Greetings, reader. You have reached technical support, located on Litium IV. The translator does not always work well. However, troubleshooting says Star Trek should be the domain of Paramount, Star Traks was created by Decker, and Meneks writes BorgSpace. If you want any actual help, to a Tier II tech you must go.

Outsourcing

A jumbled collection of vast geometrical shapes linked to each other by oversized cabling orbited a yellow dwarf star. From a distance the form looked like the forgotten plaything of a colossal god, a tinker-toy set shaken from its package and then abandoned. In truth, there was an order amid the seeming chaos, but that order was only known to its builder - the Borg Collective.

The structure was not a unimatrix, but a supply depot; and a rather small one at that. Originally designed to serve as waypoints along a webwork of permanent transwarp tunnels, unimatrices were huge constructs able to hold the populace of several heavily industrialized planets. With the advent of hypertranswarp, the need for unimatrices had not diminished, continuing to serve as hubs of Borg activity as it related to the never-ending quest for Perfection. However, it was not always necessary, nor desirable, to expend the resources to build the Borg equivalent of an unassailable fortress when an outpost, housing a mere five billions drones, was adequate.

Supply Depot #761 occupied the leading Lagrange point of a once inhabited terrestrial planet. Technically the planet remained inhabited, albeit by Borg drones instead of its original populace, the victim of mass assimilation less than a year prior. The planet's name replaced by a catalogue number, it was rapidly undergoing conversion to a form deemed most efficient by the Collective. Similarly, the remainder of the system was also in the initial stages of extensive exploitation; and it had been decided by the Whole that the location upon the galactic stage was excellent for a small supply depot.

Unfortunately, more important matters, such as used warp nacelles, karaoke, musical revivals, and delving into the mysteries of sculpture, had intruded before Supply Depot #761 could be completed. Important enough in the greater scheme of things to warrant finishing construction, yet not quite sufficiently critical to rank as a priority, the Collective had decided upon a novel course of action - outsourcing.

It was grand experiment - the Collective did not believe in small, after all - with individuals and Colors contracted (and subcontracted) to complete Supply Depot #761. The outpost was quite functional as is, able to service all Borg vessels that docked for repairs and to receive and send materials as required by local Collective resources. That fact was irrelevant. On the other hand, blueprints were not. 'Type-A personality' did little justice in describing the Borg Collective mindset. Plans called for additional interior work in three nodes, each structure of mind-boggling proportions to a non-Borg being. The logic chain that had ultimately led to the concept of 'outsourcing' would have died in a Collective not experiencing the side-effects of quantum parasite infection, but that was a 'what-if' which had never come to pass.

It took a special subset of individuals and Colors willing to risk themselves to labor for the Collective. Money was the key: the Borg Collective had a lot of it. The Collective itself had no use for currency, for why would the Body pay a cell to do the job it was assigned? However, precious metals, gems, and other materials which had no utility to a high-tech civilization of cyborgs bent on Perfection were ideal to serve as payment to contractors. It was either that, or replicator reclamation. A poor grasp of fiscal faculty which promoted a tendency by the Collective for gross overpayment considering services rendered was an additional attraction for those of a financially speculative nature.

Those with a notion to produce shoddy results need not apply. All work was closely inspected before the temporary employee was released; and the penalty for noncompliance to blueprints was very, very steep.

Several transports were enroute to node #5, the designated non-Borg entry point. At twenty-five meters long, one vessel was noticeably larger than its comrades. Despite its size, the ship was technically classified as a 'shuttle' or 'runabout'. More specifically, the configuration was 'bus', of the sort which stuffs as many people as possible, with luggage that may or may not include livestock and personal vehicles (sometimes one and the same) within a confined space without regard to personal comfort.

"Supply Depot #761, this is-"

"Identity is irrelevant. Continue following the beacon to your designated berth. You will be processed upon arrival," curtly replied the Borg Multivoice upon the audio-only transmission channel.

127 of 230 swiveled her upper body as much as possible considering body armor and the fact she was physically plugged into the shuttle's primary console. Shoulders lifted in the most minute of shrugs.

"Unimportant," said Delta in dismissal. She was on a holiday. Not a true holiday, of course, as the concept of 'time off' was irrelevant to all whom belonged to the clade of Borg. However, instead of acting as the nexus for nearly a thousand drones, her current responsibility consisted of eleven. The situation would not last, but Delta was determined to enjoy it to the limits allowed by her governors. In less than six days she would either be returned to her full hierarchal head status or she would be terminated. Either way, the holiday would be over.

Returning to the ambivalence projected by the Multivoice, the best descriptor of the emotion washing through the subunit was relief. While the cover story concocted by the Cube #347 sub-collective was meticulous, Delta did not truly wish to test it against the wiles of the Borg Collective. Simple presence of a dozen (thirteen if both of Delta's bodies were counted) drones technically of the Collective, but declared rogue, was dangerous enough without attempting a story which may or may not pass muster. A moderately detailed scan would uncover hardware and interplexing beacon modulations that were Borg standard; and even now it was very difficult to ignore routine demands for integration from the primary depot vinculum.

Unfortunately, the approach to Supply Depot #761 was necessary.

The more-than-year since losing vinculum had not been kind to Cube #347; and the confrontation with Luplup had only added to the burden. Although Borg cubes were largely self-sufficient, there were key items which could not be replicated, manufactured, or rebuilt using cube regeneration. In the case of the cloak, Delta could care less if the thing was nonfunctional. However, it would only be a matter of time before paucity of replacement supplies would begin to degrade critical systems like environmental support and propulsion.

Hence the need for this very dangerous of shopping excursions.

The Borg Collective's undertaking into outsourcing had been learnt via the advertisement of a sub-sub-sub-subcontractor searching for help. An automated buoy floating in the middle of nowhere had caught Cube #347's attention, its high-power broadcast cutting into deep subspace. How the buoy had come to be in its location was unknown, unless the contractor in question was looking to corner the 'lost spaceships undergoing epic voyages' market, but it had become the foundation of the sub-collective's desperate scheme.

The appearance of Cube #347 at Supply Depot #761, even if broadcasting an intent to accept any and all labor assignments, was not advised. Not all the paint in the universe could hide the cube's true identification from the Collective. The outcome of such a straightforward action was predictable.

The formulated plan was simple. Piloting the largest vessel feasible, a few drones would approach under the guise of contractors. Over the course of several days, as many supplies as possible would be nicked. Then, with shopping list complete or suspicions being cast upon the 'contractors', whichever came first, an emergency would be claimed that necessitated the drones return to their Color. The vessel would leave and be met by Cube #347 at a suitable distance, ending with the cube running as if the entire Borg fleet was following behind. Given the sub-collective's track record, that particular end to the scenario was highly probable.

All of which led to the here-and-now. Delta had been among those designations chosen by consensus cascade to be in the shopping expedition. Her presence had less to do with hierarchal head status and engineering knowledge - many drones were capable of the former and ignorance of the latter was easily resolved by downloading the appropriate files - and more to do with the fact that her personal idiosyncrasies were few and, most importantly, she could be depended upon to complete the assignment. The same could be said of the other drones assigned to the team.

The shuttle-bus carefully maneuvered itself to the designated destination, deviating not a millimeter from the beacon-highlighted path. Node #5 of Supply Depot #761 loomed, a metal cliff dwarfing any and all vessels in its shadow. Nearby guards in the form of a pair of Battle-class cubes silently watched, a not-so-subtle reminder that speed limits and queues would be strictly enforced. Finally the node swallowed the shuttle-bus, as it had those forward in the line.

The inside of the node was as large as promised by the outside, and the view spread before the shuttle-bus' viewport was only a small slice of the entire volume. Ships of an astounding variety were slotted with maximum efficiency within a parking lot that literally spanned several square kilometers. It was not to these berths the shuttle-bus angled, but rather a temporary unloading zone. Directions received early in the approach vector had been very specific in regards to initial processing of all new contractors

The shuttle-bus precisely landed upon its mark, dwarfing the other transports. At the primary access port Delta sucked in a breath. {127 of 230, stay with the shuttle. Everyone else, let us go.} A button was pushed. The door slid open and a ramp automatically extended to the deck. Delta was mildly surprised at the lack of tactical drones with disruptors set to 'extreme hurting'.

The welcoming committee was much worse.

With one foot tapping impatiently, despite the fact that the transport had just landed, waited a female species #9509 - Burical. Like all her race, she was shorter than the humanoid norm, top of head maybe equal with Delta's chest, although upswept hair stiffened by capacious amounts of gel and spray more than made up any height difference. Despite her less-than-imposing stature, it was what the female represented, not what she was, which sent shivers through the psyche of the drones filing down the ramp. The Burical thrived on administrative minutiae, the entire race dedicated to all things forms and paperwork and red tape. They even out-bureaucratized the long assimilated Bonoi, whose absorption had required the Greater Consciousness decades to purge all remnant echoes of governmental officialdom.

"Who are you and why are you here?" barked the female as Delta, body A, set foot upon the deck. A species #9509's social standing was indicated by his or her hair, the taller and more magnificent the coif, the more important the individual. The most eminent persons required special neck braces and legions of assistants to display their hair, not to mention the ranks of hairdressers necessary for proper management. Baldness was to be pitied. The droopy tips and fly-aways at the periphery of the female's hair-do attested to a state of extreme business and over-work.

Delta accessed the prepared back-story. "We are-"

The words were abruptly cut off by a curt, downward sweep of a PADD. "On second thought, I do not care what Color you are nor where you relate in this stupid chain of outsourcing and specialty sub-sub-subcontractors," huffed the rumpled Burical. "Just move that boat of a transport shuttle out of the way to your assigned berth, then...then go stand over there until someone can get to you. I'm sure it'll all be straightened out and temporary alcoves allotted before you need to regenerate." This was said in that particular tone of voice shared by bureaucrats multiverse-wide which conveys completion of the assigned job and whatever came next was Not My Problem.

'Over there', as indicated by the waved PADD, consisted of an out-of-the-way crowd of Colored Borg and unassimilated beings. The drones formed clumps based upon their respective Color; and the latter tended to avoid the former as much as possible, just in case. Without anything to provide interest - watching shuttles land and take off was only so engrossing - both groups were likely experiencing an equal level of boredom, although only the unassimilated were overtly displaying their tedium.

Delta, designated liaison for the team, turned to ask a question of the bureaucrat. However, she and her compatriots had already been dismissed, the species #9509 dock representative stalking off to confront the next shuttle.

"The owner of shuttle with registration number N-E-1-1-3, designation 'Star Rumble', will move their vessel within the next minute," boomed the Collective Multivoice. "Noncompliance will result in towing of the shuttle and assimilation of all beings registered to it." Pause. "The white zone is for loading and unloading of passengers only, with a ten minute parking time strictly enforced."

"Give me a break!" sounded from the clot of unassimilated. One individual separated itself from the crowd and hastily sprinted past the Cube #347 drones. A mutter of "Worse than the parking Nazis at Roche stadium" was heard as they were passed.

{Go park the ship,} said Delta to 127 of 230.

The line shuffled forward, and Delta found herself face-to-face with another species #9509 representative. This one was male and sported a slightly more complex hair-do - taller and with golden sparkles - but otherwise looked alike the female greeter. A discrete name tag on his vest informed all readers that his name was 'Stewarg'. He wore a satchel over his left shoulder.

Stewarg looked up from the PADD he was holding, perfunctorily glanced at both of Delta's bodies, then returned to whatever it was he was reading. If the appearance of twin Borg concerned him, he did not show it. "How many alcoves will you be needing?" Stewarg asked, without preamble. "If it will be more than twenty, there is no guarantee they will be all in the same block."

"We do not need alcoves. Regeneration will occur upon our transport," answered Delta. Body B spoke while body A panned the busy processing area, ever on the alert for the supply depot's owners. Thus far, no Collective drones had been seen. To prevent an overly long line, Stewarg, upon his initial appearance, had announced only a single representative of each contractor to be allowed in the queue. Delta had dutifully taken her place.

"Whatever," said Stewarg with a shrug. "That just makes it easier for me."

"We are-" began Delta in an effort to speed the interview.

"Who you are is not my problem," interrupted Stewarg, eyes never leaving his PADD. "I do not deal with financial matters and the like, only assignments. You will be contacted later by a specialist to work out wages and payment method."

Delta did not respond. She could care less about irrelevant concepts such as money, but was beginning to wonder if all the effort the sub-collective had put into devising a plausible back-story was for naught. The thought was one held in common by the entire team.

Stewarg redirected attention from his PADD to both of Delta's bodies, appraising her with the intensity one usually reserves for determining the value of a used shuttle. "Engineering specialty," he pronounced. It was a comment, not a question.

"Yes," affirmed Delta.

"How many in your group and what are their specialties?" continued the interrogator. "And if any of them are tactical or mount weapons, they will not be allowed out of this processing facility, and your eventual payment will reflect this lack of work."

{Good thing Weapons was overruled, eh?} rhetorically inquired 9 of 19. Among the plans originally considered by the sub-collective had been one where most of the team had consisted of weapons hierarchy members.

Delta responded in the affirmative even as she answered the Burical's question. "Twelve units are assigned to this subunit. All are outfitted with engineering suites. However, one unit will remain with our transport."

"Will all those drones who are part of your group raise one arm?" A wrinkle marred Stewarg's forehead as he craned his head to look over the team. "I count twelve of you here." A puzzled note colored the bureaucrat's voice, replacing boredom.

{Put your arms down,} ordered Delta. She looked down at the man with both her bodies. "There are eleven of us present. These two bodies are one unit."

"I see..." said Stewarg, even as it was obvious he did not. He dismissed his ignorance with a shrug. "Well, not my problem. Budget will have to deal with any nonstandard circumstances." The free hand was reached into the satchel, emerging with a PADD. After pressing a few buttons, the device was offered to Delta. "Here you go."

Delta took the PADD.

"Your duty station is Vessel Reprocessing Facility #3. A map and assignment details are on the PADD. Read everything carefully as your contract is also included. You are expected to begin immediately, although I expect such will not bother you, unlike your non-Color contractor brethren. If you need further information or have questions, look for bureaucrat representatives like myself at your work location. Conversely, you can ask any Collective drones you encounter, of which there will be plenty on-site assuring quality control. Next!" Spiel delivered, Delta was dismissed, the busy Stewarg already moving to the next body in line.

Delta shuffled out of the way. With body A looking over toward the rest of her team, most of whom were facing her direction, body B contemplated the PADD. {Let's see what our assignment is,} she commented knuckles of the relevant body plunging towards the device.

Vehicle Reprocessing Facility #3 was a vast cavern of a workspace dedicated to dismantling ships captured by the Borg. Storage cradles able to hold a wide range of vessel configurations, from runabouts to massive warships kilometers in length, were visible, although few were filled at present. Empty claws like skeletal Venus flytraps of enormous proportions gaped, waiting to swallow a victim. Of the dozen captured vessels, only one was in a state of partial dissection, suggesting lack of novel technologies or material among the current crop of detainees.

One ship stood out, but only because the paint scheme captured the eye, a deep black where light seemed to die. Without access to Cube #347 files, Delta and the rest of her team were clueless upon the species and configuration represented by the fifty meter long vessel. Black was often a color used by governments testing super-secret technologies, but lack of Collective interest, in addition to the otherwise run-down appearance beneath the paint, suggested the theory that such was not the case here. More likely, the paint had been an idiosyncrasy of a now-assimilated captain, similar to the concept of painting flames on a ground vehicle to provide the illusion of speed.

Delta stared at several subwall components with her doubled point of view. Simultaneously, a circuitry diagram rotated within the combined mental space of her subunit team, critical junctures each considered in turn. At the heart of both virtual and real mazes was a multiuse control node. While the component could be constructed on Cube #347, several rare elements made the manufacturing very labor intensive. Finally a decision was made. With both bodies, Delta swiftly spliced a pair of key linkages, then cut several wires before plucking the fist-sized node from its setting.

Nine sets of eyes surreptitiously watched for any reaction, focusing primarily upon the Collective drones who were stationed throughout the facility. Nothing. As with the dozen other minor thefts thus far accomplished, there was no outward response. Of course, 'outward' was the key word, it possible the Collective to be intently watching all that Delta and her team were doing. However, such was also very unlikely, the original Collective not one for subtlety when direct action was more efficient.

Delta passed the control node to 9 of 19 for storage within a torso compartment. {Is the panel ready?} An affirmative was received. {Then let us weld it into place.}

As with the majority of other contractors assigned to Vehicle Reprocessing Facility #3, Delta's group was emplacing panels to cover exposed wires, conduits, and other subwall components. In the greater scheme of things, the action was not strictly necessary and could be viewed as cosmetic: the reprocessing facility was perfectly functional already. The work itself consisted primarily of welding, often tens of meters in the air above the deck on anti-gravity sleds since most of the lower walls were already complete. Occasionally one of the two construction sleds had to be driven to a materials depot to pick up more supplies as stock on hand was depleted.

Sparks rained upon armored bodies as plasma welders were put to use. The job, and variations upon it, was one familiar to all engineering drones, many aspects of repair and maintenance requiring melting one piece of metal to another.

Panel in place, another was hefted to continue the assembly line process.

{Status report,} demanded Delta of 98 of 310 as droplets of liquid fire attempted to set aflame the hair she did not possess. The next opportunity for theft was a relay cluster eight panels in the future.

98 of 310 was tasked to scout the transporter system, smuggling to the shuttle-bus the few parts thus far acquired and thereby testing Collective response. Thus far, the Greater Consciousness had been less than alert, to say the least. Of course, with all the Colors and non-assimilated present, it was likely sensitivity to anomalous behavior had been greatly dulled. To do otherwise was to risk slowing the overall construction rate by stopping every out-of-place individual to demand an explanation to what would ultimately be deemed a harmless, if idiosyncratic, action.

Used of a dedicated transporter system was necessary to move between work sites. The arrangement afforded exacting control as to whom went where, as well as tracking each use. Under the (dull) watchful eyes of Collective drones, an individual manually input one of a limited number of destinations. Use of nanotubules was prohibited, as emphasized by large signs in Borg script, complete with multiple exclamation mark equivalents. Theoretically this choke point was the best place to scan for illicit technologies or the presence of rogue drones attempting to smuggle components. However, in a variation upon a theme the Collective had found it hard to shed over the millennium, internal security tended to be fairly lax once outer defenses had been breached.

{Nominal,} replied 98 of 310. He had delivered his most recent burden to the shuttle-bus and was now making his way through the parking maze back to the nearest transporter access. {However, I was assaulted by the neighbors aft of us again.}

Delta reviewed the alleged 'assault'. As before, it consisted of two pre-adolescent species #9720 children standing midway up the ramp to their ship. Although they had yet to attain the tall, willowy nature of the adult, the renown racial reflexes were very much on display. {They were shooting rubber bands at you, 98 of 310.}

{One of them almost hit me!}

{The rubber band never came within three meters of you.}

{It almost hit me!} insisted 98 of 310 despite evidence to the contrary.

Dismissing 98 of 310's concern, Delta turned to perusing her shopping list even as her bodies continued their actions on automatic pilot. While the reprocessing facility would allow collection of some items, it was the wrong venue for others such as stores of certain isotopes. The locations of those items and possibility of acquisition had to be determined; and if not a Borg source, then raiding comrade transports within the parking lot had to be evaluated.

A maximum of five days was allotted for the expedition; and even that was pushing it. As it was, the siren call of reintegration to the Whole sang a provocative background melody. Admittedly, the signal was slightly out of tune due to normal security-driven shifts in fractal frequencies, and the presence of so many Colors with their various communication protocols added an additional blurring factor, but it remained present. If a single member of the subunit submitted to the integration request, the plan would come to a screeching halt.

{Company,} noted 6 of 19 from her position where she was scanning each panel for submicroscopic faults following its welding into place. {One of the bureaucrats.}

Delta moved body B to the edge of a construction sled to meet the incoming species #9509 individual just as the latter slowed her anti-gravity personal transport to a hover.

"You are Work Detail #1791?" asked the Burical woman. She was taller than the racial norm, but had a distinctly shorter hair style consisting of a series of spikes radiating out from her head.

"Affirmative," replied Delta. The job of welding continued unabated behind body B.

The woman squinted down at the ever-present PADD. "It shows here that you are scheduled for downtime."

Only five more panels to the relay cluster.... "We will continue working."

Eyes blinked and lifted from the PADD in alarm. "Overtime? You are not authorized for overtime. Don't you dare try to take overtime, else it will look bad on my evaluation!" One hand nervously lifted to pinch a hair spike. "You will take downtime. Comply! No one cares what you do during your downtime, but it won't be work. Entertainment facilities are limited, although some may be found among parked ships. However, you don't look the Color to partake of such activities."

"We are-" started Delta. As the several times before, she did not get very far.

"I don't care whom you are," warbled the bureaucrat, "as long as you don't attempt overtime without an authorization, and I can't give you that." The woman shuddered, then appeared to calm herself. "I do need to inform you that there's been a small foul-up with financial services, so a payroll representative will get to you sometime during your next shift, the start time of which is on your PADD. Er, you do still have your PADD, don't you?"

"We do," said Delta. So much for the relay cluster, which would be paneled over by another work detail after her team left.

The woman glanced down at her PADD. Her face paled. "Then go off-shift, already! You are three minutes late! I thought you Borg types had a keen understanding of punctuality."

Delta examined the work in progress via body A and several additional optical streams: the current panel was only tacked in place, and not at all securely welded. "But-"

"No buts! Go!" Standing in her seat, the woman proceeded to wave her arms in a shooing motion.

"We comply," acknowledged Delta. {You heard the order, time to desist.}

As the two construction sleds were driven towards their parking spots, Delta was unsurprised to hear the sound of clanging metal (and bellowed curses) as the unfinished panel ripped from its setting and fell to the deck below. As all records of the incident would show the subunit to be blameless, it was likely a certain bureaucrat would soon be visiting the official barber to have several millimeters of hair shorn.

"It just registered, really," said 127 of 230 immediately upon Delta's entrance into the shuttle-bus. "I wasn't building a three-dimensional model of the Yillingter 'Swoop' IV - one of which is coincidentally berthed four slots over; and I wasn't so immersed in the model that I was not paying attention to anything else."

Delta stepped both bodies to the side of the doorway, allowing the rest of the subunit to file inside. Except for the thirteen alcoves bolted to the walls, an auxiliary energy source, and the pilot niche, the inside of the transport had been stripped to allow for maximum storage room of pilfered items. Those few objects thus far acquired made for a very small heap. "What registered? A message?" Delta pulled the information from her hierarchy-mate.

"Well, maybe I was a wee bit distracted...." admitted 127 of 230. Understatement.

Delta sent a body to the main console and linked herself into the ship computer. "The timestamp says this message was intercepted two hours ago!"

"Er...um...."

"Those mercenaries-to-be next door with their rubber band six-shooters could have invaded our vessel," accused 98 of 310, the last drone to enter the ship. The door closed behind him.

127 of 230 was silent.

Communication between Cube #347 and the engineering subunit was limited. Ideally, no messages should be exchanged at all, each instance raising the possibility of interception by the Collective. However, in the case of an emergency, a method had been dredged up from cube archives - burst bubble.

The whimsical label of 'burst bubble' originated from long ago assimilated species #2011, whom had devised the technique. The name made much more sense in the original language. The concept of the burst bubble was akin to a person hooting like an owl into the dark, attempting to pass on a message while remaining anonymous to enemy listeners. In this case, the sender mimicked an energetic natural phenomenon, tossing to the stellar winds an electromagnetic hash within which was embedded an encrypted message matrix. The comm grid of the transport was attuned for a burst bubble; and the drones, of course, had the correct keys to decode any transmission.

The primary problem with the burst bubble was that it could only be used a limited number of times before non-target parties become suspicious. Just like the un-owl hooting, one eventually realized that the bird was not. Even if the broadcasting entity moved between transmissions, the elevated number of 'natural phenomenon' was fishy, even more so when sensors failed to report expected aftereffects such as young neutron stars or a new wormhole terminus. Therefore, two, possibly three, times was the extent of burst bubble effectiveness.

Response ability by the engineering subunit was even more limited. A burst bubble was possible, an important message hidden within the 'accidental' production of an electromagnetic pulse by the shuttle-bus. However, more than once would be coincidence the Collective could not ignore, especially if taken in conjunction with suspicious natural phenomenon. At the very least, the fact that a ship full of engineering drones who could not maintain their own vessel was grounds for dismissal because it implied a lack of competency.

At the unspoken command, all loitering drones moved towards their alcoves. The lone exception was Delta, still linked to the computer. Only after the last *hiss*clamp* of alcoves latching to bodies sounded did the head of the engineering hierarchy trigger the message. Such was not to say that she was alone...far from it. Into the shared mindspace of the subunit materialized the message.

{There is good news and bad news,} began the voice of Captain without preamble. The compressed datastream did not include video, both to decrease the size of the final message and because such was an unnecessary shortcoming of a small being. To say 'voice of Captain' was also a misnomer, the data component including more than a taste of the sub-collective Whole. {The good news: the ingredient we were chasing through Luplup's territory, and then lost, has been found. The bad news: the location is somewhere on Supply Depot #761.}

Delta suppressed a groan. However, there were several vocalizations from the alcoves as other drones did not bother to censure themselves. All knew what was coming.

{Naturally, the exact configuration of the component, other than the cryptic description "phasic metal (fluidic state)"; and as much as I'd like to send the EMH to reside in /your/ data systems, the program is too big and complex to hide in a burst bubble transmission. However, the EMH is confident that if it sees a picture that either contains the item, or the item itself, it can narrow the search.} The was a long pause. {Thus far, the items have been small. With 98.5% probability, you will be able to carry it out with you when you leave at the scheduled time...assuming the item is accessible in the first place.}

All pertinent information relayed, the message abruptly ceased. Like greetings, goodbyes were also for small beings.

As if this job wasn't dangerous enough.... "Well that was unhelpful," muttered Delta outloud, unconsciously speaking with both her bodies as she unlinked herself from the computer. The sentiment was echoed among the eleven other units of the team. Delta trekked to her paired alcoves: so much for a restful regeneration of no-thought. This vacation was turning into a working holiday. {First we will review the maps thus far built, then we shall determine the most efficient manner to visually examine all accessible locations. We shall split into the following partitions...}

{Location Epsilon is another sorting facility, one which is being tiled in a truly ghastly slime green and gold motif.}

{More report, less opinion, 98 of 310,} ordered Delta. Most of the team, including herself, was once again high on their assigned wall in Vehicle Reprocessing Facility #3. Whatever work detail had taken over the paneling during regeneration, it was obvious from the misalignment and flawed welds that they were incompetent. That observation had already been reported; and instead of extending the paneling, Delta and company were inspecting and redoing the shoddy work. The coveted relay was underneath one of the panels slated to be replaced. {Efficiency is required if you are to assess each location during this shift.}

98 of 310, having already established himself as a 'runner' for the subunit, was the most logical choice for the assessment. He was systematically transporting to each of the allowed work sites, then canvassing them for anything of importance. In addition to cataloguing potential items for theft, the evaluation provided a pictorial overview to be sent back to Cube #347. As the return transmission could only occur once, it was vital that 98 of 310 be thorough. Delta doubted close-ups of tiling would be helpful to the EMH to identify the potion ingredient.

{Finally, one of the bulk cargo transporters,} informed 98 of 310 as he rounded a tall stack of crates. The sorting facility was where material from disassembled ships, as well as cargo holds of items acquired from assimilated worlds, was, well, sorted. Everything was catalogued into classes that ranged from 'novel technology' to 'replicator reclamation'. All such facilities included several large transporter pads to facilitate the moving of delicate materials which could not be shifted by the normal transporter system.

The engineering team required access to off-limit portions of the node. The transporter system dedicated to contractors was insufficient with its pre-programmed destinations. However, there was the possibility that bulk cargo transporters would be unsecured. The visual stream from 98 of 310 panned up and down, left and right as he scanned for guards. {No watchers apparent. I will examine the transporter control...wait, someone is present.}

98 of 310 froze as only a drone could, hiding in plain sight. By dint of evolution, most sapient species were attuned to movement, distant ancestors often prey for larger, faster animals. By not moving, even ceasing respiration if necessary, a Borg drone essentially became furniture in the unconscious mind of the small being, non-threatening. It was an ambush tactic often used during mass assimilations.

That 'someone' was actually two, both humans. One, a man, was focused on the transporter control, a thin wire linking it to an over-large PADD upon which he was furiously punching buttons. The other human was a female, and a nervous one at that. She stood watch beside her comrade, eyes darting back and forth so quickly it was unlikely she was actually seeing anything. The fact that she had missed 98 of 310's arrival reinforced that theory. Both were dressed in the nondescript gray jumpsuits favored by many non-Color contractors; and the cranial hair of both was shorn to stubble. 98 of 310 upped his audio gain to resolve the whispered conversation between the pair.

In Vehicle Reprocessing Facility #3, Delta paused one of her bodies in order to better concentrate on 98 of 310's perceptions. Would 98 of 310 be forced to assimilate the pair - /not/ an engineering forte - before they did something stupid that called attention to the location? Might the pair give up, faced by the daunting task of breaking Borg security? Was it possible that one of the crates which boxed in the transporter pad to hold something other than horrid green and gold tiles?

{98 of 310!} rebuked Delta as the latter thought threaded itself into the mindspace of the subunit.

{Sorry,} said 98 of 310.

"Hurry up," hissed the woman. "The longer we are here, the more likely we will be noticed."

The man's fingers lightly ran over the PADD's buttons as he input another combination. A frown was the result as he read the screen. "Calm down. As long as I don't trip any traps, we'll be fine. This intrusion attempt is too 'small' for the Collective to care. Think of what we'll gain if I can just get access."

"I'm trying to...but I'm also thinking of what it'll be like to be a drone."

It quickly became apparent that the pair had similar aspirations to Delta's team in that they wanted to examine off-limit areas of Supply Node #761 in search of Borg technology. However, unlike Cube #347's desperate need for resupply, these two were common thieves, desiring to make extra money with easily resalable exotic tech.

As the PADD beeped, the man crowed in delight, "Hah! Got it! Told you it could be done. All that was needed.... Oh, crap." Glee rapidly transformed to dismay.

A dozen Borg drones had materialized into the crate cubby, all focused upon the suddenly trembling pair. {I am one with the box...I am one with the box,} chanted 98 of 310 to himself, an echo into the team's mindspace, a mantra against himself also being swept into the closing net. Swiftly the humans were gathered into custody, an euphemism to mean they were trapped within the steel grasp of two assimilation units, hands hovering near their necks ready to deliver nanite payloads.

One of the drones moved to stand square before the captive audience. "Non-authorized transporter pads are off-limits, as clearly outlined in the contract at section D, subsection 7, subbullet C. Did you not assimilate the information?" The words were clipped, brusque. It was the typical display of a unit being used as a mouthpiece by the Whole.

The subunit had /not/ fully read the contract, interest lost after the first several gigabytes. Delta internally flipped to the referenced bullet. Yes, the rule was clear...and sandwiched between a bullet related to inappropriate organic waste disposal methods and a list of prohibited textiles.

The woman was mostly occluded by armored backs, but still 98 of 310 caught a weak smile. "Er, we must have missed it. The, um, problem with not being assimilated and, er, small and all that. Sorry. First offense? Maybe we can work out a deal?" It was obvious that the humans were hoping to emerge from their dilemma whole of body and mind.

Those hopes were dashed by the spokesdrone's next pronouncement.

"Irrelevant. Section A, subsection 1, subbullet A clearly states the penalty for noncompliance to any rule. Second chances, recourses, and appeal are not allowed. What one does is a reflection of all. Therefore, all individuals associated with your work detail will be assimilated."

"What?" exclaimed the man as the extent of the consequence registered. "Wait! No! They knew nothing and had nothing to do with...." The rest of the protest was lost as awaiting fists plunged downward.

Transporters whisked away the dozen drones, plus the new acquisitions.

A decision was made by the team. {Bulk cargo transporters are not an option,} said Delta, voicing the consensus.

"How is the composition for that segment? Yes? No? Maybe? I think the fade transition adds an extra emphasis lost with a simple slide format," opinionated 227 of 240 from the pilot niche. As a once-upon-a-time layout editor for a fashion vidshow, she had been the logical choice to arrange the overviews - still and video - into a suitably logical sequence. Unfortunately, she was also becoming a bit too irrelevantly artistic in her task.

At the other end of the shuttle-bus, Delta contemplated the growing pile of pilfered treasure. The work shift had concluded similar to yesterday, including lack of payroll specialist and bureaucrat frantic that no overtime be accumulated. It had also ended without acquiring many of the items on the primary list of needs, although both secondary and tertiary lists were showing progress. As it was becoming abundantly clear that movement outside the allowed areas, be it by transporter, hull walk, or other means, was infeasible, the growing consensus was that the contractor parking lot, and the ships therein, needed to be closely examined for opportunities.

Delta was a 'doing' type of drone, not comfortable with 'what-if' scenarios. Such was true for most units assigned to engineering, that hierarchy, especially on a Borg ship, normally reactionary. Unfortunately, no command and control drones were present to take control of the decision tree matrices, so Delta had to fumble forward as best she could.

"All done," brightly informed 227 of 240. "I so wish we had access to decent music for a background soundtrack. Something dark and dramatic would be perfect."

Delta examined the final product, less concerned with content than size. {This will barely fit into the burst bubble as is, without raising attention that an embedded message is present.}

"I compressed the images as much as possible, as well as removed all duplicates and irrelevancies, but there is only so much I can do," sullenly replied 227 of 240, continuing to speak outloud. Her eyes were glazed, attention riveted upon an internal sight of the montage.

Delta sighed. It would have to do. Everything accessible had been eyeballed, although sometimes, such as in Vehicle Reprocessing Facility #3, it had been a rather perfunctory overview from a distance (and halfway up a wall). If the EMH could not resolve the ingredient, nor a general location, then that would mean it was outside the ken of the subunit. In turn...Delta shuddered to even contemplate the alternatives, most of them likely involving Weapons pushing to risk the cube in some stupid frontal assault. In this case, the imagination of herself and those of her team were more than sufficient to vividly visualize the repair docket, assuming the cube even survived. A supply depot may not be a unimatrix, but there were still more than sufficient guarding forces to convert Cube #347 into a thin streak of debris.

{Prepare for burst bubble,} ordered Delta. At the very least, there were going to be many questions when the shuttle-bus had its little electromagnetic pulse inducing 'accident'.

{Regeneration incomplete,} chirped the voice of the transport's computer into Delta's head. It was linked to the alcoves and a few general diagnostics; and, if possible, it was even more moronic than its Cube #347 cousin.

"Oh, shut up," muttered Delta outloud with both her bodies as she stepped forward in synchronized unison. Of course regeneration was incomplete: she and the rest of her team had 'gone to bed' less than two hours ago. On the other hand, all units present were rated for a minimum 120 hours without regeneration, so one or two cycles of less-than-optimal downtime would not lower efficiency.

Dealing with the consequence of the burst bubble was the reason for the short regeneration.

The electromagnetic pulse had not gone unnoticed. Far from it. If the flickering of far overhead light strips had not exposed the incident, the sudden blossoming of fires and general electrical mayhem from vessels parked near the shuttle-bus would have been more than ample evidence that something was not right. Very shortly following the 'accident', large drones with no necks and much weaponry embedded upon their chassis had arrived, trailed by a flock of bureaucrats. Once the Collective had assayed the situation and determined that the busy engineering drones taking apart their transport to search for the cause of the pulse were no threat, the former had left, leaving the latter behind.

Delta would have preferred to deal with the tacticals.

"Describe the nature of the accident. Include not only how it happened, but what steps you are taking to ensure such disruptions do not occur again. The more details for the official report, the better," had chirped the species #9509 male. There were many specializations and sub-specializations among the bureaucrats, much more so than the Borg or even certain insect colonies; and no individual was willing to step one iota outside their job description. Therefore, it was unsurprising that the male with the name-tag 'Tommat' and the hugely upswept hair shaped into a DNA double-helix had not been previously encountered.

Delta's response of "Until we determine the first, no data can be provided on the second" had not gone over well, eliciting a dark frown. "Maintenance on our vessel was excellent. Therefore it was either an accident or deliberate sabotage."

"What sort of engineering drones are you to not know how or why something occurred?" asked Tommat

"We are-" had begun Delta in a futile attempt to once again relay the team's cover story.

"Incompetent," Tommat had completed, interrupting Delta. A disdainful sniff followed. "It is obvious to me that you and your...comrades are substandard. However, I'm not in charge here" - overtones of contempt were obvious even to a drone normally oblivious upon social niceties, a nonverbal insinuation that the situation was the other party's loss - "because I would say from your performance right now that you should be dismissed. The Collective, however, seems to think that you are doing excellent work at your assigned location, one which is sufficient reason for this episode to be overlooked." A pause. "There might even be a bonus."

Delta had not liked use of the word 'bonus'. It sounded ominous. Hints and whispers floating among the other contractors, primarily those not assimilated, suggested that 'reward' was sometimes an euphemism for something much darker. While most bonuses were in fact extra credits deposited for a job well done, very occasionally the best contractors, both Colored drones and unassimilated individuals, simply disappeared one day...leaving their transport behind. Protests from abroad might be raised, but in the end, procession was ten-tenths the law as far as the Collective was concerned.

"We will find the problem and provide you with the details for your report," Delta had replied. After several hours with an increasingly impatient bureaucrat, the appropriate lie (devised ahead of time by the Cube #347 sub-collective) had been relayed; and regeneration finally entered into for the few hours remaining before the next duty shift.

As the remainder of the team stepped from their alcoves and began the housekeeping tasks necessary prior to the work shift, Delta noticed a flashing light forward within the piloting niche. A few steps brought her to the console; and less than five seconds later nanotubules had linked her to the computer. A message from Cube #347, intercepted during regeneration, was waiting.

All bodies slowed to a halt, heads tilted, to absorb the transmission.

{Sensors is reporting an increase in Collective patrols,} began Captain, {and there is an 89.5% probability that it is in response to the burst bubble. Therefore, this will be the last message until you are retrieved.

{There is both good news and bad news. The good news is that the EMH is confident that the item constituting the ingredient has been identified, or at least its general location.}

From the far end of the transport, an "oh-oh" sounded. Delta did not bother to determine from whom it originated. The general consensus within the shared mindspace of the subunit was that the phrasing used by Captain was suspicious and probably did not bode well.

Continued the consensus monitor and facilitator, {There are two pieces of bad news. The first is that there was a small...accident and that the doors to Bulk Cargo Hold #8 can no longer be closed. However, 19 of 19, as acting Engineer, is confident that she can unstick them before you return. Maybe. All specifications will be available when and if you can be retrieved. Second, concerning the ingredient, the EMH cannot be more specific as to what, exactly, it is. Open the attachment for more details.}

The verbal portion of the message concluded. The remainder of the captured transmission consisted of a large block of data. Opening the attachment produced a picture; and, specifically, a still shot captured from one of the videos sent to Cube #347. It was a familiar view, that as seen from part way up the wall in Vessel Reprocessing Facility #3. At the center of the picture was the black freighter in its cradle, a large red circle drawn around it and several arrows pointing as a visual emphasis.

{I think it may be a bit suspicious if I tried to smuggle that through the transporter system...} noted 98 of 310. {Among other things, it won't exactly fit in my torso compartment.}

So much for the 98.5% probability that the ingredient item was small enough to carry.

"What is the meaning of this?" questioned the bureaucrat from her floater. The spiky haired woman was returned to her duties of annoying actual working folk, although her already short hair was noticeable closer to her skull. A badge, folded so only half of it could be read, provided the truncated name of 'Spe'. "You will be docked pay."

'This' was the fact that only five drones were present with Delta for their work shift. The remainder had joined with 98 of 310 in liberating items for the Cube #347 cause. Several people would be learning the benefit of locking ship doors when they returned from their shift; and a greater number would be thinking seriously of upgrading their locks, the simple mechanisms no deterrent for an engineering drone.

"There is nothing in our contract which states all units are required at any one time," protested Delta. After the incident observed at the cargo transporter, the entire subunit had carefully read the hereto largely ignored document. "All which matters is satisfactory completion of the assigned task. We have installed as many panels today as our prior two shifts." Behind body A, Delta and the rest of her abbreviated crew continued to place and weld as quickly as possible. There had been no time to surreptitiously steal subwall components today. "The other units of this detail were required at our transport to ensure no repeats of last cycle's accident."

Spe sniffed. The bureaucrat obviously did not believe Delta's explanation, but also could not poke holes into it. "Well, that is something payroll will have to deal with."

Delta made a big show of panning the busy deck below the construction sleds. "Where /is/ payroll? We have been working three cycles without finalizing our contract."

"Er," gulped a suddenly nervous Spe, "there has been a slight delay. Nothing to worry about. Um, there may be some slight labor negotiation occurring among certain departments, but the inconvenience to you is minor. Nothing that you need to know the details about."

An internal timer running backwards flashed zero. Tools were immediately shut off, halting the rain of sparks and flecks of molten metal. "Our shift is done. At what time can payroll be expected?" Delta pivoted body B; and she deliberately asked the question with both bodies. The bureaucrat had something to hide. What that mystery was, Delta frankly did not care. However, if she needled the woman sufficiently, as if she were grilling Weapons for why all the holoprojectors in Bulk Cargo Hold #5 were malfunctioning (again), there was the high probability of agitation.

Spe did not disappoint, fluster obvious. "Soon! Your shift is done! Go! I've many important things to do!" The floater's controls were worked, sending the bureaucrat flying away before more questions could be asked. Now there would be one less pair of eyes to observe the subunit's unscheduled detour.

{Let's go,} said Delta as she stepped herself away from the un-safety-railed edge of the sled. As 101 of 230 linked into the sled controls to begin decent, Delta cast her mind to review the pilfered items which now covered half the transport's deck space and mounded in waist high piles.

{The two children have provided exemplary service,} said 9 of 19 as he catalogued the contents of a bucket. The mix of isolinear chips and data crystals were not critical elements, able to be easily replicated by Cube #347. However, among the ordinary more than a few treasures had been found, vital subcomponents to much more complicated systems. Each bucket was like opening a wrapped present, the contents a surprise. {The investment has paid for itself.}

{You gave those juvenile mercenary wanna-bes upgraded rubber band guns, fully automatic and with the ability to replicate new ammunition! And the rubber bands can be colored with one of five different indelible inks!} protested 98 of 310. He was the primary target of the neighbor kids' attention, and now sported more than a few splashes of color where rubber bands had hit their target. Like cats, dogs, and other domesticated pets, children possess an exquisite ability to know whom they can annoy without risk of consequences.

9 of 19 scoffed, {The ink will come off. You will just need a bit of sandblasting.}

{But-}

{Enough,} interrupted Delta. The arguing lowered efficiency. {The children are useful: they will continue to serve. 98 of 310, there will be /no/ retaliation. Deal with it.}

{Compliance,} said 98 of 310 sullenly.

The construction sleds bumped to the ground. While they had been steered to a parking station - to do otherwise was to invite scrutiny from the Collective Mind - it was not their normal berthing. Instead, the path to the transporter node now required passing near the target vessel indicated in the reply burst bubble.

Seen up close, the black ship was even less impressive than the view halfway to the ceiling of the vehicle reprocessing facility. A cylinder with six stubby fins arrayed around the equator equidistant from each other, any lingering notion of 'secret government technology test bed' died and was replaced by 'run-down freighter'. Under the unusual paint was mismatched hull plates, numerous plasma cutter scars showing where larger pieces of metal had been crudely sliced in an effort to effect the semblance of repair. A dark hypertranswarp ring nacelle, cracks within the matrix suggesting a desperate need for maintenance, circled the vessel forward the fins. Perhaps the humid warmth of the air circulating around the ship was antithetical to the light-drinking paint, for there were chips here and there. An oily black substance - Delta did not care to think where /that/ might have leaked from - made interesting splatter patterns on the deck underneath the freighter.

Delta mental shook her head. {The ingredient must be inside.} Until a vessel was disassembled, it was rare for its contents, other than crew, to be removed. The vagueness of the ingredient descriptor was highly unhelpful, other than it was probably liquid. Maybe.

The sound of a transporter prompted Delta to tear her paired gazes away from the ship. One...two...four Collective drones materialized nearby. All sported the limb modifications which indicated chassis-mounted weaponry. The team shuffled to a halt as one of the units stepped forward, placing itself directly in their line of march.

The whispers and echoes and snatches of internalized conversation which was the Collective Whole momentarily rose in volume, in seductiveness, before ebbing to its previous background level.

Not good.

"What is the meaning of this impediment? This subunit has completed its work shift and returns to its transport for regeneration." Delta sent both bodies forward to confront the tactical drone, careful to utilize the third person. "Our Color is-"

"We do not care whom you represent: all aberrations will eventually return to us or be exterminated," interrupted the drone. "This subunit had been marked for its efficiency, yet it now returns to the transporter node via an inefficient pathway. Explain. Comply."

The magic word echoed through the mental byways of not only Delta and the five team members immediately present, but also the remaining units in and near the transport. 98 of 310 was beset by a hail of red and green inked rubber bands as he staggered to a halt. "We...we...we require additional exercise of these units," replied Delta as she snatched at the first suggestion floating in the communal mindspace, well aware of the weakness of the justification for the team to be where they should not be. Lying, especially spontaneous fabrication, was not a Borg strong suit in the best of times.

On the other hand, discerning lies was also not a well developed Collective ability. "The cradle areas are off-limits," replied the spokesdrone. "There are many more appropriate locations if muscular activity is necessary for unit maintenance."

"We understand and will comply."

The drone stepped back, no longer directly blocking the path leading to the transporter node. Although no expression was upon the faces of the four tacticals, the almost-subliminal whispers which wisped though the minds of the subunit were suggestive of appraisal, of consideration, of the most effective place in the Machine Entire for the highly efficient cogs represented by Delta and her team.

{Forward,} prodded Delta. The pace back to the transporter node was noticeably quicker than the usual drone speed.

Today was the last day. Ingredient or no ingredient, filled transport or no filled transport, Delta and her team were on the cusp of overstaying their welcome.

If they had not done so already.

Upon exiting the transport in preparation to begin the work shift, the first thing noticed by the multi-eyed entity which was the subunit was the presence of Collective drones. Motionless statues standing here and there, the tactical and assimilation units were everywhere. Contractors moving about the parking lot ignored the drones, although it was painfully apparent that those of the Colored persuasion were detouring where possible to avoid sentries. There was an air of unvoiced expectation, that soon someone amongst the crowd was to be awarded a non-monetary 'bonus'.

{Four hours,} said Delta, repeating the consensus of the twelve-some. {If we have not determined an obvious way to steal the target ship, like finding a crate with the words "Shrink-o-matic" on it, we will leave. A modification from excuse series A should be sufficient. 127 of 230 and 98 of 310, finish loading the last items, then prepare for a very hasty departure.}

{Compliance,} replied the two named drones. After a short pause, 98 of 310 asked, {Can I-}

{No. You shall not touch the two children. And don't try to twist that order by interpreting it literally, as would Weapons. You know exactly what I mean. We do not have the time to deal with the consequences their termination or injury or assimilation would create.}

98 of 310's wordless thoughts were dark and full of images more befitting a weapons drone than engineering. However, he was obedient to his hierarchy head, consoling himself by calculating the damage which could be inflicted by an overpowered rubber band gun upon unarmored flesh.

Despite the ominous unblinking eyes and ocular implants which followed the ten drones (eleven bodies) across the parking lot, through the transporter mode, and finally to Vehicle Reprocessing Facility #3, there were no incidents. No assimilation squad arrived to take custody of the team, nor Multivoice pronounce doom. If anything, it was quieter than usual, contractors moving to and from their assignments, heads down; and bureaucrats....

Delta blinked, body B halting mid-step. She looked around herself, two personal points of view scanning her surroundings. {Where are the bureaucrats?}

Now that attention had been redirected, the lack of species #9509 was painfully obvious. The bureaucrats, normally ubiquitous in the presence, were nowhere to be seen. Scooters were abandoned; and PADDs were stacked in neat piles upon ranked tables. No fanciful coifs moved about, their owners dispensing orders or asking pointed administrative questions with busy-body intensity.

Then, in the distance, a rhythmic sound began to arise.

"Not again," groaned nearby. It was the leader of another work detail, unassimilated, traveling in the opposite direction towards the transporter node. "Not bloody again."

The bulk of the crowd shuffled to a stop. Around the edges continued to flow a few individuals, propelling their way upon the power of muscle and expletives, but the majority were craning heads to peer in the direction of the chanting. Delta's subunit was caught in the middle, although a space did remain around them, as it did around all Colored drones, the unassimilated majority unwilling to press too close.

"What's up, boss?" asked a nameless voice, owner lost among the milling crowd.

The leader of the work detail harrumphed, "Know anything about Burical?" The answer was a negative. "Well, when you transferred in couple of weeks ago, you just missed the prior high drama. Bunch of bullsh** if you ask me. Burical divide their calendar into fourteen months, with each month dedicated to a particular administrative caste. Supposed to be some sort of religion, I guess. Anyway, there's lots of 'rights' and such for that caste during the month, including an entitlement to labor argument. Fellow who told me about this said he's been on their homeworld during planet-spanning strikes, and it can be quite a show. Usually, however, they only dispute."

"That's crazy! What do they dispute about?" Voice #2's tone suggested that 'crazy' was a mild descriptor of a problem which should involve rubber rooms and vast quantities of electricity.

"Gah...fellow told me it could be about anything: money, benefits, breaks, working conditions, and so on." Voice #1 paused, then lowered his volume to the level normally associated with conspiracies for all that he could have shouted and remained unheralded. "I saw the potential for this happening a couple of days ago and made a few inquiries. Seems this is the month when Financial Services is king. Financial is making a big ado about insufficient breaks to maintain their hair-dos, as well as not being provided enough hairspray and gel perks."

Silence as Voice #2 digested the insanity. "Gel perks? Um, Financial is, like, payroll and such, isn't it?"

"Yes." The tone was bitter, as only possible by one who is contemplating the phrase 'working for free'.

The same conclusion had obviously been made by the owner of the second voice. "What will the Borg do about it? They gotta do /something/. It'll be 'inefficient' and all that."

"Nothing. The Borg'll do nothing, if it is at all like last month. There will be lots of chanting and waving signs by Burical, maybe even some pushing, but it will only last a couple of hours. It is all a ritualized display for the Upper Management. Oh, I'm sure the Borg will keep many eyes on it, just in case, but we /are/ only talking about PADD pushers. By the time we are on for our next shift, it'll all be over."

A shiver propagated through the crowd as elements elsewhere reacted to something unseen by those in the immediate vicinity.

"Um, are you sure?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"Because the shouting has become a lot closer, and I hear weapons fire."

A loud explosion rocked the crowd; and individual components began to flow rather quickly back in the direction of the transporter nodes, no matter if they had just arrived for their work shift or not.

"Well, ******* me," spat the detail leader before he was swept away, "I think it has turned into a full-blown strike!"

Chaos was taking over, the crowd turning into a mob whose single thought was to escape. Lurking Collective 'observers' were gone, presumably transported elsewhere to deal with an administrative staff gone berserk. Colored drones were stationary knots among the river of unassimilated contractors, individual Minds trying to decide what course to take, but even they soon began to move in the direction of the majority.

{It isn't a "Shrink-o-Matic", but this may be our only chance,} commented Delta, voicing the thought bouncing around the shared mindspace. Improvisation was not a Borg emphasis, but an engineering unit tended to be a bit more flexible in that department than other hierarchies. After all, sometimes the only thing standing between fixing a soon-to-be-catastrophically-leaking plasma conduit and becoming a wisp of vapor was a pack of chewing gum, a spool of wire, and several dust shammies. Such was not a time to contemplate every 'what-if' scenario, nor search the engineering archives for a similar situation. {127 of 230 and 98 of 310, finish your task and prepare to leave. We may or may not be joining you.}

In the parking lot, the two drones were in the middle of blatantly loading into the transport a small warp nacelle nicked from a child's micro-shuttle two rows over. The young mercenaries-in-training were observing with great interest, for once not targeting the well-inked 98 of 310 with their Borg-adapted rubber band guns. Then the neighbor vessel was powering up its engines and a parent was calling the children inside, ignoring the subsequent whining protest. Elsewhere, the first transport was lifting: contractors were in the process of abandoning the node, perhaps even the supply depot.

One of the advantages of Borgdom was that no matter the press of the crowd, no one wanted to actually get too close. Colors did not normally assimilate an individual without reason and asking politely beforehand...normally. None wanted to test the normalcy of the situation; and none especially wanted to mistakenly bump into a supposed Color, only to find the bumpee was actually a member of the host Collective on the search for reinforcements. Therefore, the beeline taken by Delta and her team towards the goal of the black ship was relatively easy despite the fact progress was largely against the flow of the crowd.

The black freighter's ramp was down and the main hatch unlocked, as proved when it opened at Delta's approach. After all, whom would steal anything /here/? As Delta led her crew inside to ready the ship for lift-off, she stopped 196 of 230 with a mental thought.

{Do I have to?} asked 196 of 230 as she eyeballed the thinning crowd and eared the distant chants.

{You are the last in line,} replied Delta. {Unlock the cradle. Comply.}

{Yah, yah.}

The sequence of necessary events for success whirled through Delta's mind. Like any good engineer, she was obsessed with following step-by-step directions. Before the freighter could lift, cradle clamps had to be disengaged; and only after that could other looming obstacles such as docking tractors and forcefields be considered. At least there were no exterior doors to the reprocessing facility to worry about, such things unnecessary when the Borg drones whom normally populated the node were unbothered by lack of an atmosphere should forcefield wards fail. However, first things first, and that meant the cradle.

While her team separated to attend to the necessities for escape, Delta stalked to the nearest computer access, jacking herself into the slumbering system. A few swift prods to the computer rewarded her with both diagnostics and sensors. Allowing the output of the former to wash through her automatic systems, Delta's primary consciousness used the latter to extend the awareness of the Whole, to see what was happening on the other side of the vehicle reprocessing facility.

{Wow, I didn't know administrators could be so...vicious,} commented 227 of 240 quietly. Mostly the bureaucrats were fighting among themselves, coifed gladiators locked in a free-for-all battle where the prize was to convince Upper Management of the seriousness of their demands. Heads were being bashed by picket signs; and amazing, and disturbing, things were being accomplished with PADDs and stylus. Chants had turned ugly. At the edges of the chaotic mob Borg drones were attempting to restore some semblance of order using any means - terminal and other - possible. However, the disputing parties were not cooperating, factions momentarily disregarding their own issues to respond to the interlopers, much as a warring couple will turn against the police sent to restore peace.

It was highly unlikely that the freighter's invasion had gone unobserved by the all-seeing Borg Collective. It was simply that it was of lesser importance at the moment than quelling the strike. The reprieve would not last, especially when the freighter left its docking cradle: the Collective took a very dim view of those whom tried to 'liberate' its rightfully stolen possessions.

The sensor feed was regulated to a background process as a nearly subliminal rumble signaled engine initiation. {Status,} requested Delta of 196 of 230.

{Almost there. Don't close the door without me! I want to ride on the inside, not cling to the hull,} said 196 of 230. The drone was just forward of the port bow, before the small console which allowed for local control of the cradle. She was in the processes of disengaging the magnetic clamp system by the simple expedient of smashing the controls. As 196 of 230's arm rose for another application of spiked elbow to exposed circuitry, a heavy pressure settled upon her shoulder.

"This is an unauthorized area and you are performing non-contractual duties," stated a deep voice with more than a trace of reverberation. "Identify your Color and work detail. Comply."

{Oh, crap,} said 196 of 230 as she was forcefully spun about. Filling her visual feed were two drones of the tactical variety. Simultaneous the demand, a pressure weighted 196 of 230's mind, a non-physical assault upon mental shields which was as dangerous, if not more so, as the heavily armed reality standing in front of her. Faced with the growing compulsion, 196 of 230 surrendered. "We are Borg. Our identification are as units of the sub-collective of Cu-"

{Command pathway priority 12 of 19 to engineering unit 196 of 230: emergency shut-down,} spoke Delta. The feed from 196 of 230 abruptly cut as higher order mental processes suspended. However, the unfolding scene outside the freighter remained accessible, the broad armored backs of the two tacticals within the sights of 21 of 42 and 13 of 240.

The crowbar and the spanner are among the chief tools of an engineer, able to be employed in a wide variety of situations. In this case, one of each was applied with great force and exquisite precision to the back of the heads of the two tacticals. They fell boneless to the ground, unconscious: not even Borg armor was proof against heavy lengths of solid metal. While 21 of 42 grasped 196 of 230 by an arm and began to drag her back to the freighter, 13 of 240 completed the job of disengaging the cradle mechanism.

Now the team was /really/ in trouble. It was highly unlikely that the Greater Consciousness had been riding the tactical pair, attention directed to one of a thousand other priorities of which the riot was a minor overall concern. Eventually, however, routine status query would reveal the off-lined nature of the two; and a conclusion would swiftly form that it had /not/ been the result of the labor dispute.

127 of 230 pinged Delta for her attention. {We are lifting off. We did try to relay excuse scenario A, but no one seems to be listening. Sure you can drive that bucket of bolts?} The shuttle-bus was joining the mass exodus, one more anonymous transport among the many whom did not want to be present when the cacky really hit the oscillating blades.

Delta sent a brief acknowledgement, not bothering to respond to the question. {Are we ready to leave?} she asked her team instead as she absorbed the most recent diagnostic updates from the freighter's computer. Positive replies swiftly returned, except for 196 of 230, who remained off-line. With a flick of the mind, the outer hatch was closed and the ramp lifted. {Here goes something.}

Driving was not an action Delta habitually performed, leaving it to command and control or, when appropriate, weaponry hierarchy. There were individual drones like 127 of 230 whom had been shuttle jockeys in their former lives, although Delta was not among them. On the other hand, it was actually the computer that did the driving, the function of the pilot to steer, press the accelerator, or engage the brakes...or at least that was the standard set-up.

{A clutch? This thing has a manual clutch? What sort of /antique/ is this piece of junk? What species builds a ship with a /clutch/?} complained Delta as the freighter lifted from the cradle in a not-so-smooth movement. The inertial dampers, a less than adequately maintained system fitting with the freighter's overall theme, could not hide the abrupt jerk as the vessel lurched into motion.

{196 of 230 just slid into my ankle,} complained 21 of 42.

Retorted Delta, {Did you not secure her?}

{I didn't know the ride was going to be this rough!}

Another voice intruded, this one 101 of 230: {I think I'm going to be sick.} This, despite the fact that a drone was theoretically immune to nausea, not to mention lacking a functional digestive tract.

The freighter lunged upward thirty meters, then sideways ten. {Can any of /you/ drive a stick? Yes? No? Then stop complaining. And tie down 196 of 230 before she slides into something critical and breaks it.} Fifteen meters of altitude was lost before Delta could adequately engage vertical control. Her bodies rattled against each other.

The ride suddenly smoothed, although not due to Delta's actions.

As expected, a docking tractor had latched onto the vessel. To fight was futile, tractors used to move captured warships over a kilometer long more than sufficient to hold a run-down, fifty meter freighter. Still, one had to try.... Delta revved the joke of an impulse engine, then held both her breaths as an acrid smoke began to fill the ship's interior.

The ship jumped forward; and brakes had to be applied lest the freighter slide nose-first into a rapidly approaching (and newly paneled) wall. Almost stalling, the engine just hung on, saving itself and all onboard from an inglorious landing. Through it all, ship diagnostics serenely insisted nothing was amiss, other than a malfunctioning microwave oven in the galley.

{What happened?} queried 13 of 240. It was obvious that the tractors were no longer locked onto the freighter. As to the reason?

Delta captured a sensor feed, focusing it upon the bureaucrat strike. With that special quality only mobs and amoeba possess, the crowd had flung out a pseudopod, flailing until it had contacted something. That something was a primary power control cluster, the angular geometric forms comprising the node now at the center of a seething mass of hair frozen into a variety of trendy styles. A mushroom cloud was rising from the node, interior lit by hellish hairspray-fueled flames. As with everything else Borg, the tractor system sported multiple redundancies; and it was only a matter of time before full control and power would be rerouted. It was best to take advantage of the situation as it stood. Therefore Delta pivoted the ship to face it towards the exit portal, grinding the clutch into 'first, sort of, maybe second' gear to put it into motion.

The freighter jigged, fell, rose; and a thought formed in the communal mindspace.

{Shields! Working on it!} In the travesty of Engineering, 21 of 42 and 6 of 19 tore open panels and began to string wire. The vessel had garnered the attention of the local submind, and an increasing number of tactical drones were abandoning the effort to placate the bureaucrats, shifting to take potshots at the freighter. Even in its dilapidated condition, chassis-mounted disruptors were not a threat to Delta and her team. An assault force beamed on to the ship was a completely different story, one which only a shield would impede.

A loud clang rang throughout the vessel. Delta queried the computer, which continued to insist everything to be perfect. She was not quite sure what had occurred, but steering, already sluggish, was approaching that generally experienced only by riders of pregnant hippopotami.

21 of 42 called, {Shields up. 196 of 230 isn't contributing at the moment, and as she has the best floating point Mandelbrot randomizer algorithm, the system has been routed through her cerebral cortex. She may have a slight headache when she wakes up.} Understatement. Frequency randomization was necessary to prevent the local transporters from simply matching shield harmonics and beaming through the barrier. To run the entire load of such an operation run through the hardware of a single drone would surely impact the associated wetware.

{196 of 230 was a good troubleshooter,} acknowledged Delta. {Hopefully she will have the ability to do more than push a broom when and if we escape. Otherwise I foresee our efficiency levels dropping, again.}

In fits and starts the freighter approached the egress, a vast opening warded by a green-tinged forcefield. It was flickering oddly, both to visuals and ship sensors, assuming the latter was processing data correctly. Delta brought the freighter to a halt to more closely examine the forcefield, or at least that was her plan. Instead, the clutch slipped, sending the vessel hurtling forward at whiplash speed.

Once the deck stopped spinning, Delta picked up both herself and reconnected to the ship's computer. They were outside. {That was anticlimactic.}

{196 of 230 knocked me over,} moaned 21 of 42. {A bit of assistance here? Her foot broke my nose.}

{I thought you secured her!} accused Delta even as she extended the sensor grid to search for one particular ship signature. A swarm of vessels was exiting the node. Many were immediately captured by the two flanking Battle-class cubes, tractors stabbing out - to break a contract was unacceptable, especially when further interior work remained to be completed. Other ships were successfully evading the cubes, trekking at best possible speed to reach a location where FTL drives could be engaged.

The freighter's engine abruptly stalled.

Delta's stereo groan of frustration echoed throughout the cube.

{You flooded it!} The accusation was from 127 of 230, mental voice 'distant' even as she offered her criticism.

Retorted Delta. {Did not! I'm amazed we made it this far without this malfunctioning piece of junk falling apart.}

{You did!}

{Did not.}

{Yes, you did!}

Inserted 6 of 19 into the melee, {It's flooded.}

{There are ten engineering drones on this tub, including myself. Between us, we should be able to /unflood/ the engine.}

Suggestions followed, some useful and others not. While the most expedient course of action was to wait for the relays to clear themselves before attempting to restart the engine, that was one ten minute block the team did not possess. Already the Battle-class duo were abandoning their position to advance on the freighter; and sensors indicated other Borg cubes and spheres present at Supply Depot #761 were similarly altering trajectories.
A hail shivered the communication grid. Delta gingerly answered it.

Boomed the Collective Multivoice over ship speakers, "Unidentified units: you have grossly broken the terms of your contract, including sixty-seven subclauses. Identify your Color and work detail number. Comply." Apparently volume control was yet another of those subsystems which did not work.

Delta attempted to restart the engines and failed. The freighter's current trajectory would intersect node #7 in seven hours. However, that eventuality was unlikely to occur, Collective vessels tractoring the ship long before then. Delta sucked in her breath to respond to the demand, even going so far to access the carefully constructed lie which had yet to be used. Then, with a mental head shake, she discarded it.

"This subunit belongs to no Color. We are of the Collective. We are Borg," answered Delta. Her singular (duet) voice echoed loudly despite the fact that she had told the computer to shut off the speakers. "We are of Exploratory-class Cube #347. And we are /not/ rogue."

There was an ominous pause as the Collective digested the defiant words. One could almost feel the attention of trillions redirected as the Greater Consciousness reprioritized Itself, moving one previously irrelevant freighter and its crew to the top of the to-do list. "You will be exterminated," pronounced the Multivoice before severing the transmission with an audible *pop*.

Delta cranked the engine again. For a moment it seemed as if it would catch, but that hope was swiftly dashed. {So much for that. And I was really hoping to be there when Weapons finally terminated himself.}

{Weapons does have his uses,} spoke a familiar signature into all the minds of Delta's team. {And nice speech, short and to the point. I don't think the Greater Consciousness listened, unfortunately.}

{Captain!} The name was cried in unison by twelve relieved drones as their small mindspace expanded to four thousand points of view.

Quipped Second, {That's 4 of 8's subdesignation. Don't wear it out.}

A large bulk eclipsed the freighter's sensor grid. Delta automatically meshed herself with Cube #347's engineering diagnostics, wincing as she skimmed the reports - an emergency stop from hypertranswarp was not kind to systems, especially those as already abused as the cube's. Eight tractor beams lanced out to grapple the freighter, but were unsuccessful, not from missing their mark but rather due to the ship's still-raised shields.

{Just a moment,} called 21 of 42 hurriedly as cube weapons locked. Several jury-rigged wires were ripped from 196 of 230's head. Shields collapsed. {Try again?}

This time the freighter was captured.

Cried 127 of 230 and 98 of 310 together, {What about us?}

{That may be a little bit more tricky,} calmly said Weapons as Cube #347 pivoted. The freighter swung around, stabilizing in a trailing position which had an unfortunately excellent view of the Collective mini-armada maneuvering around nodes in an attempt to gain a clear line of fire. {We shall see what we can do.}

Delta closed her eyes. Too bad that action did not actually block the sight of what was to come.

"Well?" asked Delta, both of her waving a hand at the fifty meter monstrosity which took center stage in Bulk Cargo Hold #2. Two of the original six fins were gone and there were large scratches from stem to stern. In Delta's opinion it improved the ship's appearance. "What, exactly, did we risk ourselves for?"

Frank, a very nervous EMH, hemmed and hawed.

"If you dare tell me we stole the wrong ship...."

Head frantically shook back and forth. "No! This is the right object. I was just, um, er...." The explanation trailed into inaudibility. "The paint," whispered the hologram, "all which was needed was the paint, maybe a hull plate worth."

Delta blinked. She turned body A to peer closer at the freighter's side. "Paint is not a mysterious 'phasic metal', and it certainly isn't liquid."

" I don't understand, neither," protested Frank. "All I know is that the paint is the component. I don't know how I know, I just /know/."

{Ugh...I just stepped in some sort of tar,} commented 81 of 310 from the other side of the vessel. It was a general intranet broadcast to whomever was working in the bulk cargo hold. {I have never seen such a ill-maintained bucket still able to fly.}

Body B stooped, looking under the cradle which secured the freighter. Black liquid, alike that noticed in the vehicle reprocessing facility on Supply Depot #761, splattered the deck. Delta reached out with a finger, running it through one of the deposits as she simultaneously stared at the hull. "Liquid."

Frank knew better than to say anything.

Delta squinted, then shifted to viewing the freighter not from her own points-of-view, but rather that of cameras embedded in the ceiling of the bulk cargo hold. 81 of 310 was correct, this was the worse maintained vessel ever to ply the deep space between stars, yet the cube had chased it through several sectors, never quite catching up. It was a caricature, an exaggeration.

A sham.

{Assimilation, I require several of your hierarchy to closely examine the computer system of our new acquisition,} said Delta. The attention of the sub-collective was now upon her and the unusual request.

{What have we found?} queried Captain, the sub-collective initiating a conversation with itself.

Delta rubbed the oily substance between finger and thumb thoughtfully. {Perhaps new technology. I do not know what 'phasic metal' is, but this ship is more than it seems.}

The sound of transporter beams announced the arrival of four assimilation hierarchy drones. They eagerly trotted up the main ramp and into the freighter, enthused to be employed in an actual task that did not involve grey paint or growing nanites.

"Next?" asked Delta, body A pivoting to face Frank.

The hologram ducked his head. "Yes, I think I've figured it out. I had to connect my matrix to the engineering files - very similar to drone maintenance in some respects, which is quite disturbing - in order to find-"

"I don't have time for this," interrupted Delta impatiently. "Did you or did you not determine how to contain the partially concocted vaccine? My hierarchy has enough to deal with without repairing holes through all the decks."

"Yes."

"Elaborate."

"I don't know all the particulars, but there appears to be some property to the nacelle sheath of a warp nacelle that..." began Frank. He very quickly meandered off into the world of engineering technobabble.

The key was the cerametallic alloy which lined the inner plasma sheath of a warp nacelle; and, more specifically, a used warp nacelle. The odd quantum stresses which affected a warp nacelle were well known in the sense that they occurred, although no civilization yet encountered by the Borg had comprehensively examined them. It was enough for most races to know that a certain exotic material when mixed in such a way continued to function as required to contain the hellish energies of a warp nacelle without exploding, vaporizing, or otherwise becoming compromised. Now it seemed that a glass beaker, if lined by a putty containing pulverized alloy, would keep the cube from resembling Swiss cheese.

Maybe.

Frank was pretty sure, although he hadn't actually tested the theory yet.

A loud bang echoed off the bulk cargo hold walls, followed several seconds later by a series of metallic thumps and, finally, the tinkle of broken glass. "Go home," sighed Delta.

"What?" questioned the hologram, only half-way through his elaboration.

Repeated Delta. "Go home. Go back to Doctor. Do whatever it is that you do. I'll deal with you later when I've finished my other priorities."

Frank stood still for a long moment as he accessed certain datathreads, then abruptly vanished. The expression upon his face just before disappearance had been a wince.

Delta understood perfectly.

It was only a matter of rounding the freighter's bow to bring into direct perspective the origination of the noises which had so rapidly shifted Delta's ever fluctuating priorities. Cube #347 had been unable to lock onto the shuttle-bus with tractors, although all the contents were grabbed with a transporter less than a second before it had disintegrated under a barrage of torpedoes. The fact that two of the six missiles had originated from Cube #347 was something Weapons was loath to discuss, claiming that the transport had 'looked enemy-ish'. Regardless, drones and goods had been retrieved, then summarily dumped in the middle of Bulk Cargo Hold #2 as a large, unstructured pile.

The final stage of Cube #347's escape had been more luck (or, as Borg did not believe in luck, a series of fortuitous consequences) than anything resembling skill. The cube should have been captured or destroyed, but instead Captain had jumped it to hypertranswarp milliseconds prior to deployment of several subspace ripple charges by Supply Depot #761's defenders. With FTL temporarily disrupted, the Collective's local resources had been unable to follow.

By that point in the running battle, Delta had been oblivious concerning her personal survival, instead engrossed with tallying damage resulting from the insane rescue and reviewing 19 of 19's performance as temporary Engineer. The former had been less than expected; and of the latter, while there were some questionable actions, the overall status of the cube had not degraded during Delta's absence.

It was the pile of equipment, small warp nacelle pointing almost straight up from the middle of the chaos, which currently required Delta's attention. A spill of synthetic crystals arced away from a kicked bucket; and sprawled atop of the crystals was 81 of 310. Several drones were in the process of trying to prod 81 of 310 to the edge of the spill with long metal spars, stepping on the loose crystals themselves akin to skating on ball bearings. All paused as Delta's bodies halted, eyes panning the situation. A rope materialized in the waiting hand of body A.

Delta had not retrieved all the items on the shopping list, but of those which had been acquired, she highly desired to keep them whole.

"200 of 310, you practice rope tricks," stated Delta as she tossed the coils at the named drone, hitting him in the face when he was not quick enough to drop the spar he was holding. "Put your obsession to use for once and lasso 81 of 310. All else, our task is to dismantle this pile efficiently and with minimal damage to ourselves or the components. Let us do so."

Delta's holiday was over.

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