BorgSpace is written by Meneks; Star Traks was created by Decker; and Star Trek is 
owned by Paramount.  Warning!  Temporal anomaly ahead!  Be aware of causality 
reversal!

				Fast Forward

	A view from space.  An arc of a planet, green and blue and brown, frosted in 
white.  And black.  With soundless elegance, a mushroom cloud rose from the center of a 
continent, spreading forth tendrils like a cancerous growth.  When it finally faded, the 
beautifully serene backdrop was marred with ash and searing devastation, visible even 
from high orbit.  A second mushroom cloud joined the vanished first, then a third.
	"On location at Cenix III, I am Walter Cron Clone, and this is a GNN exclusive," 
said a sonorous voice, one familiar to any news watcher.  
	The agency logo overlay the scene, temporarily blocking the background; and 
GNN theme music, interspersed with short clips from famous reports, provided an audio 
counterpoint.  Graphic and music grew fainter, replaced by Walter Cron Clone's solemn 
features.  The dying planet continued to slowly spin in the background.
	"After two centuries of complaints, beginning with purposefully offensive body 
odor and most recently ending with unwillingness to share an extensive hat collection, it 
seems that the Fortians have begun a campaign against their long-time neighbors.  Last 
week, the Klojari lodged a formal protest with Second Federation authorities concerning 
a recent upswing in rude gestures and 'friendly fire' incidents, but there will surely be 
additional recriminations concerning the eradication of their Cenix III colony.
	"Of course," said Walter Cron Clone, one eye winking in a conspiratorial manner, 
"everyone knows that the hearing process will probably be 'delayed.'  After all, the 
Fortians are only following the latest Second Federation directive, whereupon those who 
hoard used warp nacelles will be dealt with harshly.  The Klojari government claims that 
it has already surrendered all its used warp nacelles, although the Fortians disagree.  I'm 
sure it will all be worked out in court....
	"That is, of course, if the Klojari are even around to press suit.  The Fortians do 
have sensitive noses, after all."  The on-scene anchor's eyes slid sideways in response to 
something off-camera.  The thinnest of thin films of sweat broke out on the otherwise 
perfect clone face.  "Excuse me, no race associated with the glorious Second Federation 
would ever purposefully wish genocide on another member, especially over non-sharing 
of a hat collection.  If only one survives where once were two, then it will be all a great 
misunderstanding."
	Silence.  Cenix III continued to suffer unheard death throes as its obscene garden 
of red and black blossoms grew.  The colony had been relatively small with few 
settlements outside half a dozen population centers, and a minimal number of orbital 
asteroid strikes would have been more than sufficient.  However, the aggressors 
apparently had felt it a shame not to use all the nice rocks of which they had went to so 
much trouble to gather.
	Walter Cron Clone's verbal backpedaling must have satisfied his unseen censor, 
for the newsman visibly relaxed.  "We here at GNN will keep you updated throughout 
what is obviously a minor disagreement which will absolutely not lead to the utter 
extinction of a race who's primary downfall is that deodorant never caught on outside of 
societal fringe elements and who think hats are best viewed on the home planet from the 
outside of heavily protected museum displays."  Walter sucked in a deep breath after 
delivering one of the clone series' patented run-ons.  "We now take you to the Fortian 
flagship where the armada captain is even now preparing to grant GNN an exclusive 
interview.  But first, a word from our sponsor!"
	Dramatic GNN music heavy with bass drums and French horns, a book-end to the 
opening theme, accompanied the fading of Cenix III.  

			*	*	*	*	*

	On the outer reaches of the Cenix III system, a Borg cube emerged from 
hypertranswarp and began to purposefully travel inward.
	Elsewhere within the same solar system, a triumphant bombardment fleet, fresh 
out of asteroids (and targets), was leisurely making preparations to depart home.  That 
process became an abrupt scramble as computers alerted their ship-masters of the results 
from the most recent sensor sweep.  Ships vanished in ones and twos, the fleet hastily 
departed well before the Borg vessel had trekked halfway to its increasingly obvious 
target of Cenix III's corpse.
	The last to leave was a small ship, GNN logo splashed across the bow and 
bristling with antennae and sensor clusters.  It lingered well past the point of what most 
individuals would consider sane in the current tumultuous times, then spun away into 
hypertranswarp on a different vector than that taken by the Fortian fleet.
	If the Borg cube had desired, it could have caught the news vessel.  Sensors 
automatically tracked the departure vector; and algorithms calculated the course and 
speed required to overtake the target.  One small portion of the Whole even contemplated 
the best assault method to ensure the inevitable assimilation of all on board, while 
another partition modeled scenarios that concluded in efficient distruction of the target.  
Certain processes were leaning towards the latter.
	{None of which is going to happen,} reminded Captain into the intranets, with 
particular attention directed at the head of the weapons hierarchy.  {We have another task 
to accomplish.}
Weapons returned most of Cube #347's weapon systems to an idle state, although 
several neuruptor banks and torpedo launchers remained in a state of 'just in case' 
readiness.  The BorgCraft scenario thread also remained active.
	In Captain's nodal intersection, a radioactive wasteland in the form of a planet 
floated before the sub-collective's consensus monitor and facilitator.  Portions of the 
hologram erupted in static as the target's unraveling magnetic field interacted with 
charged particles streaming upon the solar wind, creating sensor anomalies.  The 
predominant color of the formerly habitable planet was black...on the day-side, at least.  
On the night-side, the dull glow of molten rock was punctuated by the bright cataclysm of 
a volcano half the size of a continent, recently born when an asteroid barrage had 
breached Cenix III's mantle.
	"Unless whatever we are searching for is made of asbestos, it is highly doubtful it 
exists any more," noted Second from his location behind and to the right of Captain's 
shoulder.
	Captain swiveled his head slightly to regard his backup out of the corner of his 
whole eye, then returned attention to the holographic display of Hell incarnate.  With a 
mental command, the corpse of Cenix III was shrunk to the size of a fist and sent to hover 
among the various windows which symbolized the ever on-going background processes 
within Cube #347's dataspaces.  Another order to the computer materialized a new 
hologram within the nodal intersection.
	"Please state the nature of the medical...Hey!  Give a guy a bit of warning before 
you rip him out of storage!" complained Frank, EMH and depository of the data from 
which the cure to the Collective's (and, by extension, the sub-collective of Cube #347's) 
woes was being concocted.
	Captain stared at Frank, face expressionless.  The hologram, feeling the gaze both 
physically and within the dataspaces, quickly wilted.  "State the item to be found at this 
location."
	Frank scratched his bald pate.  "Well, unless you've changed direction - no, 
apparently you haven't - then the ingredient list reads 'shed component (temporally-
infused) from a quantum-cloaking beast'.  And, no, I do not know what it means:  the list 
did not come with pictures."  Arms were defiantly crossed.
	Second cocked his head.  "Perhaps if the attitude remains, we should dismantle 
the program, despite the potential threat of lost data."
	Frank's eyes widened as he heard the approach of a danger more substantial to 
him than any real-world threat.
	A head was minutely shook in a gesture unconsciously appropriated from another 
species.  "No," said Captain, gaze never leaving that of the EMH.  "Display the map."
	Frank shuffled out of the way as a holographic galaxy shimmered into view.  
While no longer attached to his head like a novelty hat, he nonetheless was required to be 
present when the map was activated.  Hovering above the galaxy were six X's, two of 
which were the yellow of collected ingredients, with the remainder green.
	"Magnify," directed Captain.
	The galaxy abruptly expanded as one particular target was focused upon.  Stars 
and nebula rushed past; and one even had the momentary glimpse, maybe, of a bored 
passenger through the window of an interstellar luxury liner.  One particular star came 
into view, a yellow dwarf which burned on the hotter end of its category spectrum.  Then 
the star slid away, replaced first by a smallish gas giant, then a scattering of asteroids.  
Finally a planet was centered in the floating display, a planet which looked exactly like 
Cenix III.  Above the hellish world floated a giant green X.
	In truth, as far as the sub-collective could determine, the Cenix III of the map 
/was/ the real-time view of Cenix III.  As impossible as it was, the map was less map and 
more mirror of the actual galaxy.  More than a few rules of physics were being broken, 
although such did not seem to bother the map.  The engineering hierarchy thread 
dedicated to mull the matter, however, was continually tied in knots; and it was suspected 
that even if a link to the Greater Consciousness was possible, the Whole would have been 
equally perplexed.
	Despite the apparent omniscience of the map, it did have limits.  The most 
obvious was displayed now, magnification unable to zoom in further than the planetary 
scale.  While it was possible to see where the next ingredient was currently located, one 
could not pinpoint the item itself.
	"Maybe the target /is/ made of asbestos," murmured Second.  The X over the 
planet remained steady, indicating whatever it was which the sub-collective searched for, 
it was present.
	An alert from Sensors prompted Captain to turn ninety degrees and bring up the 
sensor-derived view of Cenix III.  Unlike the map version, this one could be enhanced 
further, especially as Cube #347 neared the destination.  Sensors had located an 
unaffected speck of green amid hellish surroundings:  a fairly large island in the middle 
of a huge freshwater lake.  The improbable paradise took center stage in the holodisplay, 
hazy features becoming increasingly clear as distance to the planet dwindled.
	Captain allowed himself the ghost of a smirk.  "Not asbestos.  Probabilities are 
88.5% and rising that which we seek is on that island.  For once it seems the odds are in 
our favor."
	Second balefully regarded the back of the consensus monitor's head.  "Now 
you've jinxed us."
	With a sigh, Captain turned to squarely regard the other drone.  "Jinxes are 
irrelevant," he said.  "Why do-"
	"Um..." shakily inserted Frank at the same time alarm was rippling through the 
sensor hierarchy.  Captain pivoted so swiftly back to the Cenix III display that he nearly 
lost his balance.  He was just in time to see the island explode.
	The island visibly shook, caught in an earthquake massive enough to be viewed 
from a distance of tens of millions of kilometers.  A vast crack opened, spewing forth 
great gouts of lava that burned vegetation.  Heated steam rocked skyward to create instant 
thunderstorms as countless tons of molten rock slammed into water.  Additional cracks 
sprang off the parent, dissecting the island into increasingly fine slices.  
The earthquake must have triggered a tsunami, for the waters around the island 
drew back slightly, as if caught in the ebbing of a giant tide.  Then a slow moving wave, 
building and building and building, majestically broke upon the land, foamy white 
abruptly rushing inward like a film thumbed to fast forward.  Hot rock and cold water are 
antithetical to each other; and while the island was too large, too high to completely 
swamp, the leading edge of the tsunami had more than sufficient power to spill into one 
edge of the Cracks of Doom.  There was an explosion.
	When the view cleared sufficiently, all which was left of the island was a new 
volcano, a large bite taken out of one side.  Anything green remaining was either 
engulfed in flames, black, or parboiled.
	Captain's head swiveled to look at the map version of the target planet.  As he 
watched, the green X flickered once, twice, then faded to a dull, semi-translucent gray.  
While the map had not come with a user manual, one could not escape the meaning of the 
symbology.
	"I think I'll be leaving now...." quietly informed Frank.  The EMH disengaged his 
holomatrix from the local holoemitters, hastily returning to the relative safety of Doctor's 
head.  With him went the map, but its loss was irrelevant.
	Second cocked his head as he listened to the internal reaction of the sub-
collective.  "The last time I heard that much cussing was during the swearing contest 
right after I was assimilated and assigned to this cube."  
	The disorderly reaction of the sub-collective settled into a heavy, brooding 
almost-silence as Cube #347 covered the final distance to Cenix III and finally took orbit.
	The sub-collective might have given up, turned to another scheme to save the 
Collective and, thus, allow their return to the fringes of the Whole, except for one small 
thing - the graying of the X, as opposed to outright disappearance, suggested all was not 
lost.  Although the ingredients thus far gathered, and the bewildering descriptions of the 
remainder on the list, were disparate, they were united in a common theme that they were 
not wholly of the universe.  Perhaps there was a chance.
	Time travel.
	The Borg did not normally engage in time travel.  It wasn't due to inane temporal 
directives which revolved about the non-killing of one's proverbial grandfather, nor the 
fear of disturbing the flow of time and creating paradoxes.  Such cares were irrelevant 
and left to small beings to worry about.  No, the Borg did not time travel because there 
was no need.  Why waste energy on the past when so much was required in the present to 
ensure future Perfection?  Such was not to say that the Borg could not, and did not, make 
occasional forays into the past, just that such was rarely undertaken.
	In this case, the Cube #347 sub-collective had come to the logical conclusion that 
the best course of action lay in time travel.  The cube would nip back a few years, snag 
the ingredient (the description of which suggested a temporal element), then return to the 
present and continue on to the next target.  Easy.
	Engineering began making the appropriate preparations for temporal re-insertion.  
	Captain disengaged the holoemitters in his nodal intersection, then began the short 
trek along the tier to his alcove.  Throughout the vessel, non-essential drones were 
enroute to their alcoves (some requiring more 'persuasion' than others), the stresses 
associated with time travel rarely benign.  Drone maintenance preferred to not have 
additional work if a few simple preparations could avert it.
	{You too, Second,} reminded Captain of his backup, still in the nodal 
intersection.
	{Coming,} replied Second.  {88 of 230 was being troublesome.  Why he insists 
on tinkering with the laundromat dryers, I do not know nor wish to know.  Of course, 
why the current iteration of the Exploratory-class cube series comes with a laundromat in 
the first place, since none of us wear clothes, is also a mystery.}
	Captain was secured in his alcove, and Second just stepping up and back into his, 
when the trouble occurred.
	A spatial disturbance less than 300 meters off face #6 was the only warning of the 
GNN ship's abrupt reappearance.  Normal defensive protocols had been disregarded by a 
sensor hierarchy focused upon scanning for anomalies which could lead to temporal 
burps.  Unfortunately, Cube #347 was in the final thirty seconds of preparation to time 
travel.
	{Ignore it!} asserted Captain into the intranet.  {It is irrelevant!}
	Weapons, however, was far from considering the threat of the GNN vessel 
irrelevant.  True, it had probably returned for a photo op, and from the way thrusters were 
hastily firing to prevent collision with the much larger cube, captain and crew were quite 
surprised, but from Weapons' suspicious point-of-view the news-ship was a danger.  Or at 
least represented a target opportunity.  Neuruptor banks which had never been completely 
idled powered up.
	{Weapons, stand down!} ordered Captain, backed by a significant number of 
command and control hierarchy.
	Too late.  Nueruptors lanced out, a half dozen beams of deadly light.  All missed 
the GNN ship.  Upon the target, someone, be it man or computer, had recovered 
sufficiently to engage hypertranswarp drive, and the ship vanished as abruptly as it had 
arrived.  The resultant subspace eddies subtly altered the local space-time fabric, 
requiring recomputation of key equations for successful tau vector navigation.
	Cube #347 could not abort, not without tearing the ship apart in a temporal 
explosion which would scatter debris over several centuries.
	Thirty seconds had ticked to none.  Chromotons were released from confinement.  
Hull-embedded deflector dishes flared.  Cube #347 vanished somewhen.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Admiral Wat'tu of the Seventh Fortian Warfleet leaned back in the plush chair 
which dominated his office, smirking.  On the viewscreen that took up most of one wall, 
the planet formerly known as Cenix III spun.  The black of cooling lava covered areas 
once green; and even the continents themselves were no longer recognizable, at least not 
if one consulted any map published more than six months ago.  The planet would endure, 
even, eventually, develop a new ecosystem, although evolution had been reset to bacteria.  
On the other hand, the hated Klojari, may the universe never have to suffer their stink, 
were nearly exterminated.
	Yes, it was good to be Fortian.
	Admiral Wat'tu absently resettled the new tricorner which did not really sit well 
upon his pointed head.  However, one did not dismiss the spoils of war merely because 
they were uncomfortable and unflattering to one's physique.
	Not war, reminded Wat'tu to himself, but deserved punishment in the name (and 
with the tacit consent) of the Second Federation for withholding used warp nacelles.  Said 
used warp nacelles had not appeared yet, but that was only because the few remaining 
Klojari were too stubborn to reveal their existence.  The admiral was confident that a 
warp nacelle or three would be 'discovered' right about the time the last Klojari was 
unfortunately terminated...or at least that was the rumor which had filtered down from his 
contacts higher in the military hierarchy.
	At the moment, Wat'tu was on a tour to examine all the targets thus far decimated 
in the course of the Klojari Police Action.  Cenix III had been the first colony destroyed.  
During the pull-out, a Borg cube had appeared, an action which had initially spooked the 
military hierarchy because for a Borg (not Color) vessel to be seen at such a remote 
location argued that the Klojari had been targeted for assimilation.  Several weeks of 
delay in implementing the Final Klojari Solution had occurred, but in the end it had been 
decided that the occurrence had been coincidental.
	Besides, if reports could be believed, the Borg Collective was in turmoil, 
something about a lost Queen.  Wat'tu had been under the impression that the Borg 
maintained backups for such an occurrence; and if they didn't, that was stupid.  
Nonetheless, the Collective was all out of kilter, even turning in upon itself, and various 
Colors were taking advantage, not to mention the SecFed and others.
	Wat'tu gazed upon the lovely destruction of Cenix III, playing connect the dots 
between steaming volcanic islands of a new archipelago.  He imagined the resultant 
outline resembled a Klojari face frozen in a horrible death grimace.  Maybe he should 
order asteroids gathered for target practice, coincidentally shattering the fantasy Klojari 
visage?
	A klaxon abruptly rang out, startling the admiral and making him fall clumsily 
from his chair.  The tricorner tumbled to the ground, where it was stepped upon as Wat'tu 
scrambled to his feet.  "Bridge!  What is happening?" demanded the shaken admiral.
	The captain of the ship answered, "Admiral Wat'tu, apologies.  However, a Borg 
cube has just appeared on the scanners.  I am ordering this vessel to start evasive 
maneuvers, and urging others of the fleet to do likewise."  The tone was that of a man 
trying to convey calmness, but failing utterly.
	"Evasive maneuvers?" spat Wat'tu.  "What need for evasive maneuvers against a 
threat at the far side of a solar system?"  The ship was making an emergency break from 
orbit, inertial dampers not quite compensating for the massive acceleration.
	"Er..." began the captain.  "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear, sir.  The cube 
appeared on the scanners...in the middle of our formation.  At least one of the fleet is...no 
longer there, at least not in one piece."
	Wat'tu blinked, nictitating membrane fluttering in sudden fear.  A distant *bang* 
suggested a fragment of metal bouncing off hull plates.  However, before he could give 
orders to retreat (never mind the ship, and presumably the fleet, was already performing 
such an action), the captain spoke again.
	"Sir...the cube...it's gone."
	"What?" demanded Wat'tu in his best command voice.
	"The cube was here, and now it is gone," repeated the captain.
	Admiral Wat'tu was silent.  He glanced once down at the smashed tricorner on the 
floor, then turned his gaze to Cenix III.  "I think the fleet has adequately confirmed the 
destruction of the Klojari colony at this location.  Plot a course to our next stop on our 
inspection tour."
	"Er...yes, sir," answered the captain.
	
	The research ship orbited what ancient navigation charts identified as Cenix III.  
At some point in its history it had been hard used:  bombardment by asteroids was the 
best guess, although other theories abounded.  Unfortunately, little conclusive evidence 
was left from the Chaos Years to confirm or deny supposition.  Perhaps one of the 
remnant cyborgian civilizations would have been able to help, but all were an insular, 
dying breed of which galactic policy dictated lingering extinction was best.  The Borg 
beast was largely toothless and senile, but none wanted to re-awaken it, just in case.
	The focus of the vessel, its scientists and graduate students, was ecosystem 
recovery and evolutionary dynamics.  Whatever had happened to Cenix III, be it due to 
artificial or natural forces, had turned back the evolutionary clock.  Life, however, is a 
tenacious thing, and once established, is hard to eradicate.  So it was on Cenix III, where 
plants were well advanced in their quest to conquer land long sterilized of herbivores; and 
aquatic insectoids whose ancestors had managed to survive extinction were relearning 
how to breath air, often in novel ways.
	Quazzi Qon, of a species just entering the Bronze Age when the Chaos Years had 
flashed through the galaxy like a firestorm, squinted at the sensor display.  She was a 
specialist in atmospheric dynamics, and was attempting to use Cenix III as a vast 
laboratory to demonstrate the interaction between plant-elevated oxygen levels and the 
emergence of insectoids as a dominant fauna group.  Unfortunately, something was 
interfering with the sensors, a something which was turning her careful observations into 
the excretions of a yamarin worm.
	"Computer," barked Quazzi Qon impatiently, "what is the issue?  Diagnose!"  She 
smacked the console in emphasis, neatly trimmed claws skittering across plastics 
specially designed to withstand such outbursts from researchers.
	Replied the computer in a gender-neutral voice, one calculated to be calming, 
even if the content was not, "A gravitonic anomaly is affecting ship sensors."
	"On the surface of the planet?" asked Quazzi Qon in disbelief.
	"Negative.  Origination is 67.7 ells off the starboard-dorsal quadrant.  An 
emergent tachyon and chromoton component is impacting sensory systems."
	Quazzi Qon, like many of her comrades sealed away in their respective research 
pod demesnes, fumed.  "Show me the anomaly."
	The display shimmered, wiping away nonsensical atmospheric spectral lines and 
replacing them with a simple camera view.  An enhancement overlay flickered, circling 
the affected region.  Within the circled area, a faint glow in the shape of a monstrous 
cube floated.  The phantom shape momentarily consolidated, causing additional sensor 
interference, as particles both real and unreal sleeted against the ship.  The significance of 
the geometrical form was lost upon Quazzi Qon.  Only a certain class of history buffs and 
military analysts specializing in esoteric threats would have taken notice.
	As mysteriously as it had appeared, the form faded.
	"Anomaly vanished," informed the computer.  "Sensors are restored."
	"Good," muttered Quazzi Qon.  There was work to do, especially if she had any 
chance of competing for the grants which allowed her to pursue her research.  "Return 
my display to its previous settings."
	The computer complied.

	"Wait for it...wait for it...."
	Several dozen school-age children from a variety of races pressed noses (or eyes 
or tentacles or other, less identifiable sensory apparatus) against the large window of the 
observation dome.  Adult chaperones, meanwhile, eyed monitors placed around the 
periphery of the room near the ceiling, although a few joined the youngsters.  Finally, 
right on schedule, a eldritch glow of immense size and in the shape of a cube appeared in 
orbit around the otherwise desolate planet.
	A tour operator frowned as he caught sight of a speck of light nearly caught in the 
phenomenon.  Stupid thrill-seeker operations...one fine day, one of them would be in the 
wrong place at the right time, and then the whole industry would bear the burden of the 
inevitable 'accident' investigation.  The varied cries of children asking questions rattled 
the tour operator out of his introspective moment.
	"What is it?  What is it?" was the general gist of the myriad of questions.
	The tour operator sucked in a breath to deliver a well rehearsed answer.  "No one 
really knows what the phenomenon is.  Some think that it is a temporal echo of a ship 
from an extinct cybernetic race called Theborg.  Others say that it is just an odd natural 
occurrence endemic to the planet.  There are many, many theories, of which there will be 
plenty of time during the rest of this trip to discuss.  All that anyone knows for sure is that 
it is big, cube-shaped, and appears on a schedule according to very complex 
mathematical formula derived by very intelligent scientists and their computers."
	Ohs and awes followed that pronouncement, at least from those children which 
weren't staring at the phenomenon or engaged in whispered conversations that had 
nothing to do with present circumstances.  After its requisite ten minute appearance, the 
glowing cube vanished as quietly and mysteriously as it had appeared in the first place.  
The exciting part of the tour was over...now came the hard part:  keeping the youngsters 
suitably entertained such that they did not realize they were actually learning something.
	"Come along everyone!  Mizzus Crandi*click* has told me that it is time for 
lunch, which will then be followed by an exciting movie about the history of the 
phenomenon!"

			*	*	*	*	*

	Dots of light, each resolvable to a single-person pod, waited in anticipation.  
Nearby floated a trio of larger vessels, miniature carriers devoid of their burden, sensors 
avidly scanning for initiation of the phenomenon.  Last minute instructions raced between 
the carriers and their respective offspring, as well as encouragement for those pilots 
showing overly high anxiety levels.
	The high-octane thrill industry of ghost-surfing was ready for the Cube Anomaly 
to makes its scheduled appearance.  Further away, at a safe distance, sightseeing cruisers 
hung, most to visit the phenomenon, but a few hoping in morbid fascination to catch the 
disintegration of a pod or two.
	The ghost cube wavered into view...and then, unexpectedly, solidified.  Dozens of 
adrenaline-junkies, prepared to ride the gravitational waves produced by the insubstantial 
anomaly, slammed into nueutronium hull plates; and at least one carrier suffered a similar 
fate.  All were instantly nominated for Darwin Awards by observers from the 
conventional sightseeing industry.
	Within the cube, had those outside been able to eavesdrop, notice was neither 
taken of the carnage, nor of the chatter between increasingly puzzled tour operators who 
were discovering the phenomenon to not be acting in its accostomed manner.  There were 
other, more important, considerations.
	{Temporal stability achieved.}
	{About time,} muttered Captain in response to Sensors' announcement, joining 
the majority of the sub-collective expressing similar sentiments.  The unintended pun was 
noted only by a few hard-core members of the Pun Patrol.  {When are we?}
	There was no mention of where, the time-lapse image of Cenix III having 
accompanied Cube #347 on its journey through time.  {Sensors is working on [raspberry 
parfait].}
	With the assumption that the head of the sensor hierarchy was not making a 
dessert, the sub-collective turned to determination of what, precisely, at occurred.  From 
the cube point of view, only 3.4 hours had elapsed since initiation of temporal drive, 
during which time the engineering hierarchy had attempted increasingly desperate 
schemes to halt.  Skipping in and out of history, Cube #347 had /finally/ halted its mad 
dash along the tau vector.
	{Sensors has an answer!  Using pulsars, galactic [yarrow], and [blueberry pie] 
flux lines, Sensors says we are 253,000 years forward from our tau starting point, give or 
take several [purple] years.}
	"Well, that might put a crimp in our problem," remarked Second.
	Captain stepped forward and down from his alcove, then turned to his right to 
silently regard the backup consensus monitor and facilitator.  No words were necessary.  
The response from Second was a neutral face and the projection of false innocence.  
Captain abruptly pivoted and headed along the tier for his nodal intersection.  
	By the time Captain reached his destination, several holowindows were active.  
Most showed standard cube status displays.  All but one were ignored.  It was the 
exception which Captain stopped in front of, an odd oval ribbon with a small flashing 
cube icon strung upon it.  An astrophysicist might recognize a parabolic curve, a course 
most commonly associated with comets and other planetary bodies.  However, from the 
numbers under the oval, it was clear this curve was not one through space, but rather 
time; and Cube #347 was currently at the apogee, the furthest point from the origin.  The 
implicit suggestion was of a rubber band stretched tight; and at any time it could snap, 
sending cube and occupants hurtling back through time to their start.  Unfortunately, it 
was unknown if the tension would release in five minutes, or five years.
	The current-era Collective would be no help, even if the sub-collective had a 
functional vinculum to make a connection.  After a quarter of a million years, the Greater 
Consciousness had surely progressed well beyond the evolutionary point represented by 
the drones upon Cube #347, although in the case of the sub-collective, there likely 
remained the echo of an ancient edict against them.  It was hearsay of the root-level 
program sort to even consider a universe without the Collective in some form, although 
reality dictated it be the rare race or civilization to survive for so long.  Therefore, such 
was not contemplated, except as rogue whispers at the edge of sub-collective 
consciousness, no one drone able to be pinned as the instigator.
	Besides, the Collective could not have achieved Perfection and moved on to 
whatever came next for the simple reason that sentient races remained unfettered, 
uncontribuatory to the betterment of the All.  And those sentient races in question were 
soon to go from 'insignificant' to 'annoying.'
	Captain narrowed his eyes as the parabolic curve was swapped for a window 
showing a series of exterior views.  The occasional glint of metal suggested that the cube 
had run into something upon arrival, but the lack of new entries on the engineering roster 
meant the scratches, if any, to be irrelevant.  Not irrelevant were the pings, the hails, the 
insistent demands for communication.  At least the sub-collective assumed they were 
demands for communication, the languages employed unknown gibberish.  Assimilation 
was necessary before the tongues could be truly understood, except Cube #347 did not 
plan to remain long enough to require such.
	{Weapons,} said Captain, {fire a /single/ volley at those ships.  Neuruptors only.  
Make them back off and shut up.  Destroy a few if necessary.  There will be no pursuit, 
so do not bother attempting to commandeer engines.}  
	While disappointed in the lack of chase, Weapons nonetheless was more than 
content to zealously follow instructions.  Leaving the weapons hierarchy to determine 
best (over)use of neuruptors, Captain returned to consultation with elements of command 
and control, engineering, and sensory hierarchies as to options.  One alternative was 
increasingly prevailing over others.
	{Spiking the chromoton generator with zenalite-impregnated buckyball dust, then 
applying negative polarity gravimolonic wave energy, may encourage our temporary 
temporal stability to decay faster, which will then allow us to sling-shot back in-} began 
Delta, engineering technobabble filling the dataspaces.
	Interrupted Second, {You are making that all up.  There is no such thing as 
"gravimolonic wave energy."  Engineers always resort to garbled nonsense when no 
clear-cut solution exists.}
	Silence.  Dark silence.  Finally Delta responded, spiking her words with a flurry 
of diagrams and equations, all directed at Second, {Gravimolic wave energy is real.  The 
Collective first learned of its existence during the assimilation of a species #298 outpost, 
whereupon....}  
	As the definitive history of gravimolic wave energy was aggressively imparted 
upon a protesting Second, Captain grimaced.  He occasionally had his doubts (or 
channeled them) concerning engineering, but he knew better than to lend voice.  He had 
/been/ a junior engineer long ago in a pre-assimilated life, after all.  Engineers were a 
vindictive breed when riled; and the erosion of certain censure filters normally 
maintained by a functional vinculum was not helping.
	Ignoring the holowindows before him, Captain turned inward to consult the 
growing list of preparations required once Cube #347 returned to its starting point on the 
tau vector.  Many necessities were needed to prevent another temporal accident, as well 
as to facilitate acquisition of the ingredient.  For instance, /all/ weapons would be locked, 
from torpedo launchers to neuruptors to rail guns:  no matter how threatening the GNN 
(or other) ship, there would be no engagement.  Also, the galaxy map would be on-line so 
as to confirm ingredient presence the moment Cube #347 arrived at the correct point in 
history.
	Captain splintered a portion of his attention, noting that Weapons was very busy 
ensuring that the ring of vessels kept their distance.  Alhough more than the single 
dictated nueruptor volley was in the process of being employed, reining in the weapons 
hierarchy at this juncture was too much work.  However, the map could easily be 
prepared with little effort.
	Frank's activation codes were input.
	"Please state the nature...oh, you again," said the EMH as he appeared.
	"Map," ordered Captain tersely.
	Sighed Frank, "I am something other than a mobile map depository, you know.  I 
can diagnose multitudes of conditions for a myriad of races, as well as perform complex 
operations...with knowledge of a significant portion of the latter, I am sorry to say, due to 
forced uploads from sub-collective files.  And all this is wrapped in a wonderful 
personality.  Furthermore-"
	Interrupted Captain, "Map."
	"Fine, fine.  Herešs your map.  Why don't I go and stand in the corner over there 
where you can ignore me," was the EMH's sarcastic rejoinder.
	The galaxy, still zoomed in upon Cenix III, flashed into existence.  A quarter of a 
million years had done much to repair the extreme volcanism brought on by sustained 
orbital bombardment.  Erosion from wind and water was softening continental outlines; 
and the pale green of flourishing vegetation was visible even from the map's lofty 
viewpoint.  Floating over frosted globe was a green X.
	It required Captain, and, more specifically, the sub-collective, nearly a minute to 
digest the relevance of the mark.
	The consensus monitor and facilitator blinked.  A real-time view of Cenix III, 
previously ignored, was redirected from exterior cameras to replace the map simulation.  
Simultaneously, cube sensors initiated detailed scanning.
	Most of Cenix III was as expected:  barren of higher lifeforms.  The only place 
which did not support the local equivalent of shoulder-high moss was a certain island in 
the middle of a certain large freshwater lake.  The island had vastly changed shape during 
its period of rifting, volcanoes, and explosions, but was recognizable by its location.  
Emanations along a wide swath of the electromagnetic spectrum were present; and 
magnification of the island showed a collection of buildings accompanying a small 
spaceport.  Confinement of structures to a single island suggested research outpost or 
resort, as opposed to colony.  Regardless of status, the island was the starting point for 
'inquires' of a Borg nature.
	{...and then during the third expansionist period, gravimolic wave energy was 
discovered to be applicable to...} continued Delta with the definitive history of 
gravimolic wave energy and its application.  Engineering overrides had locked Second 
into his alcove to prevent any accidents, like leaping into the tier-adjacent central shaft, 
which might interrupt the recitation.
	{Delta,} inserted Captain, {enough.  We require a moderately sane backup 
consensus monitor and facilitator.  Halt preparations to expedite temporal reversal:  we 
are beaming down to the planet to retrieve the next item on our shopping list.}

	'We' had representatives from each hierarchy except sensory; and 'we' also 
included Captain, who was strongly suspicious one of Second's anti-randomizers were to 
blame.  Also included was a somewhat bewildered engineering unit, another indication of 
randomizer corruption since that particular hierarchy had been specifically excluded from 
selection.  Unfortunately, once the randomizer sequence spat out designations, away 
teams were locked unless there was a critical reason to /not/ include a drone.  Death was 
usually the only acceptable basis for dismissal, although demonic possession of the head-
twisting variety had been allowed once.  In addition to two weapons and one assimilation 
drone, Doctor filled out the group.  Doctor had not been a random selection, but rather a 
necessity due to his implantation of the EMH's holocrystal.
	From the moment the six drones had materialized upon the island, it became 
readily apparent that Doctor was potentially a greater liability than help.
	"Oooooh!  Look at the horsey!  Isn't it cuuuuuute?" breathed Doctor, ears 
twitching.
	A vaguely horse-like creature, canines and spikes and claws speaking to 
something other than an equine ancestry, not to mention a non-vegan diet, stared at 
Doctor from the middle of its enclosure.  Red eyes shifted to the two weapons drones 
who were in the process of pulling the head of drone maintenance away from yet another 
animal display, then focused on Captain.  The consensus monitor and facilitator had the 
distinct impression that the animal was contemplating how fresh Borg would taste.
	"Oh, don't mind the yatari...they look at everyone like that.  They can't be kept in 
holocages like normal resurrected specimens:  they can see through projections.  Many of 
the recreated animals of this particular planet can.  Odd.  No matter.  We'll figure out why 
one day.  Now, over in this display, there are several fine herbivores from Trigonth 
Prime.  Experts think the species went extinct approximately 15,000 years ago."  The 
Zookeeper's long robe swirled gracefully as it spun around and glided to another nearby 
cage.
	Start with a football.  Inflate it several times normal size.  Add two large eyes to 
the front of what can now be considered a head.  While a mouth and, presumably, 
respiratory orifices are also located on the head, they are obscured by shaggy hair of 
brown or black or blonde.  Set the head on top of a pastel robe, the exquisitely tailored 
garment hiding all hint of underlying body form except 'tall' and 'skinny'.  Twig-like 
hands consisting of two finger and two thumbs are set upon spindly arms, the only body 
part other than head uncovered by the robe.  If there are differences between the genders, 
or if more than one sex is even present, such is impossible to determine, for even voices 
perfectly androgynous.  Such was the race which called itself 'Zookeeper.'
	Upon arrival onto the planet, a contingent of Zookeepers had greeted the Borg, 
not with weapons, but rather whistle-clicks and an odd metal net-on-a-pole.  The device 
had turned out to be a Xenig-made translator and the noises speech; and only Captain's 
insistence, backed by the rest of command and control, had diverted Weapons' initial call 
for attack.  The logic of the situation was best considered in two parts:  (1) what was the 
sub-collective to do with an unknown race from the future, if assimilated? and (2) such an 
assault could provoke a response with novel weapons against which no counter was 
possible (at least not without the problematical sacrifice of a dozen non-existent cubes).  
Logic, however, had little to do with some of Weapons' stronger impulses.
	In the end, after much mutual shouting - it is a well known fact that volume can 
substitute for lack of comprehension - the translator device had begun to function, sort of.  
The Zookeepers had thence named themselves, which had led to another period of 
confusion as the translator insisted the designation of each Zookeeper to be 'Zookeeper'.  
The Zookeeper director had finally apologized, explaining that the device had been 
recently acquired on sale, but there was a warranty and a subspace contact number for 
technical support.
	The Zookeepers as a rule were highly interested in all things biology, but were 
next to useless concerning machines which were not directly applicable to their 
obsession.  The particular group of Zookeepers which currently resided upon Cenix III 
were particularly inept, and primarily wanted to continue their life-quest resurrecting 
extinct animals from ancient genetic sources.  Unfortunately, the Decree had Come Down 
that expenses were mounting and financial offset was required.  That financial offset had 
been decided to be the Resurrection Zoo, a place where revived species could be shown 
to the paying public (and sales discretely negotiated to qualified purveyors of the exotic).  
First, however, a few upgrades had to be made before the zoo could officially open its 
doors.
	"Sanitation," delicately said the Zookeeper director, mincing its words prudishly, 
"it all comes down to sanitation."  Indeed, facilities built to handle the waste produced by 
a small populace of Zookeepers and their resurrected animals was utterly insufficient to 
handle the volume expected from visitors.  Several cruise lines had already given intent 
to add the conveniently placed Resurrection Zoo to their schedules, any one ship of 
which would tax the current system.  Therefore, a request for bids for sanitation 
expansion had gone out; and a company looking to expand into new markets had been 
one of the bidders.
	Berg Plumbers and Construction Contractors was a small firm with great 
credentials which also happened to be located outside the Zookeeper's sphere of 
knowledge.  Less than thorough research indicated the company to be comprised largely 
of very alien aliens, which was what had prompted purchase of the Xenig device in the 
first place:  why re-invent the universal translator, complete with large language database, 
when it could be found on the galactic market for a good price?
	From then on out, it was perhaps understandable for the Borg-Berg confusion.  
Obviously desiring to return to their own, much more important, work, the Zookeepers 
had eventually dwindled to one Zookeeper assigned to deal with alien contracts.  A few 
mistranslations later, and the guide had concluded that the Borg wanted a tour of the 
zoo's exhibits in order to better gauge how they contributed to the overall sanitary issue.
	Doctor clicked his teeth in disappointment as the yatari was left behind, only to 
immediately prick ears in anticipation as the Zookeeper stopped in front of another 
exhibit.
	{Doctor,} admonished Captain, {remain focused.  Has the EMH program 
indicated any of these animals to be the target?}
	Standing on tip-toes and craning his head in a very unBorg manner to search for 
the hidden animal the Zookeeper was now talking about, Doctor answered, {Nopers!  
Spidey-senses are not tingling, says Franky-wanky.  Why did we not bring a portable 
holounit?}
	{Because all the portable holounits are currently at the bottom of Comet Slurry 
Processing #5, vats #1 through #17, as you are well know.  Until they can be retrieved, 
dried, and refurbished, we have to bring you in order to locally access the EMH.  If we 
had not already found the unit who had given in to /that/ particularly senseless 
compulsion, one might suspect you had done so for the sole reason to be on the away 
team among animals,} said Captain.  {As it is, perhaps the holomeme crystal in your 
head should be removed and inserted in another drone, like Second.}
	Doctor immediately stopped lollygagging to stare directly at the consensus 
monitor and facilitator.  {No!  Franky-wanky is /my/ pet.  I feed him and water him and 
take him walkies...}
	Simultaneous disagreement came from both Second and the EMH in question.  
The former did not want the responsibility; and the latter, briefly extending a tendril 
process into the main dataspaces from his otherwise firewalled location in Doctor's head, 
was adamant that his current host was preferable to Second, which was saying much.
	{...and you do not have consensus on the proposal,} finally concluded Doctor.
Heedless of the exchange, the Zookeeper continued its lecture.
	"This is not what we have come to see," abruptly announced Captain.
	The Zookeeper paused.  "You no longer wish a tour of the animal biomes?" it 
asked warily.  "Your one colleague appears to be acquiring great enjoyment from it."
	"No."
	There was a great sigh of relief.  "To tell truth, that is good.  I am environmental 
manager, not tour guide:  I know I butcher the presentations.  Happy am I that you have 
gathered enough biome information.  Let me take you to waste management nexus so that 
you can see our current sanitary configuration.  It will be fastest to shortcut through lab 
area."  The Zookeeper glided away, glancing once anxiously over its shoulder to confirm 
that its charges were following.
	{You too, Doctor,} said Captain as both tactical units forcefully propelled the ex-
vet away from the cages.
	The Zookeeper ducked through a door cleverly disguised to look like one of the 
large rocks which comprised much of the zoo landscaping.  Behind was a sharply 
downward slanting hallway that eventually linked to a series of narrow hallways with 
ceilings just higher than the guide's head.  Animal smells wafted on the light breeze 
which issued from ventilator slits; and long light strips provided an orange-tinged 
illumination.  The scene was a claustrophobe's worst nightmare not helped by the fact 
that the hallway sported random locations where the walls constricted, requiring passage 
in a single file.
	As 134 of 212 scraped sideways through an opening narrower than the others thus 
far passed, eliciting a harsh metal-on-metal screech, the waiting Zookeeper apologized, 
"Sorry.  Sometimes experiments get loose.  The wall-blocks slow running animals and 
are points to deploy forcefields, if necessary."
	134 of 212 examined herself through the eyes of her weapons hierarchy 
colleague.  {And I just buffed out the scratches on my armor that I acquired during my 
last assignment to holo-simulation training.  At least there is no acid pitting...acid pitting 
is the /worst/ thing to repair,} she commented.
	"That was last wall-block," continued the Zookeeper cheerfully, oblivious to the 
drone's unheard words.  "Beyond the observation hall over Resurrection Laboratory #3 is 
our destination.  Follow!"
	The hallway abruptly widened; and the ceiling rose.  Transparent panels on either 
side looked down upon large rooms full of bustling Zookeepers and peculiar equipment 
of shapes mostly unrecognizable to Borg files.  Incubator racks and bubbling bottles of 
colored liquid in many labs suggested the early stages of the resurrection of extinct 
beasts.  However, some rooms sported enclosed stalls from which peered wary eyes 
belonging to a variety of creatures.
	Doctor, who had been predictably lagging, stopped at a window which looked 
upon a slice of veldt, complete with rock outcrop, tall grasses, and a single savannah tree.  
Where walls met habitat was a harsh contrast of dull metal and living vegetation.  "What 
is in here?" he asked before he could be prodded back into motion by his babysitters.  "I 
don't see anything."
	 The Zookeeper halted and turned around, retracing his steps.  Ignoring an 
exasperated Captain, the guide joined Doctor at the window.  "Ah, you have found what 
our proud resurrection staff will be naming 'byrint'!  The byrint is a species native to this 
planet, very likely a top carnivore.  As you can see, most of room has been turned into 
habitat with only a very small portion partitioned for observation.  That means that the 
byrint is soon to be declared officially resurrected and this specimen put on public 
display."
	"But where is the byrinty?" was the persistent question.
	{Doctor...} warned Captain.
	"The 'byrint'," corrected the Zookeeper, "is a special creature, from what techs 
have told me.  Assuming resurrection process is accurate and has not corrupted genome, 
the animal is covered in a peculiar hair that renders the beast invisible!  Astounding, yes?  
None have quite figured exact principle, but to the eye and the camera, even using filters, 
it is very much not there.  The bryint has to be awake for process to occur, so you will 
only be able to see this one if it has decided to take nap in the open."
	Squinting, Doctor suddenly pointed excitedly.  "Oh, is that it?!  Is that it?"  The 
other five drones present automatically turned their heads to follow to where Doctor was 
looking; and on the cube, thousands of interested spectators accessed visual datastreams 
from the away team.
	{It looks like a pile of tangled, gray yarn,} complained Second concerning the 
antithetical revelation of the supposed top predator.  Fangs, claws, spike-tipped tendrils, 
heat-ray vision...nothing was suggestive of a carnivore designed to bring down prey in a 
life-and-death struggle.
	Captain's thought processes jumped back to the horse-like yatari, another species 
native to the planet.  The nascent thoughtstream was derailed as a high-pitched series of 
beeps emitted from the Zookeeper and, more specifically, the Zookeeper's robe.
	"Yes!  That is byrint, taking a nap on the ledge.  Isn't it a most magnificent 
creature?"  The pile of gray yarn shifted slightly as the byrint presumably rolled in its 
sleep.  Meanwhile, the beeping became shriller, faster, more insistent.  "Excuse me...I 
have to take this."
	Moving away from the group, the Zookeeper reached into its robe and withdrew a 
small square of plastic chased with chrome around the edges.  The square was given a 
shake, causing it to exude an earbud and mouthpiece, both colored a stylish black.  
Communicator revealed, the whole affair was lifted to head, where it disappeared beneath 
the thick covering of hair.  "This is Zookeeper.  I thought I told you to hold my calls:  I'm 
with important clients."
	{Can we keep it?} asked Doctor.
	{No,} replied Captain automatically.  The Zookeeper's conversation was not so 
much ignored due to politeness, but rather deemed irrelevant.  {There will be /no/ pets 
returning with us to the cube.}
	Doctor wheedled, {But wouldn't the whole animal be best?  Frank says that it, or 
at least a part of it, is the ingredient we need.  What if we take the wrong part?}
	Captain stared at the sleeping byrint.  {No live animals will be transported to the 
cube,} was reiterated.  He refocused upon the window, leaning forward to peer 
downwards, measuring the distance to the ground of the mini-habitat.  New words were 
directed to the engineering and weapons drones, and to the sub-collective in general as 
priorities shifted, {What is this material?  Can it be cut?  Shattered?  Would it be easier to 
transport inside?  We require a plan and consensus.}
	A hand touched Captain's shoulder.  Splitting his attention away from the 
developing consensus, he swiveled his head to regard the Zookeeper.  The other five 
drones remained statue still, caught up in the decision process.  "Explain," said Captain 
tersely.
	"What company were you representing?  This is very important."
	"We are Borg."
	"Borg...as in 'Borg' with a rather distinct 'o' sound to it?  Not, say, a slurred 
'Berg'?"
	"We are Borg."
	"I...see."  The Zookeeper withdrew, returning to the comm-unit conversation.
	Captain had just returned to staring at nothing while decision trees were pruned to 
bring consensus into a single consolidated plan when fingers brushed shoulder once 
again.
	"Are you, or are you not, representatives of Berg Plumbers and Construction 
Contractors?  This is quite important," asked the Zookeeper.
	"We are Borg."
	The Zookeeper nodded, then turned away to return to its urgent, whispered 
conversation.
	"Borg," stated Captain when the inevitable hand interrupted him a third time.  
"We are /Borg/."
	"The contractor company just called to say they would be late, so you see how 
myself and others in administration are wee bit confused.  However, a gene profiler in 
back-office with historical obsession has old records of an extinct cybernetic race called 
'Theborg'.  Are you, perhaps, related?"
	"Borg," replied Captain.
	"Theborg?" tried the Zookeeper a second time.
	"Borg."  This time Captain was one of six speaking in unison.
	The Zookeeper's large eyes shifted back and forth at the display.  It cocked its 
head as something was said to it.  "Very well, close enough.  Here, let me put director of 
Resurrection Zoo on speaker phone."  The communicator was removed from head, a 
button pushed on the headset, then held in the general direction of the drones.  "Director, 
you are on."
	"Hello?  Can you hear me?" came a tinny voice from the communicator.
	"All can hear you, Director."
	Five Zookeepers emerged from the hallway towards which the group had been 
trekking prior to Doctor's distraction.  One of the weapons drones shifted his head to 
view the new arrivals.  The robes of the five were bulkier than those of Zookeepers seen 
prior, draping in a manner which suggested additional clothing of an armored persuasion 
were present underneath.  Of greater immediate threat, the arrivals were all holding 
heavy, large-bore rifles with huge magazines.
	The Director spoke, "As you have been told, gentlebeings, our goal at 
Resurrection Zoo is to bring back to life rare and exotic creatures.  There has been 
discussion to branch into extinct sentients, although legal and financial issues still have to 
be worked out."  While part of Captain abstractly noted that neither 'moral' nor 'ethical' 
were among the words used, the majority of attention was upon the five additional 
Zookeepers who had joined their militant brethren, but from the opposite direction.  
"Technically, actual specimens are easier to work with than degraded and/or fossilized 
genomes."
	The six drones began to shift to an outward-facing defensive semi-circle, byrint 
habitat at their backs.  The weapons units raised their arms in threat, although it was 
unlikely the Zookeepers recognized significance of the gesture.  The nearly complete 
plan to acquire the recipe ingredient was put on hold.
	{Transport us,} ordered Captain.  He was not rewarded with the tingle of 
disassociating molecules.
	{Transporter lock lost,} unhelpfully informed the computer.
	{Explain!} demanded Captain.
	"At this point, I would like to tender my sincere apologies to yourself as beings 
and your government, civilization, and/or company if you are not officially extinct, but 
we need genetic samples.  We also would like to set up a breeding colony," said the 
Director, unheard by the drones to whom he was talking.
	Answered Sensors to Captain's - command and control's - order, {Energy build-up 
on surface is [fur and feathers] sensors, including [sweatpants] lock.  Compensating.}
	In orbit, Cube #347 started to activate weapons, diverting power from secondary 
cores unidled to boost sensor resolution.
	{Weapons-} began Captain.  He did not have the chance to finish the beratement 
as the majority of cube systems went berserk.  The last sight recorded by exterior cameras 
was a bright flash of light originating from the Zookeeper's island.  A burst of static 
temporarily overwhelmed the neural transceiver linkages, causing all drones in the away 
team to wince.
	"Scans indicate that there should be more than sufficient individuals on your ship 
for breeding," the Director sanguinely stated.  "The Xenig immobilization ray the Zoo 
acquired - at a bargain, mind you - to defend against asteroids, pirates, and animal rights 
fanatics should do the trick there.  However, you six will do for initial genetic testing, as 
well as determination of appropriate confinement and habitats."
	Cube sensors, those which were operational, registered an unusual mix of 
radiation focused on the vessel.  Electrical surges echoed, playing havoc - like the hero 
combating a hydra, for each reverberation dampened by automatic compensatory 
systems, two more took its place.  Static electricity caused more than one drone to hastily 
depart their alcove in search of an insulating mat to stand upon.
	His toys taken from him, an impotent Weapons cast about for a method to 
retaliate.  He locked upon the two members of his hierarchy on the surface, as well as the 
accompanying four non-armed drones.  The fact that two of those units represented the 
head of drone maintenance and the sub-collective consensus monitor and facilitator was 
irrelevant.  As the link to the surface cleared, strengthened, he set himself and his 
hierarchy behind a strong compulsion to {Charge!}
	Without hesitation, 134 of 212 and 63 of 300 leapt (er, shuffled) forward on the 
offensive.  They were followed a step behind by their away team compatriots.
	The Zookeeper guide yipped in surprise, dropping his comm-unit.  From the 
ground came "Hello?  What is all that noise?", at least until a careless foot ended all 
conversation.  Several of the armed Zookeepers hastily moved to fire their guns, but the 
surprise charge caused an involuntary step backwards for most, sending muzzles 
clattering into each other.  One rifle fired.
	63 of 300 dropped to the ground, tangled by a net.
	Five drones crashed into the five Zookeeper guards blocking the way forward, 
deeper into the underground compound.  Five Zookeeper guards fell to the ground, two 
due to being bowled over by a more massive opponent, and three clutching hand to necks 
with confused looks on their faces.  
	"Out of my head, Weapons," muttered Captain aloud as he pushed the compulsion 
to attack out of his mind.  He looked down at the ground at the disposed opponents, over 
at 63 of 300 who was becoming increasingly immobilized by a net which was actively 
winding itself tighter about its target, then up at the five remaining guards.  If that had 
been the sum total of the threat, Captain would have been more than willing to allow 
Weapons to dominate the tactical situation.  However, movement in the background 
suggested that reinforcements were arriving.  {We retreat.}
	{Retreat?} cried Weapons.  {Retreat?!}
	{Advance in another direction.}  Weapons' thrust to reassert control was blocked.  
{Do that again, Weapons, and you will be shut down.  Delta, repair the cube:  
transporters, propulsion, defenses.  Weapons, work with Sensors to determine a counter 
to whatever it is that is focused on us.}
	As the heaviest armored, both 134 of 212 and 197 of 203 moved to close ranks, 
presenting a barrier between the Zookeeper guards and the remainder of the surface team.  
Captain found himself to have the dubious distinction of maneuvering to being next in 
line, due to his own heavy cybernization over the years.  As the five slowly backed down 
the hallway, away from the observation windows, both Doctor and 4 of 230 were bade to 
turn around, to provide insight as to any obstacles, or opportunities, ahead.
	Meanwhile, Assimilation expressed disappointment that the three newest 
members to the Borg were to be left behind.  Figured.
	The exit meant a return to semi-claustrophobic corridors, although wall 
constrictions were lacking.  An increased density of cross hallways and (locked) doors 
suggested an entrance into the main facility which underlay the aboveground Zoo 
compound.  No Zookeepers were in evidence; and it was too quiet.
	Approximately fifty meters and two corners from the observation hall, Doctor 
abruptly halted  4 of 230 managed to avoid collision, but Captain, still awkwardly 
walking backwards, was not so lucky, finding himself the center of a drone sandwich.
	"Sorry, sorry, sorry," vocalized Doctor.  "I found a map!"
	Captain piggy-backed onto the ex-vet's visuals.  Embedded in the wall behind 
glass was an old-fashioned sheet of plastic-coated paper.  A geometric maze of corridors  
and rooms was drawn in black ink, with a large 'X' halfway between two intersections.  
One did not have to be able to read the writing (literacy required assimilation and 
subsequent linking of the new drone into the Whole) to decipher 'You Are Here'.  
	Back in the observation hall, 63 of 300 no longer provided useful input, his head 
now covered with a black cloth bag and net replaced by secure bonds.  He was in the 
process of being trussed to an anti-gravity stretcher for transport elsewhere in the facility.
	{This looks like a stair,} said 4 of 230 as she touched the glass over a zigzagging 
symbol.  {It could lead us to the surface.}
	Doctor clicked his teeth together.  {Animals!  That would be fun!}
	63 of 300 twisted around to personally regard the map.  {To what end?  On the 
surface there would be more avenues of attack against us.  I say we descend, find this 
facility's energy source.  Its destruction will eliminate the zoo's weapon against Cube 
#347.}
	{There are surely unarmed sentients in some of these nearby rooms,} opinioned 
197 of 203 as she joined the group huddled around the map.  {We can break the locks and 
enter.  By assimilating the populace, we will not only decrease the number of threats able 
to be sent against us, we also increase /our/ numbers.}
	{Escape up,} insisted 4 of 230.
	{Animals!}
	{Energy source.}
	{Assimilation.}
	Captain remained the only one watching the hallway as the other four began to 
bicker amongst themselves, reflecting the eddied turmoil of indecision which spun within 
the larger sub-collective.  Factions were splintering from the Whole even as engineering 
began to maunually reroute systems in an attempt to isolate surges.  {Enough!} said 
Captain, asserting control over the remaining four mobile units of the away team.  {This 
subunit's objective remains the same:  acquire the ingredient.  We know /what/ it is, but 
now we have to find it.}  A goal defined, it became a solid point to rally around in the 
storm.
	{The entrance to the playland of the sleepy beastie was on a lower level,} 
suggested Doctor, focusing on the nearest of the assumed stair icons.
	{Then we go down,} asserted Captain.  He had also, finally, turned to look at the 
map directly.  A tentative shout from the direction of the observation hall, and the stair 
icon in question, caused him to revise the plan and select a different route.  {Downward 
over there, that is.}

	The icon /was/ stairs; and maps were found to be common, present throughout the 
facility.  Unfortunately, lack of knowing where, precisely, the byrint was to be located 
proved to be a hinderance.  The problem was compounded with no literacy of the 
Zookeeper language and the penchant for compartmentalized construction so that discrete 
sections of facility were separated from each other by thick slabs of metal.  Backtracking 
was often required.  At one point, three levels of stairs were trekked (lifts were, 
unsurprisingly, not in operation) and several hundred meters of hallway traversed in order 
to go twenty meters in the hypothesized correct direction.  
	During the trek, both 197 of 203 and 4 of 230 had been lost to netgun ambushes, 
the Zookeepers much more conversant in the nuances of nagivating the subterranean 
maze than the Borg.  Each attack, however, had also left behind reciprocal nanite 
casualties, although at this point the new drones were catatonic:  nanomachines had to 
adapt to each individual of the never-before-encountered Zookeeper species.  Each nanite 
injection strengthened the theory that the Zookeeper race had an inherent cellular 
resistance that prevented quick assimilation beyond initial pacification.  Unfortuntely, all 
those thus far infected were required to progress to a certain point in the assimilation 
process before the sub-collective could truly communicate with the new drones.  
Assimilation's initial spark of joy in having something to do was quickly being 
extinguished as the process drug on. 
	{We are here!} announced Doctor as the three remaining drones stood in front of 
a door.
	Captain was skeptical.  {That is what you said at the last three times.  The second 
time 197 of 203 was lost to ambush; and before that was an empty room.  The less said of 
the third time, the better.}
	{I'll never get the stain off,} muttered 134 of 212, one side of her body covered in 
a bright orange substance.  {You first.}
	Ears laid against his skull, Doctor tentatively waved a hand over the sensor which 
triggered doors to open.  With a quiet *whoosh*, revealed was the subliminal blue flicker 
of a forcefield obscuring veldt terrain.  {See?} said Doctor.  {I was right.}  A hand was 
laid upon the forcefield, then quickly drawn back amid the crackle of electricity.  {Ouch.  
Hot.  Shall we draw straws to see who gets all ouchy so that the last one standing will be 
able to adapt?}
	Captain looked over at 134 of 212, who in turn raised her arm at Doctor.  The 
maintenance hierarchy head hastily moved aside.  Several disruptor discharges later, the 
sensor control was a rapidly cooling molten puddle, but the forcefield was gone.  As 
expected, the door was also no longer able to be shut.
	{No,} replied Captain.  {134 of 212, guard us.  If the animal comes this direction, 
shoot it.  Better to deal with the consequences of it being terminated than chasing it 
around the compound.}
	{And if it is invisible?}
	{I'm sure you'll think of something...or else Weapons will think of it for you.  
Come on, Doctor.}  Captain looked around, but Doctor had already eagerly entered the 
habitat.
	The veldt enclosure was not very large, a rough oblong 20 meters by 25 meters 
and 15 meters high.  While the rock, grass, and tree seen from the observation hall were 
real, they clashed with the gray-green metal walls and not-quite-full-spectrum light strips.  
A bright blue door opposite the one entered led to the ground observation room espied 
above, full of electronics.  And thinking of above...Captain glanced upward towards the 
faux-glass, but the angle of reflection prevented seeing if observers were on the other 
side.  The room was panned for Doctor and critter, but neither were immediately obvious.
	{Doctor,} called Captain even as he accessed the appropriate visual feeds, 
{location.}
	The response was swift, {Other side of the rocks.  No kitty here, though.}
	{And no kitty, er, byrint here, neither.}  The lone tree, small leaves lending a 
skeletal appearance to the branches, was carefully examined, then the rock pile.  {Are 
there any caves on your side the animal could be hiding in?}
	{No.}
	Captain began to rescan the enclosure, substituting infrared and other visual filters 
before switching to the sonar, used rarely and only when no other illumination was 
available.  All senses reported the same thing:  nothing.  Of all the times a sensory drone 
with a full suite of add-ons would be useful....  {Doctor?}
	{The kitty is hiding!}
	Captain allowed himself a long sigh, then held his breath as movement in the 
corner of his whole eye caught his attention.  Under the tree...was that grass in motion?  
A blowing leaf?  The habitat was otherwise still, with no breeze present to move 
vegetation.  {Doctor...do you see?}
	A rodent head jutted from behind a ledge halfway up the rock pile.  {Could be?}
	{I am starting to hear voices,} noted 63 of 300 from the open doorway.
The grass moved again, as if some some quadrupedal creature of approximately 
waist-high stature was moving through the blades.  Increasing aural volume to maximum, 
Captain was rewarded with the sound of his own heartbeat, various whirling noises 
associated with his implants and assemblies, and the faint rhythm of breathing which did 
not belong to him.  Bingo.
	{I think I'm going to fall,} stated Doctor just before he did so, losing his grip on a 
rock.  The Seffite form wasn't exactly the most arboreal of species to begin with; and 
adding many kilos of hardware did not help matters.  Doctor rolled once, then gracelessly 
slid to the bottom of the rock pile.  {I think I did an ouchie.}
	The unseen form under the tree visibly startled.  Attention riveted upon Doctor's 
antics, the byrint never noticed Captain's unstealthy approach and lunge, at least not until 
nearly 150 kilos of drone landed on top of it.  There was an immediate reaction.
	The form from a distance may have had a strong resemblance to a tangled skein 
of gray yarn, but underneath were the claws and teeth of a predator.  And the breath.  The 
byrint twisted in Captain's grip, bringing to bear at least two sets of sharp claws to rake 
torso armor.  Simultaneously, the hot reek of half-rotted meat washed over Captain's face 
as unseen mouth barely missed face, instead biting at shoulder.  The jaw pressure was 
noticeable even through armor.
	{Doctor...a bit of assistance here?  Maybe?} called Captain, hands more than full.
	{But I have an ouchie.}
	{And I have a very angry animal that wants to tear me apart.}  Grip was 
tightened, which only infuriated the byrint more.  At least one razor-sharp claw tore along 
unprotected flesh of the right arm near the wrist; and the reek of fecal matter and urine 
suggested that /all/ manner of weaponry was in use.  Captain mentally noted a steam-
cleaning to be in order after this ordeal, assuming he survived it.
	{Doctor...}
	{Okay, okay.  Could you hold the patient still?  Frank isn't quite sure what we 
need, but it would be safest to get specimens of everything that can be shed:  hair, blood, 
saliva, skin scrapings, urine, and stool.}
	{The third, fifth, and sixth are already covered.  Hurry on the others.}
	{Could you hold the invisible kitty still?}
	{No, I can not.  Just a moment....}  Captain shifted his body sideways, purposely 
overbalancing into the tree.  There was a sickening *thump* of cranium to wood, and 
suddenly Captain was holding a large animal which looked nothing like a cat in his arms.  
Thick, gray hair remained the dominant characteristic, although limbs were now visible, 
along with a head that terminated in a mouth full of jagged teeth.  The byrint awake and 
invisible allowed imagination to contemplate possible forms.  Unfortunately, imagination 
could not hold a candle to unconscious, and visible, reality.
	The byrint was allowed to slip to the ground.  "Get the hair, blood, and skin 
scrapings, Doctor."
	Ears twitched as Doctor leaned over the animal.
	"/Do not/ assimilate it, not even by accident.  And, no, we will not take it with 
us."
	Ears twitched again.  Shoulders slumped.  The head of the maintenance hierarchy 
went to work.
	{Visitors!} announced 63 of 300.  {I am being charged.  I will...be caught by a net 
before I can do anything.}  Captain looked towards the door just in time to see the tactical 
unit fall sideways.
	{Now would be a good time to have the transporter fixed,} broadcast Captain.
	Delta responded, {We all have our little hopes, don't we?  The surges continue to 
disrupt attempts to reroute transporters, defenses, propulsion, even the Rockin' Oldies 
channel.  Until sufficient rubber padding is deployed to shield equipment or the ray stops, 
you will just have to wait.}
	Zookeepers cautiously entered the enclosure, netguns held at the ready.  Captain 
moved to put himself between Doctor and the assailants.  Perhaps he could delay them 
just long enough to allow the necessary specimens to be collected and then secreted 
within a compartment on the drone maintenance head; and then when the cube did self-
repair sufficiently to allow for transporter use, the samples could be beamed back to the 
ship.
	An unarmed Zookeeper pushed its way to the forefront of the group.  Eyes 
widened as it saw the visible byrint behind Captain with Doctor leaning over it.  "No!" 
shouted the Zookeeper, "my baby!  My precious baby!  You killed my baby!  I raised her 
from a wee cultured cell!  Kill the bastards!  Kill 'em all!"
	{It isn't dead, is it?} asked Captain, gaze never leaving that of the wailing 
Zookeeper or its armed comrades.
	Answered Doctor, {The kitty is just taking a nappy-snoozy.  There will be a 
headache when wakey-wakey.}
	The hysterical Zookeeper was now trying to wrestle a gun from a guard, creating 
just enough commotion for Doctor to continue his task.
	{There is a [carpet],} reported Sensors, accompanying her words with a visual 
hallucination that bore a strong resemblance to a shag carpet.
	Captain blinked away the vision.  The Zookeepers were straightening themselves 
out, leading away their angrily sobbing comrade.  {What is a carpet?  Is there another 
weapon being charged?}
	{No, that tasted like [kiwi].  This is [caramel].  A [diploma] in chromotons is 
detected.}
	Captain grasped at the key word 'chromoton'.  {Time travel.  The cube is about to 
time travel?  Joy.  And here we are on the surface.  I guess that not only means no 
ingredient, but we get to explain that there will be no "breeding program" to these 
Zookeepers,} he muttered 'outloud' to himself.
	{At least not in the conventional sense,} inserted Second.
	Sensors' voice tone was puzzled.  {How not?  You are out of temporal [jigsaw] 
with this tau.  [Seal and roses].  You will sling-shot back to [starting place] tau vector 
with the cube.  All of us will; and so should the ingredients due to their [loose] quantum 
[furry] nature.  Can you not [taste]?}  As with other things, species #6766 viewed 
complex technologies such as time travel in a totally different manner than the rest of the 
universe.  If truth be told and if any outsider could decipher Bug written history, it would 
be discovered that a theory of life, the universe, and everything had been postulated at 
about the same time fire was harnessed as a tool, and just before the advent of carapace 
polish.
	"Step away from the byrint!  This will be your only warning!" shouted a 
Zookeeper.  Captain noted that a new weapon, one more sleek, more lethal-looking, than 
a netgun was wielded by this particular individual; and unlike the pastel colored robes of 
the guard majority, its fabric was black.  Nothing ever good came from entities who 
worked for departments whom utilized black as a primary component of the official 
uniform.
	Captain held his ground.  "We are Borg.  Resistance is futile.  You will be 
assimilated."
	Doctor stood.  {Done!  Kitty will wake up in a bit.}
	The black-garbed Zookeeper stared at Captain; and Captain stared back.  The 
remainder of the guards no longer mattered.  As if able to read Captain's very thoughts, 
the Zookeeper cocked its head sideways, "If you insist..."  Finger tightened against firing 
stud.
	A tingling like, yet very unlike, a transporter beam spread along Captain's limbs.  
The universe paused.  Unfortunately, a rubber band can only stretch so much before it 
must either break or snap back to its original form; and it is vast world of difference to be 
the rubber when such happens, or a bit of matter attached to the band itself.  Unlike the 
rubber band in the metaphor, time cannot break, even if it can be spindled, mutilated, and 
generally abused.  The tau vector abruptly reset itself, dragging all its scattered temporal 
components back into their proper place.  Violently.

			*	*	*	*	*

	Some view time as a malleable substance, a train easily diverted to a new course 
by as simple an action as the flick of a butterfly wing.  Others claim the paradigm of an 
infinite book with infinite volumes, new pages of the same story being created with each 
jiggle of atom, each decision made or not made.  Very backward races assert time to be a 
static, unidirectional vector, fate written in stone; and at least one minor religious sect 
which idolizes a tarnished copper coin says time is a by-product originating from an 
'experimental' period in their deity's history.  All are wrong...and all are right.
	The exact nature of Time is known only to Time.  
	Regardless of semantics, a 1.3 kilometer-an-edge hunk of metal and ceramic with 
protoplasmic inclusions was on a sling-shot course back to its tau origin.  At an 
undistance it was accompanied by half a dozen bright blips of life whom were not 
enjoying the process.  Observationally, the cube was standing still, although its temporal 
speed could best be likened to an out-of-control freight train.  Or a free-falling library 
book.  
	Somewhen, scientists aboard a research ship continue to curse the annoying 
appearance of a ghost cube, affecting their sensors; and somewhen else, tour operators 
attempt to impart knowledge into the heads of inattentive children while thrill-seekers 
surf waves of unreal particles.  Those could-be's, may-be's, will-be's are irrelevant to the 
current timeline; and promote paradox headaches, anyway.
	However, in the foreseeable future...

	Admiral Wat'tu of the Seventh Fortian Warfleet leaned back in the plush chair 
which dominated his office, smirking.  On the viewscreen that took up most of one wall, 
the planet formerly known as Cenix III spun.  The black of cooling lava covered areas 
once green; and even the continents themselves were no longer recognizable, at least not 
if one consulted any map published more than six months ago.  The planet would endure, 
even, eventually, develop a new ecosystem, although evolution had been reset to bacteria.  
On the other hand, the hated Klojari, may the universe never have to suffer their stink, 
were nearly exterminated.
	Yes, it was good to be Fortian.
	Admiral Wat'tu absently resettled the new tricorner which did not really sit well 
upon his pointed head.  However, one did not dismiss the spoils of war merely because 
they were uncomfortable and unflattering to one's physique.
	Not war, reminded Wat'tu to himself, but deserved punishment in the name (and 
with the tacit consent) of the Second Federation for withholding used warp nacelles.  Said 
used warp nacelles had not appeared yet, but that was only because the few remaining 
Klojari were too stubborn to reveal their existence.  The admiral was confident that a 
warp nacelle or three would be 'discovered' right about the time the last Klojari was 
unfortunately terminated...or at least that was the rumor which had filtered down from his 
contacts higher in the military hierarchy.
	At the moment, Wat'tu was on a tour to examine all the targets thus far decimated 
in the course of the Klojari Police Action.  Cenix III had been the first colony destroyed.  
During the pull-out, a Borg cube had appeared, an action which had initially spooked the 
military hierarchy because for a Borg (not Color) vessel to be seen at such a remote 
location argued that the Klojari had been targeted for assimilation.  Several weeks of 
delay in implementing the Final Klojari Solution had occurred, but in the end it had been 
decided that the occurrence had been coincidental.
	Besides, if reports could be believed, the Borg Collective was in turmoil, 
something about a lost Queen.  Wat'tu had been under the impression that the Borg 
maintained backups for such an occurrence; and if they didn't, that was stupid.  
Nonetheless, the Collective was all out of kilter, even turning in upon itself, and various 
Colors were taking advantage, not to mention the SecFed and others.
	Wat'tu gazed upon the lovely destruction of Cenix III, playing connect the dots 
between steaming volcanic islands of a new archipelago.  He imagined the resultant 
outline resembled a Klojari face frozen in a horrible death grimace.  Maybe he should 
order asteroids gathered for target practice, coincidentally shattering the fantasy Klojari 
visage?
	A klaxon abruptly rang out, startling the admiral and making him fall clumsily 
from his chair.  The tricorner tumbled to the ground, where it was stepped upon as Wat'tu 
scrambled to his feet.  "Bridge!  What is happening?" demanded the shaken admiral.
	The captain of the ship answered, "Admiral Wat'tu, apologies.  However, a Borg 
cube has just appeared on the scanners.  I am ordering this vessel to start evasive 
maneuvers, and urging others of the fleet to do likewise."  The tone was that of a man 
trying to convey calmness, but failing utterly.
	"Evasive maneuvers?" spat Wat'tu.  "What need for evasive maneuvers against a 
threat at the far side of a solar system?"  The ship was making an emergency break from 
orbit, inertial dampers not quite compensating for the massive acceleration.
	"Er..." began the captain.  "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear, sir.  The cube 
appeared on the scanners...in the middle of our formation.  It is much larger than the one 
reported from this system six months ago; and a sphere has just arrived as well.  At least 
one of the fleet is...no longer there, at least not in one piece."
Wat'tu blinked, nictitating membrane fluttering in sudden fear.  A distant *bang* 
suggested a fragment of metal bouncing off hull plates.  However, before he could give 
orders to retreat (never mind the ship, and presumably the fleet, was already performing 
such an action), the captain spoke again.
	"Sir...the cube...it has tractored us.  Do you want to hear the transmission?"
	"No," said Wat'tu bitterly, "I'm pretty sure I can guess what it is saying."  
Apparently the Collective wasn't as out of kilter as reports had led him to believe.
	
			*	*	*	*	*

	From the point of view of an observer above a ravished Cenix III, little had 
changed.  Volcanoes spewed lava, seas boiled, and except for an odd distortion which 
had rippled through its hull, the recently arrived Borg cube continued in its orbit.  A more 
in-depth investigation would be required to see the subspace wake of the rapidly 
retreating GNN news-ship, or the temporal vortices temporarily upsetting cause and 
effect before sublimating back to the dominant time flow.
	If anything Armageddon-resistant had been present on the surface of Cenix III, 
and, more specifically, upon a certain island in the middle of a large lake, it would have 
been highly surprised by the appearance of six Borg drones.  In the air.  Apparently by 
253,000 years in the future, the island had substantially gained in elevation, which was 
lucky, considering the alternative.  As drones do not normally levitate, all six swiftly 
found the current ground level.
	The ground shook ominously.
	{I have another ouchie,} complained Doctor from where he lay upon a drift of 
charcoal.
	{That's nice,} absently responded Captain as he activated his own internal 
diagnostics.  Someone had just tied him to the end of a bullwhip, then cracked it through 
space and time.  He also felt hot.  Eyes were opened to regard a plot of greenery rapidly 
becoming blackery ten meters from his location.  A status request was ordered.
	While the drones on the surface were in similar states of discombobulation as 
Captain, Cube #347 had fared much better.  In fact, away from the effect of the Xenig 
immobilization ray, automatic repair systems were quickly bringing systems back on-
line, including transporters.
	{Is the transporter functional or not?} demanded Captain of Delta.  As Delta 
launched into a technobabble laden explanation which would have left Shrodinger's cat 
confused, the intensity of ground shaking increased.  Nascent cracks whistled ominously.  
Interrupted Captain, {We are all about to be turned into variations of the parboiled 
barbeque briquette; and, more importantly, so are the ingredients we collected.  Transport 
us.}
	Six shimmers marred the air.
	Somewhere in the remnants of the flaming woods, the last tree of a formerly 
wide-spread species exploded into wooden shrapnel, but no one was there to hear it.