {Report to Supply Closet #35 and see what the human wants. An electronic version on a stripped down PADD will be a suitable medium.} As the confirmation was received, Captain verbally replied, "It is done."

"Goody."

Right hand was reached forward for Liaison's neck. In his mind, Captain felt the sub-collective's firewalls raise, not as high nor as solid as the previous linkage with the Peach drone, but still sufficient to make him feel more of a singleton than was comfortable. Meanwhile, Second assumed the bulk of the primary consensus monitor duties, just in case.

Captain really hoped that Weapons hadn't programmed the hunter-seekers to be too sensitive.

The planet was habitable. Barely. While surface temperature and atmospheric pressure were suitable for the majority of M-planet evolved species to walk unprotected, the elevated level of airborne sulphuric compounds suggested a highly developed sense of smell to be a liability. In addition to a pervasive rotten egg odor, acid precipitation in the form of rain, snow, and fog was also widespread, requiring a skin suitably resistant to the corrosive effects. Tolerance to earthquakes was a plus.

Luplup's chosen den-planet was highly volcanic, tidal stress of three large moons slowly tearing their primary apart. The faint equatorial ring hinted at either the once-upon-a-time presence of a fourth satellite, else a captured asteroid which had met a terminal end, creating yet another hazard in the form of frequent meteorites. A string of craters about the equator highlighted this danger. Continual crust turn-over from volcanoes, earthquakes, and meteor strike had liberated vast quantities of radionucleotides to the surface, so in addition to the prior requisites for any prospective colonist, radioactivity resistance was also a must.

Assuming the planet was within the stellar catalogues of races looking for colonization opportunities, it was unsurprising it had been dismissed. Most space-faring peoples came to the conclusion early in their forays away from the homeworld that terraforming was a difficult and expensive process. Atmospheric modification is only the start point, a stable biosphere eventually requiring soil amendments, chemical alteration of any oceans, even genetic recoding of organisms. To make matters worse, native flora and fauna fight the process every step; and some, the local equivalent of cockroaches or rats, inevitably adapt to the changes, becoming pests. And if there were any undetected, stone-age sentients present, well, low-tech clubs tend to be very effective deterrents when applied to high-tech equipment, not to mention heads. All things being equal, terraforming a less-than-suitable planet was undesirable when asteroids could be hollowed out and sealed to hold atmosphere at a fraction the cost.

The exact location of Luplup on the planet was unclear. Native life /was/ present, hardy species evolved for the harsh environment, plant and animal analogues filling all available niches. The density of lifesigns made it impossible to filter out the vyst; and the fact that Luplup had built her den(s) underground doubly impeded efforts to find her. To top it off, something in the noxious chemical composition of crust and atmosphere was hindering scanning attempts; and Sensors' insistence of progressively more eccentric protocols was increasing incidents of cerebral meltdown to drone maintenance.

{Enough!} declared Captain. {Sensors, at this rate we will lose a third of your hierarchy within the hour. Unacceptable. And grid spillover is starting to impact non-sensory resources.} Like Captain himself. He blinked as the little blobs of color which had been floating around in his field of view cleared. {Keep to standard protocols.}

{But Sensors is sure that another ten [strawberries] of seismic mapping using [cobalt] radionucleotides will...}

{No. Use standard protocols. Comply.}

{Sensors complies.}

Captain blinked one final time to confirm his personal visual hallucinations had vanished.

"Is everything okay?" tentatively asked Ali. "There was, well, it looked like /smoke/ coming out of that drone's ear over there; and you were blinking as if something was caught in your eye."

Captain squinted as he looked in Ali's direction. Yes, there was only a single human now, and one Lup. Internal diagnostics gave the final all-clear. "We are functional." The human's expression prompted Captain to switch to the singular pronoun. "I am functional."

The three cycles since arriving at Luplup's den system had been busy. First had been appraisal of Luplup's resources, an abbreviated process unlike the normal thorough procedure outlined by Borg protocols. The subsequent sessions with Lup and Ali, followed by acquisition of data (and new options) from Liaison, weighted the eventual decision to attack the planet. The fact that another Battle-class cube was lurking near the dry-dock target, and the lack of a convenient Flame Nebula, had also tipped the final consensus towards the more cautious approach. Virus modification to a form simulated to be suitable for deployment against Luplup had required only twenty-two hours, raising suspicions within the sub-collective that the Peach drone, or at least Peach, had pre-adapted the code to this very purpose. Liaison had deflected queries, noting that his Greater Consciousness had, of course, considered the Luplup to be a potential future target, but the Color did not have #66CC33-esque omniscience, so any coincidences were just that - coincidences. Finally the planet-buster had been declared complete; and Cube #347 had plunged in-system towards the goal.

"Functional," repeated Captain. He pointedly focused upon the holographic representation of system resources. After a few beats whereupon the xenopsychologist was probably mentally psychoanalyzing Captain, Ali followed suit.

The icon symbolizing Cube #347 was in geosynchronous orbit about the den-planet. A picture-in-picture at the corner of the display showed a real-time feed of the hellish world itself, lava rivers on the night side giving the impression of impending crust collapse. A second icon, a spiked ball of beige-pink, was halfway between the trailing Trojan point where nexusQueen Luplup resided upon her dry-dock and where Cube #347's current position.

{Update,} requested Captain to Sensors as he mentally highlighted the incoming Battle-class cube. {Make the answer understandable, Sensors. Now is not the time to have the universal translator algorithms implode, considering all our other problems.}

Upon the display Borg alphanumerics began to scroll, a visual mirror of the dataspace answer. Said Sensors, {Sensors is always [triumphant]!} Pause. {Thirty minutes, unless supralight engines used. Then Sensors say five to ten minutes, depending upon [flavor]. [Submarine] continues to radiate Gray transponder signal.}

An intercept time of five to thirty minutes was too wide a window. The uncertainty lay in the unknown, if Luplup would risk her cube by using FTL. Gravity wells and light speed drives did not always play well with each other. One could exit or enter a system using any of the variations upon faster-than-light, as had Cube #347 on its approach to the den-planet, but once within a certain gravitational gradient, using impulse was safer if the goal was simply to go from Point A to Point B. Luplup's operations were well within that magic gravitational topography line. It was possible to make supralight hops, just not advisable if a whole ship was the desired endpoint. Still, it was highly likely Cube #347 was to shortly goad Luplup to risk her Battle-class.

On top of the intercept ambiguity, weapons hierarchy, and thus the sub-collective, was unsure the exact number of Luplup's mobile resources. Somehow she had impressed a Color to herSelf. Gray was not a large Color, but for all practical purposes it was now extinct and certainly not driving the incoming cube despite transponder evidence. Without a Collective link, Cube #347 did not know the most recent estimate of Gray size; and, therefore, did not know if that single Battle-class represented all, or a fraction thereof, the subsumed navy. Five to thirty minutes was more than sufficient time for a very large fleet to arrive from outsystem via hypertranswarp. Cube #347 would be hard-pressed to deal with a single Battle-class, assuming such was even possible, much less more than one attacker.

"Too many unknowns," muttered Captain, unconsciously acting as a mouthpiece for the Whole.

"What?" said Ali in alarm.

Captain blinked, reassigning a sufficient amount of his multitasking to his body for conversation. He shifted his attention to Ali, noting Lup's pose of alertness in the background. "Irrelevant."

"Not from my point of view. I thrive on irrelevancies."

"I does too," inserted Lup. The vyst hissed as her double leash was yanked.

"And we do not," asserted Captain. "Initiate plan 4c." As a tactical escort prodded Ali into position, Captain glared at Lup. "This is the one where you do not attempt to disembowel me."

Lup disdainfully returned the gaze. She stood perfectly still as one of her two leashes was removed, the end of the second passed to Captain's waiting hand. "I wish to survive. I wish Luplup to be terminated. I am not Luplup...I do not likes you, I do nots like leash and prodding and cage, but I do not needs you dead. Borg are like..." a hands-minor waved "...like earthquake. Borgs are a natural force. How does one fight and kill a natural force? I cannot nots. Therefore, you can trust me." The final sentence was said with more than a hint of whine.

Captain did not trust Lup, no matter this vyst spoke much more prettily, much more logically, much more pragmatically than the previous iterations he had encountered. He did not respond to Lup's plea, instead studying the camera view of the hail-to-come. "Ali, closer to me. Unlike Lup, I do not bite." Ali blinked at the poor excuse for a joke, but sidled closer. Not that she had any choice, her invisible leash as real as Lup's faux-leather one. "Smile."

Ali glanced once at Captain, then down at Lup, and finally back to Captain. "No."

The minor act of noncompliance was tolerated. "Fine." In the background, hobbyist photographer 47 of 422 gave her grudging acceptance of the 'family portrait', still desiring the human to smile. {Omnidirectional hail.}

"Bad-Manssssssss," hissed Luplup as her nexusQueen appeared in a newly opened holographic window. "Leave, and I will kill yous all quickly. Don't leave, and I wills crack all your bones for the marrow. Then I wills eat the marrow and throw up the marrow and stomp on the marrow and throw the marrow outs an airlock and blow up the marrow with torpedoes. And I wills keep you alive the entire time." The final 'you' was not plural, but rather directed at Captain himself.

"We will not comply," replied Captain. "This sub-collective is not here alone. To my left is commander Ali Trumenson, Second Federation Black Ops. On my right is a Self formerly of you, one self-designated Lup." He held up his whole hand, emphasizing the vyst's leash. The suggestion was that Cube #347 was not working alone, but had allies; and if the sub-collective trusted the Peach drone, Liaison would have been in the picture as well. It wasn't precisely lying, but neither was the exact truth being trumpeted.

Luplup was not biting. She carefully avoided looking directly at her rogue Self. "Yous be alone. Holograms do not count."

Captain heaved a theatrical sigh. "These two individuals are not holograms." A tactical drone entered the camera field of view, accepting the vyst's leash. "For instance, would I do this to a hologram; and would a hologram react thusly?" Before Ali could register the oblique threat, Captain had turned and grabbed the human, pinning her against his chest armor and forcing her head sideways in the classic Humanoid Assimilation Technique #1 pose. Fist hovered above a vulnerable neck as Ali automatically struggled, creative oaths peppering the air. Captain was forced to raise his voice. "We would prefer not to take this particular demonstration to its conclusion, but we will, if necessary."

"Not a hologram," conceded Luplup, her jaw snapping shut.

Ali was released. "What the hell was that?" she demanded as she backed away. She made as if to leave, but was pushed back into the picture by her weapons drone escort.

The hail was a distraction, the purpose to keep Luplup engaged as long as possible. Embedded in the signal were tertiary fractal subharmonics, modulations to the datastream which carried the primary audio-visual feeds. Upon the modified frequency rode disassembled copies of the adapted Eradicator virus, arriving within Luplup's dataspace and self-assembling as each packet was received. It was a devious delivery method, one designed to infiltrate another Color, even the Borg Collective itself. Individual components were benign, seen by most electronic immune systems as random datastream fluctuations, harmless. Luplup, not subject to the assaults that the Borg or any Colored Collective underwent on a daily basis, from actual attacks to aggressive telemarketers to prankster coderunners, maintained suboptimal malware filters.

"T-minus thirty-one hours," spoke the synthetic voice of the computer over local speakers.

"Dang," said Captain stiffly, ignoring the confused look from Ali. Acting was not his strong suit, to put it mildly; and neither was the coaching he was receiving in the intranet background helping. "Who left the countdown timer on audio?" A surreptitious tug on Lup's leash reminder her to play her part.

Replied Lup, "Stupid Borgs, go too early. I tell yous that Luplup still be too strong if you not waits." It was perhaps unsurprising that Lup's performance was better than Captain's.

"What is going on here?" asked Ali again, vocal tone rising both in volume and frequency. She had not been briefed on her part in the show, her reactions necessary to be real. "Too early?"

{Readiness signal received. Virus payload reconstructed,} informed Assimilation.

{End this farce. Weapons, initiate planetary bombardment...and then you /will/ retreat.} Captain severed the communication. An Extreme Close-Up of a vyst attacking a camera (and camera-holder) vanished.

A new tactical holodisplay opened, this one solely focused on the den-planet. Forty small spears emerged from the Cube #347 icon, all colored red except for a trio glowing fluorescent orange. The conventional payload of torpedoes directed against the surface was a larger than necessary, from the point of view any not Weapons or his hierarchy. However, as their primary purpose was to act as camouflage for the real threat - three planet-busters built to the specifications provided by Liaison - an extra dozen or two torpedoes was of small consequence.

"For the last time, what is going on?!" demanded Ali.

{Sensors sees Battle-class cube [jump]. Estimated time of [goldfish] is five minutes.}

"We are now retreating very fast," said Captain as engines engaged. "As the Terran phrase goes, we have grabbed the tiger by the tail. Now we are hoping that we do not become mauled."

Lup flexed her foot talons against the deck in emphasis.

*****

Luplup reached for her den-planet, slashed out with her Battle-class talon. One part of her, the analytical part consisting of her dataQueens, knew the effort was futile: the ship of Captain was retreating and the surface bombardment was unaimed, would not impact within five hundred kilometers of any active den. However, her nexusQueen, the center of soul and ego and id and drive about which the rest of herSelf orbited, overrode cold logic, needed to swat even if all she caught was air.

A bucket of ice-cold water literally washed over Luplup's nexusQueen, breaking her obsession. As the Self blinked water out of her eyes and a tactical Self, still holding the pail, backed away, the larger Whole felt a fleeting satisfaction that the new subroutine appeared to be successful. There was a time for both unthinking reaction and for systematic dissection of a problem; and with the enemy cube fleeing faster than Luplup could pursue, the latter had to triumph. To further calm the nexusQueen, the stuffed cat was retrieved from its place of honor atop the toybox and presented to the Self.

As her in-system Battle-class began to survey the damage to her den-planet from orbit, Luplup considered her options. The inescapable conclusion was that Captain and his pack were working with SecFed and - surprise! - a rogue self. Luplup recognized the rogue, a failed nexusQueen geneline she had thought destroyed. The self was alien, a not-self. How that not-self self factored into the larger alliance of packs, Luplup was unsure, but she felt irrationally threatened by that pitiful singleton much more than Captain or SecFed or any number of bombs against her den-planet.

Luplup did not comprehend the significance of culture and acting. When the concepts were encountered while sorting newly acquired data, they were shuffled into inactive archives, if not simply erased. Consequently, the relevance of the horribly stiff performances and stilted recitations which would have turned a kindergarten-age child into suspicious critic was missed.

DataQueens sifted data, built what-if decision trees and pruned unnecessary branches. Damp hide dried. Soft fur was stroked. A batch of three dozen tacticals, type II, from geneline 88a hatched and were immediately taken to surgery for initial processing. A minor support spar for the new Battle-class cube was welded into place. A pair of decrepit workers were euthanized, their bodies subsequently dissected in order to recover usable implants. Slowly, amid the bustle of everyday survival, a picture emerged from the dataQueens' efforts.

Captain and his pack had jumped the gun, were acting alone. If other resources, be they Borgs or SecFed, had been present, they would have assisted in the attack. The lunge towards the den-planet had been an act of desperation, time not even taken to find Luplup's underground facilities in order to accurately stomp them.

Therefore, Luplup had that most precious of all commodities - time.

Luplup had to move herSelf to a new den. Even as she formed the thought, she was already beginning preparations. Potential options were examined, stellar coordinates known both directly and via files plundered from Gray. Some locations already had small colonies, a few hundred Selves preparing facilities for an eventual expansion of Luplup from her central den. While she had never advanced her timetable to spread from her nexus, those premade facilities would now be invaluable. Luplup would take all that she could: Selves, materials, even the dry-dock. Gray had been a mobile Color; and the facilities Luplup had inherited from Gray could be broken down for moving in less than ten hours. While not sufficiently complete to safely navigate faster-than-light speeds on its own, even the partially built Battle-class cube in the construction scaffolding would be towed to the new site.

Luplup narrowed her metaphorical eyes as she shifted part of her attention to the Exploratory-class cube. It had to be destroyed. Now that the nexusQueen's influence was temporarily suppressed, logic was dominant; and logic decreed that the contents of the cube were less important than what it represented, which was a sensory platform capable of tracking Luplup to her new den. Overwhelming force was required.

Luplup recalled her last Battle-class talon, abruptly removing it from its Taurini mob obligations with nary a word of explanation. As the course back to the ex-Gray system was plotted, she also input directives for the cube to collect any useful resources encountered - it did not matter if the ships were crewed solely by herSelf or Taurini mob, for in Luplup's thoughts there was no difference: all belonged to Self. Once the Exploratory-class threat was terminated, the Battle-classes, along with the extra ships, would be needed to move everything.

In less than twenty hours, Captain and his pack would be dead, all signs of activity gone from the system, and Luplup would successfully survive once more.

Eyes of a sensory nature stared at the Borg cube. Now that Luplup knew that the enemy was present, she had been watching it with all the methods available to her. The threat lurked in the cometary halo, attempting to play dead and blend in with the chunks of ice, but Luplup knew better. The Whole allowed the nexusQueen to increasingly influence thought patterns, to allow herSelf to imagine tortures of the Captain Bad-Man...maybe, with two Battle-classes at her disposal, she could postpone total destruction long enough to pluck the Captain from his ship?

It was at that moment that the virus attacked.

Upon reconstruction into Luplup's datasphere, the malicious program had swiftly sought out all targets of its modified search parameters. Hundreds of thousands of virus copies passively flowed within the datastreams mediated by the type I integrator, Luplup's Self version of the vinculum, lodging against bits of vital code like driftwood snagging upon rocks of a swiftly flowing river. When a critical density was reached, passive turned to aggressive; and the virus began to burrow into the host's programming, indiscriminately leaving behind broken code as it did so.

Unlike a Borg vinculum, Luplup's integrators were living creatures. Surgeries and genetic manipulation had altered the type I integrators into sessile Selves more mechanical than biological, living switchboard brains unable to form coherent thought, but the ability to feel pain remained. The hurt caused by blind rending of the host by the virus caused the nearly voiceless type I integrators to cry out with atrophied vocal cords; and within the Luplup Whole, it was as if a white-hot poker had been shoved deep into the Body vyst.

Luplup felt as the far-flung parts of her were viciously severed.

On one level, the consequence was not crippling, the colonies of herSelf outside the den system of minor importance. Furthermore, the number of ships crewed solely by Selves had already been pruned by the Flame Nebula, so their disconnection precipitated little distress. Within the system where the majority of herSelf resided, Luplup remained connected to her various parts with type II and type III integrators; and the Battle-classes had the additional backup of hardware vinculums with integrated subspace boosters, although remote access through her Gray not-Selves left her feeling as if she were in a muffled box controlling a limb she could see, but not feel.

Unfortunately, with each severance, no matter how minor, Luplup ached as she grew that much smaller.

Within the dataspace, the virus cast about for additional prey. It could 'see' additional potential targets which did not quite fit its search parameters. Optimized to attack vyst cybernetic signatures that tasted of subspace booster, the virus was not especially attracted to these secondary nodes, but they did sport similar communication function silhouettes. Some of the more promising targets were latched upon, individual virii clusters unleashing their payloads as local critical density was reached.

From Luplup's point of view, individual type II and type III integrators began to go crazy, feebly lashing out at any nearby Self.

Unknowing what to do, Luplup began to terminate all Selves which showed sign of contagion, even if doing so meant ultimately severing a group of Selves from the Whole. The desperation was akin to an animal caught in a trap chewing off its own limb. Luplup now recognized the virus for what it was, but, as insinuated prior, the filters and counter-code which comprised her electronic immune system were woefully inadequate: she had never been seriously challenged on the non-physical level.

Liaison units were the primary casualty. Although few in number, their loss robbed Luplup of many new eyes and ears in the Taurini mob network. Due to mobility requirements, the assigned integrators had all been type III, ultimately linked to the Whole via a hardware fractal subspace booster installed on each liaison-occupied vessel. Without the integrator, the remaining Selves were lost from the Whole. A background process noted the necessity for future liaison subunits to include a Gray not-Self, able to connect to the booster on its own, for purposes of redundancy.

In the end, the virus, unable to adequately satisfy its base parameters and lacking mutagenic potential to allow code self-modification to focus on new objectives, burned itself out.

Luplup regrouped herSelf, narrowed her metaphorical eyes to gaze upon the hated cube of Captain where the virus obviously originated, and impatiently waited for her recalled Battle-class talon to arrive.

"Sorry to tell you this," said Pretty Lady captain Joseph to his Taurini mob passenger, "but there will be a slight delay, again, in conveying you, and anything else, in a timely manner." Joseph was not sorry out of politeness or any real concern over Rei's well-being, but because the holdup was throwing delicate schedules out of whack. In some cases it had taken /years/ to choreograph his smuggling routes, years of making contacts, years of paying bribes to certain officials, years of hauling legal cargo for the sole purpose of being pulled over by customs ships so that he could be searched and thereby establish his apparent trustworthiness. A fist thumped against the top of a faux wood desk. "Damn it! She is ruining everything!"

"Don't do anything rash," cautioned Rei. "I am quite willing to wait." The pair were in Joseph's office, which, in the small confines of the Pretty Lady, doubled as his sleeping quarters. There were a few pictures on the walls, primarily watercolors of starscapes, as well as the obligate portrait of the Pretty Lady herself. Nothing hinted of personal relationships, past or present. The wall behind the captain and his desk was a mass of greenery, alien plants from dozens of worlds rooted within a hydroponics set-up, all reaching leaves (and fronds and branches) towards the full-spectrum grow-lights hanging from the ceiling.

Joseph grumbled, "Why would I want to do anything rash? The Flaborian crunchworms are long past their due date and I've missed the pickup at Pyron Station for the data document. Admittedly, I still have you, but, don't take this wrong, you are not worth as much as crunchworms or black-market data. At this rate, I'll be missing my payment to the mob."

Rei was not offended at the captain's remarks. "I've a few contacts higher up. I think I can pass on the message that any difficulties were truly out of your control. Surely others are experiencing similar problems."

"If I was doing something, going someplace, it would not be so bad. But to be told by a jumped up animal with delusions of Borg grandeur to just /sit and stay/ at a random coordinate in space, like I was a /dog/, is too much," groused Pretty Lady's captain as his fist thumped the desktop again. Joseph pretended that the recipient was not a paper printout of his ruined smuggling schedule - easier to destroy such evidence of illicit activities than electronic versions - but rather a vyst head.

Silence, other than a disturbing rustling from somewhere within the wall of plants, reigned in the office.

"Um-" began Rei in an attempt to restart the conversation. A beeping interrupted him.

"What is it?" asked Joseph to the air.

"Sir," said the voice of one of the crewmembers, "there's a problem down at the vysts' room! I think they've gone insane!" In the background came a loud explosion, then the sound of screeching, as if a wild animal had embarked on a rampage. "Sh**! The big bastard with the disruptor just blew out the room's door! Now all three are in the hallway, and the big and little ones are attacking the third one!"

Joseph stood, removing a hand-disruptor from a hip holster as he did so. "Excuse me, I need to take care of some trash."

"If you can, I suggest you do not kill the liaison unit, no matter how it is acting," said Rei as he rose from his chair. The incredulous look from Joseph was ignored. "It is one thing for Luplup to kill her own Selves, and quite another for one of us to do it. Trust me on this, until we can find additional information."

In the undark between stars, between minds, between ticks of the cosmic clock in that non-time from which dreams blossom, Lup listened. And was pleased. While much more effort was necessary to create the silence that she craved, the process had begun. Already the quiet was beginning to close in, a muffling like that fostered by new snow falling upon a noisy city.

And when the blessed silence became complete, it would be time for Lup to slip her collar and leave.

*****

A planet hung in the air above Ali. It exploded in slow motion, as it had done so dozens of times prior. The xenopsychologist felt as if she were trapped in a holo-slideshow hell of her aunt's latest holiday excursion. However, it wasn't Aunt Netty who stood nearby, but a drone, bulk and lethality of its tactical designation apparent despite the dim lighting. Unexpected was the incongruous similarity to the infamous relative whom terrorized the family during reunions: an avid fervor in the voice which promised badly replicated knit sweaters, or worse, if the listener did not pay attention.

"This is the projected outcome of scenario 33, subset b. Note that the secondary continent begins its sundering along the northern fracture seams, not the southern, in this projection. This action allows the cold polar ocean access to the interior volcanoes before the subtropical inland sea, resulting in cataclysmic shattering of the continental basement rock shield 3.4 hours prior a similar occurrence as outlined in scenario 33, subset a. While this scenario subset would ultimately foster a 3% decrease in the time to final planet disintegration, it is 25.4% less likely to happen because the northern fracture seams are older and less prone to mobilization than the southern."

Ali fixed a smile on her face as she let the words wash over her. Just like Aunt Netty, except, just perhaps, a bit less onerous. Exploding planets, even if it was the same one over and over again with subtle variations Ali could not begin to discern, was moderately more interesting than park benches. Although /that/ horrific experience was now two years past, Ali was still trying to decide if 'post-traumatic slideshow trauma' was an actual mental disease, and if she dared to write a paper for publishing.

"Are you paying attention?" demanded the drone with the ominous title of Weapons.

"Yes, ma'am, er, sir," said Ali obediently. "That was scenario 33, subset b."

Just like Aunt Netty, as long as one answered everything with a polite affirmative and included a snippet of the obligatory long-winded narrative which accompanied each slide, one could survive the experience with mind mostly intact. Which was probably a good thing, because Ali /wasn't/ paying full attention to the exploding planets; and the outcome, should Weapons realize, was probably worse than a scowl and homemade fruitcake.

In the back of her mind, Ali could hear a mumbled whispering. Over the course of several conversations, actual content disguised in a verbal code that took the form of a Peach recruitment offer, Liaison had convinced Ali to accept a temporary short-range transceiver. As the device in question was a quasi-metal oblong about the size of a large vitamin pill, 'accept' meant swallow. There were no nanites associated with the transceiver - why Liaison kept a supply of them on his person in the first place was probably something only understandable by Peach - which was designed to link a drone to Personality interaction hardware in a recipient's head. In this case, it did not matter no AIs were in reception distance, access to the transmission function being what Liaison claimed to require.

Liaison had implied, but never actually said, that the jammer leeched to his neck was not an impediment to normal Borg-style fractal subspace communication, but that the detention room warding was. To bypass the security necessitated being outside the room, an achievement Liaison was never going to be allowed. The transceiver interfaced to Liaison in a manner which circumvented room security, the drone assuring Ali that only a unit with a highly specialized sensory suite would intercept the short-range, low-powered signal; and that the out-going transmission which would eventually originate from Ali's little-used Personality hardware would be too diffuse for the cube grid to pinpoint. Besides, suspicions resulting from any interception would fall upon Liaison, not Ali.

Ali was nervous. She had every right to be, as she constantly repeated to herself and her inner shrink as a personal mantra. Several hours after finally surrendering to Liaison's request to swallow the transceiver, drones from the local sub-collective had come to collect her. However, her destination had not been next door, but rather this gigantic metal cavern too large to be comfortably given the label 'room'. The space was similar to, but different from, the place where Ali had been transported upon her initial kidnapping. The most obvious dissimilarity seen prior to the plunge to slideshow darkness, one which emphasized the room's vastness, was a rack of shuttles set against one looming wall. Also elevating the discomfort level was the fact that the entirety of her escort were tactical drones, not a single moderating influence in the form of Captain or another such drone to be seen.

There was the distinct impression that Weapons, the leader of mayhem looking for a place to happen, had wanted to present his slideshow in a different location, but had been denied access. Weapons was neither the largest nor most bulky of the drones present, but exuded a certain air, one which suggested violence held barely in check. Ali really hoped that there wasn't a drone with that specialized sensory suite Liaison had dismissed as irrelevant out in the gloom, for she felt that Weapons would shoot first, then ask questions of the disrupted corpse later...after propping it up to view the remainder of the presentation.

A low hiss reminded Ali that she was not alone. Lup was present as well, and likely the reason for the dozen tactical drones in addition to Weapons, all of whom where pointing an arm at the vyst. Lup was paying less attention to the slideshow and more to covertly eyeing her surroundings, the vyst obviously seeing more in the darkness than Ali. Currently Lup was staring in the direction of the shuttles.

Ali was still unsure of the reason for the excursion in the first place, one which included Lup, although her inner shrink had taken time off from self-psychoanalysis to comment upon the situation. It seemed that the root of the issue was a need by Weapons to show off his latest planet-buster toy. As the sub-collective was essentially One, to do so to another drone would be akin to talking to oneself. However, Cube #347 had passengers. The logic chain ended with Ali and Lup (Liaison was probably deemed too dangerous) in this vast room staring at exploding planets.

A squeal heard with the mind, not the ears, caused Ali to reflexively wince. As the noise dwindled to faint static before finally vanishing, the clinician who shared mental real estate with the inner shrink explained the noise as a hallucination, leakage from the Personality implant impacting aural nerves.

"Are you paying attention?" The bellowed demand from Weapons was not unexpected, but before Ali could respond, a yank of Lup's leash demonstrated to whom the question had been directed. Apparently the vyst had been staring too long at the shuttles again.

"We always pays attention," muttered Lup.

"Good," replied Weapons. "We now move to the scenario 34 series. In this series the major alterations to scenario 1-alpha, are as follows..."

Ali peered at a second hologram, set near the exploding planets, but out of the way. It was a real-time view of the planet in question, doomed to eventually join its simulated kin when the planet-busters finished boring their way into the mantle. Volcanoes on the primary landmass had begun to glow brilliantly in the last hour, and cracks were starting to zigzag across the central deserts. Destruction seemed to be following scenario 12 of 14 or somesuch. A glare in her direction - not quite of Aunt Netty caliber, but vicious enough - forced Ali to return attention to the latest of the exploding planets.

Liaison was pleased, or at least as pleased as a Peach drone was allowed.

Strategically placed around this system was a constellation of cloaked subspace buoys. Set when Gray had ownership of the system, the purpose of the buoys was to passively observe, spy posts capturing all transmissions down to the smallest electronic whisper. Peach had been well aware when Luplup had subsumed Gray, terminating that Color and absorbing its resources. The Peach Greater Consciousness had subsequently rated Luplup's eradication of only moderate importance in the overall scheme to achieve Perfection, although effort had been directed to manipulate Second Federation, local governments, and Taurini mob so as to keep Luplup corralled. However, Cube #347 was now in the picture, an element of chaos sure to disrupt carefully laid plans. Liaison did not have to be connected to his Collective to know that simple fact.

If it had been only a case of the Borg Collective's most infamous imperfect sub-collective challenging Luplup, Liaison would have been content to let matters run to their conclusion, even if it meant his own termination. Such was not an option in this case, not considering the data returned by the worm attached to Captain. It was imperative Liaison link to his Color, prompting the concoction of a plan which had much greater risk than that conveyed to Ali.

The one-way message to the buoys, via the Ali's Personality-implant transmitter, was simple. It was a shout to the darkness, the equivalent of "Here I am!" and "Urgent to find this drone!" There was more to the message, including an abbreviated report concerning the quantum parasite, but the account could not be complex else elevate the risk of discovery.

It would be several hours before Liaison knew if he was successful, but the effort had been made and now all he could do was wait. Hopefully there would be a response before the shipyard assault.

A ping from Sensors impinged upon Captain's awareness, diverting him from his current task of reviewing the most recent engineering hierarchy status reports. Leaving the thread wholly with the capable partition which was actually sorting the data, Captain altered his focus to that of Sensors. Within Captain's nodal intersection, where his body resided as his mind flitted through the dataspace and intranets of Cube #347, an unwatched holowindow automatically altered from cube schematic to long-distance view of scaffolding.

{Report,} brusquely said Captain.

Sensors highlighted particular segments of the sensory hierarchy datastream. The dry-dock complex where resided the Luplup nexusQueen had been the object of close scrutiny since flight from the den-planet following delivery of the planet-buster. {Sensors sees and [fatz] that Luplup starting to disassemble structures. Battle-class cube [walls].}

The sub-collective considered the data, figurative eyes slit in thoughtful consideration. Luplup seemed to have lost track of Cube #347 once the Oort cloud had been entered, aborting chase by the Battle-class. Since then, Luplup's cube (the smaller vessels here and there about the system were militaristically irrelevant) had first orbited the den-planet before returning to the dry-dock complex. The effect of the Eradicator virus was not outwardly apparent, but then again, the Peach drone had said that the type I integrators, the subspace booster equivalents, would be the primary unit affected. Presumably Luplup had lost connectivity with herSelf outside the system, but within she was unaffected; and it also seemed she was unaware the terminal fate her planet would face in less than sixteen hours, along the Selves still upon it. Now it also appeared that Luplup was preparing to pack up herself and leave.

The consensus cascade grew more complicated, melding together an increasing percentage of the sub-collective whole until all were included. Finally an outcome was formulated, releasing drone resources back to their normal duties. Captain translated the gist of the consensus cascade result as a single word: unacceptable.

Despite the probable outcome of deep hurting, if not termination, Cube #347 was now committed to attacking the dry-dock complex.

Captain brought himself back to body awareness. He blinked his eye once, twice, to rid it of that dry eyeball feeling, then carefully flexed limbs so as to relieve them of the cramps common after long immobility. Finally the holodisplay was critically examined, dry-dock view substituted for a visual from Bulk Cargo Hold #2. The camera was internally augmented by the combined points of view of several weapons drones.

{Weapons,} said Captain to the head of the weapons hierarchy, {stop torturing the human and vyst. Put your toys away and prepare us for shipyard assault.} He paused, then added with a sigh, {Your hierarchy will have complete control once we leave the Oort cloud. Try not to terminate us.} It was verbalization of a sub-branching resulting from consensus.

The tactical simulation datastream centering upon the newly acquired planet-buster abruptly froze. {Compliance,} responded Weapons, smugness coloring his tone.

In Bulk Cargo Hold #2, the latest iteration of exploding planet was suspended then banished, followed increasing ambient illumination. Ali and Lup revealed, the eyes of both held the glassy gaze of mind-numbing boredom. The vyst recovered before Ali, the latter requiring nearly a minute to register cessation of the simulation.

"I was paying attention, really!" protested Ali. "You were talking about collapse of the icecaps!"

"That was scenario 54, subset 5," confided Lup to the xenopsychologist in an overloud whisper. "We bes on scenario 56, and included different fates of the ocean trenches."

"Silence," commanded Weapons. "You are to be returned to your detention facilities. We will be shortly renewing our attack upon Luplup, and your presence outside the supply closets will be a distraction." Disruptor arm was raised in emphasis.

Captain minutely shook his head as the visual of Bulk Cargo Hold #2 was dismissed. There were many preparations to oversee prior to the assault.

*****

A torpedo exploded upon shields, followed by a second and a third. Those were the lucky few, the rest of a withering barrage either never fired else missed and on trajectories where only unlucky rocks were at risk. Luplup's hesitancy showed her to be uneasy about wading in with the full might of her Battle-class cube despite the fact that it would easily swat a smaller Exploratory-class in a head-to-head match. Cube #347 was under no such similar restraint, and in the time that it took for the trio of torpedoes to detonate, several disruptor pulses were unleashed against one of the outer nodes of the dry-dock complex; and some had even hit their mark. Then, as the Battle-class rounded the bulk of the dry-dock scaffolding which imprisoned its half-built mate, allowing the engine of destruction with a clear target which did not include the structures it was trying to protect, Cube #347 reversed direction. The smaller cube dodged down relative to its pursuer and behind one of the asteroids towed to the dry-dock for the purpose to supply raw construction materials.

Cold logic laid bare unwavering facts: if the battle continued in its current cat-and-mouse state, Cube #347 would lose. It was inevitable. Eventually Luplup would decide that some collateral loss of her dry-dock was acceptable if it meant forcing a sumo-contest between cubes where Cube #347 was fated to become a thin smear of metal. There was no Flame Nebula here to tip the balance towards the underdog.

However, if Cube #347 could survive long enough to remove one specific member of the Luplup Whole....

"Where?" demanded Weapons, bellowing the word into Lup's face. Less than a centimeter separated the drone's oft-broken nose from metal-reinforced, serrated teeth and an evil case of halitosis. While the first threat was of no consequence to the head of the weapons hierarchy, the latter was much more difficult to ignore. "Where is the nexus? Comply!"

"I don't know!" replied Lup with equal vigor. A hands-minor was used to point at the rotating hologram of the dry-dock and its accompanying nodes, complex form reminiscent of a miniature unimatrix. "Luplup heres and heres and heres. Hot, hot, hot! Luplup everywhere. Too many Selves to sees one, even if it be the Queen."

The answer, as the ones before, did not satisfy Weapons. Although his overall non-expression did not change, there was an almost imperceptible tightening to already taunt facial muscles. He pivoted to confront Ali, "Where? Where is the nexus? Make the vyst tell us! Comply!"

Ali stumbled backwards, or would have tried except that she already hemmed in by tactical drones. She had no sharp teeth nor bad breath to threaten her confronter. A breath was sucked in and slowly released, followed by deliberate setting of her shoulders. "Now, now...why don't you, er, we calm down a slight bit. Yelling never solved anything. Perhaps if Lup was provided with a less stressful setting, she could concentrate better and be more useful?"

Recognizing her cue, Lup added, "Yes. This be a very hostile work environment. Very hards for me to concentrate."

An actual flush colored Weapon's mottled gray face, darkening the skin. Eyes narrowed and his whole hand curled into a fist. Before any nascent personal impulses could be acted upon, however, the room - the cube! - shook, causing everyone, including Lup, to dance a jig to stay upright. Some of the less agile drones were unsuccessful. Building tension broke as Weapons was forced to turn to assist a heavily armored comrade back to her feet.

In his nodal intersection, Captain barely glanced at the drama playing out in Supply Closet #34, just one of many datathreads he was managing. A lone thought in the back of his mind considered the merit of installing railing in the intersection to hold to during battles, spatial turbulence, and other cube-shaking events, but was quashed as unnecessarily diverting mental resources in light of current problems.

Cube #347 had thus far avoided catastrophic injury by the simple expedient of not placing itself in direct line of fire of Luplup's Battle-class behemoth. Such did not mean that the Exploratory-class cube was immune to injury, as just demonstrated. However, in this case, the damage now being assessed by engineering hierarchy was not due to torpedoes or energy weapons, but rather clipping one cube corner against an asteroid. A Borg cube, even the smallest variety, could not be spun in a tight turn as if it was a racing shuttle.

{This is /not/ one of your scenarios, Weapons, where you can alter fundamental physics to your favor,} rebuked Captain. {If you cannot pay enough attention to those partitions who are driving, I /will/ subsume them back to command and control.}

Added Second, who was in the nodal intersection with Captain, although prudently leaning against a wall, {At this rate, we'll beat ourselves to death long before Luplup can.}

Weapons glowered. {An offensive defense is more tactically sound than this defensive defense.} The veracity of the statement was debatable, but concepts such as 'logic' and 'odds' did not factor large in Weapons' world-view. {This vyst and her human handler are useless. We need to destroy the entirety of the complex in order to terminate Luplup. Fly-by strafing is ineffective.}

{Perhaps if a certain hierarchy could /hit/ something?} inserted Second. He was ignored.

{As long as the enemy wields a Battle-class cube, we cannot proceed. The conclusion is that the Battle-class /must/ be dealt with,} finished Weapons. While he was all in favor of a direct confrontation, he grudgingly included several indirect options to the datastream he flung towards command and control. A demand for consensus cascade to alter tactics was appended.

Captain acceded. The outcome was predictable.

Given the circumstances, the weapons hierarchy heavily weighted any decision matrix. Behind its temporary shield of rock, Cube #347 began to spin, preparing for a more offensive stance.

In Supply Closet #34, Weapons smiled. It was an expression disturbing enough that Lup retreated half a pace before crouching down in an unusual display of submission. Demanded Ali, "What just happened?"

"We finally enter into full battle," absently replied Weapons, eyes clearly focused elsewhere.

"And you weren't already?" incredulously asked Ali.

Weapons blinked, returning to the here-and-now. Ali's escort grabbed her arms, trapping her between two drones; and Lup's leashes were tugged, dragging her sideways. "As there was no cooperation from you two small beings, your use has ended." Ali's eyes opened wide at that comment, the thoughts whirling through her mind obvious. "You are to be secured. Once we are victorious and Luplup destroyed, we will decide what to do with you." The reality of failure never impinged Weapons' thoughts. He turned to march out the door where a transporter lock awaited, Lup and Ali already dismissed as irrelevant.

Cube #347 suddenly accelerated, causing its superstructure to creak, a protest echoed by Delta. A volley of six torpedoes, a theoretically long-distance weapon, were flung at the too-close looming Battle-class, which had begun to round the asteroid. As Luplup's ship was passed, Cube #347 accepted an abbreviated lance of neuruptor fire in return; and then concealment in the form of the scaffolded cube was reached. Brakes were applied, eliciting another complaint from support spars and engineering hierarchy. The maneuver had been the equivalent of an action hero rolling between cover while firing a gun at the enemy.

Meanwhile, Captain accepted a hail from the dry-dock node complex. Within a holowindow resolved Luplup, her nexusQueen to be exact. She was cradling a stuffed toy, a long-haired white cat, in her hands-major while stroking faux fur with one hands-minor. In the background hovered an arc of ex-Gray drones and tactical Selves. "Yous be deads," gloated Luplup.

"Not yet," absently responded Captain. His very split mental resources were concentrating on many other datastreams, constraining inappropriate impulses and bolstering censure filters his main concern, and the Luplup hail among the least of his priorities. He had not even bothered to initiate CatwalkCam or Multivoice, allowing the return transmission to originate from his nodal intersection.

"Deads, deads, deads!" howled Luplup, the chant taken up by all the Selves in the picture, some with greater ability than others. The nexusQueen began to shred the stuffed cat, claws of the hands-minor digging into fabric.

{Poor Luplup,} noted Doctor from the far background. {She had gone beyond mad to insane: she froths at the brain. Maybe it would be best to put her down?}

As if that wasn't the goal of the sub-collective? Before a retort could be formulated, either individually or collectively, to the head of the maintenance hierarchy, Sensors inserted a datastream into the primary sub-collective awareness.

{Sensors sees [boo-boo]. New power signatures. No [kitty], but plenty of [quail] for in-system and weapons. Lots and lots of [carpet] weapons.}

A new display was opened in front of Captain, obscuring the sight of vysts and one rapidly disintegrating toy cat. Second was the originator of the window; and he remained silent as exterior cameras observed the emergence of a new threat. Less than seventy meters away, scaffolding was beginning to flake away from the flanks of the half-constructed Battle-class. It seemed that Cube #347 choice of temporary cover was no longer benign.

The view began to pull back as Cube #347 withdrew; and then a bright flash of light obscured everything.

{Shields holding,} reported Delta, {but just barely. Shields absorbed all neuruptor and disruptor AND cutting beam discharges. However...oh, sh**.} The uncharacteristic oath was less Delta and more the verbal outburst of the engineering hierarchy. Energy absorbed by the shields had to go somewhere. Usually it was stored in huge capacitors for subsequent recycling back into shields or energy weapons, with the remainder dumped to space as excess heat. Usually. When the excess was too great for capacitors and radiators, the results could spill over into related systems. In this case, breakers throughout subsection 3 were tripping, cutting power and plunging that part of the cube into darkness. Only the Borg propensity for compartmentalized construction and dispersal of critical systems prevented the effect from compromising the rest of the cube.

{What was that?}

{Ouch! I was just bitten!}

{Do you have Lup's leashes?}

{Bitten, I tell you! Bitten! And right on the hand, too. I think I have lost a finger!}

{It is your fault if you have a disruptor burn, 27 of 83: you were in my line of fire,} snarled Weapons over the noisy babble coming from tactical drones assigned to Lup duty. The vyst had taken advantage of the confusion of darkness and battle, making her escape. Weapons had tried to shoot the infrared heat blob which represented Lup, but she had crashed into 27 of 83, sending him careening into the head of the weapons hierarchy.

{Desist!} ordered Captain before Weapons could do more than begin initial selection of designations for a search-and-destroy-the-vyst mission. It had only taken a few seconds to discover that shock collar and anklets did not have any effect; and no effort had been made to attach a tracer, escape considered unlikely. {We have more important issues to attend, such as the /two/ Battle-class cubes after us. Where can Lup go? Hunt her later.}

Weapons grudgingly agreed. Subsection 3 lights flickered back into dim existence as sufficient breaker relays were manually reset to restore power. Just outside the door of Supply Closet #34, Weapons pivoted to glare at Ali...she had undoubtedly conspired with Lup to aid the vyst's escape. The human, perhaps sensing her tenacious position, stood as still and inoffensive as possible.

{Weapons,} warned Second, who had been passed the duty of keeper, {concentrate on our survival.}

{We will survive,} asserted Weapons. He locked a transporter on himself, returning his body back to his alcove. {I have five scenarios similar to this one in BorgCraft files.}

Second was silent for a moment, digesting the implications, before asking, {And in how many of them does Cube #347 survive?}

Weapons glanced both directions along his tier - no vyst - before stepping back and up into his alcove. His link with the dataspace strengthened. {All of them.} He paused, then admitted, {Of course, Cube #347 is part of the two-on-one attacking force; and the attackee is always destroyed.}

In Captain's nodal intersection, Second rolled his eyes towards Captain. "Great," he muttered under his breath. Captain was unresponsive, the consensus monitor in deep communion with the sub-collective. Unwatched holodisplays reflected datastreams; and the window which had earlier been dedicated to Luplup's hail was showing static.

Sensors interrupted, {Sensors sees [boo-boo].}

{What is it this time?} asked Second before Captain could divert a splinter of awareness to the declaration. {Is there a /third/ Battle-class coming to join the party?}

Cube #347 retreated to the flimsy protection offered by an unused dry-dock node. Luplup's first Battle-class had halted next to its incomplete comrade to assist in removal of the last of the confining scaffolding, tractors ripping away large hunks of latticework. The reprieve from battle was temporary, and it was a toss-up between loss of concealment due to the cube's own weapons destroying the node and being driven away when both Battle-classes took up pursuit.

{Sensors says yes!} said Sensors with a hint of trumpet fanfare. She accompanied her words with a sensor grid datastream showing an unmistakable hypertranswarp wake. The instigator of that wake would arrive within five minutes.

{Three Battle-class cubes,} commented Weapons in uncharacteristic acknowledgement of the abysmal odds, {may be a wee bit tricksy to destroy....}

*****

Joseph sat in the command chair of the Pretty Lady, staring straight ahead at the off-brand, flat screen display which covered the forward bulkhead. There were many things he was attempting to ignore, the first and foremost being the pair of vysts pacing the deck behind him. Also on the not-so-grand bridge with Joseph was one third of the Pretty Lady's crew compliment in the form of the best damn helmsman the captain had ever seen (as long one as one disregarded the kleptomania) and a worried looking young Bajoran, fresh out of a first-rate merchantier school with a degree in engineering and a keen understanding of why one should not take out loans from a mob organization. The door to the bathroom opened, allowing Rei (and a streamer of toilet paper) to exit and join the threesome.

Never four- or fivesome...Joseph was not racist, but he refused to count Luplup's Selves as 'people'.

Pretty Lady shuddered as a bright explosion caused light filters to temporarily blacken the main display.

"Close, but no damage," relayed Narika from her post at the engineering consoles. Eyes flickered over the bank of monitors even as she listened to verbal reports from the remainder of the ship crew via her comm implant.

Muttered Tony from his perch at the helm, "Yet." In one hand he absently twirled a small circuit diagnostic tool in the shape of a fat pen, highly unlikely to actually belong to him.

Joseph clutched the armrests of his chair tighter. For the moment, Rei was also ignored, although it was clear from the mob representative's face that he had something to say.

After being picked up by one of Luplup's Battle-class cubes at the rendezvous point, Pretty Lady had been subjected to many long hours of ignorance. The liaison unit remnant had regained sanity when the rest of Luplup had come within range of whatever link tied the Selves together; and at that time Joseph had been relieved he had listened to Rei and not killed the vysts, only herded them back to their room once they had finished slaughtering their comrade. Unfortunately, no explanations had been forthcoming from Luplup, only an order to "Be still" as Pretty Lady was hauled into a cargo hold and stowed beside a dozen other ships in similar circumstances.

Then, after a time, the cube reached its destination. Without warning, Pretty Lady had been ejected, along with the other vessels into the hold, into the middle of a war zone.

Although Joseph had never been in this system, he strongly suspected it to had been Luplup's home, and likely that of Gray before. 'Had been' were the operative words. At a distance only visible to sensors, the second planet from the local sun was in the process of breaking up, the globe registering a distinct bulge in its northern hemisphere one normally associated only with cataclysmic disasters of the astrometrical sort. Much more immediate was a skirmish between three Borg cubes, one obviously incomplete and still sporting the scaffolding remnants, to which the newly arrived Battle-class had hastened to join after disgorging its passengers. The war was set before the backdrop of a ship construction facility.

The smallest cube - still enormous by Joseph's standards - was taking a pounding, yet it refused (or could not) retreat. Even as a volley of torpedoes shivered its shield to a visible hue the Pretty Lady's captain recognized as imminent collapse, it raked energy weapons against a station segment.

Return to the present. Luplup's liaison Selves had stopped immediately behind Joseph, hot breath exhaling in stereo into his ears. It was now no longer possible to ignore that particular item.

"At-t-tack," hiccupped the largest vyst, the one with weapons grafted onto its body. Its voder was poorly tuned, more crackling static than understandable speech.

Joseph refused to turn his head from the viewscreen. Eyes staring straight ahead, he absently noted that the small cube's shields had finally collapsed, allowing a wave of incoming munitions to directly score the hull. A very faint flicker suggested initiation of back-ups, but the outcome of a three (two point five?) on one match was inevitable. "With what?" spat Joseph. "My ship doesn't have /anything/ which could even so much as scratch whomever it is that you are fighting."

"Wes fight-t-t Bad-Mans Borg. Ram Bad-Mans Borgs c-c-cube."

"Borg?!" Joseph half stood from his chair, turning as he did so. "You are in a war with the /Borg/? As in Collective Borg?"

"Only ones c-cube. When I dest-t-troy this cubes, all bes moved before SecFeds and other Borgs come heres."

Joseph blinked at the incongruity of Second Federation and /Collective Borg/ as allies. Before he could open his mouth to challenge such an absurd notion, Rei stealthily kicked him in the ankle. Joseph's eyes slid sideways, only to see the Taurini mob representative minutely shake his head while mouthing the word 'stall'.

"I...see," said Joseph. He sat back down in his chair, returning attention to the viewscreen. "Um, wouldn't it be better if Pretty Lady helped haul everything? That is, after all, what Pretty Lady does best. If I order an attack, this ship will only become vaporized slag. On the other hand, if Pretty Lady waits until you have, um, finished disposing of your little problem, she will be of much greater utility."

Both vysts were silent. Finally the speaker spoke, "Yesssss...many Selves can fit in here. Betters to disperse Selves to manys ships than puts all onto a few. Log-g-gical."

At her station, Narika laughed nervously.

The liaison unit remnant resumed its pacing.

Joseph had the distinct feeling that once Luplup had her Selves on board the Pretty Lady, she would decide its non-assimilated crew to be superfluous. He would deal with that burning bridge when he came to it. Until then, he (and Pretty Lady) remained whole; and he could only hope for a miracle and that all of Luplup would spontaneously explode. If that desire wasn't forthcoming, he'd accept cavalry in the impossible form of...oh...a Peach flotilla.

"Hang in there," whispered Rei from his position standing next to Joseph's chair. "Just hang in there."

On the screen, plasma fountains from the small cube's hull indicated that back-up shields had collapsed. Joseph did not think they would be repaired.

*****

{Hull armor breaches on face #1, quadrants 13 through 17 and 45 through 48...} was the clinical summary originating from the primary engineering hierarchy datastream, a litany of damage accrued in the brief minutes following the final shields collapse. Nothing vital had been hit, but the fact that over thirty meters of armor was easily penetrated by the Battle-classes was worrisome. Even more disturbing was that the three vessels were now holding their fire, instead circling around Cube #347 like sharks preparing to dive upon prey.

{Are there any records of vysts playing with their food?} asked Captain to Doctor, yielding to an impulse that only partially originated from within himself.

{What?} asked Doctor, his signature one of distraction, drone maintenance very busy with those units whom had had the misfortune to be in certain subhull corridors during shield failure. The riding lawnmower racing circuit was never going to be the same.

{Never mind,} replied Captain. Eyes flicked over the holograms floating in front of him, ghostly radiance, along with the occasional targeting laser, the only illumination since light strips had failed throughout the subsection.

The primary window was split into three pie segments, each focused upon one of the orbiting Battle-class cubes. Overlays from sensory hierarchy, for once not sporting visual aberrations, detailed status of weaponry, power, and damage for the enemy trio. From Captain's point of view, reflecting the majority of his sub-collective, there was distressingly too much of A and B, with too little C. Not unexpectedly, Weapons held a different opinion concerning the situation, but his hierarchy was being held in check by Second and a large portion of command and control.

A hail request was registered. For a long moment, Captain considered not answering, Cube #347's fate predictable with or without the sight of Luplup stating the obvious as she wallowed in arrogant self-satisfaction. Finally Captain surrendered, not because he particularly wanted to, but because the hail represented a few more minutes of stalling, a few more minutes of life, a few more minutes whereupon weapons hierarchy might model a scenario with a survival probability greater than 0.0000%.

"HA! I gots you, Bad-Man Captain!" gloated Luplup's as multiple Selves appeared. A pair of tacticals were next to the nexusQueen, holding a stuffed effigy which bore a distinct resemblance to Captain. The nexusQueen dropped the remains of her cat toy as she turned to face the crude mannequin. "No times to hunt you out properly. I must destroys you and your spy ship. But if I had times, this is whats I would dos to you!"

Captain winced as Luplup's nexusQueen reached up as far as she could, swiping a hands-major across the stuffed Captain's torso, then proceeded to bite a calf. Cotton filling filled the air. The darkness in the nodal intersection forced use of a catwalk camera for the return video, for which Captain was relieved: with the demands upon his mental resources, he did not think he could have spared enough attention to control facial expressions.

Sharp claws severed the right arm at the elbow. A third tactical Self sidled into the scene and proceeded to mimic the spray of blood using a squeeze bottle of some substance with the consistency and color of ketchup. "Who's a bad boy? Who's a bad boy, now?" shouted Luplup at the pseudo-Captain.

{Weapons, scenario report,} demanded Captain.

Weapons scoffed, {Very unprofessional. For the slowest termination with maximum carnage, slashing the secondary femoral artery of the typical Borg modified species #2553 specimen is the best choice.} Visuals and schematics accompanied the words. Weapons maintained a very thorough database concerning known weaknesses of every sentient. {The effect of this action is to-}

{Weapons, scenario report,} insisted Captain a second time. Stuffing was strewn on the floor at Luplup's multiple feet as the thus far unharmed leg was viciously mauled. More ketchup sprayed into the air.

{If we overload all power cores, there is a 97.6% chance that the explosion will be sufficiently large to vaporize the three Battle-classes. However, terminal impact to Luplup is only 15.3% as the dry-dock complex will escape total destruction and it is still unknown in which node the nexusQueen, and any backups, resides,} divulged Weapons. It was not necessary to say that Cube #347's survival rated absolute zero given that particular scenario.

Sensors pinged command and control hierarchy for attention.

{What is it?} inquired Second. He remained in the nodal intersection, craning his head to observe first-hand the homicidal obsession Luplup held in regards to Captain. Currently the vyst held a severed arm as she explained in detail how she would use it, and any other body parts, to decorate an alcove as warning to any others who might defy her. In the intranet background, the discussion between command and control and weapons hierarchies continued via their respective proxies.

{Sensors sees [boo-boo].}

Second initiated a randomization algorithm linked to a file of outrageous nouns and verbs which could be assembled into a complete improbable event, Mad-Lib-style. {Is it an incoming flotilla of White Exploratory-class cubes?}

Silence, then, {Sensors says no. The [shipyard] is not White, but Peach, or at least that is what [rug] broadcast on [snow] subspace channels.}

On the communication feed, Luplup abruptly stopped abusing her toy. All Selves, ex-Gray and vyst, tilted their heads, peering at a sight only Luplup could see. The reptilian visage is not mobile, not one to convey emotional response, but if one could place an expression to the slack-jawed nexusQueen, it would have been dismay.

Luplup had every right to be dismayed.

Peach emerged from hypertranswarp only 200 kilometers from the shipyard facility, a distance which bespoke luck, foolishness, or uncanny knowledge of the local solar system. As neither Borg nor Color believed in options one or two, the remaining alternative implied that Peach had exacting, up-to-date navigational charts. The number of the small fleet was five. Compared to the Battle-classes, the four Peach Exploratory-class cubes represented a moderate, but not insurmountable, threat. It was the Assault-class sphere, a vessel type hereto unknown by all present parties to be possessed by Peach, in the center of the loose diamond formation which demanded attention.

The Assault-class sphere, a massive warship 7.6 kilometers in diameter, had been developed during the Dark War. The impetus for development had occurred early in the century-long war when it became apparent to the Hive that the standard Battle-class cube, while formidable, was insufficient to counter massive Dark pods. Out of that crucible emerged the Assault-class sphere, which in a fair fight was conservatively equal to five Battle-classes. Luplup's approximately 2.5 vessels of that type had no chance, especially as Peach only fought fair if no other choice was available.

The five Peach ships repositioned themselves as they neared, the sphere sliding forward until it was the apex of a deadly flying wedge. With the arrival of the party crashers, most of the non-Borg ships Luplup had brought to the engagement swiftly scattered, respective captains swiftly calculating odds and deciding that Luplup's side was not the winning one. A few freighters remained, perhaps surrendering to morbid curiosity, although also prudently moving to where the sensor equivalent of a long-distance spotting scope was required to watch the outcome. A pair of the small ships obviously under Luplup's control dove upon the incoming Peach force and were vaporized with maximal efficiency.

The Peach flotilla glided to a stop. The fivesome confronted a threesome orbiting around a singleton.

The universe held its breath.

The four Exploratory-class cubes cloaked, then fired several singularity torpedoes. Simultaneously, the Assault-class sphere resumed its forward motion, wading into battle with all the worry of a man, ankles suitably clad in leather, challenged by a pack of elderly Pomeranians. Thus the battle was joined.

{Hey,} protested Second as a torpedo - not singularity, but radiating the signature of very high yield - barely missed the shieldless Cube #347, {one would think Peach to have better aiming skills.}

{Close fighting with this many large vessels is tricky, and an Assault-class sphere isn't exactly a precision weapon,} responded an unknown voice, an unknown signature.

<<????>> was the best translation of the wordless alarm which rippled through Cube #347's dataspace. Many layers of software defenses and offensive algorithms armored the typical Borg sub-collective from the outside; and automatic challenges accompanied every internal transaction, where to falter was to be beset by hunter-seekers. The electronic universe was a potentially deadly place, after all, full of parasites, virii, worms, and other dangers originating from such diverse sources as a teenager's bedroom to a telemarketing firm's R&D workshop to a Color. To be successfully invaded by an intruder was a threat as great as that represented by the titanic clash occurring beyond Cube #347's torn hull.

{Wait! Wait!} frantically backpedaled the voice as weapons hierarchy prepared to unleash hunter-seekers to find, and remove, the intruder. {The identity of this drone is Liaison...8 of 12...Peach?}

{Hold,} intoned Captain. In his nodal intersection, Captain moved Luplup's transmission out of the way, the sight of the frothing vyst nexusQueen unimportant at the moment. In its place he accessed Supply Closet #35, and was rewarded with the view of Liaison adjacent an open panel, one arm stuck within the wall while the other waved to the active camera. Nearby stood a worried looking Ali, one hand clutching an impromptu pry bar that - check of another camera - had originated from the now defunct food replicator.

A query was made on weapons drones designations in the vicinity of Supply Closet #35. {Weapons, where are the guards?}

The partially built Battle-class exploded, incomplete armoring insufficient to withstand the attentions of four Exploratory-class cubes all targeting the same patch of hull. Cloaks were no longer engaged. Debris and radiation washed over the face of Cube #347 which had been pointing to the skirmish, further pockmarking hull and increasing engineering hierarchy's to-do list. As one of the Peach Exploratory-class cubes limped away to a suitable distance to attend to the gaping wound rent through armor and exposing deep decks to vacuum, the remaining three advanced upon the Battle-class pair whom were confronting the sphere.

Into the chaos opposite the explosion crept a shuttle. Although it seemed to have magically materialized from the shadow of Cube #347, the warped doors and lack of normal forcefield ward of a bulk cargo hold suggested a more mundane origination. However, even as warp engines began to flare with the FTL initiation sequence, a neuruptor from Cube #347 removed the potential threat from existence, leaving behind nothing more than rapidly cooling scrap.

{Guards?} asked Weapons. The shuttle's destruction had not warranted the attention of the weapons hierarchy head, automatic logs classifying it as an overly large debris requiring cremation before it impacted an already abused hull.

{The drones whom are supposed to be guarding our detainees?} replied Captain darkly.

Weapons said, {Oh, them. They were required elsewhere for more important things than guarding. It isn't like the human could pass through the forcefield, after all; and the door was welded back on to prevent the Peach unit from leaving.}

{I do not want to go anywhere,} inserted Liaison into the discussion. {I am connected with my Collective; and I have been bade to do my liaison duty.}

{The jammer...} started Captain.

{Does not work.} Liaison used his free hand to tap the device attached to his neck. {The Borg Collective needs to update their hardware, at least where it concerns my Color. And before you continue to the next logical question, the only thing I have done within your system is to infiltrate the sensor grid so that I could bypass the jamming field which surrounds this supply closet...a jamming field which works perfectly, and annoyingly, fine. Still some research for Peach on that front, it seems.}

Captain narrowed his eye as he regarded the Peach drone in the holowindow. {And what is to prevent us from terminating you?}

"What is happening?" asked Ali. She was eyeing the doorway, as if expecting a squad of heavily armed tactical drones to burst through at any time. The question was answered with an arm wave conveying the universal wordless message of 'Not now. Very busy.'

{Nothing,} admitted Liaison. {However, it would be somewhat inefficient from my Color's point of view to assign another liaison unit when a functional one is already present.} There was much left unsaid in the statement, starting with the obvious advantage of having a unit directly interfaced with Cube #347.

The second of the Luplup's three Battle-class defenders expired. Instead of exploding as did its comrade, it imploded, silently folding in upon itself. The cause of this unusual death was not readily apparent, but the fact that it had occurred after a hole had been excavated to the cube's heart by the Assault-class, followed by insertion of an unfamiliar projectile, suggested an unknown weapon. Although the sphere was not unscathed, simply by turning away the damaged portions of its huge bulk could a pristine hull be presented to the enemy.

{We will have shortly taken care of the threat represented by the Battle-classes. Would you like to assist us with destroying the abomination?} asked Liaison.

Interrupted Weapons as engineering restored the semblance of shields, {Yes! Yes we would!}

*****

A steady *beep*beep*beep* sounded from what a conventional starship would term the ops console, but which on the Pretty Lady had been reconditioned to access all systems except helm and weapons. The quiet noise was accompanied by a flashing light; and both were being ignored for more pressing reasons.

Reasons which included too many sharp claws, too many equally razor teeth, not to mention body-mounted disruptor devices.

Luplup's two liaison units crouched aggressively in front of the entrance to the loo. Shortly after arrival of the Peach mini-armada, and when it became apparent that Luplup's supremacy was soon to end, the pair had attempted to take over Pretty Lady. The end result of several minutes of confused chaos had been knocking off-line of all door controls, several sparking terminals, a melted captain chair, and scratches and bruises for all parties. No one had yet to be seriously injured.

A lone thought at the back of Joseph's mind really wished the vysts had found a different place for a stalemate, for not only had the bathroom cost big credits to install, but a certain bladderly urge had taken this inconvenient time to make itself felt. That third cup of mint tea had definitely been a mistake.

Joseph looked at the small phaser he held in one hand, a weapon almost useless given the vysts' personal shielding. While he had a utility blade sheathed against his right hip, he had never been much of a knife fighter; and he additionally did not relish going up against a creature which had natural weapons of superior quality gracing the ends of eight limbs. Sooner or later Luplup would realize she held the greater advantage despite the four-on-two odds.

A rhythmic pounding began upon the door leading to the rest of the ship. The worker Self glanced in the direction of the commotion even as the larger tactical kept her eyes riveted upon Joseph.

Narika, still linked to internal ship communications, whispered, "Garrot and Farl are trying to open the doors. Farl says he rigged up a crossbow with some scrap metal, but he's unsure how long it will hold together if it is actually used."

"Anything is better than nothing," answered Joseph. "Tony?"

The helmsmen was dragging forth objects from under a deck plate he had levered up. It was a smuggler's cache, one deliberately easy to be found by nosy custom's officials. Usually it held a small number of credits or cheap gems - bribes for said officials, who could then write in their reports that no illegal goods had been found despite a thorough search, neglecting to mention the extra income - but not at the moment. During the stress of the standoff, kleptomaniac Tony had sheepishly mentioned that some items not owned by him may have been misplaced in the cache, and that maybe one or two might be of use. So far, none had proven to be so. "Um, where'd this come from?"

"That's the candle I bought at Tollupi station last month!" exclaimed Narika, eyes wide. "It has special fragrances in it and cost a fortune! Give me that!" The candle was snatched from Tony's hand.

"Quiet, you two," admonished Joseph. "Rei...if you tell me one more time to treat the vysts nicely, I will slice off your head and throw it at her, them, whatever."

The Bajoran, a knife of his own in hand, one which he appeared quite comfortable with, shook his head and gave a cryptic answer, "It is all a matter of timing." He squinted at the blinking console, "Has anyone answered that?"

"Does it look like I've had the opportunity?" asked Narika.

A dent was starting to mar the smooth expanse of the bridge door. Both liaison vysts were now staring at Joseph; and he fancied that the glint in their eyes suggested that Luplup had finally concluded she needed the Pretty Lady, sans crew. The vysts crouched lower, powerful rear legs tamping the deck in preparation to spring. Joseph hefted his knife, wondering if he dared to throw it.

"This is an anonymous message, delivered to all Taurini mob vessels," calmly spoke a synthetic voice associated with Borg and Color. Rei had edged himself to the ops console and punched the blinking button. "Luplup is no longer relevant. It is strongly suggested that any remaining liaison units aboard Taurini mob vessels or facilities be eliminated. There will be no repercussions from this act."

Rei noted, "I'd say the best timing is now." He lifted his own knife and, with superb accuracy, threw it. The blade lodged in the neck of the worker Self.

"Hey! You know those fireworks Garrot claimed I took? Well, obviously I did not! They've been under here all the time!" Tony held out a hand, upon which was displayed what was less firework and more miniaturized antipersonnel mine. Written warnings in several languages cautioned of messy consequences if the celebratory devices were misused.

Joseph glanced at Rei, and received an affirmative nod in return. He'd have to question the mob representative later, assuming both of them survived: Rei's attitude over the last several days combined with this final message suggested a conspiracy of some sort. Joseph smelled a set-up. Still, survival was not a given. He took several bomblets from Tony. "Narika...tell Garrot and Farl to get their asses in here, now. Blow the door if they have to." He /really/ needed to use the bathroom.

The liaison vysts charged.

Clutching the candle to her bosom, as if fearing Tony might somehow re-misappropriate it, Narika passed on the order. Then her brow wrinkled as one of her crewmates, the chief engineer down a level in the engine room, replied with a message of his own. "You heard a noise? Like an animal? Look, the captain is a wee bit busy at the moment, but when I get the chance, I'll tell him that you think the exterminators may not have been fully successful in fumigating our vermin problem. I think bugbombs and chewed wires are the least of his worries right now."

*****

Captain was in Supply Closet #35. Before him were two holodisplays, one focused upon highlights of the dry-dock node destruction, and the other channeling a communication feed from Luplup. In the hour since the destruction of the final Battle-class cube, Peach vessels had been almost delicately dissecting the shipyard. Starting with the peripherals, each node of the unimatrix-like structure had been sliced away from the main facility with cutting beams, then subject to a very thorough bombardment with various energy weapons.

Peach, a relatively small Color with limited naval resources - Silencer notwithstanding - had not emerged from the battle unscathed. In a final desperate bid for survival, Luplup had rammed her last Battle-class into two of Peach's Exploratory-class cubes, destroying one and critically crippling the other. The maneuver had been for naught, sphere imploding the final enemy with the same unknown weapon as had been employed on its comrade.

Cube #347 hung before one of the primary shipyard nodes. Inside were many of Luplup's most critical resources, including nexusQueen, several hatcheries, and one of the backup Queens. Early in the deliberate destruction, the sub-collective had been asked in a polite, if firm, manner to stand-down, over-exuberance by the weapons hierarchy several times not only missing larger-than-a-barn targets, but nearly impacting the crippled Peach cube and threatening to complete what Luplup had begun. Several warning shots by Silencer had punctuated the non-request.

Luplup defiantly hissed as another node was separated and destroyed, all the Selves within consigned to immolation.

"Well, with Lup gone who-knows-where, and Luplup not so long for this universe, I expect I'll be assigned to another alien mentality to shrink," prosaically commented Ali. "That is, assuming I really will be leaving with body and mind intact."

"We will provide you with a ride back to Detention," said Liaison. "That is, of course, unless you'd like to join Peach? Obviously we do not engage in such battles very often, our specialty espionage, but opportunities are present. Traveling to see odd corners of the galaxy is yet another benefit of my Color."

"No," replied Ali as she crossed her arms across her chest.

Captain ignored the banter, concentrating upon keeping Weapons in check. The hierarchy head was chaffing to join the 'fun'. Meanwhile, Delta was taking advantage of the forced inactivity to push engineering to repair as much as possible, just in case one of the consequences of Weapons breaking from his cage was a match-up against an Assault-class sphere.

"As you insist," said Liaison, a hint of false sadness coloring his tone. "So, Captain, are you" - plural - "ready to terminate the Luplup abomination? It seems oddly symmetrical - Luplup originated from Borg Cube #347, and Borg Cube #347 should be the one to destroy it."

What could only be described as an eagerness was building in the intranets. Even Doctor's expected protests were muted, the ultimate originator of Luplup finally admitting that the vyst was not the most suitable of pets. Captain shifted his attention away from the holowindows (not that his internal focus was diverted) to face the Peach unit. "Clarification?"

Another node vanished amid a flash of bright light. Luplup's nexusQueen whined. "Please don't destroys this Luplup. She can bes a good girls. I don'ts want to be so small that I bes zero. Even one is betters than zero. Luplup is a good girl."

{No,} said Captain as Doctor seemed to be on the verge of softening his stance, and, thus, affecting the whole of the sub-collective. Doctor withdrew his presence, narrowing his focus upon the drone maintenance list.

Liaison was no longer physically connected to the dataspaces; and continuous scanning by a sensory drone present in Supply Closet #35 indicated a lack of obvious non-physical links, as well. Theoretically Peach had been fully ejected from Cube #347's datasphere, although suspicions remained given the Color's specialty. It was therefore more likely that Liaison (and his Greater Consciousness) observed the small outward signs which indicated Captain's momentary shift in focus, rather than 'hearing' it directly, before answering the request. At least that was what the sub-collective kept reminding itself.

"If you don't /want/ to terminate Luplup, Peach is willing to do so. Otherwise, the honor is yours," said Liaison without actually answering the one-word question.

"Symmetry and honor are irrelevant, but we accept, anyway," evenly said Captain as he faced the holowindow framing Luplup. He paused, then continued, words directed not at Liaison, but the screen. "Luplup has been a very, very, very bad girl." Control was released to Weapons.

Luplup's picture dissolved into static.

Captain allowed a slight smile to cross his face, accompanying the sub-collective feeling of relief. Finally, at least one chapter in Cube #347's inglorious career was undeniably ended.

An explosion briefly lit the dark. The bright red of burning oxygen was a funeral pyre marking the final resting place of remnant Luplup Selves. As thorough as Peach had been in the initial dissection of the Gray-built dry-dock facility, it was inevitable that small pockets of atmosphere would survive. While the remaining vyst Selves left were considered to be immaterial without the central focus of a nexusQueen, the Color was not taking any chances of the spontaneous reformation of the Luplup Whole. Every lifesign, no matter how insignificant, was met with overkill: Peach /was/ a Borg variant, after all.

Captain was paying attention to the hunt with only a small slice of his mind. Admittedly, it was a slice which was not-so-secretly rejoicing with each confirmed termination, but was, in the end, only a sliver of his overall multitasking consciousness. The much greater awareness was focused upon the communication window hanging in his nodal intersection; and, specifically, the visage of Liaison within it. The Peach drone had been reclaimed by his Greater Consciousness and transported to the least damaged Exploratory-class, along with Black Ops xenopsychologist Ali. It was from that vessel Liaison continued his liaison duties, interfacing with Cube #347 and serving as a bridge between his Color and the sub-collective.

"You are just going to let us go?" Captain was incredulous. The Borg Collective would certainly have no compunction about destroying a Color given a similar circumstance; and such could be said of most Colors if a lack of repercussions could be assured. After all, Borg and the various Colored variants were all rivals for the same elusive Perfection. The destruction of Cube #347 would not be mourned by the Borg Collective, even had the sub-collective not been declared rogue.

Liaison tilted his head slightly. "Why should we keep or terminate you? We have no reason. At the very least it would be a liability, the resources required to clean, repair, and retrofit your Exploratory-class to Peach standards greater than that required to build a new ship. You served as an adequate vector to destroy the Luplup abomination."

Captain, the sub-collective, was far from convinced. "How did you even know to come to this system? The timing is coincidental, to put it mildly. It isn't like there is a big sticky note in the astrometrical charts that says 'Luplup is here'...." The sentence trailed into inaudibility, a suspicion bubbling up from the dataspace depths.

"Actually," said Liaison, "the note says 'Gray Collective', but the sentiment is the same. It /is/ the Peach reputation to know everything relevant to know, after all. You have already learned that your jamming wasn't as thorough as it could have been. The rest you, even without Collective support, can probably work out for yourselves."

Various scenarios, some more plausible than others, were already rising into sub-collective awareness. Later Captain might examine a few of them, but now was not the time. Another explosion marked the fiery end of a vyst or four.

Casually asked Liaison, "So, have you found Lup?"

Captain automatically queried the latest Lup hunt report, sensory hierarchy having retuned internal sensors to search for non-Borg lifesigns. While various items of a suspicious nature had been thus far discovered, none had registered as vyst. A reading culled from sensor logs time-stamped shortly after Peach's arrival remained the last confirmation of Lup's whereabouts. The significance of the data, collected as part of routine sweeps harvested in the chaos of battle, had not been known until initial inquiry by Liaison on behalf of his Color had prompted examination of files.

"Lup was on the shuttle we destroyed at time stamp 5762122.76. Organics in the debris field match that expected given the vyst's body mass," summarized Captain from the report. A small holowindow next to the primary display scrolled through the data, ending with a blinking symbol which indicated the associated decision matrix to be near 100% certain that Lup was terminated. Case closed. "Weapons can be a bit...vigorous in his function."

"So we noticed." Liaison heaved a sigh. The act was theatrical, no need given his conversation partner was another drone. "It will have to do. Any transporter signatures are lost in the background of electronic warfare static; and all the freighters Luplup dragged here that were in transporter distance have fled. It is highly doubtful their various captains would suffer a vyst, anyway." How Liaison - Peach - was sure of that conclusions was left unsaid. "No matter: nexusQueens cannot lay eggs, only the eggQueens, so she couldn't produce more Selves anyway. Luplup's den-planet has begun breaking up; and the vyst Second Federation Black Ops thinks they have hidden away will shortly be the victim of an unfortunate singularity torpedo accident, along with the transport she is currently upon. The abomination will be extinct."

"Um, good," offered Captain. Truthfully, he could care less. Now that the Luplup /here/ was destroyed, Cube #347 was free to limp away, undergo necessary repairs, then return to trying to find the oddly mobile ingredient which had prompted the entire scheme in the first place. It was perhaps predictable that the ingredient was no longer as registering as present in the (formerly) Luplup occupied quadrant. "We are leaving."

Another intact bubble of atmosphere was violently vented to space.

Cube #347 sped jumped into hypertranswarp before Peach could change its convoluted Mind regarding cube and sub-collective.

*****

"It is not that I'm ungrateful that I'm being given a lift back to Detention to meet up with my superiors, but perhaps I could have provided with a /few/ more luxuries than my previous prison? I'm not expecting five-star hotel here, but a bed would be nice, as opposed to a cot. Maybe food of a non-mush consistency that tastes of, well, something?" Ali's voice intruded upon Liaison's awareness like the chatter of a distant bird, noted as present, but deemed irrelevant for the nonce.

Cube #347 was gone, its hypertranswarp wake fading into the background currents of subspace. In truth, the spoor would remain quite traceable to the sensory grid of a Peach Exploratory-class cube for the next cycle or so, but no effort would be extended to track the imperfect sub-collective. It wasn't that there was no incentive to do so - in fact, there was at least one large reason in the form of the quantum parasite bombshell relayed by Liaison upon his restoration to the Whole - but that there was no need. If the decision cascade was correct, then Cube #347 would eventually have to attempt a very dangerous endeavor which would capture the attention of the entire Borg Collective.

When that came to pass, assuming Cube #347 survived that long, Peach would be ready.

Cube #347 /better/ survive, for otherwise the Peach version of Perfection, along with that pursued by variants of every Color, would become rather academic.

The survival, or nonsurvival, of Cube #347 would be tracked by the worm riding 4 of 8. After making initial contact with his Greater Consciousness, but before revealing his presence within Cube #347's dataspaces, Liaison had introduced code to reconfigure the worm. The alteration was slight, changing the worm's behavior to include squirting the equivalent of 'I am alive' messages into anonymous electronic dropboxes each time the sub-collective linked into the GalacWeb. Peach would not know where the cube was, nor what it was doing, only that it remained functional. The danger arose in that in its prior configuration, Cube #347's electronic defenses considered the worm to be 'allowed' code associated with 4 of 8. The alteration held the distinct possibility that the worm would trigger hunter-seekers, resulting in its discovery and dissolution.

Only time would tell if Liaison had successfully inserted the modifications.

"Are you even /listening/ to me?" demanded Ali, followed by a poke to the Liaison's chest carapace.

Liaison opened his eyes. In addition to serving as the bridge to Cube #347 via a virtual visual environment, his liaison duties had been extended to include chaperoning the human. It did not matter that there were several other liaison drones on the Exploratory-class cube, or that one of them was of the Group of 12 series. As any drone well knows, argument with the Greater Consciousness is a futile affair.

"You have been provided with the necessities. I recall a similar arrangement when I was aboard Detention. Comfort is irrelevant, but if you do wish to be more comfortable given your surroundings, well, I will remind you that you do have all the hallmarks of an excellent Peach drone. A spy-agency psychiatrist would add greatly to our quest for Perfection," remarked Liaison.

Both posture and facial expression declared louder than words that Ali had not been mollified. Her answer was flat, "No. Just get me to where I need to be...in an unassimilated state."

"As you wish," replied Liaison before closing his eyes to better track the ebb and flow of the local dataspace. At least this time, when it came time to regenerate, he would have access to an alcove which did not chafe nor threaten him with a rash in sensitive places.

*****

Lup lifted her head high, tilting it slightly as she listened, not with her ears, but with her mind.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Lup rejoiced.

Oh, there was the thinnest of threads, the smallest of voices, but it was a singleton who howled in the dark. That singleton was not a threat, nor could be a threat; and, knowing the Peach mindset, would soon never be a threat. It was Luplup who had been big, had been powerful. But it was also Luplup who had been reduced to extinction. In truth, Luplup had been an animal raised before her time to sentience; and an animal she remained, no matter how many veneers of civilization were applied. An animal was not fit to rule the cosmic nest.

Sometimes it was best to wipe the slate clean, start over.

What Luplup had sensed in Lup, and what she had struck at, had recoiled from, had been what Luplup had ever strived to become. Lup had that indefinable spark, that unknown somethingness, that raised a creature above its sub-sapient forbearers, that elusive 0.0001% change in DNA which produced "here be a true intelligence"..."here be Owner."

Luplup had long gone feral, had long ago ran from Owner. In a visceral unknowing knowing, Luplup had struck at Lup, an animal refusing to be recaged, to be reduced once more to pet.

Now, however, Luplup was gone (the singleton did not count); and Lup was in her place.

"You just want transport to the nearest station with livestock facilities?" asked a suspicious voice.

Lup tilted her head to better look at the human's face. 'Joseph' he had named himself, captain of the Pretty Lady. It was to this ship the shuttle transporter had reached, employed even before the small vessel had launched from the cube's cavernous hold. She had known that the Borg would destroy the shuttle; and she had known that the best way to complete the escape of her past life (and the life of her progenitor) was to die. Or at least play dead. The difficult part had been convincing the then blood-splattered Joseph and his crew to not turn play into reality. A promise of many credits had helped - Lup had arranged a long time ago to have access to Luplup's Taurini mob bank account - as had the puzzling assistance by the Bajoran called 'Rei'.

"Yes," replied Lup. She had carefully retuned the voder to remove the subtle submarmonics and hissings employed with handler Ali and Captain's packmates. It was time to act civilized, and everyone appreciated a well spoken individual. Clothing might help as well, but first things first. "Also a box for one of the Luplup alcoves you do not need. I myself will require a crate - one I can open from the inside! - and a PADD with the appropriate animal shipping forms. I will fill out the paperwork. You do not need to know where I go. I am paying more than enough credits for you to develop selective amnesia."

"Yes, yes you are," nodded Joseph. A decision had been made. "But you will stay here, in this room. You will not bother me or my crew. You will not give me any orders. If you want to travel as if you were livestock or someone's pet, that is your concern."

Lup allowed the word 'pet' to wash over her hide. The unintentional derogation was irrelevant: unlike Luplup, she had grown beyond umbrage at such petty insults. Revenge was for small beings; and while Lup was, certainly, small at the moment, she was still much bigger than Luplup. "I agree."

Joseph left the room. The door closed behind him, edges coming together with that particular *click* that suggested a lock. No matter.

Yes, Lup would politely travel to that livestock facility; and then she would route herself to an appropriately quiet, high-tech, out-of-the-way agrarian colony. Once there, she would revel in the silence of the universe...and then she would start to fill that silence with her own voice. There would be plenty of victims - a civilized word for prey - to convert to not-Selves, a process Lup would embrace as her progenitor never could.

A natural force were the Borg; and a dedicated storm-watcher was always willing to learn from the howling of the winds and the crash of thunder.

The conversion of not-Selves was only a start point. Much time would be available to Lup as she was shipped in her crate, much time to devise any number of plans. For instance, while nexusQueens could not lay eggs, eggQueens could; and Lup, in a fit of growing paranoia, had inserted into her potential successors biostasis implants holding the entire cellular library of all lineages. A high-tech agrarian colony would surely include cloning incubators that could be diverted from growing the local equivalent of dairy cows. And then...?

The future would come, or it would not.

Until then, Lup would enjoy the silence.

---

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