All's well that ends well? We'll see. But first, as always, Paramount owns Star Trek; Decker created the Star Traks universe; and I ever pluck stories from the realm of BorgSpace.

Finis Coronat Opus

The tall, blonde-haired human stared at the replicator, head slightly tilted and a frown marring an otherwise neutral expression as she contemplated the machine. Lena Juconi, ex-Starz Weekly paparazzi currently employed as a reporter for GNN, seemed to be having difficulty deciding which of three replicator options to choose. Of course, the replicator only had three options. The last time Cube #347 had hosted an unassimilated human visitor, it had been determined all nutritional needs were best served by borscht, spinach souffle, and tuna-topped salad with blue cheese dressing. Finally, with a long sigh, Lena chose the salad. Breakfast in hand, the blonde reporter glared at the camera sensor - unerringly finding it despite the fact nothing so obvious as a lens revealed its hidden presence - before trudging the short distance to her cot cum chair cum total extent of furniture (besides sanitary facilities).

"She gives me the willies when she does that," commented Second.

Captain glanced over his shoulder at his backup. Both were in his nodal intersection, the video feed from the supply closet housing Lena prominently filling a holowindow. "Willies?" Captain finally inquired. After staring for a moment at nothing as awareness delved inward to the dataspaces, the consensus monitor continued in an accusatory tone, "You've been in the ancient Terran slang dictionary again."

"So?" answered Second defensively. "Creeps. Willies. Spooks. It is all the same. Admit it, you feel it too. We all do. It doesn't matter what camera we use in that closet, but she knows where it is and when it is active. That just isn't right. She's a human, not a species #8052 able to sense minute changes in electrical fields."

Captain was silent. "GalacWeb research documents her to have been employed as a reporter for fifteen years. Admittedly, most of those years she worked for a tabloid which regularly stalked holo-stars so as to catch them in compromising situations, but it also denotes she has a valid history. Many espionage agencies, including all those whom would employ humans, do not have the patience to allow an operative to sit so long at such an...impotent and unimportant job." Captain paused, then offered, "Humans do, on occasion, exhibit minor esper talents."

The weak explanation was not lost upon Second. Being Borg meant that every sub-collective thought process was transparent, should one desire to go delving into another unit's mind. In this case, Captain was channeling a small drone group who fully believed, based on watching too many made-for-triV movies featuring paranoid conspiracy theories, that those of 'special' talents either worked for tabloids or drove taxies. "The probability of that conjecture being reality ranks with some of the more dubious of Weapons' BorgSpace scenarios."

On the screen, Lena sat on her cot, then began to eat her tuna salad using the plastic fork which came with the meal. The supply closet, with several modifications, was the same one utilized several months ago during an encounter with Luplup to house Ali Trumenson, a Second Federation Black Ops psychiatrist, and the Peach drone "Liaison". The main change was the substitution of the original cot with a non-metal model unable to be dismantled with the aim to acquire anything with even a faintest resemblance to a crowbar.

In the intranet background, internal discussions continued as to what to do with the GNN reporter. Thus far she had been resistant to standard assimilation methods, due to an exceptional, quasi-military strain of black-market Second Federation nanites. Among the options currently competing for primacy were euthanizing her, conducting experiments to work around the protective nanites, or maintaining the status quo of her incarceration. The occasional outlandish suggestion was weeded out before it could impact the consensus cascade. In truth, there was no hurry to seal Lena's fate, Cube #347 currently traversing subspace at high hypertranswarp, each minute bringing the sub-collective that much closer to likely termination. In such a scenario, Lena's future became somewhat academic.

Second changed the subject, substituting the present conversation with one wholly of his own devising. "Personally, I think that with all the hitchhikers we've picked up over the years, we should just designate a permanent guest suite. If we were ambitious, we could design a bloc of suites, each with its own theme. Perhaps we could even become a tourist destination, with reservations required: scheduling incursions would be quite efficient. Why search for intruders if we know when and where they will arrive?"

The sarcastic tone prompted Captain to roll his single whole eye and shake his head.

"I know...gift shops! Plush Borgs with Real Assimilation Action! I could mine this idea for hours! So many gems to dig!"

"That's not all you are digging up," warned Captain. "And you are starting to divert some of our more impressionable units to your scheme. Our efficiency has dropped 0.2%."

"Piffle," responded Second, dredging another word from the Terran slang database. "The drones in question are prone to being distracted by shiny objects; and 12 of 310 is polishing his rock collection."

Captain sighed the sigh of the long suffering.

On tier 9 of subsection 11, submatrix 26, 42 of 203 opened her eyes. Leaning out slightly from her alcove, she panned the tier first right, then left. Satisfied that no one was actively watching her, 42 of 203 triggered clamps to release and allow her to step forward and down.

Interior decorating! So much to do! If the sub-collective was to advertise guest suites, then certain drones had to start drawing up plans now. The holowindow treatments, the furniture, the ambiance would heavily influence any review the travel critics might dictate to the vacationing masses. If everything was just so, well, it had been the not-so-secret dream of the enthusiastic, but mediocre, interior decorator who had been 42 of 203 prior to her assimilation to be featured in a lead 'Travel and Leisure' article. That dream now had the chance to live again.

With visions of tourists fighting for the right to gaze upon her interior decorating masterpiece - a bold statement which would incorporate paisley - 42 of 203 transported herself to the corridor outside Supply Closet #35. Next to her appeared a pile of swatches, each fabric strip meticulously labeled. After selecting a dozen samples, 42 of 203 boldly passed through the forcefield warding the doorway.

{42 of 203}, exclaimed Captain, {state your purpose! You are not authorized to be present with the human!}

42 of 203 dismissed the implied rebuke as she held up a lovely stripe-and-dot combination against the bare bulkhead near the door. Patterns first, then color. {I am not here to bother the human. There is work to do to ready this space for its first official tourist, not to mention the travel critics. I'm thinking tassels.} 42 of 203 offered her most recent vision, one which incorporated an overabundance of gold and silver dangly things.

{This is all your fault,} accused Captain to Second. {Your tourist destination "idea" is influencing drone actions.}

Responded Second defensively, {42 of 203 is of the assimilation hierarchy. It isn't like there is a loss of efficiency.}

{That isn't the point, Second,} said Captain.

Ignoring the budding quasi-argument between primary and backup consensus monitors, 42 of 203 focused on her task. One swatch was considered, then a second, and a third. No, no, no, this would not do. 42 of 203 sighed as she backed away from the wall. What she needed was an overall view of the closet, one which she could input into a holographic simulation. Simultaneous wholesale alterations of color and pattern scheme would be much more efficient than attempting to visualize the final masterpiece one swatch at a time.

After carefully setting the fabric samples on the ground, 42 of 203 repositioned herself in the center of the closet. Elsewhere in the room, the human stood from her cot and cautiously distanced herself from the drone. 42 of 203 was an assimilation unit, but her initial assignment to Cube #347 had been to sensory hierarchy: she retained the sensor suite originally grafted to her body even after a bad reaction to raw data from Sensors' special grid settings had prompted the transference. Of little use to an assimilation drone, the suite was perfect for an interior decorator who needed to know the most minute topographical feature of a room destined for extreme makeover.

42 of 203 closed her eyes to limit extraneous visual input, then raised both limbs and locked them in a palm-out position. Scan-map function triggered, the ex-interior decorator slowly pivoted. Incoming data began to build into a highly detailed virtual version of the supply closet.

The sound of the human dropping her breakfast and trying to retreat into the furthest corner was a minor annoyance, easily dismissed.

As 42 of 203 faced the closet quadrant containing replicator and sanitary facility, a slight frown crossed her face. Something was affecting the scan. The interference, albeit not large, was still sufficient to noticeably degrade quality when compared to the rest of the burgeoning simulation. As 42 of 203 had already pre-compensated for energy emanations from closet devices and sub-bulkhead apparatus, the disruption was unexpected. It was almost as if a Borg was standing at the far end of the room.

Waving hands back and forth until she had converged on the origin of the disturbance, 42 of 203 opened her eyes. Fully expecting to see a drone who had slipped into the room for the expressed purpose of ruining her interior decorating endeavor, she was surprised to find only the human. Blinking, 42 of 203 refocused her scan, this time including protocols which specifically homed in on Borg signatures. While most of the inputs returned negative, a few, and specifically those associated with neural transceiver data inflow/outflow, were positive.

The blonde-haired human reporter was a...Borg?

This was not a decision for a single drone to make.

{Captain,} inserted 42 of 203 into the intense discussion between Captain and Second, {we may have a problem. And it isn't the applicability of pairing plaid with natural wood tones.}

Assimilation Workshop #9. Like processing facilities present on all Borg vessels, the room included alcoves to store new drones recovering from multiple bouts of invasive surgery, equipment which looked as if it belonged in the laboratory of a mad engineer bent on galactic domination, and a certain ambiance that epitomized the "Resistance is futile" motto. Unlike processing facilities elsewhere, assimilation workshops on Cube #347 were swaddled with a layer of dust on most horizontal surfaces, an indication of disuse. Oddly, this particular workshop sported a fresh coat of paint on its walls, a gray hue exactly the same as that found on ceiling or deck.

Or, at least that was what the untrained eye would believe. Assimilation felt he was being quite daring, using Standard Bulkhead Hue #2 when everything else was a distinctly different Standard Bulkhead Hue #1. Unfortunately, the head of the assimilation hierarchy was certain the subtleties associated with the appreciation of gray paint went unnoticed by the human which now occupied his attention.

A combination of clamps, bungee cords, and rope secured Lena within one of the alcoves ringing the periphery of Assimilation Workshop #9. Despite circumstances and invasive tests, or perhaps because of them, the extremely rumpled reporter continued to stubbornly glare at Assimilation in a manner unchanged since her perfunctory removal from Supply Closet #35. In the course of the last several hours, one of the few things Assimilation had conclusively learned was that the human - genetic analysis had confirmed Lena to be pure species #5618 - could be very sarcastic.

Now it was a manner of working around that sarcasm to force Lena to admit a truth of which the sub-collective was mostly, but not completely, sure.

Assimilation stood in front of Lena, ignoring her impotent glower. If the human had wielded the ability to immolate him where he stood, he would have become a greasy pile of ash and scorched implants long ago. Lena could do nothing except very slightly flex her limbs and talk; and even if she did somehow break her bonds in a bid to escape, the half dozen weapons drones whom loitered nearby would ensure the attempt to be a very short-lived affair, emphasis on 'short-lived'. Finally, with a sigh, Assimilation continued an interrogation which had thus far been ineffective.

"You are Borg. You have nanites. Your nanites are not derived from Second Federation lines, civilian or military."

Lena rolled her eyes, then huffed a semi-amused snort through her nose. "Well, duh, of course I have nanites: almost every SecFed citizen or associate has nanites. It is a standard wellness procedure to have them injected following birth. During my thesis years, I had my birth suite exchanged for something a bit more...potent to prevent 'accidental' assimilation by the Colors I was interviewing. I didn't exactly ask for a pedigree from the fellow who gave the 'upgrade' to me: the black-market sort doesn't take well to questions. Just because I have odd nanites doesn't make me Borg. End of story."

 Assimilation abandoned that line of questioning. There were many other incongruities with which to confront the human. "Deep scans-"

"Nice euphemism for sticking things in every orifice I have," interrupted Lena.

"The procedure did not include insertion of...." Assimilation trailed his retort into silence as he (and other units observing from afar) was reminded to ignore verbal provocation. Centering himself, the hierarchy head began anew. "Deep scans found a neural transceiver, four metabolic-related implants, and several odd structures along your spine which we do not recognize. You are Borg."

"You are lying," accused Lena. After several heartbeats of silence, the reporter amended herself, "Or maybe not. 'Borg do not lie to small beings' and all that crap. We just went through this - black-market nanites. Duh. I already admitted I had them; and they sometimes do whacky things. If I have a few rogue implants in my body, so be it." Lena chuckled. "It could have been worse. You see, there was this guy I once knew - a real idiot at times, let me tell you - who practically assimilated himself when he-"

"Silence," said Assimilation, his monotone voice lacking conviction. "We will not listen to irrelevant stories. You have diverted our attention thusly twice before, but we will not suffer a third time." In the intranet background there were more than a few sighs of disappointment at the decree. Personally, Assimilation could care less if the human babbled some pointless anecdote, but command and control had decided otherwise for the sub-collective.

Lena grimaced a lopsided grin, the smile not reaching her eyes. "Your loss. Brad was interesting, if not particularly intelligent. Regardless, a couple of implants from black-market nanites does not a Borg make." There was a pause, then a "Hey, what are you doing?" that included a note of incipient anxiety.

What Assimilation was doing was unraveling the restraints holding Lena's left arm. He clamped a hand around the wrist of the woman's now free limb and drew it outward. Simultaneously, Assimilation felt the focus of the six weapons drones sharpen, just in case an escape attempt was forthcoming. Nothing happened, even as a small knife materialized in Assimilation's other hand. That nothing became a hiss of pain, or a very good facsimile thereof, as Assimilation drew the blade across exposed flesh.

"What the hell did you do that for?" demanded Lena, mockery banished from her voice and replaced by anger.

Assimilation tilted his head slightly as he eyed his handiwork. "A demonstration." Blood flow from the shallow slice crossing the human's arm was already slowing. Within thirty seconds, little remained to show it had been present except a thin white scar underlying a drying streak of red; and a further fifteen seconds had erased even that remnant, skin returned to its former unmarred state.

{Speed of healing the ouchie not quite Borg standard given the same level of damage, but close,} declared Doctor, whom had been observing via Assimilation's eyes. The pronouncement was followed by the double-click sound of incisors.

"A demonstration of what? That my nerve endings work? That hurt."

Sharp sarcasm had reappeared, but that observation was irrelevant. Retaining a grip on both arm and knife, Assimilation dully replied, "You heal like a Borg. You are Borg."

Lena attempted to jerk her arm away, but was successful only in provoking one of the weapons drones to step forward in anticipation. Conceding defeat on freeing her wrist, the reporter answered harshly, "Nanites, again. Black-market nanites. Look, I went to this man and told him what I wanted. It included quick healing, which is an important quality when you are trying to interview people who would rather be left alone. Getting the truth, or at least a good story with pictures, is not always pretty. Some people take the whole security and privacy and no trespassing thing just a little too far. Healing is good; and fast healing after climbing over a razor wire fence while being snapped at by pissed off targs is even better."

Assimilation exchanged knife for a laser saw. A button on the tool's haft was thumbed to activate the cutting edge. "Additional data concerning healing and pain tolerance is required for comparison against Borg standard. It has been decided to begin by removing this hand."

Eyes wide, Lena frantically tried to loosen said hand from Assimilation's grip. "And what is that supposed to prove?" she challenged even as her increasingly frantic efforts proved useless.

Assimilation dispassionately raised the saw. How boring. He would not even be given the chance to replace the removed limb unless a concerted attempt was made to circumvent the subject's nanites.

"Hold," said a voice. Assimilation froze, saw centimeters from skin. "Enough. It is time to be a bit more...direct." Captain stepped forward and into the semicircle of weapons drones. He had been present the entire time, standing at the far end of the workshop and acting as another observation node, another point of view, until this moment. However, a particular 'what-if' scenario had been triggered, and now it was time for personal involvement by the primary consensus monitor and facilitator.

{Have fun,} quipped Second to Captain. {This human has been very instructive. Even I find myself learning something new from her responses.}

{Only you would find this "fun" and "instructive". Perhaps, in that case, you should be the one here?} asked Captain.

Second's intranet presence pantomimed a breezy wave of a hand. {I'm not the primary. Besides, if anyone's brain is to be scrambled in the next five minutes, I vastly prefer it not to be me. Then again...if it is you, I will be Captain.... No, I'll take sound of mind and deal with the whole Captainship thing afterwards if worse comes to worse.}

{Thank you for your vote of confidence,} replied Captain dryly, much to Second's amusement. Full attention was returned to the issue before him in Assimilation Workshop #9.

As Assimilation dropped Lena's arm and retreated several meters, Captain took a position in front of Lena's alcove. The consensus monitor placed his right hand - his whole hand - on the reporter's left shoulder, conveniently adjacent her neck. There was the barest suggestion of a flinch upon contact of flesh to fabric, a cringing which had not occurred earlier despite the various indignities visited upon her by Assimilation and other members of his hierarchy. It was a false bravado which greeted Captain when Lena opened her mouth to speak, accompanied by an inability to quite look him in the eye.

"Look, I'm sorry about assaulting you earlier for a comment. You just looked a bit less imposing than the...the others." Lena referred to the incident after she had been escorted from her ship, when she had freed herself from two assimilation drones just to shove a microphone in Captain's face.

Captain stared at the reporter, not bothering to verbally respond. His whole eye narrowed. The Cube #347 sub-collective was inefficient, often inept, and tottered on the edge of insanity by Borg standards, but it was not stupid. Suspicions floated within the dataspaces, question marks adorning several limbs of a larger decision tree. One way or another the truth would be known before Captain was allowed to leave this workshop.

"My designation is 4 of 8, subdesignation Captain. I am primary consensus monitor and facilitator of this sub-collective. The vessel we are on is Exploratory-class Cube #347 of the Borg Collective." Captain had not introduced himself to the human before now; and most of what he said should be meaningless if the human was whom she claimed to be. The mix of singular and plural was deliberate. Whole hand still resting on the reporter's shoulder, a response was awaited.

Again there was the minutest of flinches, the ripple of expression gone as soon as it appeared. In its place was substituted slack-jawed bewilderment, a furrowing of brow so natural, so perfect, that it suggested it was the product of hours of practice. Lena replied with forced casualness, "Um, that's nice. Look, I said I'm sorry. And if that was supposed to be a pick-up line, it was the third worst I've ever heard."

Ignoring the impulse - not his own - to inquire as to the story behind the two come-ons which ranked first and second, Captain continued, "We still believe you are Borg - Color, not Collective. How you can be Borg without the normal cybernetic hardware is puzzling, but ultimately irrelevant. As consensus monitor and facilitator, I speak for all. I am also the node which will now attempt to connect to you.

"If you are not a drone, nothing will happen. Such is not to say that you will be released, just that we were wrong in our assumptions. At that point, you will be given wholly over to Assimilation. He needs a project and both his hierarchy and drone maintenance are highly interested in the structures adjacent your spine. Therefore, even if your 'black-market' nanites prove to be beyond our ability to co-opt or work around, thereby preventing assimilation unto Us, there still will be recompense for our efforts.

"Of course, either way, assimilated or terminated, you'll not be the person you are at this moment.

"On the other hand, if you are a drone, you are well aware what will happen next. There is potential danger to me as node, and possibly the sub-collective in general, should your brainware hide something nasty that we are unable to neutralize. However, I, and we, are willing to take that chance. We will take whatever data is in your head. Afterwards, Assimilation and Doctor will still have your spinal implants; and the rest of your body will be appropriately recycled.

"The only way to avoid that particular fate is to voluntarily reveal whom you are and to what Color you belong. We would have to reconsider what to do with you at that point, but you would continue to remain functional...for awhile at any rate.

"Decide." Captain tightened his grip on Lena's left shoulder in emphasis. During the speech, the human had finally locked eyes with him, never blinking, expression shifted to one of complete neutrality. "You have three seconds before I initiate a link. One. Two. Thr-"

"Wait! Stop!" spat Lena darkly, voice devoid of any vestige of her previous bantering attitude. "I...confess. In order to continue to have any potential ability to provide service to my Color, I am forced to disclose myself. Lena Juconi is a real person. She was born to human parents thirty-nine years ago, grew up on Hylus III in the Tricanta Cluster, acquired an advanced degree in journalism, took a job with Starz Weekly, and finally became a reporter with GNN; and she is I. I am also 3 of 5, the third in a series of five deep operative drones belonging to Peach."

Captain narrowed his eye. His hand remained on Lena's shoulder. It did not require one to be linked with the sub-collective to feel the skepticism he - all the drones in the room - radiated.

Lena obviously knew her explanation was less than plausible, less than complete, lacking the details required for credibility. "Look, 4 of 8, this is neither the time nor the venue to relate to you - all of you - how I came to be assimilated by Peach, much less the whole deep operative thing. You also won't acquire it by linking to me: proteins in my brain are primed to convert everything in my skull to mush should you try. What use would be a 'plain clothes' spy if secrets could be obtained so easily? However, if you would step away, I can demonstrate I am whom and what I say I am."

{We should terminate her. Better safe than sorry,} opinionated Weapons. In response, the six tactical units in Assimilation Workshop #9 shuffled several centimeters closer to their target. The fact that two of them would have to disrupt Captain before attaining a clear line of aim did not enter into Weapons' equations except as an impediment to overcome.

{If Lena is indeed Peach, I would be inclined to agree,} replied Captain. He had unconsciously tilted his head slightly as internal deliberations diverted his focus. However, he was not so subsumed by the Whole that he did not register the whine of disruptors as capacitors charged prior to firing at maximal 'Kill 'em All' setting. {BUT, if she is terminated, certain emergent options will be closed to us. Initiate consensus cascade.}

One minute, two minutes, five minutes passed. Drones throughout the cube stood statue-still as the fate of one Lena Juconi, reporter and purported Peach spy, was decided.

"We have consensus," intoned Captain aloud.

{I don't like it,} pouted Weapons.

"Mostly," amended Captain, "but sufficient enough for us to take action."

During the consensus cascade, Lena's eyes had drifted towards the poised weapons drones. She now refocused on Captain. "Do I live?"

"For now," replied Captain. He removed his hand from Lena's shoulder, then took a step backwards. Not so coincidently, all six weapons drones now had direct aiming paths at the reporter, just in case Weapons goaded one or more of them to fire despite the disruptor lock-down command and control had placed. "Demonstrate."

Lena sighed. "This part I do not like. Among other things, it is painful until certain implants that secrete neural blockers come on-line. It is also one-way as only Peach drone maintenance has the proper protocols to reverse the process. Oh, I should warn you that because I am attempting this outside the auspices of my drone maintenance, there is a 10% chance I will explode into a rather gory mess."

The closest drone to Lena, Captain fought the impulse, his own, to retreat to the other side of the room. To perform such an action in front of a witness would not be Borg, even if it would be the norm for one imperfectly assimilated. As a compromise, he surreptitiously shuffled backwards another half meter, justifying the shift as 'repositioning so as to gain a better vantage for the Whole.'

In the alcove, Lena had closed her eyes, thus missing Captain's not-so-subtle move. Her head was bowed as much as possible considering her restraints; and her loose arm had returned to her side. An expression of intense concentration, or perhaps pain, crossed Lena's face, accompanying the beads of sweat forming on her brow. For a long moment nothing seemed to happen; and then, that nothing became something as exposed skin began to deform in response to unseen things moving beneath the epidermis.

Lena gasped as the first implant erupted, a seven-point star of metal emerging between ear and cheekbone on the left side of her face. A second and third quickly followed, one on the back of her left hand and the other at the juncture of neck and right shoulder. A high-pitched moan arose from the reporter, a scream barely held in check. At that point, Lena's expression relaxed as the aforementioned nerve-blockers clearly went into effect.

The metamorphosis continued. A dull black liquid began to bead on Lena's skin and saturate her clothes. The jumpsuit dissolved, replaced by a Borg bodysuit sans armor. Blonde hair was shed, leaving behind a bald pate that swiftly grew a crop of implants and hoses. Skin paled to a necrotic, mottled gray.

Five agonizing minutes after the 'demonstration' had begun, Lena was transformed, the reporter facade gone. In her place stood a Borg drone, albeit one with little obvious external cybernization and no body part replacements. The visible implants and ports were standard for a newly assimilated drone destined to be assigned to a sensory position. However, while the configuration itself was atypical of a Collective drone, it was standard for Peach.

Lena sucked in a breath, breaking the silence which permeated both Assimilation Workshop #9 and the dataspaces of Cube #347. Eyes opened. "Now do you believe me?" The voice remained that of Lena-the-Reporter, disregarding the subtle reverb which now colored it. Needless to say, the tone did not quite jive with the new visual reality which was Lena-the-Borg.

Perhaps out of programmed instinct, the ex-reporter leaned forward in an automatic motion preparatory to leave the assimilation alcove. The action failed, clamps and bungee cords having remained in place despite the transmogrification of the alcove's occupant. In response, five of the six weapons drones re-aimed disruptor arms which had drifted off target.

{160 of 212,} snapped Weapons.

The rebuked drone closed his jaw and mentally shook himself, then belatedly copied the stance of his compatriots.

"Oh, right," muttered Lena as she tilted her head forward as far as possible to view her restraints. Several bunches of hair caught on a strap dislodged at the movement. Lena sighed as the strands drifted to the ground to join a blonde drift. "Damn it. I can live with the residual joint stiffness and even accept he dissolution of one of my favorite outfits, but I really liked my hair." Lena raised her face to glare at Captain, her previously blue eyes faded to dark gray. "Assuming I survive intact and am returned to my Color, and my Collective decides to reinsert me into society, the hair can be replaced. However, it takes forever using the appropriate shampoos and conditioners to get rid of the post-regrowth frizz. It's like hat hair, only much, much worse."

A Borg should not be prattling of hair and shampoo and conditioners: it just wasn't right. It was time for Captain to take charge of the situation and reassert his position of primacy as speaker for the sub-collective.

Ignoring Lena's glower, Captain stepped forward, reassuming a position directly in front of the alcove. He raised his right limb, hand curled into a loose fist, but did not reach into the alcove itself. Lena's eyes flicked to the unvoiced threat - for threat it was, one Borg versus many, the single fated to lose - then returned to Captain's face. The staring contest was brief, Lena-the-Borg quickly dropping her gaze in submission, silently acknowledging Captain's role as primacy consensus monitor and facilitator.

"We accept you are Peach," stated Captain. He dropped his arm to his side and simultaneously tried to ignore the six disruptors pointed at his back. "Now, if you wish to remain functional, you must convince us how you represent an asset and not a threat. If this sub-collective has learned anything since our termination and subsequent reincarnation in this era, it is that nothing associated with Peach is by coincidence."

*****

"I am a Director, damn it! I will not have some insane, penny-pinching, cloak-wearing appendix who wants to push the big reset button tell me what to do!"

"Shush! Keep it down, Iris. We aren't supposed to be in here. We are supposed to be counting ceiling tiles in the Waiting Rooms. The trouble arranged at the Captain's Table will only keep the Auditors' attention so long. What if one of them insane, penny-pinching, cloak-wearing appendices - and you know which one - becomes a bit suspicious and decides to take a walk to check on us? Your outbursts do not help."

"Yah, what Orb said."

"Shut up Lips," rebuked Orb.

Lips looked to Mouth for a little Critic-to-Critic support, but did not find it forthcoming. It sighed.

'Here' happened to be a Boardroom, although not the Boardroom usually frequented by foursome of Iris, Orb, Lips, and Mouth. This particular Boardroom was a corridor over from their normal haunt and an infinity or so of doors closer to the cafeteria. It had been abandoned after its Board had rather spectacularly imploded. The stains could still be seen on the decorative floor tiling. As the ex-Board's players were currently lurking in some sub-dimension tucked between two 'branes, trying to stay out of the Auditors' nonhair and unNothinged, the four had decided the Boardroom represented the perfect retreat. The Editor Hans, who had helped transfer the foursome's Board to the abandoned Boardroom, was a nervous lookout as it loitered in the corridor pretending to fix a squeaky door hinge.

If odds were to be offered upon the outcome of the Auditors' hostile takeover of the complex, a bookie would have heavily favored the be-cloaked appendices. The quantum parasite nurtured and bred for virulence by the Auditors was the foundation of their nefarious Cancellation plan. Once parasites were unleashed unto a universe - an Auditor merely had to stand near a Board to infect it, the beast intimately entangled with their matrix - it was only a matter of time before the sophant soul virii equation tipped towards a negative growth rate. The net decline (i.e., death) of intelligences translated to a Ratings drop; and when the universe represented by a Board had passed below a viability threshold, well, the Board tended to implode. Within the Production, it was expected that a universe here or there would fail, that some factor would create conditions nonconducive to the persistence of sentient life. However, whereas the overall Production was buffered against the occasional Board loss, the cumulative impact of so many failing Boards was having a noticeable effect upon Ratings. Once Ratings reached a critically low level, the Production would be Cancelled and reInitiated.

The Auditors were not beings to be complacent in their obviously inevitable success. If anything, they were more suspicious than ever, suspecting every-body-part of harboring schemes to disrupt Cancellation. Not that there was an obvious counter - the Director/Critic foursome had brainstormed for several eternities - but that did not stop Auditor paranoia from blossoming.

The Auditors' control over the Production staff to prevent meddling was twofold. First, the parasite had proved able to infect more than Boards, with a significant percentage of Complex denizens prone to contagion. Nonlethal to Production staff, a successful infection instead fostered pliability to suggestions made by any Auditor. The second prong was more direct: those not susceptible to infection were under the threat of Nothingness. To be Nothinged was to...not exist. It should been impossible, Complex entities intimately tied to the Production in a manner that went well beyond the purely metaphysical. Nonetheless, the Auditors, in the process of poking into the guts of the multiverses, had discovered the secret of Nothing, and were quite willing to use it.

Among the ranks of suspicious Auditors, some were more paranoid (and instable) than others. One in particular had developed an intense fixation upon a Board piece belonging to Iris. Representing the Borg Collective sub-collective of Exploratory-class Cube #347, it seemed preposterous something so insignificant when considered on the scale of the Production could be considered as a threat. True, from the Auditor point of view, Cube #347 was untidy, a chaos magnet that sundered neat patterns of randomness wherever it went. However, that element alone was not unusual, each universe sporting several such nexus at any given time. No, what bothered the Auditor in question was that a single member of said Cube #347 sub-collective had contracted the parasite...and then successfully recovered from it. Admittedly, the infected sophant had an unusual background including multiple personalities, and the 'cure' had included a brief bout of death, but it was a worrying precedent.

Argument had raged among the Auditors, grand disputes that had turned into shouting matches complete with hurt feelings and sulks. Complex denizens could not help but hear the debates. The largest bloc of Auditors advocated ignoring the Board piece, the sub-collective too minute to derail a process billions of years in the making. Energy was better spent elsewhere, such as keeping certain uppity Critics or Directors in check. On the other hand, a small group of Auditors, led by one whom had never been able to dry-clean from its robe the stain which had become its namesake, were adamant that the sub-collective represented a loose end. Auditors were nothing if not meticulous, even borderline obsessive-compulsive. Such was a necessary trait for any entity who had overseen the taming of the Complex supply closet, as well as participated in systematically hunting and plugging the multitude of leaks between universes in the early days of the Production.

Truthfully, Iris had not been paying a whole lot of attention to its Borg piece since the whole trial episode. Bigger issues had beckoned, such as finding a way to disrupt the Auditors' plans while remaining unNothinged. Unfortunately, the Auditors seemed to have devised a contingency for everything a Director could scheme; and considering the fact that the cloaks were type-A personalities who'd had billions of years to perfect their Cancellation plan, there was probably a giant manual somewhere of 'if this happens, counter in this manner'.

Orb was helping Iris because it was a good buddy. Mouth had a high degree of self-preservation and could not imagine existence continuing without it in it. Lips had been browbeat by Mouth into helping, and because there was the off-chance it might see Iris Nothinged.

Despite set-backs, Iris had thus far not provided Lips any satisfaction in the Nothing department.

Now, however, things appeared to be swiftly coming to an endgame. Still obsessed with Iris' Borg piece, Mr. Stain and its supporters had lately been heard to vow they would remove the annoyance from existence. The main Auditor bloc, meanwhile, had essentially said 'whatever', giving up on talking sense into their brethren.

Butterfly chaos. The ability for an insignificant event - be it the wing flap that causes a maelstrom or the thrown horseshoe that loses a war - to affect the universe in an unexpectedly disproportional manner. Mr. Stain was coming to stomp on a certain cube-shaped insect.

Or it would, if it hadn't been diverted by a timely bar brawl.

Iris wanted to Look at its piece, to see if the Auditor might actually have a reason for its obsession. Perhaps there was a contingency the Auditors' what-if manual had neglected to cover. And if so, Iris wanted to do everything in its power to assist.

"Are you done staring at the wall?" peevishly asked Lips. It had defiantly kept its purple lipstick despite objections from Auditors that the color was not regulation. Because of its Auditor allergy - or, rather, the allergy to the quantum parasite each Auditor carried in its matrix - none of the cloaked buggers dared get close enough to enforce their edict. The wrath of the explosive sneeze was taking on mythological proportions.

To cover its aimless introspection of recent events, Iris defensively snapped, "I'm a giant eyeball. I stare at things. That is what I do."

"Iris..." said Orb.

"Fine, fine," replied Iris. Clearing its non-throat, the Director positioned itself in front of the Board, then leaned forward to gaze into starry eternity.

*****

Changes had occurred to Lena's supply closet brig in her absence. In a bid to delay the inevitable, she slowly panned the room and took stock of the alterations. Most obvious was the removal of the cot, an alcove stripped to its barest essentials substituted in its place. At the far end of the closet, the replicator had been hidden behind a large plate of heavy metal, ugly, yet strong, welds signifying a job hastily done. Also vanished was the 'sanitary facility', in truth little more than a high tech bucket, although the bamboo screen remained. While the single egress continued to sport a forcefield, it was now backed by a new door complete with lock that responded solely to a software key held by the sub-collective jailers.

It was probably best not to inquire why a third of one wall was wallpapered a hideous dot-and-stripe-and-abstract-animal pattern that combined the unlikely colors of seafoam green, beige, and burnt orange. The instigator, whomever it was, was not present. In his or her or its place was a dejected engineering drone. An abandoned bucket of gray paint and discarded brush suggested that particular option to have failed, perhaps the surface of the wallpaper one of several nonporous materials often used to dissuade graffiti artists. Likewise an iron and several common solvents lay in a pile: the glue must have been nonstandard as well. The engineering drone currently held a device Lena vaguely recognized as belonging to the archeological trade, a temperamental piece of equipment which stripped rock from delicate fossils one molecular layer at a time. As a curl of smoke wafted from the device's air intake vent, the engineering drone appeared to be holding his breath in a bid to prevent himself from engaging in an unBorglike temper tantrum.

Lena noted the engineering unit only in a peripheral fashion. Much more prominent were the two weapons drones flanking the door, both staring at her in a 'Make my day' fashion. They were accompanied by a sensor drone whose sole function was to scan for the characteristic fluctuations in Lena's power signature signifying an attempt to reach forth with neural transceiver. Not that it was necessary: the room itself was warded against subspace transmissions, except presumably those fractal frequencies in use by the host sub-collective to maintain intradrone linkages. On top of that precaution, a jammer had been applied to Lana's neck; and while Peach had long since modified its drones to render conventional jammers useless, this particular model had been adapted not to block, but rather continuously resonate along a wide window of fractal frequencies, effectively turning all outgoing or incoming transmission into so much white noise.

One might get the impression that the Cube #347 sub-collective was, perhaps, a wee bit paranoid when it came to encounters with Peach.

However, of all the potential threats and distractions in the supply closet, the most important, the most immediate, was that of 4 of 8, Captain, the sub-collective's primary consensus monitor and facilitator.

The file on this particular Collective unit - it was highly unusual to profile individual drones - noted him to exhibit a formidable and commanding presence, but dry data and second-hand visuals did not do him justice. He currently radiated a dangerous impatience, a focal point for a sub-collective at odds with itself concerning Lena's fate.

"I was a precocious and too young graduate student majoring in journalism," said Lena from the confines of her barely adequate alcove. A question had been asked; and now she had to answer, to provide an argument for her continued existence. Captain's blue-eyed gaze never wavered. Delay was no longer an option. "That translates to broke, desperate, and lacking in job prospects. Professional journalism is a difficult field to enter; and even more so when you are not quite twenty-one years old. GNN and the other major networks use Walter Cron clones and his ilk, along with holograms, as anchors; and many of the fringe newsvids show more than a little nepotism to the 'old guard' families. The best I could hope for was the occasional byline as an associate assistant writer at some city news outlet. After twenty years, there was the possibility of graduating to a regional job; and if a shuttle-load of credits fell on my head, I could buy my way into something decent on a planetary level. Backwater hicksville planetary, but much better than the hillbilly city alternative. With those dismal prospects weighing on me, I thought the best option was something flashy, something dangerous, for my graduate thesis in order to demonstrate my prowess as an investigative reporter.

"Geez, was I ever naive, knowing what I know now, but at the time it seemed like a good idea."

Lena paused. Her audience remained impassive. Usually Lena could observe the minute tells, the fractional tightening of facial muscles, the nearly imperceptible changes in breathing patterns so as to better spin a story or make a winning argument. Not in this case, not when the audience was Borg.

It was almost as bad as the GNN Financial Inquisition department.

Lena sucked in a breath to continue. "Of the list of prospective Colors I wanted to interview for my thesis - how color symbolized, if at all, each Collective's obsession - I decided to start with the most difficult. It took nearly a year of research, tracking dead-end leads, begging for resources, and performing several illegal acts before I found Peach. In truth, the Color found me, not the other way around. Normally it would have ignored my efforts, but my sometimes creative persistence - in the end Peach was actively dropping obstacles in my way - attracted its attention. However, if the Color had honestly not wanted to meet me face to face, I would still be flailing around, always one step behind. Peach is the foremost Color of espionage, after all.

"I was given my interview. It was not with the Queen, of course, but one of the Group of 12. I did not understand the internal hierarchies at the time to realize it was a singular honor to be speaking to one of the high-level Liaisons as opposed to a simple drone mouthpiece. One of the conditions of the interview was to undergo a series of tests, which after a year of pursuit I was more than willing to endure for the sake of my thesis. It was only after the interview that I was given my once-in-a-lifetime offer.

"The Peach drone offered assimilation into his Collective. Before I embarked upon my graduate thesis, I knew that nearly every Color would try to talk me into joining, most of them reliant upon a steady supply of volunteers to increase their ranks if they did not use a large-scale application of creche clones. I was prepared to say 'no' and move on. However, Peach's interest in me was not just as another unit, but for a special project.

"The obsession of Peach is to acquire information, but not for mere scientific pursuit like Ultraviolet. The way to Perfection is to understand the relationships that bind all together into a Whole; and by assimilating a perfect knowing of these relationships, they can be adapted to service Us. In the universe there is nothing more complex than the relationships exhibited between sentients, and so there Peach's interest lies. The interplay of physics, biology, technology, culture, and so forth to the relationship is tangential, sufficiently important to be obtained where possible, but in the end a mere support to the primary quest for Perfection."

Once again Lena halted her recitation; and once again Captain provided no reaction.

"Peach's trump card in the spy business are its deep operatives. We of The Five hide in plain sight, continuing our pre-assimilation lives whilst benefiting our Color. Obviously The Five are all a bit on the insane side, existing as singular beings much of the time, but there are benefits. Did you know Peach has a great dental plan? All the perks were outlined to me. Essentially, I could remain me - most of the time - while simultaneously exploring the webwork that binds all together into a greater One. Of course, as with anything, the offer came with a slight catch.

"The process Peach utilizes to create its deep operatives is successful approximately 1 out of 10,000 attempts. Only eight operatives, including myself, have been created since initiation of the program. That equates 80,000 potential drones lost, the majority of failures ending in termination. Whereas that many recycled drones would be less than a minor inconvenience to the Borg Collective, or even large Colors like Green or Red, the entirety of Peach is less than a million. You can do the math.

"My 'recruiter' downplayed the risks. It wasn't until after assimilation, processing, and indoctrination that I learned the details. By then it was too late, for not only had I signed the commitment contract - Peach does not do short-term body rentals like Sepia - but the technical aspects of my assimilation does not allow for deBorgification."

"After assimilation I returned to my grad-"

The door to the supply closet opened, interrupting Lena. Through the forcefield stepped two drones, one the too familiar Assimilation and the other a rodent-like species #7922. Captain's whole eye flicked sideways at the intrusion, accompanied by a faint sigh of resignation, the first hint of emotion Lena had observed from the consensus monitor since the assimilation workshop. He stepped sideways, allowing the duo unfettered access.

"This unit is 27 of 27, subdesignation Doctor, head of drone maintenance hierarchy," said the Seffite, confirming Lena's worst suspicion. Assimilation stood beside his comrade, silent, but also radiating a definite sense of anticipation. "You will describe in the minutest, tiniest, bitiest detail the nature of your assimilation. What technology allows for your camouflage, to be Borg yet able to blend with Second Federation?"

Lena had reached one of the most dangerous points in her self-justification. She would have to pick her words carefully. To do otherwise would guarantee a workbench under the auspices of Assimilation or Doctor, scalpels carving her apart. Whereas her brain was protected against intrusion, a similar claim could not be made for her body. There was a potential asset to her cause, however, for Peach was nothing if not resourceful when it came to stacking the deck in its favor, even if the benefit of doing so was not realized for years.

In 2919, Second Federation, with clandestine support from Peach, had sponsored a Colored Convention. One of the less advertised aspects of the convention was to serve as a lure for the Borg Collective, which predictably responded by sending the imperfectly assimilated Cube #347 sub-collective as a fictitious Color. During the convention an early version of the Eradicator virus - a dataspace-based Color versus Borg weapon - had been showcased. The package most Colors received was neutered, the equivalent of a promotional brochure. Cube #347, on the other hand, was provided with a slightly different variant.

Reports gleaned from multiple sources suggested Cube #347 had embarked upon some interesting adventures in its attempt to rid itself of Eradicator. In the end success was declared and the Borg Collective accepted its wayward imperfect sub-collective back into the fold. However, the virus' actions had in fact been a diversion to hide its actual mission of injecting a payload into the prime code architecture of the sub-collective.

The purpose of the inserted code was not wholesale hijacking - such tampering would have been instantly recognized - but instead to provide subtle suggestions. The subliminals given to a subject by a practiced hypnotist was the small being equivalent. Unless certain stimuli were triggered, the code remained dormant; and even if initiation did occur, the whispered suggestions were far from compulsory. The Trojan payload was simple: the sub-collective would be loath to summarily eradicate any Peach drones it encountered. One of the persistent branches Captain would be reluctant to prune in the decision cascade concerning Lena, or any Peach, would be a nagging 'just in case...', as in it would be impossible to bring her back from the dead just in case a future need was found for her.

Such was not to say Lena was protected. If the decision was reached that Lena provided a greater advantage to the sub-collective in pieces or was perceived as an insuperable threat, then the subliminal would be overridden and terminated she would be. On the upside, 8 of 12 had survived his recent encounter with Cube #347. On the downside, he had not been flaunting radical technological adaptations unknown to the Collective.

Lena was silent several long minutes as she marshaled her words. Finally she spoke, "Peach has successfully, if in a crude and limited manner, devised an adaptation of the species #6766 liquid metal technology. The implants along my spine hold quasi-metal in a suspended state. When released, the metal returns to its pre-programmed Borg configuration, as directed by the metabolic implants in my head, my 'black-market' nanites, and DNA alterations you would have found had you completed a full genetic scan. I do not know the technical specifications, so don't bother asking, that data unnecessary for my function. The transformation process is far from perfect. For instance, there is only the null state - metal suspended - and the active state. And when transformation occurs outside a Peach drone maintenance workshop, well, things can go wrong. The 3 of 5 whom was my predecessor had such an...accident."

Two more drones barged into the supply closet, creating a situation of increasingly claustrophobic conditions. The tactical units appeared less than enthused as they jockeyed to new positions in order to keep an unhindered line of sight on their target. The newest additions to the party were twins, alike to the fine scratches that marred their engineering-configured prostheses. Ignoring Assimilation and Doctor, they shouldered their way to the forefront of the inquisition, scanning instruments clutched in their unaltered hands.

"Delta!" barked Captain, whom had been unceremoniously pushed to the side.

"Bug liquid" began one of the twins.

"metal is in" continued the second.

First twin: "this drone."

The final sentence was spoken in unison, "We must have samples!"

Lena closed her eyes. This was the tipping point.

"Back off, Delta," said Captain evenly. Lena cracked open one eye in time to see the two engineering units flinch as if slapped. "There will be opportunity for dissection later. Among other things, Assimilation" - the named raised one hand and waggled his fingers - "would like to see if flash freezing the subject is a feasible method to disable the neural brain-mush enzymes." Lena internally winced: Captain was speaking aloud for her benefit, and what he proposed could very well work. "We must have all our options available before any irrevocable decisions are made." Assimilation, Doctor, and the twins shuffled away as Captain reclaimed his spot in front of Lena. "Continue."

Lena panned her gaze around the room before acquiescing to the order. "After assimilation I returned to my graduate thesis. I completed it, none of the interviewed Colors the wiser. Upon graduation, Peach manipulated a few things behind-the-scenes to land me a position at Starz Weekly. Why Starz Weekly, a tabloid featuring headlines like 'My Dimension X Love Child'? It was the perfect cover. Who would suspect me, blonde eye-candy, as anything but what she appeared to be? For Peach, I have read the secret diaries of several Second Federation presidents, winkled data from Black Ops computers while continuously becoming 'lost' on Starfleet headquarter tours, even broken into an AVON research and development facility. I smile, giggle, ask for a comment, then write or vid a story.

"It was only more recently that the GNN opportunity opened; and once again my Color pulled a few strings to guarantee my job application was accepted. From there, it was simple to influence ratings to ensure that I remained a valuable reporter asset to GNN. Truthfully, your appearance at the Keyhole Battle, where GNN had assigned me and my news crew, was unexpected. When I contacted my Color with the sighting, I was provided with specific directions to maintain an observational posture as close as possible without your notice. Obviously my no-see-um device did not quite work for reasons I still cannot fathom. You know the rest."

Lena ended her recitation. It was the truth. Mostly. Some of the facts had been a bit stretched. However, Lena had also sprinkled intrigue and suggestion into the narration in a bid to bolster that so vial 'what-if' decision branch. Now the question was if she had been successful in the offering of the bait.

Captain's whole eye narrowed as he stared up at Lena, as if he, personally, sensed something out of kilter. However, his suspicions would only be a single facet of the sub-collective's decision process. Admittedly, he was an important facet, but ultimately still only one node of many. Finally he spoke, "How did you contact the Peach Collective? You are a single drone, well out of range of any booster. Was a cloaked Peach cube present?"

Hook, line, and sinker.

"No Peach vessel was present," answered Lena. She paused, as if reluctant to divulge information. It was an act. What she was about to say was, in fact, important to Peach, but not critical. "However, Peach does maintain subspace-embedded buoys in many locations considered important. The buoys have been seeded since Peach budded to form its own Greater Consciousness. Some were purposefully placed, and others opportunistic. Unless one knows where to look for them and what scanning protocols to use, they are as good as cloaked. Any Peach drone within normal hardware transceiver range can access the buoys, although it is strictly one-way with data flowing solely towards the Collective. However, The Five have an alternatively configured neural transceiver which allows reception. The two-way communication is not very intimate, but it serves its purpose."

The revelation was digested. "You do understand," said Captain, "that you just provided us with another reason to terminate you. While we are reasonably confident that our precautions to prevent you from broadcasting your location are adequate, you are a Peach drone. We do not need a spy aboard."

Lena smiled. The implants about her face and changes to underlying musculature made the action feel much stiffer compared to prior her transformation. "But you do need information. Peach knows what you are attempting, or at least has suspicions concerning your ultimate destination. I do not know how my Color knows - as an operative, I am not privy to that data - but one of my instructions on the off-chance I was captured was to offer assistance, if such would promote my survival. I am a difficult-to-replace asset that my Color would like back, if possible. Peach knows you have been severed from your Greater Consciousness for a while; and at the very least, success on your part will require updated locations of the Borg Collective fleet. Peach can provide that data, as well as other services, through me. You have only to ask."

Captain's blue eye continued to gaze unblinkingly at Lena. The other drones in the room had attained that peculiar stillness only possible by a Borg unit drawn into a major decision cascade. Captain alone maintained a semblance of external awareness, although it was an uncomfortable sensation for Lena, for behind that eye were four thousand additional souls, all coldly calculating her right to exist.

Eventually, finally, Captain blinked. In unison, the other drones present did likewise, breathing rates speeding to species-specific norms. The twins, Assimilation, Doctor, and the single engineering drone stiffly pivoted, filing across the room and out the doorway. Captain turned to follow, pausing halfway. "We need time to consider our options. You will be informed as to our decision." The consensus monitor walked from the room; and as he left, the door closed behind, lock audibly engaging.

Lena was left with two tactical units and a sensory drone. The former stared balefully at their captive, moving to retake optimal positioning for performance of maximal damage in case escape was attempted. "Um, exciting day, yes?" Silence was her answer, as long as one discounted the high pitched whine of disruptors ready to fire. It was going to be a long wait.

The ancient neutron star spun anemically, momentum from its forgotten birth long lost to the ether of space. The shockwave of the catastrophic explosion heralding its arrival had dissipated before the first single-celled creatures had arisen in Terra's oceans; and the nebula which had once shrouded the neutron star was mere tattered wisps, gasses scattered by the tenuous galactic winds. Icy comets and the shattered remains of a sundered planet were the entirety of the star's companions. The system was uninteresting, silent, dead.

Cube #347 floated just within the star's heliopause, the boundary where the weak stellar wind from the neutron star could no longer push back the interstellar currents. Although external cameras could not 'see' the star in standard visual frequencies, it was nonetheless prominent to sensors tuned to X-rays and gravitational waves. However, the sensor grid was not interested in the system's elderly patriarch, instead intently scanning for another target which had thus far remained elusive.

"We see nothing," said Captain as he digested the latest summary report from the sensor hierarchy. Even though Sensors had resorted to utilizing a few of her less standard protocols, increasing the 'brain hemorrhage and hallucination' index of her hierarchy, she had thus far discovered nothing unexpected.

"Of course not. The buoy is inert," responded Lena curtly from her location within one of Assimilation Workshop #9's alcoves.

Following the sub-collective decision to keep the Peach operative in one functional piece, Lena had fully cooperated with demands to supply vital tactical information. Upon shown the local volume of space Cube #347 traversed and the course it was following, she had provided the coordinates for the neutron star system, specifically directing the cube to its current locale.

The system was neither far from Cube #347's path nor would stopping significantly add to the several weeks required to arrive at the ultimate destination. On the other hand, it was well within the bounds of BorgSpace; and a target loitering at an out-of-the-way star would garner more interest than one passing through, assuming sufficiently sensitive sensors were trained in the right direction. However, the likelihood of observation was low, the general region sparsely populated - a lingering effect of the star's supernovae? - even before Borg invasion nearly six thousand years prior. As the focus of the Collective was upon civilizations or resource-rich systems, it would be inefficient for the Greater Consciousness to dedicate assets to watch an unimportant neutron star.

Which did beg the question of why Peach would seed subspace buoys in the figurative middle of nowhere.

{Sensors finds it!} exclaimed Sensors suddenly, providing a mercifully short glimpse of raw grid data to authenticate her claim.

Captain involuntarily blinked while his ocular implant initiated a diagnostic cycle as visual processors were assaulted by a torrent of multicolored streaks. {Really?} he asked cautiously.

Sensors hemmed and hawed, before amending herself, {No. Stray cosmic [flashlight]. Never mind. Sensors asks if you [carpet] to see?} A data packet was presented.

{I'll pass. Just file it with the others,} said Captain as he warily rejected the offering.

Trying to expose a lone subspace buoy was several orders of magnitude worse than searching for the proverbial needle in a planetary haystack. The problem was that Cube #347 could be literally parked upon it and not see it, no matter the number of times the grid was tweaked to an ever more Bug-esoteric configuration. It was, as Lena said, inert, meaning in its dormant state it radiated no more energy than might be expected given the cosmic background white noise. It was also embedded in subspace, although not deeply, just enough to dodge the scans which would reveal its presence if it had been fully within the Einsteinian universe. Although the buoy was inherently unable interact with the 'real universe' on a physical level, it could intercept and retransmit subspace transmissions.

Captain returned to the question which had been nagging the sub-collective since Lena had revealed the buoy's coordinates. "Assuming you have told us the truth about this object, why is it here? Not even my weapons hierarchy head can discern tactical significance, and he is very good about finding militaristic justification for most any action."

Lena heaved a long, theatrical sigh. "As I've told you before unknown-"

"Eighteen," helpfully inserted a nearby weapons drone, arm never wavering from her aim.

"-eighteen times," continued the Peach operative, "I do not know. That information is not relevant to my operation. All I know is that there is a buoy at these coordinates. The timestamp chronicling operational lifetime indicates it was placed shortly after Peach budded from its parent Color."

Captain glared at the captive. More data was likely available - Peach always had more data - but there was no way to voluntarily coerce her to provide it. The cryogenic option remained, but retrieving intact information from a head was never easy, and even less so when it had been frozen first.

"Do you give up yet?" asked Lena. While her speech patterns had become more 'Borg' upon her transformation and the 'bimbo blonde' persona completely dropped, she had retained what could only be described as an 'attitude'. One might almost mistake her for an unassimilated being, except for the implants and other evidence of Borgification. The mind-set was likely a facet of whatever quality Peach had detected which made her capable of tolerating long bouts of isolation from her Collective without totally losing her sanity.

Sensors posted another negative report, prompting Captain to say, "We do not. However, it is also an increasingly inefficient use of our time to search for the buoy."

"That is almost as good as an admittance of futility," snorted Lena, following the statement with a thin-lipped smile.

Captain sent Doctor a wordless command. The head of the drone maintenance hierarchy, whom had been loitering in the background projecting boredom, pricked his ears and bustled forward with the eager anticipation of doing something.

Upon reaching Lena's alcove, Doctor reached up to grasp the jammer embedded in her neck. "Be a good girl and behave nicely," he admonished gravely, adding a waggling finger flourish with his unoccupied hand. Ignoring the shadow of perplexity that furrowed Lena's brow, Doctor linked to the jammer via nanotubule access and sent a release command. In response, the jammer retracted the legs it used to cling to its perch. Incisors clicking with satisfaction, Doctor retreated to his former position.

The room where Lena was located was once again Assimilation Workshop #9. In addition to lacking the jamming field that surrounded Supply Closet #35 (and which Delta said would require too much effort to deactivate on a temporary basis), there was more space to allow supervision of the prisoner by a maximal number of sensory and weapons drones.

Captain wished in that little part of his mind he thought of as 'himself' that less of the lattermost were present. Each additional tactical unit was another 'oops' waiting to happen should command and control not react fast enough to block a rogue impulse. Being in direct line of sight between the 'oops' and the 'oops-ee' was disconcerting as well. Unfortunately, his personal desire was irrelevant to the Whole.

One of Lena's bound arms twitched, as she wanted to raise it to self-confirm the jammer's absence.

"Connect," ordered Captain. "You have been briefed with what information we require."

"I know your destination, and I think you are insane. All of you. No matter. I require silence. Remote connection through the buoy system isn't a direct immersion into the Greater Consciousness. It is more like yelling to people at the bottom of a cliff while standing on top. In a wind storm. With thunder. There is lots of noise and it is easily to misinterpret replies. The less external distraction, the better." Caution given, Lena closed her eyes.

{If she doesn't want to hear anything, why not just disconnect aural input?} inquired Second.

{Would you like to come over here and ask her yourself?} asked Captain, countering the question with one of his own.

The intranet version of rolled eyes accompanied Second's response, {That would mean standing in front of Weapons' firing line. I will pass.}

{Anomalous energy [brace],} reported Sensors. {Sensors cannot [bull's-eye] it - too diffuse.}

{Is it the cloaked Peach fleet?} eagerly inquired Weapons. Among the less plausible tactical scenarios proposed by Weapons was the presence of a hidden Peach (or another Color, Second Federation, Xenig, and so on) armada waiting to ambush Cube #347. The volume of intra-drone conversation within the weapons hierarchy increased as units eagerly discussed the possibility of explosions.

Responded Second evenly, {There is no Peach, or any other "insert adversary here", fleet.}

{No Peach fleet,} echoed Sensors. {Based on Luplup affair, Peach fleet would [taste] like [prunes and vanilla]. This is [sour cherries], although still undertones of [vanilla].} Sensors helpfully streamed the two sensor inputs, one a hypothetical construct and the other current reality. Protests arose from Second and Weapons over the data assault.

Several minutes passed. Lena remained stationary, eyes shut. Captain told 205 of 300 to cease (1) painting virtual targets upon his back and (2) secreting blobs of nasal mucus and flicking them at said target. No Peach fleet materialized. Engineering hierarchy reported twelve minor tasks accomplished, a pittance when set against the gigabytes comprising the maintenance 'to-do' list. A portion of the sensor grid attracted to a flash of light near the neutron star's surface resolved an inbound comet in the final stages of vaporization. Thumbs (or other appendages) were twaddled. Paint dried.

{Sensors [fatz] the buoy! A [green] spectral line increase indicates active fractal frequency transmittance,} informed Sensors. The three sensor drones in Assimilation Workshop #9 confirmed that Lena was enmeshed in an active give-and-take.

Whereas before the buoy had been inert, then forwarding information towards a specific destination, it was now actively transmitting into 'real' space in a relatively low-powered, but omnidirectional, manner. An analogy would be the substitution of a shielded lantern with an openly burning candle. The buoy, the flame, was still difficult to find if not specifically looking for it, but that was exactly what Cube #347 had been attempting.

A computer subroutine dedicated to monitoring hull weaponry activity reported several hatches opening concurrent with arming of subspace depth charges. In the more than eight millennia the Borg Collective had existed, it had assimilated a multitude of technologies different species had devised to embed items in subspace - transmitters, mines, robot spies, coffins, trash, extremely smelly cheeses. The 'subspace depth charge' was the space naval equivalent of its aquatic cousin, a swarm of blind counter-munitions intended to explode a hidden offender. The depth charges could not penetrate to the deeper currents where ships broke the Einsteinian lightspeed limit, but they had more than sufficient reach to destroy minor annoyances such as the Peach buoy.

Captain stiffened as higher level elements of his hierarchy scrambled to reassert control of the situation. Depth charges were little-used specialty weapons, and as such were much lower on the priority list when managing Weapons than neuruptors or torpedoes. Unfortunately, while the first and second set of block codes were successful, the third only halted deployment at half the open apertures. Eighteen depth charges were kicked out, each shimmering momentarily before disappearing into subspace.

{Boom,} said Weapons smugly, his presence radiating satisfaction despite the immediate full weapons lockdown imposed by command and control to prevent additional depth charge release. Although no sign of the explosion had penetrated real space, both sensor grid output and Sensors' complaints indicated target destruction.

The Peach buoy was no more.

In Assimilation Workshop #9, Lena gasped as she was abruptly thrown out of the linkage with Peach. A seizure rippled her muscles, but the fit passed quickly. Lena limply slumped, head rolling back and forth, held upright only due to her bindings and the alcove's clamps. Blood began to seep from her nose.

Doctor took a single step forward, then halted upon a command from Captain. Ears drooped dejectedly.

After several long minutes, Lena's eyes suddenly flung open. Blinking several times, the Peach operative carefully lifted her head, the ginger movement familiar to any being experienced with the after-effects of too much alcoholic refreshment. Lena squinted at Captain as if peering into a too bright light. "Don't you have any f***ing control of your weapons hierarchy?" she mumbled.

Ignoring the accusatory tone, Captain responded, "Oops. There was an accident and the buoy was destroyed. You appear to remain functional. Did you acquire the information we require?"

"Functionality is a relative term," replied Lena darkly. "Just to let you know, even with neural pain blockers, that hurt."

Repeated Captain, "Information status. You will comply."

Lena grimaced. "Less loud: my aural processors are scrambled and amplifying everything. Yes, I have it on-board. The data transfer had just concluded when you had your little 'accident'." The quiet tap of metal prosthesis against workbench by a tactical drone shifting to maintain an optimal aim caused the human to flinch. "I need to upload the data to you. None of you can link to me without mushifying my brain and I'm fairly certain you won't allow me direct dataspace access. Perhaps several PADDs with lots of memory would be an acceptable intermediary?"

"Suitable arrangements will be devised," replied Captain. He eyed Lena several more seconds, noting the residual tremors shaking her limbs. {Doctor, reinstall the jammer, then confirm she will remain in a sufficiently functional state long enough to provide us the data. Only necessary life-saving repairs are authorized. Once she is stable, return her to Supply Closet #35 to allow her nanites and regeneration to fix remaining damage.} Mental refocus. {Delta, adapt something for the data transfer.}

Captain stepped away as drones went into action, Doctor foremost in the bustle. A flick of the mind accelerated Cube #347 into hypertranswarp and back on course, leaving behind the neutron star. {Weapons: you and I and Second and Assimilation and a cadre of other units are going to have a long discussion about appropriate tactical response. After all this sub-collective has done to reach this point, we can forego the irony of needlessly attracting attention with another 'accident' just before we have achieved success. There will be restraint. The alternate option is you in deep regenerative stasis, whereupon you will miss all the explosions likely in our near future.}

In his nodal intersection, Captain stared at a slowly rotating map of the Delta Quadrant. It had been 17.4 cycles since Cube #347 had diverted to the neutron star to allow Lena to rendezvous with a Peach comm buoy. Although the operative had survived her unexpected severance of the link to her Collective, she had subsequently lapsed into a healing coma for 4.1 cycles. Upon awakening, several more cycles had been required to transfer data into a self-contained holding facility jury-rigged by engineering hierarchy; and even more time necessary for Assimilation and his crew to comb the files for virii and other electronic nasties before passing the information to command and control for compilation. The fruit of all the sub-collective's labors was distilled into the present display.

"Are you done yet? While I am appreciative to be given a reason to avoid the 'extreme prosthetics replacement' workshop, with demonstrations, that Doctor wanted me to attend, standing around doing nothing for hours on end isn't exactly thrilling, neither. I thought I might sneak away to see how the latest drama club production is coming along before Doctor kennels me and..." said Frank. Words trailed off as Captain swiveled his head sufficiently to bring the EMH into peripheral vision. "Or maybe not. Shutting up now, just like a good, little hologram."

Captain returned full attention to the starry display. In addition to major navigational points and astronomic phenomenon, a scattering of symbols denoted the current status of the Borg fleet. The information provided by Peach was incomplete, but it was much better than that held by Cube #347. Between erasure of navigational files the previous year and long-term severance from the Greater Consciousness, the state of the sub-collective's knowledge was sketchy, at best. If anything, it was disturbing to see how much Peach knew of the Borg Collective's distribution of assets. Overlaid on the base display was the map embedded in the EMH's matrix; and of the seven original ingredients - not all of which were in the field of view - only one remained glowing a bright emerald hue.

The map was magnified, stars and Borg emplacements sliding out of the view volume. The green gem remained prominent, but now it was surrounded by a haze of Borg alphanumerics. The ingredient was located within a heavily guarded system deep in BorgSpace, one which Peach, for all its stealthy nature, had only the most rudimentary guess as to numbers and types of vessels present. In reality, the exact count of Assault-class spheres was irrelevant: an estimated fleet which conservatively numbered well into the four digit realm more than overwhelmed a single, badly-used Exploratory-class cube.

The ribbon of orange representing Cube #347's course was about to intersect with the alphanumeric haze.

A third datalayer was superimposed on the map, increasing the degree of visual complexity. Lines arced away from the central system, a simple dual color format indicating in- and outbound hypertranswarp wake signatures. Thickness of line further signified speed, and degree of transparency time since the subspace medium had been traversed. The amount of traffic equaled that of a major industrial hub, times a thousand. Cube #347 had been passively gathering the data for the last several cycles, listening to the echoes of vessel passage then altering course to remain within the lesser used lanes. Theoretically the owners of the target system could have used the same method to sift out the anomalous inbound signature which was Cube #347. However, the owners of the target system also had a long history of ignoring small inconsistencies as irrelevant, unable to affect the Whole.

A countdown timer hovering in Captain's mental background chimed.

It was nearly time.

{Delta,} said Captain as he turned his focus inward, {engineering status report.}

The reply was immediate. {We need dry-dock maintenance. However, as that is not to happen soon, engineering hierarchy has repaired and hardened, as best as possible, as many critical systems as possible. Redundancies have been redundified and back-ups given back-ups. A second coating of phasic paint has been added to the hull. The no-see-um device is installed and appears to be operational. My hierarchy will continue to work through the to-do list.} Delta paused. {Even if this cube was brand-new, we wouldn't stand a chance.}

{I...we know,} answered Captain. {However, this is our only opportunity for success. We do this not for ourselves, but for the Collective. Even though the Collective will do its utmost to terminate us in the process.}

Delta's double presence sent assenting acknowledgement, then turned elsewhere within the engineering architecture.

Captain had completed similar status reports for the remaining sub-collective hierarchies when the timer reached zero.

Cube #347 exited hypertranswarp amid icy comet nuclei. Behind lay the dark of interstellar space, not to mention the numerous adventures and hardships, some best forgotten, which had led to this point. Ahead lay the final quantum elixir ingredient...as well as a significant fraction of the Borg Collective fleet. Such was to be expected, for Cube #347 about to infiltrate of one of the most heavily guarded (and industrialized) systems in the galaxy.

Without a moment of hesitation, Cube #347 accelerated towards the slightly brighter star which was the sun of planet #1, the Borg homeworld.

*****

It was a fallacy to believe Directors and Critics directly controlled their Board pieces. The circumstances around the pieces could be manipulated, probabilities tilted such that only a limited range of outcomes was possible. However, to actually move a piece was prohibited. There was no rule, per se, against it, no page in the Production manual laying out this most basic of 'thou shalt not'. On the other hand, it...just wasn't done.

Every entity in the multiverses was required to have free will. One's own fate - to succeed or fail, however such might be defined - was subject only to oneself. Each Production was a unique experiment, the Whole attempting to understand itself. As intelligence spawned in all its forms and went on (or not) to populate its solar system, its galaxy, its universe, Ratings increased. At some unknown point, the Whole would transcend, setting the stage for a new Production, a new permutation. There were infinite ways in which a Production could become a blockbuster, infinite storylines to explore; and while there was probably some uber-metaphysics beyond the basic Production metaphysics of a nebulous entity striving towards self-awareness, such was well beyond a mere Director or Critic to contemplate. The purpose of the Board players was to insert an element of chaos into the mix, to advance the plotlines written by mysterious Writers, but never to force the characters within the stories.

The pieces were, and always had been, on their own.

"I think I See it," said Iris, a hint of awe creeping into its voice. "Damn that butterfly...it set the stage, but it sure as hell didn't do it on its own. I think I See signs of the Writers influencing the plot. Maybe. DEVIL is long gone, but the quantum chaos it left behind is intense. I'm surprised effect and cause isn't reversed in some places." The Director referred to an AI. Previously cast in a supporting actor role in the Cube #347 storyline, it had since left to pursue its own journey.

Orb was also intensely staring at the Board, seeing sights beyond the ken of the Director's two fidgeting Critic colleagues. "I wonder if the Writers didn't see the Auditor's schemes long ago? I almost wonder if...if the Writers never 'forgot' the Auditors at all. What if this is some immense arc? Maybe an Original Plot?" Orb's voice rose in excitement. "And it has all come down to this moment?"

"A grand plot that includes my allergies?" scoffed Lips. "And required donations into the coffee kitty? And signing out pencils from the supply closet, but only after proving one has used the previous pencil down to the nub?"

Countered Orb, "There has always been the theory that there has to be some frame upon which the Production grows, some overarching theme. Of course, before now, I was always for the ketchup hypothesis. After all, it seems that only civilizations that develop some form of ketchup survive, and those that do not, fail. This Auditor Plot, however, is much more elegant than ketchup."

"Yah, whatever," said Lips.

"Guys," called Hans nervously from his position in the hallway beyond the Boardroom door. "I hear something."

Asked Mouth, "Is it an Auditor?"

"I don't know. It is a sort of rumbling, like a waterfall or stellar nova, but as if heard from far away. My tripwires haven't gone off, though."

"Then it doesn't concern us," replied Mouth. "We only want to know if an Auditor is coming. Some of the cloaks are probably trying something new to get into the Writers' Annex, or the cafeteria dishwasher has blown up again."

Iris picked up several dice. "No good," it declared. "My piece's storyline is decent, but not perfect. There are several holes it could fall through. However, if I can adjust the probabilities just right, I can-"

"Is that wise?" asked Orb. It tore its Sight away from the Board to look at its friend. "This is one Script we have obviously never seen, assuming it is not just a figment of our imagination in the first place. How do you know that you are taking the correct course of action?"

"I don't." A die with three sides was thrown into the air and caught again. "But you Saw too that DEVIL not only initiated the subplot and obscurred it from the casual observer, but unexpected fallout from its actions have also nearly led to catastrophe several times. Such is the peril of chaos. I have to try something. For instance, if the vector stays in its current location - and there is no reason for it to move - then the outcome will be certain failure." Iris paused. "Failure not just for my piece, but us as well."

Lips bellied itself up to the table. "Wait a minute...the dice you roll will affect my survival? I don't like that. If anyone is going to screw up my existence, it is going to be me. Give me those dice."

"No." Iris held the dice just out of Lips' reach. "It is my piece, and therefore I must roll the dice. I never rolled dice for any of your pieces, not even when you took your extra-long bathroom breaks."

"I have constipation. Now, give me the dice!"

"You are a giant, disembodied pair of lips. You don't get constipation. You don't even need bathroom breaks. That is just an excuse to annoy me when I am anxious for my turn, and we all know it."

"Could the two of you stop arguing just this once?" criticized Orb.

A sudden blaring from the hallway startled all within the Boardroom. Iris lost hold of the dice, sending them bouncing upon the Board. Seeing its chance to influence the outcome lost, Lips nonetheless lunged, barely brushing a die with a continuously shifting number of faces and sending it on a new trajectory.

"An Auditor is coming!" informed Hans, warning just barely heard over the dual sound of alarm and Iris cursing.

"What did you do?" shouted Orb, unhands held over unears. Beside it, Iris was frantically shifting its eye back and forth, trying to determine the result of the unintended roll. "And why did you make it so loud?"

Hans yelled in response, "What? The volume on the tripwire is a bit loud! Let me turn it down!"

"What did you...do?" The alarm stopped as abruptly as it had started. Orb moderated its voice as it continued, "Forget the 'what did you do', and instead tell me how much time to we have?"

"I linked up one of the parasite detection devices - the Auditors and their thralls are full of 'em - to a receiver. Sort of an invisible tripwire. Unfortunately, it seems someone turned up the volume to the speakers," said Hans, still stuck on the 'what did you do' question.

Mouth's and Orb's attention turned to Lips. Lips shrunk in on itself. "I thought any Auditor detector with a dial that ran between '1' and '10' was better if placed on '10'. Honest."

"Well, that roll wasn't a complete waste," sighed Iris. It swept the used dice from the Board and selected several new ones. "Things have been set in motion...not quite the way I envisioned, especially with the spin Lips imparted to the die, but it isn't horrible. It is still up to my piece to work with the roll, of course, but if I have time to toss a few four-siders, I can probably shift the probabilities-"

The door to the hallway, partially closed, was thrown open. Blocking the egress was the dark form of a cloak, theatrically backlit. The drama of the situation was ruined by the large yellow-brown blob discoloring the front of the robe. THIS DOESN’T LOOK LIKE TILE COUNTING, commented Mr. Stain, voice dripping eager anticipation. Behind him, Hans was held in the strong grip of two parasitized Editors. The Auditor shifted to its 'inside' voice. "It looks like I caught you just as you were going to toss the dice? Maybe about to try something outlandish to affect the inevitable Auditor victory? Hmm?"

"I don't think it knows you already-" whispered Lips overloud.

"Shut up!" hissed Iris as Mouth simultaneously elbowed its comrade.

Meanwhile, Hans had ceased its struggles. "Er, I placed the tripwires to give about two minutes warning, assuming a normal walking pace," it said, answering Orb's second question. "But the tripees seem to have hurried, what with the alarm and all."

"And a good thing, too," replied Mr. Stain in satisfaction. "I think it is time for a little demonstration."

*****

The Borg home system bore only a faint resemblance to that found prior to the Collective's emergence upon the galactic scene. The Cube #347 sub-collective knew that particular fact intimately since they had, after all, been present at (if not contributed directly towards) the founding of the Greater Consciousness.

Five planets currently orbited their central star, not the six that had formed out of the primordial stellar disk. The miniature gas giant had long ago been dismantled for gas and metals; and within a few more centuries the innermost rocky terrestrial would join its vanished sibling. The remainder of the system consisted of the densely populated and highly industrialized Borg homeworld (planet #1), another terrestrial deemed of little interest except as a garbage dump, and two gas giants. Of the gas giants, the ringed one was anemic, large-scale harvest having removed a large quantity of gas in the last two thousand years. The second, a Jovian beast that ancestral Llarn had named Kendii after a cosmic deity, was mostly untouched, its relatively wet and warm atmosphere a breeding ground for planktonic organics and other biotic pre-life, which in turn precipitated as a gunky film on anything entering the clouds. While the Jove (now planet #5) itself was left alone by the Borg - similar resources were available elsewhere without the need to constantly unclog intake manifolds - its moons were well exploited. Other points of interest included several dwarf planets (oversized asteroids that just happened to have exhibited enough gravity during early formation to pull them into more or less spherical shapes), an asteroid belt long tamed and its most valuable rocks tagged for industrial consumption, and several strip-mined comet belts.

Artificial structures were present throughout the Borg home system. The largest constructions were pitifully small when compared against Xenig edifices or the aftermath of an Ehtu planetary residence extreme makeover. On the other hand, little could match the adapted engineering prowess of the Borg among the sentient carbon-based segment of the galaxy. An enormous unimatrix complex spanning thousands of kilometers shared the same orbit as planet #1, which itself was girded by an immense, metallic belt pierced with the buckyfilament cables of space elevators. Dry-docks and manufactories serviced and built, respectively, thousands of vessels. Gigantic power plants tapped the magnetic potential of the sun itself, funneling away energy and ultimately hastening the star's transition from yellow dwarf to red giant by several hundred million years. Fusion and dilithium-flavored power plants provided supplementary energy; and somewhere on the far side of the system, traces of exotic radiation and oddly spinning gravitinos suggested experimentation with zero-point energy arrays. While what was undoubtedly a crude prototype - it had not been present the last time Cube #347 had visited the home system - compared to mature Xenig technologies, it nonetheless represented a necessary step along a road which would eventually see the assimilation of the currently unassailable mech species.

The most prominent structure closest to Cube #347's position, yet still 7.2 AU distant, was a research platform. In truth, the platform itself was nearly imperceptible due to its relatively small size - a volume equating a mere kilometer cubed - and distance, but the object of its study was quite prominent. Many decades earlier the then-Hive had stumbled across a segment of cosmic string, an exotic gravitational anomaly postulated by some races to be a remnant of the Big Bang, if not a lost building block of Creation itself. Origin aside, the Hive had laboriously, and with much loss of drone and ship resources, wrestled it to the home system, placing it in distant orbit where its gravitational permutations were of no danger to anything except comet nuclei. Since that time, Borg had replaced Hive, although it was likely neither the units nor dedicated runtime processes of the Greater Consciousness set to study the phenomenon had registered the change of Mind. Should the sun go novae, then the platform might take notice...maybe.

By comparison, Cube #347 did not even rate a figurative eye blink.

The god-view of the Borg home system expanded once, then again, the volume of observance centered tightly upon planet #1 and its retinue of metal and industry. A new, slightly translucent quality overlaid the scene, vast symbols of pink and turquoise populating formerly empty space. Each icon glided on its separate trajectory, representing an element hereto missing from the vista - ships. A lot of ships. While no vessels were on an obvious course towards the superstring platform - it was a self-sufficient research facility, after all - it seemed every other vector featured a glittering icon. The formerly sterile scene had transformed from still-life model into a bustling port.

{Ingredient location?} queried a voice.

In answer, an emerald sphere materialized within planet #1's artificial ring.

{Inquiring once an hour isn't going to make the target spontaneously materialize on our hull,} said a second voice.

"You are as bad as 20 of 230: poke, poke poke, as if prodding his most recent injury is going to make it heal faster than nanites and regeneration," complained a third voice, words a more colorful variant of the notion conveyed by Voice Two. Voice Three paused, then continued in a horrified tone, "I just channeled Doctor, didn't I? Oh, erase me now...he linked a subset of my background algorithms to his perceptional network when I was downtimed. It is going to take me hours to untangle it!"

Captain tuned out both Frank's verbal mutterings and Second's intranet sarcasms as he concentrated on the most recent update of the Borg home system map. The present situation was well beyond the ken of the acquired Peach knowledge base, but Sensors was adding details as they became available through passive sensor grid reception. Despite the slow acquisition of often less-than-precise data, the sub-collective did not dare attempt active scanning, the action akin to shooting fireworks while hollering "Here we are!"

Currently Cube #347 drifted in the emptiness beyond the orbit of Kendii, but well inside the local Kuiper belt. In fact, the slot used to be inhabited by the dismantled mini-Jove, although its sole occupant in this epoch was the superstring research facility. Like the vanished planet, the superstring's gravity ensured any cosmic wanderers which passed too near were either ejected or sent sunward. The end result was an orbital lane largely free of comets and asteroids, and, thus, devoid of Borg interest.

Theoretically, Cube #347's signature alone should have been a beacon proclaiming the presence of an intruder where none should be.

The fist-sized device removed from Lena's shuttle - the 'no-see-um' - was the key factor preventing notice. When connected to the primary core as directed by the Peach operative, the thing modulated energy output in such a way as to convince sensors of the receiving grid that nothing was present. The cube was not cloaked per se - it remained visible to any exterior observer - but as windows were not an integral part of any modern vessel, Borg or otherwise, what a sensor grid did not 'see', neither did the crew within. The exact manner of operation was unknown. Needless to say, Delta was not pleased at the mystery, engineering hierarchy prohibited from dissecting the no-see-um due to the likelihood of it being the sole reason Cube #347 was able to remain hidden in plain sight.

Lena had strongly stressed several inadequacies concerning the no-see-um. Mapping in-system Borg assets using active sensor grid protocols was one of numerous ways to negate the device's masking effect.

"Why do I possess a new file on the care and feeding of Thlobian worms? And, for that matter, what is a Thlobian worm?" asked Frank aloud. There was a moment of silence, followed by, "Oh. That is a Thlobian worm. Awful lot of teeth for a worm. And, well, ew...so much slime!"

Captain demagnified the solar system display. He shifted his head slightly to observe the EMH out of his peripheral vision, then diverted the primary part of his awareness away from the (scrubbed) sensor grid datafeed. {Doctor, where did you manage to pick up a new pet? And where is it?}

Doctor, who the computer indicated to be in his alcove, but not undergoing regeneration, set aside medical dossiers he was reviewing and replied, {A new pet? I do not have a new pet.} The response was evasive, but neither was it overtly untruthful.

{An old pet, then. A toothed and slimy creature called a Thlobian worm.}

{Er...} stuttered Doctor.

Broke in Weapons eagerly, {A bug hunt? Extermination? A live-fire exercise?} The cube's current status of doing nothing was producing an increasingly anxious hierarchy head. Weapons discharge was another of those items which would negate the no-see-um.

Tried Doctor again, {Um...} His mind was scattered, the dataspace equivalent of flailing for an acceptable answer without resorting to an outright lie. Lies, after all, were extremely difficult to concoct (successfully) within the intimate environment of the sub-collective.

{Doctor-} began Captain in warning. He was interrupted as an algorithm linked to the grid datathread pinged the sub-collective entire in simple-minded excitement: an event had tripped certain preset triggers. Captain dismissed Doctor, the latter figuratively crawling away to hide in a deep hole, as matters more important than a rogue worm beckoned. Eyes refocused on the solar system holodisplay.

Two new icons had materialized - a flashing red arrow pointing at the green dot and a silver word-glyph. Although nearly imperceptible given the present scale, it seemed the target was in motion.

"And to what do I owe this visit?" asked Lena with mock-politeness. Except for the rare requirement to clarify some nugget of Peach-derived navigational data, the sub-collective had left her alone. Among Borg, among individuals subsumed to need the connectivity of the Collective, such a degree of isolationism was guaranteed to create conditions of irreversible mental instability. Insanity. Lena, however, was a deep Peach operative. She was the end product of intense psychological and physiological adjustment to withstand separation from the Whole. The long bouts between conversation represented hours of tedious boredom: the guard drones studiously ignored her and even the recently repainted walls were devoid of imperfections which might furnish a few minutes of connect-the-dots quasi-amusement.

She supposed it could have been much worse. For instance, the buried software subliminals which encouraged the sub-collective to keep her alive could have been absent. Of course, such minor mental comforts also could not stop Lena from wishing the code had included a provision for the sub-collective to provide captured Peach operatives with reading material. Even back issues of the Starz Weekly would have been a welcome distraction.

"This cube has arrived at the Borg home system," said Captain, direct as always, but not quite answering the question asked.

From her alcove vantage, Lena peered down at the consensus monitor. "Before the unexpected severance from my Collective..." she trailed off, allowing a trace of irony to color her tone. Due to required close contact with the unassimilated, Peach had made a deep study of conversational nuances, even encouraging liaisons to develop pseudo-personalities. Deep operatives, needless to say, had to retain a great semblance of humanity (or whatever species they originated from) to function in society; and those quirks of individuality were rarely understood by other Colors if employed during interactions.

Captain retained an impartial nonexpression. Despite his imperfect status, he was Borg, and he appeared not to notice Lena's subtle tonal adjustments which made exchanges with, and manipulations of, the unassimilated so challenging and interesting. Either that, or he was ignoring the flourishes as irrelevant.

Lena internally sighed at the nonreaction. She retraced her words, this time deleting all conversational nuance. "Before the unexpected severance from my Collective, data was relayed to me concerning likely courses of action you might take. Traveling to the Borg home system was a high probability. At that point, however, it all becomes a bit speculative, although that might be because I was disconnected in the middle of a data packet. So, what is your purpose with invading the heart of the Borg Collective?"

Captain blinked once, then turned his back upon Lena and started for the door. "You will come with me. We require your perspective."

Lena remained in her alcove. "There isn't exactly any convenient Peach buoy nearby for me to use to commune with my Color, assuming your weapons hierarchy didn't just blow it up. And I doubt I can provide additional clarifications to the navigational database since you are at your destination."

The consensus monitor stopped. The two tactical drones serving as door guards abruptly went into motion, beelining for Lena's position. Without turning around, Captain spoke. "I did not say we required your advice, rather your perspective, an outside viewpoint. You represent a resource, nothing more. A tool. Is that not the Borg way, to use and discard tools?

"And you will either follow on your own, else you will be carried. You will comply."

Lena mentally directed the release command to the alcove, then stepped from its grasp. The tactical drones raised their weapons arms in overt threat, but otherwise seemed content to allow her to walk under her own power. Lena could not help but analyze Captain's words, his actions. Perhaps the individual, or at least the sub-collective, was not quite as blind to the art of manipulative discourse as she thought.

That was definitely something to keep in mind.

Captain's destination was literally next door.

Supply Closet #34 had undergone some adjustments since its previous detainee, but in many respects it remained the same. Lup may have been long gone, but the alcove modified for her use remained, shoved to the far end of the room and covered in a fine layer of dust. Clutter - a box of senile neurogel packs, a handful of rivets, several discarded wind chimes - were the inevitable result of engineering looking for a place to temporarily store miscellaneous items. Also present was the unneeded sanitary unit and food replicator from Supply Closet #35, removed when Lena had revealed her Colored background. Near the entrance, a broom, mop, and bucket half-filled with dirty water were testaments to an abandoned effort at cleaning. The door itself was no longer present: after locking one too many engineering drones inside the closet, it had become the focus of plasma torches.

Captain stopped in front of a section of cleared wall. Lena followed suit, then slowly pivoted her head to look around the room. Four weapons drones, in addition to her escort, were present, as well as a pair of sensory units. While not as crowded as when Lup had been in residence, the closet nonetheless felt smaller due to the clutter.

"This change in venue seems unnecessary. Why could you not have asked for my 'perspective' in my jail?" asked Lena.

Ignoring Lena's barbed statement, Captain gestured at the wall. As he did so, a holodisplay materialized. In form it was a flat, rectangular screen divided into three equal portions, each section a different neutral color.

Lena cocked her head slightly as she contemplated the action. "Oh."

Not fully trusting the jammer, all points of electronic interface had been removed from Supply Closet #35. Peach was tricky, and it was quite possible that protocols had been devised to remotely interface with peripheral systems, burrowing through code firewalls to invade more critical portions of the computer architecture. Thus, sensors, cameras, every potential link to Cube #347 had been stripped from Lena's closet, including holoprojectors. Even the alcove was self-contained with its own miniaturized power source and responding only to a limited selection of commands.

The two sensory units confirmed Lena's status as nominal. Assuming the sub-collective had not overestimated her capacity in a fit of paranoia, there was no attempt on her part to remotely link to Supply Closet #34 systems.

"So what is happening?" inquired Lena, eyes shifting away from the screen and to Captain.

"We require outside input. We are small, inefficient. We have modeled scenarios, but other than invoking highly unlikely what-if's that include a Xenig or a Q or certain natural phenomenon, we never successfully acquire our objective."

{I have devised a scenario with 0.006% chance of success,} objected Weapons.

{We need a wee bit better, Weapons,} replied Captain.

Weapons grumbled, then returned to his assigned task.

Opinionated Second, {At least he's being kept busy.}

{And for how long?} said Captain. {The first critical juncture nears. He and his hierarchy will only become more difficult to control if a decision is not made; and taking them off-line is not a viable alternative, given the tactical situation.}

Meanwhile, Lena was speaking, "Small and inefficient. I see. And a single additional viewpoint will make how much a difference?"

"One more is better than none more," countered Captain. The argument sounded hollow, even to himself.

"Uh-hum," noncommittally answered Lena. She waved a hand at the screen. "So, then, if I am to provide my best 'perspective', should you not tell me what the objective is?"

Captain internally squirmed. Part of the sub-collective was of the opinion that the less told to the Peach operative, the better; and another part believed that if a full(er) explanation of the situation did not occur, then the input garnered would be of limited use. And then there were the third (and fourth and fifth and...) components of the Whole which were focused on matters which related not at all to the discussion, but still wanted input on, for instance, the best Klingon quilting patterns. The conflict must have telegraphed to his face, for Lena suddenly looked very, very interested. Captain froze his facial muscles.

"Objective?" pushed Lena.

A decision was made. Disclosure, to a point, would occur. "Our target is the current Queen." One section of the tripartite screen brightened to show a simple schematic of an Assault-class sphere en route from planet #1 to the superstring research platform. "She is currently vulnerable. Maybe. This sub-collective must capture the target, biopsy brain material to include it in a half-completed vaccine, then inject aforementioned vaccine back into the Queen. This must be accomplished in such a manner that the backup queen is not activated."

As each step was listed, Lena's nonexistent eyebrows raised fractionally higher, cumulating with full disbelief upon the final caveat. Focus was shifted to the holoscreen. "If I ask 'why?' concerning your actions, will you tell me?"

"That information is irrelevant." Not to mention that Captain had no wish to try to explain how soul virii, quantum parasites, vaccine recipes, a cigar smoking AI programmed to sort potential futures so as to better function as a search engine, an accidentally disintegrated vinculum, Directors, Critics, and black cowled Auditors all fitted together. The sub-collective itself required a highly elaborate flowchart to maintain any semblance of understanding. "What is relevant is that any perspective you provide us will increase your chance of surviving the next six hours."

"You do realize that you, all of you, are certifiably insane? And I don't mean assimilation imperfection."

Captain was silent. The subject of sub-collective insanity was a question increasingly debated within the dataspaces, especially as what remained of the censure filters continued to erode.

Lena sighed as she realized that no response was forthcoming. "Well, let's get on with it, then."

Captain removed the course schematic, then proceeded to populate the three subscreens with updated datafeed summaries diverted from the weapons hierarchy. Borg alphanumerics scrolled rapidly in each window, providing background information on scenarios being tested by various of Weapons' partitions.

"The first scenario group actually consists of two major variants," began Captain with no further preamble. The pale blue panel was highlighted. "The seed model is an ambush of the Queen's Assault-class sphere transport. Variant alpha - the sphere is outbound to the platform. Variant beta - the sphere is inbound to an inner system destination. In both cases, the Queen is aboard. Deviations from the seed models occur as attack method, timing, and other variables are examined. As can be seen," Captain expanded several percentages in a state of continuous updated as partitions played their assigned scenario to a conclusion, "our chance for success is extremely low. In most cases, this cube meets a very terminal end."

Captain moved to a sea green section. "The second scenario group assumes the Queen to be offloaded at the research platform, but the sphere to remain present." More numbers were indicated. "In those few instances where we avoid blowing up, the platform inevitably suffers an explosive fate. The Queen is not salvageable. We fail at our objective."

The final panel was a pale, and very unBorg, pink hue. "The third group is the most promising: the Queen is offloaded and the sphere leaves. Unfortunately, it is standard operating procedure for the Queen to be accompanied by an escort consisting of minimum one hundred tactical units. While the likelihood of Cube #347 exploding is marginally less - unless the sphere returns - that of the platform blowing up is increased. Or the Queen is accidentally, and fatally, disrupted. Or we are counter-boarded and overwhelmed. Or any number of possibilities that lead to failure."

Lena studied the relevant display as she listened to each summary. Her face was expressionless as she concentrated; and for the first time she actually resembled a Borg drone, implants and body suit not withstanding.

"We require your viewpoint," uttered Captain as Lena's unresponsiveness stretched to several minutes.

Finally the Peach operative blinked once, then again. A hand was gestured at the screen in an all encompassing wave. "I see a common theme, one in which the concepts of 'direct' and 'unsubtle' are prominent. Can't you do sneaky?"

{Sneaky is for wusses,} opinionated Weapons from afar.

"Subtlety is not a Borg forte," said Captain, diplomatically editing Weapons' comment.

"Peach uses it," argued Lena, "as do several other Colors to some degree. Fundamentally, all Colors are subsets and exaggerations of the Collective Borg baseline, which in turn means subtle is present in you, somewhere."

"Perhaps in some matters," acquiesced Captain. Within the dataspaces, Cube #347 exploded, repeatedly. "However, not in regards to tactics...at least not this particular sub-collective without input from the Greater Consciousness." The Flame Nebula incident, igniting the atmosphere of a gas giant, Captain could dredge up many occasions of over-enthusiastic use of force.

Lena frowned. "Well, you need it here. And you are correct, the third scenario group does offer the greatest range of possibilities. Unfortunately, my assistance is limited without support from my Collective."

Captain dismissed the holodisplay and regulated the datastreams to background awareness. Various command and control partitions were monitoring scenario progress; and in the event a successful model was devised, higher elements of the hierarchy, such as Captain, would be alerted. With Lena's utterance, a decision cascade concerning her utility came to a conclusion. "In that case, you are no longer useful in your current state." The two drones whom had been serving as escort stepped forward to flank the Peach, each one seizing an arm. "It has been decided that assimilation is the relevant hierarchy to oversee the dissection and initial analysis of your implants."

"W-w-wait," stammered Lena, the slight reverberation of her voice strengthening into a stutter. "I only said my advice would be limited, not that I had none to provide."

Captain unconsciously tilted his head slightly as a new decision matrix was initiated. "Elaborate."

"I do not need a link with Peach: I have been conditioned to operate on my own, which necessitates a degree of individual problem solving. If you are willing to accept suggestions of a more subtle nature, I can provide seeds to redirect your model building. Even better, if I am allowed minimal, and supervised, access to the relevant dataspace areas, I can steer scenarios. Just a few simple tweaks alone would enhance the likelihood of the Queen remaining on the platform while the sphere leaves on a wild goose chase."

{Release the Peach,} sent Captain to the escort, followed by {Weapons, report to my current location.}

{Sneaky is for wusses,} replied Weapons, repeating his earlier comment.

Said Second, {I'd rather be a live wuss than a dead one. Comply with command and control, just this once, with minimal expenditure of effort on this hierarchy's part. I am sure whatever suggestions the Peach may provide that there still will be plenty of chances for disruptor use, explosions, and barely contained mayhem.}

A long sigh. {Fine. Compliance.}

As the computer reported the transporter materialization of Weapons' designation outside Supply Closet #34, Captain reinitiated the holoscreen. "Tell us more." He stepped away from the display to provide Weapons, now pushing his way into the room, more space. "Your continued existence, in one piece, depends on your input and the resultant scenario outcomes. Dataspace access will be negotiable after a demonstration of your usefulness. Do you understand?"

"We...I do. Compliance," responded Lena mechanically.

*****

"I protest! Again! Active Boards are too strong, too...unpredictable. Boardrooms and the Editor workshop have special filters in place to curb the wilder quantum fluctuations and probability vortexes. What if this Board imploded here? Now?"

"What if it did?" asked Mr. Stain quietly.

"Er..." Hans was at a loss, the wind taken from his rant by the simple question. "Well, I don't know what would happen. Nobody does. It wouldn't be good, though, I can tell you that. It might even Nothing the lot of us. At the very least, there would be a big mess."

"Well, as a counter to your doomsday scenario, I've been told by experts that this little exercise would be perfectly safe."

Hans frowned, as best a disembodied hand without a face could do. "Who? My co-workers over there who are under parasitical influence?" It waggled a dismissive index finger. "In their state, they would agree that infinity was green" - several hands formed themselves into fists, thumbs raised - "when everyone knows it is duck-egg blue. Fah!"

"No matter," replied Mr. Stain mildly. "I still lean to the notion that you are exaggerating the issue. My demonstration will not take long, so the threat of personal danger, assuming there is any, is acceptable."

Directors, Critics, Editors, Auditors, and Board, all were situated at a crossroads of hallways informally known as the Writers' Plaza. Like many other locales within the Complex, it was an exercise in futility to try to definitively describe it. Sometimes it was three hundred meters across. Or three hundred parsecs. Or three hundred cesium atoms. At times it sported a distinct similarity to a sidewalk bistro, complete with umbrella'ed tables and decorative wrought-iron chairs. Other times the Plaza was a Roman amphitheater, the cheap seats a kilometer above the arena action. Whatever the size or configuration, one feature of the Writers' Plaza remained constant: set into a wall were a pair of giant double doors, gothic-esque and chased in silver filigree, in the middle of which was a small, horizontal, outward swinging flap which bore a distinct resemblance to a mail slot.

The doors had never opened. The only contact the Complex denizens had with the Writers in their Annex was when scripts were pushed out the slot; and since the Auditor invasion, even that action had ceased. Black marks and hideous burns scarred the doors, but as of yet they had resisted all attempts by the Auditors to force them open.

In this time, in this now, as such could be applied to the Complex, the Writers' Plaza looked like, well, a plaza. It was a large open area, tiled in abstract designs of brick and stone, and included low cement benches perfect for sitting. Not that any eyeball or hand had a posterior to sit upon, of course. It was the metaphysical thought that counted. A small dais was raised in the center of the plaza; and upon that dais was a table, and a Board.

At the periphery of the plaza, a crowd had gathered. Some of the body-part multitude had been forced to attend, either due to parasite infection or because Mr. Stain had felt the forthcoming 'demonstration' would be 'beneficial' for certain recalcitrant Complex members. However, the great majority were casual onlookers, morbidly drawn to the Plaza to witness the latest Auditor atrocity, especially as perpetuated by one who had the talent to speak in quotation marks. Whatever their reason for attendance, all audience members were shunning the Writers' doors, leaving a large space.

The reason for that avoidance was shrouded in tattered black cloth, a tantalizing shape growing more complex, and more bewildering, with each addition. A team of three Auditors were supervising a similar number of enthralled Editors as the latter constructed the mysterious device. Some protuberances from the shroud could be identified - fins, pipes, a slowly spinning double helix of electric blue - but how they contributed to the whole was unknown. Of which there was no debate as to its identity or eventual use was the long, double barrel indicative of a gun, business end centered upon the Writers' doors.

No mere fabric should have been capable of deflecting the discerning gaze of an all-Seeing Director. However, the substance from which the cloaks had been woven was neither cotton nor wool, or any other vegetable or animal derivative. None, except the Auditors, knew its origin; and from the Director point of view, it should not have existed, a declaration which wilted in the face of reality. Regardless, the cloak material did exist and it had prevented the Directors from Seeing the true appendix Auditor form; and now it obscured the weapon's construction from those who might otherwise contemplate sabotage. Finally, utilizing the shroud had one additional perk, at least from the Auditor standpoint: it drove the Directors crazy when they could not See something.

Ignoring Hans' glower, Mr. Stain loudly cleared his nonthroat. "I bet you are all wondering why you are here today." The Auditor's voice carried over the crowd. "Except those that were brought here against their will, of course. Well, you will shortly find out. You see, it has come to my attention-"

"Beauregard, by the Void between, what is going on here? You said you had a quick errand to run and that you would be right back! And that was nearly an hour ago!" The voice originated from a new Auditor as it glided onto the Writers' Plaza. It was followed by four additional cloaks, all of whom looked a bit...rumpled. A faint noise could be heard from the corridor behind the fivesome, a nearly continuous rumble from which rose the occasional high-pitched undulation. The sound was quickly drowned by the crowd's tittering reaction to the 'Beauregard' name.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Iris tried to move closer to the Board so as to look at its piece. Unfortunately, Mr. Stain's pet Editors retained their grip, preventing the attempt.

"I told you to never call me that in public," objected Mr. Stain. "In fact, I told you never to call me by that name at all. 'Gar' is much more acceptable. And I thought we had all agreed that we wouldn't use names at all in order to retain the proper mysterious air...Stanley."

Stanley-the-Auditor snorted. "Would you prefer 'Mr. Stain'? That is what the non-infected entities of the Complex have been calling you. It seems to have started with those four over there." An arm-shaped section of cloak was waved in the direction of Orb, Iris, Lips, and Mouth. The indicated detainees put on their most innocent expressions. "Stop trying to change the subject, Beauregard. Your presence was needed elsewhere."

"That was a little problem. A minor issue. I had suspicions, and they were borne out. Cancellation is assured, but some entities persist in believing they have a chance at averting the inevitable."

"Are you still going on about your obsession?" Stanley was incredulous.

Haughtily replied Mr. Stain, "The piece is insignificant. However, its mere presence emboldens a certain set of Directors and Critics, allows them to suppose that there may be a solution that does not entail resetting a Production that should have been allowed to fail a long time ago. Therefore, I am about to destroy the piece, in a public manner. And not by Board rules."

Orb gasped, as did other knowledgeable Players in the Plaza. "You can't do that! No entity can directly act upon any Board piece."

Mr. Stain spun to face the Director. "And what would be the penalty if I did? And don't give me all that freewill crap: this Production is to be Cancelled, so it isn't like it matters." Smirking, the Auditor stalked to the Board and picked up several dice. "However, if you like, I'll play by Board rules and roll up a set of circumstances that doom the piece in an appropriate manner. It may even make for a better demonstration. Should all the stars on the Board explode in a freak occurrence? Or, perhaps, will a spontaneous reversal of the weak nuclear force convert all matter into a thin smear of quarks?" Mr. Stain bounced the dice in its nonhand, then slowly turned to Iris. "It is your piece, after all. You make the decision. My preferred option would be to simply Nothing the piece - quick and painless, leaving the rest of the Board unscathed...until it implodes from lack of sentience, of course. The implosion, however, may take millions of subjective years, which would be plenty of time to play Board games, minus the your piece. Or I could take these dice and try for a nice little scenario - nothing quite as extreme as atomic dissolution, mind you - in which your piece suffers every moment until its demise. I strongly suspect there will be collateral damage to you friends' pieces. It is all up to you."

Iris gulped, glancing over at the Board, then back to the Auditor. "Is there a third option?"

"By the everlasting Void," roared Stanley, "if you must have your little demonstration, could it not wait until later? There are other issues to deal with!"

"Like what? The bar fight? There was absolutely no reason for me to be there! It isn't like I was necessary! What could a bunch of non-omnipotent linear beings do, except create a bit of noise?" scoffed Mr. Stain.

Whispered Lips to Mouth, "It's picked up the dice. Doesn't it have to roll now?"

Replied Mouth, "Yes."

"Do you think Beauregard knows it has to roll? That the Board has its little ways to make sure that the rules are followed?" This was said with the intimate knowledge of one who had one time or another tried to bend, or outright break, a multitude of said Board rules.

"No and no."

"Even worse," hissed Orb, "is that the Board is outside a Boardroom. Everyone is now a Player to the game. The beings on the Board may have freewill, but the Players sure as hell don't once dice are invoked. The Auditors have never read the rule books. The Board will have its dice rolled."

Said Iris, mostly to itself, as it stared at Mr. Stain, "If I could grab the dice while they are in motion...."

The Editors holding the foursome paid no attention to their charges, the hands no more than automatons awaiting the next order by their masters. Similarly, the Auditors ignored the conversation between Directors and Critics, voices raised in argument. And the volume was necessary, for the noise which had begun as a background rumble was now a full-blown roar.

The rumple-cloaked Auditors who waited behind Stanley had been joined by a dozen equally disheveled colleagues. All were nervously fidgeting; and all were glancing about, as if searching for the best escape route. At the shrouded Device, work had halted, not due to the developing situation, but because it seemed as if construction had been completed.

Suddenly, from the hallway, spilled a handful of Auditors. Cloaks were partially torn from the forms, revealing the wobbly reality beneath. There was a sense of panic that became much more understandable as the beast they were running from screamed its anger as it careened into the Writers' Plaza.

"Get the black-cloaked bastards! My Jovian Sunspot was spilled!" bellowed a figure at the forefront of the mob. Yellow shirt, glinting badge, rugged looks which had caused many a green-skinned lady swoon, Captain James T. Kirk of the Federation starship Enterprise was a force to be reckoned with. Especially when he was drunk.

"Mine too!"

"My beer! My poor beer!"

"I was just at the climax of my lie, er, story, and one of those things ruined it when it tripped into my table!"

Voices arose from the crowd of angry, drunken captains. The best of the best, drawn from all the myriad multiverses, these were men (and women and neuters and other genders for which there was no label) who could hold their liquor without noticeable loss of coordination. Perhaps, at some point, there had been a plan by a foursome of eyeballs and lips to create a diversion in the form of a friendly bar fight, not an unusual occurrence at the establishment known as the Captain's Table. However, once the Auditors had become involved, things had, just maybe, gotten a wee bit out of hand.

"For my Jovian Sunspot and all spilt drinks!" screamed Kirk as he rushed towards the nearest black cloak, arms upraised in his classic double-fisted Punch Of Doom.

Auditors scattered.

THIS IS REDICULOUS, shouted Mr. Stain. It retained its grip upon the dice. JUST NOTHING THE LOT OF THEM! A gesture was made in the direction of Kirk.

Nothing happened. Literally.

"Do you think we haven't already tried that?" protested Stanley. "They are so drunk that they don't know they've been Nothinged. And if they don't know they have been Nothinged, then they can't be Nothinged!"

Still using its Big Voice, Mr. Stain swore...or at least started to: ****-.

"Bastard!" cried Kirk as he climbed upon the central dais and leapt at the Auditor.

The mob swallowed the Writers' Plaza, and the audience of Complex denizens. Chaos incarnate.

Unnoticed and unremarked, the Writers' door cracked open, dark slit revealing nothing of the Annex interior, nor its occupants. From the opening crawled an insect. For a long moment it perched upon a knob of silver filigree, antennae waving; and then it unfurled its wings, revealing Mandelbrot patterns set against a starry background. Lazily fanning its wings once, the insignificant butterfly floated from its perch.

The door closed.

The butterfly fluttered its way to the indefinite ceiling, then, between one beat and the next, faded. It was gone. It had never been present at all.

*****

{Desist, 16 of 212. This is the third time I have had to warn you.}

{But-}

{16 of 212...} said Captain in exasperation.

{But-}

{No buts.}

16 of 212 mentally fortified himself before returning to his justification. {But they make such good targets. And I didn't actually touch any of them, just sort of aimed my disruptor at one or two or three.}

{And you stuck out your foot in an attempt to trip up the column,} returned Captain. {29 of 83 saw it, ergo, I saw it. We all saw it. Do I need to dig into your head for the first-person visual evidence?} The sixty drones comprising the assault party were currently split into two groups with individual units of the paired columns standing shoulder to shoulder along the corridor. Down the center of the hall lurched a line of Borg, none of which appeared to be paying more than rudimentary attention to their own walking, much less the intruders less than an armspan distant. Captain pivoted his head sufficiently to spy 16 of 212 near the tail of the opposite row.

16 of 212 stared straight ahead although he was well aware of Captain's attention. {No,} stiffly replied 16 of 212 in answer to the question asked.

{Do not do it again, 16 of 212. If you cannot comply with such a simple directive, you will be off-lined and left where none will trip over you. Weapons, assign piloting of the scooter to another designation and enforce compliance among your hierarchy.}

Weapons, regulated to Cube #347 despite insistence that any tactical operation required his direct participation, sullenly responded, {16 of 212. Do what you are told.}

Captain noted that the scooter request had been ignored. Perhaps that was for the best: without the distraction, Weapons would only be (1) attempting to circumnavigate the cube weapons lockouts and/or (2) urging armed members of the assault team to more than aiming disruptors or tripping platform drones.

{Compliance,} sighed 16 of 212.

As the last of the cerebrally-oriented drones filed past, Captain mentally ordered the assault team to continue down the corridor towards the target. "We go," said Captain aloud to the one individual whom was excluded from the intradrone link.

Lena curtly nodded, retaking her position immediately following Captain.

Captain was deep within the bowels of Research Platform #102. Like all Borg facilities, the air was humid, the temperature overly warm, and the green-tinged lighting a bit too dim. The best descriptor of the ambiance was 'foreboding'. Accompanying him were fifty-five weapons drones (carefully screened to decrease the chance of disruptor 'accidents'), two engineering units, and Doctor. Lena rounded out the company to sixty. If one wanted to be technical, EMH Frank, currently sequestered within one of Doctor's on-board storage nodes, pushed the assault team number to sixty-one. However, the program would only be manifested via a portable holoprojector once (if) the target was secured, therefore it was sixty bodies which trekked (Borg could not sneak) through the hallway.

Truthfully, if the goal had been to board and occupy the platform, a single unit would have been more than adequate. The local drones, so focused upon the intricate computations required to unravel the mysteries of the nearby superstring, had to be reminded to exercise their bodies, to regenerate. They barely acknowledged there was a universe beyond their analytical devotion. Unfortunately, the target was a wee bit more dangerous than the Borg equivalent of a gaggle of absent-minded professors; and it was because of Her (and Her escort) that the assault team attempted stealth.

The jammers, while protecting individual drones from discerning the siren song of integration, were insufficient to mask unit presence from any interested observers once said unit was transported beyond Cube #347's hull and the influence of the no-see-um. While the platform drones would ignore any intruder, no matter how blatant, similar non-action was not expected from the target nor Her escort. The solution had been offered by Lena, who just happened to possess schematics for a modified no-see-um, ideal for deployment upon the individual drone. And the blueprint file was small enough to be transferred upon a PADD. And a lack of exotic substances or complex circuitry meant cube replicators could churn out the design. Similar to its bigger brother, the personal no-see-um encouraged drones without the device to not 'see' what was before them...within limits. It was the perfect.

And a bit too convenient.

Captain was uneasy, his thoughts colored by a vague apprehension originating from both a personal anxiety and one diffuse throughout the sub-collective. Enlightened self-interest - continued survival so as to better serve her Color - was the obvious justification for Lena to surrender what was undoubtedly valuable Peach technology. However, there were also the suggestions, the submissively offered tweaks, provided to Weapons, each of which inevitably increased the chance of mission success. Of course, with the failure rate of Weapons' best-case 'smash-and-grab' scenario hovering well above 99%, it was not unexpected that the addition of tactics of a more subtle nature would increase success probabilities. For every action Lena performed, there was a perfectly sane, perfectly selfish, perfectly Borg explanation.

Which did nothing to placate the nagging misgivings.

It felt as if years of manipulation and carefully orchestrated encounters had cumulated for just this purpose, for Lena to be on Cube #347 at this place, at this now. However, that was impossible. Peach was good in the bailiwick of devious wheels-within-wheels-within-wheels schemes, but not that good. Lena had, eventually, been allowed very limited dataspace access to assist the weapons hierarchy, but neither the platoon of hypervigilant hunter-seekers sicced upon her, nor the mixed partition of assimilation and sensory drones had noted anything untoward. In a fit of paranoia, command and control, assisted by assimilation hierarchy elements, had even combed through reams of internal code. Nothing had come of the endeavor, no snippet of code or overlooked process acting in an unexpected manner to influence outputs associated with Lena.

Captain, once more, pushed away his unease: the task at hand required his full concentration as consensus monitor. As the column trekked closer to its goal, he split his awareness, submerging part of his mind deeper into the sub-collective dataspaces. {Updates,} said Captain, simultaneously accessing a pair of datathreads. {Sensors first, then Weapons.}

{Sensors says the gravimetric [balloons] from the superstring are [whirling] and [snowing] sensor grid input. Static and more static,} moaned Sensors, adding in several whistles and pops which the translator algorithm passed without even attempting to decipher.

Cube #347 was parked next to the research platform, hiding in plain sight courtesy of its no-see-um device. Of course, the local drones would have ignored the ship, even had it been covered in flashing neon and broadcasting the subspace radio equivalent of loud accordion music, just as long as there were no interruptions upon superstring observations. The sphere which had transported the Queen and Her escort was another matter entirely. However, it was also not currently present; and it was sensor hierarchy task to watch if it, or any other fleet resource, was en route to the platform.

{Just report, Sensors,} sighed Captain.

After offering an untranslatable whistle, Sensors obediently summarized, {All Sensors sees is sphere [romping] scooter. Sensors does not [wallpaper] any course deviations for in-system or superluminal resources.} Pause. {Static, static, static. Sensors annoyed with superstring [snow] static.}

{You will cope. Do not alter the grid away from standard settings: at this time, even a minor loss of efficiency due to perceptional hallucinations within, and without, your hierarchy it not acceptable. Do you understand?}

{Sensors complies,} said Sensors, {even if she knows she could [quilt] the grid for better resolution through the [snow] static.}

Captain was confident that Sensors would follow the directive given to her and the sensory hierarchy despite any personal disagreement. She was a well-adjusted drone in that regard. Weapons, on the other hand.... {Weapons, report.}

{This poor excuse for an assault vehicle needs weapons.}

127 of 230, who had been closely following all proceedings involving Weapons' current task, interrupted, {It is not an "assault vehicle". It is a Trilunium-brand one-entity scooter built from kit blueprints I received after mailing in 1500 "Sugarlicious HyperSpace Cereal" boxtops. Each boxtop has a unique molecular signature, so it is not possible to replicate them. Do you know how hard it was to find that cereal? Parental groups have banned it just about everywhere. It is very black-market.} 127 of 230's collection of racing shuttles and other small vehicles had been depleted over the past two years. With only a few vessels left, she had become more protective than ever even as she knew the improbability of gaining back an appropriated ship in one piece. Many pieces, assuming incomplete vaporization, was a much more likely conclusion.

{Bah, you can build another one. Add weapons next time.}

{No I can't! The blueprints are both copy-protected and self-destruct after the scooter is built. I'll have to collect and send in another 1500 boxtops!}

{That explains the sucrose overload of subsection 13, submatrix 17, tier 2 regenerative systems last year,} muttered Delta in the background. Interrupting the interruptee, she said, {127 of 230, dispose of the sugar cereal in an appropriate manner next time, not dump it into the nearest tier subreservoir.}

{I put it into Replication Reclamation Chamber #7,} said 127 of 230 defensively.

{And the sugar patterns survived disruption, energy storage, and reconstitution?} responded Delta in disbelief.

{I think it is a proprietary formula-}

{Enough,} roared Captain, cutting through the tangential irrelevancies. {Take it to a private channel. Weapons, report.}

{Assault vehicle needs weapons,} reiterated Weapons.

{Opinion noted. Rest of the report?}

{The sphere continues to chase the un-assault vehicle. The course moves further from the platform. When can I ram the sphere?}

The scooter in question, disregarding the bright stickers advertising overly sugared cereal, was a variation upon the standard in-system commuter. It was essentially an impulse engine upon which was attached a habitat bubble suitable for a single sentient of typical humanoid size and conformation. In this case, the scooter was being driven via remote control, no one actually aboard.

A scooter by itself would draw no attention from the Borg Collective, even if it had mounted weapons and/or rammed itself into a Borg ship. As its mere presence so deep in BorgSpace was an impossibility, or so would reason the Greater Consciousness, it would be ignored. On the other hand, if the scooter were the nexus of a spoof broadcast designed to pique the Collective's attention sufficiently to send a nearby resource to investigate, yet not be so threatening as to require dispatch of additional fleet elements, that was an entirely different prospect.

Fast forward to the present. From the perspective of the Collective, the scooter was not a scooter, but rather a mysterious intruder with a faulty cloak. Furthermore, the not-so-hidden spy was attempting to disguise its maintenance issues behind a defective facade of 'transient natural phenomenon'. The scooter was positioned several AU away among a swarm of Kuiper belt proto-comets, carefully sidling ever distant to remain just beyond the resolution envelope of the sphere's sensor grid, whereupon it would be able to see through the deception. The convoluted scheme was worthy of Peach; and, in fact, it had been Lena who had offered the proposal. Although the strategy had been implemented, it had also raised troubling internal questions concerning prevalence of similar acts to snooker Borg (or Color or Second Federation or others).

Weapons only concern had been the lack of armaments.

Captain immediately responded to Weapons' query, {Never. Keep to the plan. And if you do not, scooter driving will be reassigned to a non-tactical unit.}

A grumble was offered which included a barely audible {Compliance}.

Through dim corridors, avoiding the occasional drone, marched the assault column. Doors, walkways, a lift, the away team worked its way deep into the bowels of the research platform. Becoming lost was a non-issue, the platform conforming to one of the standard schematics associated with the facility type. Neither was the Queen's location a mystery: Cube #347's sensor grid had noted rerouting of energy to a cavernous analysis chamber near the center of the structure accompanied by an increase in power use consistent with the demands of a Queen with escort. Prior to the assault team's dispatch, confirmation of the target's position had been made by overlaying the map embedded in Frank's matrix. Emerald dot and presumed Queen had matched perfectly.

Captain paused before a door, one alike others already passed. It was oversized, a fitting match to a hallway large enough to fly a shuttle through; and if one was possessed of an imagination, as Borg were not, one might compare the scale to that of a young child looking upon a world sized for adults. Peering at a flickering light strip embedded within the distant ceiling, Lena was not paying complete attention to the Borg column. Captain stumbled as the Peach spy ran into his back.

"Are we there?" whispered Lena as she recovered.

"Yes, with 89% surety," responded the next drone in line behind Lena. "We plot current location against our map for a final confirmation."

Captain hovered a hand over the door, but did not quite touch its metal. Why was the Queen present? That was a question which had been floating in the dataspace background since She had left the inner sanctum of the Borg home system. In sooth, a Queen was a resource, as was any drone, albeit a more important one than a mere floating point co-processor or trinary network switch. As with any resource, the Queen was sent where the Greater Consciousness determined She would be most useful. The most likely scenario was one in which the Queen was overseeing the tune-up of the local sub-collective. Research-tasked subMinds were notorious in their propensity to prioritize cognitive analysis to the physical detriment of individual unit health. While the tune-up was an undertaking which could be conducted remotely, there were instances when the 'personal' touch resulted in a more efficient and longer-lasting result.

Of course, there was also the other option that the assault team was about to walk into a carefully planned trap.

An affirmation arrowed out of the dataspaces. "We are here," confirmed Captain aloud. Hand was allowed to contact the metal, fingers of his whole hand brushing over the tactile sensors which functioned as a secondary backup system keying the door to open in the event of communication difficulties with the platform computer.

A slit split the center of the sideways sliding door, indicating where the halves mated together. Two of the foremost weapons drones moved forward, placing hands within the armspan-wide opening and forcing the entrance wider. When no disruptors greeted the pair's effort, the column of tactical units began to file inside.

With 200 meters between facing walls and a ceiling fifteen meters overhead, the analysis chamber was the largest room upon the research platform. Immense pillars placed in regimental fashion were not supports, but rather storage areas in which scientific equipment undoubtedly resided. Standing dividers, tables, floating platforms, and multi-armed devices of uncertain pedigree were scattered throughout the room; and alcoves lined the circumference walls. The air had the stale taste of noncirculation and dust covered most horizontal surfaces. The signs of disuse were not unexpected as the platform's mandate was the superstring, an object not highly conducive to assessment by laser cutter.

The analysis chamber hosted visitors. Fifty alcoves were filled with drones of a decidedly non-cognitive nature; and another fifty were stationed throughout the room in small clumps of three to five units, dull eyes staring at nothing. Thick cables snaked across the floor, emerging separately from walls and pillars, only to converge at a central point. The nexus was an alcove, but heavily modified such that it had a vague resemblance to an open-fronted maturation chamber. Standing within the alcove, eyes closed, was the Borg Queen.

The Cube #347 weapons drones moved with silent purpose, each selecting a target among the free-standing escort units. In several instances Captain was forced to render summary judgment when several drones converged upon the same target, then proceeded to quarrel over to whom it belonged. As Captain sorted out one such disagreement which threatened to escalate beyond intranet name-calling, the two engineering drones entered the room. The pair were heavily loaded with equipment and tools; and one pulled a red wagon similarly heaped. They quickly shuffled towards a pillar near the door which afforded partial concealment from the forthcoming action. Doctor followed the engineering drones' lead; and, after a moment of indecision, so did Lena.

All moved into position. There was no reaction from the Queen or her escorts; and Sensors reported nominal activity throughout the Borg home system. Weapons continued to lead the sphere on its futile hint, ever just out of reach even as he bemoaned lack of weapons.

If this was a trap, it was definitely more subtle than the usual Borg ambush.

Sucking in a large breath, and with a final warning to certain weapons units who continued to covet a comrade's target, Captain approached the Queen's alcove. He placed himself squarely in front of Her, then, after a beat of hesitation, reached with right hand across to his left bicep and removed the mini-no-see-um, thereby deactivating it.

"Greetings," said Captain outloud. "The Collective has been very sick. There is something I need from you. There is an easy way and a hard way. I suspect You will chose the lattermost option."

The response was immediate.

The Borg Queen opened Her eyes, focusing upon Captain. She blinked once, as if unsure of the optic input, then tilted Her head sideways slightly. Even through the constant background hiss of the jammer, he could hear the request, the demand, for reintegration of a wayward drone. Captain resisted the urge to remove the jammer glommed to his neck.

"You are rogue," spoke the Queen. Unlike some past models, this particular Queen was not particularly attractive, unless one's tastes ran to overtall and extremely gaunt. Her skull bulged oddly where numerous surgeries had expanded Her braincase to include the various implants which increased Her efficiency as the primary Borg nexus. Following Her pronouncement, the alcove loudly hissed, clamps disengaging to allow its occupant to exit. The Queen panned the room, likely examining its contents with more than Her own senses, eyes sliding blindly over the quite visible assault team. "You come alone? How did you arrive here?" The tone remained monotone, although one could easily insert an element of accusatory disbelief.

"You are sick," repeated Captain. "The entire Collective is sick. You have been infected by a quantum parasite. Auditors, Directors, Critics, and other nonlinear entities are involved. Somehow. A glorified search engine artificial intelligence with a caterpillar avatar that eventually transformed into a butterfly upon its Transcendence provided my sub-collective with a map and a difficult-to-interpret recipe to mend the Collective's problem. That is why I am here." Captain internally winced. The explanation when offered via inadequate vocal medium sounded like the ramblings of a delusional mental patient.

The Queen, the Greater Consciousness, must have agreed that Captain's words were little more than disjointed babble. "You are more than rogue: you are insane. You will be queried to determine the degree of your insanity, then recycled."

Captain flinched. To 'query' was an euphemism whereupon the head of the subject drone was removed from its body, the brain subsequently kept alive, and isolated from what remained of its former host, via a myriad of chemical and mechanical means. The brain was then forcibly trawled to extract every experience, every meme, every nugget of data, the inhabitant mind fully conscious of the process even as it was helpless to respond. Data extraction might require minutes, cycles, or years, until success was declared. Needless to say, it was a very terminal, and highly unpleasant, experience.

"I-" began Captain. The sizzling hiss of a disruptor, followed by the echoing thump of a body hitting the deck, interrupted his sentence.

{That was my target!} complained 63 of 83.

{It moved and I had a clear line of sight,} returned 81 of 83 defensively.

{But it was my target!} countered 63 of 83. {And it barely swayed!}

In the intranet background, Weapons chuckled, radiating an aggressive satisfaction. Unfortunately, there was no dataspace trace to conclusively tie the weapons hierarchy head back to what was likely a case of provocation.

"Intruders?" said the Queen, a note of doubt coloring Her voice. The no-see-um effect, while not dispelled, was certainly fractured upon the knowledge that someone beyond Captain was present. The no-see-um device did not make the wearer invisible, merely easy to dismiss. The Queen blinked as internal processes came to a conclusion. "Intruders. Sixty units. Terminate them."

{Sh**,} commented Captain as all hell broke lose.

Disruptor volleys filled the air as assault team tactical units fired upon their escort adversaries. Those few escort drones who remained functional following the initial attack responded in kind. Alcoves hissed as regenerating occupants were disgorged to the fray. Several misaimed disruptors reduced lighting to half its original luminance; and spark showers from damaged analysis chamber equipment did little to improve the situation. While Doctor, Lena, and the two engineering drones at least had partial cover behind a pillar, Captain found himself in the middle of the crossfire. He froze, unsure if the greatest danger came from friendly or unfriendly fire, and if he would draw more attention by remaining still or attempting to move towards the doorway.

{Damn it! Wimp! Coward!} groused Weapons. {Turn around and face me!}

Momentarily distracted from his situation, which was probably not a good thing, Captain sent forth a questioning {Huh?}

{Sphere has altered course,} helpfully offered Sensors. {Due to [calico carpet], estimated time to arrival at platform is one hour, [pinging] top impulse.}

As at Unimatrix 004, a subspace ripple field was present, restricting superluminal engine use. Unlike Unimatrix 004, the field in the Borg home system extended nearly two light hours from the sun instead of a mere 1 AU centered upon a nexus point. On the one hand, it was an excellent passive defense which prevented surprise invasion, should any species or civilization be so deranged. On the other hand, it also limited Borg response to an emerging crisis. Presumably the ripple field could be disengaged as necessary. However, there were undoubtedly technical issues associated with such an action that made the Greater Consciousness loathe to do so except in an emergency. It was unlikely sixty rogue drones on an isolated research platform, even taking into account threat to the Queen, represented a sufficiently urgent crisis to the cold calculations of the Collective.

The sphere, the closest Borg vessel of any consequence, was therefore an hour distant. Whatever the outcome in the analysis chamber, it would be resolved well before the warship arrived.

{Whoops! Just missed! Everyone moving back and forth so much, like a basket full of wrestling kitties, that I just cannot aim,} commented Doctor.

Shaken from his fugue, Captain turned his head just in time to see an escort drone, disruptor arm raised and aimed at him, topple backwards. The unit had a dart embedded in its neck. Following the trajectory back along its course led to Doctor. The head of drone maintenance had left the shelter of the pillar, one hand clutching a hollow tube approximately a meter in length. Ears flipped in self-reproach as Doctor unslotted another soporific-tipped dart from a bandolier and proceeded to load it into the blowgun.

Captain glanced back at the darted drone. {Good shot?}

{Bah. He was aiming at the Queen. And he almost hit you,} criticized Weapons. He offered several visual streams, accompanied by dramatic music, from assault team members whom had been looking in the correct direction while the dart had been airborne. In each of them, not only had Doctor (fortuitously) missed his actual target, but Captain had come within centimeters of being darted as well.

A bright flash followed by a fountain of carbon dioxide fog indicated the local fire suppressant system had been hit. As Captain pivoted in place to pan the battle, a dart thunked into his left arm. Providentially, that was his cybernetic limb, and as such he would not be sedated. It was time to retreat to the edge of the skirmish, or at least out of Doctor's dubious line of fire.

{You are supposed to be piloting the scooter, Weapons, not constructing music videos,} reminded Captain as he sidled on an oblique course towards a pillar featuring a smoking hole. An engineering drone was peering around the side of the column, assessing the damage to her hiding place.

{Not enough action. 6 of 83 has been tasked to oversee preparations for the glorious ramming run,} answered Weapons. {The tactical situation on the platform requires my supervision.}

{Captain. Behind you,} warned 205 of 310, the engineering drone. Her eyes were raised away from the blackened pillar and fixed upon something rapidly approaching Captain's backside.

Captain captured 205 of 310's visual stream just in time to see the purposefully advancing Queen, eyes narrowed, surrounded by a ring of escort and assault team drones engaged in hand-to-hand conflict. He was about to be engulfed in deadly cybernetic chaos.

Two quick steps were taken towards the pillar, but they were insufficient as a body slammed into Captain's back, causing him to stumble to his knees. He struggled to his feet, well aware of the inherent vulnerability of a Borg knocked to the ground. A jumble of waving limbs, sharp-edged prosthetics, armored torsos, and blinking diodes entered his field of view, hectic battle made even more confusing by carbon dioxide fog and uncertain lighting. A hand was thrust before Captain's face; and without thinking, he grabbed it, heaving himself fully upright.

The hand did not let go.

Captain raised his eyes, finding himself face-to-face with the Borg Queen.

"You are the consensus monitor, the nexus for these rogues. If you are eliminated, there will be repercussions within your sub-collective, no matter your imperfect status." The Queen lifted Her free hand, slowly clenching it into a fist. "We cannot hear you, and you do not respond to Our call. However, there is a more direct way to engage you in...conversation."

Captain yanked his arm, attempting to free himself. Unfortunately, neither his greater weight nor the muscle-enhancing servos in his right limb were sufficient to break the Queen's grasp.

And, then, the Queen's eyes rolled back in Her head as She collapsed. Standing behind her was 11 of 42, the second engineering drone accompanying the assault team, spanner clutched in one upraised arm.

{A spanner fixes everything,} commented 11 of 42 as he invoked one of the central mantras of the engineering profession as practiced throughout the cosmos. Eyes flicked up from his handiwork to focus on Captain. {And Doctor's sleep darts were highly inefficient.}

Protested Doctor, {I was making progress! Baby-steps!}

Captain ignored both banter and the manner the slumping Queen pressed against his legs, threatening to reupset his balance. He instead reached for the jammer burrowed into his neck, grasping the device's carapace and yanking. Meanwhile, the remaining members of the Queen's escort were shuffling to a halt, freezing in position and making no effort to defend themselves even as Cube #347's weapons drones pressed their advantage. The escort's action, or, rather, non-action, was merely an outward symptom of the sudden lurch within the Greater Consciousness as the Queen nexus was disabled. 'Disabled' was the key word, not killed, for the former initiated one set of protocols within the Collective whereupon temporary measures were taken until the nexus recovered, while the latter began a sequence of events cumulating with the mantle of leadership passed to a backup Queen.

It was in those few heartbeats that the Greater Consciousness was flailing, was searching for a Prime Node with the ability to hold the Collective as One until the Queen returned to operationality. It was in those few heartbeats that the Whole was vulnerable. It was in those few heartbeats that there was opportunity. Captain ripped the jammer from his flesh, crushing it as he did so.

For a soul-wrenching moment, Captain was small. Alone. A drone was automatically severed from the Cube #347 sub-collective in the event of jammer signal failure in order to prevent the Collective from using the unit as a bridgehead for dataspace invasion. It did not matter Captain had destroyed his jammer on purpose.

The flailing Greater Consciousness, distress of the Whole rippling outward from the Queen nexus, focused on the first potential Prime Nexus it 'saw'. Status of the unit did not matter, only that it had the aptitude to serve as a central point around which the Entire could revolve. As a bonus in this particular case, the unit's dossier listed prior experience as temporary Prime Nexus...admittedly, that 'prior' had been nearly five and a half centuries ago, but it did indicate the base fitness and ability of the unit.

The mantle of Prime Nexus fell upon Captain.

The Collective had not only welcomed a wayward drone back to its fold, but had substantially promoted him at the same time.

Captain was Borg.

Captain was also the recipient of a massive headache as an immense burden was thrust upon. His physical brain, unlike that of the Queen's, had never been modified to assume the increased load. He would persevere, however, as long as he could. It was much worse than the Drag Queen episode, which had, after all, been an accident. Additionally, this time not only was Prime Node status deliberate, but it would be hostile: the Whole would eventually reject Captain and search for a substitute without the stigmata of imperfect assimilation. Already there were signs of the inevitable fracture, such as the hostile inbound sphere refusing to deviate from its course. On the other hand, Captain should be able to do something about more immediate problems....

"I have the escort under my direct control. Will someone tell Weapons or Second or someone to stop the assault team from beating on them?" verbalized Captain. Severed from Cube #347, he no longer had dataspace access. "They are excellent tactical units and we would like to preserve them." Plural and singular pronouns were blurring.

"Congratulations," said Lena as she emerged from behind a pillar, following on the heels of 205 of 310 pulling the over-burdened wagon. "I, personally, thought you would end up with a case of brain-melt when you told me what you were planning. Peach's dossier on you suggests you would rank among the central nodes, except for your, um, little matter of imperfect assimilation. It is nice to see that Peach files were right. Again." Lena held forth her right hand, as if to shake or to offer a pat on the shoulder or some other gesture.

Captain glared at Lena's arm, then brusquely turned away. He had neither the time for the small being antics of which she was prone nor to decipher the expression which flitted across her face. "Doctor. Ensure 6843 of 7010-" Captain paused as the Queen's official designation rose unbidden into his mind "-the Queen is chemically restrained. She is already showing signs of recovery from that blow to the head, and we do not want Her to wake up quite yet.

"205 of 310 and 11 of 42: you will begin to assemble the equipment." A notion came to Captain; and even before the query could be formalized, an answer was provided. This is what it was to be One, to have other minds thinking in parallel. To be a Nexus, not a babysitter. It would not last. Another flick of the mind sent six of the remaining thirty-five escort drones, those who had sustained the least damage, into the foggy darkness of the analysis chamber. The mobile remainder of the escort started to assist their less functional comrades to the alcoves before they themselves settled into standby-by regeneration. "There are three mostly undamaged tables that way." Captain waved an arm. "I've sent several of ourself to retrieve them. Second, Weapons, whomever - I know you can hear me - stop taking potshots at my/our units."

A background subroutine, set in place by the Queen, reported a tier of platform drones about to begin an exercise regime recently enacted. Captain briefly considered redirecting units to the analysis chamber to assist Cube #347's two engineers. He summarily dismissed that particular notion as it became clear that the local sub-collective had never registered the battle despite its proximity, attention firmly directed upon the superstring to the exclusion of anything else. He did not have time to micromanage drones whom would float back into their cognitive-specialty daydreams the moment his attention was directed elsewhere.

The six escort drones reappeared from the depths of the analysis chamber, two each carrying a table. The three tables were placed in a rough U shape; and Captain sent the six to join their comrades in the alcoves. Workspace now present, both engineering drones began to swiftly unpack a bewildering array of glassware, scales, and other lab equipment befitting a mad scientist. Half a dozen tupperware containers were carelessly tossed onto the tables. They were followed by a humming device of wire and ceramic which was handled with much greater care.

Doctor looked up from where he awkwardly kneeled on the floor, next to the Queen's head. In one hand he held a hypospray. Incisors clicked together as the other limb was waved over the prone form. "Sedative injected. She deep sleepy, yes?" The question was directed at Captain.

Once again, the answer arrived before the question could be framed. "Diagnostics from the Queen indicate She has been successfully tranquilized. Systems are attempting to neutralize the substance."

"I have lots of sleepy-juice," assured Doctor. His ears flipped back at the sound of a dropped beaker shattering. "Franky-poo not happy. He asks for more caution."

11 of 42 paused in assembly of a Bunsen burner powered by a trio of compressed gas cylinders. His head swiveled to center on Doctor. Obviously something passed between the two because Doctor's ears twitched again, accompanying another click of teeth. 11 of 42 returned to his task.

Captain strongly desired to hear what had been said, as well as the myriad of other conversations and data transfers which were on-going. He was One with the Borg Collective, yet he remained an outsider; and only now that his link with Cube #347 was severed that he realized he missed the unity (loosely speaking) he had grown to rely upon from his imperfect sub-collective.

Sighed Doctor, "Franky-poo will remain not happy. He cannot be released from his kennel until the engineers set up the portable holoprojector."

Captain slowly panned the assault team drones, examining those who had survived the skirmish with the Queen's escort. His gaze came to rest upon the Queen. "Prepare Her for the operation."

Doctor reached behind his back for a small satchel which had been secured to the rear of his dart bandolier. The bag was opened; and from it were drawn a drill with a finger-thick bit and a syringe almost large enough to qualify as a turkey baster. A switch upon the drill was flicked. Grasping the device in one hand, Doctor thumbed the trigger which revved a powerful electric motor. A high-pitched whine echoed through the analysis chamber, an aural nightmare for anyone with dental anxiety.

"Okie-dokie," chattered Doctor cheerfully as he set the spinning bit against the side of the Queen's head.

The clock was rapidly ticking down to zero. In the original plan, the deed had been completed and all units, including Captain, returned to Cube #347 long ago, leaving the Queen to recover. Retreating to the outskirts of the solar system and beyond the subspace ripple field, Cube #347 was then supposed to flee, only later to carefully approach a lone unit of a repaired Collective, bearing gifts such as phasic metal in a bid to return to the good graces of the Greater Consciousness. Next would undoubtedly be the invasive tests, whereupon censure filter erosion would be revealed, but no desire to abandon the Collective or its quest for Perfection. Finally, the rogue label would be dismissed. To justify its actions, from turning on Cube #347 to karaoke, the Whole would invoke an external, uncontrollable influence - placing blame upon Self would be an acknowledgment of errors, and the Borg Collective did not err - but in the end all would return to normal.

In the perfect universe, the Greater Consciousness would even allow the primary consensus monitor and facilitator position of Cube #347 to pass to another of the Hierarchy of Eight.

At the makeshift lab, something hissed, then sent up great gouts of an oily, black smoke.

It was not a perfect universe. Far from it.

Frank, the emergency medical hologram whose matrix embedded not only map and cryptic ingredient list, but how to concoct the elixir, was at the center of the dissipating cloud. Unfortunately, while the knowledge on how to mix the vaccine was a part of Frank, he did not have conscious access to it, no matter how much he (or 'helpful' Cube #347 drones) searched his code. He did know when ingredient proportion was correct, however, but only after much trial-and-error.

A trial-and-error process which would have progressed much faster if the EMH had been able to mix more than one batch at a time. Alas, the corrosive nature and 'quantum unrealness' of the half-mixed concoction was such that ordinary glassware was insufficient to cage it. Ceramometallic alloy found in used warp nacelles was the key. Specifically, long-term exposure to warp fields 'aligned' the alloy in the quantum plane such that it possessed repellant qualities towards the not-quite-in-this-metareality substance which became the elixir once more than three ingredients had been blended together. Naturally, the ceramometallic alloy was very difficult to mold properly while retaining its desirable properties; and in the end the solution was an inelegant device whereupon an alloy-infused beaker was wrapped in electrically charged wire, then partially immersed in a miniature cyro-freezer. At least each mismixed batch either self-destructed or was rendered inert, else disposal of a substance capable of dissolving dense packed neutronium may have been an issue.

Frank waved a hand in front of his face, although the smoke could not harm the hologram and his gestures did nothing to assist with its dispersal. "I, um, need more of the ingredient."

Captain, who had been standing nearby, aware, yet not aware, of his surroundings, heard the request. He forced himself to surface from the increasingly unsettled milieu which was the Whole realizing its temporary Prime Nexus was a less than desirable unit. "At this rate, the Queen will have no neural matter left," Captain grated.

A fourth table, sound despite its scorched state, had been found within the analysis chamber and brought to the makeshift lab. Upon the table had been placed the Queen, raising Her off the floor and allowing Doctor more efficient access. Unlike the other ingredients upon Frank's recipe list, the final line item was not a cipher. "Biopsied brain matter from the subject destined to imbibe the vaccine" did not require a platform of cognitively-enhanced drones to understand.

From his location next to the Queen's head, Doctor clicked his incisors together. A hole had been drilled into Her skull; and from it arose the overlarge syringe Doctor had brought. Anyone not familiar with Borg and their surgical techniques would surely have been shuddering in disgust. Frank was pointedly not looking in the direction of the operating table. "Plenty of brain-goo left," assured Doctor. "The oh-so-hard part is scraping around the neural implants."

"If I wasn't a hologram, I think I would be sick," proclaimed Frank. "Could I just have some more ingredient? Without the commentary, please?"

"Coming righty up!" A disturbingly wet *squish* accompanied Doctor's probing within the Queen's skull with the syringe.

"I don't understand," murmured Lena from behind Captain. Her approach had been monitored via chamber cameras and the eyes of nonregenerating escort drones in alcoves. She reached out a hand as if to touch Captain's shoulder, but dropped it before contact was made. "This is not quite what I was expecting."

Captain replied, "A quantum parasite affects the Collective, corrupting the quest for Perfection. We attempt to remove it. And, no, we - Cube #347 sub-collective nor Collective - understand the mechanics behind the vaccine, and nor does it matter. The end justifies the means." The Borg, nor their Colored offshoots, had never been innovators, not when technology could simply be assimilated and adapted.

Lena moved to stand beside Captain. "No. Why...this?" An arm was waved in the direction of Doctor and his patient, the former happily inspecting his latest neural treasure before moving to present it to Frank. "The whole Queen business. Why not simply terminate Her? Or else remain Prime Nexus?"

"This unit is imperfectly assimilated," said Captain, answering the second question first. He focused his eyes straight ahead, seeing nothing, and everything. "The initial shock of off-lining the Queen was sufficient for the Whole to accept any unit as Prime Nexus, given a basic suitability. One is sure Peach would react similarly. The situation, however, is instable. The Greater Consciousness will not suffer the taint of assimilation imperfection so close to the core; and even now, this unit is tolerated only because of the emergency. On the periphery, yes, those who are imperfectly assimilated have their usefulness, but a certain mode of thought is unacceptable in the long-term for a Prime Nexus." A metaphor rose unbidden to Captain's mind, an image whereupon every being, no matter how dour, needs a secret sliver of Self, one which can be allowed, in moderation, to figuratively run naked through the rain. He censured the thought as quickly as possible, but not before the subMind overseeing the assimilation of a planet under perpetually drizzling skies ordered all units to commence jogging.

"This unit will be ejected as Prime Nexus, given time. Else the Collective may suffer a psychotic break.

"As far as why keep this Queen alive...." Captain trailed off as he turned his attention towards mending the jogging incident. SubMind returned to its task, he continued. "This Queen is the source of the contagion affecting the Collective, and, thus, She must be the vector to fix it. If a backup queen is roused, she may be free of the taint, thereby clearing the Collective. However, if she is parasitized too...this unit's previous sub-collective believes the recipe is individual specific. Maybe. If a backup queen is woken and she is infected, then there will be a need to capture her for the vaccine, and we all know that won't happen. Your base species #5618 has an excellent idiom: 'Better the devil you know than the devil you don't.'"

Captain's focus was once more called inward. Much of the operation of the Greater Consciousness was automatic, the inertia of ongoing projects, from assimilations to resource processing, continuing apace regardless of the Prime Nexus. However, other aspects of the Collective required guidance be it a final 'vote' regarding which of several options to pursue or the directed coordination between subMinds to ensure the greatest degree of efficiency. Unfortunately, in this instance, the 'crisis' involved an improbable effort to weaponize karaoke for use against an ocean-bound species with a distinct resemblance to crimson herrings; and, specifically, the best ordering of a playlist heavy in Klingon opera and Andorian death-rock.

The Collective definitely had series issues. Even Captain could clearly see the inefficiencies affecting the Greater Consciousness, for it had completely overlooked the genre of Infree nasal singing as an element of aural assault. And, of course, there was always the illegal weapon of mass destruction which was Cube #347's own banned Borg band of First Person Plural.

Guidance offered, Captain deftly short-circuited the latest wave of almost-rejection rippling through the Whole before turning attention to yet another matter which drew ever closer to his physical location. This matter was the pocket of resistance which was Sphere #223, the vessel which had transported the Queen to the platform. One of the final acts of the Queen before being off-lined was to implant a deep compulsion within the sphere's sub-collective, one which could only be overruled by the instigator Queen or Her approved backups. Captain had discovered the compulsion when trying to break the lockout; and while he was confident that the many years of wrinkling hidden data and forcing confessions from sometimes recalcitrant Cube #347 drones provided him with the skills to crack the sub-collective, he could not do so while simultaneously maintaining his Prime Node-ship.

Weapons had attempted to delay the sphere by ramming it with the scooter. Sphere #223 had barely noticed the action, a mere shiver against shields. After determining the strike was mot an unseen comet, the attack had been dutifully reported within the running commentary the sub-collective was providing to the Whole as it neared its target. Enmeshed within the mechanics of the Collective, Captain could follow the progress of the sphere; and in reciprocal fashion the sphere now 'knew' of the no-see-um, thereby abrogating its effectiveness. The sphere's sub-collective was even aware of the invader cube's identity, although such was not important. All which was of consequence was that an intruder was threatening the Queen (or Prime Nexus), a threat that was imperative to destroy.

{Pathway Prime Nexus to sub-collective Sphere #223-67.a, priority command, root level: all units, initiate deep regeneration. Comply,} attempted Captain, seeking an unguarded backdoor in which to insert his authority.

{Compulsion rejected,} returned the Sphere #223 chorus. {Time to extreme long-distance weapons range 6.8 minutes. Building engagement scenarios. Priority: destroy intruder. Priority: limit damage to Research Platform #102. Request for addition analysis resources be dedicated to scenario process.}

In translation, even through Sphere #223 continued to refuse acknowledging Captain's primacy, it nonetheless wanted him to assign computational runtime resources in order to more efficiently model Cube #347's destruction. That was one thing Captain could deny to the sphere's sub-collective, even as he knew that doing do would not actually affect the inevitable outcome should sphere be matched against cube.

{Request denied,} replied Captain. He opened his eyes.

"The sphere is still on course to make a mess of us," helpfully noted 205 of 310, who had retreated from the lab once it had been assembled. Since Captain no longer had access to Cube #347 dataspaces, she had been assigned as liaison between he and the cube.

"We know that," replied Captain.

"Weapons has been certified to return to duty. Well, it was more like he ignored instructions that he remain in a maintenance bay once cranial scans determined no neurological damage had resulted from his broken nose. Personally, I think 127 of 230 took it a bit hard, the loss of that scooter, I mean. I suppose it was a bit wasteful and unnecessary to ram the sphere, and it is true that she only has a fraction of her collection left, but she can always build more," prattled 205 of 310. "Oh, Second wants me to inform you that 127 of 230 had to be sedated. It is probably for the best - his words - because Option B appears to be increasingly likely, and I - Second - do not want to end up with a dented head when her last decent racing runabout is off-loaded to certain destruction."

Captain attempted to ignore Second's relayed comment about destruction, for his fate was intimately entwined with that of the runabout in the case of Option B. Instead of dwelling on what may or may not lie in his personal future, Captain pivoted his head slightly to focus upon Frank at the center of the mad-scientist laboratory.

The EMH stared in concentration at the alloy-infused beaker. A fresh batch of proto-elixir had been mixed. The viscous orange sludge gurgled ominously as it boiled in slow-motion despite the cyro-freezer's cold, a bluish wisp of smoke wafting from each burst bubble. Frank shifted his attention to a scale, upon which lay a quivering hunk of gray flesh. After writing something in a log book, the EMH carefully picked up the brain matter with a pair of tweezers, swinging the sample to hover over the beaker.

"Are you absolutely, totally, undeniably, utterly and utterly sure I can't help my Frankie-wankie over here?" inquired Doctor as he heavily thumped the EMH on the back in what, to the rodent, was probably a friendly pat.

Focus broken, Frank flinched. Captain groaned as he watched the pinch of brain hit the edge of the beaker, teeter-totter for a heartbeat. Finally half of the ingredient fell into the proto-elixir while the remainder ended up on the table. Each batch required several minutes to mix, minutes which were rapidly slipping away.

"Whoops! Silly me," exclaimed Doctor brightly, oblivious to the dirty look being cast upon him by Frank.

Meanwhile, the beaker was rocking back and forth, its contents shimmering rapidly through an rainbow of colors while fitfully spitting bright sparks. The various drones near the lab prudently backed away, several placing a pillar between themselves and the obvious explosion to come. As a ridiculously large pillar of yellow smoke billowed from the mismixed batch, Frank sidled behind Doctor, the latter motionless except for ears flipping in confusion. The beaker, still shimmering, still sparking, still smoking, started to slowly rise from the cyro-freezer's bed.

"Not good," opinionated Captain. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Lena nod in agreement.

And then, unexpectedly, an angelic choir began to sing, the beautiful refrain trailing off to a melodious, and perfect, chord. The beaker slowly spun, as if basking in the sound, pulsating colors transforming to increasingly pure, gemlike tones until only a crystalline white remained. The invigorating smell of an ocean after a storm filled the analysis chamber. Chord finally drifted into silence, leaving behind a floating beaker filled with a semi-transparent, scintillating fluid.

Captain belatedly noticed the aromatherapy program tied into atmosphere control. The subroutine was part of the tune-up effort to stimulate platform drones to pay greater attention to the universe beyond the local dataspace. He disabled it: the next scent, to be triggered in five minutes, was a nauseatingly titled 'Rotten Whale On Beach'.

Frank peeked over Doctor's shoulder. "That's it! That's the vaccine! I know it!" exclaimed the EMH. His brow wrinkled. "Unfortunately, I have no clue how much brain matter fell into the mix, so I do not think I would be able to recreate it should it, um, stop floating like that in the air."

As if cued by the observation - or, more likely, prodded by Second - Doctor stepped forward to grasp the beaker. It obediently stopped levitating, settling into the hierarchy head's hands even as it continued with its unsubtle light show.

Captain turned his head to eye the Queen. "She is starting to wake. Another sedative is inadvisable - Her systems are adapting. Doctor, give Her the elixir and do not worry about the dose. Second, I strongly suggest Option B, unless you" - plural - "have devised something else in my absence."

205 of 310 replied, "Second says that would imply that we have somehow gained an efficiency in the last hour that we were lacking before. Option B has been initiated. The runabout will be docked at the access port near where the assault team beamed-"

"We/I see it," interrupted Captain as he accessed the research platform's external sensors. A small vessel had just emerged from one of Cube #347's cargo holds and was on a course towards the platform.

Option B. In the best-case plan - option A - the assault team successfully subdued the Queen, the elixir was made and delivered, then all (including Captain) retreated while the Queen (and Collective) recovered. That was the simplified version, of course, but it summarized the original scheme. Option B, conversely, was a handful of 'what-ifs' whereupon delays or other unforeseeable circumstances forced Captain to remain behind while Cube #347 fled.

It was always a strong possibility that Captain would not survive. While Cube #347 would undoubtedly suffer from his loss, the truth was he was just another drone, unimportant and quite replaceable in the greater scheme of things. What was vital was the Collective; and if it took Captain's termination to secure the future of the Borg Collective in its proper form and free of the quantum parasite's corruptive influence, so be it.

This point was the most critical in the success, or failure, of curing the Collective. Originally, Doctor was to administer a small portion of the vaccine intravenously and orally - it was inadvisable for a Borg to ingest anything, but the 'imbibe' direction in the recipe suggested such might be necessary - followed by a short period of observation to ensure the Queen had no adverse reaction as She woke from sedation. Once the team was on the cube and well away from the platform, option A dictated Captain to relinquish Prime Nexus control back to its now suitably awake (and theoretically cured) Queen unit. With option A no longer applicable, Doctor was pouring half the elixir down the Queen's throat, forcing Her to swallow, then loading the rest into a hypospray for injection. As a precaution, a few cc's were reserved to dribble through the hole on the side of the Queen's head and directly into her brain.

Under Option B, Captain would remain behind, to oversee the Queen's recovery. Alone. If the Queen seemed to be recuperating, he would retreat to the runabout which was even now parking itself against a platform airlock. Once in the vessel, an attempt would be made to rendezvous with Cube #347, Collective control returned to the Queen as soon as prudently possible. One of a Borg's personal compulsions was to survive, as long as said survival did not conflict with the interests of the Collective, for a dead drone was not a useful drone. However, if the shock to the Queen's system was too great and she subsequently terminated, Captain would be forced to retain the mantle of Prime Nexus. In that worst-case scenario, Captain would certainly die, rejected by the Greater Consciousness as a suitable long-term Prime Nexus, his mind torn apart in the process. However, in the time allotted to him, Captain would push the Collective to prioritize adapting or assimilating technology to examine backup queen(s) for the parasite taint. As relayed to Lena, there was always the slim possibility an uninfected queen would be sufficient to clear the Whole of corruption.

What-if's aside, Captain looked forward to an excruciatingly painful termination.

Doctor finished the crude administration of the vaccine. Turning away from the table upon which lay the Queen, he waved a hand at Frank. The EMH abruptly vanished, program presumably returned to Doctor's on-board memory.

The weapons drones members of the assault team pivoted, more or less as one, and began filing towards the egress. Not all units had survived the fighting, but recovery of the fallen back to Cube #347 was not a priority. Like the laboratory equipment, they would be left behind. As it was, the team had to quickly traverse the platform to a periphery section, forcefields shielding sensitive research devices at the core of the platform against cosmic interference equally preventing direct recall to the cube.

Doctor joined the column, as did 11 of 42. The latter pulled the red wagon in which was piled a few odds and ends: evidentially Delta was trying to salvage some of the material which had been painstakingly transported to the platform.

"Haste is suggested," said Captain to 205 of 310 as he made his way towards the Queen. Her internal diagnostics were reporting odd spikes to blood chemistry and neurotransmitter densities. A direct visual was desirable. "Sphere #223 is less than two minutes distant, and has four singularity torps ready for inclusion into the first missile wave."

"I'm staying," announced Lena abruptly.

Captain turned his head to look at the Peach spy. "That is not logical. You have a greater chance of survival - not a great one, but a chance - if you return to Cube #347. Will your Color not want you back, especially after all the trouble it went through to put you aboard the cube?"

"Well, Second does not care," replied 205 of 310. "In fact, he says to tell you that it would be one less variable for him to deal with, especially as it increasingly appears that he will shortly have to upgrade his subdesignation to 'Captain'. There's more, but he is being awfully sarcastic, and I need to catch up with the team so I can be extricated."

Captain continued to stare at Lena, who held her face in an expression of perfect neutrality. A flick of the mind was sufficient to command a quartet of the least damaged tactical drones of the Queen's escort to suspend regeneration and exit their alcoves, "Go. Where the Peach is located is irrelevant. She is of no threat to us. Me."

Dismissed, 205 of 310 scuttled from the analysis chamber, pausing briefly at the laboratory table to grab the scale. It was one more item Delta apparently refused to allow to be left behind as long as there was an was an opportunity to retrieve it.

Two minutes later, Cube #347 was rapidly fleeing Research Platform #102. Sphere #223 had altered course to pursue, to chase the target and ensure it could never again menace the Collective.

Captain fixed his gaze upon the Queen. Her limbs were moving in a spastic, abortive manner. He hoped She did not descend into a full seizure and end up falling off the table. He sighed.

"Now what?" asked Lena as she took a position to Captain's right side.

Captain ignored the hand which was set upon his mostly whole arm. His attention was focused upon the needs of the Collective, defusing another wave of rejection, and the tactical datastream originating from Sphere #223. "Now we wait."

*****

Start with a pinch of neural-quantum spores (free-range, organic). Drop in a subspace-resonant mock-gem (Kylevian) and one handful of shed component (temporally-infused) from a quantum-cloaking beast. Add several drops of phasic metal (fluidic state). Season liberally with black G'floo! and omega altered used warp nacelle plasma, crystalline condensate. Finally, fold in the biopsied brain matter from the subject destined to imbibe the vaccine.

The result was a recipe, not of chocolate chip cookies or grandpa's secret barbeque sauce, but for a parasiticide. Seven improbable ingredients - six with properties spanning the real universe and quantum - combined to create a substance which had no right to exist. Should not exist. Could not exist. Yet, it did exist. Like the majority of its constituents, the vaccine was a paradox, straddling the boundary between macroverse and the underlying fabric of reality.

The Cube #347 sub-collective had believed the vaccine to be tailored to Collective and Borg Queen, hence the need to acquire Her neural material. Such was not quite true. The brain matter did indeed serve as a pattern to prime the parasiticide, a specific signature for a specific soul virii which otherwise would be lost among the quantum wilderness. However, once the vaccine had tasted its prey, absorbed its resonance, there was naught to prevent it from searching out others of a similar character.

After all, what good was a vaccine if it did not inoculate the body entire against a contagion?

And the quantum was, for all its mind-numbing complexity, best viewed as a single body which just happened to permeate the whole of what the Complex denizens referred to as the Production.

Unleashed from its crucible, the vaccine raced through the pathways of the unreal, vectoring in upon its objective. It was artificial ur-life, an improbable construct whose blueprint had arisen only once among the infinite spectrum of what-if's, the design sifted out of the ether by a cigar-smoking search engine with visions of Mandelbrot grandeur. Meanwhile, hidden within the matrix of its soul virii, a quantum parasite fed, using the energy it harvested to build ever more copies of itself in preparation for diaspora. Focused upon the task of propagation, it was oblivious to the poisonous tendrils infiltrating its self-pattern. And then the vaccine, the parasiticide, the ur-life hunter constricted its coils.

Although its fate was sealed the moment the vaccine compromised its matrix, the parasite thrashed in the mindless manner of any creature whose survival is threatened. Given the inherent linkage of quantum and macroverse, collateral damage was inevitable, the host's neurology savaged in reflection of the unseen struggle. The parasite's struggles were for naught.

Absorbing the energy released upon its prey's death, as such could be termed in the quantum, the artificial ur-life hunter doubled in volume and split. Now two sizzling whorls of coherent energy existed where formerly there was one. Baring quantum fangs, both parasiticides unfurled fractal-patterned wings and soared away upon the quantum currents in quest of contagion spore. Left behind in the warm knot representing its real world host was the sophant soul virii, bruised, but intact.

*****

Lena quivered with anticipation. Cube #347's sub-collective had been suspicious concerning her coincidental appearance; and, indeed, suspicious of anything which included the taint of Peach. She had done her best to alleviate that distrust, assisted by the subtle manipulation of Peach code embedded in the sub-collective's matrix, but she knew doubt remained. In truth, the intersection of whatever fates guided Cube #347 and Lena had been random chance, as if someone, somewhere, had rolled a die on some grand craps table of existence. On the other hand, ever-ready to take advantage of happenstance, Peach had been quite capable of weighing risk against potential outcome, and then willing to abandon nearly two decades of building Lena's value as a deep operative to pursue a maybe.

Of course, it was a maybe that, if successful, would assure Peach victorious in the grand struggle which was Color against Color, and Color against Borg. The Peach version of Perfection would triumph; and all Borg would be One once more, a united Whole able to return total attention towards conversion of the rest of the unenlightened galactic population.

An adept of intrigue and long-range plans, Peach had taken advantage of an opportunity - a manufactured opportunity, true, but nonetheless an opportunity - four years prior to initiate a grand scheme of which the odds of success were abysmally low. The chain which had started with the Colored Convention and the early version Eradicator virus with its Trojan payload, then progressed through the encounters with 1 of 12 and Liaison that had primed the pump, so to say. The final piece of the puzzle had occurred when Lena had been provided dataspace access by the Cube #347 sub-collective so that she might assist more efficiently with building the plan that had cumulated with the capture of the Borg Queen. Although the dataspace access had been limited, one of her chaperones had been Captain; and it was in him that the key piece of the Peach plan had been embedded; and it was upon him whom Lena had focused.

During the stop when Lena had communed with her Collective, she had received more than navigational data. Among the data packets had been a sub-element of the current Eradicator virus, the algorithm which tore code into meaningless fragments and fed it bit and byte at a time into the victim, whereupon it would be rebuilt into a functional whole. The Cube #347 sub-collective had seen the algorithm in action against Luplup, except what Liaison had divulged had been several generations behind the masterpiece Peach now held in its software vaults. In the dataspace sessions which included Captain as Lena's chaperone, the Eradicator sub-element had carefully fed a program to the consensus monitor; and the embedded code in Captain, set to a more active state by Liaison, had dutifully captured the broken bits and deftly inserted them into Captain's base matrix. The fact that Captain was imperfectly assimilated and censure filters were in a state of advanced erosion only helped, for the former meant nonstandard code was already present and the latter had required degrading hunter-seekers which might otherwise detect (and attack) the intrusion.

Like the technological version of a biological retrovirus, an entire program had been stealthily written into Captain's core code. And like a retrovirus, it would remain silent until the proper stimulus was received. Captain, the consensus monitor and facilitator of Cube #347, had, in effect, become Peach's personal Trojan horse.

Lena had not even had to suggest Captain to be a part of the assault team, for the sub-collective had determined that to be a necessity long ago.

All of which led Lena to this here, in this now. It was time to trigger the retrovirus. It was time for Peach to subsume the Borg Collective, which would be the inevitable outcome once the retrovirus destroyed the central command and control architecture, effectively lobotomizing the existent Greater Consciousness. Only if deployed from the Prime Nexus, currently Captain, would the retrovirus be effective. Somewhere Lena's Color was waiting, ready to step in and assume the assets of a brain-dead Collective once the door was opened.

Too bad Captain would be rendered into a gibbering, mindless shell during the process. Lena had developed a vague fondness for him, as much as her Peach indoctrination allowed; and, much more importantly, he would have made an excellent addition to the new Peach, once he had been suitably broken to the Color.

Lena tilted her head to peer up at Captain. His face was not human; and without the support of Peach, her skills at reading alien expressions was limited. However, in this case, it was not too difficult to guess at the struggle which was happening somewhere within his skull, small muscles at the corner of eye and edge of lipless mouth twitching despite whatever filters may have been in place. His whole eye gazed vacantly into the unknown distance, watching sights which were probably much more immediate, and real, than the one in front of him. It had been over five minutes since the rest of Captain's sub-collective had left. Presumably they had made it to the cube; and presumably whatever chase, or battle, the vessel was currently embroiled in was one of the multitudes of datastreams he was monitoring.

On the workbench, the Borg Queen seized. Captain's eyes flicked down to Her, but then rose again to stare at nothing. And everything. No, as much as Lena would like to wait a bit longer, to ensure that Captain was focused on matters well distant and thereby be slow to react to much more immediate threats, it would not do for the Queen to recover at some inopportune time, to demand Captain to relinquish the Prime Nexus of the Whole.

Now was the time.

As Lena's hand clamped strongly on Captain's right arm, she swung her body around, interposing his well armored bulk between her and the four Queen escort drones. Simultaneously, her other arm arced up, a clenched fist aimed for Captain's neck. No other interface would do except the hybrid wiring entwined with central nervous system into which to deliver the retrovirus' trigger: a peripheral connection may leave just enough time for the target to counter.

Even as Captain drew a startled gasp; even as his whole eye blinked, pupil widening in confusion; even as the four tactical drones lurking in the shadows lurched forward at best speed, Lena's knuckles made contact.

Nanotubules deployed.

*****

Two becomes four, four into eight, eight to sixteen, such is how exponential growth is described. While insignificant at first, numbers doubled unto themselves soon reach the millions, then billions...and beyond.

Life, be it quantum or macroverse, does not grow exponentially. Certain bacteria come closest, multiplying swiftly given the right conditions. However, even for bacteria food and space eventually become limiting factors, retarding growth. Then, of course, there are the predators whom roam the wilds beyond the petri dish. They may be of fang-and-claw or an insidious fungal parasite, but all clades are united in their attraction to any swiftly reproducing prey item, viewing it as a resource to be exploited.

In a real ecology, the war of predator versus prey is a never-ending arms race. The latter evolves methods to evade the former; and the former counters with measures of its own to ensure its menu remains unchanged. A plant which grows thorns begets tougher mouthparts in its herbivore. The animal developing the seemingly perfect chemical defense will one day be faced with a predator who revels in the odiferous scent. Even lowly bacteria strive to maintain a one-upmanship upon their myriad phages.

Enter the quantum parasite so carefully husbanded by the Auditors. From the outside it appeared to be a vicious beast, uplifted from the random Darwinian processes of the wilds and exquisitely bred to latch to its sophant soul virii prey with maximal virulence. The parasite was perfect...deadly...unstoppable.

Flawed.

Auditors prefer order and predictability. Such characteristics are, after all, easier to audit when contrasted against chaos. Consider the relative simplicity of tallying molecules of water locked in a lattice of ice to the disorganized confusion of steam. The Auditors had tolerated the muddle which was life and evolution as long as they had because the Production required the development of sentience. The scorn from Complex denizens who did not truly understand how the Auditors had worked overtime to stabilize the early multiverse, producing the necessary conditions for life; the continued messiness of individual universes, energies leaking through branes and so susceptible to their inhabitants manipulating what should have been immutable laws of physics; even the low job satisfaction: all had been worth it to know that the Production was progressing, that Ratings were reaching ever higher peaks. Eventually, however, suspicions had been raised that the Writers, whom were supposedly guiding the plotlines, were not in as much control as was traditionally believed. Such explained many things, not least of all 'forgetting' to include the ranks of appendices, bright and eager and willing, into the early Production. Fast forward several billion years with bitterness blossoming into a neurotic obsession to force Cancellation and take revenge upon the Writers.

A fundamental key to the Auditors' plans was the quantum parasite. Unfortunately, evolution could not be trusted even as practiced within the quantum foam where literally anything was possible. Above all, biology was...messy. Instead, Auditors took control of the parasite's destiny, invoking the quasi-deities of husbandry and engineering. In the end, every parasite was a carbon copy of each other, which in turn were clones of the specimen deemed to be the best at performing its function. Mutations from the holotype were viewed as a loss of control; and, indeed, the very ability to mutate had been deleted from the quantum parasite's version of genetic code.

Nature abhors staticity. Strictly speaking, nature as-a-mindless-force doesn't care one way or another. In a perfect and unchanging universe, once a creature has found the optimal configuration to exploit its environment the best strategy is for all its progeny to be clones of the founding member. However, the universe is neither perfect nor unchanging; and given a threat to a population, those individuals with the greatest inherent variation are more likely to have the appropriate characteristics promoting personal survival. In turn, that subset of survivors will successfully breed the next generation. Perhaps the result is to run faster, or secrete a distasteful chemical, or grow a shell impermeable to lasers, or produce a novel antigen. The means are not important, only the ends whereupon the species survives.

In contrast, a population without variation will fail given a novel challenge, for if one is vulnerable, all are. The quantum parasite lacked variation; and, therefore, it was best to consider the species as a single, albeit highly fragmented, individual. The Auditors had done their job well, breeding a lifeform as impervious to all its ancestral predators (as long as it was safely ensconced in its soul virii host) as it was virulent. However, the Auditors, beings who shunned chaos whenever they could, had not foreseen the unlikely set of circumstances which would give rise to the creation of a parasiticide able pierce their quantum beast's protective shroud. And what would affect one parasite would affect them all...as well as the Auditors, whom had gone so far as to incorporate the parasite into their own matrix so as to ensure its ever unchanging purity.

The parasite, without novelty within its highly engineered genome, had no recourse to resist its new predator.

On its part, the ur-life vaccine was confronted with a feast. Perhaps it could not quite reproduce its own self in true exponential fashion, but as long as there was bountiful prey, be it embedded in an Auditor or hidden in a soul virii knot, it would make the attempt.

Sixteen into thirty-two; and thirty-two into sixty-four....

*****

"Keep that thing off me. I'm trying to See here," said Iris. The Director was precariously balanced on Lips, who, in turn, was standing on top of Mouth. The 'thing' in question closely resembled a flying monkey, assuming flying monkeys were green and wore loincloths bearing rank insignias.

A chunk of paving stone flew by, causing the monkey to veer from his dive. Of course, his aim had been a bit suspect to begin with, given the alcoholic odor wafting from his green fur. Slurring an oath, the simian captain wobbly soared away in search of an easier target to harass.

"That was a Vulrutian," shouted Orb in explanation. "Very nice folks, Vulrutians. Good thing he was a captain, however, because the lower naval ranks are less disciplined and have a tendency to throw their own-"

Grunted Lips, "Don't want to hear it. Hurry up already, up there!"

The riot of Captain's Table patrons had completely enveloped the Writers' Plaza. While the inebriated captains were primarily concentrating upon Auditors, no Complex entity was immune from drunken attentions. The majority of staff had managed to escape, but the unfortunate stragglers were the focus of semi-coordinated pummeling. The Auditors, to a cloak, had remained. Although they had given up on trying to Nothing the captains - it appeared linear beings, when sufficiently drunk, were immune - such did not mean they were helpless. The focus of the Auditors was to prevent the mob from deconstructing the Device assembled in front of the Writers' Annex door. The Device may have been technically ready to deploy, but Auditors were nothing if not meticulous when it came to scheduling and Doing Things Right; and a riot was not the Right Time to test their contraption.

And, more importantly, the Device's user manual was yet to be completed.

Within the swirling knots of milling captains was one particular Auditor. Mr. Stain, nee Beauregard, held within its nonhand dice which could derail whatever Plot the Writers had written an eternity ago. Assuming, that is, that the "parasite engineered by the Auditors to kill the quantum soul virii of sophants" Plot was an arc penned by the Writers.

In the center of the Plaza upon a dais, where it had thus far been ignored by the rioters, was a Board. Upon that Board was a cube-shaped piece representing a single sub-collective of the Borg Collective. That piece - any piece, for that matter - should have been insignificant, unable to wield influence beyond its immediate surroundings. To think it could affect storylines on the far side of the universe as represented by its Board was silly, much less the even more ludicrous notion of it shaping the outcome of other Boards...or the Complex itself. However, in this case, that one particular piece, for whatever reason - deliberate writing or purely chaotic chance - indeed seemed to be a lynchpin. Its fate, its actions, would ripple out to impact the entire Production.

Very few of the other Auditors had believed Mr. Stain when it had proclaimed that the piece was important. In truth, even now most Auditors probably felt Mr. Stain's obsession to be a distraction, a minor sideshow with no bearing upon schemes of Cancellation and revenge upon the Writers. Mr. Stain, however, thought otherwise. Poised to roll the dice with the intention to destroy Iris' Borg piece, the mob had separated the Auditor from the Board. Unfortunately, the Board did not care, insomuch as an inanimate object could be anthropomorphized, that the fate of the Production was at stake, only that dice were in play. Dice in play had to be rolled. Outside the protective filters of a Boardroom, the Board would shift the probabilities on whatever scale essential to ensure that necessity.

Iris searched for Mr. Stain, and the dice.

"There it is!" shouted Iris as it pointed excitedly. Mr. Stain was being passed from hand to hand over the heads of the mob. Although the Auditor did not seem to be enjoying the process, it also appeared willing to tolerate the involuntary crowd surfing experience because its circuitous pathway would end at the Board.

The pile of Iris, Mouth, and Lips crumbled. Gaining their bearings, the quartet of Directors and Critics pushed their way into the riot. It was a race to reach the Board.

At the Device, an Auditor, very low in the auditing ranks, stumbled forward as it tripped on the hem of its cloak. Bent over, it slammed nonhead first into the stomach of the legendary Captain Kirk. Kirk huffed in surprise, wind knocked out of him, and fell to his rear. The mob near the altercation abruptly silenced, heads (and other extremities) twisting to watch the legendary Federation captain. Anticipation, punctuated by tense whispers, rippled through crowd.

Rubbing his stomach as he glared at the cloak, Kirk slowly retook his feet. The Auditor, in turn, gulped and tried to fade into the ranks of its own kind. Its own kind, however, were having nothing of it as they pushed the be-cloaked appendix back into the clear area around Kirk.

"It was an ac-cc-cident?" stammered the Auditor. "Um, no hard feelings?"

Kirk's eyes narrowed. Clenched fists lifted into a Federation-modified boxing stance.

"Wha...what if I, er, bought you-" Pause. "-and, er, all your friends a round of, er, anything you wanted at the bar. Um, er, maybe several rounds?"

For a moment, just a moment, there was a breathless silence as individual captains processed the idea of free alcohol....

"F**k that," exclaimed Kirk. "As long as I keep telling stories in the Bar, I get as many free drinks as I want. And I have a lot of stories to tell! Some of them may even be true! On the other hand, you and your ilk spilt my drink!"

The Auditor gulped again, but stood defiant.

Kirk lowered his fists partway, eyes squinting suspiciously at the lack of cowering.

Then, nearly imperceptible, the Auditor twitched. The action was certainly unseen by Kirk and his drunken comrades, even as the other Complex denizens in the Plaza could not help but notice it. The one Auditor was not the only one so afflicted: all Auditors had flinched at the same moment, mirrored by all parasitized Production staff. Something had just happened. What that something may have been was unimportant to the mob. Like a wolf sensing weakness in a formerly strong prey, the crowd suddenly surged forward.

The unlucky Auditor was the first target of renewed rioting, led by Captain Kirk.

Taking advantage of the lull, Iris and company had reached their Board goal. As the riot returned to full force, a humming buzz, followed by a loud *BANG* echoed from the direction of the Writers' Annex.

"What was that?" called Iris.

Craning it's eye to peer through an opening in the mob, Orb answered, "It looks like one of the Auditors was just thrown against the Device! The 'on' button or switch was toggled! Oh, sh**...whatever that thing was, it just blew one of the Annex doors off its hinges! Some of the Auditors are entering! Well, actually they are just trying to get away from the maniac in the yellow shirt, but same difference."

"This is all your fault," accused Mouth of Iris. "You came up with the idea of the Captain's Table fight as a distraction. Now the Auditors are going to Nothing the Writers. We'll all be Cancelled! I'll be Cancelled!"

"I don't know about that," said Orb as it rolled its sight towards several Editors. The hands in question were amongst the thralls the Auditors had used to enforce their dictatorship. Instead of flexing their knuckles in a menacing manner, they had an odd expression on their nonfaces, like that of a sleepwalker awakening in an unfamiliar place. "I think something just happened."

WHAT A SURPRISE. NOT. The voice belonged to Mr. Stain. The Auditor had finally arrived at the Board. Its robe had acquired a few more blobs of color in the process, but was otherwise intact. WHAT JUST HAPPENED WAS A SIGN OF OUR TRIUMPH.

"That isn't what I meant when-" started Orb.

Interrupted Mr. Stain as it switched to its indoor voice, "I do not care. You no longer matter. Ah-ah-ah...don't even think about trying to jump me. I may not be able to Nothing any of these drunken idiots, but such is not true for you."

Lips, who had actually been trying to sidle away, halted. "Er, I was not..." It trailed off, then began again, jumping to a totally different topic. "Hey! The Auditor is right over there and I'm not sneezing!"

SHUT UP! bellowed Mr. Stain. Regaining its composure, it continued, "Stop trying to distract me! I do not have a speech prepared for this eventuality, so I have to wing it! I hate improvisation. As I was saying, you have just witnessed our triumph and now...and now...and...why do I feel so woozy? I don't have a stomach nor a head, but I still feel...not good."

Iris shuffled sideways, trying to edge closer to the Board.

Mr. Stain straightened itself. "No, no, no, my good Director. No funny stuff."

Lips made a raspberry. "Iris doesn't do funny. Now, I can do funny. An Editor, a Producer, and an Auditor walked into the Captain's Table. Sitting on a barstool was a duck. The Editor saw this duck and asked the bartender-"

"I've heard it, and it isn't funny," said Mr. Stain evenly. "Not funny at all. Especially as the Auditor is the butt of the joke."

"Good one, Lips," sarcastically muttered Mouth.

Mr. Stain coughed as it repositioned itself to better examine the Board. Cowl shifted back and forth as the Auditor peered through the layers of quantum unreality, searching for one particular piece. Finally finding what it was looking for, Mr. Stain chuckled. The snigger dissolved into a fit of wheezing. "I do not know what, exactly, your piece tried - and try something it did - but it is not doing so well. It may, or may not, escape intact, assuming it escapes at all, from the predicament it is in." The Auditor paused for a beat, then continued. "It seems your piece acquired some pitiful recipe to remove the parasite contagion from, er, the Borg Collective? What a stupid name. Amazingly, it was successful: the connectedness of the quantum telegraphed that parasite's death to its sibling pattern embedded within my matrix. It won't last, however. Sooner or later, the Borg Collective will be reinfected by another parasite. And here I was, so worried that your piece might be the incarnation of butterfly chaos, the unforeseen. Bah.

"No worries, at least not for me. The recipe has potential, but I think it would be best to remove the piece, just in case a more competent force gets ahold of it. Not that it matters." Mr. Stain bent over in another round of coughing. "This will go away soon enough. I can still Nothing you four." Fit passed, the Auditor composed itself, raising the unhand containing dice. "Time to roll up a suitable fate. Hey, where'd you come from? Go away!"

A butterfly, wings of fractal coloration, fluttered in front of Mr. Stain's cowl. It lazily floated away from swipe of unarm, as butterflies are wont to do, dodging without seeming effort. Air currents spun the insect away.

Dice slipped from unhand, spinning as they fell.

Urking, Iris launched itself across the Board, disregarding its own safety. It snatched at the dice, but could do little more than send them skittering on a new trajectory.

"Not quite what I wanted, but it will do," triumphantly crowed the Auditor as it espied the result. Maniacal laughter transformed into a wheezing sigh as Mr. Stain abruptly collapsed.

"My piece...." whispered Iris quietly. "All that work, all those hours, down the black hole."

Orb peered at the dice, then the Board. It patted Iris on the back its comrade did not have. "All is not lost. There is still an element of uncertainty: part of your piece may survive. On the upside-"

"I don't want t hear about it," murmured Iris.

Meanwhile, Lips and Mouth had begun to kick the unconscious and wheezing Auditor in its side.

Throughout the confrontation of Directors, Critics, and Auditor, none of the rioting mob had interrupted. It was as if an invisible barrier had rendered the five entities around the Board unimportant to the many drunk captains looking for a fight. With the roll of the dice, however, the imperceptible wall collapsed. A knot of rioters, fists flying as they engaged in an alcohol-fueled free-for-all where everyone was an opponent, swept through. Seconds later, only the Board remained, Players carried away to be integrated into the mob.

*****

{A little help here, 2 of 8,} cajoled Second.

{But I do not want to be Second,} replied 2 of 8. {If I must have a subdesignation, I will be 'Sparkle'.}

Second groaned. {And I am not 4 of 8: I am older, much more cranky, and, above all, do not have his patience. You are not 'Sparkle'. First, that subdesignation is not BorgStandard by any stretch of the imagination none of us are supposed to have; and, second, if you are to have a subdesignation, Third or Reserve or similar would be suitable. However, you will remain '2 of 8'; and I will retain 'Second' because I harbor an unreasonable belief that 4 of 8 will return to this sub-collective and thereby continue to be 'Captain'. To redesignate myself as Captain would acknowledge that I have to be in charge. Permanently.} Which was something Second desperately desired to avoid.

2 of 8 ignored the uncharacteristically long-winded answer. {I still like Sparkle.}

{Okay. Whatever. You can be Glittering-Glinda-ShinyPoo, just as long as you spend less time contemplating your subdesignation and more on backup consensus monitor duties.} Second may have conceded defeat, but he was less than gracious about it.

The now-Sparkle altered her official subdesignation. {Sparkle will do. I'll take Glittering-Glinda-ShinyPoo under advisement. Now...I was dealing with propulsion, yes?}

The question was rhetorical. In truth, 2 of 8 (nee Sparkle) had never wavered from her recently assigned duties as Cube #347's secondary node. Nor had Second suffered a measurable lack of efficiency performing primary consensus monitor responsibilities, but the whole conversation and the need to assign mental resources to it had been one more distraction among an entire wake cycle consisting of nothing but distractions.

Cube #347 had left the platform and was on the run. The sphere's continued pursuit was not unexpected: it was Borg policy to single-mindedly hunt a perceived threat until it was no longer relevant, either due to escape or destruction (of the target or all the resources dedicated to the chase). What was surprising was the lack of torpedoes despite the fact that the sphere had been well within long-distance ass-kicking range when the cube had fled.

The cube was vectoring towards Kendii. The destination was not preferred, but it was the only option which did not include another vessel on an intercept course. Forced into a sublight stern chase due to the subspace ripple field, the sphere would eventually close to energy weapon range unless preventive measures occurred. Decreased impulse engine performance was only one of the consequences of Cube #347's lack of dry-dock maintenance; and while not severe, it was just enough to dampen the Exploratory-class's acceleration curve and ensure it would not be able to outrun the sphere. The Jove, the single planet in the Borg system without fleet resources orbiting it, offered the best (and only feasible) opportunity to shake the trailing sphere, thereby increasing the prospect for retreat from the system intact.

Cube #347 was forty minutes from its destination, given its present speed. Captain had been abandoned fifteen minutes ago; and the research platform left behind nearly twelve. Second eyed the various timers ticking in his runtime background, vaguely wondering what temporal anomaly was responsible for stretching each second into a small slice of infinity.

{At least the sphere hasn't-} began Sparkle.

{Jinx! You are going to jinx us!} interrupted 106 of 230, whose irrational superstitions had only grown upon his assimilation.

{-fire torpedoes at-}

Calmly informed Sensors, {Incoming. Sensors [snows] thirty-seven missile signatures.}

Second groaned, {Now look what you caused, 2 of 8.}

{My subdesignation is Sparkle. And I didn't cause anything,} replied Sparkle defensively. {It was coincidence.}

{Coincidence my armored ass,} muttered Second darkly. {106 of 230 and his superstitions aside, sometimes I really think that someone, somewhere, is out to get us. That is the only explanation.}

For any space-faring species or civilization, it was an imperative to develop technology allowing near real-time perception of events despite lightspeed limitations. An example might be a scientific mission studying a star and its black hole companion, a system prone to cosmic temper tantrums. To know that an X-ray flare strong enough to overwhelm shields was inbound was crucial in preventing the crew from becoming a substance best described as irradiated pudding. Sensor technology ensured the mission knew of the flare the moment it occurred, regardless that the ship was actually a light hour distant, providing plenty of time to escape to safety. There were limits to the technology, of course, with exponential degradation in resolution at distances approaching the diameter of the typical solar system.

Therefore, Cube #347 had plenty of warning that the sphere had finally unleashed a barrage of torpedoes. Said torpedoes, on the other hand, were still subject to the rules of classic physics, and would require several minutes to cross the chasm between sphere and cube despite a hellish acceleration. The Exploratory-class cube had the theoretical advantage, able to dodge by acting upon real-time position data, thereby moving away from torpedoes' aim point. Unfortunately, theory did not always work.

Especially when the torpedoes proved not to be the standard fire-and-forget models normally employed by the Borg. For once, both quantity AND quality were in evidence.

{This may be a bit tricky,} said Weapons to Second in an uncharacteristic admission of concern. Cube #347 had adjusted its heading, and the torpedoes had followed suit. Either munitions in the rapidly approaching barrage included onboard equipment to home on the target, else sub-collective elements upon the sphere were providing manual guidance. As the former was expensive in terms of construction time and materials, and drones were cheap, it was most likely the latter was in effect. So what if a few tactical units were lost in the process? An Assault-class sphere retained plenty of drones to sacrifice. {Our only option is to attack head-on. The phasic armor will protect us. Then we will destroy the sphere.}

That was a much more typical Weapons response.

The decision cascade, heavily weighted by a skeptical engineering hierarchy, was quickly concluded. {No,} said Second. {We do not know the failure point of a substance which is only a few molecules thick. Now is not the time for testing. Use evasive measures.}

Grumbling that the best defense was a strong offense, Weapons turned his focus towards the orchestration of diversions.

The torpedoes closed. Sparkle, tasked with coordinating Cube #347's driving, attempted a few zigs and zags. However, a vessel as large as an Exploratory-class cube was not exactly nimble, and the maneuvers more resembled gentle curves. The torpedoes easily tracked their prey.

{Chaff and anti-matter screen deployed,} announced Weapons, radiating disapproval over the tactic.

Simultaneously, Sensors chirped, {Sensors has initiated electronic counter-[rulers].}

Second switched his primary visual input to the view behind the cube.

Cosmic fireworks erupted. The fate of an object hitting anything while traveling a significant percentage of the speed of light was conversion into a flash of radiation and photons. While a simple shielding system was sufficient to ward the torpedoes from molecules and bits of dust, it was unable to withstand antimatter bomblets exploding into a screen of fist-sized debris anathema to normal universe matter. Those missiles which avoided the screen became lost amid sensor-reflective chaff, else turned against their comrades as electronic hallucinations confused the drones tasked with steering. Unfortunately, not all the torpedoes were diverted; and eight of the original thirty-seven missiles emerged unscathed from the counter-measures.

Of those eight, three were high-yield singularity torps.

All impacted against Cube #347.

{The shockwave shook a few relays out of alignment, but otherwise there is no damage,} reported Delta.

Second briefly opened his eyes, confirming a decided lack of fires or other mayhem on the tier immediately across the shaft from his alcove. Nor was there the roaring hurricane which would signify a massive hull breach. The only suggestion that Cube #347 had just withstood an attack which should have cracked its superstructure to the central core was a momentary flicker of the multicolored lights 127 of 203 had strung along unsafety rails near his alcove.

Proclaimed Weapons, {This vessel is invincible. I am invincible. We shall attack.}

{No we won't,} retorted Second as he scrambled to block Weapons' lunge towards propulsion, bringing command and control assets to bear and bolster Sparkle's already pre-erected partitions.

Weapons sulked as he and his hierarchy were denied.

Second checked the chronometer. It was still a long thirty-five minutes until Kendii was reached. He did not need to delve into weapons hierarchy files to know that the sphere's barrage had only been a probe of Cube #347's defenses, that the next wave would mean business. It was highly unlikely the sphere would allow its target to near the gas planet and the infinitesimal chance of escape it represented.

Then Sensors made an unexpected announcement: {Sensors says the subspace [tsunami] field is gone! [Carpet] - the subspace [tsunami] field is gone from this [window] of solar system. It remains functional elsewhere.}

Correction, the proclamation was unforeseen by all except Weapons. His hierarchy had built several dozen BorgCraft models featuring the failure of the ripple field, just in case. Weapons immediately initiated consensus cascade, seeding the decision matrix with variations upon an option to fight. Command and control attempted to counter, but the situation was increasingly sliding towards likelihood of direct confrontation. The inbuilt mandate in such a scenario was for cube control to be relinquished to the weapons hierarchy. The final compromise conceded primary control to Weapons and his hierarchy, while simultaneously forcing the former to recognize the futility of head-on assault. Instead the planet was presented as an opportunity, a destination offering greater, although still small, odds of success whereupon the enemy would be disabled.

Sparkle, a long-time member of the Hierarchy of Eight, retained control of propulsion even as she subsumed the command and control partition to weapon hierarchy lead. Second telegraphed his support at the action: the moment the current situation dipped below the threshold which mandated tactical domination, the sub-collective would be poised to reassume control without the need to waste precious seconds wrestling steering and engines away from a hierarchy reluctant to yield.

Cube #347's warp engines flared, initiating a microjump. The cube was far enough from the primary to risk the maneuver; and even if the ship had been deeper in the star's gravity gradient, it was likely to have been enacted anyway. Suddenly, what before had been a mere dot in the forward-looking cameras, became Kendii filling the field of view. Bands of red and yellow, mixed with brown, defined jet streams tens of thousands of kilometers in breadth; and giant storms large enough to swallow the Borg homeworld spun with graceful menace. The cube immediately powered itself into a low, fast orbit that skimmed the outer edge of the atmosphere, dropping shields as it did so to prevent their burn-out.

A pair of neuruptors, one of which glanced off phasic armor encrusted hull, indicated the sphere had followed...and taken advantage of the supraluminal opportunity to close on its target.

In response, Cube #347 hurled itself into the upper layers of the troposphere, slicing through the top of a thunderstorm a thousand kilometers across. Up and downdrafts shook the superstructure as the earlier torpedo barrage had not, the cube a fundamentally nonaerodynamic shape ill-equipped to deal with the rigors of planetary weather. Sensor resolution and exterior camera view both began to degrade as the single-celled organic sludge which infested Kendii, even at the interface of atmosphere and vacuum, coated the hull in a thin coat of slime.

It was essential the sphere, still in pursuit, was experiencing the same difficulties as the cube.

Even Borg have problems when a swarm of bugs is splattering across the figurative windshield.

The sphere was now firing half-blind, beam weaponry more often than not missing its mark. Pockets of methane and other combustible gasses erupted in brief bonfire conflagrations, further disrupting sensors designed for the clarity of vacuum, not organic-laced atmosphere. Still, despite its troubles, the sphere was edging ever closer to Cube #347, sacrificing what little maneuverability it retained to increase its ability to aim.

A clear opening in the clouds, then another cloud bank loomed, this one a crimson red made dark by trillions of organisms feasting on a warm upwelling of humid, carbon-rich gasses. Without hesitation, Cube #347 plunged into the microscopic feeding frenzy, its pursuer mere kilometers behind.

Perhaps if the sphere had retained optimal sensor resolution, perhaps if it had not moved so close to its target so as to preclude the ability to dodge unforeseen obstacles, perhaps if models had not assumed the hull to be impervious to whatever conceivable offense the enemy might attempt, perhaps.... All the perhaps and maybes and what-if's in the universe were insufficient for the hard reality which met the sphere as it entered clouds the color of dried blood. Several hundred mines had been ejected by the cube, sent on tumbling ballistic trajectories and fated to fall to the liquid metallic core far below unless intercepted. The sphere served as that intercepting body.

Normally mines would exact little more than cosmetic damage to an Assault-class sphere, even when said sphere encountered them shieldless and by the hundreds. However, mixed in among the mines were half a dozen singularity torps, nearly all of Cube #347's remnant stockpile. The warheads resided within the carcasses of their torpedo casings, stripped of propellant, of maneuvering thrusters, of anything which might make them too heavy to remain embedded within the scattering of mines serving as their diversion. To ensure the singularity torps remained unseen until it was too late, personal no-see-um devices had been attached to the chasses.

Mines pelted the sphere's battlehull with popcorn explosions of light and minimal damage. Then the first singularity torp detonated, the massive implosion of a temporary black hole carving a crater a hundred meters across and thirty deep. The sphere began to automatically pivot in order to present a new, undamaged face towards danger. More mines, then two more singularity torps smashed into the hull, managing to rip through the outer armored layers and expose deep inner workings.

If that had been the extent of the assault - the remaining three singularity torps fell into the Jove's depths, their unpowered trajectories never intercepting the target - the sphere would have shrugged off the damage, eventually, and inevitably, catching the cube. Except now with the inner hull open to the elements, the microscopic organisms which made mining the gas giant all but impossible began to swirl into the sphere. Forcefields designed to keep air within and vacuum without swiftly overloaded under the burden of goo; and organics soon were coating every available surface in a thin layer of slime.

Once again, in normal circumstances, the organics should have been little more than an annoyance. The burgeoning power surges were easily controlled and burnt relays rerouted. These, however, were not normal circumstances. The sphere was well within the atmosphere of a gas giant, an inhospitable situation at the best of times for a vessel not built to maneuver in such. All it took was a small loss in engine power and hesitation in reaction time, combined with a vicious downdraft, to consign the massive Assault-class sphere to its fate.

The sphere slowed slightly; and as it did so, it sunk deeper into the clutches of the gas giant. More organics entered the wounded ship, the single-celled forms now joined by their multicellular predators attracted to the massive intruder traversing their hunting territories. The predators were not especially smart, their simple nervous systems just sufficiently advanced to allow the stimulus-response reflexes necessary to chase their brainless prey, but they were numerous. They were also highly attracted to electrical current. As a flame draws a moth, the miniscule predators died by the droves, their gram-massed bodies further weighting the sphere, further propagating power surges and blown relays.

As gravity wrapped its unforgiving hand around the faltering vessel, additional power was required to simply maintain attitude. With that additional power, circuits and conduits already weakened by the unrelenting assault of the native fauna failed. It quickly became a vicious cycle, one which the sphere was losing.

And, to add insult to injury, a lone torpedo sizzled past the sphere, obviously launched from Cube #347. The torpedo missed the sphere, but then again, that had not been its target. Instead it plunged deep into the huge pocket of methane in which the sphere was presently sinking, a pocket of methane nearly eighty kilometers across and thirty kilometers deep.

The resultant sound could best be described as a *WHOOMP!*

{Weapons,} commented Second dryly, {that was totally necessary, wasn't it?}

{Yes,} replied Weapons, oblivious to the sarcastic tone.

Warned Sensors, {Incoming.}

The shockwave tossed the cube what would have been bow over stern, if Cube #347 had possessed either front or back. Turbulence twisted clouds into new patterns; and, for just a few seconds, it was possible to gaze deep into the gas giant's depths where sparkled pale orange lights of a clearly artificial nature moving in deliberate geometrical patterns. That momentary glimpse of a hidden fairyland went unremarked and unnoticed, however, Cube #347's sensors, those that were not encrusted by organics, focused instead on the sphere's last known location. The firestorm cleared, revealing the scorched husk of what used to be an Assault-class sphere straining to maintain attitude. For a few breathless seconds it seemed as if the mangled vessel might somehow find the power to climb above the atmosphere and into a (maybe) stable orbit, but such was not to be. What remained of the propulsion system finally failed, leaving the sphere to plummet quickly out of view to a fate which featured immense pressures and implosion.

Pursuit neutralized, Cube #347 rose above the clouds, regaining a low, but speedy, orbit. Sensors stretched outward to search for additional enemies, resolution sharpening as organics vacuum-dried and began to flake off. As the situation was assessed and command and control pried propulsion from Weapons' grip, Delta swiftly examined the most recent damage summary.

It was what she saw, or, rather, didn't see, which caught her attention.

{We may have a slight problem,} called Delta to Second.

Second, who had just slapped down another attempt by Weapons to re-establish a tactical emergency and, thus, the necessity for his hierarchy to have complete control, shifted part of his already well-split attention to respond. {What is the problem and how slight?}

{The cube seems to have lost a good percentage of the phasic armor. All that effort, all that spraying, gone,} sighed Delta.

{What? Armor gone??!} squawked Weapons. {I am no longer invincible? I'll have to redo all the BorgCraft scenarios!}

{Good. Maybe that'll keep you out of my nonexistent hair,} said part of Second to Weapons. Simultaneously, another part of him demanded Delta to explain.

Delta provided command and control with a mosaic of the cube's surface, still photos drawn from external cameras. Whereas before the hull had been matte black, now it was largely returned to its original gray coloration with long streaks of paint. {It must have been the gas giant. Sensors recorded areas of high water vapor content, not to mention some of the updrafts were approaching twenty degrees in temperature. While what remains is drying now, the paint does not do well in warm, humid environments. Engineering hierarchy estimates 72% of the phasic armor was sloughed.}

{We are still covered in 28% armor, then,} inserted Weapons. {I'll just have to make sure that any weapons aimed at us hit those patches. No problem.}

Snapped Second, {Yes, that is a problem, Weapons. Delta, continue the assessment and provide a detailed summary. Sensors - update.}

Cube #347 whipped around the gas giant, the sub-collective considering its options. The subspace ripple field, while offline in the local sector, remained operational elsewhere in the system. It was the perfect opportunity to escape, none of the Borg fleet assets diverted to chase the cube as of yet in a position to take advantage of lightspeed tactics. As Cube #347 finally completed its least-time orbit and powered outward from Kendii, the research platform once more came into long-distance view.

The signature of a high-performance impulse engine was detected. The vector was outbound, away from the platform. The only possible explanation was that Captain had successfully reached the runabout.

The Cube #347 sub-collective teetered on the point of a decision. On the one hand, the original Option B plan included a subtask to rendezvous with Captain in order for the sub-collective to retrieve their wayward unit. On the other hand, the way was clear for the cube to flee, to retreat to a safe place from which to observe the vaccine's fallout. Captain was only a single drone, after all, a lone unit, expendable as were all Borg, a tool to be discarded once it was no longer of use.

127 of 230 really wanted her runabout back.

Weapons preferred any option which increased the possibility of battle.

Sensors found the gravitational eddies near the superstring fascinating.

{And I do not want to be acting Captain any longer than necessary. A quick microjump, a tractor snatch, and we will be away. What could go wrong?} mused Second aloud as the decision cascade concluded.

Cried 106 of 230: {Jinx!}

{That was a rhetorical question, 106 of 230. Delta, can't you find some pointless task for a certain member of your hierarchy so that he doesn't spend so much time actually exercising his brain?}

Captain slapped at Lena's hand, but it was too late. The Peach operative was already burrowing into his flesh. Out of sheer instinctive defense he altered the trajectory of his own hand, rapping his knuckles against her collarbone. There was neither grace nor refinement to the awkward maneuver, but such was irrelevant. Captain triggered his own nanotubules, then plunged inward.

A dark...space. Not a room, for 'room' suggested a finite dimension which included walls, ceiling, floor. Captain found himself standing on a featureless plane, the boundaries of which were unknowable. Mental constructs were unique to each individual, a necessity for any biological mind to make sense of the digital realm. As such went, however, this mindscape was unusually austere. Normally he perceived the Borg dataspaces as a vast filing room, ranks of fist-sized fairies flying countless papers to and fro in a carefully orchestrated chaos. Then again, this was not the dataspaces. Instead, Lena controlled this encounter, and Captain had been pulled into her interpretation of his own mind.

Whispers like the dry rasping of wind on wheat filled the aural background. The symbolism of the Borg Collective, ever-present, was obvious.

A spotlight abruptly split the darkness. Captain found himself at the center of a pool of harsh white light. In the unreality dictated by the construct, the spot had no source; and he cast no shadow.

"Greetings," said Lena. The Peach spy was suddenly an armspan away and facing Captain, limned in a spotlight of her own. Unlike her real self, this Lena was the blonde-haired and fashionably dressed GNN reporter she had professed to be prior to her coerced unveiling. "Personally, I think it is a shame."

Captain swayed as what felt to be a minor earthquake rumbled under his feet. Simultaneously, a sharp pain blossomed in his head - his real head. Pain was irrelevant, the weakness of a small being. He ignored it. "What have you done?" A soft growl began to build in the cloying darkness, accompanied by the quiet rasping of scale against scale.

"A definite shame," replied Lena, "for you would have made an excellent addition to Peach. You may be imperfectly assimilated by the standards of the Borg Collective, but among my Color, not only would you have been tolerated, but you would have been embraced. No assignment to an expendable cube for you, but rather a position of prominence among the controlling hierarchy. You could have Belonged." A sigh. "Now you will just be dead."

"What have you done?" demanded Captain a second time. Lena had deployed something into his system, an unknown command. More worrisome, another something within his own code appeared to have answered. Whatever that response was, his own diagnostics were insisting nothing was out of kilter.

"It will require a few seconds to assemble," said Lena, obliquely answering the question. "Resistance is futile. It will use your mind and the security permissions contained within to springboard into the Greater Consciousness. If you do fight, there will be greater pain than if you allow its metamorphosis to occur. Either way, unfortunately, the end point of your existence is set." Lena's avatar made a show of slowly panning the darkness. "Of course, now that you've linked us together, my fate is sealed as well, not that my chance of survival was great once Peach committed me to this road. Still, any useful death in the service to my Color is a good death."

An ominous heartbeat joined growl and rasp, followed by the slow breathing of a very large beast.

A third time Captain asked his question, "What have you done?"

Lena focused her eyes directly upon Captain. "Think of it as a hunter-seeker variant. It was already present within your code, albeit in pieces: some of the more benign subfunctions were active. I merely input the command to fully waken it."

A retrovirus. The meaning of Lena's words suddenly became clear. It also explained why the diagnostics which searched for rogue code and unusual activity were silent, for from the point of view of the programs there was no aberration. Captain briefly wondered when and where he had been infected, but swiftly dismissed that line of thought as unproductive in the here and now.

"Then you will deactivate it," ordered Captain as he took a step towards Lena. The spotlight followed the movement.

Lena smiled slightly as she held her ground. "No. I cannot. Once initiated, the program cannot be disarmed."

"All programs have kill switches."

"This one does not, or at least I have no information about such. It isn't like I have the manual in my head. And even if there was a command to stop the Eradicator, you could not force it from me without triggering the enzymes which will turn my brain into tapioca."

It was a deception. Peach never told a straight truth, not when it could spin a complex story into which fact became a mere sidebar to furthering the Color's agenda. While Captain was unsure of the ultimate gain to Peach - was it merely the destruction of the Borg Collective, or something more sinister? - the final outcome would be highly advantageous to it. However, the Color had not fully appreciated what it meant to be a virtual pariah within the Borg Collective.

The background whispers faded to near silence.

"You can't do that!" protested Lena. "You are the Prime Nexus!"

"I'm also imperfectly assimilated," countered Captain coolly.

Captain had narrowed his connection to the Greater Consciousness to little more than a carrier wave, an action no well integrated drone, and certainly no Queen, could even contemplate. He was unsure if the action would prevent the monstrous hunter-seeker from completing its task once it finished assembling, but there would be a delay as the program was forced to transfer itself through a vastly restricted pipe. Time was bought, but the question became if it was enough, and at what cost.

Confusion would be the first reaction of the Greater Consciousness as its Prime Nexus purposefully separated itself from the Whole. That was the act of a rogue. However, this particular 'rogue' could not be a rogue because it was the Prime Nexus. The Collective would pursue that line of circular reasoning for several seconds before abandoning it as irrelevant.

Next, the Whole would assume an accident - the Prime Nexus could not perform a rogue act, after all - had limited connectivity. A carrier wave was still present, with the base signature indicating neural activity. In other words, unlike the Queen laying on the workbench, the current Prime Nexus remained conscious. Several seconds, perhaps minutes, would be spent attempting to widen the pipeline and normalize the linkage.

When it became apparent that a connection could not be restored, the Greater Consciousness would once again cast about for a drone with the correct mentality to function as Prime Nexus. Whereas Captain was content to return central control to the original Queen once She recovered sufficiently to perform Her function, another Prime Nexus might not be so accommodating. Temporary might become permanent. There would be no malice in the decision, no grasp for power by the drone suddenly elevated. In fact, the choice to permanently reassign the Prime Nexus node would be made by the Whole. After all, why fix what was now no longer broken? The backup Queens would remain in stasis and the present Queen, once more known solely as 6843 of 7010, would likely be tasked as a support node to the new Prime Nexus. Unfortunately, as support, she would not be able to propagate the quantum parasite cure which the Cube #347 sub-collective had gone through so much trouble to assemble and administer.

The various lines of reasoning flashed through Captain's mind, leading to a stark conclusion. Perhaps if the decision space had included more than one unit, additional avenues of success may have been deduced. However, there was only one, singular, and very small mind present; and that one, singular, and very small mind determined the only feasible course of action was to neutralize the retrovirus by any means possible, then reopen the connection to the Whole before another Prime Nexus was deputized. And that there was not a nanosecond to waste.

Captain's avatar-self lunged at Lena.

"Hey! What are you doing?" yelped the Peach spy.

The mental construct may have been Lena's imagery, but of the two, Captain had the stronger mind. Lena's form subtly altered, became less reporter and more Borg. Captain grasped blonde hair and pulled, bloodlessly removing part of the Peach operative's scalp to reveal blinking diodes and other technological additions absent from the realworld Lena. A drill bit exuded from his prosthetic limb, then was set against skull. A high-pitched whirring commenced. Lena thrashed, but was held securely in Captain's free arm.

Digital versus biological. Nature had produced many astoundingly complex answers to the limitless question of life, but the medium of molecules and ions ever remained fundamentally slower than electrons charging along a superconductor. Xenig and other mech species often found interactions with organics painfully time-consuming. With each tick in the real universe, many analogous tocks passed in the subjective digital realm. On the other hand, there was an inevitability about the biological process not present in the digital: once a molecular cascade had begun, be it DNA replication or the creation of a memory pattern, there was usually no convenient way to stop it. Captain was in a race to breach a specific barrier in Lena's mind, thereby preventing stimulus of the artificial gland which held the oft-threatened brain dissolving enzyme.

Lena abruptly slumped. "That should not have been possible," she whispered, "but it was still futile. There is no off switch to the Eradicator. And even if there was, why would I be given the key?"

Captain sucked in a figurative breath, but did not relinquish his hold upon the spy. It had been close. The sounds of the assembling retrovirus were becoming louder, and now there was a visual component - pairs of crimson red eyes balefully peering from the darkness. "Peach lies. You lie."

"Borg do not lie. Not even Peach. The truth is just not told in its entirety."

"Then you are leaving out a lot of 'entirety'. You will open yourself to me and allow complete access to your files."

Eyes flicked towards the nearly completed retrovirus. Lena was obviously weighing the tactics of delay versus the knowledge that she could not withstand an effort by Captain to take what he wanted. 'Delay', however, was the key word. Focus returned to Captain. "I will not comply," she snarled.

"And I do not have time to be gentle." Captain repositioned himself, spinning his captive around until she was held in a variation upon the classic assimilative pose, her head trapped in a lock against his shoulder.

Lena screamed.

Captain ripped through the other drone's remaining mental defenses, already weakened by his previous incursion. Ransacking her mind, Captain systematically examined, and discarded, file after file, meme after meme, leaving behind utter destruction. It would require weeks to repair the disorder, to fix the rents in personality and self Captain had torn, assuming such could be done at all or that Peach would choose to redirect vital resources to the long task of salvaging its unit. Finally he pushed Lena away, convinced no hidden vaults of data were present.

She had been telling the truth. If there was a way to deactivate the retrovirus, she did not know it.

Lena collapsed to the ground, sobbing. Her avatar was now completely Borg in form, a Borg which required major maintenance. She was broken, literally and figuratively.

The retrovirus roared! Hundreds of eyes stared out of the shadow, all radiating an eager hunger. Its host would be its first meal.

"How do I shut it down?" demanded Captain to the figure laying at his feet.

The answer was barely audible. "I don't know."

"No theories at all? I can only take data from you, or read surface intentions and conscious thought. I am not of the assimilation hierarchy; and I not have the time to translate your deepest suppositions and nebulous contemplations into a form I can understand."

"Maybe..."

"Go on."

"Eradicator...it was hidden...is hidden in you. Bits in little accessed memories. Other parts in root...root code. It needs all itself to...to...to live. To act. Most virulent and vital portions assemble last. Maybe if destroy self-code whe...where Eradicator still lies dor...dorman...dormant, then it may be...stillborn. Maybe."

Amputation. Lena spoke of purposefully amputating parts of what made Captain himself. It was the equivalent of the reformatting the assimilation hierarchy was occasionally called to execute upon rogue drones deemed to retain some iota of usefulness. Diagnostics had, finally, identified blocks of Captain's mental architecture acting in an unusual manner, although still within the 'normal' range of established parameters. He did not have the luxury of time to closely examine what the subroutine had tagged, nor if the cause was viral or the product of the stresses of being Prime Nexus. Without hesitation, Captain issued the command to himself for erasure. With luck, or its Borg equivalent, whatever was destroyed was neither vital to his continued functionality nor his acceptance by the Greater Consciousness as a suitable Prime Nexus.

And, deep down, there was the secret hope held by Captain that the partial reformatting would not be...permanent. Similar procedures, albeit administered by elements of the assimilation hierarchy, had been carried out before. Sometimes the process worked, and the unit was 'cured' of assimilation imperfection. More often, which was why the Collective did not bother to utilize the practice, the erasure failed, reformatted psyche eventually re-establishing itself in all its imperfect glory.

The twin spotlights dimmed. Although Captain had taken over the construct upon breaking Lena, the Spartan scene and straightforward symbolism seemed more fitting than a fairy-infested filing room. And then there was also simple mental inertia and the focus it would require to rebuild the setting. Something was starting to happen.

The creature, the retrovirus, screamed piercing howls as it began to thrash. The shadowy form, never revealed, was black against black. There was a sense of coils, of scales, of multiple heads with serrated teeth. Hundreds of red eyes flashed anger at the insignificant host who dared to deny it the purpose for which it had been constructed. With each loss of Captain's core code, with each loss of some aspect of himself, the retrovirus seemed to know that it would never become whole, that it was fated to unravel into meaningless bits and bytes. Still, it had a tenacious, almost feral, intelligence to it; and, perhaps, Peach had not quite realized what it had built, for this was a program that if released to the wild would not docilely expire once its primary task had been accomplished. Instead, the Color might have found itself fleeing from its own creation.

Then the eyes started to fade, one by one winking out of existence. The gnashing jaws and restless motion decreased in intensity. As if realizing the imminence of its own demise, the retrovirus gathered itself together, becoming a blot of pure black - negative light - against an already black background. The form crouched, then leapt at Captain, howling its defiance and desire to drag its host down with it.

The retrovirus was too late. Unraveling as it pounced, what passed Captain was little more than an icy cold gust of wind.

"Enough of this charade," muttered Captain. He dismissed the construct.

As he pulled his arm away from Lena and allowed the Peach drone to fall to the floor of the analysis chamber, Captain noted that a mere 2.3 minutes had passed in realworld time. The four escort drones stood statue still, eyes blinking rapidly and presenting a glimpse into the turmoil of the Greater Consciousness. Captain hastily widened his link, willing the Whole to see that the Prime Nexus remained, that there was no need to anoint yet another temporary backup.

There was neither time for introspection nor to catalogue what had been lost. Captain could sense that there were holes in his pre-assimilation memories, and surely much more vital bits of himself had been sacrificed. As it was, internal diagnostics were screaming about the sudden instigation of brain hemorrhages, which would explain the headache and the flawed control of the left side of his body. However, whatever Captain had erased, his acceptability as a valid Prime Nexus had not been among the casualties.

Captain regained his place as One with the Collective, although in many ways it was tolerance even more begrudging than before Lana's attack. The Whole required a Prime Nexus, and Captain continued to be satisfactory, but there was also an increasing aversion to his imperfectly assimilated status. He had all but vanished from the ken of the Collective under dubious circumstances. He was too individualist, continuing to hold something of himself aloof from the total immersion required by a permanent Prime Node. Above all, the Queen was very close to regaining consciousness, and the Whole knew it. Captain had overstayed his welcome.

It was time to go.

Vision blurring, Captain commanded the four mobile escort drones to approach Lena and take a guard stance. The Peach spy was still alive, still breathing, although her degree of mental intactness was debatable. Regardless, the transformative technology she represented was highly valuable, as was any information which remained to be harvested from her brain. Once the Queen re-established control, She could lead the decision process concerning deposition of the Peach drone.

Barely maintaining the reins of command - a necessity he do so as long as possible - Captain stumbled out of the analysis chamber and into the research platform's hallways. Stroke-induced hallucinations were his company, odd visions and sounds overlaying the realities of dataspace and unyielding bulkheads. Amongst the strongest were the bodiless eyeballs and lips sporting fractal-hued butterfly wings, tinny voices raised in victorious cheers.

Captain blinked as he attempted to make sense of the sight before his eyes. It was the interior of a runabout. At least he was relatively sure it was the interior of a runabout. His brain was not functioning very well and it took several long seconds to be confident that he had finally reached his goal.

The trek from analysis chamber to the runabout left behind by Cube #347 had been dreamlike...or, perhaps, nightmarish. Captain had stumbled through hallways, knowing, yet not knowing, his location and destination. The universe as perceived by eye and optic implant had become a world of blurred shapes outlined in a blue aura. Likely a lingering consequence of the battering his brain had received during battle with the retrovirus, it had made navigation difficult. Captain was relatively sure he had careened off a platform drone or five, but they had been too engrossed in their collective contemplation of macroscale superstring gravitonics to do little more than document their current Prime Nexus as a transient phenomenon, assuming he had been noticed at all. According to his chronometer, the journey had required less than eight minutes. It felt as if hours had passed.

Captain was still the Prime Nexus. He continued to coordinate the actions of the Whole, to oversee the decision-making process. It was not to last. He had a few minutes left in his tenure, if that.

As a metaphor for the situation, consider the Queen as an exquisitely-tuned instrument. At the most fundamental level, She was one unit of many who had a base ability to act as the central Borg node. Her brain had then been subsequently adjusted to function in the most efficient manner possible. The Queen oversaw the Collective, ensured the metaphorical Body received the equivalent of exercise, nutrition, culture, and fine books. In contrast, Captain, while he had potential and the best of intentions, tended towards lying on the couch all day playing video games while consuming pizza and soda. Every once in a while he took the Body for a jog or ventured into the carrot stick realm, but not to the extent of the designated Queen. All in all, there was a decided lack of efficiency when Captain was in charge.

Of course, in this metaphor, the Body was actually an entity in its own right looking out for its own best interest. Either Queen or Captain were acceptable as the nexus of the Greater Consciousness, but if a decision had to be made as to which unit was more suitable, more able to further the goals of the Whole, well, the vote would go to the former. Every time. And at this moment, the Body Collective was deep into the polling process.

Captain was about to lose; and there would be no recount.

Captain cast his mind towards Sphere #223. Multiple components were untangled, isolating the datastream of a tactical partition single-mindedly scrutinizing the outcome of a torpedo salvo the sphere had launched at its rogue cube target. Ironically, even as Captain could not compel sub-collective to alter its behavior, a small subMind of the very Greater Consciousness which he supervised was assisting in the analysis. The process was autonomous, and while Captain could stop it if he concentrated, such an action was tantamount to consciously regulating the sodium uptake of a single cell in his big toe. In other words, it was not worth it; and, to tell the truth, in his current state Captain could do little more than eavesdrop on the sphere. The sub-collective's emerging conclusion was less focused on the unexpected survival of the cube and more on the need to stop it before planet #5 was reached. Too many options existed for the cube if it arrived at its goal. However, Sphere #223 was quite confident it had more than sufficient weapons, up to and including the vessel itself, to stop the enemy, no matter the phasic armor on the cube's hull.

Yes, the Collective was aware of, and highly interested in, the phasic armor. The torpedoes had not been a full assault, rather a test of the armor's ability. Via Captain, the Whole knew of the technology's existence, even if specifics were unknown. A moderate-level directive to Sphere #223 instructed the sub-collective to avoid complete destruction of the target, if possible, in order to allow salvage of hull armor samples.

The Queen node strengthened. The first tentative request for unit reintegration was received.

Captain had to do something. If it could be guaranteed the Queen was vaccinated, that the Borg Collective would soon be set to right, then the loss of himself or Cube #347 was irrelevant. The Whole outweighed the consideration of individual or sub-collective. Unfortunately, there were no assurances; and if the recipe had failed, then the sub-collective needed to survive so that it might try again. Furthermore, the various novel technologies Cube #347 had collected since its severance from the Greater Consciousness would be more efficiently transferred via a normalized relationship to the Whole, rather than through salvage. If only the cube could reach the gas giant at which it was aimed, the odds of successful escape would increase.

The subspace ripple field was the lone barrier between arriving at the planet in one piece, or being battered apart in the next five minutes.

Captain suddenly knew all there was to know about ripple field technology, from the history of its assimilation and adaptation to the esoteric mathematical equations describing the artificial subspace turbulence which nullified most faster-than-light drives. Picking through the data branches, he focused on the hardware and energy requirements necessary to maintain the field. A generator had yet to be developed able to safeguard an entire solar system. Instead, generator clusters, each built on a strategically placed asteroid, were responsible for shielding a system sector. A total of thirty-two such clusters englobed the Borg home system.

Ripple Field Generator Group #19 serviced the sector which included Research Platform #102 and planet #5. While Captain could simply issue an order to off-line the facility, the directive would not be acted upon. Prime Nexus did not equate dictator; and without a logical justification, censure filters would ensure the desires of the individual would not overrule the good of the Whole, even when said individual was Prime Node. Maintenance on the other hand....

The most recent diagnostic from Ripple Field Generator Group #19 indicated a minor fluctuation in power consumption. Energy use was a little high, but within acceptable parameters. Acceptable? Unacceptable! Ripple Field Generator Group #19 had a history of sporadic elevated power use since the facility had been first activated. None of the other Ripple Field Generator Groups showed the same pattern of energy waste. Therefore, Ripple Field Generator Group #19 was not operating at its optimal potential. An error in construction was to blame, an error which should have been rectified long ago.

Ripple Field Generator Group #19 powered down. The subMind overseeing generator cluster operations roused drones from regeneration in preparation to troubleshoot the power expenditure issue and devise a solution.

Captain smirked to himself, a slight tightening of facial muscles that quickly transformed into grimace. The Queen's reintegration request had been processed and accepted. The Greater Consciousness was on the cusp of re-establishing itself around its original, and much more competent, Prime Nexus.

Reaching into a thigh compartment, Captain retrieved a jammer. On the outside it was a twin to the multi-legged metallic tick he had removed from his neck in the analysis chamber prior to accepting temporary conservatorship of the Collective. This one was slightly different in that it blocked all incoming and outgoing fractal subspace transmissions, effectively isolating the drone to whom it was attached. From the dataspace point of view, the afflicted unit completely disappeared; and for the unit, their small, singular self became the boundaries of their existence. It was an effective tool to isolate a drone. It was never attached voluntarily.

Captain held the jammer next to his neck. He thumbed the small stud which activated it. The jammer immediately speared its legs deep into flesh. And, then, all the voices vanished.

The headache remained.

Captain hoped the Queen was once more in Her place as Prime Nexus; and that even now the Collective was beginning whatever transformative process would be required to return it to the true path of Perfection.

The jammer was necessary. Captain had to disappear, mentally, from the ken of the Collective. Unfortunately, he could not simply use one of Cube #347's selective jammers to regain his linkage to his sub-collective. Until he was vetted by the assimilation hierarchy, his signature would be considered alien, a target for hunter-seekers. It was nothing personal, rather an automatic defense to prevent hostile intruders, be it a Color, a clever incursion by any of the multitudes of governments which opposed the Borg, or another foe.

As headache slowly receded and the shock of individuality passed, Captain was able to more fully focus upon the runabout's instrument panel. Something did not seem right, but he did not possess the mental concentration required to determine what. He needed to leave the platform; he needed to contact Cube #347; he needed to do many things, but first a link to the vessel was required.

Captain reached out his whole hand to the panel, steadied himself as he swayed, then triggered nanotubules. Jacked into the ship's computer, the subspace radio was Captain's first destination.

It was not present.

Blinking, Captain pivoted his head to stare at the panel slot where the radio module was located. It was empty. The subspace radio had been removed, and it was not the only piece of equipment absent. The wrongness Captain had subconsciously registered suddenly came into perfect clarity as his eyes flicked to the series of holes where gear should have been located. Some, like the miniature food replicator and map holder, were unimportant. However, others, such as the subspace radio, while not vital to ship functionality, were highly inconvenient if missing. Captain twisted himself slightly so as to view the rear of the runabout (internal cameras were another missing item), but did not find a handy heap of equipment. What he did see was yet more evidence - no storage space or restroom facilities - that the runabout had been stripped.

Attention returned to the instrument console, or what remained of it. Lining the far left side were a series of yellow sticky notes. On the notes were neatly printed Borg script consisting of a terse description followed by a number. 'Subspace radio' caught Captain's eye. After trolling through what remained of his now very disjunct pre-assimilated memories, he realized that the number represented a weight figure in a Borg-standard gravity field. The notes were a running tally of what had been removed and how much it had massed. The last sticky note featured the words 'Must go faster. Remove structural elements?'

Of course! This was the last of 127 of 320's shuttle collection. This particular runabout was not a racer, but it seemed as if 127 of 320 had been in the midst of converting it to function as such when it had been requisitioned. Neither map holder nor subspace radio were strictly necessary for a racing runabout where every gram of mass detracted from the acceleration curve.

A glance above the sticky notes revealed a much more troubling sight than missing radio. A panel had been removed, exposing a mess of rerouted circuitry and non-stock components. It was likely another endeavor of 127 of 230 to enhance the small ship's speed. The customization was not what had caught Captain's eye, but rather yet another hole where none should be. In this case, gone was a vital relay which linked computer with propulsion. It was as if a ground vehicle had engine and steering wheel, but no steering column.

Captain swiftly jumped through the computer's small dataspace for propulsion commands. Thrusters were available, as was impulse. However, warp engine control was blank, in its place the electronic equivalent of the sticky note. 127 of 230 had removed the relay in preparation to install an upgraded version.

"By the...." Captain's oath trailed off into inaudibility. Except for a faint recollection of velvet and sequins, he could not remember the name of the deity. No matter. Irrelevant. The runabout undocked from the platform. Impulse engines activated.

Sensors were the one system which had remained untouched. After setting a course for the distant Oort cloud and its ancient comet nuclei, Captain focused the ship's small grid upon planet #5. Subspace ripple field gone, Cube #347 had successfully made it to the gas giant. Unfortunately, the sphere had followed. The distance was too great to resolve the inevitable battle; and Captain did not need the support of a sub-collective to know that the cube's chances were not good. Whatever happened at the Jove would happen. Captain returned attention towards his destination.

An hour passed. For Captain, it was hell. No drone can function alone, not even one imperfectly assimilated. Without subspace radio, he could not even maintain the illusion of connectivity with Cube #347, assuming the ship survived. More than once, he caught his hand unconsciously creeping upward towards his neck, fingers poised to remove the jammer. The solution to his loneliness was simple: he was literally surrounded by the heart of the Borg Collective. Unfortunately, Captain knew that the answer to his dilemma was false, that if he deliberately called attention to himself by requesting reintegration, the best case scenario ended with a torpedo. In the worst case, he would be captured and transferred to the assimilative ranks, mind and body slowly dissected to extract maximal data while he himself was never allowed a hint of the connectivity, of the oneness he craved.

Captain busied himself attempting to jury-rig a relay to reunite computer and warp propulsion. He had once been an aspiring engineer; and had even been slated for engineering hierarchy before an opening in command and control had diverted his fate. However, it seemed as if engineering know-how had been one of the casualties of Captain's self-inflicted partial reformatting. Struggling with basic concepts, wires were strung hither and yon, imparting much smoke and many sparks. At least it kept him occupied. Sooner or later, even if the Collective continued to ignore the runabout, the lack of regenerative facilities (or the ability to construct such - yet more files, supposedly embedded within a drone's deep matrix, gone) would send him into a coma anyway.

The instrument console beeped. Captain had provided the computer with specific instructions concerning the sensor grid. Abandoning his latest futile effort to repair the relay, he jacked himself into the shuttle. A vessel had emerged from the Jove's sensor shadow...and it was Cube #347!

As Captain watched, the vector associated with Cube #347 altered, course swinging around until it intersected with the runabout. No, no, no! The cube had a clear path of escape! While he did not particularly look forward to his termination, Captain was just a single drone, of no consequence. The sub-collective of Cube #347 had just proved quite handily that it could survive without his input. True, the original plan had included a rendezvous with Captain, but only if such was possible without endangering the cube as a whole.

"Go away," mumbled Captain outloud.

Cube #347 vanished into transwarp.

The computer beeped again. Captain shifted his attention to another datastream. Among its several tasks, the grid had been tracking the inbound Borg fleet resources. Whereas before the ships had been limited to sublight speeds due to the ripple fields permeating adjacent system sectors, the nearest half dozen vessels had suddenly gained an exponential boost in velocity. Hypertranswarp signatures were in evidence. The runabout's sensor grid was insufficient to directly discern subspace flux, but the graphic proof presented indicated that one or more sector-adjacent ripple field generators clusters had just been powered down.

All the courses would intercept at the runabout.

"Double crap."

The acrid stench of burning electronics wafted into Captain's nose. He opened his eyes in time to see the first pale flames flicker from his latest jury-rig attempt. Unfortunately, 'fire extinguisher' was one of the items listed on the sticky notes.

"Triple crap."

Assimilation was the first hierarchy head casualty.

There should have been plenty of time to race from Kendii to Captain. Although hypertranswarp had been lost during the gas giant encounter, calculations indicated sufficient time to transwarp from Kendii to Captain, retrieve the wayward consensus monitor, then escape. Even en route when Sensors announced the incoming Borg fleet's achievement of supraluminal velocities following withdrawal of sector-adjacent subspace ripple fields, navigational partitions continued to insist Cube #347 would win the race. The operative word in all cases was 'should' and 'would'. Then, the superstring under study at Research Platform #102 threw a temper tantrum.

The macroverse superstring is a very rare phenomenon, a distant relative to the Planck length strings whose various resonant frequencies create the constituent particles of matter. Origin and description of the superstring remained elusive, even for those species fortunate enough to encounter the actual object. Depending upon the mathematics employed, the number of dimensions in which the superstring existed could be one, two, three, ten, twenty-six, or some variation thereof. Some theories suggested the macroverse superstring to be the physical manifestation of a fissure connecting two 'branes together, gravity leaking along its length from an origin only millimeters, and forever, away. The Borg had assimilated many such hypothesis during its more than eight millennia of existence; and even with the phenomenon captured at great cost and transported to a place of study, the Collective was only slightly closer to determining which conjecture was most applicable.

Eventually the superstring would yield its mysteries. It would be tamed and artificial strings created. The potential as tool and weapon was enormous.

For all its ambiguity, the macroverse superstring was a relatively 'quiet' phenomenon. Gravity, albeit distorted in an odd manner, was the phenomenon's primary means of interaction with the universe. The gravity associated with the superstring was massive, but it only extended for a few meters from its hypothetical 'surface'. While any object which approached too close was ripped into its atomic constituents, a sufficiently large item could be neatly sliced in two with no damage to those structural elements not within the string's tubular gravity well. No radiation, no unreal particles, nothing other than gravity defined the macroverse superstring. Even in subspace the phenomenon was quiet...except upon those layers through which transwarp drive tunneled.

Some resonant quality of the superstring's gravity impacted subspace where transwarp operated. For lack of a better description, the superstring 'congealed' subspace topography, increasing unreal densities and, thus, slowing the traversing vessel. Occasionally there were even 'clots', regions of subspace so dense it was more efficient to steer around rather than charge through. Other supralight methods such as hypertranswarp or warp remained unaffected. Usually the superstring effects upon subspace were highly localized, extending no more than a half AU. Captain's shuttle, nearly three AU from the platform, should have been well outside the zone of impedance.

Then the superstring had experienced an outburst.

A macroverse superstring is prone to gravitonic eruptions. Like an earthquake or geyser, pressures build until catastrophic release is inevitable. Unlike earthquake or geyser, the poorly understood mechanics of the superstring prevent forecast of the tantrums. They can only be monitored, data added to the collection of prior observations until such time predictions are feasible. In the real universe, the eruptions are transient, slight increases in gravity field strength that swiftly return to background levels. Subspace, however, is a different matter: the congeal-effect ripples outward from the epicenter for dozens of AU, days required for the permutation to subside.

Sensors, utilizing a specific grid setting which only she could fully translate, was successful in plotting a course for Cube #347 that avoided the clots and found the least dense corridors of subspace. However, the effort could not completely compensate for the fact that transwarp speeds were fundamentally impacted. In the end, Cube #347 won the race to reach Captain's runabout, but the trek had required much more time than originally planned.

Cube #347 had exited the transwarp tunnel at quarter impulse, but not quite where initially plotted. After sighting the runabout - several hundred thousand kilometers distant and not answering hails - the cube immediately gave chase. Unfortunately, at a mere hundred kilometers, well outside of tractor range, Cube #347's quest had come to an abrupt end when a Battle-class cube fell out of hypertranswarp immediately in sub-collective's path. Veering had been necessary. Both vessels had fired hastily aimed neuruptors at each other; and the shields of both vessels had held. At that point, the battle was joined, Cube #347 with a distinct disadvantage - outgunned, outmassed, outpowered, no place to hide, and phasic armor largely ineffective.

Fast forward to the almost present.

Cube #347 remained one figurative step in front of the Battle-class, accelerating away only to loop back towards Captain's runabout. Due to the tactical situation, the weapons hierarchy had reassumed control of the sub-collective's responses; and Weapons was loath to allow flight as a viable strategy as long as the shuttle afforded him with a paper-thin excuse to stay. Until some incident broke his hierarchy's dominance, the remainder of the sub-collective were virtual hostages. In order to maintain ship functionality despite the pounding it was receiving, a large proportion of assimilation and drone maintenance drones had been reassigned to engineering. Additionally, command and control support in the form of a Hierarchy of Eight member was assisting Delta with coordination to minimize the overload she would normally experience with so many active bodies.

The truth was, Cube #347 should have already been sundered into streamers of slightly radioactive dust. Singularity torps had yet to be deployed, and neither had the Battle-class taken advantage of several very close passes to use a directed dampening field. Conventional warheads and beam weaponry, on the other hand, were very much in evidence; and while Cube #347's defenses and repair capability were being severely challenged, the larger cube had not unleashed an overwhelming missile barrage. Perhaps the Collective was probing effectiveness of the phasic armor's spotty remnants, else seeking to capture the cube by crippling it. Whatever the reason, the Collective was displaying an odd reluctance to outright destroy the Exploratory-class cube.

For the drones splicing, cutting, duct taping, rewiring, and using coat hangers in new and creative ways in order to maintain Cube #347's fighting (and surviving) effectiveness, the universe beyond the hull dwindled in importance. Decreasing the pressure in a crimped plasma conduit without affecting downstream weapons dependant upon the ionized material became much more critical, at least for those drones assigned to the problem. Assimilation was, or rather had been, among those drones.

Cube #347 emerged from a microjump, a brief FTL foray lasting less than a second. The technique was rarely used, and certainly not repeatedly under battle conditions, due to the stresses imparted to superstructure, propulsion, and inertial dampers. Only Sensors' finesse in using her special grid settings to discriminate the smoothest subspace patches, turbulence caused by the superstring notwithstanding, allowed the microjumps to be used at all. While the rather risky action had decreased the number of attacks actually impacting hull, sufficient pinpoint accuracy had yet to be achieved to arrive next to Captain. The repeated microjumps were gravely straining the cube, pushing it to its breaking point.

"Are you functional?" inquired 41 of 152. For a few heartbeats upon the latest microjump emergence, subsection inertial dampers had hovered on the cusp of failure. The fact that the affected drones remained in a three-dimensional state, not smeared over the bulkhead like raspberry jelly, meant damper collapse had been averted. Still, the shaking had sent more than a few units careening against unyielding metal.

Assimilation blinked several times from where he sprawled on the floor, but made no motion to regain his feet. Pupil widened, then contracted, as his organic eye refused to fully focus. Optic implant resolution was not much better. The loudest bang had occurred as Assimilation's head had met with a panel removed just before the incident.

41 of 152 was a drone maintenance unit. She kneeled awkwardly, then raised the limb containing diagnostic equipment to Assimilation's head. "You managed to dent your head. The skull is cracked and you definitely have a concussion. Are you functional? How many fingers am I holding up? And don't read my optics, or that of anyone else, to confirm your response."

The rest of the team resumed their assignment to open access to the crimped conduit. Assimilation rolled his head around until the fingers were centered in his field of view. He squinted. "Eight. Eight...yellow fingers."

"As I keep explaining to everybody, it wasn't my fault the marker was leaky," said 41 of 152. "And that number of fingers is incorrect. My species doesn't even have that many digits on a hand."

"Yellow," muttered Assimilation again. He craned his head, mesmerized by the blinking diodes revealed within the wall. "Green. Red." Pause. "Color. I can see color?"

"Now you are just hallucinating," muttered 41 of 152. {Drone maintenance pathway request by unit 41 of 152 to unit 13 of 20 - provide most recent maintenance diagnostic.} Command invoked, 41 of 152 absorbed the fruit of her inquiry. "If the prognosis doesn't include recovery in the next couple minutes, off to an alcove you will go. An immobile drone is a hindrance."

Assimilation was insistent. "Color. I can see color! Blue. No, not good enough. Midnight blue. Indigo. Cerulean. The rainbow, it is returning to me!"

"And yet I have eight fingers...." 41 of 152 levered herself to her feet. "As Doctor would say, be a good puppy and have a short lie down. Diagnostics report that you should retain sufficient functionality to at least hold wrenches once your balance resets and you are upright." The screaming of tortured metal, followed by the distinctive crackle-hiss of escaping plasma, captured 41 of 152's attention.

The conduit had ruptured.

One by one, the team beamed away. Automatic shut-off valves were already engaging to restrict damage to the immediate vicinity. Given the current hectic situation, there was nothing a drone could do except move on to the next engineering priority. Meanwhile, the plasma would erupt from its highly pressurized environment, escaping through the breech until nothing remained in the conduit.

"Crimson," said Assimilation, entranced by the palette of colors rushing towards him. "Rose. Cherry. Ruby. A hint of emerald?" No attempt was made to access transporter controls.

Assimilation's signature abruptly vanished from Cube #347's dataspaces.

Finish fast-forwarding to enter the here-and-now. Assimilation may have been the first hierarchy head to expire, but it was unlikely he would be the last.

Another microjump. Tertiary backup shields wobbled as they attempted to dissipate energy absorbed from beam weaponry. Vast radiators shed waste heat from neuruptors on the brink of overload into space. Deep in subsection 4, Auxiliary Core #7 was on the verge of collapse, violent power fluctuations causing the computer to squawk an alarm lost among hundreds of similar warnings. Normally the offending core would have been disengaged. Unfortunately, such was not an option in a battle where every erg of power was needed, and frantic engineering drones hurriedly moved between components in an attempt to troubleshoot the issue.

In an adjacent corridor, 255 of 310 investigated an abnormal sensor reading. He was tasked to determine if the sensor reading was yet another in the long line of malfunctions plaguing the cube, or if it was related to problems with Auxiliary Core #7. 255 of 310 set his hand, palm foremost, against a locked door leading to Dilithium Growth Laboratory #1. Heat? Simultaneously, he shifted the visual from his prosthetic eye to frequencies better suited to gauge thermal stress. With a mental curse, 255 of 310 immediately stepped away, cooked meat odor rising from his organic hand even as vision confirmed tactile input - intense heat was the explanation sensors in the dilithium crystal growth room were malfunctioning, not kinetic damage due to the cube's ongoing thrashing. For a long moment he remained motionless, standing before the door, as the overbusy mentality of Cube #347 frenetically shuffled through concerns more pressing than input received from a single engineering drone.

Thermal stress built behind the door. And built. And built.

Momentarily without a task, or a response to the report he had filed with a top priority tag, personal preservation finally overrode inactivity. Locking a transporter upon himself, 255 of 310 prepared to prudently move to a location not about to become an entry gate to Hell. Too late. The doors to Dilithium Growth Laboratory #1 were sturdy, but they weren't neutronium hull armor. Overcome by the raging inferno within the room, they finally failed. Cube #347 lost yet another mind, another drone, it could ill afford to sacrifice.

Deja vu? If the sub-collective had possessed the luxury of introspection, an odd realization may have dawned: it almost seemed as if Cube #347 had been here before, or at least in a situation eerily similar. However, any passing fancy, any emergent thought upon the manner, if such even occurred, was dismissed before it formed, subsumed by more pressing matters.

Intense heat rolled out of the dilithium growth laboratory. Within the bulkhead opposite the door, a conduit, already stressed, began to crack, small fissures spidering outward from weak points. Superheated oxygen seeped into the conduit, catalyzing the plasma within to ignite.

Plasma fire abruptly ripped through its conduit, warping duralloy paneling and consuming organics. It became yet another injury, one of many, plaguing the cube. The computer screamed a warning. Given the number of ruptures, it was only a matter of time until one of the mechanisms intended to isolate plasma leakage failed. It could not have happened at a worse time or in a worst location. Hungry green flames crept inward towards one of the Cube #47's beating hearts, passively following the flow of plasma, questing mindlessly for a power core, a warp engine, a transwarp coil: fuel was irrelevant, as long as it burned.

In Auxiliary Core #7, Delta, both of her, were functioning as yet another pair of hands even as she cast her mind into the dataspaces. With the assistance of command and control, she was coordinating the damage control rosters, moving drones in a grand chess game of maintaining the cube's functionality. The continuous cacophony of warnings and red-lighted diagnostics impacting Delta's mind had long since become so much white noise, one critical threat after another blending together into an easily ignored heap. Bodies performing separate tasks at opposite sides of the room, Delta felt confident that the core's power fluctuation issue was on the cusp of being solved; and when the repairs and adjustments were made, it would be satisfying to cross at least one thing off the ever-growing to-do list.

It was the out-of-place roaring, like that of a geyser about to erupt, which captured Delta's attention. A crease wrinkling both of her brows, she ordered the computer to list all damage reports and sensor anomalies present in the local submatrix.

"Not good," muttered body B as the engineering hierarchy head absorbed the proffered data. The troubleshooting of Auxiliary Core #7 was about to become academic unless the imminent plasma tsunami was diverted or contained.

Unfortunately, the data Delta was accessing was not quite up-to-date. Twenty seconds may not seem like a profound lag, but in the present situation it was potentially fatal. It was also unavoidable, computational resources prioritized to weapons and sensory functions, with engineering concerns a distant third.

And then it was too late.

Plasma fire burrowed through the final meters of reinforced bulkhead, entering an open space. Streaming through the rent like a hellish waterfall, the roiling green of not-quite flames quickly grew into an ever-expanding lake as it eagerly devoured oxygen. The timbre of the plasma's roar altered into a scream of triumph. Drones in Auxiliary Core #7 started to hastily beam away, aware they could do nothing to quench the approaching monster.

Delta hesitated. The action was involuntary, attributable to the mental burden of coordinating so many active engineering hierarchy units. Even with command and control assistance, the ebb and flow of demands upon her caused the occasional delayed real-world response as the dataspace load took precedence. Blinking, Delta consciously forced herself to focus upon her own self-preservation, grasping for transporter control to renew the lock upon her bodies.

Transporters were not active. The most recent attack by the Battle-class had finally breeched shields; and while Sensors had navigated the microjump that had limited subsequent damage and sent the cube out of immediate weapons range, the resultant damage had been both responsible for Delta's momentary fugue and ship-wide transporter loss. The latter was already being rectified, controls rerouting through unaffected relays, but the process would require seconds, time Delta did not have.

Delta reoriented herself. Body A was closest to an exit. She clumsily dived for the egress even as blast doors, finally responding to the auxiliary core threat, began to ponderously close. Unfortunately, body B was not as fortunate.

The last door slid shut with the heavy thump of finality.

Doctor arrived at Delta A's position shortly after reinitiation of transporters. The meeting, hierarchy head to hierarchy head, was coincidental, Doctor one of the few drone maintenance units still assigned to medical duties. Drone maintenance had been reduced to triage, neither resources nor time available to repair extensive injury. If an incapacitated drone could not return to active duty with the ministrations of nanites and the Borg equivalent of a Band-Aid, one of two fates awaited. The drone with intact mind would be stabilized, body sent to the nearest alcove; and once plugged into the dataspaces, the unit would be reassigned to the mental ranks of weapons or sensory, liberating an able-bodied drone from said hierarchies to engineering. Conversely, units with life-threatening injuries requiring major medical intervention were euthanized, useful parts immediately and messily harvested in case they could be used to keep the next drone functional.

Doctor found Delta A staring at the door. Outwardly, she appeared unharmed, and diagnostics confirmed her health. Body health, that was. Mental health was another issue. Doctor, the sub-collective entire, already knew the fate of her twin.

"To an alcove you go," said Doctor gravely, ears flat against his skull. The duties of engineering hierarchy head had already been reassigned to another unit. "There are several righty-over here." Too many empty alcoves in Doctor's opinion, their usual owners absent for one reason or another. Delta - 12 of 19 as her subdesignation was stripped - was no longer useful as an engineer, but her brain could still be utilized as a passive computational node.

"Gone," whispered 12 of 19A as Doctor steered her away from the sealed Auxiliary Core #7 and towards an alcove tier. She gained enough mental presence to stop, turning to face the smaller Borgified rodent. "Terminate this body. She's gone to where I/we cannot follow. Let me/us follow."

Doctor clicked his teeth once, then sighed as he evoked a drone maintenance pathway command. 12 of 19A's eyes immediately unfocused and she pliably followed Doctor's lead as he continued the trek. Destination reached shortly thereafter, 12 of 19A was unceremoniously shoved backwards into an alcove, held in place until clamps engaged. "Sorry, poor puppy. You are needed, or at least your neurological system is. This good vet can put your consciousness to sleep, however. You will not wake again." Doctor paused. "I think we will all to be joining your sister soon. You will not have long to wait."

Activating the transporter, Doctor left for the next assignment on his too-long list.

In Auxiliary Core #7, pressures were building. The plasma had consumed all available organics and was beginning to corrode metal. If the breech had happened anywhere but an auxiliary core, blast doors would have contained the problem. However, the location was an auxiliary core. As was inevitable, the power core catastrophically failed; and the plasma monster grew to enormous proportions.

Energies tunneled rapidly to the surface of subsection 4, submatrix 22, fountaining destruction to space. Cube #347 shuddered at the wound, then slowly began to turn, presenting a less damaged face to its swiftly approaching Battle-class assailant, a more intact portion of an increasingly fragmented weaponry grid.

Like a fireworks or munitions factory where the roof is designed to fail in the event of an explosion, a series of subshafts link auxiliary cores to the hull in order to funnel the result of a massive failure. The injury to Cube #347 had been grievous, but not terminal. Unfortunately, stress to the superstructure meant not all the blow-out had been directed outward. Some of the plasma snaked laterally, rapidly chewing through cross-bulkheads and into subsection 3.

After a hull breech and forcefield failure in Bulk Cargo Hold #5 had resulted in atmosphere loss, Weapons had relocated his holographic strategy center to Bulk Cargo Hold #2. The ability to function in vacuum was not the issue, but rather the inability to utilize the surround sound BorgCraft function. Admittedly, the lack of sound was a much more realistic mirror of the reality beyond Cube #347's hull, but the inclusion of *zap* and *bang* added a certain something. Weapons, engrossed within the holographic battletheater of cube versus cube while simultaneously directing his hierarchy's efforts based upon the latest BorgCraft models, was oblivious to anything outside his immediate focus.

A subsidiary cross-shaft exploded, spewing a torrent of plasma into Bulk Cargo Hold #2.

Weapons literally never knew what hit him.

Even as the initial shock of loss of a critical hierarchy node passed, many weapons drones refused to accept that Weapons was truly gone. After all, he had been 'dead' before, and returned each time to reclaim his position. The weapons hierarchy vacillated, drone after drone refusing the hierarchy head designation just in case the next sensation was that of armored fist to face. Cube defense and offense wavered as disorganization swept the sub-collective.

Any hesitation was fatal. The Battle-class cube was entering energy weapons range having refocused on its smaller opponent following Cube #347's microjump.

Second leapt into the opening. This was the moment he had been waiting for, a weakening of absolute command by the weapons hierarchy. Second unleashed the decision cascade, a stark choice between flight and the inevitable outcome if the fight continued. And that was discounting the fact that three additional Battle-class cubes and an Assault-class sphere would be arriving in under two minutes.

The consensus required mere seconds. The sub-collective would retreat.

{Plot a course away from here,} ordered Second.

Sensors replied, {Sensors says about time. She would already [dresser] course, but modification [window] because of shifting subspace [wood grain].}

Second dismissed the explanation. {Whatever. Just do it quickly. Oh, Sparkle-dear, we need maximum transwarp the nanosecond sensory hierarchy feeds you coordinates and navigational data.}

{Yes, sir, Captain-sir,} answered Sparkle, ignoring Second's protest that he was not Captain. {I...what the blazes is that noise? Oh, sh-.}

The scream of metal strained beyond its breaking point howled along the alcove tiers of subsection 3, submatrix 25. Perhaps Auxiliary Core #7's outburst was to blame, or the microjumps, or one of a thousand other issues afflicting Cube #347. Whatever the reason, a large section of alcove tier 11 separated from its supports with a smooth grace belying its destructive promise. For several heartbeats it seemed as if tier 11 would remain teetering on the edge of complete failure, but it was not to be: the hiss-clump signifying a drone released from its alcove and stepping down upon the walkway was too much. The remaining supports sheared with the added weight, sending alcove tier 11 crashing downward.

Tier 12. Tier 13. Tier 14. Like a falling row of dominoes, each successive alcove tier in subsection 3, submatrix 25, added to the mass of twisted metal. Strained transporters failed, stranding hundreds of drones. Those few near nodal intersections were fortunate, able to disengage from their alcoves and take shelter in the robust structure, but the great majority were not so lucky. Tier 15. Tier 16. Tier 17.

Sparkle was located on alcove tier 16. The massive impact of tier 15 upon her level threw her from her alcove despite clamps to prevent such an incident. Her spine was crushed and neck partially severed by falling debris. 2 of 8 represented the first loss among the Hierarchy of Eight.

Tier 18. The metallic avalanche slammed into Sensors' tier, tearing away a swath of alcoves, including hers. Tumbling abdomen over antennae, she drew in her legs and attempted to become One with her bathtub-esque alcove. The noise of metal grinding on metal was deafening. Sensors' eyes had no lids, so she was forced to endure the chaotic whirl of her involuntary somersaults. Finally, after several more thumps indicating the collapse of additional tiers, the entire mess came to a standstill: the bottom of the subshaft had been reached.

Sensors was astonished...she had survived! She would have done a jig of 1st degree amazement, except she was still connected to her alcove, which in turn was lodged sideways in the rubble. And because her legs did not seem to be responding to her commands. Sensors tried to tip her head forward in order to bring her underside into peripheral vision, but found she could not. Bright splashes of color did accompany the attempt, however. Warily lifting her arms - proving she was not paralyzed - the hierarchy head carefully patted her head, her thorax, her abdomen.

Then Sensors began to swear most creatively. The universal translator algorithm immediately disengaged in a fit of self-preservation.

Second, juggling too many datathreads at once, snapped at Doctor, {Go see what is wrong. Warp is now off-line; and with transwarp our only FTL propulsion option, Sensors is required to navigate us through the subspace mess created by the superstring.}

Doctor signaled his acknowledgement, then transported to Sensors' location. {Oh, not good. Not good at all. Very, very, very bad.}

Trapped in her alcove, Sensors whistled an orchestra of concurrence.

Somewhere during the fall from tier 18, a long spar had perforated Sensors' alcove, impaling the bug longitudinally through thorax and head. It was as if she had developed a spine, except this one was made of duralloy. Only the highly diffuse and extraordinarily robust nature of Sensors' species' neurophysiology had prevented instant death. Even if Sensors could have been transported to a maintenance bay, even if there had been time for the necessary complicated surgery to remove the spar without further damage, Doctor was unsure if the patient could have been saved.

In the current situation, death was inevitable.

"Sensors' voice is to be lost from this choir, yes? And she will never become One with the grand Choir, will she?" The universal translator was functioning again; and it was obvious Sensors was picking her words carefully to ensure correct translation.

Doctor glanced upwards as a trio of small metal chunks crashed into the pile. He flipped his ears. Several dozen signatures were registering as alive, and one or two might even be functional if they were unburied as soon as possible...and if nothing else fell on them, or their vet. He pivoted his head to face Sensors. "Yes and, er, yes," were the only answers Doctor could provide.

"Sensors understands."

Silence, or what seemed to be silence. After a few seconds, it became apparent that Sensors was humming something to herself, a barely audible song consisting of minor chords interwoven by a dark harmony. A species #6766 funeral dirge, informed the computer, when Doctor inquired. The requiem trailed away after several bars, accompanied by the fading of Sensors' presence in the dataspaces. Sensors' lifeless body sagged.

Doctor turned away and began to clamber over the debris, his destination the nearest salvageable signature.

{8 of 8, you were 2 of 8's understudy...you now have propulsion. Move us far away from here. Sooner is much better than later,} said Second to the newest member of the Hierarchy of Eight. {And there will be no special subdesignations for you, so do not bother asking.}

Asked 8 of 8 with trepidation, {We are Second? Um, Third?}

{Absolutely not. There are other Hierarchy of Eight members who can fill that particular role. This is not the time to break you in. You can, however, do propulsion. Therefore, you will coordinate propulsion.} Despite the seriousness of the situation, Second still managed to insert his own special brand of sarcasm by pluralizing the second-person pronoun. 8 of 8 had yet to be cured of her use of 'we' and 'us'.

{But-}

{There is no time for buts. Propulsion is yours. I do not have the mental resources to assign to it, and nor do the remaining Hierarchy of Eight.}

8 of 8 spewed her concern, slurring words together in her haste, {But we cannot read Sensors - 1 of 3's - map files! They are the same ones she was using for the microjumps! The coordinates are all odd: they include elements of differential calculus and song to transliterate the most effective path through a dynamically shifting subspace environment. 1 of 3 terminated before she could alter the file into one her hierarchy could use.}

Second, the sub-collective, digested 8 of 8's revelation. {Irrelevant. If we stay here, we will with 100 percent certainty not survive. If we risk transwarp, there is at least some chance we will successfully escape. The Battle-class cube charges neuruptors; and the incoming spheres and cubes will be here momentarily. You drive. We leave. Now.} A compulsion was attached to the order. It was exceedingly rare for one Hierarchy of Eight to require compliance from another, although as (temporary) primary consensus monitor and facilitator, Second did have the choice.

{We comply,} said 8 of 8 stiffly.

Cube #347 tore a hole into the fabric of the universe, then slipped inside. The neuruptor barrage by the Battle-class cube missed, slicing through the fading mirage of its vanished target.

A leaf in a maelstrom.

In the battle of big cube versus bigger cube, Captain's runabout was a mere bug dodging windshields and grilles. Well, tumbling erratically, anyway. All semblance of propulsion, including maneuvering thrusters, had been lost shortly after the two titans had begun their match, a neuruptor near-miss frying shuttle electronics. Whom had fired the energy beam was irrelevant, the runabout not the target, but instead rather unfortunately located between fire-er and fire-ee.

The weapons hierarchy was obviously in control. Given the mismatch which Cube #347 was fated to lose, the prudent response was flight. A single drone was not a sufficient reason to remain had anything resembling logic been influencing the sub-collective's decision cascades. Alas, once Weapons seized command, it was very difficult to make him relinquish it. From the manner Cube #347 would attempt to approach within tractor distance of the shuttle, only to be forced to flee out of immediate weapons range by the Battle-class cube, Weapons was likely using Captain as an excuse to stay within the combat theater.

Many of the panels and half the walls of the runabout had been removed by Captain in his ever more desperate attempt to relink computer and propulsion. With gaping holes throughout his basic engineering files, however, the task was doomed to failure. On the other hand, it was something he could do, a something which distracted the mind from the fact that his existence was probably going to end as a thin smear against shields.

Hand crept towards jammer glommed to neck. Captain knocked the offending limb away. It was an option, just one he was not quite willing to explore just yet.

Alarms suddenly blared. Captain startled, almost knocking his head against the half-open panel swinging overhead. Glancing towards the forward screen, he saw the massive bulk of Cube #347 looming overhead. Throughout the battle, the sub-collective had been using a dangerous strategy of transwarp microjumps to dodge its larger opponent. The most recent had finally placed the cube within tractor distance of the runabout. However, it was apparent that more important things than retrieval of their primary consensus monitor was on the communal minds of the sub-collective.

A jet of plasma was erupting from a face, a fierce volcano of ionized gas and partially liquefied metal. Its location was consistent with a catastrophically failed auxiliary core. The injury was serious, but not mortal. Half a minute later, a second, less violent, eruption blew a hole in a bulk cargo bay door. The cube began to slowly pivot, attempting to hide the wounds from its Battle-class cube opponent.

Abandoning his ineffective repair endeavors, Captain linked himself into the runabout. Sensors still worked, and he scrolled through the various datathreads in an effort to update himself on the current situation. Four hypertranswarp wakes were incoming. The shuttle was unable to discern exact configuration beyond 'BIG', but in this case specifics were unimportant. The four cubes or spheres would arrive at the battle in less than two minutes. Elsewhere, a small flotilla of Borg naval resources had reached the research platform and assumed a guard stance, presumably to protect the Borg Queen. A sensor reading flashed, demanding attention.

Captain shifted his focus to Cube #347. As visually implied, the newest scars to the Exploratory-class cube's hide were spectacular, but not immediately fatal. The blow-out must have affected the hierarchy balance of power, else sufficiently shifted the situation to force Weapons to acknowledge the shortcomings of his tactics, because transwarp engines were spooling for a jump. And not just a microjump. Spiking power signatures indicated the imminent initiation of a long-haul transwarp conduit.

Cube #347 was finally retreating.

As Captain absorbed the data, another subroutine began to flash insistently. He opened it.

{Vessel too close to incipient transwarp conduit. Suggest movement away from threat,} banally offered the runabout's computer, completely oblivious to the fact that it had no propulsion.

Captain blinked, forcing eyes and optic implant to accept exterior input. He stared at the screen...a faint glow was beginning to limn Cube #347. This was not going to be good.

A bright flash consumed Captain's universe.

Subspace is an inhospitable realm for an Einsteinian universe vessel. To simply survive, a hull of exotic metal is necessary, the vessel sheathed in one of several classes of materials as beyond steel as a quantum computer is to an abacus. To keep the beings inside the ship alive, shields and other electromagnetic defenses are used to wage a constant war against the hostile energies of subspace. Propulsion is a manner of harnessing a sufficiently robust power source to literally warp un-space and un-time, folding it origami-like to allow real universe apparent speeds faster than light. Finally, navigation of a domain that Einsteinian creatures cannot directly comprehend demands exacting sensors and a computer or mind able to make sense of the output.

If local subspace had not been distorted by the superstring at Research Platform #102, Cube #347 would have successfully escaped. As it was, the sub-collective possessed only three of the four required necessities.

Sensors, the critical link between a grid tuned to her specifications and Cube #347's ability to navigate subspace despite the superstring's tantrums, was gone. The evolving situation had left no time to reconfigure the grid to standard Borg protocols; and even if such had been accomplished, said protocols were unable to read the transwarp layers of subspace with the necessary accuracy. In consequence, Cube #347 lurched through subspace half-blind.

On the other hand, Borg sensors in the real universe were well able to track Cube #347's progress. The irony was that if the cube's course had been one of definitive retreat, the Collective would have been content to let it leave. Such was not a typical Borg reaction to a threat, but the Greater Consciousness was reeling as it dealt with the expanding repercussions of the quantum vaccine. However, Cube #347 was not heading outsystem, but rather staggering drunkenly in an ever tightening spiral that inevitably led to Research Platform #102. And the Borg Queen.

Unacceptable.

Cube #347 did not know where it was, only that it was not heading outsystem. The clots of congealed subspace were disorientating, forcing the path of the transwarp conduit to bend in upon itself. The sub-collective came to a decision: an exit back to normal space was necessary to reorient itself. The process would only require a few seconds. Of course, that action came fraught with dangers of its own....

Cube #347 charged from a transwarp termini, tumbling into a controlled defensive spin against any unseen and potential opponents. Several dark shapes almost immediately impacted shields, followed by brief lightning flashes of yellow plasma weaponry. As if the abuse were not enough, a something sliced its way through shielding, armor, layers of deck, an impossibly thin cord of black which twisted the stars along its length into distorted ovals. Gravitational lensing effect, solemnly informed sensor hierarchy members, in which a massive near object causes distant points to appear elsewhere due to bending of light.

The superstring.

The sheared corner broke into a scattering of debris, torn apart by a combination of failed artificial gravity, abruptly collapsed shields, and the stress of rotational defense. The damage, however, was minor considering the real emergency: two active auxiliary cores caught by the monofilament, both exploding with the wrath of small novae. Fiery crevices ripped deep through duralloy hide, molten metal and fluid plasma geysering spaceward. In comparison, the earlier loss of Auxiliary Core #7 was a mere firework sparkler as sympathetic resonance overload caused a third and forth core to blossom into unnatural volcanoes.

The wounds were mortal, terminal, and only the robust noncentralized character of Borg engineering was able to keep the ship in one piece, allowing it to respond to its opposition. A volley of torpedoes, neither photon, quantum, nor tri-cobalt, were flung, followed by a short barrage of plasma weaponry. Cube #347's defiance died a heartbeat later as a munitions bay disintegrated an eighth of an intact face. Of the biological machinery, thousands of drones were dead or dying, the living too busy patching, welding, wiring, duct taping to do anything but step over fallen bodies, to shove aside a corpse blocking a critical panel. All were involved in the task, no matter their assigned hierarchy. The dispassionate, focused expressions of the laboring crew remnants did not reflect the deep knowing that their endeavors were in vain, that true death awaited, not Hive immortality as memory, whisper, within the One.

The maintenance effort was not enough, willing hands too few, damage too grave. Ponderously spinning, shedding gasses and metal, a giant fireball consumed Cube #347, swiftly feeding on oxygenated atmosphere before extinguishing itself. Left behind were cooling spars and charred remains, black on black to the universe, flotsam and jetsam to blow before the cosmic winds.

Captain was spat out of the transwarp conduit. The runabout lazily spun, the forward screen affording a slowly rotating view of stars, of the shadowed bulk of cubes and spheres positioned between research platform and threat, of Cube #347. The fact that he had survived the ride through subspace embedded in Cube #347's wake had barely registered when the exhaust signature of torpedoes caused the computer to blare a warning.

By whatever perverse rule governs the demons of Murphy and Finagle, thrusters were once again operational. Canceling his spin, Captain pivoted the runabout just in time to witness Cube #347's spectacular demise. Tearing itself apart, the Exploratory-class cube, the vessel upon which Captain had spent his entire assimilated life, simply disintegrated. Of all the ways he had imagined his eventual termination - recycled when he was deemed no longer useful to torn apart by some unlikely extradimensional entity - Cube #347, or whatever ship to which the Collective's imperfectly assimilated were assigned, persisted. To survive beyond his cube, his sub-collective, was inconceivable.

Captain was in shock in a way mere separation from the larger Whole could not compare.

The debris cloud majestically expanded, red-hot metals cooling to twisted slag. The superstring's gravity captured some wreckage, slinging materials into new trajectories. A sphere approached its defeated enemy, likely scanning for lifesigns, no matter how improbable, even as it warily kept its distance from the phenomenon which had sundered its Exploratory-class cube opponent.

Somewhere, Captain knew, the Greater Consciousness had assigned several hundred thousand drones to review the battle, to consider possibilities in deploying the superstring as a weapon.

A hand crept towards neck, fingers questing for jammer. Captain no longer cared. Defeated, he allowed his body free reign, not even attempting to counter the unconscious desire of a single, sane drone to belong to the Borg Collective. Jammer was removed, crushed. Captain knew his neural transceiver was broadcasting its automatic plea for reintegration. He waited for a torpedo or neuruptor to shatter his shuttle, else the tingle of transporter whisking him away to a much more lingering termination.

Neither occurred. Instead, his reintegration request was received, processed...and accepted.

Captain's single, blue eye widened in astonishment. He was not lost! He was not rejected! He was to be...

A jagged piece of hull plating, small only when considered against the size of the vessel from which it had originated, smashed into the runabout.

Fade to black.

*****

The Writers' Plaza was empty. Somewhere in the uncertain distance, a low-pitched rumbled indicated the Captain's Table mob was still on the move, but the timbre also suggested the end was near: even alcohol-fueled captains needed to rest, needed to return to their tables and begin the process whereupon a riot turns into a larger-than-life adventure. While a Board upon a dais at the center of the Plaza remained inviolate, elsewhere smashed tiles and overturned benches littered the ground, along with a scattering of tattered cloaks. Occasionally a cold wind would sweep through the devastation, kicking up eddies of torn paper.

At one side of the Plaza, the formerly unassailable entrance to the Writers' Annex lay sundered. One filigreed door had been completely blown off its hinges by the Auditors' Device, itself now reduced to ruin, yet another victim of the riot. The other door remained upright, but it swung back and forth at the slightest touch, shrieking all the while in motion. It was from this breech into the Writers' Annex the wind harvested its paper crop, the jumbled remains of half-finished stories blown to the far-reaches of the Complex.

"That's it? It's all over?" bemoaned a voice. Perhaps the Plaza was not quite as empty as it seemed.

"The Auditors are gone," replied a second voice with the verbal equivalent of a conciliatory 'there-there' hand pat. "Well probably not gone, per se, since that Nothing trick of theirs is the only thing I've ever seen that could actually destroy a Production entity, but definitely not around the Complex any more. Those that didn't become royally sick when the parasite was scrubbed from their ended up as punching bags for drunk captains."

Said a third voice, oozing satisfaction, "And some got both. Did you see our favorite friend, 'Mr. Stain' Beauregard? Lovely! And that expression when Kirk punched it right in the unstomach? Priceless!"

"Priceless for you, maybe," grunted a fourth voice. "I was caught by Kirk too, and received a split lip for my troubles. That gold-shirted bastard doesn't know the good guys from the bad."

"You good? Yah, right. We know you, Lips. 'Morally ambiguous', certainly, but 'good' is too much of a stretch," answered Voice Two.

In the shadow cast by the ruined weapon - there may not have been overhead lights nor a sun, but certain literary traditions remained necessary - four entities stood. Two Directors and two Critics, they were the only beings left in the Writers' Plaza. Eventually other Complex denizens would gather, if only to gawk at the damage and whisper of the implications, but the foursome - Iris and Orb, Lips and Mouth - would be able to claim they had been first.

Besides, it was their Board in the middle of the Plaza; and the Editor Hans had said it'd be right back with the tools to move the thing back to its proper place in a Boardroom.

Iris refused to be comforted by its friend or the banter between the Critics. "So what if the Auditors are gone? So are the Writers! We Looked throughout the Annex after it quieted down, but no one was there! The Auditors had plenty of time to Nothing them-"

"And we never got to see what a Writer looks like," sighed Lips.

"-before they vanished or retreated or whatever," continued Iris, ignoring the aside. "Without Writers, there will be no new stories, no new chapters in existing plotlines! And without new material, the Production will stagnate and Ratings will drop! With sentient life upon them safe from quantum parasites the Boards may no longer be at risk of imploding, but the Auditors will have won nonetheless. We will be Cancelled, it'll just take a lot longer."

"I can try writing a story," volunteered Lips.

Mouth appeared intrigued at the notion. "Critics writing stories? That sounds interesting. Since we Critics are the designated critics, no one - except ourselves, of course - could criticize what we write...and therefore we would be able to write whatever we wanted. No flaws or downsides that I can see."

The Directors disregarded the excited plotting of their two colleagues. "I'm sure the Producers will think of something. They are giant brains, after all, and thinking is what they do best," soothed Orb.

Iris refused to be calmed. "Do you know what the worst part is? Besides Cancellation, I mean? /My/ piece which was pivotal to saving all the Boards, all the multiverses, the Production itself...my favorite piece still got whacked. I've already been to the Board to see what I could See. That damn Auditor's roll set into motion events that ended with my piece, and all its subsets, completely vaporized."

"I did see you try that last ditch roll in the middle of the riot..."

"Unfortunately the physics were already in play. And someone jiggled me at the wrong time. After all my hard work...boom."

"You do have other pieces," replied Orb. It had not lost any of /its/ pieces. "I suggest you move on. It was only a piece, after all, favorite or not. I've always thought your fixation was a bit, well, unnatural."

"Yes, I've other pieces, but I liked my Borg one the best." The comment concerning obsessions went unacknowledged.

Mouth cleared its unthroat, "Say, you two wouldn't mind hanging around here a bit longer to wait for Hans? Lips and I want to explore through the Annex a bit more. Er, to make sure that no more Auditors are hanging about, you know."

"Hurry up, Mouth," called Lips. "I wanna pick out my new apartment! The Annex flats are utterly posh! If Critics are to be the new Writers, then we need to be comfortable enough to let the ideas flow."

Orb rolled its eye. "Yah, whatever. Go on your 'Auditor hunt'."

Suddenly a great gust blew through the plaza, kicking up a blizzard of papers. A stained cloak caught on one of the Device's twisted garters flapped frantically.

"What is with that wind," complained Mouth. "It is not like we are supposed to have weather in the Complex."

An echoing *BOOM!* caused the Directors and Critic to turn towards the ruined Annex entrance. Except it was no longer ruined. Two whole doors stood where previously an opening had yawned. Only bent filigree and a network of faded scars remained as evidence of the Auditors' abuse.

Lips was directly before the renewed barrier, self agape. "I didn't do it," it preemptively protested. "I really didn't do it! You can't blame me! One nano more, and I would have been smooshed by whatever just happened!"

Iris, Orb, and Mouth joined Lips before the once-again sealed Writers' Annex. All stared up at the gothic-esque entrance. If one squinted just right, the blemishes marring the doors took on the distinct resemblance to a butterfly.

"There has to be some sort of metaphor there," murmured Orb.

"Hey," said Iris, wonder coloring its voice, "do you see what I see." It shakily pointed at a pile of bundled papers sitting on the ground underneath the mail slot. The packages were obviously too large to have been pushed through the slot, but the Complex had never been a place to respect such things as spatial dimensionality. On top of the each neatly tied parcel was a note: 'Use only in case of emergency'. Iris hesitantly approached the bundles, stared downward, then shakily picked up the one marked for its Board.

The string was untied. Papers rustled.

Iris read the topmost page. It blinked in astonishment, as only possible by an eyeball-bodied Director. The next page was scanned, then the one following. "It's...it's unbelievable," it whispered.

"What is it?" demanded Lips, recovered from its near-smooshed experience.

"Scripts," replied Iris reverentially, "and plots. New ones and continuation of those already in existence. Twists. Arcs. I just don't know what to say."

Orb took a handful of paper from Iris, then began reading for itself. It's, er, eye widened. "Wow!"

"Let me see!" ordered Lips.

Mouth acquired several sheets. "Hey! My Omnicrinians! I used to mess with their minds all the time, but then they went all transcendental and became boring. It looks like they took a bet with a Q, and lost. They've not only been dis-transcendentaled, but set back to a pre-technological era to boot! This could be fun."

Whined Lips, "What about me?"

Relenting, Orb passed the Critic part of the bundle. "The Posse is back."

"Really? Yippee!" cheered Lips.

Silence reigned as each of the four eagerly devoured a portion of whatever script was in hand. Finally, Iris began to speak, "This is pure genius. You have to listen: 'Darkness. Silence. A lone light flares into existence....'"

*****

One otherwise expendable ship, lost at the right time for the right reason, may have the power of butterfly wings. Into motion are set the currents of change, which from innocent storm arise new beginnings.

Finis coronat opus - literally, the end crowns the work; and, sometimes, the ends do justify the means.

*****

Darkness. Silence. A lone light flares into existence, illuminating nothing, yet still a vibrant, if uncertain, beacon in a universe otherwise consigned to blackness. Then, unexpectedly, a sound pierces the shroud - the flat, metallic clang of clamps within a single alcove disengaging...."

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