Sitting in the center of the Star Trek maze is the Paramount minotaur. Meanwhile, Decker is trying to reach the center of the Star Traks dark crystal labyrinth. Over at the BorgSpace NIHM lab, some joker named the white mouse Meneks.

Gauntlet

"It will be another fifteen minutes before the sling is fully powered and I have your ship in position. So, how was your trip out here?" pleasantly inquired Lyr. The remote - not Lyr himself, of course, who was a Xenig - was currently on the client's bridge. Lyr did not have to be polite to his customers because he did hold a monopoly on the particular service he provided, but on occasion the reward for doing so was a fat tip. Additionally, there was the treatise on which he was working - "Observations Upon Sentient Carbon-Based Vermin" - a magnum opus three centuries in the making and for which thorough research was a necessity if was to be accepted by respected (mech) scholars.

"How was my trip?" squeaked the captain as it rolled all five of its eyes. Lyr did not bother to query his databanks for species, but it was one of those which was mostly hair. He would have to vacuum the remote before it was stowed to avoid contaminating his chassis interior with random fluff. "How was my trip?!" An appendage was waved. "I almost had my ass shot off trying to get to the sling! Only the fact that my cargo is high value, perishable, and has a hefty bonus riding on a timely delivery prevents me from taking the long route."

Lyr personally thought that the evasive actions of the courier-freighter to reach his exclusion zone had been highly entertaining. The two skirmishing sides - Second Federation and Romulan-Vulcan Combine - knew better than to approach closer than 1000 kilometers from the sling, else face Lyr's displeasure, but that did not stop them from harassing each other and potential customers outside the no-go zone. However, if their organic silliness did not cease in, say, a year or so, it would begin to eat into profits destined for the Transience Fund. At that point, Lyr would be forced to recategorize the skirmishers from amusement to annoyance and take appropriate exterminatory actions, but that was the future and this was now.

The remote made a chirring sound in response to the client's frustrations. "Well, you made it here and soon I will have you through the Keyhole, safe and sound."

The captain began to pace back and forth across its small bridge. Its two crewmembers had retreated from the area when Lyr's remote had boarded, but even without their presence the space was cramped. Suddenly the captain stopped, whirling to face the remote. Loose strands of hair floated everywhere, wafted aloft by the motion. "By the deities and Directors, a thought just occurred to me.... Please don't tell me that there will be another hellish gauntlet to pass at the other side of the Keyhole."

Lyr contemplated the sentence structure for a long second, wondering if the customer did or did not wish a reply. Finally, with an internal shrug, he spoke anyway. "There is no one on the other side except my assistant. Thus far neither Second Federation nor RomuVulc have been willing to pay for slinging; and nor have the sides attempted the Keyhole on their own. I suppose a fleet or two could be taking the long way around, but that would entail passing through Borg Collective controlled space."

A rattling exhalation rustled hair around the mouth orifice area. "Good." After a moment, the captain asked, "Why is the sling blockaded, anyway? It isn't exactly of strategic importance, unless one wants to corner the market on jublik berries or Stricknian joy-pills."

That was a question Lyr had been asking himself since hostilities had commenced outside his sling exclusion area. It was an organic-based mystery, a biological conundrum. Over a year ago, various organics throughout the galaxy had begun acting, well, odd. Odder than usual, anyway. First had been the obsession over used warp nacelles, followed by hoarding of objects such as hats and flash frozen fish products. General paranoia had become a constant, accompanied by a massive surge in the occurrence of karaoke bars. As far as Lyr and others who engaged in organic-watching could discern, not everyone was affected, but then again, it really only took a few hat-wearing, nacelle-desiring, tone-deaf bigwigs at the top of the power structure to affect the stance of entire governments. Which was not to say that the infection of madness was confined to such people, only that they wielded greater influence than a mere graduate student or shoe shop manager. Whereas some Xenig had managed to take advantage of the emerging chaos, others, like Lyr, had found their enterprises adversely impacted.

"I do not know," answered Lyr. "Hopefully someone will realize the mistake and take their fleets elsewhere."

The captain snorted. "I do hope this stupid Second Federation civil war, or whatever inane 'internal police action targeting dissentients' crap GNN is calling it now, will end soon. Honest merchants like me have schedules to keep."

Lyr well knew that this particular 'honest merchant' was carrying several illicit substances in addition to its declared legal cargo - according to the routine pre-sling scan for material incompatible with sling operations - but that was an organic matter. As the mech was making notes for the section of his treatise which dealt upon deception by omission, a background subroutine clamored for attention. The program was slaved to the subspace tachyon/gravitini net which Lyr had deployed ten light years around each sling station to provide warning of potential customers, competitors, or trouble. In this case, the object creeping through the net strands at the other end of the sling terminus was firmly slotted in the lattermost category under the subheading of annoying.

::Qui,:: called Lyr to his assistant, the intervening light years as nothing to Xenig technology, ::once this customer is successfully slung through the Keyhole, take a run out to quadrant 76i-b. It seems the Borg are attempting subtlety by inserting the Collective's most recent version of a cloaked spy probe.::

Qui's irritated response was palatable, containing an embedded subthread that could best be likened to exasperated eye-rolling for all that Xenig did not have eyes. ::Again?::

::Look it over before you destroy it...maybe you could add it to your collection?:: suggested Lyr.

The other Xenig sighed. ::Only if it is substantially different from the other probe variants. Otherwise I think I'll boot it back to the nearest unimatrix, this time wired to explode. Maybe the Collective will finally get the idea that intrusions are not tolerated.::

::Unlikely, but if it will make you feel better, go ahead. At least you don't have a small war happening on your doorstep.::

"How much longer?" grumbled the ship captain, not so much interrupting Lyr's conversation with his assistant Qui, but rather causing the multi-tasking Xenig to pay closer attention to his remote.

"Almost there," said Lyr. "In fact, I should remove this remote from your bridge at this time. I estimate five minutes to slinging."

"Good," muttered the captain. It shook itself, shedding a large amount of hair to the air, much of which gravitated to the remote by dint of static electricity. "Maybe I'll stay out of this section of the quadrant for a time, at least until the hostilities die down."

Lyr peered through the remote's sensors, inspecting the fur build-up on the thing's chassis. Perhaps it would be best to just scrap the remote rather than attempt cleaning. Before that decision was made, however, there was a customer to retain. "As you desire, sir," said Lyr. "On the other hand, before you make such a hasty decision, perhaps you might be interested in the discount I am offering frequent slingers? For each three round-trip passages through the Keyhole, I will...."

*****

The explosion was spectacular. Reds and yellows briefly illuminated the darkness of space as atmospheric gasses burned, highlighting the expanding sphere of jagged debris. Weapons, a connoisseur of all things that went boom, applauded, although he was forced to bestow the score of a mere 4.5 out of a possible 10: the fireball had been visually satisfying, but the technical difficulty of hitting a lost tourist asking for directions while driving the equivalent of a rusted VW bus was very low.

Oddly, for once Weapons was not to blame for the three torpedoes which had reduced the strayed sightseer to dust.

{Weapons,} said Second, demanding the hierarchy head's attention, {enough. Your distraction is doing little for the efficiency of your hierarchy. We need an update on your assigned task.}

Weapons sighed. Some drones had no appreciation for the finer things in life. He did not bother to censor his thoughts on the matter as he shifted attention to the required datathread. The mapping effort by Sensors was ongoing; and it was not Weapons' fault that the partitions modeling scenarios had yet to find a way through the lethal maze...correction, a way through the lethal maze which certain drones approved of. Thus far, all the suggestions Weapons had provided - most involving Cube #347 charging straight towards its goal - had been rejected by command and control.

Cube #347 was drifting approximately 7.2 light years from what Collective catalogues identified as Spatial Anomaly #932; and which was colloquially called 'Keyhole' by the non-Borg species which knew of it. A vast nebula stretched for thousands of light years in this section of the Beta quadrant. The phenomenon was a hellish environment, intense energies of new stars, some of which were aborted in spectacular fashion, disrupting subspace and all associated normal faster-than-light propulsion and communication methods. The nebula would have been a complete barrier for civilizations located on opposite sides except for a small passageway drilled through the center. Scholars had ever argued over the passage's origin - natural or artificial - even as more prosaic entities who had to live in the real universe contemplated ways to exploit the route.

Despite its attraction to those of a mercantile persuasion, the Keyhole had several drawbacks in use as a shortcut. First, there was a speed limit for any prospective trader hoping to traverse it, velocities topping at low warp no matter the power fed to engines. Second, ship size was limited, anything larger than a Borg Exploratory-class cube prone to disintegration. Finally, use of the tunnel would 'tangle' subspace such that vessels following immediately behind were forced to wait until dangerous disruptions smoothed. The larger the transiting ship and/or more powerful the energy core, the more time required for the Keyhole to clear. Consequently, the Keyhole was restricted to high value merchandise or extremely wealthy passengers.

Recently, as considered against the spectrum of the rise and fall of galactic civilizations, a Xenig named Lyr had found an opportunity in the Keyhole. Offering a service that literally slung ships through the Keyhole using a variation upon Xenig folded space drive, all limits, other than physical size, vanished. The toll charged by Lyr for the service still made for an expensive Fomolian libido fruit, but for those whom could afford the fees to sling a convoy of ships containing such highly demanded items, the cost was justified.

In the last decade, general use of the Keyhole had decreased. The need for specialty items and courier services remained, but an aggressive program of expansion by the Borg Collective, following the end of the Hive Era, had created a conundrum among the commerce community with 'money' and 'assimilation' opposite ends of a tug-of-war rope. While one termini of the Keyhole was moderately near well-traveled space lanes, the other end was unfortunately positioned less than fifty light years from a Borg unimatrix. Whereas the Collective of the Hive Era had treated the Keyhole convoys with indifference, the reawakened Borg Collective had been very interested in the resources - technologies and bodies - represented by the commercial concerns. In the end, the great majority of captains plying the Keyhole had decided personal survival outweighed greed, and commerce had decreased to a mere trickle.

And now the growing Second Federation civil war threatened to cut that trickle all together.

Cube #347 needed to be slung through the Keyhole. The next ingredient on the recipe list was located at Unimatrix 004, the very Borg facility which had strangled Keyhole commerce. In the interests of procrastination, the sub-collective had considered embarking upon the long trek required to circumnavigate the nebula, but the decision branch had been discarded due to high likelihood of discovery by the Collective while en route.

At the present, the Keyhole fell within the realm of selective blindness for which the Borg - Collective and Color - were infamous. Once ships containing potentially interesting biological and technological assets were no longer transiting in high volume, Borg priorities had shifted; and although the sling itself represented novel technology, it was guarded by a pair of Xenig. The Greater Consciousness was confident it could overwhelm the Xenig, but the assets extrapolated to be lost in the endeavor were better spent elsewhere. Instead, the occasional probe was dispatched to the sling on a mission of observation, a probe which inevitably gained little to no information as the Xenig did not tolerate spies. So, the Keyhole, and anything passing through it, was generally ignored.

The irony was that the Borg Collective could have gained first-hand knowledge of the sling process by approaching as a customer. However, there was an image to uphold, one which might be tarnished if it became known that the Collective had paid for a technology instead of assimilating it.

The disregard of the Collective for the Keyhole meant it was theoretically possible to draw near Unimatrix 004 without being noticed. After all, what sentient in their right mind would purposefully set course for a hub of Borg activity? Once through the Keyhole, the nebula's high energies would mask the sub-collective's approach in the same way a spaceship could hide in the glare of a star. First, though, the cube had to get to the sling.

As options were considered, Cube #347 was not precisely hiding. Bereft of a functional cloak, the hugeness of space itself and the focus of the two skirmishing sides on each other was the sub-collective's camouflage. Which was not to say that none knew of the cube's lurking presence. Files associated with Spatial Anomaly #932 suggested a high likelihood of unknown Xenig technologies deployed as a sensor net. A complaint from Sensors of an 'itchy-sting' grid sensation at the ten light year mark as measured from the sling shifted 'possibility' into certainty.

Weapons added the tourist ship's demise to the growing data library from which BorgCraft scenarios were built. Second Federation and RomuVulc forces had set, and were expanding, a gauntlet of mines, tripwires, booby traps, and deadly ambushes, as much prevent incursions by the other side as to keep prospective customers from the Xenig's sling. The explosion, or, more precisely, the electromagnetic sensor shadows cast upon the tourist's destruction, had revealed several previously hidden menaces. That data joined the zigs and zags of the courier-freighter which had successfully passed the pickets, as well as the courses plied by vessels of the two sides. Eventually the maze would be mapped; and, eventually, the partitions modeling BorgCraft 'what-if' scenarios would generate something acceptable by the rest of the sub-collective.

Personally, Weapons was all for charging straight to the Keyhole sling. The 1.6% chance of successfully arriving in a (mostly) functional state was acceptable odds. Unfortunately, others (e.g., Delta) seemed to disagree. Wasn't that what engineering was for? Fixing little problems like 100 meter wide holes in the hull armor?

Weapons examined the data library, frowning as he noticed subgrids 45i through 76b continued to retain their 'unknown' status. A ping was tossed at Sensors, followed by {Provide an update, now! All grids in the rimward quadrants were supposed to be completed as of 500 seconds ago! Unacceptable! How are we to build quality models if we do not have accurate information? I need....}

A complex jumble of multicolored symbols rotated in the air before Captain. The display, resembling the artistic endeavor of a small child with a hyperactivity disorder and too many crayons, was, for once, not an attempt by the computer and drone computational elements to translate one of Sensors' grid settings. Well, mostly not. The platypus-looking thing that occasionally swam through the webwork was debatable as to origin. No, what floated before Captain was the final map of the labyrinth Cube #347 would have to traverse to reach the Keyhole sling.

Defenses (and offenses) for both Second Federation and RomuVulc Combine forces began approximately one light year from the Keyhole, increasing in density as the sling was approached. All fortifications abruptly ended 1000 kilometers from the Keyhole. Thus far identified impediments ranged from passive sensor nets to subspace mine fields to patrols and ambushes. Among the most dangerous strategies observed, and the one which prevented Cube #347 from brashly bulldogging through the blockade, were the autonomous torps.

The autonomous torpedoes were a novel technological adaptation. Awaiting deployment at a thus far undetected depot or carrier ship, the torpedoes were outfitted with miniature FTL drives. Whenever certain key sensors were triggered, a torpedo barrage was never far away, their use outside the normal long-range envelope possible only due to the dense sensor nets in operation by both sides. While the warheads of most torps were photon, cobalt, or other similar low to moderate yield loads, varieties incorporating singularities had been seen.

Meticulous mapping by the sensor hierarchy, combined with watching ship patrol routes and the occasional feints of both sides into their respective opponent's territory, had produced a possible course of action. Upon the three-dimensional holographic map before Captain snaked a lime green line. The 'holes' in the defenses were the key to success, bubbles and passages free of munitions. Those empty areas served a multitude of purposes, such as sensor deployment and ship staging. A few were also traps, as discovered by an unlucky merchant attempting to run the blockade, only to meet an autonomous torpedo halfway to the Keyhole. The line represented the best microjump route, numerous subspace 'presents' preventing incoming ships from using faster-than-light engines to bypass the maze in one fell swoop. Of course, one major assumption was that neither side changed the configuration of their defenses.

"As if that isn't going to happen," muttered Second outloud to the unvoiced concern floating through the dataspaces. An arrow was added to the display, highlighting a Second Federation vessel. "That is a minelayer. Its sole mission is to add a few thousand more obstacles to our path. Each mine may only impart a little damage, but several hundred blowing up on the hull creates a complete mess."

Captain turned his head slightly to bring his backup consensus monitor and facilitator into the peripheral vision of his whole eye. "Second, you are channeling Delta again."

Second blinked, his two unaltered eyes not quite in sync with each other. In the dataspaces, the presence which was Second distanced itself slightly from the engineering hierarchy sphere of influence. "So it seems," responded Second mildly. Even within the ranks of the imperfectly assimilated where each drone generally maintained one's own personal mental space, thought streams bled into each other. At times it could be difficult to tell where one's own thoughts ended and another's began. "That still doesn't change the observation."

Captain sent a nonverbal affirmative as he returned full attention to the map. {Attention! Final consensus cascade is about to commence. This is the last chance for us to consider valid alternatives...note the word "valid". 254 of 300, do not insert anything pertaining to an Avon sales representative: it is a waste of computational runtime resources. The same for your "Disguise Cube #347 As A Giant Rock" scheme, 12 of 310.} Useless warnings delivered, Captain initiated the consensus cascade.

The outcome, once infeasible decision branches were pruned, was as expected. No new options were presented; and while Weapons remained highly dissatisfied that Cube #347 was not to charge the blockade with neuruptors blazing, there remained a near certainty of a suitably violent encounter while en route to the sling. The sub-collective's overall chance of success fell within a range of 10.5% to 56.3%, with a very large margin for error.

Captain opened his eye as the final decision was reached. The holoscreen zoomed to center upon the first required microjump. Simultaneously, a second window opened, numbers scrolling at an unreadable rate of speed as it mirrored the calculations necessary to drop Cube #347 into a relatively small volume of space.

"Well, here goes nothing," quipped Captain as he reached forth into the dataspaces and activated warp drive.

Delta squinted in thoughtful contemplation as she stood beside herself in Bulk Cargo Hold #2. Before her were six transparent cylinders, each a meter in diameter and ten meters long, their interiors pumped free of air to create a vacuum. They had been set on their sides and imprisoned within a complicated cradle of blinking lights, sensors, and unnecessary visual displays. The ends of the containers flickered with the telltale signs of forcefields, all the easier to insert and remove items without the need for complicated airlocks.

Body A turned slightly to fully face the first cylinder of the row. "Initiate the control."

A small cutting laser installed in the 'front' end of the container activated with a high-pitched hum. A yellow beam struck its target, a hand-sized square of metal painted black. Nothing happened. Data collected from sensors scrolled before Delta's mental eyes, confirming visual observation. The metal was nothing special, a piece of duralloy hull plate that analysis indicated to be substandard due to a high level of contamination. Theoretically, the laser should have burned a hole through the target within seconds of activation. However, not only did the hull piece remain unscathed, there was barely an indication of thermal stress.

Just like all the other tests.

"Cease."

The laser shut off.

Body B's eyes lifted to stare at the ungainly merchant freighter which had been liberated during the shopping expedition to Supply Depot #761. A few ragged holes showed where the metal used in the test had been collected, but otherwise the ship was intact. One major difference was that its former black coloration was reduced to the occasional streak, the paint having liquefied in the warmth and high humidity that was standard for Borg vessels. Humongous pans lined the deck below the freighter, poised to catch the remnant paint as it trickled downward. Thus far, a little over 3500 liters had been captured.

The freighter was not as innocent, nor as depilated, as it seemed. The 'merchant' stored at Supply Depot #761 had in fact been a research and development vessel testing a novel armor with the outward appearance of black paint. Termed 'phasic metal' by the elixir recipe, a few cups of the substance had been delivered to EMH Frank for inclusion into the brew, leaving behind thousands of liters of excess. Engineering had quickly discovered the pseudo-paint to have the remarkable property of absorbing directed energy, dumping it...elsewhere. That elsewhere was unimportant; and if grave consequences developed due the equivalent of blithely discarding garbage over the fence onto a gun-loving neighbor's property, well, that was then and this was now. It was a very Borg viewpoint for ends to justify the means. If the Borg Collective had realized the importance of the freighter, it would not have been awaiting dismantlement for spare parts at Supply Depot #761; and the otherwise unremarkable species from whom the vessel originated would have been placed top priority for immediate assimilation.

Engineering, with Delta at its head, was attempting to replicate the substance. Analysis had thus far determined constituent elements and the fact that it had been constructed with nanometer precision. However, siccing a subset of the engineering hierarchy of an imperfect sub-collective on a problem better considered by a partition of 10,000 drones selected for their cerebral excellence meant that Delta and company were at a severe disadvantage. Dozens of vats usually used by assimilation hierarchy to build nanites and service the regeneration systems had been pressed into duty as experimental generators spewing out small quantities of phasic metal variants. Unfortunately, none had succeeded in replicating the original.

Luck was not a tenant of Borg belief, yet betting on the roll of the metaphysical dice was what Delta had been reduced to. Thus far everything was coming up snake-eyes.

"Test #413. Commence," said Delta, body A.

The laser in the cylinder next to the control hummed. As before, the yellow beam struck the target. Unlike the control, a hole was almost immediately burned through the hull plate. As a bonus, the paint caught on fire, burning with a brilliant white glare and palpable heat.

Delta, both of her, immediately began to shout, "Off! Off! Off!!"

The cutting laser ceased operation, but the fire did not die, perversely burning in the vacuum without dint of oxygen or other accelerants.

{Note to file: variation #413 is either an unacceptable mixture or does not have the appropriate nanoscale structure. Probability is 86.5% the latter. However, there is the possibility of weapons applications.} Delta scribed the brief memo into the larger experimental docket.

One of Delta's multi-tasking sub-threads inspected the status of the pre-positioned repair teams scattered about the cube at key locations. Except for the small group assisting her with the experiments, they were the only engineering drones physically active. The remainder were in their alcoves, either under regeneration else supporting phasic metal analysis. At least that was the theory. Reality consisted of several hundred units watching (and commenting upon) the action unfolding beyond Cube #347's hull. Delta did not care, as long as the appropriate designations were secured in alcoves and not straining her less-than-perfect supervisory abilities.

Cube #347 was currently in the first of the several safe-spots the sub-collective had to traverse before arriving at the Keyhole sling. Despite the highly obvious nature of the cube, neither Second Federation nor RomuVulc Combine had noticeably responded. One could always hope that committees were being formed to deal with the threat represented by the cube, committees which would slow the entire process. Unfortunately, hope, like luck, was yet another (supposedly) irrelevant concept. At the moment, additional sensor sweeps were filling in the map, gathering data to update calculations for the next mini-warp jump. If the sub-collective had been an action-hero, said protagonist was eyeballing the chopping, spinning, whirling Blades of Doom, waiting for that vital opening to leap through on his journey deeper into the Evil-Doer's Secret Lair.

{Too many movies, 107 of 212,} chided Weapons, his mental voice cutting through the computations and chatter which was Cube #347's dataspace architecture. {They are movies with lots of flame and explosions, yes, but they are also not relevant at this time. Yet. Reconnect with partition #9 and complete the extrapolation models of enemy response likely at the third safe-spot.}

{Compliance,} sighed 107 of 212, unheard by Weapons. The latter had already turned his attention to hunting the next designation lowering his hierarchy's effectiveness.

Delta tuned out the background, refocusing herself on her own hierarchy, her own task. Phasic metal appeared to be the holy grail of armors, if the Borg believed in religious concepts. It accepted punishment in the form of all manner of energy weapons - laser, phaser, disruptor, neuruptor - and dissipated most kinetic attacks, downgrading the equivalent of a sledgehammer to a minor backslap. Performance against torpedoes, flavored from photon to singularity, was an unknown, but models suggested likewise feats of near mystical warding ability. Presumably it, like all armors, would eventually fail if sufficiently stressed. However, as it was, it was easy to apply and, unlike other armors, did not obscure sensors (nonSensors grid settings, at any rate). The only identified weakness appeared to be the combination of heat and humidity which caused it to liquefy, an event unlikely to be experienced by a ship's hull unless the vessel in question was traversing certain planetary atmospheres. Of course, there was also that other little problem of actually concocting the substance....

The 3500 liters, plus a bit more, collected from the pseudo-merchant ship was barely enough to coat a few hull quadrants, much less the entire cube or even a face. Assuming the cube made it through the blockade in one piece, phasic metal could be the key to sub-collective survival, at least long enough to complete the elixir, administer it, and subsequently cure the Collective of its quantum-induced madness. If the imperfect crew of Cube #347 was sufficiently swift, there was even a small chance for the Greater Consciousness to accept the sub-collective back into the Whole in time to allow at least some of however many units remained just this side of non-functionality to merge as echoes in the Entire.

It was a goal. Not a great goal, but a goal, nonetheless.

Frowning at variation #413, which had finally extinguished itself, Delta shifted her attention to the next cylinder and its waiting hunk of black-coated metal. The dice were rolled...was this one the winner? Would this attempt to reverse-engineering phasic metal impart the protection demonstrated by the original?

Delta, body A, spoke words long since become familiar, "Test #414. Commence."

The laser blinked into operation. Less than a tenth of a second later a bright flash lit the cylinder, temporarily overloading visuals - technological and organic - of any drone who had been watching. As sight returned, Delta regarded the smoke-filled canister, as well as the spiderweb of cracks which compromised vacuum integrity. Both of her sighed. It seemed variant #414 was an enhanced version of flash paper. Definitely not something to spray upon the hull.

"Cease," dully intoned body B. The laser shut off.

Snake-eyes. Again.

Cube #347 was too massive for the popcorn shudder of mines exploding against the hull to be physically felt by the drones within. Nonetheless, the intimate link of each unit to the dataspaces meant that all knew the moment of impact.

{Sensors!} barked Captain as the cube jolted to an abrupt stop. {This was designated as a safe-spot!} In the air around the primary consensus monitor and facilitator, holographic windows cascaded into visibility. Reflections of the sudden streams of consciousness in which multi-tasking Captain was now embroiled, they highlighted damage assessment, repair crew status, cube offensive/defensive readiness, and, for some reason, a selection of recipes from 17 of 19's culinary database. It was the map tracking Cube #347's progress towards the Keyhole which held Captain's primary attention, however, and, specifically, a close-up view of the space surrounding the vessel. Pulsating fuchsia points speckled the previously clear volume around the central cube icon.

{Sensors cannot see,} wailed the response. An attempt at clarification was added, {EMP pulse to subgrid 54.c-1 has given big Sensors [big] and [yarrow] blotches in her [geranium].}

In one corner of Captain's nodal intersection, partially covered by directions to make a gravy, Second shifted his stance slightly. {The sensor grid remains functional. Else we wouldn't see those little pink dots in our way.}

{No, no, [go fish]! Sensors is seeing [big] and [yarrow] blotches, making everything look [gooey]. And her [fatz] is [hairy], too. The sensor grid is only slightly [frizzled].}

"Well, that explains everything," muttered Second.

Captain swiveled his head slightly and shot a glare at his backup consensus monitor. There were some physical gestures that just could not be replicated in the intranets. However, as always, Second proved to be immune to the scowl. {Sensors,} tried Captain once more, {why were the mines not detected prior to our jump?} Another window joined the plethora of those already present. The new stream originated from the weapons hierarchy, detailing type and yield of each of the dozen mines which had rattled the cube.

A swift minute of give-and-take - rapid compared to a non-Borg crew, yet agonizingly slow if set against another sub-collective - concluded the mines had been cloaked. The energy signature which would have exposed the ruse had been too minute to distinguish given Cube #347's original mapping position and the amount of other armaments polluting local space with their electromagnetic bleeps and hoots. As to why the Second Federation forces whom patrolled this part of the battlefield had not triggered the mines? Although technically demanding and occasionally prone to catastrophic failure, it was hypothesized that transponders were in use alerting the mines to friend or foe status. Thus, the impression of a safe-spot was created where none existed, a ploy to attract prospective intruders.

With explanation devised amid complaints of [yarrow] turning into [parsley], Captain pushed, {But we can see all the mines now?}

Affirmed Sensors with unusual clarify, {Yes. Sensors can see all the mines.}

"Although we cannot move without setting off any more of the buggers," noted Second. He had left his position of relative safety against the wall to stand at Captain's elbow. Senses greater than mere eyes peered at holo showing the cube's predicament as the datastreams behind the pretty picture were examined.

Ignoring Second's unhelpful comments, Captain's focus turned to engineering. {Delta: provide a status update.}

{Insignificant damage.} Priorities realigned, the head of the engineering hierarchy had abandoned her phasic metal research to direct repair crews. The appropriate datastream was highlighted. {The EMP pulse which impacted subgrid 54.c-1 blew some relays, propagating a cascade of minor surges within a handful of subsystems already stressed from prior pummeling and insufficient repairs. However, nothing major was affected.}

Interrupted Weapons into Delta's verbalized summary, {Nothing major? Torpedo tubes 4 though 7 on face #5 are nonfunctional!}

{Oh, the horror. The fuse will be replaced when the repair crew gets there...after higher priority issues are fixed,} replied Delta scornfully. {You could have one of your own hierarchy units patch the problem. If you need technical assistance, I suppose the appropriate file could be reformatted to include pictures and large fonts.}

{Fuses are a job for engineering, not weapons,} growled Weapons.

Captain groaned as he felt control of the situation literally slipping. This was not the time for a censure filter hiccup.

{Then a certain hierarchy will just have to wait. There are twelve other functional torpedo tubes on that face. I'm sure any enemies, if you could actually hit them, will not notice the lack,} said Delta.

{Fix them!}

{No. In fact, you have now deprioritized their repair to below the Frogger machine in Supply Closet #12's arcade complex.}

{Fix them!}

{No.}

An increasing number of command and control were shifted to buttress filters and prevent tears in the censure programs from widening. The current location of Cube #347 in the middle of a hostile battlezone was not the place for a full-scale sub-collective melt-down necessitating an all-unit reboot. Captain's body froze as mind turned completely inward.

Second looked at his statue still compatriot. In one hand materialized a crowbar. "If Weapons hasn't scrambled the transporters, it may be necessary for a first-person attending of the problem," he muttered as eyes glazed.

{Fix them!}

{No.}

In a fit of pique, Weapons ordered the unit nearest the malfunctioning relay fuse to do something. That nearest unit happened to be 13 of 212; and without a specific duty to perform, 13 of 212, not known for his cerebral excellence, was at a loss. There was a reason why the primary functions on his personal dossier were listed as 'front-line assault fodder' and 'doorstop'. Stepping from his alcove, 13 of 212 swiveled and took the necessary three steps to reach the panel behind which the burnt isolinear chip resided. 13 of 212 managed to open the panel without incident, but when confronted with the confusing bank of blinking lights, he did what any thick-of-head drone might do when an already complicated situation was made even more difficult by an impending censure failure: he panicked.

{Don't think that right,} said 13 of 212 as the smoke cleared. {Maybe need en-gin-eer-ing?}

Silence from the two arguing parties greeted the remark. Delta was the first to recover. {You disrupted the panel!}

{That fuse moves to a higher priority now, yes?} inquired Weapons.

It was the straw that broke the cybernized camel's back. The fading echoes of the minor electrical surge caused by the EMP pulse, which had affected the cube solely due to the extreme state of re-re-repair of a single sensor grid component, spiked anew. Before it could be confined, it rippled through external storage arrays previously impacted, rupturing already weakened linkages.

{My recipes!} wailed 17 of 19. {The custards are everywhere! And who heard of using beets to flavor a sugar cookie?}

Snarled Weapons, {Recipes are irrelevant. There are more important....} The complaint trailed off. {Second? Why are you...?}

Captain roused back to full awareness in time to hear the distinctive sound of the transporter. Turning his head slightly, he eyed the freshly materialized Second, taking in the hint of smirk that decorated the back up consensus monitor's otherwise deadpan face, as well as the slightly dented crowbar held in one hand. Logs for the last several minutes were accessed, with a focus upon Second's movements and actions.

"Sometimes mental persuasion doesn't work with Weapons," said Second dryly. The crowbar was sent to replicator reclamation. "Especially when he or the sub-collective is destabilized. You know that. Every member of the Hierarchy of Eight knows that. In those cases, a little bit of physical prodding is necessary."

Captain sighed and shook his head, then pivoted to fully face the forward bulkhead once more. Weapons was a tactical drone, and as such would require more than a few thumps about the head with a crowbar to be more than slightly inconvenienced or require drone maintenance. Hopefully the 'reminder' by Second that the setting of priorities was a communal process would last long enough for Cube #347 to complete transit of the blockade.

For now the collective psyche was stabilized. The sub-collective would still need a reboot to reinitialize censure filters in the near future, but not until after the Keyhole was traversed. Assuming the Keyhole could be reached to be traversed.

Anyway...

A ping redirected Captain's attention to the map hologram. The view had pulled away from the extreme close-up of Cube #347's icon to focus on one of the two activity clusters which represented the bases built by the warring sides. A dozen red boots(?) had separated from a structure that bore an uncanny resemblance to a shoe tree. Projected course for the footwear was Cube #347's unsafe-spot.

{Movement by Second Federation forces detected,} announced Sensors. Her uncharacteristic clarity did not last. {There are [sneakers] and [stucco cars] among the [raining slasher films].}

"Those look like the hiking boots I once owned, when I wore boots," commented Second, the perpetual one-drone peanut gallery, "not sneakers. And they aren't being very sneaky, neither."

Captain didn't bother to shush his backup.

The hologram abruptly shifted, centering on the small explosion of confetti which was the RomuVulc base. In this case, the computer's interpretation of Sensors' grid settings did not extend to the emerging ships. The Borg-standard icons detailed fourteen vessels of mixed tonnage, none of which singly were a serious match for an Exploratory-class cube, but if considered together might present an obstacle. Naturally, their destination was the same as their SecFed opponents.

Overheard exchanges featuring less-than-conciliatory tones between the two sides - Cube #347 was a newer mark of Exploratory-class, and as such did sport an excellent suite of eavesdropping devices - suggested a less than cooperative atmosphere. The RomuVulc deployment was purely in response to SecFed movement; and when (not if) the two sides met, more than harsh words would be swapped. The fact that there was a dangerous third party involved in the form of a Borg cube did not matter. In truth, the RomuVulc Combine was accusing Second Federation with manufacturing the whole situation, that the Borg cube was merely a sensor ghost, in order to gain some sort of nebulous tactical advantage.

"It is time for us to move on," said Captain, speaking for the Whole.

Quipped Second, "Really?"

Ignoring Second, Captain fed the command for the next microjump to propulsion. Cube #347 would take a few more mines to the hull, but projected damage was acceptable. The alternative consisted of waiting for the two gauntlet builders to arrive, and the consequences thereof.

Nothing happened. Well, almost nothing. Instead of the expected unidling of engines, a suite of recipes featuring pies began scrolling through Captain's mind.

{Delta: status report,} demanded the consensus monitor and facilitator even as the pies segued into cheesecakes. Several command and control partitions were simultaneously redirected to assist diagnosing the very serious problem.

Captain's response was the ghost of a grunt and a brief doubled first-person image of Delta employing both of herself in a bolt tightening endeavor. {Working...} said Delta, her virtual voice less than crisp as additional engineering units activated, impacting her personal efficiency. In Captain's nodal intersection, a window following the damage assessment threads began to scroll at blinding speed.

Finally, Delta answered, {Cross-wiring has occurred. The EMP mine initiated the problem, but fallout was minimal...until someone insisted a certain low priority fuse be repaired.} The goad at Weapons elicited no retort other than the intranet version of eye-rolling. {The surge created feedback through several otherwise unrelated systems. Everything is scrambled. For instance, attempts to alter shield harmonics activates internal tractor beams in Bulk Cargo Hold #2.}

"Or provides me with cherry cheesecake recipes when propulsion is engaged," muttered Captain.

{Yes,} agreed Delta. The verbalization had been an echo of a much larger dawning of comprehension from the sub-collective entire. The words which the head of engineering hierarchy spoke next were not entirely unexpected, given the exercise was really a facet of the Whole speaking to the Whole. {Unfortunately, this particular repair is not in the bailiwick of engineering - we can only fix the symptoms. The cross-wiring is primarily within the dataspaces.}

Captain sighed. It would be the job of command and control, supported by assimilation hierarchy, to untangle the mess. And there was a deadline to patch sufficient vital systems before the SecFed or RomuVulc forces arrived and determined the cube was not a sensor hallucination. {List the compromised systems.}

{Propulsion - all types except impulse. Shields. Torpedoes and beam weaponry. Hullside tractor beams. Nanite processing. Gravity in subsections 19 and 21. Transporters servicing subsections 1, 3, 6....}

The large double door to Nanite Assembly Room #6 opened slightly, just enough to allow a bright slash of light from the hallway outside to fall upon the floor of the otherwise pitch black room. A humanoid shadow almost immediately blocked much of the illumination; and the glassy lens of an ocular implant peered into the darkness. After nearly half a minute, the figure contorted slightly to make space for a second shape, this one approximately knee-high to the first and consisting of multiple legs. Several devices, most of them featuring blinking diodes of various colors, were thrust into Nanite Assembly Room #6, held securely by chitonous tri-fingered hands.

"How're the readin's, 2 of 3? Good karma or bad?"

The devices were withdrawn. Replied the knee-high shadow, "Not good, 70 of 230. We know that 17 of 19's recipe database was incorporated in nearly all the affected systems. In this case it seems the database mixed with Delta's phasic metal experiments, and then the nanite vats went into overdrive."

70 of 230's remained silent. Head shifted to allow an (outwardly) unaltered eye to look through the opening.

Continued 2 of 3, "And now, well, if any drone goes in there, the best thing is to avoid breathing heavily, if at all. Matches or any other ignition source is also not a good idea. Somewhat explosive atmosphere. Literally."

The two shadows went silent and still as only drones in communion with a larger subset of themselves could. After several heartbeats both uttered a verbal "Compliance."

2 of 3 backed away. "You heard our instructions, 70 of 230. Let's seal this location. There are higher priority problems with which to deal."

"Yah, sure, you betcha," drawled 70 of 230 as the doors began to inch shut. The accent was an unholy melding of 20th century Norwegian and Caribbean, neither of which were native dialects of the very nonhuman drone. "Dilithium Growth Laboratory #5 be next. Bad juju there."

"Juju? Karma? 70 of 230, for the last t-"

The doors to Nanite Assembly Room #6 closed, cutting off the conversation mid-word had anyone been present to hear. However, no one was present. Instead, there was the *gloop*ing pop of a bubble rising through thick sludge, followed by the low thrum of spinning vat motors. In the unseen dataspaces, recipes from disparate databases blended together into yet another novel combination; and it was the function of the mindless nanites in their vats of goo to assemble the concoction.

"It is a Borg cube, by the Directors! Don't be an idiot! Look at your sensor readings!" shouted a voice, human male, tone expressing exasperated annoyance.

The response was the measured cadence of a Vulcan female, logic oozing from each enunciated syllable, "It is a deception. A similar ruse employing a holographic courier allegedly carrying an infectious compound was used at Darius 127."

"It is a Borg cube!"

"And at Jimi IV, the captain of the Second Federation ship 'Rickshaw' built the holographic projection of a rogue comet around a runabout," continued the Vulcan voice calmly.

"Look, that was-"

"Near Starbase 67, Second Federation Black Ops paid a mercenary Xenig to break into station systems and project a flotilla of flaming pickles onto-"

"Pickles? Hey now...that was a Xenig practical joke," interrupted Voice 1. "Listen to me, you logical moron! The big block that you see in your sensors is a bloody Borg cube. Neither of us has the resources to handle that monstrosity alone, so we need to work together. Afterwards we can go back to the stand-off."

"It is a trick."

Voice 1 unsuccessfully withheld a groan of frustration, then muttered a scatological epithet under his breath.

Vulcan Female: "Not physically possible without extensive genetic modification and at least two gallons of cottage cheese."

Delta raised the spanner body A was holding and lightly tapped 109 of 230 on the shoulder. "Pay attention."

109 of 230 startled, nearly jumping into the open panel she was standing in front of. "Er...um," she stammered. In the dataspaces, 109 of 230 disengaged her primary awareness from the SecFed-RomuVulc communication stream Cube #347 was monitoring.

"Work? Assigned job? Engineering? Does that sound familiar?" inquired Delta with a gesture towards the panel and the burnt biochips that required replacement.

"This drone complies," hastily uttered 109 of 230 as she unslotted a chip and scanned it for functionality with her prosthetic limb.

Delta's bodies were in different locations, for being in two places at once had distinct advantages when one was an engineering drone. The physical separation did not hinder a unison sigh, however, as damage systems recorded yet another mine impacting the hull. Although each individual explosion imparted minimal damage, the cumulative effects were beginning to add up. The risk in losing drone resources at this point still outweighed the benefits of transporting repair teams to the hull, so all Delta could do was watch the logs and contemplate (in conjunction with the rest of her hierarchy) if the automatic repair system she so despised should be activated.

{Propulsion controls are now satisfactory,} announced Captain into the general intranets. {Prepare for microjump to next waypoint. All mobile drones, except critical damage control teams, return to their alcoves. Now. Don't make me compel you!}

"About time," muttered Delta, body A, to herself. As she, personally, was unnecessary for ongoing repairs, she transported herselves back to her alcoves. Even as clamps secured her bodies, Delta was cross-referencing the engineering duty roster with actual unit location to confirm all drones under her responsibility were in their appropriate places. With the Second Federation and RomuVulc forces bickering amongst each other, neither willing to commit resources against a possibly insubstantial diversion, it seemed Cube #347 had an opening through which to gain the Keyhole.

The moment of irrelevant optimism did not last.

{Whoa! Sensors [fatz] quantum ripples. Doubled [carpet]. Abort microjump.}

Propulsion, which had been spooling up in preparation for the move to the next safe-spot, abruptly idled.

A stereo exhalation echoed from Delta's twin alcoves as she focused upon sensor grid diagnostics. The outcome of the EMP pulse and 17 of 19's rogue recipes was reminiscent of a hydra: cut off one head, and two more sprung up to take its place. {No problems reported in relevant systems,} informed Delta to Captain before the latter could inquire as upon status.

{Sensors sees too big. Too [fat]. Too yellow. And then too [wonky]. It is like Sensors wearing [rose-colored] carnival [veils],} prattled Sensors. {Sensors cannot recommend microjump. We may not [airplane] where we aim.}

{Well, we can't stay here until Second Federation forces convince RomuVulc of our reality,} countered Second.

Delta ignored the background conversation between backup consensus monitor and sensory hierarchy head.

Captain's mental presence moved along the dataspaces, examining and sorting compiled information from many disparate sources. Delta waited. Finally Captain returned attention to Sensors. {Sensors. From where is the problem originating? Engineering reports no obvious issues with the grid.}

The ghost of a click, like that of a prosthetic insectoid leg tapping the deck, led Sensors' reply, {Sensors never [bark] the grid. Quantum ripples [faux wood] from subsection 2, submatrix 15, Nanite Assembly Room #6. That makes grid too big and too [fat] and too yellow. And too [wonky].}

Delta mentally blinked, then immediately accessed the latest status report from Nanite Assembly Room #6. Before the jump into the unsafe-spot, she had been using that locale to concoct experimental phasic metal compounds. More recently, damage assessment team alpha-1.b had reported nanite vats in the room to be producing versions of the phasic metal paint mutated by 17 of 19's recipes. With the sampled atmosphere more than a little explosive, vat nanites unable to be remotely disengaged, and higher priorities beckoning, the room had been sealed until such time it could be dealt with.

Delta bumped Nanite Assembly Room #6 to the highest priority. A damage control team, inclusive herself, was assembled and dispatched. Clamps disengaged, allowing both of her bodies to step to the deck,

{Unknown time to control or repair the situation,} spoke Delta to Captain. {The room needs to be reassessed first.}

Captain initiated a consensus cascade - retreat, perform the microjump, or wait? Throughout the cube, mobile units ceased motion as the choices were deliberated upon, as data was examined and re-examined. The decision tree sprouted its usual tangents as nonsensical options were offered, the resultant limbs brutally pruned by command and control. Finally the alternatives were reduced to two, and then one. Cold calculations decided the fate of four thousand cybernetic souls.

Cube #347 would risk transit to the next safe-spot.

Less than a minute had passed. Delta unlocked her limbs and beamed her bodies to the hallway outside Nanite Assembly Room #6. Some drone had activated the local speaker system, slaving it to the continued SecFed-RomuVulc exchange.

Vulcan Female: "By the Directors, it is a Borg cube!"

The human male snorted, then said: "About time your logic kicked in. The next question is: now what?"

{Torpedoes incoming,} calmly announced 6 of 83, one of Weapons' primary 'lieutenants' among the tactical hierarchy. The seeming tranquility which radiated from the unit was the merest veneer covering the somewhat psychotic reality beneath. During BorgCraft scenarios in Bulk Cargo Hold #5, 6 of 83 was as likely to shoot the drone in her squad which was obscuring the target as the target itself. And smile a very unBorg smile all the while as if enjoying a joke of which only she knew the punchline. For some odd reason, the alcoves to either side of 6 of 83 never remained occupied for very long. {Mostly singularity torps. Impact in three...two...}

'One' was never voiced as Cube #347 initiated a microjump, hopscotching it one step closer to the Keyhole. Thus far the sub-collective had managed to remain just ahead of whatever mayhem had been thrown at the cube, be it torpedoes, ships, or other similar obstacles.

Such luck - even if luck could be deemed relevant - could not last.

In the abandoned safe-spot, a dozen autonomous torpedoes began to circle like a pack of space-faring sharks. Deprived of a valid target, they were hazards looking for a place to explode. With Cube #347's hull in less than optimal condition, yet another avenue of potential retreat was cut off; and even if the Exploratory-class cube had been fresh from dry-dock, the punishment expected from nine singularity torps would have been sufficient to return it back to the scaffolding.

{Sensors almost [went slapdash],} complained Sensors to Delta. {The quantum ripples remain, [futz]ing up Sensors' favorite grid configurations.}

Delta panned Nanite Assembly Room #6. Although the vats refused to cease manufacturing whatever phasic metal/lemon tart concoction the system had become fixated upon, at least the combination was not prone to aerial ignition. Nor did it liquefy organic flesh upon contact. And neither did it smell like Terran jasmine incense, an odor which caused Delta to sneeze and her eyes to water despite liberal release of antihistamines from an artificial gland. Given all the issues overcome since discovering the serious nature of the problem in Nanite Assembly Room #6, Delta felt a few quantum ripples to be relatively minor. {I thought you had modified the grid settings to filter out remaining distortions. There are only so many layers of aluminum foil which can be applied to the walls before the shielding gains become inefficiently incremental.}

The intranet sigh from Sensors was a miniature woodwind orchestra. {It is much better, but Sensors still finds the [universe] to be a bit too yellow and [fat]. Coordinates fed to command and control for the [hop and skip] jumps are affected.}

{We have not crashed yet,} responded Delta, {so you are going to have to live with it. Now that the immediate issues with Nanite Assembly Room #6 are controlled, engineering has more pressing priorities.}

{Sensors understands,} exhaled Sensors, a hint of mournful French horn accompanying the woodwinds.

A small *bang* echoed in Nanite Assembly Room #6, accompanying by a bright flash of light. At opposite sides of the room, both of Delta's bodies pivoted to face the commotion. Her reward was the sight of a column of bluish smoke, the faint smell of ozone, and a twosome of somewhat blackened drones.

"Oops?" belatedly exclaimed 18 of 310 outloud, a high-tech caulking gun held in one hand. {Perhaps heated bonding agent AluminoFix IV should not be applied where the subsurface has been chilled by a coolant leak?}

{You think?} chided 137 of 230 as he stood next to 18 of 310. {It is going to take forever to pick charred aluminum foil out of my joints.}

Delta sent body B towards the scene to visually assess for herself the extent of damage. She slowed as she approached the pair. Whereas most of a three meter by three meter segment consisted of charred aluminum foil, a two-hands wide irregular patch amid the destruction remained intact. The undamaged area appeared to be covered in a matte black substance specked with gray.

"There was no thermal anomaly earlier," insisted 18 of 310, her words accompanied by a stream of data. "It must have occurred after the first foil-'n'-caulk teams went through. I-"

Delta held up body B's whole hand in a warding gesture. 18 of 310 immediately quieted. Head tilted, Delta reached forward to touch the substance...

*Glook*glunk* Pause. *Blerp*

{Incoming,} warned 137 of 230 as he turned to regard the vat looming behind the trio. {Old Faithful is about to burp.}

'Old Faithful', nee vat #17 of Nanite Assembly Room #6, was a known problem. Low on the fix-it priority list, the vat had a tendency to overfill until whatever contents it was tasked to brew topped off just below the rim. Normally such was not an issue. If the mixture in question had a fermentative component, however, then splattering occurred whenever bubbles burst.

Delta shuffled her body out of the way as a final *bloomp* erupted from the vat. Although she was relatively sure that the vat's contents would not dissolve, burn, or otherwise injure body B should it be splashed, Delta preferred not to take chances until final analyses were complete. 18 of 310 and 137 of 230 followed Delta's lead. Just as the head of the engineering hierarchy stepped out of splatter range, several liters of the vat's gooey contents arced through the air and hit the wall, including the charred area. Thick grey liquid, with a hint of oily yellow, began to slowly dribble to the ground in thin runnels.

Mostly.

At the location of the thermally chilled patch, the substance swiftly cooled into a grey speckled black gel.

Delta stepped forward to more closely examine the hardened liquid, head tilted sideways as several otherwise disparate engineering datathreads were woven into a tentative whole. Unfortunately, more information was required before a final conclusion could be made. "18 of 310, come here. You are the nearest unit with an arc welder suite."

"Er, yes?" answered 18 of 310, compulsion propelling her body to the spot indicated by Delta. That same coercion lifted her prosthetic arm and pointed it at the wall, and, more specifically, the unknown gel.

137 of 230 took several prudent steps to distance himself. Delta followed, albeit not removing her body quite as far.

Forced to stay, 18 of 310 swiveled her head to track the retreating duo. "Next time I will scan for thermal anomalies. Really. I know that is the protocol, but five teams had already passed through without finding anything."

"This is not about damping Sensors' quantum ripple complaints with aluminum foil," said Delta. "This is a little experiment. Fire your arc welder at the gel."

"I'll just fry the wall," protested 18 of 310.

"Fire."

"Or myself."

"Fire. Comply."

Faced with an order she was unable to resist, 18 of 310 closed her eyes and triggered her arc welder. There was a very bright flash of light. Radiating a wonder that she was functional, 18 of 310 slit open her eyes.

The intact section of wall remained uncharred.

Another piece of an engineering puzzle slotted into the overall picture. Delta rerouted body A to join body B, the latter of which was already approaching the gelled goo. A prosthetic arm was raised to scan.

{This is the designated speaker for command and control partition 16b,} intruded a bored voice into Delta's mentalscape. The words were accompanied by the distinctive sound of snapping gum. {This partition has determined where 17 of 19's recipes have entangled Nanite Assembly Room #6 control systems and your phasic metal files. Quite a mess, let us tell you. We will be removing the undesirable code shortly. After that, engineering hierarchy should be able to shut down Nanite Assembly Room #6 and thereby fix the issues plaguing Sensors.}

Delta blinked, both of her, as the consequences fully registered. Half an hour, even five minutes, ago, such an announcement would have been more than welcome. Now, however, everything had changed. Maybe. A few more definitive tests were required, but accident may have just turned into fortuitous circumstance.

Unless command and control partition 16b was successful in completing its assigned task with an efficiency unbefitting the imperfectly assimilated sub-collective of Cube #347.

Said Delta strongly, {No! Cease! Desist! Do not alter the code!}

{Do not...?} began the spokesdrone for partition 16b, confusion evident.

{Captain!} called Delta, adding a series of rattling pings to the consensus monitor for additional emphasis. {Call off partition 16b. Initial indications are that phasic metal, or at least a version of it, has been reverse-engineered. Sort of. And if that partition resets any of the code associated with Nanite Assembly Room #6, we will be set back to square one. Do you understand?}

Cube #347 raced down the avenue. A small explosion excavated a crater ten meters in diameter and several meters deep, another scar joining the myriads of others new and old pocking the Exploratory-class cube's armor. The vessel shuddered and, for a moment, seemed as if it was to slow, to alter course to face its attacker. Then, like a balky horse with spurs set to its ribs, the moment of nascent hesitancy passed. The final goal was in sight and there was no time for digression.

The path the cube followed was one of several spokes which radiated away from the Keyhole aperture. Peculiar space-time fractures in a region already riddled with micro-anomalies, the avenues represented zones where unshielded equipment more advanced than a calculator had a tendency to fail after a few hours. Because of this phenomenon, neither Second Federation nor RomuVulc Combine was able to set mines, sensors, or weapons platforms. The avenues had become de facto no-man's-land between entrenched positions: energy weapons and projectiles continued to function perfectly as long as they were fired from outside the influence of the fracture zones. Transient munitions such as, for instance, autonomous torpedoes, also served as deterrence, the pre-positioned missiles able to be sent to a breech the moment sensors detected an intruder.

And Cube #347 represented a big intruder.

As the cube sped as fast as it could through the avenue - microjumps so closer to the Keyhole and host nebula were no longer feasible and the fracturing itself limited impulse velocity - it represented an irresistible target. Weapons lining both sides of the zone fired; and while shields and armor could absorb most punishment, not all damage was avoidable. More often than not, however, kinetic rounds and energy beams 'missed' Cube #347, impacting on the opposite side of the rift. The overheard accusations between SecFed and RomuVulc of deliberate re-targeting were many and loud; and twice Cube #347 had physically rammed through mini-skirmishes between picket ships tasked to work together against the Borg cube, but had instead turned on each other while awaiting the cube-shaped juggernaut.

It was neither automatic defenses nor manned vessels which spurred Cube #347 to stay its course despite a desire from certain members of a certain hierarchy to loiter. Following behind the cube was a pack of autonomous torpedoes, interspersed by the several frigates led by particularly dedicated (or suicidal) captains. Unfortunately for Cube #347, the torpedoes were closing the gap. Calculations indicated that unless measures were taken, the first missiles would impact shields just beyond the Keyhole exclusion zone. As the majority of munitions were high-yield singularity torps, the already faltering shield was projected to drop after only a couple direct hits, after which the hull would be vulnerable.

{A little more speed would be good about now,} cajoled Captain to Delta. The holo currently in front of the consensus monitor and facilitator was focused tightly upon Cube #347 and its unwanted 'friends'. Vectors and numbers were in constant flux as calculations updated in real-time, each torpedo individually tracked in relation to the cube. A slippery program originating from 80 of 152, irrepressible bookie, kept inserting odds above each missile - first to hit, most damage, and so forth - despite repeated attempts by Captain to block the datathread. However, Captain could not exactly devote full attention to the minor annoyance at the moment.

Delta replied, {This is as fast as we can go, given limiting conditions in the avenue and the problems which continue to plague controls. And, yes, my hierarchy is applying the contingency plan as quickly as possible.}

A new figure - number of drones permanently disabled - floating over the torpedoes was adequately distracting that Captain refocused sufficient attention to disable that particular feed from 80 of 152's program.

"Contingency plan. We are diverting vital resources to spray paint on our hull. Do we really think a bit of home redecorating will stay a singularity torp up our collective asses?" inquired Second.

Without removing his eyes from the current holodisplay, Captain answered, "Obviously we thought the attempt was sufficiently plausible to authorize ourselves to attempt it. You were part of the consensus cascade, Second."

Second snorted. "Only because we are out of other options that do not involve surrendering complete control to Weapons for a suicidal death charge." There was no response provided to the second part of Captain's rebuke.

The contingency plan entailed Delta's project of reverse-engineering phasic metal. She had performed a series of quick tests on the Nanite Assembly Room #6 goo that had resulted from a cascade of accidents ending with construction nanites attempting to decipher an unholy combination of 'phasic metal variation #65d' and 'lemon meringue pie'. While not as efficient an energy absorber as the original phasic metal, the paint also did not show the worrisome tendency to combust which was the hallmark of the majority of its predecessors. According to Delta, models run by elements of her hierarchy indicated potential 'nanometer sub-structure quantum foam anti-void' issues which boded ill for long-term stability, although those same models were vague and full of dense engineering technobabble as to what 'long-term stability' actually meant.

Fast forward to the present, and the torpedoes and other perils which would stop, or at least seriously damage, Cube #347 with the Keyhole goal juuuuust out of reach. All the sub-collective needed was to stave off the threats for the additional couple minutes required. Of course, if the Xenig proprietor of the Keyhole decided to allow the cube to terminate on general purposes of it being a Borg vessel despite reaching the mech's exclusion zone, then all bets were off. Such an outcome was better off not contemplated.

In an attempt to gain those extra minutes, over 600 engineering drones were currently on the hull on face #1 using backpack paint sprayers to apply the reverse-engineered phasic metal. Theoretically the substance would deflect and/or absorb destructive energies, functioning as a form-fitting shield. Like the original, the variation hardened when exposed to a non-humid/non-warm environment. Unlike the original, the variation did not dry as a smooth 'paint', but rather a gel which begat minor distortion to sensor grid input. Unfortunately, there was no time for additional refinement; and, as noted by Second, the sub-collective was out of other options.

Throughout the cube, all the nanite assembly vats able to be spared were manufacturing the phasic metal formula. Given time and supplies, sufficient paint could be churned out to completely coat Cube #347's exterior. Unfortunately, even a single face of an Exploratory-class cube represents a vast area, covered with sensor clusters, weapons ports, superfluous pipes and crenulations serving no purpose except as menacing aesthetics, and other bumpy bits. The fact that supplies to formulate phasic metal would be exhausted before half of face #1 was covered was academic because time was the much more critical limiting factor. When the sub-collective was finally forced to transport hullside drones back into the relative safety of the interior hallways, an estimated 300,000 square meters would be complete...which sounded like a lot until one realized the area was merely a bit over 10% of the total. Of a single face.

In his nodal intersection, Captain stood with unblinking eye and expressionless face as Cube #347 plowed through yet another skirmish - two on two - between Second Federation and RomuVulc picket ships. Internal reactions were quite a bit different as the consensus monitor mentally winced, the four vessels aborting their personal mini-war only seconds before becoming so much cosmic roadkill on the cube's shields. As it was, one of the SecFed defenders received a glancing love tap that sent it spinning off towards RomuVulc entrenchments.

{Too close! Did you see that? It was about to land on me!}

{Watch what you are doing, 288 of 310...you just painted my back. Again.}

{The shield went all blue and shimmery! If there was air out here, the sound would have been something like *zzt*! I swear I saw the pilot through the windows!}

{No SecFed warships of any size have windows: bridges, and helmsmen, are in the center of the vessel. You could not have seen anyone. Hey! 288 of 310, I told you to watch where you are pointing your spray gun!}

{*Zzt* and blue and shimmery! Too close! Right overhead! *Zzt*!}

Chatter between engineering units calmed, returning to exchanges of a more businesslike nature, as Delta exerted her command. With so many of her hierarchy physically active inside and upon the hull, elements of command and control had been diverted to assist her. Thus far a semblance of efficiency was being maintained.

Less than ten minutes later, time had expired. With the stern chase about to be concluded one way or another, all hullside drones were transported back to their alcoves. The flashing, multicolored numbers in Captain's holodisplay indicated the van of the autonomous torpedo pack to be less than thirty seconds from impact; and the most recent of 80 of 152's odds suggested that the reckless bettor willing to risk a few credits upon the sub-collective's survival would receive a substantial payout.

Captain began rotating face #1 towards the missile threat. {Weapons - defensive countermeasures. Delta - find us a little extra velocity.}

Delta snorted. {I'll just nip down to the store and buy us another functional impulse engine, will I? And maybe a side-helping of suspension of the physics in this avenue which prevent our bulk from accelerating to our full potential?}

Second flashed Delta a mental approval at the sarcastic display.

"You are not helping, Second," said Captain outloud. "Focus on babysitting Weapons because he is trying to wrest away helm again. If the computer, or sufficient sub-collective members, accede to his demand to re-classify our situation as requiring full tactical control, we will not survive."

"You really need to work on developing a sense of humor," sighed Second.

Captain did not bother to respond.

Weapons, stymied in his attempt to change flight into head-on fight, released a salvo of torpedo countermeasures.

A burst of explosions lit Cube #347's wake. Hunter-seeker missiles, flares, decoys, and a obscuring wall of anti-matter bomblets worked together to destroy the leading wave of enemy torpedoes. While the light show was intense, even more catastrophic were the invisible results of several dozen conventional high-isoton yield and singularity torps meeting their demise. Intense gravity waves warped the local space-time fabric and showers of exotic radiation saturated the local volume of space. In response, more than a few autonomous torpedoes in the second wave careened off course, those which did not simply implode; and at the rear of the pack, the manned ships one at a time peeled away on a new course, individual captains abruptly deciding that the safety of the sidelines was a better, if less glorious, option in this particular battle.

{Only one torpedo survived,} smugly informed Weapons as an addendum to the tactical update. {Scans indicate minimal explosive potential. It is irrelevant.}

From the debris of its comrades emerged a single missile. It was substantially smaller than the singularity torps and sported a distinctive equatorial bulge that created the overall impression of a space-faring football. Literally wobbling due to damage to its engine, the torpedo drunkenly approached. As the final dregs of propellant were used, the rest evaporated away through a shrapnel hole, the projectile nosed into Cube #347's shield.

The shield flared. And died.

Followed by weapons. And propulsion. And life support. And gravity. And most other major and minor systems upon the cube.

Perversely, a single holoprojector in Captain's nodal intersection continued to function. It shed a diffuse illumination otherwise lit only by blinking diodes and a pair of targeting lasers. The display continued to show the courses of the incoming, and unaffected, third wave of torpedoes in relationship to a Cube #347 whose forward motion was now purely a case of inertia.

With the distinctive sound of steel against flint, a blue-yellow flame added a bright counterpoint to the darkness. Second held up his lighter. "We are so screwed. What the hell piece of non-irrelevancy hit us?" An intranet version of the verbalization was directed at Weapons.

Weapons was flogging his hierarchy, rapidly sifting through tactical data files detailing weapon technologies known to the Second Federation and its off-shoots. The answer was found within the folder entitled 'Experimental - Discarded'. {Burst disruptor,} said the head of the weapons hierarchy. {Very, very instable. Little direct physical damage, but potential for catastrophic failure of electrical systems of targeted ship. If it hits.}

{It obviously hit us,} groused Second as he pointed out the obvious.

The burst disruptor torpedo was the bigger, nastier brother to the EMP mine which had previously impacted cube systems. Ignoring all but the most exotic shielding, the burst disruptor radiated an omnidirectional shockwave that momentarily rippled an electron's subatomic bonds. Biological-based organisms, including cyborgs, were buffered against the effect, but purely mechanical systems fared poorly. As burst disruptor technology did not play well with torpedo propulsion, leading to a preponderance of premature detonations, not to mention the short range of the shockwave, the novel concept had been abandoned by Second Federation weapons labs. Its remote cousin, the directed dampening field, had become a much more attractive option.

Obviously a few prototypes were still kicking around.

The only thing which had saved Cube #347 from complete power failure was that the shockwave had been too limited to encompass the cube's entire volume.

"We will not make it," said Captain as he verbally channeled the most recent conclusion by the sub-collective. A single symbol from 80 of 152's betting program dominated the lone holodisplay. A succinct translation of its meaning was that no more bets were being taken due to odds approaching infinity. "At least not in one functional piece. With the first and second wave of the pack removed from relevancy, success was assured. However, now we are a large target-shaped brick with minimal capability for maneuvering coasting through space. The leading elements of the third wave will impact us in less than two minutes."

Behind Captain's back, Second stared at his lighter for a long moment. Finally he raised his eyes to regard his primary consensus monitor and facilitator. "Well, no everlasting echo within the Greater Consciousness for any of us, but at least I'll be out of a job I never wanted in the first place. Always look on the positive side, I say."

Captain swiveled his head to look at Second. His single whole eye squinted against the light of the naked flame. "Since when?"

"Starting now?"

Returning his gaze to the hologram, Captain commented matter-of-factly, "Thirty seconds to impact." A trio of torpedoes in a tight cluster had outdistanced their comrades. All were registering six proton pair yields. Given the lack of shields, the three missiles together were more than sufficient to vaporize a quarter of the cube's bulk. The remaining autonomous torps following close behind would finish the job.

{Maneuvering thrusters on face #1, #3, and #4 and along edges #1 through #8 are back on-line,} chirruped the computer.

"Gee, automatic repair systems at their finest," said Second. "Perhaps the sauna in subsection 14, submatrix 22, Supply Closet #54 will be fixed next."

Grabbing thruster controls with programmed instincts sharpened by many long years as primary consensus monitor, Captain swiftly reintegrated them into command and control's authority. Despite the computer's assertion of thruster functionality, it had neglected to disclose that some of the relays which routed dataspace commands were in less than optimal state. Therefore, it was not too surprising when several thrusters fired in response to intercepting and falsely interpreting errant commands meant for another subsystem.

What happened next could not have been deliberately orchestrated even by an elite sub-collective where each drone had been individually selected by the Greater Consciousness for a given measure of excellence.

Bank of malfunctioning thrusters firing, Cube #347 began to slowly pivot. On face #1, adjacent to edge #3, a large swath of hull was sprayed with the phasic metal variant, covering critical exterior infrastructure previously damaged and recently replaced. As the cube swung around on its true x-axis, that 300,000 square meters of gel just happened to slam into the speeding torpedo trio on final approach. An analogy might be a person absently waving at an errant fly and actually hitting it. As a purposeful action, it was a near impossibility; and as an accident...

"Odds 871,011 to one against," stated Captain in disbelief. 80 of 152's program conveyed the likelihood to the holodisplay, drawing upon a vast database the bookie had constructed in order to more efficiently calculate esoteric events. The impact had shaken the entire cube; and given the bulk of a Borg vessel, even an Exploratory-class, such meant there had been a correspondingly large explosion. {Damage report!}

Answered Delta, a strong note of skepticism in her tone, {None. Unless the diagnostic tools are malfunctioning again, there is no damage from the torpedoes. In fact, that rattling seems to have kick-started impulse. And Supply Closet #12's Frogger machine is working again.}

From the depths of the intranet background echoed cheered all four members of Frogger Fans Forever.

{Sensors says the singularities were [swallowed] and not [barfed]. They [poppy] away. Impossible. Sensors not understand,} inserted Sensors into the discussion.

"Possible or not, the time for introspection is later," muttered Captain aloud. Impulse engines were engaged.

Tumbling slowly, a moderately large area of hull blackened (but intact), Cube #347 altered forward momentum from passive coast to active acceleration.

"Torpedoes still gaining," noted Second unnecessarily. At that moment, Captain's remaining holoemitter finally succumbed to the general lack of power plaguing the rest of subsection 17. A click-buzz from one of the node's air grills caught Second's attention, as did the momentary gleam of compound eyes shining in the lighter's uncertain flame. "And, even worse, I think we may need a pest exterminator...or at least a firm talk with a certain pet-hoarding rodent."

Captain stared sightlessly at the forward bulkhead. While he preferred the hologram as a tool to visually summarize the complex datathreads which he wove together, he, like all Borg drones, did not need it. The dataspaces were awash in calculations, numbers declaring the cube would and would not successfully breech the intangible barrier which separated the Xenig's Keyhole exclusion zone from the territory controlled by SecFed and RomuVulc. Minor fluctuations in impulse engine performance, minute variations in local gravity currents, a slightly less diffuse pocket of dust still perturbed by the last vessel to use the avenue, all were factors which would determine the sub-collective's fate.

Somewhere, someone rolled dice.

*****

"Yahtzee! A natural yahtzee! Am I good, or am I good?"

"Should we really be using these Board dice? It seems wrong for some reason."

"We're bored. The Yahtzee box was missing a couple of dice and those black-cowled bastards have rigged it so we can't play any Board games at the moment. I just happened to have a handful, metaphorically speaking, of dice when we were forced to leave the Board room. These are plain ol' six-siders, not infinity. And it isn't like the dice can do anything when they are separated from their Board. Right Hans?"

"Err...well, some think-"

"See? Besides, I am not giving up my yahtzee points, especially when I'm behind. Your turn. Roll."

*****

Cube #347 exited the avenue. In one piece. The gauntlet had been successfully navigated, but the autonomous torps were dogging the cube's heels. That state of one, slightly battered and definitely scorched, piece was about to be transformed into multiple pieces. An isolated patch of phasic metal gel could not save the cube from twenty-three torpedoes.

A miniature nova blossomed. Dominated by red and yellow, hues of white, blue, and an intense purple also colored the rapidly expanding fireball. The brilliant display was short-lived, however, as over a dozen artificial singularities took spherical bites out of the flaming cloud. Seconds later the miniature black holes had evaporated, leaving behind a few isolated wisps of rapidly cooling gas.

A request for subspace radio communication pinged against Cube #347's hull. The fact that there was a hull to ping against was nothing short of astounding. Even more miraculous, if Borg had been allowed to believe in miracles, was that none of the torpedoes had actually detonated on said abused hull. The guidance computers of all the missiles had seemingly malfunctioned simultaneously, sending them careening together into a single mass where they had subsequently exploded.

Captain tentatively answered the hail. As three-quarters of the exterior sensors had been temporarily blinded by the too-close explosion, the originator of the request could not be pinpointed until the grid completed reinitialization.

"Greetings!" boomed a synthetic voice throughout the cube. Apparently cube speakers, and specifically an indiscriminate linkage to the communication system, needed repair. "My name is Lyr and I am proprietor to the Keyhole sling. I apologize for the fireworks, but I could not have bad neighbors blowing up potential customers, especially after your fascinating effort to arrive to my modest entrepreneurial enterprise." There was a pause. "You are a potential customer, are you not? Neither Borg nor Color have traditionally used my sling...."

"Yes. We are customers," interrupted Captain into the Xenig's spiel. The shockwave from the act of mass torpedo destruction had disrupted impulse control again, as well as triggered several banks of thrusters to speed the cube's tumble. The latest compilation of damage reports had Delta requesting an immediate lay-over somewhere moderately secluded, especially given the next major task on the sub-collective's master to-do list.

The concern in Lyr's voice vanished, replaced by professional banter. "Wonderful! In that case, before I describe my service packages or provide transport through the sling, there is a small matter of payment. I know the various Borgs, except for Green, disdain monetary transactions, but I am prepared to accept a wide range of goods in trade instead. For instance, I-"

"Yes. Whatever. We agree."

"But I haven't even begun to bargain! What if I-" replied Lyr.

"It doesn't matter. We agree."

*****

"From the front lines, I am GNN reporter Lena Juconi. Remember that GNN is your premier, and only, source for all your news needs. As a final reminder of this installment of 'Second Federation Police Action Countdown', go to GNN's GalacWeb site and vote for 'Keyhole Battle' as your favorite! After all, GNN is all about you!"

"Three. Two. One. That's a wrap. Once a few explosions are spliced in to add a bit of glitz, I'll send the whole package to the home office," said Ted. The producer slash cameraman slash technician slash editor uttered a command that sent one of the two hovering cameras to a workbench, leaving the other to make its way to a storage rack.

Lena, fashion columnist to Starz Weekly until offered a position by GNN, immediately wiped the fake smile off her face. With Walter Cron clones being lost faster than they could be decanted, GNN had been forced to hire actual reporters. Unfortunately, unlimited credits remained reserved for the clones and their ability to garner the highest ratings, with everyone else forced to save every receipt in order to justify expenditures with the Financial Inquisition department. Small news teams were the norm, a cost-saving measure to limit corporate loss in a warzone. Assigned to the Keyhole Battle was Lena, Ted, and one intern, as well as the charter ship captain with his single crewmember. With room on the vessel largely lacking, the three GNN staff had been utilizing the small runabout hanger, minus runabout, as their base of operations (and sleeping quarters) for the last several weeks.

While not as glamorous as hobnobbing with celebrities wearing the latest offering from galactic renown designer BeBopTeRop, the GNN gig did pay more than Starz Weekly. Sometimes one had to be pragmatic and accept that paying the rent and eating took precedence over glitzy all-night parties.

From a pocket of her stylish jumpsuit, Lena retrieve a small, foil-wrapped package. The stick of gum was unwrapped, then sent mouthwards. "Like, how're the ratings?" The gum was snapped.

Gingi, intern and Andorian female, stared at a bank of consoles. "Fifty-seven. Not the best rating, but also not the worst. The cube helped bump us up a couple of points. We'll probably step up another point once the latest footage is in. However, Borg cube aside, the chat rooms are unanimous that two sides staring at each other across fortified positions is boring. And it is. Battle should consist of armies charging at each other across the field of honor, serrated blades raised in preparation for bloody dismemberment."

At the workbench, Ted worked to lever open a panel on the camera. "In my experience, once you've seen one naval conflict, you've seen them all."

"Very true!" Gingi pivoted in her chair. She emphasized her words by smacking a fist against her thigh. "Space battles are boring. Unless one is a connoisseur of such things, all the explosions very quickly start to look alike. Movies and tri-V shows add spectacular fireworks, extreme close-ups, dramatic music, and hulky, bare-chested males." Gingi paused, glancing over at a pigeon-chested, turtlenecked Ted. "Reality sucks."

Lena chewed her gum thoughtfully as she stood in the middle of the miniature recording studio. One finger absently twirled several strands of thick, blonde hair. "You know, what if we chase after that cube? Maybe try for the Collective angle? Everyone likes a good Borg story."

Ted snorted. A tricorder held over now exposed camera innards beeped. "There's a difference between an inside interview and an inside interview, if you know what I mean. I prefer my Borg experiences to be the occasional Green gambling hall. Besides, I've a pile of receipts that I have yet to turn in and you know how slow Financial Inquisition is on processing expenditures if you change jobs. Angie was drafted into the SecFed navy a couple of months ago, and it was only last week that the three credits he spent on a replacement camera diode was approved. Imagine the lag time if one was turned into a drone!"

"Teddy-Bear! You stud of a man, you! You worry too much! It would just be a little jaunt, barely dangerous at all! And I could make it worth your while." Lena giggled as she flashed her perfect, white teeth.

"Don't use that 'I'm just a bubbly blonde twit' routine with me, Lena," admonished Ted. He set down the tricorder and picked up a soldering tool. "I did my research when I learned I was to be paired with you. You may have fooled your co-workers at Starz Weekly, but the content of your vids and written columns could only have been produced by a woman with more than a few brains under her blond hair. Admittedly, the material was all fashion related or the latest dirt on celebrity mega-stars, but it was also always well investigated."

Lena snapped her gum once more, then frowned. A hand was waved in dismissal. "Fine. You figured me out. Like, whatever. That still doesn't change the fact that something pretty damn important must be happening within the Collective. Borg, be they Collective or Color, never use the Keyhole, and to recall a cube through it...well...I bet the story on the other side will help us stand out, gain us better ratings. And since our pay is pegged to our ratings...."

Ted sighed. "You are a master manipulator, girl. As I said, brains. You know the way to earn my everlasting devotion."

"I am perfect in all ways," simpered Lena.

"Money is all well and good, but I have a more important question," said Gingi, her antennae quivering. "While I am all for charging to a glorious death, it seems to me that the SecFed and RomuVulc positions provide for a lot of 'death' and not much in the way of 'glorious'. How do we even get to the Keyhole to follow the cube. Hypothetically speaking, of course, since I haven't agreed to risk my neck."

Lena snorted. "We are the News. With a capital 'N'. Gingi, put in a call to one of the local commanders and request an interview about the cube's running of the blockade. I'll smooze him or her or it until the smooze comes out his or hers or its ears. By the time I've finished, like, wrapping the commander around my little finger - bright lights and cameras can do magical things, you know, by dazzling the brain - we'll have an armed escort to the sling."

The intern steadily regarded Lena. "Before I agree," said Gingi, index finger raised, "you must promise me one thing: snacks. The military has better replicators than this scow. Everything here has a carroty aftertaste."

"I promise you will be awash in snacks, Gingi. So, with that, do we have consensus? Yes?" Two tentative nods were given in answer to the question asked. Lena closed her eyes, stretched her arms up and behind her back, then finally tilted her head sideways until a vertebrae in her neck popped. After holding that position for several long seconds, she reopened her eyes. A hand reached up to pat any errant hairs back into place. "But first, I need to go practice being bubbly and blonde with the captain of our mighty chariot in order to convince him to follow our cube-shaped news story. And promising a thousand extra credits will help as well. Gingi, set up that interview. I'll be back in ten minutes."

---

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